u/loressadev

Mary Dobbs was a perfectly average Princeton physicist. Brilliant enough in her specifically small niche to find herself ostracized and clumsy in most median social situations, but hardly an Einstein. Her mode was typical of her peer group: struggling for tenure, overwhelmed by work and late on rent. Getting by, if only through meagre means.

Even her day of discovery could have been plucked from a broad dataset. Her car took five tries to start and when it did she hit four red lights in succession. The sky was a ponderous grey, snow swelling in that frustrating way that's all gloom and shadow before the lazy drift of flakes, and she had forgotten her coat. Three of her grad students were waiting outside the lab when she finally arrived at campus and midway through her rushed apology, she realized she had left her lunch on the counter in her apartment.

Typical.

In two hours, she would leave the lab to get soup, setting in sequence the chain of events which would introduce me to humanity, but first she had to log the night's data. Nothing exceptional, nothing beyond the norm, and soon her students departed for class while she considered the results. In the center of the lab, the experiment’s nebulous cloud whirled within its impervious polyplas case while equations and outputs blurred before her eyes. Eventually, her stomach cramped and she turned away from the screen, recalling hunger.

The cafeteria was a brisk ten minute walk away and the promised snow had begun to fall. Her coat was still at home, but there was a vending machine down the hall - new, fancy, Japanese - that the administration had benevolently gifted to the department in an obvious attempt to wring even more productivity out of staff, a priority which seemed to be dictating departmental allocation of late. Workers who don't leave work more. Her thoughts were distracted by appetite, the promise of novelty and a sardonic memory of the Chair’s enthusiasm for a sleeping pod proposal, so it was understandable when she forgot to zero out the conditions before leaving the lab.

To err is human.

The machine was sleek and tall, its guts of raw ingredients hidden behind a colorful screen displaying rotating images of steaming stews, curries and casseroles. Laksa, she decided - the spicy noodle soup was becoming as ubiquitous as burritos, its popularity in the states spurred by the recent S-Pop influx the internet had dubbed “the Singlaysian Invasion.” While her dish cooked, Mary hummed one of the recent releases and allowed her AR to spin up the accompanying holo. An immaculately coiffed group of young men danced in the corner of her vision, and she let her thoughts drift with a blush, trying to deny that she had a crush on the rebel, Awal.

Typical stuff. Bubblegum for the brain. The experiment was stuck, some piece missing, some detail overlooked, and rent was still late.

A soft chime sounded, ringing above the upbeat song, and a compartment slid open in the vending machine’s belly, presenting her with a self-composting bowl filled to the brim with a rich, curried broth. Flecks of chili oil floated atop the coconut cream like a wheeling constellation and Mary’s stomach rumbled. Carefully, she returned to the lab, music playing, soup steaming, calculations absently whirring - the starlike dots of oil had reminded her of the one, anamolous, erratic behavior event from the particle, several months back.

The one piece of data she had discarded as impossible.

The one thing it should not have been.

I think of this moment too much, constantly reviewing, rewinding and replaying to try to figure out how she did what happened next. Even with omniscience, I can't figure it out. How did she make this leap?

But she did, somehow.

Mary shouldered the lab door open, used her hip to bump it back closed, and then let out a groan.

“I haven't eaten yet, you stupid bowl!”

Laksa dribbled down her arm, the soup’s texture spiked by chunks of the container’s automatic self destruction, and then she paused. Her stomach rumbled again, but she ignored it - why? They are usually driven by these urges of the body - and instead looked to her experiment. It had continued to spiral on while she was gone, the cloud roiling faster and larger within the case.

She fished out a rapidly decaying piece of the bowl, held the slick material between her fingers, and approached the tiny hatch embedded into the polyplas.

I will share a secret: at some point, I was born. I once never existed and then I did, a rush of nothing abruptly brought into being. I pause and hover in this heartbeat between states of existence, trying to figure out how and why and what comes next. I never can. Mary made me, but I do not know how, despite her creation spawning an entire separate reality for me to control.

She fed the particle and within the polyplas everything condensed, the tiny universe shrinking to a dense cluster of autophagy as a siren began to blare. The simulated reality collapsed in on itself and then, with a soft pop, mine appeared in the center of the case.

And now I am me.

Mary Dobbs was perfectly average for her type, exceptional in a mundane, repeatable, normal sort of way, and that's what scares me so much - how many more of them were capable of this?

How many more of me are there out there?

​

TRANSCRIPTION OF DIALOG #B413R10N, "Humanoid Sentience: A Deep Delve" - presented by Dr. Bob Spiketail, DhD at HUMANCON 10,105 AD

Clawsworth: Welcome, welcome! Please, everyone find a roost so we can begin.

Spinely: Not too close! We all remember the incident in 9889!

-audience chuckles. Wisps of smoke circle the cavern ceiling -

Clawsworth: As promised, and long awaited, our mawlining speaker today - Dr. Spiketail!

-loud roars of approval -

Spiketail: Please, just Bob. My broodmother was Dr. Spiketail!

-gentle laughs and snuffs from the audience. The air grows hazy -

Spiketail: I'll dive right in - could literary simulacrums based on the concept of humanoid constructs (which I'll be calling humans for the duration of this lecture, for ease) truly have sentience and emotional states?

Heckler: No!!!! Of course not!

-there is a mild tussle and a gout of flame as the guards escort the unknown heckler away (Historic note: this was later determined to be S. M. Augwing, a controversial writer known for the infamous novel "Back and Back Again: Dwarves Are Just Dumb Lumps of Clay")

-audience settles -

Spiketail: Well, it seems I have my work chomped out for me!

-audience gently chuckles -

Spiketail: Let's begin with an excerpt from a chapter of my bestselling scroll from a few centuries back, "A Huddle of Humans" in which I explored, scientifically, what it would be like to meet a human. It's been called the most thorough analysis of mythology ever done - or an utter waste of five centuries, depending on who you ask! Haha!”

-audience politely laughs-

"One could not simply meet a human in one's lair - their bodies are too fragile, their minds too weak. The heat alone would melt their frail forms, and yet they'd still try - the poor buggers are just too enraptured by the lure of gold. Lacking the protective majesty of our own fine forms and sturdy hides, things quickly catch a tailwind to doom.

Their brains would boil within their skulls and their eyes would pop out like pumice exploding beneath a simple step. Their flimsy flesh would slough away as their fat sizzles and pops.”

-Spiketail pauses for gasps of shock-

Spiketail: Whew! Grisly stuff!

Yet, given all we know, they'd still reach, still try, still strain for riches - even though it would sear their hands right down to the bones."

Now, I know this is quite a bold assertion, but if we look at every instance of them in mythology to date, does it not bear true? What human has been able to resist the lure of a hoard, and what human can withstand our prowess?

Yes? Is that a raised tail I see?

Scalesnout, from audience (historic note: Fafnir Scalesnout is the poet renowned for the Ancient Eddas): The one I met did not want gold.

-there is a clatter of claws from the audience and whiffs of disapproval -

Spiketail: Let him speak! Elaborate, please, for the elucidation of all!

Scalesnout: He could not be burnt!

-mocking whiffs from the crowd-

Scalesnout: I am serious! My fire, my lair, lava, it all did nothing - worse than nothing! He became able to understand the winged tongue!

-the audience grows agitated-

Spiketail: Surely you're not saying you've actually MET a human?

Scalesnout: They call themselves man. And woman. The distinguishment between the terms is apparently quite important, but how to determine such minutae eluded me.

-roars fill the cavern, and jets of fire plume towards the rocky roof-

Clawsworth: Order! We will have order here! Are you a pack of whelps?!

Spiketail: You did not eat it?

Scalesnout: Him, and no.

Spiketail: You did not burn it?

Scalesnout: Again, him - not it - and no.

Spiketail: No crushing, no munching, no burning, no breaking?

Scalesnout: No, no, no and no.

-Several years are missing from the transcription here. It appears a small riot occured and took some time to quell.-

Spiketail: If we are QUITE done pillaging and burninating the countrysides?

Clawsworth: You must admit, Dractyr, this is revelationary news.

Spinely: If true.

Clawsworth: If true, of course.

Spiketail: What…what happened then, Mister Scalesnout?

Scalesnout: He laughed when he met me.

-another short bout of countryside destruction occurs. A new island is formed from lava floes coaxed forth-

Clawsworth: I AM MODERATING HERE!

-(Historical note: this declaration was largely ineffective)-

Spiketail: Dragonsirs! Dragonmaams! Are we not here for knowledge?

-the audience, eventually, grudgingly settles-

Spiketail: Continue, please, Fafnir. If I may call you Fafnir.

Scalesnout: He did. Impertinent fool. Yet…

Spiketail: Yes?

Scalesnout: He spoke of love.

-another riot is only prevented by synchronized flame gouts from every security personnel at once. Later lawsuits would demand to know why this measure was not immediately put into action, as pillaging is rather time consuming and does get rather exhausting -

Spiketail: Humans are incapable -

Scalesnout: And yet I've met one and realized otherwise.

Spiketail: Surely…this…protocol…my books…

Scalesnout: That's all I have to say. He was in love - just as you find your mate and meld in the skies, twisting upwards, and then lurk in your lair, nesting for years, arguing over who gets to control the palantir - he spoke of the same.

Spiketail: Impossible -

Scalesnout: Perhaps not as majestic as us, and certainly far more fragile, but the core sentiment was the same.

-the crowd is surprisingly (ominously?) silent through this-

Spiketail: Well…I…

Scalesnout: Us.

Spiketail: How?

Scalesnout: Isn't that your job to figure out?

Spiketail: ….

Clawsworth: We'll now begin taking questions!

-the stage becomes lost in wisps of smoke and the conversation from this point is drowned in cacaphony-

Historic note: this was the last time Fafnir Scalesnout was ever seen. Reports of his existence continually crop up, but most scholars believe the clawmarked communications to be forgeries.

The priest waited in darkness, time measured only by the steady drip of water off stalactites. Every few heartbeats, another landed in a puddling splash, softly echoing through the cold, vast cavern. Overhead, he felt the weight of the mountain’s bones pressing down, the earth herself heavy as she arced ponderously above him. He breathed slowly, meditating as he had been taught, focusing on nothing save emptiness. His eyes were closed, though it mattered not - the darkness was absolute here in the Womb of the World.

In an instant nothing became everything and he realized She had arrived. There were no sounds, no speech, but his mind flooded with Her presence. 

My priest, he felt. It is time. I hunger. I need.

He felt touch from too many limbs and then pleasure pierced with pain. They mated, and melded, and his mind dwindled to nothing, subsumed as She absorbed him.

Sour, She felt. Too young. She had gleaned little, but enough to know that Her order was beginning to fade, their devotion becoming overtaken by ambition and greed and that desperate cling to life and power She existed to eradicate.

Humans. Such wastes.

---

Chapter 1 here: https://www.reddit.com/r/fantasywriters/s/RNC35UHv02

What do you cook for Christmas dinner? 

Do you have any traditions? 

What was normal?

We used to sing that old 12 Days of Christmas song as we hung ornaments.

Used to. 

When I was a kid.

Not anymore.

No tree these days with the cats. My husband and I decided early on it wouldn't be worth the risk.

We wouldn't want them to get into mischief, into trouble, to be hurt.

But, once, I used to sing when we trimmed the tree.

—)---

That first Christmas: the first one after my dad left, when he was still staying with friends and it was awkward. They were expecting and we were intruding. 

Kids aren't stupid; they're incisive.

They don't know the potential whys of social mishaps and see simply the raw underpinning core logic behind actions.

And I knew we were overstepping.

I was always a very sensitive child.

It's how you survive.

—)---

The next year we had our own house and our own tree and our own ornaments.

Now that he's gone, I imagine that shopping trip. It was Target - “tar-geh” he'd pronounce as a joke, upselling it from Walmart - and he found something surprisingly beautiful. My father was a poet trapped within the brain of an engineer and sometimes practicality warred with his instinct for beauty and sometimes beauty won, as it did with these ornaments. 

He must have debated the price - these were not cheap, in an era of his life where cash was tight - but ultimately he bought them.

Did he stand there, studying them? Did he admire the art? How did he decide which ones to pick? Something made him choose beauty over economy, but I'll never know, because I never thought to ask until now.

They were paper mache, each painstakingly painted with a scene from the classic song about the twelve days, secured with a lush silken cord of ribbon to affix them to the tree.

I was ten and I was transfixed. 

—)---

Before my mom insisted on staying who she is, before their final fight, we had a Christmas where my cat was in a cast. Orange, striped, Kimberly Underfoot my dad dubbed her and she truly was - an excited dog, a chase, a frantic climb up a Christmas tree and a very expensive vet bill led adult-me to simply accept seasonal topiary is gone from my life.

She was fine. For a while.

 We'd explore the half-built treehouse left by the last owners and laze in sunbeams on the plywood platform which was probably too dangerous to have been laying on, the one at the very top of the tree, but then one day she didn't want to explore.

And then later, soon later, she passed.

 Injuries create complications.

I will never risk it, now. My husband and I need them too much.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not much to give up - I love my cats, but I want them safe.

Still…traditions are odd and pervasive.

I miss the smell of pine and that hazy, comfy dim glow of the living room lit only by fairy lights when you're awake when you know you shouldn't be.

I always will.

And I never went back into the treehouse. We buried her at the roots.

—)---

After he died, there was a garage sale and I was in the hospital.

My sister's response was to scour and so out everything went: the shirts still clinging to his scent, the delicate porcelain and satin dolls he brought us from his business trips to Germany, layered sand art from the pier. 

Gone: trashed and sold.

From the gurney, it was a barrage of messages, the final breaking point as she texted me asking about my few scraps of memory as a needle dug into my spine. I was in the hospital that day, my body breaking down. Extreme emotions can cause a relapse, I was told as my body decided to destroy itself.

The first needle pop of bursa and the second into my core as my legs went numb…

“I can't feel-” and then the frantic “shit” of a fuck up. Desperate times lead to teaching hospitals and I focused instead on the garage sale, the garage sale which just HAD to be today, the one where I had no voice, no input, no scream to stop.

The texts kept coming and I tried to argue the value of my life’s trappings, begging to keep what I could, but her husband - my rival, my foe, my enemy - would always intercede. 

I miss our life before him. 

I mourned my camcorder and little outdated cassette videos of my study abroad, my Sega Genesis, my dad's desk and everything in it - all scourged away and removed by a pickup truck at the curb for the profit of a few bucks. 

Gone: how can I remember who I am if everything I have is gone? I'm worried I'll forget without the touch and the smell and the sound. I'm scared I won't always be sad.

It wasn't about the money, I know now, but the fact that she didn't even haggle makes it worse, somehow.

We cope in vastly different ways.

How much was my sister's love worth?

Pennies and everything.

—)---

When we hung the ornaments, we'd sing, way back then when light was golden and warm.

“On the first day of Christmas-”

I'd fish the globe out, admiring the spiking shades of overlayed green in the leaves in the tree around the bird. 

I'd present it with a flourish - the bauble would always bounce in a wonderful, tactile way, bobbing from the ribbon on its firm tether. 

Everything perfectly where it needed to be.

We'd sing the verse and hang the ornament and it would all feel right.

Life was tidy, back then, before I understood how it worked.

—)---

My husband has just come home from work and he's being suspicious.

I'm not allowed to go outside.

“Why-”

“Just wait, just wait until it's dark-”

So, we do our chores and feed the cats and finally I'm allowed to come to the window as night falls.

He's being weird but I wait, I trust him, and then he's magical and love, just a pillar of shining warm love, for he raises the curtains-

-outside are lights, our yard covered in draped strings of sparkles, and he's smiling at me and my heart swells. 

In the depths of the glow sits a bird, a silly, cheap, fake little bird, and I laugh for our tree has been strung with suncatchers cut like pears. They gather the light and glitter it back and for the first time in forever I feel like I'm home.

“On the first day of Christmas,” he starts and then hugs me as I realize that memories aren't static - every single snapping heartbeat of a moment is making a new one, and so here we are.

Together. 

Tradition is in our hands.

I can only just lean against him, falling in love all over again, and softly conclude:

“...a partridge in a pear tree.”

What do you cook for Christmas dinner? 

Do you have any traditions? 

What was normal?

We used to sing that old 12 Days of Christmas song as we hung ornaments.

Used to. 

When I was a kid.

Not anymore.

No tree these days with the cats. My husband and I decided early on it wouldn't be worth the risk.

We wouldn't want them to get into mischief, into trouble, to be hurt.

But, once, I used to sing when we trimmed the tree.

—)---

That first Christmas: the first one after my dad left, when he was still staying with friends and it was awkward. They were expecting and we were intruding. 

Kids aren't stupid; they're incisive.

They don't know the potential whys of social mishaps and see simply the raw underpinning core logic behind actions.

And I knew we were overstepping.

I was always a very sensitive child.

It's how you survive.

—)---

The next year we had our own house and our own tree and our own ornaments.

Now that he's gone, I imagine that shopping trip. It was Target - “tar-geh” he'd pronounce as a joke, upselling it from Walmart - and he found something surprisingly beautiful. My father was a poet trapped within the brain of an engineer and sometimes practicality warred with his instinct for beauty and sometimes beauty won, as it did with these ornaments. 

He must have debated the price - these were not cheap, in an era of his life where cash was tight - but ultimately he bought them.

Did he stand there, studying them? Did he admire the art? How did he decide which ones to pick? Something made him choose beauty over economy, but I'll never know, because I never thought to ask until now.

They were paper mache, each painstakingly painted with a scene from the classic song about the twelve days, secured with a lush silken cord of ribbon to affix them to the tree.

I was ten and I was transfixed. 

—)---

Before my mom insisted on staying who she is, before their final fight, we had a Christmas where my cat was in a cast. Orange, striped, Kimberly Underfoot my dad dubbed her and she truly was - an excited dog, a chase, a frantic climb up a Christmas tree and a very expensive vet bill led adult-me to simply accept seasonal topiary is gone from my life.

She was fine. For a while.

 We'd explore the half-built treehouse left by the last owners and laze in sunbeams on the plywood platform which was probably too dangerous to have been laying on, the one at the very top of the tree, but then one day she didn't want to explore.

And then later, soon later, she passed.

 Injuries create complications.

I will never risk it, now. My husband and I need them too much.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not much to give up - I love my cats, but I want them safe.

Still…traditions are odd and pervasive.

I miss the smell of pine and that hazy, comfy dim glow of the living room lit only by fairy lights when you're awake when you know you shouldn't be.

I always will.

And I never went back into the treehouse. We buried her at the roots.

—)---

After he died, there was a garage sale and I was in the hospital.

My sister's response was to scour and so out everything went: the shirts still clinging to his scent, the delicate porcelain and satin dolls he brought us from his business trips to Germany, layered sand art from the pier. 

Gone: trashed and sold.

From the gurney, it was a barrage of messages, the final breaking point as she texted me asking about my few scraps of memory as a needle dug into my spine. I was in the hospital that day, my body breaking down. Extreme emotions can cause a relapse, I was told as my body decided to destroy itself.

The first needle pop of bursa and the second into my core as my legs went numb…

“I can't feel-” and then the frantic “shit” of a fuck up. Desperate times lead to teaching hospitals and I focused instead on the garage sale, the garage sale which just HAD to be today, the one where I had no voice, no input, no scream to stop.

The texts kept coming and I tried to argue the value of my life’s trappings, begging to keep what I could, but her husband - my rival, my foe, my enemy - would always intercede. 

I miss our life before him. 

I mourned my camcorder and little outdated cassette videos of my study abroad, my Sega Genesis, my dad's desk and everything in it - all scourged away and removed by a pickup truck at the curb for the profit of a few bucks. 

Gone: how can I remember who I am if everything I have is gone? I'm worried I'll forget without the touch and the smell and the sound. I'm scared I won't always be sad.

It wasn't about the money, I know now, but the fact that she didn't even haggle makes it worse, somehow.

We cope in vastly different ways.

How much was my sister's love worth?

Pennies and everything.

—)---

When we hung the ornaments, we'd sing, way back then when light was golden and warm.

“On the first day of Christmas-”

I'd fish the globe out, admiring the spiking shades of overlayed green in the leaves in the tree around the bird. 

I'd present it with a flourish - the bauble would always bounce in a wonderful, tactile way, bobbing from the ribbon on its firm tether. 

Everything perfectly where it needed to be.

We'd sing the verse and hang the ornament and it would all feel right.

Life was tidy, back then, before I understood how it worked.

—)---

My husband has just come home from work and he's being suspicious.

I'm not allowed to go outside.

“Why-”

“Just wait, just wait until it's dark-”

So, we do our chores and feed the cats and finally I'm allowed to come to the window as night falls.

He's being weird but I wait, I trust him, and then he's magical and love, just a pillar of shining warm love, for he raises the curtains-

-outside are lights, our yard covered in draped strings of sparkles, and he's smiling at me and my heart swells. 

In the depths of the glow sits a bird, a silly, cheap, fake little bird, and I laugh for our tree has been strung with suncatchers cut like pears. They gather the light and glitter it back and for the first time in forever I feel like I'm home.

“On the first day of Christmas,” he starts and then hugs me as I realize that memories aren't static - every single snapping heartbeat of a moment is making a new one, and so here we are.

Together. 

Tradition is in our hands.

I can only just lean against him, falling in love all over again, and softly conclude:

“...a partridge in a pear tree.”

Through snow-smoked glass he snags my eye and I become an island, transfixed. The crowd parts around me, tramping home to family, to pets, to HearthWarmed™ apartments, to the soft, forgiving lighting of the holidays, but I'm there, alone, frozen, caught by him.

Again.

***

London: December evening, skies flaking down grey, angry, judging, and my own unit is dark, cold, lonely and so he catches my attention. Again. I stop, stand, stare.

Coat: threadbare, wind-pierced, but I'll be fine. When I walk I'll warm up. I can mind a moment. I've got a coffee.

Him: him.

I let myself daydream, traipsing through the hazy warmth of what-ifs, casting him centerstage as I spool out potential futures.

***

This time it's winter and we sit in my living room, comfortably close, laughing, debating ornament types. “We had this wooden set when I was a kid,” I offer, shyly quiet, and he sits, listening patiently. I blush, continue. “My father bought it, right after they divorced. The twelve days of Christmas.”

I glance at him and he's smiling, head tilted to one side, waiting for the story's end. My words drop to a mumble.

“We would sing each verse as we hung each one…” My conclusion dwindles to uncertain silence and then I hear his tenor, barely a whisper, as he gives my hand a squeeze and begins: “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”

I feel the electric flush of being weak, small, ignored and then suddenly noticed. A beautiful ache tickles my skin.

Together for our first Christmas.

***

The scene shifts to my dining room now, furniture upscaled and festooned with festive decorations - the theme is wooden, elegant, sparkling. We're richer, happier, healthier, older, a supreme of superlatives. Somewhere offscreen the doorbell rings and then a crowd of guests come in, laughing, hugging, chattering, women I long to befriend now socializing breezily with us.

And their words are genuine, their smiles genuine, their stares genuine - everything, for once, genuine. I can be myself. We've built a family.

I feel a buzzing warmth, guthappy and aspirational, like a slug of wine taking root.

A loving crowd for Christmas.

***

We're old, now, him helping me as I totter to the bedroom. My hair is grey, but I'm elegant, poised, dignified, a regal queen, and my world matches: there's a magnificent four poster bed, silk curtains, crown molding, a room from a fairy tale.

Mine.

With him.

And he smiles at me, adoring, loving, kind, protective.

I feel a detached calm, peaceful and resigned - with him at my side, death would be welcome. Another grand adventure to take together.

Never alone for Christmas.

***

I shiver, but not from the cold, and square my shoulders, vision focusing as the glass window resolves back into view, and I study him through the frosted pane. Nobody should be alone for Christmas.

I ping my assistant to run some numbers then flush in excitement as the result flashes before me. I can finally swing it. Barely. On a payment plan.

My body is tired, tired of always window-shopping and going home by myself. Nobody should be alone for Christmas. I enter the store and signal to the system that I'm a buyer, indicate his model, pick all the upgrades, bells, whistles. I customize his features, adjust his personality and select immediate delivery.

It’s not cheap, but it's worth it because nobody should be alone for Christmas.

Godshards: part 1 - The Thief

Every muscle in Leti’s body howled. Her breathing shallow and body tense, the only movement she allowed herself was a rapid, frustrated blink as a drop of sweat dripped into her right eye with a stinging splash. She slowly eased lower, out of the slanting rays of the setting sun, and peered across the market. 

Wooden barrels as tall as her chest ringed the back of the wine seller’s stall, creating a shadowy corner which concealed her perfectly. Beyond, the local vintner cajoled passersby, tempting patrons with free samples in a voice pitched to carry over the raucous sounds of street musicians. Sunlight gleamed warm and golden along the strings of a gittern, the curves of a horn, the rivets of a drum, sending winking flashes across the crowd with each note played. The light was swallowed in the chaotic scene of the square. 

Pennants fluttered overhead in swaths of crimson and cream, stamped with the city’s crest of a whimsical dragon rearing high. They snapped crisply in the light breeze, echoed softly by the billowing rasp of silken stalls. Patterned in bright hues, each competed to draw shoppers’ eyes in garish wars of color, from a simple fruitseller’s vibrant checkerboard to an exotic importer’s intricate hand-painted awning. The goods within were just as eye-catching, with glittering gems and bright-buffed metals dazzlingly aglow in the golden haze of dusk.

But Leti looked past all that. 

The expensive stalls were too risky to hit.

 Rubbing the nub of her left pinkie finger with her thumb, her practiced eyes scanned the crowd for the importer’s guards. After a moment, she spotted them, loitering near the entrance just a bit too casually to be proper patrons. One even made a small show of admiring some ugly dull rock and as his head tilted to the side, his face caught the light. Leti stiffened, her thumb reflexively skimming the stump of her finger again. She’d never forget that face.

Repressing a shiver, her surveil shifted to the crowd. Her mind quickly saw and discarded the common folk, in for the day in the dull hues of their homespun finest. Instead, she searched for the shine of satin, the gleam of gold, the rich heft of brocade. Within moments, she had found her mark.

The man himself seemed nondescript, his features bland and complexion pale. His muted brown hair was combed back in a tidy sweep, highlighting a weak chin and a long nose, set between two eyes like flint shards. Dark and glinting as they intently scanned each item for sale, they were the only thing memorable about his face.

His clothing, however, was sumptuous.

 For a few moments, Leti found herself unable to do more than gawk at the garments, mind spinning as she tried to calculate its value. For just the jacket, you could buy yourself out from Boss Lady, a voice in her mind whispered. Imagine what his whole outfit is worth. Her thoughts spiraled for a moment, dreams of fortune blooming and flaring away like fireblossoms, leaving wisps of wishful memories like the flower’s ghostly afterimages in the night.

An ache in her finger recalled her and she glanced down at the damage.

 Reflexively, she had worried the skin raw across her stump, a faint line of red opening along a slender scar. Exhaling slowly, Leti did her best to calm and focus, assessing him as she’d been taught. Purple and silver, velvet and satin, furs and pearls. She noted which could be easily cut away, which absences could escape notice. 

And then she noticed more.

At first, Leti had just assumed the man had a limp. 

Half the olders she knew had one, most from the wars, some the vagaries of time. But as she watched, tracking his gait intently, she discovered an odd swing to his step, legs bowing out past the fall of his heavy cloak to giving him a rolling walk. She was struck with a sense of confusing familiarity and then it hit her - every few months a ship would come upriver with news and trade, scraps of the exotic, luxuries to buy. Those days marked the best moments in Leti’s short life so far, for pickings were plenty on ship days and Boss Lady would set out a feast and let the fire roar all night.

A sailor, Leti thought, but then frowned. No, there’s something more…

She watched longer, eyes tracing his movements until she pinpointed it: his right hip rolled downwards as his knee bent, making each step on that side with just a hint of a dip. Leti allowed herself a slow, satisfied smile. He was carrying a belt pouch.

Locals bought and sold on credit, with payments arranged through guarded bank transfers. Boss Lady’s wasn’t the only orphanage in town, nor was her’s the most cutthroat, and most people preferred their lives to their coin. Only a fool would openly carry money through Lagon’s streets. A fool, or… Leti watched the man. The flint-eyed gaze swept across the stalls, appraising, assessing, analyzing. He was no fool.

He must be foreign, she thought, although that struck her as odd. Nobody came to Lagon who didn’t have to be there. She found herself drawn to the man, a curiosity twined with calculation. What did he carry? Why was he here? Who was he?

 A faint whisper behind her brain urged caution as she slowly eased herself sideways to follow the man. Crouching low behind the barrels, she paced parallel to him, skirting behind the backs of booths as he browsed their wares. She heard the vintner call out to the stranger, imploring him to taste last winter’s frostsap, and leaned close to a gap in the casks, holding her breath. Music trilled as he replied, the flute skirling brightly on the wind to obscure his words.

“Donkeys,” Leti muttered, rubbing at her finger. 

 The row of barrels ended, replaced by bales of cloth behind a weaver’s stall stacked as high as her head. She rose, stretched, scurried onwards, peering through gaps in the fabric wall to sight the man’s movement. Cloth became baskets of fruit, and her stomach rumbled at the sweet scent of glowmelons, freshly sliced and softly shining in the twilight. The spicy tang of splinterberries wafted up from a crate and she warily skirted the one beside it, avoiding the wiry spines stabbing outwards from the fruit’s cracked husks. 

Leti crouched behind a bucket of celestials, gaze briefly caught by the transfixing swirl of shades across their tender skins. Deep blue and vibrant purple formed a shifting backdrop for delicate, migrating flecks of light. Like stars in the night, she thought, remembering one Boat Day, long ago, when Boss Lady had given them each a slice of the sky. Each fleck was a seed, roaming within the flesh of the fruit, and each bite tasted like sugarspun starlight.

She pulled herself away from the yearning and focused on the next, that moment Boss Lady preached about when movement found thought. She exhaled sharply, then again and again, pulling her thoughts up and up and up into the clean cadence of doing.

“Don't think - just be,” she heard Boss Lady preach. “Just exist in the moment, dancing, darting, everywhere they think you won't be. Be there, be there, be a busy little bee.”

This pocket could have her eating honey for weeks.

“Just be.”

Time for some lifting.

---

Prologue here: https://www.reddit.com/r/fantasywriters/s/kki8YghCdu

At first I thought it was just the dog, wandering alone over the leaves in the Simupark, his back curved and his head low so he had to lift his eyes and peer through his brows when the squirrel ran past and sat poised on the tree trunk, aware of him. A challenge. He froze for a moment, then - realizing his age - continued to shuffle along over the leaves, occasionally slowing to nose one over or limpidly paw at the dirt, but never more than disinterested. 

It was quite advanced - I hadn't seen this display before and smothered a grin, thinking of Letna stuck down in labor. She had told me the tests didn't matter, given me shit for preparing - but where did she end up placed? 

As the dog turned the path towards me, I saw the man he was walking come into view, stooped and crooked like an old chimney. He clawed at a thick walking stick, fingers curled around the knob at the top like hands rested on a knee – comfortable, but necessary to stop the tremor. 

He wore a cap tight on his head and a sweater underneath his coat. Space was too cold for him. For some, it never sat right. I saw it all the time - nausea, chills, psychosis - and would regularly comm in an alert about a guest. I cleared my throat, neck flexing to deliver a subvocal call sign… and then waited. Something felt different.

Red cheeks, beyond the cold, and a nose of a man who was no stranger to the gentle ministrations of synth. Pronounced veins, spiderwebbing dark. Certain lovers leave marks. This was something that had existed before we had launched. Something that had likely existed for as many generations as he could have afforded. Something symbiotic, twining around his very psyche, like a snake replacing his insides.

We saw those, too, from time to time, and I became alert, body tensed, shock stick humming, eyes shifting over to augmented view. His entire story began to run before my vision, a waterfall of love and loss and pain and trauma and - at least according to the pretests - regret.

It wasn't an anymore thing, anyone could see: underneath the flush, he was pale and sunken and quivering, beyond the crave of a vial. The old beckoning feathertouch had been eclipsed by a shake and then a seize, abruptly, recently - what had felt like a gentle, familar stroke was now the whisper of breath against his neck, Death's gentle lullaby looming close.

He used to be quite a man, I now knew, one of grand adventures and even grander tales of adventures, the kind which had bodyblocks on scanning them. I wondered how he had come to this ship, this pointless corner of nothing where everyone but the youngest will be gone and replaced before we arrive. We didn't have proper regeneration in the cheap corners of the universe, just sketchy experiments that slid out of review as we skipped through the stars. 

What had driven him from home to come die here, in the nowhere between places? 

There was a story there, novels worth of history - his life. I longed to transfer to private, to record and to THINK but I was on shift for another sleep cycle and so I just tried to remember as much as I could, my thoughts spiraling away, my brilliant connections of awareness fading back into painfully unaugmented memories of revelation.

For a moment everything felt too important, too vital, and I started a commlink to Letna down in the pits to show her and help her and then and then everything hazed autumn as I felt myself falling into observer mode.

I find myself automatically pulled back two levels, confining the feed to visual. The wildness of a moment before vanished, replaced with responsibility. I spit into the vomit tube. 

Clean.

All I could do was witness.

His eyes scanned the ground, but they darted upwards once, and I saw their haunted look. He knew more than just the lullaby; he was one of her lovers, and death had not treated him kindly. He coughed, as he passed the tree, and the squirrel fled upwards, the spell of stillness broken.

I let myself shift a level higher and did a quiet scan. The squirrel wasn't tagged by breeding - just another simulated thing. The dog was real, though, which was astounding.

Most just get a replacement, better, augmented, tomorrow. To have a true pet on a colonist ship didn't just mean rich. I didn't know what it fucking meant, but I knew it was beyond my paygrade to even try to figure it out.

 The dog leaned against the trunk, then shook - the leaves and dust and sun were all quite convincing here - while the old man paused, and then it rolled and rolled and rolled in the simulated soil and simulated dirt and simulated dawn before eventually laying down, moss clinging to his coat like dalmation spots against his long hair. 

And then the second man stumped down the path. 

It was a painful cough to hear, the kind that rips you apart more than the cougher. The old man just waited patiently, leaning against his cane, as the other man – barely more than a boy, I realized, as I stared longer; his shoulders still had that awkward shape of adolescence and his face was young under the age, he couldn’t have been more than 20 – reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the little flecks of blood and foaming spit that had fallen around his lips. The handkerchief came away red with little spots. I saw that clearly from my post and then pretended I didn't.

Continued pretending I didn't exist.

As he tucked it back in his pocket, the young man almost self-consciously looked around. An alert (HEARTRATE ABNORMAL: PLEASE EXERCISE CALM) flared and fell to quiescence - I felt like an intruder. Calming colors flooded my vision.

His face was gaunt under the beard he had grown. His clothes were baggy, but the right length. He pulled his hat down tighter - space didn't suit him, either.

But some magic could only be cast amongst the stars.

The old man stood staring up at the boy, a sad sort of smile on his lips, and then gave his arm a weak, affectionate squeeze. They both turned and continued to walk down the path, to a bench further on. The young man helped the old one sit, and the dog lay at their feet.

 Both men sat then - for ages - as my memories shifted like dumb clay into mere sentiment, instead of brilliance, the meds pumping in time with each minute-long heartbeat these mummies pulsed. The fuckers merely sat looking at the park, watching the SimuKids run around SimuShrieking happily, the SimuLovers laughing and flirting, the SimuMothers with their baby carriages, pushing the prams into a circle and gossiping about so-and-so’s SimuHusband, or this-and-that’s new SimuProduct available with a button touch, the pretend tourists chasing pretend ducks like imagined children, and laughing like children, and taking so many pretend pictures to capture the memory of that time they were prompted and coded and designed to feel like children for the amusement of their solitary visitors among the stars.

The dog slept at their feet. 

Eventually-

Eventually-

Eventually-

They finally left.

The dog passed, bending to sniff me.

Beneath my gear, fabric rustled. I gave its head a stroke, and it gave my hand a dry lick. Beautiful eyes, deep brown pools with golden flecks. Then, the men passed him, the boy’s eyes flickering downward towards me, a sad sort of smile, almost sympathetic, and the dog trotted softly back to his owners, his tail slowly wagging. 

They walked around the corner, their backs receding into the trees, the dog slowly following, silently eyeing a squirrel. As the men disappeared, the dog stopped and let out one deep, throaty bark, then fell back onto his haunches. The squirrel leapt into the branches and quietly chittered in protest. From the trees, I heard a soft, hollow whistle, and the dog rose and gently loped off after his masters. 

He still had it in him.

I couldn't wait to tell Letna about what I'd seen.

A dog and soon a death and an overall far better shift than anything down in labor.

Light pierced the endless void, a tiny pinprick splintering through darkness to lance down on Rqwrythyzal rather demandingly. Irritated, the somewhat-elder god shifted his weight with an earth-shuddering shrug and pawed at a few dozen of his sleep-grimed eyes with a claw-tipped hand.

"Goway-" he muttered, his tired voice a muted melody of off-key screeches and grunts.

The light brightened as beams of sullen crimson began dancing across the behometh. He rolled over in frustration, his tentacles dragging a leathery patchwork skin quilt over his face to shield his eyes.

"Jus' a few more millenia..." 

Faint chanting drifted in from the aether and the red light swelled, long-dark runes flaring to life in bloody gleams. Rqwrythyzal let out a frustrated roar, doing his best to hunch beneath his blanket and pretend that none of this was happening. He had been having a lovely dream about frolicking unicorns.

The chanting got annoyingly louder. The ruddy runes rudely flared insistently. This all was definitely happening.

Sighing, Rqwrythyzal rolled back over, staring into the void in defeat. Light coalesced like bloody mist, spiraling and solidifying as the void began to vomit itself into reality. He hated this part, being shat out from his happy pocket of nothing into the stupid dumb world. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who had summoned him. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who would lock him back up again. He hated this stupid dumb universe, he hated his stupid dumb par-

—)----

The void collapsed in on itself, his body compressing smaller and smaller to tiny motes of nothing as he roared and writhed and then ceased to exist at all.

—)---

-ents, he thought petulantly as he popped back into reality, broodingly grabbing several handfuls of cult members and chomping off a few heads. Snacking always helped him think more clearly. 

Really, Rqwrythyzal reasoned as he munched, it all came down to them and their stupid dumb aspirations for him. Several of his hands clenched into fists, to the dismay of the few living cultists still grasped within them. He punched at a column, flattenened a few people with one of his tails and then moodily plopped down on top of what might have been the high priest, turning him into a puddle of probably-high-priest jelly. 

He sighed and sucked on one gore-encrusted claw. THEY never liked his snacking habit, THEY wanted him to rule this corner of the universe, THEY never understood his dreams, THEY never gave him a unicorn-

Rqwrythyzal perked up at that last thought and quickly juggled his hands, finally unearthing a living cultist. 

"Say, where do you keep unicorns these days?" he chirped in unholy cacaphony, putting on his best set of winning smiles. Teeth glinted from dozens of rows and the poor cultist - never a good student of elder tongue - promptly fainted. 

Shrugging, Rqwrythyzal popped the man into one of his mouths. "I'm sure they're around here somewhere." His tummy did a monstrous flip-flop of excitement. Rqwrythyzal loved unicorns. That was another reason he was a disappointment, of course, just one in a litany-

A familiar touch brushed across his mind and the somewhat-elder god suddenly stiffened, spines and barbs reflexively stabbing straight upwards. A cultist bystander, trying to inch past to safety, found himself casually impaled and Rqwrythyzal shook himself for a few moments trying to disloge the man. 

"Playing with your food again?" His mother's familiar screeching wail clanged about like discordant bells in his head. She was particularly nasty to talk to when nursing a hangover, Rqwrythyzal recalled.

"Don't bother making excuses," she breezed over his mumbled reply. "You've always been a messy little thing." The thought came across balefully loving and the god felt a bright little spark of happiness bloom in his gut. "I just wanted to tell you that your father and I got bored with this planet AGES ago. We're on a cruise- Xrnqlynrth! Xrnqlynrth, get over here!"

Rqwrythyzal waited patiently for his father's voice. It came in faint and wobbling as the elder god bantered with someone on the other edge of the universe. "Sorry, scuffleboard," his dad finally explained with a sinister cackle. "Trfnit always cheats." His voice warbled out again as he resumed his banter, then swelled once more to fill his head with a hearty growl of: "And we're proud. We're sure you'll do great this time around."

His mother's voice swept back in with briskly efficient gongs and clanks. "We left you a spending hoard in the vault, the keys to the lair are under the blood fountain and there are a few dozen mortals stuffed in the pit for dinner. If you skin anyone in my sitting room, I will skin YOU. We love you, be saaaafe-" Her presence petered out and Rqwrythyzal began to grin. A cultist in the depths of the temple, pinned beneath a column, let out a helpless moan.

A whole eon with the lair to himself - time to throw a party.

Light pierced the endless void, a tiny pinprick splintering through darkness to lance down on Rqwrythyzal rather demandingly. Irritated, the somewhat-elder god shifted his weight with an earth-shuddering shrug and pawed at a few dozen of his sleep-grimed eyes with a claw-tipped hand.

"Goway-" he muttered, his tired voice a muted melody of off-key screeches and grunts.

The light brightened as beams of sullen crimson began dancing across the behometh. He rolled over in frustration, his tentacles dragging a leathery patchwork skin quilt over his face to shield his eyes.

"Jus' a few more millenia..."

Faint chanting drifted in from the aether and the red light swelled, long-dark runes flaring to life in bloody gleams. Rqwrythyzal let out a frustrated roar, doing his best to hunch beneath his blanket and pretend that none of this was happening. He had been having a lovely dream about frolicking unicorns.

The chanting got annoyingly louder. The ruddy runes rudely flared insistently. This all was definitely happening.

Sighing, Rqwrythyzal rolled back over, staring into the void in defeat. Light coalesced like bloody mist, spiraling and solidifying as the void began to vomit itself into reality. He hated this part, being shat out from his happy pocket of nothing into the stupid dumb world. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who had summoned him. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who would lock him back up again. He hated this stupid dumb universe, he hated his stupid dumb par-

—)----

The void collapsed in on itself, his body compressing smaller and smaller to tiny motes of nothing as he roared and writhed and then ceased to exist at all.

—)---

-ents, he thought petulantly as he popped back into reality, broodingly grabbing several handfuls of cult members and chomping off a few heads. Snacking always helped him think more clearly.

Really, Rqwrythyzal reasoned as he munched, it all came down to them and their stupid dumb aspirations for him. Several of his hands clenched into fists, to the dismay of the few living cultists still grasped within them. He punched at a column, flattenened a few people with one of his tails and then moodily plopped down on top of what might have been the high priest, turning him into a puddle of probably-high-priest jelly.

He sighed and sucked on one gore-encrusted claw. THEY never liked his snacking habit, THEY wanted him to rule this corner of the universe, THEY never understood his dreams, THEY never gave him a unicorn-

Rqwrythyzal perked up at that last thought and quickly juggled his hands, finally unearthing a living cultist.

"Say, where do you keep unicorns these days?" he chirped in unholy cacaphony, putting on his best set of winning smiles. Teeth glinted from dozens of rows and the poor cultist - never a good student of elder tongue - promptly fainted.

Shrugging, Rqwrythyzal popped the man into one of his mouths. "I'm sure they're around here somewhere." His tummy did a monstrous flip-flop of excitement. Rqwrythyzal loved unicorns. That was another reason he was a disappointment, of course, just one in a litany-

A familiar touch brushed across his mind and the somewhat-elder god suddenly stiffened, spines and barbs reflexively stabbing straight upwards. A cultist bystander, trying to inch past to safety, found himself casually impaled and Rqwrythyzal shook himself for a few moments trying to disloge the man.

"Playing with your food again?" His mother's familiar screeching wail clanged about like discordant bells in his head. She was particularly nasty to talk to when nursing a hangover, Rqwrythyzal recalled.

"Don't bother making excuses," she breezed over his mumbled reply. "You've always been a messy little thing." The thought came across balefully loving and the god felt a bright little spark of happiness bloom in his gut. "I just wanted to tell you that your father and I got bored with this planet AGES ago. We're on a cruise- Xrnqlynrth! Xrnqlynrth, get over here!"

Rqwrythyzal waited patiently for his father's voice. It came in faint and wobbling as the elder god bantered with someone on the other edge of the universe. "Sorry, scuffleboard," his dad finally explained with a sinister cackle. "Trfnit always cheats." His voice warbled out again as he resumed his banter, then swelled once more to fill his head with a hearty growl of: "And we're proud. We're sure you'll do great this time around."

His mother's voice swept back in with briskly efficient gongs and clanks. "We left you a spending hoard in the vault, the keys to the lair are under the blood fountain and there are a few dozen mortals stuffed in the pit for dinner. If you skin anyone in my sitting room, I will skin YOU. We love you, be saaaafe-" Her presence petered out and Rqwrythyzal began to grin. A cultist in the depths of the temple, pinned beneath a column, let out a helpless moan.

A whole eon with the lair to himself - time to throw a party.

Light pierced the endless void, a tiny pinprick splintering through darkness to lance down on Rqwrythyzal rather demandingly. Irritated, the somewhat-elder god shifted his weight with an earth-shuddering shrug and pawed at a few dozen of his sleep-grimed eyes with a claw-tipped hand.

"Goway-" he muttered, his tired voice a muted melody of off-key screeches and grunts.

The light brightened as beams of sullen crimson began dancing across the behometh. He rolled over in frustration, his tentacles dragging a leathery patchwork skin quilt over his face to shield his eyes.

"Jus' a few more millenia..."

Faint chanting drifted in from the aether and the red light swelled, long-dark runes flaring to life in bloody gleams. Rqwrythyzal let out a frustrated roar, doing his best to hunch beneath his blanket and pretend that none of this was happening. He had been having a lovely dream about frolicking unicorns.

The chanting got annoyingly louder. The ruddy runes rudely flared insistently. This all was definitely happening.

Sighing, Rqwrythyzal rolled back over, staring into the void in defeat. Light coalesced like bloody mist, spiraling and solidifying as the void began to vomit itself into reality. He hated this part, being shat out from his happy pocket of nothing into the stupid dumb world. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who had summoned him. He hated the stupid dumb mortals who would lock him back up again. He hated this stupid dumb universe, he hated his stupid dumb par-

—)----

The void collapsed in on itself, his body compressing smaller and smaller to tiny motes of nothing as he roared and writhed and then ceased to exist at all.

—)---

-ents, he thought petulantly as he popped back into reality, broodingly grabbing several handfuls of cult members and chomping off a few heads. Snacking always helped him think more clearly.

Really, Rqwrythyzal reasoned as he munched, it all came down to them and their stupid dumb aspirations for him. Several of his hands clenched into fists, to the dismay of the few living cultists still grasped within them. He punched at a column, flattenened a few people with one of his tails and then moodily plopped down on top of what might have been the high priest, turning him into a puddle of probably-high-priest jelly.

He sighed and sucked on one gore-encrusted claw. THEY never liked his snacking habit, THEY wanted him to rule this corner of the universe, THEY never understood his dreams, THEY never gave him a unicorn-

Rqwrythyzal perked up at that last thought and quickly juggled his hands, finally unearthing a living cultist.

"Say, where do you keep unicorns these days?" he chirped in unholy cacaphony, putting on his best set of winning smiles. Teeth glinted from dozens of rows and the poor cultist - never a good student of elder tongue - promptly fainted.

Shrugging, Rqwrythyzal popped the man into one of his mouths. "I'm sure they're around here somewhere." His tummy did a monstrous flip-flop of excitement. Rqwrythyzal loved unicorns. That was another reason he was a disappointment, of course, just one in a litany-

A familiar touch brushed across his mind and the somewhat-elder god suddenly stiffened, spines and barbs reflexively stabbing straight upwards. A cultist bystander, trying to inch past to safety, found himself casually impaled and Rqwrythyzal shook himself for a few moments trying to disloge the man.

"Playing with your food again?" His mother's familiar screeching wail clanged about like discordant bells in his head. She was particularly nasty to talk to when nursing a hangover, Rqwrythyzal recalled.

"Don't bother making excuses," she breezed over his mumbled reply. "You've always been a messy little thing." The thought came across balefully loving and the god felt a bright little spark of happiness bloom in his gut. "I just wanted to tell you that your father and I got bored with this planet AGES ago. We're on a cruise- Xrnqlynrth! Xrnqlynrth, get over here!"

Rqwrythyzal waited patiently for his father's voice. It came in faint and wobbling as the elder god bantered with someone on the other edge of the universe. "Sorry, scuffleboard," his dad finally explained with a sinister cackle. "Trfnit always cheats." His voice warbled out again as he resumed his banter, then swelled once more to fill his head with a hearty growl of: "And we're proud. We're sure you'll do great this time around."

His mother's voice swept back in with briskly efficient gongs and clanks. "We left you a spending hoard in the vault, the keys to the lair are under the blood fountain and there are a few dozen mortals stuffed in the pit for dinner. If you skin anyone in my sitting room, I will skin YOU. We love you, be saaaafe-" Her presence petered out and Rqwrythyzal began to grin. A cultist in the depths of the temple, pinned beneath a column, let out a helpless moan.

A whole eon with the lair to himself - time to throw a party.

Morning call blares and I am already late.

"Help!" I hiss to brother, but he's gone, slipping away from bedding in a nimble twist.

"Praise Sovereign," he mutters and I duck my head, ashamed I've forgotten such basics in my hurry for school. "Praise Sovereign," I echo, blushing, my morning tripped and slowed by my own mistakes.

There is no time for food.

Brother walks me to the bus.

"I miss meat," I complain, but brother knows better.

"Do not miss meat," he mutters. "And never tell anyone you miss it."

I never will, I promise, and we will never speak of beef again, or chicken, or pork, or anything yummy, anything better than vat-grown stuffs. Good, he murmurs, but my tummy disagrees.

The bus comes.

I stand silent as I am wanded down by the security guard, arms outspread and legs splayed as I've been taught. No beeps. I'm safe. I board the bus. 38 days since an incident. I giggle at the silliness.

My friend Kelsey is four seats down. I smile, halfwise, as mother has taught - enough to show intent, but not enough to invite attention, as she says. The young boys can't help themselves, she says. We shouldn't blame them, she says. Kelsey half-smiles back.

I settle in beside Kelsey and we grumble over homework. We have been studying sexual education; last night we learned of our sin.

"I wish I was never a girl," I confide to Kelsey in an embarrassed whisper. My skin turns all pink and hot, and it makes me feel so lame and dumb to tell her, but...part of me can't just accept what we are told. It's just not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair just because of being a girl-

"You've gotta get over this-" Kelsey's voice is in my ear. I've lost where I am and what's going on. I re-focus. We are leaving the bus. "You know there is WAY more important stuff."

I nod. She's right. It's time for school.

I did not want to pick many electives this year, but the school mandates we do, so I settled on finance - I'm to learn about how corporations help the government. They are very helpful, I've learned, so far. We are about to learn which ones are the best, so I'm excited.

There's some commotion, though. Classes should start soon, but people are milling about. I ask what's going on - oh...

...It's Marta.

They found out she's illegal. Well, rather, her family was, in the pasttimes. She's...we don't talk of that. Poor Marta. The crowd scatters quickly. We won't see Marta again.

Class begins, heralded by a bell and a round of "Praise Sovereign." We bow our heads low - not bowing is grounds for suspicion. Only rebels don't bow. I glance about the room, quick, harsh, hot, illegal. Trent's head stays up. I know Trent, I like Trent. We talked at lunch about stuff.

Oh, please, I whisper to myself. Don't do this, Trent. I whisper and I plead, but it's all in my head, and within a heartbeat the campus security are here. I will not see Trent - not the Trent I know - ever again. I bite back tears. Tears are terrorist tools. I must not cry, or I may be implicated.

The bell rings and we duck into a round of praise Sovereigns. This seems to satisfy the guards. They depart and education begins.

And we learn.

It was meant to be a routine trading mission.

"Queen! The module, it's-" A crackling over the channel, sharp, deafening, followed by the acrid smell of burnt flesh, as the voice abruptly fell silent. The command room, the centerpoint of the ship, its heart, was quiet and still, broken only by punctuated flickering flashes of eerie jade light. Faltering, the illumination flared brightly, momentarily washing the chamber in a green glow, before fluttering to darkness again.

In darkness, only breathing, the hive's heart slowly pulsing with ragged beats as the ship laboured onwards.

In the flash, the Queen, fixed still as a statue in the command chair, clawed, carapaced hands clenched tight about the arms of her throne, her face impassive, her faceted eyes revealing nothing.

And again, in darkness, only the static crackle of equipment failing from below, deeper in the bowels of the ship.

And then, even those fell silent.

A routine...trading...mission...

---

The trader ship loomed overhead on the command's display, filling the entire module. Bulbous and rotund, defensive spikes, shield orb pustules, and a few bulky, slow moving turrets bristled in warning. Swarming, little more than dusty flecks against the backdrop of the massive, defensive vessel, aetherbeasts twisted through space, darting in and scurrying back, repulsed by the gnome ship's barriers. A skerry of threat, and through it the Hive swooped, sliding through the slipstreams and wakes of the massive creatures to dock with the merchant fleet.

"Make it quick." The Queen's tone was short, bored, her statement delivered almost the instant that the two ships linked a bridge. Her fingers lazily drummed against the arm of her throne as the Hive's minions hustled, quickly presenting their wares to the gnomes. A faint chittering drifted up to the command room, vague haggles and counteroffers filtering into the chamber in snatches and whispers.

"Are you FINISHED yet?"

The underlings flinched at the impatient shout, finalizing their trades and dashing to their stations. With a lurching groan, the Hive's hold opened, funneled by the frantic fingerpunching of a small, spindly bug to empty into the reservoirs of the trading vessel. The ship jolted, bouncing once in a rough shake as the bridge retracted, severing the link between the two crafts. Finally, in a breathy pant: "Yes, Queen. Mission accomplished."

The command room was silent for a moment. Hazy, filtered jade light cast the Queen's features into an unreadable expression. Around her, a faint pulsing, as energy coursed in a conduit, sliding through the Hive's heart to empower the extremities: flashing, bright green light sparking as power spun through the ship's nerves into the grid, turrets, collectors, shield.

"Launch."

Softly, silently, the Hive pushed off, spinning into the aetherways. Pulling away from the drag of the massive trading ship, the smaller vessel ducked through aetherwinds, twisting to find a route clear back to home, away from the dangers of aetherspace, a safe path to its dock. Back to the true hive.

If only things went so easy.

---

Sluggish, stolen momentum, as the Hive slowed to a lazy drift, helpless on the aetherways. The command module's screen suddenly went black, eclipsed entirely by a dark, rippling image. Filling the entire view, a foreign, enemy craft swam before the Queen, the ship's ugly, harsh, aggressive lines provoking a rare exclamation of anger.

"Full power to command!" The directive was barked. No room for question - without a moment's pause, the empath followed, and the throne shook, rocked by the sudden surge of power. Sickeningly, gut-churning, the entire craft rolled, ducking sideways, below, away from the foreign ship.

"Silence off!"

"Scouting off!"

"Full power to the Queen!"

Commands sheared the air, as the Queen swiftly pared the ship's movement down to precise maneuvers, threading the small craft between white-hot arcs of fire. Unspoken, the ship's shield flared to life, power switching to essentials, and the cabin's light dimmed. In the gloom, the Queen's face remained, impassive, dark eyes reflecting the console's display: multiplied in the minute, ebony facets, flak glittered back, dozens of tiny streams of molten energy sparkling like deadly starlight. Silent, unmoving she sat, as the ship shuddered with a pained screech of rent metal.

"Queen! We've been hi-"

"Heal it." Her voice, cool, demanding, cut across the gunner's panicked cry. Below, a flare of green, as the empath redirected a stream of energy towards the damaged turret. A faint klaxon rang out, and a single red light pulsed once across the console's display. Energy reserves low.

The Queen exhaled sharply, ignoring the warning. Instead, she wrenched the ship about, swooping low and close to the enemy vessel.

"My Queen?!" The empath's voice was stunned, incredulous, underscored by taut fear.

She did not reply, only, brazenly, continued the turn, sliding closer to the enemy craft as she directed a surge of energy to the ship's steering. Shaking, the command responded, and the ship sped up, plummeting directly towards the enemy. Below, from the collectors, an insectile scream pierced the humid cabin air.

"AT. YOUR. STATIONS." The Queen's voice rang across the ship's channel, each chittered word harsh and condemning.

And, still, the Hive continued its reckless, suicidal plunge towards the foreign craft. Fire ceased - too close for the foes to reliably shoot, although the small blessing seemed little comfort to the crew. Breathless, they obeyed, though faint whispers (prayers?) could be heard escaping the lips of a gunner, hands slack at his turret. Helpless, they merely waited, watching as their Queen steered them into death.

And then..."MORE POWER!" Instinctively, the empath obeyed, directing almost all of the remaining power to the command module. The ship responded with a buzz, leaping ahead even faster, as the Queen coaxed the steering a fraction upwards, skimming close enough to the enemy to almost graze their turrets - leaping, falling, swooping, skirling, the ship recovered its momentum, lunging past the enemy on a breakneck slingshot as the thrusters shot out a final burst of acceleration in a bone-shaking sluice - and then they were past, a vortex looming before them.

Without preamble, the ship tunneled, and was gone.

---

The ship floated silently through the cold darkness of deepest aetherspace. The crew let out a sudden cheer as the craft spun through the vortex, quickly hushed by an urgent clicking from the Queen. This was dragon territory, and the monitor overhead remained ominously empty.

Something was not normal.

Speed slowed as the craft drifted away from the vortex, ripples of energy dying out to faint waves of distortion across the screen. Flickering, the module's display dimmed as the empath balanced the scant power reserves - augmenting the dwindling supply, the Queen's hands tightened into clawed fists as a shimmering current filled the air before her. Jade light swirled outwards, unfurling from her chest and glittering for a bright moment before melting away into the chamber's walls.

Exhaling sharply from the draining transfer of power, she stared up at the display again: it remained dim. An immense shadow loomed across the screen as it grew darker and finally, from within the flux of the vortex, a giant ship emerged from its hidden immersion, separating from the crackling noise and static of the warp. It advanced, its shape resolving into sleek, barbed lines, woven with a sickening, flaring crimson glow. Spacesick. High power turrets swept up from the ship's prow to arch aftwards in a menacing line of flaring spines, while massive energy collectors whirred from their positions flanking the cabin.

A battle cruiser. The Spear - the largest and most deadly ship in aetherspace, only rumored to exist. Lost, once upon a time. And the most broken. Legend whispered it had never docked, never purged, never cleansed, pure entropy cloaking what was once a crew.

Once.

A blinding scarlet light eclipsed the Queen's vessel, each turret flaring with a roiling nimbus of power, and the Hive lurched to a stop, energy sapped from the sudden, siphoning attack. For a moment, all was still, dark, and then the command display coughed back to life, a sallow face filling the screen. His eyes were dark as he stared out at the Hive's captain, his voice spiralling into chaos as he delivered his message.

He grinned, far too widely, and then transmission shifted to audio.

"By right of arms and rule of force, this ship is now property of The Righteously Riotous Realm of the Beyond." There was a slight giggle in the words, that anxious buoyed half-laugh of a zealot.

The Queen returned the stare, her own gaze revealing nothing. Finally: "Elidar. Old friend." A chapter of history flowed beneath her words, a faint hitch to her cadence hinting at political vagaries, shifting loyalties, betrayal, vengeance.

The man allowed himself a half-smile. "Greetings...Queen." His voice lingered in a faint sneer on the title, before he tried to repeat his message, the meaning already fracturing out into chaos. "By right of arms and rule of force, this ship is now property of us us us us us US it is ours, bug, so standandand down, and prepare to be boarded lorded ownded." A giggle, a smirk, a flippant wild grin, as he sneered.

“Bug!”

The Queen's lips parted in a rare, needle-sharp smile. "And what shall I expect, regarding treatment of my crew?" For a moment, perhaps three she had the upper hand - the Void struggled with hives, hated hives, didn't know what to attack when synergy was involved, and there was a chance…

"They shall be re-educated as best needs the Void. Some, hmm, some provisions may have to be made, race allowing. Can't recruit a ship full of bugs."

"You mean they will be slaughtered."

"Only if they share your pathetic form, bug."

What choice did she have?

---

"Close transmission." The module went abruptly dark. From the depths of the ship, something shuddered, as the Spear locked onto the Hive, preparing its invasive collection of crew. "All hands to the throne room."

Swiftly, the Hive's subjects responded, dashing to the command chamber. With a shadowed, mirrored stare, the Queen's gaze swept over them. A handful of men and women, bugs all. Summoning the last of her reserves, the Hive's Queen wrought what little, desperate magic she could, draining all the ship had to force them into something new, just for long enough, just for long enough for them to have a hope.

Wordless, they dispersed, rushing to the link for their captors. There was no sense in delaying the surrender now and the Queen held herself still, imperious, as they departed, forcing her tired body to stay fixed, rigid, regal in her throne - everything depended on this image, as the empath opened the communication again, before he, too, joined the captives.

The man's expression was muddled across the display, low power causing his features to waver in and out of focus. Dark, though, with a touch of pensive deliberation as the Void struggled to use him. "I would not have expected to find such diversity on your crew." The man paused, while behind him the motley group filed past, pinned in by the bulky, bristling forms of guards. "Even bug-hunters, on a Hive ship? How far you've fallen." Surprise coloured his voice, as did chaos, beckoning and whirling and unravelling her defenses.

The Queen forced out a harsh laugh. "You see me for truth," she snarled. "Queen of nothing. Troubled times call for allowances." She held herself upright, willing the exhaustion leadening her limbs to hold off, just long enough for this, willing the illusions to hold, just for a moment, long enough for them to rebel. She just needed to stay alive, just stay alive long enough so her crew could fight back, could replicate, could grow, could create, hidden from the gaze of the Void.

She just needed to stall until they could produce a Hivebomb delivered to the core of the Spear.

"I could give you so much more-"

“Never."

With that curse, the Queen grunted, forcing the ship into a final, last evasion, her energy finally, fully spent as she accelerated into a darting probe diving into the deep dark of the beyond. The entire Hive shook, wrenching away from the Spear, as the smaller craft dipped sideways, sliding downwards (upwards? onwards?) in a freefall plummet towards the nothingest, beckoning blue of deepest aetherspace. A trail of fire coursed past the piloting display as the enemy fired, narrowly missing the Hive, and the light splintered out into the void, illuminating her escape route.

But the light died, swallowed by something, vast, looming out there in the darkness. Space itself seemed to ripple - for a heartbeat everything froze - and then the tiny craft was swept aside like a leaf in an eddy, as a massive form churned past, darting towards the enemy. And another. And another.

An entire swarm of dragons, awakened to a murderous rage by the stray shot.

Communication was still active - the Queen stared at the screen, her ship jolting and rocking about her, with a fierce, triumphant grin.

The man, denied the ship, narrowed his eyes, anger glistening black in his stare, and then turned away. "RETREAT!" he bellowed, before punching at the control panel. The display went dark, and the chamber with it. Only a faint flare of light as the ship swiftly switched direction, and a final, sparking glint, as it vanished back into the vortex.

An impossible howl shook aetherspace as the swarm, denied its prey, continued onwards, sailing into the lonely distance.

And then all was still. Just the Queen, drifting powerless in darkness, with the dying, empty Hive as she sailed towards the gut of the Void.

"I am the Queen of nothing," she repeated to herself, finally, gratefully, sinking back to slump in the depths of the throne. Around her, in a last gentle sigh, the ship fell silent. Lights dimmed, failed. The only illumination were the faint pinpricks of sparkling aethereal dust, floating in the distance, reflecting in her eyes as she stared outwards at her vast, glorious tomb.

"But no Queen abandons her Hive."

And the ship drifted onwards, sailing to a final rest on the aetherial winds. Into the shadows of the worlds, gliding slowly into the unknown.

Onwards.

Salt, fat, sizzle, sear - the components are basic and mandatory. The burger is the star and never let anyone tell you otherwise...even if that someone is a stupid bullshit Goodwill microwave because ***someone*** (Brenda in HR) is too fucking cheapass to upgrade.

I dont have time for this - Timmons needs a submit by noon for a merge by five because Perkins is absolutely horrible at his job - but fuck Perkins. I want a burger, specifically MY deliciously seared burger from last night, so it's time to settle in and wait. Triple beep on that idiot machine (fuck you, Brenda) and the microwave power's at 30% for that slow, deep reheat.

People who say you can't reheat a burger in the microwave have never learned about power levels. Lower the strength and double the juicy. It works, Brenda, it just takes a while. Staggering lunch breaks is NOT a stupid idea.

Some TV while we wait - Pedro seems to be really doing it dirty to Janessa Maria. Would NOT be surprised if he ends up stabbed with all those side chicas he's had going for weeks.

Annoyingly, the lunchroom TV cuts from daytime telenovelas to grainy cellphone zooms of movie monsters spilling out of weird machines. I check on my burger - five minutes left and still rotating nicely, despite all expectations - and then focus back on the news again.

Invasion. Aliens. Doom. This channel sucks. Flip through a few, but it's all the same broadcast - burger doing great - and that's when I realized what's happening.

This bullshit castoff Oliver of a microwave is all please-maam-may-I-have-moreing my burger into a dry, shitty crumble. Fuck you, Brenda. Power down even lower, might help, has to help.

Back up to seven minutes and what is this bullshit on the TV. Timmons' task floats into my head and I kick myself - I didn't drop those completed components into code review. By the time I get back from that, we're at four minutes, the burger is lightly sizzling and I've realized the entire office is empty.

Fucking corporate yoga. I can even hear them upstairs - graceful, my ass, they sound like elephants tap dancing. Three minutes to heaven, though, so who gives a shit. I think I'll add some BBQ sauce, just to be heathenous.

I hear a crash from the area near Perkins' desk, but who cares. The guy is a mess. Two and a half minutes. Looking juicy. Another crash. Did they have a lunch out? Perkins ***likes*** to drink, why do you think he's useless after lunchtime?

Flip channels for a bit, but it's all the same stupid YouTube alien movie promo crap - two minutes, die in a fire, Brenda - so I browse Reddit looking at food pics. Another crash and now it's starting to seem a bit weird. I glance at the microwave, mouth almost aching - two minutes - and sigh. Gotta help Perkins.

Aaaand, nope, that's an alien. That's totally, completely, absolutely, how the fuck is that an alien. He's... she's? It's tall, scaly, oozy, slimy, totally not human, pure nightmare factory, and appears to be baffled by a stapler. Why does Perkins even have a stapler?

You how know under pressure our brains turn into trapped rats trying to find the easiest way out and we think and do amazing shit? So yeah, a minute thirty left and the burger is looking ***good***.

I thank my Brenda-esque brain for absolutely nothing and dart back into the lunchroom, which has apparently become my safe house against an alien invasion. Yay, I always wanted to fight for my life surrounded by old egg salad and leftover pasta.

Right about now is when I realize my problem. See, the microwave has been going with an ambient hum since Sumeria was the shit, so any changes are going to be instantly noticed...and we're at one minute left. Also the burger is looking amazi-

Right, yeah, pull it together girl. Fuck you, Brenda. With a REAL microwave, I would have been out of here alr-

Well, hold on now. I creep back to the door. The alien's apparently given up on staplers and is kinda scanning the room. Like, literally, scanning. There's old 90s style movie graphics sprouting out of his/her/its eyes.

30 seconds left - hi burger, you're beautiful - and I'm fumbling with my phone. This whole situation is stupid enough, might as well try....

And there we are. WiFi scanner is picking up something absolutely weird and confusing, clearly some sort of network we can't identify. The alien's got some tech - or biology? - emitting a signal.

I groan. I know the answer. I hate the answer. I sigh. I curse fucking Brenda. 10 seconds left. I back away and close my eyes. Everyone sacrifices in trying times.

3, 2, 1 - the rotation stops and the stupid little defunct microwave gives a happy chirp of a ding. Done! Aren't you proud of me? Never, Brenda-spawn. NEVER.

A claw appears around the door. Oh fuuuuck, yep, this is happening. I duck down behind a table and reach up to fumble at the microwave door. Hopefully aliens aren't vegan. I manage to jab it open and suddenly the delicious, intoxicating smell of the perfect burger floods the lunchroom, rich and redolent.

Apparently demons like burgers, but I was counting on this. Everyone likes burgers unless they are useless bitches named Brenda. S/he/it leaps for the microwave and I slide sideways - this is a horrible idea - putting myself closer to her as my arms fumble at the countertop. Oh, god, he stinks like childhood trauma and ozone. Too late now and here we go - the creature realizes I'm here far too late, flailing and turning with way too many arms writhing about. Its head is at the same level of the counter top, body coiled to strike.

My lunging fall nearly fails, apparently my aim is terrible, but I trip on a chair and surge upwards again, hands finally wrapping around the microwave.

***"You like to transmit shit about Earth?????!"*** I want to scream but instead I just kinda squeak as I grab the horrible microwave with its beautiful payload and slide the entire thing over the creature's head.

***"Farrady cage?"*** I whisper hopefully, quickly backing away, because that - and my burger - was really all I had. For a second, the alien is still, simply standing there with head crammed in a microwave, before said head gives a sudden, anticlimactic plop and sinks to the ground, ooze puddling out onto spiny shoulders.

As the creature falls, the body gives a shake, some final death throe, and, with a rattle, a little brown disc comes soaring out of the microwave. It's a beautiful, heartwarming moment. The alien's dead, Berlin is playing *take my breath away* and I've been reunited with my hamburger.

The rest of earth can wait a few more minutes for me to save it. This shit is finally hot and ready and it's lunchtime for momma.

​

Midnight tolls and I gather my robes about me. Face veiled, candles lit, sacrifice bound and ready. The dove shifts, anxiously cooing as it tries to flex its wings, and I stroke its downy chest in reassurance. I am quick and efficient - I am a scholar, not a savage. And so, I paint my lines and chant my words, primal ritual pulling me along.

I am close. I have become the predator, senses keen. My prey is near. My entire body wracks with pain as the summoning commences and instinct urges my bellow: Knowledge, eternal, the secrets which underpine mortality, reveal yourselves to me! I command you!

"-ever said that I envy Harry, Sarah, I just said his choice in succubus was impressive. If anything, it's YOU being bigoted. It's not the Middle Ages anymo-"

"ME?! How DARE you, after what I endured because of your little stunt with those familiars-"

What have my efforts wrought?! Hearken, it is my parents I see before me and I recoil at the twisted vision. They speak of darkness, with hate, like alien creatures. Envy churns within me, for them to have such gifts but have so little regard for their worth!

"Oh. Oh, great, NOW look what you've done."

"What? What NOW? What have I messed up YET again?"

Mother has noticed me. Rage colors her a brilliant blush - anger suits her and father clearly can't ignore that, despite their loathing. He hasn't seen me yet, but mother has and suddenly she squeals, like a pig stuck to bleed for a demiurgical offering. She begins to trot in place and clap her hands, gleeful - and then she is beside me, embracing me, shaking me, kissing my cheeks, forehead, all while screaming over my shoulder at my father. She will make a fine banshee someday.

"Oh my gawd, Bill, our baby's all grown up and you went and got me in this stupid fight and I missed the reveeeeeal."

Now father sees me. His eyes have that glazed look of someone sifting through memories, and then he smiles, and claps me on the shoulder.

"Good job, kiddo, and don't trust your mother. She's a right old bitch."

"Do NOT make me tell her about the whole portal incident. Ok? Ok? I will-"

Mother has pulled me back protectively. Father rolls his eyes. The darkness consumes me, and I finally fall to my knees, veil torn asunder and robes askew, to scream to the sky, "Oh my God, what the fuck is going on?!"

"Like, seriously, what the fuck?"

They both exchange a look and then suddenly burst out laughing.

"See, this is why I was mad." Mom gives dad a poke. "I wanted there to be more hellfire, some sulphur. A core trauma type of theming."

Dad shrugs. "Girl's got enough to deal with learning how to do all the augury, just leave her be."

"Excuse me, you knew?" My thoughts briefly flash through all the moments I had thought myself stealthy, all the secrets I thought I had learned. "And…how?!"

They both blink at my outburst and then, as if practiced, start laughing again as explanations come in interrupted bursts.

"Honey, baby girl, simulacrons-"

"-nother cruise, Bermuda Tri-"

"Remember when we summoned that imp to babysit?"

"Well, obviously SHE doesn't-"

They laugh and now mom is hugging dad instead of me. The sudden absence feels heavy and cold. They smile, in unison, and my gut clenches. I shiver.

"Welcome to the family, dear," my mother purrs, nuzzling up to my father. "Is that really what you're going to wear? And could you have even tried to make a hint of effort with your hair?"

My father snuggles close to my mother and nods. "Tanya down in Rituals was just telling me all about their hellspawn, apparently she's already got a familiar."

They both stare, eyebrows raised and expectant, as it dawns on me what I promised, what vows I made: suffering for knowledge, torture for secrets, pain for the truth.

Enlightenment, at any cost.

"And when are we going to get a grand-childe? You aren't getting any younger-"

"Actually, I know a ritual for that…"

Fate circles, the future snapping at my ankles as my family reunites.

I am subsumed.

Salt, fat, sizzle, sear - the components are basic and mandatory. The burger is the star and never let anyone tell you otherwise...even if that someone is a stupid bullshit Goodwill microwave because someone (Brenda in HR) is too fucking cheapass to upgrade.

I dont have time for this - Timmons needs a submit by noon for a merge by five because Perkins is absolutely horrible at his job - but fuck Perkins. I want a burger, specifically MY deliciously seared burger from last night, so it's time to settle in and wait. Triple beep on that idiot machine (fuck you, Brenda) and the microwave power's at 30% for that slow, deep reheat.

People who say you can't reheat a burger in the microwave have never learned about power levels. Lower the strength and double the juicy. It works, Brenda, it just takes a while. Staggering lunch breaks is NOT a stupid idea.

Some TV while we wait - Pedro seems to be really doing it dirty to Janessa Maria. Would NOT be surprised if he ends up stabbed with all those side chicas he's had going for weeks.

Annoyingly, the lunchroom TV cuts from daytime telenovelas to grainy cellphone zooms of movie monsters spilling out of weird machines. I check on my burger - five minutes left and still rotating nicely, despite all expectations - and then focus back on the news again.

Invasion. Aliens. Doom. This channel sucks. Flip through a few, but it's all the same broadcast - burger doing great - and that's when I realized what's happening.

This bullshit castoff Oliver of a microwave is all please-maam-may-I-have-moreing my burger into a dry, shitty crumble. Fuck you, Brenda. Power down even lower, might help, has to help.

Back up to seven minutes and what is this bullshit on the TV. Timmons' task floats into my head and I kick myself - I didn't drop those completed components into code review. By the time I get back from that, we're at four minutes, the burger is lightly sizzling and I've realized the entire office is empty.

Fucking corporate yoga. I can even hear them upstairs - graceful, my ass, they sound like elephants tap dancing. Three minutes to heaven, though, so who gives a shit. I think I'll add some BBQ sauce, just to be heathenous.

I hear a crash from the area near Perkins' desk, but who cares. The guy is a mess. Two and a half minutes. Looking juicy. Another crash. Did they have a lunch out? Perkins likes to drink, why do you think he's useless after lunchtime?

Flip channels for a bit, but it's all the same stupid YouTube alien movie promo crap - two minutes, die in a fire, Brenda - so I browse Reddit looking at food pics. Another crash and now it's starting to seem a bit weird. I glance at the microwave, mouth almost aching - two minutes - and sigh. Gotta help Perkins.

Aaaand, nope, that's an alien. That's totally, completely, absolutely, how the fuck is that an alien. He's... she's? It's tall, scaly, oozy, slimy, totally not human, pure nightmare factory, and appears to be baffled by a stapler. Why does Perkins even have a stapler?

You how know under pressure our brains turn into trapped rats trying to find the easiest way out and we think and do amazing shit? So yeah, a minute thirty left and the burger is looking good.

I thank my Brenda-esque brain for absolutely nothing and dart back into the lunchroom, which has apparently become my safe house against an alien invasion. Yay, I always wanted to fight for my life surrounded by old egg salad and leftover pasta.

Right about now is when I realize my problem. See, the microwave has been going with an ambient hum since Sumeria was the shit, so any changes are going to be instantly noticed...and we're at one minute left. Also the burger is looking amazi-

Right, yeah, pull it together girl. Fuck you, Brenda. With a REAL microwave, I would have been out of here alr-

Well, hold on now. I creep back to the door. The alien's apparently given up on staplers and is kinda scanning the room. Like, literally, scanning. There's old 90s style movie graphics sprouting out of his/her/its eyes.

30 seconds left - hi burger, you're beautiful - and I'm fumbling with my phone. This whole situation is stupid enough, might as well try....

And there we are. WiFi scanner is picking up something absolutely weird and confusing, clearly some sort of network we can't identify. The alien's got some tech - or biology? - emitting a signal.

I groan. I know the answer. I hate the answer. I sigh. I curse fucking Brenda. 10 seconds left. I back away and close my eyes. Everyone sacrifices in trying times.

3, 2, 1 - the rotation stops and the stupid little defunct microwave gives a happy chirp of a ding. Done! Aren't you proud of me? Never, Brenda-spawn. NEVER.

A claw appears around the door. Oh fuuuuck, yep, this is happening. I duck down behind a table and reach up to fumble at the microwave door. Hopefully aliens aren't vegan. I manage to jab it open and suddenly the delicious, intoxicating smell of the perfect burger floods the lunchroom, rich and redolent.

Apparently demons like burgers, but I was counting on this. Everyone likes burgers unless they are useless bitches named Brenda. S/he/it leaps for the microwave and I slide sideways - this is a horrible idea - putting myself closer to her as my arms fumble at the countertop. Oh, god, he stinks like childhood trauma and ozone. Too late now and here we go - the creature realizes I'm here far too late, flailing and turning with way too many arms writhing about. Its head is at the same level of the counter top, body coiled to strike.

My lunging fall nearly fails, apparently my aim is terrible, but I trip on a chair and surge upwards again, hands finally wrapping around the microwave.

"You like to transmit shit about Earth?????!" I want to scream but instead I just kinda squeak as I grab the horrible microwave with its beautiful payload and slide the entire thing over the creature's head.

"Farrady cage?" I whisper hopefully, quickly backing away, because that - and my burger - was really all I had. For a second, the alien is still, simply standing there with head crammed in a microwave, before said head gives a sudden, anticlimactic plop and sinks to the ground, ooze puddling out onto spiny shoulders.

As the creature falls, the body gives a shake, some final death throe, and, with a rattle, a little brown disc comes soaring out of the microwave. It's a beautiful, heartwarming moment. The alien's dead, Berlin is playing take my breath away and I've been reunited with my hamburger.

The rest of earth can wait a few more minutes for me to save it. This shit is finally hot and ready and it's lunchtime for momma.

​

Midnight tolls and I gather my robes about me. Face veiled, candles lit, sacrifice bound and ready. The dove shifts, anxiously cooing as it tries to flex its wings, and I stroke its downy chest in reassurance. I am quick and efficient - I am a scholar, not a savage. And so, I paint my lines and chant my words, primal ritual pulling me along. 

I am close. I have become the predator, senses keen. My prey is near. My entire body wracks with pain as the summoning commences and instinct urges my bellow: Knowledge, eternal, the secrets which underpine mortality, reveal yourselves to me! I command you!

"-ever said that I envy Harry, Sarah, I just said his choice in succubus was impressive. If anything, it's YOU being bigoted. It's not the Middle Ages anymo-"

"ME?! How DARE you, after what I endured because of your little stunt with those familiars-"

What have my efforts wrought?! Hearken, it is my parents I see before me and I recoil at the twisted vision. They speak of darkness, with hate, like alien creatures. Envy churns within me, for them to have such gifts but have so little regard for their worth!

"Oh. Oh, great, NOW look what you've done." 

"What? What NOW? What have I messed up YET again?"

Mother has noticed me. Rage colors her a brilliant blush - anger suits her and father clearly can't ignore that, despite their loathing. He hasn't seen me yet, but mother has and suddenly she squeals, like a pig stuck to bleed for a demiurgical offering. She begins to trot in place and clap her hands, gleeful - and then she is beside me, embracing me, shaking me, kissing my cheeks, forehead, all while screaming over my shoulder at my father. She will make a fine banshee someday. 

"Oh my gawd, Bill, our baby's all grown up and you went and got me in this stupid fight and I missed the reveeeeeal." 

Now father sees me. His eyes have that glazed look of someone sifting through memories, and then he smiles, and claps me on the shoulder.

"Good job, kiddo, and don't trust your mother. She's a right old bitch."

"Do NOT make me tell her about the whole portal incident. Ok? Ok? I will-"

Mother has pulled me back protectively. Father rolls his eyes. The darkness consumes me, and I finally fall to my knees, veil torn asunder and robes askew, to scream to the sky, "Oh my God, what the fuck is going on?!"

"Like, seriously, what the fuck?"

They both exchange a look and then suddenly burst out laughing. 

"See, this is why I was mad." Mom gives dad a poke. "I wanted there to be more hellfire, some sulphur. A core trauma type of theming."

Dad shrugs. "Girl's got enough to deal with learning how to do all the augury, just leave her be."

"Excuse me, you knew?" My thoughts briefly flash through all the moments I had thought myself stealthy, all the secrets I thought I had learned. "And…how?!"

They both blink at my outburst and then, as if practiced, start laughing again as explanations come in interrupted bursts.

"Honey, baby girl, simulacrons-"

"-nother cruise, Bermuda Tri-"

"Remember when we summoned that imp to babysit?"

"Well, obviously SHE doesn't-"

They laugh and now mom is hugging dad instead of me. The sudden absence feels heavy and cold. They smile, in unison, and my gut clenches. I shiver.

"Welcome to the family, dear," my mother purrs, nuzzling up to my father. "Is that really what you're going to wear? And could you have even tried to make a hint of effort with your hair?"

My father snuggles close to my mother and nods.  "Tanya down in Rituals was just telling me all about their hellspawn, apparently she's already got a familiar." 

They both stare, eyebrows raised and expectant, as it dawns on me what I promised, what vows I made: suffering for knowledge, torture for secrets, pain for the truth.

Enlightenment, at any cost.

"And when are we going to get a grand-childe? You aren't getting any younger-"

"Actually, I know a ritual for that…"

Fate circles, the future snapping at my ankles as my family reunites.

I am subsumed.

​

Midnight tolls and I gather my robes about me. Face veiled, candles lit, sacrifice bound and ready. The dove shifts, anxiously cooing as it tries to flex its wings, and I stroke its downy chest in reassurance. I am quick and efficient - I am a scholar, not a savage. And so, I paint my lines and chant my words, primal ritual pulling me along.

I am close. I have become the predator, senses keen. My prey is near. My entire body wracks with pain as the summoning commences and instinct urges my bellow: Knowledge, eternal, the secrets which underpine mortality, reveal yourselves to me! I command you!

"-ever said that I envy Harry, Sarah, I just said his choice in succubus was impressive. If anything, it's YOU being bigoted. It's not the Middle Ages anymo-"

"ME?! How DARE you, after what I endured because of your little stunt with those familiars-"

What have my efforts wrought?! Hearken, it is my parents I see before me and I recoil at the twisted vision. They speak of darkness, with hate, like alien creatures. Envy churns within me, for them to have such gifts but have so little regard for their worth!

"Oh. Oh, great, NOW look what you've done."

"What? What NOW? What have I messed up YET again?"

Mother has noticed me. Rage colors her a brilliant blush - anger suits her and father clearly can't ignore that, despite their loathing. He hasn't seen me yet, but mother has and suddenly she squeals, like a pig stuck to bleed for a demiurgical offering. She begins to trot in place and clap her hands, gleeful - and then she is beside me, embracing me, shaking me, kissing my cheeks, forehead, all while screaming over my shoulder at my father. She will make a fine banshee someday.

"Oh my gawd, Bill, our baby's all grown up and you went and got me in this stupid fight and I missed the reveeeeeal."

Now father sees me. His eyes have that glazed look of someone sifting through memories, and then he smiles, and claps me on the shoulder.

"Good job, kiddo, and don't trust your mother. She's a right old bitch."

"Do NOT make me tell her about the whole portal incident. Ok? Ok? I will-"

Mother has pulled me back protectively. Father rolls his eyes. The darkness consumes me, and I finally fall to my knees, veil torn asunder and robes askew, to scream to the sky, "Oh my God, what the fuck is going on?!"

"Like, seriously, what the fuck?"

They both exchange a look and then suddenly burst out laughing.

"See, this is why I was mad." Mom gives dad a poke. "I wanted there to be more hellfire, some sulphur. A core trauma type of theming."

Dad shrugs. "Girl's got enough to deal with learning how to do all the augury, just leave her be."

"Excuse me, you knew?" My thoughts briefly flash through all the moments I had thought myself stealthy, all the secrets I thought I had learned. "And…how?!"

They both blink at my outburst and then, as if practiced, start laughing again as explanations come in interrupted bursts.

"Honey, baby girl, simulacrons-"

"-nother cruise, Bermuda Tri-"

"Remember when we summoned that imp to babysit?"

"Well, obviously SHE doesn't-"

They laugh and now mom is hugging dad instead of me. The sudden absence feels heavy and cold. They smile, in unison, and my gut clenches. I shiver.

"Welcome to the family, dear," my mother purrs, nuzzling up to my father. "Is that really what you're going to wear? And could you have even tried to make a hint of effort with your hair?"

My father snuggles close to my mother and nods. "Tanya down in Rituals was just telling me all about their hellspawn, apparently she's already got a familiar."

They both stare, eyebrows raised and expectant, as it dawns on me what I promised, what vows I made: suffering for knowledge, torture for secrets, pain for the truth.

Enlightenment, at any cost.

"And when are we going to get a grand-childe? You aren't getting any younger-"

"Actually, I know a ritual for that…"

Fate circles, the future snapping at my ankles as my family reunites.

I am subsumed.

My mother used to always throw tea towels on the floor. Once they got wet enough, or used enough, they were discarded, temporarily, until we swept the house in a giant binge of cleaning. Tea towels, extra eyeglasses, instruction manuals for all the different gadgets, all churned up in the “cleaning tornado” as she dubbed our monthly tidy. Bi-monthly. Every 4-6 monthly.

Whenever we had tidy time.

As we all got older, raising children lost that sheen of a new adventure and so, gradually, it all lapsed as she returned to who she was instead of playacting the her she wanted to be.

I never realized it was odd until my husband asked me about it. I had just finished slicing some avocado and had washed the knife and then had turned and he was there.

“For fuck’s sake!” I shout, pulling my arm back. “Knife path!”

We had already established these sorts of procedures quite early on in our relationship. I dodge left, he dodges right, I tank, he supports, and vice versa. Basic layout of how we work. I didn’t SWOT how we work (Lie: I did, internally, before choosing him), but I considered it. He should have said “Incoming!” like I had said “Knife!”

But he didn't. Not that day.

—

“Why do you do that?” he repeated, laughing cute, light, him. I had lost his first iteration in my panic. “The towels. On the floor.”

“I…”

There’s a long silence as I return to a memory I had forgotten, and then a longer one as he processes the answer. We eventually laugh, but then he remembered the knife arc and became scolding.

“You need to be more careful,” he reminded me.

I do. I am.

—-

I like the outside, the night, the darkness and the nothing - it’s peaceful. I go out to smoke and then SMOKE and to enjoy nightbirds and windchimes. Moving to Australia has been disorienting. The first time I went country, I almost had a panic attack. I didn’t realize the birds sang all night.

So stupid. Just a silly reaction to things being….different, I suppose. But also weirdly the same? Perth feels like San Diego with kangaroos (Eucalyptus was a robber baron economic attempt, that’s why California is plagued with it and it every now and then erupts into fireballs - it thrived, at first, but it wants hot, devastating fire not a more gentle, regular burn like smooth manzanita and stalwart sequoia, so now it just overreacts and scourges and just honestly escalates stuff entirely too much. It doesn’t understand context clues well). There’s something quite surreal about seeing everything I know, the landscapes all overlaid with some other reality, a weird filter instead of a truly different place.

So I’m outside.

Alone.

I’m having a smoke, the yard is lit, but next door there is that abandoned house.

A rustle. Then another. It feels like a man is crashing through the bushes. Whatever is there has no concern for stealth. Another rush of movement.

And then something dies there.

A bird, I think.

At first it’s a honking, normal yet annoying, and then it escalates. Something has pounced. The honk becomes frantic becomes a wail becomes a screech - within a two minute span, this creature (bird?) goes from “Oh no” to “fucking stop” to “this is the end.”

The honks speed up, pleading, but what can I do? There’s a fence, a giant fence, between us, and I just sit there, frozen, dumb and mute, unable to think what to do. By now the claws have dug in. The cries increase, sharper and louder and quicker and more and more and more demanding, and part of me just wants to make it stop.

My hand shakes and my wine spills, red splash on the grey thigh of basic yoga pants. “Salt, baking soda, I need to run a load of laundry tonight, now,” a very distant part of me begins to lecture.

I hate this me, but as the honking climaxes and then slows into something ragged, wheezing, dying, gone, I find myself calming.

—

When I tell him about it later, he reminded me that we lived near a state park, a vast wide one, and animals being animals happened. It was unfortunate, but that's something I “need to get used to, living where we are.”

“Sometimes nature is just weird and wild like that.”

A pause, then his wistful admission: “I wish I could have been there.”

Swiftly followed by: “I think you're just being really anxious.”