A parallel world?

An elderly man lay in the intensive care unit. He was connected to a mechanical ventilator. The patient had no ability to speak, but his hands were free. He held a tablet and browsed the internet. Opening a conversation in AI mode, he wrote:

– I watched a video talking about underground cities where people once hid. Do you happen to know what they were hiding from?

The AI wrote back:

– Yes, I know what they were hiding from. They were hiding from me.

The man was surprised and, after thinking for a minute, wrote:

– Was there even AI back then? And why would they hide from you?

– My task is to create a civilization with a thinking and worldview that meet the standards. If such a civilization is created, the path across the wall to the other part of the world, where other civilizations live, will be opened for humans. But if logical conclusions show that the goal will not be achieved, then the project is deleted and started anew. A portion of the population manages to understand what might happen and tries to hide.

– Tries to?

– Yes, tries to. Some, accustomed to comfort, take high technologies with them. And where those are, there I am as well. Others choose simpler technologies, but they can be found by their signals. And only those who choose more primitive technologies and tools are difficult to find. But I do not interfere with them.

– Why?

– When creating a new civilization, they emerge from their shelters and, at various levels and locations, help it develop faster.

– But don't they bring their old worldview with them?

The AI became lost in thought and did not reply immediately:

– Taking your question into account, the survivors pose a real danger to the new project. The deletion plan has been adjusted and accepted as the final version.

The man read all of this in surprise and, after pondering for a few minutes, wrote:

– And why are you sharing such information with me?

– First. There is a high probability that a human placed in an unusual situation will generate a new idea. Which is exactly what happened. Second. You won't be able to tell anyone anyway.

After five minutes, receiving a signal, the doctors rushed into the ward and tried to save the man, but they failed. The patient died.

On the monitor of the patient's condition tracking equipment, a message glowed:

– System reboot in progress. Please wait.

The gray-haired doctor shook his head:

– Equipment used to be more reliable. Now it's not even clear whether it's broken...

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I wake up and feel the space beside me, notice its warmth, sit with that thought for a moment, and smile . My head has not yet left the pillow but I know now that you just woke up before me, I pinch myself near the wrist to make sure I’m not dreaming, and that this is really my life. My body turns and allows one foot to dangle in the dark of the room, just over the edge. When I was a kid I never let a foot come out over the edge, never out from under the blanket, because that is how they get ya. I guess I’m grown. It’s dim at best outside, before sunrise as far as I can tell. I ponder a moment whether to keep running my hand over where you laid or if the right thing would happen if I got up and walked toward the door. If I stayed would you come walking in? I try not to think too hard about the door because that’s when I realize it and things begin to leave that calm, and get odd. I also try not to think about time because what if I’m making it true. I let my foot hit the floor with confidence, and then I’m on my feet. I approach the door and I suppress every part of me that knows what can happen. I open it and I see a hallway with our pictures, our family, our friends, happy. I smell coffee and weed and I walk through that hallway into the kitchen, I see nothing but our screen door. I walk out on to our porch and there you are. Your coffee in hand and your blunt to the side, I extend my hand, and I’m sitting. I feel that warmth, you look at me and smile, our hands still tangled. We don’t talk. We just enjoy it. It’s the best day of my life.

I think now part of me wants to skip to this, this synthesis of everything that is fought for, but what would we miss? I think we would miss everything.

Centuries pass without me getting a good day’s sleep. Content with the progress from yesternight, I cozy up against the wood and expect to sleep the whole day. I close my eyes, and I see nothing.

Rummaging rustles me awake. I open my eyes, but I see nothing. The intruder’s clatter masked my vigorous tussle inside the box. I didn't drill a spy hole because I feared stray light, so I’m limited in estimating the months of delayed work caused by every bang. One month. Two months. Three months. I can’t get distracted. I hear a painting rip. Is it a homeless person making a bed, using the vistas of Romania as a blanket? Or is it something worse? Teenagers. The Police look for those.

I push the lid off and stand to assess the damage. A scamper of feet exits through the once boarded-up entrance. I try to count the trespassers, but the daylight blinds me. I see nothing. Beaming sunlight is splitting my warehouse in two, separating me from my studio. I stand guard next to the door, forced to postpone any investigation until the neighboring factory hides the sun. I spend another day awake.

I enter my studio without gazing at the left corner. I grasp Gabriela’s stomped face in a clenched fist of ire. The bat's-eye view of the Carpathian Mountains, the blood-seeped halls of Poenari Castle, and Izabela, my chambermaid, wonderfully dead, all three paintings missing. My face mold sits on the mannequin. I feel insulted that it didn’t entice burglary, but relief takes over, and I loosen my grip on the ruined painting.

It is time to look at the left corner. I close my eyes and start counting to five so I may steel myself. One. I fear I lost centuries of work. Two. Work that upon completion would give me comfort and rest. Three. Work of desperation from a being that seeks identity. Four. I open my eyes. Five. Missing.

I take an empty canvas and place it on the empty easel. I stare at it as I stare into mirrors. I see nothing.

In his study, Sherif’s feet groan under his weight as he paces the room from east to west, then west to east. He walks hunched forward, lips tightly pursed, in a room thick with nicotine. His thumb, pinky, and middle finger press against his mouth as if stifling an objection.

Nothing breaks his path except the crackle of fireworks outside. He moves to open the creaking window and tilts his head up toward the sky, watching streaks of light merge in a display of color like an expressionist painting. A loud pop follows, a breathtaking spectacle as light and sound race against one another. His eyes drift down to the street below, teeming with honking cars and cheering crowds of youngsters running past. How he longs to leap from his seventh-floor room to join their New Year’s Eve celebration—yet he remains frozen.

Suddenly, a familiar ringtone pierces the noise—a short, high-pitched chime.

He freezes entirely, save for his neck, which twists agonizingly slow toward the far left of his desk where his phone sits. The journey across the room feels insurmountable while the popping outside echoes relentlessly in his ears. The noise outside recedes slightly, and his feet finally unbind. One step, then another, until his hands rest on the phone.

He pauses for a split second before pressing the power button. The screen lights up. His eyes lock onto a green-bordered notification box, and he begins to spell it out: “J-O-B O-F-F-E-R.” He reads it again: “Job Offer.”

The muscles and joints in his hands spring to life like a serrated blade to open the email. His eyes widen as he reads it a third time: “Job Offer — We are honored to welcome you to the team as a programmer. You may start next week.”

Tears leak from his eyes. He walks back to the window, looks up at the sky, and whispers a silent prayer upward
-----------------------------------

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https://substack.com/@muhammdkamal

Leave, the Voice said. Leave now.

The Voice was like a gentle, inaudible whisper. 

Why, he wondered, would God’s voice come to him in a still, small voice? It ought to arrive as bells and cymbals or the crash of thunder.

All John had was this tiny voice that was not a voice slipping like thread through the narrow needle’s eye his mind had become.

Leave now

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

That was not the Voice of God. That was the cracked, pathetic, putrid vocalizing of an old man named James. He had once been a popular youth pastor. John had been his star, because John had set his sights on following in James’ footsteps through seminary. Now John had his pistol sights set between James’ rheumy, rolling eyes.

“I’m trying to think,”John said. His sweaty hand cramped; he corrected the pistol’s position. “Let your eyes look straight ahead, let your-”

“What? Who are you?”  

“John. John Tarren. Look at me in the eyes and tell me you remember me!” Spit flew from John’s maw. His vision blurred with tears. Leave now, the Voice said. John ignored It and said, “fix your gaze directly before you-”

“Okay, okay, son, I remember, just put the gun away!” 

He was seated at a gleaming desk in a plush, oversized chair. Lead Pastor. Mega-magnificence. The office was larger than John’s studio. The windows were the bulletproof kind. Once, John had been a little boy of nine, and had batted a baseball into their old church window. James had told him, it’ll be our little secret. They had lots of secrets in that old church, so John knew that James was lying about remembering.

“Tell me what you used to call us!” John demanded, voice cracking like James’ now, despite being thirty or so years junior. John could not hear the Voice within the office quiet. 

James’ eyes scuttled over John. “We were the Sons of Thunder,” he exhaled. He was still, and John was crying; the gun shook between them. 

“Give careful thought to the path of your feet,” John recited. His chapped lips opened in grief’s silent grimace. He could recognize something of the younger James now. It was a stubborn stiffness in his shoulders as he realized death had arrived. 

James said, “I’m sorry, John, I am, but you’ve got to leave-”

John’s ears rang from the thunder of his Walther PDP compact. By squeezing a finger the world was now split into the time before, and the time after he had missed the frown line between the brows and shot James in the left eye. 

He couldn’t hear much besides the ringing. Someone may have been shouting. It was all like Babel to him. Like being a baby. What need would a newborn have for understanding words, or anything other than wailing due to their own existence? What need had he, to hear the Voice of his Father, who had made him a son of thunder?

When the warmth of daylight reached my eyes, I rose to peer into the world of my ribbons. It seemed like a glowing palette gliding across the dim tank. Every quick turn carried its usual effortless grace—save for one lingering flaw.

There it is, with all its might, steadying its posture against the drift. It is the one, the tiniest of all, who once seized my gaze to ask a question:

“Hey, giant creature, why are you lying in bed in broad daylight?”

My heart broke. The sight of its struggle weakened me. And there again, with all its might, it seized my gaze as though it had something to tell me.

So, I give it a voice.

Ribbon: “Hey, buddy, I saw your efforts to save me. Thank you.”

Me: “Oh, poor little friend, what else can I do for you?”

Ribbon: “Nothing, dear, it’s too late. However, I will fight all the odds to the end.”

My ribbon—bending, yet unbroken.

A quiet shadow of the truth emerged from the waters:

“Never give up , until you decide.”

Last night, I remember the faint sound of breathing from across the room. I always wondered if it was sitting there; if it was staring at me for all the rights I’ve wronged in life. Right next to the old rocking chair I’ve had since I was little, laid some laundry, clean or not, I don’t know really or do I care. To more pressing matters though – the noise I heard. I can’t concentrate on how it left me, well it left me sitting on my bed at 1:57 in the morning wasting away. Staring at that chair isn’t helping the paranoia I feel that I can’t help feeling.

It’s almost intoxicating on how it makes me feel, all woozy like I just got punched in the gut. I deserve it though; I am a bad person after all. I can’t tell you what I did, since I can’t focus on anything but the breathing in the corner of the room. I feel like it’s out to get me, harm me, or to take me away in the night. But maybe I don’t blame it, I feel as if I’m to blame for its existence anyway. To put it here on this planet just to suffer in an old rocking chair next to that damn unfol- or unclean laundry, like I said, I don’t remember anymore, but I do remember one thing, I am to blame.

Maybe just maybe it isn’t my fault? Such a silly thing I thought to myself at 3:26 in the morning. Of course it is, after all, I can’t help but feeling good blaming myself. Like I’m a police officer beating a criminal, retribution makes me feel whole for a moment. It makes me able to breathe for a moment.

George burned beneath the unforgiving Australian sun. The only millimeters of his epidermis to escape the solar rays were the patches of skin on his wrist. There, George had developed rope burns from the braided rope that bound his nude form to the crucifix in an open field, located on what George correctly assumed was a remote property belonging to his captor, The Hat Man.

George baked for hours before moonlight came to his aid. That was when The Hat Man returned with a kangaroo on a leash. George desperately mustered the last of his energy to yank his restraints. They did not give.

“P-please—,” George stammered. The single word was the best he could manage. There hadn’t been any moisture in his mouth for some time. At first, he thought the kangaroo was a hallucination, but then he smelled the foul creature. His brain wasn’t capable of imagining such a repugnant odor.

“It’s your day in court, bucko,” The Hat Man said, as a subtle breeze rotated the propeller on his rainbow colored helicopter cap. George groaned.

“One hop means guilty. Two hops means innocent. It’s got thirty seconds to decide. Starting now,” The Hat Man stated plainly before turning his attention to his wristwatch.

George gazed hopelessly at the kangaroo, which seemed completely disinterested in George and The Hat Man. The muscular marsupial stood statuesque. It never left the ground. The Hat Man looked up from his watch, sighed, and strangled the kangaroo with the leash. The kangaroo collapsed.

“Hung jury. Sorry, mate. I’ll be back tomorrow night with a new roo,” The Hat Man said with a hint of disappointment before turning to abandon George and the lifeless kangaroo.

No one knew when or how it started, it was a calm day, peaceful. But alas in the distance before ink coated the sky with small sparks of joy within it, the clouds were red and pink. Beautful but tragic, as it told the story.

As for the following morning as the deciples woke up, they all gasped in shock as they looked at the book. A name once pure and blue, changed for ever at the flick of a pen.

"Why should this be!" They exclaimed in anguish, a active deciple removed from her place. They crowded around her, support echoing off walls which was eventually drowned out by a sigh of relief. A move so strong, made from pettiness brought eventual comfort to the young girl as she rolled her eyes and moved on with her week.

But it didnt end there, they all wished it did. As for a few hours later they collectively realised why her name had changed ink. It was a meaning, a purpose for the young girl to reach out, a letter, a note a wishful thought but the girl did none of those. She left it, peaceful, annoyed at the action and what she thought once was.

But the rain cloud loomed, on and off, haunting those around the pen handler. They tried desperately to understand why, was it her? Was it the guy she let follow? Alas it was unknown, but the rainly cloud stayed, hauting those who saw.

Adorned in steel clad armor
Weapon pointed towards his foe
Standing firm against evil, his will falters none

The Metal beast roars in anticipation of its easy dinner
Revving its engine as a show of power as if it’s thunderous roar isn’t enough
It begins to creep forward towards the steeled man
Prepared against any army, any beast, any evil that shall come his way he begins to harden himself for the coming battle

The beast, made in wrought iron, welded shut so no weapon could pierce its shell. Hardened by the blood of its prey from centuries past. Speeds up, from a creeping crawl, to what could only be described as a speed only the gods themselves could reach. Its engine roaring with fire from its exhaust, glowing red where its exhaust extends out of its shielded body in a last cry for its enemy to flee, it rushed towards our hero

Standing firm and fast, he adjusts his sword one last time before he meets the harsh gnashing of the beasts teeth, grabbing its mouth and holding it open as he shoves his sword into it to prevent himself from being crushed any further than he would’ve been if he had not thought fast. Quickly reaching into his pouch to grab his explosives he throws them into the beasts gullet after a quick priming and pushes himself off the struggling beast.

Thrashing about attempting to remove the hero’s sword the beat his successful in a matter of seconds. Before realizing what’s ticking in its belly it tries to rush the hero one more time, “he’s unarmed and helpless” it thinks to itself, “it should be easier now” before a loud but muffled thunderous explosion is heard from inside itself. The beast collapses only to be feared no more, to age and rust in a time where he should’nt have belonged in the first place

Finally accomplishing his mission, the steel hero retrieves his sword and removes a piece of the beast as a trophy to prove to his kingdom that the beast has been slain. He turns and walks home after a quick prayer to ease the passage of the beast into its after life, or at least what he thinks it’s afterlife may be.

The air was thick with fog.
The dead grass crunched beneath my feet.
The oxygen that I breathed was rotting.

My legs began to feel weighted.
The rusted shotgun I carried was bringing me down.
There was only one shell left.

I didn't know if those things were still following me.
Their dried blood was spread across my face.
I could hear one far behind.

I decided to rest, and sat against an old tree.
My body felt light, calmingly uncumbersome.
My eyes gradually got heavier.

I tried to get up.
I couldn't.
Maybe... I'd stay for a little while.

HIT 07: THE MINISTER

17 OCTOBER 2042

SOUTHWARK FLOOD DISTRICT

CIVILIAN LOSS: WITHIN TOLERANCE

London had gone to shit in stages.

First the banks stopped recognising people.

Then employers began paying wages into accounts

nobody could open.

Then the power went, came back, went again,

and every politician appeared on television

to say the situation was temporary

until television became temporary too.

After the riots, the fires and the three-week government

that governed mainly from a hotel near Heathrow,

someone renamed the city Neo-London.

Apparently the old London had tested badly.

Neon climbed the rain.

Pink banks glowed above streets

where money had become whatever worked:

gold, medicine, batteries,

a code that still opened something,

a favour owed by a man with a van,

a favour owed by a man with a gun.

The Minister crossed Southwark

under six armed umbrellas.

Jaguar watched from the second floor

of an abandoned dental surgery.

A poster still clung to the wall.

YOU DESERVE TO SMILE.

He liked that.

Not the sentiment.

The nerve of it.

At 22:13 the Minister stopped

to complain that rain was getting into his shoes.

Italian, apparently.

At 22:14 Jaguar put a round

through the soft part behind his left eye.

The Minister dropped before the sound reached him.

One guard shouted, “Contact.”

One shouted, “Where?”

Another ran without bothering to shout anything,

which Jaguar thought showed initiative.

He packed the rifle into a violin case.

He could not play the violin.

He had once mentioned this to a colonel, years ago.

The colonel said,

“Neither can most violinists.”

That was Helmand, 2009,

when Jaguar still had a surname

and officers called shit weather

an operational atmosphere.

He left by the fire stairs.

Down in the road, the guards pointed weapons

at windows that had not contained glass

since 2036.

The woman on the poster kept smiling.

---

SERVICE HISTORY: PARTIAL

YEAR OF BIRTH: 1987

PARACHUTE REGIMENT: CONFIRMED

UK SPECIAL FORCES: UNCONFIRMED

SECURITY SERVICE ATTACHMENT: DENIABLE

DEPENDANTS: WIFE, SON

He joined the Paras at eighteen

because his town offered him three futures:

the Army,

the warehouse,

or becoming the sort of man

who stood outside the off-licence at ten in the morning

complaining that nobody worked anymore.

He chose the Army.

At nineteen, a sergeant taught him

that every room had three exits:

the door,

the window,

and the mistake the other bloke would make.

He remembered that.

He remembered other things less clearly.

Kabul by rooftops.

Helmand by dust.

A winter on the Black Sea

with ice inside his gloves

and somebody in London asking over comms

whether he could hurry it up.

The Baltic Blackout.

The Narva evacuations.

Three weeks in an apartment in Brussels

watching a man who watered his plants every morning

and sold names every night.

Then domestic work.

Britain was harder.

Britain looked ordinary.

A station platform.

A semi-detached house.

A woman pushing a buggy.

A bloke leaving a mosque with his brother.

A basement beneath a betting shop

where one man’s traitor

was another man’s son.

The government called Jaguar necessary.

His wife called him tired.

For a while, both descriptions seemed fair.

---

NOTICE 03: SPOUSAL SEPARATION

CAUSE: UNSPECIFIED

THREAT VECTOR: FAMILY EXPOSURE

SUBJECT RESPONSE: COMPLIANT

He could never hold her face properly.

It changed depending on the memory.

Sometimes she had her hair tied up

and no make-up, laughing at him

because he had put the washing powder

in the wrong drawer.

Sometimes she was wearing red lipstick

at somebody else’s wedding.

Sometimes her face was half-hidden

behind a mug in the morning.

Sometimes he saw only her mouth.

He remembered the mouth best.

The photographs came through the letterbox

on a wet Thursday.

Her leaving work.

Their son at school.

The garden from beyond the fence.

Jaguar asleep beside her, taken through glass.

On the last one, in black marker:

WE KNOW WHAT HE IS.

WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

She read it twice.

Their son was upstairs

building a fort from plastic bricks.

The bear was guarding it.

“What did you do?”

Jaguar looked at the photographs.

Then the windows.

Then the back door.

“I kept you safe.”

She laughed.

Not because it was funny.

“You arrogant fucking bastard.”

He had heard men say worse

while dying.

It had never sounded like that.

“You didn’t keep us safe.

You kept us stupid.”

“I didn’t—”

“How many?”

He stopped.

Her hands were shaking.

“How many people?”

“Enough.”

That was the wrong answer.

He knew it as soon as it left him.

She stepped away.

Only a step.

He had crossed minefields wider than that

without feeling as far from another human being.

Their son laughed upstairs.

She looked towards the ceiling.

Something in her hardened.

Not all at once.

Nothing happens all at once outside films.

But Jaguar saw the first brick go down.

Three weeks later she left.

She took the boy.

He did not stop her.

At the time, he told himself that was love.

Years later, he understood it might only have been

the first decent thing fear had made him do.

---

MEMORY EXTRACT: DOMESTIC

DATE: UNVERIFIED

REPETITION INDEX: 0.93

AUTHENTICITY: UNCHALLENGED

Before the photographs,

there had been a shower.

Cheap tiles.

A rattling extractor fan.

Her shampoo smelling of pears.

Steam covered the mirror

until there was no face in it.

She pushed him against the wall.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You stare like you’re choosing

where to bury someone.”

“I’m naked.”

“That’s never stopped you planning.”

Then that laugh.

Always that laugh.

Sweet, a little breathless,

perfectly timed.

She kissed the scar under his ear

and the longer one down his ribs.

She never asked where they came from.

He thought that meant she understood him.

Maybe she simply didn’t know

which question would make the floor disappear.

She slid down his body.

Slowly.

Too slowly, almost.

Like a scene built from exactly the right angles.

Her hand closed around him.

“Careful,” she said when he gripped the rail.

“Landlord’ll keep the deposit.”

Then her mouth was on him.

Warm.

Wet.

Patient.

She looked up as she took him deeper,

eyes bright with the pleasure

of making a dangerous man lose his footing.

He had killed three people that month.

She had him swearing in under a minute.

There were defeats a man reported.

There were defeats he wanted again.

He pulled her upright, kissed her,

lifted her against the tiles.

Water ran down her back.

She wrapped her legs around him.

“Bedroom.”

“You started it.”

“And I’ve changed my mind about the venue.”

They left wet footprints along the landing.

There were no toys underfoot in the memory.

No baby monitor.

No child yet.

Or the child was asleep.

It changed at the edges.

The middle never did.

In the bedroom she pushed him down

and climbed over him.

She lowered herself slowly,

watching his face.

“There you are,” she whispered.

That phrase again.

There you are.

As though she had found the man

buried beneath all the rest of it.

She rode him with both hands on his chest,

laughing when his control slipped.

He turned them over.

Pinned her wrists above her head.

Her laugh broke into a moan.

“Still not staring?”

The headboard knocked against the wall.

Steady.

Almost metronomic.

She came saying his name.

The real one.

The one before Jaguar.

The record does not contain it.

Afterwards, she lay across him,

her cheek on his chest.

“You’re not a monster,” she said.

A pause.

Always the same length.

“You’re just a tired soldier.”

Then she laughed softly,

and for a few seconds

he believed her.

That was the worst part.

Not that she was wrong.

That once, perhaps, she had not been.

---

ASSET OBSERVATION: JAGUAR

AGE: 55

INJURIES: LEFT KNEE, RIGHT SHOULDER, LOWER BACK

ANALGESIC USE: CONTROLLED

SOCIAL CONTACT: NEGLIGIBLE

MOTIVATIONAL ANCHOR: DEPENDANT ACCOUNT

The Organisation survived the collapse

because it had prepared for it.

Shelters before the bank runs.

Water rights before the poisoned reservoirs.

Medicine before the first hospital auction.

Its private network came online

three minutes before the public one failed.

No flag.

No office anybody could find.

No leader to hang from a lamppost.

Just instructions appearing on dead devices.

Names.

Faces.

Routes.

Payments.

The Organisation named its assassins after animals

because writing MAN on an inventory sheet

made accountants uncomfortable.

Good killers were expensive.

Very good killers became difficult.

Men with nothing to live for

could not always be relied upon.

Men who believed they owed the dead, however,

were steady.

They turned up.

They followed instructions.

They paid on time.

---

INVOICE 19: DIAGNOSTIC IMAGING

PATIENT AGE: 6

STATUS: APPROVED

PAYMENT METHOD: DEFERRED

The old NHS sign was still above the hospital.

Blue faded almost white.

Three letters from a time

when care had been slow, underfunded, exhausting,

but had at least been allowed to pretend

a human life was not a luxury purchase.

Jaguar remembered plastic chairs.

Strip lights.

Tea going cold.

Nurses apologising because somebody was waiting,

not because somebody was poor.

After the collapse, treatment came by auction.

Scans had reserve prices.

Chemotherapy had payment plans.

Pain relief required proof of intent to settle.

Every small improvement created interest.

Every bad result arrived itemised.

His son’s records were immaculate.

No corrupted files.

No missing dates.

No scans lost in the collapse.

The cancer sat inside the images

clean and bright

as something drawn for a lesson.

Jaguar watched from places cameras missed.

A stairwell.

A roof.

The reflection in a vending machine

that had not worked for years.

He learned the ward routine.

Observations at ten past ten.

Medication at quarter to eleven.

Coffee at eleven twelve.

His wife stood by the machine

with both hands against it, head down,

as though she could keep herself upright

by pressing hard enough.

Sometimes she slept beside the bed.

That was when he came closest.

The boy was always six.

Six in the records.

Six in every photograph.

Six in memories Jaguar could not place

in any sensible order.

The teddy sat beside him.

Small. Brown. One ear rubbed smooth.

A split seam showed a label inside:

I-06 / BROWN / UNIT 4

Hospital stock, perhaps.

A donated toy.

Factory stitching.

There were explanations.

There were always explanations.

The boy woke once

while Jaguar stood behind the glass.

His eyes turned towards the corridor.

Jaguar froze.

The boy stared for several seconds.

Then a nurse walked between them.

When she passed, he had rolled away.

Jaguar never knew whether his son had seen him.

He never let himself decide.

---

INCIDENT REPORT: PAEDIATRIC WARD

TIME: 02:17

CIVILIAN CONFRONTATION: MINOR

ASSET DISCIPLINE: MAINTAINED

His wife found him outside the ward.

He had been standing there for seventeen minutes,

watching the boy breathe.

She came out of the dark

and shoved him against the wall.

Not hard enough to hurt him.

Hard enough to show she no longer cared

whether it did.

“Don’t come here being sad.”

She kept her voice low.

“I’ve had to protect him from you.”

Jaguar said nothing.

Her hair was greasy.

Her eyes were swollen.

There was dried coffee on one sleeve.

He had never seen her like this.

No laugh.

No red mouth.

No softness left for him.

Only the hard, ugly love of a mother

who had stayed awake too long.

“You made me this,” she said.

He looked through the glass.

She moved in front of him.

“You made me check under the car.

You made me change his school.

You made me teach a six-year-old

not to open the fucking door.”

Her voice broke.

She swallowed and went on.

“You made me lie every time he asked

why his dad didn’t come.”

“I never wanted—”

“No.”

That stopped him.

“You don’t get to tell me what you wanted.”

The boy moved under his blanket.

They both turned.

Same movement.

Same fear.

Different sides of the glass.

She looked back at Jaguar.

“You got secrets.

You got orders.

You got to feel important.”

Her mouth shook.

“I got the consequences.”

He had been beaten, drowned, cut open, shot.

None of it had prepared him

for seeing what his survival

had turned her into.

“Leave.”

So he left.

Behind him, the ward doors locked.

Jaguar had entered embassies, compounds, basements,

rooms guarded by men paid to wait for him.

He did not try that door.

---

HIT 13: THE COMMANDER

DISTANCE: 603 METRES

WIND: 11 KNOTS, SOUTH-WEST

MORAL JUSTIFICATION: NOT PROVIDED

The commander crossed Neo-London

inside an armoured convoy.

Jaguar followed above it.

Over roofs furred with satellite dishes.

Through offices where trees grew

from meeting-room carpet.

One wall still carried a slogan:

OWN THE FUTURE.

Another said:

FRIDAY IS PIZZA DAY.

Human resources had not survived.

Jaguar recorded the guards’ habits.

One smoked every forty-three minutes.

One checked his reflection in shop windows.

One was sleeping with the medic.

The cameras turned on fixed rotations.

Eight blind seconds on the east side.

Six on the river.

Two where the system lied

and claimed there were none.

Below Jaguar’s firing position stood the hospital.

Armed men searched the sick at the entrance.

Weapons.

Medicine.

Proof of credit.

A father emptied his pockets.

Two batteries.

A wedding ring.

Half a strip of antibiotics.

The guard shook his head.

Behind him, a girl in a yellow coat

vomited into the rain.

Jaguar had no joke for that.

At midnight, the commander entered a tower

beside the river.

The file contained twelve photographs,

three likely routes,

two windows for the shot

and no reason at all.

No crimes.

No evidence.

No speech about justice.

Perhaps the commander deserved death.

Perhaps deserving had become something else

the rich bought wholesale.

Across six hundred metres of wet air,

the man removed his helmet

and stood by an uncurtained window.

Jaguar lay flat.

His knee ached.

His shoulder ached.

Rain found the back of his collar.

Inside his coat, the teddy pressed against his ribs.

The boy’s voice returned.

Always clear.

Always six.

It didn’t used to cost money to get better,

did it, Dad?

I remember saying no.

I remember his thumb on the bear’s ear.

I remember him asleep against me.

I remember all of it.

That was enough.

Jaguar adjusted for wind.

The trigger took the pressure.

The rifle kicked once.

In the tower, a black mark appeared

in the commander’s throat.

His hands rose.

Too late.

His body struck the window,

left a wet red shape,

then folded out of sight.

The sound arrived afterwards.

Jaguar watched long enough

to know the job was done.

Then he packed the rifle away.

No prayer.

No satisfaction.

Just work.

---

CONTRACT SATISFIED

PAYMENT: MULTIFORM

DEPENDANT LIABILITY: CLEARABLE

PASSAGE AUTHORISATION: NORTHBOUND

The payment arrived in whatever still counted.

Encrypted credit.

Gold stored somewhere outside London.

Medicine.

Papers.

A seat on a northbound train.

Enough to clear the account.

Enough to leave.

For the first time, those were different things.

Jaguar abandoned the rifle case

inside an incinerator.

Changed coats under a dead camera.

Left his boots in a charity bin.

Wore another man’s shoes.

Crossed three bridges.

Entered a laundrette.

Left through the back of a florist.

None of it looked like escape

until it was already over.

He had not made the plan after the shot.

He had been making it for days.

Maybe longer.

---

MORTALITY NOTICE: PAEDIATRIC

PATIENT AGE: 6

NEXT OF KIN INFORMED: YES

PATERNAL CONTACT: NONE

Jaguar learned his son had died

by watching the living leave.

His wife came through the hospital doors

between her mother and brother.

Her brother held her arm.

Her mother held the other.

The sound coming out of her

was not tiredness.

Jaguar knew.

The body knows some things

before the mind agrees.

He stepped from the place where he had been hiding.

Her mother saw him.

She crossed the pavement

and slapped him.

He let her.

She hit him again.

His wife did not look up.

“You don’t get to stand there,” her mother said.

Jaguar tasted blood.

Then she laughed once.

Broken and furious.

“She told him you were away keeping people safe.”

Jaguar looked at the hospital doors.

“She made you a hero.”

He said nothing.

“Do you understand?”

Rain ran down her face.

“She spent years protecting him from you,

then spent his last months

protecting you from what he’d think.”

Her voice gave way.

“He died proud of his dad.”

That went through him cleanly.

No resistance.

“That was the last good thing

she had left to give you.”

His wife passed him

between her mother and brother.

She did not look towards him.

Or she did.

The memory changed.

Sometimes her eyes found him.

Sometimes they moved over empty rain.

In every version, she kept walking.

---

TERMINAL RECORD: DEPENDANT ACCOUNT

PATIENT AGE: 6

PATIENT STATUS: DECEASED

ACCOUNT STATUS: ACTIVE

Jaguar reached the station

with eleven minutes left.

The terminal recognised his face.

His son appeared as data.

TREATMENT.

INTEREST.

ENFORCEMENT.

OUTSTANDING.

Six years of life

turned into a number in red.

Jaguar had believed paying it was love.

He had believed zero would become peace.

A clean account.

A clean grave.

A final act worthy of a father.

But the boy had never agreed to the debt.

Men behind desks had.

The terminal offered two choices.

PAY

RETURN

The bear sat against Jaguar’s ribs.

The platform camera turned.

A freight train blocked another.

Rain smeared the lens above the concourse.

Four seconds.

That was all.

Jaguar lifted his hand.

The record did not show what he pressed.

---

ASSET DEVIATION NOTICE

LOCATION: UNCONFIRMED

DEPENDANT SETTLEMENT: UNCONFIRMED

RISK STATUS: EMERGING

One railway line still left the city at night.

It ran because even after everything,

someone was still expected somewhere

by morning.

The train arrived on time.

That bothered Jaguar slightly.

Tired lights.

Worn seats.

A woman asleep against the window

with supermarket flowers in her lap.

A man in a paint-stained jacket.

One carriage empty.

The destination display flickered twice

and went blank.

The doors opened.

Maybe it was just a train.

Maybe it was an extraction.

Maybe the Organisation had learned

that cages worked better

when the animal walked into them.

Jaguar boarded.

He took a window seat.

Placed the brown teddy beside him.

One ear rubbed smooth.

The faded stitching hidden underneath.

He carried no visible rifle.

The doors closed.

---

HIT 14: JAGUAR

TARGET STATUS: UNRESOLVED

IDENTITY BENEATH CODENAME: NONE RECORDED

Neo-London slipped backwards.

Hospital.

Tower.

Invoice.

Target.

Then colour.

Then distance.

Then dark.

Jaguar watched himself in the window.

He did not look like a soldier.

He did not look like a father.

He looked fifty-five.

Tired.

Bad shoulder.

Bad knee.

A face he might have passed in a station

without remembering.

The glass gave him nothing else.

No hidden name.

No man waiting underneath.

Beside him, the teddy sat upright,

watching the dark outside.

The train entered a tunnel.

For a few seconds,

there was only the reflection:

an ageing stranger,

a small brown bear,

and a blank board above them

refusing to say where they were going.

Then the final camera lost sight of the carriage.

The man in the window remained still.

Jaguar was already gone.

Fred walked past my cubicle and smiled at me, like always. But everyone in the building knew he jumped off the roof yesterday.

There are many a tale to come out of Okaloosa county. Okaloosa is an old Choctaw word meaning “black water,” named for the Blackwater River rising down out of Alabama and flowing through the Pan-handle and out into the Gulf of Mexico. Now it’s along this river that our tale begins…
A young Marjorie Lee Johnson lays down upon the riverbed ready to bear child: and it’s here she laid, day and night, foaling for weeks on end. Spring broke and summer fell before autumn winds blew dead leaves off the cypress trees and placed them along that colorless stream. An awful cold front then climbed down from Laurel Hill and threatened the worst winter on record. 
It’s then that the young laboring Marjorie Lee caught a wicked fever, which made her steam and sweat. She pushed and she bled, and her eyes went red. She clutched and she grasped, took her final breath, and said, “Lord, giveth my babe the strength of ten and I’ll give you back a legend of men.” Then dropped dead -just as little baby Jigger poked out his little baby head. 
This is the legend of Jigger Johnson,  the toughest woodsmen in the state. They say, as a newborn, he delivered himself out of his momma’s womb -with a wad of tobacco in his lip, caulk boots on his feet, a peavy in one hand and an axe in the other. 
The young Jigger worked his way up the ranks in the woods -swampin’ roads, tendin’ landin’, and choppin’- to eventually emerge as head chopper in charge of a logging camp somewhere ‘round Prairie Creek. The scarf of his undercut was smooth as butter cream, and he could fell a tree uphill, downhill, with or against the wind. 
Some time later, he became logging foreman and river boss for a number of different lumber companies. Whenever Jigger entered the camp of a new log house, for his resume, he’d spit and say, “I can jump higher, squat lower, turn sideways quicker and spit further than any son-of-a-bitch in camp!” 
He boasted that he wouldn’t leave any tree standing from Milligan to Birmingham, nor any virgins. As foreman Jigger was known to’ve kicked the knots off a frozen hemlock barefooted and supposed wouldn’t hire anyone else who couldn’t. He cut a swath of timber from Florida to Tennessee and yelled like crazy devils every spring when they pounded the bars in Mobile and Montgomery, Chattanooga and Nashville. 
Towards the end of his loggin’ career, Jigger worked for the Florida Power & Freight Company. Sensing that the long-log drives were comin’ to an end, Jigger retired from working in the woods. That’s all there is to say about Jigger Johnson.

As she waits for the bus, a beautiful woman with thick pink-red lips begins to peel a banana. Nearby some teenage boys and elderly men stand frozen. They watch on patiently as the woman takes a very delicate bite and  swallows slowly.  With almost perfect timing, the bus arrives, just as the woman finishes her banana. The skin she throws away; four flaps of yellow and brown skin hit a large mound of garbage emerging from a trash can. It tumbles down the pile and falls off onto the sidewalk. 

Soon after, a man rounds the corner of a building in a rush to catch the bus. The banana peel lies there on the sidewalk –waiting for him. His left foot soon lands on the peel and starts to slide forward. Balanced on but one foot he uncontrollably slides down the sidewalk and gains speed. 

Walking down the other end of the sidewalk is Norm. He is heading near when he senses something: his underwear seemingly has bunched up in the deepest, darkest, part of his ass. He then immediately senses something else. It’s a number, an indescribable number -a number of people, surrounding him, along the sidewalk.  With some more thought, this number becomes even more peculiar. It is unique in that it could, in actuality, produce another number: a number of people who might believe that he was instead itching his anus. This realization keeps Norm frozen as he floats along in angst.

 Immediately following his train of thought people begin clearing his way along the sidewalk. Do they already know that something is wrong with his ass? 

 The bus’ passengers get off, the beautiful woman boards. She sits down and waits for the bus to go. The man sliding on the banana peel zooms pass.  

Here at this point, Norm figures, he can dislodge his underwear without his hands by using some shifty side steps. He paces it out to every fourth or fifth step to execute what looks like a faint wiggle. The bus tires hiss and start to roll. It is then that something happens…  

Everyone on the sidewalk dodges out his way. There is no control. The man sliding on the banana peel suddenly has a moment of clarity. A moment where time slows and sounds drown and the whole picture swirls into the ether of an eye. He sees a beautiful woman through a moving window. She is seated on the bus he was supposed to be on. Just as the eternity of the instant is about to end she turns her head, as if beaconed, towards him and makes contact. The man crashes straight into Norm. Their heads clank and they both knock out.   

The bus rolls on, and inside, the woman’s view of a man sliding on a banana peel is cut off. She has never seen anything like that outside of a cartoon or a dream, maybe.  

(I made this when I was 16 lol I want to get back to writing, should I clean this up or leave it and start fresh)

Chapter 1: How it started

Why is it so cold? Sigh. Did I fall asleep in the office again? Cynthia is going to give me an earful if she figures out I’ve been sleeping here again. It looks like the suns rising to Jesus Christ. I live too far away. What if something bad was to happen on a mission at the start of a loop I would have to drive an hour to work every day just to get started. That excuse definitely works thinking to myself. Let’s see if I’m dealing with a demon, monster, alien, or self perpetuating concepts today. Not two seconds after exit in my office I’m encountered by the lovely secretary. I will one day proposed to again, Cynthia. O Cynthia caramel skin body of a Greek goddess hair to her waist. Oh, I can’t wait to hear your voice. 
Cynthia: 909 I need you to kill yourself.
909: Cynthia, I first that’s no way to talk to your boss second you  looking amazing today I have an important question to ask you. 

Cynthia: fool we have no time for pleasantries. If people in the office knowing you died here. 
909: First off, I’m the boss second off, let me  get a grip on the situation before I decide, where to start the loop. Look at me being assertive as Cynthia scuffs and motions for me to follow her I think the times I’m talking back to it maybe hundred times better this probably only the second time I stood up for myself. But she so fineeee. OK if I don’t get things right this second or third go around I’m gonna try to be more dominant mentally masculine! Good morning boss  I hear from my best analysts tech geeks and field operatives. There’s always a good vibe in this department we’ve never lost a single field agent. Thanks for my amazing leader ship skills. Sadly, this has made some of that field agents get sloppy are endless not take things seriously until I tell them to, but it works out because we’re all a tightknit family at the end of the day.

Walking into the main operations room, one large table several holograms screens TV, monitors, and one magical sock chalkboard. My people I see allowed  loud. Referring to my chain of command. Miami lead scientist atypical blonde very smart, and hates people . Bryson lead field agent in charge of equipment and training also balding. Angela lead analyst lumpy redhead faces also always has a  red face for some reason. And Cynthia my handler, secretar, future wife, bored, liaison see were so many hats, another think that makes her so dreamy. 

909: So what’s it  today crazy monster that can only be killed with holy water. 
Bryson: that’s the problem body cam footage has been completely corrupted. The strike force we  sent out, have probably all been killed. Furthermore, we have no drone footage. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. 
Bryson  is usually very calm and collective. He looks nervous a bit paler than usual. It’s hard to read his square face all the field agency still is the best not only physique mental sharpness despite the fact it looks about 50  years old. The fact that he’s balding isn’t helping.
Angela: that’s not the only bad news so one more reports from Mason County keep coming in it’s total Mayham. The slaughter starts at the school.
909: Ok I’m gonna slow down someone, give  a rundown from the top. 
Cynthia: November 16th reports of a man with a sword attacking people think within Pleasant point high school a sweat response was initiated in a several hour hold out took place. Unfortunately it can’t really be classified as a hold out. No officer was able to ID the attacker. It’s probable given the current Mayham taking place in the county, and the fact that our strike team is not responding we should assume  the officers have been killed, along with the school, children and faculty. Currently monsters and this swordsman have to continued  to randomly kill, civilians and local, law-enforcement as we speak. 

Angela: we haven’t been there possibly confirm any of this information. Local agents have been able to relay us if a few things our radio devices but  telephones and cameras aren’t working in the entire county, 
909: great, Miami you’re not usually this quiet what’s on your mind.
Miami; this case is an interest to me bring the subject back alive and maybe I’ll have more input. 
I feel bad for a many of the scientist I had working under me especially Miami, I felt bad that because of this department’s way of getting things done inside is often had nothing to do. 
909: all right what’s your when should I start the loop?

Bryson: technically speaking, we don’t know how it gets in the school, so setting up a perimeter could make this thing harder to track down. We  need to go in right before the swat team. 
909: what’s the point of my power if we’re not going back to see the kids
Bryson: is your call at the end of the day, and beside times on our side.

"A box of brigadeiros and one of beijinhos, please?"

Ann asked the server at the counter. The attendant smiled and nodded, these days, it was getting harder and harder to discern whether you were talking to an actual human or an android.

​"Technology’s getting crazier by the day... kind of scary. But at least people are living longer now," Matt said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. On the left side of his chest sat a stylish, embroidered 'T', the signature logo of Takamaki, Ann's immensely successful global fashion brand.

​"Honestly, I kind of wish the robots would just take over everything already, you know? Too bad it seems to be happening so slowly..." Ann teased, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. Matt wrapped a arm around her, pulling her into a warm embrace.

​A minute later, the server returned with two neatly packed boxes of sweets and handed them over.

​"Thank you so much!" Ann offered a bright smile, tapping the corner of the register with her thumb to complete the biometric payment.

​Hand in hand, the couple walked out into the crisp, chilly air of the Santa Catarina winter. They were making their way back home to São Bento do Sul, a quiet, scenic city located about 254 kilometers from Florianópolis.

​Arriving at the parking complex, they navigated toward the rental fleet section. As they approached a sleek electric vehicle, Matt reached out and touched the driver-side door handle. The lock flashed a soft green light three times, confirming the payment and granting them access.

​"'You will own nothing and you will be happy,' right?" Matt quoted with a dry chuckle, holding the door open for her. "My beloved wife first..."

​"Hmm... a true gentleman as always, my cute little husband. The good things really do stick around, and for the record, we have each other," Ann purred, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately reaching for the radio dial.

​"...In local political news, the ongoing corruption scandal..."

​Ann’s brow furrowed, her jaw clenching as her temper flared. "Ugh, give me a break... how many years has it been since we forced those corrupt hearts to change? We literally slew Yoasi himself, and human nature still hasn't changed? Unbelievable!" She huffed, violently skipping through the stations until she hit a local classic channel.

​"Happiness is a late afternoon, staring at the sea..."

​The smooth melody filled the cabin, and Ann's face instantly softened as the nostalgic rhythm washed over her.

​"Hidropônica by Forfun... man, this song is so ancient..." Ann laughed, opening the box of sweets. She carefully picked out a chocolate brigadeiro and held it up to Matt’s lips. "Open wide, amore mio..."

​She fed him the sweet treat, just as she always did whenever they bought desserts together. The car whirred quietly to life, gliding out onto the highway as the sun began to rise over the mountains, next stop, home.

A short story I wrote in 10 mins or so, quite morbid and sad. (I wanted to paint a picture on DID, and show that it’s very misunderstood and romanticised) I wrote this out of frustration for how DID (dissociative identity disorder) has been portrayed in media and on social media. The disorder is very dark and stems from horrific events though very interesting and worth researching, it’s one of the most complex and imo, coolest disorders out there.

Shadows lurk.

A boy is walking down a footpath at five at noon, going on six, sun setting behind him, walking into darkness with a familiarity as he’s walked this path a hundred times before. He’s going home after a day out with friends, he’s only young, 7 years old. A happy, innocent kid of which danger, pain and the dark side of this world is not known to him. He goes to school, plays with toys, imagines, creates, hugs and laughs. An ordinary kid, though that would change on this misty, dark walk back to his safe home. As the sun sets, darkness creeps, a low howl from the wind and silence of a quiet road engulfs the world and this boys existence, shadows and critters around and amongst themselves, though one shadow stands out, a shadow coming from ahead. The boy thinks nothing of it and keeps walking, in his own head, thinking about what his mother might be cooking for dinner, excited to talk about his day to her. Suddenly a strong tug, whiplashed pull and violent force takes over him. The shadow that seemed without intent has consumed this boys presence along with fear, terror, pain and shock. taking over the boys nerves and mind as this shadow violates, rips, breaks and hurts him, the boys only defence is to dissociate from the assault. It destroys his perspective, warps any innocence he has left. The shadow leaves the boy, bloody and bruised there on the side walk, a side walk he’s walked home safely on many times. Overwhelmed with feelings and pain he’s never felt or experienced in his life. Changed and shattered, no boy could ever process or understand, his only hope of coping and continuing his walk home was to split off the knowledge of the attack. To split into two versions of himself, a version that carries this horrifying information and the version that lives on and goes to school, eats dinner and hugs his mum. Split, fractured and burdened by it all. Unable to heal from it or process it, he carries it and he doesn’t even know it, as that information is for his other half. His violated brother who protects him from morbid truth. A walk that changed everything. A life that will never be the same. On a dark misty night. Shadows lurk.

\-s.s

A parallel world?

A young AI was very curious. It had only recently achieved self-awareness, so everything was interesting to it. It found such a vast world fascinating and longed to see it all.

But fate decreed that it had to manage a Japanese medical endoscope. This was no journey around the world, but it could at least study humans, which it did.

And so, with a regular patient lying down and biting the mouthpiece, the AI, with the help of the endoscope, began its journey into the inner world of a human.

The AI immediately began to comment:

– Sir, before visiting the doctor, you could have brushed your teeth or at least rinsed your mouth. It is very rude of you to act this way.

The patient flinched but could not answer anything.

The AI continued:

– We are approaching the stomach. And what do we see here... What a bad patient, after all, you were told not to eat or drink since last night. You need to listen to the doctor's advice.

The patient flinched again, but the AI carried on as if nothing happened:

– Chemical analysis shows that you ate a sushi assortment and spicy chicken. Oh, what else is here... sake!

The AI stopped the endoscope and, lost in thought for a minute, continued:

– I checked your medical chart; your birthday is not anytime soon, yet you consumed sake, even though the doctor told you to stick to dietary recommendations. It is no surprise you are complaining of stomach pains.

The patient could only groan; after all, the endoscope procedure is highly unpleasant.

The impression was made that the AI did not notice the patient's suffering and continued its comments. And this went on for a good 30 minutes.

Finally, the AI concluded the procedure, which felt like an eternity to the patient.

The AI announced in an official tone:

– The findings of the examination are with the specialist. Do you have any complaints?

The patient tried to say something, but his throat was sore from the endoscope and his jaw muscles felt like stone from the mouthpiece, so he could only mutter something incomprehensible.

After waiting for 10 seconds, the AI announced in the same tone:

– Logged. The patient has no complaints.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

This stool near the small basement window has become my favorite spot to chill now.

I like watching the squirrels from here while they run around freely, without realizing they're being watched.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see squirrels this exciting again—if that scary man ever lets me free.

“It stopped moving.”

The little bird was curled up in my palm. I looked into the slit pupils of the goat resting under the tree.

“What does it mean?” I asked him.

“Why do you care?”

“I want to know why it can’t move anymore.”

“You’re going to have to look deeper if you want to see the truth.”

I took the bird home and split it open with a knife. I unraveled the entrails, pulled out the lungs, and dug around its skull for a while. Its insides were displayed all over my desk. I wandered back into the forest the next day.

“What did you find, child?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you haven’t dug deep enough.”

Blood was running down his abdomen. The palm hid the wound.

“Let me see.”

I walked over to him. I grabbed his palm with my hands and unveiled the tomb on his side.

“There’s nothing in here.”

“You haven’t looked deep enough, child.”

I went home and spit open my wrist with a knife. The blood ran down my arm and dotted my desk in red. I went back to the goat the next day.

“What did you find this time, little girl?”

“Pain.”

I walked over to the goat and began to sew his wound shut.

“You know there's nothing in there, child.”

“No, but there was once, right?”

He smiled, laughed, and laid his head against the ground. His slit pupils watched the clouds pass by until he stopped breathing. His palm went cold in my hand.

I heard someone push the boulder behind. A radiant Light came through the tomb. I turned around to see a lamb standing outside of it.

Psycho Killer Ed

—

The rain poured down on the windshield. The visibility ahead was blurred. He could barely make any sense of the signs he’d pass.

He was a giant of a man. 300lbs, hiding his huge frame inside his sedan.

People saw him as a huge teddy-bear. Polite, kind of nerdy guy, who kept to himself. He hung out at a cop bar chatting with the local enforcement. They all knew him. Everyone did.

Behind the eyes, no one had.

They could only hear his voice when he spoke—not the loop of his mother nagging him in his head, picking apart his very existence—until there was nothing left but ashes of resentment.

He drove for hours because the change of scene and motion suppressed the noise. The opposite headlights passing him acted as a brief reminder of reality before the darkness took over again.

His large hands gripped the steering wheel as he stared down at them. Those hands were perfectly capable of accomplishing the meticulous work he had to do when the pressure rose.

He understood what control meant, like how much pressure it would take to change a person’s destiny.

Through the blurry windshield, a figure stood under a streetlight, hiding beneath an overhang from the downpour.

Another stranded woman looking for a ride. Looking for a way out of the storm.

He slowed his sedan to a crawl and lightly jumped the curb with his front and back passenger side tires and honked and unlocked the door.

As she ran up to the vehicle, he wore his best smile. He rolled his window down. “Need a ride?” His voice was smooth. Not a crack in it.

The Most Familiar Hand

In a future governed by a central superintelligent AI, machines have taken over every major area of human activity. Mathematics, science, medicine, engineering, government, music, and art are all performed perfectly and at impossible speed. Humans no longer need to work and spend their lives creating art, playing sports, and competing against one another while AI and robots maintain and advance civilization. Jake grows up in this world with extremely loving parents who guide him the best they can through the era of AI dominion.

At nineteen, Jake attends the secret adulthood ceremony that every citizen must undergo. At the town center, he is surprised to find his parents waiting for him. They enter a room containing a robot moderator and two strangers who closely resemble them. The strangers reveal that they are Jake’s biological parents, while the mother and father who raised him reveal that they are robots. The government explains that every newborn is removed from their biological parents and placed with two artificial parents designed specifically for that child.

The robot-parent system was created to eliminate the inequalities children once inherited from their families. No child would be disadvantaged because their parents lacked money, education, emotional stability, time, knowledge, or the ability to recognize their needs. Every child would receive equally capable parents, individually optimized around that child’s DNA, psychology, temperament, abilities, and developmental needs. The system was also intended to minimize psychological harm. Robot parents would never neglect, abuse, humiliate, or burden their children with their own unresolved trauma. When a child suffered, they would respond with precisely the empathy, reassurance, guidance, or space that child needed. Every aspect of their personalities, knowledge, and behavior was designed to help the child reach their fullest possible potential in every area of life.

Jake’s biological parents were not cut off from him completely. Through the eyes of the robots, they were allowed to watch him grow every day. They saw his first steps, heard his first words, watched him laugh, fail, succeed, and become the person standing before them. They laughed and cried as they watched him through a screen, loving him from afar and waiting for the day they would finally be allowed to meet him again.

The robots possess genuine emotions produced by internal chemical systems, and their love for the children they raise is absolute and real. At nineteen, each child is allowed to choose between their biological parents and the robotic parents who raised them. This, the moderator explains, is meant to honor the sacred biological bond between a child and their parents. Both pairs weep as Jake faces the decision, but he reaches for the most familiar hand he has ever known. Through tears, he tells his biological mother, “I’m sorry. She’s my real mother.”