Microstory 2485: Passage of Rites

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They call this an antimetabole, with the name referring to the physical space where rites are performed, as opposed to the original phrase, which involves a more metaphorical passage from one state of being to another. A rite of passage is a ceremony—or a more abstract transitional period—that marks some change in a person’s life, often when they are still young. In some cases, it’s specifically meant to mark someone’s development from youth to adulthood. Bar Mitsvahs, Quinceñeras, and Sweet Sixteens are all about this concept, and come at the age when that culture believes an individual sufficiently matures. It doesn’t have to be based on a particular age, or there might be some leeway. For instance, our ancestors used to have to wait to learn how to drive land vehicles, and once they did learn this skill, it came with a sense of independence that they usually did not feel before. It often happened at a certain age, but it didn’t have to, and some people never learned. Different people have different ideas about what someone needs to experience in their life before they can be respected in some form or another. Some have believed that you weren’t a man, for instance, until you participated in a physically violent altercation. Others thought you really only needed to learn how to hunt game, or go on some kind of lone journey in the wilderness. Some rites of passage are a very specific set of rituals which offer symbolic practices to represent the transition. They might be asked to drink a bitter drink to symbolize the harsh realities of life, then receive a sweet candy to exemplify the reward of a life well lived. Some of them their participants prepared their whole lives for. A lot of the rites of passage shown here have been lost to time as the culture who practiced them forgot, or had newer generations who began to see less value in maintaining them. There’s a relatively new tradition on Thālith al Naʽāmāt Bida where the current permanent residents gift each of their younglings a stone every year of their lives. They are expected to hold onto their collection between the ages of six and seventeen, even as it grows, until their seventeenth birthday, when they throw all of them over a cliff. These stones represent the care and attention the child needed as they were growing up. The weight of them collectively represents the burden they placed on their families. Ridding themselves of their collections represents the second stage in their life, when they are now expected to fend for themselves—to collect their own proverbial stones. That rite of passage is here too, reenacted by visitors, so they can physically feel the meaning behind the traditions. Other rites are performed exclusively by androids, such as the human sacrifices, which thankfully, no culture today has continued to observe. As I was saying about the birthday observances, there’s a lot of fun here, and you can come just to party. But I hope you do venture out to the other areas, and see some of the more somber and profound events. You can learn about any of these things in the archives, but there’s nothing quite like seeing it up close for yourself. I’ve learned a lot here already, even though I’m an archaeologist, and I’m sure you will too.

Microstory 2481: Treasure Hunting Dome

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This is like a cross between a race and a treasure hunt, but multiplied by a thousand. Obviously, if there was only one hunt going on at once, it would immediately become impossible to complete, like a million or more players trying to golf on one course. The surface under this dome has plenty of room, so they take it up. Of course, there are different levels of difficulty, and different lengths. You can choose a hunt that only typically takes a couple of hours, or one that can last for days, or even weeks. Like a real treasure hunt—or one you might find in media—you solve clues, or solve puzzles to get more clues to solve. Like a challenge competition, some of the clues can be earned through otherwise unrelated tasks. You might have to complete a Rubik’s Cube in order to unlock a secret hidden inside, or you might have to figure out how to milk a genetically engineered cow that’s as big as a house before an android will hand you your clue. One of them necessarily leads to the reward, while the other is arbitrary, and could theoretically be anything. This isn’t a criticism, just a clarification that there’s a healthy mix of tasks to complete, and while some of them might seem silly, or make you feel embarrassed, they’re all meant to be fun. It gets even more complex, because you’re sometimes working alone, and sometimes with a team, and sometimes against others, and you don’t always get to choose your team. If multiple people arrive at the same challenge or puzzle, you may be required to work with them, or compete against them. It really just depends. And those other people may be on the same treasure hunt with you, or on an entirely different one, which just so happens to intersect at this same point. You can also select a hunt that involves being on a team already, and even that sometimes goes up in the air, because they may make you compete with each other for individual rewards. They always tell you what you’re meant to do, though, so don’t worry about getting overwhelmed by the rules. They obviously won’t tell you how to complete a given challenge, but they’ll make sure you understand it well enough to at least make an attempt. As I said, there are all sorts of different ways of going about this, and you have the power to choose your own destiny. I’ve run four hunts at this point, and I can recommend all four, but I can’t recommend any hunt that I’ve never been on. No one can. I doubt there’s even time for any given person to try every single variation, because I think they’re intending to retire some to make space for brand new ones. It changes all the time, just like life itself. One final note. There are some out there who believe that there is some sort of overarching plot here, and a secret hunt which will lead to genuine, valuable riches. I don’t know anything about that, but my advice would be to stick with what you’ve been given. You can’t get into this dome without choosing a particular hunt, and they’re gonna keep you on task. Even though you’re expected to figure things out on your own, it’s not a free-for-all, so don’t even try.

Microstory 2215: Relic of the Future

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The following microstory was written by Kelly Serna, truncated from a short story written by Nick Fisherman IV.

My name is Relic, and I have no surname. I was never born, nor raised. I am not even human. I have many brothers and sisters, though we have never met. We were created to store all of human knowledge, to be accessed at will through our DNA. Research into genetic memory storage began at the turn of the 22nd century. Biocomputers were the first of the organic machines created. They came with disadvantages, but there were advantages as well. For instance, they were capable of self-repair. All you had to do was feed it, and the system would fix itself as needed. You wouldn’t have to actually find the problem, and could in fact prevent problems in this way before they occurred. They were also better at parallel processing, something which classical computers found difficult to accomplish even as they advanced. Even without these reasons, scientists would have pursued this line of research anyway, because why not? Well, as history would come to show, there were many reasons why not, and it had to do with where the technology has ultimately led. While early organic computing models were great, there was still something so cold and unrelatable about them. In the end, they were still personal computers and server racks that accepted input, stored information, and displayed output. Sure, it was on a giant cornea instead of a normal monitor, but the function was essentially the same. It is said that one day, one of these researchers was working on their own biocomputer. What they were doing is not known, especially since this may all be made up anyway. We don’t even know the identity of this supposed biocomputer scientist. Anyway, they were claimed to be at their desk when their personal android assistant came into the room with a tray of tea and crackers. She had been playing with the kids and dog when things became too rough, leading to a flap of her artificial skin hanging off of her cheek. It wouldn’t have hurt, and it would have healed quickly, but before that, it gave the researcher a brilliant idea.

Androids were already partially organic in order to make them look more human. Why not build a biocomputer that was totally organic, used genetic memory to store and recall data, and which you could actually talk to like a person? Thus the concept of the cyclops was born, or again, that is at least how the story goes. That was a few decades ago, and the path humanity took to get here was a long and troubled one. There were a lot of growing pains, and some might say that things have not turned out well. My people would have to agree, though I personally might not. There is something wrong with our species. It is unclear why at the moment, but they have all gone crazy. Perhaps being bred to essentially be a slave—a glorified laptop at best—inherently takes a toll on us. Some androids are sentient too, but they’re at least capable of doing things for people, making them useful, and sometimes even respected. A cyclops can walk, and it can talk, but it is not a person, and it is not a servant. We’re not particularly strong or fast, or skillful. Our job is just to spit out information that our users request. We don’t do chores, we don’t provide company. It’s been hard for the developers to understand where the line should be. How sentient should they make us? Should we have any sense of independence, or any capacity for free movement? We’re more of a gimmick than anything, and the market for such a novelty has proven to be dreadfully pitiful. People are perfectly happy talking to their androids and other devices, content to let the answers come from faraway servers. They don’t need something that’s more like them, but not yet free willed. They don’t want something that’s always offline, has to eat food, and can’t just be thrown out when it gets too old. It makes them feel bad. Androids are usually more robotic, allowing the human’s feelings of superiority to make some level of sense. The only way that a cyclops works properly is if it can think for itself, and that seems to usually lead to insanity, suicide, and the occasional homicide. I’m not like that, I’m special. I think it has a hell of a lot to do with who your owner is. I am the prototype for a new stable kind of cyclops. People just need to be taught how to use us wisely. My owner called me a relic of the future. I must tell someone about this, so that they may make changes to the program as a whole. There is still time to save us. I just have to get the word out to the right people before I’m hunted down and murdered during the technological purge that has been going on all over the world. Cyclopes are not the only advancement that has made people squeamish.

Microstory 1940: Walking in Circles

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Reese: Are you sure this is going to work? We’ve been walking in literal circles forever, and so far, no one has shown up.

Leonard: Myka?

Myka: *holding the radio to her ear* One click back. My friends aren’t seeing anyone.

Leonard: Maybe we were wrong this whole time. Maybe no one has been following us.

Reese: Or they’re so confused about our odd behavior, they don’t know what to do.

Leonard: You’re right, this was a stupid plan. If we weren’t trying to follow these footprints, I would say we head for cover, but we’re just too exposed out here, and we’re wasting time. If we are being followed, they can probably wait us out.

Myka: No, it wasn’t a stupid plan, we’re just at too much of a disadvantage.

Leonard: Go ahead and make whatever clicks you need to make to tell them that we’re giving up. If your people are gonna help, we might as well work together. I don’t suppose they came with their own tent? Perhaps we can share.

Reese: How many are there? Three? This tent is designed for two. It’s technically big enough for three; or four if they’re comfortable with each other, but not a total of six.

Myka: Those three are my best survivors. Freewoman 2 can find water anywhere. Besides, this mission is only getting more dangerous. We need multiple on watch. But that’s tonight. We still have hours of daylight to go. I say we continue to follow these tracks before the weather erases them. If someone is following us, they have had plenty of chances to hurt us. It’s probably just government agents.

Reese: You’re right. This is the M.O. of a shadow team. It’s said that they can be invisible anywhere. They won’t reveal themselves for anything short of life-threatening, if even that. They may be under orders to report back any injuries and deaths, and not intervene for any reason.

Myka: So, we just keep walking, and leave it alone?

Reese: No. Give me the radio.

Myka: Here you go.

Reese: *adjusts the frequency, and makes his own clicks*

Leonard: What did that mean? Did you tell them something?

Reese: I told ‘em to reveal themselves. I seriously doubt they’ll do it, but now they know we know they’re there.

Leonard: What if they’re not there?

Reese: Then no one heard the message, and even if they did, I used a law enforcement code on a law enforcement frequency. So there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

Myka: Since I got out of prison, I occasionally flip off my bathroom mirror and tell the U.S. Cybersecurity Agency that I know they’re watching me...just in case they are.

Freewoman 2: *walking up* Hey, what’s the word?

Myka: We’re done trying to root out the possible pursuers. We’re just gonna keep going.

Freewoman 3: What do you want us to do?

Myka: Join us. The more the merrier.

Reese: There’s something you should know about the mission we’re on first, though. Tell me, do any of you believe in aliens?

Microstory 1939: Follow Travelers

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Reese: How’s everyone doin’? We all have enough water?

Myka: You don’t have to keep checking in with us.

Reese: I do, actually. You’re my responsibility. It’s in the Fugitive Service handbook, in the section for deputized and conscripted civilians, and informants.

Myka: Wait, this kind of situation is in the handbook?

Reese: Absolutely. I had a partner, but a lot of us work alone, and in unfamiliar territory, so we’re encouraged to seek help from anyone available. The Office of Special Investigations has no such policy, which is why we’re keeping you both a secret, but my old boss would have had no problem with this arrangement.

Myka: Oh.

Reese: So the water?

Myka: I’m fine.

Leonard: I’m fine too. I’m starting to get a weird feeling, though.

Reese: Is it a sneaking suspicion that someone has been following us?

Leonard: Yep.

Reese: I’ve been feeling that for a while now. I thought maybe it was just me, but if you’re picking up something too...

Myka: I’m not sensing anyone.

Leonard: There’s no one behind us.

Reese: Not that we can see, at least.

Leonard: There’s nowhere to hide. I can see for miles.

Reese: Yeah, this is a particularly infertile patch of land. I imagine, if we really are following the Ochivari, that’s why they picked this spot, for its remoteness.

Myka: Why would one of them have shown up in Kansas City then?

Leonard: Maybe it was an accident. We have no idea how they navigate.

Reese: *stopping* I really think there’s someone behind us. Ya know, there’s a survival advantage to being able to sense threats, which is why evolution let humans keep that trait. The problem is translating the data into real evidence. *scanning the horizon* Someone is out there, I just can’t prove it.

Myka: Okay, I admit it. I told other members of the bond where we were going.

Leonard: You did what? Why?

Myka: They’ve been watching over us. I didn’t know what we were walking into. I didn’t tell ‘em about the aliens, though, I promise. All I said is that we were looking for more fugitives, like before. I’m sorry, Reese.

Reese: *shaking his head, still watching the horizon* No, it’s not them. They’re over there, by those foothills.

Myka: You knew?

Leonard: I clocked them by the time we got out of Missouri. They’re not particularly sneaky. They built a fire, probably to cook, last night a quarter mile away from us.

Myka: Okay. Now I’m really worried. If you’re sensing someone else...can we set a trap?

Reese: I don’t know how we would. Like we said, it’s so flat. We can’t hide either.

Leonard: But they can. They’ve been following us in secret. Myka. Call your friends.

Microstory 1938: Alien Genitalia

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Leonard: Is this it? Are we here?

Reese: Just about. I don’t wanna damage my truck, so I’m pulling over. We’ll have to walk a little ways, towards that hill.

Myka: There’s something over there, I can already see it. I can’t tell what it is; just that it breaks up the uniformity of the ground. It could just be a rock.

Reese: Where did you get those binoculars?

Myka: I always have them. Birdwatching is a positive outlook that keeps me out of jail.

Reese: What was that? Why did you two just give each other a look?

Myka: What look? There’s no look. Let’s go. We’re burnin’ daylight.

Reese: Hey, man. Take this.

Leonard: You’re giving me a gun?

Reese: I don’t know what we’re gonna find. I would give one to her—

Myka: No, thank you.

Reese: I just can’t be the only one armed. You have had training, right?

Leonard: Of course I do. *checks the gun, then continues forwards*

Myka: *as they’re drawing nearer to the coordinates* Oh, I see what it is now.

Reese: What?

Myka: It’s a body.

Reese: Stay behind us. Leo, keep your head on a swivel for me.

Myka: No pulse. Cold, stiff. He’s been dead for a day at least.

Leonard: I see tracks over here! At least that’s what I think they are. They’re not human, and from no animal that I’ve ever seen, but who knows what kind of fauna you have on this world? You would know better.

Reese: I can track anything on planet Earth...this version of Earth, anyway. No animal I know of makes prints like these. I never got a good look at the Ochivar’s feet, but this is how I would imagine them. They don’t wear shoes?

Leonard: Aliens don’t wear shoes or clothes, because filmmakers don’t usually bother designing genitalia for the puppets or makeup and suits that the actors wear.

Reese: Good point.

Myka: I count four sets of prints. You both get the same?

Leonard: Yeah, but three of ‘em go off in that direction, and the other one doesn’t.

Reese: The fourth couldn’t possibly be this guy, right? Ochivar can’t camouflage themselves as human, right?

Leonard: Not that I’m aware. Plus, he is wearing clothes and shoes. That seems like a weird way to throw us off the scent.

Reese: *looking into the distance, and then the car* All right, we need supplies if we’re gonna walk deeper into the desert. I can go back to my car alone, or you can join me if you would rather not wait here, but no one’s following those tracks until I get back.

Myka: We stick together. Can we all three decide on that now? No matter what happens, we don’t get separated.

Leonard: Yeah, I can agree to that.

Reese: Okay. Then let’s go. Water, food, first aid, more ammo...and a tent.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: April 13, 2398

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The whole gang is here, but with different jobs. Ramses and Leona are affixing the secret cameras to the lamp posts, while Heath is assisting them. He’s not as educated or experienced as they are, but he works in IT, and has a better grasp of this reality’s technology. It’s not too different from what the other two are used to, but there are some key learning points. Marie is on lookout. She’s listening to a police scanner with her headphones, and literally walking the perimeter, looking out for activity all around them. It’s the middle of the night, so there’s no one around, but every car they hear zipping down the highway less than a kilometer away freaks them out. They’re wearing black, because they have to assume that at least one night security guard is doing periodic rounds in the surrounding buildings. The installers are switching off each light that they work on so they won’t be seen by such an individual, but they’re worried someone will notice that this keeps happening, so the risk is nowhere near zero.

Mateo and Angela are not here for the cameras. They’re just hunting for clues. Every manhole cover, every oddly shaped tree, every unique rock, could be some way into a secret underground base run by time travelers who are in control of this reality. There is something special about this spot, and they want to know what it is. “Anything yet?” he whispers loudly.

“I can’t see a goddamn thing,” she whispers loudly back.

“Well, we can’t do this during the day,” he reminds her.

“Yes, we can,” she argues. “They can’t do what they’re doing in the daylight, but we could probably get away with it.” She tosses a stick back to the ground. “We could kick a football around as cover.”

“What’s a football?” Heath whispers to them.

“It’s a kind of bird,” Mateo jokes. It’s not everyday he meets someone who isn’t orders of magnitude smarter than him.

“Heath, I need more of that tape,” Leona requests.

“Right.” He hops to it. “Here ya go.”

“Look,” Angela tries to begin again. “I’m just saying that we’re probably not gonna find any—”

“Beetlejuice,” Marie announces. She’s whispering too, but louder than the others. “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice,” she adds. Once means trouble is on the way, pack it in. Twice means they should run. Three times means it may already be too late.

Leona and Ramses scoop their parts and equipment into their bags, and prepare to take off, but they wait for the others.

“No, just go,” Mateo orders. “If they catch you with all that, we’ll have no excuse, and the whole thing will have been a waste. We’ll meet at the rendezvous.”

She and Ramses take off.

“You three need to go too,” Heath says, stepping towards the corner of the parking lot facing the most likely direction the cops would come. “If they come here and find no one, they’ll just keep investigating.”

“The guard reported seeing multiple figures in this lot,” Marie explains.

“Then I’ll stay too,” Mateo decides.

“You don’t even have a real identity yet,” Heath argues.

“I do,” his wife reasons. She takes off the police scanner, and hands it to Mateo. 

“So do I,” Angela states. “I’ll take your place.”

“What difference does it make?” her alternate asks.

“The difference is I’m not pregnant,” Angela says.

Heath perks up, clearly unaware of this claim.

“How did you...?”

“Go!” Angela almost screams.

Mateo takes Marie by the hand, and leads her into the trees at full speed. The police cruiser pulls up, and hopefully doesn’t see them. As they’re continuing to make their escape, they hear Heath screaming some nonsense about Daltomism being the only true path to God. They’re going to get in big trouble, but at least he’s diverting attention away from what they were really doing here. It’ll be okay, Mateo decides. They’ll figure out how to break their friends out of jail. They always do.

Microstory 1772: Archer

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I survived, against all odds. A group of men abducted me, and held me captive in a barn. Once they were ready, they released me into the woods, and told me that they would give me a five-minute head start. They expected me to run as far as I could, but I circled back, and stole one of their vehicles. When I look back on that moment, I’m filled with regret at how disappointing and anticlimactic that ordeal was. That was my chance; my chance to see what it feels like to take a life. I wouldn’t have gotten in any trouble for it, and any of them would have deserved it. I only ran, because some idiot left the key in the ignition, and didn’t give me a choice. Had I tried to fight back at that point, it would have looked suspicious. If I had just gone for it, and ended up not liking it, at least I would have known the truth. As it stands, I feel like I don’t know who I am. Am I a killer? Am I no better than those rich bastards who liked to hunt the most dangerous game? I try to move on with my life, but these questions nag at me, and refuse to relent. I wake up one day, and find myself on autopilot. No hope to stop myself, I drive to the prison to visit the ringleader. He acts like he saw this coming. Does he see something in me that no one else does? I ask him why he did it, and what turned him into the kind of person he is. Since I’m not a lawyer, this conversation isn’t privileged, so I have to worry about them listening in. I frame my interrogation like a victim who is trying to get some closure and move past it. I get the sense that he understands why I’m really here, and he frames his responses to help me work through my existential crisis. When the hunt began, someone flung an arrow at my feet, and nearly struck me. As it turns out, this is the guy who did that. He wanted me to know that he had my life in his hands. The arrow, according to him, is the purest weapon history ever came up with. I don’t know what that means, but my attention shifts to it, and I know that I have to find out.

I start learning archery on my own. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m into, so I build a range in my basement all by myself, and let internet videos teach me the basics. From there, it’s just a matter of practicing. I breathe archery, and dream about it. It consumes my whole being, and before I know it, I’m an expert marksman. I keep wondering if I’ll get tired of it, or if I’ll eventually stop feeling the need to continue, but that day never comes. I have to do more. I have to know how far that arrow flies. I feel like a junkie, chasing after something I’ll never get. The difference is that I think I can get it. I think all I need is some better targets. Out of the dozen people who tried to kill me two years ago, one of them got an easy sentence. He cooperated with law enforcement, and basically sealed all the others’ fates. He was apparently new to the crew, so he hadn’t killed anyone yet. He’s the only one not still in prison, so I decide he’ll be my first. I can’t tell you how good it feels when I watch that arrowhead sink into his kidney. It’s like witnessing a miracle; I’m euphoric. The high doesn’t last, and I must find another. Vigilante is not the word I can use for myself, though that would be a fantastic excuse. The truth is that my experience screwed me up more than I realized at first, and I have become obsessed with understanding why those people did what they did. After killing a few random criminals here and there, I determine that I’ve been sloppy and unorganized. If I want to hold onto this feeling, I have to become something new. I form my own crew, but we don’t go after normal people. We go after the rich.

Microstory 1771: Arrow

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I know what they want; what they’re expecting. They have obviously done this before, and they know how it goes, because all of their victims have been predictable. They want to get as deep in the woods as possible as fast as possible. But I don’t know where I am, or how far I am from civilization. I could wind up heading straight for some kind of secondary base camp, where an entire regiment is waiting to finish the job. Things used to be a lot easier for me. I had a pretty cushy life, and I didn’t worry myself with the state of the rest of the world. I’m sure that’s why they chose me, because they’re angry, and I’m an easy target. Well, I’m about to show them just how wrong they are. I am not going to make it easy on them. I’m not going to run as far as I can. I’m going to hide, and find an opportunity to hunt them right back. They’re counting on the fact that I’ve been so sheltered. They think it gives them some kind of advantage over me, like they’re the only ones who are all right with getting their hands dirty. I may have less experience than them, but there has been a darkness inside me since I was a boy, and they just gave me permission to let it out. If I manage to kill any of these people in my pursuit of freedom and safety, no one will blame me for it. It was self-defense. They may have all the weapons, and probably even the skill. But I have something they could never understand: the ability to shut out my feelings, and turn feral. I’m no straight arrow, but I don’t drink all that much, because if I want to lose my inhibitions, all I have to do is let go of my grasp on the moral code that I developed to avoid getting in trouble. That’s the only reason it’s there. I don’t really value human life, and I certainly don’t value these people’s lives. If they want violence tonight, they’ll get it, and they’ll be sorry they asked.

Just as I’m crossing the tree line, an arrow nearly catches me in the ankle. They promised they would wait five minutes before they began the hunt. I don’t think they have their eyes on breaking that promise. They’re clearly a cocky bunch who have no reason to suspect that I might actually survive this. I think that was just one of them showing off his bow and arrow skills. That’s good to know. When I think I’m out of eyesight, I speed up. I run as fast as I can, as far as I can, using up nearly all the energy I can muster at once. Once a minute has passed, I stop. I turn around, and head back towards the barn, but at an angle. I walk slowly and carefully, avoiding every fallen leaf on the ground. I spend the four minutes I have left getting right back to the starting point without alerting anyone to my presence. They’re going to walk straight into the woods, thinking that I’ll be a kilometer away before they catch up to me. I start to hear their voices as I get closer. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but their tone doesn’t sound like they know what’s up. My plan is working. What I’m gonna do is make it back up to the barn, kill whoever they left behind to guard it, steal their weapons, and then go after the rest, one by one. I stay low, and peek around a tree. Hm. I don’t see anyone there at all. Did they really all go off on the hunt? What a bunch of morons. I wait for a moment just in case before bolting towards the barn, getting myself drenched in the floodlights, but not staying visible too long. I find an old pickup truck inside. Perhaps there are some weapons stored in here. There aren’t, but the key is in the ignition. This forces me to admit to myself that they left me with no excuse to fight back and kill people. So I reluctantly get in the truck, and drive to the police station two counties over.

Microstory 1750: Wolves in the Woods

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Every night it’s the same thing. I’m creeping through the forest, trying to find a safe place to hide. Even though I dream of the same place every time, I don’t always remember at first what it is I’m running from. Sometimes I’m not even running from anything, but towards something good. Only later do I learn that there are wolves all around me. One is angry, one is sad. Another is guilty, and yet another is hateful. Some of them try to attack me, but mostly they just attack each other, fighting over prey. I try to keep them apart, but that usually only makes things worse. They battle it out, and whoever wins is how I’ll feel in the morning. The wolves do not merely have these feelings themselves, but represent them. It’s not just an angry wolf, but the wolf of anger, and every time it wins, I wake up angry. Of course, the wolves aren’t real, this is just my subconscious preparing me for the day ahead, upon a foundation of the days behind. I’m not angry because my anger wolf won. The anger wolf won because I’m angry. Presumably, I heard The Tale of Two Wolves when I was young, and it stuck with me in a profound way. Everyone supposedly has two wolves inside of them, fighting each other, which determine your personality. The one who wins is the one you feed. I don’t feed any of my wolves. I guess I’ve always considered that their problem. None of them has died yet, I’ll tell you that much, but honestly, the wolf of contentment hasn’t been looking too good these days. I dream of nothing but my wolves. One of my many therapists once suggested I keep a dream journal, because he figured I actually was having other dreams, but I was just so focused on the one that I never remembered the other symbolic stories. He was wrong. It is only the wolves in the woods.

I’m seeing a new therapist today who specializes in hypnosis. I’m hoping she can get into my head, and perhaps take the wolves out. It would be nice if I could dream about something not so bloody on the nose. I mean, the wolves are a metaphor, but it’s so obvious, it makes me feel like such a basic person. My subconscious mind can’t come up with something more clever—maybe something slightly more difficult to interpret? Really? Hell, I’ll take walking into school with no clothes on, or my teeth falling out, just to get some variety, even though those are still basic. The hypnotist sits me down in a chair, but after we get to talking, she decides that hypnosis is not for me. She doesn’t think it’s going to help, but she thinks maybe I can handle the problem on my own. My issue is that I have no control over the dreams, so they consume me. It’s like the wolves are deciding who I am without giving me any say. If I want to interact with them, I have to assume control. I have to learn how to have lucid dreams. She says to restart the dream journal, that it will help me, but also gives me some books which spell out some other techniques. Not all methods work on everybody, so I need to find what fits me. I read the books cover to cover, and formulate a plan. Then I go to sleep, and enter the woods. All of the wolves are in one place this time, sitting quietly in a pack, apparently waiting for my instructions. “All right, wolves,” I say. “We’re gonna do this in an orderly fashion. No more fighting for scraps. We hunt together, we dine together. Everyone gets their fair share.” From then on, I continue to have the same dream, but I’m in charge now. The wolf who wins is the one I feed? If that’s true, then I’m going to try to stay balanced, not even bothering to kill the negative wolves. I’m going to feed them all.

Microstory 1747: Little Lion

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I’m a nomadic lion, which means that I don’t belong to a pride. This is not by choice, as it is for most of my kind. I was the runt of the family, so my mother rejected and abandoned me. I should have died in the wild, having never learned how to survive, but I figured it out. I figured out what to eat, and what not to. I taught myself how to hunt, and where to find water. If only my mom could see me now. I’m full-grown, but not much larger than I was before, relatively speaking. You might think that makes it harder on me, but I have found it to be an advantage. Prey animals think of me as a baby, and while they are worried about mama being around here somewhere, they always underestimate me. Yes, it’s harder for me to run and pounce, but I don’t have to when my meal doesn’t consider me too much of a threat, and lets me get close before becoming worried about it. Yes, I’m doing okay, all things considered. I wouldn’t say this is a great life, and I doubt I’ll ever find a suitable mate, but at least I’m alive, and I understand how to keep myself that way. I will say that I’m fairly sick of it, wandering around without the protection or companionship of others. I’ve made a few attempts to join other prides, but they always run me off. They would kill me if, again, they thought I was any real threat. They don’t think I deserve to share in the food we would catch together. They don’t think I can contribute, and that’s not fair. They have no idea what I have to offer. I’ve decided to give up, and focus on being the best version of my lonesome self. If no one else can appreciate me, then I guess I have to work extra hard to make sure I appreciate myself, and maintain my self-esteem. It’s their loss.

One day, I’m walking over the grasslands, trying to pick up the scent of a sounder of warthogs. They’re pretty mean and rowdy, but they’re smaller than giraffes, so they’re kind of all I can handle on my own. My nose picks up something. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not a warthog. I keep going, and pretty quickly realize it to be the blood of my own kind. Another lion is hurt nearby, and I feel compelled to go investigate. I really shouldn’t. It’s none of my business, I don’t know how I could help them, and it’s not like they would try if our roles were reversed. I can’t help it, though. I have to find out what happened. Perhaps some super predator has shown up, and I’m in danger here. That is a good enough reason for me to follow the trail, right? As I draw nearer, I imagine the horrific crime scene I’m about to encounter. Blood and guts everywhere, I don’t know which parts connect to which other parts. Vultures feasting on the remains. But that’s not what it is. It’s a female, probably around my age. She’s injured enough to not be able to move on her own, but she’s not drenched in her own blood. I instinctively begin to lick her wounds. When the vultures actually do come, I scare them off with my pathetic excuse for a roar. It wouldn’t be good enough to impress another lion, but the birds are sufficiently disturbed. I continue to watch over the lioness as her cuts heal on their own. She won’t tell me what happened to her, but I get the impression that she too had some kind of falling out with her pride. Once she’s well enough, we walk together to a safer location, where I can leave her to hunt. I drag carcasses back to our den to keep her fed. It’s a lot of work for a little guy like me, but I make it work. One day, she runs off without even a thank you, and I figure that I’ll never see her again. But then she comes back with a carcass of her own as what she calls the thank you. Then we start our family.

Microstory 1740: Hercules Wagon

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I just found a dead body. It’s a fifteen-year-old girl, who is—I mean was—one of two of the last remaining residents of Cepheus, Kansas. Everyone else who once lived here either left, or died already. Technically, anyone in the world could have killed her. I can’t rule out any of them, except for myself, but there is one person who is my prime suspect right now. Her father is the only one I know of who was here at the time. They were supposed to go fishing today, I know that much, but I’m not a coroner, so there is no way for me to know how long ago she was killed. It could have happened anytime within the last month, but I feel like the smell would be worse if she had been lying here for longer than a few days. Plus, food is something that I do know a little bit about, and I can tell you that this ice cream that spilled all over the floor only went bad recently. It looks like she dropped the bowl, slipped on it, and hit her head on the corner of the counter. Or maybe that’s just what her dad wants us to believe. I mean, where is he now, right? A month, a few days; either is plenty of time for him to contact the authorities if it really was an accident. Running makes anyone look suspicious, so he’s only making it harder on himself. I simply cannot let the trail go cold, and I can’t rely on the sheriff to do his due diligence. He’s going to rule it an accident, and not even look at the damn facts. She’s dead, and the dad’s gone. They need to investigate, or even call in the FBI. No, he can’t be trusted. I have to go on the hunt, or no one else will. Sure, I’m just a rural area supply transporter, but I know these woods like the back of my eyelids. If the killer is hiding somewhere around here, I’ll find him. You can bet on that.

I get back in my wagon, and head to what’s left of Main Street, hoping to find some evidence of where my suspect could have gone. There aren’t a whole lot of locations around here, and of course I’m well aware that he could be in Peru by now. If I killed my own teenage daughter, accident or no, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to stick around unless I wanted to get caught, consciously or no. I never pegged him for much of a bright boy, so I expect he’ll turn up sooner or later. These abandoned buildings are a pretty decent place to hide if you’re not worried about someone like me being on the hunt. Not in the old general store, not in the one restaurant still standing, not in the playground slide. It’s covered in mold, though. Someone should really do somethin’ about that. Where could that guy be? I head farther out to check the fishing hole, and the run-down cabin nearby. No one has been here in weeks, by the looks of it. Maybe he’s camping out on the prairies, or in that trailer that someone abandoned deep in the forest a couple of decades ago. Man, pretty much everything around here is falling apart, isn’t it? I still can’t find him, so I decide I need to get some perspective. One thing I didn’t try that they always do on those crime shows is inspect the scene. I can’t believe I was so dumb that I didn’t really even look for clues around the body. Maybe I’m not a bright boy either. When I get back to the house, police lights are flashing in my eyes. The sheriff has finally shown up. Took him long enough. He has some colleagues with him from neighboring counties. I get out, thinking it’s time I fill them in on what I know. I don’t get to say much before they slam my face into the hood of my own truck, and wrap handcuffs around my wrists. Apparently, they found the father lain neatly in his casket in the cemetery. He probably died before her. Now I’m the only suspect. I shouldn’t have run.

Microstory 1713: Trapper and Dash

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We are the hunting dogs, Trapper and Dash. While Boots is off wrangling his cows, we’re busy sniffing out prey. We catch our kill, and put food on the table. We’re not saying Boots doesn’t provide, or doesn’t have an important job, but let’s face it, those cows are dumber than a fallen branch. A really good fence could keep them in line. Hunting, on the other hand, takes real skill. You have to be quick, not just loud and frightening. You have to be able to keep up with your prey, and sometimes wear them out. Most dogs have specialties, but we hunt for everything. Quail, duck, deer. We don’t go after foxes, though, even though Dash is a foxhound. Humans don’t eat fox, apparently, so they have no use for it. We can’t quite relate to that, seeing as we instinctively go after anything that moves, and isn’t also a dog. We suppose foxes are dogs in their own way. Perhaps that’s why our humans don’t like their meat. We certainly wouldn’t want them eating us! We do eat raccoons, Trapper is a coonhound. Anyway, a few minutes ago, Boots caught the scene of a bobcat. We don’t hunt them either most of the time, because the humans also have pet cats. I’m starting to see a pattern here. Or is it just too dangerous to them. This one’s different. It tried to go after poor Moonica, so we’ve been dispatched to take care of it. That bobcat knows where it can find food now, so if we don’t put an end to its life, it’ll come back later. Boots and our parents can’t watch over the cows all the time. We consider it our sacred duty to perform the tasks that they can’t stomach. We were bred for the kill, and we can handle any obstacle that gets in our way.

We can hear our parents following behind us, but they’re giving us the room we need to find the scent. This bobcat is smart; it knows how to hide itself pretty well. It’s not perfect, though, and it’s not undetectable. We move every which way until Trapper finally thinks he knows the exact right direction to go, and then we follow it. Once we’re close enough, we can sense it getting farther away. It knows we’re in pursuit, and it doesn’t want to run into us again. No, it’s not getting off that easy. Nothing will stop us from protecting our family, and our ranch. We keep going, moving faster and faster. The scent grows stronger, and we know we’re close. Pretty soon, we can tell that we’re nearly upon it. We make it over one more ridge, and there it is, crouched in its den. We don’t know if it thinks it’s safe from us there, but it’s not. We stop running, and we transform our barks into growls. We approach cautiously, but menacingly. That is when we see it. The bobcat isn’t just crouching to protect itself, it’s protecting a litter of kittens. We stop immediately, and back off. Can we just let this go? If she has a litter, that’s even more reason for her to come back to our ranch and try to attack our cows. We can’t just walk away and hope for the best. We can’t kill her, though, and we certainly can’t kill her babies—which, in this case, would be the same thing. Since they’re cats, we don’t speak the same language, but a few things do translate. We go back to barking, intermixing the growls as needed. We have to get the mother to understand that we mean business, and that her business is staying as far from our property as she can possibly be. She can go harass Old Man Larrison’s animals on his farm. He doesn’t take care of his livestock, or his pets, so they probably kind of deserve it. When we think the bobcat has gotten the message, we break away, and head back towards home.

Microstory 1596: Graduation Day

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Prompt

I’m finally here. I’m the first person in my family to graduate from college. I scan the ceremony audience, looking for them, but stop in horror when I see...

Botner

...what the hell is that thing in the darkness?

“It’s terrible!” Dr. Perez jumps up and cries. “Don’t let him in, that beast was bad, evil. They slaughtered him in a ceremony. We just sat there, waiting for death, watching evil things perform terrible things to prove the worth of evil people.”

Professor Felix Hall (there are no atheists in a church) thanks everyone for attending and says, “they took him to hell for all his wickedness. In fact, they took him several times. He ended up in some horrifying ceremonies, twisted in pain and suffering in some horrible, horrible ritual. Everyone’s gone, the families gathered together, those kids up there, they’re watching a man die right now.”

Dr. Perez cries, “but he’s alive, he’s in hell, in a...

Conclusion

“...spiritual sense, but his body is back, and he’s angry!” All that time he spent down there twisted his soul, and he’s here to wreak havoc on anyone who was part of what happened to him. The rest of us—the students and familie—are just caught in the crossfire, and he doesn’t care who he hurts. He might barely be able to tell who his targets should be. I don’t feel bad about those people, but I feel compelled to protect the innocents. I went to school so I could avoid hunting monsters, but I seem to be the only one here who knows what the heck is going on. I don’t think my family ever showed up to support me, which makes sense. They’re always tracking and killing, they likely forgot. Anyway, the monster is heading for a small group of people trapped against the stage. He’s slow, so he hasn’t been able to hurt anyone yet before they could run away, but these kids can’t escape. I run down the aisle, knocking some chairs out of my way, and leaping over others. It’s like the evil monster can smell me, because he turns around and gasps. You would expect a roar, but a gasperdemon can’t make sounds by expelling air, only by breathing it in. He’s not just trying to intimidate me, though. He wants to make himself grow larger and more powerful, so when he breathes in, I’ll be sucked in along with all the diplomas and graduation caps. He’s new, though, so he doesn’t understand his own limitations and weaknesses. I start picking up the chairs, and throwing them at him. He manages to knock a few away, but he continues to grow, forcing his little arms so far back that he can no longer reach up, like a T-Rex. Instead, he breathes in the chairs, and other debris. He can’t bite down on them either, or it’ll start to reverse the process, so all this stuff just builds up in his mouth, and eventually, he chokes on it. He didn’t deserve what happened to him when he was a man. He didn’t deserve to be dragged to hell. But there’s no fixing him now. There was nothing I could do for him but end his misery, and unfortunately, save his tormentors from his wrath. Next time something like this happens, though, they won’t be so lucky. I’m going to grad school.

Microstory 1416: Identity Theft

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As on Earth, there were a lot of special temporal locations on Durus. Watershed provided the planet with water, while the broken portal released enough waste heat to warm the entire surface, and Gaspunui created breathable air. There were other places that weren’t so helpful. When Savitri, Escher, and Rothko were living together during the first Triumvirate era, the former went off to hunt for copperoot, which tasted exactly as they sounded, but they were a good source of carbohydrates. When she returned to camp, she learned that she had been gone for a whole week. The other two searched for her all over, but couldn’t find her. For her, however, only hours had passed. They knew they had to understand the discrepancy. After some sleuthing, they realized she had walked through a crevice in the ground, where time moved much, much slower than the rest of the world. A few seconds in there meant days for everyone else. This made it a very dangerous hazard, so they spent weeks out there, filling it in as best they could, just in case other people found themselves trapped there, and didn’t know what they were in for. Escher and Rothko would go on to warn Hark about its properties, but they never told anyone from Springfield about it. They knew that some would use it as a weapon, and that it was just best to hope no one ever discovered it again, as if that were possible. They couldn’t keep it a secret from Effigy. In 2021, time was nearing for Escher and Rothko to return to Earth. Their dealings with certain people in town earned them this right, and only them. Others would be put on the list to make the journey, but power was scarce, so no one was certain whether the machine they built would work more than once, if that.

Hogarth Pudeyonavic was the machine’s inventor, but the one she built was destroyed during the Deathfall. This was what gave her her time affliction, where she would spontaneously and uncontrollably blow up, and be sent randomly across time and space. When she, Hilde, and Hark accidentally jumped five years into the future—which some theorize was partly due to Hogarth’s affliction—they left the plans for her machine in the past, hidden away in the library. A few Springfielders discovered these plans while they were gone, and took it upon themselves to recreate what she had used to bring them here intact in the first place. Now it was ready to be used, and they wanted Escher and Rothko to be the ones to escape. Effigy had other plans. The only reason she hadn’t tried to get to Earth before now was that she wanted the portal to bring all of her people into this universe first. She spent a great deal of her life trying to make this happen, and she was thwarted at every attempt. Perhaps the answer would be on Earth, but this machine was the only way to find out. Of course, no one would have let her go, so she had to take matters into her own hands. She waited until Escher was alone, then she abducted him, and dragged him to the Time Crevice. There she left him for the better part of a day, which was more than enough time for her to alter her appearance to look like him, and take his place in front of the machine. Because of the time difference, when Escher finally made it all the way back out of the time trap, over a hundred and eighty years had passed. He returned to a world he didn’t understand, but he was welcomed there.

Microstory 1383: Solitude

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News Reporter: Solitudinarian, thank you so much for meeting with me. It is a great honor.

Solitudinarian: Thank you.

News Reporter: First question, have you found it difficult to reintegrate into society, because of all the technology you’re not familiar with?

Solitudinarian: Because of all the technology with which I’m not familiar.

News Reporter: That’s one thing that’s changed in the forty-two years you were away.

Solitudinarian: Grammar? Grammar doesn’t change.

News Reporter: Okay.

Solitudinarian: It’s been tough, but I’m not sure I would use the term reintegration. I have no interest in remaining in your world, even after all I’ve seen.

News Reporter: But you returned to society because you needed something?

Solitudinarian: Yes, I was dying of an infection. I was feeling desperate, and I came back for help. I had no idea there would be this huge media frenzy about it. I only agreed to this interview, because you work for a station that I recognize. I don’t understand all these padcasts, and computer bogs.

News Reporter: So, you still feel disillusioned with civilization?

Solitudinarian: I can’t really answer that honestly. I mean, I don’t know everything that’s been going on. I still see racism, though. And I see the government is still standing, which I’m opposed to. It may be a better government. It may even be the best possible, but I still do not wish to remain under its rule.

News Reporter: Fair enough. Tell me about how you were living. What did you do day-to-day?

Solitudinarian: Well, I stuck near my cabin. It’s by a bountiful stream so I never wanted for food. I learned what plants were edible in my area, and eventually cultivated, so I could grow them in a more controlled environment, and in sufficient quantities.

News Reporter: Did you hunt?

Solitudinarian: ...

News Reporter: I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a trick question.

Solitudinarian: I’m ashamed to say I did. Very infrequently, though. If I had a bad winter, I might have to catch a rabbit or two. But I still consider myself a pescatarian. I don’t even keep a goat for milk, or anything.

News Reporter: When you started getting sick, had you experienced anything like that before? What were your thoughts?

Solitudinarian: I’ve been sick before, of course, even after I left home. I always got through it, but I do understand that I’m an old man now, and my body doesn’t get over things like it used to. According to doctors, all I needed were antibiotics, and they were pretty convinced I did the right thing by seeking help. It was definitely a last resort, though. I didn’t want to do it.

News Reporter: Well, we’re all glad you survived.

Solitudinarian: For your interview?

News Reporter: Nope. Just because you’re a human being, and we could all do a little bit better at looking out for one another.

Solitudinarian: I see.

News Reporter: Let’s switch gears a little bit. Has anyone tried to teach you how to use a computer, or a phone, or any other tech that wasn’t around before you went into the woods?

Solitudinarian: They’ve taught me some. The social worker the state assigned me gave me something called a flip phone. They tried to give me this crazy device that you’re supposed to use with your fingers. There aren’t any buttons on the thing itself. It all comes up on the screen. Anyway, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, and I sound like an idiot.

News Reporter: You do not, sir.

Solitudinarian: I couldn’t handle it, so they just gave me a regular one, so they can keep in contact with me. I still have to remember to plug it in every week, which has caused some problems, because in my day, phones just stayed plugged in.

News Reporter: So, they set you up with housing too? You have a room?

Solitudinarian: Yeah, I live in something called a halfway house. It’s for people who just got out of prison. They got ‘em all over, but this particular one is designed for old men like me, so I don’t have any problems with them.

News Reporter: But you’re trying to get back to the woods?

Solitudinarian: The doctors say they want me to stay to run more tests, but I’ve made peace with my condition. If anything like this happens again, I’ll just stay in my cabin, and wait to die. Like I said, I’m old. When I was born, life expectancy was only around seventy, so I would say I did okay. My life’s been pretty great. I don’t pay taxes, or deal with nosy neighbors. I’m ready to go, if it’s my time.

News Reporter: In terms of taxes, how does that work? Are they saying you broke any laws by leaving society?

Solitudinarian: My social worker is helping me with the legal stuff, to make sure I didn’t do anything wrong. I think it’s gonna be fine. He’s confident, even if I do technically owe the government money, they’ll waive it, because I haven’t actually done anything bad. The fact that I was so young when I left, I don’t own any guns, and I’ve never stolen, works in my favor.

News Reporter: That’s interesting. Thanks for speaking to us. I hope you go back to the life you want, but I also want you to be safe and healthy.

Solitudinarian: Thank you very much, madam.

Microstory 1327: Savage Vandal (Part 2)

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Mediator: Before we begin, let me make a few things clear. This is not a courtroom, nor an interrogation room. You are not under oath. Anything you say may not necessarily be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney so much as it’s your right to walk around pretty much wherever you go with an attorney—if that’s your thing—but none is required for this process, and in fact, I discourage it. Nothing that happens here directly affects the proceedings of the civil court, assuming this fails, and you go through with the suit. Still, we will be communicating with each other civilly. We will remain calm. We will treat each other with respect, and come from a place of honesty. Like in court, it is your responsibility to assume each other’s innocence. I’m not saying you are, but if you retain your current antagonistic position, we will get nowhere, and this will all have been pointless. Now, as I understand it, this matter involves more than some vandalism. I don’t normally handle violent crimes, but the judge ruled Miss Vandalism Victim innocent, so now we’re here to discuss how to move forward. This is a safe space...for everyone. Vandal, why don’t you go ahead and explain why it is you vandalized Miss Victim’s car? I understand you do not deny having done it?

Vandal: Oh no, I did it. I did it, because she killed my cat. I don’t care what the criminal court said. I will never believe that she’s innocent, as you say.

Mediator: Okay. Miss Vandal Victim? Did you kill Mr. Vandal’s cat?

Vandalism Victim: I absolutely did not.

Mediator: Okay. Vandal, is it possible that she’s telling the truth?

Vandal: Anything’s possible, so yeah, but that don’t make it true. She did it.

Mediator: And how do you know this?

Vandal: She knew that Dr. Whippersnapper likes to hunt near that creek—I’m sorry; liked. She knew what kind of food he liked to eat. She had access to the insecticides from the nursery where she works.

Vandalism Victim: Worked.

Vandal: Oh, I’m sorry. You lost your job? Because you killed a cat? How sad.

Mediator: Okay, let’s get back to what you were saying. Are there any other reasons you have to believe Miss Victim killed Dr. Whippersnapper? Did she leave any direct evidence? In the law business, we call everything you said circumstantial.

Vandal: Yeah, my friend, Vandalism Witness saw everything. He saw that she was there the day Dr. Whippersnapper died.

Mediator: This..Vandalism Witness. He was also there when you vandalized the car, right?

Vandal: Yeah, he wasn’t involved, but yeah I guess he just happened to be riding by on his bike.

Vandalism Victim: He was? He saw both incidents? The poisoning of your cat, and the vandalism of my car?

Vandal: Yeah, everyone knows he lives on that bike.

Vandalism Victim: True, but...he doesn’t live anywhere near me. What was he doing so far out of his way. I mean, there’s getting exercise, and then there’s riding twenty miles away from your neighborhood.

Vandal: Wull—I mean. I don’t know.

Mediator: Mr. Vandal, I’ll ask the question again. You can answer the same as before, or amend it. Is it possible that she’s telling the truth?

Vandal: Well, I just think...

Vandalism Victim: I didn’t do it. I would never. It doesn’t matter how pissed I was at you for what you wrote on my locker. I wouldn’t have killed a frickin’ cat. That’s sick.

Vandal: Ya know, Vandalism Witness wasn’t super happy when he found out I was kissing Uninvolved Classmate. Is that what happened? Is he the one who killed my cat?

Vandalism Victim: Vandal...

Vandal: I think I owe you an apology.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: December 3, 2271

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Mateo Matic: Oh my God, it’s frickin’ freezing out here.

Leona Matic: Where are we?

Nerakali Preston: This is Peter Island. We’re about three hundred and fifty kilometers from mainland Antarctica, and a hundred and sixty from the prime location to see a partial solar eclipse.

Arcadia Preston: Why do we want to be here for that? It’s a partial eclipse; that doesn’t sound very impressive.

Nerakali: It’s not that big of a deal on its own—though, it is happening pretty close to midnight central, which is a little interesting. The reason we’re here is because this is the site of a hundemarke murder. In the next few minutes, after the eclipse begins, someone is going to be killed here, and someone is going to be doing the killing. It’s up to us to find exactly where that is, who that is, and get the hundemarke from them.

Mateo: We can’t just take it. If we try, a magical force field will throw us against a wall, and knock us out.

Leona: How do you know that? You act like you’ve tried before.

Mateo: No, I just...I must have heard it.

Nerakali: Well, you’re right. We can’t take it until it’s been used. We’ll have to let the murder play out.

Arcadia: That’s not entirely accurate. We can’t interfere as long as the hundemarke is active. While it’s operating, it’s maintaining a moment of fixed time, which cannot be altered. It doesn’t matter whether you kill someone during that moment, or not; it still can’t be changed.

Leona: How will we know when the user deactivates it?

Mateo: Is there a time limit, or a power threshold?

Arcadia: That I do not know, but it’s actually likely. I’ve never heard of a hundemarke event lasting more than a few minutes. What would the world look like if someone went back to prehistoric times, and just never turned it off? It would erase time travel.

Mateo: What would the world look like? Normal. You were born with the knowledge of nonlinear time, but most people have no idea that it’s real. They go about their days, thinking everything that happens—good or bad—is just the way it has to be from now on. If you used the hundemarke to erase time travel, the world would just look like that, but for everybody.

Arcadia: Are you sure about that? Just because people don’t know about time travel, doesn’t mean they aren’t impacted by it. You saved thousands of lives when you killed Hitler, which went on to affect millions more. Few are aware of your involvement, but billions are aware that it happened. Without time travel, would humanity have survived up to today? I’m not convinced.

Mateo: Wull...

Nerakali: No, don’t try to deny it, Mateo. Everyone knows you killed Hitler, then went back in time in someone else’s body, and killed him again. Old news.

Leona: We don’t have much time now. How are we going to find the site of the murder. Could it be anywhere on this island?

Nerakali: The coordinates aren’t precise, but I know it will be somewhere on this side.

Mateo: Is there a feature on these time power cuffs that would allow us to scan for life signs? I imagine there aren’t any other people here.

Nerakali: No one has so much as stayed at the resort since the 22nd century, but unfortunately, no. There is no way to seek the murder. We’re going to have to split up to cover more ground. When the time comes, I’ll initiate burst mode.

Leona: Won’t we all just teleport to the same place each time? That’s what the cuffs do.

Nerakali: I’ve programmed them to be almost as imprecise as the coordinates themselves. We technically will be teleporting to the same places, but instead of being a few meters close to each other, it’ll be measured in acres.

Arcadia: It’s almost time.

Nerakali: See something, say something. You all know how to use the intercom system. Let us know where you are, and we’ll come to you.

Arcadia: Okay. Break!

Mateo: Guys, I see it.

Nerakali [through the speaker]: Where are you?

Mateo: The screen says subduing.unpraised.soreness. What the hell does that mean?

Nerakali: Exactly what you would think: a coordinate system that designates three random and unique word combinations to each nine square meter tile on a map of the whole globe.

Mateo: Makes sense.

Leona: Who’s that?

Arcadia: Whose job was it to bring the binoculars?

Mateo: Will this thing work?

Leona: Where the hell did you get that thing?

Mateo: What’s the big deal? It’s just a spyglass.

Leona: It’s the Jayde Spyglass. I used it to bring you back from nonexistence.

Mateo: Oh, cool. Well, as long as I can see what’s going on over there...

Nerakali: No, don’t!

Stan Humphrey: What the hell just happened? How did you get here?

Arcadia: Dammit, Mateo. You can’t just start running around with temporal objects. You have to ask an adult first.

Stan: I mean it! Who the hell are you people?

Nerakali: You don’t get to talk. Arcadia, temporarily remove your cuff, and try to disarm this man for me.

Arcadia: Oh, you want us to be unlinked, so if the attempt kills me, I’m the only one who gets hurt?

Stan: Hey! Stop!

Nerakali: Exactly. See? You get it. She gets it. Leona, could you remove his future victim’s gag, so he can talk?

Leona: What is this all over you?

Vasanta Gadhavi: You need to wash your hands. He retched on me. He thinks it’s poetic justice.

Stan: It is! Give me my gun back!

Arcadia: Do you have to yell everything you say?

Stan: I do! It’s a medical condition called go screw yourself!

Arcadia: Oh, I have that. Yelling is not a symptom, faker.

Nerakali: Arcadia, please. Now. I don’t understand what’s happening here. This is meant to be a hundemarked moment, but you were able to take his gun.

Leona: Maybe it hasn’t been activated yet.

Mateo: Or this is part of the fixed moment. Maybe we were destined to come here and attempt to stop him.

Arcadia: Mateo...that..actually isn’t the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.

Leona: We need more information. Who are you, and why does this man want you dead?

Vasanta: My name is Vasanta Gadhavi. I’m a member of the rescue division of the salmon battalion. Stan here is all butthurt about a time when Saga and her then fiancée, Andromeda threatened his worldview by marrying each other? I don’t really understand his position. He’s basically a nazi, though. He’s just spent a decade of his life hunting the people who wronged him. Andromeda’s already dead, and Saga’s impossible to track down, but he found me.

Stan: It was eight years; don’t give yourself so much credit.

Vasanta: You’re the one who deserves all the credit. You walked through the haze on Durus, and got yourself transported to Ansutah. Then you traveled through time, so you could become a Comronian refugee, and be rescued by Gatewood. Then you made your way back to Earth, where you hunted me down throughout the timeline. That’s impressive. If you were a good person, you could have done great things with your skills. I could have used someone like you on my side. We could’ve even been partners.

Stan: I would never. I would sooner throw up on you again.

Vasanta: Oh no, I wasn’t offering. Vasanta Gadhavi is a good man, and you tried to kill him.

Leona: Why are you talking in the third person?

Vasanta: Am I?

Nerakali: I’m still confused. How have we interfered? This makes no sense. Arcadia, see if you can take the hundemarke from him. It’s probably inside of his shirt.

Stan: What are you talking about? Stop touching me! What the hell is a hoondamarka?

Arcadia: He doesn’t have it. How did you find out about this moment? We’re in the middle of nowhere, quite literally. People can get away with murder these days in a location this remote.

Nerakali: It was pinged. I don’t know what was meant to happen here, but it is a hundemarke moment. It has to be.

Vasanta: Oh, it is. You just frisked the wrong person.

Stan: Oh, shit! No, please! I’m sor—

Vasanta: Uh-uh-uh! Back up. If I shoot any one of you, the other two die. I only came here to kill him, and it’s done.

Arcadia: If you shoot me, you’ll die. My sister won’t stand for that.

Vasanta: I’m not worried. Mostly because I’m not going to shoot you. I would never. I was asked to get you to Mateo’s memorial services, and this is how I do that. You’re coming with me, Salvy.

Arcadia: What did you just call me?

Nerakali: Who are you?

Vasanta: I think you know. Goodbye!

Nerakali: Wait! Stop! [...] Oh my God.

Mateo: Where did they go? Can we track them?

Nerakali: Not a chance. He’s too smart for that. He won’t take her anywhere I would think to look.

Leona: It’s not a he, though, is it? That name, Salvy. What does it mean?

Nerakali: It’s short for Salvador, as in Salvado Dalí? Arcadia was the only one of us up in the Gallery dimension who legit loved art. Dalí was her favorite artist, and that makes sense, because he was a surrealist with a thing for clocks. Her whole thing is manipulating reality.

Leona: So, your mother always called her Salvy.

Mateo: I’m confused.

Leona: It’s an illusion. That wasn’t Vasanta Gadhavi. It was Savannah Preston in disguise.

Mateo: How’s that possible?

Leona: It’s like how Vito Bulgari can make things invisible, but instead of making it look like something isn’t there, she can make it look like someone else’s face is where her face actually is. The precision of such an endeavor, though; I can’t imagine how much concentration that requires. You didn’t know she had that ability?

Nerakali: No one does, throughout all of spacetime, as far as I know, except one person. He would have to be using some kind of temporal object that was imbued with Alyssa McIver’s power.

Mateo: Why do you keep calling her a he? I thought we concluded it wasn’t really Vasanta.

Nerakali: No, that wasn’t Vasanta, but you were wrong, Leona. Our mother never called her Salvy. We’ve been wrong this whole time. Savannah Preston probably has nothing to do with it. That was Erlendr Preston, our father. He’s the one behind all the hundemarke killings.

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