"Twenty miles more, please don't die until we get there, it'll ruin everything" I said as I glanced at the speedometer. I didn't want to get stopped by a state trooper or local cop, they just wouldn't understand what was going on. A light snow was wetting the road in a half-hearted way. Hopefully the field would look nice for Michael, he deserved to die in a picturesque spot and he made me promise to take him there, no matter what. We drove for a bit in the silence, the wipers protested about being too dry so I switched them off. The lump in my throat wouldn't go away; he was a good brother and still is, well at least will be for the next hour or so. He sat up, the effort of breathing made him wince. "You got the good whiskey and the weed?” he said, “I'm not gonna check out with some cheap shit," he said with a laugh. "Yeah, I got it, " I said. It was nearly four when we turned off the highway and onto the desert trail. It was one of those places where people shoot at things and nobody cares. I switched the Jeep to four wheel drive and slowed to a crawl as the trail got steeper. This didn't look promising, what if he got it wrong? And now it began snowing a bit more. It would be ironic if both of us died here. As we rounded a bend in the trail we finally got there. I could tell this was the spot he had picked out. There was a grassy slope punctuated with rocks; we could see the city many miles away and far below. It was nearly sunset as I shut off the engine and sat for a minute as the tears started to well up. Too many unfinished plans, too many dreams that fell apart. Too many false starts. "I love you bro," I said as I started to cry, “Cancer sucks.” "I love you too. I'm sorry for all the shit I did to you growing up, I really am," he said. He stared out the window as his breathing grew shallower, it was almost time. I set up a table and chairs on the uneven ground then poured two glasses of whiskey and helped him walk from the car. I gave him a hug. I sat down to fire up the pipe and handed it to him so he could take a hit. The smoke seemed to swirl around him as if it knew that he too was going to dissipate and float away. We made a silent toast and tossed our whiskey back. It burned all the way down but the pain felt good in the moment. Overhead a hawk soared in a wide circle, it screeched and echoed against the mountains. I started to speak and point it out, but stopped to realize that this would be the last time I would point out something cool to my brother. But then I turned. And he was gone.


I met them when my mother died, the god of death such a powerful role for just one being to have. I watch them walk up to the hospital bed that my frail mother lay in and hold her hand with such tenderness, such love that I would never doubt that they loved all humans they took. I heard the heart monitor stop, it didn’t really occur to me what just happened until they were gone and the nurse rushed in yelling about how she had a DNR. Just like that my mother died and I saw the love of my life for the first time, love and first sight some might say, it's a bit strange when the moment your mother dies you aren't even thinking about her, but about the being that is taking her away from you. The next time they appear I’m confused, no one around me appears to be dying. I was just sitting in a dark corner of the public library. They were leaning against a wall just a few meters from where I was, looking intently at me. When they saw me looking as they walked towards me, I panicked. Was this my time, sometimes I look back and wish it was. I heard a gunshot, followed by people screaming. I looked at death and they were still just standing there leaning against the wall staring at me. More gunshots and I heard someone scream to run, I tried to get up but they shook their head, so I stayed seated there for what felt like hours until the cops came rushing in and death vanished. Later I found out 17 people died and 13 people were injured, the gunman shot himself with his last bullet, no one found out why he did this. Death knows, and so do I, they wanted to see me so they caused chaos in the only way they know how. It went on like this for decades, everytime they appeared people died, they never talked to me, only stared intensely. Part of me enjoyed this. Part of me loved the fact that they were willing to let others die just to see me. I loved them, I loved the way they would just appear randomly at seemingly normal times, we never spoke, we never touched, and we never would but both of us knew the other was deeply in love. I watch them take nearly everyone I know, my Dad who died of a heart attack, my brothers who both died in the same tragic boating accident, my sister who caught covid, that was the longest time they ever stood there during the pandemic, it was years. A specially designed disaster so that they could watch me for years. The last time I saw them I was standing at a crash site just down the road from my musty little apartment, a little 2003 sky blue honda wrapped around a power pole. My best friend is in my arms, blood pouring out of his head. I can't tell who is screaming but I think it might be me. I can see the flashing lights of the ambulance that is racing down the road to get to us, but that is the last thing on my mind because they are standing before me again. It has been decades since our first encounter at the hospital, but we had shared many more. “No” this comes out as a rasp, “No you can't have him, we still have so much to do together, where are you going to go see the pyramids, where are gonna do so much together, you can't.” I look them in the eyes, and they shake their head. “Im sorry” they mutter “I must”, and I can feel when he dies in my arms, and I can feel the paramedic pull him from my grasp and try and resuscitate him, and I know its a futile effort because death has spoken and no one can override there decision. It feels like time stops, tears run down my face. “You follow me never saying a word and think you can take whoever you want away” I scream, my throat feels raw. They look at me “you loved it” I know I did and that's what hurts the most. “Fuck you and your little fucking game, I never want to see you again.” I say harshly, my legs give out beneath me and another flood of tears falls down my face and I don't know who they are for. A young paramedic is trying to help me to an ambulance as I sob uncontrollably, he’s trying to clean the blood off my hands, it seems like a pointless task there is so much blood on my hands I don't think anyone can clean it off. They are still there standing in the distance, I can see them, for the first time they look like they're mourning a loss. It has been thousands of years since I last saw death standing next to that power pole. They have visited everyone but me since then, stalking me everywhere I go but never getting close enough for me to see.


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.


The corpse was right where I left it, half-buried in the snow six miles north-east of base camp. Even through my tinted visor, the glare of the sun on Antarctic snow practically blocked out the terrain, and I had to squint to see three meters in front of me. Unfortunately, that didn’t obscure the frozen arcs of vermilion blood on the ground, or the fact that the body lacked a head. “What the fuck is this, Barton?” Nilsen asked me. I couldn’t form words. I’d never seen a dead person in real life; maybe a few body bags, the odd morgue, but nothing nearly as visceral or as raw as this. I swallowed bile. The acrid tang of last night’s rations burned my throat and made my eyes stream. “I don’t know, sir. Sorry—Nilsen. I found it—them—this morning on a hike.” “Well, it is clearly a Russian,” he said, gesturing to a blurred mass of black text on the corpse’s chest. “Demidov is not an American surname.” I blinked away tears and the body’s nameplate, black text on a bright orange background, was thrown into focus. Padded under thick, ice-spattered layers, the body was essentially androgynous. Without the face peeking out from under the parka’s hood, there was no means of identifying the body any further. Whatever had torn the hapless Russian’s head off had done a remarkably clean job; the wound was neat and even, with barely a tear on the skin below the cut-off point. The only sign of violence was a loose tear in the material around the parka’s collar. The fluorescent orange fabric had frayed and come apart from the outer lining, as if somebody had tried to rip the collar off. Bloodstained, it lay spread on the snow, a cruel facsimile of the national flags that ringed our own research outpost. “Probably from Vostok,” Nilsen continued. “They are the closest base to us. Still, travelling fifty miles in this cold? They must have frozen or starved to death days ago. It’s a miracle they made it so far.” “They must’ve been fucking desperate,” I muttered. “There’s no way anyone would’ve left a snowmobile behind unless—” “Unless there was no other option.” He glanced at me, eyes invisible behind his goggles. Neither of us dared mention the blood or the absence of Demidov’s head above the nape of their neck: the first human being we’d encountered aside from ourselves in seven months, and they turn up dead and mutilated in a snowdrift. There are bad omens, and then there’s just a great big middle finger from the universe. I stared out at the endless expanse of white, unwilling to glance at the corpse. “Should we take the, um, body back? Y’know, to study or something?” “Unless it’s a magic troll in disguise that will somehow deliver another year’s worth of food,” Nilsen replied bitterly, “then there’s no point, is there?” “Should we bury them? I think—” “Let the snow take care of it. If that corpse freezes in the ice cap, it’ll outlast the rest of us.” “Nilsen—” “When I give an order, I expect you to call me sir,” he interrupted brusquely, his Danish accent sharpening the vowels. I knew that arguing would be hopeless. Nilsen didn’t exercise his authority as base commander often, but when he did, there was no such thing as a rebuttal. He trudged back to the snowmobile, not waiting for a reply. Predictable. Nilsen was totally unreasonable in one of his taciturn moods, not that I could really blame him. Everyone who remained had their coping mechanisms. Fettes drank her way through what little was left of the alcohol stores. Lindwall wrote three emails a day to her wife: they ended up in the unsent tray every time, but she kept going, letter after letter. Waites poked and prodded at the radio, hoping that against all logic and reason, a voice would finally reply to his increasingly frantic hails. I went for my hikes, trekking further and further each time. Nobody minded. In fact, I think they’d all be secretly glad if I ended up getting lost and ending up like poor Demidov. Anything to stretch out their supplies and stave off the inevitable. In any other age, any other situation, the discovery of a headless corpse at the South Pole would’ve been a legend. Now it was simply a tiring annoyance, another thing to keep us awake during the endless daylight of the Antarctic summer.


The audience was silent. The lecture had completed over a minute prior, but no one made a sound. Scientist 8QZ5 expected a bad reaction. But this was somehow worse. Behind him, his embarrassment projected on a massive screen. “The possibility of an advanced heterogenous civilization,” a simple yet controversial topic, had frozen all the scientists in attendance. It was unthinkable and disrespectful to all the homogenous races represented in the room. 8QZ5 walked off the stage. Part of him knew he would fail, but part of him hoped that his data and evidence would have allowed at least a few scientists to open their minds. He could not have been more wrong. Back at his domicile, 8QZ5 stared at his life’s work, and wondered what he could have done differently. But the true answer was much simpler: His life’s work was a joke. And the greatest offense was that 8QZ5, a member of the progenitors, suggested it. The progenitors were the first race to develop interstellar space travel 243 kurlinqs ago, or approximately 100,000 years. As they explored nearby star systems, they began to find similar races to their own. And those races were given the gift of space travel. But they also found some planets with lifeforms that were…dissimilar. Very dissimilar. The xenobiologists quickly discovered two types of dominant lifeforms. One, like the progenitors, were races who worked in harmony with each other and their ecosystems. These were the homogenous races. The hallmark of these races were the abhorrent reaction that each homogenous lifeform had to the death of another sentient lifeform. The homogenous races developed technology slowly. So slow in fact that the progenitors measured a kurlinq as the time between their first written words and their first space flight. Like the other races, they only developed new technologies when resources were running low, and they needed new ways to acquire or process their resources. The progenitors systematically explored out from their home world. Most new star systems were devoid of any life. Few had life, and even fewer had lifeforms worth contacting. In over 240 kurlinqs, 984 homogenous races were discovered. The discovery of the first heterogenous lifeforms was not from first contact. The progenitors landed on Planet CD4589 as part of a resource survey. No life was detected from orbit. And no life was on the planet. But there were ruins. At first the xenobiologists looked for evidence of some natural cataclysm that could have wiped the lifeforms out. But no evidence could be found. Then they discovered a planet with a completely different kind of lifeforms. These lifeforms battled one another for resources. Even among their own species, even among their own families, these lifeforms were willing to destroy anyone, anything for more resources. It was a controversial suggestion that Planet CD4589 was barren because of the lifeforms. How could they kill themselves, their own species, and their entire planet? But the preponderance of evidence amassed over dozens of kurlinqs, from Planet CD4589 and other heterogenous races, proved the horrific point that the progenitors could barely understand: Some lifeforms were capable of total destruction. The absolute disgust that the progenitors had for the “heterogenous” races was only tempered by the fact that no heterogenous races had ever gotten close to space flight. Most would develop the ability to smelt metal, and very few had discovered some basic chemistry. It seemed that Planet CD4589 had progressed the furthest, with the most dire of consequences. Scientist 8QZ5 had hoped the community would be more open-minded. The first scientist to suggest that CD4589 was destroyed by its own lifeforms was ridiculed during her lifetime, and long after she was deceased. Even still, her name is synonymous with non-constructive thinking. The scientific community put little effort into studying the heterogenous races. Once a planet was identified as heterogenous, the solar system was entered into a “blacklist” of interstellar travel. Occasional follow-up surveys were performed, which almost always found the planets to be in worse shape than prior surveys. 8QZ5 lobbied for a more comprehensive study. There were hundreds of heterogenous worlds, and he wanted to understand how such horrific environments could be created. It was not easy for 8QZ5. The horror of lifeforms slaughtering other lifeforms never diminished for him. However, he was a scientist, and he felt he was doing everyone a favor. It was a filthy job, but 8QZ5 felt that knowledge could only be beneficial. At first glance, the only thing that heterogenous worlds had in common was a complete lack of commonality. Planet sizes, weather patterns, star classifications, atmospheric compositions…none seemed to be the key. Even factoring in all available data, 8QZ5’s AI computer systems could not find any pattern. Then 8QZ5 started examining similarities between the more “advanced” heterogenous races. There he started seeing a window where a hypothetical heterogenous race could advance and perhaps thrive under a very narrow band of factors. With a nominal amount of natural resources, a moderate climate, and a fast but controllable fertility rate, 8QZ5 could mathematically envision a race that could achieve space flight. No matter how pure his statistical models were, 8QZ5’s ideas amounted to heresy of the highest order. No race could imagine such barbarism leading to the technological apex of civilization: Space flight. The fall of 8QZ5 was as painful as it was quiet. He was quickly reassigned to a remote station that studied the properties of a variable pulsar. No thought was needed there. He would record data for the rest of his natural life, and if the establishment had its way, he would be forgotten before he died. For years, the plan was executed to perfection. 8QZ5 woefully but dutifully compiled data and packaged it back to the major research organizations. Even he tried to forget his terrible failure, his ridiculous dream of a thriving heterogenous race. He never spoke a word of his hypothesis again. Ten years later, interstellar expedition 99HBT was yet another survey of a solar system. Long term scans indicated that there was a 2.3% chance of hosting any type of life. As expedition 99HBT entered the solar system, they detected rudimentary communication signals being broadcast. Less than 1% of the lifeforms ever encountered had discovered radio communication. One planet, provisionally designated XW66S, was already more advanced than expected. 8QZ5 followed the systematic reports from each expedition. Part of him always hoped that one day during his lifetime he would be partially vindicated. At best he hoped for a planet as advanced the infamous CD4589, but prior to destruction. But it was a fool’s hope, just a small ember to keep him motivated while trudging through pulsar data. The second progress report from the expedition mentioned the detection of radio signals. This was only the second time in 8QZ5’s life that a new civilization had attained radio communication prior to contact. 8QZ5 was excited to hear about the new homogenous race that would be brought into their interstellar society. When expedition 99HBT’s third progress report did not show up at its proscribed time, 8QZ5 assumed that there was a disruption in the communication network. This was a rarity, and was always fixed in short order. But other data from the network was still being transmitted. No fourth progress report. No fifth. 8QZ5 became sickened to think that expedition 99HBT had been destroyed. This had occurred only four times in the past due to violent natural phenomena, but that had not occurred for dozens of kurlinqs. The next message that 8QZ5’s outpost received was short and cryptic. “Prepare for arrival of flagship.” When the flagship of the progenitor fleet showed up at 8QZ5’s remote outpost, he did not even have time to process the irregularity. He was transported to the flagship immediately. No one would tell 8QZ5 what was occurring. When he would ask, he would get the coldest reaction his race could muster. 8QZ5 was solely told that he was ordered to the captain’s quarters. Was 8QZ5 in trouble? Did the scientific community wait this long to enact their final punishment? He never spoke of his theories after his lecture. He didn’t even write anything down, nor even look at any of his former work. But he always feared this day would come. Now 8QZ5 was in the quarter of the fabled Captain NNG4. The legend. The only captain to navigate out of a singularity. Her nickname, which she hated, was, "The Master of Space." Her unflappable reputation even reached 8QZ5's exile. NNG4 did not look at 8QZ5, and said nothing. She could only look at her computer terminal. She seemed emotional, the opposite of what 8QZ5 expected. After what seemed like an eternity, she simply said, “You were right.” NNG4 activated her terminal to show 8QZ5 the planet, formerly designated XW66S, but now called by one of its local names: Earth. A heterogenous race dominated the planet. And they had achieved rudimentary space flight. 8QZ5 scanned the planetary data. The planet and its dominant race matched many of his mathematical models. The correct climate, the right fertility rates, everything his math suggested. But he was unable to imagine the other horrors. AS 8QZ5 examined further, he now saw what all his colleagues saw: The scariest thing imaginable. The Earthlings were more violent than 8QZ5 predicted. Examining Earth’s historical data, 8QZ5 found so many atrocities that he became physically ill. They actively destroyed their environment for progress. And they were acutely aware of the problem, and simply dubbed it pollution. War. There was no equivalent phrase in any known race for the scale of systematic destruction that Earth had inflicted upon itself. And Earth’s history had thousands of examples. They were even utilizing radioactive materials! For weapons, and energy! Every other race immediately saw the destructive potential of radioactive materials, and feared the outcomes. But Earth used them despite the catastrophic damage it did to its people and the environment, even though their star produced ample energy. 8QZ5 could not comprehend the complex monetary systems in place on Earth. The “economy” was another foreign concept. The homogenous races simply shared was needed. Earth created nonsensical values for various resources and activities. Barter systems had been observed in some heterogenous races, but no race had created “currencies” that had no intrinsic value. The subdivisions, called Nations, made no sense. They were all the same race, why were there hundreds of localized populations? Why did they wall themselves off from other populations based on incoherent borders? Yet they thrived. In spite of their constant warring and fighting, they thrived. It seemed that Earth progressed faster during conflict, which was counter to the history of every known homogenous race. Somehow the native selfishness of the Earth race intersected with progress to solve problems. 8QZ5 did not feel vindicated. He did not feel righteous pride after being ignored and shunned for so long. He actively wished that he was wrong, and that he could return to his simple life on the outpost. He was no longer naïve enough to think that his theories were harmless. When 8QZ5 stepped out onto his home world, the place he thought he would never return, he was no longer an outcast. He was their last hope, the only member of 984 races that could fathom the possibility of Earth. Perhaps he could explain how such an abomination could exist, and how they could be protected from Earth. As 8QZ5 entered the enormous lecture hall of the interstellar academy of science, he was struck by the same utter silence as when he left the tiny auditorium all those years ago. Every scientist looked to him for hope and understanding. 8QZ5 started his speech with his summary of everything he had learned about Earth. “The heterogenous planet known as Earth has a 56.2% chance of destroying itself before they can achieve interstellar space travel.” There was a long pause before 8QZ5 could muster his next observation. “If Earth achieves interstellar travel,” he said, while trying to keep his composure, “I do not see a long-term outcome where Earth can coexist with our races.” “If they leave their solar system, we are doomed.


A year had passed since Kindling's landing and a small city was forming from the efforts of the folk trying to provide shelter for everyone. In an ideal world, a city that houses a dragon would be built using materials that aren’t easily flammable, like stone, but the limited tools the survivors were left with meant that their choice in material was also limited. Wood was abundant on the island, so that is what the folk were forced to use. On one calm evening, as everyone was settling in for the night, the dragon landed from her evening patrol. She had been flying around the islands daily, looking for the other dragons and survivors. As the firebugs danced against the darkness of the night, the dragon laid down to sleep with the rest of the city. The sky was calm and a light breeze swept across the island. The city of Kindling drifted to sleep. Suddenly everyone was woken up by what sounded like thunder, only a thousand times louder. Folk jumped out of their beds to see their city in flames, accompanied by the harrowing screams of those trapped in the blaze. In an instant the folk sprung into action to try and extinguish the flames. Trying desperately to save those trapped in the fire, the folk realized there weren’t many to save. The fire was so intense and sudden, most of the victims had burned to ashes in an instant. The fire took three grueling days to extinguish. Forty-eight Askissa were lost that night, many more suffered injuries and lost their homes. Two years after the tragedy the damage had long ago been repaired and life had moved on. A sneeze from the dragon was determined to be the cause for the inferno. Suggestions were made on moving Kindling’s pen to the outskirts of the city, but as the island was quickly filling with folk and the land was needed for farming, any plans of moving her fell through. Housing her on another island was also considered, but it was thought to be too inconvenient. Many citizens demanded King Tivriul to do something to make the city safer. Stuck between exiling a beloved icon and savior they all owed a great debt to, or risking the lives of his folk, the King came up with a compromise; he ordered for the creation of Royal Fire Guard, a specially trained subset of the Royal Guard, whose task was to extinguish any fires. Fire safety regulations were also written into a law. It required new houses to be built in a way that allowed to folk to more easily escape in case their house caught on fire. Old houses were modified to fit the new standards. These actions seemed to ease the concerns many citizens had, and the Royal Fire Guard proved themselves to be an effective, as the city experienced fires from other sources. During one bright day in late midtide, a strong gush of wind picked up colorful powder from the flower fields and carried it over to the city, covering it like a blanket. The younglings had a great time crafting balls out of the powder with the help of some water, and throwing them at each other. A few of the folk however seemed to get weird sneezing fits and watery eyes from the powder, but it didn’t seem to be too harmful. Doctors advised the ill folk to stay away from others and the powder, until their symptoms lessened. In her pen, Kindling was becoming agitated. Described by a caretaker, the dragon paced back and forth, huffing loudly. All efforts to calm down her failed and the majestic creature broke out in a panic. Attempting to lift off to the sky, her wings kicked up some of the loose powder, and before anyone could react, a massive fireball erupted. As the flames incinerated the city once more, devouring everything in its path, King Tivriul’s fire safety regulations and the Royal Fire Guard were put to the test. Countless citizens were able to escape their homes, and many joined to help the Fire Guards in fighting the colossal fire. The Royal Palace, Hearth, was opened for folk who has lost their homes. While the city burned for days, killing countless of unfortunate souls and destroying half the city, the dragon had disappeared. Last seen battling to stay in the air as she violently sneezed, she had eventually vanished from sight. She was thought to be dead, if it wasn’t for her haunting cries during the night, coming from one of the neighboring islands. After days, the last bit of fire was finally smothered, and seeing the devastation and destruction of their city, the folk demanded that if the dragon was to ever return, the city must be able to withstand fire. Steps were taken to stop the dragon from sneezing in the first place, with the King ordering the field flowers to be eradicated, and anyone growing them would be harshly punished. Dig sites were also opened, with the hopes of finding stone. With barely any tools available, the folk resorted to using their paws, clawing the ground until their paws bled. Only a few stones were ever extracted, as the ground was mostly soft dirt. While the grown folk tried desperately find solutions, the younglings of the city played in the dug up dirt. Saevi Claypaw, a young mother, was playing with her cub and helping him to make a figurine depicting of his father. When she returned home that day, she put the figurine on a shelf above the hearth, to show to her husband when he came home. As she was cooking dinner, she knocked the figurine off the shelf and it fell right into the fire. Cursing herself, she carefully fished the miniature from the flames, and noted how it had hardened. She carefully examined the miniature, running her claw along every nook and cranny. As she idly caressed the figurine with her paws, she had an idea. For days she experimented with the new material, noting down the optimal time the material should be exposed to fire, how the material wasn’t flammable at all, and how it could also hold liquids, making it an ideal material for bowls and vases. Saevi had bigger plans than just bowls and vases however, she wanted to try and build a house out of the material. In her notes, she wrote down how the material most likely would need supports, as it could be too soft to hold its shape until properly hardened. She convinced her husband to buy her a plot of land, so she could try and build her first house. The family had been planning on moving into a bigger house and after a long conversation, Saevi’s husband agreed to use the house money to buy a piece of land. Excited and full of energy, Saevi rose up early every morning and left to work on building the house. She had drawn up a plan for what the house should look like, together with her husband, as the plan was that the family would move into the house once it was finished. The house looked very practical, almost boring, but Saevi figured the house should be function over form. Many days after working hard, the house was finished, apart from blessing it with fire. She did notice that just the sun and warm air had hardened the material, but not enough for it to be structurally sound. She filled the house with anything flammable; sticks, leaves, old furniture, piling it high around the walls. Before setting the monstrous pyre on fire, she, her husband and their cub pressed their paws against the soft wall, marking the house as theirs. Saevi felt a sense of pride and accomplishment as she watched the house she had painstakingly built be consumed by the flames. Saevi had notified the Royal Fire Guard of her intentions, and while the law did not make it illegal to burn down your own house, the Royal Fire Guard arrived to make sure the fire wouldn’t spread. A crowd on onlookers had also formed, a fire in the city had the folk spring to action to help put it out. Just this time it was not needed. Saevi and her family enjoyed the blaze, to the confusion of everyone. The crowd murmured to themselves, deeming Saevi and her husband insane for burning their own house down. But when the fire died down, much to their surprise, the house was still standing, unharmed. The Royal Fire Guard had to hold back the curious congregation, as they wanted to take a better look. Once the pack had been dispensed, Saevi and her family could move into their new home in peace. The next morning, there was a knock at the door. Saevi opened it to find King Tivriul accompanied by his advisors and the Royal Guard. She invited the King and his entourage in. They had arrived to see if the rumors of a fireproof house were true. Saevi explained to the King and the advisors how she had discovered the material, its qualities and how she built the house. She demonstrated with bowls she had been making how the material could be hardened and even the King himself crafted a small figurine. Thoroughly impressed, the King thanked her and her hospitality. The same evening, a royal messenger arrived at the house to bring Saevi an offer for becoming an advisor for the rebuilding of the city. She accepted the offer instantly. Together with builders and advisors, Saevi drew up a plan for the new city. The plan was meticulous and detailed, taking into consideration current needs, but also preparing for future expansion. The plan also included a rebuilt and improved Hearth and likewise Kindling’s pen, if the dragon was to ever return. The King approved the plan and the work started swiftly. First, houses would be built on empty lots, folk would move into the newly built houses, the old neighborhood would be demolished and rebuilt using “clay,” as the material had been named. The plan however had a problem; the island just didn’t have enough flammable material to harden all the new buildings, even if they recycled the old wooden buildings, chopped down all of the island’s trees and used all of the furniture too. Everyone knew only the dragon could solve the issue, but she had not been seen since the second fire, and her cries had faded long ago. Queen Ygriet, who was very fond of Kindling, had been trying to organize a campaign to get the dragon to return, but due to fear of bringing controversy on her husband, she was forced to plan in secret. Having heard of the problem Saevi and her team were facing, the Queen was able to use her already laid up plans quickly in motion, and the campaign for Kindling’s return attracted most of the folk to help out. Under Queen Ygriet’s direction, folk would cook massive pots of Kindling’s favorite foods, to try and lure her back. Bits of food were also left on the edge of the island, with torches to guide her back. Meanwhile, the builders were able to finish some houses, but mostly work was halted. One midday, as some younglings were collecting dried leaves and hay at the edge of the island, they noticed a large shadow flying past them behind the clouds. The cubs screamed and ran to alert everyone else. Soon all the folk came out of their houses to witness the shadow circling the island, before it dove underneath it, emerging from the other side and revealing itself from behind the clouds. The folk cheered as the dragon had finally returned. She circled around the city a few times, before landing in the middle of the excited crowd. The folk rushed to greet her and she wrapped her wings around everyone. The Royal Family arrived to personally welcome her back and offer their sincerest apologies. Kindling seemed to have accepted the apology and all was well in the kingdom once more. After so long in self imposed exile, Kindling was not in the best of shape. She was malnourished, had cuts all over her, and her nails and teeth were unkempt. She was fed, washed and given some healing herbs to give her her strength back. The next day, after she had properly rested, Saevi approached her to ask her for a favor. The dragon was visibly confused as she listened to Saevi’s request, and despite being shown detailed plans and the effects fire had on clay, the dragon firmly refused, shaking her head from side to side. It wasn’t until Queen Ygriet herself spoke to Kindling, that she agreed. Saevi and her team quickly got back to work. The dragon sped up the process so much, the builder’s were struggling to keep up. New districts were popping up as fast as the builders could build them. The last buildings to be finished was the new Royal Palace, Hearth, and Kindling’s pen. Both sat in the middle of the city, on the opposite sides of the river. Considered to be the most important buildings and the most beautiful, they truly were the crown jewels of the city. With Saevi’s plan being finished, the city erupted in celebrations. She was rewarded with a key to the city in a prestigious ceremony. She would continue to work in city planning until her retirement, ensuring her vision for the city was executed properly. Her house with her family’s paw prints still stand today. Kindling the dragon served the Kingdom of Kindling as a protector, an icon and an occasional helper for the forge masters until her death. A city born of fire, risen from the ashes.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Image Prompt: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** A character has a meaningful and/or life-changing experience. This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, subject, setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required. **Note: Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) next Monday before the deadline! You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings There are just 2 spots this week as it was a low submission week. Hope to see more stories next week! - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite *Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit to use on r/WPCritique. In order to receive your credits, you must either link your reddit account on our Discord, or have made at least one post on r/WPCritique.* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out the ! - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


My mother always told me. It was a familiar theme of conversation. She would say “if you keep doing these things, nobody is going to like you”. “These Things” was never clearly defined. The best I could surmise was that it roughly translated to “whatever makes you the way that you are as a person”, but that was an educated guess at best really. It seemed *anything* I did warranted a reminder, even when I hadn’t tried to get myself into trouble. I always felt so cold when she spoke like that, like my heart had been injected with some kind of coolant so that my blood was freezing into thousands of tiny prickling shards all over. When I got older, I would learn to inject my ~~veins~~ words with enough heat to ~~numb~~ combat it. “My friends like me just fine.” She smiled. It was not a warm smile. “Because they don’t have to deal with you all the time. When you’re an adult, things will be different. My job, as an adult who knows all of that, is to pass that knowledge to you, and your job is to *listen*, not argue.” Every time she said that word, *knowledge*, I would get distracted. It was one of the few words she said where you could still hear a heavy hint of her accent every time, though she would deny it fervently if you so much as implied that she had any kind of accent at all. They say that a person’s real accent becomes more prominent when that person is tired, drunk, upset, or angry. I had a penchant for making the adults in my life all of those things all of the time, it seemed. I knew a *lot* of different accents, at least. She continued regardless of my distraction. I was, after all, meant to be *listening*. “Right now, school forces you to spend time together. But years from now, when there is no school or dance class or youth group to make them see you all the time, it’ll be up to you guys to invite each other and make plans to see everyone. And they will stop coming, and calling, and inviting you, *mark my words*. Just wait a few years, I’ll be *more* than happy to tell you I told you so.” …… “……*You* like me.” “I don’t like you. Sure, I *love* you, because I’m your mother so I have to, but I certainly don’t *like* you. And once anyone spends enough time with you to learn and know the real you, neither will anybody else. There’s a difference between *liking* someone and *loving* someone.” Oh. Well, maybe, it didn’t matter if people liked me as long as they lo- “And *I* only love you because *I’m* your mother. Nobody else will have that obligation, *they will leave you*. People usually don’t tend to love people they can’t even stand to be around, let alone like, unless they *have to*. They don’t have to. So just watch, because one day, *nobody* is going to like you, not even yourself, and you are going to be a very, *very* lonely little girl. And it will be *nobody’s* fault but your own.” …… ……I don’t really remember how the conversation went after that. I never did find out what “These Things” really were, or how I could stop doing them, though not for a lack of trying. For a while, years later, it didn’t matter. For a while, I was more loved ~~and more liked~~ than I *ever* could have imagined or hoped for, surrounded by so much warmth I was sometimes scared I would burn up. I was also scared that if I got too used to feeling warm, the cold would feel even more bitter upon its inevitable return. And then- just when I had *finally* decided that my mother was wrong, and the memory of those particular words failed to make me feel even chilled anymore, and I was sure that I would certainly never ever ever feel *freezing* ever again- that warmth gradually slipped away from me, as I willingly scrambled to burn myself on the embers in a ~~futile~~ desperate attempt to stay warm and received nothing but the stinging stench of acrid smoke and choked lungs full of ash in return. The cold *did* hurt more upon its return, as I had just gotten used to its absence before it came back with a vengeance, so I was able to relish the bitter victory of being right about *that* at least- even though it meant I was wrong about almost everything I had previously been so sure of, and therefore had to exist with the *knowledge* that my mother was right, *mark her words*. As the familiar cold settled in, it stung so fiercely it almost reminded me of burning all over again. There is a special sort of quiet brutality in finally finding something you never quite dared to hope you would have, then having it pulled cleanly from your grasp no matter how much you fought. It’s almost an act of mercy, a kindness, to go without and never truly know what you’re missing, rather than to know and to *feel* the empty, aching hollows the absence leaves behind. I am wary now of even a spark, too scared of forfeiting my reclaimed numbness just to burn to even consider striking a match and daring to feel anything but cold *ever* again. She certainly did tell me so. …… Sometimes at night, years after I’ve stopped needing to strain my ears to listen for angry footsteps and voices but ~~compulsively~~ devotedly continue to do so anyway, when it’s quiet and I’m alone and ~~begging~~ ~~sobbing~~ ~~pleading~~ wishing that I wasn’t as charred memories play on a hazy loop in my mind, I wonder if I was missing the obvious the entire time, if “These Things” simply meant talking, moving, thinking, feeling, breathing, *living*. And if maybe, just *maybe*, if I stopped, someone might like me. …… Sometimes, if I keep the TV on during at night, sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I’m not alone during those hazy moments between the waking world and sleep. Currently, a documentary plays across the screen, casting the walls in a soft blue glow that is almost ethereal in the still darkness. A man on the screen is demonstrating methods one should employ to stay warm enough to survive alone in a blizzard long enough to wait for help, should one ever manage to land themselves in such a position. He explains how crucial it is to find a dry, safe place to take shelter and build a fire, teaches his audience how to use the bare minimal tools and materials to produce a tiny, dancing flame. He does not explain what to do if you have no tools and materials, however, nor how to find such items should you find yourself lacking. He also does not mention what to do if there is no *help* on the way. Those possibilities aren’t even acknowledged. I’m only half awake, but it still doesn’t escape my attention that there’s some sort of metaphor, or irony, or something to be found there somewhere. …… ………… I’m so cold.


Somewhere between the space of visible and invisible, deep inside the outskirts of sight, I find my own dream of life. Every season, and specifically winter, I find such joy in peeking into the private conversations of snowflakes as they softly rest on the ground. At the beginning of winter, on the first dusting of snow frost, I am freed from my hidden seed. Brushing off the soft stuffing from my eyes, I stretch out my arms and spin. The frost on the trees is so beautiful. A thin casing of crystal. From a distance, they look like bunches of ivory flowers. As the winter grows colder, and deeper snow piles onto the hard earth, I start my duties. I don’t know who gave me this task every winter. I just know that I have to do it. Under the snow, I dig my fingers down into the soil. Tiny, little holes do my digits make. These are for the little bugs and creatures to hide out the freezing wind. Even though I am so comfortable in the bitter, shuttering gales, I know that some are not so lucky. Shimmering amongst the frost and ice. Maybe on a very cold and early morning, if the sun hits me just right, an animal might see the very outline of my body. Even if I look down, I do not know what my body looks like. I can see rabbits and foxes. Mice, deer, coyotes and so many lively creatures. I can only imagine I have paws like them. Ears and coats of fur like them. But I have no use for them, as I can not be prayed upon. It is becoming a little warmer now, soon it will be spring. The snow I used to skate across is melting. It leaves thousands of broken islands where the damp, yellow grass is waiting in between. Sometimes I envy the grass during this time. To be able to wait peacefully and gently, under the comforting snow. To grow strong and green, to give nutrients to a living being. To be the reason that something procreates and lives. To be the reason living beings are eaten as well. The cycle I watch from a safe distance is cruel, but very breathtakingly merciful. The snow is now very far from its sibling islands. I must jump across the great gaps of eager grasses for only the snow I shall touch. I will finish my last tasks and then I will sleep deep under the blanket of warming soil. I can’t wait to hear the juices of mother earth flowing up to the surface as the life waters rush and pulse past my dormant ears. The spaces of snow are now impassable. I am stuck on a small circlet of leftover slush. I am happy with my work, and I am satisfied with the season. Now to lay my- What is that? Just before I close my eyes, I see a lump on the ground. A small lump of fur. I bend down to inspect, oh dear. It seems that one of the small creatures did not make it through the winter. A deep pit wells up inside my core. I pick up the creature, stiff from its long sleep under the blanket of frost. I hold the creature close. Oh no. Am I so selfish to enjoy myself when there are beings that can not so much as survive in my passion? I am beginning to question the pleasures I’ve taken in my position. What am I? Where am I between the line of living and not living? Such a concept had never crossed my mind. I place the creature down and dig my fingers deep into the earth below it. Come full spring, should the insects find you. Please find comfort in the fact that your death is not a waste, little creature. They need to find you. They need you. Something, other than me, needs to find your sweet body and love you. I love you, of course. But isn’t that how I was made? Or, if I was made even.


\[This is a retelling of the night my grandpa died; it's not finished. I have changed the names in this story for safety reasons. If you have any suggestions on how I can become better as a writer please leave a comment down below, thank you.\] "What am I going to do once he's gone?" That single thought chased itself around and around in my head, unanswered. I stood in front of the stove watching the noodles boil in the pot, with tired eyes. This had been the longest week of my life. Grandpa was sick, really sick. Mom had a priest perform his final rights a few days ago. His doctors were certain he didn't have much longer now. That was hard to accept. The idea that he would be gone soon. Distantly, I hear mom and dad talking. But I carry on with what I'm doing, this was the first moment I'd had to myself this past week. So much of our family had come to say their goodbyes. While it was nice to see them, it was so hard to be happy. I just wanted to eat and sleep. Briefly I toyed with the idea of waking up from this nightmare. But there would be no end to this. Not even when he passed on. The dread sat heavily in the center of my chest pulling me back to the present. I sighed, fighting back tears. Just then, dad ran to the kitchen tears in his eyes, "Poet!" he says hurriedly. I look to him and my heart drops, "What's going on?" I ask somehow knowing before he says, "Grandpa." and that's all he has to say. Immediately I stop what I'm doing, and I rush into Grandpa's room. there in the darkness Mom is holding a stethoscope, at his side. Her face locked in concentration, and I can clearly see pain and sadness behind her eyes. I stand in the doorway, ice water rushing through my veins. 'Please. No, not yet.' I think to myself, 'I need more time.' I plead internally. There are so many things we need to do still. We have to go to Texas so you can tell me about your family. I need to learn Spanish so we can actually have a conversation. I can feel my heart beginning to break, as I look up at my mom silently asking, 'Is he-?' Mom glances over at me and gives the tiniest shake of her head. He's gone. Before I realize what, I'm doing I walk over to the side of his bed, and I gently take his cooling hand into mine. Tears running down my face, I sit next to him. My breathing becomes erratic, and the tears burn tracks down my cheeks. time ceases to exist as I remember who he was and is to me. All that he meant to me and how lucky I was to have him in my life.  (to be continued...


Ingrid’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she made her way back to her longhouse at the edge of Kjareby, her village, after once more being refused a position in the king’s army of dragon slayers. She looked out at the forest darkly, as if daring it to jeer at her. The dragons would never dare to come to town, but that didn’t mean the forest didn’t contain a whole horde of them. There were whispers that had spread like wildfire across the town, whispers of a war with the dragons… and of the mighty warrior who would lead the army to victory. She *knew* she’d done better than half the boys in training. And yet… “Oh, you’re back,” yawned Hilda, the milk delivery girl, sitting on Ingrid’s favourite rock overlooking the forest. “Any luck?” “No,” she said monotonously. “Right,” said Hilda, used to the whole thing by now. “Well, mother needs some help with milking the cows, and what’s an orphan got to do anyway?” “I need to train,” she snapped. “Oh, of course. But you *have* been getting continuously rejected, and I need to help father with the shop, so…” “Fine. I’ll go,” said Ingrid, knowing full well Hilda was not going to *help father with the shop.* She dropped her weapons, and stomped back into town and into Ailse’s shed. “Hello, Ailse,” she smiled at Hilda’s mother, who merely nodded at a pail kept in a corner. Sighing, she got down to milking the cows. “Er- you wouldn’t need a full-time assistant- would you?” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer, milking her third cow. “I was thinking maybe I could have a backup- in case I don’t get into the army-” “He won’t let you in,” Ailse said gruffly. “So stop trying.” She went red. “My parents were warriors!” “Yes, and they fought humans, not dragons. Not to mention,” she turned to her, “they still died.” An hour later, pocket jingling with ten copper coins, she went back to her longhouse and picked up her abandoned bow, arrow and axe. Ailse’s words still rang in her ears. She looked out over the forest again. Strange, it felt like it… was calling to her. She looked around. She was alone. Clearly, Hilda had gone to loiter elsewhere. She turned back to the forest. In the quiet, she could almost hear the faint hissing of a dragon. Of course, if she wanted to prove herself, she could simply try again with the king tomorrow. Or she could slay her first dragon now. She walked forward. She could already hear that cautionary voice in her head, the one that always chided her when she got angry. *What if she didn’t survive?* *Well, what if she did?* She thought. Nobody younger than twenty had slayed a dragon for over a century. If she could do it, well, then, she might just become the Warrior of Men. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be too bad to get some of the treasure they kept with them. Heart thumping, she entered the forest. She’d heard that the dragons nested towards the east, so that’s where she would go. All she needed was one dragon on the way. Taking out the compass in her belt, she began her trek. Several hours later, not only had she not found a single dragon, she was also hungry and thirsty. *Always so impulsive,* began that scolding voice again. Finally giving up, she sat down in a clearing, imagining what the villagers would say when she told them she couldn’t even find a dragon, much less kill one. Perhaps she could tell them she’d just gone exploring. *Fat chance of them believing that.* Well, she couldn’t argue. It was already evening. She couldn’t handle it if she returned and found out there was a search party looking for her. She got up to go. It was then she noticed the small, flaming mud mound. She could almost hear father’s voice, telling her about the dragons of the underworld. *Loratren*, he called them. She still remembered laughing hearing the tale of the *Loratren*, how they made houses in mud mounds and fought with little animals like mice… But it had all been a fairy tale, all of it. Her father, as everyone constantly reminded her, had never actually fought a dragon. He didn’t even enter the forest, only spent his days training in the gym with her mother and their friends. She got down on her hands and knees, examining the mound. She could hear snorting from inside. She touched it. It wasn’t burning hot at all, but only pleasantly warm, just as father used to say. Suddenly, a little flaming red dragon the size of her thumb flew slowly out of it, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he puffed with the effort of carrying his single copper coin away from her. In spite of herself, she laughed. It wasn’t going to be hard to kill *this* dragon, she thought, as she caught hold of it by the torso. It struggled, stinging her hand as it ripped at her with its small teeth. She dropped it and raised her fist. The little dragon looked up at her hand, and then at her face. Then it roared, shot at her hand and attacked with everything it had. She flicked it off and raised her hand again. She was taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the speed of the dragon. It was the way it looked at her, knowing that she was more than a hundred times its size, and still decided to take her on. And that look. It reminded her of… of herself, fighting the village boys when she was little because they’d called her *orphan* one too many times. She felt the scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d received in that very fight, the one she’d lost. And withdrew her hand. Lying on the ground wounded, the dragon closed its eyes. She picked it up. If everything else her father had said was true, then- she looked around-a flame had to be what could save this dragon. But not its weak flame, a real one, a-in her father’s words- *living* one. She immediately laid it back on the ground, picked up two stones and made a fire with some dry leaves. “Come on little dragon,” she muttered, laying it into the fire. “Come *on,* Loratren!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Had she finally become the very thing she’d fought? Just another oppressor? Was this the kind of warrior she wanted to be? She made up her mind just as the dragon opened its eyes. \*\*\* It had been six years since that insufferable orphan, Ingrid, had gone missing. It was discovered in the morning when the delivery girl went to give her her milk. Initially, there’d been a hue and cry. Search parties were formed. Many lamented how young the child was. Rumours abounded of Ingrid being picked up by a Midnight Longhorn and carried away. Years passed. Life moved on. The incident was soon forgotten. The whole village was celebrating. The Great War was to happen soon. The army of axe-wielding dragon slayers was ready. Blacksmiths had made axes the size of the men using them. Most importantly, the Warrior of Men had been chosen- the prince. He’d had a whole day of parading around, flexing his muscles and whirling his axe, showing off his special bow for all to see. The day of the war dawned gloomy and overcast. The spirits of the villagers, however, were high as ever. Conches blew, children screamed and victory songs were sung as the army marched out of the village and to the edge of the forest, where Ingrid’s longhouse lay, forlorn and abandoned. After two days, in slightly lower spirits than they’d started out in, the army reached the cliffs. Not one of them had taken out their conch when the dragons came. Big dragons, small dragons, Onyx-black dragons, glowing white dragons, dragons snorting smoke from their nostrils, dragons whose breath misted in front of them. And the dragon of the underworld, at least fifty feet tall, breathing in flames, spikes running all along his back up to his tail, scales a bright, blazing shade of orange, baring his ten-inch long sharp fangs at the quaking army. What astonished them the most was the woman riding him. There were scars on her limbs. Dressed in layers of slightly translucent shed dragonskin, her hair flying wildly behind her, holding a battle axe, teeth bared, she hissed at the army. But nobody could mistake the fiery determination behind the glittering black eyes that no one had been able to quench. You see, while Ingrid’s father did indeed have an unexplainable amount of knowledge about the Loratren, he was wrong about one thing. That little dragon, the one Ingrid had almost killed? It was only a baby. The Warrior of the Dragons was ready for battle.


As the day wore on, Madeline managed to keep limping forward. After a while, she became good at zoning out from the pain. The repetitive motion of just putting one foot in front of the other became almost mechanical. And of course, Billie’s voice through the walkie-talkie provided a near-constant distraction. Though they tried to hide it through mindless chatter and light-hearted observations, she could tell her friend was worried about her. Talkative as they could be, they normally liked to remain relatively quiet while on the move so as to remain alert to possible disturbances. The near-constant communication made it clear — no matter what they were actually saying, it was obvious that they were checking in on her. In a way, their concern was a comfort. Knowing that there was someone there to help if she needed it was definitely reassuring. But it would have been easier to stop worrying herself if their worry wasn’t quite so blatant. With her injury slowing the pace, they had to keep walking later into the day than usual. By the time they reached the edge of the city, the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. Madeline was about ready to follow it. But she knew she couldn't. Not yet. “We can stop soon,” Billie said through the radio. “We’re less than a day’s walk away from the meeting, even at this pace. All we’ve got to do is find somewhere safe to sleep.” “Any thoughts on that?” Madeline replied. “The map says that this whole section of the city is pretty much just residential. I suggest you rest somewhere out of sight while I find a couple of houses that are easy to get into.” “Sounds good.” She glanced over her shoulder and the figure of her friend a few hundred metres behind her before dragging herself off the road and into a nearby garden, nestling in behind the hedge. “This hidden enough?” “Looks it. I’ll let you know what I find.” Madeline didn’t have to wait long. No longer having to match her pace, Billie was clearly moving much faster than they had been all day. “Alright. I found one just a few houses down and another around the corner. You take number fifty-three on this road and I’ll take number four on the next. I’ve left the front door open for you.” “Thanks,” Madeline replied. She picked a few leaves and twigs from her messy ponytail as she extricated herself from the hedge, and limped back onto the street and towards the chosen house. Once inside, she didn’t bother to check the rest of the building, certain that Billie already would have. Instead, she made her way straight for the sofa. She chuckled to herself when she saw what awaited her there: a bag of chocolate-covered raisins and a bottle of coke. She lifted her walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “Thanks for the gift.” “Oh good, you got it. I found that while I was searching and thought you might enjoy it.” After picking up the items left for her, Madeline settled down on the sofa. She scoffed the raisins a handful at a time before gulping down the soda. When she was satiated, she picked up the walkie-talkie again. “Alright,” she said, “I’m going to try and get some sleep now. Thanks again for the surprise snack.” “Glad you liked it. Now sleep well!” “How do you make a farewell sound so much like an order?” “Because it is! You’ve got to get plenty of rest if you want to get your strength back.” “Alright then. I’d best get started! Good night, Billie.” “Night, Mads.” She set the radio down, shifted her weight around until she was at least vaguely comfortable, and closed her eyes. \ The next morning, it was a hiss of static that woke her rather than the sun’s rays. “You awake yet, Mads?” Billie’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. Blinking her eyes to clear the sleep from them, Madeline stretched out to grab the radio. “I am now,” she mumbled. As she spoke, she noticed how dark it was in the room. She glanced over at the window and saw only the vaguest hint of dawn creeping into the sky. “Do you get up this early every morning?” she asked. “Of course. How do you think I always beat you to our meetings?” “Hmmm,” Madeline replied. “I thought it was because you practically sprinted there because you were so eager to see me.” “That too.” The light chuckle in their voice conjured up an image of their face creased in a grin. Madeline could picture the way their olive skin would crinkle around brown eyes full of light and warmth. The thought made a smile tug at her lips. “Anyway,” they continued, “sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep this morning, but I figured we should make an early start. Besides, it’s not like you need anymore.” Madeline groaned as she pushed herself up. She did it as slowly as possible, to ease her limbs back into movement. When she was seated, she pushed down the button to reply, “I’m afraid all the flattery in the world couldn’t make me happy to be woken up at this time. Though kudos to you for trying.” “It’s not flattery if it’s true.” “Alright, alright, enough of that,” Madeline said, though she couldn’t quite restrain the twitching of her lips upwards. “I should probably take a quick look at my leg before we get going.” “Good idea. Do you have plenty of first aid supplies?” Madeline cursed. She should have thought to take some of her own rather than relying on the shared kit in Billie’s bag. “No,” she replied. “But there’s probably something I can use in this house.” Though her search was hampered by her injuries, Madeline soon found a bundle of bandages and some antiseptic spray in a bathroom cabinet. She winced as she peeled off the previous wrappings around her thigh. Underneath was still a sticky mess of varying shades of dark red and rust-brown. She did her best to clean the wound before bandaging it back up, biting her lip hard to hold back the pain. When she was done, she slumped back, a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin. After a few deep breaths to calm the trembling in her hands, she rewarded herself with a handful of chocolate-covered raisins. “How’re you getting on?” Billie asked through the radio. “All done,” she replied. “I’ll start walking now and let you know when I’m going past your house.” “No need. I’m already outside yours. Leave when you’re ready and I’ll follow behind.” Madeline shook her head. Of course, they were already outside. Letting her walk around the corner by herself would *obviously* be far too great a risk. Once she’d collected her things, she headed outside, waving to her friend as she started walking. After so long in the countryside, it was strange being back in the city. The buildings lining the streets felt oppressive, hemming her into a narrow segment of the world. Even stranger was the feeling of being in a *different* city. Though she knew it was likely all in her head, the streets *felt* different. Like they weren’t *hers*. She tried to put the thought out of her head as she walked. After all, they were just streets and buildings. Lumps of concrete, brick, and mortar. One was just like any other. And all of them had fallen to the Poiloogs. Luckily, the day passed with little in the way of incidents. There were a couple of scares when the hum of a ship became audible, but there was plenty of time to limp into a nearby building to hide. Having started early, they reached the neighbourhood of the meeting place before the sun began to set. It was close to the town centre, which meant spending the night in an actual house wasn’t an option. Not if they wanted to set off after dawn and still make it in time. Billie settled on an old clothes shop for Madeline, and an electrical goods store for themself. Though she’d have liked a better vantage point, Madeline had to content herself with the ground floor. Her friend insisted that stairs were too much of a risk, given her injuries, if she needed to make a quick getaway. And they assured her that they would watch the streets for the both of them. Inside, she assembled a pile of clothing as a bed. Then, after a quick snack, she settled down to sleep. \ She was awoken the next morning by the familiar hiss of static. “Good morning, Mads!” Billie’s voice crackled in an almost sing-song tone. “Ready for the big day?” Madeline rolled over to grab the walkie-talkie. “As I’ll ever be,” she replied as she slowly climbed out of the pile of clothes. “Should we go over the rescue plan one more time?” “We can as we walk there.” “Do you… Do you think they’ll go for it?” There was a pause before the next hiss of static. “I think at least some of them will. I hope so, anyway.” “Me too,” Madeline murmured. “I— I’m not sure if we’d be able to rescue Liam — and Joe of course — without them. Hell, I’m not sure we’ll be able to do it with them.” “I know,” Billie said. “But you were right. We have to try.