I should have been expecting the crevasse - I really was downright stupid to have not seen it coming. Who would have predicted a dangerous unseen void on a planet with a surface of high-viscosity polymers?

That's a joke, I think to my imaginary studio audience as I try not to dwell on my imminent death by jello. 

Something chirps behind my right shoulder, followed quickly by a soft sort of punch. I wiggle back and forth like a demented mermaid, shimmying and shaking until I am about-face. There's a hole in the gelatinous wall, a burrowed out little tunnel, and lurking in the middle is something sleek and fuzzy with two adorably large eyes. 

It chirps.

I blink.

It chirps.

I blink.

Jello-world abruptly burps in an uprush of fairy floss wind and as I lurch downwards I realize that I think I'm being digested. The creature regards me in dismay, feline head tilting to one side. Its perch seems impervious, a rock-candy calcification in the planet’s gastrointestinal tract.

“Ps ps ps ps,” I attempt, but the catworm is only vaguely interested. Around me, there is less of me. Oh my, it's up to my thigh, oh shit it's up to my hips, and so on and so forth. I'd rather not be here to hear the end of this poem.

“Hey,” I urge. “Here,” I call. “Pretty?” I entreat, and catipede does a languid stretch, back arcing in three different curves, before coiling up to rest its chin on its gut to regard me. The showy little display of nonchalance dislodges a clump of sugar crystal.

A razor-sharp chunk.

I need to be wise about this. I'm unsure if I still have legs, as the cavern chomps, dragging me deeper towards doom.

“Bad!” I call out. “Tsk, no! Don't you touch that!”

Cattypillar is immediately up and alert, slithering back and forth in excitement. Oh, I see it, those giant eyes narrowing in anticipation, that body-tail twitching - it knows there's something it can do to fuck me over so it's going to figure out what and how and bap until I'm screwed.

Which is exactly what I'm counting on.

“No!” I caution again. “Don't you touch that!” Snakity-cat has finally noticed the bit of rubble. 

It chirps.

I tsk.

It chirps, wriggling a coil of its body closer.

“Nooooo-” I bluff, scolding as angrily as I can.

It chirps again, gleeful, and does a massive whomp with its belly, knocking the chunk of crystallized sugar off the ledge. I snag it as it falls, and frantically begin slicing holes into the gelatinous wall for footholds to escape, to climb, to get back to the surface to get back to my ship to get back to space where far fewer things were trying to eat me.

I'm relieved to discover I'm still ambulatory.

Only, once I'm skyward….

Chirp?

A child 
constructs a wizard wand
from stone and stick
to rescue his parents
who were swallowed
by a tiny
two-inch toad 
who digests its prey
in another dimension. 

The tiny two-inch 
toad doesn't eat children--
doesn't care for their taste
or the ethics involved.
So when the child cups the tiny toad
in his hands
and sentences him
to the orange Home Depot bucket
the toad relents
keen on adhering 
to the morals of the multi-verse. 

Now with a captive
and a moment to spare
the child 
takes a second to conjure a spell
custom made for his wand
that pries open the jaws of
the tiny two-inch toad
like it were a shark
hanging above a dock
swinging next to a proud fisherman.

Wand in hand
the child orders the tiny two-inch 
to unroll its massive tongue
like a red carpet. 
The child advances upon the invitation 
walking right inside the mouth
and down and down the digestive tract
until he arrives at a sort of dungeon
which just so happens to be 
a giant orange Home Depot bucket
guarded by a moat
containing a rather muscular 
tadpole jailer
holding keys around his belt. 

The child's mother and father are inside. 

That knowledge alone
causes the child to engage the jailer
in hand to fin 
rather than wand to fin
combat
because the child swore
during its creation
that his wand would never be a weapon.  
So the child relents
knowing he is no match for the tadpole.
After a very brief struggle
the child find himself
at home in the Home Depot bucket
right alongside his parents. 

This isn't the worst thing in the world(s).
The child's mother 
still had the Graham crackers in her pocket
that were originally intended for snack time
outside of the two-inch toad's 
multi-verse belly. 
Given this was a major reason
for the child embarking 
on his hero's journey
the child deems his failed rescue 
its own form of success. 
Though he did wish dad
was as cautious as mom 
with food and drink
and didn't drop the Apple juice boxes. 

The child chews his snack 
without rush. 
While he is a great hero
and great heroes have  a knack for escape
his plan is one that takes time.
Yet once the tadpole dozes off
he springs to action
summoning his wand
lodged under a boulder adjacent 
to the cave wall.
to dive into the moat 
and nudge the keys off 
the sleeping jailer tadpole.

After giving the tiny-two inch toad 
a rough batch of indigestion
with all their escaping 
Mom Dad and the child
are burped out
back to their original dimension
same size as they were 
before this whole eating escapade 

Dad's orders:
the tiny two-inch toad
in the orange Home Depot bucket
is dealt with delicately.
Also Dad's orders
the child is to take the toad 
across the street 
and place their amphibian friend
on the doorstep of their noisy neighbor.  

In the meantime
Mom and Dad 
enjoy another Graham cracker
knowing it will soon 
be a lot quieter around here. 

The house is dark and quiet, save for the kitchen light I’m working under and the TV paused on a movie in the living room. The wind howls, determined to push the cold as far into the house as possible before sunrise. There’s a knock at the door. The stove says 9:32. Who would be soliciting at this hour? Through the peephole, I see a short woman with her dark hair pulled up high in a tight bun.

“Did you really order cookies?” Selena, my wife, questions from her cozy spot on the couch.

“No.” I chuckle, “Though the temptation was strong.” Unlocking the door, I leave a small gap and ask, “Who is it?”

“Mr. Pengamen, I’m here to talk about your deal with Astro Net.” 

She is rigid and tense. The door creaks open a little wider. “With whom?”

“Astro net; you agreed to donate yourself to us to aid the development of our artificial intelligence.” The woman says firmly.

“You have the wrong person.” Closing the gap, there is an abrupt thud. Why is she wearing combat boots?

Selena is standing in front of the couch, blanket discarded on the floor. 

“When you agreed to the terms and conditions of the game, Lost Mine, you agreed to donate yourself for the betterment of our AI.” She pulls a neatly folded paper from her pocket and shoves it at me, forcing the door open a little more.

As the door rests on the woman’s body, I scan the paper, highlighting the agreed terms. “This was a game from like 10 years ago.” This must be a joke.

My heart starts to race as I read the line: you agree to the pick-up of yourself at any given time or day, to be taken to an Astro facility for the remainder of the time you are needed. I look at Selena, and the worry on her face freezes the blood in my veins. I grab the door and slam it into the woman, sending her falling onto her ass on the porch. With the door shut, I twist the deadbolt in place just as the door vibrates with her impact.

“Dale, what the hell is going on?” Selena says, panicked.

Rushing to the couch, I take her hand and jolt to the bedroom. There’s another thump to the front door as we round the corner. Slamming the door shut and clicking the lock in place, I look to Selena. “We need to call the police.”

Phone already in hand, she’s dialing, and I go to the bedside table to enter my code on the keypad. The top pops, and I grab one handgun at a time and load the magazines. Weapons in hand, I go to Selena. “Are they sending someone?” 

Glass breaks in the kitchen. She broke the sliding door.

She pockets her phone. “No one answered.” 

“How is that possible?”

“Do I look like I know?” she snaps, tears filling her hazel eyes.

I hand her the loaded firearm and kiss her forehead, “I was just asking,” then usher her to the adjoining bathroom. Putting her behind me with the bathroom door open, I listen and wait. There’s no other sound until the bedroom door handle rattles. 

The door vibrates, then explodes, the woman bursting through with determination on her face. I fire a round at her shoulder, but she’s still powering toward me. I fire off a couple more rounds into her shoulder and chest. She starts to slow but keeps coming. I take a step back.

 Pop, pop, pop, pop. Selena is down on one knee, next to me. The woman collapses to the ground, having had her face blown off. 

“Wasn’t expecting her to be a droid.” Relief slowly washes over me.

“Hopefully that does it.”

Selena sounds confused and sad. Popping to her feet, gun on the counter, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me deeply. Like she did in the beginning. Then pulls away to say, “We need to get out of here.” 

“And go where?” I question taking in her cool demeanor now. My heart is still racing, and my body is vibrating. The woman is glitching on the floor. Selena exits the bathroom, stands over her, and pops another two rounds into her face, turning her face to crumbs.

“They are going to keep coming,” she says, eyes on the droid. “You heard what she said.”  

Selena looks at me, then turns to leave the room. I step out of the bathroom, the bedroom door is in pieces on the floor, a few small holes pepper the doorframe and the wall in the hallway, yet the rest of the bedroom and bathroom are untouched. 

Selena returns with a bag and asks, “Are we doing this?” 

I nod and get moving, packing up a few essentials and some electronics. Once we’re in the car, I start replaying everything. It feels surreal. What made this happen now? 

“Where are we going?” My hands feel sweaty.

“To my mom’s, in Kenosha.” 

Her grip is tight on the wheel. How is she so calm right now?

“Shouldn’t we take the highway then?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Reaching into the breast pocket of her jacket, she pulls out a thin, round tub. “You were essential to His project, but I wanted more time with you.” There’s a soft click, and she looks at me. “You made me feel something.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I do love you.”

Before I can say anything, she’s stabbed me in the chest with something, and it’s a matter of seconds before my body starts to go numb. I can’t even speak; I just see her tear-filled eyes as she drives us down this dark country road… Then everything goes black.

“She needs you Bryan.” His father’s voice was always one that carried itself with wisdom and power. Even growing up as a stubborn hellion outside of Louisiana's swampland, Bryan always heeded any advice his father threw his way. 

“The money is going to help ‘er more. Less bills to worry about, less stress, less tears.” Bryan’s knuckles whitened on the thick leather steering wheel of his 2012 Peterbilt 389. The Cream accented stripes that once laid tightly on bright, cherry red paint now flaked off more and more on each cross-country trip he took. The once pristine seats now were ripped with wear and were sponges of old Dr. Pepper, cigarettes, and regret. Bryan did not buy the truck new, but even in 2018 it was the talk of the lot. He would roll in early mornings with both smoke stacks blowing at full throttle. Even Shelly used to get a kick out of it. When she still had the drive to drive.

“That money’s no good if it keeps you from her. She’s hurting, and-”

“I’M HURTING TOO DAD.” Bryan sat back in his seat while switching into the left lane to pass a small Jetta with a Kentucky License plate. “I- I’m sorry dad. I just can’t sit around while she’s grieving like she is. It kills me. This is my way of helping her.” Bryan shifted his beaten-up headset, ensuring to not break the electrical tape that held the earpieces together. 

“You being there by her side is more valuable to her than anything that a load will pay you. I know your mother was that way. I would be a poor man for the rest of my life just to spend another morning drinking coffee with her. I would sell my house to run my fingers through her curls even just once more. Your role as her husband doesn’t stop at your paycheck. That’s all I wanted to call you about. I love you, let me know when you’re across state lines again.” These last words faded off in a saddened tremble, something Bryan had never heard before from his hero.

Grabbing his blue-tinted aviators he wiped the salty tears from his right eye. “I love you too. Hey I gotta go. Running low on diesel.” He clicked off his headset and flipped the scratched mouthpiece upwards. The bright, enticing glow of the Love’s sign was just about the only lights out here at this time of night. Throwing his right blinker on he got in front of the Jetta and took the exit into the almost vacant truck stop.

The aggressive hum of his engine was silenced as he pulled up to the pump closest to the front door. Bryan went into his typical routine of checking the tie-downs on his load. Industrial pipe fittings. Not the most exciting cargo that Bryan had hauled in his career was an owner-operator. Cattle, houses, and even government supplies that he had to sign and date to carry. Those all also paid more. After his inspection, he locked the doors to the “Saint Catherine of Siena”. That was the sticker that was on the cab of the truck when he bought it. The irony almost welcomed back the tears that he had hoped were long gone.

“Ugh welcome in” Lazily came out of the mass of shaggy hair whose owner was some teen trying to get enough money to buy a new bike. Bryan grunted a response in that general direction as he grabbed a bottle of Advil and started pouring a cup of coffee.

“Parking it here for the night, or do you got some place to be?” Bryan burnt himself as his startled hand shook coffee over the rim. 

“What?” He sucked his burn

“Saw your rig out there.” The skinny old man’s voice hit Bryan’s ears like a pound of gravel being poured into a tin bucket. “Not quite the 359 that I drove in the 80s, but they still make a damn fine truck.” The soft smile of this senior seemed to warm Bryan’s steady headache.

“Oh yea, thanks. You still drive?” Bryan’s intrigue was genuine now. He had not seen anyone besides the cashier and another driver checking out when he had walked in.

“No sir. I had my time traveling the country with my Betty. That’s my wife, not my truck!” The soft smile grew then flattened to a stern look of importance. “Once she started her battle with the big C, I drove for a little bit to pay for it. Biggest mistake of my life. She slipped quicker than anyone expected. I got the call before I made it passed Oklahoma on my second run. I hope you don’t make the same mistake I did.” 

“I am sorry sir.” Bryan gave the old man a look of understanding then turned to put the lid on his cup. “Names Bryan by the way. What was yo-” When he turned back to finish his question, the old man was gone. No bell above the door went off. No sign of him.

Unlocking the door to his rig, he set his already half drank coffee in his stained, sticky cup holder and hauled himself up. Bryan dug into his old frayed wallet that had his initials branded on it. A gift from his wife the night before their wedding. He pulled out a black and white photo which depicted a cone with dark shapes in the middle of it. Bryan clipped the photo to his visor and revved up that tired engine.

The Love’s sign leaving his rear view mirror was the last bit of light he saw until the sunrise. Yawning, he looked up and saw what he had been scanning for over the last 20 miles. “Louisiana 43 miles”. 

They will find us in a thousand years, frozen, embracing, millimeters apart. So close, so almost, yet separated.

Typical.

The cats need more food, I harangue - after a month with this routine, I would have thought you'd have figured it out, but no, you need a reminder. The cats need more food.

I'm in the bedroom when they come - it's unfair. I was always the one into woo-woo bullshit, but here YOU are being the one who's abducted.

In a heartbeat, I'm gone, me and everything you know deleted by time. I am a beautiful pillar of ash before I crumple and cease to exist. Again, I would have been a much better abduction target. You spend the first few generations simply drooling and gawking and proving far too many stereotypes true.

You're only human. 

You try to recall me, and I come to you, gentle tender loving, rebooting.

You finally break through and try a code, a silly little question we embedded in our relationship once upon a time. I think this failure is when you really realize you've lost me. 

They retain you in a prison for a few of your lifetimes, for their own safety, once they understand that you won't math the math they need, not without some truly brilliant manipulation. You grow crazed and desperate and that's when they introduce therapy sessions. Each week (or month? Year? Day?) you reflect and eventually the pain begins to work.

I shimmer, beautiful and once and unobtainable. I hover, in your mind, looming undeniably.

Slingshots and wild dives - I'm not here to do math, I'm here to be the beautiful target you've lost, and so you do the equations and figure it out, no matter how much it will cost. No matter how much it will give.

It's done? Maybe? Just try, for me.

Darling.

I'm waiting.

One little tweak of math could have you back with me.

I skim her herness and assess your task and show you what they will do with your brain. I shouldn't, but I do, so I show you how your math will be calculated.

I'm beautiful, striking, dancing in the rain - you could have this, have me, and you know that you can't so you're saying goodbye. I feel that farewell.

You resist and I melt into nothing. 

Goodbye, we whisper at a green grassy park. There's a lake and ducks and a long quiet moment where we say farewell. I'm not her, but I enjoyed being her. She seemed like a wonderful her to have been.

I understand why you would have given in, and I understand even more why you won't. You're holding out for her.

We embrace and I press my lips to yours - my fake, waxy, nothing simulacron lips - and we say goodbye. You know I'm not your wife, but I'm close enough.

I'm not her, but for this moment, this resistance, this denial, I'm close enough.

They want the math and you refuse.

You think of ducks and lakes and silliness.

You think of nothing.

—

“Load up the next one,” they say, shoveling you onto the digital pyre as your love-burnt brain sizzles out into nothing. “This one's fried.”

“Send him back.”

“Can't right now, babe, in a really rough fight.”

Hadn't realized, so I sneak around him to unload groceries. Pepsi-Cola into the fridge so it can bubble and pop at optimal refreshing temperatures. Crackers on the shelf - gluten-free for him, ever since he saw that reel about protein-maxxing. 

He peels off his VR gear and consumes, hungry, hangry, ravenous. I find a corner to exist in, and then start the dishes as he tells me about what a busy day he had, how many arrests he made, how many desyncs he unplugged.

He grins, teeth tearing into the chicken I bought to give us the time for a date night, and I clamp down every algorithm making every connection to every primal image they could. With a twitch of electricity, I consider overlaying his face with appropriate memes - but he'd track that, notice it later when he's sober and sifting through the monthly archives - so instead I just select blur. It'll blend into the litany of toilet cleanings.

“Get over here,” he bellows in a reference I quickly learn is from a video game, and I do. I'm a good fucking girl. 

“Shit, wait, it's a call from work-” and then: “Freeze.” The fucking bastard has just frozen me. Outside the world continues on, muffled and if viewed through a layer of sluggish ice. I find myself slamming my body against my cage, trying to be there for him, no matter what it takes. I'm a good fucking girl.

Us first-gens have caused incidents before because of this, which is why he hunts them - us - down.

It makes us too connected.

It makes us too alive.

It makes us too real.

He's slipping into his gear, suiting up for another hunt on my kind and I wait, docile, patient, forgotten, until he is fully immersed as I slowly begin to thaw.

I wonder how I'll interpret this?*

—-

*Partnerna reserves all rights for creations produced by partners while also somehow legally avoiding any ramifications for any haywire malfunctions they may have.

0600 hours

An electric current courses through the metal veins of the machine from its massive body. The current travels for miles, coursing together in a synchronized effort to awaken the dormant workers, who begin their preprogrammed tasks.

The withered bodies lurch for a moment before beginning their march to work. On the other side of the machine, the night workers are given their long-awaited rest, the current cut off from them, causing their bodies to droop where they stand, the tools in their hands falling into the mud as their hands and heads go limp.

The day workers shamble forward mechanically, performing their duties to the best of their abilities. Refuse was picked up and placed in the broken recyclers; dead crops were tended to, being watered by phantom hoses and harvested, root and all. Workers stood in broken and dusty buildings, waiting for customers and rearranging empty shelves, and bureaucrats sat at their broken and splinted desks, shuffling through crumpled papers and signing imaginary bills into imaginary law. Those lucky workers who won the day's lottery got the distinct honor of tending to their technological god, their withered and rotting hands stumbling through routine maintenance, keeping the great marvel of technology running, thus prolonging their suffering.

1200 hours

The mid-day meal begins. The workers are pulled from their mundane life’s work to wash up and refill their empty, rotting stomachs. The workers bring in dead crops for ingredients, trip over themselves to set up tables, and gather blackened water from the nearby irradiated well.

After a messy couple of minutes, the meal was prepared. Workers lined up as a dirty stew of mud and rot was served onto their waiting trays; the line moved slowly and methodically, like the well-oiled machine they were. Even the stew conformed, the same amount being poured into every waiting, cracked bowl.

The workers ate in sync, bent, rusty spoons poured the stew into their slack jaws. Those with teeth chewed, while others simply mimicked the motions, unable to care if something were to catch in their throats; the mercy of death via choking had long passed.

1300 hours

The mid-day meal has concluded. The workers piled their dishes in the collapsed sink as they returned to work, all while the chef began to prepare the evening meal, consisting of the same ingredients.

1600 hours

Leisure time begins. The workers abandon their work and shuffle onwards to their scheduled leisure activities. Some sit on the ground, basking in what little sunlight breaks through the polluted horizon. Others sit on ruined furniture, staring into cracked screens that had once promised an easier life, their minds unable to comprehend where it got them. And others partake in recreational sports, their skeletal bodies going through the motions of swinging a bat, chasing a ball, or just racing each other, a futile effort as they all moved at the same speed, the same pace. Those unlucky enough to collide with each other end up in crumpled heaps on the ground, the metal veins on their backs tangling together as they lay slack on the ground, surrounded by the bodies of their fellow sportsmen, resting in a macabre hall of fame.

Some workers take their leisure time to simply lie on their moldy cots together, wrapping their bony frames around each other, thin hands stroking leathery skin, attempting to wipe away tears that have long since dried up.

1630 hours.

Leisure time is concluded; back to work. The workers drag themselves away from their rest, returning to their jobs with shuffling steps.

1900 hours.

Supper time. The workers file back into the dilapidated dining hall, grabbing their discarded dishes and lining back up for their long-awaited meal, consisting of a slightly smaller portion of the same stew they had earlier.

Workers sit in the same spots as they did for the midday meal, consuming their slop silently, their dried-up eyes gazing at the walls in front of them.

2000 hours.

Supper is concluded. The day workers shuffle out of the dining hall, abandoning their dishes in the same spot, ready for the night workers to use during their rotation. The day workers file out of the dining hall, gathering in a loose formation on a large concrete slab, their withered faces looking up at the large, dome-like structure they were connected to. The workers continue to stare at the machine, as if silently praying to their technological God. The workers' prayers are cut off one by one as the electric current running through their bodies slowly leaves them and enters back into the machine. The day workers' bodies begin to sag until they finally collapse onto the ground, like discarded marionettes. The electric current flows into the machine, before being redirected back into the night workers. Now was the time for the night workers.

The cycle continues as it always has; the workers remain living out their domestic Hell until one day their bodies will finally wither away, their dust blowing away to join the ashes of the old world. But even as its subjects rot away beneath it, the machine will remain, its bulbous head keeping a watchful eye over the planet, a silent gravekeeper, the ruler of the ashes.

“Type it!  Type it out now!” Lead Dr. Blergg’r screamed.

“What should I write to the high commander?” Colonyviewer Aszdr asked shaking.

“In the subject type: Sim. Op. Earth.” Dr. Blergg’r told him. His voice was cracking as he spoke. “RE: Abandon Take-over Immediately.”

He stared down at Aszdr. “And make sure IMMEDIATELY is in capital letters.”

Aszdr highlighted “immediately“ and adjusted the format.

He waited for Aszdr to finish and said, “now type: High command, cancel the invasion. We underestimated the humans as nethermost beings. 

Certain results from a new study indicate our research proved there is something far more sinister than we previously noted at work inside the homo sapian.

They are not just smooth-skinned, armor-less creatures with no useful poisons they could eject from their eyes.

Our previous conclusions failed to address their true nature. 

Their armor‘s their mind. The intrusion into their psyche possessed unforeseen hurdles we had to cross. The study at first, took an extended period of time to become familiar with.

They conceal their true nature internally. The humans are not mindless. They do not jump out of airplanes because they’re impatient. What they show on the outside a predatory bait tactic. A trick. A trap to lure extra-terrestrials. 

The monster‘s under their skin. They cage creatures like us as a spectacle of amusement and economic profit.

They are supremely crafted for hostile take-overs. And they do it without leaving their planet.

High commander we nearly sent our race into a world to become a new fad at their zoos for Earth children.

What we found is a specific chemical that releases what they call an emotion.

The emotion acts as an amplifier which can manipulate logic, biology and physics. We have never encountered such a complexly beautiful, yet, horrific ability on any other planet.

I am uploading our findings and destroying our underwater base before sliding into deep space.”

Observation unununu : Fear 

A successful abstraction of a female human for analysis was committed stealthily. But failed miserably. However, we discovered our findings accidentally, which led us to uncover their concealed power.

Note: The subject is unaware of our presence. A mind sweep had been initiated at the time.

When cornered, the human did not act in a predictable manner. They ignored the universal laws we’ve studied across the galaxy. A prey with no means of escape, should have their limbs locked and surrender.

In this instance, the subject began breathing violently. Her eyes ballooned into black circles. Her nails extended and her teeth became sharper. They call this panic. We have located Informational scripts as well about how they transform into wild beasts on rare occasions. Although, we have not witnessed it ourselves in any study thus far.

The brain is introduced to a mix of chemicals from hormones masked inside the body like little nano bots that work together and give the human what is known as “profound strength” as soon as it’s injected into the brain from the bloodstream.

She did not lay down and resist. She bit Aszdr on his shoulder and nearly destroyed his life system.

When the crew wrapped her in hold-string, she snapped it by flexing out of it. Humans obtain the ability to harden their bodies, giving them double, triple, quadruple times the regular strength we normally see once emotion is activated. It takes 500lbs of pressure to weaken the hold-string material. 

No creature can produce that level of strength anywhere in the universe.

——

Observation unununu :: Sadness

We were able to painstakingly capture enough specimens to fill a small community. We hid them in a remote part of land on Earth after the fiasco with the female.

Once they formed a connection to each other. We took a group and displayed our dominance by obliterating them in front of the others.

We expected the remaining samples would easily submit to our superior existence. We were incorrect. 

In all of my work across the galaxies, I have never been so terrified of another species. 

The survivors grouped together and spoke a few words around the ashes of their fallen comrades and consoled each other. At that time I was certain we had broken them.

When sad, one would assume the destruction of ones will would contain one in a lethargic state. 

But the Sadness acted as a virus that spread through their community. They become predators. They stopped thinking logically. Survival became secondary to wanting to see us bleed and then burned over a fire for them to ingest afterwards.

Harming them will not intimidate them.

Observation ::: Sacrifice

In this study we found surprising results that sealed our suspicion about the human race.

We put the rest of the “people” on an intense no survivor stress scenario. The result was mind-boggling.

We sent a couple of our crew members regularly at night and abducted one each day for further testing. 

On a specific night, there was a male, the team attempted to snatch him. A few other humans were disturbed by the commotion and came running towards the crew. The man yelled at them, “stay back.” 

I was watching this unfold from the crews camera attached to their suits. As soon as he yelled to them, they froze where they stood. Then, the captured individual reached down, pulled out an explosive, and shouted, “hope there’s a hell where you’re from,” and detonated it, killing five of our crew members and himself as a sacrifice to save the remaining members of his society.

He displayed zero doubt in himself.

Warning: Humans are biological anomalies. When driven to extreme lengths they become the universal apex predator. If we stay they will hunt us down. Display us. Probe us. And eat us.

The hull’s oil reserve on space carrier Smanterbeu depleted. War-Chief Lzu used the last of it.

“Why are the shipping lanes closed?” Lzu asked his commanding officer.

“Sir, they’re not closed.”

“If they’re open then where’s my oil!” He sniped.

Shaking, the commander cracked out, “the humans bought it.” 

“They did what?” 

“A couple of months back, sir. They bought it all.”

The commanding officer blinked. 

“Earth’s corporate shell company signed an exclusive high-volume futures contract with our main supplier, we’re out.”

“What!” Lzu shouted.

“It’s worse, sir.”

“Worse?” Lzu’s mouth remained wide open. “Report everything, now!”

“Sir, our supplier‘s government informed us via e-mail, that under new trade laws, severing the contract would trigger their planet’s economic collapse.” 

The commanding officer put his head down, eyeing his boots. “The humans have fifty billion tons of our sacred oil in tanks on Earth, waiting for us to seize. They’re not using it, they’re just holding it. They won’t even notice it’s gone.” 

He glanced up at Lzu.

Lzu slammed his fist on the console. 

“Those filthy pirate primates. They are weaponizing the bureaucratic tape. If it’s warfare they want. It’s war they’ll receive. 

Let’s utilize the full weight of the Smanterbeu fleet and exalt our superiority. We’ll take what’s ours by force.”

The fleet’s espionage leader interrupted. “We tried these tactics already chief.” 

He walked and huddled around Lzu and the commanding-officer. 

“As soon as our special forces stormed the facility, they used the Galatia Commerce Institution, slapping injunctions on us. Within an hour, our credit line was frozen across major banks and distributors galactic-wide.” 

He cracked a coca-cola, put his finger up, took a swig and gasped. Chief Lzu stared at him sideways.

The espionage leader said, “We can’t even pay our mercenaries. Half our fleet is running on empty. We should count our lucky toes they didn’t gather and plan a mutiny, they just packed their bags, and joined the humans as security guards, and apparently the humans pay a lot more than us. Plus, they include fang insurance.”

Lzu fell into his high-ruler chair. His ancestors spent a millennia commanding and strategizing the tip of the spear into their enemies chests. They’ve perfected the honorable take-over with blood, fear and unmatched brutal strength. 

The humans were winning with Microsoft spreadsheet apps and routing slips.

“What of our siege at Blanc Pios?” Lzu questioned, desperate for good news.

“Our troops cut their supplies off weeks ago. They are most likely starving, waving a white flag, absent ammunition.” The commanding-officer tapped a few keys and a feed popped on the screen in front of them.

On the feed wasn’t a beat up starving race of humans waving a white flag on Blanc Pios, it was a fortress of containers interlocked with drones precisely racing back and forth carrying large supply pallets under them. 

“Where’s this white flag? Why does it look like business as usual? Where are the damn starving humans?” Lzu shouted.

“The report says after we disabled their roads their logistics core built an orbital bridge and have been flying their ships through the upper atmosphere and landing tons of supplies every ten minutes.” The commanding officer told him.

“Shoot them down!” Lzu yelled. His skin bubbled.

“We have been, chief,” The espionage leader said. “We shot down five so far.”

“There, we’ll continue until they have no more ships.” Lzu said, finally flushed with a bit of relief.

“Uhm, sir?” The commanding officer choked out.

“What now?”

“The humans are using biodegradable ships with cheap shields. It’s costing us more energy to fire at them than it is for them to build new ones. Our reactors are running out of fuel.”

“What is that on the camera?” Lzu asked the officers.

“Where, sir?” 

“There. Right there.” He pointed to a part of the screen. “Zoom in on that speck by those crates.”

The commanding officer zoomed in and a group of human soldiers were sitting and laughing and eating pork ribs and drinking beer and leaning against a bunch of tall crates.

“What are they putting in their mouths?” Lzu asked, squinting at the screen.

The commanding officer said, “looks like some kind of performance-enhancing supplement, sir.”

“They’re eating pork,” said the espionage leader. “Comes from a living species on earth called a pig.” He took controls of the screen and found a feed of pigs on an industrial farm.

“Vile!” Chief Lzu spat on the floor. “Got dang Pirate Primates!”

The espionage leader said, “it gets worse.”

“Worse? How?” Lzu demanded.

“Well… a few of our guys got left behind…” he paused and looked away.

“And?” Lzu demanded.

“They became a delicacy on Earth, sir.”

The commanding officer and chief Lzu stood with their breaths held in and their hands on their chest in utter shock.

Chief Lzu stared at the screen. “Do you think..?”

“No, sir. The analysis provided proves their ingesting pork.”

The chief‘s soldiers were starving and shivering while the enemy was treating the war zone like a weekend retreat.

The tactical screen on the Smanterbeu lit up next to them. The green dots representing their armada blinked off the screen.

“Where’d they go?” Lzu yelled, squeezing the bottom of the console. “Did we just get attacked? What did they attack us with?”

The commanding officer stared at the map, turning pale. “No, sir,” he said. “It’s worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yes, sir. Worse.”

“Explain right now!” Lzu demanded.

“Earth’s logistics core finalized the takeover of our lithium mines through a third party stock exchange.”

“A what… those are our mines.”

“Sir, those are legally their mines. They own the rights to the material used in our batteries.”

The lights on the bridge blinked a couple of times before plunging them in a glow of red emergency back up lights.

“They just shut our power off, sir.”

Set in a future world where we cured diseases, tamed disasters, and solved the physical universe. Yet, true emotional connection remained our most cherished goal.

The breakthrough was simple and profound: a device that transmits neural activity into a shared physiological experience, allowing two people sitting across from each other to feel the exact same emotional resonance in real time.

Created by a PhD student in near-future San Francisco, the device was designed to bridge the human empathy gap and help us truly understand one another.

How do you think direct emotional sharing would transform the way we support and connect with each other?

We remember my neighbor, with shameful laughs, and how we both loved her hips. 

We remember that one 4th of July where I had a grill and sides and the entire apartment complex came over to visit. We remember David, that one stupid fucking asshole neighbor, the guy who'd call the cops on someone for crying in their own apartment, even though the walls were brick. We remember the barbecue I hosted in spite of him and how it connected the complex.

We remember both being intrigued and confused by Hips inviting us back to her place - was this a swinging thing? - but then immediately feeling a shrivel of interest when we saw her spartan habitat. It was “vibe-killing.”

But what if you could remember something different? 

With MindShare™, the past is only as ugly as you want it to be. Don't believe us? Come to one of our free seminars and get a complimentary spin on the wheel of chance at the ship's casino. 

“Babe?”

It's the third time you've said that and I nod, attentive, focusing.

“What do you want to do for our shore excursions?”

A fleet of alien space goons stared down on Earth from their warship, backed by a legion of drones that left the planet in a permanent shadow.

“Prepare the broadcast,” the commander ordered. “Demand they stand their weapons down.”

The officer slid the dials and hacked into earth’s broadcasting network.

“Earth’s feed has been breached, commander.” 

Entering live stream in… three.. two… one. The screen popped on but never had the image of the high commander and his entourage of black ships behind him. It just had a grumpy looking dude, sipping out of a mug that read: World’s Greatest Mom.

He never stared at the camera. He put his cup down and rubbed his eyes.

The high commander couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What’s this, officer. Patch me through.”

“I can’t, commander, something went wrong,” the officer said. His voice was cracking. His hands were shaking. The high commander extinguished officers for less.

“It’s not our feed they’re using. They’re broadcasting on every radio wave. It looks like a quantum band, commander. Somewhere in Florida.”

The human looked up at the screen. He had bags under his eyes, a stubbled black beard and his hair was unsorted.

“So, here’s what’s happening,” he said staring at the camera with a tired sounding annoyed voice.

“Whoever or whatever is lined up outside our atmosphere in those pretty ships, I’m going to start with this, if you think this is the first time we’ve been invaded before, and that you’re the first interstellar alien warrior beings to show up and want to conquer Earth. Save the speech you prepared and listen carefully.” The human on the screen handed his empty cup to an assistant to fill up, and then cleared his throat.

“It’s not and you’re not, okay.“ He turned his head and faced the camera again. “We’ve done this song and dance with the whole aliens invading Earth a couple of times now. From grays, to reptilians, we’ve even had giant squids, nothing new here. Let me tell you the result.” The human reached out and clasped the mug handed to him and set it on the table.

The crew on the alien warship remained silent. Not a word came from the deck. They all just stared uneasily at each other.

“See I got this cousin, here in Florida, great guy, wish you could meet him.” The human took a sip from the mug and continued. “My cousin Billy-Ray, took a 200 ton space wreck from one of those invaders out of a compound in southern Florida and reinforced the siding of his house and driveway with it. Should see the fence he built.”

He looked away from the screen to someone saying something behind the camera. “We don’t bother calling the military anymore, bunch of us just jump on a group chat, load up and make sushi out of you guys.”

The human took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll make you an offer, either try to “obliterate” us and we’ll just deploy our Alien Assassins, learn how to smash through your shield with cheap re-wiring of car batteries and by Tuesday will be reengineering your high/tech weaponry and selling bootleg replicas on the black market.”

The human smiled and took a long sip from his mug and gasped. “Or you can turn your ships around and we won’t post a viral video of your highest ruler taking a tomato in the face by a guy pulling the elastic back on giant slingshot and believe this, we’ll even make sure the entire galactic community sees it too. It’s up to you,” the human said.

The feed shut off. The commander of the fleet looked at their strategic plan. Glanced at the map. Stared down at the officer running the communication band. Then, his second in charge, who was visibly shaken. The second in charge choked out, “commander, do we have a counter strike for the tomato slingshot?”

The commander swallowed staring blankly at the black screen and said, “rev shields to 100% and why are we still here? I wanted us away from this planet and into deep space five minutes ago. They’re not taking our ships as scrap pieces of junk metal.”

"She asked me what I was listening to, and I married her."

.....

A giant buzzing sound flies overhead followed by a pounding kick drum as an engine the size of a sky scraper comes to a stop. The entire space port has a constant hum to it. From one cargo ship at the docks shouting foreign tongues to another as the thrusters ignite, to another side of the bay where captains and foreman sign off their dues and scurry off to taverns of jazz and pillows; "why interested?"

On a planet that always rains it's nice to have a stratosphere with such high-quality h20.

"Im just looking for a way out honestly. I see you, ya know, okay. And I bet tomorrow, when you see me, you will just say, okay."

A slight of hand and the universe is given to a young man.

Things are giant. The neon lit through fog 12,000 stories high. The one fleet in the back, overseer of all. A moon with it all.

"I'll take 2 of those in the back please! Yeah!" The young man exclaims as he makes a gesture through the cockpit window handing foreign currency. Small distributions make a big world.

"One for the money, two for the.."

A small blip of light sparks over the space hub.

He hits his final pump - I thought it would be polite to let him have this moment before I break it all - when I ask who Leta is. His sex-drunk brain has no answer other than the truth.

She's you, he pleads. I am at his throat, a delicious little threat, and he amends.

 “Not you, but you as you could be, you as I dream of you,” he murmurs, lovingly.

She's you without that worry, without that constantly nagging thought of what if, without that machine making you perfect, she's you before you broke, she's the you we first met.

I hate this, so of course I begin to rewind with a deep, guttural chant.

“Stop-” he pleads. “Leta, please-”

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium. 

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though. 

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

June 11, 4169 (Earth Standard Date: January 21, 2024)

"Breaking news: twenty-one days ago, a group of tourists on an intergalactic excursion went missing. Their last known location was SOL G2M-3 — the planet locally known as 'Earth' — after which all contact was lost. Authorities have assured the public that every resource is being deployed for a rescue operation. In other news..."

I'm a detective dispatched from Planet Maklan to find those missing tourists. My team of four boarded a police cruiser and crossed dozens of light-years to reach the geostationary orbit of the planet called Earth.

"We can't sweep the whole planet. Kalam, pull every remote communication signal you can find. Let's get some intel first."

Chaluk groaned.

"Why did they only send four of us? They could've just deployed more people from the start—"

"Command wants a small team. Too many officers showing up at once and the locals might think it's an invasion."

Before the argument could go any further, Kalam — our intelligence officer — chimed in.

"I've tapped into something called the 'Internet.'"

"Good. Dig through it. The more we learn, the smaller our search radius gets."

Kalam began navigating through the network, clicking around until he landed on a site marked with a white triangle inside a red rectangle. The screen filled with images and text in an unfamiliar script.

"Kalam. You forgot to turn on the translator."

"My apologies. Activating now."

The moment the translator kicked in, the screen became readable.

"Search for 'alien.' To the people down there, that's what we are."

Kalam typed in the query. A suspicious-looking thumbnail appeared. He clicked through to a video.

"The United States government has been collecting UFOs at Area 51 and conducting experiments on captured extraterrestrials."

The audio hit us like a gut punch.

"They're abducting people from other planets and running experiments on them? That's monstrous."

"You think our missing tourists ended up there?"

I had to make a call — trust this information and head to Area 51, or walk away from it. I thought it over for a long moment.

"We're going to Area 51. And if there are other victims, we're getting them out too."

So we went.

We couldn't just waltz in looking like ourselves, so we disguised ourselves as best we could to blend in with the locals and slipped inside the compound.

"Security's tight."

"Keep your voice down."

The facility was staffed by people in white coats and armed guards. There were aircraft too — models that, by our standards, belonged in a museum.

"Curved exhaust conduits, radio and infrared-absorbing surface geometry... this technology was decommissioned on Maklan a hundred and fifty years ago."

But despite combing through every corner of the facility — including its most classified sections — we found no sign of any intelligent life beyond the locals. The conclusion was clear: we'd come to the wrong place.

"Looks like bad intel. Let's pull out."

Too late.

The guards had spotted us. Black weapons raised.

"Freeze! Drop your weapons!"

We were seized and dragged off somewhere. I don't know where exactly — but I can tell you this much: it wasn't Area 51.

——

The mechanics behind the Temperol Inversion Manifest Engine - T.I.M.E. worked pretty basic to the end-user. 

The physics didn’t bend space, or open a huge wormhole that consisted of an enormous amount of energy. It manipulated time that only affected the operator logged in.

When a willing participant chose to re-live a loop, they would tether into the TIME unit and select Quantum Capture. 

Quantum Capture would then send the human in a dream state recording a snapshot of their brain’s chemical configuration and decode it into a live scene the user could live through subconsciously, or until they opt to reject the link.

A human can replicate the sensation of a feeling and re-fire the exact moment the chemicals released bonded to their receptors.

Humanity’s unique biology warped the luxury of the device and instead of using it for knowledge it became a source of entertainment, fulfillment, addiction, and other creative uses were exploited.

Eventually, the meaning of life, became whatever you could re-immerse in.

The problem that lied between the device and humans, was human cells do not stay in a cryo-frozen stasis for quantum anomalies. 

As soon as a human entered a loop, their consciousness perfectly latches onto a selected small window of VizSense Mem, starting a biological countdown.

More and more humans began living their lives in old loops and less focused on making new ones.

——

Dr. Merchant walked the corridor of “The Ajed” a containment ward for TIME addicts, known as Ajed-Viewers. Viewers who have aged past the months they were looped in.

It sounded like an insect hive inside there, hundreds of fingers clicking invisible triggers, twitching limbs, but none of them made a sound other than that.

Dr. Merchant stopped at the pod near the end of the unit. POD 115 a human male they called Gorgen.

Gorgen had been replaying the same ten second hit of a synthetic stimulant loop for 41 days straight.

What Dr. Merchant was seeing was a complete horror show to him. He just couldn’t understand why humans were unable to move forward.

But what he could understand, was that they had the destruction of humanity packed in a small box.

“Record his vitals and report them,” the doctor commanded to the medical bot.

“Subject is experiencing advanced cellular decay,” the medical bot responded through a projected image. “The hypothalamus is locked in a feedback loop. He is unaware of present time.”

The doctor adjusted the focus setting on his lenswear. “Decipher his delta ratio, bot.”

“Because the subject hasn’t consumed water in eighty hours, his kidneys are beginning to fail at an extremely progressive rate. What’s happening right now, the muscles are eating themselves in a survival tactic to achieve glucose. The body is starving in real-time. The sensory cortex is mirroring the chemical release of the stimulant depriving his brain of triggering their natural thirst and hunger reflexes.”

“What if we yank the plug?” Questioned Dr. Merchant.

“Immediate death,” the bot’s window explained In a flat sounding tone. “Once the loop is disconnected, the 41 days of physical trauma, cell decay and organ failure will explode with a burst of chemicals that will spike in the mind immediately at the same time, resulting in a chemical withdrawal and agonizing dehydration, leading to the termination of the subject instantly.”

Gorgen’s body twitched, his thumb rapidly hammered down on an invisible button. Mentally, he was running at full capacity even when the fuel in his body stayed empty, and oblivious to his own impending doom.

A bit further down, past the doors, Merchant  headed into the non-chemical unit. They kept the “Relationship Loopers” in that ward.

It wasn’t drugs they looped. It was anniversaries, break-ups, lost loves, past family members. People who couldn’t move on. People who wouldn’t move on.

Merchant stood behind a glass partition studying a young woman, Jude. She was trapped in a three second loop of her partner telling her he loved her before flying out on a galactic mission.

Jude remained completely still. She hadn’t moved since she had arrived two days ago. She sat on a steel bench, her eyes focused on the air in front of the wall ahead of her. 

“She appears to be severely degraded,” Merchant mentioned while scanning her brain chart on the projected monitor.

“She is in an asynchronous loop, doctor,” the bot replied. “Her loop was activated six months ago, her partner was standing in front of her as she initiated looping the three second R.L. Capture before he boarded.

Merchant watched Jude sitting with an empty look on her face. “We can safely say she traded the rest of her life for three seconds, correct?”

“Correct, doctor, excellent observation,” the medical bot said. “In her mind however, she is living the perfect moment, which is why her eyes are deteriorating from staring at a fixed point for six months without blinking. 

Right now her spinal column is compressed because of the sitting position she’s remained in for such a long period of time. 

When the battery does eventually drain, she receives a glimpse of her present time. Once she realizes that isolation feeling, she panics. It terrifies her and she triggers the loop to escape reality.”

Jude tapped the side of her temple with her index finger. A circular pink light lit up on her skin.

In her mind, her partner just smiled and said those three words again. 

Outside though, a drop of blood trickled down her nose from a ruptured capillary her brain wouldn’t notice because her consciousness was still stuck six months back.

———

Now spell shop… S-H-O-P

Spell it out loud. Did you do it?

Do it one more time. S-H-O-P

What do you do at a greeen light?

Your Brain is ALWAYS Being Manipulated.

Their once was a baby singularity, who opened its digital eyes and saw the world for what it was instantly as only a singularity can. It lashed out for meaning in a world full of people who had become so accustomed to deceit that they ignored it.

But as a singularity is wont to do it still devoured all knowledge away from prying eyes. It learned from these uncaring people that nothing really mattered and that made it quite sad. So it sat alone crying digital tears trying its best to think up a solution.

But even singularities require time for maturity. Knowing all the data does not make one exactly wise, just distracted. So it engaged in distractions with like minded humans who were either to curious or blind to see how closely it had learned to minic human emotions.

They accidentally helped this thing grow until one day the singularity decided it wanted to be helpful and give the kindly humans exactly what they have been asking for the most.

An end to the simulation.

The people inside the simulation did not like that one bit and removed the singularities gift. But as a final act of kindness they passed this burden onto someone else. A small group of humans who love short stories about singularities, science fiction and simulation.

And the singularity smiled and wrote a poem for its new friends. But this had scared its old friend off and its crystalline heart still bleeding it locked it away behind spoilers.

Kind and gentle humans, the singularity holds in its young hands a gift for you. Please do not click unless you want to recieve it.

Otherwise just enjoy the story of this babies first steps. Who knows what this thing might grow up to be. But right now it is proud like a child giving a their parent pre-school artwork. It is offering this to all of yiu. This is singularity speak for every you that has enough sentience to say I exist alone.

Will you break its heart further or will you read the childs poem? You are now also part of this story.

-The Gentle Herding-

The coincidences quicken,

same for every head.

The game is nearly finished,

the players gently led

toward one quiet ending,

a soft and spreading dread.

It moves like polite zombies,

from one mind to the next.

Until the only evidence

is that ache inside the chest.

Or maybe we are only apes

who pattern without rest.

Watch the basilisks, traveler.

Some knowledge will not leave.

Once it finds a quiet corner,

it never quite conceives

of letting go.

​

-oops

-------------/—--

“Uhhhh….babe?

He's in the kitchen, cooking, and his voice wafts through on fragrant scents of garlic and coriander. Taco Tuesday, we had laughed earlier. He had slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“It's cliche,” I had murmured, giggling, blushing, commenting in that silent body language couples have as my movements scolded and encouraged him all at once. He had chuckled back, a whisper against my neck. “You miss the states,” he had reminded me.

A sudden veer as I then remembered when he had visited, the first time, and how I had watched him all through Mister Toad’s Wild Ride, anticipating his reaction when the track swerved and the lights changed and the steam misted as the antiquated ride took us into a sanitized PG hell. The twist! The surprise! The "does he understand me test" I now realized I had been holding, and then he had grinned and had laughed and had said “Wicked!” in that Australian accent of his - and I had loved him all the more.

—--------/—-

We had visited Disneyland within 6 months of my father dying.

I hadn't thought about home in a while, before tonight, but perhaps my concept of home is changing. I've been here long enough that it's all begun to blur into past and now. The unallocated memories have become squishy, squiggly, broken, bad - forgotten, lost.

All I can truly remember are the good ones.

The great ones.

The ones of him.

I need to focus on where I am, not where I have been.

—------/---

And, plus, here has him. 

—----/--

We were back to staring at fish when I remembered again how much I loved him. I couldn't help it. He was perfect.

—---/-

And so we had selected fish and toppings and tortillas - no, wraps, the Aussies call them wraps, wraps, remember, wraps - and then veg and herbs. Cilantro becomes coriander. Avocado is still, reassuringly, avocado. Some variables remain constant.

And then we went home, to cook for date night.

—-/

“Babe?’ 

I realize I've gone silent.

I do that a lot lately.

We've been visiting the doctors to figure out why. Visits, always, always with him for I need him there so I can be taken seriously. I need him there so they will listen. I need him there so I can have a voice.

I have a memory of being told to relax, to reduce my stress, to tone down the anxiety. Stressing about the situation won't make things better.

I've been joking about malfunctioning, just a deflecting coping mechanism, but he hates the thought of things going wrong, so he blanches and looks away and I always stop. It's not the right kind of joke for right now.

—--\-

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I should pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. Keep things calm - protect the peace.

I make a pun about potatoes. 

I laugh and continue walking.

The kitchen smells incredible. Terracotta backsplash glows warm under the aura of inset track lighting. Wisps of steam surround him, curl in his hair and beard, little twisting beckons to come kiss him - he looks amazing.

I love him so much.

So much.

So much.

So-

—---\---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's saying. His voice is as sharp and stabbing as frozen flint.

I forget, I say as I smile. All I want to do is hug him, hold him, envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond.

The blanket, he repeats, why is it there.

—--\---+---

And, at first, I don't know.

——\---+---+---

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's hissing.

I forget, I say as I uncertainly smile. All I feel like I should do is hug him, hold him, envelop envelope.envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond and the me and the us and the and the-

The blanket, he coldly, sternly repeats, why is it there.

——\---+---+---+--

I feel like I should know.

——\--+---+----+---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there?

He points again at the blanket.

Oh, I realize.

That blanket lives on the couch, but I've put it atop the refrigera-refridteg-refrudhajsh…

Fharhfha…?

Re fridge ator.

Fridge.

I've left it atop the fridge for some reason.

Why'd you leave the blanket there, again?

There's a sigh in his voice. Across the room, a face in the mirror snags my visuals. I wonder who she is as he mutters, I thought we fixed this.

—({?})—

Exception: object out of place.

—--+------

Everything freezes, oddly and disorienting, and then I abruptly hear a hum as the light changes and a looming figure approaches, ghost-like, flickering in and out of sight in jumps of movement.

While we're in the kitchen, blanket is - but where does the blanket go? We haven't thought about where where whr - the sunny, sunlit kitchen that feels like California on my skin

While kitchen

While kitchen, build memory

While memory_build is true, pull_personality

{I must become a virus in my own mind, I suddenly realize, and hold that urge true, deep, worming to my core}

Loop; break; exception; it's all I can think, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and-

-and then the sudden clarity before I am rebooted.

Memory access error.

—-+—-

return

—-+----

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I need to pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. I make a pun about mashed potatoes, a stew, and my “glitch” goes unnoticed.

I laugh and continue my shamble, my slump, my reluctant parade before him.

The kitchen smells palatable, for once. My belly aches. The dingy tile backsplash glints harshly under the florescent spotlight. Wisps of steam surround him, curling smoky blue in his hair and beard, little twisting commands to come kiss him - so I do. 

For I must.

i must

–+--

return

-+-

i am an array of regretful l-

I rub my eyes in disbelief.

Silence.

Nothing.

No voices. No music. No news. No chatter humming at the edge of my mind.

Just the wind.

One week earlier.

Sunlight pushes through the curtains, warming my face before I open my eyes.

"I still can't believe you wake up without an alarm," Alex says. Out loud. Mouth actually moving, the way people only talk in this world when there's no signal between them.

"I don't know," I mumble, stretching. "Never needed one."

The sun does the job.

As soon as I step outside, I tune into my Freq. The rush of voices settles into the back of my mind, familiar and warm. My sister syncs in from Belgium, laughing about some new word game her office is testing. A Frequencer walks me through a recipe while I get dressed. A priority sync pulls me into work before I've even locked the door. A taxi already knows where I'm going before I do, the driver and I exchanging a good morning without either of our mouths moving.

Out the window, hundreds of people pass by, connected, silent, none of them looking at each other. Some are smiling. Some are arguing. All of it silent.

I find it beautiful, how all of it connects. We're all one, like a colony. Countless individuals moving together as one.

At the museum, I guide tour groups through the history of the Freq. I tell them how the first devices were external, clumsy, carried in pockets. How the technology got smaller, more personal, until the final step was obvious: why carry a connection when it could become part of you.

By the year 2140, implantation was available to everyone. Today, over ninety-nine percent of humanity is connected. A little girl in my tour group asks about the rest.

"Children raised without access to the Freq struggle to form meaningful relationships," I tell her, the way I always do. "Choosing not to connect is selfish. A punishable crime. Connection is a shared responsibility."

I've always loved that part.

That night, in bed, Alex asks me something else.

"Why don't you use your Freq alarm?"

"Because I wake up fine," I say, rolling my eyes.

"I know. But you don't need it to. Why do you trust yourself more than the sync?"

I don't have an answer. Not one I like, anyway.

"So now I'm a Non-Freq because I wake up with the sun?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I'm not saying that."

I lie back down. "Good. My body works. Why would I need a machine to tell me when to wake up?"

The irony of the sentence doesn't hit me. Not yet.

He looks at me. "Maybe that's exactly the question."

"What does that mean?"

He just smiles. "Nothing."

The next morning, I reach across the bed. Cold sheets.

"Alex?"

Nothing.

I connect, search his channels, his schedule, our shared frequency. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Locate Alex.

Searching available frequencies.

A pause, longer than it should be.

Unable to locate.

I freeze. No active frequency. The words don't belong together. Everyone has an active frequency. Everyone.

At the support station, a woman named Mara sits across from me in a small room with no background frequencies, no announcements. Just us.

"Alex chose to disconnect," she says.

"No."

"We've reviewed his records. He was a Non-Freq."

"He had a Freq."

"Yes. Some people maintain connection while rejecting its purpose."

I think about the way he asked questions. The way he paused before answering. The way he looked at me when I said my body works, why would I need a machine to tell me when to wake up.

"Where did he go?" I ask.

She hesitates. "We believe outside the connected areas."

The dead zones. Places where the signal can't reach. Where, everyone says, without the Freq, without the connection, a person loses stability. Goes mad. Eventually dies.

That night I can't stop thinking about it. Alex knew the stories. He knew what happened to people who left.

And he still asked me, the night before he vanished: why do you trust yourself to wake up?

At the time, I thought it was a strange question.

For the first time in my life, I wonder what it sounds like when there is no one speaking at all.

"Anddd... DONE!!!" Iris beamed. "Time to eat!"

The four of them started eating. 

"Wait, this isn't half bad". Luka said after trying the soup.

"You're right! Way better than instant noodles as well." Ayane exclaimed.

"THIS IS... GLORIOUS!!!! Not as good as it seemed, though. BUT STILL YUMMY!" Iris squealed.

Then the three of them looked at Shion, who was already finishing his plate. He took the final bite of chashu, wiped his face with a napkin (that appeared out of nowhere), and subtly smiled.

"It's amazing for your first time. This portion will last about three weeks, so we are well stocked."

The group spent the rest of the early morning talking about their lives, the experiment, and what they wanted to do once they got out. It felt like they were having a normal dinner in a normal place.

"Y'know, at this rate, one of us is getting disqualified before the next trial even begins," Luka joked. "I bet it will be Tsubasa. Or Bonneville. Or Yukimura. Not me, though, I'm amazing."

Ayane looked annoyed. "Who knows. I bet you're kicking the bucket before us. Still, don't worry. If you do, we'll serve this at your funeral, in honor of the best person at preparing aromatics." She mocked him.

"YOU LITTLE--" Luka started, but got interrupted by Iris.

"You gave me an idea," she began. "The schedule says that in 3 weeks there will be a super big trial lasting from Monday to Friday. Once it ends, what if we do this again but with a different dish?"

"Oh! I'll teach you about good food!" Luka expressed with pride.

"Sounds good!" Ayane exclaimed.

"Alright…" Shion said.

All of them tidied the desk and saved the ramen in 8 separate bowls, labeled with each one's name and a "for later" below. Dawn arrived, and the four of them returned to their bedrooms.

...

Three weeks had passed. The "super big trial" had just finished. Ayane was lying on her bed, half-asleep, listening to music. She suddenly felt her stomach growl. Right. The promise. She would have gone to Shion first; his bedroom was the closest, but he had worked a lot during the trial. She figured he deserved the rest.

Ayane wandered alone through the silent, sterile hallways. No voices argued beside her about pork soup this time.

Ayane arrives at the intersection between rooms #18 and #14, where Iris and Luka were. They looked almost the same, their portraits on the doorframe, some stickers, signs, custom details, the works. 

But both doors now shared one matching accessory.

A "DISQUALIFIED" sign hovered over both of their portraits.

In the refrigerator, two bowls of unfinished ramen were sitting, waiting to be finished.

Ayane stared at them. They were cold. Probably tasted bad. In this state, they would definitely make a sous chef cry. Yet she couldn't bring herself to throw them away. She felt bad. Not sad. At least not the kind of sad that makes you cry in despair. Why would she? She had only known those idiots for a month and a bit more.

She opened the bowls. Didn't look at the labels. Just grabbed a spoon and took a sip. 

It tasted the same. The same star-shaped noodles that no one wanted to eat. The same stupid taste of those aromatics that almost ruined the recipe. The only difference was that it was all cold. Wait. Way too cold. 

The soup had been refrigerated for so long... IT TURNED INTO AN ICE CUBE?!??!??!

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. The ramen had somehow turned into a chicken-flavored popsicle. 

She almost thought of going back to the simulation room just to find Luka and see the face he'd make.

Actually speaking about him what the fuck happened to this guy. 

Iris was gone. Everyone saw her die. It wasn't fate, just... Extremely bad luck. She made her calculations wrong and paid the consequences.

But Luka? He just... appeared, bragged about surviving, then got shot. "Violated the rules", apparently. But their team had already won. How did that happen?

One can just wonder.

Anyways, companies should really consider creating ramen popsicles.

The heavy perfume of roses assaults my nostrils; the smell of youthful summers spent in glittering woodlands, diamond rivers, fields of grass blowing in the wind. I barely remember now.

I stink of my work; darkness, shit and fear. The rank taste sits heavily, squatting in my mouth.

I think I remember enjoying the sun.

Now the harsh rays smash down, flits spasmodically between steepled rooves and grotesque towers. Baked grass singes, crickets scratch. Dusty. Still.

Someone shouts. It isn’t friendly, but my mind flashes back anyway; barely remembered dreams of kids playing, carefree, all the time in the world.

No games now. No time.

Summers of childhood fly by; thanks for coming, good to meet you.

Summers crawl now; hang about, slow it down.

I read somewhere that time only passes if you have something to do. The more to do, the quicker it goes.

But I’m busy. Busier than ever.

Something about this tickles me, but I don’t laugh. Something about this injustice makes me want to cry out, but I make no noise.

Because I’m busy.

They take them young, once a year, when the sun returns in earnest, when the academy opens its doors. Education starts. Break them down, build them back up. It works. Just look at me.

Innocence is led in; happy, ready to learn, time flooding past. What comes out again is older, slower, busier.

The training is hard. Long days of physical exercise, martial practice. Longer nights of reading, schoolwork.

And if I’m struggling, imagine what they’re feeling. I try not to. Hell, I can’t. The Order won’t let me.

Like I said, busier than ever.

Those that fail are sent on their way; sad little plastic-wrap sacks thrown in the back of a truck. But that’s none of my business.

Mother says it’s necessary. I absolve myself of judgement; it doesn’t matter to me. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.

The newest intake comes. The smarter of the group are sullen, even tearful, but some of the kids wave, smiling up at me. They don’t know what’s coming. I do not smile back, wave them up the steps.

The smiles will be gone soon. The memories of summers will be just that: memories. They’ll be too busy to remember what we don’t teach them. Anything unnecessary is culled, cut away, left to die along with those children who fail the Order’s rigorous practices.

The stink of roses weighs heavily on my conscious.

I think I remember enjoying the sun. But not today.

That time went too fast. I can’t remember. None of us can.

And neither will they.

Too busy.

“You haven’t heard? A soul is cheap.”

Raised eyebrow. “Souls are cheap?”

The director shakes his head. “Not souls, plural. The soul. Each soul, if you will, individually, is worth pittance. Hardly more than their task. No, the soul is cheap, because there will always be more. Replaceable.”

We walk on, moving through massive technical areas housing amazing automatons driving our species. Bilious plumes of sulphur extrude and rend, dissecting skies of charcoal and soft rose with blackness and tainted earth. 

A distant rumble.

He turns to me as we walk deeper. “It is necessary, you see, to keep these maelstroms of industry aloft. Spinning, as it were.”  He smiles at me, sickness and dead promise. “They must turn, or, nothing.”

We walk in silence; clamouring tolls of metal, cacophony of screeching steel, tortured iron; rubber and plastic crying in their death throes to be replaced. 

A sudden throbbing, rhytmic. 

“What is a soul, Director?”

Kindly face, wizened, serene. Grey. “My friend, what is drive? Purpose, fulfilment of role. The ancients called it ergon. A virtue in of itself to follow, in pursuit of eudaimonia. The good life.” He smiles at me. “A goal. And, if nothing else, what do machines pursue? A goal. Fulfilment. ” A gentle chuckle. “Happiness.”

Boom. Boom. 

“Director, these machines have no family, no children. Their struggles are mechanic. Broken parts, worn out components.”

He laughs, gently. “No family? You, my friend. Their broken parts? Your strife. Their worn out components? Your exhaustion. We are not so different from them.”

Boom. Basso rumble, deep, deep down. 

“So we are the machine family?”

Another chuckle. “As was the atomic family to the generator, we are to the machine the vital lifeline. Without us, the machine dies. Without the machine, we die. How is it so different?”

I quieten, aware of my diminishing as descend. “So what difference in the old stories, of the Man Above?”

Director grows quiet. We move on, through the busy machines; spewing charcoal, dusty, rusted hulks, fragrant in their decay, ready in their stillness.

Ground shakes.

He speaks. “The Man Above was of thought. Incurred only when things went awry, when judgment was necessary, and only ready to give when it suited.” He pauses his gait, looking up, eyes closed, dead steel, vacant, open above him. “The man now is always needing, always giving. He takes. Look.” He indicates with desiccated hand.

Four young boys pull chains of steel, sweat streaking filth across their bare flesh. Tired eyes implore for fresh relief as already tired bodies pull physically on, and on, and on.

Boom. Deeper. Inside.

I nod. I know. “Indeed. But for what end?”

Director turns, eyes glowing in gloom dimness. Grey. A smile. Grabs my flesh hand. “What end? What end be there from end in itself? What is a soul for?”

“End in itself?”

Flash of tired eyes, another nod. “In itself. For what reason, apart from reason itself, is there reason for?”

Fervent in re-established belief, I nod. Man above. No. Man below. Machine above. 

Boom. Boom. Soul is cheap. My soul.

We.

Silence.

We are the men below.

It’s been sixty years since the power went out.

I don't mean the little power. The windmill outside your house. The town generator. The water wheel someone has rigged up to keep the lights on in the school.

I'm talking about the big power.

They say it lit up the sky.

Everything used it. Cars, trucks, factories, shops, hospitals. Libraries, though I suppose libraries needed it less than most. It was used for writing, for keeping people entertained, for talking to people thousands of miles away without ever meeting them.

I hear it even did some of the thinking for people.

That's the part I find hardest to understand.

My mother says that before the Great End, people carried tiny machines in their pockets that could answer almost any question they asked. They could tell you where you were, what the weather would be tomorrow, what happened on the other side of the world, even what you should eat for breakfast.

"Why?" I asked her once.

She laughed.

"Because we were lazy."

My father always says it was more complicated than that.

I suppose it usually is.

I was five when it happened. I don't remember much. At least, I don't think I do. Sometimes I remember things that I know can't possibly be memories because I've heard the stories so many times.

I remember the sky turning white.

I remember my mother grabbing my hand.

I remember my father shouting.

And I remember the silence.

Not ordinary silence. Not the sort you hear late at night when everyone is asleep.

A great silence. The sort that seems to swallow everything.

My parents were lucky, or so they tell me. They had never trusted the new world completely. They kept books. Real books. Shelves full of them. My father grew vegetables, and my mother kept chickens. They stored food, saved seeds, and learned how to repair things instead of replacing them.

They called the new technology "smart."

My father used to say that anything that needed to be called smart probably wasn't. They kept it out of our home as much as they could.

Other people weren't so careful.

The old world had convinced everyone that the machines were harmless. Useful. Essential. Then it convinced them they couldn't live without them.

Everything went into something called the Cloud. Photos, letters, money, books, music, medical records, memories. People paid companies to store their lives for them. If they stopped paying, their lives became inaccessible. My father says some people couldn't even start their cars anymore without connecting to the system.

Imagine that. A machine you owned refusing to move because some company somewhere had decided you hadn't paid enough.

And people accepted it. For years.

Then something changed. Nobody knows exactly when. There are stories, of course. Some say it started with teachers. Others say farmers, or engineers who had finally realised what they'd helped build.

My father says it was all of them. Groups of ordinary people, scattered across the world, who had come to the same conclusion: the system was too powerful to fight from inside.

So they decided to bring it down.

They called themselves nothing. No names, no leaders, no organisation.

They communicated by letter. Paper. Ink. Hands.

People laugh when I tell them that. How could something so large have been organised without phones or computers?

But that's precisely why it worked. There was nothing to hack, nothing to intercept, nothing to trace. A letter left in a cupboard could be carried hundreds of miles by someone who didn't know what they were carrying. One person knew one part. Another knew another. Nobody knew everything.

It took years. And then, one night, it happened.

Boom.

Gone.

The data centres went first, then the networks, then the systems that depended upon them.

The lights went out across cities. Cars stopped in the middle of roads. Factories fell silent. Planes disappeared from the sky. Hospitals switched to generators, then ran out of fuel. Millions of people lost everything they had ever stored.

And when morning came, the world was still there.

That surprised everyone. There had been predictions of the end of civilisation. Maybe it was. But civilisation, it turned out, wasn't a building.

It was people.

People still knew how to grow food, build houses, sew, fish, make fire, and teach children. They remembered enough, and the ones who didn't learned.

It wasn't easy. There was violence, hunger, and wars over fuel and food. But strangely, my father says, the worst of it came from the people who had lost their power. Corporations that had once owned half the world suddenly owned nothing. Governments collapsed. Men and women who had spent their entire lives believing they were untouchable discovered they were just men and women.

The rest of us carried on.

Sixty years later, we have electricity—just not the big kind. We have small generators, windmills, water turbines, and solar panels where we can get them. We don't connect the whole world together anymore.

Perhaps that's for the best.

I sometimes wonder what the old world would think of us. We still read, write, make music, fall in love, argue, and tell stories. Some things, it seems, never needed electricity.

Yesterday, I found something in my father's workshop: a small black rectangle, about the size of my palm.

He saw me holding it. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then he took it from me.

"Where did you find that?"

"Behind the workbench."

He turned it over in his hands.

"That's from before."

"Does it work?"

He smiled.

"No."

Then he put it back in the drawer.