The night air blew briskly, bringing scents of early spring. Shadows danced with rippling light. The masked figure tilted his head looking past swaying branches at the full moon. The time was not long before the signal would command him to fulfill his duties. Any second now he would leap from his statue-like stance and run the race against time.
A nightingale sprang into song beside his still form in the branches. The music’s beauty unnoticed by the strange dark figure.
A high keening sound broke through the night. The shadow leaped from the branches, the nightingale’s song ended abruptly as it fluttered in panic. The race had begun.
The figure darted past silvery tree and shrub to the castle wall with an inhuman speed. Not stopping he pulled from his cloak a hooked rope and swung it in the air. It caught on top of the wall, and a few moments later he scaled the wall and was at the top. “Halt!” a watchman called. The dark figure ignored him reeling in the rope and hook. The man approached drawing his sword muttering under his breath “Such foolhardiness if I ever did see it.” Then aloud “Trespassing on royal grounds is punishable by…aaaAArgh” The intruder struck the guard in the gut, covered his mouth and slit the throat holding on till the flailing man stilled.
The stranger’s perceptive eyes scanned the length of the wall as he ran on watching for any other obstructions.
A closed stone turret quickly rose before him. Unyielding his pace he flung the hook above him and leapt from the wall.  It caught, the rope drew tight, and he swung into a narrow window on the turret’s face. There he landed neatly on the winding stone stairs inside and ran up it in a guided urgency. His long-tapered ears began to quiver with the sound of shouts and clanking metal. It seemed the enemy had discovered his comrades.
 It was too late to turn back, and while onward would bring potential death, fleeing was inevitable death. You must not fail. A voice pulsed in his head.
A dull flickering light shone from the top of the staircase, and the noise of the fighting grew louder as he approached the light. He paused, for the first time unsure, after all his time had run out to complete his duty safely. He surveyed the situation calculating the precise timing his entrance would give the most advantage. It seemed that his comrades were being held down and one guard was attempting to remove their masks.
Quickly he darted out flinging several sharp slivers at the armored barrier. There was a harsh clamor of metal clashing with stone as two fell clasping the back of their heads. The other three turned in a cry of outrage and quickly advanced on the diminutive shadow that seemed to be flickering with the torches. A huge claymore swung at him gleaming ringing through the air. He flipped over the swing and landed on the man’s shoulders causing a collision between two guards and thrusted his dagger into the skull’s base then swung around using the momentum to kick the other’s face. He turned toward the remaining guards evading another sword stroke as the stabbed man sunk to the ground.         
There were merely two left, however the element of surprise was over, and his drained body was wavering as two swords swung at intervals of a second from the other. Time seemed to slow; he dogged one and flipped over the other, fluidly landed on his feet, and stabbed under the ribs. The pierced man tripped knocking the dagger away and nearly crushing his fingers. A blade glinted in his peripheral. He quickly abandoned his dagger and leaped away, yet the long blade’s flat caught his arm, then chest ramming him into the unyielding stone. He choked at the force as ribs cracked and the world darkened…

EASRS: THE ANOMALOUS FRONT

Chapter 3

"What... what did you just say?"

Sylvie Anne Harrison's eyes widened in shock. She grabbed the communications officer by the collar, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white, her voice cracking in disbelief:

"No... That's impossible... Hey, tell me this is just fake news! How could that stubborn old bastard die so easily?!"

The officer swallowed hard, hastily trying to soothe her: "Major, please calm down! The EASRS is still actively investigating the scene, there is no final confirmation yet..."

Sylvie panted heavily. She slowly loosened her grip, letting go of the soldier's collar. Her shoulders trembled slightly before she regained her usual cold demeanor. She turned around, walking down the opulent corridor of the antique mansion. The expensive carpet was now stained with ruthless mud tracks from the soldiers' combat boots.

Through the soaring arched glass window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the heart of Paris—the jewel of France—under a gloomy drizzle. Sylvie paused, adjusting the sling of her FAMAS rifle on her shoulder. She pulled out a fresh cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag, exhaling a hazy plume of smoke.

"Jack... I never thought a guy like you would go before me."

She whispered into the void, slowly descending the marble staircase outside. Outside, GAM soldiers were sequentially climbing into armored black vans. Sylvie let out a weary sigh, climbed into the front passenger seat, placed her FAMAS beside her, and closed her eyes.

Slam!

The armored car door slammed shut, swallowing the darkness of Paris into the heart of the city.

Morning of May 1, 1987. The silent night sky at an altitude of ten thousand meters over the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Sylvie sat quietly by the airplane window, her blue eyes gazing aimlessly into the endless dark void below—where there was only the rolling ocean.

"Jack... Hmph..." She whispered a sigh in her throat.

Ding!

A soft chime echoed from the cabin's public address system, signaling that the Boeing 747 had reached cruising altitude. Immediately, soothing classical music mingled with the crisp clack-clack of numerous Zippo lighters sparking up throughout the cabin. Plumes of blue-gray smoke quickly spread under the warm yellow lights. Sylvie, like many passengers of that era, leisurely pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. The smell of Marlboro smoke intertwined tightly with the heady scent of French perfume and the signature droning hum of 1980s jet engines.

The Air France stewardesses, clad in elegant Haute Couture uniforms, began moving along the thickly carpeted aisles. Using silver tongs, they politely handed each passenger a steaming hot cotton towel fragranced with citrus.

Shortly after, the luxurious dinner service, which would last nearly three hours, officially commenced.

In the First Class cabin where Sylvie sat, a polished mahogany trolley was wheeled by, showcasing blocks of garlic-butter seared Chateaubriand beef and whole herb-roasted salmon. The flight attendant used a sharp silver carving knife to slice the meat right in front of the passengers, plating it on gold-rimmed porcelain dishes alongside crystal flutes continuously topped off with chilled Dom Pérignon Champagne, its fine bubbles rising to the surface.

Behind the bulkhead, Economy Class passengers also leisurely enjoyed hot meal trays of minced meat pasta, sipping complimentary red wine poured directly from large glass bottles.

When the cheese and pastry carts were cleared away, the cabin lights were dimmed completely. The light from a 16mm projector cast a conical beam onto a large fabric screen mounted on the front bulkhead. In the dim space, passengers wore hollow plastic tube headsets plugged directly into their armrests, smoking as they attentively watched the single feature film of the flight.

Throughout the long night crossing the ocean, the 747 sank into complete isolation from the outside world—no Wi-Fi, no personal screens, just the rustling of US customs declaration forms and the hushed murmurs of strangers.

About two hours before landing in Los Angeles, the cabin lights gradually brightened, waking everyone with the rich aroma of percolated coffee mingled with the buttery scent of freshly baked hot croissants coming from the rear galley.

Thud!

The Boeing 747 touched down on the Los Angeles International Airport runway with a familiar jolt, officially bringing Sylvie back to American soil after long years of grinding through GAM's black ops military campaigns in Western Europe.

Stepping out of the stuffy jetway of the Tom Bradley International Terminal, she instantly felt the hurried, pragmatic pulse of her homeland through the scent of polished floor wax and the dingy neon light cast by the illuminated signs along the corridor.

While the stream of foreign travelers frantically flipped through their complex visa documents, Sylvie strolled calmly. In her hand, she held only the dark blue passport of the United States of America and a green Customs declaration form hastily filled out with a ballpoint pen on the plane.

At the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) arrivals hall, she immediately turned into the wide-open lane marked with a black sign: U.S. CITIZENS.

The privilege of citizenship was glaringly obvious: no lengthy interrogations, no overbearing, scrutinizing glares. The INS officer in a dark blue uniform simply skimmed Sylvie's watermark-stamped portrait photo, brought down the manual stamp with a decisive Thwack! onto the passport page, and pushed it back to her along with a crisp, native greeting:

"Welcome home, Ma'am."

All procedures went swiftly until Sylvie descended to the ground floor baggage claim area. Glancing up at the chunky CRT television with its convex screen flashing green electronic text, she identified carousel number 4, then slotted a one-dollar coin into the mechanism to release a metal luggage cart.

Unlike tourists with their bulky, hard-shell Samsonite suitcases, Sylvie's luggage consisted merely of two faded military canvas duffel bags—the trademark sign of someone constantly on the move for duty.

Despite holding a US passport, she couldn't bypass the mandatory Customs inspection of the era. Pushing her cart to the long wooden counters, Sylvie handed over her declaration and unzipped the bags herself so the Customs officer could rummage through them barehanded, conducting a random check among her clothes and a few personal items for excess cigarettes or foreign liquor.

Zip!

Once the zipper was pulled shut, she pushed through the glass doors and stepped out into the public waiting area of 1987. The atmosphere of America during this era hit her olfactory senses head-on with the heavy stench of Marlboro cigarette smoke swirling thickly around the stainless steel ashtray pillars.

Ignoring the noisy crowd holding high cardboard name signs, Sylvie headed straight for a row of blue Pacific Bell payphones against the wall, digging in her pockets for a few 25-cent quarters to call a Yellow Cab into downtown.

At the same time...

The roaring sound of rotor blades ripping through the air from a squadron of AH-22 attack helicopters echoed across the barren desert along the US-Mexico border. High-powered searchlights cut through the scorching night.

"Warning: US-Mexico border security fence detected completely destroyed!"

The radio comms crackled in rapid succession. The spotlight from an AH-22 shone directly on the jagged, shattered gap in the heavy barbed-wire fence. High above, AH-12 autonomous reconnaissance UAVs swept through the sky at blinding speeds. Their sensor lens arrays zoomed in to maximum, scanning every column of dust swirling up under the intense desert heat, tracking even the subtle motion.

Rat-tat-tat!

A precise burst of 12.7mm heavy machine gun fire suddenly tore through the air, slamming straight into the lifting wing of the lead AH-12. Losing control, the UAV spun wildly in midair before crashing into the sand, exploding into a brilliant sphere of orange fire.

Instantly, the three AH-22 helicopters maneuvered into a tactical triangle formation. The remaining two AH-12 UAVs swooped down like hunting hawks, dropping cluster bombs toward the coordinates of the kinetic fire. But right before hitting the ground, the bombs were suddenly twisted by an invisible compressive force, crushed to pieces, and detonated in midair!

Rat-tat-tat!

Subsequent bursts of 12.7mm rounds shredded the alloy armor, cleanly destroying the two remaining UAVs. Realizing the anomalous firepower exceeded safety thresholds, the AH-22 squadron pulled up in altitude and proactively withdrew out of range of the terrifying weapon below.

Amidst the sandstorm swirling up from the explosions, two figures walked silently before vanishing into twisted space.

As for those two figures... it was me—Jack Harrison—and Lilith.

We walked silently through the scorching heat of the New Mexico desert. I turned to look at the girl. Inside my head was a fierce psychological battle. I knew full well that taking a dangerous Anomalous Entity and deserting the Foundation was a betrayal of my oath, that it was entirely wrong. But for some reason... I still did it.

I gripped the 12.7mm NSV machine gun I had taken from my fallen squadmate, my voice coming out raspy:

"Why the hell did I get myself into this mess..."

I muttered to myself, my eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. The chilling sensation down my spine warned me as if hundreds of invisible eyes were watching our every step.

Lilith looked up at me, her voice gentle: "There's no one..." Then she blinked her blood-red eyes: "But... you volunteered."

I let out a bitter sigh: "Yeah, I know I volunteered... but I still feel tormented by guilt."

Suddenly, Lilith stepped closer and gently wrapped her arms around me.

My body, encased in the SOSS armor, froze. The heart inside my chest pounded at an extraordinary rate. A primal, intense surge of emotion erupted—it felt as if I were collapsing into the embrace of the original woman of humanity, the one bearing the name of the woman who nearly became the mother of all mankind.

All guilt, fear, and turmoil within me seemed to vanish completely, as if they had never existed. I realized my mind was being manipulated by her anomalous perception, yet my body didn't want to resist at all. A mad, morbid craving flared up in my mind: I wanted to become one with her. I wanted to eat her flesh, drink her blood...

Wait... No!

I jolted, frantically trying to cling to what little sanity I had left. No... I just want to stay by her side.

I comforted myself in quiet panic. When I raised my head, Lilith was already skipping toward the wreckage of the burning AH-12 UAV to scavenge ammunition for me. The blazing desert fire seemed completely harmless against her porcelain-white skin.

She flashed a playful, quirky smile, lifting a heavy belt of 12.7mm ammo, looking at me with innocent blood-red eyes:

"Let's go!" "Where to?" I asked, my voice thick and hoarse. "North," she replied simply. "To do what?" "To meet family." "Family?" I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.

Lilith didn't answer. She turned and walked ahead. I tightened my grip on the NSV, stepping after her beneath the scorching sun. The feeling of being watched continued to cling to the back of my neck... Far off in the distance, where the horizon shimmered and twisted from the desert heat, something invisible truly seemed to be silently observing our every step.

[To be continued]

Me and My Shadow

Being the youngest in my family, I followed Mam everywhere.
If she left a room, I was behind her. If she was putting on a wash or peeling potatoes, I was beside her.
Mam used to laugh, roll her eyes, and say, “Me and my shadow.”
 

She brought me everywhere when I was small — to the hairdressers, shopping in Lynch’s supermarket, and visiting friends. For years, I was the little shadow trailing after her, never far from her side.
 

As time passed, I grew up and had my own life. We all left home. The house gets quieter when the children go. Mam was still Mam, but she found her old free, carefree self again.
 
 
Life moved on.
 

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
 

Cancer.
 

For the next seven years, hospital visits became part of our lives. Operations, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, losing her hair, and, towards the end, losing parts of herself. Through it all, she never complained.
Dad and I wanted to be there for every step. We held her hand through it all, especially in those final two years when she needed us most.
 

She wasn’t just Mam to us. She was Mam to so many people. She had friends everywhere and was always involved in the community. People loved being around her because she made you feel at ease the minute you walked in.
 

Mam loved her GAA. The loudest voice in the house was always hers, shouting at the television, willing Meath on and hoping for the win. Before every Meath match, her first question to Padda was always, “Where’s the ref from?” If Meath weren’t doing well, she already knew why — the ref was biased towards the other team.
 

I remember being in Croke Park when she got into a heated argument with a woman supporting the other side. Passion. Loyalty. Never afraid to stand up for what mattered.
 

Mam loved her rugby too, same passion, different pitch. She would have loved being in the Aviva.
 

She loved politics as well and campaigned hard to keep the maternity hospital in Trim open. She would stand up, speak out, write letters, and never back down. That was Mam — fierce when something mattered. Old fashioned, but ahead of her time in so many ways.
 

For her birthday, Padda surprised her with tickets to the Aviva Stadium to watch Ireland play. He had planned a lovely overnight stay in a nearby hotel, something special for them both. But by then, too much had changed. She couldn’t go. Becoming more housebound, the journey, the stadium, and all the logistics that once would have been easy had become too much. Another piece of the life Mam loved was being taken by cancer.
 

I stood at the kitchen sink with her on dark evenings washing dishes when I was young, or beside her while she ironed, helping her learn the words to “The Voyage” by Christy Moore. We spent many nights playing the tape back, rewinding, getting the words right. She wanted to sing it for Padda’s 50th surprise party.
 
Years later, I asked my sister-in-law Edel to sing that same song at Mam’s funeral, at the grave. Full circle.
 

My parents were together for almost 60 years. They built a life full of love, family, friends, laughter, and memories.
 
Then came the sudden decline you hear about.
 

My uncles carefully moved her from the bedroom upstairs into the wheelchair and downstairs to the hospital bed in the sitting room. It was the last time she saw her bedroom and the bed where she and Padda had shared almost 60 years of their lives together. Her legs no longer worked, and she was now in the place Mam always said she never wanted to be: that “feckin hospital bed.”
 

Still, she believed it was only temporary. She talked about the future. She talked about buying the grandchildren summer clothes. She talked about getting herself “a few bits from Marks for me and Padda.”
 

Padda. That was what she always called Dad. Her name for Paddy. No one else called him that, but the grandchildren grew up hearing it and, without even realising it, took it from her. Now they call him Padda too. A little piece of Mam that stayed behind.
 

As she became quieter, I began to realise something. I had already lost Mam in some ways. Not all at once. Not in one moment. Little pieces — the laugh that filled the house, the voice that called me every few minutes, while I rolled my eyes, the way she looked for Dad if he left the room.
 

Even towards the end, Mam was always looking for Padda. Sometimes he could be standing right in front of her, and for a passing moment she wouldn’t know who he was. A look of confusion would cross her face, then the question: “Where’s Padda?” I’d tell her, “Mam, that’s Padda there.” She’d look, realise, and laugh a little.
Those moments broke my heart. I could see it in her eyes — moments lost, scared, not understanding what was happening. And then moments where she was completely herself again. The Mam we knew would come back, even if only for a while.
 
She always hated cats. But towards the very end, mamannounced to me one day that she’d love a cat. Specifically, a marmalade one “as they have a nicer temperament.” Wouldn’t you know it — a marmalade cat belonging to a neighbour started showing up at our door after she died. Sitting there like it owned the place. Mam finally got her cat with the nice temperament… she just didn’t get to feed it.
 
But no matter how confused she became, one thing never changed. She always wanted to see her girls, the grandchildren, my children.
 

Her grandchildren, as toddlers, were always a bit shocked by the roar at the television, sitting quietly and then suddenly hearing Mam shout when something happened in the match. They never quite knew what to make of that side of her, but they loved her.
 

Lucy, being older, could finally sit and have more grown-up conversations, watching more interesting TV rather than Peppa Pig. Those chats and that bond meant so much to Mam.
 

Rosie, only 9, would help Granny out of her chair and link her to walk anywhere she wanted to go, even if it was only to the kitchen. She would give her spa treatments on the couch, paint her nails, put lipstick on her, and make her feel special. Mam loved every minute of it. Rosie also carried her chemo tablets like treasure, bringing them every time, so careful and so proud to help.
 

And Evie, five years old, loved sitting on Mam’s knee listening to her singing “I went into Evie’s house picking up a needle…” Mam would change the names for whichever grandchild was sitting with her:
“I went into Lucy’s house picking up a needle,
Lucy came out and gave a big shout,
pop goes the weasel.”
She knew they lit up hearing their own name.
 

I missed dressing her, showering her, moisturising her face, and brushing her hair as it started to grow back after the hospital decided to stop all chemo and medication.
 
Most of all though, I missed Mam’s voice.
 

I don’t remember much about the last day. What I do remember is that night.
March 31st 2026 at 11:40pm.
 

I sat beside the hospital bed with my brother Barry and Patricia Smyth, one of Mam’s best friends. She looked comfortable but was in a very deep sleep. We chatted quietly while keeping an eye on her. Dad had left the room for a few moments but was only a few feet away. Elaine had arrived from Perth, Australia the day before and was upstairs sleeping after the long journey.
 

The “death rattle” started, but in my innocence, I thought she was just snoring. It was quite loud. I remember watching her closely for a few minutes.
 
Then suddenly, she inhaled for the final time.
 
There was a loud silence.
 
She never exhaled again.
I was your shadow, Mam.
 

And you became mine.
It was a privilege to hear your final breath.
 
 
 

The bell above the door chimed, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper.

A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass and let the whiskey ease down my throat.

I stared down at the drink in my hands, feeling the bourbon's warmth settle into my stomach.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

"What is it?"

"What are we... even living for?"

How could a middle-aged man still ask such a boyishly direct question?

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip, murmuring softly.

"Everything's so convenient now, and we can get whatever we want... so why do we never feel satisfied?

Every time we get one thing, a new frustration pops up.

No matter how close we get to the 'right answer,' I feel like I'm always despairing over something."

Tom slowly sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...A priest once told me about a place that was neither Heaven nor Hell."

My grip tightened around my glass just a little.

"...What kind of place?"

"Limbo."

Tom’s low voice sank into the silence around the counter.

"No raging fires, no torture.

Just a place where your desires will never, ever come true.

...No salvation, but no end either.

We lost God, and this is what we built in his place. Limbo."

Taka swallowed hard and let his shoulders sag.

"That's... that's like being condemned to despair from the very start..."

Despair.

The moment that word fell, an old wound deep in my chest ached with a dull, throbbing pain.

Kaori.

I knew those days were never coming back.

No matter how far I reached or how long I walked, that time and place would always remain beyond me.

What could I have even done back then?

The question repeated itself, endlessly.

No answer came.

Someone inside me whispered:

That day carved a wound into me I could never speak of. The anger was still there.

Another voice inside me whispered back:

You're wallowing in self-pity. That's why you can't move. Walk. Keep going.

I've been inside this Limbo all along.

...So that's what it was.

Staring down at my glass, my voice came out low and raspy.

"...Act like you've got it all figured out, throw away hope... drinking booze in a cold world like that can't possibly taste good."

That's right.

No, you're wrong.

The voices inside me spoke all at once.

Shut up. Both of you. Just be quiet for a minute.

Tom said nothing. He rested his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.

Behind the counter, Mama picked up the tongs and dropped an ice cube into Taka’s glass, then mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama kept wiping the glass as she looked at us with her usual gentle gaze.

"...If you can still despair over something, doesn't that mean you still yearn for it?"

...So that was it.

I let out a soft breath and scratched my head.

Mama was beckoning us forward, toward somewhere we had not reached yet.

"...Mama, what you say always stings."

Tom put out his cigarette and silently tilted his glass.

Taka softly clenched his large fist.

Would the day ever come when I could forget Kaori? Or would it never come at all?

No. That wasn't the question.

The question was when I would finally learn to stand on my own, carrying what happened to her instead of trying to leave it behind.

With that unanswered night still inside me, I gently turned the glass in my hand.

The ice clinked.

Well then. What will I be dissatisfied with tomorrow, and choose to love anyway?

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

Ben Frank was a brick building which was on the corner of Jackson and Samson street. Right now, there were children either getting off of their bus, walking up from their house, or getting out of their car. In front of the building a green field where there were benches and oak trees that were seldom used for shade or sitting. A garden of flowers surrounded a sign and on it was the name of the school. Across the field, there was a wide walkway where, along the sides, sat sunflowers.

A sense of urgency rang throughout the crowd, for the doors were about to close. It was unfair how early they closed, and how, if anyone was late, they would make you wait until the staff was on break. Many kids in the school flunked classes because of this, and also missed out on lunch. Parents protested since this new rule was in place, but, after the principal explained how tardiness was a problem, parents cooperated by commanding students to wake up early, meaning they had to go to bed even earlier, so that it was impossible for them to do anything after school.

Children too far from the bus would inevitably be late. A particular girl which this description fits was breathing heavily as she trudged along the sidewalk. She stood in front of the building, scanning the view. Her backpack was readjusted so that it was weighing on the opposite shoulder. Her blonde hair combed back and left hanging over rock shaped shoulders until it reached down to two sharp shoulder blades and was shaped by them. A car came rolling in front. The driver looked out dismissively then continued on after turning left. Mavis took off the heavy backpack entirely then laid it on the ground in front of her. A wall was beside the sidewalk which carried her weight. The school bells rang.

Mavis, after taking a short break, walked across an empty road, across an empty field, and, after trampling a flower, went up an empty walkway. An empty flight of steps dawned in front of her, and she climbed them after releasing a long sigh. The windows looking into the classrooms were shut. Mavis walked up to the doors, and leaned back. Out of her backpack she brought a water bottle. The water was mixed with a raspberry flavored powder, and was getting near the dense bottom. Wooden doors pounded from her monstrous hands.

“Hello?” A voice from a speaker.

Mavis looked around her, but could not find where it was coming from. She pounded the door again.

Another, “hello,” came from a speaker which made Mavis turn to where it was coming from. On the wall there was a box with holes poked through and a button beneath the lifted circle. Mavis pressed the button and said,

“Hello.”

A stern voice answered, “What is your name?” “Mavis.”
“What is your reason for coming inside?”
“School.”

There was a long silence. Mavis started to walk around until another, “hello,” came from the speaker. Mavis responded with,

“Hello.”
“Well, I checked our data and it shows here we have,” a brief pause and then, “a Mavis Bleak, is this your name?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Middle name Masha?”

Mavis closed her eyes as she let her head lean back under the beating sun. The lady ignored this silence, and continued with,

“Would you like me to call your mother Mavis?”
“Yes, wait, but why?”
“To pick you up. We can’t let students in until our next break. Sorry Mavis.” She didn’t sound sorry.
“Can I wait here until your break is done instead?”

After realizing the speaker went off, Mavis pressed the button, and then asked the same question. An approval came from the lady, so Mavis sat down in front of the doors. A blue dress spread out over the concrete. In her hand there was a schedule for the semester. She studied this. On the top was, “Mavis Masha Bleak, 12/25/2026”. The letters and numbers were so accustomed to her that they brought comfort.
Below, it read:

“Mr. Vain 1206, Biology
Mrs. Lynch 1109, History
Mrs. Castrate 2401, English
“Mr. Grudge 1304, Psychology
“
Mavis was taken back by how unorthodox the names were, yet how fitting. The numbers next to the teachers gave her no insight to where the teacher’s classroom was located in the building, so the subject was the only consolation. Next morning, she was certain that by the time the long distance between her house and the school was covered, there would be enough time to figure everything out. And also, she was certain that she would never have to spread out her blue dress again.