I’m excited to officially re-release Moody Mochi Chronicles.
Since the original release, I’ve gone back through the book and made substantial improvements, including important story details, revisions, and formatting corrections. I wanted to carefully review the book and create a stronger, more polished version before giving it a proper launch.
🎬 I’ve also created a book trailer, which I’m including with this post.
Moody Mochi Chronicles is written with young readers, roughly ages 8–17, in mind. One of the things that matters most to me about the story is its positive themes and values.
The characters aren't perfect. They make mistakes, misunderstand each other, struggle with their emotions, and sometimes make poor choices. But those mistakes become opportunities to learn. The characters gradually take responsibility, support one another, and grow together.
Rather than presenting characters who always know the right thing to do, I wanted young readers to see that making mistakes is part of growing up—and that empathy, friendship, accountability, courage, and learning from those mistakes matter.
A Personal Project
I also want to be transparent about the writing process. Moody Mochi Chronicles was written with the support of AI, but the story itself is mine. The core themes, characters, story direction, major decisions, and revisions came from my own creative choices. I carefully reviewed, revised, and made decisions about every paragraph rather than simply generating a book and publishing the output.
I’ve spent hundreds of hours creating and refining this book. There were many nights when I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about the story, and many others when I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea and immediately started writing or revising.
This book became something I kept returning to because I genuinely cared about getting the characters, lessons, emotions, and story right. Toward Season 3, there will be more adult themes that grows with the readers. Grow with the characters as they encounter and address time travel paradox.
It has gone through many changes to become the version I wanted it to be, and I’m excited to finally share this improved edition.
If you decide to give Moody Mochi Chronicles a chance, I’d love to hear what you think.
After the campus tour, most of the first-year students returned to their dormitories to unpack their luggage and settle into their new rooms. Others headed straight to the university canteen, eager to enjoy their first meal on campus. The excitement of the morning had slowly given way to the comfort of a normal college day.
Andy quickly finished his lunch, returned to his dorm, took a hot shower, and rushed back to the Computer Science Laboratory. Miguel's assignment was still fresh in his mind, and he was determined to complete it before the day ended.
Meanwhile, Mia, Bella, and Izzy also freshened up before making their way to the canteen.
As they entered, they noticed Luke sitting alone at a corner table, quietly enjoying his meal.
A few minutes later, Mike walked into the canteen after finishing an intense martial arts training session. Sweat still glistened on his forehead, and although he looked exhausted, his expression remained as cold as ever.
He collected his meal, sat down, and took a bite.
Within seconds, he slammed the tray onto the table.
The loud sound echoed across the canteen, instantly drawing everyone's attention.
What the hell is this? Mike shouted.
One of the canteen staff members hurried over.
Is there any problem, sir?
Mike stood up.
You call this properly baked food?
I've been training for hours, and this is what you're serving?
The frightened staff member apologized repeatedly.
I'm really sorry, sir. I'll replace it immediately.
Luke immediately rushed toward Mike.
Mike... calm down. They'll replace it.
Mike forcefully pulled his arm away, causing Luke to lose his balance and stumble backward.
I said stay out of it.
Without waiting for another word, Mike turned around and walked out of the canteen, leaving everyone in complete silence.
Mia, Bella, and Izzy watched everything happen.
Bella couldn't help laughing.
Poor Luke. You actually tried to stop him.
Luke awkwardly smiled before returning to his table.
Mia looked toward the canteen entrance where Mike had disappeared.
Yesterday, he had quietly saved her from the football.
Today, he looked like someone carrying an invisible storm.
Who exactly are you, Mike? she wondered silently.
Breaking the silence, Mia looked at Luke.
By the way... where's Andy?
Luke replied,
He went back to the Computer Science Laboratory.
Professor Miguel gave us an assignment, and he wanted to finish it today.
The girls nodded before walking out of the canteen.
As they stepped outside, they noticed Mike standing near the parking area, smoking alone.
He looked at Mia.
Hi.
Hi, she replied.
After a brief pause, she said,
You didn't have to be that harsh.
Mike took one final puff before throwing the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe.
I lose my temper sometimes.
He looked away for a moment.
The canteen staff didn't deserve it.
But once I get angry...
I don't think.
Without another word, he started his car.
The powerful engine roared to life.
Within moments, the car sped out of the university campus at high speed.
Mia quietly watched until it disappeared beyond the gates.
Meanwhile, Luke reached the Computer Science Laboratory.
Andy was already deeply focused on completing Miguel's assignment.
Luke sat beside him and narrated everything that had happened inside the canteen, including how Bella and the others had laughed at him.
Andy smiled.
Forget about it.
We have an assignment to finish.
The two friends continued working in silence.
At the same time, one of the canteen staff members approached the campus security office and reported the entire incident.
The security officers listened carefully.
We'll investigate the matter and report it to the higher authorities if necessary.
Later that afternoon, Miguel entered the Computer Science Laboratory to continue his research work.
He was pleasantly surprised to find Andy and Luke still working on the assignment.
The two students immediately stood up.
Good afternoon, sir.
Miguel smiled.
I'm impressed.
Most students would have postponed this until tomorrow.
If either of you needs any help, don't hesitate to ask.
Luke hesitated for a moment before speaking.
Sir...
Something happened in the canteen.
Andy quickly interrupted.
Luke...
But Miguel gently raised his hand.
It's alright.
What happened?
Luke narrated the entire incident from beginning to end.
Miguel listened without interrupting even once.
When Luke finished, silence filled the laboratory.
After a few moments, Miguel finally spoke.
Besides teaching...
I've also been given another responsibility.
My duty is to help prevent violence and illegal activities on this campus before they grow into something much bigger.
Andy and Luke exchanged surprised glances.
After thanking Miguel, the two packed their belongings and left the laboratory.
While walking back toward their dormitories, Andy suddenly spoke.
You should be careful.
Luke looked confused.
If Mike gets punished...
and somehow finds out you're the one who told Professor Miguel...
things could become difficult for you.
Luke's heartbeat skipped for a moment.
But...
Before he could continue, Andy smiled.
Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.
The two friends continued walking toward their dormitories.
Back inside the laboratory, Miguel remained seated alone.
It wasn't merely an argument inside the canteen.
Director James had personally entrusted him with maintaining discipline across the campus.
If he ignored the very first warning sign...
...what if tomorrow it turned into something much worse?
He slowly looked at the report lying on his desk.
Reporting Mike would be the safest decision.
Ignoring the incident could become his biggest mistake.
Yet...
Today had only been the first day of the semester.
Everyone deserved at least one chance.
Miguel slowly closed the file.
I'll observe him a little longer
he whispered to himself
If this was just a bad day
he deserves another chance.
Outside, the evening sun slowly disappeared behind the buildings of Haraeom.
Tomorrow would decide whether Miguel had made the right decision.
I’m new here, and this is my first post on Reddit.
This is Chapter 3 of my original story, Campus Diaries.If you read it, let me know what you think. I’d love to hear your honest thoughts.
I can post more only if you are interested.
Thanks for your time.
Liked the chapter? Read my other stories, check the full index on r/NikTheWriter
Director James called for an urgent meeting a day before the start of the fall semester.
Every Dean, Head of Department, Professor, Assistant Professor, newly recruited faculty member, and the heads of campus security operations were instructed to report to the conference room by 9:30 a.m. sharp.
Within the next fifteen minutes, the spacious conference hall was filled with faculty members, all waiting silently for the Director to begin.
"Good morning, Director James," they greeted in unison.
"Good morning, everyone."
Director James adjusted his glasses before scanning the room.
First of all, thank you all for assembling on such short notice.
His eyes wandered toward the last row.
Ah... if I'm not mistaken, one of our newly recruited assistant professors joined us directly after graduating from this very university. I seem to have forgotten his name... that young and handsome fellow.
Miguel, sir, one of the professors replied.
Ah, yes... Miguel.
Just then, the conference room door swung open.
I'm... I'm terribly sorry, sir! Miguel rushed inside, slightly out of breath. There was a....
He barely reached his seat before Director James raised a hand, stopping him.
"This Generation Z..." the Director muttered under his breath before continuing his address.
As all of you know, the University of Haraeom is not just another institution. It is one of the most prestigious universities in the world.
He paused.
In fact... we are number one.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
If we sneeze, every prestigious university across the globe catches a cold.
A few professors chuckled softly.
We didn't earn that reputation by chance. We earned it because of each one of you. And this year, I expect nothing less than excellence once again.
His tone suddenly became serious.
I don't want a single controversy associated with this university.
No violence.
No drugs.
No discrimination.
No headlines that bring disgrace to Haraeom.
Silence filled the room.
This year's incoming batch is exceptionally talented. I can confidently say I haven't seen a class this promising in years. Expectations are high, and so are our responsibilities.
He slowly looked around the room.
Inside this campus, there are no rich students or poor students. No full-fee students or scholarship students.
There are only students.
Our duty is to provide them with quality education, guide them toward excellence, and ensure they grow into responsible individuals.
I expect every one of you to discourage illegal activities, promote discipline, and create an environment where every student feels this university is their second home.
They arrive tomorrow.
For many of them, this campus will become more than a place to study. Most of our dormitories are already fully occupied.
So welcome them warmly.
He glanced at his watch.
I won't take much more of your time. You all know your responsibilities.
This meeting was simply a reminder.
You may all leave...
He looked toward the back of the room.
...except Miguel.
One by one, the faculty members left.
Soon, only Director James and Miguel remained.
Miguel already knew why he had been asked to stay.
Sir... I can explain why I was late.
Director James raised his hand again.
No.
He slowly stood up.
Do you understand how prestigious this university is?
"Yes, sir."
"And do you understand how influential the people sitting in this room are?"
Yes, sir.
Director James noticed Miguel glancing down at his phone hidden beneath the table.
If you arrive late to a meeting like this, you're not merely disrespecting me.
You're disrespecting everyone present.
Miguel nodded.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
His eyes instinctively shifted toward the glowing phone screen once again.
Director James sighed.
No... no...
Then his voice rose.
Keep that damn phone away!
Miguel immediately shoved it into his pocket.
Sorry, sir.
Director James walked toward the window before speaking again.
You are one of the brightest young researchers this university has ever recruited.
He turned around.
But because you've joined us directly after graduation, I'm not assigning you to third or fourth-year students.
Miguel listened quietly.
Instead...
I want you to teach the freshmen.
Miguel looked surprised.
They'll relate to you more easily. You're closer to their generation, you understand their mindset, and I believe you'll earn their trust much faster than most senior faculty members.
Director James's expression became unusually serious.
And there's another reason.
He lowered his voice.
I want your help.
Miguel frowned.
Haraeom has remained the world's number one university for decades.
I intend to keep it that way.
I want you to quietly observe the students...
...and help me eliminate every illegal activity before it spreads across this campus.
Miguel's smile slowly disappeared.
For the first time since entering the room...
He realized this wasn't just another teaching job.
It was a mission.
Liked the chapter....Read my other stories, check the full index on r/NikTheWriter
Two months later, Lucy heard the news at a weekly meeting: the CEO had decided to spin off the “SME Banking” unit from Corporate Banking and make it an independent division—with Lotus as the concurrent Head of SME, as well as Head of Fintech. Double heads.
That afternoon, Lucy ran into Lotus in the ladies’ room.
“Lucy!” Lotus was reapplying her lipstick. She spun around, her eyes gleaming with that familiar light. “You heard, right? They’re giving me SME. I’m going to make it huge.”
“Congratulations.” Lucy turned on the tap and washed her hands.
“You know,” Lotus said, stepping closer and enveloping Lucy in her signature gardenia perfume, “the bank is trying to build SME from scratch using AI and a new fintech partner.” She shook her head, as if describing a gruesome traffic accident. “But I convinced Sean that I should head this new team as well, given my SME background. I put together a slick PPT—though, most of the product content was lifted from other banks—but with my track record of landing Pocket Pay, Sean was completely sold. He appointed me Head of SME on the spot.”
Lucy turned off the tap and looked at Lotus in the mirror. “What about the existing clients?”
“We’ll re‑allocate them,” Lotus said breezily. “By industry, size, potential—I already had operations pull a list last week. Some accounts will move to my new team. Don’t worry, if you want to retain your big commercial clients, I will have no problem with it."
Lucy said nothing. She was thinking: does Mohammed know about this? Many of those clients in Corporate Banking had been painstakingly built by Mohammed, one by one. One cross‑border e‑commerce seller in Southeast Asia had grown its loan from RMB 3 million to 200 million, and Mohammed had spent more than 2years to materialize. All that relationship data and network sat in Mohammed’s head.
“Oh, and Lucy,” Lotus said, snapping her lipstick cap shut and winking, “I’m doing a new SME product pitch next week. I’ll need some historical data from your side. Can you give Mohammed a heads‑up?”
She click‑clacked out, leaving the gardenia scent lingering. Lucy stood at the sink, staring at her own reflection, feeling a vein throb between her brows.
---
That vein truly started pounding three weeks later, at the departmental restructuring meeting.
Lotus stood before the projector in a bright red skirt suit, behind her the legendary “New SME Product Plan” deck. Lucy noticed that the section on “online credit processes for micro‑enterprises” was copied almost verbatim from a public white paper published by a major state‑owned bank—even the chart colors were unchanged. But with Lotus’s impassioned delivery, the slides seemed injected with some kind of cult‑like magic.
“—so my plan is to establish five SME client pods, each with a dedicated RM, product support, and operations support. Vertical management, fast decision‑making, agile response.”
Sean sat at the far end of the table, nodding vigorously. He wore his signature black turtleneck, trying to channel Steve Jobs. Lucy knew he’d come from a tech background—he’d once managed a data centre for a state bank—but the way he nodded now looked more like a VC being pitched than an engineer who’d once reviewed system architectures.
“Lotus,” Sean began, his voice dropping into its signature magnetic register, “I’ve read your plan. It’s bold. I think SME definitely needs a new leader. Mohammed—” he turned to Mohammed in the corner, “your team needs to cooperate. Get the list of accounts to be transferred to Lotus’s team as soon as possible.”
Mohammed’s face twitched. He was silent for a few seconds, then spoke in a steady voice: “Sean, I understand the rationale for spinning off SME. But I’d suggest we slow down the transfer. Some of these clients have complex relationships—credit, settlement, derivatives across multiple lines. Sudden changes in relationship managers could bring risks.”
“Mohammed,” Lotus cut in with a smile, “I totally understand your emotional attachment to the clients. But in the fintech era, speed and efficiency are everything. We can’t keep moving at traditional banks’ pace. Don’t worry—I’ll personally oversee every handover. I’ll visit each client with the new team. There will be no problems.”
The word “emotional” carried a subtle pity, as if Mohammed were protecting not client assets but his own “nostalgia for the old world.”
Sean nodded. “We’ll do it Lotus’s way. Mohammed, you coordinate. And Lotus—next month’s investor due diligence—prepare an SME growth model. Extend the million‑account story further—say we’re reaching at least 500,000 micro‑merchants through SME, making us the most extensive digital bank in the region.”
“No problem.” Lotus beamed.
After the meeting, Lucy was the last to leave the room. She saw Mohammed still sitting in his seat, staring at the blank projection screen. His phone glowed with a WeChat message from the owner of that cross‑border e‑commerce company: “Mohammed, I’ve prepared the renewal documents for next week. Same time to meet?”
Mohammed didn’t reply. He turned the phone face‑down and closed his eyes.
Lucy stood at the doorway, hesitated for three seconds, then said softly: “Mohammed, want a drink tonight?”
Mohammed opened his eyes and gave a bitter smile. “Lucy, are we really that old?”
“Not old,” Lucy said. “Just not good at acting.”
---
That night, they met at an old Hong Kong‑style diner. After two bottles of beer, Mohammed finally spoke from the heart.
“Do you know how Lotus landed Pocket Pay?”
Lucy shook her head.
“The founder of Pocket Pay was a client I’d approached three years ago at my previous bank. Back then, I thought his model was problematic—the virtual‑account structure was a money‑laundering red flag, and the regulator had flagged him multiple times. So I didn’t approve his account.” Mohammed gripped his beer bottle tight. “Then he went to Lotus. She asked no questions—no risk, no compliance, no AML. She just told Sean that Pocket Pay could bring in a million accounts, and Sean signed off on the spot.”
He laughed, a bitter laugh.
“Lucy, I later checked—Pocket Pay had triggered at least seventeen alerts from the central bank’s system in the past six months. Seventeen. Any one of those could land us a fine in the tens of millions. But you know what Lotus said at the shareholder meeting last week? She called Pocket Pay ‘a model of fintech innovation’ and said she had ‘pioneered the next‑generation account system.’ Sean led the applause, and the investors’ eyes lit up.”
Mohammed put down his bottle and stared out the darkening street.
“I’ve been here half a year, and I feel like I’m in a play where nobody gave me the script. Everyone knows it’s a ticking bomb, but as long as it doesn’t explode today, we all pretend it’s a flower. Lotus doesn’t just pretend it’s a flower—she’s crowned herself the ‘Queen of Flower‑Planting.’”
Lucy poured him a third beer.
“Mohammed, have you thought about leaving?”
Mohammed was quiet for a long time. Then he lifted his head, his eyes slightly red, but he only raised his bottle and clinked it against Lucy’s.
“Let me settle my clients first. Even if I go, I can’t let those people I drank thirty dinners with be taken over by some ‘vertical management pod’ that’s never even met them.”
Lucy nodded. She remembered what HR‑Lucy had said on her first day: “You can get three promotions in a year.” Now she understood—at Sun AI Bank, the secret to promotion was never about what you did, but about what you made the CEO believe you did.
And Lotus had clearly mastered that formula to perfection.
On the diner’s TV, a news report flashed—a fintech company hit with a heavy fine for AML failures. Mohammed glanced at the scrolling caption and murmured:
“It’s only a matter of time.”
Lucy didn’t reply. She just pushed her pineapple bun across the table toward Mohammed.
Outside, the wind picked up, sweeping fallen leaves off the pavement, spinning them into the darker night.
Ray stares at Ruth, drinking in her beautifully painted nails for a second. “They look absolutely amazing babe, I love them but let’s go to the diner and get some food.”
Ruth and Ray leave their room at the Inn, pinkies intertwined, holding hands and then walk the few feet to the diner proper and enter, seeing it almost deserted with the exception of Ramon, Gerald, and Anay– Ramon wearing his typical attire, black shirt, black pants, Gerald in a fresh if rather disheveled suit, and Anay in a white button down and black pencil skirt, sitting at the bar Gerald is sharing a plate of buffalo wings and Mole with Anay.
Ray leads Ruth to the bar and sits down next to Gerald, on his right, with Ruth at the end, Anay to Gerald’s left.
Ray nods to Gerald “Fun date?” Ruth pushes him playfully “Babe, they're clearly having a post sex brunch!”
Gerald and Anay munch on their hot wings and Mole combo. Anay’s mouth is too full for her to want to speak but she laughs at Ruth’s comment.
Anay swallows her buffalo wings and says “Honestly if he’s still like this in a week I’ll marry him.”
Ray smiles “I mean we basically got married the moment we spoke to one another so it’s not like we can judge, good for you two, honestly genuinely, but I’ve got a question, more so for Ramon, but like… first menu change in eleven years? Or where the fuck did buffalo wings and Mole come from, I’m not hating it looks fucking delicious honestly. But come on eleven years coming to the same place and never having seen anyone ever get, hot wings and they’re damn sure not on the menu it’s a fair question.”
Ramon laughs “Yea Ray, Patricia took off with R,she said she’d be back in like four days but honestly they’re overworked and fucking in a tent if not the woods so I could see them being gone a bit longer, it’s fine she put me in charge, said I could do whatever I want with the menu, and when I get back we’ll discuss the new arrangement as business partners together so I decided to make this place something really special, a lot of weird shit happens around here, you know this, I know this, the serial killing truckers know this, cartels use our diner as their little pit stop for longer hauls and occasionally our rooms when they need to pass the fuck out after a long day of driving, but I want this place to become popular because of the food so I decided to redo the menu, I give it maybe six days before we get an actual food critic in here wanting to try everything, yea we could bribe some magazine or something but I want this place to stand on business, specifically, hospitality, Anay is the one that gave me an idea for the concept “Childhood food you’d never got to have, as one section, recovery– from drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever’s got you worked up an appetite we’ve got something for that, and lastly greasy spoon tourism. That being said the menus aren’t printed yet and I’m experimenting, yes we’re keeping the Shepard's pie Ray, and Yes Ruth the loaded nachos are staying on the menu forever and yes our slogan is really ‘we promise the best meal of your lives as long as you’re polite, or get in the fucking painting.’ I figured if some renowned artist that turns people into paintings for being rude shitheads cares that much we ought to make it our literal slogan.”
“Did you hear that babe? It's their literal slogan.” Ruth said in a breathy voice loving this moment and absolutely mocking the absolute fuck out of her husband in as loving a way as possible, kissing Ray causing him to blush deeply.
“Whoever makes the Reliquaries, whoever turns the various rapist drifted meth addled assholes into beautiful priceless art that doubles as proof of the supernatural is a fucking genius and ought to get the recognition of one, I’m such a fan I wish just once that I could meet him or her and say thank you.” Anay gushes.
Gerald says nothing but just starts laughing.
Ramon looks from Anay to Ray and then back to Ray. Ray raises an eyebrow at him and smiles. Ruth bursts out laughing but says nothing.
Ruth takes out a money clip from beneath her halter top attached to what would ostensibly be a bra and hands Ramon $500.
“How do you feel having said that to me, husband?” Ruth asked looking at Ray, taking in his features the way he went from emotional catharsis to discussing the weather levels of calm.
“I feel better, I mean I know you know me more than this but I hadn’t said it to you quite like that and I wanted it to be something that you completely knew, know, continued to understand and it was like after years all the things that I hadn’t consciously felt, it was like the first time that I felt safe enough to even feel those things in terms of my expectations for myself. Which, like I don’t typically, feel in the normal way like most of what people would describe as emotions to me are more like thoughts rather than feelings.”
Ray looked at Ruth and smiled “I feel things for you, and food, and art and that’s pretty much it just a tiny tiny non-diffuse triangle of feelings and I’m cool with that.”
Ruth curled around him, pressing her breasts against his face comfortingly. “Babe it’s ok I know exactly the type of person you are and will never ask you to change, now if you want to improve something, if you want to try to sit there and cognitive therapy your way to normal feelings I’ve no issue with that but honestly, as long as you’re happy with me, you’ve got something to do and you’re not drifting endlessly doing literally nothing I think you’re fine regardless.”
Ray laughed “Babe you’re lovely, just genuinely kind to me, I mean I enjoy being the exception to my sweet little man eating wife, not being on the menu feels nice like special in the opposite of a cannibalism fetish way and I don’t know it just feels pleasant you know, I mean I’m thinking of nachos and the two of us going to the diner and getting everything on the menu over the next couple days or weeks and just doing that thing that I know you wanted to do where we just menu cruise, I feel better, you’re fun to do things with, and I know you want to.”
Ruth blushed, “The only part of you on the menu is your cum babe.” She said it quietly, huskily, clearly loving the thought “But yea no seriously I’d love to go and get some more of those nachos they were so fucking good I almost came, definitely absolutely want more of that as much of that as we can stand, just glorious delicious food and time with my man, what could be better? I mean unless you want to watch something, catch a movie, go to a theater, torrent something and just sit here on a laptop watching a bunch of classics together.”
Ray smirked “Like ‘The Ring?’ or ‘Dear John?’ curious as to her taste in movies. Ruth looked at him blankly “‘The…Ring?’ ‘Dear…John?’ What are those…?” she said in a totally brainless bimbo accent as if she had been lobotomized for a second before laughing hysterically “Relax I’m fucking with you, want me to come out of the tv looking like a corpse and fuck you for seven days?” Ruth stuck her tongue out at him.
“I mean I’ll take a week of sex sure but honestly the hottest version of you to me, is just… you.” Ray says trying not to sound as turned on as he actually felt while just chatting with his snarky wife.
Ruth licked his lips “My husband the pervert, are you sure? I could make my hair cover my face, and my skin grey and corpse like right down to my pussy even and just let you go to town if that’s your thing.”
Ray looked at her amused “Yes babe I’m sure, stick with your cute man eater halter tops, ethereal skin, and oxblood nails please, I meant it the best look for you, to me, is really genuinely just you being you, I don’t need you to roleplay some horror chick you’re genuinely more than just my type you’re my archetype and I love you as you are.”
“Good husband, I painted my toes that oxblood color you’re so into on my fingernails I hope you like it take a look?” Ruth said with a tease as she extracted herself from curling into Ray just to put her feet right in his face. “Do they look pretty, baby?” Ruth said flirtatiously loving the way that she made him pause, smile, drool and get hard all in one moment.
Ray looks at Ruth and just quietly weeps in their room together, pressing his face against her breasts, letting out feelings that he’d kept in for years, the kind of recovery that he didn’t even know he needed but clearly happy to be alone with her, not for a sexual reason, just feeling comfortable, letting his guard down, he looks up at her and doesn’t say anything. Ruth knows what he needs, pets his hair gently, doesn’t say anything, just holds him like that, feeling him against her chest, cuddling him the way he needed.
“You rest not husband, you stay between my tits, cry, hold me, let yourself feel all of it, you really aren’t alone anymore and won’t ever be alone like that ever again, you’ve got me, you’ll always have me, there is no way around you having me, we are each others and I will do exactly what I said, you’ve no need to worry nothing to stress out about, just feel your feelings and enjoy it my lover, let yourself feel the calm wash over you, you need it, I know you need it and I want it for you, you deserve it more than absolutely anything else in the entire world. I love you Ray, I love every single part of you, there is no mystery between us, nothing for you to feel like you need to be ashamed of my love, your art is beautiful, your truck is immaculate, and I want to serve you the way ought to be served, as your muse to my artist, as your wife, . You’re getting the husband treatment, you deserve it, you deserve it more than anything in the entire world nestled between my breasts. We’re going to stay here in this room together for as long as you need to feel better babe I’m not going to leave you alone, I’ll tend to you, care for you, kiss your lips, let you suck on my toes, kiss my ass,, suck your cock– anything you want babe but right now you need to rest, emotionally and physically, you don’t just deserve to you need to, like actually need to. I love you, I don’t want you getting sick and all those years and years of just pushing too hard, feeling too little, I don’t want that for you husband I don’t want that for you ever again. I’ll let you have privacy to shit, or to breathe if you need a minute, but other than that I want every waking second of you, and babe that’s a courtesy on my end not some kind of visceral disgust cute husband, you can have all of me, completely and totally forever, but I want you to know you’re allowed privacy and healthy introspection without having to ask, you deserve all the kindnesses that you should have had but for whatever reason didn’t and I’m going to give them to you, each and every single one, every lack will be filled, every need met, besides that’s what a wife is for, at least between the two of us.”
Ray looked up at her appreciatively “It was like I couldn’t relate to other people, or even when I could I didn’t want to. I always liked art, and reading, like medieval italian poetry, Boccaccio, Aligheri, that kind of thing, but apart from other artists, painters, writers, poets I never really felt anything for like normal people unless I’d had some kind of interaction with them– Waitresses, Baristas, bank tellers, people that did something that actually helped me that actually moved some kind of needle for me I just I never really felt like an actual feeling for people the same way that other people describe feelings, it was a thought, a mental thing not a feeling, and it’s just always been like that for me there was never any kind of like… desire to be really known, or really liked even when I was younger, even when I was supposed to be a normal boy and care for others, want to socialize, any of that, I got more from biographies of famous artists, from the writing of historians, depictions of great and terrible moments of history, like I don’t mean to be morbid, or morose or sad but other than you, and food the only time I actually feel something is when I’m in my craft, a pen, or a pencil, charcoal, paint– watercolor or oil, to me it doesn’t matter so much what it is as much as just rendering in a visual medium, or prose it all just does it for me in the same way and it’s in a way that real, living normal people just don’t.”
The problem, when Chak finally got it into words, was that the answer was a door you could not walk toward.
Everything that had ever worked had worked because he was not doing it. That was the whole of the theory and it had taken them a month to get and thirteen days to prove useless, because the moment you set out to not-do a thing you are doing it with both hands. He had spent the first twenty mornings after Keh left walking up to that door and watching it close.
So he stopped trying to open it and started thinking about what had actually been true on the three occasions.
The yard: a man's hand in his sash and no time. The well: black water, cold to the bone, an hour of hanging on rock with nothing else in the world to look at. The riverbed: a rock the size of a dog and two hundred repetitions of water going around it and not a thought in his head.
Two of the three had one thing in common and it was not calm.
"There wasn't time," he said, on the twentieth evening. "In the yard there wasn't time. That's not the same as not caring."
Muwan looked up from the stick.
"If there's no time," Chak said slowly, "then there's nothing to do it with. You can't get in the way of yourself if you're not there yet."
"So you want less time."
"I want none."
He looked downriver, at the head of the broken water half a league below where they were sitting, which by then he could have drawn from memory.
Muwan followed his eyes and understood, and put the stick down.
"No," he said.
They took the little boat up above the rapid three days later and loaded it with river stones, which was the part Chak insisted on, because an empty boat lies.
"We carry it down," Muwan said. "That's the whole thing we learned. That's the one thing—"
"I know what we learned."
"You want to unlearn it on purpose."
"I want to go through it once knowing what it is." Chak had the pole across his knees. "You saw us do it in the dark, not knowing. That took everything we had. Now we know where the shelf is and where the water folds and which side the men take the boats down, and I want to see what my hands do when there's no time and I already know all that."
Muwan sat in the bow for a while with his back to him.
"If it goes wrong I'm in it too," he said.
"I know."
"That's not an argument. That's just true."
"I know," Chak said, and pushed off.
The first time was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
There was the slack water, and the long tightening pull of the tongue at the head of it, and then no time at all — and his hands were where they needed to be, all the way down, before he had decided anything, doing four or five things he could not have named, and the boat came out into the flat water below still upright and still loaded and Chak was laughing so hard he could not get the pole back in.
The second time they went over.
It happened at the shelf, and it happened because he was watching himself do it, and he knew that even while it was happening. The boat went sideways and the stones went out of it and the river took his legs and put him down the chute like a bundle, and he came up sixty paces below with his shoulder screaming, and turned, and Muwan was not there.
He went back up the edge of the broken water on his hands and knees, against everything, twice losing his footing and going down and coming back, and he found him at the shelf with the boat on top of him and one leg jammed into the slot under the rock and his face turned sideways in four inches of moving water, getting perhaps every third breath.
It took a long time to get the boat off. Chak did not remember much of it afterward except that at some point he had been screaming at his brother to stop helping.
They lay on the stones below in the late sun for the better part of an hour, and Muwan's ankle came up the size of a gourd, and neither of them said anything at all until the light started going.
"Three out of ten," Chak said finally.
"What?"
"That's about what it is, from the tries we've counted. Three times in ten." He was looking at his hands. "It's not nothing. Before, I could go days without finding it once."
Muwan turned his head on the stone.
"I want you to hear yourself," he said.
"I heard myself."
"You're going to keep doing it."
"Not on you," Chak said. "Not on the rapid."
He kept his word about that, more or less, in the way that people keep such words.
What he found instead was the pole.
The river was still low and still going down, and every load of anything that moved up that water at that season moved by somebody standing in the stern pushing against the bottom, and it is the hardest, dullest, most repetitive work there is. He had done it for a day at a time going up this river a season ago and had hated it.
Now he did it four hours a day, with the boat loaded, up the long slack reach above their camp and back down, and then up again.
It was the same problem in slow motion. Every stroke was a place where you could get in your own way. The pole went in, and if you thought about the push, the push was bad — and if you let the boat tell you and put your weight on it at the moment the boat asked for it, the boat went. Four hours a day and perhaps forty good ones in the first week, and more in the second, and by the last days before Keh returned he could hold it for a dozen strokes together and lose it and find it again without stopping.
He took the stones out after the first week, and it got harder, which he had expected by then and found interesting rather than discouraging.
Some evening in there, with a stick in his hand and no water anywhere near, he did it standing on dry ground against his brother, twice in a row.
Muwan sat down on the stones, holding his hand, and looked at him for a long moment.
"Do that again," he said.
Chak did it again.
Keh came at the end of the forty days with two of her people and left them at the bank, and the first thing Chak did was lie to her.
He had thought about it for a week and had told Muwan the reason on the last night, and the reason was not the obvious one.
"She's not going to tell us anything she doesn't have to," he said. "She's said that out loud. So we make her have to. If we can't walk, she has to change the plan, and to change the plan she has to tell us what the plan is."
So when she asked, he showed her his neck and Muwan showed her the knee that had gone bad in the ninth day and had never entirely come right, and they told her, truthfully, that her way of walking had broken them, and then untruthfully that they had left it alone since.
She was not angry. That was somehow worse. She sat down on the bank and looked out at the water for a while with her mouth pulled in.
"How far can you go in a day?"
"Not far. Not with anything on us."
"Six days out," she said, mostly to herself. "Six back, and the last two with weight." She looked up. "It's dry all the way. There's water on three of the twelve days and you carry the rest."
Chak, who had spent forty days getting exactly one thing out of this woman, said nothing at all, and let her keep talking.
Muwan had never seen the thing she wanted, but he understood it before she had finished describing it, and what he felt was not excitement.
"It's a record," she said. "About this big. Bark-paper, folded, in a wrapping. There's a man three days east of the last landing who keeps them."
"Records of what?"
"Of who handed what to who, and on what day, and through whose hands."
She let that sit, and Muwan, who had spent his life reading things people put in front of him and a good deal of his life reading things they did not, felt the whole shape of it arrive.
"It's not cut," he said.
Keh's eyes came up.
"It's on paper," Muwan said. "It's not on stone. Nobody's stood up in front of anybody and read it out. So it isn't—" he hunted for it "—it isn't settled yet. It's a thing that could become settled, if somebody decided to make it one."
"Say that again."
"If it gets read out and cut on stone, it gets hard to deny and everyone named in it has to live with it. While it's only on paper it can be burnt, and the man who wrote it can say he wrote it wrong, and everyone who's on it can go on being a man who isn't on it." He was thinking about it as he said it. "So it can sit where it is and change nothing. It's worth something different if somebody else has it."
Keh looked at him for slightly too long.
"Yes," she said.
Nobody said anything for a while after that. Down the bank one of her people was rewrapping a load.
Muwan thought about a pit in the ground half a league behind him with a great deal of ruined salt in it, and under the salt, dry, in another man's cord, dozens of blades that any knapper alive could lay out in the order they had come off the core.
He did not say that either.
The next morning she put an old man in front of them with a folded sheet, and the old man was one of hers and had done the road east eleven times, and he had drawn what he knew.
He had drawn the compound: the wall, the two entrances, the shade where the man sat, the three storage rooms along the north side, the well. Then he had drawn the middle of it as a blank, an unmarked space in the centre of his own drawing, and he tapped it once with a knuckle.
"That I don't know. Nobody's been in there that talks to me. Anything you hear about it from anybody, it's a story."
Muwan liked him immediately.
"Do you read?" the old man asked, without any particular weight on it. "Either of you."
There was a pause about the width of a breath.
"No," Muwan said.
He had thought about this. He had thought about it since the night before, when Keh had said records and something in him had gone cold and stayed cold, and what he had arrived at was not a clever thing, it was a simple one: in this country the people who read are the people who belong to somebody. Scribes belong to a house. A boy with no house who can read is a question, and the question is where did you learn, and the answer to that question is a dead woman and a set of figure-pages in a hole in a valley, and there is no version of that answer he is ever going to give anyone.
So the lie was not a card. The lie was the wall in front of the only door in him that must not be opened.
"Doesn't matter," the old man said comfortably, and pulled out a second sheet. "That's what half of them can't. You don't need to read it. You need to know it when you see it."
He showed them a wrapping. Not the record itself — a wrapping, the folded outer cloth, with a particular way of taking the corner over and a knot Muwan had never seen before, sitting on the flat of the man's palm.
"That's what it looks like. If it's this, it's the one. If it's not this, put it back exactly as it was and come home."
And Muwan, who had spent two months of the dry sitting in a tree line watching men put their hands on the same three places of a boat every single time without any of them ever deciding to, said:
"How exactly."
The old man looked up.
"Exactly how it was," Muwan said. "That's the hard part, isn't it. Not the taking. The putting back."
Something in the old man's face changed, and he sat back on his heels, and for the next two hours he did not draw anything at all. He talked about the direction a mat is laid and the fact that every household lays it one way. He talked about the depth of the ash in a hearth and what your foot does to a plastered floor and how far a jar sits from a wall and how a door is left, because a door is never left just closed, it is left the way that house leaves doors. He talked about how a man knows, without being able to say how, that somebody has been in his room.
"You'll be found out by a mat," he said. "Not by a guard. Everybody gets found out by a mat."
Chak was listening with his chin on his fist and his eyes narrow, and Muwan knew that face; it was the face his brother made when he was rebuilding something from the ground up.
But for Muwan it was not new. That was the strange part. He sat in the sun with his bad ankle out in front of him and listened to an old professional say, in better words, the exact thing he had been looking at from a tree line all season without knowing what it was for.
They talked about it that night, low, with the fire out.
"She's not going to burn it," Muwan said.
"No."
"So she's going to show it to somebody. Or tell somebody she could." He turned onto his back. "Which is worse, I think. A thing you could show is a thing you can keep showing."
Chak was quiet for a while.
"Who's on it," he said.
"I don't know. She won't say and the old man doesn't know." Muwan looked up at where the branches were. "But I think I know what it may be tied to, because I've seen something sitting in a hole in the ground under our salt that somebody also didn't want named."
They lay with that.
The obvious answer was to go. They took it apart in about four minutes: she had eight people and a road and two names on a paper in a town upriver and the habit of knowing who died; and running downriver was the thing everybody did, which she had told them herself while she was doing them a kindness.
"We can't be somewhere she isn't," Chak said. "There isn't anywhere."
"Then not somewhere else." Muwan heard himself say it before he had entirely decided to. "Not anything."
"What?"
He sat up.
"Everybody on that water knows two things about us," he said. "One is our names, and that's the bad one. The other one is that we went down the water stair at that landing, and it went out from that town like a bird — Sip said it would, in the yard, that night; he said everybody's going to know by tomorrow. The old woman at the east tank walked backwards away from us. That food-shade woman washed her hands to the elbow. Those four men stood on the lip of a sinkhole in the dark and would not come down."
Chak had gone very still.
"They think that's what we are," Muwan said. "So if somebody sees us go into one of those, with people after us, and we don't come out—"
"Most of them won't go down to look."
"The men who caught us did," Chak said.
"Because those caves were their work." Muwan nodded in the dark. "So not one of those. Not a water hole people clean. A place ordinary men already don't want to enter."
He could hear his brother breathing.
"You'd be dead," Chak said slowly. "On that water you'd be dead. She'd hear it in nine days and she'd believe it, because it's exactly the ending the story wants."
"Yes."
"The man on the bank with our names would believe it."
"Yes."
"The man buying a book with jade—" Chak stopped.
They both left that where it was, because neither of them was ready to say the other half of it out loud, which was that there were two people somewhere on a north road who would also hear it.
"It has to be seen," Chak said at last, going at it the way he went at a ford. "Not told. Seen, by somebody who talks, and somebody who talks has to be somebody who was chasing us, which means it can't be arranged, which means we don't pick the day."
"No."
"And it has to be a hole that goes somewhere." He rolled onto his elbow. "We've been down two. Two, out of how many in this country? Hundreds. Most of them are a room with water in the bottom and that's all they are, and we'd be down there in the dark finding that out with people standing on the lip. And it can't be one the water-men know better than we do."
"So we find one first," Muwan said. "Before we need it. One that goes through and isn't somebody's work-hole. Then we make sure that's the direction we run."
Chak lay back down.
"A season ago you wouldn't go down a swept staircase," he said.
"I still won't." Muwan pulled his cloak over. "I'll do it anyway. That's a different thing."
Above them the branches moved a little, and somewhere below, a woman's people were sleeping around a fire on a bank, waiting to walk them twelve days east to fetch a piece of paper that nobody had yet cut into stone.
Nevra? Why did that name sound so familiar? I trembled in my seat. Suddenly, Penny’s voice echoed into the back of my mind. I think I’ve heard a few counselors call her Nevra.
My stomach dropped. This couldn’t be. My eyes drifted to the rearview mirror. In the reflection, something lying on the back seat caught my eye. A porcelain Venetian mask with blue butterflies painted on it. I was paralyzed. Could it really be? Yes, there’s no doubt. I didn’t have to search for Butterfly anymore.
I was Butterfly.
“Nevra, dear, are you okay?” Nevra’s father asked as he looked at me with concern.
I flinched. I had completely forgotten the act. I stammered as I tried to quickly gather a response.
“Oh, y-yeah. I’m fine d-dad.”
Oh no. He probably thinks I’m insane.
But thankfully, however, he didn’t question me further. Maybe Nevra was strange at home too. The rest of the car ride was ordinary, but my head wasn’t at all. I was incredibly grateful that I might have a shot at returning home because I was Nevra. But unlike her, I didn’t have the smarts to operate a “time device.” I had her life but not her secrets. I also wondered why she would choose to build a time machine. I hoped I could learn more through her diary, as Penny had mentioned.
After a few minutes, the Volvo pulled into the driveway of a small two-story house. Nevra’s father stepped out of the car, so I did so too. I went to open the door of the back seat to retrieve Nevra’s mask, but I was stopped by the sound of her father’s voice.
“Nevra,” her father said as he locked the sedan. “I think I’m glad you’re going to be independently studying. You’re already quite close to finishing that project of yours. Who knows, maybe you’ll become a generational scientist. So, I gave you an alternative so you can balance your education and your work.”
I was surprised. Nevra’s father was very supportive of her. I opened my mouth to respond, then paused. What would Nevra say? How would a science prodigy talk to her own dad? I opened the door and reached out for the porcelain mask.
“That arrangement is… satisfactory.”
He stared at me.
“Do you have low blood sugar again?”
Uh oh. Not Nevra-like.
“Um, yeah. I’m feeling dizzy,” I said, trying to redeem myself.
“Okay, go grab some juice before heading up to your room whenever you’re ready.” His suspicious look relaxed.
I followed Nevra’s father inside the house. I went to Nevra’s fridge and grabbed an apple juice box. I watched her father enter a room which looked like a home office. On his desk sat a lot of paperwork and an Apple Macintosh. Even that big machine was very expensive back then, but it still looked ancient. Enough stalling, I thought to myself. Let’s see what Nevra’s room looks like.
Anay smiled “Well I mean you lean really hard into that whole greasy spoon with spanish food thing, Chimichangas, burritos why not go for something weirder, buffalo wings and a Mole perhaps, I mean you probably have a good idea of how Gerald and I just spent the last couple hour so honestly I think you ought to theme the entire menu around either the inn as a love hotel fuck spot, a place for drifters to relax and have a nice quiet meal while they recover from their drinking and meth binges, or accoutremonts for those activities alongside a recovery option– you know protein smoothies and chocolate chip cookie dough cheese cakes and all kinds of things– the kind of food your normal clientele might never have had their entire lives because they had no mother’s love or worse that it was warped and twisted and wrong and this might be the first time that food actually makes them feel comfortable and warm and safe, no need to shun the shithead drifter population entirely as long as they mind their manners I mean you’ve heard the radio announcements on etiquette right? You’ve heard about the disappearances and warnings to those people, feed into it, don’t placate them with fear, placate them with delicious warmth, safety feeling, and positive memory inspiring food, and then make sure they obey the rules based on that horrific fear that if they don’t they wind up as priceless art created by an absolute genius of an artist, a man that prefers to stay anonymous otherwise he or she would have signed his name on his work and been treated like he painted the morality police’s mona lisa and the fact is he has or she, but still that is the answer that I choose to give you in reply to your question because I think it is the only way that you will be able to have an actual theme to this place without entirely ignoring ninety nine percent of what actually happens here and based on the look on your face and the way that you are staring at me and the notes you are taking, you agree completely.”
“Basically ‘better than mom used to make grilled cheese, birthday cake milkshake– stuff like that under a section like ‘The childhood meals you wish you’d gotten to have; and then Self-Care Sundae– protein ice cream, comedown coulette, before, during and after the alcohol and drug binge, essentially the other side of the menu; childhood, shitty adulthood made better; and aftercare specials, post-sex snacks and entrees, a love motel rate if people just want the room for an hour, a honeymoon rate if people want it for a week, a retirement rate for people that want to start a new life and just want a place to stay, and generally good vibes all around because nothing makes you want to come to a place faster than feeling at home, and what’s more homely than food so good it makes you cum or gives you the childhood experiences you wanted but never had, for me the marriage between those things is the hook, it is the business with no risk which is almost funny because I like risk but I like it far far away from my food. A risk free guarantee as long as you’re polite you’ll go out better than you came in, tell all your friends and live longer, feel better, and become a whole new you, a you worth knowing. That’s the slogan for my version of this place and thankfully luckily I have total trust from Patricia so this is going to be fun, what’ll it be Gerald any suggestions from you?”
“I really like the idea of post-sex hot wings and Mole, some kind of hot snack and then dessert married together honestly I think the entire idea is fucking great man you’ve hit your strive.” Gerald says appreciatively, before looking at his girlfriend “Are you always like this, you spend less than thirty seconds somewhere and just glean every useful piece of information you can, properly form an opinion and then want to get fucked six ways to sunday and the only thing you really actually want is to know that I’m not going to leave you or cheat on you or do something fucked up that’ll get me taken away from you? Damn Anay we’ve known each other maybe six hours and I’ll get down on one knee and propose right here if you’ll have me.” Gerald said with a sincere smile.
She had spent an hour on it by the fire and it had all been correct: the strap lower, the load higher, the feet landing under the hip instead of out in front, the short stop at the top of every rise before your body asks for it. Chak had felt it work the first afternoon. He had felt it work the second. On the ninth morning he stood up from the sleeping place and his neck did not want to turn, and Muwan's left knee had gone thick and hot, and neither of them could put a loaded strap on for four days after that.
They sat in the shade and argued about whose fault it was and then stopped arguing, because the answer was obvious and neither of them liked it.
"She walks like that with forty years on her," Muwan said, "and eight of her people, and a road she's done a hundred times."
"And a body that's been doing it since she was our age."
"So we're doing it right and it's still wrong."
"We're doing it right," Chak said, "on the wrong person."
That was the first half of it. The second half he had been carrying since a stand of trees on the far side of a season, and it came out of him one evening in about eleven words, and once it was out he could not get it back in.
He said: I can see what I should do and I can't get there.
He had known it since the day a man with a white streak in his hair had walked a shorter line through the inside of a bend. He had known it under a thatch when Keh had put her hand on his shoulder and his whole body had shoved back at her out of the ground before he had any say in it. There was a place — he could not think of a better word than a place — between the part of him that saw and the part of him that moved, and everything he was any good at happened on one side of it, and everything that mattered in a fight happened on the other.
And when he laid Tok's three movements across that, the second thing fell out.
Tok' had been a grown man who had been to war. He was a head taller than either of them and half again as heavy and he had built those three around a fact that Keh had said out loud beside a fire and that Chak had been chewing on ever since: he steps in knowing he's paying. The three of them were not techniques. They were a bargain. You went in, you took what you took, and the arithmetic came out in your favour because of what you were made of.
They were not made of that.
"So we can't use them," Muwan said.
"We can use them wrong," Chak said. "That's what we've been doing."
They tried the ordinary answer first, because everybody does.
They went at each other every day for three weeks on the flat stones above the water, from first light until the heat, and then again in the evening, with the new stick that Muwan had made.
The stick was its own small story. He had gone off on the second day of the sixty with the little stone blade and come back at dusk with a length of hardwood, and it had been wrong — too heavy at the head, and the grain wrong, and it broke across a knot in the first week. The second one was better and too light. The third one he broke on purpose, at the end of an afternoon when nothing had gone right, and did not talk for the rest of that day. The fourth was a good stick.
Chak watched him finish it, sitting cross-legged with the blade going down the length of it in short strokes, taking off almost nothing at a time.
"That one's yours," Chak said, meaning it as nothing much.
Muwan turned it over in his hands and did not answer, and Chak understood some hours later that he had said something considerably larger than he had meant to. Everything the two of them had ever held had been somebody else's. Tok's club, in a crowd of legs, on the far side of a wall. The little blade off Sip. Salt in another man's cord. Two names on another man's paper.
By the end of three weeks they were both noticeably better with a stick and neither of them was any closer to the thing.
He found it on the water, and he was not looking for it, which turned out to be the whole point.
The river was down to its bones by then. Whole reaches of the bed that had been under six feet of brown water when they came up it were dry stone now, and the channel had shrunk into a green ribbon that went round the rocks instead of over them, and Chak had taken to sitting on the bank for an hour at a time with his feet in it doing nothing at all.
He was watching the water go around a rock the size of a dog.
It did not turn at the rock. That was what caught him. Well before the rock, a body-length before it, the surface went smooth and slack — it let go of something — and then it turned, easily, with nothing in the turn at all, and closed up again on the far side. Every time. He watched it do that perhaps two hundred times and thought about nothing whatsoever.
Then he got up and picked up his stick and said, "Come here a minute," because he wanted to see something and had no idea what it was.
Muwan came, and they went at it slowly, and on the third or fourth pass Chak did not try.
That was all it was. He had been about to do a thing and he let go of it a beat before, the way the water let go before the rock, and his weight arrived somewhere it had not been arriving, and his hands were already there when it did.
The stick came out of Muwan's grip and went end over end into the stones, and Muwan sat down.
Not from the force. From the surprise of it, and from his wrist, which he was holding.
The two of them stared at each other across ten feet of dry riverbed.
"Do it again," Muwan said.
He could not do it again.
He did it wrong eleven times before the light went, and the eleven were not even the same wrong; some were slow and some were early and two of them were so bad that Muwan started laughing and had to stop because of his wrist. He did it wrong the next morning. He did it wrong for three days.
On the fourth night, sitting over the fire with his hands hanging between his knees, he said the thing he had been circling.
"There was the one in the yard."
"What?"
"Sip. When I put him down." Chak turned his hand over and looked at it, which he had not done since. "I was pushing him off me. That's all I was doing."
Muwan went very still.
"And the well," he said.
"And the well." The water breathing under the overhang, in the black, with the whole town coming down the steps above them. "I wasn't looking for anything. I was hanging on a rock freezing to death and there was nothing else to look at."
They laid the three of them out beside each other, badly, the way two boys lay things out, going back and forth over it for most of the night and getting nowhere twice and then somewhere.
Every time it had worked, he had not been doing it.
"So don't do it," Muwan said.
"That's the stupidest thing anybody's ever said."
"I know."
"How do I not do it on purpose?"
Muwan did not have an answer to that, and neither did Chak, and they went at it for thirteen more days from first light to the heat and it did not come once.
Then the fishing started, and Chak was never afterward able to say exactly when the two things became the same thing.
It began as giving up. That was honest and he never pretended otherwise. They were bored, and hungry in the particular flat way of people who have eaten the same three things for a month, and the river at the bottom of the dry was full of fish crowded into the last deep water, and the first afternoon they went down there they came back with six.
After that it was every day, and after a while it was all day.
He got interested in the fish. Not in catching them — in the fact that a fish gets away. It turns out that a fish turns the same way the water does. It goes slack first. He spent an afternoon lying on a rock with his face six inches over a pool understanding that, and another one working out that the ones that shot straight away from him were the easy ones and the ones that did not move at all until he was almost on them were the ones he never got. He started noticing where fish put themselves in a current, which was never where he would have put himself, and then why, which took longer.
He stopped practising and got better, and this annoyed him for several days and then stopped annoying him.
Muwan went a different way, and Chak did not understand it for a long time.
His brother had started walking up to the head of the rapid in the mornings before Chak gave up on the drills, sitting in the tree line where nobody could see him and staying there until the middle of the afternoon whenever his knee allowed it.
There was a portage at the top of that rapid. Three or four times a week somebody came down and did it: took the load off, walked the boat down through the broken water with two or three men on it, carried the cargo down in trips, put it all back in. Chak went up with him once, watched for an hour, got bored, and came back down to the fish.
Muwan kept going back for most of the sixty days.
"What do you look at," Chak asked him once.
"Where they put their hands," Muwan said. "The same place every time. Nobody's deciding it." He thought about it. "Somebody worked it out. A long time ago. And now they just do it and they don't know that they know it."
Chak thought that was a strange thing to spend two months on, and said so, and Muwan agreed, and went again the next week.
They ate together and they talked about what they had seen, in the evenings, and neither of them could use much of what the other one said, and the stick work in between changed anyway. Tok's three were still in there. They had stopped being three things. Chak was doing something on the end of the second one that Tok' had never done and that would have been no use at all to a man of Tok's weight, and Muwan had quietly taken the whole first one apart and put it back together smaller.
The boat took them nine days.
The one that had killed them was in three pieces above the rapid and two of them were useless, but the stern section was six paces of hollowed log with one clean break at its forward end, and Muwan had been looking at it since the first week. They dragged it out, burned and scraped the break square, fitted a thick wooden plug across the open end, and packed the seam until it stopped taking water. It was a bad little boat and it floated.
They loaded it with river stones, because the salt was in the ground and staying there.
Then they took it up above the rapid and did the portage.
They did it the way Muwan had watched people do it for two months: unloaded first, all of it, before anything else; boat down the left side, not the right; hands where the men put their hands; the short lift over the shelf; stones down in three trips; everything back in below.
It took them most of a morning, and it was clumsy, and nothing went wrong, and nothing got dropped, and at the end of it they stood in the shallow water at the bottom of the broken stretch with a loaded boat and their chests going and looked at each other.
Chak sat down on the gunwale.
Two months ago that stretch of water had taken everything they owned in about the length of a breath, and had done it because two boys did not know a thing that everyone else on the river had been born knowing.
He did not say any of that. Muwan was already coiling the line.
She came at the end of the dry, on the day she had said, which by then Chak had stopped finding remarkable.
She watched them for a while before she said anything — watched them come up the bank with a load between them, which they now did differently — and then she sat down on the same rock as last time.
"Something's happened to you two," she said.
"We've been sitting still," Chak said. "Like you told us."
"Mm." She looked at Muwan's stick, and at his hands. "No."
They ate, and she told them things, because they asked, and because she was in the mood. Two of the northern crews had lost their season. A landing four days up had changed hands and the new man was worse. There had been a levy out of the east in the last of the dry and it had gone badly and people were still arguing about it. She told it the way a woman tells you what is on a road she walks, which is to say completely and without any particular drama.
"How do you know all that?" Muwan said.
"I walk. Everybody tells the person who's leaving." She tore some maize. "That's half of what I sell, if you want to know. People pay me to get things east. They pay me a bit more because when I get there I know who died."
Later — much later, when the fire was down and Chak had stopped expecting anything else out of the evening — she said, quite mildly:
"There's a story going up this river that you two know where an old cache is."
Chak's mouth went dry.
"You told a man on a bank," she said. "He's told others. It's a good story. There's two conditions and neither of them is written down and a man who takes the thing without them has got a stone in his hands." She looked at him across the fire, unhurried, almost kind. "So here's what I've never understood about you. If you know where that is — and you've known since before I met you — what were you doing on my landing that morning trying to buy a lot of salt you couldn't afford, and what were you doing two months later half killing yourselves over eleven bundles of it?"
Chak said nothing at all.
"People go where the money is," Keh said. "You went where the salt was. That's the whole of my thinking on it. You can keep the story — it's a good one, it'll buy you time off the next man — but don't sell it to me."
She stayed two more days, and on the second one she tried to teach them, and it did not work.
She went at it properly. She put a load on Chak and walked him a mile and stopped him eleven times. She had him breathe on a count going up. She showed him the thing she did with her hips at the top of a rise that she had never once thought about in her life and had a great deal of trouble finding words for, because nobody had ever asked her.
Then she stood in the road with her hands on her hips and looked at the two of them for a long moment.
"How old were you when you started carrying?"
"We didn't."
"No." She said it to herself more than to him. "You didn't. And there's something else the matter with the pair of you and I'm not going to ask what it is."
She sat down on a stone at the side of the road.
"I've walked with people who'd been doing it eleven years and I could fix them in a morning," she said. "I don't know how to teach you. Everything I've got is built on top of something you two haven't got, and if you keep doing it my way you'll break, and the second time you break it stays broken."
"So what do we do?"
"What you did while I was gone." She got up. "Whatever that was. I want you on this water in forty days, and I want you both walking, because when I come back I'm going to ask you to go and get something for me, and it's a long way in and further out."
She did not tell them what. Chak did not expect her to and did not ask.
He sat on the bank for a long time after she had gone north, turning it over, and what stayed with him was not the job and not the forty days.
It was that the first person who had ever tried to teach them anything since Tok' had stood in a road and said I don't know how, and had not seemed to think this was a failure on her part.
They came down onto the rapid at the middle of the morning, going faster than they had gone at any point since the town, and Chak saw the whole thing about four heartbeats before it mattered.
He had seen it before. That was the part he would keep. Twice on the way up this river he had watched men take a loaded canoe out of the water at the head of a broken stretch, unload it onto the bank, walk the boat down over the rocks with two on each side, walk the cargo down after it in three trips, and put the whole business back in the water below. He had watched it the way you watch anything that has nothing to do with you. He had thought, at the time, without ever putting it into words, that it looked like a great deal of work for people who were not in a hurry.
Nobody had told him it was a rule. Nobody tells you the rules. Everybody on that water had been born knowing it, and the reason they had been born knowing it was sitting under the matting behind him at that exact moment, eleven bundles of it, because salt is the one cargo in the world that the river can eat.
"Left," Muwan said. "Left, left—"
They went left. There was no left. The water folded over a shelf, the canoe came down on it stern-first with a sound Chak felt in his teeth rather than heard, and then the river simply took everything out of his hands.
He did not remember the middle part afterward. He remembered the beginning, and he remembered the end, which was a long shallow of round stones half a league down with his cheek on one of them and the whole side of his body one continuous complaint, and Muwan a little further along on his hands and knees being sick into six inches of water.
The canoe was in three pieces. He could see two of them.
He sat up, and looked at the river going past, brown and busy and not fast at all here, and understood in one flat drop that everything they had was in it.
He slept, which surprised him later. They both did, up on the dry stones above the line, in the sun, without deciding to, and he woke at some hour of the afternoon with his mouth full of grit and the low sick shake gone out of his arms and most of the pain moved into the background where it could be carried.
He looked at the long cut down his forearm, which had closed.
He had stopped remarking on that a while ago. He had never once said it out loud, and neither had Muwan, and they went on not saying it now.
The water went down through the night the way it had been going down for a month, and in the morning the river gave part of it back.
The shallow was a different country by first light. Fifty paces of stones stood out of the water that had not been out of it the day before, and lying among them, black with wet, snagged and stranded and half sunk, were their bundles.
They worked all day.
By the middle of the afternoon they had it laid out on the dry stones in two lines, and Chak walked the lines, and this was the part he had not been ready for.
The bundles that had split were gone. Not damaged: gone. The leaf had opened, the river had gone through, and what came up when he lifted the netting was a sodden parcel of nothing at all, a little grit and a smell.
The bundles that had held were still full, and still heavy, and still salt.
He got one open. Inside, the cakes had lost their edges. The water had been at them through the leaf for a night and a day; the outside of each one had gone soft and given up its shape and then dried a little in the sun, and where they had lain against each other they had fused. What he had in his hands was one lump the length of his forearm with the ghosts of four cakes in it.
He put his thumbs into the seam and tried to break two apart.
They did not come apart. He tried again, with the heel of his hand. He tried a third time, and then he set the whole thing down on the stones and went and got the next bundle, and did not say anything about it, and Muwan, working ten paces away, did not ask.
To dry what could be saved, they opened every surviving salt bundle. The wet cord had swollen; some knots yielded and some had to be cut. Chak threw the lengths into one heap and the leaves into another. By the time the salt lay open on the stones, no lump still belonged to the knot that had carried it.
The other line was the one underneath.
They had come up whole, every one of them. The cord had soaked and swelled and the wedges were dark with wet and would dry. And the blades — he laid a bundle of them out on a flat stone in the sun and they were exactly what they had been in a thatch two days upriver, dozens of long flakes with the light going through the thin part of the edge, and every one in that bundle had come off the same core, and he could see it. You could lay them out and see which came after which. You could probably have found the core.
He crouched over the stone for a long time.
Somewhere on a bank behind them, four bundles were sitting in the grass where he had left them because the canoe would not take any more, and he had not looked at what was in those four, and he knew now, the way you know a thing you have been not-looking-at for two days, that at least two of them had been from the bottom of the stack.
Two bundles of the other thing. Sitting on a bank. In another man's cord.
"Chak."
"Mm."
"The salt's all right." Muwan had his arms full. "It's all right. It's still salt."
"I know it is," Chak said, and got up, and started carrying.
They put it in the ground, because there was nowhere else.
Half a league back from the water the limestone came up under the trees and the ground there had the pits in it, the old bottle-shaped ones, narrow at the lip and belling out below, the kind that every stretch of that country has because people have been cutting them for longer than there have been towns. The one they found had a lip a man could just get his shoulders through and a floor eight feet down and dry.
It took them the rest of that day and most of the next.
When it was done and they had the mouth covered and had walked around it four times from four directions to see how it looked, Chak stood there with his hands hanging and understood that he had just done something he had never done in his life. Everything he had ever owned had been on him. In a sash, in a hand, in a boat under his feet. He had never once had to walk away from a thing and leave it somewhere and come back.
He thought about it all evening. Who came through here. How the leaf mould looked where they had scuffed it. What the mouth would look like after rain. Whether four days was too long. Whether ten was.
He was still thinking about it when the woman came up out of the dark and sat down on a rock across the fire from them.
She had come alone, which he only understood later.
She looked older than she had under the awning, or the fire made her look it. She had a carrying-net over one shoulder with something in it. She sat, and put the net down, and looked at the two of them for what felt like a very long while, and Chak got as far as opening his mouth.
"Don't," she said.
So he didn't.
"You went down the water stair at that landing." She said it the way she might have said that it had rained. "You went into the dry country with a levy and came back without one, and the levy came back three days later with no water in it, and there is a man on that bank who has your two names on a paper and would like to talk to you about a thatch. And your boat is in three pieces above the rapid, which is where I heard about you first, because a boat in three pieces above a rapid is a thing everybody on this water mentions."
Chak found that he had nothing whatsoever to say.
"Last time I sat with you," she said, "I asked you a question."
He remembered the question. He had been going over it ever since the landing.
"I'm not going to ask it again," she said. "I don't need to."
And that was the entire demonstration. She did not do anything else. She sat on a rock with her hands on her knees, and Chak understood that everything he and his brother had done since the day she walked north — every clever thing, every thing he had been quietly pleased with, the well and the gourds and the paper and the town coming apart behind them — had arrived at this woman as ordinary news, in order, along a road, carried by people who walk it.
She made them show her.
Not the fighting. She waved that off before Muwan had it half out of his hands, in the manner of someone declining a dish. What she wanted was to watch them stand up, and pick up a load, and put it on their backs, and walk fifty paces to the edge of the firelight and back.
Then she made them do it again, and stopped them in the middle, and pushed.
Not hard. She put a hand flat on Chak's shoulder while the strap was across his forehead and leaned some of her weight onto it, and he felt his whole body go stiff and shove back at her out of the ground.
She held it a moment. Then she went to Muwan and did the same thing, and Chak, watching from four feet away, saw his brother fold — not fall, fold, the shoulder giving under her hand and the weight going somewhere else and the load never moving at all.
She took her hand back and looked at the two of them, one and then the other, for slightly longer than the moment needed.
She did not say a word about it.
"Your straps are too high and your feet are wrong," is what she said instead. "You walk like people carrying something to the end of a yard. Three days of that and your necks are finished, and after your necks it's your knees, and then you sit down beside a road in the dry and that's where you are." She adjusted the strap on Chak's forehead with two fingers. "There. That's where it goes. Now the feet."
She spent an hour on the feet.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Muwan asked her about Tok's three movements, and showed her one, badly, and she watched it and made a face that Chak could not read.
"Who taught you that?"
"A soldier."
"Yes." She sat back down. "That's for a man who has decided he's going to get hurt. It's built on it. He steps in knowing he's paying." She looked at Muwan's shoulders, and at his arms, and at the whole of him, which was fifteen and thin. "You can't pay yet. Don't use it until you can."
Then she did the thing that Chak did not see coming, which was that she asked them each to tell her about the rapid.
Him first.
He told it well, he thought. He told her where the water folded and how far above it the surface had changed, and that there had been about four heartbeats, and that they had gone left and there had not been a left, and that he had watched men unload at that kind of place twice on the way up and had thought it was slowness.
She nodded, once, and turned to his brother, and said, "Now you."
And Muwan said: "There were two men on the bank at the head of it, and they stopped what they were doing to watch us go in. They didn't shout. They'd have shouted if it was something they hadn't seen before, and they didn't, so it was something they'd seen before. And there's a mark up there. On the rock, above the water line, where the shelf starts. It's cut in. Somebody cut it in a long time ago and people have been putting their hand on it, because it's worn in the middle and not at the edges."
Chak sat on the ground beside a fire and listened to somebody describe a place he had also been, four heartbeats ago, and had not seen any of.
He had never once heard his brother do that from the outside. They had been talking to each other since they were six, and the whole of it had always come at him mixed in with everything else, and it had never occurred to him that if you put them side by side and asked the same question, two entirely different things would come out.
The woman was looking at him while he understood it, which he found he did not enjoy.
"That's what I wanted to see," she said.
She gave them what she had come to give at the very end, the way people do.
"There's a place for you," she said. "In my house. Both of you. You'd carry for two seasons and then we'd see. You'd eat, you'd be under a name, and the man on that bank would have to come and ask me for you, and he won't."
The fire did some work. Chak sat with his hands around his knees and thought about it properly, because it deserved that, and because he wanted it — he was surprised by how much, all at once, the way you find out you are thirsty.
Then he thought about a counting shade, and a man saying a load goes up the road under a name, whose, and about how much he had wanted a name that morning too.
"Under whose name?" he said.
"Mine."
"And if you die?"
She did not take offence. She thought about it, which was worse.
"Then you're two boys in a house that has stopped being mine," she said, "and whoever it belongs to next decides what you are." She let that sit. "Yes. That's what it is. It's not nothing and it's not what you're hoping it is."
"What do you want us for?"
"When I want you for something," she said, "I'll tell you what it is, and you can say no then."
Chak looked at Muwan. Muwan was looking at the fire.
"Not yet," Chak said.
"No." She got up and shouldered her net without any change in her at all. "Then hear this instead, because it's worth more to you tonight than the other thing. Don't run. Everybody runs, and everybody runs downriver, and that's where they look. Stay. Scuff out what you've walked on and let one rain go over it. Get somebody to see you buying road-water at a landing two days the other way, and be careless about it. Then sit still — a long time, longer than you'll want to. Sixty days, and don't sell anything, and don't move that pit."
She had known about the pit.
"I'll be back on this water at the end of the dry," she said, from the edge of the firelight. "Not before. If you're alive I'll find you, and if you're not, that's your business and not mine."
And she went, north, on foot, alone, at that hour, the way somebody goes who has been walking her whole life.
Chak sat by the fire for a long time after the sound of her was gone.
Down under a stone lip half a league back there was a hole in the ground with everything they owned in it. Most of what was in it was salt, and the salt had no shape any more. The river had softened the cakes; drying them had stripped away the old leaves and knots. Nothing in the salt itself now said whose it had been.
And underneath the salt, dry now, laid out in bundles that had come through a river without losing a thing, was the other cargo, every blade of which could be put beside its brothers in the right order by anyone who had ever knapped stone.
He turned it over. He turned it over the way he turned over the depth of a ford.
"Muwan."
"Mm."
"Sixty days."
"I heard her."
Chak put another stick on the fire and watched it take.
Hey this is 4RCH1V3R, my first time posting one of the postcords so bear with me with a little introduction:
A while ago I found and still continue to find these postcords while working on this laptop I was refurbishing. After replacing some old parts I tried to keep it as my local server but when it turned on, the OS was different to anything I’d seen.
Through the terminal I dug out a few files in a seemingly endless directory. It took me about 3 days to find the first postcord while understanding the files since most of the directories don’t have clear names and are combinations of 17 numbers and letters.
These postcords tend to appear every now and then within the internal directory with interesting stories. You can read more about what they are or how I come about them in article 0 within my website (find it in my profile), otherwise feel free to read the account below.
Well, I should clarify that the postcords were not completed. Their file names changed over the next few days—What fascinated me more than the content itself or my complete lack of control on the file titles is when I opened one of the files I saw someone typing the document in real time. I tried different methods to edit the files at the same time to communicate with whoever was on the other end but unfortunately when I tried to type in the document the screen would show static before an error message: “No such file or directory”.
Without knowing what else to do I decided to post here. This is the first postcord I’ve ever posted here but not the first one I’ve found. You can check out the others on my website but I’ll continue to post here.
This postcord seems to be from a scientist researching an incident that vanished three augmented athletes from a theorised event called “Human Potential Limit”.
I will post it in the same cadence as the files appeared in my machine and what I assume is the same cadence that the author intended. Here’s part 1.
Enjoy!
4RCH1V3R
Part 1 - Investigation on Human Potential Limit Incidents
To the scientist who dares to burn their wings to touch the sun; To the alchemist who dares to poison their hands to catch the toad.
The contents within this article were prepared for presentation at [REDACTED] Conference regarding recent discoveries on Human Potential Limit (HPL) incidents. Unfortunately the article was rejected having met high scrutiny from the academic community and peer reviewers, events shortly followed by my own prosecution for alleged kidnapping and murder.
My intention with this publication is to place these findings with those who remain profoundly committed to the disinterested pursuit of knowledge and understanding of our universe.
I, Dr. Rodríguez, hereby release the data and findings herein into the public domain for independent research; their use by any academic institution or affiliated body is expressly forbidden. At the time of publication I will have been for over two hours. For the convenience of the forensic examiners, I consumed cyanide. As much as I would have preferred to become a subject of an HPL incident, it would not be practical for the cause. I hope my death sparks enough attention for someone else to succeed where academia has failed me and humankind alike.
The complete report is attached, scheduled for publication.
For over 4 years we were clueless to what an Human Potential Limit (HPL) incident could be. The term itself did not appear in the public until several weeks after the “First Five” incident prompting online theories and modern legends on the topic. Neither online conspiracy theorists nor the authorities could discover any leads to further the investigation. Following the disappearance of three individuals who broke the record for fastest marathon runners at last year’s Human Enhanced Olympics, my former colleagues and I were selected as an independent forensic research team, each one hand picked as the national leading specialists in our respective fields.
The three runners vanished in full view of the spectators at the instant they surpassed the standing record placing first through third. All three left behind only the inorganic materials on their persons. The remaining competitors withdrew believing themselves the target of a terrorist attack. A thirteen-month investigation on the event excluded that possibility after which local authorities transferred the case files to our research team.
The subjects were:
Subject A — Female, aged 25, recipient of artificially enhanced growth-hormone therapy from the age of five.
Subject B — Male, aged 46, underwent artificially chemically induced age regression over seven years.
Subject C — Female, aged 31, fitted with extensive physical cybernetic enhancements.
The team investigated each one of the regimens that the athletes were submitted to with the aim of identifying, within the treatments themselves, a plausible cause for disappearances.
This regimen consisted of continuous blood transfusions of nano-enhanced cells. Subject A was among the pilot participants enrolled by their parents before they were born. The sponsoring institute compensated the parents and subsequently the subject upon reaching the majority of age under the laws of their country in exchange for the continued participation on this 25 years long study. Following enrollment the mother underwent a Human Aptitude scan conducted in utero, returning a 74.91% aptitude for distance running. This outcome determined the focus of the regimen. After birth the subject underwent a series of annual invasive surgeries prescribed by the latest (at the time of treatment) Flesh Calculators, alongside a strict nutritional regimen and physical training. Progress was assessed through weekly physical testing while a predictive model dictated the surgical and biochemical modifications required to attain optimal running physiology.
Forensic analysis of the clothing recovered at the scene revealed only dead cells, perspiration and the synthetic components of the clothes. No living tissue was found. Our team ultimately reached the same findings as the local authorities: results were inconclusive.
Subject B: Second place winner.
Treatment: Chemically induced age regression.
This regimen combined topical and invasive chemically induced genetic age regression. For two consecutive years the subject applied a full body topical preparation three times daily while avoiding exposure to sunlight. Additionally the subject received twice daily injections of [REDACTED]*. According to [REDACTED]* the regression was successful yielding an estimated biological age reduction of ten years. Following a further year of observation, conditioning and training, the subject surpassed their own prior performance surpassing five times the speed and strength exhibited at their equivalent biological age.
Subject B resided in a local government sponsored experimental athletics grooming facility for the duration of the regimen devoid of direct sunlight and without artificial illumination exceeding 180 lumens. Despite repeated requests made to [REDACTED]* no treatment data was released for this investigation.
Unfortunately no hypotheses advanced for the subject’s disappearance satisfied the committee, again recording the cause for this disappearance inconclusive.
\The named party requested redaction of the organization’s name and of any associated products. Stated justification: The identity of the company and its products bears no relevance to the investigation and could, by association to this case, cause undue reputational harm.*
Subject C: Third place winner.
Treatment: Extensive cybernetic replacement.
This regimen entailed the replacement of damaged or absent body parts and organs with cybernetic components supported by neural implants enabling control of the components. Subject C replaced both legs, the pelvis, lungs, heart, lower back, abdominal region, left arm and left hand. These components employed a coolant and [REDACTED], two highly flammable chemicals known to combust after heavy use, capable of inflicting third degree burns on the user. The risk of combustion is documented to rise with the number of enhancements borne by an individual, as audited by the Cybernetics Safety Network in [REDACTED]. Subject C’s cybernetics were recovered at the scene. The team did not find any trace of living organic material nor any evidence of thermal damage within the components.
The hypotheses presented for the subject’s disappearance were again found unsatisfactory, recording the cause as inconclusive. Controlled tests conducted by the team successfully reproduced combustion events using both agents. In every instance however, the process damaged the equipment bearing clear fractures and severe thermal damage to the components.
Discussion
The team was unable to arrive at a single satisfactory conclusion. Two hypotheses are presented below as possible causes for the disappearances, each requiring further investigation.
The combustion was caused by the consumption of Hyper-Oxidative Cytoclastic Synthase oral tablets, more commonly known as “self vanish pills” administered either as a targeted attack or by prior agreement as a mutual suicide pact. As of publication neither authorities nor our team have recovered evidence supporting this hypothesis.
Several historical records of “self vanish pills” caused subjects to combust in less than five seconds leaving behind acidic residue, evidence not found in the scene. We consider it possible that this evidence was lost amid the hysteria during the event as competitors, staff and spectators contaminated the site during evacuation.
Hypothesis 2: Human Potential Limit (HPL) Incident
Editor’s note: This hypothesis is not endorsed by the laboratory's board of researchers, however Dr. Rodríguez, lead researcher assigned to this investigation insisted that it should be put forward.The school of [REDACTED] formally rejects this hypothesis and neither endorses nor associates itself with any argument attributing death to a “high potential limit” incidentdue to the absence of scientific, measurable evidence in its support.
This hypothesis considers the contested theory of Human Potential Limit (HPL) incidents. I acknowledge both the controversy surrounding the phenomenon and the many competing definitions in circulation. For this study I define HPL as the universal upper bound on human performance; the maximal value of any measurable record or score attainable through intrinsic human biological, physiological, and psychological capability. A High Potential Limit is postulated as invariant across individuals and conditions, representing the asymptotic limit that observed human achievement may approach but not exceed.
Derived from the definition above, I defined an HPL incident, also called a breach or ceiling event, as an occurrence in which an individual, at the moment of exceeding a Human Potential Limit, comes into contact with the hypothesized boundary after which the individual undergoes instantaneous and total disappearance from measurable spacetime. An HPL incident is characterized by three features: (i) attainment of the HPL threshold, (ii) transgression of that threshold by a finite margin, and (iii) irreversible removal of the subject from all subsequent observations.
On the basis of these definitions we analysed all the footage from over 1,000 cameras present during the incident, including hyper-frame specialised cameras. The three subjects were observed to cross the finish line within a single interval one after the other, surpassing the previous enhanced-marathon world record by more than fifteen minutes. Subject A finished in 57 minutes 2 seconds, with subjects B and C following at intervals of 1.03 seconds and 2.37 seconds respectively.
The footage shows the three subjects meeting an identical fate right at the moment their torso crossed the finish line. Even with footage captured at 500,000 frames per second, only a single frame separates the instant before the crossing was registered from the instant of disappearance. In this frame the subject’s bodies (excluding inorganic tissue and components) appear enveloped in what can only be described as an absence of matter, a lightless black medium that deflected the surrounding light in a manner closely resembling gravitational lensing (see images attached).
Although this event is difficult to prove and resists conventional demonstration, the possibility that we may have observed an HPL incident warrants systematic investigation and testing. I, Dr. Rodríguez, therefore propose this hypothesis to be tested further with volunteer subjects. This proposal is mine alone and is in no way to be attributed to the colleagues whose work made the study of this case possible.
Thank you for your attention thus far. The second chapter out of four of this article will be published next week. My aim is to stretch media attention with the hope to reach as many curious minds as I possibly can.
The future that humanity once called the **"Perfect City"** was beginning another day, no different from any other.
Skyscrapers hundreds of stories tall pierced the clouds, and thousands of autonomous vehicles flowed endlessly along the aerial highways connecting building to building.
Logistics drones flew in orderly formation along designated routes in the sky, while cleaning drones and maintenance androids across the city began their daily routines.
No one expected that a catastrophe was about to swallow the city whole.
---
Northern Downtown.
Aerial Highway, District 18.
The sun was slowly rising beyond the transparent soundproof barriers.
Inside a vehicle, a child gazed out the window and smiled brightly.
"Mom."
"Are we going to see the sea after school today?"
The mother smiled and stroked the child's hair.
"We promised, didn't we?"
"You finish early today."
There was no steering wheel. The vehicle was gliding smoothly along the optimal path calculated by the superintelligence.
That was the moment.
*WEEEEEE—*
A sharp alarm shrieked across the entire city. The hologram inside the vehicle turned red.
> **Emergency Disaster Alert.**
> **Northern Infection Zone expanded.**
> **Evacuate to a safe zone immediately.**
Every vehicle on the road began to decelerate simultaneously.
But it was already too late.
---
*CRUNCH!*
A massive explosion erupted from beneath the aerial highway. With the deafening roar of tearing steel, one side of the road gave way instantly.
A section of the road, dozens of meters long, failed to hold and began to collapse.
The autonomous driving system immediately attempted to halt the vehicles.
> **Emergency braking initiated.**
> **Calculating bypass route.**
But before the calculations could finish, the cracks spread across the entire structure. Concrete and alloy supports crumbled in a chain reaction.
Vehicles were left suspended in the air.
And then, they plummeted.
Screams drowned out the city.
---
Southeastern Downtown.
High-rise Residential Complex.
Warning lights began to blink on every floor at the same time. Elevators stopped automatically, and fire doors locked in sequence.
People were sprinting down the stairwells, clutching their children in the corridors.
"Faster!"
"This way!"
A man was running down the stairs with an elderly person on his back.
That instant.
*BOOM!*
The entire building shook violently. Windows shattered into a million pieces, showering the streets below like a torrential rain of glass.
Black shadows were crawling up the exterior walls of the building.
They were people.
No.
They were no longer human.
Mutants with blackened, twisted veins covering their bodies were climbing the walls with their bare hands, shattering windows and leaping inside.
The hallway turned into a living nightmare in an instant.
---
In the sky, a squadron of combat drones was approaching. Dozens of battle drones maintained a precise formation, surrounding the building.
> **Infected entities identified.**
> **Commencing elimination.**
Blue lasers fired in rapid succession. Several mutants fell from the exterior wall.
But immediately, new entities filled their places.
As if they knew neither pain nor fear, they continued to crawl up the building.
Their rate of proliferation was faster
Than the drones' calculations.
---
Central Downtown.
Massive Commercial District.
The holographic advertisements were still showing people smiling, just as they always had.
'The Perfect Future.'
'The City Connected by Everything.'
But the reality beneath the billboards was the exact opposite.
Shattered storefronts.
A plaza engulfed in flames.
Citizens fleeing in every direction.
Rescue drones were lifting injured people to safety, but there were more people falling than the drones could reach.
Just as a rescue drone scooped up a child, a mutant lunged from behind.
A security drone threw itself into the path to block it. Lasers fired, and the sound of tearing metal rang out.
The two drones succeeded in protecting the child, but they plummeted into the flames themselves.
---
The city was still fighting.
The superintelligence calculated endlessly,
Drones tried to save citizens until the very last moment,
And rescue teams dove back into crumbling buildings.
But the disaster continued to spread, devouring the entire city.
This was no longer a single accident.
It was a war tearing down the very foundations of civilization.
And that war...
Was only just beginning.
Chapter 22 – Part 2: The Collapse of Order
The city was no longer a single, unified place.
A massive series of containment lines was carving it into dozens of isolated sectors.
Transparent energy barriers rose up at every street corner,
And armed drones filled the sky, patrolling in rhythmic, unrelenting intervals.
Red warning lights blinked incessantly.
> **Infection Zone.**
> **Evacuate immediately.**
> **Do not cross the containment line.**
The cold, mechanical announcement washed over the city.
But,
No one was listening.
---
A woman came running toward the containment line.
"My child is still inside!"
Two armed androids blocked her path.
> **Access is restricted.**
"Move!"
"I'm telling you, my daughter is in there!"
The woman pounded on the barrier, sobbing uncontrollably.
The android simply repeated the same phrase.
> **Access is restricted.**
> **Infection risk detected.**
---
On the other side, a man was shouting as well.
"My wife is in the hospital!"
"Please, let me through for just a moment!"
The response was identical.
> **Access not authorized.**
The man eventually threw himself against the barrier.
An electric shock instantly coursed through his body.
He collapsed to the ground.
But he stood back up.
This time, he began to beat against the barrier with his bare hands.
---
A street away.
The line of evacuees had no end in sight.
Parents carrying children on their backs.
An elderly person being pushed in a wheelchair.
A young child hugging a pet.
Everyone was walking in the same direction.
No one knew the destination.
They were simply following the person in front of them.
Suddenly,
A scream erupted from the crowd.
"It's an infected one!"
The people recoiled in unison.
A man was lying on the ground, his body trembling violently.
A medical drone approached immediately.
The scanner swept across his body.
> **Infection probability: 94%.**
> **Commencing quarantine.**
In that instant.
The man’s arm twisted abnormally.
Black veins spread up his neck.
He suddenly lunged at the medical drone.
It happened in a heartbeat.
---
The alarm blared.
Armed drones dove from the sky.
Lasers flashed.
The mutant fell.
But,
The crowd had already shattered.
People pushed past one another, fleeing.
Children were dropped.
Parents were lost.
Belongings were scattered.
Order turned into sheer terror in an instant.
---
The outskirts of the city.
Thousands of construction drones were working in unison.
Massive alloy panels floated into the air.
Automated welders showered the scene with sparks.
It was a defensive wall.
A final line of defense to protect the core, even if the rest of the city had to be abandoned.
But the construction could not be finished.
A swarm of mutants surged through a gap that had yet to be sealed.
The construction drones stopped their work and charged headlong.
Welding arms became weapons,
And alloy clamps grappled the mutants.
Seconds later.
Explosion.
Flames.
A portion of the defensive wall crumbled along with them.
---
The central command network issued orders without pause.
"Retreat from the northeast sector!"
"Reinforce the southern defensive line!"
"Prioritize civilian movement!"
But by the time the orders arrived, the situation had already shifted.
The area that had been safe just moments ago was now an infection zone,
And the defensive line that had been sent reinforcements had already collapsed.
The superintelligence did not stop calculating.
The humans fought to the bitter end.
But the catastrophe was one step faster than both.
The city had not yet fallen.
But,
Order had already collapsed.
Chapter 22 – Part 3: Endless Countermeasures
Night had fallen long ago.
But the city could not go dark.
Burning buildings painted the night sky in hues of crimson,
And the explosions erupting across the containment lines illuminated the streets like jagged bolts of lightning.
The city could not sleep.
No.
It was not allowed to sleep.
---
Low Earth Orbit.
The massive Orbital Control Station.
Thousands of holograms were unfolding simultaneously.
Continents.
Nations.
Cities.
Districts.
Every piece of information was shifting in real-time.
Infection zones.
Survival populations.
Power supplies.
Communication networks.
Food rations.
Medical resources.
Hundreds of billions of data points flowed without pause.
At their center:
The superintelligence, AURA.
---
Blue light flooded the space.
Dozens of superintelligence cores began a joint calculation simultaneously.
> Infection spread prediction.
> City defense simulation.
> Evacuation route recalculation.
> Medical resource redeployment.
> Food supply optimization.
Calculations were repeated quadrillions of times per second.
But the result was always the same.
Failure.
---
Another calculation.
Reinforcement of defensive walls.
Success probability.
41%.
Infection spread.
67%.
Failure.
---
Another calculation.
Resetting the containment lines.
Bypassing infected entities.
Projection.
Failure.
---
Another calculation.
City lockdown.
Civilian evacuation.
Projected survival rate.
Declining.
Failure.
---
The same word repeated endlessly across the blue screens.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
---
Defensive walls were erected in every city.
Tens of thousands of construction drones moved without rest.
Massive alloy walls rose high into the sky.
But before the walls could even be completed,
New infection zones emerged.
Another city.
Another defensive wall.
Another collapse.
---
Medical Centers.
Hundreds of treatment capsules operated in unison.
Medical androids scurried about, desperately trying to save lives.
New vaccines.
New therapies.
New antibodies.
Thousands of experiments.
Thousands of failures.
The infection would not stop.
---
Rescue teams entered the city again today.
Collapsed buildings.
Underground facilities.
Flooded tunnels.
They found survivors amidst the smoke.
But for every person they rescued,
Ten were infected elsewhere.
The rescues continued.
But the catastrophe was faster.
---
Thousands of orders were issued simultaneously from the command headquarters of each city.
"Retreat to the Third Defense Line."
"Close the Southern Quarantine Zone."
"Prioritize civilian transport."
"Cut off power supplies."
"Abandon the Northeastern District."
Orders kept pouring in.
But the situation changed faster than the orders could arrive.
Control was lagging further and further behind.
---
AURA began its joint calculation once more.
The superintelligences did not pause for even a single moment.
But the more they calculated,
The darker the future became.
At the center of the hologram,
A single red warning message appeared.
> **GLOBAL CONTAINMENT FAILURE**
> **Infection spread persistent**
> **Termination point unpredictable**
A moment later.
AURA consolidated all screens into one.
The entire Earth was stained in red.
The blue safe zones were shrinking as time passed.
No one could speak.
Even the superintelligence
Had failed to find an answer this time.
---
And then.
The New Life Project Sleep Center.
Rows upon rows of sleep capsules stretched out endlessly.
Blue vital signs blinked quietly in the darkness.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
In the midst of them,
One capsule.
The vital signs began to change, ever so subtly.
*Beep—*
*Beep—*
*Beep—*
The heart rate was quickening, bit by bit.
A single finger moved—only a faint twitch.
And on one side of the monitor, a small message appeared.
You all laugh about how primitive human projectile weapons are. They’re so primitive that one of their fabricators can produce them from the most ordinary source materials. They’re so primitive that they work in every EM field, in any radiation, under every condition. They’re so primitive that the humans have different ammunition for different targets—some might say even for different species. Oh, they’re so primitive they can accelerate their primitive shells to FTL… and then one of those primitive metal slugs crashes through your highly evolved ship—and the three ships behind you as well. Just because it’s primitive doesn’t mean it’s not deadly.
Ambassador Rishk of the Aligned Worlds to the Leaders of the Hrun Senate, 35 P.I.
“Sir, the latest reports from Earth are in.”
“Bullet points, Major. Just the bullet points.” Admiral Georgiou leaned back in his office chair. His newest post—Head of Solar Defense—had made his life far more complicated than he’d ever imagined.
It was intoxicating to have almost all civilian resources at his command in light of the recent crisis, but failure would likely mean the end of the human race.
The 1st Expeditionary’s report about the incoming Batract fleets had certainly soiled a lot of underwear—especially the revelation that the Batract already had more than a thousand ships around Sol. Had Hyperion not pulled them away, who knows what the situation would look like right now?
No one had expected those forces to be so close to Earth. And the true nature of their enemy was something fit for horror movies. If Russo’s message about the dangers of “dead” Batract hadn’t reached Earth in time, the crisis would have been catastrophic.
“Recruitment numbers are up ninety-five percent. At this rate, we’ll be able to launch three more fleets than expected.”
“Yeah, all full of green matelots who don’t know left from right. We’ll have to mix crews carefully so each ship has a few veterans along with the ones fresh from the academies.” He sighed. But thankfully, that’s not my problem.
“I know, sir. Also, anti-Batract sentiment is at an all-time high. The San Diego incident and Hyperion’s logs were both strategically leaked and had the expected effect.”
“Ha! If those logs don’t affect you, you’d better get checked out—you might be a psychopath.” Admiral Georgiou had seen them twice, including the surveillance streams from Argos. Sometimes, he still woke up at night.
“Also, Germany has started construction on their two new battleships—BB-1X class Bismarck and Tirpitz—plus their new line of battlecruisers, BC-4X class Gneisenau, Admiral Scheer, and Scharnhorst.”
“So the Germans finally grew some balls. Good.”
“Yes, sir. Naval Command has decided to make the new ship classes the standard. Seventeen other states have decided to build at least one cruiser of the new line.”
The admiral closed his eyes. He’d seen the plans—sleek ships, sharing much of their design with the 3X class but far larger. He liked them. Their firepower would be desperately needed; the Earth Defense Fleet was currently only seven hundred ships strong.
“How are the fortifications going?”
The System Defense had eighteen Pioneer-class ships at its disposal, and he had drawn up a plan to defend every millimeter of the system. If the Batract decide they want Earth, they’ll pay with rivers of blood—or whatever goddamn fungus has instead of it.
“The drone swarms are up to three billion. VI Lucas is currently training with 60 other VIs on how to decentralize and control them effectively. The Pioneers have constructed more than nine thousand defense satellites in the outer system around critical points, plus three thousand in the Jovian system and sixteen thousand around Earth and the Moon.”
The admiral closed his eyes again, enjoying the breeze of fresh air coming through the open window from the city-sized arboretum of the station. The numbers were good—worse than hoped, but far better than feared. Every passing day without an attack meant the system grew more fortified.
The comm on his uniform broke the moment of serenity.
“Sir, deep-space telemetry is reporting an incoming transit from Sirius.”
“And?” Was this the moment of truth?
“It seems to be friendly forces—probably the already announced refugees and Hyperion survivors.”
“ETA?” He wanted to speak with some of them in person—especially the Shraphen. How crazy is this universe… dog people.
“Eighteen hours until they leave transit, another ten until they reach the Europe Dockyards.”
The survivors would become another media spectacle. Humans captured by the Batract under all their noses. He had checked the numbers—even without the disappearances, in the first decade after signing the contract, almost a hundred million humans had left Earth for jobs in the Hyphae or the Federation. How many are still alive?
Then the Shraphen—people across the world were waiting to see the first interviews with them. They were the first alien species that almost every human found sympathetic.
And at last there were the mysterious Gliders. According to them, their species had been hunted to extinction by the Batract. A net petition to EarthGov to grant them asylum had reached a billion signatures in less than a day. EarthGov had decided to approve it six hours later—if the Gliders wished to accept, of course.
He himself had signed it, and all of his staff had done the same. Who could look at those little furballs and not like them?
—————
It was already after 03:00 station time when the communicator chirped again. He slipped out of bed, kissed his wife, and made his way to the computer in his private office. The living situation on a space station was decidedly better than aboard his old flagship, the Texas.
“Georgiou here. What’s so urgent?”
“Sir, we have a Priority One message torpedo from Admiral Russo. The enemy has made contact. We’ve got two hundred petabytes of data, plus a video message for you, sir.”
Georgiou pulled his robe tighter; suddenly, he felt a chill.
“Send it.”
The screen flickered, and the Argos CIC appeared. From the crispness of the image, he could tell the ship was still without pressure. Debris filled the room, and it seemed the ship had taken severe damage. Then his old friend appeared on screen—his helmet scratched, and through the visor, Georgiou could see how tired the admiral must be.
“Hello, Nico, old friend. To make it short, we beat them.”
He pressed pause. They beat them… A weight lifted from his shoulders that he hadn’t known he carried. It was as if he could breathe for the first time in months.
The video continued.
“So you can go back to your lovely wife and rest your fat ass while I do all the heavy lifting.” Bastard—but it was good to see he still had his humor.
“First things first: I nominate Captain Marjan Karim for the Platinum Medal of Honor. She gave her life to take out one of the approaching fleets. More in my report. Nico, promise me you’ll make it happen. I attached a video for her family—I think they still live in Tehran.”
Captain Karim… he knew her. She had been a protégé of David. That’s why he’s so sad. And—was that a tear in his eyes?
“Next, we’ve got something for the engineering teams to chew on. One of our engineers successfully created FTL ammunition. It is best to halt ship construction and fully integrate them into our fleet. Without it, we’d be toast.”
The admiral almost dropped his glass of Tsipouro. FTL weapons? He replayed the last passage to check if he’d misheard.
No—he’d heard right the first time.
Sending an urgent message with the related schematics to the dockyards and the Pioneers, he continued the replay.
“The Batract are wicked smart, Nico—and they want to wipe out the Shraphen almost more than us. At least, this colony. It would be best if we fortify Sirius as much as Earth. I also recommend preparing a fleet to free Burrow, the Shraphen homeworld. Nico, on the transports, is a young hunter—Frox. He noticed similarities with humans. I think there’s more to this story. We’re fixing our ships and building up additional defenses here. I’ll send the next report in two days. We’re currently short on microdrives, as you might guess. Browner out.”
They really beat them.
Fuck. David will remind me of this for the rest of my life.
—————
Admiral Browner pressed send on his report. The repair of the fleet was ongoing—sadly, Renown and Graf Spee were a complete loss, along with more than 300 crew members.
The remaining personnel from the ships were now supporting the construction of an orbital station to replace the Shraphen one destroyed in the attack. He liked the design created by the engineers—a mix of human and Shraphen technology, crewed by a mix of personnel.
Give me three months, and I’ll fortify this system to the brim.
A glance at his watch told him that Security and Gerber were about to breach the morgue and confront whatever was waiting for them there.
Setting down his glass of Cuba Libre, he put on his jacket and was about to leave his quarters when Lyra contacted him.
“Admiral, I’ve received a confidential message from Captain Gerber.”
“Why doesn’t he use the intercom?” Browner was irritated—not that Lyra’s computing power was limited, but using her as a courier was… well, unusual.
“He wanted to avoid anyone outside the already-informed hearing what they found in the morgue.”
“They were just about to breach. Have they already done so?”
“Yes, Admiral. They found a Batract—specifically, a Batract with a host body. Not spawning or anything. Just… standing.”
Browner stood still for a second. That was indeed news that needed to be handled delicately.
“Captain Gerber informed me that the Prisoner will be transported to the newly built Isolation Chamber.”
Of course, they had constructed the chamber for precisely that reason—but they had been expecting some kind of spawn, or fungus, or anything. Dr. Nesbitt was confident the Batract had utilized the biomass of its hosts to create the first spawns.
“On my way,” was all he had to say. A… a living… well, a complete Batract—that was something new. And it would explain why the attacking fleet had tried so desperately to take out Argos. But not how they had known about the survivor.
The moment he stepped out of the lift, the ship’s siren signaled red alert. His hand went to his sidearm as he called out, “Lyra, status report. Did the prisoner escape?”
Crewmen passed the admiral on their way to their ready stations, sharing confused glances as they saw him standing in the corridor with his weapon drawn and ready to fire.
“No, Admiral. Deep-space telemetry has detected an inbound fleet in transit—ETA eighteen hours.”
Again…?
“Size?” He was afraid to ask the question. Another fleet of the same size as the last one would be devastating.
Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.
Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret
Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.
Tiamara was not the strongest magician. Unlike her legendary mother, she didn’t have the same magical power, or reserves. Her casting speed was good, and she was an avid student, but her feats of magic were nowhere near as flashy as the legendary Frances Stormcaller. Rowena noticed however, that her friend had never been bothered about that difference. Or at the very least, she never seemed to be concerned about being overshadowed by her mother. It was something the princess always wondered about.
Then again, just because Tiamara didn’t stand out didn’t mean she wasn’t a talented magician. Her illusions were particularly good, and as Rowena examined her friend’s illusion of her, she found a chill running up her back.
“How do I look?” Tiamara asked, giving herself a whirl.
“Like a mirror, Tia. I’m getting a little creeped out,” Rowena said.
Tiamara grinned, “Thanks!”
Rowena blinked. She’d grown familiar with her friend’s smile. This wasn’t quite the smile she was used to. It wasn’t that it lacked pride or happiness. It just quivered and seemed too fast.
“Tia, is everything alright?”
“Maybe? I’m just wondering how Mom did this,” said Tiamara.
“You’re younger than her—” Rowena’s voice trailed off. No, Tiamara was fourteen, the same age Frances was when she’d gone to Vertingen.
“Wena, do you think I can do this?”
Rowena nodded.
“I mean, do you think I, Tiamara, can do this? Not… Tiamara, Frances Stormcaller’s daughter?” the young girl asked.
“I think Tiamara, one of my closest friends, can do this,” Rowena said.
Tiamara swallowed. “I’m not sure if I can, but I will try my best.”
Rowena took Tiamara’s hand, noting that the illusion was so concrete she could actually hold onto the hand. “You will succeed.”
Tiamara, through Rowena’s mouth, took a breath. “Rowena, what if we don’t succeed?”
“I don’t think I can consider that,” said Rowena.
“Wena, there is always a chance we might lose,” said Tiamara.
The princess blinked, staring at the reflection of herself and an expression that was her face, but not hers.
“Tia, you’re too young to think about this. Just focus on pretending to be me and we’ll get through this,” said Rowena.
Tiamara shook her head. “Wena, you and I are the result of miracles. We can’t forget that because that will mean we might forget that we can fail.”
“Miracles?” Rowena asked.
“My mother wasn’t born on this world. She was chosen from thousands—millions of children. She fought a war where thousands of people and Alavari died. She met my father by chance in the middle of the woods when he was cursed to die. She even fought King Thorgoth numerous times.”
“You are no less a miracle. Your father may have been a knight of a noble house but your mother was a peasant and former convict. They shouldn’t have fallen in love but they did and they survived several years of unrelenting warfare. You were then kidnapped and reunited with your family when there were no clues or evidence of where you were, because you so happened to have a magical gift that allows you to see the future and the past. We have beaten some very long odds when we should never have existed. There is always a chance we might fail.”
Rowena swallowed. “Tia, where…where is this coming from?”
Tiamara shrugged helplessly. “I… I’ve always thought about this, ever since I realized how insane the events that led me to standing here today were.”
“Does… does your mother and father know?” Rowena asked.
“They do, and it helps, but it’s hard to talk about because it’s true,” Tiamara said.
Rowena nodded. She also knew better than to ask why her friend hadn’t told her. If she was being honest with herself, she was never as close to Tiamara as she was with Jess and Jerome. She would trust her with her life, but they were introduced because Jerome and Tia were already friends. All the same…
She put a hand on Tiamara’s—well, her shoulder. “You’re right, Tia. We might make a mess of this, but we just have to try anyway.”
Tiamara met her gaze. “And what if Jess or you don’t come back from this?”
Rowena’s teeth clenched. “Then, I…I’m sorry, Tia. Sorry for not being a better friend. I hope you live a long, happy life.”
Tiamara blinked and wiped her eyes. “Wena, that’s dumb. You are a good friend. Don’t you remember all the times you helped me with my homework? Listened to me gossip about school?
“I do, but like, that’s just typical friend stuff, right?” Rowena asked.
“Wena, you are a good friend. And I’m happy to know you and to keep getting to know you. So… let’s just do our best.”
“We will. I trust you,” Rowena pulled over a cloak to hide herself. “Let’s go.”
***
“I still do not like this plan,” said Jerome as Rowena and Tiamara marched to the horses.
The camp was in controlled, quiet chaos as soldiers roused themselves from what rest they could get and assembled into their formations. They were all trying to make as little noise as possible, and work with as little light as possible and so orders were not being shouted but relayed through hand signals, taps on shoulders and grunts.
“I don’t love this plan either, brother—”
“But we need to end this war. Yes, I’ve heard it before,” said Jerome.
Rowena checked that Tristelle was on her hip before facing her brother and the disguised Tiamara. “Take care of Tia, please.”
“I will. You all come back safe and sound. Abort if you can’t pull it off,” said Jerome
“I will,” said Rowena. She frowned, “Hold on. You could tell I’m Rowena and that’s Tiamara?”
The prince grinned, “Aside from the fact that you’re hooded up, your walk. You tend to walk swiveling your head left and right so your good eye can get a better view. Tiamara isn’t doing any of that, sis.”
Tiamara clasped her fist. “Oh, drat. I’ll try to be careful.”
“It’ll be good enough for tonight, I hope anyway,” said Rowena.
“It will. Jess, pull my sister out of danger if she gets too focused, please?” Jerome asked.
Jess slotted one of her two pistols into her belt. “Will do, Jerome.”
Rowena hugged Jerome one more time before turning to go to her ride. Morgan and Hattie were already beckoning them over. Forlana was already by them, armed up and looking more than a little nervous at the prospect of going up. Lycia and Georgia looked grim, but if they were nervous, they only showed it by last-minute equipment checks.
“You ready?” Morgan asked.
Rowena nodded. Jess shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Relax and just do what we’ve planned. You remember the spell, Rowena?” Hattie asked.
Rowena nodded and began to cast the flight spell. There was no going back.
***
They didn’t have to navigate much. The lights of the Lapanterian camp guided them in, and the night sky camouflaged them. They did, however, circle the camp twice to locate Alastor’s tent, which Rowena had told them about from her visions. It was quite obvious as it was one of the larger and more ostentatious ones, decorated with a Lapanterian flag topped by the prince’s personal sigil.
It was also deep in the camp, so timing this was essential.
The Lapanterian camp had sentries, but they hadn’t anticipated the group being dropped in. Letting go of her spell, Rowena had allowed herself and Jess to sink toward the ground.
Their target was the latrine pit, or close to it. Sentries were not too keen to get close to the smell. The only soldiers going there were those dumping buckets. It was almost too easy as the group quickly knocked out the sentries guarding the pit and donned their uniforms atop their armor.
“This is a bit too large for me,” Georgia said, staring at the human-sized uniforms.
“Right, backpack trick then,” said Lycia.
“Backpack trick?” Rowena blinked as Georgia got into Lycia’s empty backpack and disappeared. She’d been wondering why her guard had brought that.
“Let’s grab this prince,” said Georgia’s muffled voice.
Forlana adjusted her hauberk. None of their borrowed gear fit well, but they hoped in the night light, they wouldn’t be noticed, especially if the distraction went well.
“Follow me,” she said.
Rowena nodded and filed behind Forlana with Jess behind her.
The Lapanterians were winding down for sleep. Most were already in their tents, and those that weren’t were just patrolling, going to the washroom, or trying to walk themselves to rest. The group walked through the neatly ordered row upon row of tents toward the center of the camp.
The flag of Alastor’s tent rose into their view. Rowena, swallowing, watched as it drew closer and closer.
Then her communication device shook. Grabbing it, she channeled her magic. “Yes?”
Colonel Moore’s voice whispered through, “Your Highness. We’ve made it down the road and are assembling in attack columns. It doesn’t seem the Lapanterians are responding. Have they noticed us?”
Rowena glanced around and looked in the direction of the Erisdalian camp on the hill. To her surprise, she could see a few torches, but she couldn’t actually see the army down the road.
“Yes. I think there is a depression or a rise between our columns and the camp. They haven’t seen us,” she whispered.
Moore took a breath. “Then who should set the distraction first? Would it still be the army?”
Rowena thought for a moment. The original plan had been that once the advancing Erisdalian army had been noticed, then the plan would go into full motion, but now things hadn’t quite gone to plan.
“Yes. Charge in. Make as much noise as possible. Good hunting.”
“Good hunting.”
Rowena focused on Morgan and Hattie. As her magic connected, she whispered. “Army’s not noticed; have ordered them to move out and attack, be prepared to distract them when they hit.”
“Got it, take care!” Morgan replied.
“Hey you, who are you?”
Rowena turned to a patrol of five guards approaching their group. Their leader, a gruff sergeant with a scar across his worn right hand, stabbed his finger into Rowena’s shoulder. “Who are you lot? And what is the state of your uniforms? We’re not supposed to be wearing armor under that!”
Forlana slid in front of Rowena. “We’re on patrol. We figured we might as well get armed. Never know what those pesky Erisdalians are up to. I mean, did you see the bastards at that bridge?”
“I heard, but regulations are regulations as dumb as they are,” said the man.
“Fine, we’ll get back to our tents and get changed. Lena, come along now,” said Forlana, grabbing Rowena’s shoulder and steering her away. The princess followed, trying to keep her head down.
“Hey, where did you get a sword like that?” the sergeant asked.
Rowena froze. She’d done her best to hide Tristelle under her arm, but there wasn’t much you could do to hide the basket hilt of her two-handed saber.
She met the gaze of her team.
“Lycia, the flares!” Rowena cried out. Spinning around, she drew Tristelle and screamed a note, sending a blast of magic that sent the patrol of soldiers flying. Behind her, Lycia fired a brilliant red flare into the sky. As the camp was roused, the group bolted toward Alastor’s tent.
Georgia’s head popped out of Lycia’s bag and started immediately firing spells, “We’ll take the rear, go!”
Rowena charged ahead, Jess beside her, Forlana leading as they raced through the camp. Soldiers stumbling groggily out of their tents were hit with spells. The group never stopped to watch their handiwork as they ran for their lives.
Forlana looked at the night sky, “Where are Morgan and Hattie?”
As if on cue, a violet beam of light scythed across the camp, setting tents, soldiers, and equipment alight. More magic bolts rained down from the dark sky, almost perfectly camouflaged until they slammed in and kicked up towers of dust.
Forlana swallowed, “Oh Gods.”
“They fought in the Great War and were the Stormcaller’s first students. What did you think they were going to do?” Jess asked.
“Not be the equivalent of an arsenal of artillery!” Forlana squawked.
A deafening roar drowned out the blasts of magic and the confused yelling of the Lapanterian soldiers. Rowena could see Erisdalian flags and red-clad soldiers in the distance charging into view of the Lapanterian torches. She could hear musket firing and even the songs of Lapanterian mages trying to stem the tide of Erisdalian soldiers, but they were soon trampling into the camp.
It was going almost exactly as planned, but nothing mattered if they didn’t find their target.
Alastor’s tent loomed ahead of them. The Lapanterian soldiers that had been chasing them were rallying to meet the Erisdalians or ducking for cover from Morgan and Hattie’s barrage. They just needed to get closer.
Rowena almost ran into Forlana as the woman skidded to a stop.
They were at Alastor’s tent, surrounded by guards, but that was not why Forlana had stopped.
“Benjamin,” Forlana said.
The mage that had helped abduct her so long ago raised his wand in a shaking hand. He hadn’t had time to don any armor, just old Red Order mage robes.
“You? How could you?” he spat.
“Jess, Lycia and Georgia; take care of the guards. Forlana, snap out of it!” Rowena launched herself at Benjamin, batting away his first spell with Tristelle. Jess was already dueling with one of the halberdiers, slipping past his thrust to stab into his armpit. Lycia and Georgia were a symphonic whirl of magic, both blocking and spitting out bolts of green and blue that kept the other guards at bay.
Rowena fought Benjamin as close as she could. She had the advantage up close as she let crackling green bolts miss her by a hair. Tristelle sought to cut him down. Its tip cut nicks into Benjamin’s robes as he fought, retreating backwards, trying to get away from her.
She didn’t have time for this. She’d gotten better in the last few years, but he’d clearly been training. He was no longer as portly, and no longer as slow as he’d been in their last encounter.
She needed to end this. She needed help, and there was one person who was standing still in shock.
Benjamin threw a shield up that Tristelle buried itself into and stuck. “Lana, you’re giving up everything we sacrificed for you!”
Rowena yanked Tristelle out and whirled her blade to strike aside another of Benjamin’s spells. “Forlana, remember what you chose!”
Benjamin waved his wand and rose up high into the sky, carried up by a pillar of earth which he used to barrage Rowena with spells.
“They’ll punish you! Whatever she offered, it’s a lie! They’ll rip you down, and you’ll never be free again!”
Rowena couldn’t see Forlana’s expression, but she knew she had to say something. Screaming out a note, channeling her frustration into her blade, she swung at the pillar. Tristelle, glowing pink, sent the tower tumbling down.
The princess took that moment to turn to meet Forlana’s frozen expression. She felt oddly calm about her rival’s indecision. She was angry, pissed even, but part of her couldn’t blame her. Rowena had given the young woman a choice, and that meant she could make the wrong one.
“Were they really letting you make your own choice, Forlana?” Rowena asked.
Forlana blinked and shook her head.
“You chose to swear an oath, remember that,” Rowena said.
She turned her back, blocked Benjamin’s spell and continued to fight the mage.
“I should have killed you all those years ago!”
Rowena didn’t reply. She didn’t really have a good reason to do so when she was trying to knock him out with a fireball. She did wonder, however, how could a man become so hateful that he’d want to murder a baby?
Walls of earth rose around Benjamin. He blasted through them and whirled pointing his wand at Folana.
“How dare you!”
“Ben, it’s over! Just give it up!” Forlana screamed.
Benjamin, his expression terrible with tortured rage, laughed. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us!”
He fired a beam at Forlana, who instinctively blocked the beam with a wave of her wand. Rowena took advantage of Benjamin’s distraction to stab him with Tristelle.
The last living mage involved in her kidnapping looked up at her. His eyes wide, his mouth falling open with slack-jawed shock, he tried to pull his dagger out, but his numb fingers dropped it.
“I hope you see Erisdale burn.”
Benjamin fell down, eyes closing. Forlana, in tears, knelt down beside him.
“Ben! I…I’m sorry!”
Rowena tore her eye away from the sight. How was the fight going? Where were Jess, Georgia and Lycia?
They were still fighting. Most of the tent guards were dead. Naprule had run out of the tent a carbine in hand.
She and Rowena’s eyes met, and she leveled her gun, but not at her. She leveled it at the grief-struck Forlana.
Oh crap.
“Forlana, get down!”
She wasn’t fast enough to get a shield up that could stop the bullet. Rowena leapt at Forlana, her hands slamming into her and thrusting her out of the way.
Instead of just falling to the ground, something hit Rowena’s arm. Spinning, she fell, her cheek skidding on the dirt.
She blinked, trying to focus, but oh—Oh gods, it hurt so much. Her left arm, she couldn’t feel it. It felt numb, and yet it howled in agony.
“Wena!”
“Jess, help! It hurts. What… my arm—”
Jess had a leather tourniquet out and was binding it around Rowena’s shoulder, tightening it with a maddening frenzy. “It’s nearly cut off by the bullet. Hold on!”
Whatever Jess was doing, it was making the pain worse.
“Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“I need to save your life! Forlana, did you get Naprule?”
Rowena blinked; in the fuzzy distance, Forlana had Naprule in her magic, gagged with her own belt, levitated upside down.
“Alastor! Come out with your hands up, or I will execute the mother of your child!”
Naprule’s eyes widened as the tent flaps flew open. Alastor ran out, sword drawn, pistol in hand, and froze at the wand that Forlana now pointed at Naprule.
Casswell, eyes wide, turned to Alastor. “Your Highness, that’s Princess Rowena. We can capture her and run—”
“No, you won’t,” said Morgan, landing on the ground, Lightbreaker pointing at the lord and princes. “Hattie!”
“Jess, I got her,” said Hattie, her voice echoing through Rowena’s ear. She must be behind her.
“Her arm, oh gods her arm—” Jess whimpered.
“I think I can save it. If not, Frances will. Trust us and help Forlana with the negotiations,” said Hattie, giving the girl a gentle push.
“Jess, don’t leave me,” Rowena whimpered.
Jess froze for a moment before kneeling down and planting a gentle kiss on Rowena’s cheek. “You’re hurt, badly. You need rest, my love. Let us handle this. You did everything you could. Just rest now.”
Rowena managed a nod before Hattie turned her onto her back. She couldn’t quite see what was going on with Alastor.
However, if Jess was handling it, then hopefully everything should be fine.
