On the fifth of December, 2012, the fates got distracted and forgot to make Mr. Emmett Brown of San Francisco, California blink. Of course, a moment later they noticed, and it never happened again, but the event accidentally caused him to spot a flea that had just been settling down for a pleasant nap. And in doing so, tore a jagged scar into destiny itself and changed the future of the world forever. Here's what happened.

On this fine morning, Mr. Brown had been just about to leave his house for a dental appointment. When asked about the event later, he didn't even recall the flea, which was an insignificant speck in his story. Or so he thought.

Because while this event didn't affect Mr. Brown, it did affect the flea. In fact, after being so rudely awakened, said flea decided to find a more peaceful location to perch, and when Mr. Brown left his house, slipped out beside him.

After several days of wandering, our specimen landed in a charming cafe with plenty of leftover food in which to wallow. And there he lived, at least for the next week, when, on his way to the dumpster, he passed by a spider's lair. And thus ended his life.

But here changed the spider's, because while the flea made a fine meal for the arachnid, when taking its customary after-meal nap, it picked a particularly unstable place to rest, which, in addition to the extra weight from the feast, caused a collapse of the web. It plummeted down. Right into a Ms. Lavender Smith's toast.

Unfortunately, the tagalong wasn't spotted by the bored waiter, who brought the dish out to Ms. Smith as was. She noticed it, and then she, a severe arachnophobe, screamed so loudly that multiple passersby stopped to see who had been murdered.

Among them was a Mr. John Potters, who, in great concern, stopped to stare for a moment or two, causing him to narrowly miss a yellow light, and after a few blocks, another. This culminated in his arriving at his house a full five minutes later.

This turned out to be a good thing indeed, because, as we rewind time slightly, we see that just a few minutes ago Mr. Potters’ young niece, Lucy Potters, had been merrily drawing in his driveway. The toddler had luckily been spotted by her frantic father just minutes before Mr. Potters returned. Had he come any sooner...

And so we see that the merest missed blink has already saved a life, but we're not done yet. Not even close.

You might be imagining that Lucy was the linchpin in this operation, but you would be wrong. Because Lucy ended up dying young, at age seventeen, in a car accident. She couldn’t escape her fate in the end. So, no, Lucy didn’t mother a flock of children who would then meaningfully impact the world through cancer research and philanthropy. If only Samuel Green hadn’t squished that caterpillar… but the world is full of could haves which didn’t. And anyway, her only daughter would have led a great revolution, then her own country, then finally a few strongly disputed acres, in the end inheriting her mother’s sad fate.

But in any case, Lucy worked at an ice cream parlor during the summer of her sweet sixteen. She was lousy at her job, and so it was no surprise when she completely botched Mr. Aaron Brown’s cone, managing to plunge the thing directly onto the freshly-cleaned tiles. In the time it took for her to apologize, grab several napkins, slip, fall, and rise again, Ms. Sarah Carpenter had entered the establishment.

Fifteen months later, they were married. Five years after that, they had a son, a daughter, a puppy, and a house in the suburbs.

It came as no surprise when Thomas Brown joined the army straight out of high school. It had been a life-long goal of his, bred from his mother’s stories of her own brief stint. His hopes and dreams were crushed, however, when he failed the preliminary check-up due to his weak hearing and asthma. Instead, he became an instructor, and his guidance helped many young recruits, including Ms. Melissa Addams, who would have quit the tough camp if not for his mentorship.

Fast-forward a half a year, and her presence on a special team in the remote country of Gruadan saved the group from a myriad of gruesome deaths. She was extremely quick and observant, and spotted a hidden tripwire once, fresh footprints another time, and, most impressively, a clean windowsill in a supposedly deserted house, saving them from an ambush. Thanks to her keen eye, they all survived, and completed their mission of assassinating a terrorist leader who had been planning what would otherwise have been a successful attack on DC.

Now, of course, had this not been prevented, more than half of the house of representatives would have been killed, leading to mass panic, anger, and fear. After a series of rousing speeches from families of victims, survivors, and several different government officials, the US would have gone to war.

Instead, Melissa and her team received numerous awards from the grateful government. Incidentally, this would have happened either way, but the team (excluding Melissa, of course, who would have been working at the checkout counter of a Walmart) would have received them post-mortem.

The war would have been a disaster. Because Gruadan was supported by the much larger Osmona at this time,  what started as a fairly simple, if petty, fight of a world power vs. a third world country would get much more complicated.

After their buddy was attacked, Osmona would have demanded we call off the attack. And when we didn’t, they’d have joined in, sending money, officers, and weapons to our enemy.

After that, the fight would have gotten a lot harder, and diplomacy would begin to shatter. With Osmona weapons killing American soldiers, we would want revenge. With American soldiers attacking their ally, Osmona would want revenge.

Then, when a high level government official whose sister was killed in the attack sent an extremely unpleasant and completely unauthorized message to the Osmonan king, war would have broken out.

However, without the sentiment caused by the attack, there was no reason to invade Gruadan. The country had an acceptable relationship with us. Later, when they asked for help in quelling an extremist revolution, we readily agreed, as did Osmona. This started to help repair tensions that had built up over decades of miscommunication and squabbling.

And back to WWIII. Actually, there’s not much to say. Three-quarters of the world’s countries joined the war within half an hour. The first nuclear bomb hit us in forty five minutes. Our first bomb hit them two minutes later. By midnight, a quarter of the world’s population was dead, and a deadly level of radiation covered even Antarctica. Nuclear bomb shelters? A joke. They increased a citizen’s chance of survival by 0.01%. There were approximately one hundred thousand Homo Sapiens five years later. That’s about two fifths of the population of Chicago.

Luckily, all of this senseless bloodshed was averted. Over the following five years, the population grew by about three hundred million. The quality of life continued to improve, as clean energy and sustainable policies were developed. And so life lived on, happily ever after.

Almost eight billion lives saved. All by the blink of an eye.

It was a crisp, summer night when ding, ding, ding RUN.

It was June 16th, I was preparing for the trip to the city. I hadn’t had much work lately, but it was still kinda lonely out in the middle of nowhere. I had my bird and that was it. I was unpakcing after I just moved in. My job pays for my houses, my work, and all of my other needs. It was pretty great, accept I could die doing this.

It was about 3 in the moring and I couldn’t sleep.I decided to get up and do some research about this place. My mission was to inflitrate the warehouse were they were producing illigal goods and substances to other people. I had to take out anyone in my way silently and not get noticed, from there I would get into the office with detonating explosives to breach the door, then I would get the cpu, speed down to the lake, shoot the cpu and throw it into the ocean. It would be hard, but I think I could handle it. I went back to bed but still couldn’t sleep so I called the three other guys in my mission. Apparently we were the same way so I went out with them to get some food and came back to my house. We just talked for a bit and then went back home.

The next morning… It was now the 17th about 8:25 in the morning and I wasn’t sure what happens next, then my phone rang, it was my boss. “Hello” “Hello James, I need you to report to headquarts ASAP and we will go from there” Then he hung up. I was so conused but I made so breakfast, fed cleo, and went on my way.

About 35 minutes later I arrived at headquarters and stopped at my bosses office. “Whats the matter?” The three other guys were there too. “I need you guys to go to Garage 3B and there will be 3 men awaiting you. From there you will get weapons and pick the car of your choice, and then the mission begins… Good Luck my men” “Thanks” we replied in shock.

We made it to the basement and then met the three men, we greeted them and then they gave us duffle bags that were not that heavy, but had quite some weight on them. We then chose our car. We chose a Armoured sedan. It was so cool. It had bulletproof windows and tires with a custom flame paint job. We thought it would be best for the job.

Its was now about 5:30 PM and I was doing my final preperations and couting the place with a drone. I found that the best place to enter would be the roof. We would climb the ladder and get a good view. We would then enter in through the air vents and unscrew the cage, or handyman for the job was Charles, he was good with tools. Once he unscrewed the cage, me and Logan would slide in and switfly, but silently take out everyone and then plant the explosives, and go from there, here goes nothing…

About 2 ours later it was 7:30 and I was ready, I had been preparing for this day for years, here we go. I got in the car with my duffle bag and then we discussed our plans. We all decided on mine as the best way to go in, and get some action.

From there we traveled to our headquarters and reported with our boss to check any last minute plans. He gave us all military grade walky talkies and our driver, Andrew, got the radio i our car fixed up to were he had 2 channels, us and our headquarters. We were to check in everytime we got somewhere with our boss and Andrew. Then he sent us off, it was the big moment.

We arrived, Andrew parked in a Stygian, Vacant Ally. We got out of the car and Andrew turned all the lights off and we went in. Me, Charles, and Logan climbed to the top of the building with our dark suits and night vision on. Charles unscrewed the bolts, giving us an opening to the warehouse. There were gurads everywere. We slowly let oursleves in. We all gathered to a small room in the corner it was very dark, but we had night vision so we were all in the corner. I contacted our Boss and Andrew. Boss told us to keep going. We peeked out and there was one guard, in blue he slowly yamned and fell asleep. We crawled out and patted him down, looking for anything we might need. We checked his back pocket and found some keys to what looked like room 17. We looked around and we were near the early rooms, 1-6 was in this hallway. We quickly peeked over the stairs into floor the first floor. Empty.

We swiftly shuffled into the main room and peeked through the keyhole. Silently we unlocked the door and chucked a stun grenade into the back and slammed a coffee table down for protection. I threw another and then rushed into the back. I stunned him and put him in cuffs. While he was there we held him down and told him to tell us everything he knows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! LET ME OUT” He said. Not Until you tell us were the cpu is!” Charles said. I pulled out a pistol and held it to him, I yelled “Tell us or you die” With a smirk. “Fine, Its on floor 2D. It will be in the” I cut him off, holstering my gun back in my belt. “I already know that, were are the keys!” I said, “They’re in the second drawer to the left in the closet, push the encyclopedia into the wall and a secret compartment with 4 drawers will open up, the second one down to the left.” I stunned him again, followed his instructions and we got the keys for the second floor. We ran, making sure we kept in contact with our Boss and Andrew

Once we got to the second floor I used the keys and *BAM* I was hit in the shoulder. I crawled back behind the door with Charlie. “LOGAN, I need you to throw an explosive grenade towards the back door for entry!” “On it”. He threw it way far to the door and blew the hinges off. I picked a couple off in the front room and then Obliterated the last guy in there. I took his nametag and slid it in my back pocket. I needed to path my wound, “Charlie! Logan! Move up!” “I need to stay back!”. As I was healing I got on my radio and changed to Andrew. “Hey Man, Get ready, Were almost in!”.

As i finsished healing, I got out a sniper and shot 2 guys that were blocking the path for charlie. I rushed in there. I gave charlie a lift so he could get to the vent and unscrew. Once he unscrewed, I Lifted him in then me and logan stayed back. He hacked the control panel and dropped in on the other side. He gave me a smile and started  laughing, “Were in boys!” “Yes, sweet victory!, right as he unlcocked the panel, he froze, “CHARLIE, NO” He was coughing blood, I ran behind a table. I was in shock, “This isn’t real” I thought to myself. I was infuriated. I threw a stun and screamed, so loud I couldn’t hear my own shots. I killed everyone, I was phsyco. I got on my knees with Logan. “C’mon Charlie, wake up, please!” I said. “Listen, I know James, but we have to move, or we’ll join him. I sobbed in anger, disbelief, but it was real and we had to finish the mission, it was my job.

I rushed into the room looking every which way. I slid into the safe room and took out the camera with a distortion set. I then disabled them with some wire cutters. I planted explosives, and Logan had some C4 We got behind the wall then we heard something from upstairs, I got on the cameras I set upstairs, There was a whole team of guys with suits and weapons. Ding ding ding, RUN. I jumped behind another peice of debree from the ceiling, it was concrete. The explosion rang through the halls. “Ouch, My ears” I said. Logan uncrouched and fired a couple of shots. “Logan, get down, I’m going down the stairs i’ll signal your go” “Roger That”. I used the same set of keys that the man upstairs gave us. I shoved open the door and signaled Logan. He locked the door and barricaded it with a little bech over to the side. We slid down the stair railing and busted down the door. There was quite a few people. No problem for these guys. We took them out and planted on the door. If this didn’t work, we were screwed. We both planted. After about 5 minutes, we had everything ready. We got out on the stairs, and behind a couple walls. 3, 2, 1, “LIGHT THE FUSES”. I was knocked back into the side of the wall. I ran in and grabbed out Charlies laptop, shoving memories behind me. “I’m in, let's move”. He had gotten the program set up already and we hacked into the keypad. Once I unlocked I twisted the key, there it was. I grabbed it.

I signaled, “Boss, we have it, we are heading out now” then to Andrew “Get Ready, we’re coming out!” I shoved the door down, running upstairs. We had no key cards to get out from floor 1, so we went the way we came in. I grabbed a couple boxes from a storage closet to our right. I then stacked ‘em up, and hoisted Logan up, then myself. We signaled to Andrew with the couple flickers of a flashlight. We got in the car and told him everything and eventually arrived at the Harbor. I pulled out my bag and got the cpu. There it was. “Well, it was good knowing ‘ya,*BANG* the sound of the shot trickled around us, then, it got well, snowy. It was so nice, I then chucked it, as far as I could, with all my anger and adrenaline built up, I threw, so far the cpu wasn’t even visible. Then, I returned to my headquarters the next day, then… my paycheck, CHA-CHING!

THE TELEPATHS

I
1918

“Who are you?’, I shout through the empty void. No one answers. I feel a rush of energy and see a distant memory. A child running through a meadow as his small hands brushed lightly against a flower petal. I could even feel and smell the flower. Sweet, but entirely unhelpful. I search for more memories, only stumbling upon some more recent ones. Those were the bad ones. The child was grown up now, going through a variety of horrible experiences as he fought on the front lines. Cowering in the trenches. Pressing a damp cloth to his face because there were no more gas masks. Ducking as a German artillery shell sends shrapnel above his head.
              I take a step back, stepping out of those memories, and push them to the side. All of a sudden, fear—which I identify as a thick purple smog—filled the cavernous space. At first I think I have caused it, possible I have unintentionally released these emotions by revisiting those memories. Then I realize it. The light dims.
“No no no no no!”, I shout as the light turns to darkness.
I close my eyes for ten seconds. Ten, Nine, Eight… The feeling of the smog slowly fades. Seven, Six, Five… I felt as if I was being slowly pulled backwards. Four, Three, Two.

One.

I open my eyes. I am no longer in the cavernous space. I am in a large military hospital full of rows and rows of mostly empty beds. The man in the bed in front of me, is wearing multiple casts. The man from the memories.
              He is unmoving. His eyes are closed. He isn’t breathing. He is dead. I looked down at the base of his bed, seeing a nametag, which reads: “Private Charles van Pelt”. I sigh. All that time inside that man’s head and I couldn’t even learn his name. There are a few other people in the room: A military chaplain, a few nurses, and at least ten injured soldiers.
              I hear footsteps behind me and turn around to see the Head Doctor, Dr. Gabriel Lichter II, coming towards me. He is a thin, bald man, who wears glasses and has a long black moustache. Dr. Lichter was one of the only Doctors in the army who believed that the Telepathic treatment could work.
“So how was your meeting with Private van Pelt?”, he asks.
“Not very good”, I say, gesturing to the body in the bed.
              Dr. Lichter’s moustache seems to droop. “I suppose there was not much of a chance you could save him anyway”, he sighs, “Thanks for trying”. He lifts the blanket over the dead man.
              As I turn to leave, I hear a soft Click. A nurse screams and drops the bowl of soup in her hands. I turn around to see a man, in a British army uniform, pressing a silver gun to Dr. Lichter’s head.
“Mr. Stewart”, The man says, “I believe you have something of mine”.
              He’s talking about the pocket watch which I was told to never to let out of my sight. I stare into his eyes. His pupils begin to dilate. Soon I am transported into a cavernous room, similar to the one before, except it is in the man’s mind instead of Van Pelt’s. I feel a force pushing me back. The man is defending against me. I push forward, but he is too strong. As I slowly get pushed out of the man’s mind, I manage to see his name.
David Pope.
              All of a sudden, I hear a loud bang and I am pulled out of David’s mind. As soon as I open my eyes, I feel nauseous, as I always do when I don’t exit someone’s mind properly. It’s one of the many reasons why I count to ten before exiting. But I suppose that the body on floor is more important. The Nurse has fainted, her head lying in the puddle of spilt soup. The man, David, disappears as quickly as he materialized. Before he vanishes, he gives a warning:
“Return the device by tomorrow. You know what will happen if you don’t”

II

As I sit on a bench in Central Park, a man rides past me on his bicycle. He swerves around some pedestrians, who grumble angrily at him. Out here, he is just a reckless biker. But to others, he is known as Colonel A.J Miller, a high-ranking military officer who has just returned home from the front lines. He travelled from London to New York to meet with me. As he rides his bike past me, he drops a manila envelope onto my lap.
              I whisper a silent “Thank-You” to Miller before tearing open the envelope. Inside is a report labelled “David Pope”. An attached picture confirms his identity. The same young face, chiselled features, and British army uniform.
              The file is half a page long.
Name: David Pope
Birth Date: ?
Family: ?
Country: Britain(?)
Rank: Private
…
              The list continues, listing multiple categories, all with question marks at the end. It appears that even the Generals in London don’t know who Pope is. There is only one other item in the envelope. A letter:

Dear Benjamin,
Although the hope of finding Dr. Lichter’s killer looks slim, I have managed to find one additional piece of information: Before 1916, Private David Pope did Not exist.

I can’t find any records of him until August 14th, 1916, when the photo was taken. He looks about 25. It seems possible that someone could have fabricated the identity of Private Pope in order to escape past crimes.

Other Records of Pope show that he was deployed in Krzywopłoty, Poland and Varna, Bulgaria. Multiple accounts of looting in mansions and museums nearby have been reported. It is possible that he could be involved.
 

I will continue to report on any new information regarding the Private, if we are to find more.

Sincerely,
              A.J Miller

I cringe. Krzywopłoty. Varna. All places where Telepath artifacts—and the Telepaths guarding them—were located. Telepath artifact vaults were spread across the warzone that had once been Europe. There must have been many more artifacts that Pope looted.
              I take the pocket watch out of my pocket. I flip open the brass cover, emblazoned with the face of a lion, revealing the watch face beneath. It looks just like a normal watch, except that the numbers have been replaced with symbols. I don’t know what they mean.
              The watch was given to me, last week in St. Petersburg, by the last Russian Telepath since Grigori Rasputin. The man was shot before he could tell me what to do with it. I managed to escape to Paris, where I started my business of Telepathic Medical Treatment.
              I stare at the watch again. According to Pope’s warning, I am supposed to return the watch to him by today. I think about his warning. You know what will happen if you don’t. All twelve members of the Telepath High Council have gone missing. What will happen to them if I fail?
              Suddenly, a strong Telepathic presence interrupts my thoughts.
Someone is trying to connect with me
I hear a voice—David Pope’s voice—speaking in my head. It is quiet, barely above a whisper:
HS Koningin Regentes… today… five o’ clock… Boston, Lincolnshire, England… Follow Matthews.
Pope has told me where to bring the watch and when. If I don’t, twelve men will die.

III

I find the nearest teleportation station to Lincolnshire, and I catch the HS Koningin Regentes before it leaves the town of Boston. It’s a hospital steamship sailing to Rotterdam. By five O’clock, we are out at sea.
              Upon my arrival, the Captain make an announcement for a ‘Nurse Matthews’ to head down to one of the decks, located near the ship’s paddle wheel. Instead of finding a nurse, however, I am greeted by Pope. His uniform is in tatters, his face is scratched (with a large scar down his left cheek), and he walks with a slight limp.
“Hand over the watch”, he growls.
“How do I know you will release the Council”, I say.
              Pope smiles, and holds up a round glass orb. I recognize it. A Seer Stone. Within the orb, a misty image of a port in Rotterdam appears. Three cars pull up. The doors open in unison. An elderly man stumbles out. He turns his head, and I get a glimpse of his face. Matthias Kruger. One of the Council Members. One by one, the twelve old men leave the cars.
“They’ll be waiting when we arrive in Rotterdam”, adds Pope.
The last people to get out of the cars were men dressed in Dutch Army uniforms, who watched as the Council members slowly hobbled off. Their faces were identical to Pope’s.
“How?”, I say to him.
“None of your business!”, he snaps, “Hand over the watch!”.
              I hear the low rumble of a motor as a speedboat approaches us. I can hear the captain yelling something inaudibly at us as they draw near. When Pope is momentarily distracted, I throw the watch. He dives to catch it as it skids along the deck, but he misses it and the watche falls into the paddle wheel.
              The speedboat appears alongside the steamship. The captain, who I now see is a woman wearing a red jacket, calls to me from her boat.
“Get in!”, She yells.
When I hesitate, she adds: “I’ve been sent by the Council”.
While Pope gets up, I clamber over the railing and fall in to the boat in a less than graceful manner.
              As the Woman in the boat speeds away from the HS Koningin Regentes, I get a closer look at her face. I recognize her. She is Theodora Asterio, daughter of Morgan Asterio, one of the Council members.
“Mr. Stewart”, she shouts over the din of the engine, “The Council has sent me to rescue you. They asked me to send you to Stockholm”.
“What’s going on!?”, I ask.
“I’ll start at the beginning”, says Theodora, “A long time ago, the Council hid their most prized possessions in a vault that moves every few years. They made an Atlas that could show where it was. In order to read the complicated Atlas, the Telepaths used a few devices, most notably your watch”.
“So Pope wants to use the watch to find the Atlas?”, I ask, “Who is he?”
“It is a parasite”, said Theodora, “A Shapeshifter imprisoned by the Council until it escaped. It possessed an Astro-Hungarian soldier, Konstantin Erdös in 1916. It faked his death, and reappeared as a British soldier named David Pope. The parasite spread to others, who took on Konstantin’s appearance”.
              There is a loud boom. I turn around, and see that the Dutch Steamship is sinking. It has been torpedoed.
“We don’t have time!”, shouts Theodora, stopping the engine.
              She removes a small device from her coat. A portable teleporter, only given to high-ranking Telepaths. She presses a button on the device.
              There is a bright flash, and the boat reappears in another body of water inside a large cave. There is another flash beside us, and another boat appears beside us. The Captain waves at us in a friendly manner. More boats teleport in around the underground lake, while others float up from further down the passage.
              Theodora steers the boat towards a dock in the center of the cave. We climb onto the dock, and Theodora walks towards a pair of large Mahogany doors.
“Where are we?”, I ask.
“A cave system under Stockholm”, she answers, “It’s where the Council headquarters are”.      Through the doors, there is a wood panelled passage. Men and women in suits walk up and down the hallway, disappearing through different doors. Theodora leads me through a series of rooms, passageways, and stairs until we arrive at the center of the headquarters.        We stand on a balcony, overlooking a large cylindrical library. In the center, an Armillary Sphere spins and twirls. Theodora called to a man working at the desk under the sphere.
“Dr. Frost!”, she calls.
The man looks up.
“Oh!”, he says, startled, “Theodora! You’re back! Come! Join me”.
              We climb down a spiral staircase to the ground floor. Theodora introduces me to the man.
“Mr. Benjamin Stewart, meet Dr. Hugo Frost”, she says, “He’s been spearheading the project to decipher the Atlas”.
“Yes”, Dr. Frost says, shaking my hand, “But I admit it’s been hard without the watch”.
“Oh!”, I say, pulling the watch out of my pocket, “I… um… had a copy made. I threw the fake at Pope, and kept the real one”.       
              Theodora looks shocked. Dr. Frost takes the watch, and returns to his desk. He lays it by a book, which I assume is the Atlas. After fiddling with the watch and muttering under his breath, he seems to discover something.
“Eureka!”, he shouts, ”It’s in the Congo”.
              Dr. Frost runs excitedly down the hall to a Teleporter Station, where he types in a pair of co-ordinates. The Teleporter begins to glow.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”, I ask.
“Of course”, replies Dr. Frost, “The Council wouldn’t allow defective Teleportation machines”.
“No”, I say, “I mean the Congo”.
“Probably not”, He says.

IV

I expect to land on the dirt floor beneath a jungle canopy, but instead, Theodora and I are Teleported straight into the Vault. It is a windowless stone room with no exits. In the center there is a single podium with a black urn on top, decorated with hieroglyphics.
“That’s it?”, I say, “Just an urn?”.
Theodora looks closer at the urn. “Well maybe it’s…”, she begins.
              She is interrupted by a soft Click. It’s the same one I heard in that Hospital yesterday. It comes from Pope’s gun. I turn around, but instead of Pope, I see Dr. Lichter. Only it’s not him. Dr. Gabriel Lichter II is dead. This is a parasite.
“Hand over the urn!”, shouts the parasite, as it shapeshifts into the form of Pope, its first, and favourite, host.
“No”, I say.
              He shoots, but Theodora tackles him. His bullet goes astray and hits the urn. It shatters, and a strange, gaseous substance escapes. As Pope (or Lichter, or the Parasite) falls to the ground, I stare into his eyes. His pupils dilate, and I enter his mind.            
              It is chaotic. Memories and emotions from his past life mix. The purple mist of fear. A sea of sadness. Fires of anger. I see through his eyes. He absorbs the gaseous substance. He grows bigger and I feel the raw energy of strength surge through his body. I influence his mind, forcing him to stop. Theodora sees the opportunity, and shoots. I leave the monster as he dies, with the same rush of nausea I usually feel. The giant version of Pope lies dead on the ground.
 

  This is April 13th, 2031.

  “We lived in an environment with an average daily temperature of 200 degrees Fahrenheit. We could only rely on "heat-reducing clothing" to survive every day. This is my last recording. I must not regret it, because that is what I deserve.” (Last report). /D-e-s-t-r-o-y/.

  Welcome! Location: Vapor World. Number: 7. Our world is becoming more and more powerful. Luxuriant street was full of human-like robots, they talked to each other with enthusiastic smile, warm oxygen gases around the society. Our world is shrouded in a stove. [Cyberpunk Music playing]. People walked straightly like magazine models, they all wore VAPORIZERS made of plastics and the “heat-reducing clothing”. In 2020s, one greatest scientist- Siamor Grey. She created us of generation 1. Thanks to her, we have our own brains, our own bodies, even everything we want to have. We are doing much better than humans in the equality class. A simple and important rule lived in our society: the operations of reservation and discarding are only between contribution and neglect. Useless trash should be thrown into trash bin.

  Good news, no one destroys their equipment. The purple transparent building of up to 6,500 feet provokes the stove above the head. That is Quantum University. Most talented and high-IQ educators worked there.               

  Drongser Johanson, an 80-year old erudite professor from Quantum University. HUMAN. When he left his position in April 13th, 2031, he realized that he didn’t achieve his dream project since his childhood. By the way, his childhood was really unfortunate. Honestly, I want to start pity him. / Checking out the individual’s data /: Back in 1958, his parents were divorced. The father found a new love, and he lived with his father and his stepmother. Drongser's father is a quantum engineering researcher, and whenever his father failed to experiment (the number of times is in the cardinal number pattern), he would be beaten like as soon as he could meet the angel. Drongser already got a grandiose plan in his mind, he wanted to change the rules of the whole space!

  When time machine, artificial intelligence and high-tech invention was mature in the scientific community, some people were still eager to explore the space. Drongser was one of these people. He had tried to figure out how he can make the time stop during his last 20 years .But unfortunately, he had failed 2030 times until he left his position. He almost gave two fourths of his life. Although the fact is putting out in front of him, he knew what’s his next step.

  Dronser’s lab was in a desolate, unknown place. In Drongser’s lab, it was neat and clean everywhere. Drongser is a precise man, he doesn’t allow any imperfections exist in his laboratory. A pile of formulas were on the blackboard, take a closer look on the board: there is a beam of light and a spaceship, and some formulas under them. The door was opened, Drongser backed. He talked to himself, “I can't lose anymore, I’ve lost my beloved job, and my wife had driven me out of the house. There is nothing that can tether me, I can't cower this time.” Then, he pressed the button of the spacecraft and started the procedure of the spacecraft. In an instant, the engine of the spacecraft slammed in the air, and he didn't realize anything, but Vaporizer sensed it. Still, he didn't realize anything. This time the spacecraft really "launched", accompanied by psychedelic steam. He sat down and suddenly his tears flowed out, umbrage and sadness seemed to badger him. Drongser couldn’t wait anymore, he had sworn to himself, no matter what, he had to study this time project which is at the forefront of the scientific community. Money, all he wanted. He planned share it with himself. After dragging through this struggle, Drongser finally started his adventure.

  Crash!!!

  Drongser successfully completed his first part of the journey, perfectly broke through the atmosphere, and entered space, everything was just as normal!

  Now, the speed of the spacecraft was 150,000 kilometers per second.

  Drongser thought that the situation was good then, he accelerated the spaceship to 300,000 kilometers per second.

  The spacecraft disappeared with a “Pop”. Drongser felt hurt. He was divided into millions of molecules. After a while, he opened his eyes, the eyes were uncertain, hopeless, dark blue. Then saw his craft was in a strange quagmire. The quagmire was clear and transparent. Then it began to present the memory fragments of Drongser Johansen, playing like a movie of life. A whole-black picture of Drongser and his wife was also presented in the Quagmire, two photogenic young people were smiling to the camera. Drongser watched the picture slowly disappear, and he knew that he was running out of time. He recalled that he inveigled his wife to marry him and even beat her when he is drunk…. Huh, such a wonderful and selfish one. This guy is totally a “Repeater”.

  Finally, the spaceship fall into the quagmire. Everything was gone.

  The exploding spacecraft still braved the fierce flame. The noxious fire smoke filled the entire laboratory. The psychedelic steam also carries the rose scent on his wife's clothes. Drongser inhaled a lot of steam and fire smoke, and his fantasy was over. Drongser gradually realized that the current situation was precarious, but half of his body was stuck in the stump of the spaceship. Half of his passion and mind were floating in the laboratory. Something was not under control.

  The fire was getting worse, temperature was still rising.

  Drongser picked up a recording pen hidden in the spaceship, then said: “We lived in an environment with an average daily temperature of 200 degrees Fahrenheit. We could only rely on "heat-reducing clothing" to survive every day. This is my last recording. I must not regret it, because that is what I deserve.”, / Accept the request: D-E-S-T-R-O-Y/. “All of this is a karma, and our problem is still not solved.” /Cyberpunk Music playing/.

   "BOOM"!  

   I first discovered the truth of what had happened to Reed Wilson in the summer of  ’86.

It was the hottest day of the year, the kind of day when everyone’s shirts would stick to their skin whether they were inside a building playing cards or outside cleaning a car that desperately needed to be washed. The kind of day when you would find kids sitting on the curbs of the sidewalk, licking their brightly colored popsicles and praying to God that it wouldn’t melt before they had a chance to finish it. The kind of day when adults were outside sitting on their patios and decks, listening to the small, portable radios that they owned and pretended to listen to their children talk, if their children were even at home, which wasn’t very likely.

   It was this day that I was sitting on the front steps of my tan, cottage-like home that I had lived in since I was born. I was reading one of my new comic books, it was a murder mystery. I distinctly remember the chirp of the ravens and blue jays and seagulls over my head as I sat there, immersed in my reading. Birds of all sorts were common in Wellview, the small town that my family and I had lived in. It was a town that sat on the coast of Rhode Island, and that resulted in us having tourists from all over the country, sometimes even the world, visit Wellview for summer vacations or holidays.

   I pulled my knees up to my chest, as I flipped the page of my comic book and continued reading. I played with the white laces on my dirty and faded pair of red Converse, and I slapped away more mosquitos that day then what I would have liked, and I remember wishing my parents had started up the fire pit in our front yard, which we used almost every night in the summer with the neighbors who lived nearby. It was fun, and I used to invite Reed over sometimes along with Lacy and Sam.

   The front door to my home creaked open, signaling that someone was leaving the house. The door slammed closed and a pair of black flats walking down the steps entered my line of vision. I looked up to see my mom, and I grinned at her. She however, never did. Her face stayed in the same grim manner in which it had been when I first looked up. My smile instantly turned into a frown as I tilted my head in confusion.

   “Mom?” I questioned her, placing my comic book to the left of me, and once I had done that my mom sat down on the steps to my right. She didn’t speak for a few minutes, and the way her face was crinkled in confusion and sadness and nervousness, I got the hint that she had to tell me something. And even though I was only twelve years old, I knew that I shouldn’t force it out of her. So I waited, and waited, until she was ready to tell me what was wrong.

   “Lana,” I heard her whisper quietly. I turned my head to face my mom, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the newly-paved cement that had been applied to the front steps of our house not even six months ago.

   “Yeah, mom?” I said, eager to hear what she would say. By the amount of struggle she was having  telling me what needed to be said, I concluded that I should not have been eager to hear the words that would exit her mouth in a few short minutes. I was right, unfortunately.

   “It’s true,” she said sadly, finally looking up at my face. My mom’s eyes showed the most emotion that I had ever seen that afternoon in the summer of 1986. It showed sadness, despair, anger, guilt, regret, pity, you name it. And at first, I’ll admit. I didn’t know what my mom was talking about. But soon, after I thought about it, I understood.

   Reed Wilson was dead. My best friend since I was three years old. The only person who had ever believed in my dreams and aspirations and goals was dead. Flashbacks hit me like a tidal wave, and I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes.

   “Why don’t you go and talk to one of those girls over there?” My mom asked me. “Go and make some friends,” she pushed, gently shoving me towards the other three year old girls who all stood in the center of the classroom, giggling as they tried on all the princess dresses that were laid out for them. My eyes scanned the room in nervousness, my shy side taking over as I slowly made my way towards the girls. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Reed. She was sitting alone a little further away from everyone else, parents and kids alike. Her vibrant, red hair was in messy pig tails, like mine was. She wasn’t playing with the princess dresses with the girls or the wooden blocks with the boys. She stood at the “kitchen” play set, attempting to cook herself a sandwich. For some reason, I stopped walking towards the girls with the dresses on, and I started towards Reed, and that was one of the best decisions I had ever made. “Hi,” I smiled shyly, once I had reached her. She turned around and faced me, and stood there in silence. But after a few seconds, she beamed at me. “Hello!” She replied happily. “Wanna help me make a sandwich? I’m not very good at it.” And that was the start of a beautiful friendship, it just had a tragic ending.

   Reed had been missing for 2,190 hours. Three months. And everyday she was gone, every week, every minute, and every second, I broke a little more inside. We were inseparable, and treated each other like sisters. She was my first and closest friend. And she was gone. Forever. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath, before looking away from the sky and towards my mother, who was still sitting right next to me, right by my side.

   “How’d she die?” I asked. “How long has she been dead? Where was she found?” I bombarded her with questions, not caring what I said. I just wanted answers and I wanted them right then and there. My mom glanced over at me and sighed, before answering all of them reluctantly.

   “They found her in the forest on the edge of town. She was murdered.” She said grimly, the frown from earlier never leaving her face. I knew it was the truth, but I never wanted to believe it.

   “How long?” I asked my mom again, trying not to think about Reed being murdered, and her body laying dead in the forest for who knows how long.

   “We don’t know the exact date,” she started, causing me to look down at my Converse. “But they’re guessing she was dead for a month and a half before they found her, which was this morning.”

   I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to convince myself this was all a bad dream. A horribly bad dream, where  Reed was never murdered. Just a bad dream. But it wasn’t, and somewhere inside me I knew that it wasn’t. This was reality. I would just have to accept that whether I liked it or not.

   But the absolutely worst part about looking back at this horrible day, was realizing that I never even shed a tear. Not a single tear escaped my eyes on that hot summer day in 1986.

We sit in silence, looking up at the sky. The bed of the truck feels cold on my back. Small sobs escape his lips sporadically, and though he tries, he fail to subdue them. My heart shatters for him, as I can tell his has, too, a long time ago. I think back to what got me here, the call from two hours ago. 

“Hello?” I'd been surprised to see his name pop up on my phone, and not just because it was one in the morning. It had been months since we last spoke.  

“Hey, it’s Monte,” his voice was shaking as he spoke. “Listen, I know it’s been a while, but is there any way we could meet up like old times.” I remember what “old times” is code for. The two of us driving up the hill into the middle of the woods so he can get drunk and I can drive him home when he can no longer stand. It usually involved him being upset over something. “Please, Cassie. I need you.” There they were. The three words that used to always make me say yes to him, whatever he asked. And, you know what? They still work. 

I find myself saying, “Okay,” without even thinking. 

“Really?” I don’t know why he’s even trying to fake surprisal, we both know I can’t say no to him. “Thank you, Cassie.” That sounds sincere, for real, and it’s all I need to not regret my decision. “I’ll come pick you up right now.” 

That’s what brought us here. The back of his truck in the middle of the night. Him crying softly with a bottle of something in his hand as I sit next to him wondering what prompted another sad late-night adventure. 

I want to hold my tongue and leave him to deal with whatever’s wrong without prying, but curiosity gets the better of me. “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Monte?” 

He plasters on a fake smile as he meets my gaze. “What do you mean? Everything is perfectly fine.” 

“Then why did you call? If everything is fine, I mean.” 

“Can’t a guy just want to catch up with an old friend without having any ulterior motive?”  

“Then why are you crying?” 

“I’m not.” I go to wipe a tear off his face, but he pushes me away. “I just have allergies.” 

“Allergies aren’t usually accompanied by sobs and bottles of stolen booze, Monte.” I keep my tone soft. “You don’t have to tell me, but you know that you can, right?” 

“Yeah, I know.” His eyes refuse to meet mine, choosing to focus on his shoes instead. “It’s nothing major, really. Don't worry about it, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“I mean it. I know how you are. I know you’re always worried about me. And I know that’s why you agree to come out here, because you worry about me.” 

I’m in shock, really. I'd always been able to read Monte like an open book, but I never even thought he could do the same with me. “Okay. I got it.” 

He doesn’t seem convinced but chooses not to say anything about it. “It’s just another one of those nights, you know? A night where everything at home gets to be too much.” 

I know exactly what he’s talking about. I've seen him through this situation too many times before. “Hey,” I whisper, looking him right in the eyes. “How many more days?” 

“Seventy-three,” he says with a small shrug. Seventy-three was the number of days until he left for college. He’d started counting down ever since he was accepted. Before Monte, I'd never met anyone so ready to leave his whole family behind and never look back. 

“It’ll be here before we know it.” I offer a soft smile, which he reluctantly returns. 

“Yeah.” Then a cocky smirk appears on his face. “I bet you’re gonna miss me when I leave.” 

I don’t play into his games, I just tell him the truth. “Yeah, I will actually.” 

This makes his face fall, which I wasn’t expecting. His mock charm leaves him and, all the sudden, I'm worried all over again. What did I say wrong?  

“I’m sorry.” Again, his eyes refuse to meet mine. 

“For, what?” 

“For going dark on you for months. For not calling. For not answering your texts.” 

I had honestly forgotten this was the first time we’d talked in this long. I'd even forgotten my anger of being ignored by him for so long. Everything was so natural with Monte. It felt like we’d never stopped talking. 

“It’s fine,” I tell him.  

“No it’s not. You at least deserved an explanation.” He sighs. “I just think you’d clearly be better off without me.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“All I do is hold you down. My life is such a mess and I drag you into it all the time. You deserve better than a friend like me.” 

“No.” the certainty of my voice makes him look at me, as if he’s searching for any doubt. “My life is better when you’re around, Monte.” 

I can tell he’s not convinced. “I just don’t see how that could be true.” 

“It is! Trust me. We’ve been friends for a while now.” I don’t know if it’s the heat of the moment or the sleep deprivation, but my next words are as follows. “I’ve seen my world before you, with you, and after you in it, and my favorite by far are the times when you’re around. You make my life better. You brighten it. For all the times you’ve made my cry or worry, there have been a hundred other times you’ve made me laugh or calmed me down. When you’re around-”  

Before I can finish my thought, a pair of arms surround me. They’re familiar and inviting. I wrap my arms around his thin frame in return. He smells like a mixture of beer, cigarettes, and cologne. It works for him. “Thanks for agreeing to come here.” I hadn’t realized until now, but he’d never thanked me for coming before. 

“Of course.” I pull back from the embrace just far enough to make eye contact. “You know I love you, right?” 

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.” I’ve never seen him look this serious. His penetrating gaze fixates on me. 

And then of course is the moment I yawn. That makes him giggle a little. It sounds like music, and all seriousness is lost. “You tired?” 

“Only a little bit,” I lie. 

“Do you wanna head out?” He hands me the keys. 

“Are you sure you’re ready to go home?” 

“As ready as I'll ever be.” 

I contemplate my next question for a second. “Do you want to just come home with me? You can stay in the guest room just like old times.” 

He smiles wide at me. “Yeah, sure, just like old times.” 

[First Movement]

Tonight, she sits me down after the lesson and says that maybe I’m not fit to compete this year. The piece I’d been working on might prove a little too difficult.

But I know she’s thinking about last year’s competition, when the world spun as I stepped out onto the stage, and the space around me felt empty. When the walls were too far apart and the audience pressed against me, suffocating. When my shaking hands made my bow leap and my fingers imprecise.

She waits for my response. I pause, words pressed at the tip of my tongue. But in the end, I nod and say it’s okay, and I understand.

As she escorts me out, her mouth is pressed in a thin line. “Goodnight,” she says.

“Thank you,” I call back as I step out onto the street, the strap of my violin case heavy on my shoulder.

But a few days later, before the week’s lesson, she calls me and invites me over.

“What is it?” I ask when I show up at her doorstep.

She smiles. “I secured a spot in the competition for you.”

“Really?”

“And I found a partner,” she says.

“A partner?” I ask.

“A cellist,” she replies.

[Second Movement]

I meet him the next day.

I see him through the window of the practice room first, studying the music, eyebrows furrowed. He gets up as I enter the room, and I give a little start when he turns toward me, because he’s Michael and everyone knows him— a nationally-ranked cello player. He notices my reaction and smiles, pulling over a chair for me. Still, he says “nice to meet you” and “my name is Michael.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and closes the door as I take the seat.

“Is there anything you’d like to play?” he asks. His fingers hover over the strings of his cello.

“A— Are there requirements?”

“No, not for this round.”

“Something by Vivaldi? Debussy? Schubert,” I say.

“Schubert sounds good,” he says.

***

A month isn’t long at all. We meet every day, not necessarily to practice. Sometimes we talk until she walks by and gives as a teasing glare through the window.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he says as we enter the practice room on a Tuesday afternoon.

“I have stage fright,” I say. “Like really, really bad stage fright. Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you still said yes?”

“Of course.”

I let my gaze drop to my violin.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You’re not playing by yourself this time.”

***

Sometimes we just play until there’s no more music for us to unravel. By the time we’ve finished working through the piece and begun to memorize, my sheet music is completely marked up. He tells me we should both close our eyes when we play, “to feel the music.” But it’s just so he has an excuse to keep the music on the stand and peek when he needs to. I pretend not to notice.

[Third Movement]

A week before the competition, she brings us in to perform for the parents. In the rehearsal room, we sit cross-legged on the floor, the parents in a semi-circle around us.

She nods, and I take a breath and hurl myself into the music, Michael joining in. But my hands shake and the music is thin. Michael looks even better in performance than in practice, his soft and delicate bow strokes crescendoing to vigorous as we approach the climax.  

After a painful minute of playing, she stops us. I drop my hands in relief and Michael pauses for a second, mid-vibrato, before relaxing. My eyes sting. She looks at the crowd and nods, and they get up to leave.

“Thank you,” they call to her as they file out the door.

She walks over to me and shakes her head. “You can’t compete like this,” she says. “If you don’t think you can do it, it’s not too late for you two to drop out. Michael can always do a solo.”

My throat constricts. “I—”

She notices my expression and says, “You play beautifully, Morgan. Up to par with my best players. You just can’t be afraid.”

“Please. Another chance”

“That was your last practice in front of the crowd,” she says. “The competition is in seven days.”

I look down at Michael, and he tries to smile, but it falters a little.

“I understand.”

“Alright,” she says. “Good luck.”

I nod. My heartbeat flutters as I pack my violin, put on my coat, and exit with the last of the parents. When I walk out, Michael is still sitting in the same spot, playing his part. It’s beautiful, beautiful enough to be a solo.

***

The days fall away as we do last minute touch-ups. Throughout the week, music floods my thoughts. The only thing I can think about is the melody that winds its way into my consciousness, haunting.

The night before, I call him and say I’m so nervous I’m so nervous I’m so nervous over and over again, my voice shaking.

“You’ll be fine,” is all he says, but I can hear him smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[Fourth Movement]

In the sultry lights of the waiting room, we’re all pressed too close to each other. The air reeks of confidence.

As we settle down, the boy next to me sees Michael, and they exchange a polite nod. All of a sudden I feel like an imposter, a small girl made of thin and trembling lines that pretends to play the violin, sitting between two nationally-ranked cello players. I close my eyes to calm myself.

Five minutes before we’re scheduled to go on stage, a man holding a clipboard calls us inside. We stand up together and leave the room, under the stares of the other competitors. I tune my strings and he tunes his to mine, and then we go out into the auditorium. The venue is packed, and I huddle near the steps that lead up to the stage. Michael leans against the wall, his eyes trained in the distance. He holds his cello like  this performance means nothing more than another practice.

I close my eyes and run my hands over my violin again. The boy before us—the one that greeted Michael earlier—is still playing, the sound of his cello smooth and even. His melody could carry you, if you let it.

The audience breaks into applause when he finishes, and I marvel at how his notes seem to linger in the air, clinging to my memory, even as he stands and then walks off stage.

“Morgan,” I hear. “Morgan.”

The rest of the world rushes in all at once: the judges calling our names, the audience’s voices echoing off the walls, Michael’s hand on my shoulder.

I stand up, unsteady.

Michael leads the way up the stage. In the brief moment we’re behind the stage curtains, hidden from the audience, he turns back and smiles at me, the same way as he did when I first walked in the practice room. I smile back and then we walk on. The lights are blinding.

He readjusts the chair and I stay standing. His eyes are on me as I put my violin to my shoulder. And then in front of everyone—somehow, somehow—I’m still able to move. I lift my bow and he echoes my motion, raising his, and then we breathe and begin.

In the first notes, I’m shaking and the world is going under, but Michael looks at me. And in the look, I hear Michael can do a solo and him, telling me you’re not playing by yourself this time. And all of a sudden, the practice floods back to me, and I feel grounded.

The sound is no longer thin the room. His baseline resonates like a heartbeat, and I feel the energy and adrenaline thrumming through our bodies, the music spiralling around us. I don’t think—there’s only room to feel.

So this is why she wanted me to have a partner: to fill the space on stage. To widen the walls, steady my shaking hands. To keep the ground below us from spinning. I’m no longer afraid.

The deep tones of his bass fill the gaps in my melody, running through the cracks in the sound. And as we breathe the first notes to life, our song begins to form, our fingers climbing the strings, our notes bleeding into a symphony.

Part 1

I’ve been living in the depths of King Henry VIII’s castle for fifteen years. I was brought here to serve and I’ve stayed here to serve, for all this time. It kills me to think that I’ll never have a life outside of these walls, I’ll never find love within these walls, and I’ll never, ever, escape these walls. And so that I don’t die in this cellar we live in, I don’t think about it. I go on doing my chores and I stop myself from daydreaming and I pinch myself if I do.

Us servants are never meant to be seen, heard, or touched. Us servants may never daydream, think, or speak. Us servants can never, ever, go outside. We are kept in here like animals who will soon die. Animals who will rot over and never learn to fly.

Mother says I often get too dramatic with my words, if I ever get to use them. She is always lecturing me about it. And I know that sometimes I may over exaggerate just a teensy-weensy bit, but I’m only trying to express how lonely and desperate I feel. Last time I checked that wasn’t a crime. But I know that even if it isn’t a crime, the King could make it so. I know he could have me beaten, whipped, or dead, just for expressing my feelings.

Even though I’m twenty, I’ve never learned how to read or write. The King believes it improper for women to learn anything. Especially servants like me. We are meant to clean, to do his bidding, whatever that might be. He can force us to do anything.

Maybe now you see why I long to get out of here. Why I need to feel fresh air on my dark, dry skin. Maybe now you see.

I can hear his orders from my small chamber room. I can hear his loud, authoritative voice screaming at everybody under his command. It wakes me up in the middle of the night. I hate my job, cleaning the palace top to bottom, but at least I’m not one of them. The ones who work upstairs, in the direct line of the King.

I look up at the ceiling, the crack that grows longer and longer everyday, the cobwebs in the corner. I hear the drip, drip of the leak in the corner, landing in the bucket I placed there a few months ago.

My mind wanders as I wait for sleep to come. I think of the story my mother once told me, a story about her mother, my grandmother whom I have never met. She told me of the time her mother had died. My grandmother, Eleanor was her name, was traveling as the Queen’s lady’s maid. Once they had arrived, Eleanor and some other maid, named Lucy I think, had been walking with the Queen down an icy path to get to the castle. Eleanor had chosen to stand on the right side of the Queen and the other maid on the left to keep the Queen from falling. Suddenly the ice below Eleanor started to crack. The freezing water below pulled her in and—and she drowned.

I sigh into my pillow, dreaming of a life outside of the palace. I hear a knock at the wooden door that leads to my room. It’s an odd time for someone to be knocking, almost dawn. I say “Come in,” and when the person on the other side opens the door I have to blink a few times before I can believe it’s really her. But it is. My long lost sister.

Standing there in the doorway, her long black hair in a tangle, her eyes bright with curiosity. Most people say she looks like me, and in some ways she does, but I don’t have the same energy that she has.

“Margaret? Wha—what are you doing here?” I stutter, “You left and you didn’t come back! We thought you were gone forever!” My eyes are searching her, looking for some sign that she’s not who she says she is.

“I know, I know. I’ll explain once we get mum.”

“Okay!” I say, happy that she’s home, but still brimming with curiosity about where she had been for the last six years. Suddenly, I get up and run over to her, she opens her arms to me, just like she did when we were little. Even though we are seven years apart, we’ve always been close. Just thinking about all the time that we lost together brings tears to my eyes.

When I reach her I hug her tight, to make up for all those years apart.

“Oof,” she says. “Careful Gracie, you’ve grown quite a lot since I left. She smiles down at me and I smile back. “We have to go tell everyone your home!” I exclaim, “They’ve all been so desperately worried!”

“No!” says Margaret. “The only people who can know are you, mum, and dad.”

She doesn’t know. I completely forgot to tell her. It had happened only three years ago.

“Maggie, father is—father is dead.” Margaret sits down on my little cot with a thump, for once speechless. “I—I don’t know what to say,” she says, finally. “How?”

It all comes flooding back to me, in a rush of emotion. My father, sneaking out in the dead of night, being beaten in chains, and finally a lump on the floor. I tell Maggie about it all, how he snuck out in a desperate attempt of escape. How they found him and beat him to death. At the end we’re both crying, but not those weeping gasps. Our crying was quiet but desperate, a silent storm.

We sneak up to mother’s room, quiet as mice, careful not to be seen or heard. A sound around the corner makes us jump, and we both look around for a place to hide. I point out a small janitor’s closet to our right. We open the door and step in, carefully closing it behind us so it doesn’t squeak. Maggie looks through the keyhole and I get flat on my stomach to look in the crack between the door and the floor.

All I can see from here is two heavy boots, a guard. We wait silently until the footfalls pass. We step out of the closet and are on the move again.

When we reach mother’s room we knock, as quiet as can be, and, after a few seconds, she peers out from behind the door. When she sees us, Margaret and me, standing there, her mouth falls open in shock and her eyes pop, but she knows not to speak until we’re all inside. She deftly opens the door, letting us into her chamber. We all gather on the bed and she starts firing away questions, one after the other. Margaret answers them as best she can. After mother has nothing left to ask, Margaret starts to speak.

“I know this might sound crazy, but I have a plan to run away, a plan to get us all out of here. A plan to escape.”

The plan is almost too simple. The following afternoon, even though it isn’t my job, I will bring the King his tea, and then fake a bad fall. I will then be sent to the hospital wing where mother and Maggie will be my nurses. While they should be healing my wounds, they’ll actually be taking me away. Away from this prison of a castle.

Part 2

I’m on my way to bring the tea to the King. I have butterflies in my stomach, both from the excitement and the nerves. I’m just about to turn the corner to his chambers when I hear my name. I look around the corner to the hallway on my right and see two of the guards whispering.

“She simply must take it! She has no choice! She has to know now! Grace isn’t a child anymore!”

“Well you can tell that to the King!” The other guard stomps off, luckily not in my direction. I have to make a choice. Deliver the tea or discover what the guards were whispering about, and I have to decide fast.

“The left side of the Queen or the right?”

I desperately want to know what they were talking about, but I know that’s not really an option right now. I can ask Maggie later, she’ll know what it was. She knows everything. Because of this I choose to go left. Towards the King’s chambers and towards my destiny.

I go through all the movements that Maggie instructed: I trip and I fall and I’m carried to the hospital wing. But all I’m doing is going through the motions, I can’t stop thinking about the words that the guard spoke, even though this is not the time to wonder.

I am set down on a white cot and Maggie and mother rush to me, dressed like all the other nurses. Maggie bends down and starts telling me the rest of the plan. I am to sneak out as soon as the sun sets. I am then to go down to the servants quarters to meet mother and Maggie. Then we will all escape into the night together.

I’ve been waiting by the hospital window for a while now, waiting for the sun to set completely. It’s so close. As soon as I can no longer see the bright light in the sky I go. I run down the stairs and to the servants’ quarters. I search for Maggie and mother and I see them waiting by the big doors that lead to the outside world. I grab their hands and we race free into the night together. But I know deep in my heart that I will never truly be free. Not with the words of the guard echoing in my mind. “She simply must take it! She has no choice! She has to know now! Grace isn’t a child anymore!” I could have known everything, I could have known what his words meant. If only I had taken the other path.

Part 3

I’m on my way to bring the tea to the King. I have butterflies in my stomach, both from the excitement and the nerves. I’m just about to turn the corner to his chambers when I hear my name. I look around the corner to the hallway on my right and see two of the guards whispering.

“She simply must take it! She has no choice! She has to know now! Grace isn’t a child anymore!”

“Well you can tell that to the King!” The other guard stomps off, luckily not in my direction. I have to make a choice. Deliver the tea or discover what the guards were whispering about, and I have to decide fast.

“The left side of the Queen or the right?”

I can’t help it. I have to know. So I go right. Towards the guard and towards my destiny.

I march up to the guard and I demand to know what he was talking about. He looks surprised to see me there, and scared too, like he knows that he’s going to have to fess up to the King that he revealed this big secret. I feel a twinge of guilt seeing the look on his face, but I don’t have time for pity.

The King tells me the basics once he knows what I overheard. How he was my real father, but that my mother was also my real mother. How I was the only heir to the throne.

I eventually figure out the rest of the story. That the King killed my father out of pure jealousy. That the King sent Maggie away because she was starting to get suspicious. Every puzzle piece comes together. Why Maggie hasn’t let us talk to anyone about her sudden appearance. Why mother and Maggie wanted me to get away so quickly, before the King could take me as his heir.

I realize now that my life is very different than it could have been, should have been. If only I had taken the other path.

The village in which this story took place was sunny and warm. the street was hot from hours of not having shade, and the sky was filled with purely white, chicken-fat clouds.  There were children playing outside, most children were playing hopscotch, jump rope, playing tag, or house.  Only one child was not.  She wore a green skirt and a hair ribbon.  She had taken her shoes off and begun to pull baby birds out of them, like there had been a nest in them all along.  The little girl held a baby bird in her hand, whispered to it with a smile, and sent it into flight. 

The birds flew to nearby trees as though they’d been flying their whole lives.  When there were no more birds, she politely asked a nearby man for his cane.  She took it, holding it in front of her with one hand on top, and jumped onto it with ease.  With one leg sticking out for balance, she reached out and plucked a big apple off a tree.  Then she jumped off, handed the cane back to the now perfectly perplexed man, and offered the apple to a very hungry looking lady.  The little girl walked back into the mass of children, where she joined a game of tag.  She was having fun being chased, but she tripped over a large root and tore her skirt by accident.  It seemed to be no bother to her, for she simply stood up, brushed her hands across it, and the tear was gone, but the boy who was chasing her stood frozen in place. Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth from her face to the dress. 

He looked so confused that the girl couldn’t hold her laughter, so she laughed, but not unkindly.  Then she said, “Silly! It’s Just a trick of the eye. Would you like me to show you?”  The boy nodded.

 “What’s your name?” The girl asked. 

 “Daniel.”  The boy said, “and yours?”

 “Sabrina,” She motioned to him, “Daniel, come closer.”  He had taken a few steps back, “Take the bottom of your shirt, and make a small tear.” Daniel took the part of his shirt closest to his waist and tore a hole.  “Okay, now take your hands, and brush them across the tear, as if you are trying to shake dirt off.”  He brushed his hands across the tear, but when he took his hands away, it was still there.  Daniel tried many more times, every time the tear was still there.  Sabrina sighed, she expected this to happen, but she didn’t want to discourage her possibly new friend.  So, she asked, “May I?” motioning for his hands.  Daniel lifted them, “Here,” Sabrina said as she took them. “Like this,” She motioned his hands in the same way, and just like that the tear was gone. 

His mouth gaped with amazement, and he said, “Terrific!”

Daniel cocked his head to one side and implored, “How did you learn to do that?”

Sabrina looked off to the side, and said, “I’ve been able to do that since I was young, I never really thought about it.” 

“Well,” Daniel said, “With a gift like that, I think you should share it with everyone,” 

“Really?” Sabrina stood up a little straighter. “You think they’d like it?”

Right before he was about to respond, she looked at where the sun was in the sky and put a hand to her face in shock.  “Oh no.  I’m late, I must go home, it’s almost nighttime.” 

Sabrina started running away, and Daniel called after her, “Wait! But aren’t you going to say goodbye!?” 

Without stopping to turn around, Sabrina called back, “Goodbye!” as she ran towards her house.

When she got to her front door, she used magic to silence the noise of the door creaking open, her footsteps, and the sound of her breathing, as she crept into the house, and snuck into the kitchen.  When she got into the kitchen, all her siblings were sitting down at the table, praying quietly over their food.  With her silent spell cast, Sabrina ladled a bowl of pheasant soup, picked up a spoon, and made her way to the table.  When she got there, she had the bowl set itself down on its spot, then she gestured to the chair, and it pulled itself out in such a way that it would not make any noise.  Sabrina sat down in it, and it pulled itself back in.  She swiftly pretended she had been praying, just in time for father to say “amen” and gesture for them to eat.  Sabrina lifted her spoon but dropped it back in the bowl with a sharp chink, and her siblings next to her glanced her way.  Visibly wondering, “when did she get here?” and rolling their eyes at her mischief.  On the other hand, her father had also noticed her, but he was looking at her with an eyeful of disdain.

“Sabrina.” he commanded her attention.

Her eyes looked up from her soup and locked with his.

“Yes, father?”  she answered.

Sabrina watched him as his hand lifted a spoon of soup up to his lips, hearing the slurp, she kept her gaze where it was.

She sat innocently in her seat, confident that she had fooled everyone with her tricks. 

“I do hope you took off your shoes when you came in just now?”  The corners of father’s mouth and eyebrows curved in a smirk.  Sabrina’s head and shoulders slumped, she truly thought she had tricked him. 

He laughed, “My darling, you may have had your siblings fooled by that little act, but you missed just one detail that gave you away…-“ her father pointed to the chandelier, “The light, when you passed in front of it you cast a shadow crossing my eyelids, that’s how I knew.”

Sabrina let out a long and frustrated sigh, “How will I ever fool you? you always know.”

“Ah,” father said, nodding, “one day you will fool me, but that will come with practice, if you practice enough, the mistakes you make will not be so frequent.” 

She suddenly jolted up in her chair and gave him pleading and begging eyes, “but they’re not frequent: I practice all the time, you just don’t notice!”

Father sighed, and said dismissively, “Time to go to bed children, it’s getting past your bedtime.”  He waved them off and started heading to his study.  As Sabrina made her way to bed with all her siblings, aged 4 to 17, she looked back at her father. She wished, with all her heart, that her father would stop trying to get children he didn’t have.

    Pine Ridge Airport in South Dakota is the place to be around the holidays. Pine Ridge is only 3.2 square miles, yet our tiny airport is still operating. Near this time of year, people fly in and out from all over the country to see their families. It’s the best day of the year, December 24th, 2016, and everyone at the airport is bustling around. It’s below freezing outside and to top it all off, big flurries of snow are falling from the sky and the wind is picking up. This combination doesn’t amount for great flying conditions. Despite the frigid weather, I feel professional sitting here with my small scarlet red scarf and my stainless steel name tag pinned onto my navy vest. Underneath, I’m wearing a button down, snowflake white shirt with my good navy dress pants and black flats. I have chestnut brown hair, around medium length, parted on the right and big emerald green eyes. I’m the friendly person people go to when they have a problem. Since our airport staff does a lovely job and we aren’t the biggest airport around, help is rarely needed, so I get to sit here with my “Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want To Come” coffee mug and watch the blizzard rage outside. I raise the mug to my lips and tip the liquid into my mouth. Instantly, a wave of warmness floods over me. I feel the hot coffee sliding down the back of my throat, savoring every precious sip. Quicker than I imagined, I get to the bottom of the mug. As I’m finishing my favorite beverage, the phone rings, it sounds strange, but I answer it anyway.

   “Hi Rose, this is Oliver from the Bagging Area, I’ve directed someone your way, his name is Henry, he claims his granddaughter, Willow, lost her luggage on her flight here from Orlando. He told me she was flying over to see her family because they flew over here and then they were visiting a relative, who also flew here on the wrong day and...” Oliver kept blabbing about nonsense, telling me about Henry's life story and the vacation in Orlando. I only catch part of what he’s saying. Instead of spacing out, I decide to set the phone on the table and look up to check the time. As I’m gazing up, I see Oliver from across the room, checking out of work while still chatting on the phone. He didn’t know I was no longer listening; I’m sure he’s thrilled because he gets to leave. It’s one of the worst times of the day. It is right after our lunch break, which is nice, so I am no longer starving. On the other hand, we still have a good enough chunk before the end of the day. This is also the time when the crowds move slow and there is nothing to do. Luckily, I get out earlier today than usual. It is 2:00 in the afternoon; I still have 4 dreaded hours left, then I can go home.

   “This is going to be agonizing,” I complain aloud. My eyes roll into the back of my head and I pick the phone back up. I can still hear him talking on the phone, so I choose to interrupt him before he begins chatting about what he’s going to do with his time off.

   “Thanks, Oliver,” I say, in a monotone voice.

   “No problem Rose, have a Merry Christmas” he answers happily. I hang up the phone and sit there, waiting for Henry to come. My eyes wander around the big noisy room, in search of a confused man. It is close to impossible to find anything in an airport. With no success, I turn back to the small silver computer on my desk and mindlessly scroll through my old forgotten emails. Suddenly I look up; I’m expecting to see a puzzled grandfather who goes by Henry. I am surprised to see a younger woman, who appears to be in a big hurry. I quickly snap back to reality to assist her.

   “Can I help you?” I ask. I try not to stare at the woman's hands, trembling at her sides. She could possibly be in trouble and that’s the last thing I wanted.

   “I’d like to buy a plane ticket to the furthest destination.” she blurts out. Relieved she’s okay, I turn back to my computer and open a new tab. I click on a bookmark that takes me to the Pine Ridge Airport official site. I scan over all the departure times and find the furthest one.

   “Does Christmas Island, Australia work for you, ma’am?”

   “Yes, that’d be wonderful, thank you,” she responds pleasantly. I begin going through the process to print out her ticket and realize I missed the most important thing.

   “What’s your name?” I inquire, still clicking around on my computer.

   “Madison,” she responds. I run my fingers over the keyboard and type the letters into the open slot,

   “Beautiful name,” I comment. The second I hit print, I grab the cold metal handle of the desk drawer. I open the drawer, grab the ticket off the printer and hand it to her.

   “One ticket to Christmas Island,” I exclaim. In return, she hands over the money. As quick as she arrived, Madison turns on her heel and is gone.

   “Thanks again,” she calls, smiling over her shoulder. As soon as Madison left, I hear the same weird ring come from the phone again. I quickly answer it,

“Hello,” I call into the phone, “Hello?” To my surprise, no one was on the other end. I assume it’s a prank call gone awry and set the phone back down. Immediately, an elderly man hobbles up to my desk. He has a sweater on that’s arguably blue or green. His khaki pants are desert colored and on his feet are worn brown leather shoes. His hair is a whitish gray and he has piercing blue eyes.

   “Are you Henry?” I question. He seems a little old and sickly to be wandering around the airport alone.

   “Yes,” he answers, “Willow lost her luggage on her flight from Orlando to Pine Ridge today,” he exclaims. I open my computer and click around, examining the recent arrivals. I think back to my conversation with Oliver,

   “Your granddaughter?”

    “Yeah, my only grandchild too,” he answers. As I look at the arrivals, I get more and more concerned. I keep scrolling down, finally, my mouse hits the bottom of the page. A pit forms in my stomach, I frantically start back up the list, this time searching instead of looking. I again hit the top of the list with the same results.

   “Are you sure it was Orlando?” I ask nervously.

    “Yes, we ate over there at the mini McDonalds.” He gestures towards the glowing yellow arches. Something doesn’t seem right, Henry has a whole story, but nothing matches up.

   “We haven’t had any arrivals from Orlando since last Thursday,” I tell him, “the next one we have is for Saturday.” A puzzled look flies across Henry’s face.

   “What? We got off the plane 30 minutes ago?” We share lost and confused looks. I also notice he is quivering. I wonder if he’s shocked or he has a medical condition, considering he thinks his luggage is lost on a nonexistent flight.

    “Which plane did you get off of, sir?” I ask. He pauses for a minute and looks around.

    “Ummm, it was mostly blue, but it also had some red, orange and it had some yellow too.” he reminisced, “It might’ve been a Southwest plane.” I lean back in my chair and tilt my head towards the ceiling, thinking about what Henry told me. Sitting back up, I reach for my coffee. I instantly feel the heavy weight of an empty cup. Disappointed, I set it back down on the desk.

   “Can I see your ticket, please?” I question. Surely I can get some answers from that. Henry sticks his hand into his back pocket and plucks out a gum wrapper and a mini red box, stating, “Month Before Death: Memories, November 1999.”

   “Where’s the box from?” I inquire.

   “Oh, that old thing,” he responds. It’s from Willow...” he trails off, clearly not wanting to go deeper into the conversation. Henry tries the other pocket and pulls out his outdated flip phone, but nothing else. I give him a funny look and he begins to explain himself.

   “If I recall, I gave the tickets to Willow, let me call her and ask her to come here.” Henry grabs his phone and steps aside. He sits in one of the five blue chairs lined up next to my desk. I glance right to see snow falling outside; I look left and spy Henry still fumbling with his ancient phone. My focus zooms forward towards the no longer busy room and I see a beautiful young woman who looks as if she is walking on air. It’s almost like she knew Henry was trying to call her, because as the young lady approaches my desk, Henry was still trying to dial her number. When Henry locks eyes with her, he put his phone back in his pocket and hurries over to my desk.

   “Hello, you must be Willow. Do you have the ticket you used today?” I question.

   “Yeah, they’re right here” she mutters. Willow reaches into her red purse and pulls out the small rectangular papers. She quickly moves her hand over the desk and drops the tickets. Even quicker than before, Willow draws her hand away from the table and hangs it against her long white sweater. I immediately notice how pale and fragile she appears.

   “Thanks…” I look over them. There’s nothing wrong with them from what I can tell, they look a bit different though. I keep looking over the tickets for anything suspicious. Finally, after searching for any possible errors, I peek in the corner and see they are dated December, 24th 1999.

   “These are from 17 years ago...” I exclaim perplexed. I glance back up and see Willow and Henry leaving. They are strolling hand in hand towards the colossal, double doors, leading to the snowy world. I don’t know if it’s because she has a white sweater on or that it’s snowing outside, but it appears to me that Willow is fading. Henry slowly turns around and smiles over his shoulder. I grin back at him and wave. It’s almost like I’ve missed a moment in time; I shut my eyes and shake my head. When I peer up, Willow’s gone. All I can see is Henry standing by himself in the windy doorway, crying. He’s holding a small red box, tied with a sparkly gold bow. It reads, “Month of Death: Memories, December 1999. Final Stop.” Henry unlatches the box and opens it up. I get out of my chair to see what’s inside the mysterious box. As soon as my body leaves the seat, a loud noise comes over the intercom, it sounds like the eerie ring from my phone.

   “Hello everyone, Flight 220 is coming in from Atlanta, Georgia, Our next departure is to New York and it’s at 4:45 sharp.” Just then, a huge crowd of people marches by. There are hundreds of them, all holding their luggage. One woman is chasing after two smaller kids, another, middle-aged man is trying to pull 3 bags by himself. It’s complete chaos. This makes it fairly difficult to get to Henry. I push through part of the huge crowd and peer over everyone’s heads. With no luck of finding Henry, I give up trying to see over the sea of adults and children and I solemnly trek back to my desk. When I sit back down, I spot Henry strolling back up to me with nothing in his hands.

   “Where’s the red box?” I ask, “Didn’t you just have it?”

   “What box?” Henry looks almost as disoriented as I am.

   “You know, the one Willow gave to you? Where did she go? What happened?” I interrogate. His face forms a puzzled look,

   “I haven’t heard that name in a long time” he reminisces, he seems as if he is going to cry. “No dear, I’m sorry, my granddaughter, Willow, passed away a great while ago,” he states sadly. I’m confused as to what to do, I clearly have missed something.

   “Oh, but I swear, I saw you two together just now, you had the problem with your bags coming from Orlando,” I say frantically.

   “No, but I do have a problem now, I need to rent a car to go see Willows grave, it’s the 17th anniversary of her death,” he reports, his voice filled with grief. I know this isn’t a dream, so to make sure, I check my computer and it reads, December 24, 2016. For extra measure, I even pinch myself. I advance to the Pine Ridge Airport official site and hunt for rental cars. I easily find one for Henry and send him on his way,

    “Bye Henry,” I call, “have a great trip, I hope we see each other again!”

    “You too, thanks for all of your help!” he answers. Henry turns around and shuffles towards the exit. He steps out the big glass doors and disappears into the icy streets.