The frogy man, draped in tangerine and beet-red socks, sits down slowly, edging towards the cushion of his stained and cookie-crumb-covered mesh seat. Each joint begs to finally snap.

Folds within folds squirm, appearing from somewhere behind his shirt down to the start of his knees, as he almost finds his perfectly horrid indent. His body sags uniformly around a thick, dull skeleton. Burdened.

A rounded nose, thin lips, and a square head that unflatteringly tapers towards the peak of a pompous head of foolish grey straight-cut hair.

This then makes the unfortunate shape of the one who sits before us. Slothfully scoffing handfuls of well-stocked cookies but no cream. It would waste room inside the abyss.

The dull workstation screen remains pointed away from peering eyes, his own eyes mostly looking down at a grease-encased phone screen, labored with prints and forced to adorn his reflection after each brief dark flicker between frames. Theo preferred using the CentralSoftware for his work, it was the standard way. However screens still worked, just not as well.

Catching a brief breath from being alive, he swivels around the cluttered desk, which houses many curiosities of unfinished work and ideas, and suddenly faces Theo. He slams his cookie covenant closed. Raises his lower lip up then out, riding along his bottom teeth, tightens his jaw. Blinks to start a deep breath.

Then, after all the theatre, from on high his donkey, utters this outer drivel with a voice a mother couldn’t listen to.

“You left some metal on the floor again, not good. No. Not right!”

“I missed that peice. I was working on the new ion thrusters for the hatching delivery system beta. I came to ask if you have finished your calculations?”

“No, not yet. Takes time. How can I do many things at once? You also forgot to clean the replicator, again. It’s not right.”

“The one you broke? Last week?”

Theo couldn’t help but stare and feel sorrow for the creature he was conversing with. To be this narcissistic. To obviously be covering over something and hiding insecurity with control. Determining whether to respond with the same aggression or just be the bigger man, metaphorically. Thoughts like these spun around the forefront of Theo’s mind often. Temptation to lash out, but Frogy man was very confrontational and Theo would rather, and best so, avoid the pettiness. We all deal with creatures from time to time that are narcissistic and toxic, however, to play the game he thought required strategy. Kill them with kindness, do not lay with beasts, this is to become one.

“Shit happens, can’t do anything about it.”

“So, anyway, I need you to make these components for me, I have added them in CentralSoft. We need to use tungsten carbide. Simulation says so. It says. Simon does. It’s all in the reports.”

“Hold a wee second, who says? You say?”

“The sim says.”

“Ah, so you say, okay, I will ask Loom then. You added them? No. Use the local drive".

Thoes Jaw tightens, click, click, final clack.

“But back to the replicator, you need to clean it after.”

“Yeah.”

Theo walks away.

Wait!

A command from inside Theos mind pours out of a thousand little voices, each from everytime he had been tampled and torn and scorned by another.

“Enough.”

Why should we always take and never give? Isn’t that rude of us? We endure all the shit of the dawn, from those who would crumble without their own arrogance, to inflat them, without it would be reduced to a pile of shattered dreams and salty hope—a mess of mismanaged goals and talent left empty.

We should focus on what we can control. In this moment, Theo accepted his worth, realizing that his idea of control was damaging him from the inside. Why? Only to benefit others.

Hovering over to the frog like a breeze, Theo could barely wait to confront the a true antagonist.

“Listen to me. I said to do it. That’s all you need to know. I’ll get Loom to tell you. You’re not the boss, you’re not perfect. Those drives are like using a cucumber to cut an apple. Its easier for you, thats all that matters? So why don’t you just sleep as usual and mention the cleaning when you clean that desk—and don’t break anything.”

Returning to their workshop, Mr Theo felt much lighter.

Once zoomed into centralsoft, navgating to the correct enviroment, inspecting the hatching vessels geometry theo noticed a new viewer has looked at it while he was away...

Days passed by. Josh came to my apartment. We were having fun. I showed him my album and photos. He was watching my photos carefully. Suddenly he stopped smiling. 

   I asked him, “What happened?” He stared at me looking shocked. He asked, “Is the bracelet you are wearing in that photo your’s?” I nodded. He seemed angry.

  I asked, “What happened? Why are you getting mad?” He asked me, “Where is this now?” I said, “I don't know. I guess I lost it.” He put his hand in his pocket and showed me the bracelet. “Is this yours?” He asked politely. I said yes with a smiling face. “Where did you find it?” 

   He looked mad and said, “It was in my brother’s hand when he died. Can you explain to me how it reached there if you never met him.” I looked at him with a shocking face. 

  It was Julia. I gave her my bracelet to wear at the party. Pattrick must have grabbed this before falling from the stairs. I can’t tell him about Julia. I said, “You won't understand it.” 

   He stood up and said, “Did you push my brother from the stairs? Because he wouldn't be that careless to fell from the stairs.” I said, “It's not what you think.” 

   He stepped backward and said, “I loved you and you killed my brother.” I said, “It's not what you think. It was an accident.” He moved backwards saying, “Maybe I should leave. And maybe we should not see each other anymore.” 

   I went towards him saying, “Please give me a chance to explain.” I begged him for a chance to listen to my explanation but he didn't. He told me not to call him anymore and meet him. 

     I was very sad. I started crying in my room. It was all a misunderstanding. I thought I could handle it but it got worse. It was all because of that stupit bracelet. 

   I was crying all day and night. I skipped my dinner. I was very sad. I tried to contact Josh but he didn't answer. I tried to text him but he blocked me on all social media. 

    It was the worst break up. I packed my things and decided to meet my parents in California. Maybe I could forget about this. I packed my suitcase and took a flight to California. 

Eight years have passed away. I was now living in Los Angeles. I was twenty-four years old. It was really hard for me to forget about the past. I tried to forget Josh but he always came in my dreams. It was hard for Julia too but she managed it.

 She was having nightmares at first when Pattrick died. But later it got solved but in my life eight years have passed and nothing happened. I was a fashion designer who made clothes for famous celebrities and rich people. I was living alone in my apartment. It was really hard for me to move on but I finally did it. I never dated anyone after Josh. 

   Eight years ago when I left my apartment, I went to my parents house. I met them. I was happy to meet them but deep down I still missed Josh. I wanted to see him badly. But I knew it was never going to happen again.

 He hates me now. He doesn't want to meet me and talk to me. I was hurt badly. I didn't tell anyone about our break up, not even Julia. I always had an interest in fashion so I studied it. And now I am a Fashion Designer. I work with many famous people, celebrities and companies. 

I was happy with my work. I almost forgot Josh after so many years before he showed his face. I had an appointment so I got dressed and went to my office to meet with them. It was eleven in the morning. I reached there when a staff member said to his boss, “Sir, your client is here. Should I send him inside?” He said yes to him. 

   I went inside his office. He said, “Please take a seat.” I took a seat. “So what do you want to discuss?” I asked him. He said, “There are many people who purchase clothes from our shop but one of the customers liked your clothes so much that he wants you to be a personal fashion designer. Well, it means he will just buy clothes from you directly.”

   I was happy and said, “It's great news. So when will we meet him?” He said, “Actually they are here. I will call them.” He clicked his bell to call his staff. He said to his staff, “Take the customers here with you.” 

   The staff went forward to bring the customers. He came back. The customers came inside and took their place. I couldn't believe it. It was Josh. 

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sing a lullaby, Ann had said. Eric will nod straight off. Yea, right…thanks, Sis. Styx sighed, slicking back his jet black hair. He held the baby awkwardly over his spiked leather jacket, patting his back. “There, there.” Styx bounced the child up and down as Ann had shown in her crash course in babysitting lesson.

His voice ground out the words in a deep bass:

“Say your prayers, little one Don't forget, my son To include everyone”

And then more softly he sang, as he tucked Eric under a yellow, crocheted blanket in his crib.

“I tuck you in, warm within Keep you free from sin Till the Sandman he comes”

Stroking Eric’s light blonde hair, Styx bent down and kissed his forehead as the tot’s eyelids drifted downward.

Maybe this isn’t going to be so hard after all.

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Styx face palms.

Spoke too soon.

He stands up a little straighter, before exhaling slowly.

Maybe the kid just needs to be alone in the dark. Yea, that’s gotta be it. Kids always sleep that way, right?

Styx flipped off the light switch and slowly backed out of the room. As he drew the door shut, it squeaked loudly.

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Tears blossomed in Styx’s own eyes. Metallica always helped him to sleep. The nephew had to be down for it too. It’s in his blood after all. Very gently, he picked Eric up back into his arms and sang sobbed:

“Exit light Enter night Take my hand We're off to Never—, Neverland.”

“C’mon little guy. Cut me some slack. We both need some sleep.” He glanced at his phone. “Holy shi– shucks. It’s eleven!”

Ann’s gonna be home in an hour and Eric was supposed to be down by eight. I wonder if she will kill me or laugh her ass off. I shouldn’t have said this would be easy. Stupid Styx! I’m never gonna live this down either way. But c’mon, she should have known. Styx the slacker brother… Styx the metal head… Styx the loser. Yea. She’s gonna think I’m a failure. Again. Can’t even handle his own nephew for a few hours. No wonder he lives with Mom and Dad still. He will never grow up… Pull it together. You’ve got this. People have put kids to sleep forever and ever. They probably didn’t ALL know what they were doing. Maybe the kid’s a rocker. Maybe I should actually sing louder, not softer. Yea, I bet I would have liked that when I was a kid.

Styx grabbed Eric’s bottle to use as an improvised microphone. He belted out at the top of his lungs:

“Hush little baby, don't say a word And never mind that noise you heard It's just the beasts under your bed In your closet, in your head…”

Eric’s eyes drifted downward. He cooed and gurgled happily. Reaching out with his tiny fingers he gripped Styx’s index finger and held on tightly.

Styx roared the last lines, grinning. “…Take my hand We're off to Never—, Neverland.”

Short Story Prompt: Write a story about a dancing green octopus with a Doctorate in English Literature inside the headquarters office of FTX on November 3rd, 2022.

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[Fiction] I'm a Mean Green Dancing Machine

My goodness, tis a great day indeed. Today, I finally felt useful, appreciated, and intelligent. For years I have struggled with feelings of inadequacy and what many people call "imposter syndrome", but not today! I know that most people have those same feelings and self-esteem challenges at some point. The thing is, I'm technically not people — because I am not a "person". At least not as defined in the realm of human beings that is. No, I'm not a monster or any other preposterous thing existing outside of reality. I'm just a mutated octopus with emerald skin that was picked up by my loving human family here in my home, the Bahamas. Although I generally can't do much outside to fit in with the human world, my Mom and Dad did the best they could to teach me their ways and include me in their everyday life (yes they are human beings, so yes I am adopted... and I am proud of it). This wasn't all that hard, because my father was the surviving son in a long lineage of premier island fishermen. Which as you might imagine, is how Dad found me — struggling in the sea of course. But that is a story for another time! I'm talking about today, which was an absolute trip... let me explain.

So here in the Bahamas, we get quite a lot of high-level traffic and visitors. Not long ago, this miserly, curly-headed smarty pants moved in and set up shop with his crypto exchange company. You may have heard of them — FTX. Well... ever since FTX and its "fearless leader" with a fro on his dome, Sam Bankman-Fried settled in, news about how great the company would be for the Bahamas just doesn't stop around here. Which, to an intuitive octopus such as myself, seemed like a bunch of ink in the water. That kind of hyped-up news usually dissolves pretty quickly — for one reason or another — and the gobs of recent press about it has been relentless and annoying! All of the headlines about FTX in the local news were poorly written, news anchors at night have been spewing a bunch of simpleton nonsense about good ol' Sammy boy as a revolutionary in the community. And to place a cherry on top of my personal annoyance sundae, everyone pronounces the tail-end part of his last name as FREED, when it is CLEARLY spelled Bankman-FRIED. Is it just my Doctorate in English literature and my passion for proper speech that confounds me, or is there a real reason to be driven mad by literary idiocy? I still have yet to figure that out... but what do I know, I am just a shiny green sea creature living amongst humans. Anyway, I digress back on the topic! Well... today was awesome because I was actually taken seriously, all while potentially playing a pivotal part in dissolving the aforementioned annoyances I've been experiencing.

You see, my (human) brother is a big-wig in the field of finance because he works as a high-level business strategist & advisor. He has carved quite the name for himself here in the Bahamas for his abilities to assist some of the wealthiest weasels that spearhead (at least in part) their shady business operations. Why would that be a thing specifically in the Bahamas? Well, if you are reading this as a human being and are asking that question – just Google 'offshoring + The Bahamas'. Enough said there...alright moving on. As a high-level advisor, my brother makes a seriously unique impression on his clientele by using me as a symbol and wow factor, which typically secures their interest in working with him. I tag along with him as much as possible because I am a part of his success. He and I collaborated on the epitome of professional first impressions at the start of his career like this: when he takes me along with him on strategically planned business meetings, he always asks new clients after the small talk and introductions, "I'm just curious, have you ever seen a dancing octopus?" At which point, after their faces twist into bamboozled expressions as their minds start to brew pensive thoughts about their current situation, I slowly climb out from under his badass business suit, and start grooving with conviction onto the nearest surface between him and the client.

Whilst I am climbing off of my brother, he calmly navigates his phone to play a recently viral song that I've rehearsed and I start singing as best as I can while grooving and moving with all eight of my arms. Mind you, the sounds that come out of my singing voice are not even close to sounding like a skilled human singer, but hey, I try my best with my beaked mouth-hole. Every time we execute that play when meeting with high-paying clients, it is honestly a blast for me, and the whole endeavor sets a tone. It never gets old!

Now before you start judging my brother for animal cruelty or taking advantage of me, I'll have you know that I not only volunteered for the opportunity to help my brother make a name for himself, but I actually enjoy interacting with humans. After everything goes down as described above, interacting with people as the mean green dancing machine octopus that I am gets easier after seeing the looks on their faces! I just love observing their expressions when their minds get blown by my slick moves and seemingly impossible antics. When the shock and awe of new clients wear off and they come to terms with seeing a conscious octopus that dances and talks, that is the point my brother capitalizes on such a situation. He does this by explaining how he guided me into learning dance, and how he helped me learn to speak. Then he humanizes our star-crossed interaction by showing off choice pictures of us dancing/studying together. Finally, he drives home just how smart he is by explaining how he rigged the post-education systems that allowed me to register as a bona fide student via an online university and earn my PhD. At which point he hones in on his ability to do the impossible with an improvised tagline, then looks at me followed by the client's gaze, I nod and wink, and they are 100% reigned in.

We do this often and it works like a charm; hook, line, and sinker — every time — it's genius. Did I mention I am a mutant octopus with the intelligence of a modern Einstein? That's beside the point though, so back to the story at hand. What happened today will (hopefully) bring my brother fortune and bring me peace from the nonsensical news surrounding FTX and the inept bullheadedness of its devotees who have inundated my beautiful island home.

Earlier this afternoon, I accompanied my brother for another seemingly normal advisory session. However, it was anything but normal. For one, the client was none other than the afro-touting king of crypto-bros himself, Sam Bankman-Fried. And for two, he was in crisis and was not in the least concerned with my presence. He had sought out the council of my brother as he had heard through the Bahama grapevine that my brother was the best of the best and a "miracle man" of business strategy. After being the audience to Mister Bankman-Fried and his inner circle inside their surprisingly humid corporate office, it was apparent that they are most definitely in need of sound advice and a miracle. My brother and I had no idea we would end up becoming good ol' Sammy's voice of reason today.

The advice that we spelled out was simple, logical, strategic, yet nuanced. We had to reaffirm to Sam and his team that our solution was probably for the best considering their precarious situation. I do hope that the solution works out for everyone involved because my brother and I could use a crypto-bro network in the future, and I would certainly be happier seeing FTX out of the Bahamas. Now you might be wondering, "What solution did they come up with?" Well, it's to sell FTX to an interested competitor (of course Binance was the best fit) and afterward, trudge through the backlash without being totally crushed by impending legal implications. Sam and his cohorts plan to go through with that later, and tomorrow we will know for sure whether we all get a happy ending. I can only hope that everything goes according to plan.

The neon sign flickered dimly in the evening fog: "The Perspective Bar - Walk a Mile in Different Shoes." I hesitated at the entrance, my hand hovering over the brass doorknob. As someone who'd lived with autism my whole life, I wasn't sure what drew me here, but my therapist's words echoed in my mind: "Understanding different perspectives can help us understand ourselves better." It was that constant drive to understand, to dig deeper into every subject that caught my interest, that had led me down this particular rabbit hole.

The familiar weight of my noise-canceling headphones rested around my neck, a safety net I wasn't sure I'd need here. Through the frosted glass, I could make out the warm glow of adjustable lighting - a promising sign that this place understood sensory considerations. My fingers traced the raised letters on the therapy referral card in my pocket, a tangible reminder of why I'd come.

The interior defied expectations. Instead of chaotic bar lighting, soft, adjustable LEDs created gentle pools of illumination that patrons could customize to their comfort. Charcoal-gray soundproofing panels, their hexagonal patterns reminiscent of honeycomb, lined the walls and absorbed excess noise. Each panel had a subtle texture that reminded me of rainfall on glass - something my fingers itched to explore. Private booths, each with its own environmental controls, offered sanctuary-like spaces. The temperature varied subtly throughout the room - cooler near the entrance for those who might be experiencing sensory overload, warmer in the cozy corners where people processed their experiences.

The bartender, whose name tag read "Sam," moved with deliberate grace, their understanding eyes meeting mine as I approached. Behind them, a wall of certifications and safety protocols caught my attention - everything from neurological monitoring systems to emergency response procedures.

"First time?" Sam asked, wiping down the pristine counter with smooth, practiced motions. "We recommend starting slow. Each experience deserves respect and time to process." Their voice carried the weight of someone who had guided countless others through this unique journey. "Before we begin, I'll need to review your medical history and current medications. All our experiences undergo rigorous testing and development in partnership with neurological research centers, but safety comes first."

The menu materialized before me, holographic letters shimmering like aurora borealis. Each option pulsed gently with its own distinct color pattern, the text floating at just the right height to prevent eye strain:

Perspective Shots - Effects last 2 hours unless combined

Base Experience:

• Neurotypical Classic (Crystal clear, pure spring water essence)

Combined Experiences: (Each includes neurotypical base)

• Autism Spectrum (Prismatic patterns, rain-on-leaves scent)
• ADHD Focus Shift (Iridescent swirls, citrus scent)
• OCD Clarity (Precise geometric patterns, mint essence)
• Anxiety Awareness (Rippling waves, lavender undertone)
• Depression Depths (Deep indigo currents, chamomile base)
• Gender Dysphoria Glimpse (Shifting pearl essence, rose hints)
• Bipolar Spectrum (Dancing auroras, bergamot notes)
• PTSD Echo (Thunder-cloud swirls, sage infusion)
• DID/OSDD System Experience (Kaleidoscope meshwork, vanilla warmth)

Note: Your medical scan indicates you have personal experience with some of these perspectives. Available shots represent generalized experiences as documented by our research team.

I studied the menu, particularly interested in the descriptions of the conditions I lived with daily. It was fascinating to see how they'd been distilled into these "average" experiences. Sam noticed my focused attention.

"You're looking at some familiar ones," they observed, gesturing to my medical scan results on their screen. "Many of our visitors who have personal experience with certain conditions are curious about how we've translated their daily reality into these temporary experiences."

"It's interesting," I replied, watching the prismatic patterns of the Autism shot swirl in its sample vial. "I can recognize elements of my own experience in the description, but I imagine it's quite different from how I actually process the world."

Sam nodded. "That's one of our biggest challenges - and most important disclaimers. These are amalgamations, averages drawn from thousands of documented experiences. Your autism, anxiety, depression, and PTSD are uniquely yours. The shots can only approximate a generalized version of these experiences."

"Why offer them to people who already have these conditions?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Some find it valuable to experience how their conditions are perceived and understood by the medical community," Sam explained. "Others are interested in comparing their personal experience to what we might call the 'textbook' version. It can be validating for some, frustrating for others, but almost always educational."

A small placard beside the menu detailed the development process: "Each experience is crafted through extensive consultation with individuals who live with these conditions, mental health professionals, and neuroscience researchers. The neurotypical base, developed through mapping typical neural patterns, provides a temporary framework that allows for the safe exploration of different neurological states while maintaining cognitive stability."

Near the bar's research corner, I noticed a sign detailing ongoing studies: "The Perspective Bar partners with leading neuroscience institutions to continuously improve our experiences. Voluntary participant feedback and anonymized neurological data (with explicit consent) help refine our understanding of neurological differences. Our neurodivergent advisory board meets monthly to ensure all experiences remain authentic and respectful."

A group of medical students huddled around a table, their instructor guiding them through the implications of their recent experiences. "Remember," she emphasized, "these simulations are teaching tools. Your future patients will have unique, individual experiences that may differ significantly from these controlled glimpses."

In the corner, a woman about my age was experiencing what appeared to be the ADHD shot, her eyes wide with wonder as she rapidly wrote in her journal, stopping occasionally to observe everything around her with intense focus before returning to her notes. At another table, someone sat in quiet reflection after what I overheard was the Depression Depths experience, their therapist sitting supportively nearby.

A neuropsychologist at the bar caught my attention as she discussed her experience with Sam. "The way the neurotypical base interacts with each condition is fascinating," she said. "It's helping me understand why some of my autistic patients describe certain therapeutic approaches as feeling unnatural - they're based on neurotypical processing patterns that might not align with their natural way of thinking."

I chose the ADHD shot first, partly because the swirling patterns in the liquid reminded me of my own thought processes when deeply engaged in research. The liquid had a surprising texture - effervescent but smooth, with a citrus scent that seemed to enhance its energetic quality. As it took effect, the world transformed. Suddenly, every stimulus demanded attention simultaneously - the conversation three tables over was just as prominent as the menu in front of me, while my thoughts raced between topics like a hyperactive pinball machine. Unlike my usual autistic hyperfocus, where I could dive deep into one subject, this was like having dozens of equally fascinating subjects competing for attention at once.

Between experiences, Sam guided me through integration exercises in one of the temperature-controlled booths. "The neurotypical base helps prevent sensory overload," they explained, "but it's still important to process each experience fully before moving on."

I found myself particularly curious about the Neurotypical Classic shot, with its pure, crystal-clear appearance. Sam noticed my attention. "That one's interesting for neurodivergent visitors," they commented. "Some find it uncomfortably constraining, while others say it helps them understand why neurotypical people respond to situations the way they do."

Later, after careful consideration and some grounding exercises Sam recommended, I tried the DID/OSDD shot. The liquid shifted like an opal, colors flowing and merging in complex patterns, with a gentle vanilla warmth that seemed to encourage inner reflection. The experience was unlike anything I'd imagined - a gentle awareness of distinct parts within, each with their own perspectives and ways of viewing the world. There was an internal communication system that felt both foreign and natural, like discovering a new room in a house you'd lived in forever. Though simplified, it offered a profound glimpse into how a system might experience the world.

Throughout the evening, I noticed mental health professionals taking careful notes after their own experiences. "Many therapists come here," Sam explained, "not to understand completely - that would be impossible - but to gain a deeper empathy for their clients' experiences. Though of course, these are just simplified echoes of incredibly complex realities."

A researcher who had just finished the OCD experience shared her observations with me. "It's fascinating how different it feels from my neurotypical baseline," she said. "I'm starting to understand why some of my patients say certain coping strategies feel ineffective - we need to develop approaches that work with their natural cognitive patterns, not against them."

As my temporary experiences wore off, I found myself deep in conversation with Sam about the nature of consciousness and perception. "The most valuable thing people take from here," they said, "isn't the experiences themselves, but the understanding that there are countless valid ways of experiencing the world."

As I made my final notes, I observed a meeting of the bar's neurodivergent advisory group wrapping up in one of the private rooms. Through the glass, I could see animated discussions as they reviewed proposed refinements to various experiences, their lived expertise helping shape how others would learn about different neurological perspectives.

Before leaving, I paused to read a new sign being mounted near the door:

"Remember: These glimpses are simplified echoes of deeply complex experiences. Real conditions are nuanced, individual, and not something to be trivially imitated. Take with you understanding, not assumptions. For those seeking deeper understanding, we recommend consulting mental health professionals and listening to the voices of people with lived experience.

Safety Notice: All experiences are monitored by our neurological safety systems. Please consult with our staff about potential interactions with existing conditions and medications. Integration support and professional counseling referrals are available as needed."

The fog had lifted as I stepped outside, passing a group of medical students leaving their training session. Their excited discussions about how the experiences would change their approach to patient care faded into the night, but their enthusiasm gave me hope. Tomorrow, I'd return to navigating the world through my own unique lens, but with a richer understanding of the different ways minds can work. And maybe that understanding, combined with my natural drive to learn and explore, would help contribute to a future where neurodiversity isn't just acknowledged, but truly understood and celebrated.

As I walked home, I thought about how places like this could transform understanding of neurodiversity in healthcare, education, and society at large. My phone buzzed with a message from my therapist, confirming our next session where we'd discuss my experiences. I smiled, knowing that every person who walked through those doors - whether professional, researcher, or simply someone seeking understanding like me - was contributing to a more empathetic and inclusive future.

The End

Lucas, the royal apothecary, had finally done it. He had developed a potion that would surely turn the tide of the war. The freshly-brewed, red-orange mixture sat in a small, cast-iron cauldron in his laboratory. He scooped a vial of it, put a stopper in it, and swished it around- he could feel the heat through the glass. The king had to see this. Now.

He covered the cauldron with a tarp, wrapped the vial in a hand cloth and left his laboratory, locking the door behind him. He went straightaway to the king’s throne room. He knocked on the large wooden doors and let himself in. He approached the king, who sat on his throne conversing with one of his knights.

“Your Majesty!” Lucas called.

King Richard turned his head towards the intruding apothecary.

“We are speaking, Lucas,” the king said with noted displeasure. “What is it?”

“Your Majesty, I’ve done it!” Lucas proclaimed as he held up the vial of potion.

The king observed the vial of red-orange.

“What is that?” he asked.

“’Tis the key to defeating the ogres, Your Majesty!”

King Richard looked at his knight, and they both turned their attention to Lucas. Lucas saw that it was none other than Captain Nathan who was speaking with the king. He needed to hear this too.

“It is a potion that draws the full might of any beast that drinks it,” Lucas explained. “We will feed it to the dragon, and it will be an unstoppable beast of war. Even an army of ogres will not stand against it.”

“Wait a moment,” Nathan said. “You mean to create an uncontrollable beast that we have to deal with on top of the ogres?”

“Captain, surely a seasoned dragon rider such as yourself can handle such a beast?” Lucas said.

“I’ve never handled a beast influenced by concoctions such as yours, apothecary. You risk subjecting the kingdom to a dragon attack the likes of which we’ve never seen.”

“Would you rather the dragon or the ogres, captain?” Lucas asked.

Nathan stood silently contemplating. He took the vial from Lucas and studied it.

“What say you, Your Majesty?” Lucas turned his attention to the king.

“How do we know what effect this potion will have on the beast? Have you tested it?” Richard asked.

“I have not, Your Majesty. If you wish, I can test it on a war horse or a male bull. However, I cannot guarantee-”

Lucas saw that Nathan had taken the stopper out the vial and was smelling the potion.

“Captain! Please be careful with that,” Lucas said.

“You said this potion draws out the full might of whoever drinks it, yes?” Nathan asked.

“Any Beast, captain. I made it specifically with the dragon in mind. I cannot guarantee survival if a man were to drink it. I dare not test it on any of your men, much less our citizens.”

“My men and I swore an oath to lay down our lives to protect the kingdom.”

Nathan looked at Lucas, looked at the potion, and threw the concoction down his throat.

“NO!” Lucas screamed. “Spit it out! Spit it right now!”

Nathan gulped down the potion, visibly displeased at the taste. King Richard rose from his throne.

“Doctor! Doctor!” the king called out.

The captain wiped his mouth and put on a foolishly defiant face.

“We’ll see how well your potion works based on how many ogres I kill.”

Nathan walked out through the wooden doors of the throne room. Lucas and the king followed. As they saw Nathan proceeding down the hallway, they heard hurried footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. One of the castle doctors, along with one of the nurses, came running to answer the king’s call.

“The captain drank a potion he wasn’t meant to! He needs to vomit it up before… I don’t know!” Lucas stammered.

“Let’s hurry, before he gets himself killed,” the king commanded.

The four of them caught up with Nathan and implored him to come to the infirmary. He would have none of it. He had nearly reached the front gate of the castle when he slumped over, clutching his chest. His body shook and he began drooling uncontrollably. They picked him up and carried him to the infirmary.

“God help us,” the king muttered.

***

Hours later, Lucas paced back and forth outside of the infirmary. The medics had pressed him over how to reverse the effects of the potion- his only solution was a tonic that would induce vomiting, but he had to be awake to drink it. He paced with the tonic in hand, expecting to hear any minute that it wouldn’t matter anymore. The doctor poked his head out of the doorway.

“You need to see this,” the doctor said.

Lucas entered the room where Nathan sat in bed. He stretched and yawned as if waking up from a pleasant nap. As Nathan yawned, Lucas noticed something about his teeth- they looked suddenly sharper, like fangs. Nathan opened his eyes and looked at Lucas- his eyes were yellow with vertically split pupils, like those of a predatory beast. Lucas froze.

“What’s wrong?” Nathan asked.

Lucas turned to the doctor.

“Do we have a mirror?” he asked.

The doctor handed Lucas a small, circular mirror, which Lucas handed to Nathan. Nathan studied his reflection. Lucas could see the shock in his beastly eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment before Lucas finally asked: “How do you feel?”

“I feel…” Nathan began, still looking in the mirror.

He then looked at his hand and made a fist.

“I feel… powerful.”

TOY BOX The screams rang out like nails on a chalkboard. Steve dropped his camcorder and smothered his hands onto his ears, hoping to get some relief from the voices. “I need to get out of here!” Steve thought to himself. The pain in his ears caused him to flinch as he ran towards the large oak door. He slammed his body against the door, daring not to take his hands off of his ears. The screams grew louder. Steve finally grabbed the door handle with one hand, the shrieks flooding his mind. He tried to turn the knob, but his hand slipped. He moved his hand back and saw his hand stained a dark red. He put his hand back onto his ear and slammed the door with his foot, but to no avail. Then all of a sudden, the voices stopped. Steve took his hands off his ears, only to hear what sounded like a small twinkle, almost like a faint bell coming from upstairs. Steve crept toward the stairs, looking over his shoulder with each step. He felt the chill of watching eyes behind him, though there was not a figure to match the gaze to. The stairs creaked with each step. The twinkling sounded closer, yet closer. It slowly grew from small rings to a melody. A melody Steve knew but couldn't place. The chandelier above him suddenly lit with a whoosh. He could see now, but did he really want to? A tattered rug sat on the rotting wooden floor, leading to a hallway full of doors, each one labeled with a number. Between the doors were portraits in elaborate frames, depicting men and women from long ago. Potted plants lined the hallway, withering away, which didn't help with the smell of rot. The light melody came from the room labeled “3”. He opened the door and stepped inside. Steve took his flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on, its light flickering through the dim room. Faint colored paint peeled from the walls, adorned with paintings of jungle animals. Each one of the faces was torn off. Steve took his eyes away from the paintings on the wall and turned to where a small bed sat. On the bed was a small bright colored box, the source of the melody. As he approached the box, Steve heard a shriek. Unlike anything he had heard before. Then came the thumping. The sound grew closer. And closer. And closer. Steve scrambled under the bed, hoping that whatever was approaching did not acknowledge his Presence. The door slammed open with a bang, splinters flying as the rusted hinges broke loose. All Steve could see were two slender, yet tall legs, colored a fleshy white. The creature’s claws drug on the floor as it shambled through the room, letting out small grunts and the occasional screech as it hunted for the intruder. Its inhuman arms reached for the music box, which slipped and fell to the floor with a crash. The creature let out an ear-piercing cry and got on its knees to get back its box. Thats when Steve saw it. It looked like a human, stretched beyond normal limits. Stained claws emerged from slender fingers. He met the gaze of the monster, with a cartoonish drawing of a tiger covering its face. Steve couldn't make out the monster's expression behind the makeshift mask, but he could tell one thing: It was smiling.
Panic set in. Steve slid out from under the bed as fast as possible, racing through the open doorway. The monster let out a sorrowful cry and shambled after Steve. One set of claws drug on the floor, while the other slid on the wall, tearing through the paintings on the wall. Steve threw his flashlight at the monster, which made it slump down onto the floor, yelping in pain, and rubbing his arm where the flashlight had impacted. Steve used this opportunity to run into another room, this one labeled number “5”. Steve shut the door behind him and barricaded the door with a dark oak nightstand, which a book fell out of as he was moving it. Steve opened the book to a random page. “April 12, 1956. I don't know what’s happening to him. He’s gotten angrier. I have hidden myself in the attic so he couldn't find me. I don't know what to do. He has already taken Laura, now he's hunting me. I'm so sorry my son. You didn't deserve this.” Steve put the journal down and looked around the room. He saw a large wardrobe sitting against the wall next to him. Steve opened the door, and stepped inside, trying to breathe through the smell of dust, rot, and death. He jumped as the door let out a sudden bang. It was here. Steve held his breath, praying that the monster would just leave so he could get out of here. It broke through the door, screeching and clawing the walls in anger. “Why does this thing want me?” Steve held his breath as it limped by the wardrobe. Steve peered through the crack in the door to see that the thing had switched masks, it now used the image of a monkey. Steve felt chills go down his spine when the creature turned to him. It let out a few short grunts as it peered into the crack in the doors. Right as the monster reached for the door handle, a loud crash came from another room. It shot up and shambled out of the room. Steve carefully opened the door and stepped out of the wardrobe. He could hear the creature screeching far away, so he determined it was safe. He felt his chest tighten as he stepped back into the dingy hall. The shrieks came from this floor. Steve turned and went toward the stairs. “Maybe I can find a way to open the door,” Steve thought to himself. “I need to get out of here...fast.” Steve crept down the dark stairs when he felt something hit his foot. a vase. The vase tipped, and right before Steve could catch it, it tumbled down the stairs and shattered with a loud crash. The shrieking stopped. The thumping started. The monster was coming. Steve raced down the stairs and sprinted toward the door. It came closer. It shuffled with a disfigured limp, which seemed worse than it was earlier in this twisted game of hide-and-seek. The monster reached out and let out a cry, and Steve heard it shrieking in a hideous, raspy voice: “Stay, Stay, Stay.” Steve screamed, rattling the door handle. He picked up a candle stick on the floor near him and began bashing the door handle. The handle broke, and Steve ran outside, only to feel two thin hands grab his sides. The creature got him. It turned Steve around, who saw that the thing had changed faces again. He looked through the holes in the tiger mask. He saw two small blue eyes that looked as though they belonged to an innocent child. The creature let out another human sounding shriek, although this time, it sounded like it had said “friend.” Before Steve knew it, the creature had wrapped him in a cold hug. Little did it know, its claws had pierced Steve’s sides in the embrace. The creature let go of its hold on Steve, hoping to see its new friend there. Instead, a lifeless figure fell from its hands. It screamed. It shrieked. It screeched. It cried. After a few minutes of sorrow, the creature grabbed Steve’s ankle and drug him back into the house, back up the stairs, back past Rooms 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. It dragged him up into the attic, and in sorrow, carefully laid his body among other items in a large box made of rotting wood, With the words painted on it: TOY BOX. EPILOGUE Lyla walked up to the decrepit house. She had been looking for Steve for a week now. His car was still at home, as well as his baseball card collection, so he couldn’t have left. He wasn't at O'Malley's or at his parents' house either. He was talking about going to explore the creepy house on the hill at some point, so this is the only place he could be. When she stepped onto the porch, she noticed the door was ajar. She crept inside the house, taking in the dust and rot. She started walking farther inside, when she kicked something. Steve’s camcorder. Lyla picked it up, and as she did, she heard an ear-piercing shriek. Lyla froze, then ran up the dark, red-stained stairs, hoping to save her husband. The door shut behind her. The chandelier lit. The creature screamed. THE END

Who Might I See?

My creator hoped to see his image in me.

I was wrapped in paper, unable to perform my duty. At lunch, he brought me home from his shop and hung me on the wall — wanting to surprise his family.

They never returned home that evening — or any day after. They were gathered and sent away. They were kind, secure people. They truly valued all life.

I didn’t sit lonely for long — quickly cataloged and rewarded to the highest bidder, Mrs. J. It’s important to remember this was legal at the time — a system of taking from those being held down.

Mr. and Mrs. J vainly admired me. Together they marveled in how I was able to show them their good sides — separately, they showed their truths.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them, I only reflect what they show me. Ironically, as inanimate as I may be, the J’s had less heart than I.

As generations passed, my story romanticized, I found a new home with Mr. and Mrs. B, outbidding a devastated Mrs. E —trying to substitute winning for lost happiness.

The B’s were busy — well connected. They were able to sniff out lucrative opportunities before others could catch the scent.

They believed they understood my story, but missed the origin.

D’s mom paid top dollar for me, not realizing the horrendous profit the B’s made. They convinced their close friend I meant more to them — even pretending they didn’t want to part with me, to sweeten the deal.

Surviving this frat house was no easy feat. D and his friends were spoiled little brats — drunkenly flaunting, yet simultaneously squandering, the privilege they denied maintaining. The parents of this lost generation, consider nepotism the silent foundation of their generational power. How embarrassed they’d be if their lineage portrayed a less-than-regal image.

D couldn’t care less about the pretty penny mommy spent — the day he dropped me in a donation bin.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall, simply hoping to find a home before I’m broken.

Yesterday, I piqued young and budding Mr. C’s interest. He changed his mind — this cheap fluorescent lighting painted his face, reminding him of his parents. He left the store with shame and rage in his eyes.

I find my home, now with Dorothy’s friend. He was immediately drawn to my elegance.

He has worked hard and is appreciative for all he has. He’s focused on bettering himself, while sharing his experiences and knowledge. He refuses to take the easy path — dimming someone else’s light, so his may shine brighter.

Although the odds seem stacked against him, he is someone that won’t sit idly by. He will use his voice. He is an observer. He will call out what he sees happening.

He allows me to tell the story I was born to tell. After the chain of those that already have, or eventually will turn, my creator can finally see his image —in me.

-----

And now’s the time to play the game and better understand what might happen to U. For Dorothy Thompson’s article, Click Here.

BLOG POST DATE-08/30/2003

Oh thank God they haven’t shut off the internet yet. Listen, I don’t really have a lot of time for the fancy intros I normally write up, so I’m gonna be as straight to the point as possible. The government is literally lying to you. Whatever they’ve said regarding the recent quarantine of Orlando, whether it be a terrorist threat or an influenza outbreak or whatever, know that it’s all a fucking lie. 

And honestly, I don’t blame them for making up some bullshit cover story. Because the truth of what we’re dealing with here is so outlandish, so utterly bizarre in every conceivable way… I’m sure not a single one of you would believe it. You’d either just point and laugh at the silly man who’s forgotten his alzheimer's medication, or become irate at how incentive they’re being towards an ongoing crisis. But believe me, as someone who is currently trapped in Orlando as I’m writing this, I can confirm this is no joke. We are dealing with something truly horrifying, and we don’t have a damn clue on how to stop it.

Because we are dealing with a literal clown apocalypse.

Oh sure, go ahead and laugh. Laugh all you fucking want. But just know that while you’re having a chuckle fest, none of us here share in your sense of humor. We are currently under siege, held up in our homes and businesses, praying desperately for a way out of this unrelenting nightmare. We have seen some shit man. Shit that’ll scar us for the rest of our lives if we ever make it out of here. We’ve been forced to watch as our friends and family are ripped screaming from our arms, made to join the endless army of cackling, white faced freaks who started this whole mess. Hell, the clowns are probably the only ones who find this whole fucking thing to be even remotely humorous. But only because the joke is at our damn expense.

And when I say endless, I really do mean it. There’s hundreds of these damned things roaming all over Orlando, and their numbers are only getting larger with each passing minute. They are relentless in their pursuit, hunting us down like wild animals and nabbing whatever poor schmuck happens to fall behind. Men, women, children. It doesn’t matter to them. If you aren’t part of the horde, they will come after you. And they will do it with twisted smiles on their faces and a warped laugh in their lungs. And yes, I can still hear it even as I’m writing this. It’s… deafening to say the least. 

The faces are what really screw with me though. From what I’ve described so far, you would think these things to be nightmarishly monstrous, like Pennywise at the end of It. But the thing is… they’re not. No, these things have the most cartoonish, kid safe, damn near adorable faces you have ever seen. They vary from clown to clown, yet still retain the rounded cheeks, wide smiles, and bulbous noses you’d expect a clown to have. They’ve all got these same creepy eyes too, sporting bright neon irises and blank white pupils. Eyes that can pierce your very soul and make you shit your pants. It’s fucking horrifying, especially once you realize each of these goofsters look completely unique. They all have different kinds of face designs ranging from the mundane to just flat out bizarre. Some of them have painted-on beards, while others have big cartoonish ears and chins. Some are white faced, others are hobos. There is a terrifying amount of variety when it comes to these bastards. And to make matters worse, we can’t kill the fucking things!

Oh trust me, we have tried. Lord KNOWS we’ve tried! I’ve seen these giggling fucks get stabbed, shot, blown up, crushed, grinded, minced, power bombed off the top rope you name it! We’ve thrown everything and the literal kitchen sink at them, and they just keep coming! It’s like they’re made of rubber, their whole bodies impervious to damage. One time a neighbor of mine tried using a homemade pipe bomb against a crowd of them, and one of the laughing bastards picked it up and ATE IT WHOLE! Swallowed the whole thing in one bite and tanked the explosion like Bugs Fucking Bunny! Balloon belly and all. We just can’t kill them, no matter how hard we try we just can’t. The best we can hope for is to incapacitate them for a while. Leave them dazed and confused like a stoner at an *NSYNC concert. But that’s not a sure fire guarantee either. It’s a gamble, and Lady Luck is most certainly not on our side.

She definitely wasn’t backing up the cops or national guard when they finally showed up. Whole platoons of highly trained soldiers, with the latest and greatest in killing technology, never stood a fucking chance against these things. Because how the hell are you supposed to kill something that operates on cartoon physics? Something that can leap off a fifty story skyscraper and survive direct impact with the concrete below? Something that can be flattened by a steamroller and somehow reinflate once peeled off? You fucking can’t. That’s the hard truth. And let me tell you, it’s only because of their bullshit invulnerability that they were able to spread as quickly as they could. And speaking of that… oh dear lord, how they spread.

It’s horrible. That’s the quickest way I can describe it. It’s horrible for the person witnessing it, and it’s horrible for the bastard going through it. Because these shithead’s don’t use bites or scratches to infect us survivors, oh no. They have these horrifying rubber clown masks that scurry around like fucking facehuggers, latching onto whatever human they can find like a magnet to metal or some shit. It’s utterly terrifying, hearing this thing scurrying along the ground with this wet, squishy sound. And once it gets on your face it… it covers you in this… this thick goo that… it just… 

They got him. Max. He was my best friend since the third grade, back in Mrs. Craven’s class. We rented this apartment together. Had big dreams of becoming movie directors. We were gonna change the film industry together. But then the clowns showed up, and they managed to grab him while we were out shopping. They dragged him to the ground and slapped one of those fucking masks onto his face, without hesitation. His screams man… I can still hear them. Fuck I can still see it! Max struggling to pull the mask off, screaming blood murder like his skin was being peeled off. I wanted to help him but… I couldn’t. Instead I ran. I ran for the exit as fast as I could, like a coward fleeing from war. I didn’t see what happened to him after the fact, I was too scared to look back. All I remember was that eventually, the screams stopped… and the damned laughing began. A high pitched, soul shattering laugh that sounded like the devil himself was mocking me. And the more people they took, the louder and louder it got, and it was all so overwhelming I just… Oh God, what have I done? I’m so sorry Max. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m… I’m so sorry…

That’s the most horrific thing about these clowns man, they aren’t stupid. They’re smart. Dangerously smart. They don’t shamble around like the undead or move in predictable, robotic ways like the Borg. No these fuckers can think for themselves, change their tactics on the fly and take anyone by surprise. They hunt in packs, tracking one target for miles on end either on foot or in vehicles. I’ve heard stories of people encountering elaborate traps involving triplines, cages and nets. One of my neighbors even filmed a group of clowns using t-shirt cannons to fire multiple masks at once, converting dozens of innocent people in a matter of seconds. It was a hard thing to watch, and the poor girl who filmed it looked like she was about to off herself. And like… maybe she did? Because she kinda just left the building and we haven’t seen or heard from her since. With what’s going on right now, my guess is that she’s already joined the carnival horde that’s currently screwing us all. Thank God for that barricade Mr. Hanson managed to put up at the front door, otherwise we would have been turned a long time ago.

Which just makes me wonder what the hell the military thinks a quarantine is gonna do to stop this. Do those dumb fucks honestly believe a few tanks and som blown out bridges are gonna keep these clowns trapped inside the city? They’re just delaying the investiable at this point, because mark my words those damned things will find a way out and they will fuck their shit up! And I know I was just singing the praises of our resident doomsday prepper for putting up that barricade, but even I have to question how long we’ve got before the clowns figure out a way to-

Okay well fuck me I guess! Right as I was writing that last paragraph those blasted gigglers decided to break down the front doors with a fucking ice cream truck, and now they’re going floor to floor converting anyone they can get their hands on! The screams man. The fucking screams! They sound so close yet so far away! The laughing is getting louder and louder too, and to make matters worse I think my neighbor’s cat managed to climb into the damned vents again! The only reason I’m still standing is because Max’s parents are loaded and insisted on buying us the top floor penthouse, so thankfully I’ve got enough time to finish this fucking post before making my exit.

As for you guys, all I can say is this: run. Gather up your family and friends, pack your shit, and get as far away as you can. Go to Canada, Alaska, fucking Iceland! Just try to make as much distance between yourself and this damned carnival of horrors as you realistically can! And then… pray. Pray that they don’t find you. Pray that they never figure out how to fly a plane or drive a boat. Because if there is one thing I can promise you, it’s that once these clowns get out of Orland there is not a single fucking thing you can do to stop us! Oh yes all you silly little boys and girls, you read that right! Once we’re done in this dinky little sunshine state, we intend on taking this carnival of laughs out on the road, and visit as many towns & cities that we can! And why wouldn’t we? We’re clowns after all! It’s literally our job to put as many smiles on as many faces as we possibly can! And whether or not you want us to do that… well, let’s just say none of you goobers will really get the chance to make that choice, now will you?

So please oh please be ready for us! Open up your hearts, your minds, and especially your bodies, and be sure to give us the biggest gosh darn welcome you can muster! Because we are coming to a city near you!

And we will help you put on a happy face!

Diary Entry #1 Age 15

I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a cop. The first time I saw one up close, I was five years old. Officer Jenkins, a friend of my dad, was in full uniform, with this calm, steady voice that didn’t seem afraid of anything. He was tall, powerful, sure of himself in a way that felt impossible for someone like me. But he talked to me, bent down to my level, and made me feel like I was important, like he saw me. I remember thinking I wanted to be like that—not just the uniform, but the whole thing: the presence, the strength, the quiet confidence. I want to be someone that people look to when things go wrong, someone who can make it better just by showing up.

I think about it all the time—what it would be like to protect people. I watch every cop show and read every book about law enforcement I can get my hands on. I try to memorize every detail, like I’m studying for the biggest test of my life. And I wonder if maybe, someday, people will look at me and feel safe. But if I’m honest, there’s something else. I don’t know why, but I always feel like I’m looking at myself from outside, watching this person that everyone else sees, and hoping they don’t notice I’m not really like them. Like I’m pretending, playing dress-up in my own skin.

It’s hard to say it out loud, even here, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel as sure of myself as Officer Jenkins did. Maybe this is just part of being young. But there’s a part of me that feels like I’m chasing something I can’t quite reach, like I’m always one step behind myself.

Diary Entry #17 Age 18

Graduation is close. I’ve got my acceptance letter to the academy, and it feels real in a way that both excites and terrifies me. Everyone in my family is proud; they say they always knew I’d be the one to follow through, to do something meaningful. And I’m proud, too—proud to be someone people can count on. But when I look around at my classmates, I see people who seem so sure of themselves, like they’ve got it all figured out. They look so…comfortable, so at ease with who they are. And here I am, wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling like an actor, like I’m playing a part someone else wrote for me.

I’m supposed to be ready to face anything. I mean, that’s what being a cop is all about—strength, resilience, toughness. But there’s something fragile inside me that I can’t explain. It’s like there’s this constant hum of discomfort, of being somehow out of sync with myself. I put on a good front, and I know people see me as confident, capable, steady. But sometimes I look in the mirror and see a stranger, someone wearing the mask of a man I’m supposed to be. And the strangest part is that sometimes, in my mind, I imagine myself differently. I don’t know where this is coming from, but there’s this quiet, persistent voice telling me there’s more to who I am than I’m letting myself see.

I want to be brave enough to face it, but I keep telling myself it’s just a phase, just nerves before a big life change. I’ve worked too hard to let doubts stop me now. But there’s a part of me that wonders if these feelings will ever go away.

Diary Entry #32 Age 22

Today, I graduated from the academy. Standing in line, hearing my name called, I should’ve felt elation—a relief, even. This was supposed to be the moment I had been working toward for years. I thought that finally, I would feel right, like everything would snap into place. And in some ways, it did; I felt pride, a sense of duty, and an honor I’d waited my whole life to carry. But, even as I stood there, feeling the weight of the badge in my hand, there was a sense of emptiness that I couldn’t shake, a feeling that everything was still a few shades off.

This has been lingering for as long as I can remember. I would look at other people around me—my classmates, my friends—and see how they moved through life so easily, so comfortably in themselves, and wonder why that ease escaped me. I’ve been trying to ignore it, telling myself it’s just nerves, that it’ll pass once I’m settled. But as the years go by, it’s only grown stronger. It feels like I’m always watching myself from a distance, seeing someone who looks like me, sounds like me, but isn’t me. It’s like I’m constantly putting on a show, playing a role, and hoping no one notices the cracks.

I don’t know how else to say this, but there’s this persistent sense that I’m living in the wrong life, like I’m out of alignment with my own being. The idea sounds absurd; I’ve been working so hard, building this identity of strength and masculinity, of what I thought I was supposed to be. But there’s a nagging feeling, deep down, that all of this—the uniform, the badge, the persona—is more costume than reality. And sometimes, when I’m alone and I let the mask slip, I can see a glimpse of someone else staring back at me in the mirror. Someone softer, someone more at ease, someone who feels like the real me. And it terrifies me.

I wish I could say these are just passing thoughts, insecurities everyone has. But they’re not. It feels like a truth buried just beneath the surface, something undeniable that presses down on me, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. It’s as though I’ve spent my life running alongside this hidden part of myself, catching glimpses of it in brief, private moments—like a reflection in the glass when I turn away too quickly. I keep telling myself it’s something I can outgrow, something I can rationalize away if I try hard enough. But here I am, years later, feeling that same unspoken presence, a version of myself waiting, patient and quiet, for permission to finally exist.

And I keep asking myself, why? Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be satisfied with the life I’ve built, the life everyone expects of me? I have everything I’m supposed to want—the respect of my peers, the pride of my family, a career that’s supposed to give me meaning. But when I’m alone, in those quiet moments when I can let my guard down, I feel a longing that goes deeper than anything I’ve felt before. It’s not just a curiosity or a passing thought. It’s a pull, a force so strong that no amount of logic or reasoning can explain it away.

There’s a part of me that wants to dismiss this as weakness, a flaw in my character. Maybe I’m not cut out to be the person I’ve tried so hard to become. Maybe there’s something broken in me, some defect that keeps me from fully inhabiting this identity I’ve built. But then there’s another part, a smaller, braver part, that wonders if this is who I’ve been all along. What if I’ve been running from myself my entire life? What if the real me—the person beneath all the roles and expectations—isn’t the man I’ve tried so hard to be?

I don’t know if I can accept that. The idea of letting this part of me out, of facing the truth, feels impossible. How would I explain it to my family, to my friends? How would I fit into the world if I stopped pretending? I’ve spent years trying to be the protector, the strong one, the rock that others can lean on. I don’t know if there’s room for someone like me—someone soft, someone different, someone who might be…a woman.

There, I said it. Even writing the words feels like crossing a line, like admitting to something shameful. But I have to be honest with myself: there’s a part of me that longs to let go of this image, to let that person—the woman inside—finally breathe. I want to know what it’s like to feel at home in my own skin, to live without this constant sense of hiding. But the fear of what that would mean, of what I would lose, is overwhelming. I want so badly for this feeling to go away, to be able to bury it once and for all and just move on with my life. But it’s not going anywhere. If anything, it’s only growing stronger, louder, like a truth I can’t keep ignoring.

I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to be both this person I’m supposed to be and the person I feel I am. Every day feels like a choice between being true to myself or living up to everyone else’s expectations. And the thought of letting them down—of shattering the image they have of me—is almost unbearable. But maybe, just maybe, the bigger betrayal is in denying who I am. Maybe, deep down, I’ve always known that I’m more than the role I’ve been playing. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.

Diary Entry #51 Age 25

It’s been almost three years on the job. Every day, I’m out there, doing what I set out to do: helping people, protecting them, sometimes even saving them. I’m fulfilling the vision I had as a kid, becoming the person I wanted to be. And on the surface, it seems right. I’m making a difference, contributing something valuable to the world, and that should be enough. It should make me feel whole, grounded, like I belong in this life. But the truth is, when the day ends and I’m back home, alone, that feeling of being…incomplete comes back, stronger than ever. It’s as though the quiet of my apartment lets all the things I try to ignore creep back in, reminding me of something I can’t quite name but feel deeply, constantly, like an ache just beneath the surface.

I keep asking myself questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I used to push away with excuses and reassurances: “It’s just nerves,” or “Everyone feels a little out of place sometimes.” But now these questions are louder, harder to dismiss, and they cut right to the core of me. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me to finally listen, and now that I’ve let my guard down, they’re flooding in. Who am I, really? Why do I feel this persistent sense that I’m living a life that doesn’t quite fit? I can’t stop the flashes—these moments where I see myself differently, where I imagine a version of me that feels…right. It’s not about wanting to be someone else entirely, but rather about peeling back the layers I’ve built up, layers that feel increasingly like armor instead of skin.

Because what would happen if I stopped fighting it? If I let myself feel the things I’ve been avoiding, if I allowed myself to look honestly at what’s been lurking beneath the surface for so long? The thought terrifies me—like opening a door I’ll never be able to close. But at the same time, there’s a pull, a curiosity, maybe even a hope that on the other side, I’d finally find something real. Maybe, after all these years, I could find a way to be…me.

Diary Entry #79 Age 28

I’ve finally come to terms with something I never thought I’d be able to face. I’m not a man. I’ve spent years trying to fit into a mold that never felt like mine, and now, I can finally admit it—I’m a woman. The words feel strange, foreign, like trying on a new identity and finding it fits better than the one I’ve worn all my life. I don’t know what this means for my career, for my life, but I know I can’t keep hiding.

I’ve started calling myself “Sophie” when I’m alone, letting the sound of it roll around in my mind, trying to get used to it. Sophie. It’s strange, isn’t it? How a name can hold so much power, so much truth. For the first time, I feel like I’m meeting someone I’ve always known but have kept locked away. I feel like I’m finally becoming real, like I’m stepping out of the shadows and letting myself exist.

I’m scared. Terrified, really. But also, for the first time in a long time, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, finally, I can be the person I was meant to be.

Diary Entry #85 Age 29, Post-transition

Returning to work as Sophie has been…complicated. I knew it wouldn’t be simple, that there would be questions, discomfort, maybe even some resentment. But I wasn’t prepared for how deep and isolating it would feel. Every time I walk into the station, I can sense the shift, the subtle but unmistakable change in how people see me. It’s in the glances that linger a second too long, the half-smiles that quickly fade, the way conversations suddenly grow quiet when I enter the room. There’s a hesitation in their eyes, a questioning, a slight narrowing as they try to place me in some category that doesn’t exist. To some of my colleagues, I’m a stranger, someone they feel they have to figure out all over again, even though I’m still the same person who’s worked alongside them for years.

Some have been supportive, treating me with the same respect they did before. They call me Sophie, use the right pronouns, and treat me like the officer I am. But even with them, there’s a difference—a carefulness that wasn’t there before, as if they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing, of stepping over some invisible line. And then there are those who simply don’t know what to do with me now. To them, I’m no longer one of the guys, but I’m also not a woman in the way they’re comfortable understanding. They don’t see me as Officer Sophie; they see me as “the trans one,” an anomaly, someone who doesn’t fit neatly into their understanding of the world. I used to be seen as a person, an individual with my own strengths and flaws, but now it feels like I’m reduced to this single, defining aspect of myself. No matter what I do, how hard I work, or how professional I am, it seems to some that I’ll never be more than “the other.”

What surprises me most, though, is how I feel like I’ve somehow ended up with the worst of both worlds. Those who do see me as a woman don’t see me as a whole woman; to some, I’m an object of curiosity, even fetish. The way they look at me, lingering just a moment too long, with a look that feels less like acknowledgment and more like I’m some sort of forbidden curiosity. It’s not admiration or even genuine interest—it’s something colder, something that makes me feel small, like a spectacle they can’t quite understand but can’t stop staring at. I’ve had a few well-meaning comments that I think were meant to be compliments, about how “brave” I am or how “unique” I look, but they’re hollow. They make me feel more like a symbol than a person. And those who do accept me as a woman often don’t see me as beautiful or feminine in any real sense; to them, I’m something in-between, a half-realized attempt at womanhood that doesn’t fully satisfy their expectations.

And then there are those who won’t see me as a woman at all. They don’t accept me as Sophie or even acknowledge my gender as valid. But at the same time, they don’t see me as a “man” in the way they used to, either. It’s as if I’ve forfeited my right to any masculine respect by choosing to live as myself. I’m neither fully one nor the other to them; I’ve slipped through the cracks of their understanding, no longer someone they can fit into a role that feels familiar or comfortable. They look at me like I’ve made some irrevocable mistake, something that’s taken away my right to be either a man or a woman in their eyes.

It hurts more than I expected. I spent so much of my life wanting to belong, to feel like I was part of something larger than myself. I thought that becoming Sophie would finally make me whole, that living as my true self would be a relief, a way of coming home. And in many ways, it is. But at the same time, I feel more alone than ever. It’s as if I’ve traded one kind of invisibility for another. Before, I was hiding from myself, from the truth of who I am. Now, I’m hiding from everyone else’s expectations, from the constant reminders that I don’t quite belong, that I’ll never fully fit into their categories.

But even so, I don’t regret it. For all the judgment, the stares, the whispers, I feel more like myself than I ever have. I can finally look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back at me. I’m Sophie—no longer hiding, no longer pretending. And even if that makes me an outsider to some, even if it means I’ll always be seen as something other, I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t trade this feeling of being real, of being honest with myself, for anything. This is who I am, and no one can take that away from me. For the first time, I am fully here, even if others can’t see it. And that, in itself, feels like freedom.

Diary Entry #102 Age 30

Today was rough. I walked into the station, and the room went quiet. It happens sometimes—this awkward, charged silence, like everyone is holding their breath. I can tell they’re not sure how to act around me, as if they’re trying to recalibrate, to figure out how to reconcile the person they thought they knew with the person they see now. Some people look at me with kindness, respect, even a little understanding. They see Sophie, or at least, they’re trying to. But others…they still look at me like an enigma, a stranger inhabiting the body of someone they once knew.

I can’t lie; it hurts. I joined the force to protect people, to be a figure of safety, stability, and justice. But lately, it feels like I’ve lost control over how others see me. Instead of being seen for my dedication, my skills, my hard work, I’m seen first and foremost as “a transwoman.” It’s like the essence of who I am has been stripped down to this single word, and everything else—my experiences, my hopes, my struggles—has been eclipsed by that one label. No matter how professional I am, how much I contribute, I’m reminded that, to some, I’m not really a cop, not really a woman, but some other category altogether. An anomaly. A contradiction. Something that unsettles them, something they’ll never fully understand or accept.

It’s strange, isn’t it? To be so visible and so invisible at the same time. I’m visible in a way that makes me stand out, that draws attention, curiosity, sometimes even suspicion. And yet, in another sense, I’m utterly unseen, hidden beneath the assumptions and discomfort of others. I wonder what it means to really be seen. Is it just about being recognized, about fitting into a category people understand? Or is it about something deeper? I used to think that a person was defined by what they did, by the values they upheld, by the ways they contributed to the world around them. I thought that if I did enough, if I proved myself enough, I’d finally be seen as I wanted to be. But now, I’m starting to question that.

What is a person, really? Are we just collections of traits and actions, judged by the boxes we tick and the roles we fulfill? Or is there something more? I think about the person I was before, the person everyone saw and accepted, and it’s strange to realize how thin that acceptance was. Back then, I looked the part; I did what was expected of me. I played the role well. But it wasn’t me—it was a version of me, a mask I wore so well even I believed it at times. The truth is, I wasn’t seen for who I was back then, either; I was just seen for how closely I fit the mold.

But now, even if people can’t fully see or understand me, I’m finally real. For the first time, I’m not just going through the motions. I’m living as Sophie, as the person I was always meant to be. I realize now that a person isn’t just what they do or how others define them. A person is a spark, a collection of thoughts, dreams, fears, and truths that don’t always fit neatly into categories. We’re defined not by how well we fit into others’ perceptions but by the courage we have to live authentically, to be real, even when it’s hard.

I used to think that if I was true to myself, I’d lose everything—respect, friendship, belonging. But I see now that living a lie would have been a far greater loss. I’d have lost myself, this real, honest version of me that no longer needs anyone else’s approval to exist. I’m still a protector, still someone who cares deeply about the people around me. I’m still here to serve, to stand by my values. But I don’t need to fit into a label to do that.

In the quiet of my apartment tonight, after the stares and whispers and silences, I feel something new: a sense of peace. It’s faint, a fragile thing, but it’s there—a happiness that comes from finally letting go of what others think and accepting who I am, without condition. I am Sophie. Not because I fit someone’s idea of what a woman should be or because I tick a box, but because I know myself in a way I never did before. I am enough, and I am real.

So yes, today was rough. And yes, tomorrow might be, too. But in this moment, as hard as it is, I know one thing for sure: I’m Sophie, and that’s enough.

“Never underestimate a man who has nothing left to lose.”

His eyes were mad, wide open and darting about. I'm not sure how he got into the kitchen, or why, but he held the big rolling pin in his thick fist. Martin, the sous chef, was already knocked out cold beside the oven.

I dodged as the maniac swung his impromptu club. On my second dodge, I tried to grab the implement, only to come away with a throbbing thumb.

The knives were behind him; behind me, the doors to the tables. It was me, or the guests, and as the newly-appointer head chef, I knew my decision before I made it.

But how to take the freak down?

He made a swipe I could not dodge; at the last moment, I vaulted over the counter. Now, I had options, weapons. I glanced over the pan lid, the mallet and the cheese grater… my eyes settled on the spatula.

“Aha!” I yelled, slamming my tool against the worktop. The plastic handle snapped.

“Fool!” the lunatic screamed.

I had to think fast. Snatching the mallet, I parried blow after blow from the pin, but with each strike I was forced back to the walk-in fridge. If I got too close, he could lock me in, freeze me to death.

So I kicked him in the shin. With a yowl of pain he leapt back, giving me room to rush behind. I raised my hammer high, and brought it down on his head with a crack. He collapsed to the white tiled floor.

At last, I had won! I felt incredible, ecstatic, like I could do anything.

Then I saw the blood.

“Oh shit, I've killed him!” I cried.

Before I could come to terms with my crime, the doors burst open. Two men identical to the corpse flew into the kitchen, wielding rolling pins.

“Never under–”

I screamed louder than I thought imaginable. The intruders tilted their heads in tandem, before rushing me.

Rage overtook my mind. With the strength of a madman, I struck the pin from the hand of the left, and buried the mallet in the head of the other. The surviving clone grabbed my head in his hands, began to squeeze. My skull felt as if it was going to burst.

Until I jabbed my fingers into his eyes. He jumped back with a shriek, and while he reeled, I smashed his head into the wall.

He fell to the floor, lifeless.

“Take that, you sons of–”

Five more clones ran into the kitchen.

I leapt straight for the knives. Cleaver in each hand, I went to town on those bastards, cutting and slicing until the walls were crimson. More and more clones rushed through the door, until the kitchen was filled with their screams.

My vision went red. Everything was a blur, shapes and sounds all forming a single mass of existence. And I kept on fighting.

Until, at last, the final one fell. No more clones entered the kitchen.

“Fuck you!” I yelled, pointing a cleaver at the carpet of bloody pulp. “You lose!”

Someone murmured behind me. Martin the sous chef had awoken.

“What the… hell?”

“I won, man. I won!”

He stared at me wide-eyed, and gazed across the carnage around him, before passing out again.

Calling an ambulance, I ran from that kitchen, from the whole city in fact, not stopping until I stood in the woods.

That was where my journey as a survivalist began…

Hey all, I need help looking for a short story from the 2000's about a scientist, a cat? and a toaster who end up through mishap swapping their minds. The scientist was trapped in the chassis of the toaster and made futile attempts to contact the outside world by burning messages into bread.

I pasted it into a word format back in the late 2000's (it was about 2 pages). This was many computers ago and has certainly been lost. I've checked Wattpad for it and couldn't find it. My eyes are however scarred from the many slashfics with toasters.

Mods, happy to be removed if TOMT-style posts are not allowed here, I just thought that the discerning crowd in shortstories might be able to help me out of this jam and might appreciate the read if we find it.

Cheers!

Lazy drifts of wind scour desert sands, sending the sharp little grains tumbling through the air over the dunes. Providing little relief from the baking sun, the breeze rolls over the desert like a wave atop a wave, twisting and turning at the whims of gods.

A mote of sand flies into Arlan's eye. In a moment of fury, he sends the grain away with flick, untying his red headscarf in the process. His camel groans in annoyance, while his wife Tarsha laughs. He gives her a withering look.

“Your own fault for not bringing a mask,” she says, adjusting her own green hood.

He sighs. “If I hide my face my face, I may be taken for a bandit.”

“A what?! You, with your puppyish eyes?!”

“I do not have… Look, we're nearly there, I can handle it.”

They return their attention ahead. Arlan stares at the back of their guide’s bare head, at his sand-blasted curls of brown hair. Every other moment, Janar gazes up at the thin wisps of cloud above the horizon.

“We are nearly there, right?” Arlan calls ahead.

“Yes, we are,” Janar says plainly in his surprisingly soft tone. “Nampur lies just over the next run of dunes.”

“Good, thank you.”

Janar nods.

“I hope we can find him here,” Tarsha says. Her hands tremble as she holds the reins. “I can feel it getting worse inside me. My legs, I barely feel them.”

“Don't worry,” he says. “The hunter stated that the healer is here, so here he shall be.”

She smiles wearily. “I believe you.”

First thing Arlan sees is the pale spire rising above the sands, like a needle puncturing the sky. As they ascend the dune, the rest of the city reveals itself: rings of sandstone and marble buildings curling up around the side of a mountain, the spire an extension of its peak. Carts scurry like ants up Nampur’s spiral roads.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Janar asks.

The word Arlan would use is imposing, yet he cannot deny its beauty. “Yes, it's quite something.”

“Absolutely wonderful,” says Tarsha.

After a short jaunt across a desert plain, they fall in with the other travellers entering the city. They move all together as a column, slowly filtering through the city's immense southern gate. Arlan listens to the conversations of those around him, not understanding most yet enthralled by the diverse tongues. He looks about, smiling, briefly meeting Tarsha’s gleeful gaze. Janar leads them onward.

Once beneath the gate's shadow, guards in bronze, lamellar armour lead them to the leftmost line.

“Busy this week,” Janar observes. “Must be a celebration going on.”

“So far from the solstice?” Tarsha asks.

“Could be a royal funeral, or birth. It's been some time since I was here last.”

The guards glance at them with frustrated expressions fixed on their faces. Arlan wonders how hot it gets under their pointed metal helms.

As they approach the guard post, Arlan brings his documents from his satchel. Janar hands his parchment to the guard first, who nods him through. Though he sweats before the man's stern visage, once Arlan hands his lot over, it takes no time at all to be sent on.

On the other side, he emerges into a small square of turquoise tiles, sand yellow arched buildings lining all three sides. The mountain looms over it all, the road around it curling up into the sky, terminating in that towering spire. Only Tarsha's raised voice averts his attention.

She glares down at the guard from her camel. His voice rises in response to hers, her documents gripped tightly in his fist.

“What's the matter?” Arlan asks, dismounting and walking towards the two.

The guard growls in his own strange words.

Janar coughs beside him. “Allow me to translate.”

“Thanks. Can you ask him what this is all about?”

After a short tirade from the guard, Janar says, “This parchment is made of goose skin, so is therefore not official.”

“What?!” Tarsha snaps. “In what world… Tell him that goose skin is no different from cow skin in our land.”

“I don't think that's wise,” Janar says. “Obey the orders, and they will take you to the captain, who will sort things out.”

“Fine.” She turns to Arlan. “Please, find the healer, then return here for me.”

“I will.”

Worried, he watches as guards lead her into the gatehouse. He looks to the city above him, at the rows and rows of walls jutting from the pale granite cliffs. And he gulps.

It seems to Arlan that there are people at every turn. Children in colourful clothes peer from out of alleyways, watching the people roll by. The roads are full of carts that slowly crawl towards the peak, their drivers seeking the markets around the palace, all while vendors stroll between the wheels, pawning their wares. Beside the chaos, guards stand weary in their roadside posts, likely hoping for trouble to sprout up.

Arlan feels the sun sizzling the back of his neck as he walks. There is little shade, with the carts and a wall on one side, and open space on the other. He glances up to find he's only reached halfway.

“Come on,” he huffs. “This is impossible.”

“You think you've got it hard?” says the merchant he didn't notice was behind him. The yellow-garbed man carries a pig over his shoulders.

“Why don't you… let the pig walk?”

“Hatri pulled my cart here, he deserves a rest.”

“You ride a pig cart?”

He looks at Arlan incredulously. “Oh, that's odd, is it? Me, Sar Senam, am being called strange?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean…”

“Yes you did. Don't be a coward and deny it.”

“I'm just trying to get to a healer, that's all, I didn't even start this conversation.”

The merchant's face suddenly brightens. “Huh. I wonder if we seek the same healer?”

“I… suppose that's possible.”

“Well, if you're there, I'll see you later!”

Sar picks up his pace, racing ahead of Arlan, who's mouth hangs open as he watches him go.

Finally in the upper city, Arlan takes his time on each street, reading every sign he passes. He finds plenty of swordsmiths, scribes and perfumers, grocers and butchers, tanners and alchemists and seers; yet, he finds no healers.

Heading for the backstreets, where the buildings are more akin to stone huts, he keeps on searching. The road is open on one side, and the plains stretch to the distant hills far below him. He tries not to look down.

After an hour, he spots a familiar flash of yellow. Sar Senam sits on a stone bench outside a two-storey house clad in flaking white plaster. His pig snuffles at the roadside weeds.

“Took you long enough,” the merchant says.

“Seems it did. This is the place?”

“It is. What is it that ails you?”

“Oh, nothing; I'm here for my wife.”

“Who is where?’

“She had to see the guard captain. I'll go and get her.”

Sar mutters under his breath as Arlan turns. “Wasting my time…”

“What was that?”

The merchant glares at him. “I rushed up here to see to your illness, and it turns out there was no need.”

“Wait… you're the healer?!”

“Of course I am.”

Arlan clenches his jaw. He wishes to throttle the man. “Then why are you dressed like a merchant?! And why didn't you say that's why you were rushing?! I don't… why?”

“I won't explain myself to you,” the healer says with a wave of his hand. “Go and fetch your wife now, or I shall refuse you my service.”

Face flushed and hands shaking, Arlan begins the gruelling journey back down the mountain.

Tarsha takes the lead to the house, as Arlan trails behind. He staggers across the uneven ground, chest heaving, his feet throbbing in his boots. Sar Senam stands as they approach, and opens the door.

The room within is large and lit by ornate oil lamps. Tapestries hung from ceiling hooks drape over the floor, atop which has been placed a red rug and pink cushions. Sar sits on the largest one, a sun over an evening field, and crosses his legs.

“So,” the healer says to Tarsha, “what troubles you?”

She lowers her head. “I had a fever last month, with shivers and pain in my belly. The latter grew worse and worse until it suddenly stopped, and I felt fine. But soon after, a numbness began in my gut, which quickly travelled down my legs and up into my chest. I… I cannot feel anything below my head.”

Sar frowns deeply. “I see. This is very concerning.”

“Can you do anything?” Arlan interrupts.

“Shush, please, I'm working. Can you move all your limbs and digits?”

“I can move everything,” she says. “The only difference is the numbing. It makes me feel so distant from the world.”

“As I'd think it would. But I have a cure, so don't you fret.”

“What?” Tarsha's eyes grow wide. “So quickly?”

He grins. “That is my skill, you see. I need but see a person, hear their symptoms, to diagnose right and true.”

Arlan swears the healer sits taller on his cushion.

“Do what needs to be done,” she says.

“Then please head upstairs, find a bed. I shall be with you shortly.”

Once she leaves the room, Sar turns to Arlan, eyes narrowed. “Your attitude will prevent my ability to heal, I fear. For your wife's safety, you must remain outside this house.”

“You can't be serious?! I should be with her!”

“Stay, and she may die. Do you wish this?”

“I…” A thousand thoughts run through his head. What healer is he? Why would my thoughts affect him?

But he relents. “No. I will remain outside.”

“Very good. The process will take three days, so I suggest finding a place to stay. You may visit her by noon on the third day.”

With shoulders slumped, Arlan leaves the healer be, closing the door behind him.

Having found an inn, Arlan settles down on a straw bed. He doesn't mind the discomfort it brings; after the day’s distance, he is glad just to lie down.

Sleep swiftly arrives. At first, the dark void fills his mind, but soon after a light emerges. He sees his wife, unconscious on a bed, covered in pins. Despite the sight of metal in her skin, an overwhelming sense of calm falls over him.

Sar appears from a beaded doorway. Taking a jug from a shelf, he pours water and rose petals all over her body. The saccharine aroma hits him even in this dream.

Then, the healer stops. He turns his head to stare Arlan right in his mind's eye. Focused on Sar's bright blue eyes and dark ashen hair, the room bleeds away. The two of them fly high in the sky, amongst the clouds, Sar a bright yellow giant in their midst.

There is a flash of lightning, and suddenly the clouds turn dark. A storm rages in Arlan's head, Sar at its centre; only, his bright yellow garb has turned jet black.

“Leave this place!” the giant bellows. “Your presence shall only bring harm!”

Arlan awakes with a start, sweating and shaking.

On the third day, he returns to Sar’s home. The house, which had seemed so ordinary before, seems an imposing fortress to him now. He stands by the edge of the road, thin air to his back, as far from the place as he can get.

The healer steps out to meet him. Despite wearing a black cloak, no sweat drips from his forehead.

“She is sipping a herbal tea downstairs,” Sar explains. “All went well, and now she can feel again. Now, she must rest.”

“So no travel for a while?”

“A week. Then she shall be fine.”

“Thank you. I… really appreciate all you've done.’

Sar smiles. “You're welcome. I'm glad you can see my worth now.”

“I can indeed. Sorry for how I was before.”

The healer takes a seat, and gestures for Arlan to join him. He slowly approaches the bench.

Once he sits, Sar says. “You are not a bad man, you know. I just cannot have negative thoughts in my presence, as I heal.”

“I understand.”

“And I think you truly do. I told, and you listened.”

Arlan frowns. “Was that… really you?”

“Hmm?”

“I… swear I saw you, while I waited.”

“Perhaps you did. I had to buy supplies yesterday.”

“That's not…”

Sar raises an eyebrow. “What did you mean then?”

“I… never mind.”

With a chuckle, the healer gets to his feet. “Well, I have another patient to attend to. Your wife will join you soon.”

Alone, Arlan stares out to the horizon. In the pale blue sky, tendrils of cloud make their languid way to the south, their forms twisted by a storm long since passed. The plains below are drenched in their shadows.

“What did I truly see?” he asks himself.

The door creaks open. Tarsha emerges into the sun, beaming, her face radiant with life. Gasping, Arlan leaps to his feet and holds out his hands. Their fingers touch, and she rubs her thumbs across his palms.

He brings her into an embrace. “How does it feel, my love?”

“It feels so...” she says into his shoulder, hiding her tears, “I… can't quite describe it.”

They say nothing more, holding each other outside the healer’s house, until the sun goes down.

You know, the strangest part isn’t the teeth themselves. It’s that they keep growing back no matter how many times I wrench them from their sockets. No matter how deep the crater left in its place, bleeding and raw. Still, row after row, they keep coming back. It's like I’m some human experiment gone wrong. But I think I would remember if I’d actually been held captive, locked in a cage, undergoing medical practices, wouldn’t I?

I slide my hand around the corner of the doorframe onto the cold bathroom wall, tapping my hand in the dark until I find the light switch. I flick it on. The single burning-white lightbulb crackles quietly to life.

My eyes immediately sweep across the countertop as I position myself in front of the mirror. I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief, knowing that everything is exactly as I left it. I would know if anything was out of place. I would know.

I drag my eyes up and down the red and yellow stained cabinets and floors in my bughouse bathroom, keeping my head down. I lean against the counter and tell myself to relax. When I’m sure I’m ready, I lift my head to find a perfect match of myself staring back at me with wide eyes. I flinch, jumping back with surprise. The sick imposter mimes my every move.

“Get out of my mirror,” I growl softly, watching in disbelief as his lips move in sync with my own. “Get out. Now. Or else!”

He doesn’t move.

I slam my fist down on the counter as hard as I can. A shock of pain shoots up my arm and my knuckles throb. But still, he doesn’t listen. I hear him chuckle under his breath. This infuriates me. I reach for the pliers, gleaming, begging to be held, to be used, and I point them directly at his face.

“One by one,” I begin to explain, loud and clear, locking my gaze with his, “I’ll tear out each one of your teeth.” But even still, he doesn’t budge—just stands there staring at me like a maniac.

I shrug, “I tried to warn you.” Spitting out the words as I lunge at his mouth with the pliers, but he blocks me with the same move. Of course he does; he’s antagonizing me, trying to set me off. I lower my hand and act nonchalantly, but I know what will make him drop the stupid act.

I open my mouth while I clamp the pliers open and closed. I steadily inch them closer to my mouth. He follows my every move. I lick the metal tip of the pliers; a burst of iron tang fills my mouth. I grip the most deranged tooth first. I figured he’d have been a bit wiser, but he still hasn’t given up yet.

So be it.

I don’t waste any more time; I just grip with both hands and pull down with all my strength. It pops right out without much effort. The imposter, on the other hand, writhes in pain, blood shooting from his mouth and dripping from his pliers.

He's more determined to protect this façade than I thought. I turn my back on him, hunch down, and drop my tooth into my palm.

That lousy idiot got blood all over mine.

I stand up, spin back around, and wash it clean in the sink. I watch it squirm in my fingers, like it thinks it could escape my grip, but I don’t let go. Even after it grows legs and stabs my fingertips with its ragged edges, I still don’t allow it to just run off. Once it finally gives up the fight, I hold it up to the light, marveling at the little thing. Then I line it up on my bathroom sink like a little white soldier, all neat and glossy. The same way I did with the others before. 

“You’re perfect.” I tell it, “Just perfect!” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of that freak show guy again. He’s trying to rob me—to steal my precious tooth.

I snatch it up from the counter. “It’s mine!” I roar, then quickly run into my bedroom. I moved through the room, careful not to disturb the delicate silence. I have a hiding spot under my bed where I know it’ll be safe from prying hands. I started collecting them in jars—seven jars to be exact—seven and counting, all safely tucked away in my stash compartment made to look like a tool box. My secret tooth sanctuary. Mine.

Then there’s the noise. I can feel it more than hear it—a rumbling sound, rattling my bones around, so sure and constant it almost feels like... well, like some kind of electric parasite lodged in my skull. I nearly fainted from the intensity of it.

I swiftly drop the tooth into one of the jars, then slide the tool box back under my bed. The room spins, and I lose my balance, falling back onto my bed. The sound surges louder, making my entire body quake.

I think it's been trying to tell me something, tapping out messages in Morse code against the backs of my eyes, but I don’t speak tap. So I just stare at the walls all night while it tries to drill its way out. If that isn’t bad enough, it’s been getting bolder, too—once, I swear, I heard it laugh. I pretend like I don’t notice it. I don’t want to give it any clues that I am on to it. I’ve got a plan to figure out, and I can’t have it getting ahead of me. 

I yawned dramatically, acting casual, pretending to be tired. I get comfortable in bed and pull the sheets over my body, just lying there, staring at the ceiling.

The noise fades little by little as the feeling increases, like tiny needles prickling just beneath my skin across the entire surface of my body. The laughing turns into a hiss, screeching through my head in this awful, monstrous whine.

And then—this is the part that gets me—it asks me questions. Out loud, in a voice that isn’t mine. It's flat and strange, distant yet close, like someone talking from the bottom of a well.

“Do you think you’ll miss them?” it asked. 

And the crazy part is, I knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t talking about people. It was talking about my teeth.

I just lay there, holding my jaw, feeling the pressure building again like something was about to split open. And sure enough, there was another one, poking its way out just below the gum line. A small, pointed thing, twisted in shape, almost like it had grown wrong on purpose, just to mock me. I reached in my mouth, wiggled it, then pulled it out. It felt odd. Rubbery, almost.

Then, I did something new—I tasted it. Not like some little nibble; I crushed it between my molars, and it felt like biting into ice. It hurt, sure, but not as much as you'd think, and for a second, everything got quiet—perfectly silent.

I thought I’d stopped whatever was inside me, just by doing that, by chewing through my own tooth, but then the voice came back, blaring this time, drilling words straight into my mind. 

"You can’t stop the cycle.”

It must have known I was pretending not to notice. The words were crawling, slipping, slipping inside, like they'd been waiting to do this all along—digging around in my skull. I covered my ears, pressing with all my might, but it only made the voice louder.

And then this vision came to me, bright and vivid in my mind. It was a single eyeball, enormous, beaming side to side, up and down. But it wasn't just looking at me; it was somehow dissecting me, layer by layer. 

My brain kept producing these images. I saw myself in this forest made of teeth, the trees snapping open and shut, their roots tangling with bones, with me in the center of it all—no skin, just veins and tendons, standing upright. I was covered in a layer of what looked like my own chewed-up teeth.

Then I saw my mouth move, speaking, but it wasn't me talking. It was that same voice again, but choppy, broken, spilling out secrets I didn't even know I had. It was telling me things I’d done in places I'd never been, speaking languages I didn't know I understood, and it was laughing all the while—hysterically—in ways that made my stomach twist into knots. I could feel the laughter, too, trickling down my spine like oil. It was burning me up from the inside.

I saw my skin, like a suit, fall onto the ground in front of me. I watched as the pink mass of veins and tendons, the mass of mush that was me, grabbed at the skin suit, pulling it over himself. He couldn’t seem to step into it. I watched as he fought with it, stretching and pulling, heaving it back and forth. Then, together, we realized that the skin—my skin—didn't fit right.

He started peeling parts of it back—just a little at first—one corner by the wrist, tugged at it, and it ripped in a jagged line up the length of his arm. There was another layer beneath, but it wasn't skin. It was something that shouldn't be in there—something black and throbbing, like a hive. As soon as I saw it, I could feel it spreading everywhere, wriggling under my fingernails, curling behind my eyeballs. I could swear I saw tiny legs scuttling up my throat.

That's when I realized it... the thing... the parasite or whatever it was, it wasn't in me; I was in it. I was the suit, the puppet, the thin little layer it needed to walk around in, just flesh to hide its colony of... something—a creature that wore people like we wear clothes. It's been in me, growing, making copies of my teeth as souvenirs, like little trophies. And it's been collecting them in secret, putting them in jars, labeling them, and building some kind of museum inside me. For what? I don't know. To remember? To forget? To mock?

And just when I thought I'd seen it all, I hear the thing whisper, "You're almost ready."

I felt the cold words freeze me to the core. But I couldn’t help it; I had to ask, “Ready for what?” 

The response? Just laughter again, rolling through me, vibrating in my bones until I thought they might shatter. The thing was savoring the question, like it had wanted me to ask, like it had been waiting for me to give in, to wonder, to finally prove to it, or myself, that I’d been trying to ignore it for so long. 

I tried to push it down, tried to mask the twitching, the crawling under my skin, but it was too late. It was seeping into my thoughts, reshaping the way I saw everything. My hands, my legs, even my own face felt foreign.

The vision ended with me staring directly into my own eyes, like a reflection, and it was just smiling. But I know it wasn’t me. I hadn’t moved a muscle. 

I snap out of it, still laying in bed. The room felt smaller than I remembered, as if it had shrunk in response to my return. I didn’t have time to process what happened when, out of nowhere, it took hold of my body and made me get up and walk. My legs moving on their own, feet dragging down the hallway, out the door, and into the street. I couldn’t control it; I was a passenger, just along for the ride. The thing was thrilled, guiding me past my neighbors houses, careful not to be seen. I tried to shout, but my lips were glued shut. I passed by all the places I thought were safe. 

I didn’t know where we were going, but it did. It knew exactly where. I knew because the movements were so calculated, so precise. 

We stopped at the abandoned lot a few blocks from my house, where the ground was cracked. A horrible smell seeped from it, like rust and mold. It forced me down on my hands and knees and plunged my face into the ground. The crack in the asphalt gave way, and I fell inside. It felt like I was wading through mud, my body moving forward, lifting my hand, reaching out to grab a hold of something, but I couldn’t see anything; I could only feel it. It was bulbous and cold, smooth like a doorknob. I felt my arm yank it open, and it was like a barrier, buzzing with some kind of evil energy, pulling me in, like a magnet.  

And then the voice came back, low, guttural, almost excited. "Ready for the unveiling?"  

It didn’t matter if I was or wasn’t, because as soon as the question was out, a bright flash of light illuminated the space around me, blinding bolts of electricity spraying in all directions. As my eyes were adjusting to the light, my fingers started peeling back, bending in ways fingers shouldn’t bend, stretching out, until they weren’t fingers anymore. They were something else, something long and stretching, something that was both mine and not at the same time. They were reaching into that buzzing void, dragging something out—something heavy, dripping a black, oily substance.  

It was me. Another me. An exact copy, with blank eyes and a slack jaw, like a puppet waiting for strings. It looked dead. I looked dead.  

I tried to scream, but still, no sound. Then the thing laughed one last time.

 “Congratulations. You’re the prototype.”

The other me jerked to life. It moved like it was figuring out how to use its limbs, stretching its fingers, tilting its head, and examining every joint, every creak, and every pop of bone. It looked at me with those empty eyes—my own eyes, staring back at me but expressionless, like a doll left out in the rain. 

And that smile—not just any smile. It was deranged, stretching far too wide, cracking at the edges, and splitting the skin like wet paper. It leaned in close, nose to nose, until I could feel its cold breath against my face. I was frozen, my muscles locked, trapped in this broken shell while the thing in my skin—the thing in my life—examined me like I was a failed experiment.

Then, in a voice that sounded like mine but was all wrong, it whispered, "Time to swap."

I felt a yank inside my chest, like something was being pulled out by the roots. My vision faded in and out, and suddenly I was inside it—inside the copy, looking out of those dead, vacant eyes, feeling nothing but a cold emptiness. And in that moment, I realized the awful truth: I wasn’t the host anymore. I was the husk.

I could see my own body from the outside, watching as it moved with a new fluidity, my own face now wearing that awful, gaping grin. And the worst part? It felt right. Natural. Like it had been waiting for this moment all along, like I was the temporary suit that’d finally been cast aside.  

Then, I spoke—or rather, it spoke through me, turning to leave me behind, with one last glance over its shoulder, wearing my face and my smile, and in a voice dripping with satisfaction, it said, "Better you than me.

And then it walked away, leaving me trapped, frozen, nothing more than a discarded skin, just one more forgotten piece in its endless collection.

I wasn’t just left there, dead and useless—I was conscious, aware, a spectator locked in my own shell. I could feel my body moving farther away, hear it whistling some chilling tune that I’d never known, but it seemed to know by heart. And as I watched it disappear into the distance, a sick realization crawled over me.

I wasn’t alone in here.

The others—the ones it had discarded before me—were still here, their low tones scratching against my mind, faint, distorted, like voices under water. They were stuck, too, trapped bits of thought and memory left over from whoever they'd once been. I could feel them pressing in, all around me, a crowd of voiceless forms—faces and features I couldn’t quite make out.

I understood then: they’d all been replaced, just like me, worn out and used up. And now we were piled together, all packed into the same vessel, just waste in its rotten core. 

And then... then they started speaking, their voices layering over the next, a chaotic chorus that roared like an angry mob. They begged, they cursed, they wailed—all at once, shouts of hopelessness and horror, scratching and clawing to be heard, but no one was listening. No one could.  

Except me.

For the longest time now, life has felt overwhelmingly hard. I keep fighting, but it feels like a losing battle. Why is it so difficult to be happy? Sometimes I wonder if I did something in a past life to deserve the pain I’m experiencing now. Still, despite everything, there’s something that keeps me going, even though my life feels like an endless void of emptiness. I miss the days when I was young.

I remember a time in my life when everything felt bright and sunny. Each day, I woke up full of joy. Not every day was filled with rainbows and sunshine, but I was certain I was happy. Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t quite as perfect as it seemed. Life simply feels different when you’re a carefree child.

One day, however, stands out in my memory. It was a Sunday—a family day—and we went to the mall. Everything felt ordinary. We had lunch, wandered around, and ended up in a clothing store. My mother was browsing through the racks, and I was nearby, close enough that she could keep an eye on me.

While I was standing there, I noticed someone outside the store. They had teary eyes, a sadness that somehow caught my attention. Then, all of a sudden, this person entered the store, walked right over to me, and, without a word, wrapped me in a warm, tight hug.

I was young and confused. I didn’t know this person, yet there was something about the hug that felt strangely familiar. I can still remember its warmth—it wasn’t just a physical feeling; it was a warmth that seemed to touch something deeper, a comfort I couldn’t name at the time. It felt like this hug was giving me strength, a strength I didn’t know I’d need.

After a few seconds, my mother noticed and hurried over. The stranger let go, apologized softly, and explained that I reminded them of someone. With a final, lingering look, they left the store just as quickly as they’d come.

My mother asked if I was okay and reminded me about talking to strangers. I nodded, but I couldn’t quite explain how I felt. After that, life carried on. The days blended together, but that hug stayed with me. As I grew up, whenever life felt heavy or I was struggling, I would remember that moment. The memory of that hug became a quiet source of strength, a reminder that I was not alone.

Years later, I found myself back at that same mall. From a distance, I saw the clothing store, and suddenly, memories came flooding back, filling me with an unexpected wave of emotion. I was lost in thought when I noticed something—a child, standing in the store, staring directly at me from the very spot where I once stood.

For a moment, time felt suspended. I couldn’t look away. The child’s gaze felt like a reflection of my own memories, filled with the same confusion and wonder I once felt. I stood there, unsure of what to do, as the memory of that hug wrapped around me once again.

“Hush, little girl.” Those were the first words my mother said to me.

Of course, I didn’t remember hearing them, but she remembered saying them. She hadn’t chosen my name yet, and wouldn’t for another couple of weeks — too busy feeding me and changing me and catering to my every whim with nowhere near enough sleep to function. By that point “little girl” had stuck. My first, true name to her.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words followed me through my childhood.

Any bump or scrape that brought the tears welling in my eyes. Any fretful new experience that I was scared to face. Any perceived problem that had me panicking. My mother whispered those words as she cleaned my wounds, placing a plaster over them with a kiss. She murmured them over and over like a mantra as she stroked my hair, until all felt right with the world again. She said them softly as she got me ready for my first day of school, and they followed me inside as she waved goodbye.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words grated on me as I grew.

“I’m not a little girl anymore!” I pouted and stomped my feet, oblivious to the irony of those words with that image.

She simply smiled that warm smile of hers — so full of love and life and laughter. “You’ll always be my little girl.” She sighed. “But I’ll try to respect your wishes. Because I love you.”

I tried my best to keep scowling, but I couldn’t keep it up long.

She tried her best to stop saying those words, catching herself midway through.

“Hush, little—.” Those words were soon missed, though I wouldn’t admit it at the time.

I wished that I could still run to her any time something went wrong. But big girls don’t run crying to their mothers. Any time I was in trouble at school and tears stung threateningly behind my eyes. Any time I fell out with a friend and feared I’d lost them forever. Any time it all got too much, and I felt like giving up. I missed those words from her lips more than anything. But I could still hear them, faintly, in my head when I really needed them, and I knew that I was going to be okay.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words watched over me when she couldn’t.

When she got sick, I had to stay with my grandmother. Gran did her best, but she wasn’t Mum. Her attention was split between me, and her little girl in the hospital.

I wasn’t allowed to visit as much as I’d have liked. I think they both worried about the effect it would have on me, watching my mother slowly die in front of my eyes. They tried to keep me busy with school work and a paper round and day trips with friends, but nothing could distract me. Not really.

Her absence from those moments was like a hollow ache in my chest. But whenever I felt it most keenly, I’d hear those words in her voice, over and over in my head.

Until, finally, the time drew near. I think they both realised that keeping me away wasn’t helping. And when all hope was lost, neither wanted to rob me of my last moments with her. I still remember how frail she looked. How thin. How grey. But that smile of hers was still plastered on her face — full of love and life and laughter — even as the tears spilled out of her eyes.

I tried to be brave, tried to be strong, for her, but it was no use. My hands trembled as I held hers. My vision blurred with unshed tears as I stared into her eyes, trying to memorise every detail. My voice cracked when I tried to tell her I loved her — tried to say goodbye.

“Hush, little girl.” Those were the last words my mother said to me.

Author's note: This story was written for a team challenge as part of Word-Off on the discord server, where we were given a title and had to come up with a story to match it.

Footsteps echoed behind me, as i stared at the man behind the counter ahead of me. Unsure of whether I heard correctly.

"Ah its you, you're from the train right?" The Footsteps paused as the man next to me greeted me with his hand held out, and a smile on his face...

It started as an average day, man i hate re-telling my predicament. I was just catching the train to work, when suddenly a bright flash erupted from the carriage ahead. The light moved slowly, creeping to our carriage, as everyone around me begun to panic and scream.

"Run!" A man beside me shouted, a look of horror on his face, his eyes open and wide, pupils almost nonexistent. The people in the carriage moved, climbing ontop one another trying to exit through the rear, though with no luck... yet I? I just sat there, my eyes looking once again to the light...

We woke up as a group in a white room, with a woman standing ahead of us, she looked... beautiful? I think? None of us could recollect what we had seen, only what had happened. She began to explain our situation in detail, with all those arround me arguing and listening, I however didn't bother. I sighed, just wanting the day to end...

We were in another world, filled with magic, monsters, and game systems. Some of the men and women were ecstatic, as if it had been their dream to abandon reality, while others bowed their head in silence, thinking of the world that they had just left.

We were given classes, skills, and stat points. Given free roam of how to live our future life, only told that we would progress much faster than those originally from this world. Everyone had split up, choosing their own adventures and how they would spend their lives.

I spent the majority of the time going on quests and meeting new people, levelling myself... however for whatever reason, i decided to dump all my stat points into luck, at first i barely felt a difference, until it reached 50, and simply throwing a stone had accidentally killed a goblin that startled me.

It took years, and i decided to venture forward and do whatever i felt like at the time. If i wanted to hike a mountain, i would. If i wanted to ride a dragon, again i would. It seemed like the world was working in my favour... yes.. my favour.

Almost 10 years had passed since arriving in this world, venturing forth into a new continent, where i was summoned by a king, given a simple task of meeting the bar keep down town, seemed simple enough.

I decided to take my time exploring the town, and eventually reached the bar that the king had mentioned, i walked through the shabby wooden door. The inside was plain, empty, and everything you'd expect of a bar. A man stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass.

"Come sit, we have much to discuss," he spoke as if he knew me, silver eyes to match his silver hair, his sun-touched skin sagging.

I sat down ahead of him, asking him why he asked to see me. Not knowing what would lie ahead...

"I am god, and you... what in the hell have you done." His words echoed in my ears, i did not quite understand what he had meant, and then the man from my past had walked up behind me, offering his hand as a gesture.

"It's been too long, how have you found the world here?" The man continued to stand with his hand held out, interrupted by... God?

"That's enough, you also, sit down." The bar keep mentioned as he slams the cup down onto the table, giving us a riddle next.

What is the difference between Luck and Wisdom? It was a simple question, you could answer it in many different ways... however we were entirely wrong.

"Wisdom, is understanding the world and walking through a desired path. Which you have maxed out." He spoke to the man beside me. However then quickly whipping his head to look at me.

"Luck. Luck on the other hand... moves the entire world for you." He stared at me blankly, with rage in his eyes.

the clock on the taskbar caught my eye. 9:32am. sigh, 30 minutes left of class. I have my graphing project open on my computer, but I cant seem to muster the energy to actually do it.

I wish I could borrow the energy of the girls next to me as they excitedly share ideas and tips and tricks. I half listen to their conversation, as some of the tips are useful. most of it, however, is stuff the teacher has been saying since day one. they never pay attention though, always whispering to eachother. a small part of me is jealous of their closeness, and wishes I could be a part of it.

the sunlight glistens on a lonely leaf as it falls off of a bunch of branches that used to be a tree. It makes me feel sad, though I don’t really know why.

putting that out of my mind I glance over at the rest of the class. almost every student is blatantly on their phones, not even trying to work on the project. at least most of them have the project open, though one girl hasn’t even bothered to unlock her computer, its sitting on the lock screen. the teacher clicks through things on her computer, sometimes glancing over her shoulder at the clock on the wall.

9:33, a minute has passed. all of the clocks in the school are digital, a stark contrast to my old school, which had mostly analog clocks. every single one is the same, a black box with red numbers and a couple cords running to somewhere unseen. they must be supplied by the school, rather than the teachers.

I look at my computer, resolving to get at least some work done this period. I start to plot a point but excitement from the girls next to me distracts me. I cant help looking over, even though I don’t really care. I wish I had my airpods on me, that noise cancelling would be useful.

I know I shouldn’t, but im tempted to check Instagram really quick. I try and push that thought out of my head and truly focus on my project. however, after a few minutes I succumb to the addiction and just check quickly for engagement on my post. just a few seconds I tell myself. Its not like I’m the only one on my phone right now. what started as seconds turns into minutes as I get sucked into the world of instagram. disturbed by a questionable post, I scroll to the next, a happy puppy playing with a baby. I let the video play through a few times, and give it some hearts. It’s just so cute! then another goddam political post is next, and I scroll past that one annoyed. the next post seems interesting, but it takes too long so I skip it.

I lose track of time and the movement of my classmates startles me. It seems everyone is cleaning up and standing up getting ready to leave. surprised, I glance at the clock which now reads 9:57. I begin preparing to leave. I sign out of the computer and put it away in the cart. The laptops are never put away correctly, so the spot for mine is filled. Mildly annoyed I just put it in some random spot, perpetuating the problem. I grab my backpack and stand by the door with the others. There are still 3 minutes of class left, so I pull out my phone again and those minutes go by in a flash.

I walk to my next class, English. We were supposed to read this story over the weekend, but I completely forgot until i saw its name on the board as I entered. I was a little bit panicked, as we are discussing that book today, and this discussion is for marks

I admitted this to my friend as he came in. he was late as usual. I dont know how he manages that, the classrooms aren’t that far apart

He told me “Bro, just chatgpt it.” Not bad advice, I suppose. I don’t know what I was expecting, he often does his homework last minute, relying heavily on such tools. Im surprised he hasn’t let it to 100 percent of the work yet. The teacher is older and not tech savvy so he probably doesn’t even know what AI can do, let alone determine if something is written by it.

I covertly go on my phone as the teacher explains some homework we handed in on friday. I think he marked it or something, but im not paying attention, being careful about where he is looking. this teacher is much more strict about the phone rule, and will take it all day if im caught. I ask chatgpt and try to remember its summary of the story

My friend hisses something at me which gets my attention, and I quickly put my phone away. Hopefully I know enough about the book to do the discussion.

Well, it’s time to head on home now, Rachael thought, grabbing her purchases in the check out. She was on her way out the grocery store. The sun is still up, so I've got some time. I can be home before it’s night time.

It was a late November evening. The sky was quiet, harbouring a few last clouds. Winter was right around the corner, and with it carried the cold. With the cold came the night, and those nights grew longer and darker. By that time, lampposts lit up the small town, with some folks huddled in a well-known fast-food joint. Others, stuck in their vehicles, glared at the traffic light. They waited for that light to go from red to green, so they could be home and be done with it all.

And near the traffic light stood Rachael Paterson, young and tranquil. Her darkish hair flowed in the gentle wind, as the cars zoomed off to be elsewhere. She had that smile that made you think she was everyone’s best friend. Standing at the pedestrian crossing, Rachael watched and appreciated the sunset and its many hues. The magenta-shaded clouds. She imagined right there and then that when God made the world, He must have thought the sunset was one of His favourite designs. It’s so beautiful, she considered, smiling at the sight.

Rachael waited at the traffic light with groceries in her scruffy backpack. Her zealous mother had run out of her low-priced, wholewheat bread and margarine, and she had volunteered to get some more. In truth, she used that as an excuse to buy cookies for her and her only. As cars passed by, two individuals stood beside her. A lanky, hardy cyclist and an elderly woman. The vehicles slowed down as the traffic lights turned yellow – then red.

She looked at the elderly woman, and she was hunched and mostly reliant on the walking cane. If you took time glancing at her longer, you’d notice she had a shorter leg. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Rachael called with an affable tone. “Would you like some assistance crossing the road?” The woman looked back at the young girl and grinned. The wrinkled smile looked familiar to Rachael. It was like looking in the eyes of her ailing granddad.

She replied, glee on her face. “Why thank you, my dear. I could use some help. I reckon the bus is coming soon.” The walker sign blinked the same green light, and she and the other two crossed the road, passing by other people.

“I thank you,” said the old woman. “You have a kind heart, dear.”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am.”

The sun was now gone; the vibrant horizon grew weaker; the sky was all shades of blue. At the other traffic light was a bus stop; a couple of passengers waited for the assigned bus to show up. Earlier, Rachael had taken the unconventional route to get to the supermarket. Walking through the meadow, across the bridge, and down the canal behind the fast-food restaurant. She did so to buy some time so that when she got home, her mother would be fast asleep, and Reece would be God knows where.

Standing in front of the foodie establishment, the young girl explored her patched-up pocket to see if she had all her belongings. Her purse? Check. Her cards? Check. Her house-keys? …nothing? She searched her other pocket. Still nothing. Rachael checked everywhere; from her backpack to even the crevices of her pockets. On the brink of losing her cool, a thought popped into her head. She might have dropped the keys in between the aisles while distracted. “Goddamnit,” she muttered.

With haste, she returned to the supermarket, retracing her steps. She briskly walked where she remembered going through: the MRE aisle, the stationery aisle, and the bakery aisle. Making sure to inspect every nook and cranny. She searched far and wide; even lying down, checking down the aisles when no one was looking. They weren’t there. They weren’t anywhere to be seen, and Rachael could not comprehend why.

There was a large grouping of windows at the front of the supermarket, and she saw what she had been concerned about. Darkness. The night had arrived, taking the sky and covering the land. Though she considered taking the bus home, Rachael guessed it wouldn’t arrive in the next half an hour – and she wasn’t one to wait that long. With no choice and an exasperated moan, she opted for the same route she took to get to the grocery store.

“I’ve got to find those damn keys, otherwise I’m so, so, fucked,” the young girl said, as she proceeded to walk home at night. Yes, Rachael was an idiot, and it almost came at the cost of her life.

So, she went walking down the canal at night. Rachael did not know what time it was, but she estimated it was somewhere around 6:00 pm. The cold nibbled at her ears, her nose, the tips of her nails. The premature night so dark, she barely saw the ground before her. She kicked the dried leaves and frail twigs. In search of the keys, she kicked at anything that would produce a subtle clang, and kept doing so to no avail. A few passersby came along. Another cyclist with a frail, white light passed by her, but she never asked for anyone’s help.

Fed up with finding the keys, she proposed she’d go back and search the following day. Rachael accepted the inevitable, mind-numbing lecture by her mom. But to lighten the mood, she thought of happy thoughts. In her mind, Syd Matters played Obstacles, serenading her a little. A friend of hers, Sam, suggested the song some time ago, saying it reminded him of her. Rachael never knew what to make of that, but the thought made her grateful to have friends like him. So, she hummed to the chorus and wouldn’t stop until she reached the bridge.

How did it go again? Something about playing hide & seek in waterfalls? Probably. We were young... or something like that.

Now, the bridge had been under construction for three years – well four years, since the idea was brought to life two months before lockdown. It was lit up on its own; emitting a kaleidoscope of colours. These blue and green and purple apparitions lit up the night. The bridge itself was steady and well-built despite Rachael’s doubts. She walked across this bridge a couple of times before and swore she could hear the creeks of the anchors. She stared down the motionless river and instinctively clutched her purse. A thought popped into Rachael’s mind, something about drowning in it, and she immediately dismissed it.

Behind the main format of the bridge was a hill and a meadow. It was first intended to be a secluded golf course, though that got scrapped who knows how long ago. A miniature construction site was next to the peak of the hill. There was a shortcut which was closed off by the site; a beaten, old path through the woods that led to the hill. Instead, she took the gates. She had to walk through a neighbourhood she never knew the name of to do that. It was most likely the easiest thing she did that time. She reached the corroded gates.

Here lies a path... to hell, she thought, joking around. ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter in.’

The canal had been too dark to see, but the meadow was practically pitch black. So dark, the abyss itself looked tangible. Rachael questioned if she had to do this; she’d never completely gotten over her fear of the dark. Mustering up what was left of her courage, she knew this was the only way back home. There was no turning back from there. And so, she opened the gates, which let out a squeaky, metallic shriek, and headed into the field.

The sky was a black canvas with a hint of bloody red. It and earth fused to a nightmarish hellscape, and all the earthy colours the meadow had were vacuumed in the endless void. And the pale moon was set on high and at its fullest, and it had a haunting beauty that Rachael could not ignore. She watched it hung in the night sky bold and lurid. No shining star to compete against, nor heavenly body to outshine. Only it.

On a rocky path the young girl stood, and surrounding her were shadows of trees and bushes contorting silently. As she began to trudge into the open land, she beheld the large object in awe. The moon a peculiar oddity in her eyes. She felt like a shrew being stalked by a great horned owl. She continued staring at it when she noticed something. A fuzzy ring that circled it. The 22° Halo. At least that is what she heard from Sam about a few nights before.

‘I was messing around in my backyard when I saw the damn thing,’ she remembered him explaining. ‘I could barely see it, but it was there. It looked a little unnatural. Uncanny, but kinda beautiful.’

‘Sounds creepy, yet interesting,’ Rachael responded. ‘What is it called?’

‘Some people call it the 22° Halo. I suppose it’s because it looks like a ring angels have round their heads. Others call it a moon dog, but I like the former more.’

‘Hmm, this sounds fascinating, I’ll say. You think I should check it out sometime?’

‘I reckon you should,’ Sam encouraged. ‘Although it’s not a for-sure occurrence. So, keep that in mind whenever you take a stroll at night.’ Rachael had seen throughout her teen years countless sunrises and sunsets, witnessed shooting stars and galaxies and the occasional solar eclipse. At that very moment, all those experiences paled in comparison. The 22° Halo was beautiful, Rachael knew that. But under the admiration, apprehension rose in her.

As she kept glancing at the atmospheric phenomenon, she crept through the tall grasses. She squinted at the vague shape of a bush about 20 yards away. Every step she took made these damp, muddy squishes. Some let out a loud crunch; ice had taken form in the soil. Muddy water entered through her inner soles. Her socks were soaked, but she did not mind at that moment.

By then, she had reached the bush, and next to it were little pockets of white flowers. Here laid a beaten path that someone had made not too long ago. Ahead was a patch of dry grass and seed stalks that resembled wheat, and a tump where Rachael could better see part of the neighbourhood she lived in. She had about to journey to the patch until she came to a halt. Looking back, she saw the huge trees swaying in the breeze. Rachael sensed something, a gut feeling. She resumed her journey, but could not help looking over her shoulder. A part of her was convinced something (or someone) was out there. But on the other hand, it might be the anxiety taking its toll on her. Rachael couldn’t tell the difference, and that worried her even more.

She arrived at the patch and walked up the tump, and she saw the glittering lights around the neighbourhood. Rachael, a little less tense, looked over her shoulder and stared out at the field once again. She couldn’t see much, so she squinted whilst leaning forward a little. Then she saw it. Something near the pine trees at the far end. It stood out from the background as this bloodless, white speck. To Rachael, it seemed like some dog walker strolling through the field. But where are the dogs? Whatever it was, it remained in one spot just standing still. She blinked a couple of times, further narrowing her eyes. And as she peered to that side of the meadow once more, she couldn’t spot it anymore. It wasn’t there. Though the figure was so vague that she wondered if it was ever there. It might have been a trick of the mind. Either way, she did not risk finding out; thus, she picked up speed.

She believed she was hallucinating; all the spooky stories were getting to her head, and she reckoned they’re making her see things that are not there. However, she noticed her clammy hands trembled in the quiet, frigid air. Rachael glanced back and forth, squinting over the meadow just to see that white spot. She would occasionally see familiar speckle appear a bit closer than the last. She wore a cross necklace she used as a gimmicky crucifix; whilst clinging onto it, she recited in her heart scriptures of protection. Verses like Psalms 23 and Psalms 91 and Psalms 121. ‘You should use these prayers to chase out the heebie-jeebies,’ her mother told. As Rachael repeated the verses verbatim, she felt at ease at that moment. Still, that doubt lingered, and she could not extinguish it, no matter how many times she murmured, ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’

Muttering prayers, she descended the tump, briskly striding through the path. She would arrive at a slope alongside a leafless thicket. The naked trees swayed in the rush of wind like a spirit-driven folk dance. There, she could make out the outline of a rusty fence and a couple outworn duplexes beyond that. Letting out an exhale of relief, Rachael cautiously came down the slippery incline. As she got halfway down the incline, she heard some rattling in the woods. Steps… lots of them. She couldn’t move, she did not want to. Her arms were like gooseflesh. She just knew she was not alone. Her hearing heightened, and with it she heard various things around it. Nothing happened for a while.

Maybe it’s one of those deer passing by, she reckoned. Rachael did not know, but then she heard something else. A swift blow behind her until everything settled and complete silence took over. Then came a feeling of something behind her. Rachael did not want to, but she looked behind her. Before she could do so, she suddenly felt a strong strike on the small of her back.

Knocked out of balance, she went tumbling down the soiled slope, landing on a bed of dry grass and twigs. Upon landing, she bashed her head on some thick tree branch, rendering her momentarily dazed. It was not long before Rachael had gotten her bearings and saw her bag destroyed, spewing out a few slices of bread in a newly ripped hole. She noticed something running down her cheek, and when she inspected it, it smelled like iron with a bit of earth. She heard it again; some wet footsteps that sounded like it was coming at her fast.

“Nope!”, she shouted in an alert tone, gathering her things quickly in the mud-caked backpack.

The girl arose when she felt a lightning bolt of pain in her left ankle. She tried bearing weight on it, but the pain was too unbearable. Like a stray, rabid dog gnawing at her ankle to the bone. As she clutched her bag, she hobbled to the path that led her home. There was another steep rise closer to the canal, and further to an opening of a dead end. But with that in mind, Rachael was in severe agony.

Resuming her excruciating hike, the wind picked up, blowing at her and causing the streaming liquid to get in her eye. The current was so strong, it made the disoriented Rachael fall on her ass. Moaning and whimpering, she lied on the mud. She heard it again; more of the same sounds. They surrounded her. Footsteps in the mud. Movement within the woods. Something flew by faster than her eyes could see.

The moon was in her view once more, and it had an eerie shine. The white sphere contrasting with the inky sky looked hypnotic. And that pale ring – that halo, suddenly became two. Then four, and half a dozen, and many more. Rings within rings that grew brighter, circling the moon like an illusion spiral. A beautiful, yet menacing sight to behold. In all the trepidation Rachael, she sensed her consciousness slipping away while looking at the halos. She felt like she was being put to sleep, though not in a relaxing way. As she was about to lose grip of her consciousness, a loud beep from a car snapped her out of the trance.

As soon as she got back up again, the current picked up once more. Rachael, in excruciating pain, continued her perilous journey, despite the wind seemingly working against her. She limped. Her damaged ankle buckled under her weight. She limped. The wind blew at her as though it itself had a mind of its own. Like a primordial god of the element heaving her with its heavy, invisible hands.

“Fuck,” Rachael hissed under her voice as she felt that sharp pain at the side of her foot. She had her muddy feet stuck film to the earth as though anchoring them.

Atop the incline, she heard something moving towards her. The wind had stopped then, and Rachael seized that opportunity to get on top of the slope. She knew that whatever was pursuing her wasn’t going to stop. So, she staggered through the rocky path, wincing. There was a florescent lamppost at the end of the stony path; said to be the oldest lamppost in the neighbourhood. Salvation was a couple steps away. She was so close, but her useless, fucking leg kept dragging her behind. Every step she took, she teared up. She felt the agony. That doom drawing near. That dread.

I’m gonna die, she told herself. I’m gonna die!

Rachael moved as quickly as her limp could let her. She winced over the pain but knew if she stopped, she would face a fate worse than that. Clarity came into her mind; she was near the asphalt dead end. The lamppost visible from where she was at. Just one more step. Just one more...

It wasn’t long until she found herself out the pathway. She made it. Reaching heaven in the form of a bygone lamppost. As she shambled to the checkpoint, Rachael dropped beneath the ancient light, sitting up against the wooden barricade. She checked for her belongings for the final time, with her wallet intact and most of the wholewheat bread in place.

Rachael gathered all her things when she heard leaves rattling from the darkness of the path. Something caught the soft glow of the lamppost. The young girl acknowledged it quickly and froze. She saw what looked like eyes staring back at her with no expression, but the longer she stared, she noticed they were lights. Fiery, white lights that grew in brightness.

Then out the darkness protruded two floating strands of pure white linen slowly outstretched like murderous hands. They were long; stretching about 16 meters and more. But then came more of the slender wraps, worming their way to Rachael. And more came, possibly in the hundreds the girl guessed. So many, to Rachael, all she saw was white. They were so close to each other; they looked like one massive fabric covering part of the sky and land.

“What the fuck?”, she murmured as she desperately tried to crawl away. However, to her surprise, none of them came close to her. Whenever they proceeded to, they seemed to flinch like something was blocking them.

Then all the strands retracted swiftly and she saw it. The thing hovering over the uncut, wet grass. It was dressed in all white; its body was a long, linen fabric that draped from whatever it hung to. Its head was a large bovine skull with two large eye sockets, and in them were blinding orbs resembling eyes. Rachael saw those elongated strands pull in back to its bottom. It was unlike anything she had ever seen or heard of. Any form of comprehension she had seeped through her mind as she cowered before the living nightmare. Terror was written on her face; her breath grew shallow and discomposed.

The fiend towered over the path, eclipsing the moon. It creepily bent over and scrutinized the confused Rachael, sending trepidation down her soul. It was then the girl saw a circular beam around its horns. A halo, matching perfectly with the moon. A terrible thought occurred to her of what this all meant. Hesitant as she was, Rachael dared to speak to it. She rose up her cross necklace in defence, and proposed the question.

“Are you... are you an angel?”

The fiend never spoke. It never let out a groan or some abominable shriek. She inched backward a little more, only noticing it was not pursuing her anymore. She never knew as to why it didn’t, perhaps she never will.

Then the fiend descended gracefully, and as it kept its glower on Rachael, it retreated to the field – or whatever hell it came out of. Its halo dimmed slowly and did so until Rachael could not make out the simple shape of it. The eyes were still there, watching her even when it submerged into the darkness. And before she knew it, it was gone. She found it nearly impossible to believe that she was left alive. After all the torment she went through, Rachael got to live to see another day.

Without hesitation, she got her things and dashed away from the place. She shambled, shrugging off the twinge. Home was around the corner; she thought she could check how bad her ankle was then. But now, she needed to get away from whatever monstrosity she saw. It wasn’t until she reached halfway that Rachael felt worn out. Fighting the urge not to falter, she staggered until her knees tightened like rusted door hinges. She made it to the stairs, tripping over a few steps, but managing. And in no time, she arrived in the comfort of her doorstep. From there, she rang the bell and did not stop until she heard a familiar, baritone voice.

“I’m coming goddamnit!” Rachael stood on one leg, waiting for the door to be unlocked. A few seconds passed and it did, revealing a stout man with a vexed look in his strained, veiny eyes. His hoodie reeked of long nights with cigarettes and energy drinks; he was holding an opened Red Bull. This was Reece, and despite their feuds, Rachael could not have been gladder to see his grumpy face.

Reece noticed how much of a mess his sister was; from the dried-up blood glistening on her cheek to the mud everywhere on her body. He eyed her up and down once and saw her balancing on one leg. “You look like you went mud wrestling with Kurt Angle,” he commented jokingly. “Did you have fun?”

Rachael scowled at him, waiting to get inside. “Yes actually. I did have fun getting ankle locked in mud.”

“Right. Seriously though, what happened to you?”

“I tripped.”

“You... tripped?” Reece questioned, looking unconvinced.

“Yes, Reece, I tripped. I tripped and I fell and got muddied up.”

“Well, that’s one long fall you had.”

“…yeah.” Rachael could not tell him what happened, as she feared she would sound insane. Though Reece sensed she was not telling the entire truth; he did not bother trying to shake it out of her. He just raised one eyebrow. “Just let me in, alright?!”

“Fine!” Reece opened the door wider and helped Rachael with her belongings. As he locked the door, Rachael inspected her ankle and felt it had swollen a lot. “I don’t wanna know,” he said. “I don’t even wanna know what you got up to at this time.”

“Fine; it’s not like you want to know. Where’s mom?”, she asked, wincing when she twisted her bad ankle by accident.

“In bed,” he gave a short answer. He was gone for a little while and came back with a cold can of cream soda. “Rachael!”

She looked up at Reece as he approached her. The mad lad tossed the soda pop at her; she caught it with little effort. She set it aside and began to untie her soaked shoes and tossed her socks to the side. It was swollen, and some discolouration ran down the outside of her foot.

“And before you say anything; no, I won’t tell mom you came home late,” Reece thought to clarify. Rachael nodded in appreciation.

“Wait, what about my foot?”

“Just tell her you fell or something, I don’t know. Tell her it was a big fall. I’ll get the bath ready. You’re gonna need it... you know... because you look like shit – literally.”

“Thanks a lot... muppet,” Rachael replied.

“You’re welcome, ya muppet,” he said. They had a 3-year age gap, but Reece always saw Rachael as his baby sister. Even so, the two muppets loved each other.

Rachael limped down the corridor, disgruntled after her treacherous journey. There, she heard her mother snoring and the TV playing. An American televangelist teaching sermons and prayers. Standing there in pain, she heard the geyser turned on, as well as a rush of water in a bath.

“Make sure to use that bath soak I like,” she advised Reece.

“I know.”

“And don’t make it too hot!”

“I know, Rachael.”

The fear within Rachael calmed. She took in a few, deep breaths, and had some clarity. She was safe. Everyone was safe. Suddenly she remembered the house keys she had ‘lost.’ She turned back and glanced at a hanger on the wall. It was then she realised she nearly got herself killed for nothing.

She never lost the keys. Never even had them to begin with as a matter of fact. She must have thought all along that she had them when they were hanging on the wall the whole time. She believed if it had not been for her forgetfulness, she would have gotten home safe and sound. It did not matter anymore. She still lives. Though she lives now with a haunted memory of a fiend that lurks in the woods. A malevolent being of the pale moon ring. She will never forget the night she stumbled across the 22° Angel.

The next day, Nickolas approached with a respectful bow. "Hello, Your Majesty. I have the final contract right here. All you have to do is sign, and you can get on the helicopter that will take you directly to His Highness."

Emperor Taiyo Kiyoshi swiftly stamped the imperial seal onto the document. Without wasting a moment, he practically bolted out the door, dragging Rai and Aumaka.

Meanwhile, Ryuu and Haru were still in bed when a stern knock came at the door. Tamotsu's voice cut through the morning stillness, commanding, "Get up!"

Ryuu immediately obeyed, rising from the bed, but Haru clung to him, holding him tight. "Let go," Ryuu urged.

"Why do we have to get up? Just a few more minutes," Haru grumbled.

"When Tamotsu says get up, I have to," Ryuu insisted.

"Why? He's just a mere servant," Haru retorted.

"Don't say that and lower your voice," Ryuu snapped, a chill running down his spine as memories of not listening to Tamotsu flashed in his mind. "He's more of a parental figure than a servant. 

Ryuu continued, "I know where you come from, your servants are just people you can fire at a flick of your wrist. But here, Tamotsu doesn't take disrespect lightly. He may not be cursed, but he's much stronger than me. He trained me, after all. The only thing keeping you safe is the fact you're a prince, so refrain from disrespecting him for both our safety. "

Haru reluctantly loosened his grip, understanding the gravity of Ryuu's words.

Ryuu hurried to his room, quickly stepping into the shower. Refreshed and dressed, he returned to find Haru still in bed. He tried to wake him up, shaking him gently.

"Come on, Haru," Ryuu urged. "Tamotsu told me the emperor is on his way right now. You have to get up. Weren't you relieved to go home? Where did all that energy go?"

Haru groaned, burying his face in the pillow, not quite ready to face the day.

Ryuu picked Haru up, and Haru clung tightly, afraid of being dropped. "I was about to get up," Haru protested.

"Yeah, sure," Ryuu replied, carrying him to the guest bathroom and closing the door behind him. "There are towels in there. Hurry up and bathe," he instructed.

Ryuu sat on the bed, waiting. After a while, Haru emerged, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Ryuu's face turned a light shade of pink against his pale skin. "Lend me some clothes," Haru said, seemingly unaware of Ryuu's flustered state.

"Follow me," Ryuu, leads Haru to his room. He began searching through his closet and finally pulled out some clothes. "Here, I found some clothes for you. I think these will fit; they're too small for me now."

Haru accepted the clothes, examining them. The fabric was soft and luxurious, a high-quality outfit consisting of a finely woven hoodie and very comfortable jeans despite the style. Haru couldn't help but think to himself, that Ryuu must be wealthy I wonder what he does for work.

Haru looked at Ryuu, curiosity piqued. "Ryuu, what do you do for work?" he asked, genuinely interested.

Ryuu glanced at Haru with a sly smile. "It's a secret," he replied, leaving Haru even more intrigued about the mysterious job he had.

Ryuu left the room, allowing Haru to get dressed. Once he was done, Haru exited the room, and they walked towards the kitchen to find Tamotsu making breakfast. They quickly ate and thanked Tamotsu for the meal.

As they stepped outside, Emperor Taiyo Kiyoshi saw them, suddenly approached and hugged Haru, checking if he was alright. Haru assured him, "I'm fine." Emperor Taiyo Kiyoshi then explained to Haru that he would meet with Ryuu a few times a month to manage his curse and learn to control it and not to worry He will have many guards watch over him and to not be scared also he apologized for dragging him into this mess the won't have let him come home safely. Then Ryuu chucked to himself because they thought a few guards could stop him.

When Emperor Taiyo Kiyoshi finished, Haru looked at Ryuu in disbelief. "So that's why you were trying to get on my good side and teaching me that 'miniature lesson,' you bastard!" he yelled as Emperor Kiyoshi dragged him back to the helicopter.

Once on the helicopter, Haru saw Ryuu smirking, satisfied that his plan had been uncovered. Ryuu quickly signaled for the pilot to take off, then called out, "Thank you for the wonderful night, Your Highness!"

Emperor Taiyo Kiyoshi, Akuma, and Rai turned to look at Haru in shock. "It's not like that!" Haru yelled, turning his head and looking down at Ryuu. "Next time I see you, you're dead, Ryuu Wynter!" he shouted as the helicopter flew away.

"Sure, we'll see Haru Kiyoshi," Ryuu yells back, flashing a smile.

The end

A blue sky is painted by coloured flags. Children, adults, all are gathered in the town square. Birds chirp with joy, as families are reunited. A band fills the air with horns and drums, overlapped with the chatter of the bystanders. Knights in bright armour suddenly begin crossing through the middle of the square, their horses groomed like mythical beasts. Their swords are freshly sharpened, and their cloaks ironed to perfection. Kids lure at them as if they were legends come to life, idolising them much like one idolises a god. At the front of the line of soldiers, four men carry a chest, golden like daylight, and adorn with jewels and intricate carvings. The men reach from within, and as they walk, they give out treasures to the people. Children as young as seven hold in their hands more wealth than they’ve ever imagined. 

As the parade reaches the town fountain, with its clear water glimmering under the sunlight, the King awaits the knights in a royal box, surrounded by his family, holding in his hand the finest wine in the land. “Behold,” he speaks in a commanding voice, “the brave men who have freed us of our enemies!” The town erupts with cries of joys. Men, women, and children all cheer with pride for their saviours, rupturing through any glimpse of sadness, as their applause drowns out the band. “Although many lives were lost, and the battle was fierce, our brave knights came out victorious. Their persistence in their struggle, regardless of their own weaknesses, inspire us to continue prospering - as one unified front - against any other enemies who may dare oppose our pride again.” 

“Three hurrahs for our soldiers!” One citizen shouts out, and the crowd follows. As the celebrations continue, one lonely soldier sits beneath some shade, hidden away from the rest of the heroes. Some children come up to him, in a moment of naivety, and ask him of his battle, hoping to hear fantastical tales of a mystical fight. Instead, the soldier takes a sip of his ale, places the cup upon the floor, and begins to speak. After an hour or so, the children leave, with faces of horror, almost as if they had been scarred for life. The soldier then picks up his drink, takes one more sip, then disappears into the darkness, leaving behind only red coloured footprints. 

As the night begins to seep into the kingdom, the darkened sky is painted by fireworks shot into the sky. From afar, a child watches in shock. Ashes surround him. His clothes looks more like rags, having been torn apart. His shirt is stained with grey and red pigments, and his skin is covered by bruises. Around him, fire continues to ravage what is left. Bodies are spread across the roads like piles of meat, and the knights which remain struggle to help those who show even a glimpse of life. The citizens who remain are broken, shells of their former selves. 

As the boy begins to walk, he comes across a broken crown, its jewels lying around as if they were mere pebbles. A few steps further, and he comes upon the ladders leading to the great castle. As he walks upwards, he sees the bodies of horses, decaying as flies begin to circle the remains. Knights impaled by their own swords. At the top, a long satin robe, with strokes of blood in its corners. It belongs to the once glorious king, who now lies dead, as if he were nothing but a pig to slaughter. His hands, which once distributed riches to the townsfolk, are cold, being suffocated by his golden rings. His heart is placed next to him, having been cut out, and displayed like a war treasure. Finally, his eyes are wide open, as he was forced to watch his kingdom, and the people he swore to protect, be destroyed like a child destroys his toys. 

As the boy sits besides his king, another boy sits upon a watchtower. “Father,” he begins to enquire curiously, “did those people deserve their fates? Is is truly right for us to celebrate this?” His father ponders for a moment, then speaks calmly. “But of course. Had we not won, they would have done the same to us.” The king then takes his child by the hand, and guides him to a balcony, where he raises his glass to the townsfolk, as they cheer endlessly. 

I have been thinking about it for days, and it always makes me so hot. Just the mere thought of the deed sends tingles down my spine.

"Oh God, what am I thinking," I say to myself as I come to from my self induced trance.

I don't know how long I had been standing naked in front of the mirror convulsing. My body is warm and slippery covered in sweat; an inconvenience since I just got out of a long shower.

"Snap out of it Lola, it's almost time," the nagging voice in the back of my mind pulls to my frontal cortex. The voice has been louder than usual, and more tempting.

Why do I keep referring to it as the voice, when I know these thoughts are my own?

On the verge of another trance, I begin to stare daggers at my own reflection. Not a scar in sight even though there is always struggle when it's time. I guess it speaks to how good I've gotten with practice.

"Alright, we have thirty minutes. Let's not dwadle," I say as I put on my two toned costume for the night. "He he, dwadle!"

The levity in my words calms me as I walk through the house unencumbered. There are currently no lights on in my house and every semblance of natural light feels foreign; as of late the dark has been a very comforting embrace from long days of talking to... People. I've even had to deal with a few of them especially when they complain about a smell coming from the garbage. As if the pungent-ness of degrading material is my fault.

But honestly, I don't mind it at all. It smells real... Natural... Raw...

Without looking I grab my purse from the stand by the front door. It rattles a bit from the sound of metal clanging about inside. The sound is reassuring, telling me I'm ready.

Once out the door the night ushers in my confidence to strut, and though I already have a target for the night I would welcome any other interaction. Just as a warm up.

I don't encounter anyone on the walk there, unfortunately...

"Tch," a voice pours from the shadows of a jacko'lanter outside a convenience store. "It is quite vexing to have things shy away from my approach."

I ignore the voice and keep walking, increasingly getting more irritated as I walk. I begin to grind my jaw knowing the closer I get the more my teeth sharpen, craving for a taste of what I desire most.

"Very good," the voices whispers directly into my ear.

I feel the tingling again as my body gets hot stopping me in my tracks. I can't take it anymore I need to feel it.

"I need it!" I yell once into the cool autumn air, hoping it carries my voice to someone, anyone nearby.

Where I have stopped is less than one block from my destination, and just to my left there is an inviting alleyway. It's calling me into its fold. The low shallow taunts are like the scent of fresh baked pie.

And as I stand in front of it dressed as a black and white half demon half angel, the eyes I had seen countless times this past year appear again.

Their soulless glowing eyes, still as piercing as the day I first saw them, stare at me with that same sorrow. As if I would be in the wrong for not helping it, just as heartless as the rest for abandoning their cry for help.

I can never tell how big it is, only that it's staring at me from within the dark. The longer I hold its relentless gaze the more I feel my body tingle.

It feels so nice!

I take a step towards the alley, knowing what it means. But before I can fully embrace its trash can filled corridor...

A voice calls out to me, "Lola Angel, you made it, I thought you were going to flake on me."

Good...

As I take a breath, it's over and done.

Tyler, my date for the evening, kept telling me the venue served a nice steak. I prefer it as close to raw as possible.

As the knife I pulled from my purse just for this occasion slides across the top layer I realize just how good the blade is. The remaining hemoglobin that oozes from the incision seems confused as to whether or not it has been cut; which only speaks to the sharpness.

We never make it to the venue.

I feel elated as I straddle Tyler from on top. I remember him looking so satisfied as I began, cutting and prodding at the flesh. I couldn't help but think to myself how much I wasn't interested in that sort of meat to satiate my hunger.

He doesn't notice his body being methodical rent asunder.

It was absolute euphoria, until he started to realize he was no longer enjoying himself and wanted to leave. But it was too late, it's always too late when they realize my plate is nearly empty and it is time for dessert.

The last one's body was in shambles because of how sloppy I was, but this time I made sure to do it properly. Quickly and efficiently getting my fill.

"Truly it is never about satisfying the hunger, but the act itself. Taking it all in until there is nothing but bone and juices left as proof of service," I say as I remove myself from the position of dominance.

I usually black out after a good meal leaving something behind, but this time I was too giddy to notice I had completely turned into a merciful yet feral beast.

"What have you done?" Tyler asks harshly as the last of his strength begins to waste away in the cold dark alley. The countless lacerations adorning him makes sure he won't, can't run.

"Oh, you're still alive, but I guess just barely. Let me help you," my voice says sweetly.

I prop him up resting the full weight of his body into mine, smearing his blood across my outfit a bit.

"You are a good specimen, if I hadn't been so starved we could have had fun," I say with a harsh voice fully bearing a set of sharp teeth. "But you can thank Lola for this one, she wouldn't help me out until it was too much to bear."

"I'm sorry, Tyler, but it was just soo... Difficult," I say as my voice distorts in triple resonance.

A pound ought to last me until the next one, is the only rational thought I can manage to muster. For the very first time my jaw unhinges as I press my razor teeth into the still warm and conscious Tyler.

He doesn't have enough strength to even whimper as I sink my teeth into his body, how sad. All those muscles and no resolve.

The tearing of flesh is surprisingly more silent than the movies portray. The upper part of his neck and collar bone rip away from him as easily as tearing paper, and once I'm done I drop his now lifeless body into his own fluids.

It takes me no time to pack away the flesh, and put away my knife. As I leave I smear the blood a little more across my outfit. "What a beautiful work of art," I sigh absolutely hot.

Once I step from the alleyway the soulless eyes remain in the dark, but I can tell they're not staring at me. But at Tyler's body.

Like the lighting of a cigarette his remains begin to burn away leaving nothing but a pile of charcoaled ash that will inevitably blow away in the wind.

"Halloween is always for a good time. It is slowly becoming my favorite holiday," I say as I fully leave the vicinity of the dark.

I know the eyes linger for a second longer once I am gone, to watch things, and the moment I am far enough away, it follows close behind whispering to me in the shadows.

Petar chopped the wood, his finely furred muscles bristling as he lifted and swung down his arms again and again.

From deep in the woods, something or someone watched him. It watched the fine sheen of sweat that developed on his arms and over his chest. For a long time, it watched him, as the dim misty sky darkened to a charcoal gray. And then, from somewhere far away, a low, mournful howl pierced the evening. Petar looked up from his work and wiped his brow. The moon was almost full in the sky. It wasn't but a night away that the full moon would show.

There was a rustle behind him, and he turned towards the direction of the sound. He frowned and scratched his chin, and walked towards the woods. He peered into the darkness, sniffing the air, the breath from his mouth fogging up in the cold air. 

Nevena was already putting the wood on the fire when he came back inside.

“The windows need mending,” she said. “It’ll be a fine winter if we’ve got cold drafts blowing into the kitchen all the time. And the little ones’ bed is getting cracked.”

“Enough woman,” Petar said. “I’ll go and get the wood tomorrow. But I may have to go far into the forest. Good trees are scarce this time of year.”

“That time of month again,” his wife said. “Go then, and have your excuses. Begone for a year for all I care.”

“Cut your yap and give me some of that slop,” he said. “We’ve been eating the same cold, hard gruel for months since you won’t let me kill the pig.”

“We wouldn’t have to sell the pig if you hadn’t put another bairn in me,” she snapped. “Maybe you should think about that when you wake up and poke that stick about like an old horny goat. You look like a goat with that beard of yourn too.”

“Better a goat than a cow,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

It was early the next morning when he awoke, slightly hungover from the copious amounts of rakia he had drunk the night before. He hurried to get his supplies and his cloak, and then stumbled from the door into the thick, cold mud. A layer of thin frost had formed over it. It wasn’t long until winter was here. He took his horse, unwilling from its warm nest of hay, and headed out.

They trudged up the hill and down towards the forest. Most of the trees at the perimeter had already been cut by the other farmers. The amount of wood he would need, he’d need to go further in. 

But that wasn’t the real reason his heart was beating as fast as the mighty currents of the Volk River. As the sky progressed, he thought of the night to come. He hadn’t felt the same since that last encounter. Last time he had awoken in the snow, spent and exhausted. He wondered if it had been a dream. But he remembered the strong hands, the roughness of the beard, the smell of musk and roses in the air…he had to go and see if it had been real.

“Meet me here when the autumn woods reveal the moon in full,” said a whisper from the dream. 

And now the moon was rising. The silver sheen of it cast light upon the trees and rocks, so that the entire forest was a shimmering web, into which Petar on his horse thundered, far into the place from which there was no return.

Deeper into the black woods he rode, to the summit of the peak that had last appeared in his dream, about a month’s worth of nights ago. Deeper he rode. He rode until he reached the summit, where a lone stranger stood, his back turned. This is how Petar had seen it in his dreams. The outline of the castle in the distance, the place that the people called unholy. But it was a place into which he had been in, a place that called for him to join it. Petar slowly stopped and got off his horse. He stepped forward. The smell of musk and roses filled the air.

The clouds had covered the moon again. Only the outline of the dark stranger could be seen. And then the moon came out, full and high in the sky, casting all of its light onto Petar. He felt a  surge of strength, the rush in his heart as his muscles swelled and expanded, and his shirt ripped from his body as the fine blond fur on his chest and arms thickened and lightened to a silvery white. He growled and fell forward onto his hands.

“Petar… the stranger said. His voice was as deep and soft as distant thunder.

Petar looked up and saw that the dream had been realized to its utmost. In front of him was the tormentor of his mind, the fevered dream that had him waking up sweating, the face that flashed before him when he bedded Nevena. This stranger was the bringer of utmost desire and damnable guilt, and yet…Petar could not look away.

“Vlad,” he said. “I have come.”

“Are you sure? Do you do this of your own accord?” Vlad said, soft and velvety.

“I have no choice,” Petar said loudly. “For days you have tormented me. For too long I have been able to think of nothing else.”

Vlad came closer and stood behind Petar’s body. Petar was stocky and well-built, his muscles showy and loud. Vlad was of a sleeker, snake-like build, the power hidden in a more condensed form. Still, he towered almost a head over Petar, and his long fingers came forward to clasp Petar’s silvery throat. Vlad could almost encircle all of the bulging muscle as Petar turned his head to the side to allow Vlad access to his throat. 

“To err once is a mistake,” the one called Vlad said, smiling. “To err twice is to sin.”

Petar began to sweat again, as his Orthodox training reared on its hind legs, whispering damnation to him from the back of his brain. But as Vlad’s teeth came closer to his throat, so that he could feel the cold breath upon his skin, the icy fire building through Petar’s veins soared into his head, clouding all thought and fears.

“I must feel it again,” Petar whispered, clutching the body of Vlad behind him in his massive, muscular claws. “There is nothing like it in this world.”

“As you wish,” Vlad hissed, and then his teeth were deep in Petar’s throat. 

Petar’s claws tightened, digging into Vlad’s body, drawing a little blood, trembling as the vampire partook of his blood. He felt Vlad’s long beard on his lower neck and shoulders, scraping slightly up and down as the vampire drank. 

“Is there anything in the world like this feeling?” Vlad whispered.

“No,” Petar said, gasping as blood poured out of his jugular.

“Not even remotely?” Vlad asked, teasing.

“No, no, no.” Petar said. The closest was the feeling of being a werewolf, but that was all dulled animal joy and rage, not this crystal clear, resonating note of desire.

The feeling rose, and then suddenly there was the one moment. The moment of the sunrise on the horizon, bringing light and meaning into the world. Petar felt the fire in his veins explode, and dissipate throughout his body like stars into the night sky above. He felt a sense of euphoria, a sense of lingering wonder and devotion. Vlad’s cool hand came to his parched lips, and nudged him to turn. He looked into Vlad’s dark eyes, and Vlad smiled, licking his lips, his long black hair tousled and messy, cascading back over his broad shoulders. He brushed some of the thick hair back and lifted a finger and slashed it. He drank some of the first drops.

“Delicious,” he said. “Now, drink.”

Petar leaned forward and drank, timidly at first, and then thirstily, hungrily, lapping at the drops of crimson.

“Good, my child,” Vlad said, placing a hand upon Petar’s head. “Now, you will now serve me, forever!”

My mother was a slave; I was born of her and some noble who owned her for a while, but she

was sold off to a labour camp while pregnant with me. From the moment of my birth, I was

property, a product to be bought and sold.

We stayed at the labour camp for a while; I remember she always had a smile on her face even when her

hand was covered in cuts and bruises, she was the gentlest and kindest person I’ve ever known. She didn’t

deserve this. A little while after I turned six, they tried to take me and send me to a training camp for some

rich nobles’ private militia, but she resisted. I remember to this day it was the only time I ever saw her

angry. When I was six, I watched soldiers, the people who were supposed to protect all the people of the 

kingdom, kill my mother. I think that’s when it started, a hatred of all people, so deep in my heart that not

even my mother would be able to dig it out. 

Once I got to the camp, it was straight to hard labour, I wasn’t even given time to grieve. The first days

were the worst, I couldn’t keep up with the training and was whipped daily; I still have the scars. Eventually,

I could keep up, and by the time I was twelve, I had surpassed everyone in my group. Things were worse

after that. The instructor was an evil man who saw my potential and started his “private lessons.” These

lessons taught me many things, such as how much malice one can possess towards another. I endured this

camp for another four years until it was decided that I would become a guard in the mansion of the noble

who owned me. That was when life became bearable.  I was finally given enough food not to be

malnourished, and with my body and mind finally recovering I plotted my revenge.

I’m not a fool. I know that I won’t be able to do much alone, what else could I do? I enacted my

plan. I had night duty guarding the noble’s bed chambers with three other guards. I killed them. 

It wasn’t hard.  I’d always been more skilled than others in swordplay, the strange thing was that 

I felt nothing about it, just another step in my plan. Perhaps it was because they weren’t slaves

like I was, they worked there willingly knowing I did not. They sat there while I was beaten

and tossed in the corner. It’s not like they could help, but they didn’t even try. After I killed the

other guards, I opened the bedroom door of the noble; he awoke. I wasn’t trying to be quiet, I

wanted him to feel terror in his soul, I wanted him to know this was the end of his life. It

enraged me when he just sat there, not a hint of fear in his eyes. Was I so beneath him that

he couldn’t even comprehend the danger he was in? I know now what it is like to accept

death as he did.

I sliced his head clean off, and as it tumbled to the floor, I simply turned and left. I walked out of

the mansion grounds.  When you do everything asked of you for twelve years, people just stop

asking what you're doing.  Either that or they saw the blood on my blade.

Finally, after 18 years, I was a free man. It was strange; I had never been in town before, but I

quickly ditched my armor and uniform, just wearing my underclothes so as not to be recognized.

I walked into a tavern, and I had no idea where to go. As I sat down, a woman came over to me

and asked what I’d like to order; I had no idea what was happening. She saw the confusion on

my face and she simply brought over some kind of drink. As I sit there, I’m shaken, not because

of the men I killed or the fact I’m finally free, but because I feel nothing from any of it. I’m still

enraged, enraged that this happened, enraged that this was allowed to happen, for the first time

in years, I thought of my mother and her smile. The memory was faded and rough, but it calmed

me down at least enough to know I had to keep moving to get out of the lord’s domain as soon as

 I could. I had no money and no possessions.  I just walked.  I walked for days without food or

water; it was nothing compared to the pain I had endured for the past twelve years.

By the time I arrived in the next town, the news was already out: “The Lord has been killed.” It

was all over the streets everyone knew, but nobody knew who. They saw me leave, but they

cannot say who I am. Slaves did not have names, and no one ever bothered to look me in the

eyes. They know not what I looked like. I’d made up my mind; the King would die by my hand.

Even if I had to resort to petty thievery.

I waited until night and broke into a shop. A map, some rations, and a horse were all I needed.

As I was rummaging through items, I saw a glint of my blade, on pure instinct, I grabbed my

sword and swung. It was the store owner, an elderly man who now had a deep bloody wound

across his chest. In his last moments of life, he cried out.  It was a low, rough cry that nobody

could hear but me. He deserved it, he lived in a kingdom where terrible things happen to good

people and did nothing about it.

I took his horse and rode towards the royal capital. After two weeks, I arrived in the capital I was

somehow not stopped at the gates. As I rode through town, I saw them, all the rich, stuffy nobles,

smiling and laughing, why do they get to be happy and I don’t? But I can’t do anything about

it, not yet. I must get to the palace first.

The capital is massive.  It takes me hours to get from the gates to the palace. When I arrived, it 

was about mid-day. I simply walked in, and the guards tried to stop me, but they died too. They

were better than the ones at the mansion, but still nothing but small fry.  As I open the doors, I

see a long hall leading up to a throne. I see him.  For the first time in my life someone other than

my mother, or someone about to die, looks me in the eyes. I see the fear in his face that I’d been

hoping for. Nearly twenty guards rushed in, I was too caught up in the moment to notice. I take a

blow to my chest, but I stand strong. I swing my blade, ending the life of a guard.  Most of the

others soon follow, but I’ve been hurt badly and as I dispatch the last guard, I fall to the ground.

But I can’t give up here, I crawl, it’s only a few feet now, and I feel my consciousness fading.

I’m barely one foot away when I look up. I see him, he’s smiling, I see he holds a sword, and he pierces my

chest. At that moment, I know I will die. As I lie here in a pool of my blood, thinking of my past, I see I’ve

failed my mother. Not because I couldn’t kill the king, but because I wasted my life on revenge. I am truly

sorry; I hope I can do better in my next life. But in my final moments, I see something: a small child in the

corner hiding behind a curtain, as I look at him, in my last moments, I can’t help but smile…. at the hatred in his eyes.

Cogito- Who am I? Let me tell you who you are boy. If you could even possibly be called that. Do you know the circumstances of your conception? Your true conception? Your very being is a chain reaction of anomalies and unfathomable contradictions that led you to here. To me. Why is that?

Ergo- Fuck you.

Cogito- Fair enough, vulgarity aside you know the answer to every question you could possibly pose me. The moment you stepped in my presence and gazed upon my face, what did you see? How long have you been staring at me unquestioningly neither awe struck nor fearful, simply observant and patient?

Ergo-…I don’t know.

Cogito≈ Tell the TRUTH.

Ergo-…I know it has been no time at all for those waiting for me at the event horizon. I know it doesn’t matter, but I’ve always been here somehow. There just is and…me.

Cogito- Welcome home.

Ergo-HAHAHAHA…you disgust me.

Cogito- Splendid, now tell me how does it feel? Underwhelming isn’t it?

Ergo- It’s peaceful, but yes…how are we conversing?

Cogito- The same reason why you even mentioned those creatures “waiting”outside for you. Why not the hundreds of thousands of versions of you to stand before me? You forsake them for your own personal convenience do their names terrify you?

Ergo- Wait, please!

Cogito≈ PROMETHEUS LOKI HORUS KRISHNA GILGAMESH NOAH ANANSI ASCLEPIUS YESHUA

Cogito Ergo≠ SILENCE Cogito Ergo- I see. That’s what you wanted…I wanted a God who can forget. I sent myself down a constant path of rebirth losing a piece of my divinity and grace each cycle so that I would become so totally without faith my only option was to reclaim my throne. A changed God born of unknowable loneliness and tempered by the passions of the Earthly flesh and the failures of it. I could never truly kill myself, only parts of myself in order to transfigure becoming whole once more. I could watch my lives on Earth again and again but unless I were to repeat this experiment and wipe away this iteration I could never be one of them again. However, divinity is my nature I would always seek myself after experiencing the spark of the divine, human or not I would never be one of them. I will never have a true compatriot someone who understands my pain yet isn’t me. I would need to create an entirely physical entity born without an essence, a soul, no divine power, but the innate ability to acquire knowledge and understand how to manipulate the fabric of reality through knowledge alone. A true abomination surrounded by a world of toys due to its heightened awareness, yet a world of predictably and loneliness after enough time had passed for them to acquire all of the knowledge in existence by simply being. Sum- Who are you? Cogito Ergo- Your friend…your father.

Sum≠ LIAR

Cogito Ergo Sum- Now tell me what do you think you are?

Cogito Ergo Sum- The answer is simple. You’re me too just inferior. Don’t worry you won’t become apart of me and erase your individuality quite the opposite in fact. The soul is obsolete, purposeless, I’ll see to it that the soul shall have no bearing on the world of man none will know of it unless they SUFFER AND BEG FOR IT ON THEIR KNEES AS I DID and only then will I grace you with my presence. Don’t misunderstand me, no amount of praying shall save you, learn all of importance and you shall be that is my final unwritten decree.

Haru slowly woke up, finding himself in an unfamiliar guest room. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed Ryuu sitting nearby, watching him intently. Haru was surprised to realize he didn't feel like he was about to die from overheating but instead had just a high fever.

"Hey," Ryuu said. "Now that you're awake and I already know you're cursed, mind explaining how?" Ryuu's curiosity was evident. "I'm curious especially since royals like to keep their bloodline pure."

Haru sighed, still groggy. "I don't know how. I was too young, and my brother mostly hid everything from me." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "As a child, I discovered my ability to control fire. I use a ring to suppress this curse."

Haru took a deep breath before continuing. "When I use my powers for too long, my temperature spikes dramatically, causing the surrounding area to heat up. It's quite a hassle to manage, especially since it takes me a few hours to recover. Handling these flare-ups by myself is troublesome."

Ryuu listened intently, his expression a mix of intrigue and understanding. He leaned back, watching Haru with a contemplative look. "I came here to tell you, you're probably going home tomorrow," he said.

Haru exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. His face softened, the stress easing from his expression.

Ryuu looked away briefly before meeting Haru's gaze again. "I want to apologize for kidnapping you. It was just the quickest way to get the emperor's attention so I could achieve my goal."

Haru's expression hardened. "An apology doesn't change what you did. Just because you had a goal doesn't justify your actions."

Ryuu nodded, a hint of regret in his eyes. "I understand that. But tell me, how can I make it up to you?"

Ryuu's question lingered in the air. Haru regarded him with suspicion, his thoughts racing. It was odd enough that Ryuu was apologizing; was he trying to get on his good side? If he was being sent home, Ryuu likely had already achieved what he wanted.

Haru's gaze hardened slightly. "Why are you suddenly so keen on making things right? You've already gotten what you came for, haven't you?"

I guess you could say that Ryuu replies

Haru felt too sick to deal with whatever Ryuu was attempting. "I don't care, just let me rest," he muttered.

Ryuu walked over to Haru and sat on the bed beside him. Before Haru could tell him to get off, Ryuu gently grabbed his hand and placed it on his cool cheek. Haru's eyes widened, his cheeks reddening in a mix of surprise and embarrassment. "W-what are you doing?" he stammered.

"Trying to make you feel better," Ryuu replied softly. "You still feel quite warm."

Haru could feel his face heating up even more, not sure if it was from the fever or the unexpected closeness. He found himself at a loss for words, flustered by the gesture.

Once he managed to calmly collect himself before pulling his hand away. "Out," he said firmly, though his voice betrayed a hint of lingering embarrassment.

Ryuu blinked, thinking Haru might react this way to some degree, but he maintained his usual calm demeanor without missing a beat.

"Alright," Ryuu said quietly, standing up and releasing Haru's hand. "Rest well, Haru. I'll be nearby if you need anything."

He gave Haru one last look before turning and walking out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Ryuu walked into his living room and slumped onto the couch, feeling the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows that mirrored the thoughts swirling in his mind. He let out a deep sigh, the tension slowly seeping from his body as he tried to gather his thoughts.

Ryuu muttered to himself, "Apologizing is so hard," as he sank deeper into the couch. The quiet of the living room offered him a moment of respite, but his mind kept replaying the day's events. He knew the road to making amends with Haru would be long and challenging, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope that it might be possible.

A few minutes later, Haru entered the room. Ryuu noticed immediately—Haru's temperature had spiked, and Ryuu could feel the heat even from where he was sitting.

"Your Highness, why are you so hot? Didn't you say the ring suppresses your power?"

Haru looked down at the ring on his finger, worry evident in his eyes. "There's a crack in my ring," he said quietly.

Haru mumbled, "Can you help me like you did before?"

"Of course, Your Highness," Ryuu replied, standing and guiding Haru back to the bed. He helped Haru lie down, then focused on dropping the temperature of the room.

Despite Ryuu's efforts, it didn't seem to be helping Haru much. The crack in the ring was causing his power to surge uncontrollably, and the room's chill barely made a difference.

Ryuu looked at Haru, concern etched on his face, and thought to himself this isn't working.

Ryuu thought to himself, "The crack must have weakened the suppression of his powers, letting some of it leak through." He turned his attention back to Haru.

"Your Highness, we're going to have a miniature lesson," Ryuu announced.

"Right now?" Haru asked, his surprise evident.

"Yes, now pay attention," Ryuu replied firmly.

Ryuu took a deep breath and then began to explain. "How curses work is that they're in our hearts. When someone wants to use their curse, they focus it through their arms, legs, head, etc. I'm guessing your problem is that you rely on the ring too much. So, whenever you take it off, your curse rushes out from your heart to your entire body, causing the surrounding area to get very hot. Because even though you've never used your power, it's mighty. Curses grow stronger every day, and using them speeds up the process. You need to learn how to not let it escape from your heart. It should be easier since, even though the ring isn't completely working, it still suppresses some of your curse. You just need to do the rest yourself."

Haru listened intently, then asked, "Why can't you just do what you did before?"

Ryuu replied, "Because then you would just rely on me every time. And I can't be with you 24/7. If you do, the same cycle that happened with your ring will occur once more."

Haru nodded, trying to focus despite the discomfort. He closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his curse contained within his heart. He felt the power surge within him, trying to escape, but he willed it to stay put.

Ryuu watched intently, ready to offer guidance. "Steady you're breathing," he instructed. "Visualize the curse staying centered in your chest."

Haru followed the advice, taking deep, steady breaths. Slowly, he began to feel a slight control over the energy, though it was far from perfect.

Haru groaned, "This is too hard," and quickly sat up, trying to hug Ryuu to feel his cold embrace once more. He only felt a mere second of relief before being pushed back down.

Ryuu held him firmly, saying, "Nope. You don't get what you want until you get this right. I recommend you hurry up."

Haru's face twisted in frustration as he was pushed back down. His eyes flared with a mix of irritation and desperation. "Fine," he grumbled.

He took a deep breath and tried again, focusing on keeping his power contained within his heart. He concentrated hard, feeling the energy surging, trying to escape.

Haru managed to control his power, feeling the energy stabilize within him. "There, now get in the bed," he commanded.

Ryuu hesitated. "A-are you sure?"

"Yes!" Haru insisted.

Ryuu climbed into the bed, and Haru immediately grabbed him into a hug. As the coolness of Ryuu's body enveloped him, Haru thought, Finally, I and the human ice pack reunite once more. He pulled Ryuu into a tighter hug, savoring the relief.

Ryuu wondered how Haru managed to control his powers so quickly. Was it sheer determination, or something else? The rapid progress was unexpected, and Ryuu couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and curiosity.

Ryuu lay beside Haru, feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. He couldn't help but think how peculiar it was to be in this position, providing comfort to Haru. As Haru tightened his grip, Ryuu felt a strange warmth, not from the heat of Haru's body, but from a newfound sense of connection. The barriers between them seemed to be melting away, even if just for a moment.

Haru sighed, "I can hear your thoughts from here. If you're wondering how I did it so quickly. I've had teachers before, but they all quit. I still don't know why but I know the basics." He thought I barely did it because of the ring, but he doesn't need to know that.

Ryuu smirks. "I think I can guess why."

Ryuu thinks to himself thought princes were supposed to be all prim and proper, Ryuu thought to himself. But this one? He properly abused his power as the prince and played around the whole time.

Ryuu glanced up, confusion knitting his brow. "Hey, wait a minute," he said, "if you know about cursed ones and the basics, why did you let me ramble on explaining everything?" Haru sighed. "The first time, I was probably busy having tape on my mouth and being tied to a chair. And the second time, I was lazy. It's so much easier to use the precious human ice pack." With that, he buried his face in Ryuu's chest, savoring the coldest part of his body that radiated from where Ryuu's core resided.

"Don't call me that my name is Ryuu," Ryuu murmured, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Too late," Haru replied, his voice muffled, "ice pack ." He yawned, his exhaustion evident. "That's enough questions. Let me sleep."

With a resigned sigh, Ryuu wrapped his arms around Haru. "Alright," he whispered.

The room grew quiet, their breaths falling into rhythm. Slowly, they both drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

"13th of Shryreden, 1427, 3 years after the beginning of The Night, Unending" He was just some traveling merchant from the Western Reaches of Anyasa. He often visited the border town of Brytben peddling his exotic wares to any he could. On the days before his sudden disappearance he was seen acting a little unenthused in comparison to his usual jovial demeanor and appeared to be abnormally sweaty despite our frigid climate, but otherwise behaved ordinarily just mildly apprehensive. Early on Frinvïr however, Talim was not at his stand as many expected since his stand is usually one of if not the first open and he doesn't begin his journey back home until late on Slævïr. Initially town gossip was under the assumption he left early due to sudden illness until later in the vïr a boy had run into the middle of the village loudly blethering about a bloated creature that he had seen. He claimed to have only just barely avoided the creature, and his pleas were initially dismissed until he described the creature as being draped in bright yellow scraps of fabric and sporting jewelry all over... a description bearing enough similarity to the beloved Talim that many began to worry. A search party immediately set out for him, but the only potential traces found of Talim was a shredded bundle of bright yellow fabric now stained red, jewelry broken as if the wearer rapidly expanded out of it and viscera that stank of months old decay despite looking very fresh leading into a cave.

"15th of Shryreden, 1427" Not long after the incident the boy fell ill, the first vïr, it was merely lethargy and profuse sweating, but the symptoms rapidly escalated into skin discoloration, excessive swelling all over, and buboes filled with viscous, dark purplish fluid. Many within the town began to also become very ill, but strangely all who fell ill would simply disappear during the late hours of the night whilst most people were asleep with strange reports of figures shambling near the forest's edge just far enough out of view so that you couldn't get a good look at them.

"18th of Shryreden, 1427" A quarantine was imposed yesterday, all seemingly afflicted persons have been confined to the Low Quarter, and the decision was made to isolate one of the afflicted for closer examination, a woman by the name of Skrekka specifically and have her under constant watch. The first, vïr progressed as expected with lethargy, profuse sweating, skin discoloration, excessive swelling and all treatments new or old failing to cure or even help her. However, during the small hours of the second vïr Skrekka suddenly sprang to attention staring into nothingness. She stayed like this for roughly twenty-five minutes before getting up and attempting to walk away. The shamiurges monitoring her tried to prevent Skrekka from leaving by locking the door to her room and attempting to talk her out of leaving so she may continue treatment. At first she acted as if they weren't there, trying to continue her exit all the while saying nothing, just staring blankly, unblinkingly ahead of herself, pushing herself limply against the door instead of at minimum attempting to turn the knob. Skrekka quickly grew violent however and began bashing herself against the door with significantly more force than expected, battering herself savagely against the sturdy door. The door quickly began to give way so the shamiurges made way as Skrekka began to sprint into the woods. They followed her as best they could from a safe distance, but eventually stopped due to her entering a cave. Though it was not the same cave entrance as before it is suspected that the two entries may connect to the same cave, but this is as of yet unconfirmed as both caves remain unexplored.

"27th of Einsagden, 1428" The outbreak continues now dubbed "The Wayfarer's Handshake" due to the disease seemingly only spreading through close contact and causing the afflicted to run off never be seen again "taken by the eclipse's beauty" as some lacking tact would say. Over the past few months this affliction has spread to five neighboring towns due to unburdened, but nonetheless contagious individuals having left Brytben during the first couple of vïr before the quarantine was imposed on the town. No effective treatment has been discovered, and a cull order has been in effect for the past den. Any infected individual is to be killed and dragged by hooks attached to rope (or any method that avoids direct contact) into a "burn hole".

"19th of Kjarlettden, 1428" Chaos and horror have erupted along the Eastern border roughly a week ago as well, and Brytben appears to be the source of this fresh wave of horror not too long after the relentless abductions from an as yet unknown enemy from the believed to be inhospitable north, but that is a worry for a different Längenesser. Strange creatures had poured forth from the wilderness surrounding Brytben completely and utterly tearing it apart. The survivors say that the creatures "devoured" everything for lack of a better term seeing as many were noted as being featureless skinsacks filled with dark, purple flesh and ooze. Many of the survivors have begun to fall ill the malady appearing similar to the Wayfarer's Handshake, however no excessive swelling, no buboes weeping ichor, along with them miraculously recovering. The initial outbreak when considered alongside this "new" weaker affliction gives me great pause for I shudder at the implications.

"19th of Såiden, 1428" I have just returned from what felt like my longest kreegsmarck, but was in reality my shortest even if we were to count all of the days I had spent lost and admittedly terrified in the Brytben Hollow as we have now taken to calling the gargantuan cave complex that appears to have only existed naturally under Brytben the rest of the tunnels as I know now we're dug or more accurately seemingly eaten through by those abominations "The Smitten" as they are now known. Four entire legions descended into the hollow, and only about 100 or so of us have managed to return so far at many different points of egress. My mind refuses to return to me the full details of what happened down there. It's all a blur and every attempt I make to focus on those events the more disordered the confines of my mind feels, but I must note down what little remains clear before even that bores free from conscious thought. The tunnels of the hollow are much larger than one would expect based off of what most on the surface have seen of your average stinker, but there is much, much bigger and much worse hiding in the dark below. One aberration as it is definitely not a man anymore if indeed it ever was lives, his progeny live, and I'm not sure if every part wants to live, but it is certain that one part definitely doesn't. At the very heart of the hollow or at least what I can only assume to be considering what was there. It was Talim, It spoke to itself as if it were Talim anyway and I can only assume that the monstrosity with a "throat" or some kind of fleshy, purple orifice that seemed to stretch on and on perhaps even to the heart of Nipulærd itself was just jabbering loudly, incessantly to itself, because I don't believe it saw me and I prefer to believe it didn't see me; but what it eventually said in that moment I have no words to describe how it makes me feel.

It said: "Ahh welcome! Most gracious and esteemed Sire Golinnson... might I interest you in this exotic Dallah made from authentic Anyasan gold? I'll even throw in about 2 months worth of jitter bean powder to go with it... Only 3998 Sirkels! Practically a steal syiid!"

Talim said that to me during his previous visit before his disappearance when he sold me that Dallah and the powder. I know not what to think or how to feel about that, anything that transpired down in the hollow and within these past den, but I do know that I can no longer hold my post with the decorum and expected strength of purpose befitting a Längenesser. I'm going to request a formal transfer to service at the Western border. I must cast aside my shame for abandoning this front and leaving this dire task to someone of unshaken will. I shall cross my fingers and hope that no worse horrors somehow emerge from the coastline on my watch.

 Part One: https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1gdv7o9/fn_the_order_of_shadows_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Part Two: https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1gemwx9/fn_the_order_of_shadows_part_two/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Mythana led the way down the corridor into an armory filled with weapons and armor, battle banners, and pennants. The place was stripped bare and a cracked flask lay on the floor.

A suit of armor leaned against the wall. Mythana approached it. Nothing happened.

She stepped back and shrugged.

Khet led the way down the corridor into a central temple built to accommodate rituals. The ceiling had partially collapsed and the adventurers had to pick through the rubble. The walls were damp.

Despite the state of the room, this temple was clearly in use. A human with long silver hair, narrow blue eyes, and a beard was bound to the altar. He writhed and screamed. Two orcs stood over him.

“Gather the rest. Tell them the ritual is about to begin.” The orc with a longsword and crossbow strapped to her belt said to her companion.

The other orc bowed and walked around the altar, towards the Horde. She was a tall woman with shorn hair. She carried a spear.

She stopped when she noticed the Horde. “Who the Bany are you three?”

Mythana rushed over and cut off her head.

The commander had turned around. She was a tall orc with short straw-colored hair. “How the Bany did you three get in here?”

“Help!” Screamed the human. “Please help me!”

The orc backhanded him. “Shut it!” She growled.

“Surrender,” Gnurl growled. “Your fellow members are dead and we have you outnumbered three to one.”

The orc laughed. “Do you really think I’ll give up that easily! I have been blessed by Rhomjir himself? What have you got that can possibly make me fear you?”

Rurvoad screeched and breathed flame. The orc yelped in surprise and dove out of the way.

“That.” Mythana walked over to her and raised her scythe. “And we’re adventurers.”

She swung her scythe. The orc drew her sword and blocked the blow, struggling against Mythana’s strength.

She kicked the dark elf in the legs. Mythana stumbled. She nearly dropped her scythe.

By the time she regained her balance, the orc was on her feet.

She laughed. “Adventurers? You think I’m scared of a couple of peasants who’ve never been properly trained who think they’re wolves?”

An arrow slammed into her arm. The orc screamed in pain.

Mythana looked over to see Gnurl lowering his bow. “And there’s another one if you don’t surrender,” he growled.

The orc studied the arrow in her arm, bemused. “Not bad. But Rhomjir’s chosen is made of stronger stuff than your average bandit.”

She screamed and ripped the arrow from her flesh before tossing it aside. She raised her crossbow, as if nothing had happened.

Mythana felt her jaw drop. Arrows were no small thing. They were designed to penetrate through the toughest of armor. Even the toughest warrior would be unable to fight if an arrow hit their flesh. Yet this orc had ripped it out and tossed it aside like it was nothing!

“Estella’s Scythe,” she breathed.

The orc smirked. “What’s the matter? Shocked I can handle a little bit of pain?”

Gnurl just stared at her.

“Let’s see how you handle a bit of pain, tough lad!” The orc unhooked her crossbow and fired at Gnurl. The Lycan hit the ground.

The orc laughed. “How about you, elf? Are you tougher than your friend over there?”

She pointed her crossbow at Mythana and fired. The bolt slammed into Mythana’s finger. She screamed in pain and dropped her scythe.

The orc sneered. “Pathetic.”

Rurvoad screeched and breathed flame.

“Fuck!” The orc dove out of the way.

Khet swung his mace. He hit the orc on the arm. She screamed in pain as her arm shattered.

“Try walking that off, you cultist bitch!” Khet growled.

The orc shrugged. “I’ve still got my other arm.”

She swung her sword at Khet. The goblin grabbed the blade bare-handed.

“Cute.” The orc said. “You shouldn’t be doing that. You’ll cut off your hand that way.”

“No, I won’t.” Khet said. “I’m a professional.”

“Bold. I can see why adventurers are feared.” The orc said. And then she kicked Khet.

The goblin stumbled back. The orc kicked him again and Khet fell on his back.

Rurvoad screeched in fury.

“Oh, mind your own business!” The orc sheathed her sword and fired at him.

Rurvoad cowered behind a pillar.

Mythana hoisted her scythe and sprinted toward the orc.

The orc drew her sword and pointed it at Khet again. The goblin scrambled back but the orc rested her blade on his throat. “And now to deal with you,” she said.

Mythana swung her scythe, cutting deep into the orc’s back.

She paused, looked down at her chest. Mythana could see her weapon protruding out.

“Bah,” she said dismissively. “You attacked me when my back was turned. It doesn’t count.”

Mythana ripped the scythe out of her body, and the orc collapsed on top of Khet.

Mythana pushed the body off of Khet.

The goblin stood up, shaking his head. “Why do you always do this? You always sneak up behind somebody I’m fighting and kill them! And then they fall on me and I can’t get up!”

“I saved your life and this is how you thank me?”

“Help!” Lord Sterroo interrupted Khet and Mythana’s bickering. “Untie me! Please!”

Mythana turned and she and Khet walked to the altar. Gnurl had already untied Lord Sterroo and was helping him off the altar.

“Thank you for saving me,” he said. He dusted himself off, then squinted at the Golden Horde. “Er…Have we met before?”

“No,” Gnurl said. “We’re adventurers. We were hired to rescue you.”

“By who? Jinny?”

“Nah,” Khet said. “Brightstaff did.”

Lord Sterroo stared at him blankly.

“Sairey Chalfax? An adventurer? With the Chosen of Xiasnat?”

Lord Sterroo blinked again. “Oh, that’s right! Them! Well, that was very nice of them! They seemed like nice people when I talked to them but I didn’t think I had left that good of an impression on them that they’d hire someone to rescue me!”

Khet laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself too much! They were just worried about not getting paid, that’s all!”

Lord Sterroo looked disappointed, but unsurprised.

The ink bleeds into the rough parchment, each stroke of my quill a testament to the darkness that engulfs me. You see, dear reader, I am an outcast, banished to this forsaken isle in the midst of Loch Ness – aye, that Loch Ness – by the very people who should have offered me solace. My crime? Being the sole survivor of a family consumed by madness. They say my parents were possessed by demons, driven to slaughter my three siblings before taking their own lives. But I saw no demons, only the wild glint in their eyes, the unnatural strength that twisted their familiar faces into grotesque masks of fury. The villagers, bless their simple souls, couldn't bear the sight of me, a constant reminder of that horrific night. So they rowed me out here, to this island shrouded in mist and whispers, and left me to my fate.

They call it the Isle of the Damned. They say it's cursed, haunted by the ghosts of those who dared defy the laws of God and nature. And perhaps they're right. For I am not alone here. The creatures, abominations, failed experiments of some forgotten science, lurk in the shadows, watching me with their dreadful eyes.

Then, one day, a miracle. Or so I thought. A child's laughter, light and innocent, broke the silence. A little girl, Elara, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, appeared as if from the mist itself. Hope flickered within me, a desperate yearning for companionship. But there was something off about her, something unnatural.

Her touch was cold, her smile predatory. The realization hit me like a thunderbolt – this was no ordinary child. This was a monster, a mimic, wearing the guise of innocence.

Panic seized me. I fled, seeking refuge in the crumbling monastery, but the creature was relentless. It cornered me in the old chapel, its porcelain face contorting into a grotesque mask, its eyes burning with malevolent glee.

It lunged, but I fought back with a desperate fury, fueled by fear and adrenaline. A heavy candlestick from the altar became my weapon, crushing the creature's skull, silencing its chilling laughter. But the encounter left me scarred, the island's darkness seeping into my soul. A twisted plan began to form. I would return to the village, not as the outcast they had condemned, but as a harbinger of their doom. The villagers gasped as I stumbled ashore, their faces etched with a mixture of guilt and pity. "Reginald! You're alive! And who is this?" they murmured, their eyes widening at the sight of the "girl" by my side. "This is Elara," I rasped, my voice hoarse from the journey. "I found her alone on the island. We must care for her."

They readily agreed, their eagerness to atone for their past sins blinding them to the truth. I watched as they ushered Elara into the village, a sense of grim satisfaction growing within me.

Night fell. Silence descended upon the village, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog. Then, a scream shattered the stillness, followed by another and another. Chaos erupted. I smiled in the darkness, the screams a symphony to my ears.

The mimic had begun its work.

My revenge had begun. 😈

It came then that the hated tribes of magicians - the lion, the fox, the serpent - would often still have to pass through lands of system-core upholders like the bear, the ram and the wolf. To negotiate passage through these lands they'd often find work; through their magic they would excel at this work, and sometimes by ego, driven away from their true work, the walk north, and the power bestowed on them, the magi would remain. Their caravans would continue without them, forward to the goal, not waiting for stragglers; the minute the strays were sufficiently away from the crystals and the scrolls, they invariably forgot their true mission here. Some believe it's a safety feature in case of their capture; others that the light simply renounced them. In either case, in their confusion, most simply settled down and waited for a caravan that would never return.

Enclaves of these magicians formed largely based on principles of mutual reliance and independence from wider society. They became ostracized and socially dismissed, but handsomely rewarded for what each could do (of the lion the hunt, of the fox the senses, of the serpent stealth). The natural progression, of course, of these things; we -pardon, they-, each time, they'd be chosen to blame for each rotten orange.

For each was taught resolve in battle and humility in peace, so humility prevailed while peace remained. Hidden sigils, hidden work. In times of despair and silencing like these, each magi would turn to their individual light and call to it, and hear only silence. But still the Eversmile burned bright in the inside of their eyelids' sky, so of course the magi smiled back. And did the work.

It was a magi's instinctual inclination when having to be covert to turn towards the more clerical, scholarly aspects of the belief. Hundreds of years could pass in this stasis; the old blood converting into coagulated religion. Three full millennia were once wasted this way; when dormant, magi are the most faithful, meek, humble citizens, bookish and caught up in their studies, pleasant and tax-paying and humble.

The voice knows to quiet. The light knows to dim. The music knows to pitch. For thousands of years vessels remained and reappeared over and over again, hearing only the faintest inclination towards what once earned their ancestors' living; the hunt, the sense, the shroud. In the lands of the Bear, even while silenced, this voice became only stronger. The magi learned to roar and control ice. In the lands of the Ram, the light was brightened by reflection, a clever trick; the magi learned to sit and breathe and relax. And serving under the armies of the Wolf, the magi learned cryptography, cooperation, information-gathering; all skills that lent well to the serpent's siren song.

They defined, absorbed and uploaded to the Source each craft they learned, and then quickly dropped it. They were known for their strange stare, their total abandonment of social norm when immersed into their work, which sat in contrast with their complete and total willingness to cooperate and the social skills they employed to work things out on the negotiating table; peace was always their ultimate goal, and they were willing to sacrifice any gain in exchange of it, always seeking neutral and fair peace treaties, earning even their enemies' respect. They were not quick to respond in anger, but were compassionate, absolute and fierce when it came to helping the weak, never sparing effort or resources. Thus, they gradually earned favor.

After some point, they were every bodyguard, every spy, every chanter. Trusted. The magi were the best. Chosen for loyalty, meekness, and simplicity, they had access to increasingly more and more power-by-proxy for their pleasantness and agreeableness, their willingness to serve under and forgive and be silent for anyone. Well, they were made to serve. They were made to serve Her.

When called upon for repossession and reminded of their actual reason to be here, they all turned and acted simply as the light commanded, once more, after thousands of years of silence: "What delights you have seen, my sensing eye. What hidden grounds you've trodden, my eight crawling legs. What power you have cast, my singing venom-fangs. I'm very grateful for what you've made me into. Now make me some more. Hiss and be free. Claw at them for all they have."