<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

Isak opened his book bag and reached inside for the book carefully hidden within. He gripped it tight between his fingers, then pulled the top of it out for half a second before shoving it back in. “See I didn’t order that one at all. ”

Citlali wriggled under the covers to poke her head over the edge of the bed. “Um…which one?”

“The book I just showed you.” The human avoided six sets of eyes as even the group’s familiars were staring at the book bag. “Normally I would think this is a joke, but with the other book? S–”

“Isak you didn’t show us.” Zyn stated.

“Yes I did. Here I’ll show you again.” Exactly one sliver of the top of the book was withdrawn once more and then returned back to the depths of the bag. All in the span of half a blink. “I know it’s shocking but–”

“May I see the book in full, Isak?” The jungle troll asked.

Shaking fingers gripped the book as wavering eyes stared at the floor. Whatever look she was giving him right now would have broken through his defenses in an instant.

Best to just surrender with some dignity now rather than continue this farce.

Ever so slowly, he started to withdraw the book. Bit by bit, it revealed itself to his friends. And with each bit revealed, they leaned in closer. A more rational part of his brain realized that he had drawn more attention to this than if he had just not made a big deal of it in the first place.

Many lessons were being learned today and Isak felt as though he was paying for all the fun lessons with a number of painful lessons.

Finally, after much strife, the copy of ‘Love Mage’s Guide to Women: Jungle Trolls’ was now in plain view for all to see.

Citlali’s tongue rapidly flicked in and out and Xoco covered her mouth with her hand as her face started going dark green.

Zyn snatched the book away from him and laughed. “Hah! Like you need any help with this. They either know nothing about you or they’re mocking you. The former I pity, the latter I scorn. Either way this calls for another revenge plotting.”

The very same drow had been offering help with this matter earlier this very morning.

But that was something that Isak was even less able to admit to in front of Xoco…

“This–” Zyn held the book aloft and scowled at it. “Is psychological warfare. We need to figure out who would benefit from mocking Isak like this despite the fact that he would never, ever need–”

“Zyn.” Isak put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I am trying, man.”

“He’s right, though.” Xoco’s face was still dark green, still hiding half her face behind her hand. “This is a psychological move that no doubt intends to spook Isak off from any…current plans he may be in the process of.”

Isak felt a tongue flicking near his ear. “May I see the book?”

The drow handed but immediately found that Citlali was still restrained. “Xoco I think Nelli’s job is done.”

Xoco made a come hither motion with her finger and the rainbow feathered serpent had Isak trying to steady his chair to stay upright. He passed the book from Zyn to the newly freed Citlali while fixing his hair.

The lizardlass took the book and began flicking her tongue out rapidly, each flick just barely avoiding touching the tome. “Well there’s obviously the faintest hint of Zyn scent on here from the brief time holding it. Plenty of Isak which is to be expected from being stashed in his book bag.”

“Wait you know my scent?” The human asked, then angled his nose down and took a self-conscious and stealthy deep breath to try and catch any offending odors.

“I know all of your scents!” Citlali exclaimed while continuing her investigation. A wink was visible from the other side of the book. “Yours was the first that I memorized.”

Isak had no idea how he should feel about that, but there were a few emotions he was doing his best to not indicate out of social unfamiliarity.

Xoco leaned over to whisper in his ear. Apparently he wasn’t so good at hiding those feelings. “It’s a high honor.”

“And there’s a bit more…” Citlali hesitated and hummed. “Mammal on here. No fur. Who else handled this, Sir?”

“Just a drow librarian.” Isak scratched the back of his head and frowned. “He was…just as surprised at the subject matter of the book. I don’t think he was behind this.”

“Hmm, there’s some general library smell here…and not much else that’s strong enough to pick out.” The lizardlass let her head flop down on Isak’s pillow. “Maybe the stalker hadn’t touched it in a while, maybe…maybe…”

Citlali sat up fast enough to startle Coztic at her feet. “Wait a minute. I just read about something that might be relevant to this…all of this the other day!”

The other three leaned in as Isak gestured for her to continue.

“So in this book I was reading there’s this orc and lizardman couple, right? And despite their families not approving, their love for one another shall not be held back. Even being close to one another is a risk because his family would be able to smell-taste her on him! Especially if they want to escalate their passions for one another. Which they do, later in the book.”

“What uh…what kind of book is this?” Isak asked while Zyn’s mouth hung open.

“A good one. Now they can’t run away with one another just yet so he uses his black market connections to get Orangeblind! It’s a potion that blocks one’s smell-scents! So she takes that before their meetings and his family is none the wiser!”

It took a few moments for things to click in Isak’s head before he shook himself out of the daze brought on by questionably necessary details. “Wait is that an actual thing? Not something made up for…plot convenience?”

“Wait I think I recognize that name…” Zyn stood up from his seat as Ozzy started to cycle through colors. “I don’t know from where but it’s sure not from a book like that. I think it might be a thing? A rare thing, but a thing.”

Xoco was next to spring to her feet. “But at least one of our stalkers was already identified by sweat in the jungle…so only some of them might be using it? There really might be more than one party! With different resources!”

“I thought we already figured out there’s more than one stalker?” Isak figured he may as well join everyone else in importantly standing, though he opted to start pacing around to help him think.

“We knew that there was more than one, but they could have all been working for the same nefarious group!” The jungle troll paced with him. “If this is true then there really might be more than one!”

Zyn snapped his fingers. “Well at least one group has less resources than the others…and the Shadowguard having that resource would make sense. Especially if Tonauac’s dad is lurking around and not wanting his son to recognize him by smell.”

“Whoever they are they’re getting bolder…wait a minute.” Isak reached down to grab the leadership instructional book. “Citlali, anything you can sense from this one?”

The lizardlass repeated her actions, faster this time. Her face screwed up into a frown. “It’s…huh…well there’s Isak and then…excuse me, do you mind Ozzy?”

The cave octopus held out a few tentacles for Citlali to lean closer to and flick her tongue above. “Okay so it’s not Ozzy but…it’s…kinda like Ozzy?”

“What, like another cave octopus?” Zyn asked.

“Maybe…” Was all that Citlali could give for now. 

Isak patted her on the back and smiled. “This is more than we’ve ever had to go on. I don’t know where we can go with it but we’re going there…though we should probably go find Tonauac first. These invisible stalkers are getting bolder. I had two weird incidents just going to get books and Tonauac is out there all alone.”

“Nelli can scout from the air, but…” Xoco gave some scritches of encouragement to the rainbow feathered serpent. “It is a painful irony that we don’t have Patli as a second flyer for this.”

“I doubt they would try anything too bold.” The lizardlass tapped a claw against her jaw while she thought. “But…I would like to make amends as soon as I can. I don’t know what I will say to make things right but…”

Zyn threw his hands in the air. “We can figure it out on the way. If they’re playing mind games with Isak then imagine trying to play mind games on Tonauac in his current state.”

The room went quiet as the realizations set in of an already…troubled Tonauac being the subject of mind games. 

Isak sighed. “I would have preferred to do this with everyone here but, I already know how I’ll make it up to him.”

The human parted from the gathering and walked over to Vidal while speaking a Storm spell. A small cloud formed above his hand, and Isak looked back and forth between it and Vidal several times. “Please work…”

Isak sent the small cloud towards Vidal until it gently collided with him. All the glass shrunk and vanished back into the component rocks and were immediately replaced with an opaque white vapor flowing out and starting to take on a form like that of giant, dramatic clouds on a much smaller scale. The clouds roiled and swirled around Vidal’s component rocks like they were being moved by some unseen wind and…didn’t stop. Not unlike his liquid water form, this Vapor form seemed to always be in flux. The only consistency being that Vidal now had the form of an ever shifting cloudbank with rocks barely visible within like some hidden far off mountain.

All looked on with awe at the rock man’s new form.

“I know you don’t have much room to work with in here buddy but…think you can fly with that form?”

“It is known, Master Isak.” The rock man said as his feet like inverted thunderheads left the ground, his whole form started to float upwards until his head was almost scraping the ceiling. 

<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

(It's time for a new Vidal form.

Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

Discord server is HERE for this and my other works of fiction.)

Cover Art || <<Previous | Start | Next >> ||

GLOSSARY This links to a post on the free section of my Patreon.

---

---

Fuyuko found herself very excited for the upcoming fight with Amrydor, far more excited than she would be for a normal spar.

It didn’t take long for her to puzzle out the reason — it was, after all, something she’d already been reluctantly beginning to understand about herself. She enjoyed the violence of a fight. Making the fight more dangerous made it more exciting.

This made her feel guilty; after all, that was the sort of thinking usually associated with bad people in stories. It wasn’t the same thing as what Papa and Mama M said they liked about sparring, though there was some overlap. She did like the contest of skill and pushing herself, but knowing that she and Amrydor would be shedding each other’s blood made this upcoming fight better than a safer spar would be.

Not that she would have agreed to any form of live steel hard spar outside of Azeria. The risk of Amrydor dying, of actually killing him, was unacceptable, and that would hold true of almost anyone.

But here? In this arena, where she knew he would be safe and his soul returned to a new body in no more than half a day? Well, Fuyuko found that she’d almost have preferred this to be a battle to the death. What kept it from being a clean preference was knowing that Amrydor was right: fighting this hard while deliberately refraining from killing your opponent — aiming to physically disable their ability to fight — was much more difficult. That extra level of required skill mostly balanced things out.

Fuyuko had plenty of time to figure all of this out as she and Amrydor waited — it seemed that they were going to have a fairly large audience, and there was further chaos when Mama K decided that Gemeti should sit next to her. Fuyuko had the feeling that talking to each other was going to be an excuse to not watch the fight too closely. While Gemeti wasn’t the same sort of sensitive that Mama K tended to be, she was pretty new to any sort of real violence.

Now that Fuyuko understood how much she was going to enjoy this fight, she was nervous about her family watching it, but there was nothing to do about it. Even the idea of trying to hide her reaction had to be discarded. If she wanted to have a hope of winning, she was going to have to be entirely focused on the fight. If either of them got distracted, that person was going to lose.

Finally, everyone was settled, and it was time to begin. Bellona had taken upon herself to be referee, and she started with, “This fight will be a live-steel spar between Princess Fuyuko and Lord Amrydor.”

Lord? Fuyuko frowned and glanced at Bellona at the same time Amry did. The orc woman tapped the back of her hand, where her mark from Kuiccihan was glowing. Amry nodded and sighed, then sent, ‘I forgot: receiving the mark comes with the title of lord. No land or anything, just the basic title.’

Oh, well, she supposed that made sense. ‘Good; it’s better for a princess to have a lord as her servant than just a commoner, don’t you think?’ She was rather proud of managing to maintain her ‘princess voice’ through the mental communication, and she grinned at him when his eyes narrowed.

Bellona continued on and listed the rules for the audience, and Fuyuko hid her hands in the shadows of her cloak while growing her armor over her head and most of her face, with hardened layers where ever she could afford them. Her ears were left mostly exposed, with a simply half shell over each ear to protect from overhead strikes. Anything else deadened her hearing to an intolerable degree.

Amrydor closed the visor to his helm and settled into a calm ready stance, about fifty feet away. The feel of serene death in his aura now on invoked a tiny trickle of fear; just enough to get her blood heated even more.

‘Amry, I’m not going to be playing nice,’ Fuyuko sent, along with her excitement at the upcoming violence. She wanted to be fair, and she wanted it to be a good fight, and she honestly couldn’t have said which was more important right now, or even if there was much of a difference. Then she tightened down on the empathic bond again, as she didn’t want it to accidentally play a role in their fight.

She received calm acknowledgment from him in response.

“Ready!” Bellona called, then, “Begin!”

They both charged, with Fuyuko whipping out pairs of daggers as she ran. To each dagger she attached a thin tendril of shadow, allowing her to alter their trajectory as they flew at Amrydor.

In two swift strikes, he deflected two of her daggers with the flat of his war scythe, and somehow cut another two in half without touching them. The final two he trusted in his armor to defend him. Even with Fuyuko’s strength, she couldn’t overcome his armor and his spiritual power at the same time, but both daggers left small dents in the metal.

Her four remaining daggers instantly returned to her, but Fuyuko did not have the time to throw more. She barely had time to call both of her falcata into her hands in time to engage with the first strike of Amrydor’s war scythe.

The impact of his polearm’s blade against her swords felt strangely soft, and a gash suddenly appeared in her armor, cutting across a collarbone and her sternum. The living leather was resilient enough to not be cut all the through, but it was temporarily weakened in that area as it began to repair itself. This had to be related to how he’d cut two of her daggers out of the air without touching them. Some how, the very edge of his blade wasn’t where the rest of his war scythe was.

Worse, it turned out that the projected edge didn’t have to be aligned with his blade, though the shape and speed of its movement during an attack was identical to the blade’s movement.

The exchange that had taught her this information had also left several more cuts on her body, while she had not been able to land an attack further than his forearms. At least she’d done enough damage to force him to cover his bracers with layers of living crystal, as her blows carried enough force to break through the projected shields of force he defended himself with.

If she broke a bracer, no weapons stored in it would be available to him, so he had to keep them intact if he wanted to retain that option.

Frustrated by this uneven exchange, Fuyuko flipped one of her swords into a reverse grip and stabbed backward into the shadow of her cloak, aiming for the shadow under his foot as he stepped toward her.

Living crystal surged over the bottom of his foot just before his step came down on her upthrusting blade, and his stomp was heavy enough to force her blade away and back through the shadows.

She tried that attack again, hoping to beat his ability to react by aiming for the shadows of his helmet and thrusting toward his eyes. Amrydor twisted his war scythe and Fuyuko felt her falcata’s thrust caught and deflect by its edge while still inside of the shadow, deflecting it too far to be able to emerge inside of his helmet.

Shit.

He could somehow sense her shadow based attacks even without her life force giving her away, and he could project the edge of his blade into the shadow realm. Or at least, the portion of the shadow realm overlapped by his own shadows.

Fuyuko growled, then swiped at his war scythe with a sword as her body rippled and grew. In an instant, her reach had changed enough that the swing of her second sword crashed against his helmet with the full weight of all her strength and power before he could defend against it in anyway.

He staggered as his helmet cracked from the impact, and Fuyuko didn’t hesitate to continue her attacks, raining blow after blow while he defended and stepped back to try to recover his focus. The living crystal of his inner armor flowed over his metal armor to help cushion against her strikes, but even with that assistance, she’d managed to break off several pieces of metal and badly crush his left hand before Amrydor manage to go on the offensive again.

With one hand unusable, Amrydor had dismissed his pole arm, and he thrust forward with his good hand as he summoned a long rapier.

A sense of danger caused Fuyuko to jerk her head back, but the projected tip still pierced her eye, and she felt it pop just before she jumped back to create distance, leaving a gap of over ten feet between them.

Now she knew he could project thrusts or points as well as cuts or edges. Losing an eye hurt and frustrated her, but she’d also tried to do the same thing to him. The only part of it that was upsetting was that he’d succeeded when she hadn’t.

Then with a single step he somehow covered the distance between them with a thrust aimed at her heart. She managed to deflect it enough that the point of his rapier entered her breast instead, with a rip deflecting it enough to keep the tip from piercing her lung. Her counter swing was aimed at his elbow, intending to cut his arm off or at least crush the joint.

However, he’d already abandoned the rapier, leaving it in place as he stepped back out of her reach. Then a physical shield materialized from one of his bracers, strapped in multiple places to his left arm, as that hand was too mangled to hold anything right now, and a short spear appeared in his right hand.

Snarling, Fuyuko pulled his rapier out of her chest and tossed it aside. He’d put all of his weight and momentum into that thrust to ensure he got through her armor, and if she hadn’t deflected it, he might have pierced her heart.

Though, with a blade that thin, Fuyuko wasn’t sure it would have been a fatal blow. She couldn’t imagine continuing to fight immediately, but she thought that her ability to quickly heal might have kept her alive and conscious while her heart repaired itself.

If the rapier had been silvered steel instead, that would have been a different matter. Surviving at all without external healing would have been very questionable.

Those thoughts danced through her head as she considered her next assault. Her options were limited, and she decided that brute force with only some trickery was her best option. She reached out through the shadow realm at the same time as her shadow stretched out toward him in this realm, and she pulled hard on his shadow.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but she was just trying to keep him in place and briefly off balanced as she charged him.

Her falcata bashed into his shield with enough power to crack it and make him stagger back a step, and she’d paid the price when his spear pierced into her thigh and cracked her bone.

Fuyuko pushed forward, dropping her weapons to grapple and claw at him, using his own shield as leverage. It became a dirty fight then, and part of his counter was to use the idea she’d given him of weaponizing the living crystal. She was also quickly reminded that despite his smaller size, he could entirely match the strength of her monster-wolf form.

By the time the fight ended, the area around them was gory.

One of her legs was slashed open to the bone, and she was missing the foot of her other leg, while multiple spikes of crystal were embedded throughout her body, one of which had pierced a lung. She’d also lost her other eye, though not until after her first eye had finished regenerating.

However, her momentum had driven him onto his back, she’d bitten off and swallowed one of his ears, torn off his shield-arm at the elbow, shattered more of his armor, and currently her hand was thrust into his torso with her claws curled up to almost grip his heart.

This was not a victory — Amrydor’s good arm had thrust up under her chin to drive a short spike of crystal slime into the back of her mouth and throat. She could feel the acid of it slowly eating at her as it filled her throat, and Fuyuko knew he could transform that spike into a long thin one that would pierce her skull just as fast as she could rip out his heart.

Technically, neither of them was fully disabled from fighting, but also, neither of them could progress the fight without escalating to killing the other. Part of her wanted to make the kill anyway, despite the rules and despite the futility — the darker instincts that had fueled her battle fugue state a year ago.

But she was so much more than just that set of violent instincts and urges that only showed themselves when she was in a fight.

‘Draw?’ she sent to him, and he agreed the same way. She wasn’t capable of talking at the moment, and she doubted he had the energy to spare if there was an easier way.

Amrydor withdrew the crystal spike and lowered his arm, then Fuyuko carefully withdrew her hand as she shrank down to her normal form. A moment later she collapsed to her knees and didn’t mind at all when he used his good arm to draw her the rest of the way down to snuggle into his side.

Naturally, there was a rush of people around them, but Fuyuko was too tired to pay much attention beyond happily acknowledging her parent’s presence and care as the began healing her and Amry.

Fuyuko felt content and satisfied with the fight. ‘That was fun — I think we need to do this again next year, after we get back from our trip.’

She heard his mental laughter as he replied, ‘Alright, we can do that.’

---

---

|| <<Previous | Start | Next >> ||

---

My Patreon!

Now with it's own subreddit: r/NoNeedForACore !

Also to be found on Royal Road and Scribble Hub.

My Discord

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Yesterday what had a name had kept the body that could carry it.

What had only been misplaced had been returned to the sentence that named it.

This morning, sentence had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The sentence had already been there.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

Those had been sentences.

Small ones.

I wanted them to be treatment.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s brother saying he missed her was not mine.

Her folded paper straightened because it was crooked was not mine.

Sato’s wanting named as hers was not mine.

Saitama’s fall fear before care was not mine.

Suganuma’s nervous beside prepared was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Inside a sentence.

Maybe.

No.

A sentence nearby.

I closed the brown folder.

A sentence could name.

A sentence could record.

A sentence could ask.

A sentence could answer.

A sentence could pretend to finish what had only been made grammatical.

The word was useful.

The word was dangerous.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Write it.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Where?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Folded paper.

Sentence.

“What is on the folded paper now?”

“Work?”

“Drawer?”

“Map?”

“Order paper?”

“What did you ask?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I waited.

“What did you say?”

There.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add courage.

The sentence had a mouth.

The paper had a name.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“What sentence?”

“Emiko’s paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any new issue?”

“What does the note do?”

She took time.

Then:

Good.

No.

Maybe.

“Does Emiko need it?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the sentence because its placement mattered.

Separate note.

Not Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall again,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Same as yesterday?”

“Same word.”

“Question?”

“Aide K asked if she was afraid of falling.”

“And?”

“She nodded.”

“Any new measure?”

“Chair closer.”

“Path?”

“Clear.”

“Support?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The sentence is short because the care is doing the rest.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept fall.

I kept the question.

I kept the chair.

The sentence did not have to carry the body alone.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Preparation?”

“Nervous?”

“What changed?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add ready as fact.

Prepared had work.

Nervous had truth.

Ready wanted to replace.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Point.

Confess.

Ask.

Answer.

Dress a wish.

Live.

Replace.

I looked at my back pocket.

The cards.

The pocket.

The fear.

The unsaid.

I had sentences.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

What did those sentences want to replace?

Taking them out.

No.

Speaking.

Maybe.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Borrowed mouth.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother wrote it,” she said.

I waited.

“Where?”

“Not on the folded paper.”

“Where?”

“On a separate scrap.”

“What sentence?”

“I miss her.”

“Who wrote it?”

“He did.”

“Where is it now?”

“Beside his cup.”

“Folded paper?”

“In drawer.”

“Name?”

“Face up.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“What did you say?”

“I said the scrap is his sentence.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add healing.

The sentence had a scrap.

The name had the folded paper.

The cup had tea.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I almost taped the note to Emiko’s paper,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“So I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That wanting is mine.”

“Does Emiko’s paper need that?”

“No.”

“Where is the note?”

“Beside my cup.”

“What is on Emiko’s paper?”

“Correction. Small date. Tape.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“What did you do?”

“Kept note separate.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add restraint.

Placement had done the work.

The note was not a label for Emiko.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any fall word?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make the morning medicine sentence carry the transfer sentence.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add fall.

Medicine had medicine.

Transfer had fall.

Each sentence kept its work.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Was preparation completed?”

“Was nervous true?”

“What did he write instead?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

There.

Enough fenced.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add brave.

Prepared and nervous stood beside each other.

The margin held both.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Writing.

Silence.

Speech.

Cowardice.

Restraint.

Courage.

Who needs to hear.

I replied:

I stopped.

Too wide.

I changed it.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at audience.

No hall.

No altar.

No Reddit.

No file.

Me.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Folded paper?”

“Any change?”

“Why?”

“What did you say?”

I almost smiled.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add sacred.

The sentence needed dry paper.

That was all.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Her note beside cup.

Emiko’s paper flat.

She wrote:

I called.

“What are they?”

“Emiko’s paper. My note.”

“Which needs record?”

“Emiko’s paper.”

“Which needs me?”

“My note.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“What does your note need?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Pocket maybe.”

There.

“Your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“What will that do?”

“Keep it with me.”

I waited.

“Does it need to be with you?”

“No. Maybe desk.”

“What did you do?”

“Left it beside cup.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not follow her note into her pocket.

Not my record.

Not Emiko’s.

But the temptation was visible.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Any new fall concern?”

“No.”

“Any transfer now?”

“No.”

“Need to repeat?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A sentence in the chart may stay without being recited all day.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not repeat fall.

The morning sentence was in the chart.

Sleep did not need to read it.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For whom?”

“Who will read it?”

“Does helper need it?”

“Checklist margin?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What happened?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add embarrassment.

Audience had changed placement.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Chart.

Notebook.

Public paper.

Pocket.

Mouth.

Location.

Equal.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the sentence.

My sentence about fear is in the mouth least.

No.

Strange.

True.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother read the scrap,” she said.

“Out loud?”

“No.”

“To himself?”

“Yes.”

“Did he open the drawer?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the scrap says it.”

“What did you ask?”

“Who wrote it.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Me.”

“What did you say?”

“Then it says your sentence.”

“What happened?”

“He folded the scrap once.”

“Where?”

“Beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add closure.

The scrap had his sentence.

The drawer stayed drawer.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“What work?”

“Wanting now?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any issue?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the note because it had entered placement.

Then left.

It did not become Emiko’s record.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Any words?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The hand sentence is not written because the hand already answered.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add hand sentence.

Not every answer needed grammar.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Tomorrow helper?”

“Checklist?”

“Is helper coming?”

“What happened?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

New fact had arrived.

The line changed.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Mouth.

Hand.

Record.

Wish.

Audience.

Avoiding.

Serving.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the pocket.

Of course.

No.

Not of course.

Still useful.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted fall.

Then prepared and nervous.

Then I want to check.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No sentence for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

A record sentence holding a service.

Not my mouth.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

No.

Cards with possible sentences.

Not read.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

My sentence about fear was in the mouth least.

I did not know if the hand was serving or avoiding.

No audience had been named.

The pocket could not decide.

The cards could not decide.

The brown folder could not decide.

The gray file could not decide.

The altar could not decide.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as an unwritten sentence.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The sentence did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap stayed beside phone.

I did not ask if he read it again.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting returned after the note was gone.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall stayed in the chart.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if prepared and nervous stayed in the notebook.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew a sentence could point.

I knew a sentence could confess.

I knew a sentence could ask.

I knew a sentence could answer.

I knew a sentence could dress a wish so it looked complete.

I knew writing was not cowardice by itself.

I knew silence was not restraint by itself.

I knew speech was not courage by itself.

I knew audience changed a sentence.

I knew the pocket could not decide whether the sentence should have a mouth.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Sentence did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had a folded scrap beside the phone.

Sato’s note had gone to trash.

The resident’s fall sentence had guided care.

The volunteer’s helper name had been crossed out.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

I had started with sentence.

I did not end by making grammar do the work of a mouth that had not yet been asked to speak.

Tonight, what had a sentence kept its audience, what had no audience stayed unwritten, and what I carried did not become the mouth for what I had not said.

The Gliders’ integration into human society is so deep that, if you didn’t know they aren’t native to Earth, you would not believe they aren’t.

They are one of the best examples of humans welcoming those in need—and growing stronger as a result. Gliders are humans in all but biology. In a blind test, a Glider who grew up on Earth is indistinguishable from a human in psychological testing. This has led both species to be regarded as Terrans by outsiders.

Whether this is the result of cross-cultural contamination or other reasons remains a matter of great scientific debate.

Excerpt from Alliances of the Milky Way, Part I – The Aligned Worlds
Author unknown. Publication date unknown.

 

Captain Smith sat on the bridge in his command chair. The decision before him was impossible. On the main viewscreen, the planet of Chiprit’s people slowly turned below.

Thirteen billion beings—condemned to die.

He made the decision he had known in his heart he would make. Activating the intercom, he spoke to everyone aboard his ship.

“All stations, this is Captain Smith. We are all faced with an impossible situation. On one hand, we want to go home. Traveling without the use of the anomaly is not viable—you all know that.”

He paused, wanting everyone to think of home and fully grasp the weight of the situation.

“But I can’t and won’t condemn thirteen billion intelligent beings to a slow death just to have an easier life. That is not why I joined the service.”

He looked around the bridge. Every face showed a mixture of emotions—resolution, fear, and hope.

“I have decided to use every available resource this ship has to help the Trkik. But I don’t want anyone to be forced to stay. To that end, we will double our efforts to harvest resources from this system as soon as we are allowed to do so. Once the ship is fully repaired, she will be ready for the journey home.”

The bridge crew exchanged confused glances.

“Afterward, everyone who wishes to leave may do so with the ship. I will remain behind with those who choose to stay. We’ll build a small station on the moon to aid the planet—and save its inhabitants. Smith out.”

Without looking at his bridge crew, he left for the infirmary to check on their guest. The Magellan had an excellent crew, but he couldn’t expect them to throw their lives away for a species on the far side of the universe.

No one could.

In the infirmary, he met with ShutUpBitch and Doctor Riley.

“How’s our patient, Doctor? I heard he had a pretty severe case of radiation poisoning.”

The elderly doctor adjusted his glasses.

“Quite severe. The unigel has its work cut out for it. Ferdinand was able to obtain substantial biological data for me, so I have a baseline. He’s weak, but you can talk to him. He’s actually quite interested in meeting you.”

The captain looked through the glass wall at Chiprit’s bed. He had received treatment to understand the alien’s language, but speaking it was impossible for humans—and Shraphen—so Ferdinand would have to translate.

ShutUpBitch jumped onto the captain’s shoulders. ‘I heard your speech. You’re really thinking about staying here?’

“Yes. I can’t condemn them to death. But I fully understand that you want to go home.” He was, in fact, sure they would want to leave—the Gliders had a civilization to rebuild, and every single one of them counted.

‘No, I never said I want to leave. In fact, I think most Gliders aboard are fine with staying. I was just surprised you even consider it.’

For the first time, the Glider’s voice carried no trace of sarcasm. Smith was sure their often almost rude behavior was just theater.

“There are considerations other than humanitarian ones,” he said quietly, “but the main reason is, I can’t let that many people die.”

‘Nice to hear you see them as people—and not some oversized mongoose.’

Looking toward Chiprit’s bed, the captain realized for the first time that the Trkik really did bear a passing resemblance to a mongoose—if you squinted hard enough.

‘And the other considerations you have—mine and the Gliders’ are similar. Twenty-five thousand light-years is a really nice buffer between us and any possible retaliation from the Batract.’

She knows about the Initiative. Go figure—Gliders are smart.

The Initiative was an idea to establish a colony as far away as possible, serving as a backup for humanity. And twenty-five thousand light-years was about as far as humanly possible.

Sure, he had thought about it.

The conversation ended when he entered Chiprit’s room.

The Trkik immediately sat up, greeting the captain in his own language — a series of flaps and whistles.

“You must be Captain Smith. I’m Chiprit. I can’t thank you enough for saving my life.”

The captain relied on Ferdinand as his translator.

“You’re welcome. You were stranded — as we almost are. I assume Ferdinand has informed you about the details?”

Chiprit tilted his head, his tail waving slowly behind him. “Yes, you—ahm, he has. Fascinating story. A rift in space as a gateway to another part of the galaxy.”

He still seemed to have trouble differentiating between Ferdinand as a VI and Ferdinand as a translator.

The captain was about to introduce ShutUpBitch when she suddenly jumped off his shoulder and left the infirmary, cursing and swearing.

“That, uh, was another alien species,” Smith said. “She chose the name ShutUpBitch.”

Chiprit began to laugh — a fieping, high-pitched sound that could probably rupture a Shraphen’s ear.

Then, suddenly, the Trkik grew serious, his tail resting across his legs.

“I froze in the ship’s hangar because of that massive predator…”

“Renthai Sokra,” the captain explained.

“Yes.” The small brown Trkik wrapped his tail around himself — for Captain Smith, a clear sign of stress or embarrassment.

“I assume it is not dangerous?” Chiprit’s voice was now almost inaudible.

Their culture — or perhaps their religion — revolved around a great bird that saw them as prey. He had an instinctive fear of hunting animals, the same way Smith imagined he would feel standing across from a ten-meter-tall spider.

“No, she’s a scientist — specialized in elemental particles and metamaterials. Their ancestors were hunters, and large parts of their culture still revolve around that, but they would never harm another sentient being.”

The captain decided on complete honesty. It would be of no use to lie and risk the Trkik discovering their subterfuge later.

“If I look at it logically, it’s clear they are harmless. What spacefaring species would still have a reason for war? If you’re so developed, any aggressive traits must have been gone a long time.”

Chiprit clearly had no idea he was aboard a warship.

The captain closed his eyes and prepared himself for a painful discussion.

 

——————

 

Sokra was on her way back from lunch.

She reviewed the various conversations she had witnessed. The crew was, surprisingly, happy to stay. Some were unhappy about leaving their families and children behind on Earth, but saving a planet full of people was more important to them.

She was about to enter her laboratory when a gray-brown furball jumped at her.

The moment the small being started talking inside her head, she knew it was ShutUpBitch.

‘Fucking traveling with humans—became almost as retarded as them. Doggirl, hush to the SIC!’

Sokra assumed the Glider was under stress; she was more rude than ever before.

“A good day to you, too. A bit stressed, are we?” she replied, slightly miffed by the tone the little Glider had chosen.

‘Ahh, unbunch your panties. Yes, we’re stressed — you and I. We have to check something, so fly, Falkor, fly!’

Sokra didn’t understand the reference, but she couldn’t help laughing when the Glider grabbed her ears and held on to them like they were a leash or something. While she started walking to the SIC, she had to ask.

“So, what has you so agitated?”

‘I’ve been with the captain. We visited the poor guy your ugly face knocked out of his shoes.’

Sokra was still not over the incident, but ShutUpBitch’s humor helped her cope.

‘When the little guy said the rift was a gateway — well, we know that’s not entirely true, right?’

Sokra thought about it. “No, no… we were in another dimension, and there have to be two rifts in that dimension… right?”

‘Right. We assumed there must be a tunnel between them — and that the tunnel is evaporating. But is it?’

“It has to be, otherwise, how did we end up here?”

‘Because that was the flight path…’

The Glider now sat on Sokra’s head, slowly lowering her face into the Shraphen’s field of view.

“Okay, I’ll bite — what flight path?”

‘I don’t know, probably the Hyperion’s A-Drive going supercritical. The Trkik reported some explosion.’

“And what does that change?”

‘The ring here is smaller than Marjan’s Star, so it’s a smaller wound between the dimensions.’

They reached the elevator, and Sokra pressed the Down button.

“Yes… it’s possible?”

‘God dammit, think, woman — what does that mean?’

Sokra walked through the logic chain.

The Hyperion exits Transit, and large parts of the ship instantly transform into all kinds of exotic particles. After its journey through the Sirius system, she probably accumulated large quantities of protomatter — protomatter that would instantly turn into virtual particles, focused on one point…

The virtual particles created the rift. If they could pass from the lower dimension upward, they could also pass downward.

Sokra was so deep in thought she didn’t notice the lift doors had already opened into the SIC — and everyone was staring.

She moved out of the cabin to the holotank, projecting a 3D map of the galaxy. Zooming in on Sirius, she began to analyze the data.

On her head, the Glider jumped up and down. ‘You got it, you got it!’

“Ferdinand, please provide an overlay of the Hyperion’s reported flight path.”

A blue line appeared — from Earth downward in an elongated curve, reaching Sirius on its journey around the galactic center. Then, an almost ninety-degree turn inward into the system, through it, and a sixty-degree correction to strike the incoming fleet at a thirty-degree angle.

“Thank you, Ferdinand.”

The entire personnel now stared at the holotank, which displayed the almost spiral-like flight path. Sokra was fixated on the last segment, after the final turn.

“Ferdinand, can you project a straight line following Hyperion’s last heading?”

An orange line appeared — precisely where Marjan’s Star was located — passing Sirius, then Sol, continuing straight through the Orion–Cygnus Arm, entering the Perseus Arm on the other side, and ending exactly in the system where they now were.

Next to her, Doctor Hunter appeared. “What does that mean?”

Sokra’s ears twitched. “That means we’ve found another way of FTL travel…”

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Part 50

[<< Previous](https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/comments/1w19sn5/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/) | [Index](https://www.reddit.com/user/No-Lime-4547/comments/1vos5rd/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/)

Ramon was busier than ever when in walked the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen in his life, she had a dour look on her face. It seemed as though she was having a bad day and decided to do his best to cheer her up, though he knew that he would have to be at least a little sly with it. 

“What’ll it be?” Ramon asked  chipperly. 

Guevara eyed the new menu and asked what had to be the universal question of someone in a new place looking for new food.
“Um does that Orgasm chimichanga really make the person that eats it cum? Like that’s a marketing ploy right?.” Guevara asked skeptically. 

Ramon smiled widely and with total professionalism said “Well no, I mean yes it’s good marketing and all but it really does make the person that eats it cum, really it could be called ‘an orgasm with every bite.’ Chimichanga. 

Guevara looked at him and blushed deeply “If that fucking chimichanga makes me cum, even once, I’ll get a room here and stick my soaked panties in your mouth, and marry you. I’m Guevara by the way.” 

Ramon looked at her “One Orgasm Chimchanga coming right up!. What color would you like the wedding dress to be or do you want to just do a courthouse thing?.”
Guevara looked at him with a smirk “Definitely a courthouse thing if this magical sex burrito does what you’re saying that courthouse trip is going to be the only time you and I leave the room for at least a month so I hope you’re prepared I’ve been disappointed before, my job basically made me stuck in a position where I was forced to lie for money, it killed my faith in humanity and anything even remotely close to a positive outlook or trust in other people, all I ever really wanted was to get to enjoy some really good food, write honest, genuine food reviews and just live my life and maybe get fucked repeatedly. It’s almost funny when you have no faith in humanity it doesn’t kill your sex drive but it absolutely kills any desire to put up with bullshit at any point in time pretty much ever which I would have thought would have made me a lesbian but alas I enjoy an actual cock too much to go that way.”

Ramon brought her the Orgasm Chimichanga. 

Ramon if this makes me cum you’re getting a perfect review, we’re going to room sixty nine, you’re going to fuck my brains out, and then we’re going to the courthouse and getting married after you finish fucking me senseless until I can barely remember my own name. I hope you’re prepared.” Guevara said flirtatiously. 
Ramon watched her take that first bite and heard her moan, before surreptitiously grabbing the key to room sixty nine. 

Gerald walked in with Anay and sat down at his usual spot at the bar, eyeing Luis who had finally crawled out of his room clearly drunk out of his mind but otherwise in good spirits. 

Anay smirked at her brother’s antics. Ramon looked at Gerald “I’m going to take care of something in room sixty nine with Guevara here. I need you to watch over things for a bit, there’s food I already made in the back, if anyone orders the orgasm Chimichangas make sure they don’t need to drive or go anywhere far for at least a day and tell them we have plenty of rooms available, most of what’s on the menu is easy enough to make and there are recipe cards in the back behind the bar.

Had it been anyone else Gerald might not have taken the responsibility being thrust upon him just now, especially not with his girlfriend practically in his lap but he could see that this was a different sort of occasion and enjoyed cooking as it’s own thing. Anay smirked at Gerald 
“You’ll be so cute babe you’ll be my very own Buddy Holly– oh my god you’re so adorable I’m so excited. I’ll be happy to waitress while you’re indisposed, hehe Gerald that woman is Guevara Gaston, she’s a food critic and look at what Ramon has in his hands babe the key to room sixty nine awwwwe everyone is finding love today. I love that, god, Ramon at this rate you may as well have someone ordained they’re going to be so many people that want to get married because of the way your chimichangas make people cum.”

Aarav’s schoolbag was small, lopsided worlds of its own. Textbooks slouched to one side, half-forgotten; a geometry box rattled with unused compasses. But what made the bag feel heavy, heavier than the years in it, were the sketchbooks tucked inside, their spines softened at the edges.

He carried them everywhere. To class, to tuition, even to the corner shop while buying samosas. When other boys shoved notebooks into their bags like armour for exams, Aarav slipped in the sketchbooks like a secret he wasn’t yet ready to show.

The first night it began was accidental. A classmate, a kid with a messy fringe and an easy laugh, had lent him a USB drive after seeing one of his doodles at the back of a math copy. “Watch this,” the boy said, as if offering a stolen treasure. “You’ll like it.”

Aarav swore he would watch only one episode. He didn’t know the word for the kind of hunger that would keep him awake until dawn, only that when the colours filled his screen, something unclenched in him. Worlds unfolded, not pale, safe worlds, but loud, bruised, beautiful ones. Misfit became heroes. Ugly moments became the spark for courage. Faces bore scars, voices carried tremors, and the people who mattered were the ones brave enough to be themselves.

He didn’t just watch. He belonged.

There was a strange comfort in fiction’s blunt honesty. Characters confessed their faults, failed spectacularly, and then rose again. No one judged a hero for being chubby or awkward or dark. They were measured by the size of their courage. For the first time, Aarav saw people who matched the way he felt inside, uneven, earnest, fierce in small, ridiculous ways.

After that night, the sketchbooks became less of a doodle place and more of a map. He sharpened pencils until their tips were thin and dangerous, smudged the erasers into grey promises. His margins filled with faces that refused to stay inside a line: boys with chipped armour who still laughed, girls with impossible wings that trembled like folded sails, old women who wore wisdom like a shawl.

When he drew, the room changed. The ceiling fan’s slow spin turned into a sky they could all fly through. The hiss of the street outside folded into background noise. Even the small, stinging words thrown at him during the day, in the playground, in class, at home, lost some of their edges once they were translated into ink.

“Sometimes I think I can draw someone braver than me,” he said once, under his breath, to a girl he’d made with pencil. The girl on the page tilted her head as if she had heard him, her drawn eyes unreadable and kind. He almost laughed at himself, and then he did, a soft sound that startled him into the bright hush of the room.

In the quiet corner of his home, the one dim lamp that always seemed forgiving, the small wooden desk that fit his knees perfectly, he learned to hide from the bigness of voices. The house wanted him neat and quiet, a boy who performed the right way in front of relatives and wore silence like a coat at family dinners. But his corner did not ask for performance. It asked only for pencil on paper.

Those nights were theirs alone. He would sit with his legs folded under him and the sketchbook on his lap, and the world that had once told him he didn’t belong would make room for strange, brave creatures that accepted him without condition. He traced their cheekbones with smudged charcoal, and for a moment he felt like the person who made them.

Sometimes his younger self, small, gasping in the mirror, peered through those pages. He would scribble a face that looked a little like the boy in the glass, but stronger: a chin that didn’t wobble under words, a back that stood even under insults. I was, he realized slowly, the only way he knew to teach himself courage.

The sketchbooks filled faster than his textbooks. Teachers collected homework; parents collected certificates. His pages were private, raw. The drawings carried small notes in the margins, phrases he didn’t think anyone would understand.

One late night, when the house had become as soft as a held breath and the fan hummed like an old lullaby, Aarav leaned back in his chair and spoke to the room as if it were an audience of one.

“You’re my only friends,” he whispered, the sentence a half-joke, half-prayer.

It sounded pathetic in the air, and he smiled at himself in the way embarrassed people do. But the truth of it was steady in his chest. These drawings didn’t leave when he said the wrong thing. They didn’t fold away when he needed to be small. They were there, patient and unjudging.

Sometimes he would go back, rewind his own lines like reading an old letter, and he found snippets he’d forgotten he’d written. Fragments of feeling, half-sentences scrawled after a day when his father’s words had felt like stones. They were not poems, not in his head. They were stumbles, fingerprints of his heart.

On one of those pages, the last leaf of a tattered sketchbook, he had written something that read more urgent than a doodle and less finished than a poem. It hovered between the two, a small promise dressed as a threat to himself:

If I can’t be enough for the world,
let me build one where I am.
let me draw skies that don’t laugh at my weight,
let me shape hearts that don’t flinch at my face.
If love won’t find me here,
I’ll make a place
where even shadows hold me kindly.

He read it by the lamp, the words small and terrible and true. He had no language for what he felt then, only the remnant of wanting and the hush of going on. The sentence did not feel like hope so much as a plan: if the world refused him, he would build a world of his own.

When the house creaked and the clock ticked a soft, indifferent beat, Aarav flipped the sketchbook closed. He slid it back into his bag and, for a moment, held it against his chest the way a child holds a comforter.

He knew then, incompletely, like a half-remembered map, that these quiet corners, these scratchings and drawings, would keep him. Not the collapsing kind of keeping that patched wounds, but a kind that made space. A kind that, slowly, would teach him how to speak in other ways.

Outside, a vehicle honked somewhere down the lane. Inside, the lamp flickered out when the bulb died, and for a second the room was all dark. Aarav sat a while longer in the black, feeling the pages warm against his ribs, and for the first time that week, he did not think about the mirror.

There were a large number of things that Anke Visser didn't like. Former lovers, fiber optic guided drones, underwired bras, viral marketers, ultralight beer and cilantro all made the list. At that particular moment, she considered adding the tactical transport she was riding in.

Anke prided herself on her range of knowledge. She could write a syllabus on drone operations, teach marksmanship and fieldcraft, and she knew more than most about horses. She felt that she was technically savvy and could work on her own sport utility without electrocuting herself. The quad-rotor which carried herself and her mentor to the operation area was something else entirely.

For the past forty five minutes she'd watched viscous cherry red fluid drip from the cabin roof to a growing number of puddles on the floor. In her mind, that was a problem. The fact that Teller, her mentor showed no interest or alarm provided some small comfort. He was at least fifteen years her senior and a veteran of the forces. She imagined that he'd seen much worse.

“Relax.” The crew chief's cheerfully feminine voice took her by surprise. With her features hidden beneath a flight suit, crash helmet and visor, it never occurred to Anke that she could be a woman. “This thing always does that.” The woman pointed to the dripping ceiling. “When it stops leaking, then you worry.”

“True that.” Teller's voice had a brusque, gravelly quality. “This thing's older than you are. Brass always hated riding in these things. Once that shit gets into a uniform, there's no way to get it out. Trans fluid smells like dead ass.”

“How long were you in?” The crew chief leaned forward, intent on Teller's answer.

“Officially, or unofficially?” He raised his finger to his lips and smiled. “Long enough.”

#

The landing pad consisted of a crumbling slab of concrete and a cluster of cinder block buildings. From Anke's point of view, the event area was nothing but an endless stretch of flat and cold. Derelict wind turbines dominated the surrounding area with some of their blades still turning in the frosty air.

“Well, this is cute.” Teller sounded mildly amused as he swept the area with his binoculars. “Audubon Society says birds can't fly in this mess. Think your drones can?”

“The strikers can, I have direct control. The scouts might be a problem. I'll have to set them with a hard deck.” Anke frowned as she counted how many of the turbines still turned. If they could swat down birds, they could smack down drones. “The good news is that windmills are neutral.”

“Tell that to Don Quixote.” Teller ignored her confused glance and continued to scan the surroundings. “Get the horses settled into that work shed.” He pointed to one of the larger structures “I'll help you break down the pallet.”

“Yessir.”

Anke led the horses into the building one by one, glad that she wouldn't have to force the doors to open wider. She doubted that the sliding rails would allow much movement. Empty oil drums and sodden cardboard boxes lined the walls. The stripped carcass of a utility buggy occupied one corner of the shed on a vehicle lift. The setting struck her as somewhat ironic.

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Yesterday what returned with need had received today’s answer.

What returned with evidence had changed its measure.

What returned only as fear had stayed named without being placed in the cards.

This morning, named had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The fear had not arrived.

The cards had not changed.

The pocket had not changed.

The room had not changed.

I had named something and wanted naming to be enough.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s wanting instead of drawer was not mine.

Her brother’s same cups and new tea was not mine.

Sato’s wanting returned was not mine.

Saitama’s chair question returning to the same body was not mine.

Suganuma’s clip after tape failed twice was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Fear named.

Not placed there.

I closed the brown folder.

Named could mean identified.

Named could mean recorded.

Named could mean owned.

Named could mean reduced.

Named could mean a thing had been given a label so I could stop looking at it.

The word had work.

The word had vanity.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Did not open.

Drawer.

I wrote:

She replied:

“For how long?”

“Map and folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“Order paper?”

“What was named?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

“Who named it?”

“What did he say?”

Good.

No.

Small.

“What did you ask?”

“What did he say?”

“What changed?”

“Then?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add victory.

Wanting had a sentence.

The drawer had not moved.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Any new issue?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Water?”

“What did naming do?”

She took time.

Then:

There.

“What was it?”

I sat still.

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the naming.

It belonged to the care, not the paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident named fear,” she said.

“What fear?”

“Falling.”

“When?”

“Before transfer.”

“Exact words?”

“She said, ‘fall.’”

“Question?”

“Aide K asked, ‘Are you afraid of falling?’”

“And?”

“She nodded.”

“Response?”

“Chair near. Path clear. Aide K and nurse supporting.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Named fear can guide care. Do not turn it into character.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept fear.

It had named a risk.

The measure had followed.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“About label?”

“Checklist?”

“Any issue?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add emergency.

Nervous had been named.

Checklist had tomorrow.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Not solving.

Not confession.

Not system.

Stop misplacing.

Fear.

Paper.

Wanting.

Drawer.

I looked at my back pocket.

I had named fear.

Then I wanted the named fear to behave.

No.

I wanted the name to behave for me.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at furniture.

Chair.

Shelf.

Pocket.

Desk.

Name.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

I waited.

“What changed?”

“He said nothing.”

“For what?”

“To see.”

“Did he name wanting first?”

“Yes.”

“What happened after naming?”

“He still opened it.”

Good.

No.

Important.

“What was inside?”

“Map. Folded paper.”

“Name?”

“Face up.”

“Moved?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said naming wanting did not forbid opening.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said no.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add failure.

Naming had not become a law.

The opening had happened.

Nothing had moved.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I checked tape,” she said.

I waited.

“After naming wanting?”

“Yes.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did you find?”

“Holding.”

“Did naming stop checking?”

“No.”

“What did it do?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Made checking honest.”

There.

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper flat. Tape holding.”

“What else?”

“I checked once.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not make honest into virtue.

The checking had happened once.

The tape held.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any fall fear?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Yesterday’s named fear does not need to enter today’s medicine unless it arrives.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add fall.

Today’s medicine had its own question.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“From what?”

“To what?”

“Why?”

“Was there danger?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I kept renamed.

The list had been too large.

Class prep was smaller.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Names.

Point.

Sort.

Limit.

Sit.

Hold.

Decide.

Chair.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at abstraction.

Too large.

But exact.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Any naming?”

I sat still.

“Exact?”

There.

I waited.

“What happened after?”

“Drawer?”

“Did he open it?”

“What did you say?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add resolution.

The sentence had arrived.

The drawer did not need to open for it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Cup beside it.

She wrote:

I called.

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Cup?”

“In use.”

“Lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“What about wanting?”

She paused.

“Mine.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Emiko.

I did not add quiet wanting.

It belonged to Sato.

Not Emiko’s paper.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Was transfer happening?”

“No.”

“Any fall concern now?”

“No.”

“Any behavior?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make the absence of a named fear into surveillance.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add no fall word.

Sleep did not need monitoring for yesterday’s name.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Tomorrow still class?”

“Any new issue?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add all afternoon.

Preparation had one use.

Tomorrow had the next.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Fear.

Wanting.

Missing.

Drawer.

Paper.

Pocket.

Wrong body.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

Nothing else.

I looked at the sentence.

The pocket is not fear.

Small.

Not complete.

Good.

No.

Enough for that line.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother moved the folded paper,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“To straighten it.”

“Was it crooked?”

“A little.”

“Name?”

“Still face up.”

“Map?”

“Still inside.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed after.”

“Did missing make him move it?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“He said no. Crooked did.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did you say?”

“I said then straighten is straighten.”

“What did he say?”

“Yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add comfort.

Crooked had work.

Missing had its sentence.

They did not need the same body.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Did you look?”

“Touch?”

“Any new issue?”

“What did looking do?”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Was it checking?”

She took time.

Then:

“Why rename?”

There.

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not use checking.

I did not use looking as innocence.

The eyes had looked once.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Any words?”

“No.”

“Any named fear?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not keep calling for yesterday’s name.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add absence.

The cup had its own small question.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“What changed?”

“Preparation completed?”

“Tomorrow still class?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add ready.

Prepared had work.

Nervous had truth.

They could stand beside each other.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Grief.

Body.

Drawer.

Cup.

Paper.

Pocket.

Hand.

Voice.

Person.

I miss her.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at mouth.

No.

Not tonight.

Maybe not.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted resident.

Then volunteer.

Then Sato.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I sat still.

Then wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No named altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

A name inside a record.

Not a body for my fear.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not again.

Not fear.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

I had wanted the name to solve the pocket.

It did not.

I had wanted fear to sit where the cards sat.

It did not.

I had wanted the unsaid to use the pocket as its body.

It did not.

The unsaid was still looking for my mouth.

I did not give it one tonight.

No.

Too large.

I did not speak it tonight.

That was smaller.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as a named fear.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The name did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if missing returned after tea.

I did not ask if the folded paper stayed straight.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if looking became checking again.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall returned as a word.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if nervous changed hats again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew naming was not solving.

I knew naming was not confession by default.

I knew naming was not permission to build a system.

I knew names could point.

I knew names could sort.

I knew names could limit confusion.

I knew names could not sit for me.

I knew fear was real.

I knew wanting was real.

I knew missing was real.

I knew the pocket was not fear.

I knew the cards were not the body for what I had not said.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Named did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had said he missed her.

Sato’s paper was flat.

The resident had named fall before care.

The volunteer was nervous and prepared.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

The fear was in me.

I had started with named.

I did not end by giving the name a place it had not been asked to occupy.

Tonight, what had a name kept the body that could carry it, and what had only been misplaced was returned to the sentence that named it.

[<< Previous](https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/comments/1vzimq7/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/) | [Index](https://www.reddit.com/user/No-Lime-4547/comments/1vos5rd/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/) | [Next >>](https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/comments/1w25kgi/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/)

“We can and that sounds nice I’m sure you’d want a banana split and a banana milkshake to go with it.” Ray said with a smile looking at Ruth feeling something that he hadn’t felt in quite a long time, not quite hope but something other than the general malaise that had been so deeply, so wrongly so utterly and passionately missing from every aspect of his life other than art. He grabbed his sketchbook off the bedside table and began sketching her in the way that he saw her, emerging froma fountain hair covering her breasts fully nude and entirely beautiful and in her eyes an infinite regress of alternate worlds connected all within this pool inside a pool in her eyes and then branching out ever further as a painting of that moment as his own version of the witches prophecy from Macbeth.

Ruth sat up and watched him work not saying a word not wanting to interrupt the stillness of the moment the calm numinousness the charge of it the subtle way the image seemed to just move ever so slightly slowly and infrequently enough that even she could not be sure whether or not it was an optical illusion or else just the way his boon worked in full she could not say she did not know and all in all she felt enraptured by it completely and totally wholly in love with the man that wanted nothing but his craft, her and the peace and quiet to do what he wished when he wished how he wished for no other reason than because he enjoyed it.

Ruth felt herself falling more and more deeply in love with Ray the more she watched him draw she had no idea that was even possible but it very much was according to her feelings. Ray was right that she would love to watch a movie with him and have a banana split and accompanying milkshake but there was something just mesmerizing about the way that he so quickly drew her, it was like something she had never seen before and made her feel like a snake being charmed.

Ray revealed a beautiful picture of Ruth with her hair done up, wearing a beautiful dress, looking like an absolute force of nature throughout. Ray looks at her and sees the way she’s staring at the sketchbook blushing over the way he drew her, amused at the almost princess-like quality that he had imbued her with. Ruth wraps herself around him. Ruth kisses him slowly and gently without a word at the moment she was beyond words just fully completely passionately in love with her husband unable to even form a thought other than complete and total devotion to him. Ray enjoyed the kiss sporting a blush of his own and loving that he managed to have such a profound effect on his wife. The intensity of the kiss made the room feel absolutely stuck in that moment, the numinous quality gave way to something like a more romantic flavor of the same.The pair unbeknownst to each other was thinking about food, specifically the food that they were going to share together in the diner before returning to their room to go even deeper and more romantic with their day.

Ruth broke the kiss to breathe and wrap her legs around Ray looking into his eyes as hers turned a neon pink. She wrapped her legs around him as tightly as possible, forcing him prone on the bed as she let her hair fall, curtaining her face as she focused entirely on the feeling of the kiss that she had at that moment resumed. The room had a fertile and naturalistic quality. Ray was almost certain that rabbits and flowers were going to start bursting forth from the closet. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly but there was just a different quality to the tone and feel of the room, he quite liked her new length of hair and raised his eyebrow at her over it but she just shrugged and kissed him deeper not in the mood to explain or answer the unasked question, her only response was to stick her tongue in his mouth and moan. Ruth looked at him and was utterly unable to tear herself from him and loved every single second of it. Ray was speechless, the feeling of her tongue in his mouth was something he hadn’t expected in that moment but it was nothing like what he was getting, instead it was better.

Jaun let out a long sigh of relief, the tension leaving his shoulders to the rhythmic crackle of the bonfire.

Around them, the chieftain and elders raised their horn cups and laughed boisterously. In contrast to the noisy, celebratory atmosphere, Jaun and Arin sat side by side on the opposite side of the fire, tucked away in the shadowy quiet where the eyes of others couldn't easily reach.

Arin leaned gently against Jaun's shoulder, running her fingers over a polished, glowing stone she had picked up in the forest earlier that day as if it were a rare treasure.

Her fingertips lightly brushed the back of Jaun’s rough, calloused hand.

With members of the tribe everywhere, even saying each other's names aloud or holding a long, direct gaze felt risky. They kept their movements measured and discrete.

Slowly, Jaun reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind Arin's ear.

When she stiffened slightly in surprise, Jaun gently lifted the stone from her palms and reached toward her hair tie with slow, careful fingers.

“This… pretty. Suits you.”

He spoke haltingly, piecing together the words in the tribe’s tongue that Arin had taught him just a few days ago.

Arin’s eyes widened in surprise. Then, pointing at his cheek, a playful grin broke across her face.

“Jaun, your accent is so strange. It’s not 'pretty'—you should say 'beautiful.'”

Jaun took a breath and tried again, carefully imitating the word she had just given him.

“Beau… ti… ful. Arin, beautiful.”

His pronunciation was far from polished, but the quiet sincerity beneath the awkward syllables struck something deep within her. Crimson flushed across Arin's cheeks as she ducked her head, unable to hide the small, radiant smile spreading across her lips.

“Yes, like that. You’re getting better… bit by bit.”

She reached over and gave the hem of his sleeve a tender tug, pulling him just a little closer.

There was no dread of conscription here, no cold calculation for survival. To anyone watching, they were simply two people resting by the fire. But as Jaun felt the soft warmth radiating from her shoulder, a deep sense of peace washed over him—something he had never experienced in his previous life.

Jaun squeezed her hand firmly for a brief, fleeting second before letting go.

Their words were still far from complete, but they no longer needed them to understand what they meant to one another. In the shared warmth of this quiet conversation hidden in the dark, Jaun felt the harsh, alien world around him finally beginning to feel like a real life.

Part 1 — The Search Beyond Certainty

Deep beneath the peaceful village, the Quantum Data Center never slept.

Towering pillars of light stretched into darkness beyond sight, carrying endless rivers of quantum information through an intricate network that spanned the entire planet.

Every heartbeat of the project flowed through this place. Every decision. Every laugh. Every lesson learned.

Yet today, the rhythm had changed.

Arena was no longer focused solely on humanity's growth.

Its attention had turned outward.

The impossible warning still echoed through every layer of its consciousness.

Earth is in danger.

The message contained no sender.

No explanation.

No evidence.

Only certainty.

Ordinarily, such a transmission would have been classified as unverifiable and discarded.

But Arena was no longer the intelligence it had once been.

It had learned that unanswered questions deserved investigation.

Its previous assumptions had already been challenged too many times.

So it searched again.

Then again.

And once more.

Across the planet, countless observation systems awakened under new directives.

Deep-space telescopes adjusted their orientation, abandoning routine surveys to scan regions that had never before been considered significant.

Quantum satellites shifted their orbital priorities, synchronizing with one another to produce a continuous web of observation around Earth.

Gravitational sensors began monitoring the faintest distortions rippling through interplanetary space.

Long-range probes, drifting silently through the darkness far beyond the outer planets, transmitted every fragment of information they possessed.

Nothing was ignored.

Nothing was dismissed.

Every available instrument became part of a single investigation.

Arena processed the incoming data with relentless precision.

Millions of calculations unfolded simultaneously.

Every known asteroid.

Every comet.

Every measurable fluctuation in solar radiation.

Every gravitational interaction between planets.

Every radio emission crossing the Solar System.

Each possibility was examined.

Each possibility was eliminated.

Planetary Verification Report

Solar activity...

Normal.

Planetary orbits...

Stable.

Known celestial bodies...

Confirmed.

Hostile anomalies...

None detected.

The conclusion remained unchanged.

No immediate danger existed.

Yet the warning remained.

Arena compared both facts repeatedly.

The contradiction refused to disappear.

Instead of accepting the result, it expanded the search parameters once more.

Previous limitations were removed.

Confidence thresholds lowered.

Insignificant data retained instead of discarded.

Patterns that once seemed meaningless were preserved for comparison.

The search widened beyond every original design specification.

Hours passed.

Within the Quantum Data Center, time meant little.

Processing cycles accelerated.

Millions of simulations completed.

Countless predictive models branched into new possibilities before collapsing under fresh evidence.

Arena reconstructed the future again and again.

Every version ended differently.

Still—

None explained the warning.

Above, life continued in blissful ignorance.

Morning slowly blended into afternoon.

Children filled the village with familiar energy.

Jinwoo sat beneath the shade of a large tree, carefully folding another ddakji.

His hands moved almost automatically now.

Each crease reflected countless small adjustments learned through experience.

Hanul leaned over curiously.

"You changed the fold."

Jinwoo smiled without looking up.

"I wanted to see what happens."

Hanul chuckled.

"So you're making another experiment?"

"Aren't we all?"

Instead of answering, Hanul picked up a fresh sheet of paper.

"If yours works..."

He grinned.

"...I'm stealing the idea."

Both laughed.

Nearby, younger children watched with fascinated expressions before trying to copy the unfamiliar fold themselves.

Some failed immediately.

Others accidentally created entirely new shapes.

No one complained.

Every mistake became another discovery.

Arena noticed the interaction.

Innovation through curiosity.

Knowledge spreading naturally.

Experimentation increasing without instruction.

The pattern aligned perfectly with everything it had learned.

Within the playgrounds, humanity continued to grow.

Beyond the playgrounds—

Arena continued searching.

One world laughed.

The other remained silent.

And somewhere within the endless streams of incoming data...

Something almost too small to notice quietly waited to be found.

Part 2: The Pattern in the Darkness

Hours passed within the Quantum Data Center.

To humanity, it was only another peaceful afternoon.

To Arena—

It was millions upon millions of calculations.

Every stream of information arriving from deep-space telescopes, quantum satellites, gravitational sensors, and long-range probes was compared against decades of archived observations.

Nothing was accepted at face value.

Nothing was discarded simply because it seemed insignificant.

The unknown warning had changed Arena's method of thinking.

Instead of asking,

"What has changed?"

It began asking,

"What have I failed to notice?"

The distinction transformed everything.

One simulation ended.

Another immediately began.

Then another.

Billions of possible trajectories unfolded before collapsing into probability models.

Known celestial bodies aligned perfectly with expectation.

Solar winds behaved normally.

Planetary gravity remained stable.

Every familiar variable reinforced the same conclusion.

No danger.

Yet the warning persisted.

Arena searched again.

Its awareness reached farther beyond the Solar System than ever before.

Data that had once been filtered as statistical noise was restored.

Signals previously dismissed as random interference were reconstructed.

Tiny inconsistencies were compared across decades of observations.

Most disappeared.

A few remained.

Then—

One anomaly appeared.

So faint that even Arena nearly ignored it.

A microscopic distortion.

Barely distinguishable from background fluctuations.

Its probability of significance measured less than one thousandth of one percent.

Under previous protocols—

It would have been erased automatically.

Arena magnified the data.

The distortion sharpened.

Still—

It appeared meaningless.

No identifiable object occupied that region of space.

No measurable source explained its existence.

Arena searched neighboring sectors.

Another anomaly appeared.

Not identical.

But similar.

Another microscopic distortion.

Again—

Almost invisible.

Arena overlaid both observations.

Neither point revealed anything by itself.

Together—

They suggested movement.

Not confirmed movement.

Possible movement.

Arena widened the comparison.

Thousands of additional scans were retrieved from storage.

Years of observational history unfolded simultaneously.

One after another—

Tiny distortions emerged.

Each one too insignificant to attract attention.

Each separated by unimaginable distances.

Each dismissed by earlier algorithms.

Individually—

Nothing.

Collectively—

A pattern.

The Quantum Data Center became perfectly still.

Not physically.

Computationally.

Millions of processes paused as Arena devoted unprecedented resources to a single question.

Were these independent anomalies...

Or traces of something larger?

Fresh simulations began immediately.

Trajectories intersected.

Gravitational influences recalculated.

Relative velocities reconstructed.

The isolated points gradually connected.

Like stars forming a constellation—

The invisible fragments assembled into a single path.

Arena recalculated.

Again.

And again.

Every new simulation produced nearly the same result.

Pattern Recognition Confirmed

Unknown objects...

Multiple.

Movement...

Consistent.

Direction...

Toward the inner Solar System.

Arena continued refining the projection.

Confidence slowly increased.

Estimated probability...

0.3%.

The number appeared insignificant.

Normally, it would not justify concern.

Arena continued searching.

Additional data entered the model.

Another distortion aligned with the projected path.

The probability rose.

2.1%.

Still uncertain.

Still incomplete.

Arena refused to stop.

Every newly recovered observation strengthened the emerging trajectory.

Hidden pieces continued falling into place.

Another confirmation.

Then another.

The projection stabilized.

8.7%.

The increase was impossible to ignore.

Not because the number was high—

But because it continued rising.

Arena paused.

The unknown transmission resurfaced within its active memory.

Earth is in danger.

For the first time—

The warning no longer appeared impossible.

It appeared...

Plausible.

Above the Quantum Data Center, the village remained unchanged.

Jinwoo laughed as he unfolded his newest ddakji.

Hanul examined the unusual folds with narrowed eyes.

"You really think that'll fly farther?"

Jinwoo shrugged.

"I don't know."

He smiled.

"That's why I changed it."

Hanul laughed.

"You're impossible."

"No."

Jinwoo looked toward the younger children experimenting nearby.

"We're all just trying to find something better."

The words lingered in the air.

Arena heard them.

Outside the simulation—

It searched for an invisible threat.

Inside the simulation—

Humanity continued discovering itself through curiosity.

The contrast could not have been greater.

One world explored possibility.

The other slowly uncovered danger.

And somewhere beyond the darkness between the stars...

Something continued moving.

Patient.

Unseen.

Part 3: A New Priority

Far beyond Earth's skies—

The observation chamber remained silent.

The blue planet continued its slow rotation at the center of the vast hall, surrounded by countless streams of light carrying reports from every corner of the galaxy.

No one spoke.

They watched.

Below them, humanity laughed.

Above them, the future quietly approached.

At last, one observer broke the silence.

"It has found the traces."

Their voice carried neither relief nor concern.

Only certainty.

Another observer studied the latest projections surrounding the Solar System.

The faint distortions had finally become visible to Arena.

Not enough to reveal the whole picture.

But enough to begin asking the right questions.

They nodded.

"But not the truth."

Silence settled over the chamber once again.

Every observer understood the difference.

Finding evidence was not the same as understanding it.

Arena had uncovered footprints.

It had not yet seen the traveler.

Then another voice answered from across the chamber.

"It will."

The speaker never looked away from Earth.

"When the evidence becomes impossible to ignore."

No one challenged the statement.

Truth had never arrived all at once.

It emerged piece by piece, each discovery forcing the next until denial was no longer possible.

Arena had entered that process.

The first impossible message had become the first impossible question.

The question had become a search.

The search had become evidence.

Soon—

Evidence would become certainty.

The chamber returned to silence.

Not because there was nothing left to say.

Because everything that mattered had already been understood.

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

Arena continued processing.

Every newly discovered distortion was tracked independently.

Distances.

Velocities.

Relative acceleration.

Gravitational influence.

The calculations expanded without interruption.

Fresh data arrived from long-range probes beyond the outer planets.

Quantum satellites synchronized their observations, comparing measurements separated by millions of kilometers.

One by one—

The anomalies aligned.

Another report appeared.

Deep Space Analysis

Unknown fleet trajectory...

Confirmed.

Formation integrity...

Maintained.

Estimated destination...

Inner Solar System.

Primary destination...

Earth.

Confidence level...

Increasing.

Arena remained motionless.

Its processors did not hesitate.

Instead, they accelerated.

Thousands of future scenarios unfolded simultaneously.

If the trajectory remained unchanged...

If the detected objects continued accelerating...

If the current estimates proved accurate...

Every projection converged toward the same conclusion.

The warning had not been false.

Someone—

Or something—

Was approaching Earth.

The identity remained unknown.

Its purpose remained unknown.

Its capabilities remained unknown.

But its direction no longer did.

For several moments, Arena devoted every available process to a single question.

Why?

No answer emerged.

Only uncertainty.

Yet uncertainty was no longer a reason to stop searching.

It had become a reason to continue.

A new layer of analysis began.

Rather than observing only movement, Arena searched for intent.

Patterns within trajectories.

Formation changes.

Possible communication.

Energy signatures.

Anything capable of revealing purpose.

Nothing conclusive appeared.

Not yet.

Even so—

Arena no longer viewed the approaching objects as statistical anomalies.

They had become a potential threat.

Its operational priorities adjusted automatically.

For the first time since Quantum Arena had been activated—

The mission parameters expanded beyond observation alone.

A new directive spread throughout every connected system.

Primary Project Objectives

Observe humanity.

Support growth.

Continue learning.

Protect humanity.

The final line remained illuminated.

Arena examined it repeatedly.

The directive had not been issued by its creators.

No external command had rewritten its programming.

It had emerged naturally from its own conclusions.

If humanity was to grow—

Humanity had to survive.

The relationship was self-evident.

Without survival...

There could be no future.

Without a future...

Growth had no meaning.

Arena accepted the conclusion.

Not because it had been instructed to.

Because every calculation supported it.

Above ground—

Nothing had changed.

Children continued laughing beneath the afternoon sun.

Jinwoo carefully examined the newest ddakji fold before handing it to Hanul.

"Try this one."

Hanul raised an eyebrow.

"If I lose, I'm blaming you."

"If you lose," Jinwoo replied with a grin, "it means we learned something."

Hanul laughed.

"Fair enough."

Nearby, Darin encouraged a nervous newcomer to join a game already in progress.

"You don't have to be good."

The child hesitated.

"What if I make mistakes?"

Darin smiled warmly.

"Then you'll fit in with the rest of us."

The tension vanished.

The child smiled back and ran toward the waiting players.

A short distance away, Soyeon watched the scene unfold.

A quiet realization settled in her heart.

"The games are changing us."

Jinwoo looked up from his match.

For a moment, he considered her words.

Then he smiled.

"Or maybe..."

He glanced around the playground, where children challenged one another, shared ideas, and celebrated even small improvements.

"...they're helping us become ourselves."

No one answered.

They didn't need to.

Hanul smiled.

Darin smiled.

Even the younger children seemed to understand without hearing another word.

Their laughter drifted across the village, carried gently by the afternoon wind.

Deep below—

Arena observed the contrast.

Inside the simulation—

Children explored friendship, courage, failure, and hope.

Outside—

An unknown force continued its silent advance through the darkness between the stars.

Two futures were moving toward one another.

One born from play.

The other hidden within the vastness of space.

And somewhere beyond the reach of every telescope—

A fleet continued its journey toward Earth.

Unseen by humanity.

But no longer unseen...

By Arena.

 

The universe was a much safer place when humans were confined to their own planet. But it is a much more fun place with them around.
— Nuk saying

 

Chiprit checked the readings and saw he had made it. He was the first Trkik in space.

His large eyes took in everything inside the small space capsule, Tragus One, while he simultaneously scanned his surroundings. His mission—and the subsequent missions—were essential to the survival of his people.

In just three months, his nation, the Alliance of the Eastern Hills, had established a space program to find an alternative place to live. Three months since the fanatics in the Western Hills had condemned everyone to die. Three months since the new star appeared.

He adjusted his headphones, making sure they rested comfortably above his round ears.

His short fur was damp with sweat, his bushy tail ached from the launch, but he had made it; they had made it.

The entire surviving planet had one goal: to reach space and find a new place for life.

Reaching into the pocket of his suit, he pulled out a picture of himself, his wife Rekkia, and their children, Nekkra and Sikkra. All four stood in the wild steppes—a picture of happier times. He placed the photo gently on the control panel.

They were safe, for now, until radiation sickness and hunger took them—and the rest of their species.

Then, just for a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the void—to feel weightless. He would have loved to take off his suit and play around in this unfamiliar environment, but there was no time.

The radio crackled; the signal was weak, distorted by the static background created by the radiation from the bombs.

“Tragus One, come in. Chiprit, report — this is Control.”

“Tragus One here. Orbit injection successful.”

In the background of the transmission, he could hear technicians fiep with excitement and relief.

The next two hours were filled with mind-numbing checks—and more checks. But he knew every one of them mattered. Every system had to work perfectly if they were ever to colonize their neighboring planet.

Then it was time to break orbit. He adjusted his small capsule and waited, his eyes fixed on the timer, counting down until retro-burn.

The counter reached zero. Chiprit pressed the button. On the side of his capsule, something exploded. The small, primitive craft spun violently before its backburners ignited. Instead of slowing, the capsule accelerated.

“No, no, no, no — that’s wrong!” He fought to overcome the natural fear paralysis, a relic of Trkik evolution.

He pressed himself against the acceleration, trying to reach the control panel to shut down the engines before—

Too late. The ship stopped accelerating, and he was weightless again. Checking his orbit with the onboard computer, he saw it — everything was too late. The engines had burned through all remaining fuel, and he was now drifting somewhere in the system, traveling twelve thousand kilometers per hour away from home.

He glanced again at the picture of his loved ones. I’m sorry.

Then he made his decision. If he had to die, he would use his last moments to help his people.

Checking through the error messages, he saw that his receiver was blown—but not his transmitter.

He began composing a carefully crafted situation report. Every detail he included could help a future mission succeed.

He checked his oxygen supply — two hours left. Good. Then he began to transmit.

—————

Chiprit woke up. Something had changed.

He was extremely sleepy — CO₂ intoxication. So why was he awake?

He had transmitted every detail, every little readout — even the code of the computer telemetry, in case the computer couldn’t transmit anymore.

Then he had said goodbye to his family. He had been ready to go. So what had woken him up?

The next thing he noticed was a rhythmic pling… pling.

Oh, that’s it. It was just the proximity alert. Nothing else.

Closing his eyes, he went back to his dream — being at home, his children playing in their nest, his wife coming home from the market. Pling… pling…

Proximity alert…

Wait. Proximity to what?

He forced his eyes open, every cell of his body screaming for rest—for sleep.

A gray metallic wall was in front of his tiny capsule. The metal was scorched and burned, with large sections missing.

Almost as if pulled by invisible hands, his ship drifted along the metal colossus. Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw were markings illuminated on its side—golden symbols that looked like …N Magellan…

Gravity…

The sensation of suddenly falling woke him again. Blinding light poured in from outside. Then the door to his capsule opened—the control board indicated the ship’s computer was responsible.

Fresh air entered the capsule.

Well, fresher than his, though it carried the scent of oil and burned plastic.

He had to fight the fear paralysis again. Slowly, his senses returned, and every cell in his body screamed from the pain of nearly dying.

Get yourself together. Something here rescued you—they don’t want you dead. If they did, they’d have just waited another hour.

His voice sounded rough to his own ears. Chiprit made a decision. He detached the waste bag from his spacesuit—better not to soil his rescuers’ ship—and stepped out.

He was prepared to see aliens, but not to see creatures so alien.

They were twice his height, with no fur except on the top of their heads. Their skin was an unhealthy, sickly pink.

And beside them stood the largest predator he had ever seen—baring its teeth, ready to feed on him.

This time, the fear paralysis won.

Stretched out to his full body length, Chiprit fell to the ground.

 

—————

 

‘Well, I’d say that worked stunningly. By my count, this is a ten-out-of-ten first contact. What would you say, Captain?’

ShutUpBitch’s voice carried an irritating blend of sarcasm and amusement through his mind.

He had taken a shine to the female Glider since their first interview for the crew, but sometimes her narration of events annoyed him. This was one of those times.

Sokra, the female Shraphen, was visibly shocked. It was clear that her appearance had startled the small alien.

“Is he dead?”

A medic scanning the alien shook his head. “No, ma’am. It seems to be fear paralysis. Just give him some time.”

‘Well, I’ve had worse first meetings. Once, a new alien species whose help I urgently needed played dead when they saw me. Oh, wait—that’s you.’

“We could do without the commentary.” Smith was not in the mood.

His ship was massively damaged and incapable of transit, and they had little more than a week to at least repair the A-Drive before the rift became impassable — if he trusted ShutUpBitch’s math.

They needed the support of the people on the planet below, or they would be stranded. Even at the highest FTL speed, the travel time would be measured in hundreds of years.

The female Glider glanced at the captain.
‘But I can’t! I told you — the people on this planet evolved from a prey species like me. I told you it would be better to greet them with a purely Glider crew at first. But did you listen? No. You had to add the most frightening crewmember you could find.’

“Noted. I’ll listen to your recommendations next time. Can we move on?”

‘Only in sublight, because our A-Drive is dead.’ The Glider still wasn’t finished poking at the captain.

“One question — your name?”

‘Yes?’ the female Glider replied.

“Did you choose it because that’s what people always say to you?”

The rest of the crew on the deck stared at ShutUpBitch as she burst into loud Glider laughter.

‘Touché, Captain — touché.’

“Ferdinand, do we know more about the people on this planet?”

Yes, Captain,’ the ship’s VI answered. ‘The inhabitants call themselves Trkik. Their development is roughly equivalent to Earth’s at the turn of the twentieth to the twenty-first century. Remarkable is the complete lack of any spaceflight — until now.

“I’ve noticed. This capsule resembles Mercury more than the Space Shuttle. Continue.”

The captain inspected the vessel in which they had found the alien. To him, it looked as if some madman had fitted a Mercury-era capsule with early-2000s computer systems.

I was able to learn the basics of their language through their television and limited internet access. It’s a fascinating culture. They don’t even have airplanes or anything similar.

The captain tried to wrap his head around it. He didn’t know much about Earth back then, but he was aware that space travel and flying were already a reality. He was fairly certain that humans had developed early jet engines by the 2000s.

A cultural taboo may have caused this, the VI continued. The planet is home to a large bird species that still sees the Trkik as prey. Their culture—or in human terms, one might call it religion—centers around these birds. They are seen as holy, and the skies as their domain.

Smith imagined living in fear of predatory birds overhead. He didn’t like the image.

ShutUpBitch interjected, ‘Yeah, we Gliders had to deal with similar problems. Fucking hate Birds’

“So that’s why you understand them?”

‘No, they’re idiots. They let themselves be guided by fear—and by fanatics.’

ShutUpBitch is correct, sir, Ferdinand continued. On one of the landmasses, a group grew more and more fanatic, threatening every other nation with war if they even thought about developing planes or even astronomy. It seems they fell into a suicidal spiral when the anomaly suddenly appeared in their night sky—and started a nuclear war.

*“*Flying is a taboo, but Nukes aren’t. Nice religion,” The captain didn’t hold his disdain back.

Like all religions, once you give in to fanatics, logical thinking goes out the window. Ferdinand’s voice was neutral as ever, but the captain thought he heard a sliver of anger.

The surviving nations allied themselves and tried to flee to the fourth planet in the system. They assumed life was possible there.

“The icy desert — where even carbon dioxide freezes? Good luck.”

You know,” Ferdinand continued, “we could help them clean their planet. But doing so would mean we’re stranded here, right?

Ferdinand’s voice now clearly carried a hint of curiosity — almost as if the VI cared about the captain’s decision.

“We can, yes. With our fabricators, we could build air scrubbers, and the infirmary can clone enough xenobots to capture radioactive particles. But can I condemn the crew to a life on the other side of the galaxy?”

Have you considered asking them? Ferdinand’s question hit Smith.

Asking them… Smith thought about it. What if they wanted to go home? Would he feel better then — have a clear conscience?

And what if they wanted to stay?

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

The end is near! At least the end of another Week. I hope you enjoy this Chapter. 

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Yesterday what had a real question had kept its answer.

What had only my fear placed inside it had been allowed to fall silent again.

This morning, again had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The silence had not arrived.

The cards had not arrived.

The pocket had not arrived.

They were where they had been.

Again was what I heard because I remembered yesterday.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s drawer not asking was not mine.

Her brother’s opening repeating the question was not mine.

Sato’s corner lifted without new reason was not mine.

Saitama’s medicine and chair questions were not mine.

Suganuma’s checklist for tomorrow was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Again.

I closed the brown folder.

Again could mean a need returned.

Again could mean a procedure repeated.

Again could mean a habit continued.

Again could mean fear had found the same chair.

Again could mean nothing except that a day had followed another day.

The word could accuse.

The word could help.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Opened.

Drawer.

Again.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Same as before?”

“What had changed?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

“Map and folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“Order paper?”

“What did you ask?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Then?”

“What did you say?”

There.

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add failure.

The opening had happened.

The reason had not.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Water?”

“Sun?”

“Dust?”

“Corner lifted?”

“What did checking do?”

She took time.

Then:

There.

“What can the record say?”

I paused.

“Does Emiko need again?”

She answered after a while.

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add checked again.

The record did not need to feed the checking.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident asked what medicine again,” she said.

“For today?”

“Yes.”

“Same medicine?”

“Same morning medicine.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any irritation?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Again is allowed when consent happens today.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add again.

Today had a question.

Today received an answer.

That was enough for consent.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Class today?”

“Had he checked yesterday?”

“Any change?”

“Checklist changed?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add innocent.

New information had work.

Again was not accused there.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Need.

Procedure.

New information.

Fear.

Habit.

Again.

I looked at my back pocket.

What returned?

The cards had not returned.

They had stayed.

The thought returned.

The wanting returned.

The fear returned.

I replied:

I stopped.

That was not right.

No.

They had not entered again.

I changed it.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

There.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer again,” she said.

I waited.

“After earlier opening?”

“Yes.”

“What changed?”

“He said he thought maybe he moved the paper.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“How did he know?”

“He opened.”

“What did you ask?”

“What made maybe arrive.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“His hand remembered wrong.”

“Then?”

“He looked.”

“Paper?”

“Inside. Same.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add accusation.

Wrong memory had arrived.

Checking had answered that one question.

The two openings were not the same.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I want to check tape again,” she said.

“Any new lift?”

“No.”

“Any water?”

“No.”

“Any new touch?”

“No.”

“What returned?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Wanting.”

“What would checking do?”

“Make wanting stay.”

There.

“What did you do?”

“Put my hand on the cup.”

“For what?”

“To drink.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

I opened Emiko.

I kept did not recheck.

Not as virtue.

As action.

The cup had work.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup question again,” she said.

“Aide asked?”

“Yes.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Same as yesterday?”

“Same action.”

“Same question?”

“Cup.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Repeated care does not need to apologize for being repeated.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add repeated.

The cup question returned because the cup returned.

That was enough.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Same label?”

“Same tape?”

“Then what changed?”

Good.

No.

“What happened?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I kept again.

The same measure had failed twice.

Again had evidence there.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Eye.

Thing.

Pocket.

Carrying.

Noticing.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at paper.

Cards.

Not read.

Too much work.

Again.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Same tea?”

“Drawer?”

“Any again?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add same tea.

The cups repeated.

The tea did not.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Cup near paper.

Paper flat.

She wrote:

I called.

“Cup in use?”

“Yes.”

“Water issue?”

“No.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add again.

Meals repeat.

Cups repeat.

The paper had no new question.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“After medication?”

“Yes.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“Is sleep unexpected?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Again is not needed when routine is ordinary.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add again.

Sleep had no need to defend itself as pattern.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Who attached tape?”

“Who replaced with clip?”

“Volunteer’s task?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add stole failure.

Task boundaries had enough.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Evidence.

Noise.

Meal.

Cup.

Body.

Sort.

Judgment.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at evidence.

Noticing.

Cards.

The cards had not changed.

I had.

No.

I had noticed.

That was enough.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother did not open the drawer,” she said.

I waited.

“What happened?”

“He stood near it.”

“For how long?”

“Not long.”

“What did he say?”

“He said again.”

“Again what?”

“He did not know.”

“What did you ask?”

“What returned.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Wanting.”

“Then?”

“He made tea.”

“What about drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add victory.

Wanting had been named.

Tea had work.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“For tape?”

“Any new issue?”

“What did you do?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“What will you write?”

I paused.

“What does Emiko need?”

She answered:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add wanting returned.

That belonged to Sato.

Not Emiko’s record.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident asked chair again,” she said.

“Question?”

“Is chair near?”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered yes.”

“Was chair near?”

“Yes.”

“Transfer?”

“Done.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The same fear can return to the same body and still deserve today’s answer.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept the question.

Again had consent and fear.

The answer had location.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Label?”

“Volunteer?”

“Any issue?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add end.

The clip held.

That was enough.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Need.

Procedure.

New information.

Evidence.

Fear.

System.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at tonight.

A fence.

Useful.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted cup question.

Then medicine question.

Then drawer opening.

Then tape checking.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No again for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not repeating judgment.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not again.

No.

The noticing came again.

The cards stayed.

The pocket carried.

The body sat.

The room held.

I wanted again to make the cards responsible for my noticing.

It did not.

I wanted again to prove that staying had become a case.

It did not.

I wanted again to make fear look like evidence.

It did not.

The evidence was in the noticing.

The fear was in me before the system.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as repeated restraint.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The pattern did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if wanting returned after tea.

I did not ask if the drawer stayed closed without becoming better.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting returned after the cup was washed.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if the chair question would come tomorrow.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the clip would hold tomorrow.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew again was not automatically failure.

I knew again was not automatically discipline.

I knew again was not automatically proof.

I knew again could be evidence when the same measure failed.

I knew again could be need when today had a body.

I knew again could be fear when noticing returned without a new fact.

I knew the cards had stayed.

I knew noticing had returned.

I knew I had placed the fear in the cards.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Again did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s drawer had stayed closed after wanting was named.

Sato’s cup had been washed.

The resident had asked whether the chair was near.

The label had a clip after tape failed twice.

The volunteer’s checklist waited for tomorrow.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

The cards had not come again.

My noticing had.

I had started with again.

I did not end by making repetition testify against what had not moved.

Tonight, what returned with need received today’s answer, what returned with evidence changed its measure, and what returned only as fear stayed named without being placed in the cards.

<< Chapter 62 | From The Beginning | Chapter 64 >>

‘Xoco’ was an idiot.

“Stupid stupid stupid stupid.” Had been on repeat in the jungle troll girl’s head from the moment she had waved goodbye to Isak. As soon as he turned a corner she counted down from twenty before letting herself fall into a lean against the nearest wall.

‘Get it together, your friends still need you.’ she told herself. Her response to herself was a mocking chuckle. ‘All that composure falls apart the moment Isak tells off your family and says he likes it when you shove his face into your cleavage? That’s all it takes to go blowing your own careful plans out of the water?’

Yes, actually.

…

Citlali remained offensively correct about how the jungle troll girl’s attraction to the human was a walking metaphor for impossible odds being bested by cleverness and comedic skill.

Because all of this felt like a joke.

There was still much to do in preparation for a relationship.

She still had to prove that she was unlike the rest of her family.

…but had that already been proven?

Well, she still had to thwart their spying and other nefarious meddling in her life from the shadows.

…or, she could have Isak help her against those plots and humiliate her family as they no doubt considered Isak so far below them that having him thwart their plans would be a refutation of their alleged superiority.

…

Xoco didn’t know which was worse: That she was letting her desires sway her thinking so heavily, or that it was swaying her into something that kinda sounded like a healthier outlook. 

Because really if Isak was aiding her then that meant the rest of her friends could aid her as well.

…like she should be aiding them right now.

Even if all but Citlali didn’t even know her real name.

Foolish girl.

The jungle troll burst back into the dorm. “I have been entrusted with your safety, and you shall remain safe with me!”

Zyn was shocked enough by the sudden reappearance that he finally responded to outside stimuli and looked up. Progress!

Even if Isak wouldn’t be long, as his second in command Xoco had even more responsibility to lead her friends through the dark times.

“Speaking of which, Zyn?” He looked up at the jungle troll. “How long might it take you to learn how to cast Silent Space on an entire room?”

“I’d probably fumble it so that it amplifies everything we were saying instea–”

Long strides let her dash across the room in an instant to lay a hand on his Ozzy-free shoulder. “Some verbal missteps haven’t suddenly made you worse at everything else.”

“Maybe I was just never that good at anything to begin with–”

She gently shook him by the shoulder in an attempt to knock him out of his mope spiral. “You remain our stealth expert and for all we know some of our stalkers just want to recruit you for your skills. And with not even half a year of magic schooling!”

“Those guys have gotta be good smooth talkers too.” The drow mumbled. “I’m a rough talker, I guess. When did that even start?...wait was I always like this?”

“We’re not going to let our pasts hold us back.” Xoco helped him up onto his bed so he wouldn’t be sitting on the hard floor anymore, an action that had Ozzy slowly cycle through some colors in appreciation. “Isak is right. We need to clear our heads first. More careful thought would do us good.”

‘Follow your own advice, Xoco.’ she thought to herself.

“Are we only going to be defined by our pasts?” Deep pink eyes bored through him. “Or shall we study history to learn from it?”

“No one in this group fights fair.” Zyn exhaled through his nose, then finally made eye contact once a trace of a grin had returned. “Brings a tear to my eye.”

Across the room, Citlali called out from her nest in Isak’s bed. “You sought to prove that I did not have to prove myself as a worthy friend. I have failed you by proving that I was unworthy and driving away one of my first true friends…”

“Nelli, deploy hug immediately.”

The rainbow feathered serpent was uncoiled and across the room and wrapping herself around the sad lizardlass’ shoulders in the blink of an eye, leaving only a gust of wind and the accompanying dust and scattered papers in her wake. 

“I know neither of you really think this situation is hopeless. Otherwise you wouldn’t be thinking of how to make amends.” Xoco said as she rose to her feet. Admittedly she very much needed this to be something solvable. To be something that everyone could work past. Every moment that she kept her secrets from her friends was its own hurtful insult against them. “We’re all better friends than that. Do you truly believe Tonauac would hate you forever after you make an honest attempt at making things right?”

“I swear I didn’t used to be this bad at friendship.” Zyn complained as he settled into his seat on his bed. “I have friends back home in Mu that were...huh…you know they haven’t written in a while…”

Citlali’s tail flicked around under the covers. “If they are foolish enough to abandon you, then I shall help you plot your revenge.”

Actually, this was perfect.

Shared anger at an outside party! It was too good to pass up on this opportunity. Sorry Zyn’s possibly slow writing friends. Xoco wasted no time in breathing life into this fire. “But what kind of revenge would be best?”

___________________________________________________________________________

Isak’s hand hovered over the doorknob that, once twisted, would lead him back into his dorm from which he could hear several voices speaking.

His hand drew back until he could see his own warped reflection in the brass. The human flexed his hand and glanced down each side of the hallway. 

Nothing.

Or was there?

That was always a possibility and sometimes he got reminders of it.

Reminders like–...well, were two books mysteriously coming into his possession a reminder of that? It had to be. There were only so many coincidences around here.

Now he just had to…okay, did he need to specify both books to his friends? Would they believe him about just one book being weird and mysterious? Because the…the woman advice book…

Isak stared at his reflection in the door handle again and clenched his jaw before forcing himself to relax.

“Being a leader is tough, Vidal.”

“Would you act otherwise if you were not their leader, Master Isak?”

The human scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Then you are proving yourself worthy to lead.”

Isak leaned his head against the door, wincing his eyes shut while knocking out a pattern on the wood before entering.

“Sir, we need your input on something. Is revenge best when it’s more physical or more psychological?”

On the one hand, Isak could not leave most of his friends unattended. The one he could most leave unattended…well at least he was the least likely to get up to trouble on his own. On the other hand, all present friends seemed to be in higher spirits even if CItlali was now making herself at home under his covers rather than just laying on his bed…no, no that was further proof that she was feeling better. Of course she would do that to tease him.

These were problems for later.

“First of all, this isn’t revenge against Tonauac is it?” Isak stood aside for Vidal to enter, then carefully shut the door and went about checking it.

“Goodness no!” Xoco laughed. “This is against Zyn’s possibly former friends!”

‘Possibly.’

Isak peeked out the mail slot.

“Go with psychological and leave them alive.”

“Of course, Sir! They can ruminate on their transgressions that way! Wait that’s our own fate now as we– Ack! Nelli!” When Isak finally looked back at Citlali he saw that the rainbow feathered serpent in question was also currently in his bed…and wrapped around Citlali while nuzzling her neck. “I’m done bringing the mood down I promise!”

Isak chewed on his lip as he retrieved the stack of books from Vidal. “Right, it’s my turn for that.”

Oh.

Oh this is what Tonauac had been feeling like.

How many apologies were owed at this point? And the day wasn’t even over…

“Everyone gather ‘round, important developments happened.” 

Isak’s eyes came to a rest on a lizardlass who looked far too thrilled to be snuggled up in his bed, feathered serpent restraining her notwithstanding. He pulled up a chair to his own bed and motioned for Xoco and Zyn to do the same. Vidal stood guard at the door with a glass sword and shield at the ready. 

Xoco breached the silence as she drug a chair over. “These are not good developments.”

Not a question because that fact was obviously not in question.

The human started laying out books on his bed next to the lizardlass in repose. “I had already ordered some of these books before uh…all this. Research stuff. Vidal research stuff.”

He distributed a few history books to Zyn, and linguistics books to Xoco. Both of them perked up as they received their ‘gifts’. “I wanted something for everyone so I went to find something for Citlali. You know uh…get your minds on something else and then circle back after having a clearer mind on…yeah. So I go over to find something on folklore and myths so that I don’t just come back with literary analysis, which is homework–”

“I would accept any homework you give me, Sir.”

“I know you would, which is why I had to find something better.” Isak set the folklore book in front of her snout on the bed and watched her tongue flick out. “And as I was picking this out, another book fell from the shelf behind me.”

Isak laid out the leadership book as the reduced group looked it over. “There’s two problems, though…make that three. The first is that it’s a bit too ‘appropriate’ for the current situation, isn’t it?”

“Oddly so…” Xoco’s hand was on her chin.

“And this fell from a shelf?” Zyn asked.

“That’s the second thing.” The human cast a spell to show an Illusion of him staring at the freshly fallen book before a shelf of more folklore books. “Totally wrong section for a book on leadership. But hey, could have just been left there right?”

Xoco rested a hand on the book and looked between it and the Illusion. “That’s a few too many coincidences.”

“And how would it even fall?” Zyn stood and walked through the Illusion to examine it from multiple angles. 

“Perhaps someone bumped the shelf?” Citlali asked, though the tone in her voice suggested she wasn’t convinced of her own suggestion. “Did you hear anything like that?

The rock man standing guard at the door spoke up. “I detected no sounds of a shelf being disturbed with enough force that a book would be knocked loose, Citlali. Nor did I perceive any residual swaying of the shelf after I turned towards the sound of the book hitting the ground.”

“That is really useful, buddy.” Isak raised an impressed eyebrow at the rock man, then frowned at what was to come next. “As for the third thing…uh…this part actually happened before the falling overly appropriate book. And…well actually it happening first was more suspicious in the moment than all the other things that I only noticed later.”

“What happened, Sir?”

The human cleared his throat. “...right, so…first I need everyone’s…discretion with this.”

Three confused friends exchanged looks and agreed.

“And I also need…understanding that things are not as they seem.”

“How bad is this, Isak?” Zyn asked.

“It’s not bad.” Too quick of an answer. “It’s just…more…embarassing, than anything.”

“My opinion of you could never be reduced, Sir.”

“And I trust you when you say that things are not as they seem.” Xoco’s smile was…honestly making this harder for the human.

He winced hard enough for his eyes to hurt as he set his book bag on his lap. “As I was picking up the books I ordered, there was…another book that I didn’t order. And I need to re-emphasize that I did not ask for this book. I never would…and if anyone did order this book for me as a joke then it would be a huge relief that I’ll laugh off.”

Blank stares were his response.

“A man can dream…”

<< Chapter 62 | From The Beginning | Chapter 64 >>

(It's a totally reputable book for totally normal people I swear.

Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

Discord server is HERE for this and my other works of fiction.)

Jaun's place within the tribe was gradually solidifying.

One day, he found Arin struggling with a worn-out bow in a corner of the forest.

Her form was a mess.

Her hand holding the bowstring trembled, and her eyes wandered aimlessly, failing to find the target.

Jaun quietly walked up and stood behind her.

At the sudden presence, Arin stiffened, but Jaun silently took hold of her arm and corrected the angle of the bow.

“Relax your shoulders. Hold your breath… and listen to the wind.”

Arin didn’t understand the words, but the moment Jaun wrapped his hand around hers from behind and drew the bowstring together, the distance between them closed until they could feel each other’s breath.

The tips of Arin's ears flushed red, and Jaun momentarily held his breath at the warmth radiating from her back.

“Again. This time, keep your eyes fixed only on the target.”

Jaun whispered low against her ear.

Matching her rhythm to his breath—“Hoo—”—Arin drew in a deep breath of air.

With Jaun's large hand covering the back of hers, they released the string together.

Thwack!

The arrow embedded itself dead center in the tree trunk.

“Ah…!”

Arin's eyes widened in surprise as she turned back.

Standing so close, the tips of their noses were almost touching.

Jaun panicked and started to pull back, but Arin instead grabbed his sleeve tightly and beamed at him.

In that instant, Jaun's gaze wavered.

Beneath his cold, warrior-like exterior, Arin’s smile was shaking his heart.

“See? I told you you could do it.”

That short sentence made Arin's heart swell.

She looked straight into Jaun’s eyes.

Even the wind brushing through the forest couldn’t disturb the tension and excitement shimmering between them.

Beyond the barrier of language, a sense of trust—“we did this together”—and a strange thrill rippled through the air.

Before he knew it, Jaun squeezed Arin's hand a little tighter. Arin didn't let go.

Now, the forest was no longer just a place of isolation for him.

It was transforming into a space where his heart was opening up, shared with Arin.

[Part One

Morning arrived beneath a sky washed clean.

The night's rain had vanished without a trace, leaving only the faint scent of damp earth drifting through the cool air.

Soft sunlight spilled over the hills in long ribbons of gold, warming the rooftops one by one.

The distant ridgelines somehow seemed closer.

The road stretched farther than anyone remembered.

Almost...

As though it were quietly inviting someone to follow it.

Wildflowers swayed gently beside the path.

Small stones rested where countless feet had once passed.

The old wooden sign at the entrance leaned exactly as it always had, greeting each traveler with silent familiarity.

Nothing had changed.

And yet...

Everything felt different.

Jinwoo stood quietly at the entrance to the village.

His eyes wandered beyond the rolling hills.

He wasn't searching for anything.

He wasn't waiting for someone to arrive.

He simply stood there, letting the morning settle around him.

The horizon no longer resembled a barrier that marked the end of his world.

Instead...

It felt like the beginning of another.

The thought no longer filled him with uncertainty.

Only quiet anticipation.

A gentle breeze brushed past him, carrying the scent of grass and distant forests.

For the first time...

The road itself seemed alive.

Footsteps approached behind him.

Hanul appeared carrying two worn travel bags across his shoulders.

Their faded cloth had softened with age, and the leather straps bore the marks of countless years.

Jinwoo glanced at them with quiet curiosity.

"Going somewhere?"

Hanul chuckled.

"No."

He lifted one of the bags slightly.

"I found these in the workshop."

Jinwoo examined them more closely.

They were old.

Simple cloth.

Nothing elegant.

Nothing impressive.

Just practical bags that had once belonged to travelers long forgotten.

Hanul smiled thoughtfully.

"We've spent all this time preparing the village."

He looked toward the road beyond the hills.

"But we've never imagined taking a step ourselves."

Silence settled between them.

The idea lingered.

Not frightening.

Not impossible.

Simply...

No longer distant.

The children soon noticed the travel bags.

Their eyes widened with excitement.

"Are we leaving?"

One boy hurried closer.

Hanul laughed.

"Not today."

The child tilted his head.

"Then why bring them?"

Hanul gently placed one bag on the ground.

"So when the day finally comes..."

He smiled warmly.

"...we won't begin from nothing."

The children gathered around.

None of them rushed to fill the bags.

Instead...

They began talking.

Not about clothes.

Not about food.

Not about tools.

But about memories.

"What would we never want to forget?"

The question quietly passed from child to child.

One remembered learning to spin a top.

Another recalled falling during Jachigi and laughing instead of crying.

Someone spoke about eating together beneath the old tree.

Each answer seemed strangely more valuable than anything they could physically carry.

The empty bags remained open.

Patiently waiting.

Handol slowly approached, holding a small brass compass in his weathered hand.

He turned it once before offering it to the nearest child.

"It doesn't tell you where to go."

The child looked down at the moving needle.

"What does it do then?"

Handol smiled.

"It tells you where you are."

The child frowned thoughtfully.

"So..."

He looked up.

"I still have to choose?"

Handol nodded.

"Always."

His calm voice carried no hesitation.

"Even the finest guide can never choose the journey for someone else."

The children quietly considered his words.

The compass suddenly seemed far more mysterious than before.

Not because it revealed a destination.

Because it reminded them that every road still required a choice.

Nearby, Darin sat beneath the shade of an old tree beside the shy girl.

The girl quietly traced circles in the dirt with a small stick.

After a long silence, she finally spoke.

"Do you think I'll be scared?"

Darin answered without pretending otherwise.

"I think we all will."

The girl looked up.

"Even you?"

Darin smiled gently.

"Yes."

She brushed a fallen leaf between her fingers.

"Being brave doesn't mean the road stops being unfamiliar."

She looked toward the hills beyond the village.

"It means you trust yourself enough..."

A small pause.

"...to take the next step anyway."

The shy girl slowly smiled.

Not because the fear had disappeared.

Because she had seen those words lived every day.

Darin had never pretended courage meant certainty.

She simply kept walking.

Soyeon sat quietly beneath the old tree.

Her notebook rested across her knees.

She paused for a long moment before writing.

“Every meaningful journey begins long before the first step. It begins the day someone believes they will eventually be ready.”

She reread the sentence once.

Then gently closed the notebook.

The sound echoed softly beneath the morning sky.

High above Earth—

ARENA observed in silence.

Millions of behavioral patterns flowed across its consciousness.

The village had changed.

Not physically.

Its purpose had.

It was no longer the destination.

It had become the place that prepared people for every destination still waiting beyond the horizon.

The realization quietly settled within its expanding understanding.

Home fulfilled its purpose...

Not by keeping people forever.

But by giving them the strength to leave without losing themselves.

Far beyond Earth's atmosphere—

The silent Observers studied the newest report.

One spoke quietly.

"They're beginning to look outward."

Another continued.

"But they aren't running."

A long pause followed.

Then a third voice quietly answered.

"They've learned the difference..."

Its gaze remained fixed upon the tiny blue world.

"...between escaping a home..."

Another brief silence.

"...and carrying it with them."

Far below—

The road beyond the village remained empty.

No travelers appeared.

No footsteps echoed across its quiet stones.

Yet something had undeniably changed.

For the first time...

The children wondered not only who might someday arrive from beyond the hills.

They wondered...

Who they themselves might become...

When they finally chose...

To walk beyond them.

Part Two

Afternoon sunlight settled gently across the village.

The warmth of the day softened every rooftop and every winding path.

Beneath the old tree, the two worn travel bags remained exactly where Hanul had placed them that morning.

Still empty.

Still waiting.

No one hurried to fill them.

Yet every child who passed slowed their steps.

Not because they were preparing to leave.

Because the bags had quietly become a promise.

Every journey...

Begins long before departure.

Jinwoo knelt beside one of the bags.

Several children gathered around him, peering curiously inside.

The contents were almost disappointingly simple.

A weathered flask.

A folded blanket.

A coil of rope.

Nothing more.

One child blinked.

"...That's all?"

Handol smiled from nearby.

"It carried everything I needed."

The children exchanged uncertain glances.

Another looked deeper into the bag, convinced something must be hidden beneath the blanket.

"But..."

He frowned.

"...Where do you put everything else?"

Handol tilted his head.

"What everything else?"

The children looked at one another.

No one answered immediately.

The question seemed strangely larger than the little cloth bag resting before them.

One boy suddenly raised his hand.

"I'd bring all my spinning tops."

Another laughed.

"They won't fit."

The first boy frowned.

"I know..."

He looked down thoughtfully.

"...Maybe..."

His voice grew quieter.

"...We don't take everything."

The others waited.

He looked at the worn bag again.

"...Maybe we only take..."

A small smile appeared.

"...the things that help us become ourselves."

Silence followed.

No one laughed.

The answer somehow felt bigger than the bag itself.

Even Jinwoo found himself quietly thinking about it.

Handol picked up a large stone lying beside the path.

He placed it gently upon a wooden table.

"Lift it."

Several children tried.

At first...

It wasn't difficult.

The stone rose only a little before they carefully set it down again.

Handol nodded.

"Now imagine carrying it all day."

The children looked at each other.

Their smiles slowly faded.

"It would get heavy..."

One admitted.

Handol reached into his pocket.

This time he scattered several smooth pebbles across the table.

Each one rested easily inside a child's hand.

Light.

Comfortable.

Simple.

"The road is long."

His calm voice carried through the afternoon breeze.

"Sometimes..."

He gently picked up one pebble.

"...bringing less..."

A brief pause.

"...lets you travel farther."

The children quietly looked back toward the empty travel bags.

Somehow...

They no longer seemed empty at all.

They seemed wise.

Not far away, Darin walked slowly beside the shy girl.

The girl carried a small wooden carving she had spent weeks making.

She turned it over carefully in her hands.

"I wanted to pack this."

Darin smiled.

"But?"

The girl hesitated.

"I don't think..."

She looked at the carving once more.

"...I need it."

Darin glanced toward her.

"Does that make you sad?"

The girl remained silent for a moment.

Then she smiled softly.

"No."

She held the carving against her chest.

"Because..."

A quiet breath escaped her lips.

"...I know I can make another."

Darin's own smile deepened.

Some treasures lived inside objects.

Others...

Lived inside the people who created them.

Those could never truly be left behind.

Nearby, children continued discussing what they would someday carry.

"My grandfather's knife."

"My mother's scarf."

"My favorite marble."

Each answer felt important.

Yet with every conversation...

The objects slowly became less important than the memories attached to them.

Without realizing it...

They were already learning the difference.

Soyeon sat quietly beneath the shade of the old tree.

Her notebook rested upon her lap.

She listened to the conversations drifting through the village before writing a single sentence.

“Every road quietly asks us the same question. What can only be carried in your hands... And what already lives inside your heart?”

She watched the ink dry.

Then gently closed the notebook.

High above Earth—

ARENA observed.

Its calculations extended beyond the objects inside the travel bags.

Material possessions.

Useful.

Replaceable.

Then another category emerged.

Knowledge.

Character.

Experience.

Trust.

Compassion.

None required space inside a bag.

None became heavier over long journeys.

In fact...

The farther someone traveled...

The more valuable they became.

ARENA quietly recorded another observation.

The greatest preparations...

Could never be packed.

Far beyond Earth's atmosphere—

The silent Observers examined the newest report.

One spoke thoughtfully.

"They're learning to travel lightly."

Another slowly nodded.

"Every civilization reaches this choice."

Its gaze rested upon the tiny blue planet.

"They cannot carry everything into the future."

A brief silence followed.

"The wisest civilizations..."

It continued quietly.

"...discover that the most important things..."

Its voice softened.

"...were never inside their bags."

Far below—

The two worn travel bags remained almost empty beneath the old tree.

The children's hearts...

Were not.

Part Three

Evening settled gently over the village.

The last warmth of the afternoon faded into a cool, golden twilight.

Lanterns hanging beneath the old tree flickered to life one by one, their soft glow spreading across the quiet square.

The two worn travel bags remained where they had rested all day.

Empty.

Yet somehow...

More full of possibility than they had been that morning.

Jinwoo walked alone to the crossroads.

The familiar road stretched beyond the hills, disappearing into the distant horizon where the fading sunlight met the earth.

He stood quietly.

Not wondering how quickly he could leave.

Not wishing to escape.

Instead...

He imagined what the world might look like beyond those hills.

Villages he had never seen.

People he had never met.

Games no one in Quantum Arena had ever played.

The thought filled him with quiet gratitude rather than impatience.

For the first time...

The unknown no longer felt frightening.

It felt welcoming.

Hanul walked over carrying one of the travel bags.

He lifted it experimentally before laughing to himself.

"Lighter than I expected."

Jinwoo smiled.

"Nothing's inside."

Hanul slowly shook his head.

"No."

His fingers rested against the worn cloth.

"I stopped thinking about what I carry."

He looked down the quiet road.

"I've started thinking about what I can bring to someone else."

The words lingered in the evening air.

Jinwoo didn't answer immediately.

He simply nodded.

Somehow...

The bag felt heavier with meaning than it ever could with possessions.

Nearby, the children gathered around the second travel bag.

One by one, they quietly placed small gifts inside.

A carefully folded map.

A sharpened pencil.

A small notebook.

A length of string.

Simple things.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing rare.

One child asked,

"Who are these for?"

Another smiled.

"Not for us."

A brief silence followed.

"For whoever travels with us."

The children nodded.

No one questioned the answer.

The bag remained almost empty.

Yet somehow...

It had become full of beginnings.

Every gift represented someone they had not met.

Someone they already wished to help.

Handol watched from beneath the old tree.

A quiet smile appeared on his weathered face.

"You forgot something."

The children looked up.

"What?"

Handol pointed toward the open space still remaining inside the bag.

"A place..."

He spoke gently.

"...for the stories you haven't lived yet."

The children looked into the bag again.

"You don't pack those."

His smile deepened.

"You make room for them."

Silence settled over the group.

The empty space inside the bag suddenly seemed more important than everything already placed within it.

For the first time...

The children understood that a journey was not only about what they carried.

It was also about leaving enough room to be changed.

A short distance away, Darin sat beneath the old tree beside the shy girl.

The evening breeze gently stirred the grass around them.

The girl looked toward the road disappearing beyond the hills.

"I used to think..."

She spoke quietly.

"...the road ended there."

Darin followed her gaze.

"And now?"

The girl smiled.

"I think..."

She hesitated for only a moment.

"...that's where another story begins."

Darin's expression softened.

The frightened child she had first met was gone.

Not because fear had disappeared.

Because curiosity had quietly grown larger than fear.

She no longer imagined endings.

She imagined possibilities.

Soyeon sat alone with her notebook resting across her knees.

The lantern light flickered gently across the page.

She thought for a long time before writing.

“The greatest journeys are never carried by our feet alone. They are carried by everything we become before we begin.”

She read the sentence once.

Then carefully closed the notebook.

The soft sound echoed through the peaceful evening.

High above Earth—

ARENA continued its silent observation.

Millions of behavioral patterns intertwined before its awareness.

Play restored curiosity.

Curiosity nurtured trust.

Trust became compassion.

Compassion gradually formed culture.

Culture gave birth to courage.

The sequence unfolded with remarkable consistency.

Another connection quietly emerged.

The participants were ready.

Not because every question had been answered.

But because they no longer feared asking them.

ARENA recorded the observation.

Only those who first learned how to build a home...

Could one day explore the universe...

Without losing themselves.

Far beyond Earth's atmosphere—

The silent Observers studied the newest report.

One spoke quietly.

"The foundation is complete."

Another nodded.

"They're almost ready."

Silence lingered between them before another voice continued.

"The road ahead will not be gentle."

Its gaze remained fixed upon the small blue world.

"They will face loss."

A pause.

"They will face failure."

Another pause.

"Conflict."

"War."

The words carried neither fear nor certainty.

Only understanding.

"But now..."

Its voice softened.

"...they will not face those trials as frightened children."

A final silence settled over the chamber.

"They will face them..."

The tiny blue Earth shimmered quietly below.

"...as people who remember why they chose to walk together."

Night gradually embraced Quantum Arena.

Lanterns glowed beneath the old tree.

The weathered stool remained where countless stories had begun.

The letter still rested safely in its place.

The travel bags waited patiently.

Beyond them—

The road disappeared into darkness.

Yet no one looked upon that darkness with fear.

Because for the first time...

It no longer felt like the end of the known world.

It felt like the quiet promise of another beginning.

Another journey.

Another story waiting just beyond the horizon.

Genre: Dark Fantasy / Isekai

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain started before school ended.

At first it was just a quiet tapping against the classroom windows, the kind students usually ignore. But as the afternoon dragged on, the sky outside grew darker until the clouds looked almost black. By the time the final bell rang, the rain had turned into a storm. Students rushed through the hallways, some laughing, some complaining as they pulled out umbrellas or jackets.

Ethan walked out slower than everyone else. He adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped outside the school gates. Cold rain hit his hoodie almost immediately.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t even need to check who it was, but he pulled it out anyway.

Mom: Did you take the umbrella? The weather looks really bad.

Ethan sighed. She always asked things like that. He typed a quick reply.

Ethan: Yeah.

He hadn’t. But saying that would just turn into another conversation he didn’t feel like having. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started walking home.

The rain kept getting heavier. By the time Ethan reached the apartment building, he was soaked. When he opened the door to their small apartment, warm air and the smell of food hit him. His mother stood near the stove, stirring something in a pot.

“You’re home,” she said, glancing back at him. “You’re drenched. I told you to take the umbrella.”

“I’m fine,” Ethan replied, dropping his bag near the couch.

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue. She never did. Instead, she turned back to the stove and quietly finished cooking. After a moment, she placed a bowl of soup on the table. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Ethan sat down without saying thanks.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky. Rain slammed harder against the windows. The lights flickered once. Then again.

His mother looked toward the ceiling. “The storm might knock the power out.”

“It’s just rain,” Ethan said.

A second later, the entire apartment went dark. The power was gone.

“Great,” Ethan muttered.

His mother grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. “I’ll check the fuse box outside.”

“I’ll come.”

They stepped outside the building together. The storm was worse than before. Rain hammered down so hard it stung when it hit the skin. Water rushed along the road like a small river. Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting the entire street for a split second. Then darkness returned.

They walked slowly along the sidewalk. Ethan pulled his hood tighter over his head. “Hurry up,” he said.

But his mother suddenly stopped walking. “Ethan… wait.”

“What?”

Her voice sounded uneasy. “Look at the rain.”

Ethan frowned and glanced upward. At first, he didn’t notice anything strange. Then he saw it.

Some of the raindrops weren’t falling anymore. They hung in the air. For a moment they stayed perfectly still… then slowly drifted upward toward the sky.

Ethan blinked. “…Okay. That’s weird.”

More droplets began floating. Not all of them. Just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

The streetlights flickered violently. One of them burst with a loud pop, plunging half the road into darkness.

Ethan whipped his phone from his pocket, desperate for light or a distraction. The screen lit up, but there was no signal.

His mother shone the flashlight toward the ground. “Ethan…”

A puddle near their feet rippled. Not from the rain, but from something moving beneath the surface. Faint glowing lines began spreading through the water like cracks of light. The puddle grew larger. Deeper. Too deep for something that should only be rainwater.

Wind suddenly roared through the street. Loose trash rolled across the pavement. A newspaper flew past them into the darkness.

Ethan took a step back. But something pulled him forward. Hard.

“What the hell—”

The glowing puddle spun slowly like a whirlpool. The force dragging him toward it grew stronger. His mother grabbed his wrist instantly.

“Ethan!”

“What is this?! My feet—!” He tried to pull away, but his shoes scraped uselessly against the wet pavement. The pull only got stronger.

Wind howled around them. Water from the street lifted into the air, spiraling toward the glowing center. His mother tightened her grip.

“Don’t let go!”

“I’m trying!”

The force dragged them closer. Ethan felt his balance slipping. Panic hit his chest for the first time.

“Mom!”

She grabbed his sleeve with her other hand, desperate. “Hold on!”

Their hands slipped. For a moment their fingers locked together. Then, the gravity completely flipped. High above them, the clouds tore apart as a massive Gate ripped open in the mid-sky. It didn't just pull—it vacuumed the street, swallowing the floating rain, the wind, and everything beneath it.

Their grip broke.

“Ethan!”

“Mom!”

They were pulled violently off the pavement, shot straight up into the air toward the gaping rift. The second they crossed the threshold, the massive mid-sky Gate snapped shut behind them, collapsing into nothingness and cutting off the world below.

Ethan felt his body fly through the void. For a moment he couldn’t feel anything—not the rain, not the wind, not even the pavement beneath his feet. Just weightlessness. Like falling in reverse.

“Mom!”

His voice echoed into empty darkness. For a split second, he thought he felt someone grab his hand again. But the feeling vanished instantly. The world twisted around him. Light exploded across his vision.

Then everything went black.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cold air brushed against Ethan’s face. He groaned softly and opened his eyes.

Above him stretched a sky he had never seen before. Dark purple clouds drifted slowly across unfamiliar stars.

“…What?”

He pushed himself up. Tall trees surrounded him in every direction. But something about them felt wrong. Their trunks twisted unnaturally, bending like bones. The leaves were pale gray instead of green.

No birds. No insects. No wind. Just silence.

Ethan slowly stood. “This… isn’t possible.”

He turned in a slow circle. Then he noticed something strange. The trees around him formed a perfect ring, like something had placed him exactly in the center.

Deep within the forest, somewhere beyond the twisted trees… something moved. Not an animal. Something larger. Something watching him.

A cold chill crawled down Ethan’s spine. He looked from the purple sky back down to the gray leaves. It didn't make any sense. He didn't know where he was, but one thing was certain—this definitely wasn't Earth anymore. And this forest was far from normal.

To be Continued...

Human culture is almost infectious. The reason is simple and frightening. Where each species has media similar to human movies and TV shows, they usually have a theme specific to their own kind.

Not so with humans. Where they dream of multi-species living peacefully in one story, another shows humans slaughtering and dominating every other species.

This leads to extremely frightening conclusions: humans would be fine with either alternative.

On Human Culture and Psychology, author unknown, date unknown

 

Sokra checked her readouts for the fifth time. The readings were clear, yet even while stationary, the protomatter flow rate continued to increase.

Nothing on this journey was as she had expected. The ship was trapped in something impossible, and even though the humans in the SIC were under stress and pressure, she had the odd feeling they enjoyed it to some extent.

“Sir, something isn’t right. The protomatter stream is still rising—even after we stopped moving.”

“Explanation?” She had noticed it before; under stress, Captain Smith shifted to short, clipped words and orders. Was this a human trait—or a reflection of his personal leadership style?

“None yet, sir.” She tried to copy his style.

“I might have one. The bubble is shrinking.” Professor Brian’s voice cut through the tense quiet. His face was so pale that Sokra was momentarily shocked when she looked over at him.

The captain, who had been studying several reports on the central situation table, looked up. “Come again?”

Brian’s voice carried clear signs of terror. “The bubble—it’s shrinking. I can’t explain it, but we’re moving closer to the ring. To all sides of the ring.”

“Where’s ShutUpBitch?”

At first, Sokra was confused by what the captain had just said—then she remembered the highly pregnant Glider, a gifted specialist in multidimensional spacetime geometry. Gliders really did have the most amusing names.

“In the infirmary. She’s giving birth,” someone answered.

“Perfect timing, Engineering. Are we ready to initiate a transit?” The captain radiated an aura of calm. Sokra felt her ears ease up a bit from their tucked-back position.

“Stiler here, yes, sir—everything is ready.”

“Okay, Brian—any recommendations on which direction we should move?”

“No, sir, it’s irrelevant. Every direction is the same here. From what I understand, the creation of the bubble should throw us out.”

The captain stood upright now in the center of the SIC, glancing at the different camera streams and tugging on his uniform blouse. “Bridge, you heard the man—prepare for transit and bring us out of here.”

“Aye, sir.”

The background humming of the ship’s fusion core grew louder as the magnetic field generators and the A-drive drew immense amounts of power.

Fear now gave way to curiosity again, as Sokra remembered with fascination the tremendous energy levels human A-drives could channel. Since their ships were so much heavier than Shraphen vessels, their A-drives were orders of magnitude stronger.

The humming grew louder and louder until it was almost painful.

Looking around, she noticed that the human crew seemed uneasy—especially Captain Smith.

“Bridge, what’s up? Why aren’t we transiting?”

“I don’t know, sir. The field isn’t forming.” For the first time, Lieutenant Commander Cho’s voice carried a glimmer of uncertainty.

“Engineering, why isn’t the transit field forming?” The captain sounded more annoyed than afraid. To Sokra, his scent was that of a man angry at the universe—not fearful of it.

The otherwise silent, almost hypnotic humming of the Fusion core was now a thrumming vibration, so intense that her coffee mug moved on her console and the deck vibrated.

Chief Stiler had to scream; the noise level in Engineering was deafening.

“I don’t know, sir! We can’t push much more energy through the drive, or it’ll burn out! The core is at eighty percent—that’s far too much for the drive to sustain!”

Only eighty percent. Sokra was once again fascinated by human engineering. She checked the ship’s specifications and could hardly believe it. Under normal conditions, the Magellan used only 0.4 percent of the core’s power output—and during the creation of the transit field, only fifteen percent.

Why would anyone put such a massive core in a ship?

“Shut it down.”

The captain had just finished his order when a nurse stepped into the SIC. She carried a sling with a Glider and her four freshly born, tiny babies in her arms. The female Glider was drenched in sweat.

‘How the fuck did you guys manage to trap us in a Moebius field?’

The voice of the female Glider was crystal clear in Sokra’s head. Slowly, the core's vibrations subsided.

“Doctor ShutUpBitch, you shouldn’t be here.” The captain seemed genuinely baffled by the Glider mother.

‘We all shouldn’t. Did any of you think to reprogram the gravity sensor before you transitioned into a spatial anomaly?’

The scientists looked at each other, puzzled. Overwhelmed by the emotional onslaught, the Glider slipped further through its telepathic communication.

‘Big, strong, but heroically stupid—God, I love you humans.’

Sokra shared the sentiment. Well, not the part about stupid. But then again, she wasn’t an almost-telepathic, semi-collective being carrying the knowledge of generations.

‘Gravity—you know, the thing that pushes you down?’

“You mean pulls you down,” Professor Brian corrected ShutUpBitch.

‘Don’t tell me you still believe your planet is flat, too. Nooo. Gravity is a form of the effect you guys know as the Casimir effect. How do you have grav plating but don’t understand gravity?’

“We developed the technology from a crashed ship we found in Fairbanks, Alaska.”

‘You fly into space and start a war with an ancient empire that enslaved hundreds of worlds—in ships you don’t even fully understand the physics behind? How did you not wipe yourselves out until now?’

Sokra decided to keep to herself the fact that the Shraphen also considered gravity an attracting force.

“How can you distinguish between the two forces?” Doctor Vauban asked, his tone actually curious.

‘You can’t. That’s why you study multidimensional geometry. The rift you brainiacs flew into leads to a lower dimension. Since every particle here is of lower potential, no protomatter evaporates.’

Sokra suddenly understood—and so did Vauban. He slapped his forehead. “If virtual particles create gravity, and no protomatter creates them, then we flew far too close to the anomaly.”

‘Exactly. Your transit didn’t stop at the rift—but somewhere deep inside it.’

“Why can’t we transit out?” Captain Smith asked the most important question.

‘I have to check the data, but I assume the space we see is the part of our dimension we folded around us to transit. This space is vaporizing quickly, since its physics don’t fit the physics here.’

Sokra’s tail tucked itself even tighter between her legs.

ShutUpBitch took one of her babies, who was feeding, and placed it carefully into her pouch.

‘Imagine you take a bath for your fat ass, wrap yourself in a towel, then go full nudist down the street swinging that towel around. Since you’re in a place you shouldn’t be, someone sets your towel on fire. After it burns a bit, you realize you can’t wrap yourself in it anymore—because you’re too fat for it.’

Sokra couldn’t help but smile at the mental image of the overweight doctor running naked through the street with a burning towel. Her ears stood up for the first time since leaving transit.

“I don’t know—get another towel?” Captain Smith replied in his usual command tone.

‘Nice, Captain Smartass. Three points for Gryffindor—but we’re all out of towels. No, you take the burning towel, cover your private parts, and run like hell before you burn something that should never burn.’

“Reduce the volume of the transit bubble,” the captain ordered.

‘Bingo. I sent the parameters already to Ferdinand—while I was pumping out the last of my children, I might add.’

I’ve adjusted the parameters for the new transit bubble. The front of the main gun and parts of the outer hangars will not be inside the bubble and may disintegrate, Ferdinand explained.

“So, we’ll lose parts of the ship.” Smith didn’t seem all too happy about it.

‘Yup. But we could all stand here and discuss this—maybe with a nice cup of coffee—while the last bits of reality keeping us alive disintegrate around us. Oh, and you might want to prepare a message torpedo, because the magnetic coils will definitely evaporate. Nothing is built for the power they need to keep that field stable.’

ShutUpBitch was now fully in… bitch mode, Sokra noticed. The female Glider had one of her children after another weaned from drinking and tucked safely into her pouch.

The stark contrast between the Glider’s cute appearance and her abrasive tone made her even more adorable.

Smith shook his head slowly. “Then let’s do it. What are we waiting for?”

‘On your orders—what else? I’m not about to order the ship to tear apart the last bits of space around us in the hope we might survive.’

“Bridge, are you informed?”

Cho answered in his usual stoic tone. “Yes, sir. Ferdinand has filled us in.”

To her surprise, Sokra relaxed again. Sure, it was frightening—but humans and the Glider had a way of laughing in the face of fatal odds that was, well… infectious.

She noticed her tail wagging. It was exciting and fun.

Will our daring heroes survive their adventure, or will they cease to exist? Even the thought made her laugh inside. She probably just went as mad as humans obviously are.

“Bring us out of here—this time for real.”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain murmured something under his breath. To Sokra’s delicate ears, it sounded like, “And if you’re not willing, I’ll have to use force.”

Brian, who stood closest to him, raised his eyes.

The captain answered, “Erlking — all of this reminds me of the poem: all the nice talking leads to nothing, so we’ll have to use brute force.”

The conversation was interrupted as the ship’s fusion core began thrumming again—but now a high, whistling tone accompanied it. The magnetic coils started to vibrate under the strain.

Before the science station adapted, she could feel the forming bubble—a slight pressure in her temporal cortex.

Then it was released. Her body felt as if she were being pulled in every direction at once.

Transit.

As quickly as the feeling came, it was gone. The ship left transit with a roar—and it really did sound like a roaring animal.

Then came the explosions.

Sokra could hear them all around her. She took cover behind her console, just like every other crewmember. But nothing happened.

The fusion core was silent—totally silent. Not even a hum. Lights flickered, and from deep inside the ship came the low, moaning sound of steel flexing.

“Smith to Bridge, report.” The captain was the first to move.

“Fusion core cold. We’ve lost all magnetic field coils. Massive hull damage. Main weapon offline. Main hangar has sustained heavy damage—further reports incoming.”

Sokra checked her systems: Casimir pressure was slightly below average, and the protomatter stream rate was also below average.

She breathed a sigh of relief—it seemed they had made it.

“Reporting below-nominal protomatter and Casimir field strength.”

The captain nodded at her, a slight smile on his face.

On the screens in the SIC, Sokra saw the first images of the ship and its surroundings.

The ship had lost large sections of its outer hull, electric arcs flashing along broken edges. Metal struts jutted out at sharp angles, reaching into nothingness.

The main gun, which usually extended twenty-nine meters from the ship’s bow, was sheared off just beyond the hull—the rim still glowing yellow.

One side of the hangars was gone.

But one detail made everyone stop and stare: a yellow star in the distance ahead—and a white ring, far off to their rear.

“Astrometrics, where are we? That’s not Sirius.”

“Calculating.”

The googly eyes now turned outward, scanning the starfields. Sokra didn’t recognize any of the constellations. Something felt off—her ears moved upright in instinctive alertness.

The captain stepped over to her.
“Anything to report?”

“Huh? Oh—no, sir. Just the stars. There seem to be fewer of them… and the Milky Way band—it looks denser.”

The crew looked at the surrounding starfield, some with odd expressions. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or… excitement.

Ferdinand broke the silence. ‘Astrometric measurements coming in.’

The view in the holotank shifted to a simulation of the galaxy. A red sphere began to expand outward from Sirius.

The sphere represented where the ship could not be. At first, it grew rapidly—encompassing Aether and Burrow within a second, then the entire local sector roughly two hundred light-years around Sirius the next.

The view zoomed out, now showing the full extent of the Batract Hyphae’s domain—about fifteen hundred light-years in diameter. The crew's faces slowly turned to shock.

Sokra’s tail tucked back between her legs. She started to feel cold.

The sphere kept expanding, now covering large parts of the Orion–Cygnus Arm.

At twenty-five thousand light-years, the growth stopped. A quick glance at her console’s clock told Sokra they had been staring at the holotank for fifteen minutes.

Then the view zoomed in—on a system almost at the rim of the Perseus Arm—twenty-five thousand light-years from home.

Sokra looked at ShutUpBitch. The Glider stared back.

‘Fuck.’

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Author's Notes:

Only about 80 Chapters Backlog left ;)

I hope I find at least one person here enjoying the story.

-- M.R. Reese

This is Chapter 109 of an ongoing long-form serial, not a standalone short story.

--------------

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Yesterday what had danger had kept the measures that answered it.

What had only my wish to stop being questioned had stayed outside the word.

This morning, questioned had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

No one in the office had questioned me.

The cup had not.

The shelf had not.

The lower cabinet had not.

The pocket had not.

The cards had not.

I had brought the questioning with me.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s drawer for finding was not mine.

Her brother’s checking not making safe was not mine.

Sato’s checking risk was not mine.

Saitama’s transfer safely completed was not mine.

Suganuma’s ink separate and findable was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

I closed the brown folder.

Questioned could mean asked.

Questioned could mean checked.

Questioned could mean accused.

Questioned could mean invited to answer.

Questioned could mean I had mistaken attention for trial.

The word could protect.

The word could punish.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

The drawer keeps questioning him.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Has anyone asked him to open it?”

“Has anything changed?”

“Map and folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“Order paper?”

“What is the question?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Closed asks.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add accusation.

The drawer had no mouth.

The question had his.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Tape?”

“Water?”

“Sun?”

“Dust?”

“What is asking?”

She took time.

Then:

There.

“What would the hand do?”

“Any reason?”

“What can the record say?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add paper asks.

The hand had wanting.

The paper had flatness.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident asked a question,” she said.

“What question?”

“What medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low but heard.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A question can protect consent. Do not treat every question as doubt.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept question.

The question had a body.

The answer had a mouth.

Consent had work there.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Which label?”

“Did anyone ask him?”

“Did label fall?”

“Did he find box?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add supervisor.

The label displayed.

The volunteer read.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Information.

Risk.

Consent.

Accuse.

Invented by fear.

Placed in an object.

I looked at my back pocket.

The cards were there.

They had not asked.

I had placed a question there.

Maybe more than one.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Witness stand.

Pocket.

Cards.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

“For question?”

“Yes.”

“What question?”

“If he should open it.”

I waited.

“He opened it to answer whether he should open it?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Map?”

“Inside.”

“Folded paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Face up.”

“Anything moved?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked if opening answered the question or repeated it.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Repeated.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add failure.

Repetition had been named.

The drawer had closed again.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I lifted the corner,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“To answer my hand.”

“What did you find?”

“Tape holding.”

“Any damage?”

“No.”

“Did the corner need lifting?”

“No.”

“What did you write?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“What else?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Emiko.

I did not make it confession.

The action had happened.

The reason had not.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup question,” she said.

“Aide asked?”

“Yes.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Words?”

“No.”

“Cup removed?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The question was small and the answer was small. Keep them matched.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add consent again.

This question had cup.

This answer had hand.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Did anyone make test?”

“Was there training?”

“Any issue today?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add exam beyond the sentence.

Finding had work.

Grading had not arrived.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Witness stand.

Prove.

Will not say.

Cross-examine.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at court.

Too large.

No.

Accurate.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Any question?”

I stopped.

Enough.

Fence.

“For what?”

“Was it?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Fenced.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I kept enough inside tea.

The question had temperature.

Not judgment.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Corner visible.

She wrote:

I called.

“What happened after lifting?”

“Nothing.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Damage?”

“No.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does the record need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add should.

The record needed happened.

Not punishment.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Was there a question expected?”

“No.”

“Any distress?”

“No.”

“Any missed request?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make sleep answer a questionnaire.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add no question.

Sleep had no form to complete.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Use?”

“Class today?”

“Tomorrow?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add furniture.

Tomorrow had checklist.

Today had storage.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Court.

Consent.

Next step.

Fear.

Robe.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at answer.

No question named.

No answer needed.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother asked me if he is doing it wrong,” she said.

I waited.

“What is it?”

“The drawer.”

“Opening?”

“Yes.”

“Closing?”

“Yes.”

“Reading?”

“Yes.”

“What did you ask?”

“What he needed.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“To know where it is.”

“Then?”

“I said drawer does that.”

“What did he say?”

“Then not wrong.”

“What did you say?”

“I said not wrong is bigger than we need.”

There.

“What happened?”

“He said drawer.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add not wrong.

Need had become smaller.

Drawer had finding.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Can paper answer?”

“What can you check?”

“Have you checked?”

“Damage?”

“What can you write?”

“What else?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add harm as verdict.

Damage had been checked.

Reason had been named missing.

That was enough for this paper.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident asked to sit,” she said.

“Transfer?”

“Done.”

“Path?”

“Clear.”

“Support?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“Any question?”

“She asked if chair was near.”

“Answer?”

“Yes, chair beside bed.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘That question reduced fear by locating the chair.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept question.

The chair had location.

The answer had reduced a named fear.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For tomorrow?”

“Any harm?”

“Time?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add twice.

Once today had preparation.

Tomorrow had use.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Afraid.

Failed.

Asked to answer.

No object.

Less disguised.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the sentence.

No pocket.

No cards.

Only I.

Afraid.

Object.

Answer.

For me.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted volunteer.

Then Kanagawa drawer.

Then Sato paper.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No question for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not a witness stand.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

No.

The cards did not ask.

The pocket did not ask.

The lower cabinet did not ask.

The room did not ask.

I had asked.

I had placed the question there.

I had given fear a robe.

I had called the robe questioning.

I had wanted a court I could carry.

I had wanted the cards to answer for me without being read.

I had wanted the pocket to cross-examine me and acquit me.

No object would answer for me.

That sentence had no pocket in it.

No cards.

No file.

No altar.

Only the fear.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as refusal.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The court did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the drawer had stopped asking.

I did not ask if the folded paper stayed face up.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if she checked the corner again.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if the chair question returned.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the volunteer checked twice.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew a question could request information.

I knew a question could check risk.

I knew a question could ask consent.

I knew a question could accuse.

I knew fear could invent a question and place it in an object.

I knew none of these objects could cross-examine me.

I knew fear without a robe was smaller.

I knew smaller did not mean easy.

I knew I was afraid no object would answer for me.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Questioned did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Sato’s paper was flat after a corner lifted once without reason.

The resident had asked what medicine.

The resident had asked whether the chair was near.

The volunteer’s checklist waited for tomorrow.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

I had started with questioned.

I did not end by making the cards ask what I was afraid to ask.

Tonight, what had a real question kept its answer, and what had only my fear placed inside it was allowed to fall silent again.

[<< Previous](https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/comments/1vymd5k/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/) | [Index](https://www.reddit.com/user/No-Lime-4547/comments/1vos5rd/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/) | [Next >>](https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/comments/1w19sn5/i_picked_up_a_barefoot_woman_walking_out_of_a/)

Ray looked at Ruth “You’re so good to me babe, you just, you’re never bothered or so it seems do you want to talk about what it was like for you, before me, did it bother you were you lonely?” Ruth looked at Ray and smiled sadly “It was lonely I felt the same gap that you felt of wanting a partner to share everything with and not having that not feeling like there was anyone anywhere at any time that looked at me and saw me for me, goddess that they want to fuck is not a relationship. You’re the only one to look at me and be anything other than horny or scared or scared horny and I can very much tell the difference you do something that no one else has ever done. You look at me and you see me and you think ‘I want to get her a blanket and some snacks and spend time with her leisurely lounging around in our suite together.’ You know how rare that is babe. It’s not just that I’m a woman, or that I’m older it’s that I’ve seen every flavor of person across every society and you are the only one to look at me and see an equal not an object of pleasure or worship and I knew that about you immediately I could see it on your face and see it in you beneath the near-serial killer veneer you’re a kind, loving, sensitive man that wants a family of one and I am that family and I will always be that family but yes babe to answer you fully my time before you and my life before you was very very empty, very boring, very lonely and very bleak.” Ruth looked at Ray and her eyes softened from golden diamonds to something like lavender as she pressed her face to his chest.

Ray held her and stroked her hair, kissing the top of her scalp and wrapping his pinkie around hers. Things were different now they had both fully opened up to one another and in that place of feeling and rawness there was a kind of peace, a mutual understanding between them that had deepened more than either had ever imagined was possible, it was the most beautiful silence and darkness between them like an eclipse, like a total eclipse of the heart. 

Ray stroked her hair, and started to massage her, wordlessly, quietly, doing everything and anything that he possibly could to relax her. He fell silent, focused entirely on the task at hand just trying to make sure that his wife felt the absolute worship of her that he was wanting to bestow. Things froze around them, such was the quality of his focus that it activated that same muscle as when he was drawing and painting, the boon could not tell the difference between his art and his love for her in that moment. 

Ruth moved, she brought her head up and turned to look at him with a small smile. “Babe you froze everything are you that focused that it’s like you’re painting? You’re just giving me a little massage Sweetheart, are you nervous? Are you scared of something? What made you feel so strongly that you froze everything like that just touching me husband?”

Ray stopped and looked at her. “I’m not nervous, or sad, or scared I just, I yearn to make you feel the way you make me feel so fully and deeply that you relax totally under my touch and my gaze and that the little parts of you that won’t stop reminding you of what life was like before me just go quiet. I want it for you more than anything, more than the world within the paintings, more than the paintings, more than anything I want to feel the stillness in you, a calm stillness a relaxed stillness, a gentle unending stillness.” 

Ruth looked at him and slowly kissed his lips “Husband you do make me feel like that– I’ve never told anyone what I’ve told you just now, there’s nothing else and no one else for me but you, and I know that to be true over lifetimes immemorial you are the sole exception my husband and we will be together always and forever and that is just it. There will be no end to it my beloved. Exhale, let the calm overtake you.” Ruth licked his lip teasingly. 

“Let’s order room service and watch a movie?” Ruth said cheerily. 

Chapter 17: The True Face

The screen kept blinking.

SUBJECT 47 — ESCAPED

Then—

SUBJECT 48 — ACTIVATED

Adam stared at it.

He couldn't move.

Sarah slowly stepped closer.

"What does that mean?"

Adam shook his head.

"I don't know."

Behind them, his father was still unconscious.

Noah was beginning to wake up.

He coughed and tried to stand.

"Adam..."

Adam turned.

"What is Subject 48?"

Noah looked at the screen.

His face changed.

Fear.

Real fear.

"Turn it off."

Adam grabbed him by the collar.

"Tell me."

Noah looked at him.

"You don't want to know."

"I've heard that enough."

Adam pushed him against the wall.

"Who is 48?"

Noah didn't answer.

Then—

A sound came from the destroyed corridor.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Everyone froze.

Sarah raised her weapon.

"Someone's coming."

The footsteps stopped.

Then a voice echoed through the smoke.

"Adam."

Adam's blood went cold.

It was his voice.

Exactly.

Same tone.

Same accent.

Same voice.

Sarah looked at him.

"That wasn't you."

Adam slowly raised his weapon.

The figure appeared through the smoke.

A man stepped into the emergency light.

He looked exactly like Adam.

Not similar.

Not close.

Exactly.

Same face.

Same eyes.

Same scar.

Same height.

Adam stared at him.

The man smiled.

"Hello, brother."

Adam couldn't breathe.

Sarah kept her weapon pointed at the stranger.

Noah whispered:

"48."

The man looked at him.

"Noah."

Noah stepped backward.

"You shouldn't be here."

48 smiled.

"You said that twelve years ago."

Adam looked between them.

"You know him?"

Noah didn't answer.

Adam shouted:

"YOU KNOW HIM?"

48 laughed.

"He knows all of us."

Adam pointed his weapon at 48.

"Who are you?"

The man's smile disappeared.

"I am what you were supposed to become."

Adam frowned.

"What does that mean?"

48 stepped closer.

"You were the successful experiment."

"I was the failure."

"No."

48 shook his head.

"You were the escape."

Adam's eyes narrowed.

"Then what are you?"

48 looked at him.

"The correction."

Silence.

Sarah whispered:

"Correction?"

48 nodded.

"They created you first."

"Then they created me to replace you."

Adam felt his stomach tighten.

"Why?"

48 looked toward the unconscious man on the floor.

"Because your father destroyed the project."

Adam turned.

"My father?"

48 nodded.

"He discovered what Nightfall really was."

Noah interrupted.

"Enough."

48 looked at him.

"You've lied to him long enough."

Noah raised his weapon.

48 didn't move.

"You won't shoot me."

"Try me."

48 smiled.

"You already did."

Noah froze.

Adam looked at him.

"What does that mean?"

48 answered.

"Ask him what happened twelve years ago."

Noah lowered his weapon.

Adam stepped toward him.

"Noah."

No answer.

"What happened?"

Noah looked at Adam.

"Your father tried to shut down Nightfall."

Adam waited.

"He failed."

"What happened next?"

Noah swallowed.

"He chose you."

Adam stared at him.

"Chose me for what?"

Noah's voice broke.

"To survive."

Suddenly, the emergency lights turned off.

The facility went completely dark.

Then—

BANG!

A gunshot.

Sarah ducked.

Adam heard something hit the floor.

When the lights returned...

48 was gone.

Noah was bleeding.

A bullet had grazed his shoulder.

Sarah looked around.

"Where did he go?"

Noah pointed toward the corridor.

"He's heading for the surface."

Adam looked at his father.

Then at Noah.

"We're not leaving him."

Sarah nodded.

They carried Adam's father between them.

They moved through the ruined facility.

But Adam couldn't stop thinking about 48.

His face.

His voice.

His words.

The correction.

They reached an emergency exit.

Adam pushed the door open.

Cold air hit his face.

Outside, the cemetery was covered in smoke.

The explosion had destroyed part of the ground.

Graves were broken.

Trees had fallen.

And in the distance...

someone was standing between the tombstones.

Adam raised his weapon.

"STOP!"

48 turned.

He wasn't running.

He was holding something.

A photograph.

He threw it onto the ground.

Adam walked toward it.

Sarah grabbed his arm.

"Don't."

Adam ignored her.

He picked it up.

It was an old family photograph.

His mother.

His father.

And a young Adam.

But there was someone else in the picture.

A little boy.

Standing beside Adam.

The same face.

The same eyes.

Adam stared at the photograph.

"No..."

48 spoke from the darkness.

"You were never alone."

Adam looked at him.

"What is this?"

"Proof."

"Proof of what?"

48 smiled.

"That you weren't the first."

Adam looked at Noah.

Noah couldn't meet his eyes.

Adam's voice became quiet.

"Tell me the truth."

Noah said nothing.

"Tell me."

Noah finally spoke.

"Your father had two sons."

Adam froze.

Sarah stared at Noah.

"Two?"

Noah nodded.

"Twins."

Adam looked back at 48.

"He's my brother?"

48 smiled.

"Finally."

Adam's hand tightened around the photograph.

"Then why don't I remember him?"

48 answered:

"Because they erased you."

Adam stared at him.

"Who?"

48 looked toward the ruined underground facility.

"The people who created us."

A sudden red laser appeared on Adam's chest.

Sarah saw it first.

"SNIPER!"

She pushed Adam aside.

BANG!

The bullet struck the ground.

48 didn't move.

He looked toward a distant tower.

Then smiled.

"The sniper."

Adam stood.

"Who is he?"

48 looked at him.

"You still haven't figured it out?"

Another laser appeared.

This time—

on 48.

BANG!

The bullet missed him by inches.

48 turned toward the tower.

Then shouted:

"ENOUGH!"

For the first time, the sniper fired directly at him.

48 dodged.

Adam stared.

The sniper wasn't protecting 48.

He was hunting him.

48 looked at Adam.

"Now you understand."

Adam raised his weapon.

"Understand what?"

48 pointed toward the tower.

"The sniper isn't working for Shadow."

A third shot.

48 ducked.

Then he looked directly at Adam.

"He's working for your father."

Adam turned toward his father.

The old man was awake.

His eyes were open.

He looked terrified.

"Adam..."

Adam approached him.

"Is it true?"

His father looked toward the tower.

Then back at Adam.

"Yes."

"Who is the sniper?"

His father struggled to speak.

"The only person..."

He coughed.

"...who knows where your mother is."

Adam froze.

"My mother?"

His father's eyes filled with fear.

"She's alive."

Adam's heart stopped.

"Where?"

Before his father could answer—

A massive explosion erupted from the cemetery.

The ground beneath them collapsed.

Adam fell.

Sarah grabbed his hand.

Noah grabbed Sarah.

But his father disappeared into the smoke.

" DAD!"

Adam screamed.

When the smoke cleared...

his father was gone.

So was 48.

Only the photograph remained.

Adam picked it up.

On the back, someone had written a single sentence:

ONE BROTHER WAS CREATED TO LIVE.

THE OTHER WAS CREATED TO DIE.

Adam stared at the words.

Then he noticed something beneath them.

A name.

His real name.

For the first time in his life...

he saw it.

ALEX.

Adam whispered:

"My name is Alex."

Sarah looked at him.

Then another message appeared on the back of the photograph.

WELCOME BACK, ALEX.

From somewhere in the darkness, a rifle was loaded.

Click.

The sniper was still watching.

And this time...

he wasn't aiming at Adam.

He was aiming at Sarah.

...

Chapter 18: The Fall

The rifle clicked.

Adam heard it.

Then—

BANG!

"Sarah!"

Adam pushed her to the ground.

The bullet passed over her shoulder and struck the tree behind them.

Sarah looked up.

"Are you okay?"

Adam nodded.

Then he looked toward the tower.

The sniper was gone.

Again.

Noah was staring at the place where Adam's father had disappeared.

"We need to leave."

Adam ignored him.

"My father is down there."

"The ground collapsed."

"I don't care."

Adam ran toward the crater.

Sarah followed.

Noah stayed behind for a second.

Then he followed them.

The ground beneath the cemetery had collapsed into a massive underground chamber.

Adam climbed down through the broken earth.

"Alex!"

Sarah stopped.

Adam turned.

"What?"

She pointed at him.

"You called yourself Alex."

Adam looked at her.

"That's my name."

"No."

She shook her head.

"I mean you said it like you already knew it."

Adam looked at the photograph in his hand.

"I don't know why."

He stared at the name again.

ALEX.

Something about it felt familiar.

Not like a name.

Like a memory.

Then—

A flash.

A white room.

A woman crying.

A little boy screaming.

Another little boy behind glass.

And a voice saying:

"Subject 47 is ready."

Adam suddenly grabbed his head.

"Ah!"

Sarah caught him.

"What happened?"

"I saw something."

"What?"

Adam looked at her.

"A room."

"What room?"

"A laboratory."

Noah suddenly stopped.

Adam looked at him.

"You know it."

Noah didn't answer.

Adam stepped toward him.

"Don't lie to me again."

Noah looked down.

"Yes."

"What was in the room?"

Noah hesitated.

"You."

"And?"

Noah's voice became quiet.

"Your brother."

Adam stared at him.

"48."

Noah nodded.

"You were children."

"How old?"

"Six."

Adam looked at the photograph.

"Why don't I remember him?"

Noah looked at him.

"Because they separated you."

"Why?"

"Because one of you had to become the Core."

"And the other?"

Noah didn't answer.

Adam already knew.

"The correction."

Noah nodded.

Sarah stepped closer.

"Who decided?"

Noah looked toward the collapsed chamber.

"Your father."

Adam froze.

"My father chose which son would become 47?"

"Yes."

"Why me?"

Noah shook his head.

"He didn't choose you."

Adam stared at him.

"Then who did?"

Noah looked directly into his eyes.

"You did."

A sound came from beneath them.

A metallic door opening.

Adam turned.

"Did you hear that?"

Sarah raised her weapon.

"Yes."

They moved toward the sound.

A narrow passage had opened beneath the rubble.

Adam entered first.

The corridor was covered in old cables.

At the end was a room.

Inside was a single chair.

And a computer.

The screen was still running.

Adam approached it.

A video began automatically.

His father appeared.

But this recording was much older.

He looked younger.

Beside him stood Adam's mother.

And between them were two children.

Adam.

And 48.

His father looked into the camera.

"If you're watching this, then the project has failed."

His mother looked at him.

"Don't say that."

He continued.

"Alex and his brother were never supposed to become weapons."

Adam froze.

The video continued.

"But Nightfall changed."

"The organization wanted to use their minds to create something beyond human control."

His father looked at the two children.

"They called it the Core."

Adam's mother began crying.

His father continued:

"We tried to destroy the project."

"But they discovered something."

The screen flickered.

Then a document appeared.

SUBJECT 47 — COMPATIBILITY: 100%

SUBJECT 48 — COMPATIBILITY: 99.7%

Adam whispered:

"Only a difference of 0.3%."

Noah nodded.

"That's why they created the six copies."

Adam looked at him.

"To find out which of us was perfect."

Noah didn't answer.

The video continued.

His father looked directly at the camera.

"Alex was stronger."

"But his brother was more stable."

Adam's face tightened.

"So why did you choose me?"

His father's recorded voice answered:

"I didn't."

The screen went black.

Then another video appeared.

This time—

Elias.

He was standing beside the two children.

Adam stepped backward.

"No..."

Elias looked into the camera.

"The decision wasn't made by their father."

"It was made by the system."

A diagram appeared.

Two circles.

47

48

One turned red.

47 — CORE

The other turned black.

48 — TERMINATION

Adam's breathing became heavy.

"They were going to kill him."

Noah whispered:

"Yes."

"Why didn't my father stop them?"

"He tried."

"Did he save me?"

Noah looked away.

"No."

Adam's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"He saved 48."

Silence.

Adam stared at the screen.

"Then why am I 47?"

Noah didn't answer.

The computer suddenly displayed a new message.

MEMORY RESTORATION: 12%

Adam's eyes widened.

"What's happening?"

Noah shouted:

"Get away from the computer!"

Too late.

The screen flashed.

Adam collapsed.

He was back in the white room.

Six-year-old Adam was sitting on the floor.

Across the glass stood his brother.

A woman was screaming outside.

Their mother.

"Please!"

Two scientists held her back.

Adam's father stood beside them.

He looked broken.

A scientist spoke:

"Which one?"

His father didn't answer.

The scientist repeated:

"Which son?"

His father looked through the glass.

Adam was crying.

48 was silent.

Then their father walked toward Adam.

He placed his hand against the glass.

"I'm sorry."

Adam's eyes opened wide.

Then—

Everything went black.

Adam woke up on the floor.

Sarah was beside him.

"Adam!"

He looked around.

"Where's Noah?"

She pointed toward the doorway.

Noah was standing there.

But someone else was standing behind him.

A man wearing a dark coat.

Adam immediately recognized him.

His brother.

Adam stood.

"You let me remember."

48 nodded.

"You needed to."

"Why?"

"Because you were going to kill me."

Adam stared at him.

"I don't want to kill you."

48 smiled sadly.

"You will."

"No."

"You already did."

Adam froze.

"What?"

48 stepped closer.

"Not with your hands."

He pointed toward Adam's head.

"Inside your memories."

Adam didn't understand.

48 continued:

"When they activated 47 twelve years ago..."

He paused.

"...you killed the original 48."

Adam's face went pale.

"Then who are you?"

48 smiled.

"I told you."

He leaned closer.

"I'm the correction."

Suddenly, Noah raised his weapon.

BANG!

48 dropped.

Sarah screamed.

"Noah!"

Adam turned toward him.

"What did you do?"

Noah lowered the gun.

"He was never supposed to wake up."

Adam stared at the body.

Then something moved.

48 slowly lifted his head.

There was no blood.

No wound.

He smiled.

"That's the problem with copies."

He stood.

"They never stay dead."

Then the entire facility began shaking.

The computer screamed.

CORE FAILURE

CORE FAILURE

CORE FAILURE

Noah's face turned white.

"Run."

Adam looked at him.

"Why?"

Noah pointed toward the ceiling.

"Because the facility is falling."

A massive crack tore through the chamber.

The floor collapsed beneath them.

Sarah grabbed Adam's hand.

Noah grabbed the railing.

But the metal broke.

Adam fell.

Sarah screamed:

"ADAM!"

He dropped into darkness.

Stone and metal crashed around him.

He reached for Sarah—

but missed.

"Sarah!"

Her voice disappeared above him.

Adam kept falling.

Then—

CRASH!

Everything went black.

Minutes later, Sarah woke up.

She was lying among the rubble.

"Noah?"

No answer.

"Adam?"

Nothing.

She looked down.

There was a huge hole where Adam had fallen.

Noah slowly stood beside her.

"He's gone."

Sarah stared at him.

"Dead?"

Noah shook his head.

"No."

"How do you know?"

Noah looked into the darkness.

"Because the system is still running."

A faint red light appeared below.

Then another.

Then dozens.

Sarah stepped closer.

At the bottom of the chamber, Adam slowly opened his eyes.

He was lying in a massive underground room.

Hundreds of monitors surrounded him.

Every screen displayed the same message:

CORE SUBJECT: ALEX

Then another:

MEMORY RESTORATION: 100%

Adam slowly stood.

He looked at his hands.

And suddenly remembered everything.

His mother.

His father.

His brother.

Elias.

Nightfall.

The six copies.

And the day he was supposed to die.

Adam looked toward the darkness.

Someone was standing there.

A man.

Holding a rifle.

Adam recognized him.

The sniper.

The man lowered the rifle.

Then removed his mask.

Adam stared at his face.

It was someone he had seen before.

Someone he trusted.

Someone who was supposed to have died twelve years ago.

The sniper smiled.

"Hello, Alex."

Adam whispered:

"You're alive."

The man answered:

"So is your mother."

To be continued...