“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. *Red roses are too cliché,* he’d say. *Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?* I’d smile and kiss him. *Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend,* I’d reply. Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese. It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan.  I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college. It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours. Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did *not* want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction. And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-” “Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.” At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk – he barely fit – and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of *He’s right here, officers.* I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk. “What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.” He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.” “You – what?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: *Campus Drive.* It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?” It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. *Cute? Harvey, what? You* have *a girlfriend.* “I – yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “*Why* are you staring at me?” He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.” Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I – I’m straight.” He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.” I considered. It *was* getting late, and I *was* hungry. “Sure,” I finally said. When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.” He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.” He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.” “Oh, I’m Har-” “Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though – *wow.* They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?” I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?” “Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.” He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart *and* cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.” I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re…pretty good-looking yourself.” *Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?* He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.” He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages. Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name *Logan* and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?” I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care.  Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says. I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer. His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past. *I hope so too.* I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged. Tonight, though, it’s beautiful.  I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I *could* feel in a relationship until Logan. It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken – preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available – and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was *To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus,* he’d said. We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan. A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face. I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the *I’m envious* way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.” “I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, *‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”* I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.” “Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-” I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it. When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.” I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.” He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.” And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed. He laughed again and pulled me back in.  I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching *Suits* episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show. And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since. And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride. I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there. My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has. Just a few more steps. Almost there. “Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little. Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply. The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses. “I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.” I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set. I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves. “Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?” The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice. As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against. I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart *and* cute *and* mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.


“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked. Of course, I get it. She wanted to break up. She said that she’s tired with all of these. She said that all these times, she hasn’t healed yet. She said that she’s hurt more than enough, that there are no more tears to cry. Yes, I made a mistake. Been saving porn images and entertained myself alone. She didn’t like that, and she got angry and mad. She also got mad at me, because I chatted with a girl I had a crush with many years ago. I only asked from that girl what I can do for her to help her with her problems. I didn’t and has no intentions with that girl. But when she knew, so she got mad. Very mad. She said that I cheated. Did I? I didn’t argue – I just made myself better and did all the right things she sees as good. I followed everything she says, just to make her happy and to show I changed. But she still complains from time to time that she’s tired. I get it, she’s still hurt. That’s why I’ve been making myself better. Made myself a better, clean man. Blocked the “other girl” so that no communication would happen anymore. I did and am doing and will be doing everything that I can just to make things better, because I really plan on spending my life with her. But no, all these things aren’t enough. I have no more words to say than to agree that I’m the scumbag. That no matter how hard I try, the scars would not go away and they still keep hurting. I remind myself every day of the lessons and the hurt that were made. From the time I wake up, to the moment I sleep, I always pray that things will get better. Then again, I’m still the scumbag. I should not be allowed to talk, nor say to others what is happening between us, because it’s between us. She doesn’t trust me anymore, because I broke her trust. She trusts more her male friends than I, and ask them for advices to make our relationship better. But I should stay silent and not be told what’s wrong with whoever I know. “You will not change – you will still do it. Because you’re a man, and you do things like those because you’re a man.” I just accept it, because I’m the scumbag. And because I’m a man – plain boring, no fun, and a great liar who don’t know how to change. “I hope that whoever you’ll be with in the future, you’ll be better and more mature. I’m hurt, very much hurt.” I asked, “Did I do something recently to hurt you? Did I recently trouble you?” “Nothing, you did none of those. I’m just tired of you and very much hurt with what you did.” “That’s why I’m doing my best to make up for all of those. I want to be a better man for you because I love you.” But then, I realized: she has scars, and she opens the wounds every now and then, while I wound myself every day. Then she looked at me to say something. “You don’t get it, do you?” she asked.


Brought to consciousness by the piercing chill of a mountain wind, a man wearily creaks open his eyes to see snow crumbling from his face and clenched between the grasp of his closing fists. Confused and groggy, he begins turning over to see the sun struggling to breach through the cloud that seems to surround him, and also finds himself coming face to face with a young woman; a woman whose long obsidian hair lightly brushes some of what is left of the snow from the man’s face, during its somehow gentle whipping in the midst of this forceful and brisk mountain air. Her complexion almost entirely opposed that of her hair color, and her carried expression was at a crossroads of longing and optimism. He met her gaze of acknowledgement with one of confusion. As he attempts to take in his surroundings and perhaps gain a clue as to what is going on and who this woman is, she places her hand on his cheek to softly run her thumb across it. The man turns back at this new development and begins to open his mouth to speak but is cut off when the woman voices herself in a demanding and caring tone instead. “You will remember, Ronin.” With that, the gentle, warm, and welcome touch of this mystery woman is replaced by a stiffer texture and a much dryer cold as the mountain top on which Ronin had seemed to be atop had now changed. Instead of the choked sun breaching through a cloud, the light is almost nonexistent except for some ambiguous glow that had no clear point of origin, shedding itself no-farther than arm’s length before tapering back into the darkness that seems to be so prominent in this chamber. The snow-covered craggy rocks are being traded for a much flatter and questionably worked stone, but it’s too dark to clearly tell if the ground has been cut. Once again having to gather himself, Ronin begins to shift up from the position he was lying in, atop the peak, all the while every movement made is echoing throughout this perfectly still chamber. The possible expanse of the darkness, growing each passing moment, as any semblance of walls grow farther away; the more fearful thoughts are put in. Ronin, finally getting to his feet, feels the blood begin to rush to his head for the first time in what feels like ages. Ronin exhales a short sigh through dry lips while brushing off what looks to be either dust or dirt, or perhaps even both from his coat buckled over with leather fittings. The clothes he’s wearing appear to fit perfectly and the leathers look to bare nicks from what could possibly be a blade. The slim cuts are too clean to be from the rocks of a mountain top, but he cannot recall being in any confrontation. In fact, reaching into the farthest depths of his memory seemed to show it as empty as this hollow atrium. Inspecting himself further revealed a mundane broadsword sheathed in a metal scabbard riddled with scrapes and pockmarks. Neither the sword nor the scabbard showed anything that would allow them to be identified with any person or place. Just as he’s taking this in, Ronin begins to hear a shuffle along with a murmur. His head begins to quickly spin around in an attempt to locate where these scattered muffled noises are coming from, but pinning a spot of emergence proves itself a hard task with the sounds reverberating off of whatever far-reaching walls are holding them in. Before Ronin has a chance to draw his weapon, a face emerges. And then a body draped in what looks to be, at one point, a beautiful set of ornate robes, now tattered by altercations or time itself. This entity was exuding its own light as it shown a pale green human like form that began to pace through what was still a mass of black. Ronin remained still, waiting for this creature to act. But it continued its seemingly pointless path, stepping back and forth while mumbling some incoherent phrases that trailed off into new thoughts. This moment is taken to more closely inspect what at first sight has the look of some incorporeal specter floating through the space only fifteen feet away, but now is proving itself to have some footing in the material world with each of its barefooted feet finding purchase on this now clearly cut stone. Filling the immediate space of this chamber with the pattering of skin and the sound of bone, it becomes clearer that what would be the skin of this hairless creature is not fully intact. Pieces of flesh missing on spots of the decayed cheek where the teeth are visibly clenched; the moving mandible jostling a chunk that batters against the throat which is vibrating with the indecisive speech of a man who has all but lost his mind. However, the most prominent feature this being possesses are the larger feathered wings that sprawl and twitch with every other step of the pacing. The wings themselves were missing patches and seemingly lacking an air about them, which must have once been a beautiful sight. Ronin then spoke out to this remain of what is now a miserable and wretched version of an angel. He managed to utter words through an extremely dry pair of vocal cords that produced a husky and worn sounding, “Hello?” Followed by his own cough and the completely still animation and noise of the angel. The head quickly turned to the space next to Ronin and then snapping to look him directly in the eyes, the sound of the neck turning being a mixture of dry bones and stringy sinew squishing out of a large gash in the neck, but no signs of blood or any other lubricant that would give it moisture. In this stare, it was now clear both the harrowing gaze this being possessed and also the intimidating size of the angel. The height reaching what could be guessed to be around thirteen feet and the wings, furling out in an uneven and curious manor, making themselves between five to six feet on their own. This towering stature mixed with its horrifying visage created an aura that infected Ronin’s own courage and began to turn it into a rot that he could feel eating away at any thought of fighting this fiend. Shakily the angel took its bony finger with its over-extended fingernails and rubbed its sickly jade colored scalp in almost a nervous fashion before bringing back down to interlock with its other spindly match. It was then that it seemed the angel began to notice Ronin’s physical presence as opposed to the dead stare that seemingly peered into his own doubt. The angel’s single step forward was met with two steps back from Ronin. There’s a pause and then the ghoulish being spoke. “Those like you should never walk among us. You should not be walking this HALL!” The angel shouted with an intensity and strength which heavily conflicted with its appearance but, nevertheless, reached whatever far lying walls escaped to the edges of this now named hall. “What are you?” Ronin manages to force out without showing too much shakiness in his voice. “He’s here you know…” The angel snaps his head back with a creak and a gasp as he stares back into the abyss-like void of no light that surrounds them both just long enough for Ronin to begin to look in that direction as well before whipping back around as the lobe of its left ear falls away onto the stone below. Now leaning in intently to Ronin as if guarding a secret. Strangely the stench of decay doesn’t permeate the angel, but rather, the smell of old stored away leathers left for years at a time. The cold, but still full of emotion, eyes looking into Ronin’s; two rings of white surrounding entirely dilated deep black pupils darting back and forth almost as if trying to figure out which of Ronin’s to speak into. “He…” The angel starts again but chokes out his own words by beginning to chew on the skin of the tip of his fingers beneath the nail. This making whatever apparent warning impossible to hear over his masochistic devouring of his index and middle fingers simultaneously, but still mumbling through them, nonetheless. “Come now Ithreaus, your revolting habits are no way to welcome guests, now are they?” A voice billows out of the dark that is much stronger and sure of itself than that of the angel’s, but still disembodied. “Yes, my lord.” Ithreaus says fearfully as he places his hands back into their interlocking positions resting on his chest as his gaze has now shot to the floor. “How was your slumber Ronin?” The faceless voice turning its attention to the, seemingly, only living being in this exchange. “My slumber?” Ronin scratchily works out. “How did you sleep?” Ronin now able to watch the unnaturally deep words ease themselves out of the smirking lipless mouth of a lion shaped face without a mane for contrast, made of what would appear to be burning coals or embers, emerging itself into the lurid pale green light emanating from Ithreaus “I find it hard to imagine lying underground for years, covered in dirt can be a pleasant and forgiving experience.” Now the entity has all but fully emerged from the shadow and showing its body wrapped in some form of dark toned tapestry. It is clear there is a scene embroidered upon it but being wrapped around this, perhaps, demon in a dark chamber makes it impossible to surmise. “I was asleep?” Ronin asks almost instinctually as to keep the conversation going while processing what it is he is seeing. “No, actually you were dead; for many years in fact.” The answer from this manipulated form of a feline creature grasping Ronin’s full attention. “If you’re saying I was dead? Then why am I standing here now? What are you? What is he? And what am I doing here?” Ronin, beginning to grow more comfortable with his place in the conversation, lets out a flood of questions that have been building since he woke here just a moment ago. “Careful.” The unnamed creature sternly warns with a snarl; all playfulness and welcoming spirit suddenly gone from its voice. This outburst is taken back immediately by Ronin who has had the tiniest bit of conversational leverage he perceived himself to have ripped away, and now feeling smaller on the standing on the cold floor than he had before. “You are a guest after all…do not overstep. You are alive now because I have willed it Ronin. Your resurrection was manifested by my hands. Not only does your life belong to me but so do your memories. I’ve found that if not withheld, memories cause the thralls to run back home and join in reunions, and I find that quite boring. I will say that I do enjoy watching their faces when they realize what trepidation they brought upon their families when I splay their beloveds on the ceilings of their homes or burn them all inside, screaming, while the one belonging to me feels no heat at all.” The devilish monster lets out an at ease sigh as it seems to be momentarily relaxing in a tranquil thought somewhere deep in a recess of his undoubtably horrific mind. “I digress; you’re the first of a new kind. You see I’m going to use you Ronin. You will be a vessel for me when I need it and when I don’t, you’ll be free to wander or do as you please. Doesn’t that sound much better than feeding the crawling worms beneath the ground?” Ronin takes a moment to consider. “If I were to refuse, what then?” While still extremely petrified by the towering figure that is more or less giving him an order, Ronin finds that no matter how frightened he has become there seems to be a bit of mettle that protects his own bravery from sinking too low in this darkness. The lion-like features on the face glow with a subtle light, almost emerging from some interior flame. This flickering glow extends to the hollow sockets where eyes would normally situate themselves. After hearing this question, a large grin begins to widen underneath the snout of the fiend. “Then you take his place.” He then gestures his smoldering paw towards Ithreaus who now has taken to his knees and appears to be rubbing the stone in careful detailed circles while one side of his face looks to be crying and the other seems to be in a dead stare into the distance past Ronin. “I’ll let you have a little taste of what it was to walk on the earthen soil instead of filling it; then you can make your decision.” Just as the demon finishes his sentence, the crushing sound of stone scrapping on stone fills the space just before a small light in the distance shines a natural light in the hall from behind Ronin. With this little bit of light now breaching through the pitch black that had become normalcy, Ronin is now able to see that the wide body of the dominating figure was human like but only in its shape and stance. Two muscular arms slipped out from underneath the black and silver tapestry; sprawling out below was what might have been its most terrifying feature. The body continued down unto two cat-like legs but where the body would naturally taper into a tail, the torso continued into a snake like design that looked to be moved by several more pairs of resting legs. The extent of the length disappeared back into the shadow. “Go on now.” The demon said with a smugness and a suggestive smile before extending a paw towards the opening in the room. Before turning around, Ronin took one last look behind the creatures and noticed a shrine along with what looked to be the shape of pillars leading out of view into the shadow of the darkness. He looked to be standing in some ancient place of worship lost for some reason likely only known by this malicious monstrosity. Slowly and suspiciously, Ronin began to turn to leave and as he did the nightmare now looming over Ronin moved with his eyes until he faced away entirely. The first sight to Ronin’s eyes is a staircase of twenty or so large stone steps descending into what shows itself to be a field of statues leading to the opening of light. Taking slow steps down these large stairs and occasionally looking back to be aware of any movements from the two stationary beings he’s leaving behind. The ember-glowing lion still smiling and Itheaus still on his knees but peering out past Ronin into the field of statues with a contortion of almost guilt animating his face, making his way down the staircase and now entering the long expanse of these statues all shaped into different stances. Walking through them now, he is able to see that they hold a strong likeness to Ithreaus if he were what he was before whatever fate happened upon him. Some of them stuck in mid-stride wielding great claymores or shields and others depict angels leaning down and perhaps caring for a fallen ally. All seem to be faced towards the staircase and toward the shrine. A few of the works closer to the shrine have faces twisted with fear or pain and others seem to be bracing for something. Walking through this underground field, it is clear there are hundreds of these, and the light continues to show more the wider his gaze expands. Eventually Ronin comes to find his way to the light, and he begins to feel the warmth of the sun melt its way through the chillness of the chamber. Slowly he climbs the last set of stairs, as the sunlight blinds his unadjusted eyes, leading back into a world completely new to him and holding a destiny that may or may not be his to decide.


The hover craft was not going to be fast enough to reach the community in time. Sonic alarms were already starting to show diminishing activity in Angeles Sector 09. There would be no time to properly evaluate foot traffic. All of the other sectors had thriving commerce, indoor and out. But whenever an analysis drone flew near to Sector 09 the peoples would vanish. The council had been uneasy about this fact. They didn't like mysteries especially the mystery of a sole community acting completely independent of its predestiny. If the scripture of humankind was being ignored, they would need to be disbanded and arrested. Soon Ke-Yu would land the drone orb and solve this mystery and bring balance and continued progress to the Magna Statum. The scriptures taught that being a good humanoid meant serving the greater cause. If there was a drug being manufactured in Sector 09 it would explain the lack of production in this area. Compound 56 was found in the surrounding regions, affecting 20% of the populace in Sectors 03 and 06. Only specified operatives were permitted to be involved in the quarantine and investigation of the drug's victims. Their conditions were said to be "unusual" and "detrimental to public health." The compound was deemed highly dangerous to genetic makeup. Ke-Yu, who was a model androgynous citizen of renowned investigation, found that being a nondescript nonbinary lessened the burdens of extinct humanoid generations. The thought that there used to be designations between male and female was cold and isolating. With neural capacity being freed up from the nuisance of creativity Ke was able to focus on more logical thinking. To imagine that humans had to exist in different, inferiority forms showed how far humanity had come. Sector 09 appeared below. The streets, as anticipated, were empty. There were rumors, of course, that the drug known as Compound 56 influenced the entire population, that the statistics clearly showed an increase in the compounds usage in all of the sectors who failed to live up to expectations. Ke-Yu steered the orb into the docking area, knowing full well there would be no one to greet. As the door whooshed open Ke saw the large silos at the epicenter of the community. Appearing the same as all other humanoids, with the white, form-fitting suit, Ke would have been happy to meet others, to explain the purpose of the visit and to be guided to the reception center but as it was the clustered buildings and narrow streets were devoid of life. Everyone must be inside. Ke would need to find her own way. The silos were big enough to output thirty tons of chloroxine in a single day but the sector’s capacity, at least from the read-outs, was 30% of this. Ke felt this was a good place to start. If they were manufacturing drugs it would make the most conclusive sense that they would be stored here. Ke had never remembered being this alone, being part of a collective of like-minded humanoids for long, and now on a street with no familiar faces, any face that would mirror Ke's own face. It was comforting to be surrounded by the same face, seeing yourself in every individual. But in this moment, everything was different, out of place, and unusual. A lone bird flew overhead, making a disinterested squawk. Ke looked up before entering the silo building, wondering, at least scientifically, what it would be like to fly so high. Inside the reception area was just as empty and unused. The utility console was also offline. Unusual indeed. There were no signs of struggle or even foot traffic. The lobby remained quiet as Ke found the back doors sealed and brought up a virtual map. The wrist map showed that the area ahead contained no life signals. The air vents were offline. That was when Ke noticed a compartment that didn't appear on the 3D projection, to the right of the doorway. Odd. Ke removed the three-foot wall panel and found a hallway inside, not on the map. The hall led to another door that opened on approach. The following hallway contained what appeared to be a decontamination room with nozzles on the ceiling and floor. Ke cautiously stepped forward, a white gloved hand reaching for invisible sensors. This tech was old but appeared to have been used recently. Ke scanned the room and found evidence of a strange substance plastered on the wall. But before further analysis could be completed Ke was dragged forward on the moving, tread floor. With one foot on the floor Ke stumbled and fell back trying to jump back to the entry way. Ke was carried along with colorful sensors and buzzing noises going off. The colors were another abnormality, with green, red, and blue light, instead of the standardized white. It distracted Ke for a moment, long enough to prevent proper analysis. Ke was then suddenly overcome with the strange substance that covered the white suit and gloves, emanating from the twelve nozzles in the hall. Ke couldn’t breathe as the substance came in contact with the humanoid's skin and mouth, sparking a reaction of goose bumps that Ke thought was a myth. It seeped through the suit and caused a trembling in the humanoid’s frame. A series of emotions struck Ke as the nozzles continued their onslaught. First Ke's heart beat faster, giving off a sense of unease and panic. During the indoctrination process Ke had learned about these types of antiquated feelings and grew concerned over the possibility that the chemicals were indeed capable of changing DNA. Ke became encased in a flurry of thoughts that went beyond any known words or identification. The closest verbiage was "hot," "warm", and "alert." More alert. More power. More human. These were the feelings that had been forgotten. Ke questioned the logic of the supreme leaders, of the society that had enacted such uniformity and restriction on itself. A vision came through the soft blue haze, full of energy and tactile sensuality. Ke felt inflammation originating at the chest and moving to the stomach. Ke touched the forming pectorals, realizing they were softer than muscle and then moved a curious hand to the stomach, which was now bulbous and wide. The thought of becoming something different frightened Ke. There was nausea too but it grew into a tingling, a warm tingling. That was the word. An enjoyable tingling, birthed from a diversity in Ke's frame. Every sight and texture became a wonder, every structure was a monument. Ke became consumed by a rush of sensations. Vibrant. Unrestrained. Mournful. Symbiotic but free. Alive. She. Her. Ke was no longer a duplicate humanoid anymore. She became a her. She became a flower, spreading out her petals to receive the sunshine. Even the colors of the lights meant more than they did before, flourishing with inspiration and appreciation. The divide didn't seem so distant. It was before her, in a swath of fresh awareness. A union was desired. A union she could not explain. A bond shared between life essences. The union of man and woman. A union of two separate beings, each side bolstering the other and taking them to new heights of perception and being. As the spray dissipated, she opened her eyes and saw everything as it truly was. The world had been asleep and she was awake for the first time. An ancient embodiment had stripped them of their souls and they accepted it willingly, absentminded of the consequences. Ke saw the strife between a man and a woman, the contention, the struggles, the turmoil, but this difference came with a yearning to embrace the chaos of unpredictability. The doors at the end of the hall opened suddenly and a faint humming was heard. Ke felt repetition in the sounds, her body driven to sway with the soft melody. The intoxication moved her toward the door. Beyond was a pallid of unique shapes, colorful lights, the hum becoming louder. It was all she wanted. The music overtook her and she was born again.


We were the last city left. It started many years ago. I was a distant cousin of the Emperor. As such, I had little experience of the court before I was sent to a minor school in one of the outlying provinces. They were a little odd there, and actually taught me – things. Things like how to think, how to plan, how to build and create and administer. My peers at the court would laugh at me when I visited; I had no idea of fashion, or courtly manners, or of the precise rituals of dance, or dining, or discourse. I hated it all, this disconnection from reality, this frivolousness disguised as sophistication. I cared as little for them as they for me, but I was of the Blooded so I was sent away, hidden in a mountainous corner where I could be forgotten. And so I came to Alaro. It was a small city then, peopled by artisans and miners. Forgotten in this supposedly crude backwater, I would send routine reports expressing my disillusionment. My actions were otherwise. My greatest advantages were all around me. Alaro was long a dumping ground for the ne’er-do-wells and odd thinkers who wanted to be away from the stifling centre of an over-traditional behemoth where their minds could wander down strange paths. It meant I could listen to artisans who had been expelled from guilds for original thinking, and judges who disliked corruption and had fallen afoul of some highborn who disliked their questions. We had priests who believed in piety rather than indulgences, and captains who believed in competency rather than connections and considered troublemakers, and philosophers who questioned the entire system but had entered internal exile in preference to a cup of traitorsbane or a silk rope. I spoke to them, and paid attention, and used them all to make my city clean and fair and strong. That was when the messengers came. The invaders had been with us for generations, a mess of warring tribes who raided us regularly, and had occasionally been united under a stronger chief than usual, before finding their reach exceeded their grasp and being scattered again. This new messiah-warlord seemed like all the rest, to be turned back like all the rest. But this time, he wasn’t, and we couldn’t. Years of complacency had allowed our defenses to weaken. We had always won, and so we always would. We were favoured by the Gods, and our priests had become corrupt and venal. Our walls were impenetrable, so they had been allowed to crumble. Our generals brilliant, our soldiers doughty, except they played politics in court, or dice in the barracks. And so, when he rose, we were worse than unprepared; we were overconfident. The first great battle was the worst military disaster the Empire had ever faced. The horde caught the cream of our troops in camp and carved them apart. The few survivors spoke of the enemy’s mercilessness. We were unworried. We retreated behind our walls where we would be safe to wait until the horde disintegrated. The walls weren’t enough. He had enlisted the talents of an exile, a genius who had railed against our complacency and been cast out for questioning our preparedness. The exile built engines we had never seen before, capable of smashing through our walls, allowing the horde in to rape and pillage. And so it was with the first city, Trevis, but it was small, and poor, and weak, so no matter. The others would stand. But then came the second, shining Barga, with its University, and the third, Halmore Tren, ancient towers burning like torches in the night. Other messengers came to Alaro, speaking of the fate of more each month as the horde ground onwards. Then came the Imperial Courier, and he spoke of the capital. Hammar, Great Hammar, city and fortress, teeming masses defended by six walls, some of the mightiest structures ever created by the Empire. The exile brought forth his engines, and each wall took but a day to fall. The courier spoke of incendiaries thrown immense distances, setting a firestorm that obliterated the first ring. She told us how the second was simply shattered, the horde hurtling through the breach to massacre the people who found their walls were not protection but a trap. The third was scaled, the fourth somehow undermined. The fifth fell to traitors who opened the gates. That left the sixth, the heart of Great Hammar, the Citadel of Temple and Throne. The exile used his greatest creation, a weapon of incomprehensible power, and destroyed the gatehouse with a single blow. The horde overran it all, the corpses uncountable, and at the heart of the wreck of the ruined Citadel, the heads of the Emperor and his court, lifted on long spikes so as to rule their realm of the dead. The horde continued. Surrenders were offered, and cities abandoned. Their peoples were subsumed into the horde, to follow as the lowest peons and keep up or die as their fate dictated – but not before being forced to raze their former homes to the ground. And so it was. Cities fought or gave in; all fell to the horde and to ruin. Our Gods abandoned us, our armies failed us, our former lords and masters supplanted by new fealties – starvation, desolation, desperation, and death. Finally, the horde came to us, Alaro of the Mountains. We had the last of the soldiers and citizens, the survivors, and the desperate. In that desperation, we found our rage. When they came for us, it was from behind a scattering of survivors, broken like shards of glass and struggling through the passes to reach us, terrified of what pursued them. The horde advanced without pretence. The dust could be seen for weeks, and the columns of smoke from burning farms and townships showed their inexorable progress. We had prepared. As they advanced, hidden pits opened beneath them. Raids drew off their cavalry and led them to fields of iron spikes. Ambushes from our bravest took a tithe of them, and rock falls and avalanches crushed and delayed them, buying us time, but never enough. And then they were here, before our walls, numberless, bestial, howling and stinking in the day and night, their camp fires a crude and smoking echo of the stars above. The exile started to prepare his engines, but we had our own great minds, and had prepared our own. Projectiles from our highest towers fell among the crews, slaughtering them. Swift sallies pushed back the attackers with brutal casualties on both sides, letting us burn and wreck before the same fate could befall us. Alas, for all our bravery and ingenuity, we could not get them all. The greatest of the exile’s weapons was made ready, and surrounded by the personal guard of the warlord. Its protection was impenetrable, and it was far out of range. We had still prepared, even for this. Our walls were anchored by mountains and we strove to repair and reinforce to resist as best we could. We held for days, back-filling rubble and bracing the cracks with beams and bars, but our towers fell, one by one, taking our engines with them. The wall was breached and ruined, reduced to rubble, and our fate was sealed. That was when he came forward. Survivors had told us of this, how the messiah-warlord would address the soon-to-be-dead, and now it was our turn. Surrounded by his inner circle of guards and priests and clan chiefs, he began to speak. He detailed his victories. He spoke at length of the fate of the rest of the empire, their death or submission. He informed us of our own fate with gruesome precision. He stated that he was destined to win, and we were doomed to oblivion. We clutched our weapons with sweating limbs, and knew it was all true. He finished as he always did, with the same words he always used. “I am the chosen, chosen to rule and destroy. My destiny is victory, and yours is death. May the gods strike me down if it is not so!” And then it came. From out of a clear sky came a blinding white light, furnace heat, and a sound so loud it was more than noise. We were cast from our feet, and all was dust and darkness. As it settled, we saw what remained. A crater, a massive pit, fully five hundred spans across, now yawned where the warlord-messiah and his guards and his priests and his khans had stood. The great engines were shattered, and so, it seemed, was the world. Behind our rubble barriers, we had somehow been spared; not so the horde. A great crack yawned where their east wing had once stood. An entire mountainside had fallen across those to the west. At the centre, though… Those furthest from the blast had merely been thrown down, but those closer were far worse. Some were burned beyond recognition, or rent apart, or broken, or smashed by stones, or simply lay without a mark, but still and dead. But we were not dead, and we still had our rage. We charged – sheer madness, it is true, but that didn’t matter at the time. We were still outnumbered beyond belief, but the horde’s belief was gone along with their messiah. They fled, and they never stopped. In their flight came our salvation. The camp followers, our former brethren, had been spared from the disaster and we took them in. Our mines had been stocked with supplies for a siege we never thought we would survive, and our wells and cisterns were brimming full and ready. We broke them open, and saved all who we could. From there, we spread outward and rebuilt, the Second Empire clawing its way up from the wrack and ruin of the first. We put the people at its heart, and we rose greater and fairer and better than before. I gained the name ‘Builder’, or ‘Blessed’, and eventually ‘Great’. Now Alaro of the Mountains is the greatest city of the second Empire, and at its heart stands the New Citadel, and at the centre, the Throne. The Throne is not comfortable, for it is made from a relic, the greatest relic of them all. Hauled from that great pit while still white-hot, it has been set into stone and placed at the centre of all we have built. It reminds us of our past, and how we almost failed. It speaks of how truly unpredictable the universe is, and how death may come from the wilderness or from a clear sky, and we must make ready and be strong. It carries strange symbols, some scorched and invisible, the remainder incomprehensible but distinct, and we will always wonder at their meaning.


*Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time* Once upon a time, two races ruled over earth: Humans & Monsters. One day, war broke out between the two races. After a long battle.. the humans were victorious. The humans tasked seven of their strongest mages to seal the monsters underground with a magic spell. The only way the spell could be broken was if a force equal to seven human souls attacked the barrier keeping the monsters there. With no hope of escape, the king, Asgore Dreemurr, bore a son with his wife, Toriel. They named him Asriel. For ten years they lived happily, but that was due to change. *Chapter 2: Fallen Down* Chara lay on a flowerbed, their back in agony. they found the strength to turn on heir belly and look around. It was a cold, empty room, but sunbeams shone through, lighting the golden flowerbed with a warm kiss. Chara felt numb. But strangely... alive. It couldn't be. They had just fallen from about a thousand feet. But they had to be sure. "Hello?" They called. No response. "Hello?" They repeated, this time louder.Nothing again. At least, for a few seconds. "Uh.. howdy!" said a voice. Chara couldn't believe their eyes. Walking towards them was what looked like a child, but instead of a human look, he was.. a goat. So they screamed. "Shhhh!" said the goat-boy, gently picking Chara up and tossing their arm over his shoulder. "I'm not supposed to be here. You're human, right?" Chara nodded, petrified. "By the way, what's your name? I'm Asriel! Asriel Dreemurr!" said the goat-boy cheerfully. "A-am I in.. in hell?" squeaked Chara. "No, silly! You're in the Underground!" said Asriel. *Chapter 3: My New Parents* Asriel continued to walk Chara until they reached a little house. Surrounding them were well-trimmed bushes. The pictures they formed made Chara grin. "That's Dad's work," said Asriel, "he's the king." "The king?" enquired Chara. "Yep! You're about to meet him!" replied Asriel, knocking on the house's door. A kind-looking goat-woman in a purple dress answered the door, and looked quite shocked when they saw Chara. "Oh dear! Poor thing..." she said, kneeling down to Chara's level, gazing into their face with striking red eyes. "A human?" Asriel nodded. "Sorry, Mom-" "No, no, dear, it's fine, Asriel," she turned to Chara. "I am Queen Toriel. What is your name?" "Chara..." "Chara, huh?" asked Asriel. "That's a nice name." "I'll call Asgore," said Toriel. "Asgore! Asriel has brought home a human!" *Chapter 3: King of the Mountain* If anybody's personality was both underwhelming and relieving, it was King Asgore's. He came down the stairs in jeans that struggled to contain his snow-white legs and a flowered pink polo shirt. He looked like your typical hedge-trimming father until you reached his head. He had a golden beard and long horns that neatly curled upwards at the end, with friendly heterochromic orange-and-blue eyes and a warm, gentle smile. Chara could see a lot of Asriel in him, like their new young goat acquaintance would grow up to be identical to his father. He turned regally to Chara, who instinctively took a bow. The king chuckled and said, "At ease." he spoke in a kind but deep voice that made Chara smile. Chara's smile must have been contagious because Asgore gave Chara an amused grin. "Now come inside," said Asgore, grabbing Chara's shoulders lightly. "Toriel will make some butterscotch-cinnamon pie." *Chapter 4: Home* The Dreemurr household was not what Chara expected. It was small for a royal family, certainly. Yet it shone with a welcoming aura that you'd get from a little cottage on the surface. Chara walked down the hall, lined with plants, past rooms that they guessed were the two bedrooms and the toilet. At the end of the hall, there was a mirror. Chara gazed into the mirror, as a strong feeling overcame them. *Despite everything, it's still you.* They thought, when their brain was cut off by Toriel's motherly call. "Dinner is ready!" Chara took their time walking to the dinner table, taking in the sights of the kindly house. Asriel and Asgore were both at the table when they arrived, licking their lips excitedly. "This'll cheer you up," said Asriel, giving Chara a nudge. "Mom makes the best pies in the Underground." Just then, Toriel entered the room with a plate of pie. The smell wrapped a pair of arms around Chara's nose and locked it in a tight bearhug. "Smell's good, but it tastes even better!" claimed Asriel. Chara nervously took a bite out of their slice. Asriel was right. The pie was delicious in such an amazing way that Chara made a point of complimenting Toriel on how good it was, something they wouldn't be caught dead doing on the surface. She simply nodded and said "I get that a lot." "What did I tell ya?" asked Asriel playfully. "Well, you were right." responded Chara. Chara turned to look at Asgore, who was simply wolfing down his slice of pie, with his eyes closed and an expression of pure joy plastered across his face. "Toriel, you always make the best pie," he said. "What's your secret?" "A magician never reveals her secrets." said Toriel with a wink, and she began clearing everyone's plates. While she did this, Chara wanted to ask Asgore some questions. "Your Highness-" they began, before Asgore shook his head. "Please, Chara, call me Dad." *Chapter 5: Memory* For two years, Chara lived happily with the royal family, and the Underground accepted them. A human was a rare sight to them, but they lived with it. Then Chara fell ill. And it could not be cured. Their dying wish was made to Asriel: To see the golden flowers in their village, just one last time. So the prince took his best friend's soul, crossed the barrier, then carried Chara's body to their village. But the people noticed this. They treated Asriel with extreme prejudice, thinking he had killed Chara, and stuck a spear in his side. Asriel dropped Chara and stumbled back towards the mountain, clutching his ribs. He could have easily slaughtered them like lambs. He chose not to. Once he reached the Underground, he collapsed and transformed into a pile of dust. Enraged, the king decreed that all humans who fell would be killed. The queen disagreed. Shocked at Asgore's actions, she fled to the Ruins that were once her home, leaving Asgore alone in this prison disguised as a castle.


*Pilot, please report to the autonomic astronav unit.* I waited for Maria longer than usual. She usually would vanish for only minutes at a time, sometimes lingering to play with another one of the children in the nursery, but eventually, she'd always come back to me, at least for a little while. I haven't seen her all day, which was strange. Today, I turn six in standard years. The nursery was quiet. I usually play by myself or with Maria when she comes she takes me to sit by the window. She balances me on her lap and sings me the names of all the stars we see swiftly drift by us as the space station spins. I can name them all myself now. It's my favorite game to play - who can name the stars first. When I win, she gives me a hug and wipes the smudges of chocolate off my chin or shines the metallic patch on my forehead. We laugh together too. I sat by the window mumbling star names to myself when the pressurized nursery bay doors hissed open. I turned to look. It wasn’t Maria, as I’d hoped. It was the director. She had stern, dark eyes. I had never seen her smile, even though she often spent all day with Maria. Whenever I see her, I turn away, and look out the window and try not to make a sound. I almost shrieked when she tapped my shoulder. “Happy birthday.” she said softly. I looked at her. My eyes were wide and guilty. “Come with me, please.” she said. “You’re not in trouble. I promise.” She took me by the hand. My palms were already sweaty. My hands looked so little in hers. She led me down a long grey tunnel that seemed to wind aimlessly away from the nursery door. I didn’t know this place. I clutched her arm. The world outside the nursery station was monstrously big. Even the windows were bigger. The stars looked further away than I ever imagined. They didn’t have the same familiar spin of the station I knew, and I couldn’t name them all, even as I searched them in my memory base. At the end of the cold corridor, the director finally opened the door to a large room enclosed entirely by windows - no walls. I suddenly noticed my memory base console. It had become impossible to ignore the constant relays. It produced a complete astronav report. “I know where we are.” I muttered automatically. The director cracked the slightest smile. “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked. I was surprised to hear the slightest sympathy in her voice. I gave a timid nod. She put a bony hand on my shoulder. “Good. No one knows this place better than you.” She gestured vaguely to the star-freckled blackness all around. She wheeled around and left, leaving me in the star-room all by myself. I already knew what this was. I used to have a friend. He seemed older than me by a few birthdays, but he would play with me by the window sometimes. We’d sit together and pretend to be light-beams racing through galaxies, transmitting our differential gravity images to one another. We would almost choke on our laughter seeing how twisted a galaxy might look in the other’s eyes when we changed our velocities even slightly. He and I shared the same name - Pilot. One day, the director took him away. When he came back, he seemed devastated. “If I don’t accelerate soon, I’ll be stuck in this nursery forever.” he said to me on the verge of tears. I was confused by this, and I still am. I prefered the nursery to this place. We didn’t play the light-beam game after that. He only played with the older kids, until one day he left with the director and Maria, and I never saw him return to the nursery station again. Through the windows, the stars looked very still. The spinning nursery station had drifted away some distance, but I knew it was there. An array of control panels and displays emerged automatically from the floor. My memory base flooded with instructions. I understood the controls, as if I always had. The holopanels and instrument consoles that towered above me all over the room must have been mainly for display, or perhaps a backup. I could modulate all of them with my head, just by thinking. Another data message flashed into sight: *Pilot, please initiate autonomic astronav protocols* \- *encoding course to Acheron-418c.* A thousand parallel computations sped off in my head, somehow separate and together, like ants on the lunch-bay floor. I wanted to crush them all, all at once. Whatever test this was, I could just fail it, and go back to the nursery and sit and play by the window. I fought to squash all the subroutines that looped in my mind without asking me first. One after the other, the converging optimal-path calculations that crowded my thoughts I whittled to a tolerable murmur. When I did this while playing, Maria or the director came to check on me. Whatever was happening, I could delay. At any moment, someone would come in the door and take me home. I sometimes wonder about my mind. Maria tells me “Your mind is so wonderful and full of stars, Pilot.” My mind really is so malleable, especially after my memory base was installed. I could memorize a galaxy in an afternoon, sitting on Maria’s lap at the window. Watching the universe spin around us, no part of me felt metallic. I knew where I was. “You’re like a ray of light that became a boy!” she’d say as I recited differential stellar quadrants on her lap. The memory base display on her forehead would blink green when she smiled, matching the color of her eyes. Thinking of that always made me feel safe, even here in the lonely pilot chamber of an interstellar frigate, awash in the glow of endless familiar and unfamiliar stars. All steadily accelerating. Soon, I could no longer see stars, only wispy lengths beside me, flashing into view and fading far behind. The world was strange only for a moment until I sensed the unmistakable touch of galaxy-bent space. The computations had stopped. My mind was mine and only mine now. I remembered my idle day playing by the window. It seemed so far away now, and strangely purposeful, as I weaved through starry spirals in wide effortless arcs - blue-shifting starlight, and inky wells of hot gravity. I always knew where we were. But each moment, we were further and further from the nursery.


Being the smallest in the gang, my hunting position was clear: stay on the lookout. I was to travel in the trees and warn of prey. There was that one time, though, where curiosity got the better of me. The Fighters below launched at full speed. Meanwhile, I hopped branches with the fluidity of a monkey. I aligned with our leader and avoided rain-greased leaves like my life depended on it. Then, the pounding began. In the corner of my eye, a red-feathered beast smashed its beak against oak. I froze on sight. What the hell is that thing? And more importantly, how long until it gets brain damage? By the time I gave out the signal, the ground unit was far gone. Catching up in these conditions was like running a marathon in a blizzard. I slipped to the floor and hurried my legs beyond capacity. The caw and the squeal still resonate in my head. Sam’s death-by-owl scarred the crew so badly, they hired a sewer dweller to replace me. Tonight, this would be my first mission alone. The log cabin glowed in the blackness of the night. Clanging plates and drunken laughs boomed throughout the forest. An invisible wave of burnt chicken infiltrated my snout and turned my paws on shuffle-mode. I scurried through the snow blanket, leaving the imprints of an amateur thief. There would be food. That, I knew for sure. A leap and a squeeze later, I was in. I followed the scent, jumping across beams like an acrobat. The voices on the other side of the wall grew louder as I approached the sliver of light. I peeked through the crack. Humans were feasting at the table a safe distance away, so I rushed for the door. A tsunami of regret flooded over me as a woman’s scream deafened everyone inside. With every foot stomp heading my way, I panicked. I never thought I’d die like this. The giant surveyed the bathroom. He let out a guttural bellow and whacked a broom on the cupboards. Clearly, no intruders were allowed in the home scott-free. As the shower curtains were pulled, I zoomed from behind the toilet bowl. Left. Right. Left. I zigzagged the attacks. The silly sprint successfully led me back to the crevice unharmed. From down here, it’d be near-impossible to reach the plank. Drained of my energy, I was a rubber ball, getting closer to the ground with every bounce. My better judgment told me to stop. I was safe. For now. I could pause and figure it all out later. There was silence as I woke up. The party had died, and it was my time to go. I muscled another futile spring. My only options now were to starve in silence or find an exit. I crept into the danger zone and scanned the area. Coast is clear. That’s when I saw it. Like a trophy on display, a beach in the desert, a princess in the tower...cheese. I salivated at the thought of a full belly. Without a second to lose, I journeyed to my prize. Halt. It seems the fine cuisine rests on some sort of contraption. I grazed my finger on the block. Nothing to worry about here! I stepped on the plate and snapped my neck. Death released her grip as quickly as she arrived.


The world fades in, blurry around the edges. You lay in the center, and your face stares expressionless into the void. I kneel down, placing my hands upon your fur as if to see that you’re okay, I do this sometimes, often earning a soft sound of annoyance or curiosity for my effort. You are silent. You are still. I fall to my knees, and my memory begins to falter. Someone is screaming, pleading, praying. It’s me, but it doesn’t feel like me. This can’t be happening, not to me and not to you. But it is. My phone. I need to grab it, to call her, to ask, ‘What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?’ It’s so far away, I don’t want to leave you. Time seems to skip forward, and I am desperately trying to tell her. I don’t remember getting my phone, and the television is off now, seconds of my life that vanished in my fervor. I wait downstairs, call her again, trying to see where she is. ‘Not here, not yet.’ I tell her that I’ll start walking, I know the way. Instead, I run. Bare feet slap on concrete, dodging glass and stones. The carrier is heavy in my arms, my legs burn, my breathing short as I run, as if trying to flee from the specter that has its eyes set on you. My throat hurts, and yet I talk to you. I tell you that everything is going to be okay. People stare at me as they drive past, the frantic woman with wild hair dressed only in her pajamas. I ignore them and look down to see you slide in your transport, unnatural and limp. I don’t look down again. The honk of a horn, the squeal of tires, the concerned look of a familiar face. I’m barely in the car before I tell her, scream at her, to go. We’re there much faster now, and my mind catches up with my body. The vet comes out minutes after you go in. The shake of her head is barely visible through tear-streaked eyes. ‘Blood clot,’ and, ‘Instantaneous’ wash over me in equal measures, and the sobs taper off into stunned silence. I hold you in my arms, the last time I ever will. You’re colder now, even swaddled in a blanket, and your eyes are still open, your tongue hanging out like some mockery of who you once were. You don’t look the same, no longer the excited little child circling my feet, excited by everything life had to offer in a way I’ve never seen before. I bend over, and I kiss your forehead, as if to send you off into your slumber, and the vet comes to take you away. You’re gone, but you’re not. Not for me, not for her, and not for your brother. He can’t understand where you went. He waits for you to jump out at him. You don’t. The world moves on. They celebrate in the streets, a victory long hoped for. They didn’t know about you, but I did. And I am numb. I am numb. I am numb.


Hello, my name is GUY. I am the manliest man men have ever seen. I am oozing with masculinity. I have to constantly remind people how manly I am because I want to boost my masculine points. I measure my masculine points based on how many pounds I can lift. How many women I can date and how many beers I can gulp down in one sitting. I also measure my masculine points by how hairy I am, the depths of my voice, how much I can manspread, how loud I can speak, and by the size of my…. I am so manly that I am too man enough for everything. I’m too manly for the earth. My masculinity is so pungent that all the other men around me make high pitched girly screams and run away. I am too manly for the color blue, black, red, orange, yellow, and every color on the RGB scale. I’m too manly for gradients. I am too manly for horror films, action films, cartoons, experimental french cinema, and every film genre that exists. When I drive a car, it has to be manly but I don’t own a car right now because every car in the market can’t handle the amount of man I have. The car will end up at the repair shop at least once a day. I am too manly to live in a house. Every house in the market doesn’t live up to my manly expectations. Right now, I live with my mother. I’m so manly that I drink hot water straight from the pot. I’m so manly that I eat coffee raw. No water. No milk. No anything. Just pure man. I’m so manly I eat only plywood and nails. I’m so manly, I benchpress my mother’s car every morning. I’m so manly, that I piss acid every day. I’m so manly, that my deep voice can cause earthquakes so I have to purposely talk in a high pitch voice. Humanity can’t handle my real voice. I’m so manly, that my beard hair feels like a wire brush. I’m so manly, that I can impregnate every living being: plants, animals, insects, furniture, and even men. I can technically make take over the entire planet and create my own animal species because of this. The only thing that matches the amount of man I have is my pet teacup chihuahua named Lily. If you ask me, I think chihuahuas are perfect dogs for manly men. My masculinity can be sensed from ten miles away instead of one mile when I’m walking Lily. Some men ask me how can they get as manly as me. I laugh at them. You don’t. You don’t become manly, you are born with it. When I was an infant, I could already lift a suitcase. If you have to ask, then you will never be as manly as me. As a matter of fact, I am the only man on earth that has this amount of masculine manliness. Hell, look at my name. My name is GUY, not Guy. The all caps emphasize my manliness and I prefer if others write my name the same way. Thank you.


“When I look back at my life, what do you think I feel orderly?” Spoke the frail seeming man, lightly rocking in his chair. “Well, it would be presumptuous of me to say. But if I had to guess based on your file, I would say it is something like nostalgic joy. Something only, you could feel with a background as messy as that.” Responded that quietly confident orderly, leaning back in their own chair. Wails and screams echoed throughout the air, as if beckoned by some malign deity, risen on Earth. “Truly a demented scene here orderly, you know, most would have fled already; Do you have some death wish?” The frail man said, gazing upon the door that held the tides of chaos just at bay outside. “Well, this door is strong, it will hold, or maybe you wish that it didn’t; is that what you really want?” The orderly responded once more. Bleached white walls surrounded the pair, sitting in their rocking chairs, a door on one side, lightly reinforced. “Why though, did you act in such a way, to pull me in here? Do you have some obsession? I thought you hated me.” Cackled out the frail man, leaning back in his chair, nearly falling out of it even. “I just decided on a whim, my good conscience forbade that I let you be taken. But I suppose I do have ample reason to hate you, I did nearly lose my family, job, and even life because of you. Well, I suppose I wanted answers from you finally, we might not make it out of this situation.” The orderly said, a lukewarm look on his face. The screaming all around almost deafening, the room’s walls shaking off dust particles in waves. “Oh, I suppose that angle makes sense, but you know I did start all of this madness, we wouldn’t be in this situation if not for my decisions here. I want to know about you orderly, I really do, did I once hear you bragging to your peers about some collegiate accomplishment? The frail man said, looking slyly at the orderly. “This is my time to ask questions, but yes, I was informing my fellows that my thesis and dissertation passed with no corrections. Now, about yourself, why don’t you tell me why you started all of this today, and then we can discuss your more personal connection to me.” Said the orderly, with a warm look in his eyes. The wails of the damned ebbed slightly and the scene outside calmed. “You are quite self-centered orderly, fine, the reason I killed that guard was to let everyone out, there are some real crimes happening here you know.” Proclaimed the frail man confidently. “Hmm, quite the moral high ground you have, killing a guard and all. You know, I won’t forgive you for getting blood all over my coat.” The orderly said, sarcastically. There was a lone fireplace in the room, lightly flickering smatterings of yellow on the stark white walls. “You have some pretty major problems yourself orderly, or doctor I suppose is more accurate. Well, you’re dying to know why I did it aren’t you, why I killed your wife and newborn son? The answer is very complicated you know, but it really settles down to pure fancy, I killed them because I wanted to doctor.” Spoke the frail man, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Well that isn’t quite the answer I was hoping for, I though it might be more interesting.” Sighed the doctor, his face gazing into his hands. The two sat it in that room for quite a while, eventually falling asleep to the sounds of the dead and dying, awakened by a hard knock on the locked door. “Hey, is anyone in there, it’s safe to come out now, everything calmed down!” Yelled a voice from the outside. The doctor quickly moved and opened up the door. “Ah, finally, I thought that madness would never end.” Said the doctor. “Wow, well, let’s get you outside, anything you can tell us about how all this started? Any other survivors that you know of?” Asked the policeman. “Well, I’m not quite sure how it really started, but I hear what I thought might be screams and before I knew it, all hell had broken loose. I decided then to lock myself in that closet. I just know of myself, I was alone in a closet the whole time after all.” Said the doctor, walking out into the streets with the police in tow.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: Loose Ends William Tecumseh Sherman is famously known for this declaration. War is hell. Battles hard-won through personal sacrifice leaves scars far and wide on its . At this point in our stories some of our characters may have gotten a taste of that hell. The good news is that at this point in our stories, the fever pitch of conflict has died down. The worst is over, they say. No more buildings falling around people’s ears, no more and vengeance quests to find peace, no more running. The dust has to settle, and the crowds will clear out. Or at least that’s . The major conflict of this story may be over, but there’s still plenty to do, and things can still get worse (or better? ). *Oh and just a note for any dragon queens here: Ya burned Kings Landing and lost 2 dragons and a boyfriend along the way. Maybe slow your roll on making any drastic decisions, m’kay?* But enough of the tomfoolery. There’s one thing for sure: Lord of the Rings didn’t end when Sam and Frodo deliver their package to the fires of Mount Doom. When they reached the Shire it’d been decimated, and Saruman still had some tricks up his sleeve. The heroes of Middle Earth weren’t done yet, as it turns out. And neither are our protagonists in SerSat. It’s not all over yet. There are villages to rebuild, , will and testaments to write, , loyalties to shore up, commendations to dole out, and . **Things to think about this time around:** ? How will they treat those they had to go up against? How are their relationships going to change? Did they pick up some bragging rights and titles along the way? If your story is one of political or social dexterity, what messes have to be cleaned up in the wake of fallout? Was their morality compromised? What backlash do they face for making ? Is this a story of finding a way to work together, or is this going to look like a ? If your story is one of internal struggle, how does this arc affect how they will move on with their lives? Did , or what they needed? I’ll be the first to admit here that all of this is a lot to think about. What if your characters just… aren’t that deep? Sometimes it’s not that complicated. Sometimes after it’s all said and done, all that’s left to do is  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **With the ranks whittling down as we close in on our final chapters, a boon has been granted from the writing gods on high! I give you:** **FIFTY! FIFTY MORE WORDS PER INSTALLMENT!** **That’s right, folks. For the last chapters you now may write \*up to 800\* words for the rest of the beats. I hope that helps wrap some precious words up,** **!** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/21, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Victors: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Xacktar, bringing us to new heights and a whole new world of sequel material. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ColeZalias, showing that not every conflict is a battle of armies, but the victory can be just as hard won. **And two honorable mentions:** /u/Lynx_Elia, with a great juxtaposition of characters and how they see themselves and each other. And /u/Mazinjaz, for a great mixture of bringing us into the pitch of battle and then pulling us back down to earth with a dose of perspective. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Victors** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been. Through all of the seasons of life, that had never changed. The warmth of the summer day danced with the gentle breeze that could be heard before it could be felt. He had been on this trail many times on many different days. Days where the winter stripped what green the trail had to offer, and where the night brought on the full bitterness of winter. Days where the sun deceived one in the morning, hiding the storm that was to come. Days where the arrival of spring, lit up the forest in song and color. Throughout all of these days, the trail remained the same. It was not a complicated trail by any means; however, it was an unconventional one. Whereas many trails sought the path of least resistance, this trail sought to make the simple, difficult. Instead of climbing once to the ridgeline and plateauing as long as it could, this trail went up, only to return down. Over and over again, the trail followed this pattern, exhausting the ones who sought to conquer it. The trail cut through many different scenes of life. Travelers would find themselves in the old familiar pine forest, and then turn a corner to feel the thick heat of a swamp. Only to travel up a hill and be caught up in tropical scrub. New travelers would look unknowingly at a map and believe they know knew the trail, but to know the trail, one would need to be on it. The man knew this trail though, and he knew it well. As he crossed through the pines, admiring the small, dirt cliffs and the tall, lanky trees, he thought back to a different time, the first time he conquered the trail. He was just a boy, unaccustomed to the outdoors, and unaware of what pain a trail can bring. He went with friends, and because of this, the trail was nothing more than competition on who could prove themselves to be the strongest. This competitive drive brought nothing to pain for the losers and indifference to the strongest. As the boy climbed the hill, and the saw palms cut his legs, the allure of being the strongest was lost. The boy trudged on because of the competition, but there was no meaning in it. Because the boy did not believe that the trail had meaning, he could gain nothing from it. The bright white of the dogwood flowers and beauty in the song sung by the wind and the birds were nothing, but a background to pain for the boy. His inexperience in life stole the moment from him, but a memory was made. The years went by, and the memory of the trail slowly cut out the pain and left a faint impression of the song of that day. The humble beauty of that song would lead him back to the trail. As the man continued on the trail, he stopped at a creek to rest. The creek was surrounded by rock and moss, creating a dark palette for the water to flow through. As he watched that eternal creek flow, he thought back to the second time that he visited the trail. It was when he was in his youth, not quite a man, but not quite a boy. This time he was once more surrounded by friends, but they did not drive each other through the trail through competition. This time they went through the trail in fellowship. He was full of youth and love, and this allowed him to witness the beauty of the trail for the first time. There was no pain then. Every hill was taken on slowly so that he could witness the life that is offered to its travelers. Every song was listened to, and every turn brought continuous wonder. The thick scrub that the trail would present to its travelers was not a hindrance anymore. Instead, he was in awe of it and the strength that the forest contained. The night was not full of pain, it was lit up by fire, whiskey, and laughter. The morning did not bring dread, it brought excitement to begin once more. The man thought back to that time on the trail, and he thought of how romantic he once believed that life was. He continued on the trail, leaving the sound of the stream behind. He went up a familiar hill, ignoring the cuts of the saw palms, ignoring the trees, the birds, the world around him, because he knew what the top of the hill offered. As he trudged on, he thought back to the last time he was on the trail. That time, he was fully a man and this had changed the meaning of the trail. He carried more than his pack that time. That time he carried the loss of love and life with him. The birds' songs were perhaps more beautiful this time, but they sang a sadder song, one that must come to an end. The blossoming flowers sprouted from fallen trees. The fire at night was there to light the forest but also to warm the man. The whiskey was there to laugh in friendship, but also to forget. The joy of the trail was not lost, but this time the man knew that there cannot be joy without suffering. The man finally came to the top of the hill, and at the top, he fully returned to the moment. He felt the warmth of the sun come down in large beams from the narrow shade of the pines. He felt the breeze bring calmness to the stirring forest. The man heard the sparrows sing life, and the fallen tree gave the man rest. From the first time to the last time on the trail, this place brought nothing but peace. The sufferings of the outside world could not reach there. There was nothing else, but this moment and there was no place, but this place. He sat there for as long as he could, as time passed without his notice. Slowly, the sun began to lower, and the end of the trail was near. Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been.


I remember how at times when I looked at her she always seems so sad and so lonely. She’s too beautiful in my eyes to ever weep and cry. She was new to the celestial beings, they called her Earth. When she was introduced all I could do was just stare. She was so beautiful and stunning she was the person I fell in love with before I even knew it. The being didn’t appreciate her they hated her for the way she was made. She was superior above them they felt threatened by her, they decided to push her away and seclude and isolate her. They were harsh and scared but unlike them, I couldn’t leave Earth alone. When there wasn’t a meeting I would sneak off to see her, though she didn’t know I existed, I would often leave her gifts they were small. I would give her flowers, or maybe an animal so she wouldn’t be so lonely. Shortly after, the beings took noticed of these rather odd and lively gifts, they grew angry and wanted to spite me, these gifts I gave Earth all had an “expiration date” on them to say the least. My anger boiled inside. I went to confront them about this. They kept saying they created me and if I disobeyed they could destroy me. Even after the warning I couldn’t stay away from her, but more I visited her I realized she grew more depressed, her tears started to flood over creating waterfalls. That’s when I knew I had to make her happy again. I pondered how to for a few days when I realized I had to create a creature that lasted longer then a year. I knew this would be the limit for the beings but I didn’t care about how I would end up as long as she was happy and her tears would stop. When I Gained up my courage I let out a sigh and went to the council and asked for permission. The first answer was no. Who would have guess? But I wasn’t ready to give up. By the time I convinced them I had to make a deal with them. The deal hurt but if it made her happy then I didn’t care. “I’ll let you give her this creature, you should not be seen by her, you will be planted on a star above her to keep you away. The Final part is when the humans can sustain life for themselves you will start to disappear from this existence. For this is your deal Life. ” Universe spoke and demanded. “Yes Universe. I accept this deal. “ I replied the shocked I felt from hearing I’ll be erased spread through me it gave me seconds thoughts but It was already too late As I concluded the deal I gave life to earth in the form of a human. I was placed on the star and watched Earth smile more and more as some cared and some didn’t. Through the millennia’s I watched as the humans grow and I felt my body get weaker, by the time I fade I would be remembered, these creatures called deer took my form and stayed close to earth.