When Koona was little, her world was a rooftop, a quilt of stars, and a stack of double chocolate chip cookies. Every night, her father would take her to the top of their house. They’d sit there, knees hugged to their chests, dipping their cookies into chocolate milk as the universe unfolded around them. The stars were their companions, and the night sky was their canvas.

They had a song—one that lived between them, soft and sweet like the lullabies he would hum as he kissed her forehead goodnight. It was their tradition, and it filled the silence of the cosmos with warmth and laughter.

“Stars above, don’t drift too far,

 Leave a trail of light where loved ones are.

 Sip the dark, sweet night so slow,

 While the milky moons and comets glow.

Dip the cookie, make a wish,

 Send it flying with a chocolaty swish.

 One for dreams and one for Dad,

 And one for every hug we had.

Lyrielle, Lyrielle, with your glow,

 Watch my nova as she grows.

 Tell my Koona not to get her belly too big,

 Or they’ll say she is the astro-pig!"

She would laugh every time, calling him silly. And he would laugh too, his deep voice mingling with the soft hum of the universe, as the stars twinkled in the night sky. Every night, they studied the stars, the constellations, memorizing them. But more often than not, Koona found herself gazing at just one—the star that glowed a soft blue and lavender, the one her father had named just for her. Lyrielle.

Her father would catch her staring, a twinkle in his eye. “Koona, my nova girl,” he’d say. “You’re starstruck!”

And she’d smile, her heart swelling, her mind filled with the possibility of the stars and the worlds beyond.

Years passed. Life changed. One morning, Koona woke up to find that her father was gone. The world seemed colder, emptier. But his memory remained, and the song they had sung together would never leave her heart.

When the time came, they honored his memory by sending his body to the stars—his coffin burning as it soared into the cosmos, becoming part of the night sky he had loved so much.

Koona grew older, more determined. She studied the stars, studied the cosmos, trained herself to go farther than anyone had ever gone. She promised herself she would make him proud. And one day, she was ready. Ready to be the first, the youngest, to leave the solar system and journey into the unknown.

On the day of her departure, her heart raced with excitement. She could feel the weight of the universe surrounding her, pressing in on her, but also pushing her forward. And there, just ahead of her, Lyrielle glowed brighter than ever before.

Koona kept her eyes fixed on the star. She knew that her father was out there, somewhere among the stars, watching her, guiding her. She was so close to him now. The same star that had been their anchor now became her beacon.

As her ship left Earth behind, leaving the planets far below, Koona’s mind raced. She remembered the cookies, the laughter, the warmth of those nights. She remembered the last time she’d looked at Lyrielle, with her father beside her. She took a deep breath and began to sing their song.

“Stars above, don’t drift too far...”

But the words caught in her throat. She couldn’t finish it. She wasn’t just starstruck by the beauty of the cosmos; she was starstruck by the weight of the memory, the love that stretched across space and time. The stars had never seemed so vast, so alive, and suddenly, she was overwhelmed.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she whispered softly to herself, “Sorry, Dad. I’ll finish the song later. I’m just… starstruck.”

And with that, she floated through the infinite dark, the memory of her father’s warmth and laughter wrapped around her like a blanket of stars.

Leto was left to sit and try to calm her breathing down, the fogging in her spacesuit slowly dispersing. It had all happened so fast. The thing attacking the station, and then chasing her into the cave, and then that weird spiky blob killing aforementioned thing and then diving at her cracked helmet and… fixing it? White wings above, it’s no wonder missions to the moon stopped happening! This was crazy! Leto finally let out a long sigh, letting her small, black muzzle bump against her visor. At least her oxygen was still plentiful. She could get back to base with this. If they were okay. Zoey, Phoebe, Jackal and Doc… Had any of them gotten hurt? It’s then that Leto realized she’d left her radio in the station for some ungodly reason. “Dammit!” she gasped, kicking a chunk of pale rock away. Its flight was almost graceful until it smacked into that dead… thing. It looked like a cross between a Christmas tree of flesh and a wasp. Like a tree wasp. Or a wreesp. Trasp. Trawsp. Perfection. Doc wouldv’e facepalmed at that.

I do not know him, but I would agree.

Leto blinked. Where did that voice come from? She stood still, craning her neck around. Sound didn’t travel through space. Maybe she was just imagining things. Hallucinating? Taking in the air from oxygen plants would do that, sometimes. “C’mon, Leto. You’ve just gotta get back to base,” she murmured to herself, trailing a gloved paw over her visor. It really was fixed. She hadn’t gotten infected or something, had she? Hopefully not. Tilting her head, Leto realized the short way back, the way she originally came in, was blocked off by broken rock. The long way around took hours, but thankfully there were oxyplants along the way, which the team had planted all over in case of emergencies. Thanks, underground Mars ecosystems! Then again, wasn’t that technically the spread of foreign plants? Which was technically illegal last time anyone checked? Leto hummed at the question, vaulting over a wall of moonrock and continuing through the cavern. It’s not like the ecosystem would care too much. Or maybe it would.

~✪~

The caverns were disturbingly dark. Not too dark, Leto could make out walls and textures, but it felt like time itself was different here. Technically true, since the moon revolved differently than the Earth and in turn had different day cycles. Leto huffed, the soft green glow of an oxyplant catching her eye. She kneeled down next to it, taking the yellow shoot sprouting from the plant’s flower and connecting it to her oxygen pack.

PTSSHHHHWOP

And her oxygen was filled all the way back up. Funny, now that she thought about it, oxyplant-caused hallucinations were usually small, quiet, and directly after oxygen intakes. So why had she hallucinated that voice, that strong voice, several minutes after initially using an oxyplant? “Maybe it was the shock,” she murmured to herself with a sigh. Yeah, that had to be it. Still, Leto froze up as the feeling of loneliness dispersed. 

She needed to get out of here. And, with a quick rise to her feet, she did. Not even fifteen minutes of quickly trodding through the dark silver caves later did she come across light. Relief washed over Leto as she stumbled out into the Sun’s rays. And, thankfully, she felt alone again. For once, that was good.

But you are not alone. I am here with you.

Leto let out a sharp gasp. It was the same voice. Very clear. And in no way, shape, or form could that have been from shock. She was infected by something. And she had to get it out, regardless of whether or not she’d live. No way would she let this thing get back to the station. 

“Crap!” Leto caterwauled, small little thumps being heard as she scrambled to get ahold of her helmet.

No, what are you doing- wait-

She gripped the locking mechanism.

STOP.

And she did. Not that she wanted to, but her hands froze. She couldn’t move at all. Had this being, this parasite, stopped her from killing it?

I have no intent of directly harming you or your fellow Erdliyas. You have no reason to terminate the both of us. 

“Us what-?”

Erdliyas! Or whatever you call those from that green planet there-

Leto found herself gazing up at Earth, which spun in a magnificent manner in the distance. It shone and shimmered in the sunlight, bearing a glimmer like a disco ball.

“You’re talking about Earth?”

Yes! That place, Erdilyan.

“I have a name, y’know-” Leto said. “-and I’m assuming the same goes for whatever you are?”

Yes. I am-

The next part of the creature’s sentence was a series of screeches and clicks that Leto couldn’t even begin to process.

“... What…”

Oh, you have a feeble tongue. I see. You may call me Trillsell, Leto.

Leto paused. “How did you-”

You had spoken it to yourself earlier.

“Oh,” She murmured, before looking around. This… thing… no, Trillsell, didn’t have a physical form from what Leto could see. It’d merged right with her helmet earlier, and presumably entered her body through what was probably her eyes, based on how they got all watery for a second after the incident. 

“What’re you doing with me, Trillsell?” she asked.

You are asking why I chose you as a host? It is because I was about to die without one. I would’ve taken the… Trawsp, as you so stupidly called it, but you seemed like a much more suitable candidate to survive in.

“How do I know you won’t kill me? Or my crew, if I make it back? Even if I do get back, I’ll get stuffed in quarantine and you’ll be removed or something!” Leto pressed.

I guess you have no way of knowing how to believe me. But you will probably need me on your way back. The Trawsp was a part of a herd, and the rest will be there on your way back to base. And your crew will only find out I’m here if you tell them, right?

“They’ll scan me.”

I can avoid detection.

“Really?”

Yes.

Leto sighed. “Well, I’ve got no other choice at this point.”

~✪~

The trek home had taken hours longer than initially planned, Leto would conclude at the end of the day. But not because of Trillsell. Being perfectly honest, Trillsell sped up the journey for Leto. Without the parasite, Leto would’ve probably died in one of the following three ways:

A. She would’ve run out of oxygen after failing to get to an oxyplant in time.

B. A Trawsp or some other alien creature could’ve killed her.

Or C. She’d have died to that first Trawsp.

All of which were horrible ways to go that she, spoiler alert, nearly succumbed to. But Trillsell helped her survive. At the cost of her sanity.

How far away is this base of yours? We have passed three of those Martian plants already! It has been HOURS. Trillsell’s booming voice filled up her helmet.

“Yeah, I know. I thought the path was a little shorter than this myself,” Leto huffed, eyeing yet another Oxyplant in the distance. “That, however-” she said, pointing to it, “-should be the fourth and final Oxyplant in the valley, if I remembered the map correctly.”

Ah, yes. The very big “if”. Wonderful.

“And after the valley-” Leto continued as she ignored Trillsell’s remark, “-the base won’t be too far. It’s just looping around the mountain, after all.”

Did you completely forget about the threat of the Trawsps? There’s no telling where their herd went to since we’ve been trudging through this WINGFORSAKEN VALLEY!

Leto winced at that last part, the parasite’s bark of a banshee’s scream having caught her off guard. “I guess I just looked at the situation optimistically, Trill,” she sighed, lightly kicking a moon rock by accident. In turn, the silvery chunk slowly spun in the air as it descended into the farther depths of the valley she trudged through. It was more of a canyon, really.

Trill? Have you nicknamed me already?

“Maybe-”

You say that as if you didn’t just call me by a nickname.

“Aw, c’mon, saying Trillsell all the time gets boring,” Leto said, finally kneeling down next to the Oxyplant to grab its- clearly missing shoot. Leto swore, trying to figure out how and why its shoot had been cut. It looked like something took a bite out of it.

LETO, BEHIND YOU-

Too late had Trill’s alarm rang out, as something grabbed her by the shoulder in that instant. Trillsell made a series of clicks that she could only assume were swears as she was yanked into the air. Or lack of thereof, actually. No air on the moon, which made it easy to sneak up on things. Searing pain flooded Leto’s shoulders as she let out a cry of fear, struggling in what was probably a Trawsp’s toothy grasp. Suddenly, however, her arms flew up without her control to swipe at it. Except a mesmerizing and hardy black liquid covered her gloves and forearm, resembling giant claws.

Leto felt the Trawsp screeching in pain as those claws scratched at its bulbous black eyes, in which it tossed her a little farther skyward, before ramming her back when she was close enough again for it to reach her. And that damaged her oxygen reserves.

/Warning: two minutes of oxygen remaining/

What was that?

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you just did to my hands?!” Leto gasped, scrambling upwards as the Trawsp silently thundered closer. 

I only displaced some of myself outside your suit. Nothing to be worried about. It will help.

“WHAT?” she continued, whipping around in time to see the Trawsp screeching. As if on instinct, she leapt toward its long neck, slashing at it. This strength was… amazing! Leto felt like she could bound through even the harshest environments without having to even pause for breath! She could feel the Trawsp screaming again, and laid siege to its neck with her claws. No, not hers, that was all Trill’s.

Thank you for the recognition.

However, the Trawsp, close to death, flung Leto with all its might over the side of the valley. The impact would, once again, cause her oxygen pack damage that Trillsell would desperately try to patch up.

/Warning: fifteen seconds of oxygen remaining/

“Dammit-!” Leto rasped, trying to stand up. There, thankfully, thirty-five feet away, was an oxyplant. Leto’s leg, however, decided to drag out the seconds she took to get there.

/Ten/

Thirty feet.

/Nine/

Twenty feet. Was the timer skipping numbers?

/Five/

Ten feet. So close.

/Two/

Five feet.

However, Leto’s consciousness faded as she collapsed next to the Oxyplant. Not even Trillsell’s yelling could keep her awake. She was as good as dead.

Supposedly.

However, if you actually read the story all the way through so far, you’d know she survives.

She laid in the cosmos, untethered, floating without burden through the sea of light, creation. Her hair flowed, dark as the universe around Her, powdered with stars that crackled and glowed. Wisps of dust brushed Her legs, swirling, forming into clouds that floated lazily by Her face. She sat up, unbothered by the particles as She waved Her hand to clear them away. 

It was time. 

The calling pulled at Her heart, a loneliness that ached throughout Her body.

She gathered Her hair into a bundle, shaking loose the clusters of stars, letting them fall and scatter and collide as they saw fit. She began to weave, the strands of Her hair knotted together. Her hair stretched into fabric, an endless sea of inspiration, of potential. 

The fabric of Her hair laid pooled in Her lap, caressing Her skin, Her fingertips. She collected the conjoined knots, lifting them to Her lips.

“Breathe.” Her breath crystallized, tiny specks of light—life flaring as the frost permeated the woven strands of Her hair. 

“Andromeda,” A voice called behind Her. She turned, acknowledging the glowing Being standing next to Her. 

“Bode.” Her heart warmed at His presence, shifting to lean slightly on Him as She imbued Her hair with life.

“What are you doing?” He rested His chin on Her shoulder, watching as the frost coalesced, and shapes began to form. 

“Making something new,” She answered, grabbing hold of dust and cupping it in Her hands until it solidified. “I enjoy your company, but I need more.”

Bode watched as Andromeda created stars, planets, life. He watched Her every move, the way Her lips curled into a smile when the glimmers of life flared brighter, taking on definite shapes, becoming sentient. 

“Such beautiful work, my light,” Bode whispered. She hummed in response, leaning further into Him, Her back pressed against His chest. 

“This can be Ours,” She murmured, “Our own worlds to watch and care for.” She grabbed hold of His hand, letting it hover over Her woven hair.

“Ours,” He echoed, curiosity filling His eyes as the sentient beings gathered, speaking a tongue foreign to Their ears.

“I must sever them,” Andromeda said, looking longingly at Her hair. “I cannot keep them.”

“Do you want me to, my light?” When She nodded, Bode palmed a shard of light like a blade, and cut through Her hair in one fell swoop. Her hair fell to Her shoulders, and She watched the woven part float above Her lap. 

“They will revere Us as their Gods,” Andromeda stated. “For they know who created them.”

“Very well.” Bode watched the beings in their spinning world, unfazed as time slipped by for them. The first beings fell back to the world, spilling soul into the stars around Them. 

“Such interesting beings,” Andromeda murmured, seeing them build structures and tools. 

“Do they not see Us?” 

“No. We are beyond their vision, and will be no matter how advanced they become.” Andromeda runs a finger through the pulsing stars above Her head, knowing the first beings’ souls rested in them. “Only those passed on know where they come from.”

“Formed from the cosmos,” Bode rumbled, words as old as time. “Moon dust in their lungs, stars in their eyes. They are the pieces of Us that We part with.”

“The pieces We part with,” Andromeda echoed, remembering the saying that burns in Her heart, Her mind. Her very bones are etched with the words, imbued with the power of creation.

Bode pressed His forehead to Hers. 

“The Rulers of the Sky.”

I was alone. I walked for miles, trudging through snow. It’s the journey every teen girl has had to make. Thick, opaque fog over my senses. It blurred the lines between what was me, and what was the air. I was lost in the environment, nowhere to go. The only thing I felt was insecurity. Unsure of where I was, even more confused on who I was. That’s when he found me. 

My senses were disarmed, my heart was trusting of the wind, and my brain was too cold from the blizzard, yet he accepted me. Juxtaposed to the landscape that challenged me.

When you are as lost as I was, you’d let anything guide you. The weather was so harsh, so cruel. Natural, yet somehow unfair. I wanted to be safe again, to be treated like I was delicate. I just didn’t believe I could make it through any more steps in the frigid climate. 

When he showed me how he glides, I was in disbelief. How easily he does it, like he was a master from the start. When you see him, you just can’t imagine him small. With someone that smart, that knowledgeable, I had trusted him almost immediately.

I was there, my ill-fitting shoes making me almost slip, my legs like a new-born fawn. Everything was so cold, my body shaking, I just wanted a break. 

He took my hand, and slid across the frozen lake with me. I had found what I wanted. To be treated like I was vulnerable, for someone to show me what it’s like to be a professional. 

For days and days, that was all I did. I held his hand tightly, like our mittens were sewn together, and we glided. I had so much fun at first. He was warm, the only warmth I had ever found on this journey. We found new places to ice-skate together, making hearts into the frozen water with the blades on our feet. He always said he never wanted to go on the popular paths, the popular lakes. People there just didn’t know how to really skate, he said. 

He would show me all the fun and cool tricks. When he did them, he looked like leaves falling from the dead trees and dancing with the wind. There were plenty of moves that were foolish to believe I could do, many I didn’t even want to, they were unbelievably dangerous. But he said I should do them anyway. Girls like you haven’t found their style yet, you need to explore and find yourself, he said. I would trip, slip, fall on my face. A big red mark on my cheek for the rest of the day. He would laugh, but tell me it's okay, nobody saw that anyway. 

After a while, I would get sick. Falling on ice and snow, spending hours and hours dancing in the cold. I would sneeze and cough, the flem coming straight from my heart. He said he was worried, but after he had found me, he couldn’t let me go. So I’d be sick, running a fever, but I’d still glide. I didn’t know what else to do. Everytime we went out together, dressed in layers to protect ourselves from the unstoppable sleet and hail, we held hands. That’s why even when I was sick, I would go skate with him. I needed his warmth. I didn’t know who I was without him. 

Eventually Summer comes. It’s a small break from the constant subzero temperature. You’re able to go outside and walk without slipping on the icy slush. He stops visiting me, since there are no more lakes to dance on, and no more wind to guide us for the time being. I usually love the summer, but this summer just felt dreadful. I waited eagerly each day of it, waiting to go back to the cold freezing season again. Without the snow, he didn’t visit. Even with the warm air, his tender warmth was different. He knew where I was, so he could find me again.

But as the seasons changed, he never did. I never knew where he went. I waited, wearing my mittens and ice-skates, waited for him to emerge from the layers of pale fog and white snow, and waited for him to find me. He never did. 

When I realised he was never coming, I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck in an ice-age. Never moving. My body was stuck in a glacier, covered with snow. I couldn’t move myself. I needed him to make me glide. On the path, many other girls passed me. They knew how to walk by themselves, how to balance themselves, and how to not fall on the snow. 

Many laughed and teased, but they didn’t understand. They weren’t given the graceful teachings of him, and I was the luckiest to have found him.

I spent most of that winter eternally stuck in place. I looked, I watched others move along the journey, but I never did. I slept in the frost that had formed around me. 

Once I opened my eyes. My skin was pale and blue, more snow than a girl. From the corner of my eye, I swore it was him. His coat, his mittens, his skater shoes. He was walking away, passing me, going further on the path. My heart soared, an intense warmth igniting in me. I finally took my first steps that winter. Trudging, weak, but they were steps. Steps into gliding, skating on the path of ice. I tried to catch up to him, but he had eventually disappeared from my sight. Everything white and grey again, fog and snow. 

But it was then that I had found something in me. I could walk on my own. I could skate on my own. I could make my own warmth. 

I spent the rest of that day skating with myself. Not any of his cool tricks that he had taught me. Just dancing like myself, with the wind. The wind guided me, not him. I felt free. Of course, I still miss him. But I had found myself. I didn’t need him.

A crash from the other side of the barricade Winter’s team had put up sounded, sending snow flying through the air. As if there wasn’t already enough of the stuff softly beating down on the ground. Winter growled, his camo-printed uniform and armor plates freezing right through the wolfman’s silvery grey fur. His teammate and good friend, Washi, had to tilt his long, colorful neck down to an uncomfortably awkward position. The joys of being an eelman. Washi’s unsettling, wide eyes and small pupils flicked to Winter. “Hey, you’re enjoying the weather, aren’t you, Winter?” He grinned, putting a variety of needle-like teeth on display. Winter gave him a glare, his fluffy tail swishing through the pile of snow they were sitting in. “Yeah- sure-” He managed to say before another deafening boom blew snow everywhere. A decent-sized clump landed on Washi’s already chilled snout, tugging a hearty laugh from Winter’s maw. Someone’s cry of alarm at the enemy moving forth fixed his gaze to the side. And that alarm was drowned out by the shrill squeal of the aforementioned enemies launching a grenade. The blast sent Winter sailing down the cliff the battle had taken place on. Probably. He couldn’t remember what had happened after that. He couldn’t even remember why the team was here in the first place. Where in the world ever were they? Winter tried to string his thoughts together.
The enemy team- they sounded-
German- right?
Yeah, that’s what they sounded like-
So we’re most likely in Germany-
But- why?
And then he could hear again. For the past few minutes, it had been nothing but ringing. Now he could hear someone walking around and mumbling something to themselves. Something poked his muzzle. “Meine Güte, du frierst, kleiner Hund-”
The wolfman and special ops soldier opened his eyes at that, ignoring the flashbang that was the fluorescent white lights from overhead. And he was met with a glasses-adorned face. Which belonged to a catman leaning over him.
Of all the things, it had to be a feline.
God, Winter hated felines.
“Ah! So zhe verlorener Hund is awake! Wunderbar!” The other announced, leaning back away so his short snout wouldn’t get bitten off if Winter were to have a raging outburst from adrenaline. He didn’t. Thankfully. One more prod, however, and the catman would’ve been fixing himself a new muzzle. Winter sat up with a groan, rubbing his head. Everything was so sore- probably from the fall. He did get sent off the cliff, right? He remembered the blast and the conversation with Washi. Nothing else. “You do speak English, ja?” The feline questioned, scratching at his chin with a pair of black rubber gloves. “Yeah-” Winter grumbled, gripping the table he was laid across. His bulletproof vest and gun were the only things missing from his form, but he soon spotted them on a nearby desk. The urge to put them to use in the moment struck him briefly. But maybe that wasn’t the best idea…
He looked back at the other, taking in more of his features. A large, long and white overcoat covered most of him, only showing a small portion of what laid beneath. Black suspenders claimed his lower half, and a white dress shirt claimed the other. A pair of well-worn dark brown boots tapped the ground beneath him, their loose buckles flailing around. His fur was mostly an off-white, leaning more to light grey, save for the dark grey fur topping his head and running across the back of his ears, head, neck, and probably the rest of his body. His tail- a slender thing, really- swished behind him, bearing signs of his fur colors battling for dominance over the limb, resulting in mottled stripes. The catman readjusted his round, small and silver glasses.
Why did he look familiar?
“Where am I?” Winter asked, slowly beginning to stand up. “A small bunker.” The feline replied, looking down at a clipboard. How informational. “And who are you?” He pressed. “Dr. Fangen- but you may call me Fritz!” The doctor announced. “Now, vhat is yours?”

“Winter.”
“Ah! Vinter! Vhat a wunderbar name!” Fritz grinned, walking away to set the clipboard down. “You mean Winter.” The canine corrected.
“Ja- zhat’s vhat I said- Vinter-”
“You said Vinter. Twice.”
“Vell, excuse me for having an accent, du Mischling-” He started, before a thunderous boom rattled the room. A small curse slid through Winter’s teeth. “Off vith zhe explosions again, I see- Say, you didn’t happen to be engaging in battle before I found you, did you, amerikanisch?” Fritz asked, throwing a glance over at Winter’s gear. Winter scratched his fluffy grey head, a faint look of concern crossing over his usual cold expression. “I think so-” The soldier answered, noting Fritz’s worry increasing. “Signs of amnesia are never good- is anyzhing else blank in your memory?” The catman asked, padding over to one of the several desks dotting the room. “No- I just- don’t remember my mission here-” Winter muttered with the rub of his eyes. Another quake shook everything, and Fritz tilted his head upwards. A rusted gear suddenly shifted in Winter’s mind, starting to set a whole train of thought back on track. “You said your name was Fritz Fangen?” He asked. The doctor looked back down, flashing a grin. “Zhat is correct, verlorener Hund!”
The way he grinned-
Waitaminute-
Fritz must’ve seen the realization drawing on the wolfman’s face, because he asked: “Are memories coming back to you?”
“We were here for you.”
Fritz’s ear flicked. “Kleines Ich? Vhatever for?”
Winter tried to think about why, but that part of his brain wouldn’t start working again, no matter how many possibilities he flicked the switch on for. “I- can’t remember- I just know we’re here to bring you to America-” He said. “Vell, wunderbar! Anyzhing vould be better zhan zhis Höllenloch!” The catman called, before erupting into what sounded like half-mad laughter.

How long has he been down here?
“Haven’t you tried leaving the bunker?” Winter asked, walking over to his gear. “Vhy, of course! I just can’t travel too far- unless I want to end up dead by those who you probably fought!” Fritz replied. Winter’s ears flicked as another crash was heard overhead, followed by more rumbling.
Was that- getting closer?
“How’d you get food and water?” He pressed, shuffling his vest on. “Oh, vell, I have five years vorth of rations left- after zhat I’d either die of starvation, dehydration or hypothermia. Fun zhings, are zhey not? Hoohoohoo!”
Winter gave the doctor a disturbed look. “You don’t talk to people much, do you?” He murmured as he turned back away, not at all surprised when Fritz gave him an upbeat “Nein!”
A crash far louder than all the previous ones sounded from what seemed to be somewhere directly above the bunker, which caused a variety of objects to fall down. “Verdammt- ve have to leave, don’t ve?” Fritz asked. “Doc, the place’s gonna crush us soon- of course we need to leave!” The wolfman barked, whipping around without expecting Fritz to have approached him from behind. The feline jumped back at the sudden turn, narrowly avoiding more falling debris as the bunker was shaken again. “Ja- good idea-” He said, in which Winter grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him towards the nearest exit. The medical room had been mostly concrete and tile, save for a singular packed-dirt corner that Winter didn’t want to think about the reason for. The rest of the bunker, which was indeed small, was also dirt and the occasional stone bit. A ladder upwards caught his attention, and he went straight for it. “Nein, nein! Not up zhere, not up zhere!” Fritz suddenly shouted, tugging Winter backwards by the tail. If the wolfman wasn’t trying to save him, he swore- “Zhere’s a different exit! Over here!” The doctor continued, gesturing to another tunnel. The soldier quickly tailed him, cursing as a lightbulb bashed him in the head. Fritz was struggling to turn the wheel on another bunker door when Winter rounded the corner, and was saying something along the lines of “Dumme, nutzlose, rostige verdammte Tür-”. Winter pulled him away, fastening his larger, stronger paws to the wheel. A couple strong tugs loosened it, and before he knew it he and the catman were tumbling through the door. Fritz, however, failed to mention that the door had led out to a cliff, and the two almost fell right off it. “Why did that lead out to a cliff?!” Winter barked in question to be heard over the still-flurrying snow and the repetitive boom that was more explosions. “Security reasons! I’ve never been in zhe mood to be tortured since- eh- vell, zhat’s a story for another time!” Fritz hollered in return. Winter would’ve given him a curt reply if a chunk of ice hadn’t fallen atop his head. 

Man, today really wasn’t his head’s lucky day, was it? The doctor helped him upright, pulling him down a path. “Hier entlang! Zhere’s a pass- ve might be able to lose zhem zhere!” He shouted. The path was narrow, unfortunately, and Fritz didn’t have the best of balance. Due to that, there were a multitude of times where Winter found himself with a firm grip on the collar of Fritz’s coat. He almost didn’t even catch him on the seventh time it happened. The feline hissed in alarm, latching onto Winter for dear life as snow and ice tumbled past them. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been an avalanche!” Winter noted, doing his best to steady the two of them. “Vell- I zhink zhe earlier explosions caused one-! Ve should still be careful, however- vith zhe amount of falling debris, I vouldn’t be surprised if-”
Fritz was cut off by a mass of packed snow ramming the two of them right off the cliff. In turn, Winter let out a string of some of the most vulgar profanities one would ever hear, and Fritz started screaming bloody murder. And somehow they managed to stay latched onto each other.
It was only three seconds of falling, but it felt like thirty. More so for the soldier of the two, who let his back take the brunt of the blow. At least they were crashing into snow rather than ice or rock. It still hurt, though. A minute of comical falling through the snow tumbling down the steep mountainside later, and Winter came to a stop. I specify only the wolfman because Fritz had somehow slipped from his grasp.
Ohhhh no-
He whipped around, making sure the enemy forces weren’t on their tail, before trying to search through the snow for the doctor. “Fritz-?” He croaked, breathless from the fall. Aforementioned Fritz burst upwards from a pile of snow besides Winter, earning a startled snarl from his toothy maw. “VE MADE IT! HAHAHA! I ALMOST CAN’T BELIEVE IT! VE REALLY MADE IT! Now zhis will be something ve’ll never live down, 

verlorener Hund! Woohoohoohoo!” Fritz whooped, his mad grin causing him to resemble the Cheshire Cat. Winter facepalmed. “Christ- I thought you died for a minute, doc-” He growled. The catman only chuckled. “Various people have experiences like zhat vith me! Zhis’ll be zhe first close call, yet surely not zhe last!”
Winter watched him as he readjusted his glasses, brushing clumps of snow from his coat. He has to be one of the craziest people I’ve met since-
No- don’t think about her- You swore to move on, remember?
A firm, yet freezing grip fished his mind back into reality’s shores from his lake of thoughts. “Ve should get a move on, ja? I don’t assume either of us vould enjoy standing out in zhis storm all day!” Came Fritz’s voice from beside him. The canine nodded in agreement as they started trodding towards the pass that was mentioned earlier, miraculously finding Winter’s gun and Fritz’s bag amongst the mounds of snow.
The pass quickly narrowed into a forested canyon, thankfully. The wind was getting really bad out in the open, and even Winter’s grey pelt couldn’t stand it, especially not with how the chill seeped into his vest. He remembered losing a bet the previous day to where he’d have to bear the outside without a coat for a week. Your favored rat being weaker than the others scurrying through the barracks costs you quite a bit, Winter could tell you. Fritz was doing just fine, though. He even had shorter fur than Winter, which proceeded to confuse him more. Then again the soldier didn’t grow up in usually snowy areas. Thoughts and questions trailed tracks in his head, much like Winter and Fritz’s own tracks, which, Winter realized, were already only faintly visible by now. A particular question’s trail hadn’t been swept away, though, and ran up to Winter’s tongue with a megaphone in hand. “What’s with the whole verlorener Hund thing?” He asked. Fritz tilted his head to look over at him. “Hm? Oh- it means lost dog in German. I zhought it vas fitting for you! I mean, I found you all alone in a clearing of snow and stones, your blood and vest being zhe only non-monochromatic colors I’d seen outside for ages! You were alone- forgotten- lost- so I dragged you back to my bunker and patched you right up! Now ve’re both somevhat lost! Funny, isn’t it?” He replied. Winter shrugged. “Yeah- I guess you’re right-”

~✦~

Winter had no idea what time it was. All he knew was that it was dark, it was cold, he couldn’t see the moon, and he and Fritz had managed to start a small fire. Tomorrow, they’d continue on with what was probably going to be a long journey, but for now-
The canine let out a massive yawn, the nostalgic wafting scent of their campfire pulling him into a sleepy daze. It’s then he noticed Fritz had been staring at him for probably an hour. “My, vhat sharp teeth you have!” The doctor exclaimed, poking at his muzzle. An annoyed spark flared up inside Winter at the touch. “Mhm-” He grunted in return, starting to rest his head against a log. Fritz seemed to take note of the faint tone in his voice. “Vhat, not amused vhen I prod at you, amerikanisch?” He practically taunted. Winter rolled his eyes. “Not really, no.” He grumbled in return, in which Fritz let out one of the stupidest, girly giggles he’d ever heard. “You should probably try to sleep, doc.” Winter murmured, rolling over. With his mind drifting away, he couldn’t be sure of what he heard next. Because he could’ve sworn Fritz had said something in a somber tone.
Something like-
“You do zhat, mein Freund. I vill not be able to. I haven’t done so for twenty years.”

On July 2, 1964, Lyndon Johnson’s Oval Office hosted a historic moment as the 36th President signed the landmark Civil Rights Act into law. Tens of dignitaries and countless television viewers celebrated the new framework outlawing discrimination. Yet, despite this progress, women in education continued to face systemic inequities.

Addressing these inequities required extraordinary political courage, defined by John F. Kennedy in Profiles in Courage as the willingness to sacrifice personal interests for the national good. Representative Edith Green of Oregon exemplified this courage. Facing obstacles and risks to her political career, Green introduced Section 105 and held congressional hearings on sex discrimination, laying the groundwork for one of the nation’s most significant civil rights laws.

Green’s passion for gender equity stemmed from her own experiences of discrimination. Denied opportunities to pursue her dream of becoming an electrical engineer due to her gender, she later became one of the few women in Congress, championing the rights of the voiceless. Throughout her tenure, Green played a pivotal role in crafting nearly every major educational bill, yet she recognized that much work remained. “It was perfectly legal to discriminate in any education program against girls or women,” she observed.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 fought on discrimination in federally assisted programs through Title VI, which prohibited exclusion or unequal treatment based on race, color, or national origin. However, it did not protect against sex discrimination at all, leaving women and girls vulnerable to systemic inequities. Courageous acts require no skill but to change a wrong into a right, and six years later, Edith Green called herself upon to change another wrong into another right in education. 

In 1970, Green introduced Section 105 of the Omnibus Postsecondary Education Act. Although the section was ultimately thrown out in committee, it marked a very important first step in addressing sex discrimination in education. Green held seven long days of hearings, during which witnesses let out all their struggles with gender-based inequities to the world. These testimonies brought on tons of public support and gave momentum to her efforts.

By 1971, Green, joined by co-sponsor Representative Patsy Mink, reintroduced a revised version of the 1970 bill. Despite resistance from more male-dominated congressional committees and critics who feared the legislation’s impact, Green’s persistence paid off significantly. The bill passed through both bodies of Congress, and in 1972, President Richard Nixon signed the Education Amendments into law, including Title IX. This transformative provision declared: “No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.”

Green’s unwavering dedication to justice epitomized Kennedy’s call to “do what is right, regardless of whether it is popular.” Her courage and resilience changed the landscape of education, ensuring millions of women and girls could access life-changing opportunities that were simply denied to them in the past. Although Green left office two years after Title IX’s passage, her legacy endures. As The Wall Street Journal’s Rachel Bachman noted, “That’s what she wanted to be remembered for—Title IX.”

Much more work is still to be done, but Green’s story reminds us that true political courage is not about popularity but about the willingness to confront injustice and create lasting change.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.
My alarm clock blared, and I scrambled to shut it off.

“Time to wake up, Margo!” my mom called down the hall.

“New town, new school, new people... great,” I muttered under my breath. Who moves in the middle of the school year anyway?

“Aren't you excited? I’m sure you’ll make so many new friends!” My mom’s voice was bright—too bright. She’d been trying to cheer me up ever since the accident.

“I don't want new friends,” I snapped quietly. “I want…. I never wanted to come here.”

She stopped in the hallway and turned to me. "What do you want me to do about it? We're doing our best for you—”

“Bye, Mom.” I cut her off and walked out the door.

The great Lebanon, Oregon. Not so great. Sure, the town itself isn’t awful, but I’d rather be home with my friends. I don’t even know why we had to move. And our old house back in Washington? Way better. This new place is ancient—like 100 years old. The windows are so thin here they can't even keep the cold out. and honestly, it feels like the house is alive or something. I hate it.

I finally made it to my new school: LHS, or Lebanon High School. “Boy, someone really got creative with that one,” I muttered with a sigh.

The moment I walked inside—BOOM—the bell rang, and the halls exploded with life. Students flooded the space, sweeping me along with them. Panic gripped my chest. I had no idea where any of my classes were, and I could already tell: I hated this place.

After wandering through the labyrinth of halls, I finally found my first class. To be fair, most of my classes this semester are things I actually like—English, band, social studies. But then there’s P.E. and math... ugh. I can already tell those are going to be rough.

I stepped into the room and froze. Every head turned to stare at me, and for a second, it felt like time stopped.

The teacher, Ms. Burns, looked up from her desk and smiled. “Ah! Class, I’d like you to meet our new student, Margo.”

“Hi,” I mumbled—or at least tried to. It came out more like a squeak.

Ms. Burns tilted her head. “Would you like to share anything about yourself?”

“Oh, um.” My stomach twisted, and my mind went blank. I let out a nervous laugh. “My name is Margo. I, uh… play the guitar and piano. Oh, and I just moved here from Washington.”

“That’s nice,” Ms. Burns said, cutting me off before I could embarrass myself further. “Any questions for Margo, class?”

Great. Just great.

A kid with sandy blond hair and a football jersey shot his hand up.

“Yes, Carter?” Ms. Burns gestured toward him.

“Is that your real hair color? And, oh! That shirt is awesome. I love Slipknot too! What’s your favorite song? Oh, and—”

“Okay, Carter, okay!” Ms. Burns interrupted with a sigh. “Let’s give her a break.”

“Sorry,” Carter mumbled, slumping back in his seat.

Ms. Burns pointed me toward an empty desk, and I slid into it, praying the rest of the day would pass quickly. Spoiler: it didn’t.

On my way home, I spotted that kid—Carter. Yeah, it had to be him. Same sandy blonde hair, same jersey with the giant 42 on the back. And, just my luck, he saw me too. He jogged over with a grin plastered on his face.

“Hey, Margo, right? I just wanted to say sorry for asking so many questions earlier. People say I’m kinda… energetic.” He scratched the back of his head, then reached into his pocket. “Want some chocolate?”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I said, waving it off.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Well, hey, would you like a ride?”

My heart sank. A ride? No way. “Oh, no, I can just walk.”

“Come on, please?” He sounded like a whining dog, all eager and insistent. Honestly, he didn’t seem like a bad guy, but I could tell he wasn’t going to give up anytime soon. If I didn’t say yes, I’d probably be stuck here forever.

“Okay, fine,” I sighed.

We climbed into his silver truck. “Wanna play some music?” he asked with an eager smile.

“I’m okay,” I replied, sinking into the seat, feeling the weight of the moment. As he turned the key in the ignition, my heart sank even further.

“Okay, but seriously—is black your natural hair color, or do you dye it?” Carter asked, his voice carrying an odd, almost playful tone.

“It’s natural,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you so interested in hair?” My sarcasm was sharp, but I couldn’t help it.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “A lot of people dye their hair black, that’s all.”

His words hung in the air, unsettling me. Was he saying my hair looked fake? Or was he just awkward and trying to make conversation? Either way, it rubbed me the wrong way.

We’d only made it halfway to my house when the panic started creeping in, wrapping tight around my chest like a coiled rope. “Pull over,” I said, my voice cracking despite my effort to sound calm.

“What? We’re almost there,” he said, confusion lacing his voice.

“Just let me out!” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he replied, pulling over to the side of the road. He mumbled an apology for something that wasn’t his fault, but I didn’t stick around to hear it. I flung open the door and ran home.

I made it to the house, completely out of breath. My dad rounded the corner, his face instantly tightening with worry.

“Margo? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft. 

I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. The tears were already spilling over. A sob escaped before I could stop it, and I pushed past him, running straight to my room.

I flopped onto my bed, tears running down my face. I just felt the weight of the world crush me under its heel, why does this have to happen to me. Why can't I just be normal? Ever since that accident…. Ever since I lost my best friend in that crash. I just want to disappear. 

I flopped onto my bed, feeling like the weight of the world was crushing me under its heel. Why does this have to happen to me? Why can’t I just be normal? Ever since that accident… ever since I lost my best friend in that crash, everything’s changed. I just want to disappear.

“Knock knock, can I come in?” My mom’s gentle voice floated in from the other side of the door. I hesitated, not sure if I was ready to face her like this.

“Uh, yeah…” My voice cracked.

The door opened slowly, and my mom slipped inside, moving carefully like she was afraid I might shatter. “Hey, darling,” she said, her voice as smooth and sweet as honey. Grandpa used to say that about her. I remember that one Christmas when she was singing carols with him. I haven’t seen her that happy since… and I miss him so much.

She sat down on the edge of my bed, her eyes soft with concern. “Are you doing alright? Do you want to talk about it?”

I sighed, shrugging as I looked away. “Not really… but do I have a choice?”

“Nope, not at all,” she said, lying back on my bed and staring up at the ceiling with a faint smile, like she was trying to make this easier for both of us.

“You know, high school is hard for everyone. It’s going to get better,” my mom said, her voice gentle but determined to lift me up. I wished she’d stop trying so hard.

“Unless… this is about the—” she began, but I cut her off.

“I met a boy,” I blurted out, surprising myself.

“What?” She looked taken aback, her surprise almost softening her expression.

“Yeah, his name’s Carter.” I thought back to the way I’d reacted in the truck. He didn’t deserve that. “He gave me a ride home,” I said, feeling that familiar tightness in my voice returning.

“Oh… so this is about the accident,” she said, as if I’d just confirmed something she’d already suspected.

“You know it wasn’t your—”

“Just stop, please, Mom. I just want to be alone.” I tried not to sound too sharp, but I could hear the edge in my own voice.

Mom sighed, sitting up and looking at me with that same worried gaze. “If you don’t let yourself heal… it’s going to do you a lot more harm than good.” Her words lingered in the air like smoke in a house fire, burning in the silence between us. I held my breath as she got up and left.

I needed something to do, something to take my mind off everything. I scanned my room and then it hit me… I still had so much unpacking to do. Putting on my headphones, I cranked up some music, then headed downstairs to haul up the boxes marked in bold, messy sharpie: MARGO.

Eighteen boxes. I sighed, staring at the mountain of stuff piled in my room. This is going to take forever. I started working through them, one by one. Clothes, posters, old notes… all reminders of a life that felt a million miles away.

Then I pulled out my guitar case. I hadn’t touched it since the accident. Just seeing it brought back memories of Alex, my best friend, who used to beg me to play “Hey There Delilah.” Her laugh, her voice—they all came flooding back.

I opened the case, the guitar glimmering under the light, warm and familiar. I ran my fingers over the strings, feeling the smooth wood, the cool metal. Before I knew it, I was playing, the chords filling the room, like maybe—just maybe—she could hear me.

Snow crunched under the Vixen’s paws. 

Her orange fur glowed in winter’s icy tears, sparking and crackling against the blizzard. A dusting of white coated her back, clumps sticking to her underbelly. 

The Vixen huffed, the cloud of frost swirling above her as she tread through the forest. Unfamiliar land, smelling strongly of wolves and buried food troves. She licked her chops at the faded scent of rabbit, its tracks smoothed over in a fresh layer of snow.

She jumped, landing on the slick bark of a fallen tree. Cold air bit into her neck as she peered up at the sky. Soft, orangish-pink clouds hung thickly, caressing the tops of the trees as they emptied their full bellies onto the land.

The Vixen would not admit that she was lost, instead ducking under low-hanging branches of pine trees bearing the heavy weight of winter’s burden. Her paws were numb, eyes cracked to a slit. No, she would not admit she was too far from her territory.

Time passed, the air losing its hold on the clouds as they slowly drifted apart. Flecks of moonlight dripped down onto the forest floor, illuminating the Vixen’s path. Squeezed between the concealing scent of snow, was food. A squirrel, its tracks no longer visible, but the scent very much present. The Vixen stalked the silent land until the ground gave way to a slight cliff. Her ears pricked, honing in on the sound of rustling underneath the cliff’s edge. 

The air sparked with electricity, a hunger unfulfilled. She pounced. Dinner was served. She licked her paws clean, trying to drive the numbness from the pads of her paws and revive the warmth that seemed so far away.

She continued on her journey, belly full, a new spring in each step. Winter’s claws loosened its hold around the Vixen, heat flowing from her frostbitten ears down to her paws. If she knew any better, the Vixen would have thought her fur emitted the faintest orange glow.

“What are you doing out here, Vixen?” A grumbling voice from the left. The Vixen halted, hackles raised. 

“Who are you?” She growled, her eyes failing to pinpoint the voice’s owner. Her nose twitched, trying to catch their scent to no avail. All she smelled was snow and pine.

“I am what you wish me to be,” the voice responded. The ground trembled, and the Vixen scampered up a rock. “Why are you so far from home, Vixen?”

Puzzled, the Vixen stared into the murky depths of the surrounding forest. “Why don’t you show yourself, coward!”

The ground cracked, sending powdered snow into the air. The world opened, jagged and yawning, its depths shrouded in thick shadows.

“Watch your tone, Vixen. I am not the one you wish to undermine.”

“Who are you?” 

The chasm closed, earth and snow stitching back together. The sky lightened, the sea of clouds rapidly thinning to reveal a new dawn. Orange sunlight tinged the treetops.

The Vixen swung around at the shifting of snow, a figure looming above her.

“I am Death.” Metal sliced the air, a whistle all too familiar to the Vixen. She jumped as the blade hit rock. The cold singed her nostrils as she ran, eyes watering from the frosty air.

Harsh laughter came from every side, the sound of metal scraping against bark reverberating into the Vixen’s very bones. She ran, pushing her numb muscles to the limit, catapulting herself over fallen trees. The world blurred, crackling with dark energy that pressed its dagger-like claws into her every side.

The Vixen cried out, plucked from the air mid-leap as cold tendrils of shadows snaked around her middle. 

Death loomed above her, blood red eyes burning holes through her fur. She thrashed, twisting and contorting her body in an attempt to free herself. It was no use. It laughed, a low, growl-like timbre that shook the trees around them. The sun rose steadily above the hill, casting a grotesque shadow against the snow-laden ground. “Such a small little fox.”

The Vixen knew, then.

She was lost, so far from home.

In territory smelling of wolves.

The world dimmed, the unfamiliar stretches of tree branches and coos of songbirds fading. In unknown land, the Vixen’s soul climbed the sky with frosted claws. 

She would not remember this, for Death sealed away the final moments, tucking peaceful memories into the void. It let the final memory fade, back to swirls of powdered snow in the breeze. 

Let the world forget, Death thought. For it cannot bear the weight of an ended cycle. 

Tokyo, 2032
Four years after the world-wide nuclear bombing.
Hikaru remembers that day quite clearly, still. His family was out of town, leaving him, a 17 year old boy, to his own devices for the week. It was odd, honestly. He didn’t feel terrified when the T.V. channel switched to the news to tell everyone to run for cover. Even now, as he roamed the streets, hopping over the rusted lumps and scraps of metal he used to call cars, he felt calm. His mind didn’t even stray to the thought of his family. They’d probably be alright, with where they were going. Not that he cared. They were the reason for his silence, anyways. His sister, though… How was she? She was the kindest out of them all. The thought of her shimmering, jet black hair with its bright orange streaks slipped through his mind. Her cherry-red jacket and bell-bottom jeans rustled in the wind of his memories, pairing well with her dark brown eyes.
Keiko…
Hikaru remembered her telling him the story of how he was named. Keiko was only ten years of age, peering around the beige walls of the hospital as the rest of the family fought over what he should be named. “ヒカルって名前にしようかな!” She had piped up. 

We should name him Hikaru!

No one else had a better idea, not caring too much. Everyone was so busy being angry with his mother for having another child.
“1つでは足りないですか?” They had asked her.

Is one not enough?
Maybe that’s why his mother never treated him right. She was like a mirror, reflecting any awful things the rest of the family said right to Hikaru. Keiko always comforted him though. And now they were all gone. A chirp reeled him back into reality from his lake of thoughts. There was one living thing they’d left behind. The family bird. Aki. Aki was a colorful little parakeet, sporting reds and oranges. Just like Keiko. She also liked to stay quiet, for the most part. Just like Hikaru. The two siblings loved Aki dearly, always worrying about her when they had to leave for too long or when they had to take her to the vet. But she was a clever girl. She knew how to hold her own. She was an embodiment of the siblings, after all. She’d flown after Hikaru when going into hiding from the bombs, carrying a gas mask. “良い子.” He’d commented.
Good girl.
And here she was now, seeming to be immune to the radiation around. She showed no signs of sickness. It was quite peculiar, really. She chirped at him again from her perch upon his shoulder, trying to catch his attention. “それは何ですか?” He asked, tilting his head in curiosity as he did his best to see through the tinted eye-holes of his gasmask. His brown, leather jacket slightly shone in the orange light filtering through the clouds above and his black jeans shifted, the tucked in bits straining against his sturdy boots. His gloves tightened their grip on his bag.
What is it?
Aki flapped off his shoulder, towards the building they both faced now. The Sumida aquarium. It wasn’t bound to be something people would crawl to in the case of scavenging, but that didn’t mean they’d be alone. There was a chance of others being there… Aki was already past the doorway, however. “アキ! 待ってください!” He called.
Aki! Wait up!
He repositioned his backpack and duffle bag, running after the clever parakeet. He hadn’t been to the aquarium in years. How had it fared? He was surprised to find that it hadn’t changed that much. The bombs had dropped near Chiba, rendering many reinforced glass structures and cages to stay intact in Tokyo, leaving the aquarium to stay majestic. But water supplies were polluted with radiation. And that showed quite quickly. The fish had horrible mutations, rather that be an extra limb, another eye, disheveled flesh, or a massive increase in size, it was terrifying. Giant jellyfish glowed a sickly green in their tanks, bumping into each other from the lack of space. Tangled heaps of anchovies struggled across the pale, shimmering sands of the larger spaces, dodging two-tailed sharks with more teeth than usual. Alas, even though it was terrifying, Hikaru and Aki were able to find supplies. He shoved a handful of granola bars into his duffle bag, making sure every dull-yellow wrapper was intact and unopened as Aki flapped over with a roll of tape in her beak. “それは役に立つでしょう...” He said.
That’ll be useful…
He carefully slid that into his backpack before hoisting it back over his shoulders and zipping the duffle bag back up, turning around. One of the largest tanks in the aquarium stood before him, containing a freakshow of fish of all different types. Saltwater sardines and freshwater finescale daces. Some of the creatures might’ve broken in accidentally, and simply adapted to survive. Just like Hikaru and Aki. They adapted. Humans weren’t that different from the wildlife around them, were they? The blue-green glow that rained down on him struck the keys of his memory as he gazed up, Aki cooing as she flapped onto his shoulder. It was morbidly peaceful. How wonderful… “おい!”
Hikaru whipped around with a gasp. Dirt masks. That’s what a clean scavenger like him would call them. It was a large group of people, all sporting a deadly assortment of weapons and broken masks. The radiation made them stronger. But they were still bullies, only picking on those who were smaller and weaker than them. “君みたいなきれいな子がここで何をしているの？私たちが最初にここにいました!” They snapped like dogs, snarling and ready to lunge.
What’s a clean boy like you doing here? We were here first!
“それがなぜ重要なのでしょうか?” Hikaru replied in his usual calm manner.
Why does that matter, exactly?

“早い者勝ちです。さあ、出て行け。”
First come, first served. Now get out.
He held his ground, head swiveling to get a look at them all. Aki squawked at something behind him. “それは何ですか、お嬢さん?” He whispered in question.
What is it, girl?
A few gasps and murmurs rose from the Dirt masks at the sight of the creature in the tank. The best description would be a beast. It was a massive arapaima with powerful-looking legs, having grown in from the radiation. Its dark, dull brown scales were counteracted against by the vibrant red and orange colors lining its tail end. The most important thing of all was that he had an opening. And he took it. Hikaru bolted down the nearest hallway, much to the surprise of the Dirt masks, who shouted after him. Aki clung to his shoulder as he scrambled around corners and tumbled up stairs. There was an exit on the second floor, right? He silently prayed there was. He barreled down a hallway, practically screeching to a stop so he wouldn’t ram into the wall before continuing. One of the Dirt masks appeared out of the next hallway. “おい!”
Hikaru froze, his huffing amplified from his gas mask as he stared down the barrel of the gun pointed at him. Why’d it have to go like this? A squawk emanated from his shoulder again. Aki was bent over, eyes fixed above the Dirt mask. Something was getting her worked up. And he froze at the sight of it. A low snarl ricocheted off the hallway walls, stiffening the Dirt mask, who slowly looked up at the beast looming over him. A cut off scream was heard as the arapaima beast tore him apart, razing his bones and tearing him limb from limb in a matter of seconds. It was all so quick. Blood stained the dusty walls, and the gun that was threatening him a second ago was at his feet. He grabbed it, flicking the switch to safety as he slung the gun strap over his shoulder. The arapaima glared him down. But there was no malicious intent in those brown eyes. Only familiarity. Just like Keiko. Protecting him from the awful dangers of the world. He slowly set his gloved hand on its snout. “ありがとう。”
Thank you.
The beast let out a low, guttural grunt in return. Distant shouting disturbed the peace, sending them all to snap their heads in the direction of the stairs. The exit was in sight now. Hikaru quickly walked over, thankful it wasn’t an emergency exit. He looked back at the creature. It stood in mostly the same place, staring after him. Staring at him with those familiar eyes. He looked back through the door, and then back to the arapaima. His bags clattered against him. Aki cawed. The voices grew louder. And he extended a hand.

~☒~

A week had come and gone since the incident at the aquarium. Hikaru vaulted over a stone fence, eyes fixed on the makeshift map in hand. A low snarl followed by a chirp brought his attention to his side. Aki clung to the arapaima, which stared him down with those familiar eyes, silently asking what was next as it clambered over the fence. Hikaru couldn’t give an answer, however. The apocalypse was apparently full of surprises.

“Mark, are you ready to go? We have to film that abandoned place in 30 minutes sharp.” I said ahead of time knowing that Mark is always late. I should fill you in a little, I am Dean Willis, older brother to Mark Willis. We share this small apartment, in fact I am writing this story in it right now. You see me and my brother found someone, or something in that place we were about to go to. We used to film videos in all sorts of abandoned places…But not anymore, not since June 28th 2019. Anyways it’s been six months and I thought it was time to let the world know what we found on that Friday afternoon. 

“I’m coming, calm down, we have plenty of time” Mark said in a rush, hopping around on one foot trying to tie the other foot's shoelace. “Alrighty, I’m ready, let's rock and or roll Deany bean” Mark said, giving me a quick punch on the shoulder. “Don’t hit me, I’m older” I said, rubbing my shoulder. I have to admit I am not the strongest, but I can hold a camera.  That's why I’m always behind it. Mark is the star of our channel, he gets to run around haunted places blabbing his face off. While I on the other hand have a better job, I get to hold a 40 pound camera every week and shuffle my way around after him. 

About 20 minutes later we made it to the haunted house I was talking about earlier. I grabbed the heavy camera and Mark just complained he was hungry while stuffing his face with BBQ chips. The outside of the house looked rotten and not taken care of…like at all. It was a stone mansion looking castle thing. Very large building, I don’t think anyone has been in there in about 100 years. I did some research on the place and I found little to nothing. All I got was some story on a man named Dr. Murda James. He was supposed to be the owner of this place but he left it for some reason. Nobody saw him leave, he was just gone. 

“Mark? Should we do this live or just upload it later?” I said, but I knew he wanted to go live. He says it brings in more views, but I think the opposite. “Hmmmm, tough choice, I say we go live” Mark said, licking the BBQ off his fingers. “Somehow I knew you were gonna say that, just like every other time.” I said sarcastically. He just laughed his weird hyena laugh, I couldn't help but laugh too. We got out of our crusty van and started setting up how the video was gonna go. In most of our videos we pretend there is another spirit there by me, smashing something or opening a door. But this house was different. It was not like the other houses that were posted as haunted but weren't really haunted. Hardly anybody knew about this place, we just found it one day on a bike ride in some grassy area of Nevada.

Our youtube channel is called ‘haunted hunters.’ Just in case you ever decide to look us up. We haven't posted as much since the day we went into that house though. Anyways back to the story. “I’m so hungry, Deany bean, what are we eating after we go live?” Mark said, still complaining about his hunger. “How about Chinese food?” I said, trying to make him stop talking about food before we go live. “You my good sir, have gotten yourself a deal.” Mark said, holding out his hand as if he was royalty. “Now let's stop wasting time, we have two minutes before we have to go live now.” I said trying to get us back on track with the video. “Alright, alright, don’t be such a stick in the mud” Mark said getting into character for the video. 

“Alrighty, going live in 3…2…1 shoot” I said as I held the camera up to him and pressed the live button on my camera. “Hello my little haunted hunters, we are streaming live here in Nevada doing a video on this supposed haunted mansion. This is so sick.” Mark went on with the intro for what seemed like forever. Mark started walking backwards up to the front door. “They say this house used to belong to a guy who was experimenting on people for age reversing and something went wrong. Nobody ever saw him again” Mark said in his spooky but entertaining voice. “He had about ten people he was testing on. Legend has it, the ghosts in the house scream at you when you enter.” Mark said, but we did not know if this was true or not, it was just for content. 

“Let’s take a look inside shall we.” Mark said, leading the way. “Ladies first” I said right after. Mark tried to open the massive doors, but those doors were big and wooden, so it was really heavy. It probably does not help that the doors haven't moved in over 50 years. “Some help would be nice.” Mark said sarcastically. “I’m holding a camera.” I said just filming him and chuckling as he struggles to move the door an inch. I set the camera down and filmed us both struggling to open the door now. About 3 minutes later we managed to open the door a solid 10 inches and called it good enough. “That was way harder than it should have been.” Mark said out of breath from pushing on the door so hard. “Amen” I said, panting. “Alright guys we got the massive spooky door open , now let's take a look inside.” Mark said practically jumping his way into the house.

At first it seemed like every other house we filmed, Empty, quiet, cold. But things started getting weird about 10 minutes into the livestream. “Ok guys we are now in this old mansion, I wonder if we will see any ghosts.” Mark whispered into the camera. “BOO” I screamed at him just to make him jump, surely enough he did. “AHH” Mark yelled, “not funny dude.” “I don’t know, I thought it was pretty funny.” I said as I was laughing. “Let's just keep moving on shall we?” Mark said, rolling his eyes. “Fine, let's keep going.” 

We walked into the kitchen, nothing much to it, just a bunch of cobwebs and old furniture. “Maybe we should take this stuff back to our place Dean, some of this stuff is nice.” Mark said, Touching everything he saw. “I don't think that's aloud Mark, And this wooden furniture looks like if I sat in it, it would crumble.” I said, and he just kept moving. Here is where it gets weird. We started walking into the next room, the office room. Overall the room was nice, old bookshelves and books. It was your typical 1920’s Office. As we looked around we started finding more and more yellow files of paper. “Hey Dean, come look at these.” Mark said and started flipping through the piles of yellow file papers. I was not pointing the camera right at them as we read a file with the name Emily Alden plastered on it. It had a green success stamp plastered onto it. “What does this mean Dean?” Mark said to me. “I don’t know Mark, maybe she was one of the test subjects.” I said, I have to admit at this point I was getting a little weirded out. This was when we figured out that all those rumors about this house might be true. All of it, even the ghosts part, well we never actually found any ghosts that day but what we found gave us not disbelief that they are real, and probably in that house. 

The file read, “Emily Alden, female, 43, wishes to be younger.” But how does that make her a test subject? “ Hey come look at this.” Mark said, huddling around one of the bookshelves. “What have you found now Mark? A new best friend?” I said, laughing and walking over to him. I have been nervously readjusting the camera in my hand for a while now, my palms are so sweaty, what could Mark have found? “Look there is a gap between the wall and this bookshelf, I don't know if I just watched too many movies or if this is what I think it is.” Mark said, fitting his fingers between the gap. “Maybe you should not stick your fingers in the gap Mark, and what do you think is behind there?” I said, readjusting the camera again. “Well from what I know there should be a room behind here, we just have to move this.” Mark said. “What do you think chat? Should we see what's behind this creaky old bookshelf?” I said, while watching the chat. The chat was now blowing up with “YES MOVE THE SHELF!” and “I LOVE YOUR CHANNEL!” We always appreciate our fans.

About a minute later we replied to the chat after looking it over. “Well it looks like nobody wants us to move the shelf, I’m only kidding, you guys were half begging us to move the shelf.” Mark said, Looking at the camera and laughing. “Ok Mark lets get this chunky thing moved already before my arms fail me.” I said , setting the camera on some books so that the viewers can see. Fast forward past the embarrassing amount of time it took us to move that thing, it is now moved enough for us to slide though. “It's way too dark in there, do you got a flashlight on you Dean?” Mark said, holding out his hand. “Yes, of course your honor.” I said sarcastically, pulling the flashlight from my bag. “Did you fart? it smells funky in here.” Mark said, grabbing the flashlight. “I was wondering the same thing, I thought you did.” I said curiously. This is the weird part I was telling you about and you're about to see why. 

A weird sound came from the room, a little girl’s yelp? “Did you guys hear that?” Mark said to the camera and me. “Yeah, I did what was that? It sounded like a little girl.” I said, worried about what we would find. “Here let me turn the flashlight on.” Mark said, while turning the flashlight on. What was staring at us was a corpse. The corpse was of Dr. Murda James. “OH MY GOSH GUYS” Mark yelled. “I think it is time to go now Mark” I said, in a rush. Then another voice said something, it was that little girl again. “No please don't go, i've been here forever, please help me.” She cried. “Are you catching all this Dean?” Mike said, thinking this was fake. “Yes Mark, we are still live, the chat is going nuts.” I said, this is really creepy. “Is that a real body?” Mark said to the girl. “Yes he is very real, he is from the 1920’s, his name is Dr. Murda James.” She was talking as if she knew us for ages. “How old are you, and how did you get here?” I asked, thinking she is a ghost or something. “I am in the body of a 9 year old girl, but I am not 9 years old…should I tell you the full story?” She asked us as she walked closer. “Yeah tell us the full story, start from the top.” Mark said to her.  “Ok well since you asked so nicely.” she said to Mark. “But first, I must know what your name is.” She said to mark. “My name is Mark Willis and this is my brother Dean willis.” He said, pointing his flashlight at me. “Ok well my name is Emily Alden.” She said, sticking out her hand to shake. He took it. 

“Mark, Emily Alden was one of the test subjects.” I said to him, “I know, let's just see how she is still alive, end the stream and get out of here.” Mark said, it’s obvious he is getting creeped out now. “Ok Emily, start from the beginning of your story.” Mark said to her, “If you insist.” She said back. “Back in 1928, I was a 43 year old woman.” She started, “I wished nothing more than to be a little kid again, not have to worry about aging and gray hair. That year I stumbled upon this guy named Dr. Murda James, he said he was testing out a new medicine that was supposedly the cure to all aging, which means you will be immortal forever.” She said while staring at Mark. “He tested ten different medicines on ten different people, he believed at least one of them would work. One of them did work, the one he gave to me.” She said, frowning. “I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I took it, I thought I was going to be young and beautiful forever…not a little girl forever.” She said, while pointing her hands at her small body. “ When Dr. Murda James seen that the medicine he gave to me worked, and he decided to give himself some, the whole test was for him to find the cure and use it on himself and himself only. But when he shot the medicine into his veins like he did to me, it didn’t go as smoothly.” She said, smiling wide at us. 

“Now I am a young little girl forever, and I can not die.” She said, her smile growing. “Why did you stay here? Why didn’t you leave?” Mark said to her, curiously. “Because if I left I can’t be free anymore, I am a grown woman I deserve to be free. My only issue right now is I am so hungry.” She said, licking her lips. “Mark” she said, walking closer and started chuckling. “Now that you know, I can not let you go!” She said, as she leapt up and took a chunk out of Mark's cheek. At this point I was running as fast as I could out of that place, all I could here were the screams of my brother. I wish every day that I went back for him, I know I should have. But when he didn’t come out with me I knew if I went back in, I would be next. “DEAN!!!, HELP ME DEAN, HELP MEEEEEE.” Marks last words I ever heard. 

The livestream was still going, I don’t know what the viewers were thinking, half of them probably thought it was staged. At least until they stopped seeing him on the channel. There are always questions about that day, but I never had the courage to tell the story until now, and I’m writing it because I don’t want to continue the channel without him anymore, it was our thing.

I jumped into my crusty van, my hands were shaking so bad. It took me a few seconds to grab my keys from my pocket. Then putting the key into the van was a whole other problem. She started running after the van as I started the van up. The adrenaline rush I was having was so bad, my heart racing. When I looked into my rearview mirror, what I saw was that monster child thing standing there, face covered in my brother's blood. The brother I was filming with not even 20 minutes ago. I wish we never went there at all. All I want is more time with him, that's all I want. But all I have is memories now.

I floored my crusty van until I was on the main road. I turned on the radio, Amy Whinehouse was singing Back to Black. All I did after that was drive, I drove until I saw tomorrow, and then I went home and ate chinese food like Mark wanted to do when we came home.

“We only said goodbye with words 

   I died a hundred times

  You go back to her and I go back to

  I go back to us” - Amy Whinehouse Back to Black

Loralai is back on foraging duty. Though, in her words, it’s more of a “foraging sentence”. She huffs, blowing the bright bubblegum strands of hair out of her eyes. She stands, brushing the flecks of dirt and moss from her knees, tucking spindly, brown mushrooms into her satchel.

So what if Head Witch Jade has no confidence in Loralai bonding with a forest spirit and becoming a Green Witch? Bah! She didn’t want to be around stinky herbs and slimy mushrooms all day anyway!

Loralai kicked away a pine cone, frowning at the leafy branches above her. None of the forest spirits ever talked to her, nor showed themselves in her presence. How could she possibly find a familiar when the world seemed to hate her?

Loralai took the small pair of scissors from her satchel, carefully snipping the rosemary and bundling it up with twine, shoving it deep into the pockets of her bag. She only had a few more hours of precious daylight before she needed to return to her village. Surrounded by tall redwood and Douglas fir trees, her village’s cobblestone huts and thatched roofs weave in and around the old bark and wispy leaves and prickly pine needles. Everything in Billowing Willow incorporates the forest; windows are built to accommodate bird nests, berry bushes and food sources for the deer and rabbits are planted religiously around every home and building, and nothing is taken from the forest that cannot be put back, twice the amount.

“Where is all the sage?!” Loralai whined aloud as she kicked more pine cones out of her way. This part of the forest was laden with the spiky seed-bearers, littering the ground and making it a painful experience if stepped on. 

Something bounced off of Loralai’s head, making her look up. A pine cone sped down as she shielded her face, feeling it bounce off her arm and hit the ground with a plock. 

Loralai had a feeling the forest spirits were playing tricks on her again. One time a branch suddenly grew right before her eyes, twisting to plunge its bark fingers through her sleeve. She inspected the sleeve now, the green stitches a shade darker than the shirt.

She raced out from under the tree, leaves rustling as if they were laughing. Loralai heard the rush of water from the stream. Having grown up near the stream, she always felt akin to the pristine waters, the stones at the very bottom tinged with green algae.

Even now, as the forest seemed to quiet as she knelt at the bank, the water seemed to speak to her, the drops a murmur of a long lost memory, the currents below a silent wave of a hand, beckoning her closer.

Look into the waters…

Puzzled, Loralai glanced over her shoulder, eyeing the trees behind her with suspicion. Those mischievous spirits could be whispering in her mind for all she knows!

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She spun back around, glaring down at the stream’s surface. The water had gone almost…milky. Silver sparkles swirled in the water’s current, capturing Loralai’s interest.

A scaly head popped out of the milky mixture, and Loralai shrieked. She scrambled up the rocky beach, stopping when the voice whispered.

“Loralai…” 

She could see it now. Even from a distance, the head poking out of the water was that of a koi fish, its orange scales gleaming in the feverish rays of sun through the canopy above. 

“Come closer…”

“Why? Who are you–what are you?” Loralai’s heart raced, palms sweating, but she shifted closer to the talking koi. Hesitation skittered under her skin, but curiosity shackled it down and pushed her forward, to the edge of the water, and she knelt before the koi.

“The current flows through you,” the koi began, a voice of velvet. “A thunderstorm for a heart. Such a perfect balance.”

“What does that mean?” 

“You, Loralai of Billowing Willow, will become a wondrous Water Witch.”

“WHAT?!” Loralai was baffled, to say the least. She was no Water Witch! Her parents were both Green Witches, how could she possibly be a Water Witch?

“Calm, Loralai. I will guide you.” The koi fish jumped from the water, floating in the air in front of Loralai’s face. Realization dawned on her then.

“A water spirit. A water spirit!” Pure joy buzzed through her veins. She had bonded with a spirit!

“Your courage and perseverance led me to you. So long I have slumbered, awaiting the right human to bond with.” The koi flicked its tail fin, as if shaking off the remnants of a long slumber. “Please, hold out your arm.”

Loralai did as she was told, the adrenaline of bonding a spirit making her giddy. The koi spirit flew higher into the air, then dived, straight into Loralai’s forearm. Her body rippled, the surface of her skin glassy. She could see the koi fish moving, a flash of its orange scales here and there.

As her skin went opaque, she gasped. Silvery images of waves and rain traced her arm, beginning at her shoulder and stopping at her wrist.

“It is done. If you ever need my guidance, simply call for me,” The koi spirit said in Loralai’s mind. 

Still in awe, she raced through the trees, her foraging long forgotten. But who cared? She needed to tell Head Witch Jade and her parents that she was no longer without magic.

She was a Water Witch!

Three objects were set out before Lux, who cocked her head to the side as she watched her papa set them in a straight line. He didn’t say anything when he was done, sitting back in his leather chair and watching her intently.

Lux turned her attention back to the items — a shiny gold coin, a sparkly diamond necklace, and a pair of red dice.

“Papa, what are these for?” She tugged at the ends of her hair, silky and blacker than the night sky past the wall of windows to her right. She looked up at him from her cushioned seat on the floor, the soft fabric of her dark purple dress brushing her knees as she sat cross legged, making them itch.

“Pick one, Lux. It doesn’t matter which one,” he finally said, eyes flicking from the row of items back to her.

She frowned, scanning the objects. The necklace glittered in the overhead lighting, the jewels enchanting her. She broke away, studying the dice. They were made of solid red plastic, the dots on all sides a striking white. The coin puzzled her the most. It was blank on the side she could see, and she didn’t want to pick it up in case it was the wrong choice. She knew papa liked having his way, even if he said it didn’t matter.

She chose the dice, remembering the sounds of them rolling on all the tables far below in the casino, the hollers of joy when they rolled in the thrower’s favor. She clicked them together, savoring the sound.

“Well.” her papa stood, looking at the two guards positioned by the front door. Lux forgot they were even there, their stances unwavering as if they were made of stone. “It looks like my daughter has chosen. Both of you, dismissed. Now.” The guards ducked their heads, leaving soundlessly out the door, no doubt taking their positions on the other side.

Papa turned back to Lux, his face conveying more emotion than she had ever seen. It startled her to see so much pride in his eyes directed at her. 

“My little raven, you’ve shown you are ready for your studying to begin.”

*

10 years later.

Lux stood at the front of the small crowd, the wave of black in the vibrant Elite Gardens spilling around the trees and colorful plants. Hushed whispers passed behind her, a discordant of voices and soft whimpers.. 

She had sealed the sadness behind the thick walls around her heart, breathing in deeply to dissipate the growing need to cry. 

Her father was dead. 

She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact, burying the anger she had towards those who caused it. She wanted the funeral to be over, for him to return to the earth and let it be.

The ceremony droned on for what felt like hours before Lux closed her eyes as they lowered her father’s body into the leafy hands of his final resting place. People left quickly after the leaves closed, as if they only needed confirmation that her father was gone once and for all.

Lux didn’t let the assumption sink in. She stayed there, staring up at the massive plant the city used as a burial site, having not enough room for graves. People brushed past her, not paying one glance in her direction as they all left the garden. The sun was almost gone, the last rays bleeding through the canopy above, her shadow rimmed in orange light as it stretched towards the base of the plant. 

She took the red dice from her dress pocket, the black material plain, simple, practical. She rubbed the worn faces with her thumb, feeling the grief clawing up her throat.

“You made me choose my life at the age of six,” Lux said aloud, speaking to the plant. It twitched, as if listening. “You made me who I am now, your successor, because I chose the dice.” She stopped, swallowing the lump in her throat and fighting the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

“I want to be my own person, not a mold of you, father. I want to choose my own path.” Lux threw the dice into the dirt in front of her. They rolled for a short distance, the dots seeming to wink up at her. She stamped them into the ground, making sure the dirt enveloped them, before turning.

She walked out of the gardens, back home, a single thought in her mind.

Life is like a roll of the dice.

And she was going to make the next roll count.

You’ve never been human. What you look like is a mystery to them because they have never seen you, save for on fragments of pottery and mosaics laid into walls destroyed by the fire of the forge of the gods. 

You were no priestess of Athena. You would not lay down your life for someone else. You were your own woman, then and now. She did not punish you for consorting in her temple. You were not in her temple in the first place and she was not the vengeful sort. She was the noble parts of war, after all, the level-headed stratagems and the valiant attempts to minimize casualties. Clear mind, spear in hand and shield in the other, owl on the shoulder with a watchful eye. Ares was the brutal parts, ripping arm from torso and joint from tendon and head from neck. Nobody liked him, save for Aphrodite, who liked him because he made her feel beautiful, as if she didn’t feel that enough. She was the goddess of love, she was worshipped by all and they all thought her beautiful. 

They took things from her, too, though. She once could fight for herself but a woman who loved could not fight, they said. Perhaps her love for Ares, her attraction, is trying to fill a gap within herself that was not always there. Perhaps she sees the brutality in him and it reminds her of the violence that once lingered within herself. 

You didn’t love Poseidon, you don’t love him now, but you wanted him that night and he wanted you. Warm tan skin illuminated with silver in the moonlight, green eyes that churned like the sea, the shiny white crest of a wave for a smile; he wasn’t hard on the eyes but then again, he was a god, none of them were. Two people having a good time, that’s all it was. 

Sure, Poseidon wasn’t the best fellow. He was frankly quite a horrible person, especially by human standards, but he didn’t force you into it, as he’d forced so many others. You’d propositioned him, that night. You weren’t a good person either. How many men had you killed? A life was a life and a candle with a trail of smoke coming from the wick was a candle snuffed out. You can turn a man to stone and you’ve done so before. What is so wrong with getting rid of trespassers, in a place they are not welcome? How have they justified your actions, now, when they have made you into a martyr? Have they forgotten or did you go mad with your curse, warped into a beast who killed only for killing’s sake?

They stripped you of your humanity, then, of your personhood. You are not a person. Does one have to be a human to be a person? Too bad you’re a gorgon, then. 

You’ve never been human. Your people are killed, your head cut off. You are no Hydra, you do not grow another head twofold. A hero, the one they think the least ugly, the least cruel, he uses your head as a weapon, turning your gaze upon those he wishes to strike dead. You didn’t live by their standards but now, you do. Your monstrousness is forgotten in favor of their definition of beauty. Gorgon, wiped away from a slate that was never meant to be clean. 

They have made your tryst into an assault, they have ripped you away from your sisters, they have made your beauty into something twisted and hideous. They rewrote your monstrousness as a curse for their own aims, their own traumas twisting your name, you’re Medusa. Your appearance is not a punishment, you love the way you look, you look like your sisters, your family. You’re powerful, you’re proud, they’ve chipped away at your body and reconfigured your form and it’s wrong, it’s all wrong! 

They have carved a statue of you killing the boy who killed you. You hold his head aloft, you hold a sword. You are made into a symbol of ideals you do not embody. These ideals are not yours. They have been tied to your hands. 

Are you not your own person? Can you not refuse a gift that is unwanted? 

These are not yours, you do not want them. Why are you made to embody something that is not yours, how can you be made into a martyr for a cause you never died for? 

They attempt to give you back your agency, after stripping it away as one would peel the bark away from wood, and they give it back wrong. It has been warped. You must be the damsel in distress to be strong, beautiful by their standards. You must be hurt to be vengeful. To make your own choices, you must give up and become their supplicant. 

You are not human. 

You have never been human. 

You will not live by their standards. 

You are Medusa.

Clove Eden thinks she forgot how it feels to be human. Sometimes she’ll just sit and stare out at the Scarrian sea, and then five hours have passed. She tries to think back to how the tide evened in and bled back out, but she truly can’t remember a difference. Sometimes she swears any fuzzy recollections resurfacing in her brain are imaginary. It’s like her doctored memories of Ursa: deeply repressed, hidden in layers of sand. Every now and then a tide within her mind creates a sinkhole, suddenly granting access to a deep, concentrated memory, sometimes so deep that it sucks her in, drowns her, and returns her to the surface with a pat on the back. Good job, kid. 

Ursa always used to tell that to Clove when she’d grappled down the Stacks, testing her footing as she descended and came back up to climb. She was destined to be a climber, and conveniently located in the largest vertical object of the ocean, but doomed to a level of risk. Ursa would never have let her girlfriend grapple the surface in the first place had it not been for Clove’s careful cartography. Clove’s willingness to map every holding and remain stringent in her own self-confidence that she could find a crevice to disappear in should security ever sporadically drop by was a kind of comfort. She fulfilled this promise until she had scaled the full height at least a hundred times. Trips down to the ocean's surface sometimes took upwards of eight days. Ursa would meet her at every level she could, silently passing between the walls and accessing the broken-down passageways to the exterior, repairing them as she went. That way, when the wind howled on the southward-facing surface, there would be no inclination that there was anything but a cement wall slicing off the colony’s access to the world. Clove would collect buckets of saltwater and allow them to evaporate until they had makeshift salt seasoning, and she harvested a mix of fish (for herself) and seaweed (for Ursa’s vegetarian lifestyle). Clove remembers this with a pang of pain. Ursa was too kind to every creature, especially Clove. Clove didn’t deserve her, and look how it ended. Sometimes she scales the cliffs, even with Ursa gone. She knows the other girl wouldn’t like it, because she only granted it on the promise of being a spotter. It took a long time to navigate the decks of the Stack, and it was just as much a journey for her as it was for Clove, though the latter did it in the freezing wind.

The brick in the tower had been sealed up, of course, but it only took a few months of erosion to wash away again. Clove knew they’d seal it back up and secure it if they had something to prove, but they’d already made their point. (Irreversibly.)

But right now, all she does is sit. She’s done all this thinking at the ocean, but she’s never felt any literal sand, except for the radiated waste at the bottom of the Stacks, the coarse texture sifting between the puffy phalanges on her suit. She stowed the Walkman under her arm during this particular outing, melting into the shadows and ducking into the enclave. The cassette played The Stranger, but frequently got stuck on Vienna, and the accordion buzzed through her ears. 

During Clove’s particularly difficult period, she’d unplug the Walkman and let the music echo off the cliff, the melody bouncing off the Stack’s shell until it became enveloped by the sea below. Clove’s neighbor once told her that he felt he was haunted by a rhythm, but the citizens, having never heard music before, assumed it was an especially rhythmic drill tool-in-testing echoing up from the Depths. Clove knew no official would be caught dead down here, at least since they’d proven their point. So she took another risk and shared the melancholy with the sea, hoping that somewhere below Ursa’s spirit could listen too (it was one of her favorites). 

Despite her family name, Clove was never the most spiritual, nor sentimental. The graphical representation of her beliefs began high, dipped low when she was separated from her mother, and exceedingly built upon her meeting the angelic Ursa before crashing down upon her…yeah. 

It was on one of these solitary days with her Walkman that Clove slipped down the broken well shaft and slid past the bushes. Rosemary and thyme branches scratched her muscular arms. She braced herself until the duct spit her out onto the balcony, the surface slightly giving in to her chucks. The wood reeked of decay and felt increasingly spongey with every benign movement, and she figured she should probably fix it soon. If Ursa were there to sit with her still, she would have fixed it right away. She would have held Clove’s hand as she grappled down the side of the Stack and affixed new paneling with her beloved toolkit. After all, what if the wood split? But she didn’t have the energy, and it didn’t seem to have a valid tradeoff. 

She thought about this somewhere on the brink of dissociation before Billy Joel’s wail waned into a sudden burst of…light. Clove gasped. 

Breaking through the marine layer was a rare glimpse of the Scarrian sun, but not glowing in its all-familiar red…in a true unobstructed canary yellow, casting gold across every silver hair across her arms and dancing through her lavender-silver braids, there was the sun from the history books. 

Clove disassociates now, but for once, she does so feeling human. She hears the piano buzz across the air and allows herself to grieve in some suppressed state of her own mind. She hugs her arms over her legs and rocks, steeling herself for a decision to come. 

As the highly-delayed helicopters come to buzz above her, leaving the landing of the obstructed, uppermost layer of the Stacks - likely to go investigate the heresy of the visible sun - she rushes inside. 

Living in the Stacks make you feel less than human. 

And Clove is done feeling that way. 

There’s no time.

I've got to go.

I can hear his footsteps coming up the stairs.

One... Two... Three...

I freeze. The footsteps stop. I hear a grumble.

“Darn girl. Always leaving her things in the hallway.”

I grab my bag, and toss it out the window,

hoping against hope that it doesn’t make too loud a thud

God must’ve been merciful. It was the faintest noise.

If he catches me leaving... Heaven only knows what he’ll do.

I grab the homemade rope. I’m hesitant to use it, unsure.

Will it break? I pray it doesn’t. God please let me get out of here.

The footsteps resume. Four.. Five.. Six... Then they stop at Caroline’s room.

A harsh knock, and then the door creaks open on rusty hinges.

“If I ever catch your pathetic bear on the stairs again..”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence to hear the threat in his voice.

A shiver ran up my spine. He was feeling generous, if he didn’t punish Caroline

For her mistake. That didn’t make me feel any better. It never did. Because he never changed.

I know what you’re thinking. This man, is he my cruel father? No. My father

Doesn’t know I exist. Or if he does, he’s never cared. Even so, no one cares for the girls.

Not the ones from The Grinarium, house of the orphaned girls of Balenite.

The man in the hallway is one of the caretakers, along with his wife. She is kinder.

I wish she could control her husband. He has never hit us, for the law

Does not permit it. That doesn’t make you feel any better.

You will still feel as though you’re walking on eggshells.

I can hear Bianca snoring in the bed of the room we share.

Bianca and I never got along. So I will not miss her. I do hope she escapes though.

If she doesn’t get taken out by next year,

she’ll either be on her own, or help out at The Grinarium.

One does not wish that fate. But many who choose the former often do not make it. Like Carla.

She left. Promised to write. She didn’t make it a week before she came back. Cold, hungry.

Seven... Eight.... Nine... Ten....

Only Ten more steps until he reaches Bianca and I’s room.

To see if we’re asleep. I have to hurry. He’s doing his nightly rounds. And I’ll surely miss

breakfast, should I be caught.

I hesitate to step onto the homemade rope. Is it sturdy? I should check it again.

My ears are radars for his footsteps. Always.

To not be alert will get you caught.

And I never get caught.

For at 16, I am one of the sneakiest and slyest at The Grinarium.

I have been there, practically since birth.

I do not know who my father is. Not that I care.

My mother was a girl who helped out at The Grinarium. She died during the birth though.

Vater (Which means Father in German) , the caretaker, has always hated me for Rosana.

My mother. I don’t see her that way though.

I’ve never met her, and therefore, all she is

Is a woman I hear stories about.

I don’t know why Vater insists we call him that. He has no love like a father does.

Only hate. I could only assume he intends to make me take Rosana’s place

When I’m of age. But I shall not be left to such a fate.

No. I want to leave Germany. But I do not intend to travel to America.

My goal is to Italy. Where I’ve heard my grandmother is.

I want to meet her, despite the fact she doesn’t know I exist.

Eleven... Twelve... Thirteen... Fourteen..

I have to go now. I finally step onto the rope I've made from sheets and blankets.

Slowly inch my way down. I hop down at the last 3 feet. Grab my bag.

And start running, my footsteps muffled by the soft wet grass.

And finally.

I’m free.

“It’s Bigfoot!”

“It’s not Bigfoot.” 

I gripped my fists tighter, as if that could silence the squeaky voices that came from my cousins. They’re over for the weekend, and in an effort to get some fresh air and a little peace, I tried to avoid the six and five year olds by going on a walk in the woods. Apparently, that didn’t work. 

Just keep walking, I say, forcefully putting on foot in front of the other, trying to continue on my peaceful hike that is turning less and less peaceful by the moment. They’ll catch up.

This isn’t the first time they’ve stopped, either. They’ve stopped for spiders, bugs, leaves and sticks—they’ve already had a make-shift lightsaber fight. This walk was supposed to be ten minutes, we’re only halfway through and they’ve stretched it out to forty-seven and a half. 

But really, who’s counting? Psh, not me. 

Ximena, my five year old cousin who licked my baked potato last night, stomps her foot, and it jerks me into the present. Crying, she stubbornly says, “Is, too!” 

Annisa, my sister who mimicked her cousin and licked my pork chop last night, throws her arms in the air, exclaiming, “Is not!”

“Is, too!”

“Is not!” 

“Is—” 

“Is this an important discussion, because it’s not sounding like one,” I say, my fists so tight I can feel my nails leaving crescent moon scratches into my palms. 

“Sorry,” Ximena says, but Annisa doesn’t have the same courtesy. 

She points her finger at her cousin and immediately tattles, saying, “XiXi thinks that Bigfoot left those tracks, and I said it’s not possible because he’s not real.” She lifts her chin up in dignity, continuing, “I said she was stupid to think so.” 

“And I said—”

“I don’t need a play-by-play of your argument, and—” 

“It’s not an argument,” Annisa says. 

“It’s a discussion,” Ximena finishes. They both sound so much like my mom and aunt that I have to hold in a chuckle. 

Tilting my head up, I stare at the canopy of trees and leaves, wondering how I’m going to approach this. The ashy brown trunks with their soft star-shaped leaves bring a certain peace to my soul. But the wind brushes through, trees stretching and shaking, a bird cawing their displeasure at the biting wind that comes with a fresh spring, and an idea pops into my head. I could be mean, stern, and true, or…

As if summoned, a cloud settles above us, turning the golden sunlight that dappers through the trees into a harsh gray, the forest suddenly looking a little more menacing than it did a second ago. 

I crouch above the footprint, my voice tinged with story and firmness as I ask, “You better hope it’s not a Bigfoot.” 

Ximena, like any curious five year old, takes the bait. “Why?”

“Why?” I ask, pulling my eyes up to meet hers, putting a little shock into mine. The wind shakes her brown bangs, and I tsk. “Don’t you know that Bigfoot is a scary monster who prays on children who get lost in his woods?” 

“You’re lying!” Annisa calls, but I shake my head, forcing myself to be stoic. 

I start inching off the path, mischievousness tugging at my lips. “I saw Bigfoot, once. When I was younger. Our Uncle…Rick used to take me through these woods, and one day, I wandered away. I left this path, you see, and walked deep into the woods. That’s when I saw the beast. He was hairy, and tall—so tall! And his feet were massive, giant wavering chunks of logs. He roared at me, and tried to eat me, but Uncle Rick saved me.” 

Annisa tilted her head at me. She was getting nervous now, but she didn’t want to believe me. “We don’t have an Uncle Rick.” 

“Well, not anymore.” Pouting, I took another step backwards, checking out the tree beside me. If I’m right… 

Ximena starts crying, but Annisa tries to stay serious. “Bigfoot isn’t real.” 

“Really? Who told you that?” I say. The wind rushes through, and I make myself shudder, stepping until I’m right at some brambles. It’s a big blackberry bush, the stalks and twists tall and thick, and it’s perfect for my plan. “I swear, on days like this, I can still feel him. Big and unwavering.” 

Annisa isn’t buying it. “I think you’re lying—”

“AHH!” I scream, and pretend that my foot is being pulled through the brambles. I claw at the ground, pretending to be pulled back. “HE’S BACK! HE’S GOT ME!” 

Annisa and Ximena scream, and I try to look as scared as possible. My foot slides off the ground, and I press my face against the dirt to stuff my smile, the earthy scent flaring through my nose. I was right—this particular blackberry is over a giant hole, and I can slip inside of it and hide. 

“Run, go on without me!” I cry at them, and with one last pull, I scream, landing in the hole, completely out of their sight. 

I have to swallow my laughter when I hear their screams of terror, and I peek through the brambles to watch them run away. For the icing on the cake, and I let loose a dinosaur roar, loud and threatening, and they scream even louder as they run back home. 

“I’m going to be in so much trouble for this,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling myself back out of the small hole and through the prickles. The thorns stab at my arms and face, closing around my throat, but I simply bat them away and pull myself back up. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this to annoying kids—I may be eighteen, but even adults need to have fun every now and then. 

Dusting myself off, I check out the footprint they were so curious about, wondering what it was. My vicious grin falls off my face when I realize—

“That’s my footprint!”