A man. Alone and silent in the icy rain. He is bathed in the garish red neon of a cheap strip bar, watching the world around him. Cole remembers the silence, momentary though it was. It is gone now. Replaced by the fury and harshness of a great city, constant and unrelenting in its savage, deafening roar. The whistle of a calm wind is gone, replaced by the unbearable, violent screeching of traffic. The stillness of the trees is taken by the glowing, burning neon lights of hotels and restaurants and stores. In the sprawl, every honk is a gunshot, every screech of tires a dying moan, every flash of light a distress signal. A great and wonderful metropolis, so they say. As Cole gazes around, he sees towering structures and monuments erupting out of the ground, up into the sky. He sees frenzied streets, filled with men and women and cyclists. He sees thousands of cars, and buses choked with passengers and billows of searing black smoke rising up from rusted exhaust pipes. The wind tastes sick and bitter and it carries the stench of burning tires and rotting carcasses. As Cole wanders dark streets, the sharp wind tears against his back like a leather flail. Cole’s stride is heavy and long, his hulking frame constantly hunched over. He emanates sick, violent fear. His eyes are dead and sharp simultaneously. Voices scream and laugh and seductively call out from the shadows. As a planet orbits the sun, Cole orbits violence. As he approaches a bus stop, he feels a hand tap against his shoulder. His head snaps back, and as he turns, he sees a young middle-eastern couple. The woman is smiling, holding her phone out to him. Cole hears nothing in the racket. “Excuse me?” he mumbles. She asks him to take their picture, and Cole looks at the phone. He nods, quietly agreeing. She gives it to him and stands next to her man. Cole holds up the camera, looking at the couple through the screen. Their faces are brightly lit by fiery orange lights. The man tightly embraces her, they are both smiling. And then they aren’t. Their faces are blank and expressionless. Like corpses. They are no longer in the city. They are out in the dust, and Cole is stepping over their bodies, amongst countless others. He grips his rifle tight*.* He looks around, observing the quietness, the stillness of the trees, moments before the cracks of gunfire smash through the air, snapping Cole back to the present. He’s in the city again. Cole stands frozen. He registers nothing. His breathing is heavy and laboured. His back is straight. Every muscle is tightly wound. Something rises up within him, building from his chest into his throat. He stares at their faces, watching their smiles fade into confusion, and eventually hands the phone back. The woman looks at it, and her smile drops. She yells something inaudible and they walk away. Eventually, a bus pulls over at the station, and Cole climbs aboard. He finds a seat at the back and settles in for a long journey. He rests his head upon the glass, staring into the distance. Raindrops begin to roll down the windows. Streaming rainwater and flashes of light dance upon the glass. Red. White. Blue. Time passes strangely, Cole’s perception warped by insomnia. He sits, unmoving, staring through the glass until eventually, the bus driver shouts him back to reality. Cole steps off the bus, into the concrete inferno once more. The street is deserted. The blackness of night is staved off by the faint, dim glow of street lights. As Cole roams the city, the hours slip by in a haze of rain and fog. Eventually, he comes to his apartment building. It towers over the streets, but shrinks before the skyscrapers. The walls are old and grey and beaten down with rain. Concrete crumbles away from the ledges. He stares up at the bright glow of the sign. He listens to the hum of moths crowding around flickering light panels. He walks up to the door, and enters. Inside, the lobby is dim and bland and covered in varying shades of beige. A thin layer of dust has formed over the flickering light bulb. It reeks of cheap air freshener. A security guard sits slumped in a chair at the corner, asleep. Cole awaits the elevator The door rings as it opens, and a man and a woman walk in. A light windcheater jacket is draped over his heavy shoulders. The hems of his jeans sit crumpled over his boots. The woman wears a tan jacket over her blouse. Cole’s gaze follows them as they approach. The man stares back at him, his eyes sharp. Cole looks away. The elevator opens and the two strangers enter, followed by Cole as he shuffles behind them. The man punches a button. The soft yellow light of the elevator illuminates the dust floating around. It casts faint shadows upon her soft face. The man turns to her as they ascend. His eyes are cold and sharp. He trembles slightly with fury. “So, you gonna keep it up?” he says. “Let’s not talk about it here.” she mumbles, her voice fragile. Cole keeps his head down, but watches them. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” “Please, Tom.” “How was he?” He says, contempt rising in his voice. Her eyes beg him to stop and she struggles to maintain calm. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” “Did it feel good?” She slaps him across the face. Her eyes are deeply bloodshot and slick with tears. The man stares back at her, enraged. Cole looks up at them both. A moment passes. The elevator door opens. The man glances at Cole. He storms out, followed by the woman. Cole goes to his room. Once inside, he slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His body is weak, yet eludes him. Cole switches on the television and vaguely stares at the bright blue glow. He thinks about the woman. He remembers her face, her hair, the light scent of her perfume. From one room over, he can hear the couple arguing. He hears the woman crying. The man shouting. Something shatters. He listens, and ponders what he will do. A storm of dark thoughts swirls in his mind. \*\*\* He hears the door of the next room click open. Someone is leaving. He pulls himself up, and scrambles over to the door’s peephole. He looks through and sees the man. For the first time in months, a smile creeps over his face. Carefully, he unlocks the door without a sound. He steps out. The man is walking towards the elevator. Cole shuts the door behind him. He follows the man. Exhilaration builds with each step. His fists are coiled tight. His breathing is heavy. The man steps inside the elevator, and just as he turns, Cole is on him. He grabs him by the shoulders and hurls him out of the elevator. The man rolls across the floor. Cole steps out and walks towards him. His cold, piercing eyes remain on the man as he continues his stride. Cole’s hands stay at his side. His movements are relaxed, and he appears almost fatigued, yet he feels totally alive. His blood is pumping. His muscles are tight, ready to spring and wreak bloody havoc. The man pulls himself up and rushes him. Cole ducks under his swing, and grabs him, smashing his head against wall, cracking the plaster. As the man sinks to the floor, Cole stares down at him, possessed. He grabs the man’s collar, and cracks his fist against his cheek. A soft groan comes from his writhing body and he spews red-tainted vomit upon the ivory walls. Cole does it again. And again. Over and over, until his own hands bleed and tremble with searing pain. As he looks down upon his work, a torrent of emotion cascades over him. He is laughing. He is screaming. He is crying. The body lies still. Blood covers Cole. It is speckled upon his cheek. It drips from his beard. It is splattered upon his shirt. The soft yellow carpet below is stained by crimson boot print. The door clicks open and the woman steps out. She sees the man slumped on the ground, his blood seeping through the carpet. Her jaw slowly drops in horror. Cole stares at her, like a child confronting a parent. She backs away, into the room. The door slams shut. Cole watches her go. He feels cold.


The first time I experienced real death was when one of my classmates passed away. I was never really close to him. We chatted from time to time, but it was rare. I was friends with some of his friends, though, so they were more impacted than I was. I remember everyone from school came to the service. People who didn't even know his name were there. Pews full of young teenagers watching as the family wept while the boy's short life was sealed away in a wooden tomb. I remember my friend, sitting beside me in the church, eyes clouded with tears, listening as the preacher told us about him. How good a boy he was; how he was in a better place; how God had a plan and everything happens for a reason. But I know none of that mattered. Truth be told, nobody wants to be told that their 14-year-old is in a better place. They just want their son in their arms. Alive and well and that's all they want at that moment. They'd apologize for all the things said and for those words not said and tell them they love them. But he wouldn't hear. He couldn't. He couldn't hear his mom crying in the first row. The crack in her voice when she told everyone in the church that he was a wonderful boy, or when she could barely walk away when the coffin was fully submerged in the dirt tavern. My friend sat beside me in the pew, his eyes clouded with a grief no one our age should have to endure. I remember I sat there beside him, wondering whether he needed tissues, or if I should hold his hand, tell him it was okay. But I didn't. I couldn't. My friend sat there beside me crying while I sat there confused. I was so confused. What had happened? I couldn't even tell if it was real, everything felt surreal, so fake; like I was playing out a dream, or, more accurately, a nightmare. But as we finally stepped out of the stuffy church into the summer heat, my other friend's grandmother stopped me. She pulled me in a hug, and wouldn't let me go. She wrapped her arms around me tightly, rubbing my back. She told me he was gone, but that it was okay, that he was okay now, that everyone else would be okay too at some point in time. She told me it was okay to cry, even if I didn't know him that well. And so I did. There on the steps to the white building, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for the young boy whose life was ripped away from him in a split second, I cried for my friends, his family. I cried at the realization that life is a precious thing. Something that could vanish without caring whether that person was important to anyone, without caring whether that person leaving could break someone down until they themselves could barely be considered living. Death doesn't care who they take, or the aftermath that's sure to follow.


Murder is a subject that not many people care to consider. The idea of losing a loved one by the hands of a murderer is a chilling and unwelcome possibility. The idea of being a murder victim is one of the most terrifying prospects. The idea of being a murderer is very rarely contemplated by sane minded people and so I am utterly unprepared for what I have gotten myself into. I am in complete disbelief. My eyes have begun to water and sting yet I cannot draw them away from the empty shell of what was once a human being that lays on the cold ground before me. The Body has lost all essence of life already. Within the minutes that have passed the skin has become waxen with an almost bluish tinge. The face is expressionless, the eyes closed and the mouth relaxed into a natural grimace. No matter how long I study the subtly changing features, I cannot convince myself that it is just sleeping. My stomach convulses and I heave. It comes to me that I have become the last glimpse of the living world to a human being. I recall how that last glimpse was filled with terror and, what had to have been, an excruciating amount of pain. I, suddenly, need to be away from the alleyway and I clutch my excitable stomach as I run out into the dark street. I am relieved to find the night is deserted and I am able to throw up amongst a pile of discarded rubbish, undisturbed. It takes me a few seconds to regain some composure before I realise that he has not come after me. I could run, faster and further than I ever have in my entire life. I could run far away from this situation, from this city, this entire country if I wanted to. If anything, I could lose some weight in the process and become a whole new person. I feel a migraine begin to evolve in my head and I shake away the completely inappropriate thoughts that crowd my brain. Of course I will return to that alleyway. How could I do anything else? I do not consider him a friend in the conventional terms of the word…but he is the only thing I have that comes close. I now realise why he has not called after me or come to drag me back. He expects me to return. It appears that he has discarded the contents of his stomach, too. His face is flushed, his hands shake, uncontrollably. As I stagger back into the nightmarish scene, he looks away from The Body and searches my face with concern. “Ok?” His voice shakes with the telltale signs of someone who is struggling to contain their emotions. I do not trust my own vocal chords at that moment and simply nod. “Ok…ok, we can sort this. We can fix it…” he is walking around the alley now. He examines The Body from various angles and swears a few times. I carry out my own, swift, inspection and my eyes move upwards. I realise that there are two windows from the opposite building that overlook the alleyway. There are no lights behind them at the moment but should someone decide to peer out into the night… “We need to call the police,” I say in little more than a whisper. With a spontaneous burst of energy, he leaps across The Body and shoves me, hard. I am caught, completely, unaware and fly backwards. My back slams into the hard plastic of that large, industrial bin and I am momentarily winded. It is my turn to swear. “What’d you do that for!” I snap. He marches towards me and I take a protective stance. He slams his hands on the bin at either side of my head and I wince. “Will you shut up! Do you want to wake up the entire street?” he hisses. “Well, then, don’t go throwing me all around the place!” “Well, then, don’t go saying stupid things!” he snarls. “Call the police? Do you want to go to prison? Do you? Do you want to become the mistress of a butch, skinhead lesbian called Sandy? Cause that’s what’ll happen-!” “Ok!” I snap. “She’ll probably make you wear a dog collar and beg for treats. And you’re so pathetic you would do it-” “I said ok!” I whack his arms away from me and rub my throbbing back. I catch sight of The Body once more and I am shocked to find I had completely forgotten its presence on the scene. “What’re we going to do, then?” I ask. He runs his fingers through his, already, tousled hair. “We’re going to have to move it…” I wish I had run away when I had the chance. “How?” I say, weakly. “Should we just…grab a leg and an arm each or…?” “Don’t be stupid. How d’you think we’d look walking down the street like that?” I want to tell him we’d look like any other group of friends after a night of drinking in the city. But I decide now is not a good time. I stand, silent and awkward, as he concocts a plan in his head. He paces the short space available, muttering to himself, pausing, occasionally, to consider The Body. Finally he rubs his hands together and announces that we, “need the Iron Beast.” In the fifteen minutes I am left with The Body I am sure that I struggle through several panic attacks. I have no means of determining the time but I feel like it has been night for too long. I am expecting the sun to rise any minute and a swarm of morning pedestrians to crowd the streets. When I hear the Iron Beast approach I feel no relief. He seems to have gathered his wits together more effectively and when he comes to stand across from me, The Body in-between us, and says “Ok, now you can grab an arm and a leg”, I comply with no arguments. Somehow, I hadn’t expected The Body to be as heavy in death as it was in life. Our first two attempts are unsuccessful. On the third, I misjudge the gap and the head whacks against the bumper with a dull thud. I take a step back and refuse to engage in a fourth attempt. “This is ridiculous,” I gasp. “Look at what we’re doing right now…I’m sorry but after everything that’s happened tonight…I don’t think I can bring myself to drive around town with a body in the boot of the car, ok?” He is, clearly, arriving at the end of his patience with me. He considers my face, set into a defiant scowl, and strides around the car to open the passenger door. Another fifteen minutes later and we are driving along the steadily, brightening street with The Body strapped into the back seat. He relays the rest of his plan as we drive. I enjoy his decision to drop me off at the shops to ‘pick up a few things’. I am less pleased by his request for me to meet him at the waterside. “We’re going to dump it in the river?” I ask, revolted. “Why not? It’ll just join the millions of other bodies and shopping trolley’s that are already there. Unless you’ve got any better suggestions?” My mind races. We could take it outside the city, burn the Iron Beast with The Body inside. Dig a ditch and bury it. Dump it down an embankment on the walkway and let the squirrels and foxes have their way with it. Then I realise that the sun is rising and we have no time to do any of these things. “Fine…” I mutter, like a grumpy child. Despite having lived my entire life riddled with low self-esteem and disastrous amounts of self-consciousness, I have never felt so out of place as I do now. The supermarket has just opened its doors and the aisles are vacant save from the very few early morning shoppers and grumpy staff members. Everything seems far too clean and bright. I realise I am sweating and my hair is a frizzy mess. I move to flatten it before I realise my hands are filthy and I stuff them in my jacket pockets. I wonder if I will ever be able to stroll through a supermarket without appearing awkwardly unnatural. My eyes flit towards the security cameras. I cannot tell if they are actually turning to follow my movement or if I am imagining it. The cashier gives me a contemptuous look as I toss the two packs of black bin liners onto the conveyor belt. I see, quite plainly, her eyes moving over my torn leggings and filthy t-shirt and I fold my arms, self-consciously. Beep. The first pack moves across the scanner in a swift motion. I can’t help but tut, impatiently, as the cashier struggles with the shopping bag. I watch her ridiculously, perfect, manicured nails fumble with the opening and my patience snaps. “I don’t want a bag.” She continues to rub the plastic between her fingertips. “I said I don’t want a bag. Ok? Just leave it. Why would I need a bag to carry some bags? I thought all you big corporations where into saving the planet and being green and all that. Just leave the bag, ok?” I realise I am rambling and bite my lip to stop. The cashier stares at me, completely unconcerned with my distress. Her eyes don’t leave my face as she passes the second pack across the scanner and holds out a hand for payment. Only when the money, soaked in the sweat from my palms, touches her skin does she look away, making no effort to disguise her disgust. I calm, slightly, when I am stood outside the shop, bin liners having been, successfully, purchased. It takes me a full five minutes of care-free walking before I remember The Body. By the time I reach the waterside the streets have become more active. I, suddenly, regret my refusal to accept a shopping bag. Every stranger I pass is a potential witness and the items I hold in my hands are incriminating evidence. I try not to seem too conspicuous as I clamber over the fence and make my way down the embankment to the water’s edge. He has been going spare waiting for me. I am pleasantly surprised and most relieved to find he has chosen a decent location, with plenty of cover from the trees and the bridge above us. The Body lays in a straight position in the dirt. The skin has lost any hint of colouring and is now a waxy grey. The ground around it is littered with cigarette stubs. I guess that more than half of them have come from his own hands. “What took you so long?” he hisses at me as I approach. I noticed he has stopped shaking but his eyes are still manic with anxiety. He snatches the bin bags from my hands and inspects them with unnecessary fixation. I decide to be generous with my patience and perhaps I will only have to pull the bag over The Body’s lower half. Somehow, after everything I have participated in, pulling a bag over The Body’s head just seems cruel. “You are the biggest idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know.” His voice sounds completely calm all of a sudden, and it is this that unnerves me. “What are you talking about?” “Of all the times to make a stupid mistake!” I open my mouth, already equipped with an angry retort, when he rips apart the packaging and tugs one of the bags free. He shakes it in front of me and, as the air fills inside it, I realise what I have done. “Yeah, these would be helpful. If we were disposing of a bloody midget!” he snaps, tossing the bags at my feet. I had been far too preoccupied to check in the supermarket, although it had never really occurred to me that black bags came in different sizes. In my mind I can see the shin-high metal bin in my mothers kitchen and suspect the bags would line the inside of it quite snugly. “Oh…” I am sure he would have hit me then, if he hadn’t lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell on his backside. “Fuck this day!” he whines. “Ok, we need to get an axe…” “An axe?” I squeak. “Or a really big knife.” I understand what he is proposing but the thought of even witnessing such an act makes my empty stomach heave again. “We can’t…” I manage to whisper. He bites his lip and I can see his is not particularly partial to the idea either. “No…no, I don’t think we can,” he concedes. His hands move over the pebbles on the shore and I can almost hear the gears working in his brain. “What are you thinking?” “I know what to do. Grab a couple of those bags. We need to start acting quicker…” It seems to take no time at all before we have several bags filled with pebbles. Our fingers steady themselves long enough to allow us to attach our makeshift weights to The Body and roll it, none to gracefully, into the murky waters. We watch with shuddering breaths as the head bobs just above the surface for a few seconds then, slowly, sinks into the icy-cold depths of the dark waters.


The story is made up. Any similarities with real events, persons and/or beings are coincidental. ***** ### **Prologue** ***** It was, in the player's considered opinion, quite the experience. There's hunting *game* and there's *The Hunting Game*, and the latter was incomparable. He had scored 82 so far. A new record, he was sure. He still had a week to fully establish the high score to virtually unreachable levels. He would become a legend in the Hunting Scene. Still, you shouldn't celebrate a scalp before it was cut, so he had carefully checked his next target's habits. This one was a bodyguard in what was called a syndicate by some of the locals. Some kind of criminal organisation. He did not really care. What he did care about was that the man in question was armed and dangerous. This would be quite a challenge. The game's difficulty had started quite low. Those firemen, construction workers and the like, were much too easy. The only problems they caused were by attracting the attention from the authorities. Luckily, the game moved him to a new city after each few kills. He didn't recall that feature being there. The devs must have gotten complaints about the police being overpowered and put in a corrected mission structure in that last update. The targets quickly moved to harder ones, like gang members. People who led more violent lives, more alert, more trained and dangerous. There was his target, he really should stop daydreaming. He checked his knife, cutting a small branch with its edge. Excellent. The bodyguard had just finished the routine checking of his car for trackers and explosives. The player quickly walked up to the car, cut the throat, and walked on. By now he knew by feel whether some extra action was required to complete the kill. Eighty-three. He relaxed as he walked up to his own car. Quite satisfying. He frowned when he received the next target briefing. Another bodyguard? True, killing those only went so smooth thanks to his skill, but he'd expect the game to select a higher level enemy by now. What the hell did *presidential* mean? He read on, wondering again why the game used paper for the briefings. Even the natives used portable electronics by now. Weapon of choice: a *ricin pellet*? He could see that he had some more research to do. ***** ### **Illegal Game** ***** Sleeth had celebrated its promotion with a good, long sleep in its comfortable nest. It had expended all its energy in reaching the Slothainian ideal state of a completely emptied mind, to better let in the dreams. Sleeth was about to start on its second helping of me-doree leaves, the mild narcotic its species used for exactly that purpose, when the room signalled the arrival of a priority call. The leaves were well on their way to Sleeth's mouth, neatly impaled on one of its claws. It kept them ascending slowly as it briefly considered ignoring the call. The lighting turned an alarming shade of lilac. The Slothain sighed a long, deep, sigh. He had disabled autorun scripts for normal messages, which meant that... “Sleeths.” this was a message from the central office. “Sleeths, Contact has received a tip that a new species is being exploited at this very moment,” the captain still extended her s', “apparently, the chief caught it while browsing the new live stream channels.” Sleeth was not aware that the chief was into such things, “at first, it seemed like one of those new virtual reality game streams, but rumours have been going around that you can strike out the *virtual* part in that description, as it were. You are hereby tasked with investigating *The Hunting Game*. By virtue of the authority vested in me as Representative of the Office of the Triumvirate, you are granted Class One privileges, to be used exclusively for investigating and judging all actors involved.” Class One meant no restrictions. It also meant a full, personal report to the entire Triumvirate. How tiresome. “I know we are interrupting your holiday, Sleeths, but this cannot wait. When you see the recording of one of the streams, you will understand.” Sleeths jaws gaped in a lazy yawn as it signalled for the room to display the attached video. The wall sprang to life, a mass of foliage curtained to display the moving images. Sleeth silently watched the bipedal alien preparing and using its knife to efficiently slice into its victim. If this was the real deal, then it was, indeed, very serious. This sort of thing tends to spoil first contact, and that did not even mention that this was obviously murder. It looked like the perpetrators would verily deserve their punishment for interrupting Sleeth's rest when it found them. Another huge yawn as it looked at the moss that had grown on its fur. First, though, Sleeth would need to visit the barber. After a thorough grooming of its long fur, Sleeth felt it and its fur could handle just about anything the galaxy would throw at it. It was time to leave for the local Contact branch for a fresh outfit. This would be the first opportunity to use whatever The Triumvirate's Research and Engineering gave to Contact came up with for a Class One. Good. It would save it from expending any more energy than strictly necessary. The cab, basically, looked like a clothes rack on wheels, instead of coats, there was a first class Contact agent dangling from the bar, firmly holding on, using the claws on all fours. Sleeth swung outwards when the cab took a turn, keeping its nose firmly pointed forwards. Unlike many of its compatriots, Sleeth loved to feel the strong breeze blowing through its fur. Sleeth imagined it to be quite an undignified sight, which may have had something to do with the others' professed dislike of windy conditions. The other advantage of this cab was that it could easily snake through the busy traffic, which contained a wide assortment of vehicles to accommodate the different species of The Triumvirate. From the little bowl-shaped carts for Itsumboes here, right up to a huge mobile aquarium for a Kujillian zooming past at break-fin speed. The cab easily evaded all to arrive well on time for its appointment at the lab. Sleeth crossed over to the branch favoured by most arboreal species, letting it rise majestically to the building's 26th floor before entering. It was, so Sleeth thought, a fine day to rest. Or would be, if there didn't happen to be a job which needed doing. The team of Meercians was excited when he entered the meeting room. Meercians are almost always excited, moving on all fours, tails straight up in the air and chattering with their characteristic energy. Something to do with being small and growing up in a predator rich environment. One head raised itself, “hey Sleeth, come over!” He blinked, looked around, then crossed over to hang nearby, head at the level of those of the gang. “So you're the one being sent to handle that nasty hunting business.” “It's for real, then?” “Yesyes, definitely not VR, too flavourful for that.” Many an experienced peruser of VR could distinguish a created world, or that of a game, from that of a recording of a real physical environment. Computer generated VR in The Triumvirate was good, the best known amongst the different known intelligences, in fact. It still was far from perfect, with its flaws obvious for most those who could sense. Sleeth itself got too nauseous with both to tell the difference. Of course, those hyperactive black-eyed, short furred, long nosed, little beasts got to enjoy it all, regardless of how artificial it was. They even enjoyed the more abstract stuff. “Absolutely horrible!” another one of the Meercians barked. Naturally, their sympathies would lie with the prey. “It's got to be stopped, and it's got to be stopped yesterday.” They all barked their agreements, and even Sleeth nodded at that. “Any clues to where?” “We got a good view of the star-scape from most streams.” “And?” “We have a star system,” “Hit me.” “It's close to the Empire,” one of the gang directed the meeting room to display a map of their common border, “over there,” she pointed to the purple mark. Sleeth considered, silently, for a while, “you know what that means don't you?” The mob looked confused, until Sleeth clarified, “everything related to this is now classified to an *even-if-you-need-to-know-you-won't*.” It silenced the protests before they even started, “not even the Triumvirates get to hear about this until my official report.” Sleeth would need to move fast before the Empire claimed this new species' world 'for their protection'. “I won't depend on them not knowing about it until it's too late, but...” it pierced the team with a sharp glance, “... we, most certainly, should not help the Empire find out before.” This new species' location meant that they would either have to get on track to be incorporated into The Triumvirate or gobbled up by the Empire. Sleeth intended to make sure they would get the time to have a say in whichever outcome they got. On top of that, it needed to tiptoe around that new touchy foreign minister of theirs. It would not be the first, nor the last, war sparked by the fight over a species' future. This job was getting more interesting by the minute. Sleeth glanced at the excited faces. Oh dear. “I will also require,” it put it delicately, “that this entire research team,” meaning every single last one of these gossipers, “will join me in the expedition to prepare for this species' first contact.” That should keep them silent for long enough. Big, stunned, eyes answered this pronouncement. Great, now Sleeth would have to endure their hyperactivity. Sleeth considered the message it would leave behind. The disappearance of one The Triumvirate's foremost research and development teams might cause some consternation. Sleeth'd better make it clear that they were not kidnapped, or such. “Record, please,” the room sprang to life, “captain, Sorry to be borrowing team thirteen. I promise to return all of them in one peace,” Sleeth displayed one of its slow smiles, “most of them, anyway.” That should do the trick. “Send message.” ***** The were in orbit around the natives' star. Sleeth's new personal team had done an admirable job in outfitting the expedition with their gadgets and taping together an excellent experimental hull with the latest in battle analysers, cannons and launch tubes. During the preparations they had all moved to one of the “abandoned” wharves, despite them being a public secret. Security was top-notch and they could easily be mistaken for yet another one of the many “black” research projects. Hidden in plain sight. Sleeth had also taken along some of that excellent security. No point in leaving behind the risk for accidental leaks. The team had also monitored the comments on the hunting streams. It seemed that word of the reality of those streams had gone out, though the consensus seemed to be that they were mise-en-scènes. Sleeth had made sure to have those rumors reinforced before they left. The star was fairly unremarkable. The admiral he had grabbed along still had not lost his air of disapproval, though Sleeth suspected his Ursian bellows were more out of habit by now. The admiral had always performed his job perfectly before, but he seemed genuinely interested by now. “What are the locals like?” The gang answered, “barely space faring. They seem to be using radio waves for much of their communications.” “Messy radio waves.” “Omnidirectional.” “Wasteful,” Sleeth commented. “Tell them, not us,” answered the admiral. “I'd better not,” Sleeth examined an image of the home world, “in all our experience with newly contacted species,” rotating it to study the social map, “Contact has yet to find one that doesn't get touchy at comments on how they're running things.” “There,” one from the mob pointed at the continent, “the latest streams seem to originate from there.” “How do you know?” A curious admiral. “Day-night patterns, local architecture, comparing them to those messy broadcasts of theirs.” “Doesn't really matter,” Sleeth ordered, “find the relay station they're likely to be using.” Aye's answered it from different directions. That gang had taken a fancy to some of the sailors' language, though they skipped most of the formalities. It took a while, but they found it, and something else. “A fleet, are you sure?” “Eleven ships, yes. We have visual confirmation.” “What!” the admiral, “are you crazy?” “Don't worry,” the Meercian winked, “we put a bit of special sauce in the drone's stealth systems.” “Almost bumped into them, they did,” chuckled another, “luckily the AI wasn't taking a nap at the time.” A third one added, “they're frigates.” The admiral looked suitably impressed, but his expression changed, “it seems,” he looked very disappointed, “that we're going to need reinforcements if we want to catch them.” “Do we?” Sleeth disagreed. The admirals eyes widened at that. “Any markings?” the question was directed to the research gang, the answer was prompt, “just the streamers' branding.” An incredulous “you can see those?” from the admiral got answered by a, “mentioned almost bumping into them, didn't I?” “Didn't think you meant it literally.” Good Ursian, that admiral. He took the Meercians' non-military lack of discipline in stride. Which still left the problem of dealing with that little fleet. “Admiral, you forget what sort of beings we're dealing with here, hence ...” The admiral started a scary grin at that. “You are authorised to include *lethal* force in the options for dealing with them.” A very scary grin. The mob of Meercians all stopped chattering and retreated a step. The admiral turned to Sleeth, “so it's time to take out the experimentals. You said you great faith in overkill?” This resulted in a bridge full of excited Meercians. It was not often that they got to directly experience the results of their work. The chattering increased as they found that they could not deny a certain nervousness, now that their own lives depended on their marvels working properly. “Launch.” They all felt the recoil from the launches. “Move us in.” Not much else to do, after all. “If the drones could bump into those ships,” again that feeling of almost taking a jump backwards, “without them noticing, let's test how close we can get.” Some more recoil. “Prepare for boarding, Sergeant,” at one of the screens. Another smooth interruption of the ship's acceleration. “though I suspect,” and another, “that the preparation may be,” and another, “superfluous,” he got answering grins all around as those launches kept their pace. The Triumvirate could, as of yet, not mass produce those specially stealthed torpedoes. When they could, they would shift the power balance in their corner of the galaxy for a while. A short while, Sleeth suspected as he studied that cloud moving on the display, the competition likely had something equally nasty in the works to balance things out. Preparing for boarding was, indeed, superfluous for those ships. The base itself surrendered immediately. When it was secured the research mob joined Sleeth to get a good look inside. They chattered quietly as they examined the cabins, each with a being seemingly kept unconscious. “Report.” “We've been monitoring these beings' mind activity.” “And?” “The minds in there are not native to those bodies.” “Explain.” “The minds are all from the same species. These bodies are not.” “You mean?” “They have swapped minds with the locals for their sick games.” The admiral asked, “how is that possible?” “We haven't got a clue.” He looked horrified, “can't you swap them back?” “Nope.” Sleeth interjected, “they're not likely to thank us if we did,” he looked cheerful. One from the gang agreed, “as far as the natives are concerned, these are all criminals of the worst kind.” Much better to leave them as is. “Take them all,” Sleeth looked around, “they'll have to build new lives.” As for the minds swapped down to the planet ... who cared? ***** ### **Epilogue** ***** Well, that went worse than expected. He didn't even get a chance to implement the planning for this new target. Somehow, his searches in the library must have triggered an alarm. There was a team of grim natives in his room now. Did they have to be so rough? Those kicks were really unnecessary, and that gun against his head really hurt! Ah, well. At least he had his high score to celebrate. Any minute now, the game would return him to his own body. *Any* minute now... ***** Illegal Game, by Hana Aianhanma, March 2019. This work is licensed under a .


I rubbed my eyes, but the genie was still there when I opened them again. His bulky, dark blue torso originated from a trail of smoke wafting from a broken lamp on the ground. "Oh, it's you. You poor soul." The genie said as he looked me over. "I suppose it's only fair I offer you the same deal." His massive figure was stooped over, and his eyes were downcast. I was running late to my own engagement party. The rain was pit pattering on the sidewalk as we stared one another down. My mouth was hanging wide open, as I struggled to believe what I was seeing. "Here are the terms." He said finally. "You're twenty-eight now, correct? So you'll be ten years old after the reset, if you choose to accept. You'll keep all your knowledge and memory, and the decision is irreversible." He scrutinized me with his large, pupiless eyes. As if assessing me, trying to guess how I might respond. "It is no understatement that your life's course will irrevocably changed. Think carefully - are you happy with things as they are?" I gulped. I've read about these hypotheticals on internet forums before. "You've got 10 seconds to respond. Do you want to turn the clock back eighteen years?" ****** I woke up in class, and blinked. A flood of memories came rushing back to me. I was sitting in my fourth grade classroom. The walls looked incredibly tall, like I was seeing the world from a much lower angle. I looked down, and saw two tiny, meaty hands attached to a pudgy set of arms. The genie's spell had worked. I pumped my fist and silently mouthed "Yes!". Ideas raced through my mind. This was my chance to fix everything. As soon as class was out, I ran to the library, but found myself wheezing before I even made it halfway. I went through a long pudgy phase as a child that had lasted until college. I had little luck with women, and my self esteem had shrunk as my gut grew. When I finally got to the library, I logged into a computer and searched for little league Football teams. In the years to come, my decades of being a sports fan combined with the youthful years I could now spend conditioning my body placed me at the top of my high school football team with ease. At the same time, I tried to convince my dad to buy Amazon stock. He was impressed with how much I knew about the company as a ten year old, but skeptical. "I've been caught in that trap before - the market's still not fully recovered." He argued. "And besides, what is 'Cloud'?" Money had always been tight around the house when I was growing up, and now that I was armed with knowledge of the future, I was determined to change that. I pre-recorded a few CNBC TV segments and left them playing for my dad to see when he got home, and after a few weeks, I finally convinced him to dip his toes in. The first few shares he bought quickly began to climb in value, whetting his appetite and persuading him to take out a large loan against our house to buy more. I felt briefly sorry for my mom as she chewed him out for taking such a huge risk, but the anger quickly dissipated as their investment quickly doubled, then tripled. By the time I was winning back to back state championships in high school, our family had rapidly climbed the socioeconomic ladder into the top 1%. As an awkward kid riddled with anxiety and ADHD, school had been hard for me. In my past life, I had barely managed to graduate, and the only school that accepted me was a local community college. In this life, I was confident, popular, and my family could easily afford my medication. I graduated with a perfect GPA and a sports scholarship to Harvard. There was nothing I could want for during my second go at being a teenager. I dated multiple girls just for fun, and lost my virginity at age nineteen instead of twenty five. However, when I was alone in bed at night, my dreams were still filled with memories of my fiance. When Facebook came around, I immediately made an account and looked for her, and was disappointed to find that she wasn't on the platform. Every year, I would search again, until her profile finally popped up in my sophomore year of college. Time froze momentarily when I finally saw her face again after nine years. She was as beautiful as I remembered, and I couldn't wait to meet her. Then I had a sickening thought. Nervously, I scrolled down her profile, looking for her Relationship Status. The display read back "No Info". I thought about sending her a message, but stopped myself, and closed the page. She had a life before she met me, and following her this closely on Facebook felt wrong. It reminded me of a story she told me about a guy who stalked her social media accounts on a daily basis, regularly sending creepy messages until she blocked him. The stalker had no profile picture, and constantly asked her to go on a date with him, stating that if she "just gave him a chance, he could make her happy." I shuddered at the thought of becoming like that stalker, and decided to wait until we met in person to talk to her. In my past life, I had an idea for a software business that I thought would change the world. When I graduated from the community college, I was nearly penniless. But instead of looking for a job like my parents recommended, I decided to take out a loan to start a company with a few friends. The idea had some legs, but I had no connections and no experience. After a few years of floundering with little to show for it, we shut the company down. It was that fateful day when I was sitting in a cafe, worrying about how I was going to pay my debts when she walked into my life. In this life, I was a Harvard student from an affluent family. I chose to major in Economics, and quickly introduced myself to every Computer Science student on campus. Before long, I put together a team and secured funding from a group of professors. We launched our product in my Senior year at Harvard, and by the time I graduated, our platform had over million users, and Forbes called me "The Most Promising Young CEO of This Generation". In the years following Harvard, our company grew exponentially, and my stake in the business increased in value to several Billion dollars - with a B. My parents were proud, but I didn't get to see them much, nor did I have much time for relationships. But every now and then, I would still check on her Facebook profile, just to make sure. Each time I looked, her Relationship Status displayed the same thing - "No Info". So when the day came, I gave my security detail the day off, flew into the town I lived in during my past life and waited at the same cafe where my fiance and I had met. I made sure to arrive a few hours early, just in case the timing wasn't perfect. I remembered exactly how our first meeting went - our gazes had met across the room. She was in line, and I was sitting at my table. She smiled at me, momentarily washing away my worries about my debt and my failure of a life. After she got her drink, she sat down and we talked the afternoon away. A few of the best years of my life later, I got down on one knee and put a ring on her finger. The wedding was two weeks away when I encountered that genie on the sidewalk. My daydreaming was interrupted by the door swinging open, and my fiance walking in. She looked exactly the way I remembered on that day, down to the white blouse and the straw hat with a pink ribbon, a smile plastered across her pretty face as she talked to the man she came with. The man she came with? I ducked behind my coffee, and peered over the brim at them. The man was tall and lanky, a thick scraggly beard wrapping around his chin. Their gazes were locked on one another, as if everyone else was just a background character. A million thoughts raced through my mind, and I dreaded the worst. Then he leaned in for a kiss, and to my chagrin, she smiled and returned it. Then the barista called them to pick up their drinks, and I began to pack up my things, hanging my head in defeat. Then she called out my name. "It's you!" She exclaimed, as she scurried towards my table. "You're the CEO of that startup!" I nodded, and tried to play it cool as I sipped my coffee. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a fan of your company's work." She said, extending her hand. "I'm Melanie." I shook it, and refrained from bursting out that of course I knew who she was. That I had thought about and missed her touch for the last fifteen years. That her hand felt so right in mine. "Nice to meet you." I said with a polite smile. I found myself at a loss for words. Fifteen years, and I didn't know what to say to her. I remembered our last conversation well - it was about her engagement gift. She wanted to know what it was, but I refused to say - she would just have to wait until the party. These thoughts triggered a flood of memories. Since I never arrived at that party, she never got to see her gift. "Um, is everything okay?" Her voice snapped me out of my misery. I realized my eyes had become moist, and quickly wiped them dry. "Yeah." I responded, clearing my throat. "So Melanie, what do you do?" It turned out that in this life, she was an Executive Assistant - otherwise know as a Secretary. It just so happened that I found myself unable to handle my own schedule anymore, nor perform any administrative tasks. So I took a perfunctory glance at her Linkedin, and then offered her a job, which she quickly accepted. "By the way, this is my boyfriend. Jacob." She said, gesturing to the tall man behind her. He smiled at me nervously, and shook my hand with a sweaty palm. Being a minor celebrity in this life, it was common for people to be a bit anxious when meeting me. In the years that followed, Melanie worked tirelessly to ensure that I never had to worry about any task or issue below my paygrade. I found myself relying on her more and more, and our friendship began to grow. I did my best to keep it professional and respect her boundaries. One night, as we were working past midnight, she quipped that I had become her "work husband". In a moment of panic, I promoted her to an project manager role, ensuring that we would no longer see each other daily. She was overjoyed, and we celebrated with a round of espresso shots and the last bag of kale chips. I had to push her away. It pained me too much to hear her say my name and the word "husband" in the same sentence. I should be her actual husband, and yet her relationship with her tall, bearded boyfriend had blossomed, and they were set to marry in a few months. "By the way, we're having an engagement party tomorrow." She said, artfully tossing the last kale chip into the air and catching it in her mouth. "It's a small guestlist. Jacob wanted to keep it down low. But you should totally come." I realized then that I was approaching the turning point - tomorrow was the rainy night in my other life that I ran into the genie with the broken lamp. Perhaps it was fate that their engagement party was on the same day that ours had been. After much internal conflict, I drove to the toy store and bought a giant shark plushie - the same gift I'd gotten her in the last life. She was deeply afraid of sharks, and so as a sick joke that was perfectly in line with our relationship, I had bought her the plushie for her to cuddle with, and face her fears every night. Keeping with my practice of amending the mistakes of my past life, I had my limo drive me to her engagement party instead of walking, saving the shark plushie from getting drenched in the rain. She greeted me with a bright smile and a peck on the cheek when I arrived. Then I showed her the gift, and her expression turned to shock. "Did you guys plan this?" She asked, after a few moments of pause. I shook my head, confusion darting across my face. "It's the same gift that Jacob got me." She said. "Like, a carbon copy." It took me a few seconds to register her words. Then I recalled the first words the Genie said to me. "Oh, it's you. You poor soul. I suppose it's only fair I offer you the same deal." The words caught in my throat, unwilling to face the horrifying reality, but I forced them out. "Hey Melanie." I asked. "Do you mind if I ask what he got you for your last birthday?" Her expression changed from distress to joy, like she was recalling a sweet memory. "It was super cute. He created a treasure hunt around the house, with each clue leading me to a gift. Hey are you alright?" I wasn't alright - I felt like keeling over. Running my hand through my hair, I asked "What about the year before that?" She laughed nervously. "What's going on? Trying to get inspired for someone special in your life?" Jacob appeared at the door behind her. He started to speak, but then his eyes skirted from her, to me, to the shark plushie I was holding. His expression formed an "o" shape. I looked at him, and felt a wave of fury washing over me. "Let me guess what it was." I said softly. "A watercolor set?" He looked like a deer in headlights, and she looked like she had just seen an incredible magic trick. "Yeah, that's right." She replied. "But how did you know?" "Maybe you told him at work?" He said quickly, trying to avoid meeting my gaze. "Let's get back inside, honey. It's cold out here, and we've got guests." I grabbed his arm, and squeezed hard. My high school and college years of playing football in this life ensured that he could not break free. "Stop it, you guys. What's going on?" Melanie was looking at me, then him, then back, searching for answers. Neither of us said a thing. I looked at him expectantly. He looked back at me pleadingly. "Why don't you tell her?" I said in a low voice. He shook his head. "Please." He whimpered. "You have everything. You spent these years bettering yourself, but all I have is her. All I ever wanted is her." "That makes two of us." I roared, charging into the house and knocking him into the wall, sending both of us tumbling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, but I caught his ankle and pulled him down. There was a rush of feet as the guests crowded around us, phones filming away as a well known billionaire tackled a man at his own engagement party. "That stupid fucking genie." He yelled as kicked at my face, landing a few blows. "Of all the people to give the second wish to, it had to be you." I pulled him towards me and held him from behind, preventing him from moving. "Tell her." I hissed as I tightened my grip. "Explain what you did." A pair of arms pulled at me, and I turned to see her face close to mine, soaked in tears. "Please, stop." She said. "Let's talk this out. I don't understand what's wrong." "I should have shattered that lamp... into a thousand pieces." He croaked in short gasps of air. Then I remembered. The lamp. I let go of him, and he fell to the floor, wheezing for air. I turned to Melanie. "It's gonna sound insane." I said. "But you'll understand soon. This guy was your Facebook stalker in a past life." I ran out the door, and found the rain coming down in buckets, utterly drenching my clothes and hair. I ignored it, making a mad sprint down the road towards the street lamp where this all began. Through the wall of rain, I made out a glimmering on the ground. I stooped over and picked it up, and felt its cold metallic sting my skin. Though my hands were frozen from the cold, I began rubbing the lamp vigorously. "Come out. Please." I screamed. A pair of hands shoved me from behind, and I fell face forward. The lamp fell from my hands and clattered to the ground, shattering. I spun around and clocked him in the face, knocking him on his behind. The blood from his nose mixed with the rain streaming down his face. I grabbed his collar, and wound up for another punch. "Greetings, mortals." A deep voice boomed from behind. Slowly turning, I came face to face with the genie that I had met eighteen years ago. His deep blue skin shimmered under the street lamp's light, and seemed unaffected by the downpour. He towered over both of us, like a god speaking to his creations. "I see things have not gone according to plan." He said, looking at us with pity in his eyes. "For either of you." "Please, genie." I said. "Grant me one more wish. Undo all of this, and reset things to the way they were before." I dropped Jacob, and crawled towards the mythical creature. The genie furrowed his brow. "So you would give up all of your wealth, and return to destitution? Relinquish the memories of a happy and stable childhood, exchanging them for your old life of failure?" He asked, and I nodded vigorously. I no longer cared. Eighteen years of prosperity was not worth losing the two years of bliss I had with her. He seemed to think it over, but shook his head. "I cannot grant another wish to the same mortal." He said. "I'm sorry." His expression seemed downcast, but then he saw something behind me, and his eyes lit up. I turned to see Melanie standing there, her tears mixing with the rain drenching her face. "What on earth?" She whispered, seemingly in a daze. "These men have fought two lifetimes to be by your side." The genie explained, gesturing towards me. "He was meant to marry you in a past life." Then he pointed at Jacob, who was lying unconscious on the ground. "While that one pined for you from afar. When he found me, he asked to have his life reset by eighteen years. He used that time to carry out a meticulous plan to win your heart." Melanie's face was inscrutable as she took all of this in. "Then you gave him the same wish, right?" She said finally, looking towards me. The genie nodded. "Jacob mimicked everything I did." I said. "Down to the same birthday gifts. The man you've been dating was a copy of me." I slowly walked toward her, and took her shivering hand in mine. "Unfortunately, human." The genie interrupted. "Her feelings in this life are not for you." Her expression betrayed the truth. She looked at her feet, avoiding my gaze. My heart felt like it was dropping into the soles of my shoes, and disappearing into the ground below. "I love Jacob." She said, her voice cracking. "At least, I think I do. I don't know what to believe anymore. This is all insanity." She buried her face in her hands, and sank to the ground. "Fortunately for you, woman." The genie said. "My wishes come in threes." He placed an enormous blue hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what you wish for." Melanie wiped the tears from her eyes, and looked at me. I smiled weakly at her. I had accepted my fate. Whatever she decided, would be the life I had to live. My vision began to grow dark. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were inaudible. I leaned in, trying to hear her, but felt the strength being sapped from my body. Then, darkness. *** I was late. I checked my phone again, and saw my Uber was still ten minutes away. A slight drizzle began to pit patter on my skin, and I looked down worringly at the shark plushie I was holding. My phone buzzed with the alert of a text message. It was from Melanie.


. When I was a child, I knew of a strange old tale connected with my town, where, during the War, there had been a quartermaster’s office. As I was told it, there was a courier whose job it was to ride a set of heavy leather bound ledgers from the town to the front lines thirty or so kilometres away. The ledger contained information concerning rations, ammunition, horses and various other supplies as well as casualty lists from the front. Although the fellow had some formal title, everyone simply referred to him as the Ledgerman. Every Monday morning, regular as clockwork, the Ledgerman would retrieve the books from the quartermaster, carefully place them in his saddlebags, and ride off to the front. The road was easy enough to travel, and it was all through a quiet track of farmland. The men at the checkpoints knew him well, and did not bother to stop him and ask for papers. Having arrived at the front-lines, he would hand over the books to whomever the commander was (the holder of the position changed quite regularly) and waited for the logs to be updated. He would then strap the books back onto his horse, and return to town, usually by six o’clock in the evening. As the months rolled on, the Ledgerman grew to enjoy his job increasingly, as he was paid well and there was hardly any chance of danger. Although he would never admit it, quietly, he had began to hope that the war wouldn’t conclude as soon as the newspapers continually claimed it would. As the autumn months arrived, a final offensive pushed the front lines several miles further along the frontier than before, and as the quartermaster explained, the Ledgerman would have to travel a longer route to run the books to the advanced lines. The forest he would have to cross had not been travelled by anyone since the offensive, and there would be no checkpoints or guards. It had been a sight of heavy foresting, but when the War rolled through, it had taken the woodsmen and foresters with it, so the trees had been left to grow unhindered. He set off that morning as he usually did except somewhat more contented that he would be paid a little extra for the additional hours it would take to make the journey. Having passed the old earthworks, he approached the forest beyond where lay the vanguard. The trees were quite sparse and broken trunks and stumps studded the whole place. There had been a heavy barrage of artillery, and it was clear that much of it had been destroyed. As he passed through, he noted that a set of baleful chevaux de frise had been made, which ran off into the increasingly dense wood. As he travailed further, he saw a large number of dead horses lying on either side of the path. His own horse was perturbed by the sight, and started into the wood after a moment. With some difficulty, he navigated it back to the road, but only after noticing an increasing number of bodies. After what seemed longer than it was, he emerged, greeted by the shattered remnants of outbuildings belonging to what must have been a grand estate. Amongst them were some tents and entrenchments garrisoned by a small number of haggard-looking men. Having dismounted, the Ledgerman was approached by a young officer who introduced himself as the new commander. He took the logs without a second glance at their keeper, but the Ledgerman, who did not usually award himself such liberties, felt obligated to make a hurried inquiry about the dead horses in the forest. The young officer explained that the advance had been broken by a disorganised cavalry charge, which was eventually driven back with much effort. He said that the Ledgerman need not worry about any stragglers, as the barrage made survival within the forest highly improbable. Nevertheless, he asked the rider if he would rather stay the night at camp, as dusk would be falling shortly. The Ledgerman did not find the prospect of staying amongst the dishevelled soldiers appealing in the least, and so nervously waited for the commander to fill in all of the necessary information. The officer had only finished writing up all of the casualty lists as the sun set behind the distant treeline. The Ledgerman, who had thrown the books into the saddlebags in a fashion unbefitting his conscientious self, had departed as quickly as he could, wishing to avoid the sight of the horses on the road. He quickened his pace as he entered the forest, and as he continued, he seemed to hear a whinny or cry from somewhere off in the distance. As the trunks became less sparse, he detected upon the ground ahead of him, an unmistakable pair of hoof marks trodden into the muddy path. They were facing in the direction he was going, and he felt certain that he had not noticed any such marks on the way there and that they surely couldn’t be from his own horse. The night was not very dark, as the moon was full, but this did more to unnerve than comfort him. His sight was good enough to make out the shape of the road very clearly ahead of him and the nearby trees, but not good enough to see beyond the dark edges of the encroaching woodland. The Ledgerman’s progress was impeded by the nervousness of his horse, which would start and stop suddenly, bray, and then anxiously continue. Every now and again, he would turn and look whence he had come to make sure there was nobody following him. This went on for a few hours, by which time the Ledgerman had put himself, though not by much degree, at ease. *It’s simply my fancy*, he thought to himself, *Like the commander said, there could not have been any survivors*. Such thoughts occupied his mind for some time, and he hoped that the wood would soon clear. However, as he turned a tight bend, he froze. In the centre of the road a short distance off was, or what had once been, a horse. It truly was a horrifying spectacle. Its emaciated body was contorted in a terrible manner, its hide hanging off, revealing the rotting and torn muscle beneath. Its tangled mane was made out in two knots, where shaking hands had clutched at it in terror before they had been torn free. The cyclopean head turned up on a heavy neck, revealing a socket and one forlorn and yellow eye. A pair of bony nostrils blew a heavy gust of steam as it looked upon the Ledgerman. Whether the cry issued was from his horse or the creature, the poor fellow could not discern. Either way, his mount bolted into the wood, and soon after, he was knocked off by a stray bough. As he scrambled to his feet he dared not look behind him lest he see the beast chasing after him. Soon he had crossed the bloodied chevaux de frise, and he dearly hoped his horse hadn’t killed itself upon them. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction his mount had flown, and within a span of twenty minutes, he had cleared the treeline. Exhausted, he collapsed in an overgrown barley field. He spent a sleepless night in a shallow ditch attempting and failing to put the terrible image out of his mind. In the morning, he wandered a mile or so before he found his horse grazing by a copse. He led it, for he was still trembling too much to try to mount it, back to town, where he handed in the ledgers as well as a notice of resignation and some false explanation. The Ledgerman left my town on the frontier after his experience and nobody has heard any more from him. The forest was cut down after the War following some very odd government accounts. Many years later there were found a great number of horse skeletons.


Once upon a time, there were three stoners named Beonard, Bumble and Bump. The Stoners were close friends, and lived together in a yellow house in the concrete jungle. The were joined by their adopted albino cat, Miles, a cat who lived a challenging life as a stray before being adopted. Since then, he has been mean to anyone who even attempted to pick him up. Beonard suffered scratches on his arm, Bumble on his leg, he even scratched Bump, the nicest to him, on his face. Still, the stoners insisted on giving him a better life. On a clear, sunny day in April, the three stoners ran out of weed. Although all the dealers they knew were out, Bumble heard a rumor of a new dealer with a fabled strain called The Wiz. As all of them cheered, Bump's calendar reminded him that today was Miles' vet appointment. Bumble said they should go buy some weed before they run out, but Bump said Miles' vet appointment was more important. Beonard agreed with Bump, and said they would go buy "The Wiz" after going to the vet. He even suggested they could take his four wheeled, silver chariot. Once Bumble begrudgingly agreed, Bump lured Miles into his crate with catnip and they all hopped in Beonard's chariot and raced down the interstate at 40 miles per hour, to the vet. While examining the pale, volatile cat, the plump, bearded veterinarian commented that Miles had become a little chubby, but the three stoners were more concerned with his behavior. They asked why the cat was so hostile toward them, but the physician answered that he will only warm up to those that show him true love. Once he started talking about the cat's weight again, the stoners trailed off and forgot to pay the bill. They were more concerned with picking up The Wiz. "Speeding" down the interstate at 35 miles per hour, the three stoners talked about Miles. Bumble scoffed in disbelief that the cat could ever love them after already giving him a home a year ago. Bump replied that he must love them deep down, but had trouble expressing it after the harsh life he lived before. Beonard questioned if it was worth it to wait another whole year for him to be more loving. Before Bump could answer, Bumble pointed out the mile marker 69 sign, so Beonard pulled the silver chariot over and the three stoners giggled at it for 20 minutes. Bump then made a startling realization, they had been driving in the wrong direction, and they were 45 minutes from the dealer's house. The three friends were devastated, none of them could wait that long to get stoned. Everyone remained silent as the sound of the running motor filled the Kia sedan. Just when all seemed lost, a large bright green fire sparked next to the road sign. Out of the blaze stepped a tall woman in a long sleeveless dress with pale green skin, and dark greek dreadlocks of hemp. The three stoners stepped out of the car and slowly approached the mysterious woman, immediately struck by the strong weed aroma she gave off, and asked who she was. She declared herself as Mary Jane Wanda, Goddess of Weed, supplying the plant to those in need for a chill time. Beonard asked if she was here because they needed the sticky icky, but she replied she was only there to laugh at the mile 69 marker on the interstate. She did, however, offer them the weed of their choice, but their payment would be costly, depending on the strain. Bumble told her the only strain they desired: The Wiz. Wanda the Weed God bellowed that that strain is indeed highly sought after, so for their payment, she asked from them their most prized possessions. From Beonard, Wanda asked for his favorite knife that he always carried with him. Although reluctant, his judgement was quickly overwhelmed by Wanda's fragrance, and he gave her his knife. In return, he was given a small bag of The Wiz. From Bumble, Wanda asked for his prized jewel that he carried with him wherever he went. Bumble too was hesitant, but changed his mind once in the presence of her scent, and gave her his jewel. Again, her reward was a small bag containing the strain they have desired most. From Bump, however, she only asked to see his cat. Bump complied, pulling out the crate and set it on the ground before her, opening the door and letting the cat out. Wanda was surprisingly taken by how adorable the feline was, and expressed that she would accept the cat as payment, stating it would be the perfect gift for her friend's upcoming birthday. In return, she would reward the three stoners with all The Wiz they needed. The friends looked at each other with a defeated look on their faces. To Bumble and Beonard, both of their problems could be solved. Bump, however, was reluctant. He was not as ready to get rid of the cat, and refused, even as he felt his mind become victim to Wanda's odor. Slowly, though, the aroma emanating from Wanda's aura began to cloud Bump's mind. As he felt himself succumb to Wanda's pull, Miles turned around, staring Bump in the eye, and whimpered a soft "meow". Bump felt ecstatic, reached down, and lifted Miles to cradle him in his arms. His friends, expecting the cat to react violently, stepped back. Instead, the albino cat melted in his arms, completely at ease, and for the first time, he was purring. All three stoners looked at each other once more before turning to Wanda, and declining her offer, stating that Miles was one of them. Moved by their action, the Weed Goddess happily rewarded each of them an ounce of The Wiz before laughing at the mile 69 sign once more, and disappearing in the green fire. In celebration of their new bond with Miles, the stoners hopped back into the silver chariot, and drove 25 miles an hour back to their yellow house to binge watch *Planet Earth 2*. After they smoked the last of The Wiz a month later, they gave up weed altogether, realizing they could still get high, on love.


What I want is to lie down in the woods until I die of thirst or some other means. Everything is work, all of this is work, and I would rather not do any of it. You see I’m well beyond asking what the point is; in case you haven’t figured it out, there is no point. God is not real expect in your mind as an implicitly contradictory, discrete conception of everything as one. The individual is damned and you know it. All collections of people, from state to family, fail to redeem the individual.   You might then be asking the question, why am I penning these words instead of adding my biomass to the woods? A perfectly acceptable question, for which I have a perfectly unacceptable response. I can’t. And believe you me, I’ve tried. I’ve embraced the forest floor, caressed the dead leaves and sticks and rocks and dirt, then resigned the mind and invited Death. Curious, how vehemently, how *religiously*, a slave can rebel, only to be subjected once again, over and over, by the hand of the master.   Whose heart heats the hovel? Stone whose pen writes a novel.


Robert powered through the morning, not really his preferred way to start the day. He likes to wake up after hitting snooze at least twice, slowly sipping the ever-essential coffee while reading up on the news and then getting ready after he feels he's all caught up. A typical workingman daily routine you might think, and would be absolutely correct in assuming so. Unfortunately for him, he slept through the alarm like a baby, thanks to a late-night working, and now his morning was completely disrupted. His car had been parked out in the driveway and consequently, been vandalized. The tires were slashed and the hood of the car was covered in obscene imagery. "Sadists.” he thought to himself as he made a mental note to call the police once he reached his office. More frustrated than ever, he set out, heading for the bus stop a couple blocks away. As he waited at the stop for the bus that was already behind schedule, just like him, a dark green F-150 pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down to reveal a man, maybe in his thirties, with a trucker like attire consisting of shorts, a grey shirt and a Yankees cap. “Hey Carter-that’s the name, right? Don’t usually see you around this time of the day. Anyways, how about I give you a ride to the office?” Robert tried his best to identify the driver. He seemed familiar, but it was impossible for him to be sure. He chose to avoid the otherwise inevitable moment of awkwardness that would follow and decided to just play it safe. “It’s Rob actually. That’d be great but I really don’t want to waste your- “ “Oh, just hop on in! I’ve got all the time in the world.” Cornered, Rob weighed his options and decided that he would just get it over with. Besides he really needed his job. “Alright, just drop me off at the- “ “33rd street?” The driver, after a good look at Robert’s blank expression then replied: “It’s just that I drop my kid off to school just about two streets over, so I guess there’s only so many streets that your car could’ve turned into.” “Now there’s an observant fella.” Rob mumbled while mentally listing possible escape maneuvers through the passenger seat window. “I’m pretty sure I’ve made you feel uneasy already, so let me try my hand at changing the mood. I ask you a question, and you ask me one in return. Should help you relax a bit there, champ.” “I’ll go first then,” Rob said. “Who are you? And why do I feel like I know you?” “Straight to the point, aren’t you? Then again you always were.” Before Robert could make any sense of the statement, the driver continued: “Call me Ben. I run this breakdown truck company about twenty minutes from where you live. Had today off, so I felt like driving off into the daylight and just enjoy the sun for a change. But nothin’s ever better than helping a fellow American in need!” He then proceeded to laugh at his own joke. “Oh, and about you knowing me, I sure as hell don’t know who or what looks like me in this part of town. Maybe you saw me behind you at a red light during one of those school rides. Now you tell me, how’s the bank job holding?” “I never mentioned my workplace to you.” “Oh, come on. I don’t see any amusement park booths anywhere near that area. There ain’t no one but people in suits scuttling about and sipping their morning coffee there! I mean, no offense to you, but you gotta see where I’m coming from.” “About that offence, some taken. You really have those detective novels all spoiled for you already huh? It’s tough to believe that you’re just guessing all of this.” “Yeah, I get that a lot.” “About the bank job, it’s going…fine, I guess. I mean there have been no ups and downs for me to talk about. Not that it doesn’t pay well; I just seem to drift away behind the desk lately.” “I…I see. It must get real boring after a while, the desk job I mean.” Ben, now on the freeway, was slowing down. “The lanes are wide open, you could just hit th- “ A grey corolla cut them off abruptly from the right. “You can never be too careful these days lad. Believe me, I tow stuff for a living.” “Agreed.” Rob said as he watched the car speeding away, muttering some not so nice words under his breath. “As I was saying, life’s a drag. Come to think of it, I don’t even know why I even bother getting up.” Ben, as if ignoring the statement, asked,” Say, how much more time do you have before your boss goes bananas at ya?” Rob glanced at his watch. He was already late, so he didn’t bother about it much. Besides this ride had been way more interesting than his entire previous week, which he believed to be a testament to his mundane existence. “I’ve got time, don’t worry.” He said, staring blankly at nothing in particular out of the window. “So enough about me, tell me about your kid. You said that he goes to school close to 33rd?” “Yeah, City Knoll middle school. He’s a bright one if I do say so myself, absolutely gunning past his friends and other folk out there. I mean I’m a hundred percent sure that it’s no thanks to me!” he proceeded to stick to his protocol of laughing at his own jokes. Rob was finding this conversation to get more interesting by the minute. “You know, I’ve studied there myself back in ’95” Rob interrupted. “Jeez time flies! What year are we even in right now?” he said laughingly. There was something interesting about this man, something that was hiding from him in plain sight. “God knows!” Ben said. “God knows…” Rob had sensed a sudden change in Ben’s composure, a hint of weariness revealed itself from inside the outward friendliness and confidence that had been on display since minute one. Suddenly as if waking up from an endless trance, Ben regained his former self. “Ah see you’re getting the hang of it now! It’s been almost 15 minutes and you haven’t mentioned your dumbass of a boss or job. You seem more like yourself again.” They approached an intersection when the green in front of them began flickering. Ben’s expression turned to stone as he floored the brake pedal. “You could’ve made that one if you’d gunned it!” Rob said “And I could’ve still convinced my boss that I’d been less than thirty minutes late.” “There you go rambling about that old fucknut all over again! It’s gonna be a tad bit harder to explain that shit from the ICU ward!” He regained his senses. “Er Rob, buddy, I’m sorry about th- “ “It’s fine. It was a good call” Rob replied as he pointed towards the intersection. A man with a walking stick had misjudged the traffic lights and had walked straight into heavy traffic. Fortunately, everybody had reacted in time and there had been no casualties, save for a couple scratches here and there. “Turned that train wreck into a fender bender.” Ben said, chuckling. “Go left, I know a shortcut through that alleyway there” Rob suggested. “It’s alright, I’ll just take this way- “Ben stopped when he saw the bumper to bumper traffic in the adjacent lanes. “ “I’m telling you, going this way is the only option we have right now” Rob said hurriedly. “I know, I know.” Ben’s face turned red as he took the left. “It’s just that… that all the parents park up along the rear of the school these days and it takes a good hour to sort that mess out.” Ben said as he found his footing again. “So, you never told me your son’s name. For a proud father like you, I find that odd.” Ben sighed. For the first time since the beginning of this conversation, He didn’t anything witty to reply with. He thought to himself for what felt like eternity. He began “Carter. His name’s Carter.” The school was visible now. A block before and to the right were the Hamilton International towers, the headquarters office in which Rob worked. Ben turned to Rob. “I’ve tried everything bud. Everything. I know you’re still in there. Just hand on, I’m gonna get us outta here.” Teary eyed, Ben’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The school bell rang and little children flooded the streets without a worry or doubt. Somebody in charge of the main gate had forgotten to lock it and organize the dispersed younglings, and now they were in front of their speeding truck. “BEN SLOW DOWN YOU’RE GONNA HIT TH’ “Rob’s voice was drowned out by the screeching and swerving as the truck headed straight towards the Financial district. An endless river of black, white and red turned towards them in horror as they had, in that split second, realized their fate. Some had accepted it, many believed of it to be unfair. But the judgement had already been made one way or the other. The truck tunneled headfirst into the dreary dense crowd, and then everything went black. Manny powered through the morning, not really his preferred way to start the day. He likes to wake up after hitting snooze at least twice, slowly sipping the ever-essential coffee while reading up on the news and then getting ready after he feels he's all caught up. A typical workingman daily routine you might think, and would be absolutely correct in assuming so. Unfortunately for him, he slept through the alarm like a baby, thanks to a late-night working, and now his morning was completely disrupted. His car had broken down last week and the mechanic didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get it back up to speed. “The engine block had overheated and there was a good chance that a fire could’ve happened”, he recalled the guy condescendingly explain. "Assholes.” he thought to himself as he made a mental note to call the police once he reached his office. More frustrated than ever, he set out, heading for the bus stop a couple blocks away. As he waited at the stop for the bus that was already behind schedule, just like him, a dark green F-150 pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down to reveal a man, maybe in his thirties, with a trucker like attire consisting of shorts, a grey shirt and a Yankees cap. “Hey Rob, that’s the name, right? Don’t usually see you around this time of the day. Anyways, how about I give you a ride to the office?” Manny tried his best to identify the driver. He seemed familiar, but it was impossible for him to be sure. He chose to avoid the otherwise inevitable moment of awkwardness that would follow and decided to just play it safe. “Nah it’s Manny. It’d be great but I really don’t want to waste your- “ “Oh, just hop on in! I’ve got all the time in the world. All of it...” Cornered, Manny weighed his options and decided that he would just get it over with. Besides he really needed his job.


I can hear the pounding in my ears. Bang. Bang. Bang, of my racing heart. The cold sweat covering my body. The aching pain in my arms. The tears running down my face like water over a cliff. The pain. I open my eyes, blinking to see in the shadows of my safe space. Golden beams of sunlight come streaming into the room through the small gaps in the old wooden wall. Sparkling tiny flecks of dust float throughout the small place, only my heavy breathing sending them swirling through the air. It all seems magical, unreal compared to before. A moth flutters in a corner before settling. My heart slows. I look away from the moth. Tattered, yellow old papers pinned to the walls draw my eyes. One, a simple stick figure drawing of a mother and child, huge smiles on each of their circle faces. Another, a faded drawing of a house. Images flash before my eyes. A time long past, a peaceful time. A child lies on the floor, humming happily as he draws. Almost unrecognizable as a younger, naïve version of myself. My breathing steadies, becoming more regular, less pained. My ears catch the sound of the birds. Their beautiful song like a piece of music fills the air. The warm summer breeze comes rushing through the treetops. The leaves sound like rushing water as the wind plays with them. Like a warm caress, the summer breeze floats gently over my cheek, drying my tears. The slow, quiet creaking catches my ear. “Can you hear them? The trees are talking.” The melodious words flow through my mind, the long forgotten memory of a loving mother brings tears of sadness to my eyes. My racing heart is still, my breathing gentle. I am finally calm. The harsh ‘Snap’, ‘Crunch’, ‘Stomp’ of a monster in the forest jerks me out of my uneasy slumber. An icy spear of terror through my chest. I freeze, silently praying he does not find me. The room shakes. My heart skips a beat. It shakes again. I take a gasp of air out of fear. The warmth of the golden rays of sun disappear, abandoning me as a black shadow falls over the room. A bloodshot eye stares through a crack in the wall, sending painful memories stabbing through my skull. Grasping hands reach through the small window, missing my face by a hair’s breadth. Unintelligible shouts of painful words destroy the peace of the forest. Banging like thunder on the walls as he tries to reach me, the monstrous voice of a man who had not been a father in ages sends fear through my heart. The overpowering stench of alcohol fills my nose. I curl up in a tight ball, struggling to keep out the harmful voice of the monster outside my shelter, stinging like a swarm of hornets. Suddenly, silence. I glance up, daring to hope he has given up. Then, an earsplitting crash fills my ears as I am blinded by sunlight filling my sacred place. The outline of a hand comes in, invading my safe space like fire to a woodland forest. The hand comes closer, destroying my safe space like it destroyed everything else in my life. My safe shelter has now become my prison cell, holding me captive as he, the monster, my father, comes nearer.


A shoe goes sailing through the air and crashes through a wall and into the coat closet behind. It doesn't take much; the wall is just a thin layer of sheet rock with unimaginative paper covering it. The sound of it rattles the whole place. I just sit on the couch and listen. My brother screams from his room less than two feet away. His small arm stretched out from under the door; his tiny fingers pulling at the medium length brown carpet. He cries out “why momma” as he pulls. I can tell he has snot running out of his nose and tears rolling down his cheeks, just from the sound of his voice. I just stand in the hall and listen. The phone rings, it’s my mother again. She asks in a manic voice why I’m punishing her. She tells me I don’t deserve her love. She pleads to know why I don’t love her back. I can hear the addict she is sleeping with in the back ground coughing; it’s the cough of too much cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes. I just hold the phone and listen. I hear the voice of Tim Allen coming from the television behind me. The taste of Tuna Helper turns my stomach. I have tears running down my face. My father stands in the kitchen. He stops his lecture on starving children long enough to take a pull of his beer. I count the silence, almost four seconds. He must be mad at her again. She and my step brother laugh from the living room. I just lie on the table bench and listen. I ride with my grandmother in the Ram Charger. She smokes long skinny cigarettes with the windows rolled up. I love her, but I hate smell. I hold the button to roll my window down. She quickly rolls it back up. “The a/c is running,” she says. I feel a bit dizzy from the bluish smoke; I’ll probably have a headache soon. My brother sits in his booster seat behind us calling out truck each time he sees one. My grandmother speaks between draws from her cigarette to tell me she loves my brother, but that his mother is a whore. I just hold my breath and listen. The sun hasn’t gone down yet but I’m in bed. My step-mother is going out and my father has unhooked the ignition coil from the engine. It won’t run. She screams why, it sounds like my brother. He laughs and tells her he hasn’t done anything. I wonder if she is a whore as I spy and listen. I stand in the shower. The water is as hot as I can take. I gently squeeze the bottle of V05 and breathe it in. I hear my his alarm going off repeatedly. I know I need to get out, but he is vomiting violently into the toilet just on the other side of the glazed shower door. The water is turning cold. I begin to shiver as I listen. Chris Cornell’s voice pleads for a black hole sun through the small speakers of the Zenith tv. I see the headlights through the living room windows. I count the foot falls as they climb the steep steps to the trailer door. I can hear someone fumbling a key into the lock. She stumbles through first. “He drank too much tequila,” she says as she makes her way past me and down the hall. He claws his way in like a zombie and falls to the floor, the screen door slamming just shy of his feet. He is snoring before Chris is done. I bob my head and listen. The engine of the Honda screams for relief. The tires squeal as we barely make the deep curve of the small country road. “Your grandmother found your grandfather not breathing on the porch,” she says. I wonder if the car will fly off the road at the next turn, it’s sharper than the last. My mother tries to navigate at 90 and light a Virginia Slim at the same time. I light one for her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Eric Clapton moans for Layla on the radio. I hold tight and listen. The ICU is cold and quiet. I watch the lines on the small monitor bounce to the rhythm of my grandfather’s heart. “He’s woken once,” my grandmother says to my great aunt. “He was talking to his mother.” She died when I was four, I think to myself. My mother walks in and hands my grandmother a styrofoam cup of sweet tea. I can hear the ice slide together as she takes a sip and hands the cup to me. I take my turn; it taste of earth and sugar. She smiles at me and gives me a peppermint. I save it for later. The three of them begin to make plans for if he doesn’t wake back up. I squeeze the peppermint and listen. The wind roars past my ears as I sit in the front seat of the boat. I take in a deep breath as my father slides the boat around an ox bow in the river. I let my vision soften as I stare at the reflection of the sky in the water. I raise my arm and point to a deadhead sticking just above the surface. I feel the boat shift just in time as my father pulls the tiller handle and deftly dodges the stump. He opens the throttle on the two stroke Mercury as we enter a straight part of the river. I close my eyes and pretend to fly as I listen.


(Inspired by the Twilight Zone story "Cradle of Darkness" and Alfred Bester's short story "The Men Who Murdered Muhammad") I am glad this still works. Using this laptop for the first time in five years, and probably also for the last time, as there are likely no ways of reloading the battery for many more decades. Not to mention that I won't be there anyway. Many people asked what happens if we kill Baby Hitler. I did it. I killed Baby Hitler. I wish I didn't. Dear God, I wish I didn't! You might have heard of those studies about quantum mechanics. Sending information into the past. Altering the past. I did it. I sent something very specific into the past. Baby Hitler has died. Or not. It is too complicated. In one possible past, Baby Hitler was killed. In one possible past, we don't exist because history afterwards went different. Or rather because time there is just written now. There it still is the 19th century now. If you can read this, you are from the 21st century. It is 20 April 1894 here. It is exactly five years now since it happened. I still can connect to my old work. I don't know why or how. Somehow I still can send those messages into the future. Or what was the future. I don't know if it will collapse. I don't know if it will still exist and my reality exists as a new probability. There are many great things happening, the same as were in your timeline. I don't know what will change here. I don't know what the future will be like. I still exist on the original timeline. But I also exist here. I don't know how this is even possible. It should not be. Am I myself there? Will I be myself there when I die here? Will I disappear here and just be there again one day? I don't know. I can only give you a small history of how I did it. There is really not much else to talk about. But I am afraid that what I did might actually change something else. It was 18 March 2024. It should be around 18 March 2029 now in your timeline. So, shortly after the President was elected in 2024 - by the way, hopefully hereby I can send congratulations from here again about the re-election in 2028! I mean, he was re-elected, I hope? "Bring the joy again!", as the slogan went! - but I digress. So shortly afterwards I had finished this experiment to send inforamtion into the past. I tried specific time persiods, just small amounts of information, but continued experimenting for weeks. The thing was, while I was able to see the information going there, nothing seemed to have changed in the future. Days seemed to fly by as I was experimenting. Really, stuff that felt like it took a few minutes actually took an hour or two sometimes. Once I even went to a doctor to have my time perception checked, but he didn't find anything. Silly me! So at that day, 18 March 2024, an accident happened. I still don't know what happened. Well, it went horribly right, I guess. I sent some folders back in time to Hitler's birthday, to Vienna. I sent the information back on where he was born, what he will become, etc. - just trying to see if the past will change. If someone will at least report about those strange informations after the fact. But I somehow traveled with them into the past. I decided that, as I was now stranded there, I would take the opportunity to change the past myself. Of course, everyone was talking about my strange clothes, and after I got a bag for my laptop from a dumpster I had to actually hire somewhere for badly paid work, cash, to afford a ride to Braunau. Luckily cleaning shoes and feeding horses is something people were willing to pay for. At least after giving me a beating or two for not also applying shoe cream to the shoes. So with my bag with this laptop and the folder with newspaper articles I went to Braunau in a "Fiaker", a horse carriage. I went there and killed Baby Hitler. Gettting to the address at night, just entering through the window when nobody was looking. Doing it. Leaving. And of course, if you kill a baby, people don't look very favorable at you. There was a big investigation. The strange guy in town was noticed easily - what with all the modern clothing I had. So I got arrested because just that made me suspicious. Then the evidence was found, the newspapers. After inspecting my bag, I was allowed to keep what is inside. Well, "keep" in the sense that it was locked away. That is, it was locked away until after the trial. They used symbolism. Five years after the birth of my victim I should die. I was locked away. Last night, I received my bag with the newspapers and the laptop. Guards are watching me right now. I convinced them that this is a typewriter, self-made, with a lamp. I convinced them that sometimes I just write my thoughts on it even without paper. I don't know how I pulled it off. But I can use it now. Just for a few more minutes. The few time I had broke my heart. Nothing seems to have changed. And then I understood that this is a parallel timeline. I did not change what happened originally but I created a new future that yet is to be made. Did I always create new futures when sending information into the past? Was it too insignificant, and only this time it branched off? I don't know. I really don't. I don't have much time left. My execution starts in a few minutes. I don't know why I still can connect to the internet. It should not be. But it seems to connect me ten years ago? It is 2019 there. It should be 2029. I don't know. I came up with a theory about thermodynamics. How they influence parallel timelimes. But I don't have enough time left to write it down. I must almost go. But if that theory is true, then your future is evaporating as my future comes into existence. I don't know what will be in September 1956 when the timelines overlap. Or if it will go on like this forever. Or if your timeline is normal and only my laptop connects to the past for that reason. I also don't know what will be when I must send this now, time is up.