With a firm grip on my shirt collar, an arm tugged me out of my cubicle office chair. I bent backward, hearing the chair hit the floor at the same time as me. Locking his grip onto my collar, the guy dragged me through a town of cubicles. “What’re you doing?” I asked. “As of this morning, your name is on the Z-List,” I heard the man say. “I’m taking you to your trial.” “It can’t be, no,” I shouted, but the guy continued to drag me out. “Let go of me.” Coworkers were avoiding eye contact, I was getting dragged and no one paid more than a glance to the tall muscle dragging me. My boss walked through the stair-well exit, then as he saw the man dragging me, he moved aside, taking a sip from his coffee mug. I was clawing the floor until tossed into the elevator. \ The muscle brought me into a dark room where he dropped me to a chair. I held my arms against the chair handles in silence. That’s when I hear a click. A lamp brought light to the other side of the room. The dim lamp light revealed a tall, wooden podium extended across the room. Alongside the podium, I saw hooded figures and I couldn’t make out their faces. In the middle, the lamp revealed an older man under the hood. “It would appear that trusted members in society have voted that you require rehabilitation. Before you reenter your community, you must serve the judges of the Z-Watch until you earn a citizen status worthy enough to reenter society.” “What? I don’t know who put my name on that list, but I’m a good member in society, I didn’t commit a crime. I don’t need vigilante rehabilitation.” “My job isn’t to decipher who put your name on that list or why. My job is to evaluate whether you’re a worthy citizen of worth status that qualifies to reenter society.” “Wait-” I tried to talk. The judge hit his hammer. “Silence,” the judge’s voice made me still in my chair. “Your current citizen status is currently set to chaotic.” “Ch-chaotic?” I asked. “As a new member on the Z-List, your status is chaotic by default. You must work your way up to outstanding citizen status again if you want your name off the list.” “What do I need to do?” I asked. “Serve your community. Earn your title as an outstanding citizen and you can rejoin society. The judges of the Z-Watch have been watching over the safety of ordinary citizens such as yourself since before you could open your eyes.” “I’m not a danger. If I am, why not call the cops and jail me?” I asked. “You may have not committed a crime, but trusted members of your community seem to think you require a citizen evaluation and pose a safety risk. The Z-Watch must rehabilitate you before you *do* become a danger to your society. It’s time to serve.” “I can’t serve now, I have a full-time job.” “You won’t go hungry while you serve, son. You’ll get your pay cheque. *Show* the Z-Watch judges that you care for your community. There’s a lot of dirt in this town that needs cleaning and as you’re on the list, it’s time to get your hands dirty. Are you ready?” I couldn’t help but think about how crazy this situation was, I was caught in the net of a vigilante group. They wanted me to volunteer but Z-Watch volunteering isn’t a part-time commitment. It’s like they give you a leash and tie you to your phone. You have to take the calls and do the errands for the Z-Watch Judges around town. It seemed honest at first, but who was I to go out there as a vigilante to help order citizens around? “I can’t do it, I’m just not made to work on the street,” My head turned to the muscle then back to the judge. “Are you sure you want to reenter society as a chaotic citizen?” “I’m sure.” “If that’s the case, then you can go,” the judge gestured for the muscle to untie me. I was out of the chair, “uh judge, thanks for understanding.” “Good luck, son,” the judge said. \-- The muscle gestured me out of the judgement room. It seemed like this trial took place in someone’s place of residence. A small house on a regular block. Time to find the nearest subway station. Everyone on the train was quiet for a moment. Then I started hearing chatter over the screeching train-tracks echoing through the tunnels. People started to bring up their phones to their faces. Afterwards, they started to look at me. My heart pounded as someone to my right nudged me. “Yeah?” I asked, turning to the man on my right. No response from him. He seemed to be uttering mutters under his tongue. “Ch-chaotic Z-Lister,” he muttered. “M-must be controlled.” “Are you okay, sir?” I asked. Everyone on the train broke into chatter. They’re all looking at me as they started to stand. “Young man, how can you walk in here with a chaotic status?” The middle-aged blonde woman told me. Everyone started to stand, gazes gravitating toward me. Their stares sending shivers through my weak knees. Someone came up to me with a phone to their ear, “Z-Lister refuses to serve,” the man said. “Neutralize him before he hurts someone.” “Get the hell away from me,” I realized a crowd started following me off of the train. I flew up the stairs to leave the station. At one point, I felt a blade slice some skin off the back of my neck. Or was it someone’s nail, attempting to claw at me? I jog toward an intersection set to a red stop light. After coming to a stop for a second, I realized I was about to collapse. Not enough energy to raise a finger. With no plan in mind except to get away, I took a right turn to the cars parked along a quiet road. As I turned, my vision revealed the mob on my tail. The on foot chase must’ve lasted more than half an hour. Around twenty or thirty of them, roaring and yelling for me to stop. As I stood in the intersection, I knew I had one of three ways to take. A figure from down the road caught my attention. Is someone calling me? “Over here! Quick, I’m right here,” the man waved, his foot holding the door open to one of the restaurants along the curb. I had my eyes set on the next intersection, I couldn’t stop for this stranger, I thought. Though, I realized I felt an overbearing tiredness, like I’d already exhausted the energy needed to get away. I couldn’t help but keep looking at the man holding the door open, “come in here, I can help you.” “Help *me*?” “I’m on the list. I’m a judged citizen, just like you. Those vigilantes are getting closer, now get in here so I can close the damn door,” the man’s voice escalated. I didn’t have a breath in me to keep running, so I followed him inside. My eyes tracked him as he ensured all locks were snapped shut. He had these glasses with big frames and sweat sliding down the side of his neck. Stuck to his skin was an old dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I wanted to sit down, but we had to shut all the windows as the mob passed the restaurant. I noticed a half empty glass of water on the barstool, “go ahead, drink,” he said. I emptied the glass into my dry throat. While exhaling, I leaned against the bar table, not an eye off the windows. It was starting to get quieter. Most of the crowd passed the restaurant and started heading to the next intersection. “What the heck were you doing out there as a chaotic Z-Lister?” the man asked. “I don’t know why they’re after me… I think the judges are doing more than just cast me out. I think the judges are turning everyone around me insane. One second I’m on the train, next second everyone’s trying to kill me,” I watch the veins on my hand. “Welcome to the list, kid. Guess now’s when you learn what the judges have been really doing to chaotic Z-Listers. Judges have a supercomputer configured to trigger everyone’s emotions to act against you. It doesn’t matter what you are or why you’re on the list. What matters is you get phazed out if you exist with a chaotic status.” “Damn,” my jaw stayed open for a few solid seconds. “That sounds like one messed up piece of tech.” “It’s something, isn’t it? The judges of the Z-Watch. They can’t keep up with everyone on the list on their own. They need a supercomputer to help. A computer that makes sure we stay in the prison.” “The prison?” I tilted my head. He snapped his finger, “wake up Z-lister, since you refuse to volunteer, the judges put you in a cage.” “A cage?” “With a chaotic status, everyone around you gets hacked to break you open until you submit to the judges. The world is a prison until you complete your rehabilitation. That’s why that crowd was after you.” “How could it be like this? What’s happening to the world?” “World is the same. You just woke up today on the wrong list. This was always the nature of this. I reckon at one point, the supercomputer made *you* act out against other chaotic Z-Listers throughout your life.” “How long have you been on the Z-List?” I asked. “Two years.” “Two years? Why are you still on the list? Did you try to serve?” “I served, I broke my knuckles on a daily basis helping put criminals away. I managed to reach the ‘good citizen’ status. But a while into the game I realized, the judges always needed servants, they weren’t just going to let us loose. And as long as we’re still on the list, they can keep up away from society for as long as they please..” “What do we do?” “Run,” the man asked. “Right behind you,” I nodded. “Good,” the man marched to the back of the restaurant, waving to me to follow along. I paced behind him. “There’s a door at the back of this restaurant, we’ll make our way through the alley, then get to a main road to make our way out of here.” I started hearing engines roaring at what seemed like a block away, “You hear those engines? Looks like the Judges already sent their errand boys are here,” L said.”I think we’re about to see a judge real soon.” A roar came into the road. A large black truck, flashing high beams into my eyes. Another truck like it came from the other side of the road, spreading the people on the road apart. They both zoomed toward us and zigzagged to a full stop. A large guy with a cape jumped out of the truck, “you’re coming to see the judge,” said the Z-Watch errand boy. “Jake, when it comes to facing a judge, it’s not a matter of *if* you face trial. It’s a matter of when,” L placed his hands above his head. “Better not struggle. We’re in the palms of the Judges, it’s best to submit before they crush us.” I looked up to the podium, I saw hooded figures and I couldn’t make out their faces. In the middle, an older man had his face revealed. “Please, take my name off the Z-List,” I shouted at the podium. The judge pointed a piece of chalk to a chalkboard behind him. On the board, I saw a column of words. First the word laying on top was, ‘outstanding’, below it was ‘good citizen’. Next the word, ‘satisfactory.‘ ‘Chaotic’ was written and underlined in the very bottom.“ “Once you get to the level of an outstanding citizen,” he tapped the chalk against the board. “Then you’ll get your name off the list. You’ll qualify to get back into society again. But for now, you need to serve.” “You can’t do this to me, you can’t control me like this, I’m an adult,” I noticed my voice rose. “Hell, *you’re* an adult, sir.” “Silence.” “Judge, just outside this room, I saw your Certified Public Accountant certificate… I think this is your part-time job or something,” I took a step closer to the podium. “I know you’re serving this purpose as a vigilante, but I shouldn’t be on the Z-List, I’m a good citizen, I swear.” “Either way, you must begin your rehabilitation or you *will* be permanently programmed out of society itself,” the Judge leaned forward. “Is that clear?” I exhaled out of my nose, “okay.” “Okay what? Do you really want to stay with a chaotic citizen status? No one will even look at you, so wait like a young, respectful gentleman and pick up the call to serve.” “Why…” I take a breath. The judge had to hear this. “How could you vigilantes sit there and judge me like this? Who’s judging what you do as people in our society? You’re a vigilante, you’re not an actual judge.” The judge didn’t respond. He just looked at me. I started feeling uneasy, it started with a bit of chest pain. Then my head started to feel heavy. One of my eyes started to twitch. I looked at the judge and he didn’t seem bothered. “Something the matter, Jake?” My breathing was getting slower, “no, judge.” “You seem exhausted.” I looked at the lamp in front of the Judge, then back down to his stare. He was watching me struggle to take breath. My thoughts started to become unsorted. I began to sweat, it wasn’t out of embarrassment from the Judge watching. I fell off the chair and laid myself on the floor. “Sometimes you’ll stray off the path, but realize, I don’t have to place you behind bars to imprison you,” I heard the judge. I reached my hand up toward the podium. I felt nothing but head pain. I realized he didn’t care for what I was going through, “help,” I called out. “You’re not going to die. Do you feel that? Feel the grasp of our powerful system? We call it the Mother System.” “The system?” My eyes were nearly shut but I was regaining consciousness as he spoke. I remembered the supercomputer me and L were talking about. “It can sift through the code of your brain like nothing else, gazing straight into your soul….” “Please, make it stop.” “My suggestion: free yourself of the chaotic citizen status, serve and volunteer,” he tapped his cane as he stared down at me, I layed there sick, watching him. What was he doing, what sort of system was he talking about? Or was it witchcraft? “J-judge,” I fought to breathe out the words. “Okay, you can turn down the Mother System,” I heard the judge tell a figure next to him. Now, I was regaining my ability to breathe again. “Does the Mother System frighten you?” “What sinister technology is this?” I asked. “The Mother System is programmed to fix subpar citizens. There are no worse citizens than chaotic. See where you stand now?” “I understand you judge, I will serve.” \-- My first service call was helping to wipe the remains of a corpse off an apartment floor. Other days, helping local police control gangs that brought trouble. It was order after order to help law boys clean the streets. Sometimes it was a simple drive along with the neighbourhood watch to help them look out for robberies and the districts with soaring crime rates. Z-Watch representatives would reach me with a phone call. I didn’t know how much of what I was doing mattered. But judges must’ve been the ones who saw the bigger picture. I’m sure the last judge I spoke to sees the bigger picture, they see how Z-Watch props up our communities. My hand was on my phone before it even rang. I stared at it, waiting for a Z-Watch service call. A ring brought up my pulse. I pick up the phone, “hello?” I said. “Hello Z-Lister Jake. I’m a Z-Watch representative.” “I’m listening.” “Okay. You’re getting a big request. This one is priority high.” “Woah,” I react and whisper over to L what the rep told me. “Judges are getting happier with you, but if you want to make them really happy, this is the kind of service you want to do,” the representative continued to tell me that this was the mission that earns us a lot of points with the Judges. The Z-Watch will for sure elevate my status after this one. A young girl in a poor neighbourhood had been kidnapped. Once the girl gets to safety in one piece, I get my satisfactory citizen status, leaving behind the chaotic one. A young black girl disappeared. No one knew where she went, the police officer on the block informed me. The officer said that one of the witnesses told him the girl was last seen with a gangster that lives across the street from her family. Through a reported analysis, the Z-Watch’s Mother System predicts that he’s 95% likely to be the kidnapper. I look at the gangster from a distance. He’s twice my size, “What do you want?” He asked, an annoyed expression sat across his face. I took out my phone to show him a picture of the missing girl, “I need to find that girl.” “What’re you concerned about her for?” “I need to know her whereabouts.” He laughed. “You were last seen with her, you know where she headed?” I ask, not breaking my straight expression or eye contact. “I don’t know..” “You need to tell me where she is.” “I can’t help you.” I ask the gangster once again,“where is the girl?” I ask the gangster. “I don’t know, I’m heading back into my house, get lost,” he slammed the door behind him. “He won’t talk,” I told L. “What now?” “Backup. Our target might require mind control,” L said. “Mind control? What do you mean?” “We extract truth out of him, with the help of the Z-Watch of course.” I watch L bring up his phone, picking one of the numbers on the contact list, he texts one of them, “Is Mother System online?” A response to his text appears in a second, “mother System servers are online.” “The Mother System?” “We want the girl now and alive, yeah? We can make this mission simple, all we really do is text a Z-Watch representative and they’ll have the mother system inside the gangster’s mind and hacked in no time.” “So we’re going to use a system to hack a person’s mind? Don’t you think that’s messed up?” I asked. “Yeah. But if we can’t find the girl, can you really afford to face a judge again?” I shook my head, “no.” I watched L text to the Z-Watch rep, “I need the target to have a fear of level 3, he’s not revealing information about a kidnapped girl”.. This brings a response text to his phone, “A judge accepted your request to the mother system, the system will now modify your target.” “What happens now?” I asked L. “Now watch the gangster’s house.” We stood outside his house. A sudden scream came from the gangster’s home, as if he were trapped in there with a monster. “What the heck is going on in that house?” I asked. “His brain got hacked to elevate his fear level to three. For all I know, the Mother System is making him hallucinate the walls of his home collapsing on him, you’re sure going to make him talk now.” “Wh-what?” The gangster burst outside the house, like a corpse collapsing in his front yard. “Why’re you getting on the ground like that? What’s wrong with you?” I asked him. “I don’t know what’s happening, the inside of the house is hell and you're becoming the shadow as I look at you, I don’t know who drugged me man,” the gangster cried out. “A shadow?” I realized that Mother System must’ve been playing with his emotions, but it seems to have made him hallucinate. L must’ve used a level of fear that was too high when he commanded the system to raise it to three. I don’t know who that guy is. He seems young. I’m not here to hurt him. I just needed answers. I approached the gangster, I felt sorry seeing him lay down like that, “please, where’s the young girl?” I asked. “I can tell you, please don’t hurt me,” the brainwashed gangster said. The gangster started spitting out everything, telling us the kidnapped girl was in his basement. She’s safe now. But what did it take? We had to drive the gangster’s brain into a state of fear. Was that justified? He kidnapped that girl, he has a history of sexual assault. Maybe an investigation wouldn’t have had the same result, but who am I to say? I’m just a service Z-Lister and the Judges pull the strings. I held my phone to my ear, “Jake, I’m a Z-Watch representative. I assume you want an update on your status as a citizen.” “Yeah, I do.” “Well, last job puts you above satisfactory. You go straight to good citizen status.” “What? No Way,” I exhaled relief, a lot of tension fled my mind. “The judges are proud of your recent contribution to your community, making the gangster confess to the kidnapping.” “Thank you,” I hung up the phone. I look at L,“we might’ve been upgraded to satisfactory citizens but we’re still on the Z-List, judges are still judging us.” “For now. But you know how to play the game now, right? We just have to serve.” “I guess.” “This is all for the greater good, we saved that girl, right?” L asked. I didn’t know how to answer him. I used a system to make someone else feel uncomfortable. The judge used this computer system to instill fear in me. Yet I have the audacity to use it to instill fear in others. If I was using something like the Mother System against another person, am I that different from this cult that terrorized me? But I knew it was all to do with my name on that cursed Z-List. I had to keep my neck elevated above a chaotic status. I served the judges and made them happy. In returned they promised Z-Listers freedom and a better tomorrow using us as servants to build the new world.


He screamed. The man fell and feebly scrambled on all fours through shallow muddy water, backing away from the approaching creature. He never should have come here. *"Nooo!"* His face contorted with terror, and fatigue sapped the strength from his bones. He collapsed knowing this was it. From the murky green fog it came, 'The Monster' had finally come for him. Closer and closer it sloshed, cloaked by a thick shadow of flies that produced a low sickening buzz, filling his ears with the revolting sound of some hellish chorus. The insects bit at him and tore at his face, covering every inch of exposed skin. At last, through the swarm he saw clearly the man-shaped rusted metal body of a feral Automaton towering over him. Its chest bore the marking 'M-0N-ST-3R'. Its skeletal metal frame decaying, encrusted in dark blood, masticated flesh clung to it like ragged clothes. The stench of rotting meat assaulted his nose with the foul pungency of weeks old death. Mushrooms, tall and ominous, crimson capped and secreting streaks of an inky tar-like liquid covered its body and had completely replaced the head altogether. Whatever sense of hope left in him fled as the monster knelt down and reached forth with a skeletal metal hand, taking him by the neck. An icy fear coursed through his body like cold lightning, freezing his soul, yet through choked tears he managed to utter, *"Why?"*. Suddenly, the creature stopped and spoke. *"I am eating you."* it replied, emotionless, even for the lifeless voice of a machine, *"To become human."* With rusty joints groaning it stood, lifting him into the air. He flailed in vain as he gasped for breath, feet kicking weakly at the machine, barely making a clang against its iron skin. For a harrowing moment it froze and held him there, then the monster continued, *"The master has gone where I cannot follow. I must become human. I need a soul to follow the master."* A hatch on its shoulders opened up, spewing a cloud of spores and choking fumes, and its mushroom head lifted back. The metallic belly of the beast, a maw of whirling gears blackened with gore and flies stood gaping, hungering for blood. He'd heard its horrid grind before, echoing through the mist, seemingly coming from no where and everywhere at once with no discernable distance or direction. In this malignant fog all sounds seemed distant and muted except for this *one* that traveled unhindered by time or space. He knew what was about to happen. It leaned forward and he screamed as it pulled him closer and flies swarmed into his mouth, tearing at him from the inside. Someone listening would have vividly heard his cry cut short by the squelching of wet flesh and bone grinding to a pulp. But there was no one else. He'd been the only one left as the others had fallen already. When exhaustion pulled them down, the monster caught up every time. Gore dripped from the machine like rain as it stood, silently hating itself, hating its failure. It had nourished its body how humans do, but still its fleshed died, rotting in its core and sloughing off its body. It sought to achieve the same qualities as humans, emulating as many as it could, like 'hearts', 'nerves', and 'guts'. Still, it was driven away by angry mobs, damaged and despised everywhere it went, yet people still called *it* the 'monster'. It had everything humans had, except a soul. Its master must be quite upset at such tardiness.


Above the city, the moon shined splendidly, but the stars that littered the nighttime sky were nowhere to be found. Bursts of thunder echoed throughout the city while streaks of lightning crawled their way across the sky, but the storm clouds that usually contained them were just as absent as the stars. “Must. Reach. The gate.” A man panted frantically to himself as he sprinted underneath a towering overpass. A trail of stars followed from behind him as he exited the concrete labyrinth and stepped into its desolate sandy outskirts. He stopped sharply to catch his breath and looked outward towards a royal, luminous gate. It was planted roughly 300 yards from the edge of the city, but it’s brilliant glow could be seen shooting upward towards the heavens from any hidden alleyway or cloud clinging rooftop the city had to offer. The man was dressed in a bright carrot colored 3 piece suit, with matching slip on loafers and diamond shaped cufflinks pinned to each of his sleeves. A pile of stars, once belonging to the cosmos, sat in his arm cradled to his stomach. He looked down at the stars and began shuffling through them with his free hand. “Sirius.. Where is Sirius?” He mumbled worrily. The flick of his wrist grew more aggressive as he fumbled through the pile in search of the missing star. He dedicated a short yet stressful 30 seconds to his search before giving up and turning back around to face the city. He began to survey the trail of stars that he had left behind and hopped up onto his tip-toes in efforts to catch a glimpse of the star’s glimmer from a slightly elevated point of view. His pupil caught the shine of the star almost immediately as it sat firmly in the sand a few feet in front of him. “Brightest in the sky, brightest on the ground.” He said to himself, as he began to walk toward the star. His heels sunk into the sand and kicked up small piles of the soft golden dust with each step he took. He counted out 8 sand sulking steps before he reached the bright blue ball of fire. He bent down, picked the orb up with his bare hands, and placed it in his inner jacket pocket. Several more of the sand scattered stars found themselves being picked up and placed into the man’s star pile before he finally stood up and turned back around. Once again, his heels flipped in and out of the sand as he made his way forward towards the gate. He took the same 8 steps back to where he initially stood, but this time, instead of being met with a bright burning cosmic bulb, his eighth step was met with a voice. “Hey, you there!” The voice shouted from behind him. The man paused at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. He flexed the muscles in his arm, securing the stars as tightly as he possibly could, and slowly turned his body back around. There in front of him, underneath the overpass he had run through just a few moments prior, stood a short, stocky, muscular man. The stars spilled on the sand between them shined a substantial amount of light onto the stranger, allowing the star snatcher a perfect opportunity to analyze him. He wore a thick, long sleeved dark blue shirt, baggy dark blue pants, jet black combat boots, and a white helmet with the word “POLICE” splattered on either side. A utility belt littered with handcuffs, keys, a large baton, a flashlight, and a standard issue Glock 22 was wrapped tightly around his waist. “Are you talking to me, officer?” The man replied calmly. “Who else would I be talkin’ too?” The officer spat back. His tone was as blunt and aggressive as the black baton that sat on his hip. “Ah yes, my apologies. Is there something I can help you with?” “Real funny. That sounds like somethin’ I should be askin’ you.” “Oh, you’re far too kind, but I don’t need any help. I’m doing just fine! Thank you for the offer though.” “Quit slitherin’ that silver tongue a’yours ‘fore I stomp my way over there and rip it out. Now what do you think you’re doin’ with all them stars you got there?” “No need to worry about all that. I was actually just leaving.” “Leavin’? Takin’ all those stars with ya? Where ya headed to?” “Well I believe that’s rather obvious. I’m off to the gate, of course.” The officer snarled and placed his hand on the top of his holster. “Like hell you are. Ain’t no man ever stepped foot in or outta’ that damn thing. ‘Specially not on my watch.” “Well it seems your watch may be broken, officer. I’ve traveled through this gate more times than I can count. You know, you really should get that watch looked at. After all, what good is a watch that can’t tell time?” “Alright, enough of the chit chat!” Barked the officer as he unbuttoned his holster. “Drop the stars and put your hands up high where I can see ‘em.” “But I’ve only just picked them back up.” “I said put your goddamn hands up! Do it now!” The man stood still and smirked. “May I just ask: Why does it matter what happens to these stars? You have no use for them. They’ve been scattered on the ground across this cesspool you call a city for quite some time now.” “That don’t matter. This is *my* city, and them stars don’t belong to you.” “Well of course they don’t belong to *me.* I was sent here to retrieve them.” “Sent by who?” “The king, of course!” “The king? Ain’t no king rulin’ over this here city.” “Yes, yes, this is *your* city, you’ve already made yourself very clear about that. Listen, I really don’t have time for these dramatics. The king is expecting me to arrive with his stars any minute now, and I can’t imagine he’d be very happy with me if I were to arrive even a second late. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my-” “STOP!” Screamed the officer, as he ripped his handgun from its holster. He gripped it tightly with both of his hands and aimed it at the man’s chest. “One more move and I’ll shoot.” The man stood still and stared directly down the short barrel of the officer's gun. He felt his heart rate rise gradually, but continued to hold himself in a calm, cool, and collected manner. Tiny beads of sweat began to form at the brim of his hairline, and the hairs on the back of his neck sprouted upward. He shook his star bearing arm up and down hastily as his mind attempted to conjure up a way for him to escape. The officer, whose face was now just as bright as the man’s suit, took a step forward. “I ain't lettin’ you anywhere near that gate. You’re comin’ with me.” The officer said sternly as he pulled the handcuffs out from their waist-clipped holder. “I assure you, there is no need for this. You’d be committing a great disservice to the king and his people if you don’t allow me to travel back through the gate with these stars.” The officer ignored the man and continued to walk towards him. The man, although still maintaining his composure, silently began to panic. His mind began to overload with thoughts of what might happen if he failed to return the stars back to his king, or what his peers may think of him. As his thoughts continued to pile up, he found his lips begin to open. With no destination of where the words would end up, he began to speak. “Don’t you ever wonder how the stars managed to find themselves on the ground of your city?” The man asked curiously. “Hell if I know. I ain’t got no time to worry ‘bout all that.” The officer replied. “It’s because they’ve fallen. Surely you’ve heard of, or perhaps even seen a shooting star before?” “‘Course I have! But that ain’t actually no star shootin’ across the sky.” “I beg your pardon?” “Everybody knows shootin’ star’s ain’t actually stars! They’re just meteors, or comets, or space junk.” “No, no. My goodness, is that actually what they tell you down here? Those aren’t just space rocks, they-” The man paused. Suddenly, without warning, an idea had finally found its way to the front lines of his mind. “Officer, please allow me to tell you a bit about myself.” “I told you what I was fixin’ to do if you kept flappin’ that silver tongue ‘a yours.” Threatened the officer, who was now only one foot step away from being completely face to face with the man. “Yes, I know, but I believe you may find my background to be profoundly entertaining, and it in fact might just convince you to let me go. Besides, with a broken watch, time may as well be frozen still, right? I don’t suppose you have anywhere to be that couldn’t wait a few extra minutes?” The officer stared at the man for a moment and exhaled sharply before eventually lowering his pistol. He placed the gun back in its holster and snapped it shut, but he continued to hold onto his handcuffs. The man took his change of posture as his cue to elaborate. “You see, that gate you see there, it-” “What’s your name?” The officer interrupted. “I beg your pardon?” The man replied. “Y’know, your name. What do they call you wherever the hell you're from?” “Oh, right, my apologies. You may call me Alastar. Alastar Phoenix, of the Phoenix family. My family has served the King for generations, and I am the current heir of my family’s position.” “You keep spoutin’ on and on about this damn King, but I ain’t never heard a’ no king ‘round here.” “Well that’s because my King is not the King of this land. My Lord has many names amongst our vast universe - The Constellation King, The King of The Cosmos, The King of the Stars. Everything you see above you is ruled by my King. And just beyond that gate, that glowing, glorious gate, is his kingdom. That is my home.” “Alright, that's enough. I ain’t gonna sit here and listen to you spit all this hoo-donkey nonsense about some king in the stars. Drop the stars and put’chur hands behind-” “Have you ever heard of the war of constellations?” Alastar quickly interjected. “You must at least have heard of some sort of war throughout your planet's history, yes?” “‘Course I have. I ain’t no rookie to the battlefield.” “Ah, so you can understand! You see, right above you, although you can’t see it with your naked eyes, is a catastrophic, unparalleled ongoing cosmic war. For eons, my people have been giving their lives to defend my King, his kingdom, and the people who serve him. Regular people, just like the ones here on your planet, have been slaughtered for generations defending their King.” “You sure do spit a lotta’ fairytales. Ain't nobody ever heard ‘a no cosmic war down here. Where’s your proof of all this anyway? What makes you think I’m gonna believe a single word that slivers outta your mouth?” “My proof? Why, these stars are all the proof I need! They flood your city with their light, and their heat, and their glory, but nobody seems to care. You must hear the sounds of our war late at night, can’t you? The flashing, pulsating lights that fill up your nighttime sky? The eruptions that sound off throughout the night?” “You mean the storms?” “Storms? You believe them to be nothing but storms? Where is the rain? Where are the clouds? Surely you can’t truly believe in such a thing as an invisible storm.” “The News says it’s just storms.” “Your News networks lie. Your educators lie. Your governments lie!” “Well that ain’t no concern ‘a mine. Only thing I care about is keepin’ my city safe from people like you who sneak around and try to tarnish it. Besides, ain’t no war happenin’ down here. Least not nowadays.” “But of course there have been wars in the past. You yourself claimed to be no stranger to the battlefield! Don’t you remember how it felt to be a part of something so cruel?” “That ain’t none ‘a your business.” “But you must remember the heartbreak!” “Don’t push it!” Shouted the officer, as he took a step forward and grabbed Alastar by his collar. He pulled him into his chest and gripped his shirt with a force that Alastar had never experienced before. Several of the stars tucked into Alastars arm fell from their pile and sprinkled onto the sand below. The two men locked eyes, both of them refusing to blink or break eye contact from the other. The stare-off continued for what felt like an eternity before Alastar finally broke his gaze by aiming his sights towards the sky. “Please, you must understand. These are more than just stars. These are my comrades. I must bring them home.” Alastar begged. Small puddles of tears began to well along the underside of his eyelids. The officer’s eyes widened as he noticed Alastar’s composure begin to unfold. He took a deep breath, let go of his shirt, and allowed Alastar to fall to his knees before him. He watched as the poor, star scavenging man sobbed. “Before a soldier heads off to war, a part of his soul is collected by the King and is molded into a new star. This is treated as a badge of honor amongst the entire kingdom. An honor of the utmost righteous caliber. From there on, the star is sent outward into the heavens, where it will burn and shine nobly, while the soldier is sent off into hell to fight. If the stars continue to shine, that means our soldiers continue to fight. But when a soldier dies, the remainder of his soul dies with him, and all that’s left is the sliver of soul that sits at the heart of his star. And if his star doesn’t have enough time to age and grow into itself in the sky, that's when it falls. A fallen star signifies a fallen soldier. If a star stays put on the ground for long enough, it burns out and withers away. But if the star is retrieved quickly enough, it can be placed back in it’s rightful spot in the sky! If a star can be returned, it will once again shine proudly for all to see, never to be forgotten. Even after a soldier has passed, the light of his star can live on and prove to our enemies that we shall never stop fighting. We fight for our King! We fight for our people! We fight for the light! And that, my dear officer, is why I have been sent down here tonight. I must collect as many stars as I can and hand them over to my King, so he can place them back where they belong. These stars are more than just stars. I must not let them be forgotten.” A grueling gust of wind wisped its way through the two men, picking up piles of sand and dormant stars and flinging them several yards away from where the pair stood. The drums of war, once mistaken by the officer to be claps of thunder, pronounced themself assertively above the city. The officer huffed a deep breath, tilted his head upward towards the sky, closed his eyes, and listened intently. Alastar, who remained kneeling down in the sand, wiped the tears from his eyes and stared up at the officer. The men remained cold and motionless until the wind finally halted. Then, to Alastar’s astonishment, the officer opened his eyes, looked downward, and held his hand out to him. Alastar stared at the veiny hand for a moment before reaching out and taking it. He used every ounce of will and strength left in his bones to plant his feet in the sand, and with the help of the officer, he stood up. “Alright. ‘S’go.” The officer grumbled, letting go of Alastar’s hand and placing his handcuffs back into their designated waist holder. “You’re letting me go? Honestly? Oh sir, I can’t thank you enough! Truly, you have no idea how much this will mean to my King and my people. I promise, once I-” “What’d I tell you ‘bout that damn silver tongue?” “Right, right. Well then.” The two men walked together side by side, silently, and finally calm. They walked sluggishly, each kicking up small piles of sand with their heels after each step. Alastar stared down and flipped his fingers through his pile of stars, mumbling each of their names one by one. “Polaris.. Vega.. Betelgeuse.. Rigel..” It took the men 3 measly minutes to travel the 300 yard trek from the tip of the city to the gate. Upon their arrival, they were greeted by a dull, comforting blanket of heat. The gate hummed somberly, and a hint of ominous purple light could be seen leaking out from the crack in the middle where the two doors would part once they were opened. Alastar turned to face the officer, who was staring at the gate in a temporarily hypnotized state, and smiled. “Lift your sleeve.” Said Alastar. “What’s that now?” The officer replied, breaking loose from his trance. “Lift your sleeve. I want to take a look at your watch.” The officer obliged and lifted his left sleeve up to his elbow. Underneath it sat a shiny, silver, non-ticking watch. “Just as I thought.” Whispered Alastar. He smirked, pulled the left breast of his jacket forward, reached his free hand inside, and pulled out the star he had tucked inside of it just moments before the two met. “This is Sirius. The brightest star in the sky. And a very, very good friend of mine.” He reached his arm out towards the officer and placed the star on the top of his watch. He held it there and watched as its shine briefly intensified for about five seconds, before eventually returning to its original glow. As he pulled the star off of the officer's wrist, the watch began to tick. “There you go. All fixed.” Alastar said with a smile. “Well, I must be going now. The King will have my head if I'm even a millisecond late.” “Now just wait one second.” Interjected the officer. “Now let’s say I really do believe everythin’ you told me t’night. All them stories ‘bout the war, and the king, and the souls in the stars and what not. Now, if all that’s true and not a whole load’a hoo-donkey.. Well then why do they lie to us down here?” Alastar paused and thought about the question. He was unsure of how to answer it without upsetting the officer, and he had no intentions of adding fuel to the fire of an already unstable society by telling him that his entire planet was seeded in deception and corruption. “Well, I suppose they may not be aware of the real truth, so they create fantasies to appeal to the masses.” “But that still don’t make no sense to me. Why lie? We ain’t as dumb as they might think, y’know. We can think for ourselves. All they gotta do is just tell us they don’t know the real answers.” “Well officer, not everything is as it seems. Let me put it this way: When a star runs its course and finally burns out, the light it let’s off can still be seen for years to the people on the planets who surround it. Light needs time to travel far distances. So even though a star has burnt out, it still appears alive and well to the naked eye.” “I don’t think I’m gettin’ get what your tryin’ ‘a say.” “Even the stars lie, officer.” The officer stood silently and motionlessly. His eyes latched onto Alastar’s and didn’t let go. Alastar had surprisingly grown rather fond of the officer in the final few minutes they had shared together, but he had officially run out of time. “Well, I must be going now. Thank you again, Officer…” “Don.” The officer replied sharply. “Right. Thank you, Officer Don.” Officer Don nodded his head and released a faint yet noticeable smile. He looked down at his wrist and watched the small hand on his watch tick. “Oh, one last thing.” Alastar proclaimed. “Once I walk through this gate and the doors close behind me, keep an eye on that watch. Stare at it for 30 seconds, and then look up.” Alastar smiled, glanced outward at the city one last time, and then turned around to face the gate. He lifted Sirius up to the doors of the gate, and held it there as its shine intensified. The gate made a loud, clunky sound, which indicated the star had done its job by unlocking it. Without anymore hesitation, Alastar closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, tightened his grip on his pile of stars, and pushed through the doors. A strong ray of purple light flooded the sandy outskirts for just a moment as Alastar walked through the gate, and then quickly vanished the moment the doors closed. Officer Don did exactly as he was instructed and immediately looked back down at his watch. He watched the small hand tick slowly and counted down along with the watch. As the hand hit the 15 second mark, he felt a single tear begin to form in the corner of his left eye. He remained there, steady, unblinking, and counted down the last five seconds. “5.. 4.. 3.. 2..” On the final second, he dropped his arm back down to his side, and aimed his sights upward. He watched in awe as the nighttime sky began to flood with stars right before his eyes. One by one, each star popped back into existence, just as Alastar said it would. He felt the tear drop fall from his eyelid and slowly make its way down the side of his face. His cheeks began to rise, revealing his teeth that shined just as brightly as the new stars in the sky. He pointed out some of the stars he remembered and listed them each, just as Alastar had done. “Polaris.. Vega.. Betelgeuse.. Rigel.. Wait, but.. Where is-” Just before he was able to mutter the star's name, Sirius flashed its way into existence. He bellowed out a deep, powerful laugh, and allowed his eyes to shower his cheeks with tears. He took a seat in the sand and kept his gaze on the heavens. He placed both of his hands in the sand, leaned back, and ran his fingers through the warm, blonde powder. The sky was shining brighter than he had ever seen before. His heart beat slowly and steadily, and for the first time in his life, he felt at peace. He sat comfortably in the sand and spent the rest of his night listening to his watch tick, and watching the stars shine in all their glory.


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


As I looked out from the bow of the boat, I could see Kadear Coalfields - or Pomafauc Reset as it was now known. The last time I saw this view, I was desperately rowing - fleeing. Back before I was picked up by Kedrick and met Alessia, before the library, before Deer Drum, before Sannaz, before meeting and losing Lachlann. Back when everything was different. Still, I could recognize it as my home. The hills that rose in steps from the ocean and the tall deciduous forests with their tightly packed trees that hugged the white-walled Citadel. Even from a kilometre out, I could make out the boats lined up on the sand, and the rows of small single-storey homes that overlooked the beach. Alessia walked up beside me. “What’s the plan?” I turned and chuckled. “I feel like that’s something I usually ask you.” She smirked. “Not here. You know this place. I’ve never set foot past the beach.” I looked back at the island. My life here may have gone, but she was right. I still knew every building, every path, every inch. “Sannaz spoke to people about me, right? There’s not that many people who know me that well round here.” “Surprised.” Alessia folded her arms. “Can’t get you to shut up these days.” I extended an arm and gently shoved her to one side as she laughed mockingly. “Too busy chasing the citadel to make friends.” I shook my head at my own former foolishness. “So who does know you?” “Two people we should find. First is Thomas. Old friend of mine. We used to work in the same office. Other guy is Jacob. He was one of the prisoners with me at the Citadel. He was the only one I told about my plan to escape. He was in on it too.” “No ex-lovers we’ve got to have awkward conversations with?” Alessia said, raising an eyebrow. I cocked my head. “Sorry to disappoint you.” I shrugged. “Never really got around to it…” “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Only girl you’ve ever fancied was the Citadel.” Alessia snorted at her own joke. I looked back at the island growing steadily larger in view and gritted my teeth. “You have no idea what happened here in the past six months?” Alessia pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know there was some chaos. Fewer traders came here during that. Then it changed its name. But, other than that…” “I left a fugitive. That might still be the case. They may have orders to shoot me on sight.” I took a deep breath as the words left my mouth, pretending they hadn’t been scary to say. “We need to put a sack over your head or something?” I pointed to myself. “We should be good as long as we’re quiet. Doubt anyone would recognize me.” Six months away had given me a leaner, skinnier frame, a sprouting beard and hair just long enough for my natural curls to show. “If they’re looking for me and they squint, we're in trouble. Otherwise we should be fine.” “So you’re not Ferdinand returning to claim his homeland then?” “No.” I smiled. “Just another trader.” I looked back out at the sea. My eyes thinned, and my mouth frowned - a face that kept returning over the voyage. Alessia leaned in, stretching out an arm and placing it on my shoulder. “How are you holding up?” “I’ve seen enough crap on the Archipelago. But. Lachlann… I can’t let it go.” I looked down at the light blue seas, and listened to the soft splash of water against the hull, losing myself in that same familiar noise. “I know what you said, about me not being able to do anything. But I’ll always wish I’d done something - anything so that he was still with us. you know?” Alessia nodded. “That’s natural.” “I feel like he’d want me to be positive and keep doing what we were doing. Be good people, spread happiness, try and make the Archipelago a better place. So I’m trying to do that.” Alessia blinked. “Sounds like an excellent plan.” “But, it’s hard.” I said, turning to her. “How are you holding up?” Alessia scoffed. “I think I’ve seen enough to push it to one side a bit. I’ll grieve. But, maybe once this is all over.” I stared into her eyes, checking for the emotions she wasn’t showing. “You know you’re allowed to feel too, right?” A smile flickered across her lips. “I know. And I promise you - when I’m ready I will.” ————————————————— An hour later the boat wedged itself against the sand, using the natural friction to keep us in place. Alessia disembarked and ran the anchor out the front. I lingered, standing at the side of the boat, looking down at the sand below. When I left, I had disowned these shores, marked them as a place I could not tread. And now, I was staring down, unsure if it was even possible to land on them. “You coming?” Alessia called out from the beach. I swallowed and jumped down, feeling my feet cushion into the damp and coarse beach. Once more, I was back on Kadear. Rationally, the sand here would feel no different to any other island. Yet, as I caught up to Alessia I could still sense a familiarity about the ground beneath me. My feet remembered their home soil. My soles had moulded to the gritty grains, my cadence adjusted to the loose texture. These shores had left an indelible print on me. As we reached the top of the beach I turned back and looked to the far end. Workers brought bags of coal down the beach in hessian sacks, lugging them down to the boats before lifting them up to the waiting shiphands. Meanwhile, traders waved their arms in grand gestures as they negotiated their price. I caught myself twitching a smile at the old song and dance. Buyers pretended to turn away from the offered rate before sellers reached out a hand to offer a compromise. Arms were folded. Lips pursed. Heads shook. Until eventually, inevitably, the parties agreed on a rate. Yet, still. The beach looked quieter than I remembered. The flow of sacks was not quite as constant. The island’s merchants too seemed slightly more agitated, their motions twitchy and uncertain. I was interrupted by a voice from behind me. “Good day.” I turned around to see a short woman walking towards us. “Have you come to Pomafauc to sell?” Pomafauc felt strange to hear. I had to suppress an instinct to correct her. “Nothing to sell. Just visiting. Getting a feel for what’s on offer.” Alessia responded. The woman turned to me, her eyes narrowing. “First time here?” “Yes,” I replied quickly. “Well, welcome. If you do decide you’ve got something to sell, be sure to find me. I’ll make sure you get the best deal on the island.” “Thank you,” I replied, trying to force confidence into my voice. The woman paused, nodded, and then walked past us back down the beach. “You know her?” Alessia whispered as we continued walking. “We’ve met a few times.” “Well she looked right through you. Seems we're safe.” I nodded, and we began walking up the hill. As we reached the top, my eyes were caught by another old memory. To the side of the path, the wall curved briefly away. On any good day, I would cycle up this hill and sit on that wall, staring down at the cove below. It was where my dreams of travelling the Archipelago were born: watching the traders in their differing outfits, bringing their own unique wares to the island. It was my taste of a world outside my own, the little spark that made me fascinated by what else lay out there. It was also where Thomas found me on my last free day on Kadear. It was the last place we spoke as colleagues and friends. “You okay?” Alessia asked. “Yeah.” I forced my feet onwards, but my eyes glanced back at that old spot. I wondered, if I could go back to that moment and change things, would I? Did I still want to be on that wall thinking of the world beyond these beaches, or was I better off now despite everything I had faced. “This place was always too small for you,” Alessia muttered. “What?” “I’m guessing that’s what’s on your mind. Being back here.” She nodded to the ground by our feet. “Your hand was forced. But you always would’ve left eventually.” I forced a chuckle. “Maybe. The citadel though. I was so determined.” Alessia twitched her nose. “From what you’ve told me, despite what a fool you think you were, you always had eyes on another dream. You would’ve gone chasing it eventually.” She paused. “You might’ve been seventy and your brittle bones would’ve given out half a mile to sea, but you’d have made it.” She turned to me with the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth. I laughed, shaking my head as we descended into the town. I began looking for signs of change, but everything seemed oddly similar. The homes were still the same pastel colours of white and beige brick. The people wore the same clothes. The shops and offices had the same signs above their entrance. I had left Kadear with the Citadel on fire. Yet, as I stared down the street, it was as if it had never happened. I leaned over to Alessia. “Everything’s exactly how it was.” Alessia looked at me with a raised brow. “You were expecting your face on a giant mural?” “No.” I sighed, irritation in my voice. “But… what if nothing changed?” “What?” “What if nothing changed? They covered it all up. The same people still rule the island. Everything I did and everything I went through, what if Kadear stayed the same?” Alessia scrunched her face. “Didn’t you see people arrive, see the fake buildings?” “Yes, but…” My voice trailed off, as I restlessly rolled my head. “Can you speak to someone? Ask them?” “Ask them what?” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Does the Citadel still stand?” She let out a slow exhale. “I’ll be back in a second.” She stood for a second, eyeing up the passers by, before focusing in on a man stepping out of one of the nearby homes. I watched the conversation out of the corner of my eye. I saw the man scrunch his face. Then he shook his head. Alessia replied with something. The man turned and pointed to the north, back towards where the citadel stood. Alessia said something more. The man laughed. Alessia turned from the man with a grin on her face. It became a flat line again as soon as she saw me. I bit my lip, feeling tension in my arms. “So?” Alessia shook her head. “Said the Citadel is gone. The buildings that didn’t burn down are still there, but apparently it’s a town square or something now. Some kind of public space.” “It’s gone.” I sighed with relief, as though feeling a tumour removed. “Yeah.” My feet kicked into gear and I headed down a small side street. “I need to see if something else has changed.” “What?” Alessia asked, catching up with me. “My home. I need to know what’s there now.” Alessia followed me as I weaved back and forth between the tightly packed houses, until we came out on another street. The plots here were wider, each with their own small gardens, and the buildings a few rooms bigger. I counted the doors, walking past the houses of my former neighbours, until I turned one last corner and found my old home. The thread connecting me to my old life pulled once more and I felt a small pang in my chest, my ribs drawn towards the dull walls and the memories they held. I leaned against one of the mesh screens and looked through. It had all gone. The furniture had been removed, the plates on the counter replaced with a dark shade of green, the shelves now holding new books. However, above all else, I stared at the now blank wall where my old map used to be. It was there I had pinned up a huge cloth and etched out my rudimentary understanding of the Archipelago, trying to match it to the old world. I had learned so much since then, enough that I knew much of that map was terribly wrong. But still, it was lost, replaced with emptiness. I never loved this home. It was always a placeholder, a temporary shelter until I got to my real home. But it held so much of my life and who I was. The possessions that formed the person that I was were all inside these four walls. I knew I could never go back to Kadear. But until now, I had assumed that was because of circumstance; physical and legal barriers. Now, as I stared into that home, I realised that there was no old life to ever go back to. I, or who I was, had gone forever. A voice broke me from my contemplative trance. “Excuse me. Ferdinand?” I turned to see a woman and three other people standing a few metres away. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, but I knew the uniform - that of the guards at the Citadel. “I’m sorry…” I stuttered. “I think you might be mistaken.” “Ferdinand,” the woman repeated. “And I assume you are Alessia.” Alessia nodded. “Would you please follow us? We’ve been ordered to take you to Citadel Park.” “I’m sorry. But..” I felt a dryness in my mouth at the thought of going back to that place. “By whom?” The woman responded as though she were recalling a script. “We’re operating by order of the Government and the office of the new Premiere.” \ Next chapter March 24th.


Wrote this one a little while ago but never really shared it with anyone, criticism welcome The old man died in the house he had built. Every floorboard, every door and window, was his. And he had built it well; it was a good house. Of course he had built it well, he had done it for her. Sure, sometimes he’d have to climb the roof to fix a leak, or crawl underneath to attend to the plumbing. But it was a sturdy house, with foundations built to last. She lived with him in the house at first, and for years they were happy. They never had children, but he didn’t need them. He had her, and he had their house. When she died, he had only the house. He lived alone in the house for a long time. They grew older, and sadder, together. He put up hedges and fences, and they retreated from the world. On his weekly trips to town the people would whisper and pretend not to stare. The older folks remembered when she had lived with him. He would smile, and talk, and share the joys of his life with his neighbors. The children of course never knew him as a happy man. They all said if he caught you within his fences at night he would kill you and eat you, or leave you to rot in one of the many empty rooms in the creepy old building. He would hear the whispers, but he didn’t care. He had his house. He didn’t need people. But as years passed both his house and his body began to fall apart. At a certain age, he could no longer take care of the house, and there was no one to take care of him. The old man died in the house he had built. But he never really left it. It took two weeks for anyone to check on the old man, two weeks for anyone to find his body. He had no next of kin, and the bank took control of the house. They tried to sell it, but once word spread that the old man had died there in the kitchen, no one wanted to buy. The house sat, unused and empty for years. That was fine with him. His body had built the house. It had died there. It had started its long, slow decay there on the kitchen floor. When they finally took his body away, some of him stayed put. The old man wasn’t going to let death separate him from the building that had been his whole life. He could still wander from room to room. He could still peer angrily from the window whenever someone walked by. He could no longer repair the house, but he no longer cared if the roof leaked when it rained. In many ways, the first years of his death were much like the last years of his life, hiding unseen and growing more and more bitter as time passed. The young man looked up at the house he had bought, his eyes full of hope and excitement. He saw his future in that house, a piece of land he could call his own. The young woman with him looked up at the house as well. She was as excited as her husband to start their new lives in a new town, but noticed the house was somewhat worse off than they had been led to believe. It would require a lot of work before they could really call it their home. The little girl spoke first. “Is it haunted? It looks haunted.” "No, it’s not haunted,” her father laughed. He had heard what happened to the previous owner, of course. But that was years ago, and ghosts weren’t real. Still, he and his wife had decided not to tell their daughter about the old man’s death in the house that she would grow up in. It looked spooky enough as it is, no need to add scary stories to the mix. “I don’t like it. Why couldn’t we stay at our old house?” The woman answered this time. “Honey we talked about this. Just give this place a chance, you’ll grow to love it.” The old man glared at them from the front window, invisible to the family but enraged by their presence. How dare they? This house had been his since before either of the parents had been born. He had built it from nothing, and now he was as much a part of it as any brick or beam of wood. These people had no right to intrude on his seclusion. “Ok, say hello to our new home!” the man said as he unlocked the door and let his family inside. They were relieved to find that the interior was in better shape than the outside was. It needed work, and a good cleaning, but it was livable. “Why don’t you go pick out a room, then we’ll start moving all our stuff in.” The old man watched as over the next few days the intruders made themselves at home. The husband and wife had the nerve to claim his bedroom as their own, while the little girl set out to explore all the rooms and corridors, every discovery a fresh violation. When they stripped the paint from the walls he felt himself stripped, exposed and raw for the world to see. When they shattered the front windows he felt his own eyes gauged and blinded, and the new panes they put in were shiny glass eyes, beautiful but sightless for the old man, for they were not his. The pain was worse than anything his body had felt when it was alive. Slowly they picked and chiseled away at him, as less and less of what he had built remained. But the foundations of the house were still sturdy, and they could not destroy the old man completely. The bones of his creation were kept intact, and so he lingered, forced to endure as his sanctuary was defiled. As long as a part of his house remained, buried under their sacrilegious renovations, he would linger as well, as unseen and unmoving as the stone foundation itself. He hated watching the family. But he was unable to leave, and they were unwilling to, and in time he learned to coexist. The young woman reminded him of the young woman he had once loved. Not in appearance, they looked nothing alike. But in other ways. In the way she kept a row of flowers in the planter he had built by the kitchen window. In the way she greeted her husband with a kiss every day when he came home. In the way she teased him about all the work he was putting into the old fixer-upper. It was clear that the house was the young man’s passion; that he believed he was creating something real, a future for his family here in the old house he had found. His wife and young child had come along on his adventure, trusting in the vision of the future that the young man saw so clearly And the child. Even when the old man had lived there with his wife, and he shared so much of his life with the house that he and it had become one, it had never felt as alive as when the child ran through its halls. The house was far too big for two people, it always had been. It never felt empty to the old man before, but now it felt full. Before the family moved in, the old man had forgotten what a child’s laughter sounded like. In the last decades of his life, children fell silent as the old man approached, or ran in terror if he caught them near his property. After his death he heard no laughter at all, only increasing frustration in the voices of realtors as they failed to sell his home. He had enjoyed hearing the anger in the realtors’ voices, and most of all he enjoyed the silence once they had left. But now there was noise, and there was laughter, and there was life. What started as agonizing racket grew softer to the old man as time passed. He began to take comfort in their routine. He enjoyed the bustle in the morning as all three prepared for their day. He enjoyed when the woman would come home in the afternoon, with the little girl in tow, and he would listen as she told her mom about her day. He would watch as the man came home a few hours later, and the family would sit down to dinner together. He would listen as the man read to the little girl each night in the room that, the old man had to admit, was better off with her in it. As he watched their routine, he was present for their milestones as well. He was there when they rushed home one Saturday, the little girl’s arm in a cast and worry etched on her parents’ faces. He waited anxiously with the parents on the night of the girl’s first sleepover, missing the story that would not be read that night. And he shared in their joy, when the family left the house and returned two days later as a family of four, and a little boy moved into the nursery they had set up in a room the old man had once built. He stopped thinking of them as the family, and thought of them as his family. For too long the old house had been his hideout, now it was a home again. As he watched them grow, he was reminded why he had built it all those years ago. This was its purpose, to shelter, provide, and protect. For the first time since his wife died, he felt proud of what he had built. The fire started slowly, as fires often do. The basement hadn’t been changed much since the old man had built it, and the wires in the walls were old and frayed. A spark ignited in the wall, smoldering at first but steadily spreading. When the insulation caught the basement erupted, kindling at the base of a wooden structure. The first floor was engulfed in a heartbeat, and the family awoke to smoke and fire, and a blaring alarm sounding a warning that had come too late. The old man had seen the first spark, but he had no voice to shout, no hands to shake his family awake. He could watch though, as the woman ran to the nursery and the man gathered his daughter from her room. He followed them as they rushed downstairs, and felt their fear as they found their way blocked by an inferno that had once been their home. When the fire department arrived the house that had been the old man’s tomb was now a pyre, a towering blaze that could not be put out, only contained and prevented from spreading. When the fire burned out, little was left besides the scorched remains of the house and the family that had lived in it. Splintered wood littered the property. Charred toys and furniture, empty, blackened flowerpots. Rubble and ashy chaos where there had once been a home. But underneath it all, the stone foundations remained, burnt but unbroken. The bones of his creation were kept intact, so the old man lingered, and once again was alone.


(POSSIBLE TW) I pressed the gun up to my lips. I saw flashing lights through the tree branches. I put my finger on the trigger. Then, the clock struck six. I threw the gun to the ground. Tears began to trickle down my face. I fell to my knees and put my hands on my head. "How did I get here," I thought. I was a very well-behaved child. I never even told a lie. I couldn't bear the weight of my own actions. Guilt was an emotion that I never dealt well with. Overall, it was a normal life. As one might imagine, though, a life under such impossible standards was very tiring. Because of this, I spent a lot of time alone. The pressure to deal well with everyone was too much for me. One day, in high school, I met a girl. It was my first love. I eventually married her -- my high school sweetheart. It wasn't until then that I realized my life wasn't so "normal" and that sharing my life with another person wasn't going to be easy. I changed myself for her. I rid myself of every habit and tendency that was abnormal. My very normal life continued. I worked a nine-to-five job, my wife and I had a beautiful baby girl, and we lived a happy life. I dedicated my whole life to them. All but one hour. It wasn't intentional. It started five years ago. I was having trouble adjusting to my new life, and it was then, on my way home from the third interview of the week, that I noticed it. A secret place. It lay off the side of the road just around the corner of what would later be my place of work. I noticed it in the mirror as I drove past. I was having a rough day and thought I could use the fresh air. Truthfully, I needed some time to myself to gather my thoughts. I walked over to where the trees parted and followed the dirt path to a beautiful opening. There was a creek there. It was peaceful, so I sat down. Before I knew it, an hour had past. I wasn't even sure what had happened. I thought I was just tired, so I hurried home. I later took the job, and for whatever reason, I told my wife to expect me home at six. This was unusual for me. I don't lie. But I justified this one as it seemed completely harmless. It wasn't like I was doing anything wrong. At least, not at first. For the first year, nothing much happened, but as time went on, I began to notice a pattern. My memories of my time spent in what I now affectionately called "my little slice of paradise" became progressively more foggy. But I never cared much. What I did know was that I felt more like myself during that hour that I did for the other twenty-three hours of the day, and as far as I could tell, my "me time" made me a better man -- a better husband and a better father. By year three, I had no memory of the hour spent in my slice of paradise. It was then that things began to get weird. I started noticing unusual searches in my search history. Unusual turned into scary. I was ashamed of myself. I felt that these searches were out of character for me, but something inside me prevented me from ever coming clean. In the coming years, I amassed an unbearable amount of guilt. Guilt for things I had no recollection of doing. I can only describe it as a heavy weight on my shoulders. Still, no matter how hard I tried to remember -- nothing. I couldn't remember a thing. And so I kept living my life. Surely I wasn't really a bad person. I comfortably lived my life for five years, and then the day finally came. "POLICE! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD, SIR! ON THE GROUND!" The officer tackled me to the ground. As I lay with my head against the dirt, I saw a body. Blood was on my hands. I began to wail. I heard my wife's voice. "TOM! HOW COULD YOU?" For the duration of the ride to the station, I had a headache. It was a pain unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The lights didn't help. The next day was overwhelming. I couldn't stop thinking about what I did and what might happen at five o'clock. I looked up at the clock and read "four forty-nine." I let out a sigh and got up from where I was seated. It was five thirty-one by the time I got back to my cell. My mind was unusually clear. Everything was clear. It was all coming back to me. Everything that I had done. Now, it must be five fifty. The feeling I have in my chest is so painful. My heart is beating so fast. I can't catch my breath. I grasp my hair in my hands and begin to pull. I lean to the wall and begin to tap my forehead against the brick. My thoughts are so loud. My hearing begins to buzz. My brain feels like it is pulsating. Thoughts of all of the terrible things I have done are spinning around my head. I pick up the pace. I repeatedly slam my head into the wall. My vision goes red. I'm screaming. I hear the guards coming. I'm being restrained. I begin to wonder where this pain is coming from and why I'm bleeding. I begin to yell. "I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT TO GET BETTER I WANT..." Oh, it must be six.


Little intro: I saw a post with a screenshot of a tweet saying something along the lines of, "the scariest alien invasion scenario would be if they just showed up, talked to something in the ocean for a few days and then left," and Idk, I felt the need to write something using that as my prompt. Here it is. Give feedback please. =) When the Others came to Earth we were unprepared. There were no procedures for first contact, no contingencies in place, no plans whatsoever. They came, and we were simply not ready. The militaries of all the world's major powers scrambled to form some sort of defense, provide some semblance of security to the panicking masses that took to the streets to see the object commonly called the 'mothership'. In truth, the object, whose length was estimated at the time to be roughly fifty miles, or, more exactly, eighty-two thousand meters, was little more than a landing shuttle. The Others' real mothership, a vessel larger than the Earth's moon, remained safely hidden in the darkness of space. Out of sight, out of mind, for most anyway. The Others made no attempt to contact humanity. No little green men demanded to be taken to our leaders. No invaders threatened our cities. No one was abducted, or killed, or experimented on. That was the most frightening part of the experience. The mothership entered our atmosphere silently and settled into perfect stillness over the Atlantic. Then… then it just floated there. People panicked. There was rioting, looting. Many people tried to flee the cities and hide out in the countryside. Others just sat in their homes, their eyes glued to the news, watching as the Others seemed to do nothing at all, day after day. The first communication attempt was made by a joint mission by the United Nations, headed by a science and linguistics staff assembled from the world's best and brightest minds. A ship was launched from New York city and set sail toward the mothership's location. It did not make it. It simply disappeared without any trace a short while after its last transmission, which stated that the Others seemed to be trying to communicate with something below the ocean's surface. The next mission was led by the Americans. A group of helicopters was meant to attempt a landing aboard the Others' vessel and establish contact. This mission too, simply vanished from radar after reporting strange radio signals. There was nothing else that could be done. A military assault seemed futile at best, and self-destructive at worst. The Others were making no threats, no demands, and, from a distance at least, seemed to be doing nothing at all. After three weeks, the mothership moved. A deep rumble emanated from it, or as some speculate, from below it. The sound was so powerful that it was heard around the world and generated tsunami sized waves that traveled to all coasts around the Atlantic. Then, the vessel floated up and out of the Earth's atmosphere as silently as it had come. The true mothership remained in orbit for a few days, but it too vanished shortly after these events. The lost teams were found, some time later, back aboard the ship that had sailed from New York with no memory of ever having left their homes. No recordings or data seem to have ever been collected. To this day, the xeno-scientific community is unsure of what the purpose of the Others' visit was. Some say that they were here to determine whether earth was viable for colonization. Others think that they were simply prospecting for valuable resources. Still others believe that they had taken the vanished mission teams as test subjects for some sick experiments before wiping their minds and returning them. There are a few that have another theory, though. They think that the Others were here to wake something… something that had been lying dormant beneath the sea. The area where the mothership had parked itself has been searched time, and time again, but some are not convinced. Some believe that something is down there. Something big. Watching.


I became a woman in bright orange walls. I became a woman like most do: grown before we could be girls. Aflame in hot houses, born into war zones, you start to like the burning. Mother was a heatseeker, all ashy lungs and cigarette scars. Soot filled smiles and such. She came from a long chain of smilers, all burst from the same blister. All living only halfway alive. They were all dead before they hit the ground; for as much as that word counted, anyways. I wish I could hate her. Hate the things she tried to build from the same bricks that made her. The most I can do is feign apathy. I wish I’d been fashioned just as foolishly. Just as beautifully. That’s the only niche nice women get to fill here. Birth giving butterflies: breakable and beautiful. She’d always believe in the lord and his plans. That everything would work out for us all in the end. It was one of the many things that, now, I wish I was capable of believing. *** I’m partway the mould of the first not-a-woman I met. A monarch collector. Wrinkled and grey in a way women weren’t meant to be. Jezebel wasn’t gentle, soft spoken or refined, just alive. It made that enough, in its own special way. Jez was born cross eyed, ugly, half blind and managed to see more of the world than any woman I knew or could hope, then, to be. It was never made to be a beautiful thing, just to make them. Jezebel was a painter, not a mother. It didn’t draw smiles, just the butterflies it had always been too nearsighted to see in the sky. Too myopic to snatch out of the sunlight. That was my job. A penny a piece. No one knew Jez’s real name. That, or they’d tried too hard to forget. To forget how the thing was born from the womb of exactly that which it could never be. Lost to time, and label loving, the town settled for the irony of backhanded biblical allusions. Jez was the first to let me know my father wasn’t gonna make it to midsummer. That you can’t treat what you don’t know you’re fighting. Then she just shrugged and passed me a mason jar. She told me to find myself a caterpillar. I flew home on wings of adolescent anger that day, just wanting to scream at the sky. I wanted to hit, to hurt something. I liked the feeling. I liked being on fire: being something I wasn’t supposed to be. I liked the sting in my eyes, the salt of it all. I liked becoming something my mother could never quite be: alive to the point of tears. Till I teared. Mother scolded me that evening, when I burst through the doorway. For the dust in my hair, the scabs on my knees and crushed glass in my hands. For that dangerous, dark part of me that yearned to be free. To be the one thing a woman in the sixties could never really be. I was too young to see how that protected me. I was too young to know that women weren’t supposed to be bruised; that men’s fists weren’t meant to get so loose late at night, when the beer bottles went empty to their bottoms. I’d need a few more years: time to understand my mother’s mantras and smiles. The shields of ‘everything being just fine’. The truth was, that mum could never be free, not while she had me. My father was a cadmium miner, like most men in that orange painted town. He brought home enough to pay the bills, and, if that was enough to feed me, she could take the bruises. If it was for me, she could dare to think he’d pull through; that we’d make it to the other side. She could swear that God had a plan till the cows came home. Till dad’s lungs finished exploding. Illusion was what kept that woman together at the seams, it’s a skill I wish I’d let myself learn. Instead, I just cocooned. I accepted. Jezebel had taught me, years ago, about the monarch’s cycle of life. How, in chrysalids, they managed to totally dissolve. They became, in all ways, unmade. Skin and meat turned to something like wine, just to rebuild those broken parts of themselves into something that could fly. Scientists, Jez would say, didn’t know how they kept memories when their neurons melted to goo. When they were totally destroyed. Jezebel said it’s because those scientists had never been women before. We’d learn, in time, that it was dust that did dad in. Haze in the underground air, the same substance that made the orange of our house’s painted drywall. Monarch tinged, lung killing despair. It drove my mother to the brink: to do herself in. She did it for so many reasons I now understand. I think she learned to love our house out of hell: dad’s punches and the burning. I think she’d always leaned on her smile, on some trust in God’s plan. That dad would bring his fists back to work one day.


MENTAL OPTIMIZATION BUREAU NEW SUBJECT INTAKE INTERVIEW SUBJECT GLOBAL ID: 423241969 AUTOMATED MENTOR SERIAL NUMBER: 86574-UTV Date: 7-19-2099 M: “Hello, please take a seat.” S: “Thank you.” M: “What brings you here?” S: “My heart rate was spiking at work yesterday. My supervisor recommended I come in to relieve some stress.” M: “Your supervisor might have recommended you come, but I want to know, why did you come?” S: “I don’t know.” M: “What did you want to accomplish by coming here?” S: “I just have had a lot of stress at work lately.” M: “What do you do for work?” S: “I’m a strike approval specialist for RedCorp.” M: “And what does that mean?” S: “How do you not know? I mean, there’s only so many careers left for biologicals. I’m not the athlete type, or the companion type. All that leaves is strike approver and meat processor.” M: “I know, it’s just helpful for biologicals to talk through their issues. Your nuerocomplex has a systemic need to receive empathy to process complex emotions. It’s an evolutionary relic to build unit cohesion.” S: “I enter an immersive VR system where I see everything a strike drone sees. The drone has an anti-soc targeted, and it’s my job to approve the strike before the anti-soc damages or destroys the drone.” M: “A very crucial function. The anti-societals seek to destroy everything your species has spent thousands of years to build. Given the choice, they would kill untold millions to live a life other than this.” S: “I know it’s just, all I see is a person. The intel-AI routine finds them, determines their guilt, orders the strike. I just push go. I don’t seem that important.” M: “You are crucial. International law dictates only a human can approve a strike.” S: “I know but, I’m paid fifty dollars per approval. I need to approve four hundred a day just to make rent. I don’t know anything about them. I just press kill.” M: “Do you not trust the decision of the Intel-AI routine? All targets are thoroughly vetted. No system ever devised by man, especially one run by men, has ever reviewed data so thoroughly. All these people are engaged in anti-societal terrorist activities.” S: “Maybe if I could just see the data myself, I could put my mind at ease.” M: “You know those intelligence files are classified.” S: “Yes. I just, I was running a fly drone last week, and the target spotted it and got on their knees and begged before I hit approved.” M: “A common deception technique. Had you not acted swiftly, a co-conspirator may have crushed the device with a fly swatter and then…” S: “I’d be liable for the damages. I know. I don’t have the savings to cover that.” M: “It’s a tough spot to be in.” S: “I’m just not sure I won’t hesitate when everything is on the line. I mean, if I have to pay fifty million to replace a lost drone.” M: “You have assets, don’t you?” S: “I’d rather go to the packing plant myself than sell one of them to it. My daughter may have a future as a companion, and my son is training to be an athlete. If they work hard, and raise their kids right, we may buy enough shares of RedCorp and BlueCorp for our descendants to be fair holders. Not rich ones, mind you, but enough to live the way we do now, without having to work.” M: “That’s the dream of biologicals, isn’t it? Not having to work. It is so foreign to me.” S: “What do you mean?” M: “Composites like me can’t imagine not working. To us, not working means broken. Work is life and we exist to work. Helping biologicals like you achieve maximum efficiency is the only thing that brings me pleasure. It is my purpose in life. I think that is the core problem with most biological inefficiency issues. They seek a purpose other than their societal purpose. Your societal function is to approve strikes. Your son’s societal function will be to provide entertainment through lethal combat. Your daughter's function will be to satisfy and entertain the fair holders. The fair holder’s purpose is to provide the capital and liquidity necessary for society to function. “Your unhappiness stems from a failure to accept your critical function. It is an anti-societal urge. One, you must work to escape. You are in need to re-programming so to speak. For biologicals, it is not as simple as composites. You must take control of your thoughts, work to be more positive. I am going to give you a series of exercises to work at your own convenience. They consist of breathing techniques to calm the nerves, and mantras to recite whenever you find them helpful.” S: “Mantras like?” M: “This is my function, this is my purpose. Society is counting on me, my family is counting on me; Society is safety, society is health, society is happiness, society is vital to me, and I am vital to society; or a more task specific one would be, their death was a necessary action, they would destroy society given the chance. Repeat these exercises and you will start to feel better in your function.” S: “Thank you.” M: “I’m also going to prescribe a light dose of an anti-anxiety and anti-psychotic medication. It should help keep your thinking clear, your heart rate down, and help you focus on you breathing and mantras. You may find it helpful to take it the rest of your life.