I think a lot about signals. Signals that show people what groups they belong to. Signals that hide the truth. Everybody uses signals to blend, entice, or trap.
Grandma Pearl died not long after her stroke, and I've been making bad decisions ever since. Maybe my expectations are too high, or I'm just an idiot. Either way, I ran away from the group home to be with people who called themselves my "family." They were the wrong people. They used the words family, brother, sister, and love like lock picks, stealing trust, and taking self-respect.
The only person I remember using the word family correctly was Grandma Pearl. She was a small woman who toured the US as an actress before settling with Granddad above their theatrical rentals shop. I was three when the car accident took Granddad and Mom, so I don't know if they used the word "family" correctly, but I hope they did.
I was never as outgoing as Grandma, but that didn't bother her; she taught me how to watch people. How to see their signals, and how to listen. When she died. I forgot a lot of those lessons for a while.
They called it a "family". The "family" moved product. That product could be goods, drugs, or people.
The uninitiated, like me, were distracted with food and a dry place to sleep, but it didn't take long to see behind the curtain. Things got too intense with the new "family" and I ran.
I ran back to my old neighborhood. The buildings were familiar even if my home was gone. The old theatrical shop had been turned into a microbrewery.
After an appropriate amount of self-pity, thirty minutes, I wandered the alleys, picking up cans or scavenging for bits and pieces that could be recycled, used, or bartered.
I recognized old faces, but I tried to stay out of sight. It was safer that way.
The only place I allowed myself to be seen was the old Lutheran church on the park's far side. Most people who might have known me had aged out of the congregation or died. It was worth the risk because St. Lazarus had a food pantry in the basement and gave out lunches most days, so I wasn't always hungry, which was nice.
I found a dry spot near the library to sleep, which seemed like a stroke of luck until it wasn't.
I had the contentment that came with being in a familiar place. Little bits of comfort let me believe, for a moment, that I wasn't a screw-up and hadn't trusted the wrong people. That moment scurried away when Stick found me.
Stick was a scary asshole. He technically wasn't in charge of the " family," but he made it work. He got things done. I have no idea how old he was. He was all corded muscle and could clock in between twenty and fifty. He looked half-starved and moved like a stalking predator, even with his limp.
His left leg was stiff. The knee didn't bend, and anytime he sat, his left leg would be splayed to the side like a kickstand on a bike. The leg was why he walked with a cane. The cane and how he used it was why we called him Stick.
I don't know why he took the time to track me down. It's not like I was wanted. Maybe it was that I had become property. Property shouldn't just wander off.
Sometimes, you feel a person before you see them. The air is different. When Stick was around, the air felt dead and motionless. I knew I was being watched before I opened my eyes.
Stick was sitting on a milk crate, his bad leg cocked to the side and his forehead resting on his cane. I pushed myself out from beneath the ductwork of the HVAC unit I had been sleeping under and slapped the dirt off my jeans.
"I thought that was you," Stick said as his sharp grin curved up to his unblinking dark eyes.
Stick wanted my discomfort. I'd seen him play the intimidation game too many times. He'd act too friendly, and then when you were good and worried, quick movements, a hand around the back of your neck, and violence would be next. Then he'd act like the whole mind fuck was a big joke, like you were friends, and isn't it great that you can joke around with someone who "really" cared.
It worked, too. If you were the unfortunate focus of Stick's attention, you would be grateful when he smiled and said, "Just a joke, kid. Don't be so sensitive." I'd seen the pattern enough times to know Stick trained people like dogs with his hot and cold game. I didn't like the game, or the fear, so I changed the pattern.
"Hey, Stick, did you come to help pick up cans?" I asked, making sure my smile reached my eyes. I was trying to be pleasant while ignoring the burning nervousness in my gut.
It was still dark out, but I could see Stick's expressions well enough.
Stick tapped his cane on the sidewalk and squinted at me skeptically before answering. "Just checking on my little brother."
We were not related.
Stick liked to call the uninitiated his little brothers or little sisters. He forced intimacy into his language. I didn't argue the point. Interactions went best with Stick when you agreed with everything he said.
"Thanks, man," I complimented, trying to sound genuine and ignorant as I stepped forward and offered him my hand.
Stick didn't move, but I could see that this conversation wasn't going as planned for him, and I forced myself not to react to his confusion. I couldn't break character, or he would know I was playing him.
Stick tapped his cane on the ground twice, grasped my hand, and stood. He watched me. I held his stare, but in an open, naive, guileless way that I had perfected in front of the mirror as grandma gave acting advice while she put her face on.
I once asked Grandma Perl why anyone would practice acting stupid. She pointed her mascara brush at me and, in her ditsiest Minnesota Nice character, said, "It's easier to be forgiven when people think you're a little dumb, don't ya know?" Like with most things, Grandma was right.
Before I understood what had happened, Stick pulled me into his side and slung an arm around my shoulder.
"You don't have a name yet. Everyone gets a name, but they don't get to pick it." He paused and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. "I have a name for you, little brother. You are going to be called Slide." Then he held my chin and forced eye contact." Your name will be Slide because I have never seen anyone slide out of shit faster than you. I can't tell if you do it on purpose or not, and I've been watching. I watch everybody. You do, too. Hell, this might be the first time I've ever heard you talk. So let's celebrate your name, Slide." Stick's smile slipped as he pulled me out of the alley. "We'll go do something special."
I stayed silent, knowing full well what was coming. Being named meant doing something you could never take back. It was public and would put you in prison if the police ever took the time to look for you. It meant severing yourself from your life before and relying entirely on the "family." I had been absent each time naming seemed to be in the cards, but I couldn't duck out this time.
There was only one place to go at this time of night that would have an impact, the Bodega.
The Bodega was a red hole in the wall with a glass door papered over with grocery ads years outdated. Canned salmon two for one seemed to be the dominant theme. Although there were two large windows, one on either side of the door, you could barely see in. The right window was a tapestry of cigarette promotions. The left window displayed the only swath of uncovered glass with a view of the interior. From the outside, the view was of tobacco, lottery scratchers, and Old Lady Imitari.
Old Lady Imitari owned the store. She was a short, dark-haired woman who always wore a long floral tank top. Grandma Pearl loved the old woman but said Imitari looked like an old man's thumb all the years she had known her, and Grandma moved to the neighborhood with Grandad thirty years ago. Imitari was a local legend even then because the Bodega was open twenty hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and no one else worked in the store. Grandma used to make an extra strong coffee called Barako and chat with Imitari sometimes when work in the shop was slow.
I would sneak out at night and try to catch Imitari sleeping. No matter the time, I never caught her snoozing, and she always saw me peeking at her through the window. I know she saw me because she would uncross her arms and wave her flyswatter at me.
All these memories flicked through my mind as Stick smiled his too-wide smile and pushed me into the Bodega.
Imitari flicked her fly swatter at me in acknowledgment, and her attention returned to the small TV she had nestled beside the cash register, which seemed to be the old woman's only real tether to the world outside her shop.
The inside of the Bodega was just a long hallway with shelves of convenience foods, drinks, home supplies, candy, and cold meds covering every available surface from floor to ceiling. The only break in the tunnel of products was the glass counter at the back corner of the store; Imitari presided over her mini domain by casually ignoring her shoppers. I tried to make eye contact with the old woman again as Stick pushed me to the back of the shop, but after her initial acknowledgment of our entrance, Imitari's eyes stayed focused on her TV.
As casually confident as possible, I walked to the cooler and grabbed an iced tea. "Want a drink," I asked over my shoulder, my voice unusually steady, given the electric current of anxiety flowing through me.
Stick sneered and tapped his cane twice on the ground. His eyes found all the security cameras in the tiny store, a frown creasing his angular features.
I followed his line of sight and finally realized what had bothered him. The cameras were fake. They looked like security cameras, but they weren't. There were no wires or lenses, just rectangles and circles in a security camera shape.
Stick took a deep breath and tapped his cane on the ground again. " There… is … so… much… here… to… see… but… no… one… is… watching," he said with a singsong. Then his sneer turned into a cruel smile.
I knew Stick wanted an audience for what he would force me to do. The fact that the security cameras were fakes meant that whatever was going to happen would now have to be significant. An event that the neighborhood wouldn't be able to ignore. My stomach twisted with the thought.
Stick waggled his eyebrows at me. He had been watching. He had seen my thoughts, and we both knew he had something terrible in mind.
The cane twirled in Stick's hand and then tapped twice on the shop tile.
"I think I want a little bit of this," Stick said, gesturing wildly with his cane, sending a row of soup cans tumbling to the floor. "And a little bit of that," Stick added as another wild gesture sent cups of ramen spinning and knocking glass bottles of hot sauce to the floor.
I stood paralyzed, unable to run. I was trapped with nowhere to duck away to. I didn't want Stick to hurt Old Lady Imitari, and I didn't want Stick to hurt me, either. The truth was, he would hurt both of us no matter what I did. That was just the way Stick was. I'd seen him. I'd seen him show us who he was every day.
Then I realized Imitari hadn't moved. She was watching her TV and chuckling at the sitcom as if nothing had happened.
Stick glanced at me, confused. I almost felt sorry for the sociopath. His night was not going to plan.
Imitari chuckled at her TV again, and a crease formed in the middle of Stick's forehead, letting me know that he was beyond angry. He was calm, dangerous, and vicious. People had been left for dead when Stick got this way.
Stick raised his cane and flipped it so the handle jutted like a pickax. He was going to attack Imitari.
Somehow, I moved. I didn't do much, but when I slid forward and grabbed the back of Stick's shirt, the cane missed Imitari, and the sharp handle punctured the thick glass top of the counter just above a roll of Lotto scratchers.
Old lady Imitari slowly looked up into Stick's eyes and smiled. Her wide, gentle frown was replaced with a look of joy and something else, something primal, something hungry. Her pupils were blown, and I had the uneasy feeling that I was watching someone be served their absolute favorite meal.
Before Stick could pull his cane from the punctured glass, Imitari casually reached forward, grabbed the cane, and pulled the wirey man forward. Small, old, and wrinkled, Imitari stared into Stick's eyes and overpowered him.
Stick fell forward across the counter. He tried to push himself back, but Imitari's hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice.
Bones ground together as Imitari pulled Stick's hand to her mouth, and with a swift, subtle movement, she bit off the tips of Stick's pinky and ring finger like she was sampling a cookie.
I jumped back next to the cooler as a thin spray of blood arched toward me.
Stick screamed and thrashed, but Imitari's small form was static and immovable. Stick was a fly in a trap. No matter how much he struggled, punched, poked, or kicked, he could not break the old woman's hold. Then, slowly, she took another bite.
It was strangely fascinating watching the frail form of this old woman I had known for years take bite after bite out of Stick. This man, whom I thought of as a predator, a hunter, an enforcer, was crying and begging while an old woman, who looked like a wrinkled thumb in a floral top, quietly devoured him.
I was surprised by the lack of blood after the first spray. I'm sure it was Imitari's crushing grip that stanched the flow of blood. The flesh of Stick's arm looked white from the pressure.
Hand over hand, Imitari pulled Stick forward. Bones cracked as she gripped higher on Stick's arm, clamped down with her long leathery fingers, and fed the flesh and bone, one concise bite at a time, into her open smiling maw. It was rhythmical in its simplicity: chomp, crunch, chew, chew, swallow. Over and over, the pattern continued until the begging stopped.
Stick wasn't dead. He gave up. Not struggling, he laid over the glass counter like a rag doll. He watched me glassily as Imitari took bite after bite, and I knew he wasn't there anymore. Whatever made Stick Stick had either curled up and hidden in a dark corner of his mind or had been devoured with his arm.
The old woman seemed displeased that her meal had stopped struggling. She shook him, but he flopped, and his head lulled from side to side. Imitari frowned, let go of Stick's arm, and pushed down on the limp man's back. Blood gushed from the ragged stump, and Imitari lowered her mouth and drank from the wound like she was sipping from a garden hose.
Stick didn't move. He just grew pail, and eventually, his panicked, shallow breaths ended, and the blood stopped flowing.
Then Imitari stood. With a quick tug, she pulled Stick's body over the counter and let it flop to the floor at her feet. Her eyes closed. A contented smile bloomed on her face as the explosive sound of crunching and cracking bones echoed through the small shop.
The deafening sound of crunching stopped, and only the buzzing of the drinks cooler reverberated through the small space. Imitari opened her eyes and watched me, a broad smile still on her lips. At that moment, I realized I could hear the drinks cooler so well because I had crawled into it, wedged between the glass door and the shelves.
Imitari held me with her gaze as cords of pink flesh lowered from the ceiling and efficiently tidied up Stick's mess, lapping up blood and hot sauce, placing cans on shelves, and scooping up cups of ramen with whip-like tendrils. Then, the cords of flesh nudged me forward, and I stood before Old Lady Imitari.
The thing that I had always thought of as a stern old woman handed me Stick's cane. With the same benign smile I remembered from buying red hots from it as a ten-year-old, it waved me away with its flyswatter, and the cords of flesh pushed me out the door onto the sidewalk.

Location: Defense Line Husky, Datsot-3

POV: Motsotaer, Malgeir Federation Planetary Defense Force (Rank: Pack Member)
The shrieking whistle of incoming artillery shell was among the most terrifying noises known to living beings.
Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Boom. Boom. Boom.
But it meant you were still alive.
Pack Member Motsotaer wondered if the poor pups in the forward trenches heard them coming as the enemy high explosive pounded into their lines.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
One of their anti-aircraft concrete bunkers took a direct hit; its roof collapsed on itself with a loud crumble.
Grass Eater artillery was voluminous, destructive, but scariest of all, it was incredibly precise. Their intelligence assets in orbit knew all, saw all. Their kill chains were short. Once they saw you, they would call it in, and the remainder of your life was measured in minutes and seconds.
There was nothing vegetarian about the efficient and bloodthirsty way the long-eared Grass Eaters fought, and the numerous intelligent predator species they’d exterminated on their way to Datsot… some of those tales gave even Motsotaer nightmares.
The defenders of Datsot had no choice. No choice but to defend their homes against the psychotic enemies pounding their lines to bits. And the ones who remained had learned the hard lessons of war, either through experience earned by blood or via the process of not-so-natural selection.
Motsotaer clutched his rifle against his chest as he laid in his own shallow hole, eyes closed. If the end was going to come for him, there was nothing else he could do but huddle in his freshly-dug grave.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The blasts continued walking across the defense lines, undoubtedly killing scores of his comrades. But he accompanied each shockwave with a sigh of relief; they let him know that he was still alive. Still breathing.
One final rumble. And then there was silence across the battlefield.
Motsotaer waited a minute before he peeked out — another lesson that smart defenders of Datsot had discovered the hard way. A couple brave medics were already on the move, their shouts left and right, pulling bodies and the groaning injured alike out of the rubble aftermath of the shelling.
With a grunt, he pulled himself out of his hole, rushing towards the neighboring anti-air bunker. The concrete roof had collapsed, but he could still hear cries from the dark. He squeezed through the cluttered entrance.
It was a mess on the inside. The lights were all gone. Scattered sandbags. It smelled like blood and death, and he pushed aside the still body of a Head Pack Leader he only knew of, only to find the corpse of yet another Pack Member, her limbs sprawled in an unnatural position.
“Anyone still alive in here?” he asked in the dark as his eyes adjusted. “Hello?”
There were a series of loud coughs. “I’m here. I’m here.”
“Pack Leader Nidvid!” he shouted as he recognized the familiar shrill voice. “Keep talking! Where are you?”
“Here. I’m here. Help me up.”
As she continued to cough, he had the sense to fish a flashlight out of his pocket, fumbling around until he found the on button. As the light activated, he could see Nidvid half-buried in the dirt, her lower limbs trapped beneath some sand from the broken sandbags.
“Pack Leader!” He got onto his front paws and started digging. “Are you injured?”
“I don’t think so,” she shook her head in the dim lighting as she experimentally wriggled her legs. “Here, I think I’m loose. Help me up.”
Motsotaer grasped her under her arms, and with a heavy grunt, pulled her out of the dirt.
“Whew,” she said, checking her body again for wounds. Nidvid looked around at the other bodies splayed in the bunker. “Oh no… Head Pack Leader…”
“That was a close one. I can’t believe you lived through that!”
“Yeah, me neither… Wait a second,” Nidvid said as she began rummaging through a pile of rubble near the Head Pack Leader’s body. “The radio…”
“What are you looking for?” he asked as he aimed his flashlight towards where she was looking.
“Oh no, no, no…” her voice trailed off as she picked up the device she’d been looking for. “Our hardline communicator…” It was clearly broken from the strike, its shell perforated with a hundred holes and its connection to the landline severed. In disgust, Nidvid threw it back to the ground.
“What uh— what did you need that for?” Motsotaer asked. “Were we supposed to tell them we were being attacked?”
“No… It was— before the strike, we got a high priority order.”
“A high priority order?”
Nidvid recalled, “There’s a special platoon in our salient… We were supposed to get an important message to them!”
“Special platoon?” Motsotaer asked. “Are you okay, Nidvid?”
“Yes, yes,” the Pack leader replied, visibly distraught. “They only had a physical line to us because they’re supposed to be keeping in the dark. Emissions control or something like that so they can activate the flying machine swarm in time. They said this was life and death and our whole defense line hinges on it!”
“Emissions control? Flying machines? Pack Leader, we should get you to a medic,” he said skeptically.
“No! Motsotaer, this is important. We need to get the message to them now. They’re only a couple kilometers south from our position. If we run over to their position now, it might not yet be—”
He looked up at her face in alarm. “Run to another position? Outside the trench line?”
“Yes! We have to go!” she said, as she peeked out of the concrete bunker towards the barren zone ahead of the trenches. “Now! Before they start their offensive.”
Motsotaer began to protest, “But that’s no creature’s land. If we get spotted by their troops, we’ll be hunted down by the Grass Eaters ships in orbit…”
She was insistent, “Pack Member Motsotaer, get it together. We still have a job to do. Are you with me or are you going to sit here and die like a coward to the long-ears?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, straightening up. Death or not, he was no coward. “I mean… I’m with you.”
“Good. Then let’s go.”
With a grunt, she leapt out of the trenches and jogged south, keeping to the defensive side of it for the modicum of cover it provided, and Motsotaer quickly followed. As they sprinted away from the tattered defenses, they ran into a thick tree line that hopefully provided them with some concealment from the Grass Eater ships above.
After a couple more minutes of running in the forest, Motsotaer started to tire and pant. He weighed his burning lung and how embarrassed he’d be if he complained. Luckily for his ego, Nidvid gestured for them to stop after another minute and tossed him her canteen. “Take a break before we get going.”
He chugged as much water as he could in a single swig, and returned the canteen to Nidvid. He gasped out, “How much further, Pack Leader?”
“About one more kilometer south,” she said, aiming her snout up at the treetops. “I recognize the smell of this area.”
“What’s this even about? The message… what was it?”
Nidvid exercised her limbs. “That Grass Eater artillery strike… it was to prepare for their offensive on our lines. They’ve gathered an armored division on the other side of that,” she pointed out into the barren fields beyond the trees. “We have an hour at most before they roll over us.”
“An armored division?!” Motsotaer squeaked. The enemy’s Longclaws — their armored vehicles — were legendary. They could kill from kilometers away. And their thick shells protected them against all but the most powerful artillery in the Federation’s arsenal. He’d never seen one of them personally. If he had, he suspected he wouldn’t be alive to tell anyone about it. “What can we do against a Grass Eater armored division?”
“That’s why we have to get to the special platoon,” Nidvid replied. She pointed in the southern direction, “You ready? Let’s go.”
They galloped for a few more minutes. Motsotaer’s limbs tired and his breaths shallowed as his lung burnt. As he was contemplating whether to ask for another break, Nidvid pointed at a shape in the distance. “There, that’s their position!”
He squinted at it. It was not easy to see, but buried in the tree line was what looked like a bunch of out-of-place branches and leaves over a small vehicle. Buoyed by the anticipation of the end of the marathon, he managed to keep up with Nidvid’s pace.
As they approached, there was a loud shout.
“Hi-yah! Stop!”
They halted their steps and looked for the source of the voice.
“Not one more paw step, deserter! This is a restricted area! Turn around or you’ll be shot!”
Motsotaer looked up at the voice hidden up in the branches. After a moment, with some help from his nose, he found the yeller. It was a short, stout middle-aged male with strange-looking green and brown paint smeared all over his fur and face. He had a rifle aimed squarely at the duo.
“Don’t shoot!” Nidvid yelled back. “We’re runners. We’ve got an important message! For your platoon commander.”
The male in the tree looked suspiciously at them as he leapt down. He lowered his rifle, but didn’t seem any less on guard. “A message?”
“Yes, we’ve got an urgent message for Special Platoon Commander Graunsa. Take us to him right now!”
He sized the two of them up. After a moment, he said slowly, “I am Graunsa. Why are you here, and what is the message?”
Nidvid recovered some of her breath and explained, “The Grass Eaters hit us hard with an artillery strike. Our Head Pack Leader is dead. Our landline is gone. We ran all the way over from our lines north of you.”
Graunsa nodded and gestured for her to continue.
“The Grass Eater armored offensive is about to start. They’re moving into position and ready to go, and there’s a special message embedded—”
“Wait a second,” Graunsa interrupted. “Give me the special message exactly, without omission or your own interpretations.”
“Yes, Platoon Commander,” Nidvid nodded. “The message is: bunny water carriers are in play, red-five-zero-eight; come out of the dark and introduce yourself. Authorization is three-three-greyhound.”
Graunsa looked thoughtful for a moment as he pondered it.
“What does the message mean?” Motsotaer whispered at Nidvid.
“I have no idea,” she shrugged, whispering back. “The Head Pack Leader just told me to memorize it.”
The platoon commander seemed to have made up his mind. “Alright, that seems legitimate. Thanks for the message.” He turned around to leave.
Motsotaer shouted behind him, “Wait, what are we supposed to do now?”
Graunsa turned around. “I don’t know. I’m not your commanding officer.” He paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t recommend going back to your lines though. Might not be there when you get back…”
“What?!”
“You can’t just leave us! Where else are we supposed to go?” Nidvid asked.
Graunsa seemed to contemplate the question for a few heartbeats and sighed, “You said you’re from the position up north?”
“Yup,” they replied in unison.
“And you’re a spotter, Pack Member?” he asked, looking at the rank and position patch on Motsotaer’s chest.
“Yes.”
Graunsa relented. “Fine. We might find a use for you. Get into the bunker… before the Grass Eaters in orbit see us dawdling out here.”
“What? Where?”
The officer pointed at a patch of dark green leaves on the forest floor. As they approached it, he grasped a latch and lifted it to reveal a ladder. The three of them descended into the darkness and Graunsa secured it behind them. With a quiet swoosh, a lamp mounted on the wall lit up to reveal a small hallway leading to a heavy-looking door.
Graunsa knocked on it twice. He turned around and looked at Motsotaer and Nidvid. “What you’re about to see in here is of the highest secrecy level of the Malgeir Federation. If you tell anyone what you see in here, you will be executed for treason. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Platoon Commander.”
“Swear it, on your honor.”
“We swear,” they replied in unison, their voices infused with growing excitement.
“Good enough for me.”
The heavy steel door swung open, showing a room that was vastly different from what its primitive exterior suggested. It resembled a command center far more than a field base, and Motsotaer felt a blast of cold air conditioning in his face as he passed the door threshold.
At the front, a main screen showed a map of the defensive lines in the sector. Facing it, two rows of sleek, new computer screens lit up the dark. Their operators worked busily at their controls, and only a couple faces looked their way in mild interest as they entered.
“What is this—” Motsotaer started to ask. Nidvid grasped his shoulder and shushed him.
Graunsa cleared his throat. Several faces looked towards him in anticipation. “Platoon, we just got the message. Activate the FTL handshake and authenticate us in the network.”
“Yes, sir.” A young-looking communication officer near the front operated a few controls on her console. “I’ve got the advisors on the line.”
Motsotaer read his nametag: Gassin. She was a Gamma Leader, much higher ranked than he, but she looked not a day over twenty. He noted that many of the people in the room sported high-ranking insignias despite their apparent youth.
“On screen,” Graunsa ordered.
A communication window appeared on the main screen, streaming video of someone in a jet-black EVA suit.
Motsotaer stiffened. It was obvious that the subject was alien; at around 1.7 or 1.8 meters, it was far too tall for being a Malgeir. Too small for a Granti. And from the side profile of the suit, it didn’t bulge nearly enough for the tails that the Malgeir’s Schpriss neighbors were known for. A strange new species of aliens.
From the blackened visor, it was obvious that whoever that was… it was the reason for all this tight secrecy.
“Special Platoon Commander Graunsa,” it transmitted in perfect Malgeirish. The alien was either a trained-from-birth Federation Channel One newscaster with a perfectly inoffensive accent, or its translator was far better than anything the Malgeir themselves had invented. “This call is encrypted, but the enemy Znosians in orbit are trying to find your location from the signals, so we’ll have to make it as quick as we can. Have your defensive lines completed your preparations?”
Graunsa stepped up to address the screen directly, “Yes, advisor. Our fire support platoon is ready for tasking.”
“Excellent. Transmitting the first batch of targets in your sector now.”
A series of symbols scrolled onto the screen, showing a number of coordinates.
“We’re getting the enemy positions now,” Gassin exclaimed.
Graunsa turned to her and nodded his appreciation, “Sixteen armored targets. Weapons free.”
“Yes, sir. Programming the sequence.”
A camera on the main screen activated, remotely showing a small hole with some machinery in it dug a few hundred meters away just at the edge of the tree line.
“Launching flying machine swarm!”
As Motsotaer watched, a thicket of metal erupted from the hole in a blur, roaring into the sky.
The main screen was replaced by a four-by-four of windows of black and white images. It took him a couple seconds to realize that he was looking at the battlefield from above. The Malgeir had rotary wing, airplanes, and jet — some were even armed, but they were usually much bigger. And their air assets had been grounded since the early days of the battle for Datsot when the enemy took the orbits.
Not these tiny devices though.
He focused on one of the sixteen windows.
The ground sped past below the camera’s vision, tree line after tree line, the flying machine seemed to know where it was going by itself: Motsotaer looked at the other occupants in the room. None of them seemed to be directly controlling it.
He stiffened.
Is this controlled by a thinking machine?
“We’re getting in range of the target coordinates, Platoon Commander,” Gassin updated the room a few minutes later.
As if on cue, the flying machines flew higher, and the trees on the ground grew smaller, as if further away. Until…
“Targets identified!” Gassin reported with excitement in her voice.
As an infantry spotter, Motsotaer had been trained — barely — to identify enemy armored vehicles. As in, he’d been given a cheatsheet containing the silhouettes of the different types of vehicles the enemy drove. But even he couldn’t tell at this distance what the white-hot smudges on the screen were.
The machine had no such issues though.
Several red boxes materialized on the screen, clearly marking several enemy vehicles in the thermal imagery and adorning them with detailed information.
The one Motsotaer was watching said:
Hostile vehicle, Longclaw MK4 (top armor: ~25mm), 4.2 km.
No hostile EW detected.
Without additional prompting, the flying machines raced in towards their targets, each recognizing a different one as its final destination. Afraid to blink, Motsotaer stared intently at one of the video streams.
A new line of text appeared at the top of the screen:
ETA 20 seconds.
It counted down the seconds, number by number.
The enemy Longclaw got larger and larger until… the screen went black, replaced by static. As he looked around, the other windows were similarly replaced with static one-by-one.
Motsotaer frowned, wondering where the videos had gone.
Then, it hit him. The flying machines were on one-way trips.
The sixteen windows disappeared, and another one appeared, showing the enemy assembly area from a much higher perspective. And instead of the vehicles he expected, he counted sixteen burning wrecks, the black smoke from their flames reaching up into the sky in columns.
“Targets destroyed, Commander,” Gassin said. Several of the officers in the room looked at each other excitedly, but their celebration was muted.
Graunsa nodded. “Call our advisors again.”
The alien appeared on the screen again. “Excellent work, Platoon Commander. We’re assessing the lines and getting the second batch of targets to you now.”
“Understood.”
As the new target coordinates scrolled onto the main screen, Gassin didn’t need additional prompting, “Launching flying machines!”
Another sixteen of them flashed out from the pre-dug position. Another sixteen windows appeared on the screen, replacing the odd-looking aliens’ video.
“Wait a minute,” the aliens’ voice cut into the quiet hum of the control room’s operation. “Switch back to the high-altitude drone. Something’s happening.”
The main screen’s image was replaced by the previous camera looking down at enemy lines. There was a flurry of activity in the enemy base area. Numerous dots representing the ground troops moved to-and-fro. And worryingly, the red squares that surrounded enemy armor began appearing en masse as enemy Longclaws drove out of their covered positions into the open.
Dozens of them.
Then, hundreds. And more appeared every second.
“What’s going on?” Graunsa asked, his voice reflecting Motsotaer’s worry.
The alien took a minute to get back to him, its black helmeted face filling up the screen again. “They’re attacking. They don’t know what hit them in the last strike. But they must have realized that they’re not safe in their assembly area, and they’re doing the only thing they can… We estimate they’ll get to your first lines in thirty minutes.”
“Can we stop them?” Graunsa asked. “We can—”
The alien looked directly into the video. “Not sixteen drones at a time. And if you launch the whole swarm at once, it’ll reflect enough signal for them to sniff out where you are with their counter-battery radars and take you out from orbit.”
Graunsa swallowed. “That’s— that’s— The machines can fly themselves without us, right?”
The alien didn’t say anything for a few heartbeats. “Theoretically, yes. But even if you evacuate your position now, your people won’t get out of range from the orbital strike they’ll call in.”
“I understand. Feed us the enemy targets.”
“Delta Leader, we can’t ask you to—”
“I said, feed us the enemy targets,” Graunsa insisted.
Quietly, hundreds of coordinate pairs filed onto the main screen. Graunsa looked at the faces of the young officers under his command. Dozens of them. He turned around to look at his two guests. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s the right choice,” Nidvid replied, shrugging.
Motsotaer nodded at him.
“I know,” Graunsa said, turning back to the main screen. “Just doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Sir, we’re ready to launch,” Gassin reported.
“Weapons free. Release everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ground shook and rumbled, hundreds of flying machines leaving their canisters for the sky. They were close enough to hear the outgoing buzzing as the munitions launched. This time, more and more windows filled up the screen with the visuals of the outgoing flying machines — hundreds of them, and Motsotaer was surprised that the computers could even handle it all.
The visage of the alien returned to their screen. It said calmly, “Enemy orbital launch spotted. Multiple launches. High yield. Missiles incoming to your location, ETA twelve minutes.”
“Understood, advisor.”
POV: Slurskoch, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)
“Scramble! Scramble! Scramble!”
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
“What’s going on?” Longclaw Commander Slurskoch sat up in his turret cupola as the sirens rang loud through the hull.
“We’re under artillery attack!” his Controller yelled back at him through the roaring startup sequence of the turbine anti-grav engines. “The Lesser Predators… they’ve got some kind of new weapon! Took out a whole battalion’s worth of Longclaws in the 194!”
“But we’re not ready!” his Driver complained. “Our artillery is supposed to pound them for another hour before we—”
Slurskoch shook his head as he checked the friendly force tracker on his screen. “Doesn’t matter! If they’ve got some new weapon, we can’t sit still while we get pounded to bits by whatever they have. We gotta get out there. Hurry it up!”
It took them another two minutes to fully warm up the engines, and with a roar, the Longclaw burst out of its camouflaged emplacement, kicking up a curtain of dirt in front of it.
“Let’s go! Go! Go!” Slurskoch yelled as his lagging Longclaw joined the armored formation already on the move.
The Controller spoke with one of her ears in the radio, “Their artillery just launched… something at us. We’ve pinpointed their location, and orbital support is on its way.”
His Gunner whooped twice, and Slurskoch nodded silently in agreement. That’d flatten those carnivorous abominations where they stood. He drew a few symbols and circles on the digital battlemap as the Longclaws drove toward the enemy lines. “Gunner, watch those potential trench lines in front of us,” he instructed. “Their anti-armor may not look scary on paper, but their infantry can always get a lucky hit in.”
Slurskoch was taught in training that it was better to overestimate the enemy than underestimate them. Luckily, the predators usually fell below expectations, which was why the Dominion controlled the orbits of Datsot now and not them.
His Controller frowned at something in her radio, “They’re saying something about the enemy artillery… The engineers at the base assessed the strike aftermath. There’s something strange in the rubble. The attack was more precise than anything we’d ever seen.”
“What does that mean?” Slurskoch asked in confusion.
“The sensor officer in charge of the assembly area has taken full responsibility. They didn’t see the incoming at all. Higher ups are speculating that the Lesser Predators have a new weapon in their arsenal.”
“The predators made new weapons?” Slurskoch snorted. “Useful ones? That’ll be a first. Well, whatever it is, maybe our Design Bureau will get a good look at it when we finally cleanse this planet of their filth. Make our next battle a little easier when we have to take their home planet.”
His Gunner agreed, “And then, the Prophecy shall be fulfilled.”
A few kilometers into the charge across the open, the Gunner remarked with one eye on her targeting computer, “Looks like even the local winged predators know that there’s about to be a slaughter here.”
The Driver, in his open hatch, looked up at the cloud of them flying over the enemy lines. “Looks like it. A nice juicy feast for them in the coming battle. The irony of the barbaric carnivores being eaten by themselves.”
A few thousand years ago, winged predators would have curdled the blood of any natural-born Znosian. On the original plains of Znos, they were one of the most dangerous threats a lone Znosian faced. Now, that fear had been completely bred out of the gene pool, replaced with contempt for predatory primitivism, the courage to face them in battle, and the drive to exterminate them all.
Curious, Slurskoch stared up into the cloud of winged predators with his Longclaw commander optics. He frowned.
One of them shimmered.
Shimmered.
He zoomed in.
Then, he saw a metallic glint. His whiskers tightened.
“That’s— those aren’t winged predators,” he barely made out in shock. “Incoming!”
“Huh?” his Driver asked, craning his head up to look at the dark shapes in the distance.
“Get inside! Secure the hatch!” Slurskoch shouted at him.
His Driver was not very good at thinking on his own, but he had been bred to follow direct orders without question. He ducked into his seat, quickly securing the hatch above him close with trained claws.
He barely secured the Longclaw as other commanders began yelling out similar instructions on their radios.
“Incoming!” his Controller advised, about ten seconds later than necessary. “Enemy… artillery?!”
“Gunner!” Slurskoch gestured in the general direction of the sky.
“I can’t get a shot on them. They’re too high up!” she screamed back at him.
A trio of air defense vehicles next to him opened up with their six barrels towards the sky, lines of bright tracers stabbing out at the dark swarm. He saw one of the… flying machines hit and fall out of the sky. Then another.
It wasn’t enough.
As Slurskoch’s optics tracked the incoming, he saw them dive. They were fast, and they flew erratic patterns, almost organically, like actual winged beasts. If he hadn’t had that specific fear bred out of his bloodline hundreds of years ago, he would have been frozen in shock. Instead, he yelled out, “Brace! Brace!”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The world exploded around his Longclaw.
Through his friendly force tracker, Slurskoch watched an entire battalion disappear off the map on his right flank, and two Longclaws in his line of sight brewed up in massive fireballs, throwing their turrets into the sky as their plasma ammunition detonated. One of the anti-air vehicles brewed up next to his, splattering its parts against his hull.
His Driver drove for all he was worth, ducking and weaving in the open field. So did the other Longclaws. Some deployed curtains of smoke in front of them in desperation.
None of it seemed to help.
The shockwaves hit his Longclaw in quick succession, knocking him around the armored cabin and rattling his teeth.
Boom. Boom.
More Longclaws exploded. Many more. They were disappearing off his screen faster than the software could update the signals. He closed his eyes waiting for the end.
It didn’t come.
It was hard for Slurskoch to tell when the last Longclaw near them was hit. His hearing organs must have been damaged some time during the attack. His auditory senses ringed as they returned to normal, recovering when his Controller shook him with a paw on his shoulder. “—Five Whiskers! Five Whiskers!”
“What is it?” he snapped, keeping the quivering out of his voice.
“We’re alone in our company, and I can’t contact the six whiskers! And I’ve been trying to reach battalion without success!”
“Try the regiment commander!” he yelled out against the noise of the anti-grav engine.
“Can’t reach them either!”
“What about division headquarters?!”
“I think division’s gone, sir!”
“What?!”
“Nobody there has been responding. All I’ve got is a seven whiskers in the reserve infantry division behind us! They’re saying they see black smoke in the direction of our division field command!”
“What in the Prophecy? How is that possible?!”
“What do we do, Five Whiskers?”
Slurskoch had been trained for a wide variety of combat scenarios and contingencies, including losing his immediate superiors, losing most of his unit, and losing his communication link to command. But he’d never been trained for all of those combined at once. That was just not something predators were supposed to be able to do to you.
He fell back to the next best thing.
“What’s the combat computer say?” he asked.
His Controller operated the controls on her console, and after half a minute of querying, she replied, reading off the instructions, “Absent orders, continue the attack. Maybe we can push through.”
“What? Did it take our losses into account?” he protested as he checked the battlemap. Of the nearly five hundred Longclaws that had pushed out of the assembly area, only a quarter remained. At most. Some of the signals on the map were flagging themselves as mobility or mission killed.
She shrugged, “It did. That’s what it says.”
He squinted at her screen. That was indeed what it said.
Slurskoch thought for a moment, sighed, and bowed in prayer, “Our lives were forfeited the day we left our hatchling pools.”
The other crew members all did the same, lowering their heads to mutter the familiar mantra.
That ritual out of the way, he drew up to his full height of 1 meter and mustered all the confidence he could into his voice, “Attack! Attack! Attack!”
POV: Graunsa, Malgeir Federation Planetary Defense Force (Rank: Delta Leader)
The command center watched glumly as the hundred or so surviving Grass Eater Longclaws emerged from the wrecks of their comrades and slowly resumed their charge across the open toward the defense lines.
The flying machines had gotten a lot of them. Quite a few disabled too. And they were disorganized from the loss of their command. Yet they still charged. Diminished as their numbers were, they rolled towards the battered defensive lines with psychotic determination.
We’ve failed.
Graunsa sat down heavily into his chair. He brought up his communication console, connecting it to the advisor network.
The alien appeared on the screen, and though he couldn’t see its face, he could hear the sympathy in its translated voice, “You’ve done all you can, Special Platoon Commander.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he said, shaking his ears sadly. “They’re going to break through our line. Our infantry can’t stop them.”
It tilted its head. “I wouldn’t count them out completely, Delta Leader. They might. They might not. But your next defensive line certainly will hold them. The city behind you will be held.”
“Tracking enemy orbit-to-ground. ETA three minutes,” Gassin reported quietly from next to him.
Graunsa sighed. He looked at the alien, “I think I understand your people now, advisor.”
“You… do?”
“Yeah, at first, when we were picked for this mission, I wondered why your people were doing this.”
“Doing this?” the alien asked, seeming confused.
“Helping us. The weapons. The equipment. The training. The targeting. It was all in secret, but you didn’t have to do it. The other species around us didn’t do it. The Schpriss…” Graunsa snorted, “The long-tails can’t even find it in their spines to send us field rations. I thought your species… your people were just generous. Or perhaps you simply enjoyed the craft of war, being so adept at it.”
“Are we… not?”
“Those reasons may be part of it,” he conceded. “But more importantly, I think your people understand one thing the other species don’t… that we might stop the enemy here. Or we might not.”
“We didn’t set you up to fail, if that’s what you think—”
“But the next defensive line certainly will hold them,” Graunsa said, staring the alien in the eye. “You will hold them. Isn’t that right?”
It sighed. “I would be lying if that wasn’t part of the strategic equation. Our star systems are indeed next in line — sometime in the next decade or two, probably — if these bloodthirsty Buns conquered your Federation. That harsh astropolitical realism. But there’s something else too.”
“Is there?”
“Yes,” it nodded its head firmly in a familiar manner. “Yes, there is. We aren’t a particularly long-sighted species, Graunsa. We can plan, yes, but wars are fought by true believers. People don’t sign up to put their lives on the line for a hypothetical, potential invasion of our Republic twenty years in the future. They— we signed up for this because we truly believe what’s happening to your people… it shouldn’t happen to anyone, ever.”
Graunsa looked at the helmeted head for a while, then nodded. “I believe you, advisor.”
“I’m sorry this didn’t pan out, Graunsa. If I could, I’d be down there with you. We’d have made them pay for this.”
Graunsa smiled. “I believe you about that too. Thank you, advisor, whatever your name is.”
“You may call me Kara,” it said simply. A deft snap of its paws — he hadn’t noticed how soft its claws were before — and it released a latch on its helmet with a hiss. Lifting it from its head, it revealed a soft, smooth face without much fur except a bundle of long, brown strands on its scalp tied up in a neat spherical shape. Its hazel forward-facing eyes stared at him with the empathy that only other predators were capable of, filling him with mild relief. “Don’t tell anyone though,” it joked lightly, mirroring his smile back at him.
You’re not as ugly as I thought you’d be. Not nearly.
Graunsa’s grin widened at the thought. He put it out of his mind. “Ah. One last thing, advisor— Kara.”
“Yes?”
His mind drifted to his cubs at home. Perhaps they were still alive. He chose to believe that. “Our people’s clans and packs…”
“We’ll let them know,” she interrupted him softly. “And when the information quarantine is lifted, we’ll let your clans and packs know what you did here — everything.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Gassin sat down next to him, “Delta Leader, enemy missiles incoming. ETA thirty seconds, they’re entering—” She stopped her report and stared at the unmasked alien on his screen with equal parts wonder and sadness.
“Take a closer look, Gassin,” he ordered softly. “That… that is who will avenge us.”
On screen, the alien put its gloved paw up to its temple, forming a stiff triangle with its arm in a recognizable salute. “It was an honor, Graunsa.”
Graunsa returned it crisply, letting a primitive fire shine through his face. “Happy hunting, Kara.”

Location: Atlas Naval Command, Luna

POV: “Kara”, Terran Reconnaissance Office
Kara watched solemnly as the green signal blinked off the battlemap. She closed her eyes for a moment in silent prayer for the fallen.
Beep. Beep.
Another light on her console blinked urgently for her attention. Four thousand kilometers from the previous one. The war raged on — day and night — across four continents on the besieged planet. Fifty light years from the Republic, its defenders’ sweat, tears, and blood lined the fields and valleys of the beautiful blue sphere not so different from her own. Tens of millions of them: many who she knew would not see the end of this war.
They didn’t all know it, and some might not have cared, but fifty light years away, someone recorded their names, and someone felt a pang of loss for their sacrifice. In the cold, dark forest of the galaxy, somebody heard their trees fall.
Kara collected her thoughts, adjusted the bun in her hair, and lowered the tinted EVA helmet over her face once more.
She cleared her throat as she glanced at the screen and activated the microphone in her helmet, “Special Platoon Commander Treiriu. This call is encrypted, but the enemy Znosians in orbit are trying to find your location from the signals, so we’ll have to make it as quick as we can. Have your defensive lines completed your preparations?”

Meta

Thanks for reading my story! This is a standalone chapter in my Grass Eaters story, meant to be enjoyable all on its own. If you're interested in more of my writing, please do subscribe to the update waffle bot or check out the rest of the universe in Grass Eaters.
(Grass Eaters posts every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We are closing in on the end of Book 1.)

Long post, sorry.
What a finale guys. The battle against Alexandrite was cinematic, satisfying, and a great end to the arc. Unfortunately, there is a problem. Alexandrite’s absence leaves a power vacuum. And nature abhors a vacuum. This leaves us with a question. There are about ten-fifteen episodes left in Campaign 3 and the big bad built up since episode one is out of commission. Who can replace her for the show’s last arc? I will be ranking choices based on how long they’ve been present in the story, proximity to the heroes, relevance to the upcoming arc, whether they’d be a believable threat, jokes, and je ne sais quois. This list will favor potential baddies introduced in Campaign 3, but Campaign 1 will be factored in and there will be spoilers for both, as well as some of NADDPod’s mini campagins. And just a quick note, I don’t think I’ll be able to guess the ending and I’m sure whatever Murph comes up with will be better than anything I pitch, but I had a good time writing this and wanted to see what people were thinking.
The Options:
Alexandrite again
The argument for: Murph had to plan for at least the potential of Alexandrite winning the combat and entering the Feywild and I’m sure he had an interesting story idea. And she’s an AI, it’s possible she had a backup plan.
The argument against: The heroes just beat her in a way that felt definitive and got around any potential body jumping. And she died so recently, it would be like if after Hardwon killed Galad in Campaign 1 he was the big bad in the next arc instead of like fifty episodes later. Wait, actually.
Galad Rosell
The argument for: Galad has come back from the dead twice now, more if you include liveshows. He’s very difficult to kill. And yes, he’s probably in the Ruby Dawn being redeemed, but if anyone could take over two hundred years to learn their lesson it’s Galad.
The argument against: Galad has nothing to do with the current story or PCs and it would be strange if he fought them. Bad idea.
Rian Urphy
The argument for: Perhaps the most dangerous enemy on this list.
The argument against: He’s not canon and is also a good guy.
The Shiverblights
The argument for: Princess Shiverblight’s parents are two adult dragons who currently live in the Frigid North where our heroes are.
The argument against: Duck Team seems to be planning on heading out of the Frigid North ASAP and I don’t really know if we’ll have time to wander around and find them. It would also be a pretty big step down threat wise because even if they are two dragons, they’re still Shiverblights.
Pendergreens
The argument for: It’s possible that, in the time since Campaign 1, Pendergreens has been killed and reformed in a more evil state. And why wouldn’t he want to take on Duck Team, the biggest knobs out there?
The argument against: He has nothing to do with the story right now.
Cyril Coldain and the army of Frostwind
The argument for: Cyril Coldain was the dweebier son of King Coldain in Campaign 1, and presumably he is king now and has worked out whatever treaty he currently has with the giants. However, he might be mad about what just happened in the Frigid North.
The argument against: He doesn’t really have much to do with any PC except for Calder, he was a pretty forgettable character in Campaign 1 who might not even still be alive, and it would be a weird detour when all signs are pointing to the Feywild. I see this at most being a conflict in the next episode.
Nobody
The argument for: Murph mentioned a lot of the next arc would be tying up loose ends. It’s possible there is no big bad and our heroes will just spend the remaining time making the world a better place.
The argument against: Murph is the master of making immediately hateable villains and cool combats and he wouldn’t be playing to his strengths without a heel.
Grem
The argument for: If you don’t remember Grem(shame on you) he’s the Hobgoblin who works for Ma Goblin who got really frustrated with Duck Team. If we’re looking for a character who has long established beef with the PCs it’s hard to find a bigger or longer lasting hater than him, which is something the big bad should have.
The argument against: Grem is a pretty good guy with no evil ambitions and he’s hardly a credible threat to Duck Team.
Lord Commander Morrigan
The argument for: Commander Morrigan took over the city of Malscurial with some help from our PCs, but she seems pretty militaristic and it’s not crazy to think she might try and conquer Irondeep.
The argument against: Can’t really see a way back into the story for her. She’s underground on a different continent.
Gruumsh
The argument for: The biggest bad on this list. A god of war. One who has been seeded since the Dragon Elf Chronicles and is definitely a credible threat.
The argument against: Duck Team doesn’t really have much beef with Gruumsh outside of caring about Hardwon. This seems like more of a Band of Boobs problem.
Glen and Eloise
The argument for: I don’t think the rest of the Old Folks circle was ever freed in the Crick, except for MeeMaw. Eloise is still out there and as a Druid she might have a way to the Feywild. Maybe she wants to take a fairy crown for Glen.
The argument against: Glen’s not really a credible threat anymore. I think it’s possible they take an episode to resolve things with Eloise, or just cover it in the epilogue.
Charbin or Garrosh
The argument for: So, Charbin is that fire giant we met a couple of episodes ago and he clearly is going to be a problem. Garrosh is also pretty sketchy and may have an ulterior motive. They also are both from the Feywild, which is a huge point for them because it seems like they’ll be relevant soon.
The argument against: Charbin is pretty much a joke character. Garrosh I could see an argument for, but he was introduced pretty late in the game and has been nothing but helpful so far. However, I like their connection to the Feywild, which brings us to our next contender.
Syra Petrichor and Marigold
The argument for: Syra is probably the most built up character that hasn’t actually been introduced this campaign and I doubt we end this arc without seeing her, especially since she has the last serpent. Also, she is confirmed to have her own duck and it would be really cute to see an evil duck.
The argument against: I doubt Syra isn’t recruited as an ally. We spent so long humanizing Swag, Callie’s mother and Calder’s brothers, it would be a weird pivot if she was just evil. However, the evil duck is promising and we’ll circle back to that.
Mavrus the Unskooled and the Trinyvale Triplets.
The argument for: In the end of the Patreon exclusive sequel to Hot Boy Summer, Mavrus entered “the Multiverse of Mavrus” and I believe we are already seeing the consequences of that decision. The Trinyvale Triplets had a full on incursion with Bahumia, who’s to say they can’t do it again and ruin things.
The argument against: Murph is too much of a coward to do this. Also, it would probably be bad.
Queen Cirilla and Queen Jovyre
The argument for: This is probably the only confrontation that can be guaranteed. The Fey Queens aren’t going to give up their crowns without a fight. They’ve been built up for a long time in both campaigns and unlike a lot of the people on this list it wouldn’t seem like a pivot to make them the final bosses.
The argument against: We haven’t really seen any of them this campaign so it would take some effort to introduce them.
Aryox
The argument for: Aryox has been pulling the strings for a long time and being a former part god and prophet who set a lot of things into motion, it’s possible he has evil intentions.
The argument against: Aryox is pretty definitely dead and viewed somewhat sympathetically. Most of his plans were to stop Alexandrite, which he has accomplished. However, there’s another sketchy fey demigod who will close out this list.
Oberon
The argument for: Oberon has been present since the very first episode of the campaign, in the form of Foster. He, at least at one point, had a plan to bring the world back to a wild state and didn’t seem to care much about the destruction that would cause. Calliope’s mom taught him the value of mortal life, but he still could have a backup plan. With Duck Team fully committed to destroying the crowns it’s possible they’re playing right into his hands and once they’re out of the picture he will take the Feywild by force. He’s certainly a credible threat, he’s tied to where the PCs are heading, and he’s got a plausible motivation to turn evil. And we could still get evil ducks with him fighting the party.
The argument against: Murph has been playing Oberon as a good guy, but he’s still pretty shady. I think this is my pick for who can replace Alexandrite without seeming like a pivot. Oberon: hunter, archfey, demigod, BBEG.
So that's my pick. If anyone has another idea I'm very curious. Because hell, it might even be the Grinch himself.

Taboritsky: Past Midnight
This tale of great tragedy takes place in a world of destruction, genocide, and madmen. In a world where the axis powers had won WW2, and plunged the world into terrible disaster.
In Russia a faction of particularly gruesome violence and motivation, emerges with Sergey Taboritsky as its leader. Of jewish Russian origin, after surviving the Nazi occupation, he was left tortured, insecure, and… inspired by their works. In his crazed delusion he became a powerful madman, the ruler of Russia, aiming to see his dark deeds through.
Here, in this world, It is the last days of Europe, and the night has come for Russia.
You can see his efforts through. You can see, what drives a madman to such ends? And what if Taboritsky succeeded?
What if the clock passed midnight?
I am Artyom Spielgman, and I am an orphan of Russia.
Years ago, in the landscape where memory keeps us all, this land and people that had birthed me had been wounded. By the bullets and bombs of the Third Reich fired in World War Two, they have still found their targets decades after. Have you ever smelt the burning of a nation?
An old world, that old world where all Russians fought fiercely against Nazism, not one step back. You can not turn back the clock, but it can be rewound.
Have you ever seen the Swastika on the Russian flag before? I have.
This flag was not that of a puppet state, not the slave of he germans. Rather, the cruel machine of that particular madman. The treacherous one. The one that makes the efforts that would make Hitler weep, weep to stop.
Sergey Taborisky, the master of Russia.
Sad to admit, I was close to this man. Not in the manner of physical reach, though I was. Nor in the lens of friendships, for no kindness existed in him.
Only venom, only brutality, only determination existed in him.
The imperial palace of which I met him weekly was haphazardly remodeled based on his increasingly deranged orders. Columns based on classical architecture, esoteric symbols of german origin, violent colors like an exploding corpse.
This didn’t look like Russia, not the land that people fought and died for. A joke, a parody, some unfunny cruelty dealt onto the land. Like a plague given a mind.
For the past years, I was a close worker to him. Not in the manner of an advisor, for they would disappear. Be into Siberia or the Ural Purification zone, they would not last.
No, I was a silent workhorse, the one that organized his deranged ramblings and visions into understandable orders. I kept silent for most of the time, only asking silently for clarification and if he needed something. My skill at detecting his needs was what brought me my longevity.
Long drags on a cigar or cigarette meant he was in a good mood, or if he hadn’t drank any wine by 2pm meant he would go on a rant for the next hour.
However, one evening of supernatural dark, I would sustain a terrible dialogue with him. One that left me… changed.
“I… dreamed. This… Let me tell you of this dream.” Sergey spoke, sitting on his chair like he were to fade into it. I was there in his office, where old regalia of significant documents and art were pinned on the walls with simple nails and tacks. I stopped my typing, feeling a weakness in my stomach.
“What is… it?” I looked down, reflexively finishing up the paper before handing it to him. He didn’t reach out for it.
I had been typing up the numbers from yesterday’s gassing. Regions had names, victims had numbers.
Two eighty six, ninety thousand and twelve, four eighty nine.
Briefly, my mind returned to the office, to the room. He was staring at me, like a wolf to prey.
A bead of sweat formed on my head. What’s wrong?
Sergey hadn’t smoked yet.
It’s eleven fifty and he hadn’t had his cigarette.
I reached out of my pocket, dropping the paper, rushing, hoping I had enough time.
“No need.” He waves my hand down. “Would you like to hear it? Hear the dream?”
I did not know months ago, since I was the only one desperate enough to even apply for the position, a typist career for this… traitor.
Some fabricated documents had allowed me a glimpse, a view into Taborisky, one that could not be captured by cameras and speeches. Only the image that human eyes could see.
“Yes Commis…uh… Regent Taboritsky. I would be happy to hear of this.” I feverishly shifted in my chair. The windows bring in moonlight of a ghostly kind. I am hidden behind the room’s curtains while Sergey is illuminated in strangled blue.
“Before me, No… before all of Russia, I dreamt our flag. The Savior’s face, The Eagles, all of us were embraced by it.” Sergey smiled that cruel smile of his. Whenever I finished he finished reading the reports, he’d give me this smile. A faint rise of the lips and those terrible teeth showed.
Fascinating, that we both came from those same twelve tribes…
“Was it good?” I asked.
“It was good. For some time.” He breathed out heavily, as if reminiscing some great pain of his. Or rather, the pain he inflicted.
I didn’t even know what the numbers I had typed up meant until a year ago. I devised a game, counting not the numbers but what particular lines that happened to emerge, like counting the color of cars passing by. For ‘ten thousand’ I counted up to twenty seven times. I don’t play this game anymore.
Twenty two thousand. Eight hundred eighteen.
“That is good.” I gulped, fearing what may come next. Sometimes I daydreamed there, hoping that this madman would kill me suddenly. I wouldn’t be allowed that pleasure.
“But, everyone disappeared. There was a lack of that… symbol.” He tapped a silver medal on his breast, that of a shining swastika. “Instead of our nation’s flag, remain the Savior. And there was a… sound.”
I winced, this was uncanny, different than he normally was. Taborisky never spoke of sounds in his dreams, or images.
Only numbers, not faces.
Distant, inhuman calculus, not the earthy creatures he hated. Or rather, the parts of himself that he hated, that he was disgusted by.
Still, this conversation had reached unknown territory, like stepping into a street completely dark.
“What sound, was it a song? Of our triumph?” I choked on my words momentarily, I wished not to hear of this, traitor. I wished only to survive him.
“There was… this ticking. A clock. A clock.” He leaned forward, hunching over and shot out his pointing fist to the bare wall in front of him.
“A clock? A clock, Lord Regent?”
“Ticking. That’s what it was doing. Ticking. I was frozen, while this clock ticked away. And Our Lord, Our Savior blinked. He blinked as it ticked. Not remaining open, but he closed his eyes!” He swallowed firmly and leaned back into his chair.
Ten thousand five. Five hundred fifty four. Minsk is clean. Forty seven.
“I… don’t understand.” I wiped my brow and put both of my hands on my lap. He was right here. I have time to do it. Tick tock. Click click. Time doesn’t wait.
“That was not all. For eternity, the clock moved and ticked. Ticked. And… and…” He sighs and bows his head to his chest. “Nothing. Absence. No light. No Russia. No future.”
Siberia is burning. Thirty three. Nine thousand. Four.
I can… end him… end this. All of this, could be ended! So quickly, like strangling a bird. But he wasn’t a simple animal, I wouldn’t survive leaving this room.
“Lord Regent, you aren’t well. You are tired, I am tired.” I said through gritted teeth. “Perhaps a smoke. Perhap some water-”
“I understood.” Sergey rose up from his chair. Dry, lean, pointed, wizened, slightly weazened type. A jew… like me. Not the killer of people.
He was not flowering, but fading.
He cried, in the way a man that loathed all his parts could. Like he was some revolting creature. The hands on the clock snapped as he rose, the next minute arrived.
“In that nothing… I knew. Discovering that awful truth. Some looked on our symbol, our flag, and on everything we sacrificed and cleansed, and did it to rid us of the degenerate and the vile.” He still looked towards the wall, but his eyes slowly dragged on the floor. The swastika on his chest glinted, like an ax in light.
“Regent. Please. Stop.” Whimpering weak. Doomed, I knew this place would be.
What is the son of fire? Ash.
“To remove. Do you know what I did? In this dream? You must know.” He finally laid his steel eyes on me. I couldn’t move. Time could not exist here. Time only exists on earth. I was in hell.
What conquers all? Time.
“I… screamed. I screamed… for Him.” Tears like dripping blood fell from his eyes. “To hear him. To see him. I was trapped in a place. A place that wasn’t a place. A wasteland could not compare. I screamed and screamed and He would not answer! All that we did, and yet he would not answer. I knew, despite that choking dark, that somewhere, in that place where all things end! He was watching, and the clock signaled. He is numberless and yet he would not speak to me!”
Right there, right there I felt it. That sort of nervous system of emotion that ties all people together. Even for this… loathsome virus, this plague man, I felt… a degree of pity.
I wondered for Taborisky. In this job, I had to think for him, and had to manage his bizarre operations. I wondered how he’d considered the numbers I typed up. How many families did he purge? How many children?
What were their names? Their histories? I imagined that he could see it quite clearly. That it’ll be a painful thing.
It’d be like contemplating the grains of sand in a desert.
Would it be enough? Maybe one more, one more and then Russia will be saved! Perhaps that was what he had been thinking most of his life. A little more pushing, a couple more steps. Why care for who you trample on, who necks you crush and suffocate, why bother? It will all be worth it, in the end…
I wondered how he had felt about himself. I had discovered the rumor of his heritage, a misplaced letter written in Yiddish, one before the war. And it was my duty to contain it, to hide it. To conceal it.

The moonlight closed, as we both remained in the shadows of the palace. How did I come to such a fate? For what reason was all of this done? 

Sergey was right. Even if I killed that traitor now, the clock has already been set.
Russia is ticking.

“It… was just a dream. It is midnight, Lord Regent. Some rest. Rest would be good for us all.” “...rest?” He turned away, and took the tone of a sick old man. “No. There will be no rest. We must push now, more than ever before. The Tsar will return only when everything is cleaned. Purified. Verified.” “...yes Lord Regent. Be it as it may.” I stood still, holding my heart in my hands. He walked on his heels, clicking on the floor with his boots. Tick. Sergey went for the door. “Tomorrow, we will change the clocks. Decree that more hours will be added. All clocks must be verified, those who fail will be severely penalized.” The madman, the traitor, and this killer left the room. Below the clock, our hell’s motto was inscribed. 

Remain calm.
The Regent endures.
Alexei lives.
The Holy Russian Empire shall endure.
There is much to be done.
The clock ticked. Midnight. The hands on the clock… stopped… moving.
INSPIRATION: Apoc Genesis on the Verify your Clock video.

“You’re fired.”
Those two dreaded words are the last thing anyone wants to hear. As the manager of a small coffee shop, they’re the last words I ever wanted to say. But, unfortunately, I did have to say them, and the employee on the receiving end was less than pleased.
“Seriously, Calla? Robby comes in twenty minutes late every shift, and I’m the one getting canned? It’s not fair. I won’t accept that.”
“Claire, Robby has one leg. He gets a pass. You took cash from the register. That’s not something we can turn a blind eye to,” I said, crossing my arms.
Claire pursed her lips, shifting her gaze to the ground momentarily, before scowling at me once again. “It was only fifty bucks. I needed the money for rent, and I said I’d pay it back! Please, Calla. I need this job. I’ll put a hundred dollars back in the register on pay day. Just give me a second chance.”
I let out a deep sigh. She wasn’t taking this well. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Aftermath has a zero-tolerance policy for theft. Even if you were to pay it back, the big boss still wouldn’t excuse it. I would be putting my own job in jeopardy by looking the other way, and that’s just not something I can afford to do. Your actions have consequences, Claire. You brought this on yourself.”
She glanced up at me with teary eyes. Though Claire was entirely in the wrong, my heart shattered for her all the same. She was a good kid. Just a little misguided… Or so I thought.
“I won’t forget this, Calla. Mark my words, I will make you pay,” she spat, before dramatically stomping out the door.
My eyes grew wide, and my heart began to race. If any normal human being had said that, I would have blown it off entirely. But, there’s a little oddity about my job that I may have (purposely) forgotten to mention. You see, I’m a clairvoyant of sorts. I work at a coffee shop for the dead - And they tend to take things a lot more personally than the living.
A gruff-looking man with a leather jacket and ripped jeans leaned against the counter, snapping my attention away from the door. He had an unkept beard and a nasty road rash seared into his face. The shades obscuring his eyes exuded an air of confidence that he had no business possessing. Even so, his appearance didn’t intimidate me in the slightest.
“Don’t worry about her, Calla. She’s talking out her ass.”
“I appreciate the reassurance, Frank. I know she probably just needs to blow off some steam, but it always freaks me out when shit like that happens. No offense to all you dead folk, but I don’t wanna kick the bucket any time soon, ya know?”
“That’s fair. Purgatory ain’t that bad, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the land of the living. By the way, if you get a chance, can you whip me up my regular? I could use a boost.”
“Sure thing. Coming right up. Is there anything else I can get for y-” I tried my best to stop myself, but it was too late. I knew better than to ask that question to Frank.
“Yeah,” he grinned, leaning in closer.
“Don’t you say it. Frank, I swear, if you-”
“I’ll take your soul!”
I glowered at him as he roared with laughter. “Come on, Calla. Have a sense of humor!” he wheezed, tears welling in his eyes.
“Frank. You have told me that same joke every chance you get for the entire time I’ve been working here. It wasn’t funny the first time you said it, and it’s definitely not funny now. I oughta charge you double every time you tell it.”
He frowned at me, before turning to his normal booth. “Geez, would it kill ya to lighten up a bit? Buzzkill…”
As I was beginning to prepare Frank’s blonde espresso, I heard the familiar chime of the door opening. A kid with disheveled blonde hair and scratches across his face hobbled inside, leaning on a crutch.
“Hey Robby! Nice of you to show up,” I beamed, flashing him a warm smile. I glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes late, right on the nose.
“Always gotta give me shit, huh Mrs. Calla? You try hoppin’ to work one day, then we’ll talk,” he quipped, returning a grin.
“Ya know what? Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. I do-” I froze, mid-sentence. All the color drained from my face, and I suddenly found myself unable to speak. I clutched at my side, barely able to breathe. A random, searing pain shot through my torso. I felt like I was going to pass out.
“Calla? Calla, are you okay? Say something.” Robby rushed over to me, his face contorted with worry. I weakly returned his gaze. The agony was beyond anything I had ever felt before. It was as if someone had stabbed me with a white-hot fire poker and decided to twist it a couple times for good measure. Excruciating was an understatement.
Just as my vision was starting to go fuzzy, the pain began to dissipate. I gasped for air, leaning heavily on the counter for support. What the hell was that?
“I’m all right,” I said, turning my head. Frank had joined Robby behind the counter. The pair of them both had a look of deep concern etched into their features. If I wasn’t dying, I probably would have found it endearing.
“Are you sure? You look like shit, Calla.”
That’s it. I’m definitely charging him double.
“Gee, thanks a lot, Frank. You’re such a gentleman.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, never giving any indication that he was joking. Robby and I both glared at him.
“Go sit down, Frank. You too, Mrs. Calla. You should probably take the rest of the day off. Don’t worry, I can handle the shop,” Robby said, helping me to a chair.
“You know what? I think you’re right. I could go for a nap.”
After resting for a little while longer, I went home. Robby wasn’t a professional by any means, but I trusted him to keep Aftermath running smoothly, at least until I recovered. He really was a good kid. I always thought it was such a shame that he’d died in such a tragic manner. IEDs are no joke.
I made sure to take it easy and get plenty of rest. I didn’t experience any more phantom pains for the remainder of the day, but I knew that I would need to get a good night’s sleep. With Claire gone, I’d be stuck on opening shifts for the foreseeable future. Yuck.
I was almost done running through my tasks for the morning, when it happened. A man approached the counter, his face obscured by a brown fedora. A sickly, yellowing newspaper was tucked beneath his arm as he placed a gloved hand onto the countertop. His aura alone was sinister enough to make me want to turn and run.
Beware.
His gravelly voice sounded like his diet consisted solely of rusty nails and asphalt. I’d only heard that voice a handful of times before. And each instance made me sick to my stomach.
“Wh-why? What’s coming?”
The girl.
With no further elaboration, he turned and reclaimed his regular seat at the back of the shop.
I was shaking in my boots. Why, you might ask? Well, I told you a little white lie earlier. That thing that approached the counter is no man. He’s been coming in nearly every day for as long as anyone can remember, but that’s about all we know about him. No one knows what he is. No one knows how, or if, he died. No one even knows his name.
We call him Nona (short for no name), and the only things I’m completely certain of in regards to him are: one - that he’s benevolent towards the employees of Aftermath and its patrons. And two - that whenever he decides to speak, a terrible tragedy usually follows. There’s no denying it. Nona is a bonafide, real-deal harbinger of death.
I locked eyes with Frank, who wore the same bewildered expression that I did. His pallid features and wide eyes mirrored exactly how I felt in that moment.
“What do you think he meant by that?” Frank murmured, never breaking eye contact.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“You got that right. Maybe it’d be safer to call in some backup on this one. I know Ivan’s hopping between a couple different locations after landing the regional manager gig, but he’d be here at the drop of a hat if he caught wind of this, right?”
“Yeah… Normally, I’d try to avoid getting Ivan involved, but I think this is warranted. You remember what happened last time Nona spoke,” I said, a shiver rippling down my spine.
Frank averted his gaze, the corners of his lips drooping into a frown. “I wish I could forget. That whole ordeal sent- Calla? Calla, are you okay??”
It had returned tenfold. My lower back throbbed with intense, pounding pain. It felt as if someone was hacking away at my spinal column with an ice pick. I was paralyzed. If I moved even an inch, I would be met with another agonizing shockwave of hurt searing through my system. This time was even worse than before.
Before I could even grasp what was going on, everything started to get fuzzy around the edges of my vision. I could feel myself fading, and fast. The last thing I could remember before losing consciousness was Frank’s husky voice shouting for someone to call for help. Then, my mental fortitude finally crumbled, sending me spiraling into an inky, black void.
I awoke in a hospital bed. Frank was snoozing in a chair beside a burly, hulking figure. I was so shocked that I had to do a double take.
Ivan’s chair looked comically small beneath his gargantuan frame. Those things were not made to accommodate seven-foot-tall giants like him. I honestly hadn’t expected him to show up. Commuting is a bit more of a hassle for the dead, after all. But whatever the case, Ivan’s eyes lit up upon noticing that I was awake.
“Calla, you are okay, yes? I made trip as soon as possible,” Ivan said, shuffling up to my bedside. I couldn’t help but smile. He might’ve looked intimidating, but at heart, Ivan was just a big, Russian teddy bear.
“Yeah, I think I’m fine now. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I keep getting this really strong, crippling pain out of nowhere. Thanks for coming. But… How did you get here so fast? It’s only been a few hours.”
A devious grin crept across Ivan’s face. I pursed my lips. I knew that look. “I hitch ride on top of car. Is efficient way to travel.”
My mouth fell open. Ivan’s bulky ass clinging to the roof of a speeding car going God knows how far over the legal limit? That’s something I’d pay to see.
“Uh, do you get everywhere like that?”
“Everywhere subway does not go, yes.”
I opened my mouth, ready to scold him for being reckless, but thought better of it. Ivan was already dead. It’s not like he could die again.
“Okay Evel Knievel, let’s step outside for a smoke break and let Calla grab a nurse, yeah? We want to get her back on her feet as soon as possible,” Frank intervened, appearing at the foot on my bed. Ivan’s mountainous body was so large that I hadn’t even noticed him wake up.
“Yes. You have cigarette?” Ivan asked, that mischievous grin returning to his lips.
“Yep. Got one calling your name, buddy. Calla, we’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? I’d offer to catch someone’s attention for you, but ya know. Kinda hard when no one can see us,” Frank said, ushering Ivan out the door.
“That’s very thoughtful. I should be able to manage. Don’t take too long out there,” I replied, flashing the pair of them a weak smile as they disappeared from view.
I collapsed back into my bed. Why was this happening? I was beginning to think that I had pissed off some ancient, forlorn deity, when the dots suddenly connected. How had I not realized it sooner? The person responsible for all this was… standing in the doorway?
All the color drained from my face, and my eyes grew wide as saucers. With a slight tremble in my voice, I called out to her. “Claire?”
The pale girl with jet-black hair loitering in the entryway smiled. A wicked, demented smile that I can’t erase from my nightmares. In addition, she was carrying a voodoo doll. One that looked eerily similar to me.
“Miss me yet?” Claire asked, slinking closer.
“Of course! Claire, you know that I had no other option. It was-”
“SHUT. UP,” she shouted, producing a scalpel from her pocket and holding it to the doll’s neck. It was there. I could feel the cold metal blade against my flesh. Claire wasn’t playing around.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Calla. You had your chance,” she said, playfully wisping the scalpel back and forth. I wanted to scream. It was as if tiny razor blades were dancing across my throat.
“When you kicked me to the curb, you told me that my actions had consequences. Well, so do yours,” Claire spat, leering down at me. This was it. I was convinced that I was going to die.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her enraged demeanor shifting, “I’m not going to kill you yet. No, I just wanted to fill you in on what’s to come. I’m going to stay true to my word, Calla. I’ll make you pay for what you did to me for a long, long time.”
Claire giggled, removing the blade from the doll’s throat. I gasped for air, coming to the realization that I’d been stifling my breathing. I trembled, turning to my psychotic ex-employee. She was smiling wider than ever.
“I really must be going now. It was great to see you again! Oh, and remember, I’ll be watching you,” Claire said, punctuating her statement by plunging the blade into the doll’s leg, before skipping out the door.
I shrieked in agony, desperately clutching at my throbbing calf. A couple of nurses rushed in and calmed me down, assuring me that everything would be okay. But honestly, I don’t know if it will be. Because Claire is still out there. And she knows how to hold a grudge.
NS Post

“You’re fired.”
Those two dreaded words are the last thing anyone wants to hear. As the manager of a small coffee shop, they’re the last words I ever wanted to say. But, unfortunately, I did have to say them, and the employee on the receiving end was less than pleased.
“Seriously, Calla? Robby comes in twenty minutes late every shift, and I’m the one getting canned? It’s not fair. I won’t accept that.”
“Claire, Robby has one leg. He gets a pass. You took cash from the register. That’s not something we can turn a blind eye to,” I said, crossing my arms.
Claire pursed her lips, shifting her gaze to the ground momentarily, before scowling at me once again. “It was only fifty bucks. I needed the money for rent, and I said I’d pay it back! Please, Calla. I need this job. I’ll put a hundred dollars back in the register on pay day. Just give me a second chance.”
I let out a deep sigh. She wasn’t taking this well. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Aftermath has a zero-tolerance policy for theft. Even if you were to pay it back, the big boss still wouldn’t excuse it. I would be putting my own job in jeopardy by looking the other way, and that’s just not something I can afford to do. Your actions have consequences, Claire. You brought this on yourself.”
She glanced up at me with teary eyes. Though Claire was entirely in the wrong, my heart shattered for her all the same. She was a good kid. Just a little misguided… Or so I thought.
“I won’t forget this, Calla. Mark my words, I will make you pay,” she spat, before dramatically stomping out the door.
My eyes grew wide, and my heart began to race. If any normal human being had said that, I would have blown it off entirely. But, there’s a little oddity about my job that I may have (purposely) forgotten to mention. You see, I’m a clairvoyant of sorts. I work at a coffee shop for the dead - And they tend to take things a lot more personally than the living.
A gruff-looking man with a leather jacket and ripped jeans leaned against the counter, snapping my attention away from the door. He had an unkept beard and a nasty road rash seared into his face. The shades obscuring his eyes exuded an air of confidence that he had no business possessing. Even so, his appearance didn’t intimidate me in the slightest.
“Don’t worry about her, Calla. She’s talking out her ass.”
“I appreciate the reassurance, Frank. I know she probably just needs to blow off some steam, but it always freaks me out when shit like that happens. No offense to all you dead folk, but I don’t wanna kick the bucket any time soon, ya know?”
“That’s fair. Purgatory ain’t that bad, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the land of the living. By the way, if you get a chance, can you whip me up my regular? I could use a boost.”
“Sure thing. Coming right up. Is there anything else I can get for y-” I tried my best to stop myself, but it was too late. I knew better than to ask that question to Frank.
“Yeah,” he grinned, leaning in closer.
“Don’t you say it. Frank, I swear, if you-”
“I’ll take your soul!”
I glowered at him as he roared with laughter. “Come on, Calla. Have a sense of humor!” he wheezed, tears welling in his eyes.
“Frank. You have told me that same joke every chance you get for the entire time I’ve been working here. It wasn’t funny the first time you said it, and it’s definitely not funny now. I oughta charge you double every time you tell it.”
He frowned at me, before turning to his normal booth. “Geez, would it kill ya to lighten up a bit? Buzzkill…”
As I was beginning to prepare Frank’s blonde espresso, I heard the familiar chime of the door opening. A kid with disheveled blonde hair and scratches across his face hobbled inside, leaning on a crutch.
“Hey Robby! Nice of you to show up,” I beamed, flashing him a warm smile. I glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes late, right on the nose.
“Always gotta give me shit, huh Mrs. Calla? You try hoppin’ to work one day, then we’ll talk,” he quipped, returning a grin.
“Ya know what? Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. I do-” I froze, mid-sentence. All the color drained from my face, and I suddenly found myself unable to speak. I clutched at my side, barely able to breathe. A random, searing pain shot through my torso. I felt like I was going to pass out.
“Calla? Calla, are you okay? Say something.” Robby rushed over to me, his face contorted with worry. I weakly returned his gaze. The agony was beyond anything I had ever felt before. It was as if someone had stabbed me with a white-hot fire poker and decided to twist it a couple times for good measure. Excruciating was an understatement.
Just as my vision was starting to go fuzzy, the pain began to dissipate. I gasped for air, leaning heavily on the counter for support. What the hell was that?
“I’m all right,” I said, turning my head. Frank had joined Robby behind the counter. The pair of them both had a look of deep concern etched into their features. If I wasn’t dying, I probably would have found it endearing.
“Are you sure? You look like shit, Calla.”
That’s it. I’m definitely charging him double.
“Gee, thanks a lot, Frank. You’re such a gentleman.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, never giving any indication that he was joking. Robby and I both glared at him.
“Go sit down, Frank. You too, Mrs. Calla. You should probably take the rest of the day off. Don’t worry, I can handle the shop,” Robby said, helping me to a chair.
“You know what? I think you’re right. I could go for a nap.”
After resting for a little while longer, I went home. Robby wasn’t a professional by any means, but I trusted him to keep Aftermath running smoothly, at least until I recovered. He really was a good kid. I always thought it was such a shame that he’d died in such a tragic manner. IEDs are no joke.
I made sure to take it easy and get plenty of rest. I didn’t experience any more phantom pains for the remainder of the day, but I knew that I would need to get a good night’s sleep. With Claire gone, I’d be stuck on opening shifts for the foreseeable future. Yuck.
I was almost done running through my tasks for the morning, when it happened. A man approached the counter, his face obscured by a brown fedora. A sickly, yellowing newspaper was tucked beneath his arm as he placed a gloved hand onto the countertop. His aura alone was sinister enough to make me want to turn and run.
Beware.
His gravelly voice sounded like his diet consisted solely of rusty nails and asphalt. I’d only heard that voice a handful of times before. And each instance made me sick to my stomach.
“Wh-why? What’s coming?”
The girl.
With no further elaboration, he turned and reclaimed his regular seat at the back of the shop.
I was shaking in my boots. Why, you might ask? Well, I told you a little white lie earlier. That thing that approached the counter is no man. He’s been coming in nearly every day for as long as anyone can remember, but that’s about all we know about him. No one knows what he is. No one knows how, or if, he died. No one even knows his name.
We call him Nona (short for no name), and the only things I’m completely certain of in regard to him are: one - that he’s benevolent towards the employees of Aftermath and its patrons. And two - that whenever he decides to speak, a terrible tragedy usually follows. There’s no denying it. Nona is a bonafide, real-deal harbinger of death.
I locked eyes with Frank, who wore the same bewildered expression that I did. His pallid features and wide eyes mirrored exactly how I felt in that moment.
“What do you think he meant by that?” Frank murmured, never breaking eye contact.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“You got that right. Maybe it’d be safer to call in some backup on this one. I know Ivan’s hopping between a couple different locations after landing the regional manager gig, but he’d be here at the drop of a hat if he caught wind of this, right?”
“Yeah… Normally, I’d try to avoid getting Ivan involved, but I think this is warranted. You remember what happened last time Nona spoke,” I said, a shiver rippling down my spine.
Frank averted his gaze, the corners of his lips drooping into a frown. “I wish I could forget. That whole ordeal sent- Calla? Calla, are you okay??”
It had returned tenfold. My lower back throbbed with intense, pounding pain. It felt as if someone was hacking away at my spinal column with an ice pick. I was paralyzed. If I moved even an inch, I would be met with another agonizing shockwave of hurt searing through my system. This time was even worse than before.
Before I could even grasp what was going on, everything started to get fuzzy around the edges of my vision. I could feel myself fading, and fast. The last thing I could remember before losing consciousness was Frank’s husky voice shouting for someone to call for help. Then, my mental fortitude finally crumbled, sending me spiraling into an inky, black void.
I awoke in a hospital bed. Frank was snoozing in a chair beside a burly, hulking figure. I was so shocked that I had to do a double take.
Ivan’s chair looked comically small beneath his gargantuan frame. Those things were not made to accommodate seven-foot-tall giants like him. I honestly hadn’t expected him to show up. Commuting is a bit more of a hassle for the dead, after all. But whatever the case, Ivan’s eyes lit up upon noticing that I was awake.
“Calla, you are okay, yes? I made trip as soon as possible,” Ivan said, shuffling up to my bedside. I couldn’t help but smile. He might’ve looked intimidating, but at heart, Ivan was just a big, Russian teddy bear.
“Yeah, I think I’m fine now. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I keep getting this really strong, crippling pain out of nowhere. Thanks for coming. But… How did you get here so fast? It’s only been a few hours.”
A devious grin crept across Ivan’s face. I pursed my lips. I knew that look. “I hitch ride on top of car. Is efficient way to travel.”
My mouth fell open. Ivan’s bulky ass clinging to the roof of a speeding car going God knows how far over the legal limit? That’s something I’d pay to see.
“Uh, do you get everywhere like that?”
“Everywhere subway does not go, yes.”
I opened my mouth, ready to scold him for being reckless, but thought better of it. Ivan was already dead. It’s not like he could die again.
“Okay Evel Knievel, let’s step outside for a smoke break and let Calla grab a nurse, yeah? We want to get her back on her feet as soon as possible,” Frank intervened, appearing at the foot on my bed. Ivan’s mountainous body was so large that I hadn’t even noticed him wake up.
“Yes. You have cigarette?” Ivan asked, that mischievous grin returning to his lips.
“Yep. Got one calling your name, buddy. Calla, we’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? I’d offer to catch someone’s attention for you, but ya know. Kinda hard when no one can see us,” Frank said, ushering Ivan out the door.
“That’s very thoughtful. I should be able to manage. Don’t take too long out there,” I replied, flashing the pair of them a weak smile as they disappeared from view.
I collapsed back into my bed. Why was this happening? I was beginning to think that I had pissed off some ancient, forlorn deity, when the dots suddenly connected. How had I not realized it sooner? The person responsible for all this was… standing in the doorway?
All the color drained from my face, and my eyes grew wide as saucers. With a slight tremble in my voice, I called out to her. “Claire?”
The pale girl with jet-black hair loitering in the entryway smiled. A wicked, demented smile that I can’t erase from my nightmares. In addition, she was carrying a voodoo doll. One that looked eerily similar to me.
“Miss me yet?” Claire asked, slinking closer.
“Of course! Claire, you know that I had no other option. It was-”
“SHUT. UP,” she shouted, producing a scalpel from her pocket and holding it to the doll’s neck. It was there. I could feel the cold metal blade against my flesh. Claire wasn’t playing around.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Calla. You had your chance,” she said, playfully wisping the scalpel back and forth. I wanted to scream. It was as if tiny razor blades were dancing across my throat.
“When you kicked me to the curb, you told me that my actions had consequences. Well, so do yours,” Claire spat, leering down at me. This was it. I was convinced that I was going to die.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her enraged demeanor shifting, “I’m not going to kill you yet. No, I just wanted to fill you in on what’s to come. I’m going to stay true to my word, Calla. I’ll make you pay for what you did to me for a long, long time.”
Claire giggled, removing the blade from the doll’s throat. I gasped for air, coming to the realization that I’d been stifling my breathing. I trembled, turning to my psychotic ex-employee. She was smiling wider than ever.
“I really must be going now. It was great to see you again! Oh, and remember, I’ll be watching you,” Claire said, punctuating her statement by plunging the blade into the doll’s leg, before skipping out the door.
I shrieked in agony, desperately clutching at my throbbing calf. A couple of nurses rushed in and calmed me down, assuring me that everything would be okay. But honestly, I don’t know if it will be. Because Claire is still out there. And she knows how to hold a grudge.

”Stop.”
I really needed the bathroom.
For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.
2:52pm.
Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.
Which was just two chunks of four minutes.
Four chunks of two minutes.
The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.
I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.
But this was different.
This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.
I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?
From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.
It's not like Roman was helping.
For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk. I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open. I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.
It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.
Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Prairie, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.
Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.
I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.
When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.
It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.
I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.
I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.
After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened. The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.
Fuck.
Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.
I was going to throw up.
“Mr Brighton.”
Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”
The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.
Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.
Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.
The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.
Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.
But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.
“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”
The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.
“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”
“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”
“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”
Roman made a snorting noise.
“What?”
The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.
Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.
The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.
2:52pm.
Something ice cold trickled down my spine.
It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.
This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.
Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.
The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.
Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.
With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.
But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.
Something was wrong outside.
The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.
Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.
I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.
I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.
Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.
Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.
His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.
Fuck.
Was I the only one?
But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”
“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”
“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”
Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.
It was too quiet, though.
Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.
Imogen was still chewing her gum.
Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.
But they were the only noise I could hear.
I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.
I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.
We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.
2:52pm.
Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.
“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.
Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.
“Check your phone, dumbass.”
“I broke my phone.”
Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.
“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”
I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.
“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.
I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.
According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.
I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.
So, this guy had nothing to lose.
Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.
“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”
I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.
But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.
Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers. We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us. The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.
This was a nightmare, surely.
My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom. We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have also stopped.”
Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.
He was right.
I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.
“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”
“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.
“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”
“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”
I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.
Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.
He tried his wrist.
Then his heart.
Nothing.
“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.” His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”
“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.
Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”
“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.
“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of sixteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”
Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.
The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't. Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.
“I suppose you could say I am.”
“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.
“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.
He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.
“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.
“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”
Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.
“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”
“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.
“What if I don't?”
Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”
Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.
“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”
The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”
To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.
He straightened up, and closed his mouth.
“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”
The boy did exactly as instructed.
His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.
I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape was mental suicide.
“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”
He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.
"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.
Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.
“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.
He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”
“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”
“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”
“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.
Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair. “There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.
“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”
He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”
“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.
Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”
“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.
“I am!”
After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.
He held it up, and I squinted.
It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.
“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.
“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”
“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.
Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.
“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.
ROMAN HEMLOCK.
There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.
CRISTA ADAMS.
As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.
He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.
“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”
What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.
I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth. Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death. Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.
I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.
And finally, regret.
I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.
I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.
I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.
Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?
I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.
Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.
“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”
The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.
“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.
Mind, body, and soul.
I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.
“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”
The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.
Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.
“Samuels. Are you all right?”
Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.
His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.
He knew, I thought dizzily.
Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk. But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead. He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.
Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”
Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.
Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.
I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.
The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.
Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.
Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.
Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.
So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.
Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”
Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.
Time.
Minds.
And slowly… contorting us into his own.
In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.
When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.
After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.
Sometimes, Imogen would join me.
I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.
I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.
I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?
That sounded odd.
The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.
I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.
Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.
That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.
Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.
Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.
Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.
He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.
“Yo.”
Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.
I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.
Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”
Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more. The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.
With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.
There were no signs of bruises or scratches.
His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.
Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.
“WHAT–”
Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”
Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”
“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.
The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”
“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”
Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”
Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”
Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.
“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”
Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.
The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.
“Are you fucking serious?”
When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.
Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.
“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?
“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”
Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”
“So, you cried out for no reason.”
“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”
Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.
“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”
“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”
“Shoot.”
“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”
“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”
Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.
The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.
“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”
It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.
Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.
Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.
I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.
Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.
I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.
“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.
Genuine.
To my shock and confusion, so was mine.
I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.
Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.
Was I enjoying this?
My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.
They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree. Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.
Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.
Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.
“You good, Christa?”
Shaking my head, I nodded.
Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.
“Good. It's your turn.”
I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.
Two sixes.
“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”
Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.
“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”
“That's all I've got!”
Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”
“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.
“My final offer.”
When I reached for the cash, he held it back.
“New York Avenue, he said, with a grin.
“And your pride.”
Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.
Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*
Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”
“You were stealing too!”
We had a plan.
We had…. a plan.
After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.
So, what happened?
We were going to get out, so what… what was this?
Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.
“Mr Brighton *is the thing keeping us here,”* he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”
“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re *stuck?”* Imogen whisper-shrieked.
“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”
Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”
“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”
“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth. “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”
“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”
Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.
Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.
He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.
It felt…right.
Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't care that we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two. I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.
I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.
I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.
He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.
I wanted to stay.
In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.
Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away. I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.
But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.
I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.
Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.
Which was moving, suddenly.
Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.
Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.
Blood.
Blood that was running.
Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.
Like he'd been asleep for a long time.
2:53pm.
We were free.
The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.
And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.
For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.
Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.
The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.
But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.
His lips parted into a silent cry.
Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.
A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.
2:53pm.
“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.
He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.
“Get DOWN!”
When the thing crashed through the door, our classroom exploding around us, chairs splintering against the walls, I was already dropping to my knees, crawling under a desk. It took me a moment to understand I was already kneeling in what was left of Imogen.
Her body had been hollowed out, singed straight through.
I was crawling through pieces of her flesh, mounds of her bisected brain.
Keeping my hand over my mouth, I watched this… thing.
A bulbous black monster, chewing its way through my classmates. Blood splattered the walls, raining from the ceiling, and that same striking pain ripped through my gut, agonising enough to force a cry through my lips.
My frantic gaze found the clock.
2:54pm.
Lurching forwards, I heaved up what was left of my lunch, agonising pain wrenching my stomach back and forth.
I jumped when another body joined me, thankfully alive, squeezing under the desk.
Roman, his face slick and dripping scarlet.
When the thing was gone, neither of us moved.
3:05pm.
“What are those things?” I managed to get out.
“I don't know,” Roman whimpered, covering his mouth. “But they're everywhere.”
3:10pm.
Another thing found our classroom. This time I saw it up close, a giant, bulbous black thing with an eye stalk. It knew we were there, peeking under the desk we were hiding. But it didn't kill us.
The thing left the room, stopping to gorge on half of Ren’s torso.
Roman shot me a questioning look, but I could only be relieved.
3:15pm.
Roman threw up black slime all over me.
He caught my eye, swiping his mouth. “Well, that can't be good.”
The pain in my gut was getting harder to deal with.
3:20pm.
“Did you have chicken nuggets for lunch?” Roman murmured. He got a little too close, his breath on my neck.
I had to suck in my stomach to stop the pain.
I was going hot and cold, sweat dripping down the back of my neck.
“Why?” I hissed back, taking deep, shaky breaths.
“I dunno,” Roman murmured, “I can smell them on your breath.”
His teeth grazed my flesh, sending shivers down my spine.
“Weird… huh.”
3:30pm.
Roman nudged me.
“Fuck.” He hissed. “Is that Kaz?”
Following his gaze, I found the remnants of Kaz under a crushed desk starting to… convulse.
“Was he bitten?” I whispered.
Roman’s eyes were a strange color. “Maybe.”
3:35pm
“Mr Brighton.” I was on my knees, sobbing, shaking my physics teacher.
“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”
I squeezed his ice cold hand for dear life.
“Say, ‘stop’,” I whispered “Please!”
3:40pm.
The thing that found me didn't attack me. It sat there, head cocked, watching me roll around on the floor, the pain writhing through me. I watched its transformation in short bursts, consciousness swimming in and out.
When I found light again, the thing was sitting cross legged next to me, chewing on a human arm. Maybe I was hallucinating. I watched it for a long time, trying to figure out why it was wearing strips of Roman’s white shirt.
3:52pm.
No longer in the school, I was in the back of an ambulance, a lady screaming in my face. I could see the time on her watch. She told me I was going to be okay, and I think I was. But I wasn't sure how to tell her she smelled good.
Like chicken.
It's been three months since my teacher froze time.
Mr Brighton wasn't imprisoning us. He was protecting us.
I'm still alive, but I have to take regular shots. I think they're just in case I was infected by those things.
I asked Mom if the incident has been on the news, but there's no coverage.
According to the people in white who treated me, everything has been covered up. According to the Mayor, ten kids died in a gas leak.
No mention of the monstrous things hunting us down…
Our town is just a blip on the map. You can't find us. I wish you could, though.
I need help.
I'm terrified of myself.
I’m not going to tell Mom she smells like chicken, because she'll freak out.
Last night, someone, or something knocked on my window.
When I turned on the light, a single, bulging eye was staring at me through the glass.
I still don't know why it was crying.

Packing up a bag to solve one of the jobs that had been on the back burner, the island overrun with zombies was getting resolved. Checking the contents over one more time, the raw pain of losing Croak drove me to this point. The twins’ hopping down the stairs had me grumbling under my breath, both of them bowing to me. What kind of childhood did they have if they felt the need for that type of behavior? This was irritating the shit out of me. Perhaps it was everything else.
“May we come?” Travy inquired with a nervous smile, her sister holding onto her arm. “I want to destroy what my mother built. Forgive a girl for dreaming.” Both of them looked eager, her usual white suit contrasting her sister’s frilly pink number of a dress ironically. Mulling over her reason, the vows would serve to protect me from assassination. Rolling my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I was about to say.
“Fine but I will be keeping a sharp eye on you. No funny business.” I spoke sternly, zipping up my bag. Whispering among themselves, the talking behind my back is not what I signed up for. Clearing my throat, the twins’ straightened up. Saluting me, this stiff behavior was wearing on my nerves even more. Marching up to them, little to no protest met me lowering their hands. Abuse had led them to such behavior, my task of undoing the learned behavior would be a tedious one.
“Please stop doing that. I want you to respect me by calling me Corpsy, ‘kay.” I pleaded with my genuine smile, both of them attempting to bow again. Catching their foreheads, enough was enough. Parting my lips to speak several times, my expression softening further. Pushing them back into the attention position, they needed to let their guard down. What do you say to a couple of traumatized individuals?
“I don’t bite unless I have to.” I promised them with a hearty chuckle, the edge coming off of their expressions. “Let’s go kill some zombies my pals kept contained for me. Splattered brains and skulls will feel like confetti at this point.” Rolling the transportation spell ball in my palm, a drop of my blood was all I needed. Extending my claws, the tips sank into the tender flesh of my palm. Blood coated my palm, the clear ball glowing to life. Clinging to my arms, a blinding light whisked us to an abandoned city. Fussing with my simple black tank top and cargo pants, this environment had me twisting my waves into neat french braids. Decaying skyscrapers towered over us, every building seeming to be a new level. Chewing on her lips, Saly had true fear in her eyes. Sniffing the air, the remains of a curse had me thinking a witch was in charge here. The true question was where was she, ghastly groans rang out from all around us. Rotting corpses at varying points of decay limped out, the smell sickening the three of us. Spinning on my heels, Saly and Travy waited patiently for orders.
“We are going to slice our way to a necromancer and execute her. If I am correct, we might even get some clues relating to your mother’s plans with Stormana. Sounds great?” Shooting me shaky thumbs up, a kick had my dagger into my eager palm. Extending my blade to its full length, the fun was set to begin. Remembering that Roseworth asked me to do this a while back, she would be proud of me. Spinning their blades in their palms, sly grins illuminated their features. Croak’s smile flashed in my mind, an arrow striking my heart. Croak had been my friend in the dark, the silence killing me every time I hopped into the hearse. Swinging away, heads rolled to my feet. Lightning crackled along the cars, Travy pointing to the closest skyscraper. Leaping over the zombies, shadow snakes slithered down my arms. Sending them out to find the necromancer, Saly pushed me into the glass doors. Locking the doors behind us, eyes glowed around us. Ordering them to shut down their lightning, too much power could bring the building down on us. Rubble covering us was the last thing we needed in this mission, the girls flashing me pleading looks.
“We need to get to the rooftop and get off the ground.” I ordered with a tired smile, my team members nodding with eager grins. “Cut your way to the stairs.” Moonlight bathed the lobby, color draining from my face. A thousand corpses surrounded us, the three of us standing back to back. Admiration burned in their eyes, an honest smile curling on our lips. Three stairwells seemed to hide from us, my snakes slithered over the sea of feet to tell me where our target was. Brushing against my arms on the way up, their hisses told me that she was several buildings away. Whipping their heads towards the clearest path, the twins picked up on it. Covering each other, sludgy black painted our faces with every swing. Jumping over the dropping bodies, relief flooded from our lips upon contact with the first step of the stairs. Three zombies lingered on the next landing, their lack of brains preventing them from going down the stairs. Sending Saly ahead, her skirt floated up with every swing. Crashing up the stairs, the grunting noises soon became the background soundtrack with every second closer to the rooftop. Kicking the door open, harsh air nipped at my cheeks. Black ash drifted like snow, the ash reminding me of a Gothic blizzard. Asking my snakes where to go next, their tails pointed towards the skyscraper twenty feet away from me. Backing up to the edge, our feet pounded together across the helicopter pad. Pushing off the edge, a quiet terror dimmed my eyes at the foul stench blowing my braids about. Landing gracefully, the endless sea of zombies on the streets had me shuddering. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, a couple of hisses had me stopping at the rooftop of an art deco skyscraper. Massaging my forehead, we needed to get in. The usual growls and snarls had us shifting our attention to changed zombies, something seeming off. Cocking my head to the left, horror rounded my eyes at the chains holding them groaning in protest. Nudging my comrades, their terrified eyes met mine. Time for them to let some frustration loose.
“Cut them down before we have an issue.” I whispered loud enough for them to hear and for them to hear alone. Flipping over to the poor souls, lightning bounced off of their blades. Watching them work like a well oiled machine, the image of Croak’s smile in the early morning light had tears welling up in my eyes. A chill ran up my spine, the energy shifting. Glancing up, storm clouds rumbled to life, heavy rain washing the blood and guts off of us. The door into the building clicked open, caution giving me honest hesitation. Urging me to move ahead, it was almost as if I could hear Croak. Hollow footfalls thumped up the stairs, the color drained from my cheeks at a rotting Croak reaching out for me. Opening her mouth, maggots splattered onto the concrete of the rooftop. Stumbling back, the twins caught me before I fell off the roof.
“What’s the matter, love?” She inquired in a gritty tone, her sweet smile sickening me. “Don’t you want to hug me? You did get me killed after all.” Inky splotches dotted my trembling hand, the rain darkening to demon blood. Violent sobs mixed with shortened breaths, my heart seconds from beating out of its chest. Struggling to find any air, her hollow footfalls thumped closer to me. Pausing in front of me, her hands cupped my face. Raising her foot slowly, she kicked us off the roof. Zooming towards the sea of hungry zombies, a numbness came over my face. My comrades begged for me to snap out of it, Croak shifting into a woman with a golden silky bob. Violet eyes twinkled with malice, her spike covered leather dress matching flawlessly to her combat boots. A silver staff glittered in her palm, the skull resting on a carved bone handle. Snapping awake at her chanting, a pool on the roof of one of the other buildings caught my eyes. Building shadow energy at the tip of my blade, a flick of wrist smashed the skyscraper into smithereens. Using the energy to send me back up closer to her, the twins grinned ear to ear at the water flooding the streets. A jolting experience was scheduled for her friends.
“Get the necromancer. We have a shocking gift to jolt those souls awake.” Travy giggled maniacally, her sister joining in with giggles. Smashing more skyscrapers around us, the water flowed like a wild river. Kicking me closer, my trembling fingers snagged on the edge. Lightning lit up the stormy sky, Saly and Tavy winking as they slammed the tip of their blades into a metal skyscraper’s roof. Showing me their rubber boots, pride glistened in their eyes. Pulling myself up with a gruff grunt, a snarl met my broken but defiant smile. Shaking off my fraying nerves, the base of my anxiety remained. Spinning my blade in my palm, the necromancer tapped her staff on the rooftop. A straight blade the size of mine cut my cheek with its expansion, haughty laughter tumbling off her slick tongue. Bad guys needed to calm down with the cockiness, my eyes rolling at her next outburst of frustration.
“Why must you be so insistent!” She growled through gritted teeth, my fingers playing numbly with the cut on my cheek. “Wake up and fight me.” Her chest puffed up and down, frustration darkening her eyes. Rolling my eyes, someone thought highly of themselves. Snapping my head in her direction, an iciness came over me. No one called me out without having their flaws being pointed out as well.
“Fuck you for that trick. Clearly you don’t have a conscience. How many people had to suffer for you to play your stupid game?” I snarled bitterly, a shadow growing behind me. “We let you play for a little too long. Time for you to die.” Charging at each other, sparks danced in the air with every violent clash. Everything doubled, her head cocking to the left creepily. Smashing her fist into my stomach, a splash of blood exploded from my mouth. Sinking to my knees, several organs had burst. Struggling to my feet, she wasn’t going to win. No! This nuisance wasn't going to survive my retaliation.
“Give up already. Your boss left me unchecked for way too long.” She bragged with a Cheshire Cat grin, my hand holding my stomach. Wheezing through the raw agony, my blade trembled uncontrollably. Leaning onto my blade, her hit had some spice to it. Screw her for breaking my insides!
“Never. I would lay down my life the world. Not to be a bitch but you are pissing me off.” I wheezed between words, more blood pouring from the corner of my mouth. “Don’t act all high and mighty with that fucking bullshit that you believe. The dead should stay dead.” Shivering as I raised my blade, my blood painted her face. Slapping my cheek to get myself to focus, shadow snakes hissed to life around me. Swinging her blade towards my head, sparks danced in the air with the violent clash. Pushing her back, the puddle of blood splashed around my feet as I crashed into her building. Sliding down the railing, my feet touched a plush carpet. Spicy wit would have to be my friend, Croak’s real energy raising the hair on the back of my neck. Opening the door, her translucent form sat on the bed. Locking the door behind me, the building rattled. Burying her spirit into a hug, my tears cascaded down her form. Releasing her, her cold thumbs wiped away my tears. Wishing that I didn't have to leave her, too many words bounced around the tip of my tongue.
“Why are you here and not in Heaven?” I asked feverishly, holding her hands like my life depended on it. “Please tell me that you didn’t come here to draw me here.” Averting her gaze to the golden wall, the door began to rattle violently. Cupping my face, the words couldn’t come to her lips. Shaking like a leaf, this couldn’t be real. Speak! Speak, damn it! What I wouldn't do to hear her voice one more time.
“I was stolen from Heaven to this bloody place. Can you free me one last time? There is a deal I made and it has not been fulfilled yet.” She wept dejectedly, my heart breaking for her. “You look like you are doing alright, love.” Uncontrollable sobs wracked my body at how she spoke the word love, the door bursting open. Rising to my feet with a true defiant grin on a determined face, her reign of terror was over. Spinning my blade over my head, the twins paused in the doorway.
“I burn everything you created for what you have done!” I wheezed once more with tears hitting the carpet, hating her for everything she stole from everyone. “You stole someone important from me. Croak was like a fucking goddamn sister to me and you denied her happiness. Fuck you! Get to safety, you fucking idiots!” Running towards the window, lightning lit up the room as they ran down the building. Hoping that survived this, something told me that I might not make it.
“What are you planning to do?” She questioned icily, Croak standing up behind me. “She was easy to capture on the way up. Maybe I wanted to get the bounty on your head by the dark gods. Who wouldn’t want immortality?” Was that really the prize over my head?
“At least it's a steep bounty.” I retorted sarcastically, the corner of lip twitching into a half-smirk. “You wouldn’t be the first person who wants my head on a wall. Too bad I don’t fucking care. Time to bring the big guns.” Shadowy snakes held her in place, her blade rolling over to my feet. My patience had worn thin, my hands picking up her staff. Snapping it in half, it melted into a puddle of boiling hot silver. Panic rounded her eyes, her sinister grin fading for but a second.
“I don’t usually break out my fire powers because the damage is immense.” I growled through gritted teeth, black flames crackling to life as I marched towards her. “Look at you getting the special treatment. Shrinking my blade down to dagger form, black flames devoured my hand. Slamming it into her chest, my fingers curled around her heart. Extending my claws into the tissue, her fingernails scratched at my arm. Shrill shrieks pierced my ears, flames cooking her from the inside. Burning to a pile of blackened ash, Croak covered her mouth. Collapsing to the floor, my muscles had chosen to give out at the worst possible moment. Cursing under my breath, the building groaned in protest. Every attempt to move had me crying into the carpet, Croak begging for me to get up. Shaking my head, every muscle refused to comply with my desire to rise to my feet.
“I can’t.” I snapped into the carpet, my own blood pooling around me. “I used up all of my juice. Be a pal and stay by my side. You know, for old times’ sake.” Coughing up more blood, my claws dug into the floor. Images of Miles running around with my girls had me smiling to myself. Must life always flash before one's eyes. Croak plopped down next to me, her hand taking mine. Tavy and Saly skidded in, Tavy tossing me over her shoulder. Hating for a second that I was going to survive, my hand reached for Croak. Holding on for a second, her warmth felt like her embrace.
“I am not letting you die today, boss.” She chirped cheerfully, tucking my dagger into its case. “Sal, cover our asses.” Sprinting down the halls, Croak waving as she rounded the corner. Watching her spirit float into the sky, silent tears cascaded from my eyes. Letting them rip me from one of the only friends I had ever had, time slowed as they leapt into the crashing waves. Keeping me above the waves, black flames devoured every building. Debris whistled over my head, the lost souls floating into the sky. A wave of exhaustion crashed over me, a rough darkness stealing me away.
Groaning awake on a sandy beach, my wounds had been repaired. The empty vials shimmered next to me, a migraine throbbing to life. Tavy was cursing tersely over a fire that wouldn’t start while Saly struggled with a makeshift fishing pole. A fit of laughter exploded from my lips, a wry smile lingering on my lips. Fishing around my pockets while they rushed over to fret over me, their mother taught them nothing about survival. Sitting up with another groan, the pile of rubble had me tearing up for the millionth time. Stop crying was all I could yell at myself. Plucking my phone from my pocket, the waterproof case had it working. Dialing Morte’s number, he would get the coordinates and come get us. Getting the answering machine, a low growl rumbled in my throat. Rising to my feet, the trees blurred. Running up to me, my palms caught their foreheads before they could bow.
“Treat me like a friend, not a tyrant.” I spoke warmly, the girls straightening up. “Let’s go home. There might be a town not far from her. Dusting off my outfit, I buttoned up the leather jacket to hide the bloody tank top. Undoing my braids, perfect waves floated around my shoulders. Flaking the dried blood off of my face as we hiked, a small town with a single gas station came into view. Spinning on my heels, they shot me a thumbs up. Walking casually into the gas station, colorful snacks lined the shelves. Grabbing a ginger ale on the way to the counter, Tavy slid a couple of candy bars onto the gaudy counter covered in different lighters. Of course, they were hungry. How could I forget?
“Excuse me sir but you know where we are? Our car ran off the road and my cell phone broke in the accident.” I choked out with fresh tears in my eyes, the twins matching my energy. “I need to call a tow truck and I need to know what town we are in.” Sliding over his phone, he gave some a common town name in the United States. Leaving us in privacy, he wouldn’t accept our money. Pretending to dial a number, I hung up and left a wet twenty on the table. Cracking open my soda on the way out, the cool liquid felt nice going down my throat. Turning to face them, a plan had to be formed. Please don't be a daft one.
“You can’t transport or anything?” One of them asked cautiously, my eyebrow twitching at the question. Transportation was out of the question right now with my lack of powers, neither of them needing to know that. Walking into a small park, the early afternoon sun painted the water a nice purple. Dialing my phone again, Morte didn’t pick up. What the hell was he doing? Dialing Wut, he didn’t pick up. Why wasn't anyone picking up!
“Pick up the damn phone, you idiots!” I shouted out of the blue, the others jumping ten feet into the air. “Sorry, my bed is calling me.” Yawning groggily, every muscle in my body ached fiercely. Typing in ways to get home, a bus station wasn’t too far from here. Checking my wallet, I had enough for three tickets home. Marching over to the bus station, the elderly clerk looked me up and down before accepting my money. Sliding over our tickets, the strangers shot us odd looks as we sank into the seats in the back. Trees turned into buildings and back into trees, the four hour bus ride giving me plenty of time to fume. Parking on the edge of the town of my business, another hour passed before I kicked open the door. Everyone looked up, Morte’s damn phone was in a bag of rice. How the hell did that freaking happen?
“Who the hell didn’t pick us up!” I roared thunderously, Morte putting his hands in the air. “I have been calling and calling! I needed someone to talk to. Fuck all of you!” Stomping upstairs to get changed, a new dress waited for me with Roseworth sitting on the bed in one of her usual onyx lace dresses. Folding my arms across my chest, it was her fault I didn’t have a return spell. Who sends someone on a mission without a way back!
“I solved your fucking problem!” I spat viciously, fighting another wave of tears. “Death almost claimed me again. I understand that it needed to be done but I have one damn question! Did you know that Croak was there? Is that why you sent me? That was a freaking joke and cruel at best. I loved her like a sister.” Covering my mouth, tears dripped off of my hands. It hurt to say that out loud, a bit of shame dimming my eyes for a second. No, an explanation was deserved.
“As long as I have lived I have never ever been put through so much mental pain! If you want to continue to be in my life, then secrets don’t exist! Am I understood?” I continued hotly, the guilt in her eyes softening my expression. “Sorry for yelling. I have had a rough day. What’s with the dress anyway?” Bowing her head while collecting herself, a bright smile met my busted expression. Shit, did I go too far again?
“We were going to surprise you for your birthday and our phones all got dropped in water. That is why we didn’t pick up.” She admitted with wet eyes, the guilt creeping in from my outburst. “I did know but I thought you could see her one last time. Sorry for trying to help a grieving sister. I don’t have much either now. All I have is my nieces and you.” Plopping down next to her, my arms buried her into a bear hug. Apologizing profusely, her emotions soaked my shirt. Holding her until the tears dried up, my hand cupped her cheek. The good intentions canceled any rage.
“Thank you so much.” I mumbled with another sad smile, rising from the bed to get changed into the lovely emerald dress. “I love you like a sister as well.” Snatching the dress off of the bed, the reflection in the mirror had me shrinking back. A zombie would have looked better, the door creaking open as I cleaned up a bit. Morte poked his head in, my eyes refusing to meet his. Hating that I lost on him, he must despise me.
“I would have gotten you if my phone was working. I am sorry.” He apologized sincerely, helping me take off my filthy clothes. Sure, everyone really seemed sorry. Maybe I was sick of hearing the word. Helping me get my dress on, the zipper went right up. Tracing the black lace covering the fifties style dress, Morte spun me around to face him. Lifting up my chin, his crooked grin made my day a bit better. Kissing my lips tenderly, my face was still puffy as hell. Lost between a state of panic and euphoria, the combination had a sickening effect.
“You have never looked more beautiful.” He sang with his natural smile, my heart fluttering. “The kids wanted to throw you a surprise party so act surprised.” Uttering a single yes, he offered me his elbow. Sliding on my boots on the way out, we paused in front of the living room door. Opening up the door, everyone shouted surprise. Donning my genuine smile, the girls and Miles smashed into my legs. Thanking them with a flurry of feverish kisses, their smiles couldn’t be any bigger. A bit of life returned to my eyes, my kids giving the flames of hope another boost.

Apologies for this one being so late; Been sick for the last week or so, and the friday i was meant to post this, I think from memory I was busy :/ But I'm starting to get back into the swing of things, and the Glossary Addendum has also had a bit of an overhaul :D I'll be applying that tonight as well, to each of the currently released chapters.
[First] [Glossary Addendum] [Previous]
[From the Abyss Artisanry, Wolfreach Commercial District, Halsion Reach Region, Haldios IV, 12th of Emheraldis, 5011 TE]
[Boltz] The door chimed, though it sounded... Off today, and I sighed. I'd have to replace the old beeper with something else now that it had broken. As I walked towards the counter, I heard Chit's voice from around the corner as she said,
"I'll be right with you!" I frowned, noticing the strain in her voice. I stepped around the counter and poked my head around the corner, and then immediately rushed to help. She was trying to move a Draekkan mace, and causing gouges in the floor as she dragged the heavy weapon.
"Seriously? Leave Draekkan weapons to me, beloved." I said, and Chit nodded as I lifted the massive, spiked club-like weapon. Made of Luunic steel, the metal was cool against my hand as I cautiously hefted it, a dark blue color akin to the Lunwatch sky on a clear night with few stars. I slowly walked over to the storage racks, and hung the mace on a pair of large hooks. Then I turned back to my lover, and looked her up and down for injuries.
Finding none, I shook my head with another sigh. "Well at least you didn't hurt yourself on it." I said, stepping up to her and wrapping my arms around her lower back. I pulled her cool body towards mine, and she happily melted into my embrace. Chuckling, I planted a kiss on her hair, and gently ran a finger down one of her drit'onthke. Her entire body shivered and she giggled, before wrapping her arms around me and giving me a tight hug.
"So what's on the list for today?" I asked, resting my cheek on her head.
"Just a few armour sets which need some minor repairs, thankfully." Chit replied. I nodded, and then the beeper went off, indicating a customer.
"Solahra's Light, what an awful noise to greet a customer with!" A deep, male-sounding canine voice rumbled from out in the customer area. We reluctantly pulled apart and both went out to see what he needed.

As Chit rounded the corner, she automatically greeted the customer by saying,
"Welcome to From the Abyss Artisanry, how can we help today?" But as I stepped around after her, I froze. The canine man was holding a box filled with shattered pieces of art, it looked like. I stepped closer and realised that they weren't shattered pieces of art, at least not in the traditional sense. Rather, they were the parts of what was formerly a weapon. I felt my eyes widen as I realised what it was. I looked at the canine man, and realised he was a Labardon. I looked back at the pieces of plasma caster, which appeared to, on closer inspection, actually have catastrophically failed at a structural level upon attempting to fire a shot.
"I went to the Lunhaekin blacksmith over in Aellandendil, cos they said that fishing my ancestral plasma caster would be an exceedingly simple affair. Instead, the next time I went to fire it, the blasted thing fell apart in my hands!" The man growled, and then asked,
"How bad is it... Is... Is there any way to restore it?" His eyes went wide as if to wordlessly plead with me, and I gestured for him to give me the box of parts. He hesitantly handed the box over and I gently placed it on the counter before pulling out one of the furcloth rolls underneath and unravelling it. Then, one by one, I pulled out each of the pieces, and with each new item, my heart sank.

This would not be a simple fix of just re-assembling the pieces. I let out a heavy sigh, and, leaning on the counter, covered my mouth with the side of my hand while looking at the arrayed parts.
"This is... At this point you might as well just buy a new plasma caster." I said finally, still looking at the parts. I looked up at the man and said,
"If I reconstruct this, because that's what it will take, a full reconstruction, it WILL cost more than buying a new caster." I looked down at the parts again, and swore under my breath.
"The focusing plate has been shattered, and those things are near indestructible when carved right, the prism chamber is cracked, so that's no good any more, and the magnetic acceleration rings..." I trailed off, and swallowed before looking up at the man.
"They're not rings any more..." I whispered, and the man's face seemed to break.
"Is there anything we can salvage of the original parts?" He asked, his voice shaky. I looked down at the parts, and realised that there was just one piece that was fully intact. With a mirthless chuckle, I picked it up.
"The plasma compression chamber. That's it." I laid the small metallic chamber down again, and sighed.
"The rest is just... Junk. Scrap even." I shook my head, running the numbers in my head. When I finished, I swore again, and dropped the bombshell.
"You're looking at around fifty thousand in parts alone." I said, and the canine's shoulders slumped.
"If that's the price it takes..." He said.
"I will try and recover as much material as I can though; I might be able to melt down the mag rings for example and re-energise them."

[A Cycle Later...]
[Chit'eiwu]
The Labardon stepped into the store, a simple digital bell sounding, and he sighed, his tail wagging a little as he did so.
"Much better than last time!" He joked, and Jakob walked around the corner holding a box, grinning from ear to ear.
"Just in time, good sir!" He exclaimed. He set down the box, and the Labardon's gaze instantly honed in on it. Jakob laid a hand on the lid, and said,
"Behold, your restored heritage!" And with that, he lifted the lid like he was proposing to the customer, and the canine's eyes lit up, his tail suddenly zipping back and forth as though it were some kind of demented metronome. As he lifted the ancient weapon, my own eyes widened; It was truly a thing of beauty.

[Boltz]
I smiled as the Labardon man admired my handiwork, and in a voice that sounded like it was half pure air, he whispered,
"It's as beautiful as the day my sire first showed it to me..." My smile widened, and I said,
"I was able to salvage more than I thought, in the end. I managed to keep the primary focus cone; I simply had to melt and recast it due to a crack in it, the laser projector's crystal matrix casing also was salvageable, though I did have to replace the crystal matrix. So it now has a Kaurine crystal for providing the first round of focusing." The man froze, and his gaze flicked to me. His hands still raise, he asked,
"A Kaurine crystal? Genuine?" I nodded.
"Cut the crystal free from the rock myself." I replied. The man laid the plasma caster on the counter gently, though it rattled slightly from his shaking paws as he ceased to support it.
"My sire said that it originally had a Shell crystal as its matrix..." He said, voice trembling as much as his paws.
"They are great crystals for energy conduction as well as for energy focusing. It took a bit to set the frequency for the right channels though." He nodded, and shakily handed over his Orionpay card. I handed it to Chit'eiwu, right as he asked,
"So how much was it all up?" I grinned and replied,
"An even fifty five thousand." He blinked, and asked,
"But... the crystal... Surely that alone would be a few hundred thousand!" I shook my head, and replied,
"It's not a Blade. And it doesn't need to be anywhere near as big. Only came to around three thousand." He nodded, and Chit'eiwu input the numbers and scanned the card. The system registered a successful transaction, and she handed the man back his card.
"Thank you for choosing From the Abyss Artisanry!" I said, and he nodded, his eyes turning shiny with unshed tears.
"No, thank you. All of my friends will be hearing about this, and you will be my first stop for anything artisanal." I nodded to him, and he left, carefully cradling the restored plasma caster in its box. Looking over to the clock, I noticed that it was indicating less than an hour before Lunrise. I jerked my head towards Chit'eiwu and asked,
"Think we should close up the shop early, or wait until Soldown before we stop operating?" She looked up at the clock as well, then back to me, and shook her head.
"No, I think we can afford to close early this evening." I nodded, and pressed the button to activate the end of Watch sign system, and a moment later, a holosign in the window came to life and began a 10 minute countdown.

We always did the countdown so that prospective customers knew how long they had to enter to the store before we stopped taking new customers prior to closing down for the Lunwatch. As usually happened however, the sign completed its countdown and flicked to the "Closed" display, and I pressed a second button to lock the door remotely, and arm the security system. As I did so, Chit'eiwu walked into the apartment, and soon after, I heard the sound of her cooking. I smiled, knowing that she was bound to make an incredible dinner as per usual, and let out a contented sigh as the system went through the arming process. Life with her was... Good. Not necessarily great by any stretch of the imagination; Most of our days were spent working after all. But it was at least a good life. A life I was more than happy to lead.

When the system indicated full armed status some minutes later, I followed my aquatic lover into our home behind and above the shop, and arrived just in time for her to serve up dinner. As I sat down, a stupid grin spread across my face as I beheld what she had cooked up. On the plate was a kind of "nest" made of purple coloured strands of pasta, and topped off with a green-sauced mince of some kind. I looked up at my lover, who was watching me expectantly. My grin refusing to go away, I obliged her apparent intent, and used a fork to collect some mince with sauce, and some of the pasta.

As the food reached my mouth, it was like an explosion of flavours; An earthy, slightly spicy flavour issued forth from the sauce, and the mince tasted somewhat like yuron, a kind of cattle animal from Zehllukarn Prime, and it was followed up by a surprisingly sweet flavour from the pasta as it rotated around in my mouth as I chewed. Swallowing, I said,
"This is incredible! I can't even properly describe it; it's... It's like an explosion of all different flavours coming together in my mouth!" Chit's face turned a fierce azure, and my grin widened. The grin morphing into a smirk, I added,
"You're definitely getting rewarded this Lunwatch, beloved."

[A Few Hours Later...]

[Boltz]

As Chit'eiwu walked into the bedroom we shared upstairs, I put the dishes from our dinner into the automatic dishwasher, and followed her up. As I reached the laundry room, I stripped off my clothes from the Solwatch, and tossed them expertly into the laundry, each garment hitting the wall and bouncing off slightly to fall into the clothes basket waiting below, before walking into the bedroom entirely unclad. Chit'eiwu was laying in the bed, the blanket covering her amethyst body from view, and in such a way that I knew that she too had put her clothes in the laundry. I walked around the bed, and pulled down the blanket to get in beside her, and after that, things turn rather hazy for a little while.

[A Week Later...]

[Chit'Eiwu]
Jakob and I stepped off of the transport, hand-in-grasper, him looking absolutely divine in a glacial blue suit with silver trimmings, seeming to be a walking ice sculpture. Complimenting him, I opted for a taste of my birthplace; Trimmed with onyx hems, I was wearing a deep, abyssal purple dress, showing off my relatively lighter purple skin, becoming a shadow of the Abyss to act as the dark counterpart to my Warrior of the Overwaves. I looked towards him as we stepped inside the Fortress of Kaur'Ainda together for the first time since I was Ascended by both him and Cewa together.
He looked back at me, smiled and squeezed my hand reassuringly, before saying over our rarely-used connection,
There's no need to be nervous; It's just a Greenmarch Feast, my Siren. As I did every time he called me that, I giggled; At first I had been confused by him calling me an alarm sound, until he showed me one of the few surviving Terran records from... Wherever it was that they came from. Terran, or at the time, Human, women of extraordinary beauty, totally uncovered, and singing some kind of song that lured male sailors to their deaths.
Then he had sent me an image of how he viewed me; My plain purple skin instead appeared almost... Luminous, and my average green eyes were glittering emerald gems. My hair, an equally unremarkable azure, was a brilliant blue that resembled the Azuresheet high above even the Overwaves, and in his mind's eye, my cheeks were flushed slightly blue. I had never considered myself to be attractive by any means; In the Abyss I would have struggled to find a mate...
But here in the Overwaves? I had been chosen by a Terran, that enigmatic, smooth-skinned, near-prey-like biped species who were renowned for absurd feats of strength and endurance. I was not as fragile as I seemed, even before my Ascension...
But Jakob seemed to realise that early on; The first time we lay together, an eye-rolling, mind-erasing experience, he showed such gentleness that it was hard to believe the stories... Until the very next day when I had struggled to move a shipment of materials that had come in, even barely raising it, and he had simply come in and told me to let it go, before seeming to effortlessly pick up the heavy box and carry it into the Forge, before placing it down and rapidly sorting the material inside for me. I had asked him about it, and his response was a mere shrug, and to say, It wasn't that heavy for me; Absolutely awkward, but not anything that will break my back.

In the present, we stepped into the Great Hall, and froze. It had been totally transformed, becoming a verdant green forest canopy under which wooden tables seemingly made from the trunks of trees, with seats formed from sections of log from great tree branches. Seiranha saw us enter, and rushed over to greet us.
"Boltz! Chit!" She exclaimed, and hugged us both in turn. It felt... Odd, to be given a hug by a Vampyris, but this particular one was a friend, and so I happily returned the hug, albeit reluctantly letting go of Jakob's hand to do so. We held the hug for a few eternal moments, before she let go and did the same to Jakob, who greeted her warmly.
"You look great!" Jakob said to the Vampyris warrior, and she blushed a deep golden color on her pale cream skin. It looked almost like golden Skyblaze rays were touching her cheeks as she giggled. But Jakob was right; She was garbed in a flowing set of obviously ceremonial armour which appeared to have been made by first weaving a suit of leaves, and then attaching segments of bark to the resulting garment. And combined with her silver-in-crimson eyes...
"You look sort of like a vengeful forest spirit in this armour, Master Seiranha!" I said, and the woman grinned.
"That's sort of the idea. Not many people remember that the spirits of the forests of all our worlds yet live... And for those who do not respect the forest's inhabitants, only death can be anticipated, or worse."

Over the course of what remained of the Solwatch, we enjoyed the Greenmarch Feast, and soon enough, it was time to scatter to our homes once again, to rest away the overindulgences of the Feast.

[Boltz]
As the transport landed at the Wolfreach starport, Chit and I walked down the ramp, though she was somewhat unsteady on her legs. Chuckling, I asked her,
"Would you like me to carry you home?" She looked at me, her face blazing sapphire, but through our connection, she, apparently not realising she was 'speaking', replied, I thought you'd never ask... My mighty Skybright, carrying me like an Inkle in his powerful arms... As the thought travelled over our connection the azure spread, and I shook my head with a grin. I really was the luckiest guy in the Reach to have landed such an exotic life partner. She happily stepped in closer to me, and I swept her off her feet, much to her almost drunken delight, and she let out a whoop of surprise.
However, as her intoxicated brain realised what had happened, she melted into my embrace, burbling away in my ear as though she had been returned to her youngest of Watches. I was all too happy to carry my lover home of course; The sound of her tripled heartbeat like a three-beat rhythm pulsed against my own heart, and her emerald gaze was transfixed on my face, the look in those beautiful green orbs one of utter and complete adoration.

After around 10 minutes, we reached the shop, and I swiped my wristcomm over the new sensor, first up-down, then right-left. The two-part verification proved my identity, and the door swung open automatically, a recent addition I had also made. As we cleared the door, I swept my foot around and behind me to close the door again, and carried Chit to the bedroom in our apartment, before laying her gently down on the bed, and saying,
"Unfortunately, I've gotta take that incredible dress off you or it will be ruined in your sleep." Chit vaguely nodded, and I helped her stand back up. Having done this routine together before, she laid her arms on my shoulders for added balancing support, and I bent down to grab the bottom of the dress, before slowly pulling it up to her chest. Feeling the garment fully above her hips, Chit carefully sat down on the bed, and I carefully pulled the dress up and over her head, then down her arms.

Turning around, I draped the dress across a nearby dresser, smoothing out any wrinkles in it, and then returned my attention to my lover, who was now completely undressed. Once again taking up the role of caregiver, I wrapped an arm around her and scooped her up once more before laying her on the bed sideways, where she let out a small gasp as the cold fabric touched her bare skin. I gave her a reassuring smile and said,
"I'll have you nice and warm soon enough, Heartstreasure." And with that, I stripped off my own suit, carefully draping it over a chair, and then pulled off the underwear I had worn for the Feast, and climbed under the covers beside Chit. Upon feeling me enter the bed, she shifted over, hissing a bit as she moved off the warmed area, and melted her body against my own. As she settled into a comfortable position, one of her legs across mine, she said through repeated yawns,
"May... May you swim... With the... Blessing of... Of Drynedaea... My.... Sky-Warrior..." Chuckling as I wrapped an arm around her back, I kissed her gently on the forehead and over our connection, replied,
"May Luunah Guard your Dreams, Heartstreasure of the Depths." And with that, as if it were a cue, Chit's breathing shifted to become deep and regular, and the sound along with the rising and falling of her amethyst chest against my skin sung its own siren song, dragging me down into...
[Next: To Tread the Shaded Path]

Chapter One
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Prev
-Rooftop of the White Flame Factory-
Grigory smiled nervously at his men as they lounged on the rooftop patio. As the sun sank lower, he was happy to see them relax after the day's tensions. He’d wanted to give them their imps when they first arrived, or after the demonstration, but they seemed a little too skittish. Their reactions were causing him to doubt his strategy. If his most loyal supporters were repelled by them, wider acceptance was going to be a non-trivial hurdle. He’d been working on an improved version of the imps for months, but making them less threatening, or light forbid, ‘cute’, seemed deeply at odds with his plans. He hoped time might be the missing ingredient. Once they get a bit more familiar with them, they’ll come around. The imps were really nothing for them to fear.
The demonologist sat alone, observing how his men were dealing with the news. He was deep in thought, adjusting his plans and ruminating on his concerns. Was he forcing them to do things they weren’t comfortable with? The basis of his entire plan was that the whole world was to benefit from the imps, so it had to start somewhere, or he might as well give up. They seemed to be taking it as well as he could have hoped.
Catching a wisp of savoury smells, he thought it was scarcely fair to relax while Stanisk was busy in the kitchen. He rose to see if he could lend a hand with dinner. During their overland trek to the capital months ago, it was clear that Stanisk was a superlative cook, but Grigory was a dexterous helper. Much of what he knew about surgical techniques had been picked up preparing meals.
Grigory arrived at the great hall that served as the eating area. In the centre of the chamber, two long tables stretched across the room, capable of seating fifty, though only four simple chairs he had crafted a few weeks ago were present. His men had yet to grasp the potential of the imps' labour; instead of proper seating, they had improvised with crates and timbers haphazardly arranged around the tables. Near one table, a jute sack of potatoes lay abandoned on the floor, possibly mistaken for a makeshift seat. Grigory hoped they'd be eating the potatoes, not sitting on them.
Separated from the hall by a low half-wall, the kitchen bustled with activity. Stanisk sat on the thick timber counter, a casual sentinel over dinner’s preparations, while Jourgun and Klive stood nearby, deep in conversation with their commander.
Stanisk’s five imps, in their fancy clothes, dashed around the kitchen. Under his expert guidance they were preparing a grand feast. One was peeling potatoes, another stirred a great bubbling pot, while two were doing dishes.
“Sir, did you know that Stanisk’s imps have names? And fancy clothes! Can I have one like his?” Klive blurted when he saw his employer. “Uh, as it pleases milord, of course.”
“Plus mine bow when they bring us beers! They don't do that fresh out of hell!” Stanisk's toothy smile implied he might have been bowed at by imps a half dozen times already.
Grigory tilted his head and blinked for a second.
Surely a bit of clothes can’t have that much of an impact on their acceptance?
“Oh, Of course! Certainly!” he paused again. “Feel free to ask Stanisk for tips on how he made his.” Observing the bustling activity, “It looks like dinner is well in hand?” The kitchen was huge, far larger than the one at Planed Pine Peak Inn. A half dozen dishes simmered or baked, their aromas — exotic spices, rich gravies, and roasted meats filled the expansive space.
Stanisk replied without glancing away from the imps handling the tasks. “Well in hand, boss. Take ‘er easy tonight!” The imps' movements were quick and fluid, their antics distractingly comical at times. Grigory watched, smiling, as one imp hugged a yam to its chest that likely weighed more than it did, and made its way along the countertop from the vegetable sack to the cutting board. Each step was an exaggerated sway, the creature was badly top-heavy and teetering.
With effort he pulled his focus back, “Capital! I’ve a matter to attend to! Smells great already!”
Grigory went into the factory proper to whip up enough chairs for everyone. Simple wooden ones for now, but with cushions. Cushions were quick enough to make and he had a few cart loads of wool and woollen fabrics. He watched his imps work, glad he could share them with his whole team now. Obviously it made everything a bit riskier, but it was worth it. One of his concerns was that he’d been overlooking opportunities and uses. He was bound by only being able to think his own thoughts, so he was excited to see what non-demonologists would think of.
They carved and joined the pine chairs with their normal speed and accuracy, but watching them sew was its own reward. The imps wielded needles like longswords in their tiny hands, the points moving too fast to see clearly. They stacked up the plain cushions in a neat pile at the end of their low workbench.
He also didn’t have any utensils, placemats, serving spoons nor trivets either, since this was their first proper meal here. He commanded the imps to make those as well, and carry them like a row of ants from the workshop to the dining hall. The demonologist walked around the table, surveying his work. With a minor gesture of flame he lit the lamps, and frowned at the beige-grey of undyed wool of the chair cushions.
He pulled the chairs out, and one at a time enchanted the cushions to bright, cheerful colours. He was going to make them all company purple, but thought better of it. Enchanting colours was a fun spell to cast, because the act of changing its colour also unravelled enchantment as it went. Much like building and knocking over houses of cards, the end effect was a mundane unenchanted object, but in whatever colour he’d chosen. Having done the spell countless times for entire days to prepare for the midsummer tourney, he didn’t even have to check his notes for any of the hues.
Satisfied with his work, though slightly frustrated that his first and last red cushions weren’t quite the same shade, he sat down. He pulled a notebook out of his satchel and started making notes on his ideas for some improvements, mostly for his own use, but some to the things he’d be soon selling. Lost in his own world, he had no idea how much time had passed when Ros and Taritha joined him at the table.
“Good evening, milord,” Ros said deferentially.
The young herbalist elbowed him, “Come on, he had one rule! He was writing!”
“Oh! Terribly sorry, sir!” Ros stammered.
“Not at all, I was basically doodling. How’s your evening going, is everything to your liking?” Grigory closed his notebook and put it away.
“Amazing milord, These rooms are huge! They're bigger than some of the houses I was looking at!” Taritha said.
“Of course! No one wants to live in dingy cells! Glad to hear! It’s easy to make a place bigger when you are building fresh. Let me know if you find anything that needs fixing, our builders are still in town working on the harbour fortress now, but I can have them send someone if there is anything amiss!”
“I don’t reckon neither of us knew palaces this nice existed anywhere, milord!” Ros said with a shrug. “We might not be the best eyes for finding faults!”
“Heh! This is just the rustic first stage! Don’t worry about its crudeness for now, we’ll get there over time!” the demonologist promised, patting his satchel where the notebook of ideas was. His confidence was both unshakeable and unnecessary.
“Not to question your plans, but there are a lot more rooms than people. Are we expecting company? Are we hiring?” Taritha asked. Her eyebrows twitched slightly, having just questioned his plan for the first time.
“Big plans indeed! So that empty stretch east of the main building? That’s also part of our land grant. In a while we’ll be building a barracks there for our troops, while senior officers will stay in the main factory. That’s also why Stanisk will be taking a much more active role with civil defence. It’s central to our plan to secure the town, and by extension our own safety.”
“Our troops? Like us?” Jourgun asked, having joined them at the long table.
“Maybe? Probably not? We’ll see. The plan is to extensively recruit as we can afford it, since the pirate raid was just the beginning. We have something of incredible value, in the form of me, the imps and the factory itself. Many violent people feel they should possess every valuable thing, so we must be vigilant. Not to worry though! That’s just us planning for the worst. In reality, nothing like that will likely happen. Just by being well defended we’ll scare off the greedy.”
“Ah, like why it's dangerous for a beggar to wear a silk robe!” Rikad added as he joined them, along with a few others. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicatingly rich now, as Stanisk and Klive used the imps to finish and plate the meal.
“Just so, a lord can only have what he can defend, and because the first phases of my plan require a certain level of material wealth, I’ll need extensive defences,” Grigory explained as diplomatically as he could.
“The Empire itself will fear our might, milord!” Ros said excitedly.
“Nah, it won’t. That’s a dangerous thought. The Imperial army’s smallest deployable force is a legion, near enough to five thousand men. Even if we hit every hiring and training target, we’se not going to be in the business of fightin’ wars. Just enough to make us a spiky nut. The sort not worth chompin’,’” Stanisk called over from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Ros said, shrinking back into his seat.
“That’s more than all the men in the whole town!” Taritha lamented.
“Yeah, that’s why lil fishing villages don’t win wars. A legion is five thousand infantry with warships, supplies, siege cohorts, and command companies. If’n it’s a real fight, then they might deploy all ten Imperial legions. Then start raising more if’n they’re losing. We ain’t never gonna try to fight that. No nation in the world has ever picked that fight and won.”
To counter the grim tone settling over his celebratory dinner, Grigory chimed in with a reassuring smile, “We’re loyal Hyruxian subjects, and the legions protect us. We pay taxes in full, we’re on the right side of all this. We just want a bit of security against more, uh, regional actors. Besides, a large well equipped force lends our diplomacy weight we wouldn’t otherwise have.”
Now that the table was filling up and his men looked satisfied with his answers, he raised his voice to the kitchen, “How’s it going in there?”
“Good! I bought a deer from one of the hunters this morning, and it turned out just right!” Stanisk replied, personally putting the finishing touches on his creation. Aethlina moved across the kitchen to watch Stanisk work, making Grigory do a double take. He hadn’t realised she was even in the building.
“Oh! Capital! Everyone in the entire company is here now! Even better!” Grigory said, motioning Aethlina to sit by him. He was glad he’d made the full number of chairs!
Stanisk and Klive brought out plates heaped with slices of braised venison, steamed tubers and sautéed onions. Tubs of butter, bowls of gravy, and finally a heaping basket of fresh buns followed. Stanisk took his seat and, smiling with pride, “What’re you helpless kittens lookin’ at? Never seen dinner ‘afore? Dig in!”
The feast was a perfect end to a troubling day, and even though the conversation died down as they ate, Grigory observed every single one of his hirelings intently, relieved to see not a single one seemed put off by a meal made by demons. Catching Stanisk’s eye, he made an empty cup gesture.
“Imps! Bring us all some drinks! Wine, beer and water!” Stanisk shouted to his imps. With speed and efficiency, the little demons filled clay cups and brought everyone three drinks, exactly as ordered.
“Ah, dammit, I meant—It’s fine. Drink what you want and I’ll just dump the rest!” The chief of security’s good humour faded for an instant before returning twice as bright.
“No, I love having three drinks! And the water and beer are cold! In the summer! The gods themselves envy me!” Rikad declared.
“Uh oh! It looks like Mage Thippily made imps, but the imps made the real monster!” Kedril retorted, gesturing at Rikad holding three cups between his hands, rotating them to drink out of each, while spilling beer all over his own arm.
Their high spirits encouraged Grigory. He’d worried they would be morose and frightened tonight, after making them to live in what could be described as a hive of demons. Joking about the imps was beyond his expectations, so he smiled without speaking, sipping his red wine. Not his cherished Malaentian Red, but a nice varietal from the mainland he’d recently imported a few cases of. Once the plates were empty, Stanisk had the imps clear the table and start washing up while everyone remained seated at the long pine table, bellies full to bursting.
“That was spectacular Stanisk! Thank you!” Grigory offered, and everyone else chimed in a breath later.
“Nothing like a lifetime of bland ration bars for months to really spark an interest in what good food ought to be! I’m glad ya’se liked it,” the big veteran said dismissively.
“How is everyone finding their new accommodations? I know I don’t have all the furniture done just yet, but is everyone good for tonight?” Grigory asked, ever the eager host.
The men nodded and looked at each other. Complaining was frowned upon and nothing here was remotely a hardship.
“Capital! Glad to hear it, and by all means bring it to my attention if your needs are unmet!” Grigory sat still and everyone kept looking at him.
Now’s as good a time as any. It’s not even a surprise, I think I mentioned it a few times already.
“Ahem! So! I’d like to present each of you with your own imps! Some ground rules though; there may be people that aren’t ready for this style of magic, so I ask that you don’t mention anything about them anywhere outside of the factory. Or even imply there are any magical creatures, just that things get made here?”
He waited until they all at least nodded.
“Alright! Here you go, I have one for everyone! The imps are identical, so don’t worry about which ones you get. Um. Good luck?” With a shrug he reached down beside his chair and from a leather case he pulled a series of carved wooden boxes, and passed them out to everyone sitting at the table.
***
With a muted clatter, Taritha watched as the small dark boxes were distributed. She wasn’t sure if there was one for her, being fairly new to the company. She wasn’t sure how she felt; owning demons seemed like a big step, but the ancient urge to possess something nice or powerful was one she wasn’t immune to. Her heart leapt as a heavy box slid in front of her.
With trepidation, she touched it with one finger; it appeared to be regular wood, perhaps stained oak. The box was small and rectangular, quite thin, and she held it easily in one hand. It was narrow enough to fit comfortably between her thumb and fingers, its weight noticeable but not oppressive. She had expected dread, palpable evil, or something, but it just felt a bit heavy. Turning it over, she saw no visible clasps or hinges. The outside was covered in the flawless ornate carvings she was starting to grow familiar with. This time, the carvings depicted joyful industrial scenes—strong men swinging square hammers, smoke stacks, and laden ships and carts. The central image on each side was gilded with gold leaf, making it strikingly dignified.
Ignoring the excitement and increasing movement around her, she felt as if she were in her own universe. She slowly pulled on the lid, finding it opened on tiny hidden hinges, revealing three ebony totems inside. They were the size and shape of a fairytale wand, resting on a bed of lush green velvet, held in place by a broad ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Even without considering the priceless nature of the artefacts, she was impressed, almost distracted, by the quality of the presentation. He didn’t have to go to such lengths; she’d expected them to be simply handed to her.
She slid one of the totems out without undoing the bow. It was cool and heavy but otherwise seemed normal. She could see layers of impossibly fine carving, this time gilded with silver. She could sense the potent magic in the object, but it felt strange. She’d examined other enchanted items before, and their enchantments were all transcendently beautiful in a complex and technical way. This was so dense it felt like nothing. Or perhaps everything? She wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t at all like the other objects. Stilling herself and trying to puzzle out its secrets brought her no closer to any revelation. She shook her head and resolved to investigate further in private. She returned the totem to its place in the box and gently closed it.
Only now did she notice the table was thick with imps, more than twenty darting and leaping energetically. Her colleagues had summoned theirs and were already giving orders.
“You two, throw the third imp as high as you can!”
“Merp!”
“All of you, cross the table as fast as you can, but walk on your hands!”
“Merp!”
“Duel with these forks!”
“Merp! Merp!”
The men were laughing and pointing between shouting out fresh orders. All the commands were pointless and frivolous, making Taritha powerfully uncomfortable. These were forces of nature, extraplanar beings of unimaginable power, and they were being made to sprint into empty mugs to see how far the mug would fly!?
She shot a questioning look to the master demonologist to gauge his reaction. He was smiling and complimenting their creativity, so maybe she was overreacting? Still, she had no interest in wasting them on silly games. Emergencies only. Or at least serious concerns only. Not for dodging knotted linen napkins, that’s for sure!
With the burden of responsibility successfully dodged, she was free to watch everyone else’s fun. The cacophony of excitement was so infectious that she found herself giggling and pointing at them racing as makeshift horses, with an imp bent over holding the tiny waist of the imp in front of him, while a third one sat atop as a rider. They were so silly looking and energetic.
“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt or anger them?” Taritha asked.
“Oh my no, it’s not like that at all. They have minds, but lack awareness, or awareness of their own mind I guess? It’s fine! They are just made out of the same stuff as demons, but not actually demonic.” The mage stood up and stretched. “They are remarkably durable, it’s unlikely anything short of silvered steel will harm them. I, on the other hand, am at risk of being badly over-tired already! I trust you will be okay, left on your own! I’ll see you in the morning!”
“I’se properly tired too, but if you want, let's pop into the factory and I’ll show you how to get them to make their own clothes. It’s just tellin’ ‘em to do that, so you’se might not need too much hand holding!” Stanisk pushed himself away from the long table, and motioned for them to follow him.
They went into the cavernous factory, just across the hallway. What was an impressive and huge room in the daylight was now an infinite blackness, like a starless night. A few men had grabbed leviathan-oil lamps off the table, and they huddled in a small circle of warm, safe light. They gathered around a long low table, and Stanisk laid out a few bolts of fabric. The fine weaves were familiar to Taritha; they were the same as those used in the clothes she’d been getting from the company.
“It’s simple enough,” Stanisk said as he put a heavy leather bag of tools on the table. “Just say what you want, with as much or as little detail, and they’ll just make that.”
“Imps, make a suit of legion plate armour, imp-sized, out of shoe leather!” Rikad said with glee.
“Merp!” replied several at once, as they began cutting and forming the leather without hesitation. The imps even used grey wool for the under-mail parts, and tiny flares of hellfire to warp the leather into the right shapes. Soon, a tiny suit of black armour lay on the table, looking like what an imperial heavy infantryman would wear, but distorted to the proportions of the gawky imps.
“I dub thee, Imperial commander, Real Imp. Don thy armour!” Rikad ordered. “Do they remember their names?” he asked over his shoulder to Stanisk.
“Oh yeah, they’re proper sharp!” he confirmed.
“Create an imp-sized lord's robe with a sash of office! When it is done, you shall be known as D’Imp Lomat! I might need a minute to think of the last one though…” Rikad said to everyone watching his imps.
Reluctantly, Taritha opened the box and invoked her three imps. She looked at them closely; as far as she could tell, they were perfectly interchangeable with every other imp.
Looking over the fabrics, she chose a striking blue, a deep red, and a golden yellow. “Imps! Make imp-sized sundresses, mainly white with these colours as a main theme. and matching coloured sun hats,” she added hastily. Their heads were distractingly inhuman, so covering them might help. She watched them work, even interrupting a few times to ask for embroidered details and minor adjustments. Once they finished, she had them don their new outfits.
Oh! The hems seem scandalously short on their long lanky legs! Better than before, but not by a lot.
“Imps, please put on the hats that match the colour of your dress.”
“Merp.”
Much better! They look like ladies now!
“You are now Lady Bluebird, Lady Crossbill, and…” She paused at the last one, thinking of songbirds that were as bright yellow as the fabric. “Miss Goldfinch!”
She leaned back and admired her little ladies. They were far less threatening now, and their dull crimson skin really made the dresses look extra vibrant.
“Dang Taritha, how did you make yours so pretty? I want some pretty ones!” Jourgun commented as he looked over.
“Drool over your own demons! These are mine!” she said playfully. There was an undercurrent of possessiveness that she didn’t expect, but these ones were hers now. “Anyways, I’m going to bed too, you guys are too slow! Have fun, boys!” she said as she devoked her imps. The new clothes fell to the work surface.
“Oh yeah, they don’t take that with ‘em, wherever they go, so just keep it in a lil bag or whatever,” Stanisk said when he saw her distress. “They gotta get dressed every time you invoke it,” he shrugged.
So much to learn today!
With a brave smile, she replaced the totems in the box and gathered the dresses and hats. “Mind if I take…” she said as she slowly lifted a lamp from near Rikad.
“Oh yeah, all yours,” he said dismissively, fully engrossed in examining the tiny lordly robes of D’Imp Lomat.
She went back to the hall, up the wide even stairs to the third floor. She’d only spent a bit of time investigating it earlier, as she and Ros had been anxious about being late for dinner. She saw the heap of her worldly possessions against the wall where she’d left them. The only furniture here was the bed, but by the sounds of it, getting some tables, chairs, and wardrobes would be easy enough tomorrow. She placed the totem box and the tiny outfits on the floor beside the bed.
The bed itself was unlike any she’d ever heard of. Crafted with thick pine beams and topped with a mattress of imported cotton, it was probably wider than her entire hovel. A family of five could sleep on it and barely touch. She couldn’t imagine a more lordly bed. Its refined look and the luxurious softness were worlds apart from the coarse fabric and straw she was used to. Sometimes in the fall, she’d add freshly fallen leaves to her straw mattress for extra comfort, but that was a fleeting pleasure. This bed, however, promised constant comfort. She eyed the pile of heavy blankets at the foot of the bed. Recently, she had bought a single blanket from the market, thin and scratchy, but these were the mage’s blankets—thick, plush, and impossibly soft.
She shut the heavy door and took off her tall boots. The floor felt smooth under her bare feet. Even having a floor was a new luxury; she was accustomed to hard-packed dirt floors like most everyone else. This wasn’t just a floor; it was a delicate herringbone pattern of different kinds of wood, obviously done by the agile imps. It was cleaner, smoother, and more level than any table she’d eaten off before the mage came to town.
She stopped admiring the floor and stripped to her shift. She felt exposed being so undressed around so many men. She reasoned it out—the iron and oak door was stronger than a hide flap, and this would doubtlessly be the safest sleep of her life. Just a reaction, not a reality. She left the lamp on the floor and got in bed.
With a panic, she yelped as the whole bed flowed underneath her, as if she’d stepped on the tail of a sleeping cat. She tried to get up but her feet were already off the floor, and she couldn’t find a stable purchase with her hands. She froze up to think her way out of it, and the bed stopped moving almost as soon as she did.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Was this an enchantment gone awry? Some bed demon?
Slowly, she log-rolled towards the edge of the bed, and the mattress under her also slowly moved, but not enough to stop her. Slow and steady, she might get free yet. Finally, she was close enough to put a foot down and stand. The bed flowed back to being perfectly flat.
She stood up, with a hand to her sternum, trying to catch her breath.
Think! What did the mage say about this today? It would magically adjust? Maybe that was all it was doing?
She leaned over and gently pushed down with a single fist. It was super pliable, then increasingly firm. But it felt unlike anything else—stacks of clothes or hides all felt different when they got pressed.
It must be magic. No time to be timid, and it would be humiliating to go to either the mage or the chief about this.
The only spell she could reliably cast was a gesture of Mana-Visualization. It caused the invisible lines of arcane energy to glow visibly, in bright colours that hinted at their use and purpose. She cast it to better examine her bed. It wasn’t enchanted as she expected; rather, hundreds and hundreds of things inside it were, and they linked and overlapped in ways she wouldn’t understand if she studied enchantments for a decade. She involuntarily took a step back from it, like finding a hundred warhorses inside a small cabinet.
She dismissed the gesture. With renewed determination, she slowly sat down on the bed. It shifted but only a bit. It was very soft and comfortable. Slowly, she turned and laid back, fighting her panic as the mattress kept shifting everywhere her body touched it, unnervingly lifelike. Fully laying down, she stopped and the mattress stopped. Even as her eyes were still wide with terror, she started to calm down. To test her theories, she rolled onto her side, and the mattress under her hip grew softer, and the part under her ribs grew firmer, until the pressure equalised. Rolling back, she felt it shift again, and once more the mattress's firmness changed all up and down her body, stopping once it was the same shape as her body’s pressure, resulting in sublime comfort.
Oh. This is incredible. I get it now!
She reached to the foot of the bed, pulled one of the soft blankets up to her chin, reached down to extinguish the lamp and drifted off into a better sleep than anyone in the history of her family ever had.
Prev

Bill Rogers locked the garage door, slid the hose into the driver’s side window, climbed into the back seat, laid down and shut his eyes. When he woke up, he was surrounded by clouds and a blue sky. A man, neither young nor old stood next to him. He wore a coat like an Afghan goat herder, Bill thought, maybe made of sheepskin, or cowhide — tough to say, as Bill was no expert in husbandry. The man was small where Bill was large. Bill was six-three and two hundred and fifty pounds. He had played tight-end in college and lorded his physical stature over small men all his life. He felt it gave him an advantage at contract negotiations. He always made sure to be sitting when the opposing lawyers walked in because his size was hidden. Then he would stand up from behind table — a great reveal, a physical imposition — in an effortless attempt to intimidate the other team. It was mostly an effective strategy. The man, nearly a foot shorter, and a petite lady’s-weight less was standing almost eye-level with Bill. He sheepishly looked at Bill and asked if he was happy now.
“I suppose so,” Bill answered, rather dazed and unaware of all that was happening. “Are you God?” asked Bill. The old man smiled knowingly and set his delicate hand on Bill’s shoulder. “What can I do to make you comfortable?” Bill attempted to stand up but the man’s hand held him in place without applying any extra force. “A scotch would be nice! Do they serve scotch in heaven?” he laughed. The man laughed and gave Bill a scotch.
“Let me tell you, God, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it! When do we go through the pearly gates?”
“I’m afraid you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. That’s not how it works. Tell me, how was life on Earth?”
“Well, I guess you can tell by how I checked out it wasn’t great. But I am feeling better now. Sometimes you just need a good night’s sleep, I guess, right?”
“I guess so. You weren’t very happy down there. But that’s what I’m here for. You can fix it all now. Tell me, what went wrong in your life?”
“Wait, is this Purgatory then?”
He chuckled, “Good heavens, no. Don’t be silly. What went wrong down there?”
“I knew it — those nuns were all off. Well, for one, I worked too much. I spent 80, 90, 100 hours a week every week for years — hell, probably decades when you add it all up — in the office, chasing the ring, getting the promotion.” His thought broke and he looked at the man and said, “you know I cleared 950-k last year?” Sinking back into his thoughts, “but it wasn’t enough for her. She could give Cleopatra a run for her money. Man she could spend. I worked all the time, always on the road to a different client’s office, eating airport food, never exercising. Traded my health and youth for wealth, then she got to enjoy it. I ended up all alone in my big house, all by myself and my LonelyFans Platinum subscription. Look at me, I got so fat no pretty woman could stand to look at me. If I could do it again, I’d go back and just make 60k a year, keep my health, my good looks, and go to clubs every night and dance with beautiful women. I wasted so much.”
“Wow, thanks for being so honest, Bill. I’m glad you were honest, because now I can give you the chance to fix it. I am going to give you the opportunity to craft the life you always wanted, the life you dreamed of! This is your chance Bill, to do it right this time. You had a full life, you tried out things: some worked, some didn’t — that trip to Tokyo probably didn’t help your marriage, did it; but now that’s all behind, now you get to create the perfect one based on everything you learned. Now you get to play God to yourself. You will have the power to create any life you want: money, women, food, servants, power, glory, the revenge on everybody who did you wrong — anything.”
“Oh, Good Lord, heaven is even better than Mother Superior led on! I get to do that? Now?”
“Yes, I’m granting you this power. Total freedom to do what you want. You deserve it! You’ve earned it, Bill.”
“Ok, so what do I do? Just point and make something happen?”
“Sure,” he said with a chuckle, “everybody always wants to point at things like some Vegas magician. The entire creation was spoken into existence, but ever since Adam people want to point things into existence — whatever makes them happy, I guess. Anyway, you’ve got the power of the Lord, do it however you want!”
Bill pointed to a cloud in front of him and a new truck appeared before his eyes. “Holy moly, I can’t believe it’s real.” The sun reflecting off the chrome was just a big blur to Bill Rogers water-filled eyes. He had to squint to see that it had the turbodiesel engine he had imagined. “I’m not going to get carried away on the wealth. I learned my lesson there. It doesn’t buy happiness. I had eight digits in my savings account,” he looked to see if the man was listening, “and look at where that got me. No, just a simple life for me,” he pointed to a cloud and four-bed, three-bath house with in-law suite and three car garage next to a lush green lawn appeared. It fronted a cul-de-sac. “You can’t take it with you, right?” he laughed.
“Is that it, Bill? What else do you want?”
“Well, like I said, I want to be young and healthy.” His stomach disappeared into his abdominal muscles and the brown spots and wrinkles on his hands vanished into a smooth clear skin.
“And what are you going to do with your time? Go back to your old job?”
“Ohh, you got a good sense of humor, God!” The old man laughed along with Bill. “Like I said, I just want to live a normal life and go to the bars at night, talk to beautiful women. Dance with them, smile, laugh. Have fun, that’s all.”
“Your wish, is my command,” he said, and Bill asked if that is how it really worked, and the old man laughed: “no, but people really started to ask for it after Aladdin got big, so I started doing it.”
“You’re a real people-pleaser, aren’t you, God?”
The small man’s sheepish smile resurfaced and a faint pink tint rose up to his pale cheeks.
“That is it for now, enjoy your new life, Bill. I’ll be back to check on you after a while.”
“Thanks, God, you really are great.”
“Oh, wait, one more thing — I almost forgot. In your newly made, perfect, heavenly life — do you want your children here?”
Bill let out a huge laugh, “of course! How could I forget! Yes, of course, I want to see my children! Not every day — and don’t have the Queen of Sheba bring ’em by either, if you know what I mean,” he nudged the old man with his elbow, almost knocking his small frame over, “but yes I always regretted not having more time with the kids.”
“Great, I’ll make that happen. I’ll be ba-a-a-a-a-ck,” he said as he turned around.
A door appeared out of nowhere and the old man glided over to it, with his sheepskin coat dragging behind him. The door opened and he walked through it. It began to close, but his coat got caught in the door, and he had to reach back and yank it through. As the coat flew up, Bill thought he saw the tip of a German Sheppard’s tail and wondered if the dog had been there all along, but soon didn’t care as he saw his new neighbor, a young blonde woman in yoga pants and high heels getting into her Mercedes coupe. He tried to get her attention, but she was focused on fixing her lipstick and hair in the mirror as she drove away.
Bill settled down into his new life, got comfortable in his small house and extended cab truck, and began going out to bars and clubs, just as he had imagined. Every night there was a bar to go to filled with beautiful women, and they all were happy to let him buy drinks and chat for a while. Sometimes he would invite one or two to dance and they’d agree, and then disappear with their friends. Other times he would meet a young woman in pub and talk to her; they’d laugh and joke and maybe she would give him her number and maybe not. But he never saw the same woman twice. If he called or texted a woman, she never responded. If he asked a woman if she’d like to go somewhere for coffee she always declined and said she had to get back home.
On the rare chance that a woman did sit down and talk with him, the conversation was always the same: polite introductions, niceties, some flirtatious exchanges. He tried to talk to the beautiful women about life, what they wanted, what mattered to them, but they all just said they liked to have fun to some degree or another.
After three weeks of going to the bars and trying to talk to women, Bill got tired of going out. He stayed at home for a week, then he tried to find his neighbor again. He saw her car in the drive and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. He only ever saw her driving away.
After a couple slow weeks, he tried going out again, but it was the same routine: a few drinks, a few laughs, nothing to talk about and goodbye, never to be seen again. Bill sat in his truck in the garage and contemplated his after-life. He wiped a tear from his cheek and heard someone knocking on his front door. He let the old man in, and Bill sat down at the barstool.
“Can I take your coat?”
“No, I like to keep it on. I came by to see how you are doing?”
“This isn’t what I thought Heaven would be like,” said Bill, hunched forward, hands between his legs, staring at the floor.”
“Heaven?” said the old man, looking up at Bill. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Who are you?”
The old man took off the sheepskin coat and Bill saw the gray and white fur all over his body. The gray tail dragged on the floor, and the old man’s face looked like the snout of a grey wolf.
“This is your own doing, Bill. You made the life you wanted. You’ve had two chances now. This one you are stuck with, forever. No escaping. No crying, no laying down in the back of your truck for eternal sleep. This is the eternal sleep.”
“This is Hell.”
“What have I done?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bill. You haven’t done anything other than what every man does when given complete freedom, unlimited choice.”
“The guys in Heaven don’t get the choice to play God?”
“Oh, yes, they do, but they turn it down. They always say ‘Oh, I could never do that.’ Once they say that, I know it’s game over for me. Never been able to convince a man he could play God at that point. During life, yes, easy — do it all the time! But once they see the clouds and the blue sky, if they don’t think they can do it then, there’s no changing their mind.”
“I’ve created my own Hell,” Bill said staring deep into a void that he had only seen once before—the moment he closed his eyes in the back seat of his car with the engine running and the hose in the window.
“For the second time, Bill. The second time in your existence. But, hey! it’s not exactly Hell. It could be worse.” The wolf got down on all fours and walked to the door. “Can you let me out?”
“How could it be worse? I’m lonely, miserable, isolated, aliented, and there is no escape. Just a world full of me and a bunch of mindless barflys. Eternity. How could it get worse?”
Bill opened the door and the wolf ran outside, almost knocking over the two people walking up Bill’s sidewalk.
“What are you doing here,” he shouted at them.
“We came to see you!”
“No! Get away! Get out of here, go! Go!”
The woman was getting in her Mercedes and looked over to see what the yelling was about, but then looked away before making eye contact.
“Dad, we missed you! We were so sad when you left, so we followed you here. The old man told us how to find you! He asked us what our perfect life would be like, and we told him ‘we just want to be with our Dad’.”

***
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Bill Rogers locked the garage door, slid the hose into the driver’s side window, climbed into the back seat, laid down and shut his eyes. When he woke up, he was surrounded by clouds and a blue sky. A man, neither young nor old stood next to him. He wore a coat like an Afghan goat herder, Bill thought, maybe made of sheepskin, or cowhide — tough to say, as Bill was no expert in husbandry. The man was small where Bill was large. Bill was six-three and two hundred and fifty pounds. He had played tight-end in college and lorded his physical stature over small men all his life. He felt it gave him an advantage at contract negotiations. He always made sure to be sitting when the opposing lawyers walked in because his size was hidden. Then he would stand up from behind table — a great reveal, a physical imposition — in an effortless attempt to intimidate the other team. It was mostly an effective strategy. The man, nearly a foot shorter, and a petite lady’s-weight less was standing almost eye-level with Bill. He sheepishly looked at Bill and asked if he was happy now.
“I suppose so,” Bill answered, rather dazed and unaware of all that was happening. “Are you God?” asked Bill. The old man smiled knowingly and set his delicate hand on Bill’s shoulder. “What can I do to make you comfortable?” Bill attempted to stand up but the man’s hand held him in place without applying any extra force. “A scotch would be nice! Do they serve scotch in heaven?” he laughed. The man laughed and gave Bill a scotch.
“Let me tell you, God, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it! When do we go through the pearly gates?”
“I’m afraid you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. That’s not how it works. Tell me, how was life on Earth?”
“Well, I guess you can tell by how I checked out it wasn’t great. But I am feeling better now. Sometimes you just need a good night’s sleep, I guess, right?”
“I guess so. You weren’t very happy down there. But that’s what I’m here for. You can fix it all now. Tell me, what went wrong in your life?”
“Wait, is this Purgatory then?”
He chuckled, “Good heavens, no. Don’t be silly. What went wrong down there?”
“I knew it — those nuns were all off. Well, for one, I worked too much. I spent 80, 90, 100 hours a week every week for years — hell, probably decades when you add it all up — in the office, chasing the ring, getting the promotion.” His thought broke and he looked at the man and said, “you know I cleared 950-k last year?” Sinking back into his thoughts, “but it wasn’t enough for her. She could give Cleopatra a run for her money. Man she could spend. I worked all the time, always on the road to a different client’s office, eating airport food, never exercising. Traded my health and youth for wealth, then she got to enjoy it. I ended up all alone in my big house, all by myself and my LonelyFans Platinum subscription. Look at me, I got so fat no pretty woman could stand to look at me. If I could do it again, I’d go back and just make 60k a year, keep my health, my good looks, and go to clubs every night and dance with beautiful women. I wasted so much.”
“Wow, thanks for being so honest, Bill. I’m glad you were honest, because now I can give you the chance to fix it. I am going to give you the opportunity to craft the life you always wanted, the life you dreamed of! This is your chance Bill, to do it right this time. You had a full life, you tried out things: some worked, some didn’t — that trip to Tokyo probably didn’t help your marriage, did it; but now that’s all behind, now you get to create the perfect one based on everything you learned. Now you get to play God to yourself. You will have the power to create any life you want: money, women, food, servants, power, glory, the revenge on everybody who did you wrong — anything.”
“Oh, Good Lord, heaven is even better than Mother Superior led on! I get to do that? Now?”
“Yes, I’m granting you this power. Total freedom to do what you want. You deserve it! You’ve earned it, Bill.”
“Ok, so what do I do? Just point and make something happen?”
“Sure,” he said with a chuckle, “everybody always wants to point at things like some Vegas magician. The entire creation was spoken into existence, but ever since Adam people want to point things into existence — whatever makes them happy, I guess. Anyway, you’ve got the power of the Lord, do it however you want!”
Bill pointed to a cloud in front of him and a new truck appeared before his eyes. “Holy moly, I can’t believe it’s real.” The sun reflecting off the chrome was just a big blur to Bill Rogers water-filled eyes. He had to squint to see that it had the turbodiesel engine he had imagined. “I’m not going to get carried away on the wealth. I learned my lesson there. It doesn’t buy happiness. I had eight digits in my savings account,” he looked to see if the man was listening, “and look at where that got me. No, just a simple life for me,” he pointed to a cloud and four-bed, three-bath house with in-law suite and three car garage next to a lush green lawn appeared. It fronted a cul-de-sac. “You can’t take it with you, right?” he laughed.
“Is that it, Bill? What else do you want?”
“Well, like I said, I want to be young and healthy.” His stomach disappeared into his abdominal muscles and the brown spots and wrinkles on his hands vanished into a smooth clear skin.
“And what are you going to do with your time? Go back to your old job?”
“Ohh, you got a good sense of humor, God!” The old man laughed along with Bill. “Like I said, I just want to live a normal life and go to the bars at night, talk to beautiful women. Dance with them, smile, laugh. Have fun, that’s all.”
“Your wish, is my command,” he said, and Bill asked if that is how it really worked, and the old man laughed: “no, but people really started to ask for it after Aladdin got big, so I started doing it.”
“You’re a real people-pleaser, aren’t you, God?”
The small man’s sheepish smile resurfaced and a faint pink tint rose up to his pale cheeks.
“That is it for now, enjoy your new life, Bill. I’ll be back to check on you after a while.”
“Thanks, God, you really are great.”
“Oh, wait, one more thing — I almost forgot. In your newly made, perfect, heavenly life — do you want your children here?”
Bill let out a huge laugh, “of course! How could I forget! Yes, of course, I want to see my children! Not every day — and don’t have the Queen of Sheba bring ’em by either, if you know what I mean,” he nudged the old man with his elbow, almost knocking his small frame over, “but yes I always regretted not having more time with the kids.”
“Great, I’ll make that happen. I’ll be ba-a-a-a-a-ck,” he said as he turned around.
A door appeared out of nowhere and the old man glided over to it, with his sheepskin coat dragging behind him. The door opened and he walked through it. It began to close, but his coat got caught in the door, and he had to reach back and yank it through. As the coat flew up, Bill thought he saw the tip of a German Sheppard’s tail and wondered if the dog had been there all along, but soon didn’t care as he saw his new neighbor, a young blonde woman in yoga pants and high heels getting into her Mercedes coupe. He tried to get her attention, but she was focused on fixing her lipstick and hair in the mirror as she drove away.
Bill settled down into his new life, got comfortable in his small house and extended cab truck, and began going out to bars and clubs, just as he had imagined. Every night there was a bar to go to filled with beautiful women, and they all were happy to let him buy drinks and chat for a while. Sometimes he would invite one or two to dance and they’d agree, and then disappear with their friends. Other times he would meet a young woman in pub and talk to her; they’d laugh and joke and maybe she would give him her number and maybe not. But he never saw the same woman twice. If he called or texted a woman, she never responded. If he asked a woman if she’d like to go somewhere for coffee she always declined and said she had to get back home.
On the rare chance that a woman did sit down and talk with him, the conversation was always the same: polite introductions, niceties, some flirtatious exchanges. He tried to talk to the beautiful women about life, what they wanted, what mattered to them, but they all just said they liked to have fun to some degree or another.
After three weeks of going to the bars and trying to talk to women, Bill got tired of going out. He stayed at home for a week, then he tried to find his neighbor again. He saw her car in the drive and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. He only ever saw her driving away.
After a couple slow weeks, he tried going out again, but it was the same routine: a few drinks, a few laughs, nothing to talk about and goodbye, never to be seen again. Bill sat in his truck in the garage and contemplated his after-life. He wiped a tear from his cheek and heard someone knocking on his front door. He let the old man in, and Bill sat down at the barstool.
“Can I take your coat?”
“No, I like to keep it on. I came by to see how you are doing?”
“This isn’t what I thought Heaven would be like,” said Bill, hunched forward, hands between his legs, staring at the floor.”
“Heaven?” said the old man, looking up at Bill. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Who are you?”
The old man took off the sheepskin coat and Bill saw the gray and white fur all over his body. The gray tail dragged on the floor, and the old man’s face looked like the snout of a grey wolf.
“This is your own doing, Bill. You made the life you wanted. You’ve had two chances now. This one you are stuck with, forever. No escaping. No crying, no laying down in the back of your truck for eternal sleep. This is the eternal sleep.”
“This is Hell.”
“What have I done?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bill. You haven’t done anything other than what every man does when given complete freedom, unlimited choice.”
“The guys in Heaven don’t get the choice to play God?”
“Oh, yes, they do, but they turn it down. They always say ‘Oh, I could never do that.’ Once they say that, I know it’s game over for me. Never been able to convince a man he could play God at that point. During life, yes, easy — do it all the time! But once they see the clouds and the blue sky, if they don’t think they can do it then, there’s no changing their mind.”
“I’ve created my own Hell,” Bill said staring deep into a void that he had only seen once before—the moment he closed his eyes in the back seat of his car with the engine running and the hose in the window.
“For the second time, Bill. The second time in your existence. But, hey! it’s not exactly Hell. It could be worse.” The wolf got down on all fours and walked to the door. “Can you let me out?”
“How could it be worse? I’m lonely, miserable, isolated, aliented, and there is no escape. Just a world full of me and a bunch of mindless barflys. Eternity. How could it get worse?”
Bill opened the door and the wolf ran outside, almost knocking over the two people walking up Bill’s sidewalk.
“What are you doing here,” he shouted at them.
“We came to see you!”
“No! Get away! Get out of here, go! Go!”
The woman was getting in her Mercedes and looked over to see what the yelling was about, but then looked away before making eye contact.
“Dad, we missed you! We were so sad when you left, so we followed you here. The old man told us how to find you! He asked us what our perfect life would be like, and we told him ‘we just want to be with our Dad’.”

***
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Once again, my next post concerning the localized script of Cold Steel III. With this, I'll tackle the first part of Chapter 3. The points shown here are based on my sensibilities as to what lines cause issues for the dialogue, from being outright wrong to being awkward. My previous posts are listed below:

• Prologue: https://www.reddit.com/Falcom/s/iU44PytvbN
  
• Chapter 1: https://www.reddit.com/Falcom/s/cTjkFwRsAM
  
• Chapter 2 (1/2): https://www.reddit.com/Falcom/s/973QP55DqX
  
• Chapter 2 (2/2): https://www.reddit.com/Falcom/s/XrHBTWb0hr
  

Chapter 3

• 1:「I take it this means House Hyarms will be the only one of the Four Great Houses in attendance?」 / 「“四大”から当主が出席するのはそちらの家だけになりそうだな？」

The localization has Jusis word this an absolute. "当主" should refer to the actual head of the house. Jusis could've said: [I take it this means House Hyarms will be the only one of the Four Great Houses in with it's head attendance?]

• 2:「Every bit as tasty as the pancakes Tilly and I had earlier.」 / 「この前アーちゃんと食べたパンケーキに負けてないかなぁ。」

The phrasing choice of "earlier" in the localization makes this reference to a moment in Chapter 1, pretty much two months ago, strange. It feels like way too much like a direct translation of "この前," without the context. Millium could've said: [Every bit as tasty as the pancakes Tilly and I had (anything that'd make more sense) before/in Leeves/a couple months ago.]

• 3:「I figured Nidhoggr would be good, but the other guys are no slouches themselves.」 / 「“竜”も“連中”も悪くない。」

Random moment in the localization where refering to the jaeger corp in question as just "the dragons"/"竜" is omitted. There were no issues in any other instance. Shirley could've said: [I figured the dragons would be good, but the other guys are no slouches themselves.]

• 4:「The dragon lost its head, and as for the other group, well...」 / 「“竜”は頭が変わり、“彼ら”の方といえば──」

The original has it as "changed"/"変わり," not outright lost. Gareth could've said: [The dragon changed its head, and as for the other group, well...]

• 5:「We've got two of the strongest jaeger corps--the dragons and these jaegers in purple--battling it out...」 / 「──最強の猟兵団２つに“竜”たち、そして紫の一団……」

The localization phrases this in a different way than it should. It's denoted that "the dragons and these jaegers in purple" are emphasized as the "two strongest jager corps"; however, the original is listing the four in the scene. Sara could've said: [We've got two of the strongest jaeger corps--Zephyr and the Red Constelation--the dragons and these jaegers in purple, battling it out.]

• 6:「What's this big conference thing about?」 / 「『領邦会議』って何なの？」

The localization changes the clear question about the actual term she read about, just to make it sillier. Besides the fact that it even chooses to swap "council" for "conference." Juna could've said: [What's this Provincial Council thing about?]

• 7:「One time, some bandits captured me and held me in a stone prison...」 / 「とある小国では、山賊に捕まり一週間も岩牢へぶち込まれた事があったのお……」

The localization omits the time held captive, "one week"/"一週間." Old Man Rod could've said: [One time, some bandits captured me and held me in a stone prison for a whole week...]

• 8:「Speaking of which, was the Azure Knight ever retrieved?」 / 「そういえば《蒼の騎神》は軍に回収されたのよね？」

「I heard that they sealed it up so that the Noble Alliance wouldn't get their hands on it.」 / 「貴族勢力に使われないよう厳重に封印したって聞いたけど……」
Very weird way to phrase this line by the localization. Especially considering that it is also said "they sealed it" in the next line. The original already mentions the "military"/"軍." Celine could've said: [Speaking of which, was/wasn't the Azure Knight ever retrieved by the military?]

• 9:「Mastering this form is more difficult than any other. I do not know if you are even capable of such a feat, yet...」 / 「その極みは他の型よりも遠く、おぬしが“理”に至れるかは分からぬが……」

The localization lumps the meaning of reaching the "pinnacle" or "heights"/"極み" and "enlightenment"/"理" to be the same thing as "mastering"/"奥伝" the 7th form. That's simply wrong. Yun Ka-Fai's letter could've said: [Reaching the pinnacle of this form is more difficult than any other. I do not know if you are even capable of attaining "enlightenment", yet...]

• 10:「Not to mention, I can't imagine you'd need a third. Not at this point in your relationship, anyway♡.」 / 「それにせっかくの２人きりの機会……水を差すのは野暮というものですし♡」

The localization adds what I assume is meant to be a "threesome" joke. Sharon could've said: [Not to mention, I can't imagine you'd like me to intrude on your private time♡]

• 11:「My school and the cathedral are in the same district, in case you were wondering.」 / 「何しろ、女学院と大聖堂は同じサンクト地区にありますしね。」

The localization saw fit to omit the specifications of the district. Elise could've said: [My school/St. Astraia/the Girl's School and the cathedral are both in the Sankt District, in case you were wondering.]

• 12:「(Yes, I have. When I was accompanying the inspection team in Crossbell, I did some studying there.)」 / 「（ええ、ですがクロスベルの視察団に同行するのにあたって一通り勉強しましたから。）」

Actually, it's completely wrong. When questioned, by Rean, that she's never been to Armorica Village before, she's not supposed to have "studied in the village." Elise should've said: [Yes, I haven't. However, when I was accompanying the inspection team in Crossbell, I did some studying/read all *about it.]

• 13:「We have the Goddess of the Sky, but they worship something else.」 / 「彼らは空の女神と同じくらい大切にしているものがあるんだ。」

「What is it that the Nord people worship?」 / 「ノルドの民が、空の女神と同じくらい大切にしているものは？」
There isn't supposed to be a comparison that reads as if the Nord people worship "something else" instead of Aidios. Rean could've said: [They also have the Goddess of the Sky, but they worship something else equally.]

• 14:「He knows a lot about cooking, and he tells me all about the academy. Teehee, he's so helpful.」 / 「お料理も詳しいし、学院の事情なんかも教えてくださるの。ふふ、助かっているわ。」

「With such an amazing faculty member, Thors must really be an excellent school.」 / 「あんなに優秀な職員さんが いるなんて、トールズってやっぱり名門校なのねぇ。」
「Hahaha...(That doesn't quite seem like Celestin, but...)」 / 「ははは……（セレスタンさんはちょっと特別な気もするが……）」
The localization got this one completely wrong. How is describing Celestin as "knowledgeable about cooking" and "helpful" not like him? That response makes no sense. First, the second line should read more generalizing the compliments to the whole staff; Cattleya could've said: [With such an amazing faculty member/members Thors must really be an excellent school.] Second, the meaning is that "Celestin is a unique case among the faculty" (in regards to being so amazing.) Rean could've said: [Hahaha... (That doesn't quite seem like anyone but Celestin...)]

• 15:「Huh...? (Wait, is someone outside...?)」 / 「ふむ……（そういえば部屋の外に……）」

The localization also got this one wrong. The Japanese don't come across as completely unaware. The assumption of this scene is that to Wayne is standing outside the training hall. Rean could've said: [Huh...? (Wait, the one outside would be...)]

• 16:「She also said she apprenticed under a female martial artist and traveled around Erebonia...」 / 「外国人の女性武術家に弟子入りして、半年も帝国を放浪していたなんて話も聞きましたが……」

The localization omits the time spent traveling, "半年." Rean could've said: [She also said she apprenticed under a female martial artist and traveled around Erebonia for six months...]

• 17:「Yeah, thanks to this pendant Emma made me.」 / 「ああ……エマの魔力が込められこのペンダントの力を借りてだが。」

The localization simplifies the explanation. Rean could've said: [Yeah, thanks to this pendant Emma imbued with her magic.)

• 18:「A monster? Wait, that's a cryptid!」 / 「魔獣──いや、魔物のたぐいか！？」

「What a nightmarish beast that cryptid was...」 / 「はぁ、まさかあんな恐ろしい魔物がいるなんて……」
The localization mistranslated "fiend"/"魔物" for "cryptid"/"幻獣." Kurt could've said: [A monster? Wait that's some kind of fiend!] Musse could've said: [What a nightmarish beast that fiend was...]

• 19:「After paying a visit to Professor Schmidt, Rean walked George to the station, where his train back to Roer was waiting.」 / 「シュミット博士に一言挨拶を済ませた後、北東のルーレに向かうジョルジュを駅まで見送ることにしたのだった。」

The localization removes the direction of the city. The narration could've said: [After paying a visit to Professor Schmidt, Rean walked George to the station, where his train back to Roer, in the northeast, was waiting.]

• 20:「I considered making a last stand there, but news of the Northern War reached me.」 / 「１年は抵抗してやろうと思ったがそこへ《北方戦役》の話が降ってきた。」

The localization removes the remark about the duration of the last stand. Aurelia could've said: [I considered making a last stand there for a year, but news of the Northern War reached me.]

• 21:「You'll be just fine, Towa. Now let's get this show on the road!」 / 「フフ、ハーシェル先輩ならきっと大丈夫ですよ。一緒に頑張りましょう！」

The localization changes, addressing Towa by her surname. Munk could've said: [You'll be just fine, Herschel. Now let's get this show on the road!]

• 22:「Not to mention, as the student council president, you were highly regarded by many of your fellow students.」 / 「もとより、士官学院の生徒会長として貴族・平民を問わず多くの学院生たちから高い信頼を受け──」

The localization omits taking social classes into account. Munk could've said: [Not to mention, as the student council president, you were highly regarded by many of your fellow students--nobles and commoners alike.]

• 23:「Heehee. No elegant young maiden can resist the call of beautiful lace.」 / 「ふふっ、淑女の嗜みと言えばやはりマリアージュ・クロスははずせないでしょうね。」

The localization omits the mention of the brand. Musse could've said: [Heehee. No elegant young maiden can resist the call of Mariage Cross beautiful lace/Mariage Cross' beautiful lace.]

• 24:「Nothing draws a man's eye like a bit of lace...in just the right spot.」 / 「姫様から色々とプレゼントされたと聞きましたけど？」

The localization completely changes, from specifically teasing Elise to just be more of a general tease. Musse could've said: [I've heard that the princess has gifted you many such lace.]

• 25:「Although, I was shocked when she tried to pay for it with gunpowder.」 / 「手持ちがないからって報酬を弾薬で払おうとした時は驚いたけどね。」

The localization chooses to translate the general term for "ammunition"/"弾薬" to be specifically gunpowder. Marcus could've said: [Although, I was shocked when she tried to pay for it with ammunition/ammo/(maybe) bullets.]

• 26:「How about assorted Eastern sweets?」 / 「なら……『羊羹の詰め合わせ』はどうだ？」

The localization randomly chooses to translate "yokan"/"羊羹" as just generic "eastern sweets", after having no problem doing it correctly in all other instances. Rean could've said: [How about some assorted yokan?]

• 27:「Well, we've basically just been making whatever we want at the Cooking Club.」 / 「ま、具体的には料理研究会と女子の有志でメニュー追加ですね。」

The localization phrases the arrangement weirdly. Juna could've said: [Well, we've (Elise, Musse and Juna) basically just decided on the menu together with the Cooking Club.]

• 28:「The elder? Is she the one Emma and Vita call their grandmother?」 / 「“長”──エマが“お祖母ちゃん”、クロチルダさんが“婆様”と呼ぶ人だよな？」

「I'm also worried about the 'true story' that Vita mentioned.」 / 「クロチルダさんが言っていた“真なる物語”というのもあったな。」
Again, it's made to use "Vita" instead of "Clotilde." I've already explained in previous posts how these changes can affect the dynamics of characters negatively. Rean could've said: [I'm also worried about the 'true story' that Clotilde mentioned.]

• 29:「From that day, Emma began training and studying as hard as she could with one goal...」 / 「『あやつの事は忘れよ』という“長”の言葉にも納得せず、その日からひたすらに修行と勉学に励んでいったわ。」

The localization removes what Roselia told Emma. Celine could've said: [From the day the Elder said 'forget all about heVita', Emma began training and studying as hard as she could with one goal...)

• 30:「That's the golden Spiegel the principal mentioned!」 / 「分校長が使っていた黄金のシュピーゲル……！」

The localization swaps "used" or "piloted"/"使っていた" for "mentioned." Rean could've said: [That's the golden Spiegel the principal used/piloted!]

• 31:「And so, Aurelia finished training the members of Class VIII...」 / 「──こうしてオーレリアはⅧ組メンバーにも（優しく）稽古を付け……」

The localization omits the joke. The narration could've said: [And so, Aurelia finished (gently) training the members of Class VIII...]

• 32:「Do they really need to have the conference during the Summer Festival...?」 / 「……夏至祭の時期……領邦会議もあるんですよね……」

The localization chose to phrase this as there's supposed to be reservation against these events being held at the same time. That wasn't particularly present originally. Tatiana could've said: [The Summer Festival is going to be held at the same time as Pronvicial Council...]; or: [I hear that the Provincial Council will be held together with the Summer Festival...]

• 33:「From what I heard, Olivier liked to play his lute under it.」 / 「ちなみに、その大橋の下で オリビエさんがリュートの弾き語りを披露したことがあるらしいんです。」

The localization puts this as if it's a 'known regular hobby'. Tita could've said: [From what I heard, Olivier played his lute under it *once.]

• 34:「It reminds me of the fleet. I feel like I'm home.」 / 「まるで船団に戻って来た みたいというか……これだけで里心がついちまうよ。」

「I hope our boss is doing well.」 / 「それにしても──女将さん、元気だといいんだが。」
The localization creates an awkward confusion for these lines. What would be expected is that "boss" would be the fleet's boss, but it's actually talking about the owner of the sailor bar, Miranda, by using "owner" or "landlady"/"女将さん." Leonora could've said: [I hope Miranda/the owner is doing well.]

• 35「Well, thanks to my mom's job, I know all about the nightlife in Raquel. Lemme know if you need any recommendations.」 / 「ま、お袋の職場だったのもあるし、夜のラクウェルなら任せろや。」

「I think it'll be an eye-opening experience for everyone, yeah?」 / 「坊ちゃんやらジャジャ馬にだっていい社会勉強になるんじゃねえか？」
「Though I might consider doing something after we're done with the field exercises.」 / 「せめて演習が終わった最終日なら引率込みで考えなくもないが。」
「Huh...? Well, aren't you a stingy one?」 / 「ハァ……？チッ、ケチくせえ野郎だな。」
The point of the line doesn't really come across that well in the localization. It sounds like the punchline to responding to Ash's proposal to allow Class VII to go out in the nightlife of Raquel is that "I'll consider doing that by myself." That couldn't be more wrong. Rena could've said: [Though I might consider chaperoning you guys after we're done with the field exercises.]

• 36:「The former Duke Cayenne is still under arrest and no replacement has been named.」 / 「現カイエン公は逮捕されたままで地方統括者は不在ですよね。」

Literally mistranslates "current"/"現." Altina could've said: [The current Duke Cayenne is still under arrest and no replacement has been named.]

• 37:「Hmph, you talk a lot for a doll. Must have a really long string in the back.」 / 「ハッ、よく喋る人形だぜ。」

Ash's line originally ends at the first clause.

• 38:「I hear there are some snipers who chose the Hector... but I suppose it all comes down to feeling.」 / 「正規軍の中にはヘクトルを選ぶ狙撃手もいるそうですが……まあ、要は相性ですね。」

The localization omits tthe fact that the snipers are from the army. Maya could've said: [I hear there are some snipers in the Imperial Army who chose the Hector... but I suppose it all comes down to feeling.]

• 39:「We need to focus on getting to Ordis.」 / 「この先はラクウェル方面──まずはオルディスの依頼に集中しよう。」

The localization removes the previous remark. Rean could've said: [This way leads to Raquel--We need to focus on getting to Ordis.]

• 40:「Damn. So that monster used to cozy up in there with fifty-thousand soldiers.」 / 「クク、あんな場所にあの化物が５万の兵と立て籠もったワケだ。」

The choice of "used" makes the sentence read as a characteristic beyond the single event the Japanese refers to. Ash could've said: [Damn. So that monster locked herself/cozied up in there with fifty-thousand soldiers.]

• 41:「During the war, the Imperial Army was at a loss after multiple failed attempts to infiltrate.」 / 「当時、帝国正規軍も攻めあぐねて頭を抱えたそうです。」

「It's fully equipped with multiple Panzer Soldats, large-class airships, and enough supplies and anti-aircraft cannons to last three years.」/ 「多数の機甲兵に大型飛行艇、３年は継戦できるだけの物資、対空砲も完備していましたから。」
In the context of "the Noble Alliance forces, after the civil war ended, barricaded themselves in Juno Naval Fortress," the localization wrongly chooses to put it as "during the war." Much the same, the second line is supposed to be talking about that single past event. Altina could've said: [It was equipped with multiple Panzer Soldats, large-class airships, and enough supplies amd anti-aircraft cannons to last three years.]

• 42:「(And thus a deal was struck that shifted the Northern War.)」 / 「（そんな事態を打開するために北方戦役の話が持ち上がった……）」

The localization translated this line very wrongly. The situation being "shifted" isn't the Northern War. Rean could've said: [To resolve that situation (Aurelia's barricade in Juno), the deal to set out for the Northern War was struck.]

• 44:「I don't see any Goliath Soldats. Do you?」 / 「ああ、そういや主力戦車だの噂の巨人機(ゴライアス)だのは見当たらねぇな？」

The localization omits the mention of the Main Battle Tanks. Ash could've said: [I don't see any Main Battle Tanks/MBTs/Achtzenhs or Goliath Soldats. Do you?]

• 46:「But over the past six months, we've seen some suspicious activity from both jaeger corps.」 / 「だがここ半年、帝国各地で不可解な動きをしていた各猟兵団が半月くらい前から鳴りを潜めていてな。」

「Activity that's led us to believe they're planning something for the Imperial Provincial Council in Lamare.」 / 「ール州で開かれる領邦会議に合わ・せるように。」
「Over the past six months, there haven't been any confirmed reports of jaeger corps activity within the Empire.」 / 「──ここ半月、帝国各地で 活動していた複数の猟兵団の動きが確認できなくなっている模様。」
By virtue of omitting information, the localization causes this line to have the wrong information. In the first line. Wallace could've said: [But over the past half a month/two weeks, we've not seen activity from the multiple jaeger corps which, until then, had been moving suspiciously in the Empire starting six months ago.] Consequentially, it's the lack of movement so close to the Provincial Council that makes them wary. The third line straight up mistranslated "half a month"/"半月." Wallace could've said: [Over the past half a month/two weeks, there haven't been any confirmed reports of jaeger corps activity within the Empire.]

• 47:「Ordis has been holding the Imperial Provincial Council since yesterday. Immediately after that's done is the Summer Festival.」 / 「オルディスは明日より領邦会議、そして《夏至祭》という状況です。」

The localization outright mistranslates "tomorrow"/"明日." The Provincial Army Soldier could've said: [Ordis will hold the Imperial Provincial Council starting tomorrow. Immediately after that's done is the Summer Festival.]

• 49:「Looking at this view, I can see why Ordis is so famous.」 / 「さすがは《紺碧の海都》と称えられるだけはある街だな。」

「The Port City, Ordis.」 / 「《紺碧の海都》オルディスへ。」
The localization refuses to establish a term for this other name that Rean and Musse call Ordis. Given some uses of the Japanese term, it could be "Saphirl Port City"; given the name of a food item in the city, perhaps "Aquamarine Port City"; even if not the same kanji, maybe "Azure Port City." As long as it's not entirely omitted from the game.

• 50:「Yeah, but once we're done sightseein', we've got a monster to kill.」 / 「そんで一通り回ったら南の浜辺で手配された魔獣をブチ倒すわけか。」

The localization omits mentioning the location of the monster. Ash could've said: [Yeah, but once we're done sightseein', we've got a monster to kill on the beach to the south/southern beach/beach south of the city.]

• 51:「I hope Luna isn't too bored.」 / 「はっはっは、ルナたちが退屈していなければいいのだが。」

The localization singles out Luna. Lord Quinn could've said: [I hope Luna and Eclair aren't too bored.]

• 52:「You're in luck. With the Summer Festival going on, the town is really buzzing with activity.」 / 「夏至祭も近いので商業区は賑わっているようです。」

The localization messes up the timeframe a little. The Provincial Army Soldier could've said: [You're in luck. With the Summer Festival happening soon, the town is really buzzing with activity.]

• 53:「My husband doesn't like things that come from the capital.」 / 「うちは旦那様が帝都資本嫌いなんです。」

Just like in Chapter 2, a maid is made to call her "master"/"lord" her husband by virtue of the fact that the Japanese term can be used for both. Pamela could've said: [My Master/Lord doesn't like things that come from the capital.]

• 54:「In addition to the taverns, there's an orbment store, and a glass workshop that is popular with the duke households.」 / 「宿酒場の他に、導力器なども扱う、公爵家御用達の硝子工房などもあります。」

It's not meant to be "households "in plural; the context here is that the glass workshop is used by the Cayenne estate. Musse could've said: [In addition to the taverns, there's an orbment store, and a glass workshop that is popular with the duke household/Cayenne/duke's estate*.]

• 55:「Guess what! My big brother is coming back tomorrow!」 /「あのね！ 今日兄ちゃんが帰ってくるんだ～っ！」

「My big brother is coming back tomorrow!」 / 「今日は兄ちゃんが帰ってくるんだよ！」
Straight up mistranslating "today"/"今日" in the localization. Luka could've said: [Guess what! My big brother is coming back today!]; And: [My big brother is coming back today!]

• 56:「Gramps is the ultimate craftsman. He even received the Golden Emblem.」 / 「じいちゃんは陛下から《黄綬勲章》を賜った最高の職人ですからね。」

The localization omits the line also havimg mention of the fact that the emperor is the award giver. Luther could've said: [Gramps is the ultimate craftsman. He even received the Golden Emblem from His Majesty himself.]

• 57:「Though, all I do nowadays is drink here!」 / 「ま、今はこの店くらいにしか卸しておらんがなぁ！」

「We get all our seafood from Rossel.」 / 「ちなみに魚介はそこのロッセルさんが卸してくれるんだ。」
The localization got this line wrong. It's not about drinking a lot, even the owner of the inn says the same, "卸して." Just as mentioned in the second line, by the tavern owner, Edmond. Old Man Rossel should've said: [Though, all I do nowadays is sell my catches here!]

• 57:「I need to make sure it doesn't compromise the beauty of this.」 / 「《輝き号》の魅力を損ねないよう、極力目立たないようにしたいけど……」

The localization chose to have the guy who's emamored with his new boat, and gave it it's own name, ultimately call it a "this." The Cheerful Man could've said: [I need to make sure it doesn't compromise Radiance's beauty.]

• 58:「I had to rid myself of some of the merchant ships my grandfather passed down to me! Aside from that little head start, I'm a self-made man!」 / 「祖父の代からの商船すらただ同然で手放すことになるなど……！」

The original isn't really about being or not being "self-made." Lord Beckford could've said: [I had to rid myself of some of the merchant ships my grandfather passed down to me as if they were worthless!]

• 59:「I mean, will all four of the Great Houses even participate? This truly is mindboggling.」 / 「そもそも四大の足並みすら揃うかどうか。……やれやれ、悩ませてくれる。」

The localization makes up the logic that the count would somehow still be in doubt of the participation of Great Houses with one day to go. Count Florald should've said: [I mean, will all four of the Great Houses' thoughts even be in alignment? This truly is mindboggling.]

• 60:「So this is a jade shell...It'd make for quite the accessory.」 / 「これがヒスイ貝か……確かに飾りに相応しいな。」

The whole point of the quest is to make "decorations"/"飾り" for the Summer Festival, and the localization decides it should be "accessory." Kurt should've said: [So this is a jade shell...It'd make for quite the decorarion.]

• 61:「We've lost enough men for one day.」 / 「ここで戦力を減らす意味など皆無だからな。」

The original doesn't make it sound like the Purple Jaegers already lost men against Rean and Class VII. The Purple Jaeger should've said: [There's no point in us losing our forces here today.]

• 62:「It's vital that we confirm if there are jaeger corps roaming the area.」 / 「この地で猟兵団が動いているのを実際に捉えたのは大きいだろう。」

The localization mistranslated this line and also makes it sound silly. None of the characters put any doubt that there are jaegers around or that the Purple Jaegers are jaegers; needing to confirm that just comes across as awkward. Patrick should've said: [It would have been great if we had actually captured those jaegers roaming the area.]

• 62:「This is a travesty! Does Marquis Ballad truly intend to reform the government like this?!」 / 「……信じられるか！？バラッド侯はまだ政府の改革案を受け入れるつもりらしいぞ。」

The original is about "accepting the government's reform plan"/"政府の改革案を受け入れる. Lord Beckford should've said: [This is a travesty! Does Marquis Ballad truly intend to accept the reforms of the government like this?!]

• 63:「We'll both be in town while the council is underway.」 / 「毎年領邦会議の時期は二人とも同じ街にいるんです。」

The original is about the lovers being in Ordis "every year"/"毎年" during the Provincial Council. Hearhcliff could've said: [We both come to town every year while the council is underway.]

• 64:「The next Duke Cayenne is about to be decided.」 / 「そろそろ現カイエン公にも判決が出される頃だよなぁ。」

The localizations not only mistranslate "current"/"現" but also "sentenced"/"判決が出される." Reins should've said: [The current Duke Cayenne is about to be sentenced.]

• 65:「Our hotel offers a taxi service.」 / 「当ホテルではラクウェルヘの送迎サービスも行っております。」

「You can enjoy the night life without worrying about the time.」 / 「鉄道のお時間を気にせず歓楽街を楽しむ事ができますよ。」
The first localized line gives the wrong idea. That would cause the second line to likely be interpreted as "Ordis' night life" when it's actually about in "Raquel"/"ラクウェル". Receptionis Harold should've said: [Our hotel offers a taxi service jto and from Raquel*.]

• 66:「Juna, see you later.」 / 「ユウナちゃんたち、お疲れ様ー。」

The localization singles out Juna, when it's her and Class VII. Louise could've said: [Juna and everyone/Everyone/Class VII, see you later.]

• 67:「Haha. Well, the three girls were so cute that I nearly--ahem, excuse me.」 / 「フフ、女の子たち３人が可愛すぎて思わず鼻血が──おっと、失敬。」

The localization leaves to the imagination, for better or for worse to some, that she got a "nosebleed"/"鼻血." Angelica could've said: [Haha. Well, the three girls were so cute that I got a nosebleed--ahem, excuse me.]

• 68:「There was a shooting near a school the other day...」 / 「この前なんて町のすぐ近くで撃ち合いがあって。」

The localization mistranslated "町" as "school," which doesn't have anything to do with it. Sister Olfa should've said: [There was a shooting near the city the other day...]

It was, in theory, a good idea to improve discipline. Captain Mary had one, and stood at the back, ready to oversee. In front of an officer, the preatorians, Valyreans and Taronians would be more subdued. The only snag was the compare. Scarlett was not known for an uncontroversial routine, and Staisy had even seen her on stage before joining the regiment, in the gig she was banned for. The ginger haired woman stepped out, flexing her bionic arm as she took the microphone.
Scarlett looked out onto the crowd. A mix of regiments, in blocks, let out for a bonding activity. A captive audience, if not a particularly lively one, filling the former town hall. Around a dozen taronians, and then fifty of the 1066th, Valyrrans and preatorians. She picked up the mic, and moved the stand to the edge.
“Hello westbridge,” she began, before deconstructing her act. “Its great to be here. Well, not great, but you all know that, it is just a thing you say. So I’ll start by telling you a bit about tonight, then get you warmed up with the usual crowd banter, and then various acts themselves will play some music, do a play or try and tell better jokes than me. But first, as at any comedy occation, some crowd work. Hello, what’s your name. And what do you do, a soldier, well I never. And you sitting next to her. Also a soldier. Is this some sort of works night out. What do you mean it’s a frontline gig. Well I never. Let’s move on to something else then, and out first act. But first, if I can give you a tip, of you have certain preferences, shall we say, in the bedroom. Valyrran security are in town, and, well, between the smart, tight uniforms, in black, with the leather, and the whips, I’ll leave those of you into that to seek them out at the end of the night.” The joke went down well with the minthelian contingent, especially for its daring as Tammy and Fizzy could be seen creasing with laughter. “But first, our first act, and I wasnt given a running order, and here they are, whoever it is first.” She departed the stage to leave it empty and ready for whoever was on first.
(Post the performance as a comment, and then we can react to each one individually I think, and broadly in any order)

Previous
​
So, if you’re just joining us, I work at a haunted zoo now. Since I’ve gotten some rest, it feels like I’ve got my head on straight, at least, so I’d like to continue where I left off.
I sat on the floor in the office after meeting the ghost until I’d settled my rattled mind (and realized I’d forgotten to ask her name, how rude is that?). I took a deep breath and got up off the floor. Walking over and falling into the rolling chair in front of the large screen of camera views, when I brought up the camera that covered the area in which I’d spotted her, she was still there, and it seemed she hadn’t moved an inch.
Sitting there, at a loss, I continued to watch her. The ghost hung around for another five minutes or so, appearing to look at a few things off-screen, though I’m not sure what. Then she walked off into the forest and left the view of the cameras. I wasn’t sure if she vanished into the ether or if she’d gone looking into the trees to look for something.
But that wasn’t the end of the job interview, so let me jump back there. It continued into what kind of animals the zoo had, with Andrew asking me how much experience I had with dangerous animals.
I took a moment to consider the question. “So, ah…I’ve been going hunting and fishing with a neighbor since I was sixteen,” I told him. “We always have to keep an eye out for gators, bears, and hogs. Then there’s snakes, of course…snapping turtles… Since I’ve lived here my whole life and been aiming for a job with wildlife for a long time, I know a lot about the animals in Arkansas in general. But good advice for all of the above is avoid them, so I’ve had encounters, but I don’t know if you’d say I have experience with them.”
“That’s fine,” Andrew said, nodding. “That’s an answer I’m satisfied with. Now, the ghost was the appetizer, Ripley; here’s the main course. To start with, the pay isn’t twenty-five an hour. It’s fifty.”
Staring in shock for a moment, I asked, “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. But that’d be weird to post online considering what applicants think we need, so I halved it.”
“That’s… Okay, why?”
“The animals are already here. You just can’t see them.”
I stared at him for a long moment, some disbelief worming its way into my expression, before saying, “Sorry, what?”
“There’s a chance you’d naturally never see them, or at least some of them,” he continued casually. “It depends on both your genetics and how long you stay on the job. I can naturally see six of them, but that’s it. Suzanne can see all of them, and more. Some are what people would label demons or ghosts. Or magic. Mostly you’d call them cryptids. The ghost was just a warm-up; I mentioned her first because it never takes more than a week to see her if you work the night shift. If you manage to handle her okay, soon you’ll be able to see the animals too. The more time you spend on the grounds, for weird reasons,” he said, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the back door, “the more you’ll be able to see.”
“So, this…this is a zoo for cryptids,” I echoed slowly. He nodded once, waiting to find out what kind of reaction I would have. I gestured vaguely around the room. “If this is a hidden camera show, will you cut me a check for showing up and participating?”
Andrew coughed out a chuckle and shook his head. “No joke. There are a ton of stories out there that have been written to death, pulverized until they’re not the Grimm stories of old and instead they’re Disney films. A lot of those stories come from what some humans have seen. There are dozens of other worlds pressed up against ours, and occasionally things come through by accident. If they’re smart, they’ll lay low and then make their way back when they can. If not, they become local folklore until someone helps them back. I’m just from London, but Suzanne is from somewhere else. She hires people like us for this zoo. Humans.”
Sighing, I shook my head. “That makes no sense. Why would she hire a muggle for a magic zoo?”
Andrew burst out laughing at that, and then waited to gather himself before he continued. “Fair point, but this is less about magic and more about animals, and you’re missing some information that will explain it. First of all, if I misjudge an employee, and they think they can make bank by outing the endangered and valuable animals we have, it’s easy to relocate the zoo.”
“Because magic?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he replied, ignoring the thread of skepticism in my tone. “That means it isn’t the end of the world if that happened, though it is a pain in the arse. But second…let me ask you a question. Speaking of reality shows, say the Discovery Channel put out a call to replace Steve Irwin when he passed. Imagine they had a line out the door,” he said with a gesture, “of people who thought they had the skill and natural talent to replace him, to take on everything he’d been doing his whole life. How many do you reckon would lose an arm, a leg, or their life, by the end of the day?”
My lips parted in surprise and I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re saying people from…wherever…they’re just as dumb as humans, but they’re worse, because they actually think they can handle these things.”
Andrew pointed the pen at me. “Things. Exactly. You called them things. Suzanne and her friends grew up with them and would call them animals. These animals have dispositions and temperaments that we’ve studied for as long as there have been scientists. Where Suzanne’s from, they know the weaknesses of these animals, and also they’re in enclosures here, even if you and I can’t see the walls because they’re invisible things called ‘wards’. If I hire someone who’s got magic on top of all that, they’ll have almost no instinctive fear.
“Everything here is nocturnal, and every one of them is a hunter. Some of these things? Humans see them and they pass out. Not that I want you passing out, but I need someone who is scared of these things, who knows to stay out of the enclosures no matter what. Not someone who thinks they can train them to do tricks, who gets close enough for them to grab a mouthful of hair and drown them. Once, we had a night shift manager injured, and once killed, because they didn’t take these animals seriously enough.”
Thinking back to the Sea World orca incident I knew he’d been referencing, I remembered wondering how someone at that level of her profession could be so careless as I watched the video on YouTube. It made sense when he explained it like that. I hesitated before mentally throwing my hands up and going all in. “So, why put this place here, then? If they’re endangered and also dangerous, why have a zoo at all instead of just a small reserve?”
He pursed his lips, looking disappointed in me. “Ripley. You know that already. You already said as much.”
Thinking back through our conversation, I said, “The rich humans who pay top dollar to see supernatural animals.”
“Not humans,” he told me. “But people, yes, and they are rich, and they’re making donations and spending their money on a ticket here because everything we have is endangered.”
“So…”
I just let my voice trail off and my mind started to drift. Andrew remained silent, letting me do so. There’s that thing people say, ‘I believe that you believe it,’ which is just a kinder way of saying, ‘Bullshit.’ Parents say it about closet monsters. Psychologists say it to people who say they’ve been abducted and probed by aliens. I wanted to say it to Andrew.
But I also wanted a job. If it meant working overnight at an empty zoo, that was fine. When it came down to it, especially when I took the tone of our conversation into account, this was a zoo specifically focused on preserving endangered ‘animals’, and it was allegedly doing important work. Also, if this turned out to be the real deal and I started seeing the animals, I would deal with it, just like I would deal with an enclosure that had a lion or tiger or gorilla. If it came with a ghost and invisible creatures, I really didn’t see what the difference was, if I couldn’t go in the enclosures either way.
On that note, I’d like you to imagine a kid who looks at a roller coaster, watching everyone screaming and grinning as they go up and down and all around and they’re like, ‘Heck, I could do that! That looks like a blast!’
Then they get on, the first drop hits, and they realize they’ve made a terrible mistake.
“All right,” I sighed. “I can’t say I’m going to turn down a job just because it’s going to be scary. Especially not one with this paycheck.”
Andrew smiled. “Awesome. There’s an adjustment process for anyone working here, similar to a dog that gets adopted, actually. I know the general guidelines of, ‘three days, three weeks, three months’ in terms of milestones, until they finally feel they’re where they’re supposed to be,” he told me, “and you can think of your time here along those lines. I really think you’re a great fit, and once you reach the milestone of working here for three months, I’ll officially consider you our new night shift guard. And I hope you’ll stay with us for many years.”
I nodded and smiled at the flattery of an employer wanting me to work a great job for them for a long time. I’d never had a dog, but those milestones were well-known among anyone who knew animals, especially dogs. The first three days, the dog is getting to know its new digs, exploring, and decompressing. At three weeks, they’ve gotten used to their environment and are starting to get comfortable with their surroundings and the routines of the humans they live with. By three months, they know the rules and follow them, they trust you, and they feel they are where they’re meant to be. I could only hope to be so lucky.
I saw the ghost two days ago and she has yet to make another appearance (for those who are curious, I asked, and her name is Leila), and I still hadn’t seen any animals. I did hear one, though, I feel compelled to note. A growling roar sounded from the lake on occasion, echoing across the vast zoo, sending a shiver down my spine. Whatever that animal was, it sounded gigantic.
Andrew said there was apparently a group that wanted to visit for a birthday and they were offering a huge donation, so he let me know they were making an exception and that this group would be walking through the park that night. That meant I’d be watching people watching animals that, as far as I could tell, weren’t there.
It was anticlimactic. Even the three people who came for the tour just looked like people, not like aliens or something eldritch from another dimension, and I stayed in the security office the whole time. Andrew was the one giving the tour. I watched them spend about five minutes at each enclosure, the hour or so that they were there passing without incident. It was clear that they were able to see all the animals, though, since they motioned excitedly at each enclosure and spoke to Andrew, who presumably answered any questions they had.
If they could see the animals, that was that. There was still that niggle in the back of my head, from my twenty-three years of life never encountering anything like ghosts or cryptids, telling me that this was ridiculous. Waiting for someone to knock on the door, a camera mounted on their shoulder, to tell me that it was a big joke and they wanted to see how long I’d play along. But from all I saw, this was a real place with real, invisible animals.
I do carry a taser and pepper spray in my capacity as a security guard. Though it isn’t for the animals, since they’re in the enclosures; they’re actually for the rare instance of a break-in. Andrew mentioned that it had happened several times it the past, someone trying to steal an animal in the hopes of selling it on the black market. They’d been successful before, but apparently my predecessor Roger was good at his job, and mostly they left in handcuffs.
I’ll be honest, I’m not a huge fan of confrontation, but my job was to call Andrew and then confront the person, not kick their ass. That’s what the police were for, or rather, the people Andrew would call in lieu of police in certain situations.
Fifty bucks an hour. That’s the key here.
Andrew hadn’t set up direct deposit, since he was sticking with a strategy of waiting to see if I’d continue to work there once I found out myself dealing with the animals (I’ve decided I am going to just call them animals). Instead, I got an old-fashioned check after my shift every Friday. The number on the first check was delightful. I went out that evening and had a big dinner at the local diner, order my most expensive favorites on the menu and a big slice of pie for dessert.
When it came to the paychecks in general, though, I had this weird feeling of not wanting to tell my dad and brother about the fact that it was actually $50/hr. I previously mentioned that my dad, his name’s Nathan if you’re curious, works at a local grocery store. Our town has a couple food franchises, but I think its size is just short of whatever threshold Walmart uses to decide where to open. He earns $14/hr. and that’s after the tiny raises he’s gotten over the past thirteen years.
That’s not to say he’d feel bad about not making as much as me. On the contrary, he would be ecstatic for me and really proud. But, like me, he’d be suspicious. That hourly rate was the biggest hint that this was more than just a private zoo for cryptids. And as soon as that fat check cleared without problems, my dad wouldn’t be satisfied with reassurances; he’d want to come visit the zoo and look around.
I’d told him it’s a private preservation with scheduled (expensive) visits only and that it had only eleven animals, so he’d been appeased by me brushing off the idea of a visit. Also, I took a few photos of my workplace; one of the security room, one of me sitting in my chair, one photo of the many screens I watched, and a selfie where I was feigning sleep out of boredom, slouched in my chair with my mouth open in a faux snore. That let him feel like he knew where I was and what I was doing, and that I was safe.
But if I told him I was making double what he thought, my father would practically order me to quit. No job was worth my safety, he’d tell me. I was quite of the opposite opinion, however, considering how crucial any and all conservation efforts were these days. Especially with the steep extinction levels due to humans competing with other animals for space, not to mention climate change. Working in any job that helped preserve species and keep ecosystems in balance, or put them back in balance, was so important.
Then again, my father would also point out something I had realized right away: the fact was that I was working with endangered species that were not from Earth. I wasn’t helping my planet. To be honest, though…that didn’t matter to me. Especially after that talk with Andrew about why he hired a human for this job, I figured whichever dimension these animals came from had the equivalent of us, razing forests to the ground, clouding the planet with pollution, and leaving the animals with no avenue of recourse when yet more land was taken from them.
I really do hope to keep working here for a long time, though, and not just because of the money. I can’t help it; I want to know what these things were, and I want to work with them, to do the job of a zookeeper. The same way you go up to the chain-link fence to get close to a carnivore on the other side who thinks you’d make a nice afternoon snack. You just want to be closer to them, to experience that incredible, daunting feeling of being in their presence.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before I got what I wanted.
The day after we had the tour go through, I was doing my sweep when I saw the ghost again. She was sitting on a small boulder in the same area I’d seen her the first time, looking identical, blood covering the front of her slashed shirt, the wounds visible underneath. I stopped and stood there for a moment before I decided to raise my hand in a small wave.
The young woman cocked her head at me and raised a hand in the air in an imitation of my gesture, her expression showing a bit of curiosity.
She was low-key, seemingly not concerned with my presence, looking at me as a novel phenomenon in her world. I wondered what that world consisted of. Was she always here, sometimes visible and sometimes not? Or did she have another world next to ours, in the ether, where she left everything in this world behind and floated in her disembodied form? Did she still feel emotions? Was that really curiosity on her face, or was I projecting? Did she feel happiness? Fear? Did she have the option of moving on, or was she stuck here?
Many questions that I might never get the answers to. And that was assuming Andrew knew the answers, since I’d never met Suzanne Cooper and he hadn’t even mentioned that possibility. This place was clearly her baby, but I’m sure running it was a lot of work. Plus, if she was rich enough to own it, she was rich enough to have other businesses and charities to run.
When it comes to the enclosures, they’re all wrapped by a barrier of some kind, though never one that seems adequate. There was not a single place with the ugly metal weavings of a chain-link fence, and no stretches of circular razor wire. Instead, there are nice fences. Black iron, or wrought steel fencing in a similar style to the one circling the perimeter of the zoo, just shorter and with different patterns. Or a spaced picket fence, the wood stained in some tone of brown, or a split two-rail fence. As if to say, ‘This is the border of your enclosure, but we’re just letting you know out of courtesy.’
When I started to pass enclosure number seven last night, a young woman’s voice spoke, “Hello.”
I startled, unaware that I hadn’t been alone. “Oh. Hi,” I said, staring at her standing a few yards in.
She had been next to a large tree and I hadn’t seen her. This enclosure was behind a picket fence, and she walked through the large area of wild grasses and flowers that stretched across the other side of the fence. There were fewer tall grasses closer to the fence, which I guessed was because it had been tromped down by her regular pacing along it when there were visitors, or if she wanted to see the various enclosures of the zoo. Her sudden appearance was a bit weird, considering I had been expecting to see a cryptid and instead I was looking at, it seemed, an attractive Asian woman.
She wore a black kimono, the soft silk robe draped gently over her body, with beautiful patterns of cherry blossoms, more so over her left side, and red and blue birds with their wings spread. A sash wrapped around her abdomen, she wore socks and sandals on her feet, and her hair was up in those rolls that gave volume to the style.
I was no expert on any fashion, much less that of another country, so I just assumed it was all traditional Japanese clothing. Most likely, the visitors who came liked to see a certain time-honored style and that’s what she stuck with. Or maybe she played on stereotypes. That would be amusing.
“I’m Yui. It’s nice to meet you,” she spoke, arriving at the border of the fence and holding out a hand for me to shake.
I’d been standing about three yards away from her, and I’ll be honest, muscle memory tried to kick in. But I only made it two steps, my hand starting to rise, before I froze, the hand falling limply at my side. “Nice to meet you, too,” I answered, my voice quiet.
Damn. I wonder how many times that honey trap works back where she comes from.
The pleasant look on her face faded, and she lowered her hand. “You won’t shake hands with me? Isn’t that rude?”
“I mean, I kind of like my hand where it is. You know, attached to me.”
Her demure smile widened into something more amused. “I would never do something so revolting.”
Looking her up and down, as if more visual information would give me more knowledge of what she was, I asked her, “What would you do?”
“I would be less wasteful,” she said softly.
A finger of ice trailed down my spine, and I had the sudden image in my head of her grabbing my outstretched hand in an iron grip and yanking me over the fence, leaving me to sprawl on the ground. Then killing and consuming me efficiently, without a single careless step, the same way humans slaughtered pigs, using everything from the hog but the squeal. I was struck with a shiver at the idea of her consuming everything from me but my screams.
Slowly, I took one step further down the path, then another. Just as I got to a walking pace, though, I realized the woman had started walking too, in the same direction. I’d have eventually gotten to the end of her enclosure and keep going, leaving her behind, but she spoke up. “Are you leaving?”
I came to a stop, meeting her gaze again. “My job is to walk the zoo every hour. Then I’ll get back to the security room and stay there until my next walk.”
“Have you met the others yet?”
I hesitated before saying, “Just Leila.”
She blinked languidly. “That means nobody welcomed you here.”
“Andrew did.”
She didn’t reply to that. Instead, she slowly started to lean forward, and I flinched backward a few steps further as I saw insect legs start curling out from her back.
No. Not insect. Arachnid.
The eight legs ended in small ‘paws’ with tiny claws, a layer of hairs covering the leg from top to bottom, like any typical tarantula. I took two more slow steps back and my mouth went dry as the jointed legs just kept lengthening, until they were large enough to lever her off the ground.
My gaze had been on the spider legs, but my heart skipped a beat as I realized her human legs had melded together and turned into a bulging abdomen. Her skin was shifting to a carapace, eventually all the way up to her shoulders and down her arms, her fingers elongating and her nails stretching to claws. From there down, her body was that of a pale tarantula with pedipalps the size of my arms and piercing fangs in her jaws that looked like they could take my head off.
There was a moment, my vision blurring, where I was worried that I might piss myself. The part of my brain that still had its humor intact in that moment told me that I should keep an emergency set of clothes in my car, or at the very least, start wearing Depends to work.
“I show you my true form,” she said softly, her voice now raspy like an eighty-year-old after a lifelong smoking habit. “Welcome to Suzanne Cooper’s zoo. The night shift guard for many years was Roger, before he retired and the zoo moved, and I miss him dearly. What should I call you?”
I choked on my words. There was no way my throat was going to cooperate enough for me to clearly get a sentence out. Instead, I realized my legs had taken control of the situation themselves, unsatisfied with my conscious brain’s decision to stand and stare, taking steps backward. I backed up a yard, then five yards, then ten.
My mind focused on the fact that spiders don’t waste anything, and pictured my demise. I’d be wrapped in a cocoon, killed, and made nice and mushy before she had me for dinner.
The whole time, my brain was a frenzied mess, my pupils were probably the size of dimes, and I was staring at that tiny, pathetic fence between her and me. There was so much adrenaline pumping through my body that I felt like my bones were vibrating. The fence was, to my eyes, the only thing between us. The only thing keeping her from tackling and killing me. My only hope was that she’d do it quickly.
But she didn’t move. As I absorbed her innocent, polite words, the look on her face was calm, and I wondered if this was typically the way a conversation went before she devoured her prey. I wondered how many people she’d eaten. Not humans, not people from Earth, but the ones from where she came from. The fact that she doesn’t scare the shit out of those people means they’re staggeringly dumber than humans.
Finally, I rounded a corner, both relieved at having her out of my sight and worried that she would take that moment to come find me. When she’d been within eyeshot, I had at least known where she was and could run in the other direction. But I didn’t hear the sound of faint footsteps moving rapidly toward me. All was quiet, in that deep, smothering way that only an empty business in the middle of the night in small town America could be.
My hands trembling, I barely paid attention to anything but the confirmation that my surroundings were free of the colossal spider as I finally got back to the door. Grabbing the handle and letting my eyes dart around for about ten seconds and my ears prick for the slightest sound, I finally swiped my key card across the pad and went inside, shutting the door behind me and engaging the backup deadbolt.
Maybe that was why they had decided on keycards. If I was running from something and panicking, using an actual key or inserting the card like at a hotel would keep me from getting to safety considering my hands were shaking enough to mix a margarita.
Walking over to my chair, I fell into it, letting my body flush itself of terror as I looked up at the cameras. There she was, still in arachnid form, exactly where I’d left her behind that rinky-dink fence, casually looking around and slowly pacing back and forth. I stared at her as my racing heart gradually slowed, and a minute or so later she turned on her eight legs and walked back into the trees.
Whatever invisible fences the enclosures have apparently work, which is nice, because I wasn’t keen on getting killed by one of the creatures here. And that’s what brings me here, spilling out everything that’s happened so far. Because nearly passing out from terror isn’t something I wanted to deal with at work, obviously, but I keep going over what she did in my head again and again, and I feel like I reacted like a child who spotted a wolf spider on their bed. I started to worry for my overactive sense of self-preservation, at least in my capacity as an employee here.
The spider didn’t even try to hurt me, and so I was feeling a bit foolish. Even annoyed, actually, at the fact that I’d freaked out so hard and took off instead of trying to engage in at least basic conversation. I got the sense that she wasn’t at human-level intelligence, but I was never going to be able to hold any level of conversation with an alligator.
Sure, she did mention that she wouldn’t be so crass as to yank off my hand because she’d rather just have my entire corpse, but wouldn’t a wolf do the same if it was hungry? Wouldn’t any carnivore? Actually, they probably would’ve been satisfied with one of my hands. The fear here was from the fact that she turned into a giant spider. If she’d turned into Clifford, I would’ve reacted the same way, if not better than, meeting Leila.
With that, I decided I’m staying on the job. Considering how frustrated I can get with foolish people, it’s a bit hypocritical, and I’m being a bit of an idiot. But…there are definitely wards keeping them in their enclosures. Also, I signed up for creatures for another dimension, whether or not I believed in them at the time, and I will not let encountering my first one in an objectively boring way be the reason I quit.
The money is a factor, I’ll grant you. Of course it is. And I can’t spend it if I’m dead, but all signs point to surviving as long as I don’t do anything dumb. Also, yes, I’ll admit there’s a not-so-little voice in the back of my head that’s desperate to know what else is here. I never thought I’d do something like this, but finding out these things are real, I honestly do want to learn more about them.
Still, though, I decided to call Andrew at the end of my shift to ask if the pepper spray and taser I carried worked on a certain spider, as well as the other animals I’d yet to meet.
​
Previous
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/storiesbykaren

To clarify, I now know that there are different definitions of the word “ship”, but for the purposes of this article and to keep things simple I will use the definition of “a relationship that’s rushed and/or forced with no real development.” I hope you can understand as I do not know of any other single word to describe that concept. If you do, perhaps you can tell me. Also, fair warning, this is long form content (some 10 pages), if you like it but can’t read it all at once you can save it and come back to it over a period of time, or you can stop reading whenever you get tired of it and still discuss those parts of it with me that you have read. But keep it civil if you want a civil response.
With that, to qualify the title, no, Ezra and Sabine do NOT absolutely have to be a couple, but if they were to become one, it would NOT be a ship. Ezra and Sabine’s relationship has had years of development. Could they remain as simply friends? Yes, but ironically, it was their “friendship” that felt like more of a ship. It felt like the Ahsoka show, helmed by Dave Filoni, was going out of its way to tell us: “no, they’re not a couple, they’re just friends.”
I believe that Filoni made some very poor writing choices to stress something that didn’t really need to be stressed, such that it almost felt like he was in denial. The line “I love you like a sister” was never in Rebels, Filoni essentially had that retconned in, and like many I was put off by their (largely) emotionless reunion. Even if they were “just friends” I believe there would be a great deal more emotion displayed between two people that hadn’t seen each other in some ten years, especially when one of them was in a precarious situation when they parted. I also believe Ezra would be far more curious about Sabine being Force sensitive, perhaps even offering to help train her when she told him that her training hadn’t gone as well with Ahsoka. He did help to train her with the Darksaber, didn’t he? Why that never came up is another discussion, but for now, let’s focus on shipping.
In case you think I’m desperate to have them as a couple, no I’m not. I’m about the furthest thing from it. Like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers) I DESPISE shipping. Absolutely DESPISE it. With a flaming passion. Perhaps for this reason, and maybe some others, like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers), I’m generally wary of nearly all romance in fiction, and generally avoid it in my own work. The sad reality is that romance is perhaps the most abused genre in all of fiction, all throughout history. It has been so badly abused that many people, including myself for the longest time, have equated romance with shipping, though I’m slowly beginning to see that they are not the same thing, and one does not necessarily have to go with the other.
But sadly, many writers, through time immemorial, have not been able to separate them, going back into ancient times and perhaps even into pre-history, that is before languages were actually written down. Some of what is considered great literature; classics like Romeo and Juliet, are predicated on shipping, though at least the consequences of this “whirlwind romance” are shown to be fairly stark. Star Wars itself is no stranger to shipping, resulting in a very awkward incestuous kiss when Luke was shipped with Leia, then Leia was placed with Han and Lucas made Luke and Leia brother and sister, apparently having forgotten his original ship. Later Lucas essentially shipped Anakin and Padme, resulting in some of the most cringeworthy dialog in the history of film. Many fans of the Prequels even have been somewhat critical of Anakin’s portrayal, particularly in regards to the “romantic” scenes, with many describing them as “creepy”. Some have speculated that this was intentional, though personally I think it was just the result of bad writing on the part of George Lucas, and an impatience on his part for Anakin and Padme to become a couple, hence “shipping”.
One might wonder why this is so prevalent in fiction, and tragically, one does not have to look far. Fiction is merely a reflection of reality, therefore the reason that shipping is so common in our stories is that we fall so easily into it in real life. Indeed, entire cultures may be based around shipping, or at least very heavily wrapped up in it. Throughout history arranged marriages have been the norm, and the idea of marrying for “love” is something relatively new. To be fair, I’ve actually met people in arranged marriages who seemed to be fairly happy, but those same people were very open in telling me that many despise that aspect of their culture, and that it is quite normal for those in an arranged marriage to try to get out.
People might come together for “love” without marrying, but even then it often creates expectations that might turn into a burden. Even when a marriage is voluntary and for “love”, people are often left unsatisfied, such that today in the West the divorce rate is something like 50%. Happy, stable, long term relationships seem to be the exception across cultures and across the breadth and width of time. And yet pursuit of love and some kind of relationship seems to be the highest calling for many people, both in real life and in fiction. And it could be that the accumulated disgust is finally starting to boil over.
To be fair, this may not be the first time in history that the pendulum has shifted. You may recall that in Victorian times attitudes changed drastically, as compared to the previously bawdy Elizabethan times. Looking at a play from Shakespear, if you can understand the language, you’ll see all kinds of vulgar references, as well as what I believe are fairly sappy romances like in the aforementioned Romeo and Juliet, though I can’t say for certain whether Shakespear was actually endorsing that type of attitude towards “love” or presenting it as a cautionary tale, maybe even something to be ridiculed in some of his other plays.
But regardless, Victorians as you may well know had a very conservative attitude towards anything to do with romance, and would often avoid the subject in many places, or tread very carefully around it, as if walking on eggshells. It’s not that people stopped being romantic, in fiction or real life, but it was treated as something very serious and even dangerous, with many urges repressed or even suppressed entirely. This had all kinds of effects on society, both positive and negative. On the positive side, it reinforced the ideal of people being committed to their partners, and of marriage as a sacred institution rather than a “casual hookup” as was more common in Elizabethan times. Likewise it reinforced ideals of modesty and chastity, which may be coming back into vogue, though under different names. But just as there were positive aspects to these attitudes, so were there negative ones.
Just because the urges I described were repressed did not mean that they disappeared. In fact, they often morphed into things that many would consider “unhealthy”. From one statistic that I saw, in Victorian times about one in every 60 houses was a brothel, with the modern rate being closer to one in 6000. Additionally, the rights of women were often repressed, such that they could not fully express themselves and find their own identity, and path in life, as individuals. Just as Elizabethan ideals gave way to Victorian ones, so did the Victorian ideals gradually begin to erode.
Perhaps it began with the Jazz Age of the 1920’s (the “Roaring Twenties”), or with the increased interconnectivity of people traveling to different parts of the world during World War I, not to mention the cynicism that pervaded throughout the West in response to failed old ideals leading to the deadliest war in history up to that point, but many Victorian ideals began to be seen as a joke, and even resented for their “oppression”, which to be fair was not entirely unjustified. But regardless, people gradually, and at times not so gradually, became more and more “liberated” and promiscuous. This culminated in the Sexual Revolution in the late 1960’s, when what had previously been seen as a vice and even a sin was now seen as not only “normal” but as a healthy form of expression, a virtue even. And just as these ideas were embraced in real life, so too were they reflected in our films, TV shows, and other media, often to the consternation of older people and institutions, like the Vatican. The Catholic Church even went so far as to “ban” certain films, that is to declare them immoral for good Catholics to watch. Many of the films that were banned back then, or at least controversial, like The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman, are fairly tame by today’s standards.
It continued through the 70’s, at times warming and at times cooling through the rest of the century, until you could argue it reached a kind of crescendo in the early 21st century with the advent of so-called “dark romance” and the publication of books like Fifty Shades of Grey. (Ironically, many of the themes within this “dark romance” can trace their roots back to the Victorian era, yet another indication that repressing urges without addressing them often doesn’t work out as one might hope.) But as happens all too often, just as something reaches peak popularity is when it begins to go out of style, and that is what we may be experiencing right now. As weird as it may sound, we may actually have come full circle and may be on the cusp of a “New Victorian Age” (complete with “dark romance”, even). Web sites like Porn Hub and OnlyFans, as well as other similar sites, may be the new “brothels”, and what was once openly celebrated may be going underground, to an extent. The effects of this on society have been interesting to say the least, and at times I would even say bizarre.
Whilst many younger people seem content with these changes, many older people are concerned. I’ve seen a number of books, films, and other media receive positive reviews for example based specifically on their lack of romance. Many of these books/films, etc. fall into the “young adult” category, meaning that it is young adults obviously who mostly consume them. At the same time I’ve heard a number of older people, mostly boomers and Gen-Xers, criticize these same books/films for their lack of romance. Even some older millennials seem upset by the changes, as perhaps evidenced by Jennifer Lawrence’s latest film No Hard Feelings (though to be fair that film may be lampooning the older generation’s frustration as well as the younger generation’s frigidity). So just as in the past older people were concerned about the promiscuity of the youth, now it actually appears that many older people are concerned about the youth’s lack of promiscuity.
Who could have seen that coming? But to be fair, the younger generation hasn’t gone completely frigid. As stated earlier, much of the promiscuity has gone “underground”, or online, which many would argue is not very healthy as it might undermine actual relationships, whether they are romantic in nature or simple friendships. And speaking of that, friendships within stories nowadays often aren’t portrayed in a very authentic or compelling manner, perhaps because in ditching romance modern writers haven’t quite yet learned how to replace it with something else. In other words, the “New Victorian Age” may not be an exact repeat of the previous one, but may have its own twists and turns, for better and for worse.
This may all essentially be a manifestation of the Human Condition, in that we just can’t seem to find a happy medium, neither in real life nor in fiction. Thus we keep swinging from one extreme to the other, apparently getting wilder with each swing.
So where does all this leave us? What is it that we really want in our lives, and in our stories? Especially in regards to relationships? I think at some level we all want to see good and healthy relationships between people and/or characters, whether romantic or platonic. I believe at some point we would like to see good examples of both friendship and romance, and I would argue that the best examples of romance have them combined. Even a toxic relationship, if well portrayed or documented, can be instructive and serve as a good example of what to avoid in our lives that we might be happier and relate better to each other. A good relationship, by contrast, can give us something to aspire to and inspire us to not only look for the right kind of person to complement our lives, but to make ourselves worthy of that person. And here I’ll add that I’m perfectly aware that in real life (and thus in fiction) relationships can be very complicated and heavily nuanced, with elements of both “good” and “bad” in them. Just as people change over time so can the relationships between them change, at times getting better and at times worse, sometimes breaking entirely and sometimes growing stronger. Relationships can have just as many layers and dimensions as characters, more even perhaps, and a skilled writer should be able to reflect this complexity. At other times a relationship can be fairly straightforward, simplicity sometimes being the best approach. But regardless, the audience should be able to relate and identify with what they are seeing, such that hopefully they can incorporate the lessons from it in their own lives.
Where can we find good examples of relationships to study? There may be a number of them in the real world, but the trouble with studying real world relationships is that they’re often much more complicated than fictional ones (just as real people are more complicated than fictional characters), and for many of them it is almost impossible to know all the details and nuances because they are often kept private, understandably so, and even if they aren’t it can still be difficult, due to unique circumstances, to see how to relate them to our own lives. Additionally there may be far more disagreement about a real life situation than a fictional one, with many more points of view. To keep things simple, for the purpose of this article I would like to focus on fictional relationships. (And fair warning, there will be some spoilers.)
One of the best places to look, I would argue, would be the films of Hayao Miyazaki. (And this is pretty significant to Star Wars as you will see in a bit.) A film of his that stands out to me the most is Princess Mononoke. Like many of Miyazaki’s films it has elements of romance, and yet subverts them in a way that makes complete sense and feels very genuine, without taking away from any of the accompanying charm. It starts with two young people, San and Ashitaka, and as soon as they encounter each other there is a kind of expectation of romance. This may be inevitable to some degree when you have a man and a woman of about the same age encounter each other in a story, especially if they happen to be adolescents. The expectation may not be inherently bad, and Miyazaki does play with it. Both characters are thrust into dangerous situations, at various points end up saving each other’s lives, and at a certain point I think it is obvious that they have feelings for each other. I was certain that at the end of the film, they would be together, and if things had gone that way, it would make complete sense. Instead, they go in different directions, but remain good friends, and considering their backgrounds and differing worldviews, this ends up making even more sense to the story.
Essentially, Miyazaki could have gone for the more conventional, tried and true “love conquers all” narrative, where the characters’ feelings for each other would negate everything that comes between them, they would somehow find a common ground in spite of their differences, the romance would not only take over the narrative but somehow also solve all the problems in the story, and then the couple would live “happily ever after”. Such an approach is not inherently bad or wrong, and is fairly common in Western media and storytelling. We can see it in films like Fern Gully, and more recently James Cameron’s Avatar, both of which have been compared to Princess Mononoke. As you can probably guess, the problem is that at a certain point such a narrative can become fairly simplistic, and lack nuance.
Miyazaki’s films, by contrast, are very heavily nuanced, and are anything but simplistic. In Princess Mononoke the characters San and Ashitaka don’t help each other simply because they are “in love”, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of how they might feel about each other. Yes, romantic feelings are certainly alluded to, but they are not essential to the plot, for it could have worked just as well without any romantic allusions. And ironically, this makes those allusions even more valid, even if they are unrequited. How so?
Consider that if love is essential to a given narrative, is it not relegated to being nothing more than a plot device? Again, this is quite common in Western media and storytelling, and is not inherently bad or wrong, but when it becomes a trope or cliche, I believe it is the essence of where shipping comes from. Many storytellers get caught up in this, usually without realizing it, and while a story can still work even with shipping, I believe that it usually works that much better without it.
This extends not only to Miyazaki’s handling of romance but also to other things like environmentalism, the conflict between man and nature, and the contrasting ideals of human progress vs. preserving the natural order. Movies like Fern Gully and Avatar, as already mentioned, handle these themes in a fairly simplistic and I would even say hamfisted manner, whereby all progress and technology is shown as being inherently “bad” and in service to “evil”, while everything that’s “natural” is shown to be inherently “good”. Even our notions of good and evil, and right vs. wrong, are challenged by Miyazaki, with nearly all of his characters having complex motives and multiple dimensions to them, as well as understandable reasons for doing the things that they do. Rarely can any one of his characters be branded as a simple “villain”, and rarely is any one individual the source of conflict in his stories, again in contrast to most Western narratives.
I’ll reiterate once more, a simple, straightforward narrative is not inherently a bad thing, whether the themes being dealt with are romantic or anything else. Sometimes it is in fact the best approach. But the best stories in my opinion are usually the most nuanced, that challenge our notions of what we believe to be true, and that force us to think about what we do with our lives and what we could do differently. To that end Miyazaki introduces all manner of themes and motifs within his films that are familiar to us but shows them in a light most of us might not have considered, thus giving more dimension to our understanding of things.
“How is any of this related to Star Wars?” you might ask. It is quite related, and you don’t even have to look all that closely to see it. A very influential figure within Star Wars was very heavily inspired by the works of Miyazaki, and that figure is Dave Filoni.
This video shows the connections in some detail:
https://youtu.be/Q_4L0BbSpHo?si=04jDo6qFCnZT135w
But to summarize if you’ve seen any of Miyazaki’s films, especially Princess Mononoke, I think the callbacks in Filoni’s work will be all too obvious, especially in Star Wars Rebels. Some of the scenes in Filoni’s work look like they were taken directly from Miyazki’s films, and many of the same themes and motifs often come up. The relationship between San and Ashitaka I would argue is very similar to the relationship between Ezra and Sabine, and not just because both couples rode wolves together.
Incidentally, Dave Filoni was also heavily involved in Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I would also argue was at least to some degree inspired if not by Miyazaki then by Japanese anime in general. The relationship between Aang and Katara was developed with great care and was allowed to build very slowly, as opposed to simply shipping them. Likewise other characters very gradually developed as individuals and in their relationships, at times stumbling as they did so, and making mistakes, before finding their way back to the right path.
All of this is in stark contrast to George Lucas, whose character development is often very rushed at best, and at times some might say almost non-existent. So essentially, even though Lucas has said that Filoni has been “like a son” to him, and I believe referred to Filoni as his “padawan”, I would argue that Filoni is ultimately as much a student of Miyazaki as he is of Lucas.
Again, you might ask, “What does all this mean for Star Wars?” It means a great many things. It means that Dave Filoni has taken Miyazaki’s lessons to heart, and can handle things like romance, as well as other kinds of relationships, quite well most of the time. Like Miyazaki he can play with romance, tease the audience with it at times even, leave the romance unrequited, and yet still have it feel satisfying. A prime example of this is the love triangle that Ahsoka was involved in with the young Separatist Senator, Lux Bonteri, and Steela Gerrera. As wary as I am of romance and as much as I despise shipping, love triangles I normally despise even more, but this one seemed to actually work. It never took over the main story, and even though Ahsoka’s feelings were ultimately not reciprocated, she still learned from the experience, and grew and developed further as a character because of it. The other characters involved in this triangle also grew and developed from their involvement, though unfortunately not all of them made it. All in all it was a good bit of storytelling and gave the audience something to consider.
When a relationship in one of Filoni’s stories does bloom into a full blown romance he also generally handles it quite well. For one Filoni is sparing with actual romance, so that when it does occur, it can be that much more appreciated. And rather than rushing or shipping it, Filoni normally takes his time to build it up. An example of this is the relationship between Kanan and Hera. Some might argue that this is perhaps the best developed romance in all of Star Wars, at least in Canon. Built up over four seasons, at times it wasn’t certain whether it was a romance or a friendship, or perhaps even a professional partnership. Perhaps even the characters themselves were not certain, though it was hinted all throughout the narrative that something was going on. To this day I don’t believe anyone can say definitively when it became an actual romance, and I believe Filoni did this intentionally because he wanted to be subtle, rather than making things too obvious and having the romance take over the narrative, as it usually does. When it finally did become obvious as to what was happening, it felt very much earned, in a way that is seldom accomplished in other works of fiction, including Star Wars.
The relationship between Ezra and Sabine was also fairly well written, for the most part anyway, at least in Star Wars Rebels. Ezra was almost immediately smitten with Sabine, but being a young teenage boy, it was understandable that he would feel that way about an attractive girl. Over time he learned to see her more respectfully, as a colleague and even as part of his adopted family, not just as a pretty face. Sabine for her part found Ezra annoying at first (c’mon, what teenage boy isn’t?), but as he matured and she found out more about him she came to understand and respect him more, and see him as a friend and almost a brother, with there being potential for something more.
There were times when the relationship could have been better written, like in the episode “Blood Sisters”, where Ezra was written to be a bit too immature to make Sabine look wiser. But overall, the bond between them developed fairly well; both saved one another at various times, and took risks and made sacrifices for each other’s sake. Both reassured and comforted the other when they needed it, and it was endearing to hear their banter when they became more familiar and trusting of each other.
So why then was I so disappointed in how they were portrayed in the Ahsoka show? The thing is, after how well their relationship was built up in Rebels, as I’ve already mentioned it was strange to see how lackluster and uninspired their reunion was.
Within the Ahsoka show itself Sabine was shown to be almost obsessed with finding Ezra, living in what used to be his home, watching a recording of him over and over again, and calling out his name as she woke up in the middle of the night. She even risked bringing Thrawn back into the Galaxy, which ultimately happened, just so she could see Ezra again. After all that, when she finally does encounter him, her reaction seems fairly casual, as does his, as if they’ve been apart for no more than a week, rather than 10 years. Not too much happens between them afterwards either. Like I said Ezra does not appear all that curious about what happened with Sabine, how she found him, and how it was that she was now Force sensitive. Sabine likewise did not seem curious about what had happened with Ezra, and how he had gotten away from Thrawn. And with Ezra rescued and returned home, suddenly it didn’t seem as though Sabine was all that interested in him anymore, nor he all that concerned with her, though they were just as far apart as they had been at the start of the show. To be completely honest it made me wonder what the point of the whole show was. Were they just working to set up Thrawn’s return to the Galaxy? As some have said, Ezra felt like nothing more than a Macguffin in the show. Was Sabine and Ahsoka’s search for him just a plot device?
Considering how skillfully Dave Filoni had written his stories in the past, what happened in this latest project of his does not make much sense. Was he so concerned about “shipping” and so desperate to avoid it that he inadvertently “shipped” them in the other direction? Was there some sort of external pressure on him about how to write this story to have more of an appeal to “modern audiences”? Maybe some combination of those factors?
And here I’ll add that when I say “modern audiences” I don’t mean that in a contemptuous sense, though you may think I do. If there is any contempt on my part it is for those in charge of telling our stories, or those in charge of those telling our stories, who do not seem to grasp these basic truths. The truth is that audiences at their core don’t really change throughout the ages, only superficially so. Trends come and go but certain truths and ideals are eternal, and universal. How people relate to each other fundamentally does not change, whether they are friends, or more than friends. And deep down, I believe everyone (or nearly everyone at least) wants the same things. Nearly everyone at some point wants some kind of a connection with another human being, to know that they are not alone in the world, and to know that there is someone else who sees and understands things as they do. While this desire can certainly lead to abuse, and absolutely has, it is still innate to us and is not inherently wrong. Finding ways of connecting and relating to other people is one of the great challenges of life, but many would argue it is the most worthwhile of challenges. It may be the whole point of life if you think about it. As complex as it may be, many would argue it is what makes life worth living, and likewise makes for the best stories. Just as it may be the whole point of life many would say that is what most stories are about at their core: people trying to relate to one another.
Sadly, just as in real life, most stories unfortunately don’t quite get it, and the Ahsoka show in my opinion was an example of this, made all the sadder by the fact that Dave Filoni had done quite well with these characters up to that point. We may never know for certain what exactly went wrong and why, or if it can ever be “fixed” at this point, but I can’t help but feel curious. Maybe in the future Filoni will find a way to make it make sense, but I’m not sure how. And to be completely honest I don’t feel quite as enthusiastic to find out as I used to.
Also for the record I would like to add here that there are other factors that put me off from the show, such as Sabine’s Force sensitivity, that came about without much build up. But in this article I specifically wanted to focus on shipping because there seems to be so much misunderstanding around it.
I hope that I was able to clarify some, if not most of this misunderstanding, so that people could better appreciate what shipping is, where it comes from, as well as what it isn’t. Many people today are understandably sick of shipping characters, myself included. But I hope people realize that in overcompensating for something, we often come back around into the very thing that we are overcompensating for. Or sometimes, into something even worse. This may apply to nearly every facet of life, by the way, not just shipping. Finding a happy medium in how we portray our fictional relationships may help us to better understand relationships in real life, as well as how to navigate them. Neither fictional nor actual relationships can ever be perfect but they can always be better. To this understanding then I hope that I was able to give my own modest contribution, and if nothing else I hope we can connect on that.

This is my attempt at a re-submission due to some misunderstandings on the first attempt. I now know that there are different definitions of the word “ship”, but for the purposes of this article and to keep things simple I will use the definition of “a relationship that’s rushed and/or forced with no real development.” I hope you can understand as I do not know of any other single word to describe that concept. If you do, perhaps you can tell me. Also, fair warning, this is long form content (some 10 pages), if you like it but can’t read it all at once you can save it and come back to it over a period of time, or you can stop reading whenever you get tired of it and still discuss those parts of it with me that you have read. But keep it civil if you want a civil response.
With that, to qualify the title, no, Ezra and Sabine do NOT absolutely have to be a couple, but if they were to become one, it would NOT be a ship. Ezra and Sabine’s relationship has had years of development. Could they remain as simply friends? Yes, but ironically, it was their “friendship” that felt like more of a ship. It felt like the Ahsoka show, helmed by Dave Filoni, was going out of its way to tell us: “no, they’re not a couple, they’re just friends.”
I believe that Filoni made some very poor writing choices to stress something that didn’t really need to be stressed, such that it almost felt like he was in denial. The line “I love you like a sister” was never in Rebels, Filoni essentially had that retconned in, and like many I was put off by their (largely) emotionless reunion. Even if they were “just friends” I believe there would be a great deal more emotion displayed between two people that hadn’t seen each other in some ten years, especially when one of them was in a precarious situation when they parted. I also believe Ezra would be far more curious about Sabine being Force sensitive, perhaps even offering to help train her when she told him that her training hadn’t gone as well with Ahsoka. He did help to train her with the Darksaber, didn’t he? Why that never came up is another discussion, but for now, let’s focus on shipping.
In case you think I’m desperate to have them as a couple, no I’m not. I’m about the furthest thing from it. Like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers) I DESPISE shipping. Absolutely DESPISE it. With a flaming passion. Perhaps for this reason, and maybe some others, like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers), I’m generally wary of nearly all romance in fiction, and generally avoid it in my own work. The sad reality is that romance is perhaps the most abused genre in all of fiction, all throughout history. It has been so badly abused that many people, including myself for the longest time, have equated romance with shipping, though I’m slowly beginning to see that they are not the same thing, and one does not necessarily have to go with the other.
But sadly, many writers, through time immemorial, have not been able to separate them, going back into ancient times and perhaps even into pre-history, that is before languages were actually written down. Some of what is considered great literature; classics like Romeo and Juliet, are predicated on shipping, though at least the consequences of this “whirlwind romance” are shown to be fairly stark. Star Wars itself is no stranger to shipping, resulting in a very awkward incestuous kiss when Luke was shipped with Leia, then Leia was placed with Han and Lucas made Luke and Leia brother and sister, apparently having forgotten his original ship. Later Lucas essentially shipped Anakin and Padme, resulting in some of the most cringeworthy dialog in the history of film. Many fans of the Prequels even have been somewhat critical of Anakin’s portrayal, particularly in regards to the “romantic” scenes, with many describing them as “creepy”. Some have speculated that this was intentional, though personally I think it was just the result of bad writing on the part of George Lucas, and an impatience on his part for Anakin and Padme to become a couple, hence “shipping”.
One might wonder why this is so prevalent in fiction, and tragically, one does not have to look far. Fiction is merely a reflection of reality, therefore the reason that shipping is so common in our stories is that we fall so easily into it in real life. Indeed, entire cultures may be based around shipping, or at least very heavily wrapped up in it. Throughout history arranged marriages have been the norm, and the idea of marrying for “love” is something relatively new. To be fair, I’ve actually met people in arranged marriages who seemed to be fairly happy, but those same people were very open in telling me that many despise that aspect of their culture, and that it is quite normal for those in an arranged marriage to try to get out.
People might come together for “love” without marrying, but even then it often creates expectations that might turn into a burden. Even when a marriage is voluntary and for “love”, people are often left unsatisfied, such that today in the West the divorce rate is something like 50%. Happy, stable, long term relationships seem to be the exception across cultures and across the breadth and width of time. And yet pursuit of love and some kind of relationship seems to be the highest calling for many people, both in real life and in fiction. And it could be that the accumulated disgust is finally starting to boil over.
To be fair, this may not be the first time in history that the pendulum has shifted. You may recall that in Victorian times attitudes changed drastically, as compared to the previously bawdy Elizabethan times. Looking at a play from Shakespear, if you can understand the language, you’ll see all kinds of vulgar references, as well as what I believe are fairly sappy romances like in the aforementioned Romeo and Juliet, though I can’t say for certain whether Shakespear was actually endorsing that type of attitude towards “love” or presenting it as a cautionary tale, maybe even something to be ridiculed in some of his other plays.
But regardless, Victorians as you may well know had a very conservative attitude towards anything to do with romance, and would often avoid the subject in many places, or tread very carefully around it, as if walking on eggshells. It’s not that people stopped being romantic, in fiction or real life, but it was treated as something very serious and even dangerous, with many urges repressed or even suppressed entirely. This had all kinds of effects on society, both positive and negative. On the positive side, it reinforced the ideal of people being committed to their partners, and of marriage as a sacred institution rather than a “casual hookup” as was more common in Elizabethan times. Likewise it reinforced ideals of modesty and chastity, which may be coming back into vogue, though under different names. But just as there were positive aspects to these attitudes, so were there negative ones.
Just because the urges I described were repressed did not mean that they disappeared. In fact, they often morphed into things that many would consider “unhealthy”. From one statistic that I saw, in Victorian times about one in every 60 houses was a brothel, with the modern rate being closer to one in 6000. Additionally, the rights of women were often repressed, such that they could not fully express themselves and find their own identity, and path in life, as individuals. Just as Elizabethan ideals gave way to Victorian ones, so did the Victorian ideals gradually begin to erode.
Perhaps it began with the Jazz Age of the 1920’s (the “Roaring Twenties”), or with the increased interconnectivity of people traveling to different parts of the world during World War I, not to mention the cynicism that pervaded throughout the West in response to failed old ideals leading to the deadliest war in history up to that point, but many Victorian ideals began to be seen as a joke, and even resented for their “oppression”, which to be fair was not entirely unjustified. But regardless, people gradually, and at times not so gradually, became more and more “liberated” and promiscuous. This culminated in the Sexual Revolution in the late 1960’s, when what had previously been seen as a vice and even a sin was now seen as not only “normal” but as a healthy form of expression, a virtue even. And just as these ideas were embraced in real life, so too were they reflected in our films, TV shows, and other media, often to the consternation of older people and institutions, like the Vatican. The Catholic Church even went so far as to “ban” certain films, that is to declare them immoral for good Catholics to watch. Many of the films that were banned back then, or at least controversial, like The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman, are fairly tame by today’s standards.
It continued through the 70’s, at times warming and at times cooling through the rest of the century, until you could argue it reached a kind of crescendo in the early 21st century with the advent of so-called “dark romance” and the publication of books like Fifty Shades of Grey. (Ironically, many of the themes within this “dark romance” can trace their roots back to the Victorian era, yet another indication that repressing urges without addressing them often doesn’t work out as one might hope.) But as happens all too often, just as something reaches peak popularity is when it begins to go out of style, and that is what we may be experiencing right now. As weird as it may sound, we may actually have come full circle and may be on the cusp of a “New Victorian Age” (complete with “dark romance”, even). Web sites like Porn Hub and OnlyFans, as well as other similar sites, may be the new “brothels”, and what was once openly celebrated may be going underground, to an extent. The effects of this on society have been interesting to say the least, and at times I would even say bizarre.
Whilst many younger people seem content with these changes, many older people are concerned. I’ve seen a number of books, films, and other media receive positive reviews for example based specifically on their lack of romance. Many of these books/films, etc. fall into the “young adult” category, meaning that it is young adults obviously who mostly consume them. At the same time I’ve heard a number of older people, mostly boomers and Gen-Xers, criticize these same books/films for their lack of romance. Even some older millennials seem upset by the changes, as perhaps evidenced by Jennifer Lawrence’s latest film No Hard Feelings (though to be fair that film may be lampooning the older generation’s frustration as well as the younger generation’s frigidity). So just as in the past older people were concerned about the promiscuity of the youth, now it actually appears that many older people are concerned about the youth’s lack of promiscuity.
Who could have seen that coming? But to be fair, the younger generation hasn’t gone completely frigid. As stated earlier, much of the promiscuity has gone “underground”, or online, which many would argue is not very healthy as it might undermine actual relationships, whether they are romantic in nature or simple friendships. And speaking of that, friendships within stories nowadays often aren’t portrayed in a very authentic or compelling manner, perhaps because in ditching romance modern writers haven’t quite yet learned how to replace it with something else. In other words, the “New Victorian Age” may not be an exact repeat of the previous one, but may have its own twists and turns, for better and for worse.
This may all essentially be a manifestation of the Human Condition, in that we just can’t seem to find a happy medium, neither in real life nor in fiction. Thus we keep swinging from one extreme to the other, apparently getting wilder with each swing.
So where does all this leave us? What is it that we really want in our lives, and in our stories? Especially in regards to relationships? I think at some level we all want to see good and healthy relationships between people and/or characters, whether romantic or platonic. I believe at some point we would like to see good examples of both friendship and romance, and I would argue that the best examples of romance have them combined. Even a toxic relationship, if well portrayed or documented, can be instructive and serve as a good example of what to avoid in our lives that we might be happier and relate better to each other. A good relationship, by contrast, can give us something to aspire to and inspire us to not only look for the right kind of person to complement our lives, but to make ourselves worthy of that person. And here I’ll add that I’m perfectly aware that in real life (and thus in fiction) relationships can be very complicated and heavily nuanced, with elements of both “good” and “bad” in them. Just as people change over time so can the relationships between them change, at times getting better and at times worse, sometimes breaking entirely and sometimes growing stronger. Relationships can have just as many layers and dimensions as characters, more even perhaps, and a skilled writer should be able to reflect this complexity. At other times a relationship can be fairly straightforward, simplicity sometimes being the best approach. But regardless, the audience should be able to relate and identify with what they are seeing, such that hopefully they can incorporate the lessons from it in their own lives.
Where can we find good examples of relationships to study? There may be a number of them in the real world, but the trouble with studying real world relationships is that they’re often much more complicated than fictional ones (just as real people are more complicated than fictional characters), and for many of them it is almost impossible to know all the details and nuances because they are often kept private, understandably so, and even if they aren’t it can still be difficult, due to unique circumstances, to see how to relate them to our own lives. Additionally there may be far more disagreement about a real life situation than a fictional one, with many more points of view. To keep things simple, for the purpose of this article I would like to focus on fictional relationships. (And fair warning, there will be some spoilers.)
One of the best places to look, I would argue, would be the films of Hayao Miyazaki. (And this is pretty significant to Star Wars as you will see in a bit.) A film of his that stands out to me the most is Princess Mononoke. Like many of Miyazaki’s films it has elements of romance, and yet subverts them in a way that makes complete sense and feels very genuine, without taking away from any of the accompanying charm. It starts with two young people, San and Ashitaka, and as soon as they encounter each other there is a kind of expectation of romance. This may be inevitable to some degree when you have a man and a woman of about the same age encounter each other in a story, especially if they happen to be adolescents. The expectation may not be inherently bad, and Miyazaki does play with it. Both characters are thrust into dangerous situations, at various points end up saving each other’s lives, and at a certain point I think it is obvious that they have feelings for each other. I was certain that at the end of the film, they would be together, and if things had gone that way, it would make complete sense. Instead, they go in different directions, but remain good friends, and considering their backgrounds and differing worldviews, this ends up making even more sense to the story.
Essentially, Miyazaki could have gone for the more conventional, tried and true “love conquers all” narrative, where the characters’ feelings for each other would negate everything that comes between them, they would somehow find a common ground in spite of their differences, the romance would not only take over the narrative but somehow also solve all the problems in the story, and then the couple would live “happily ever after”. Such an approach is not inherently bad or wrong, and is fairly common in Western media and storytelling. We can see it in films like Fern Gully, and more recently James Cameron’s Avatar, both of which have been compared to Princess Mononoke. As you can probably guess, the problem is that at a certain point such a narrative can become fairly simplistic, and lack nuance.
Miyazaki’s films, by contrast, are very heavily nuanced, and are anything but simplistic. In Princess Mononoke the characters San and Ashitaka don’t help each other simply because they are “in love”, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of how they might feel about each other. Yes, romantic feelings are certainly alluded to, but they are not essential to the plot, for it could have worked just as well without any romantic allusions. And ironically, this makes those allusions even more valid, even if they are unrequited. How so?
Consider that if love is essential to a given narrative, is it not relegated to being nothing more than a plot device? Again, this is quite common in Western media and storytelling, and is not inherently bad or wrong, but when it becomes a trope or cliche, I believe it is the essence of where shipping comes from. Many storytellers get caught up in this, usually without realizing it, and while a story can still work even with shipping, I believe that it usually works that much better without it.
This extends not only to Miyazaki’s handling of romance but also to other things like environmentalism, the conflict between man and nature, and the contrasting ideals of human progress vs. preserving the natural order. Movies like Fern Gully and Avatar, as already mentioned, handle these themes in a fairly simplistic and I would even say hamfisted manner, whereby all progress and technology is shown as being inherently “bad” and in service to “evil”, while everything that’s “natural” is shown to be inherently “good”. Even our notions of good and evil, and right vs. wrong, are challenged by Miyazaki, with nearly all of his characters having complex motives and multiple dimensions to them, as well as understandable reasons for doing the things that they do. Rarely can any one of his characters be branded as a simple “villain”, and rarely is any one individual the source of conflict in his stories, again in contrast to most Western narratives.
I’ll reiterate once more, a simple, straightforward narrative is not inherently a bad thing, whether the themes being dealt with are romantic or anything else. Sometimes it is in fact the best approach. But the best stories in my opinion are usually the most nuanced, that challenge our notions of what we believe to be true, and that force us to think about what we do with our lives and what we could do differently. To that end Miyazaki introduces all manner of themes and motifs within his films that are familiar to us but shows them in a light most of us might not have considered, thus giving more dimension to our understanding of things.
“How is any of this related to Star Wars?” you might ask. It is quite related, and you don’t even have to look all that closely to see it. A very influential figure within Star Wars was very heavily inspired by the works of Miyazaki, and that figure is Dave Filoni.
This video shows the connections in some detail:
https://youtu.be/Q_4L0BbSpHo?si=04jDo6qFCnZT135w
But to summarize if you’ve seen any of Miyazaki’s films, especially Princess Mononoke, I think the callbacks in Filoni’s work will be all too obvious, especially in Star Wars Rebels. Some of the scenes in Filoni’s work look like they were taken directly from Miyazki’s films, and many of the same themes and motifs often come up. The relationship between San and Ashitaka I would argue is very similar to the relationship between Ezra and Sabine, and not just because both couples rode wolves together.
Incidentally, Dave Filoni was also heavily involved in Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I would also argue was at least to some degree inspired if not by Miyazaki then by Japanese anime in general. The relationship between Aang and Katara was developed with great care and was allowed to build very slowly, as opposed to simply shipping them. Likewise other characters very gradually developed as individuals and in their relationships, at times stumbling as they did so, and making mistakes, before finding their way back to the right path.
All of this is in stark contrast to George Lucas, whose character development is often very rushed at best, and at times some might say almost non-existent. So essentially, even though Lucas has said that Filoni has been “like a son” to him, and I believe referred to Filoni as his “padawan”, I would argue that Filoni is ultimately as much a student of Miyazaki as he is of Lucas.
Again, you might ask, “What does all this mean for Star Wars?” It means a great many things. It means that Dave Filoni has taken Miyazaki’s lessons to heart, and can handle things like romance, as well as other kinds of relationships, quite well most of the time. Like Miyazaki he can play with romance, tease the audience with it at times even, leave the romance unrequited, and yet still have it feel satisfying. A prime example of this is the love triangle that Ahsoka was involved in with the young Separatist Senator, Lux Bonteri, and Steela Gerrera. As wary as I am of romance and as much as I despise shipping, love triangles I normally despise even more, but this one seemed to actually work. It never took over the main story, and even though Ahsoka’s feelings were ultimately not reciprocated, she still learned from the experience, and grew and developed further as a character because of it. The other characters involved in this triangle also grew and developed from their involvement, though unfortunately not all of them made it. All in all it was a good bit of storytelling and gave the audience something to consider.
When a relationship in one of Filoni’s stories does bloom into a full blown romance he also generally handles it quite well. For one Filoni is sparing with actual romance, so that when it does occur, it can be that much more appreciated. And rather than rushing or shipping it, Filoni normally takes his time to build it up. An example of this is the relationship between Kanan and Hera. Some might argue that this is perhaps the best developed romance in all of Star Wars, at least in Canon. Built up over four seasons, at times it wasn’t certain whether it was a romance or a friendship, or perhaps even a professional partnership. Perhaps even the characters themselves were not certain, though it was hinted all throughout the narrative that something was going on. To this day I don’t believe anyone can say definitively when it became an actual romance, and I believe Filoni did this intentionally because he wanted to be subtle, rather than making things too obvious and having the romance take over the narrative, as it usually does. When it finally did become obvious as to what was happening, it felt very much earned, in a way that is seldom accomplished in other works of fiction, including Star Wars.
The relationship between Ezra and Sabine was also fairly well written, for the most part anyway, at least in Star Wars Rebels. Ezra was almost immediately smitten with Sabine, but being a young teenage boy, it was understandable that he would feel that way about an attractive girl. Over time he learned to see her more respectfully, as a colleague and even as part of his adopted family, not just as a pretty face. Sabine for her part found Ezra annoying at first (c’mon, what teenage boy isn’t?), but as he matured and she found out more about him she came to understand and respect him more, and see him as a friend and almost a brother, with there being potential for something more.
There were times when the relationship could have been better written, like in the episode “Blood Sisters”, where Ezra was written to be a bit too immature to make Sabine look wiser. But overall, the bond between them developed fairly well; both saved one another at various times, and took risks and made sacrifices for each other’s sake. Both reassured and comforted the other when they needed it, and it was endearing to hear their banter when they became more familiar and trusting of each other.
So why then was I so disappointed in how they were portrayed in the Ahsoka show? The thing is, after how well their relationship was built up in Rebels, as I’ve already mentioned it was strange to see how lackluster and uninspired their reunion was.
Within the Ahsoka show itself Sabine was shown to be almost obsessed with finding Ezra, living in what used to be his home, watching a recording of him over and over again, and calling out his name as she woke up in the middle of the night. She even risked bringing Thrawn back into the Galaxy, which ultimately happened, just so she could see Ezra again. After all that, when she finally does encounter him, her reaction seems fairly casual, as does his, as if they’ve been apart for no more than a week, rather than 10 years. Not too much happens between them afterwards either. Like I said Ezra does not appear all that curious about what happened with Sabine, how she found him, and how it was that she was now Force sensitive. Sabine likewise did not seem curious about what had happened with Ezra, and how he had gotten away from Thrawn. And with Ezra rescued and returned home, suddenly it didn’t seem as though Sabine was all that interested in him anymore, nor he all that concerned with her, though they were just as far apart as they had been at the start of the show. To be completely honest it made me wonder what the point of the whole show was. Were they just working to set up Thrawn’s return to the Galaxy? As some have said, Ezra felt like nothing more than a Macguffin in the show. Was Sabine and Ahsoka’s search for him just a plot device?
Considering how skillfully Dave Filoni had written his stories in the past, what happened in this latest project of his does not make much sense. Was he so concerned about “shipping” and so desperate to avoid it that he inadvertently “shipped” them in the other direction? Was there some sort of external pressure on him about how to write this story to have more of an appeal to “modern audiences”? Maybe some combination of those factors?
And here I’ll add that when I say “modern audiences” I don’t mean that in a contemptuous sense, though you may think I do. If there is any contempt on my part it is for those in charge of telling our stories, or those in charge of those telling our stories, who do not seem to grasp these basic truths. The truth is that audiences at their core don’t really change throughout the ages, only superficially so. Trends come and go but certain truths and ideals are eternal, and universal. How people relate to each other fundamentally does not change, whether they are friends, or more than friends. And deep down, I believe everyone (or nearly everyone at least) wants the same things. Nearly everyone at some point wants some kind of a connection with another human being, to know that they are not alone in the world, and to know that there is someone else who sees and understands things as they do. While this desire can certainly lead to abuse, and absolutely has, it is still innate to us and is not inherently wrong. Finding ways of connecting and relating to other people is one of the great challenges of life, but many would argue it is the most worthwhile of challenges. It may be the whole point of life if you think about it. As complex as it may be, many would argue it is what makes life worth living, and likewise makes for the best stories. Just as it may be the whole point of life many would say that is what most stories are about at their core: people trying to relate to one another.
Sadly, just as in real life, most stories unfortunately don’t quite get it, and the Ahsoka show in my opinion was an example of this, made all the sadder by the fact that Dave Filoni had done quite well with these characters up to that point. We may never know for certain what exactly went wrong and why, or if it can ever be “fixed” at this point, but I can’t help but feel curious. Maybe in the future Filoni will find a way to make it make sense, but I’m not sure how. And to be completely honest I don’t feel quite as enthusiastic to find out as I used to.
Also for the record I would like to add here that there are other factors that put me off from the show, such as Sabine’s Force sensitivity, that came about without much build up. But in this article I specifically wanted to focus on shipping because there seems to be so much misunderstanding around it.
I hope that I was able to clarify some, if not most of this misunderstanding, so that people could better appreciate what shipping is, where it comes from, as well as what it isn’t. Many people today are understandably sick of shipping characters, myself included. But I hope people realize that in overcompensating for something, we often come back around into the very thing that we are overcompensating for. Or sometimes, into something even worse. This may apply to nearly every facet of life, by the way, not just shipping. Finding a happy medium in how we portray our fictional relationships may help us to better understand relationships in real life, as well as how to navigate them. Neither fictional nor actual relationships can ever be perfect but they can always be better. To this understanding then I hope that I was able to give my own modest contribution, and if nothing else I hope we can connect on that.

This is my attempt at a re-submission due to some misunderstandings on the first attempt. I now know that there are different definitions of the word “ship”, but for the purposes of this article and to keep things simple I will use the definition of “a relationship that’s rushed and/or forced with no real development.” I hope you can understand as I do not know of any other single word to describe that concept. If you do, perhaps you can tell me. Also, fair warning, this is long form content (some 10 pages), if you like it but can’t read it all at once you can save it and come back to it over a period of time, or you can stop reading whenever you get tired of it and still discuss those parts of it with me that you have read. But keep it civil if you want a civil response.
With that, to qualify the title, no, Ezra and Sabine do NOT absolutely have to be a couple, but if they were to become one, it would NOT be a ship. Ezra and Sabine’s relationship has had years of development. Could they remain as simply friends? Yes, but ironically, it was their “friendship” that felt like more of a ship. It felt like the Ahsoka show, helmed by Dave Filoni, was going out of its way to tell us: “no, they’re not a couple, they’re just friends.”
I believe that Filoni made some very poor writing choices to stress something that didn’t really need to be stressed, such that it almost felt like he was in denial. The line “I love you like a sister” was never in Rebels, Filoni essentially had that retconned in, and like many I was put off by their (largely) emotionless reunion. Even if they were “just friends” I believe there would be a great deal more emotion displayed between two people that hadn’t seen each other in some ten years, especially when one of them was in a precarious situation when they parted. I also believe Ezra would be far more curious about Sabine being Force sensitive, perhaps even offering to help train her when she told him that her training hadn’t gone as well with Ahsoka. He did help to train her with the Darksaber, didn’t he? Why that never came up is another discussion, but for now, let’s focus on shipping.
In case you think I’m desperate to have them as a couple, no I’m not. I’m about the furthest thing from it. Like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers) I DESPISE shipping. Absolutely DESPISE it. With a flaming passion. Perhaps for this reason, and maybe some others, like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers), I’m generally wary of nearly all romance in fiction, and generally avoid it in my own work. The sad reality is that romance is perhaps the most abused genre in all of fiction, all throughout history. It has been so badly abused that many people, including myself for the longest time, have equated romance with shipping, though I’m slowly beginning to see that they are not the same thing, and one does not necessarily have to go with the other.
But sadly, many writers, through time immemorial, have not been able to separate them, going back into ancient times and perhaps even into pre-history, that is before languages were actually written down. Some of what is considered great literature; classics like Romeo and Juliet, are predicated on shipping, though at least the consequences of this “whirlwind romance” are shown to be fairly stark. Star Wars itself is no stranger to shipping, resulting in a very awkward incestuous kiss when Luke was shipped with Leia, then Leia was placed with Han and Lucas made Luke and Leia brother and sister, apparently having forgotten his original ship. Later Lucas essentially shipped Anakin and Padme, resulting in some of the most cringeworthy dialog in the history of film. Many fans of the Prequels even have been somewhat critical of Anakin’s portrayal, particularly in regards to the “romantic” scenes, with many describing them as “creepy”. Some have speculated that this was intentional, though personally I think it was just the result of bad writing on the part of George Lucas, and an impatience on his part for Anakin and Padme to become a couple, hence “shipping”.
One might wonder why this is so prevalent in fiction, and tragically, one does not have to look far. Fiction is merely a reflection of reality, therefore the reason that shipping is so common in our stories is that we fall so easily into it in real life. Indeed, entire cultures may be based around shipping, or at least very heavily wrapped up in it. Throughout history arranged marriages have been the norm, and the idea of marrying for “love” is something relatively new. To be fair, I’ve actually met people in arranged marriages who seemed to be fairly happy, but those same people were very open in telling me that many despise that aspect of their culture, and that it is quite normal for those in an arranged marriage to try to get out.
People might come together for “love” without marrying, but even then it often creates expectations that might turn into a burden. Even when a marriage is voluntary and for “love”, people are often left unsatisfied, such that today in the West the divorce rate is something like 50%. Happy, stable, long term relationships seem to be the exception across cultures and across the breadth and width of time. And yet pursuit of love and some kind of relationship seems to be the highest calling for many people, both in real life and in fiction. And it could be that the accumulated disgust is finally starting to boil over.
To be fair, this may not be the first time in history that the pendulum has shifted. You may recall that in Victorian times attitudes changed drastically, as compared to the previously bawdy Elizabethan times. Looking at a play from Shakespear, if you can understand the language, you’ll see all kinds of vulgar references, as well as what I believe are fairly sappy romances like in the aforementioned Romeo and Juliet, though I can’t say for certain whether Shakespear was actually endorsing that type of attitude towards “love” or presenting it as a cautionary tale, maybe even something to be ridiculed in some of his other plays.
But regardless, Victorians as you may well know had a very conservative attitude towards anything to do with romance, and would often avoid the subject in many places, or tread very carefully around it, as if walking on eggshells. It’s not that people stopped being romantic, in fiction or real life, but it was treated as something very serious and even dangerous, with many urges repressed or even suppressed entirely. This had all kinds of effects on society, both positive and negative. On the positive side, it reinforced the ideal of people being committed to their partners, and of marriage as a sacred institution rather than a “casual hookup” as was more common in Elizabethan times. Likewise it reinforced ideals of modesty and chastity, which may be coming back into vogue, though under different names. But just as there were positive aspects to these attitudes, so were there negative ones.
Just because the urges I described were repressed did not mean that they disappeared. In fact, they often morphed into things that many would consider “unhealthy”. From one statistic that I saw, in Victorian times about one in every 60 houses was a brothel, with the modern rate being closer to one in 6000. Additionally, the rights of women were often repressed, such that they could not fully express themselves and find their own identity, and path in life, as individuals. Just as Elizabethan ideals gave way to Victorian ones, so did the Victorian ideals gradually begin to erode.
Perhaps it began with the Jazz Age of the 1920’s (the “Roaring Twenties”), or with the increased interconnectivity of people traveling to different parts of the world during World War I, not to mention the cynicism that pervaded throughout the West in response to failed old ideals leading to the deadliest war in history up to that point, but many Victorian ideals began to be seen as a joke, and even resented for their “oppression”, which to be fair was not entirely unjustified. But regardless, people gradually, and at times not so gradually, became more and more “liberated” and promiscuous. This culminated in the Sexual Revolution in the late 1960’s, when what had previously been seen as a vice and even a sin was now seen as not only “normal” but as a healthy form of expression, a virtue even. And just as these ideas were embraced in real life, so too were they reflected in our films, TV shows, and other media, often to the consternation of older people and institutions, like the Vatican. The Catholic Church even went so far as to “ban” certain films, that is to declare them immoral for good Catholics to watch. Many of the films that were banned back then, or at least controversial, like The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman, are fairly tame by today’s standards.
It continued through the 70’s, at times warming and at times cooling through the rest of the century, until you could argue it reached a kind of crescendo in the early 21st century with the advent of so-called “dark romance” and the publication of books like Fifty Shades of Grey. (Ironically, many of the themes within this “dark romance” can trace their roots back to the Victorian era, yet another indication that repressing urges without addressing them often doesn’t work out as one might hope.) But as happens all too often, just as something reaches peak popularity is when it begins to go out of style, and that is what we may be experiencing right now. As weird as it may sound, we may actually have come full circle and may be on the cusp of a “New Victorian Age” (complete with “dark romance”, even). Web sites like Porn Hub and OnlyFans, as well as other similar sites, may be the new “brothels”, and what was once openly celebrated may be going underground, to an extent. The effects of this on society have been interesting to say the least, and at times I would even say bizarre.
Whilst many younger people seem content with these changes, many older people are concerned. I’ve seen a number of books, films, and other media receive positive reviews for example based specifically on their lack of romance. Many of these books/films, etc. fall into the “young adult” category, meaning that it is young adults obviously who mostly consume them. At the same time I’ve heard a number of older people, mostly boomers and Gen-Xers, criticize these same books/films for their lack of romance. Even some older millennials seem upset by the changes, as perhaps evidenced by Jennifer Lawrence’s latest film No Hard Feelings (though to be fair that film may be lampooning the older generation’s frustration as well as the younger generation’s frigidity). So just as in the past older people were concerned about the promiscuity of the youth, now it actually appears that many older people are concerned about the youth’s lack of promiscuity.
Who could have seen that coming? But to be fair, the younger generation hasn’t gone completely frigid. As stated earlier, much of the promiscuity has gone “underground”, or online, which many would argue is not very healthy as it might undermine actual relationships, whether they are romantic in nature or simple friendships. And speaking of that, friendships within stories nowadays often aren’t portrayed in a very authentic or compelling manner, perhaps because in ditching romance modern writers haven’t quite yet learned how to replace it with something else. In other words, the “New Victorian Age” may not be an exact repeat of the previous one, but may have its own twists and turns, for better and for worse.
This may all essentially be a manifestation of the Human Condition, in that we just can’t seem to find a happy medium, neither in real life nor in fiction. Thus we keep swinging from one extreme to the other, apparently getting wilder with each swing.
So where does all this leave us? What is it that we really want in our lives, and in our stories? Especially in regards to relationships? I think at some level we all want to see good and healthy relationships between people and/or characters, whether romantic or platonic. I believe at some point we would like to see good examples of both friendship and romance, and I would argue that the best examples of romance have them combined. Even a toxic relationship, if well portrayed or documented, can be instructive and serve as a good example of what to avoid in our lives that we might be happier and relate better to each other. A good relationship, by contrast, can give us something to aspire to and inspire us to not only look for the right kind of person to complement our lives, but to make ourselves worthy of that person. And here I’ll add that I’m perfectly aware that in real life (and thus in fiction) relationships can be very complicated and heavily nuanced, with elements of both “good” and “bad” in them. Just as people change over time so can the relationships between them change, at times getting better and at times worse, sometimes breaking entirely and sometimes growing stronger. Relationships can have just as many layers and dimensions as characters, more even perhaps, and a skilled writer should be able to reflect this complexity. At other times a relationship can be fairly straightforward, simplicity sometimes being the best approach. But regardless, the audience should be able to relate and identify with what they are seeing, such that hopefully they can incorporate the lessons from it in their own lives.
Where can we find good examples of relationships to study? There may be a number of them in the real world, but the trouble with studying real world relationships is that they’re often much more complicated than fictional ones (just as real people are more complicated than fictional characters), and for many of them it is almost impossible to know all the details and nuances because they are often kept private, understandably so, and even if they aren’t it can still be difficult, due to unique circumstances, to see how to relate them to our own lives. Additionally there may be far more disagreement about a real life situation than a fictional one, with many more points of view. To keep things simple, for the purpose of this article I would like to focus on fictional relationships. (And fair warning, there will be some spoilers.)
One of the best places to look, I would argue, would be the films of Hayao Miyazaki. (And this is pretty significant to Star Wars as you will see in a bit.) A film of his that stands out to me the most is Princess Mononoke. Like many of Miyazaki’s films it has elements of romance, and yet subverts them in a way that makes complete sense and feels very genuine, without taking away from any of the accompanying charm. It starts with two young people, San and Ashitaka, and as soon as they encounter each other there is a kind of expectation of romance. This may be inevitable to some degree when you have a man and a woman of about the same age encounter each other in a story, especially if they happen to be adolescents. The expectation may not be inherently bad, and Miyazaki does play with it. Both characters are thrust into dangerous situations, at various points end up saving each other’s lives, and at a certain point I think it is obvious that they have feelings for each other. I was certain that at the end of the film, they would be together, and if things had gone that way, it would make complete sense. Instead, they go in different directions, but remain good friends, and considering their backgrounds and differing worldviews, this ends up making even more sense to the story.
Essentially, Miyazaki could have gone for the more conventional, tried and true “love conquers all” narrative, where the characters’ feelings for each other would negate everything that comes between them, they would somehow find a common ground in spite of their differences, the romance would not only take over the narrative but somehow also solve all the problems in the story, and then the couple would live “happily ever after”. Such an approach is not inherently bad or wrong, and is fairly common in Western media and storytelling. We can see it in films like Fern Gully, and more recently James Cameron’s Avatar, both of which have been compared to Princess Mononoke. As you can probably guess, the problem is that at a certain point such a narrative can become fairly simplistic, and lack nuance.
Miyazaki’s films, by contrast, are very heavily nuanced, and are anything but simplistic. In Princess Mononoke the characters San and Ashitaka don’t help each other simply because they are “in love”, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of how they might feel about each other. Yes, romantic feelings are certainly alluded to, but they are not essential to the plot, for it could have worked just as well without any romantic allusions. And ironically, this makes those allusions even more valid, even if they are unrequited. How so?
Consider that if love is essential to a given narrative, is it not relegated to being nothing more than a plot device? Again, this is quite common in Western media and storytelling, and is not inherently bad or wrong, but when it becomes a trope or cliche, I believe it is the essence of where shipping comes from. Many storytellers get caught up in this, usually without realizing it, and while a story can still work even with shipping, I believe that it usually works that much better without it.
This extends not only to Miyazaki’s handling of romance but also to other things like environmentalism, the conflict between man and nature, and the contrasting ideals of human progress vs. preserving the natural order. Movies like Fern Gully and Avatar, as already mentioned, handle these themes in a fairly simplistic and I would even say hamfisted manner, whereby all progress and technology is shown as being inherently “bad” and in service to “evil”, while everything that’s “natural” is shown to be inherently “good”. Even our notions of good and evil, and right vs. wrong, are challenged by Miyazaki, with nearly all of his characters having complex motives and multiple dimensions to them, as well as understandable reasons for doing the things that they do. Rarely can any one of his characters be branded as a simple “villain”, and rarely is any one individual the source of conflict in his stories, again in contrast to most Western narratives.
I’ll reiterate once more, a simple, straightforward narrative is not inherently a bad thing, whether the themes being dealt with are romantic or anything else. Sometimes it is in fact the best approach. But the best stories in my opinion are usually the most nuanced, that challenge our notions of what we believe to be true, and that force us to think about what we do with our lives and what we could do differently. To that end Miyazaki introduces all manner of themes and motifs within his films that are familiar to us but shows them in a light most of us might not have considered, thus giving more dimension to our understanding of things.
“How is any of this related to Star Wars?” you might ask. It is quite related, and you don’t even have to look all that closely to see it. A very influential figure within Star Wars was very heavily inspired by the works of Miyazaki, and that figure is Dave Filoni.
This video shows the connections in some detail:
https://youtu.be/Q_4L0BbSpHo?si=04jDo6qFCnZT135w
But to summarize if you’ve seen any of Miyazaki’s films, especially Princess Mononoke, I think the callbacks in Filoni’s work will be all too obvious, especially in Star Wars Rebels. Some of the scenes in Filoni’s work look like they were taken directly from Miyazki’s films, and many of the same themes and motifs often come up. The relationship between San and Ashitaka I would argue is very similar to the relationship between Ezra and Sabine, and not just because both couples rode wolves together.
Incidentally, Dave Filoni was also heavily involved in Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I would also argue was at least to some degree inspired if not by Miyazaki then by Japanese anime in general. The relationship between Aang and Katara was developed with great care and was allowed to build very slowly, as opposed to simply shipping them. Likewise other characters very gradually developed as individuals and in their relationships, at times stumbling as they did so, and making mistakes, before finding their way back to the right path.
All of this is in stark contrast to George Lucas, whose character development is often very rushed at best, and at times some might say almost non-existent. So essentially, even though Lucas has said that Filoni has been “like a son” to him, and I believe referred to Filoni as his “padawan”, I would argue that Filoni is ultimately as much a student of Miyazaki as he is of Lucas.
Again, you might ask, “What does all this mean for Star Wars?” It means a great many things. It means that Dave Filoni has taken Miyazaki’s lessons to heart, and can handle things like romance, as well as other kinds of relationships, quite well most of the time. Like Miyazaki he can play with romance, tease the audience with it at times even, leave the romance unrequited, and yet still have it feel satisfying. A prime example of this is the love triangle that Ahsoka was involved in with the young Separatist Senator, Lux Bonteri, and Steela Gerrera. As wary as I am of romance and as much as I despise shipping, love triangles I normally despise even more, but this one seemed to actually work. It never took over the main story, and even though Ahsoka’s feelings were ultimately not reciprocated, she still learned from the experience, and grew and developed further as a character because of it. The other characters involved in this triangle also grew and developed from their involvement, though unfortunately not all of them made it. All in all it was a good bit of storytelling and gave the audience something to consider.
When a relationship in one of Filoni’s stories does bloom into a full blown romance he also generally handles it quite well. For one Filoni is sparing with actual romance, so that when it does occur, it can be that much more appreciated. And rather than rushing or shipping it, Filoni normally takes his time to build it up. An example of this is the relationship between Kanan and Hera. Some might argue that this is perhaps the best developed romance in all of Star Wars, at least in Canon. Built up over four seasons, at times it wasn’t certain whether it was a romance or a friendship, or perhaps even a professional partnership. Perhaps even the characters themselves were not certain, though it was hinted all throughout the narrative that something was going on. To this day I don’t believe anyone can say definitively when it became an actual romance, and I believe Filoni did this intentionally because he wanted to be subtle, rather than making things too obvious and having the romance take over the narrative, as it usually does. When it finally did become obvious as to what was happening, it felt very much earned, in a way that is seldom accomplished in other works of fiction, including Star Wars.
The relationship between Ezra and Sabine was also fairly well written, for the most part anyway, at least in Star Wars Rebels. Ezra was almost immediately smitten with Sabine, but being a young teenage boy, it was understandable that he would feel that way about an attractive girl. Over time he learned to see her more respectfully, as a colleague and even as part of his adopted family, not just as a pretty face. Sabine for her part found Ezra annoying at first (c’mon, what teenage boy isn’t?), but as he matured and she found out more about him she came to understand and respect him more, and see him as a friend and almost a brother, with there being potential for something more.
There were times when the relationship could have been better written, like in the episode “Blood Sisters”, where Ezra was written to be a bit too immature to make Sabine look wiser. But overall, the bond between them developed fairly well; both saved one another at various times, and took risks and made sacrifices for each other’s sake. Both reassured and comforted the other when they needed it, and it was endearing to hear their banter when they became more familiar and trusting of each other.
So why then was I so disappointed in how they were portrayed in the Ahsoka show? The thing is, after how well their relationship was built up in Rebels, as I’ve already mentioned it was strange to see how lackluster and uninspired their reunion was.
Within the Ahsoka show itself Sabine was shown to be almost obsessed with finding Ezra, living in what used to be his home, watching a recording of him over and over again, and calling out his name as she woke up in the middle of the night. She even risked bringing Thrawn back into the Galaxy, which ultimately happened, just so she could see Ezra again. After all that, when she finally does encounter him, her reaction seems fairly casual, as does his, as if they’ve been apart for no more than a week, rather than 10 years. Not too much happens between them afterwards either. Like I said Ezra does not appear all that curious about what happened with Sabine, how she found him, and how it was that she was now Force sensitive. Sabine likewise did not seem curious about what had happened with Ezra, and how he had gotten away from Thrawn. And with Ezra rescued and returned home, suddenly it didn’t seem as though Sabine was all that interested in him anymore, nor he all that concerned with her, though they were just as far apart as they had been at the start of the show. To be completely honest it made me wonder what the point of the whole show was. Were they just working to set up Thrawn’s return to the Galaxy? As some have said, Ezra felt like nothing more than a Macguffin in the show. Was Sabine and Ahsoka’s search for him just a plot device?
Considering how skillfully Dave Filoni had written his stories in the past, what happened in this latest project of his does not make much sense. Was he so concerned about “shipping” and so desperate to avoid it that he inadvertently “shipped” them in the other direction? Was there some sort of external pressure on him about how to write this story to have more of an appeal to “modern audiences”? Maybe some combination of those factors?
And here I’ll add that when I say “modern audiences” I don’t mean that in a contemptuous sense, though you may think I do. If there is any contempt on my part it is for those in charge of telling our stories, or those in charge of those telling our stories, who do not seem to grasp these basic truths. The truth is that audiences at their core don’t really change throughout the ages, only superficially so. Trends come and go but certain truths and ideals are eternal, and universal. How people relate to each other fundamentally does not change, whether they are friends, or more than friends. And deep down, I believe everyone (or nearly everyone at least) wants the same things. Nearly everyone at some point wants some kind of a connection with another human being, to know that they are not alone in the world, and to know that there is someone else who sees and understands things as they do. While this desire can certainly lead to abuse, and absolutely has, it is still innate to us and is not inherently wrong. Finding ways of connecting and relating to other people is one of the great challenges of life, but many would argue it is the most worthwhile of challenges. It may be the whole point of life if you think about it. As complex as it may be, many would argue it is what makes life worth living, and likewise makes for the best stories. Just as it may be the whole point of life many would say that is what most stories are about at their core: people trying to relate to one another.
Sadly, just as in real life, most stories unfortunately don’t quite get it, and the Ahsoka show in my opinion was an example of this, made all the sadder by the fact that Dave Filoni had done quite well with these characters up to that point. We may never know for certain what exactly went wrong and why, or if it can ever be “fixed” at this point, but I can’t help but feel curious. Maybe in the future Filoni will find a way to make it make sense, but I’m not sure how. And to be completely honest I don’t feel quite as enthusiastic to find out as I used to.
Also for the record I would like to add here that there are other factors that put me off from the show, such as Sabine’s Force sensitivity, that came about without much build up. But in this article I specifically wanted to focus on shipping because there seems to be so much misunderstanding around it.
I hope that I was able to clarify some, if not most of this misunderstanding, so that people could better appreciate what shipping is, where it comes from, as well as what it isn’t. Many people today are understandably sick of shipping characters, myself included. But I hope people realize that in overcompensating for something, we often come back around into the very thing that we are overcompensating for. Or sometimes, into something even worse. This may apply to nearly every facet of life, by the way, not just shipping. Finding a happy medium in how we portray our fictional relationships may help us to better understand relationships in real life, as well as how to navigate them. Neither fictional nor actual relationships can ever be perfect but they can always be better. To this understanding then I hope that I was able to give my own modest contribution, and if nothing else I hope we can connect on that.

This is my attempt at a re-submission due to some misunderstandings on the first attempt. I now know that there are different definitions of the word “ship”, but for the purposes of this article and to keep things simple I will use the definition of “a relationship that’s rushed and/or forced with no real development.” I hope you can understand as I do not know of any other single word to describe that concept. If you do, perhaps you can tell me. Also, fair warning, this is long form content (some 10 pages), if you like it but can’t read it all at once you can save it and come back to it over a period of time, or you can stop reading whenever you get tired of it and still discuss those parts of it with me that you have read. But keep it civil if you want a civil response.
With that, to qualify the title, no, Ezra and Sabine do NOT absolutely have to be a couple, but if they were to become one, it would NOT be a ship. Ezra and Sabine’s relationship has had years of development. Could they remain as simply friends? Yes, but ironically, it was their “friendship” that felt like more of a ship. It felt like the Ahsoka show, helmed by Dave Filoni, was going out of its way to tell us: “no, they’re not a couple, they’re just friends.”
I believe that Filoni made some very poor writing choices to stress something that didn’t really need to be stressed, such that it almost felt like he was in denial. The line “I love you like a sister” was never in Rebels, Filoni essentially had that retconned in, and like many I was put off by their (largely) emotionless reunion. Even if they were “just friends” I believe there would be a great deal more emotion displayed between two people that hadn’t seen each other in some ten years, especially when one of them was in a precarious situation when they parted. I also believe Ezra would be far more curious about Sabine being Force sensitive, perhaps even offering to help train her when she told him that her training hadn’t gone as well with Ahsoka. He did help to train her with the Darksaber, didn’t he? Why that never came up is another discussion, but for now, let’s focus on shipping.
In case you think I’m desperate to have them as a couple, no I’m not. I’m about the furthest thing from it. Like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers) I DESPISE shipping. Absolutely DESPISE it. With a flaming passion. Perhaps for this reason, and maybe some others, like many millennials and Gen-Z’ers (and perhaps some Gen-Xers and boomers), I’m generally wary of nearly all romance in fiction, and generally avoid it in my own work. The sad reality is that romance is perhaps the most abused genre in all of fiction, all throughout history. It has been so badly abused that many people, including myself for the longest time, have equated romance with shipping, though I’m slowly beginning to see that they are not the same thing, and one does not necessarily have to go with the other.
But sadly, many writers, through time immemorial, have not been able to separate them, going back into ancient times and perhaps even into pre-history, that is before languages were actually written down. Some of what is considered great literature; classics like Romeo and Juliet, are predicated on shipping, though at least the consequences of this “whirlwind romance” are shown to be fairly stark. Star Wars itself is no stranger to shipping, resulting in a very awkward incestuous kiss when Luke was shipped with Leia, then Leia was placed with Han and Lucas made Luke and Leia brother and sister, apparently having forgotten his original ship. Later Lucas essentially shipped Anakin and Padme, resulting in some of the most cringeworthy dialog in the history of film. Many fans of the Prequels even have been somewhat critical of Anakin’s portrayal, particularly in regards to the “romantic” scenes, with many describing them as “creepy”. Some have speculated that this was intentional, though personally I think it was just the result of bad writing on the part of George Lucas, and an impatience on his part for Anakin and Padme to become a couple, hence “shipping”.
One might wonder why this is so prevalent in fiction, and tragically, one does not have to look far. Fiction is merely a reflection of reality, therefore the reason that shipping is so common in our stories is that we fall so easily into it in real life. Indeed, entire cultures may be based around shipping, or at least very heavily wrapped up in it. Throughout history arranged marriages have been the norm, and the idea of marrying for “love” is something relatively new. To be fair, I’ve actually met people in arranged marriages who seemed to be fairly happy, but those same people were very open in telling me that many despise that aspect of their culture, and that it is quite normal for those in an arranged marriage to try to get out.
People might come together for “love” without marrying, but even then it often creates expectations that might turn into a burden. Even when a marriage is voluntary and for “love”, people are often left unsatisfied, such that today in the West the divorce rate is something like 50%. Happy, stable, long term relationships seem to be the exception across cultures and across the breadth and width of time. And yet pursuit of love and some kind of relationship seems to be the highest calling for many people, both in real life and in fiction. And it could be that the accumulated disgust is finally starting to boil over.
To be fair, this may not be the first time in history that the pendulum has shifted. You may recall that in Victorian times attitudes changed drastically, as compared to the previously bawdy Elizabethan times. Looking at a play from Shakespear, if you can understand the language, you’ll see all kinds of vulgar references, as well as what I believe are fairly sappy romances like in the aforementioned Romeo and Juliet, though I can’t say for certain whether Shakespear was actually endorsing that type of attitude towards “love” or presenting it as a cautionary tale, maybe even something to be ridiculed in some of his other plays.
But regardless, Victorians as you may well know had a very conservative attitude towards anything to do with romance, and would often avoid the subject in many places, or tread very carefully around it, as if walking on eggshells. It’s not that people stopped being romantic, in fiction or real life, but it was treated as something very serious and even dangerous, with many urges repressed or even suppressed entirely. This had all kinds of effects on society, both positive and negative. On the positive side, it reinforced the ideal of people being committed to their partners, and of marriage as a sacred institution rather than a “casual hookup” as was more common in Elizabethan times. Likewise it reinforced ideals of modesty and chastity, which may be coming back into vogue, though under different names. But just as there were positive aspects to these attitudes, so were there negative ones.
Just because the urges I described were repressed did not mean that they disappeared. In fact, they often morphed into things that many would consider “unhealthy”. From one statistic that I saw, in Victorian times about one in every 60 houses was a brothel, with the modern rate being closer to one in 6000. Additionally, the rights of women were often repressed, such that they could not fully express themselves and find their own identity, and path in life, as individuals. Just as Elizabethan ideals gave way to Victorian ones, so did the Victorian ideals gradually begin to erode.
Perhaps it began with the Jazz Age of the 1920’s (the “Roaring Twenties”), or with the increased interconnectivity of people traveling to different parts of the world during World War I, not to mention the cynicism that pervaded throughout the West in response to failed old ideals leading to the deadliest war in history up to that point, but many Victorian ideals began to be seen as a joke, and even resented for their “oppression”, which to be fair was not entirely unjustified. But regardless, people gradually, and at times not so gradually, became more and more “liberated” and promiscuous. This culminated in the Sexual Revolution in the late 1960’s, when what had previously been seen as a vice and even a sin was now seen as not only “normal” but as a healthy form of expression, a virtue even. And just as these ideas were embraced in real life, so too were they reflected in our films, TV shows, and other media, often to the consternation of older people and institutions, like the Vatican. The Catholic Church even went so far as to “ban” certain films, that is to declare them immoral for good Catholics to watch. Many of the films that were banned back then, or at least controversial, like The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman, are fairly tame by today’s standards.
It continued through the 70’s, at times warming and at times cooling through the rest of the century, until you could argue it reached a kind of crescendo in the early 21st century with the advent of so-called “dark romance” and the publication of books like Fifty Shades of Grey. (Ironically, many of the themes within this “dark romance” can trace their roots back to the Victorian era, yet another indication that repressing urges without addressing them often doesn’t work out as one might hope.) But as happens all too often, just as something reaches peak popularity is when it begins to go out of style, and that is what we may be experiencing right now. As weird as it may sound, we may actually have come full circle and may be on the cusp of a “New Victorian Age” (complete with “dark romance”, even). Web sites like Porn Hub and OnlyFans, as well as other similar sites, may be the new “brothels”, and what was once openly celebrated may be going underground, to an extent. The effects of this on society have been interesting to say the least, and at times I would even say bizarre.
Whilst many younger people seem content with these changes, many older people are concerned. I’ve seen a number of books, films, and other media receive positive reviews for example based specifically on their lack of romance. Many of these books/films, etc. fall into the “young adult” category, meaning that it is young adults obviously who mostly consume them. At the same time I’ve heard a number of older people, mostly boomers and Gen-Xers, criticize these same books/films for their lack of romance. Even some older millennials seem upset by the changes, as perhaps evidenced by Jennifer Lawrence’s latest film No Hard Feelings (though to be fair that film may be lampooning the older generation’s frustration as well as the younger generation’s frigidity). So just as in the past older people were concerned about the promiscuity of the youth, now it actually appears that many older people are concerned about the youth’s lack of promiscuity.
Who could have seen that coming? But to be fair, the younger generation hasn’t gone completely frigid. As stated earlier, much of the promiscuity has gone “underground”, or online, which many would argue is not very healthy as it might undermine actual relationships, whether they are romantic in nature or simple friendships. And speaking of that, friendships within stories nowadays often aren’t portrayed in a very authentic or compelling manner, perhaps because in ditching romance modern writers haven’t quite yet learned how to replace it with something else. In other words, the “New Victorian Age” may not be an exact repeat of the previous one, but may have its own twists and turns, for better and for worse.
This may all essentially be a manifestation of the Human Condition, in that we just can’t seem to find a happy medium, neither in real life nor in fiction. Thus we keep swinging from one extreme to the other, apparently getting wilder with each swing.
So where does all this leave us? What is it that we really want in our lives, and in our stories? Especially in regards to relationships? I think at some level we all want to see good and healthy relationships between people and/or characters, whether romantic or platonic. I believe at some point we would like to see good examples of both friendship and romance, and I would argue that the best examples of romance have them combined. Even a toxic relationship, if well portrayed or documented, can be instructive and serve as a good example of what to avoid in our lives that we might be happier and relate better to each other. A good relationship, by contrast, can give us something to aspire to and inspire us to not only look for the right kind of person to complement our lives, but to make ourselves worthy of that person. And here I’ll add that I’m perfectly aware that in real life (and thus in fiction) relationships can be very complicated and heavily nuanced, with elements of both “good” and “bad” in them. Just as people change over time so can the relationships between them change, at times getting better and at times worse, sometimes breaking entirely and sometimes growing stronger. Relationships can have just as many layers and dimensions as characters, more even perhaps, and a skilled writer should be able to reflect this complexity. At other times a relationship can be fairly straightforward, simplicity sometimes being the best approach. But regardless, the audience should be able to relate and identify with what they are seeing, such that hopefully they can incorporate the lessons from it in their own lives.
Where can we find good examples of relationships to study? There may be a number of them in the real world, but the trouble with studying real world relationships is that they’re often much more complicated than fictional ones (just as real people are more complicated than fictional characters), and for many of them it is almost impossible to know all the details and nuances because they are often kept private, understandably so, and even if they aren’t it can still be difficult, due to unique circumstances, to see how to relate them to our own lives. Additionally there may be far more disagreement about a real life situation than a fictional one, with many more points of view. To keep things simple, for the purpose of this article I would like to focus on fictional relationships. (And fair warning, there will be some spoilers.)
One of the best places to look, I would argue, would be the films of Hayao Miyazaki. (And this is pretty significant to Star Wars as you will see in a bit.) A film of his that stands out to me the most is Princess Mononoke. Like many of Miyazaki’s films it has elements of romance, and yet subverts them in a way that makes complete sense and feels very genuine, without taking away from any of the accompanying charm. It starts with two young people, San and Ashitaka, and as soon as they encounter each other there is a kind of expectation of romance. This may be inevitable to some degree when you have a man and a woman of about the same age encounter each other in a story, especially if they happen to be adolescents. The expectation may not be inherently bad, and Miyazaki does play with it. Both characters are thrust into dangerous situations, at various points end up saving each other’s lives, and at a certain point I think it is obvious that they have feelings for each other. I was certain that at the end of the film, they would be together, and if things had gone that way, it would make complete sense. Instead, they go in different directions, but remain good friends, and considering their backgrounds and differing worldviews, this ends up making even more sense to the story.
Essentially, Miyazaki could have gone for the more conventional, tried and true “love conquers all” narrative, where the characters’ feelings for each other would negate everything that comes between them, they would somehow find a common ground in spite of their differences, the romance would not only take over the narrative but somehow also solve all the problems in the story, and then the couple would live “happily ever after”. Such an approach is not inherently bad or wrong, and is fairly common in Western media and storytelling. We can see it in films like Fern Gully, and more recently James Cameron’s Avatar, both of which have been compared to Princess Mononoke. As you can probably guess, the problem is that at a certain point such a narrative can become fairly simplistic, and lack nuance.
Miyazaki’s films, by contrast, are very heavily nuanced, and are anything but simplistic. In Princess Mononoke the characters San and Ashitaka don’t help each other simply because they are “in love”, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of how they might feel about each other. Yes, romantic feelings are certainly alluded to, but they are not essential to the plot, for it could have worked just as well without any romantic allusions. And ironically, this makes those allusions even more valid, even if they are unrequited. How so?
Consider that if love is essential to a given narrative, is it not relegated to being nothing more than a plot device? Again, this is quite common in Western media and storytelling, and is not inherently bad or wrong, but when it becomes a trope or cliche, I believe it is the essence of where shipping comes from. Many storytellers get caught up in this, usually without realizing it, and while a story can still work even with shipping, I believe that it usually works that much better without it.
This extends not only to Miyazaki’s handling of romance but also to other things like environmentalism, the conflict between man and nature, and the contrasting ideals of human progress vs. preserving the natural order. Movies like Fern Gully and Avatar, as already mentioned, handle these themes in a fairly simplistic and I would even say hamfisted manner, whereby all progress and technology is shown as being inherently “bad” and in service to “evil”, while everything that’s “natural” is shown to be inherently “good”. Even our notions of good and evil, and right vs. wrong, are challenged by Miyazaki, with nearly all of his characters having complex motives and multiple dimensions to them, as well as understandable reasons for doing the things that they do. Rarely can any one of his characters be branded as a simple “villain”, and rarely is any one individual the source of conflict in his stories, again in contrast to most Western narratives.
I’ll reiterate once more, a simple, straightforward narrative is not inherently a bad thing, whether the themes being dealt with are romantic or anything else. Sometimes it is in fact the best approach. But the best stories in my opinion are usually the most nuanced, that challenge our notions of what we believe to be true, and that force us to think about what we do with our lives and what we could do differently. To that end Miyazaki introduces all manner of themes and motifs within his films that are familiar to us but shows them in a light most of us might not have considered, thus giving more dimension to our understanding of things.
“How is any of this related to Star Wars?” you might ask. It is quite related, and you don’t even have to look all that closely to see it. A very influential figure within Star Wars was very heavily inspired by the works of Miyazaki, and that figure is Dave Filoni.
This video shows the connections in some detail:
https://youtu.be/Q_4L0BbSpHo?si=04jDo6qFCnZT135w
But to summarize if you’ve seen any of Miyazaki’s films, especially Princess Mononoke, I think the callbacks in Filoni’s work will be all too obvious, especially in Star Wars Rebels. Some of the scenes in Filoni’s work look like they were taken directly from Miyazki’s films, and many of the same themes and motifs often come up. The relationship between San and Ashitaka I would argue is very similar to the relationship between Ezra and Sabine, and not just because both couples rode wolves together.
Incidentally, Dave Filoni was also heavily involved in Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I would also argue was at least to some degree inspired if not by Miyazaki then by Japanese anime in general. The relationship between Aang and Katara was developed with great care and was allowed to build very slowly, as opposed to simply shipping them. Likewise other characters very gradually developed as individuals and in their relationships, at times stumbling as they did so, and making mistakes, before finding their way back to the right path.
All of this is in stark contrast to George Lucas, whose character development is often very rushed at best, and at times some might say almost non-existent. So essentially, even though Lucas has said that Filoni has been “like a son” to him, and I believe referred to Filoni as his “padawan”, I would argue that Filoni is ultimately as much a student of Miyazaki as he is of Lucas.
Again, you might ask, “What does all this mean for Star Wars?” It means a great many things. It means that Dave Filoni has taken Miyazaki’s lessons to heart, and can handle things like romance, as well as other kinds of relationships, quite well most of the time. Like Miyazaki he can play with romance, tease the audience with it at times even, leave the romance unrequited, and yet still have it feel satisfying. A prime example of this is the love triangle that Ahsoka was involved in with the young Separatist Senator, Lux Bonteri, and Steela Gerrera. As wary as I am of romance and as much as I despise shipping, love triangles I normally despise even more, but this one seemed to actually work. It never took over the main story, and even though Ahsoka’s feelings were ultimately not reciprocated, she still learned from the experience, and grew and developed further as a character because of it. The other characters involved in this triangle also grew and developed from their involvement, though unfortunately not all of them made it. All in all it was a good bit of storytelling and gave the audience something to consider.
When a relationship in one of Filoni’s stories does bloom into a full blown romance he also generally handles it quite well. For one Filoni is sparing with actual romance, so that when it does occur, it can be that much more appreciated. And rather than rushing or shipping it, Filoni normally takes his time to build it up. An example of this is the relationship between Kanan and Hera. Some might argue that this is perhaps the best developed romance in all of Star Wars, at least in Canon. Built up over four seasons, at times it wasn’t certain whether it was a romance or a friendship, or perhaps even a professional partnership. Perhaps even the characters themselves were not certain, though it was hinted all throughout the narrative that something was going on. To this day I don’t believe anyone can say definitively when it became an actual romance, and I believe Filoni did this intentionally because he wanted to be subtle, rather than making things too obvious and having the romance take over the narrative, as it usually does. When it finally did become obvious as to what was happening, it felt very much earned, in a way that is seldom accomplished in other works of fiction, including Star Wars.
The relationship between Ezra and Sabine was also fairly well written, for the most part anyway, at least in Star Wars Rebels. Ezra was almost immediately smitten with Sabine, but being a young teenage boy, it was understandable that he would feel that way about an attractive girl. Over time he learned to see her more respectfully, as a colleague and even as part of his adopted family, not just as a pretty face. Sabine for her part found Ezra annoying at first (c’mon, what teenage boy isn’t?), but as he matured and she found out more about him she came to understand and respect him more, and see him as a friend and almost a brother, with there being potential for something more.
There were times when the relationship could have been better written, like in the episode “Blood Sisters”, where Ezra was written to be a bit too immature to make Sabine look wiser. But overall, the bond between them developed fairly well; both saved one another at various times, and took risks and made sacrifices for each other’s sake. Both reassured and comforted the other when they needed it, and it was endearing to hear their banter when they became more familiar and trusting of each other.
So why then was I so disappointed in how they were portrayed in the Ahsoka show? The thing is, after how well their relationship was built up in Rebels, as I’ve already mentioned it was strange to see how lackluster and uninspired their reunion was.
Within the Ahsoka show itself Sabine was shown to be almost obsessed with finding Ezra, living in what used to be his home, watching a recording of him over and over again, and calling out his name as she woke up in the middle of the night. She even risked bringing Thrawn back into the Galaxy, which ultimately happened, just so she could see Ezra again. After all that, when she finally does encounter him, her reaction seems fairly casual, as does his, as if they’ve been apart for no more than a week, rather than 10 years. Not too much happens between them afterwards either. Like I said Ezra does not appear all that curious about what happened with Sabine, how she found him, and how it was that she was now Force sensitive. Sabine likewise did not seem curious about what had happened with Ezra, and how he had gotten away from Thrawn. And with Ezra rescued and returned home, suddenly it didn’t seem as though Sabine was all that interested in him anymore, nor he all that concerned with her, though they were just as far apart as they had been at the start of the show. To be completely honest it made me wonder what the point of the whole show was. Were they just working to set up Thrawn’s return to the Galaxy? As some have said, Ezra felt like nothing more than a Macguffin in the show. Was Sabine and Ahsoka’s search for him just a plot device?
Considering how skillfully Dave Filoni had written his stories in the past, what happened in this latest project of his does not make much sense. Was he so concerned about “shipping” and so desperate to avoid it that he inadvertently “shipped” them in the other direction? Was there some sort of external pressure on him about how to write this story to have more of an appeal to “modern audiences”? Maybe some combination of those factors?
And here I’ll add that when I say “modern audiences” I don’t mean that in a contemptuous sense, though you may think I do. If there is any contempt on my part it is for those in charge of telling our stories, or those in charge of those telling our stories, who do not seem to grasp these basic truths. The truth is that audiences at their core don’t really change throughout the ages, only superficially so. Trends come and go but certain truths and ideals are eternal, and universal. How people relate to each other fundamentally does not change, whether they are friends, or more than friends. And deep down, I believe everyone (or nearly everyone at least) wants the same things. Nearly everyone at some point wants some kind of a connection with another human being, to know that they are not alone in the world, and to know that there is someone else who sees and understands things as they do. While this desire can certainly lead to abuse, and absolutely has, it is still innate to us and is not inherently wrong. Finding ways of connecting and relating to other people is one of the great challenges of life, but many would argue it is the most worthwhile of challenges. It may be the whole point of life if you think about it. As complex as it may be, many would argue it is what makes life worth living, and likewise makes for the best stories. Just as it may be the whole point of life many would say that is what most stories are about at their core: people trying to relate to one another.
Sadly, just as in real life, most stories unfortunately don’t quite get it, and the Ahsoka show in my opinion was an example of this, made all the sadder by the fact that Dave Filoni had done quite well with these characters up to that point. We may never know for certain what exactly went wrong and why, or if it can ever be “fixed” at this point, but I can’t help but feel curious. Maybe in the future Filoni will find a way to make it make sense, but I’m not sure how. And to be completely honest I don’t feel quite as enthusiastic to find out as I used to.
Also for the record I would like to add here that there are other factors that put me off from the show, such as Sabine’s Force sensitivity, that came about without much build up. But in this article I specifically wanted to focus on shipping because there seems to be so much misunderstanding around it.
I hope that I was able to clarify some, if not most of this misunderstanding, so that people could better appreciate what shipping is, where it comes from, as well as what it isn’t. Many people today are understandably sick of shipping characters, myself included. But I hope people realize that in overcompensating for something, we often come back around into the very thing that we are overcompensating for. Or sometimes, into something even worse. This may apply to nearly every facet of life, by the way, not just shipping. Finding a happy medium in how we portray our fictional relationships may help us to better understand relationships in real life, as well as how to navigate them. Neither fictional nor actual relationships can ever be perfect but they can always be better. To this understanding then I hope that I was able to give my own modest contribution, and if nothing else I hope we can connect on that.

To be honest, I wasn't sure that the Advice sub would let me post this there so I'm posting it here because it's so fucked up. And it didn't seem right for Let's Not Meet, either. But I do need advice, because I feel I'm losing my fucking mind.
So I (30F) have always been very close to my cousin (30F), let's call her Angela. Because we're the same age, our parents (my mom and her father are siblings) went through all the same stages with us and as such, we were more or less raised like siblings due to how much time our families spent together.
We even had homes in the country in the same township, which is where I think this happened. And I can't really tell my family this because it will make me sound legitimately crazy. And some part of me even doubts this memory, but at the same time I know in my heart that it's true. It's a complicated feeling, and this memory was brought to light last week when my suspicion I've had for years was more or less confirmed.
One winter, sixteen years ago, when Angela and I were both fourteen, both of our families were at our cottages, a twenty minute drive from each other. Angela and her little brother (my cousin, let's call him James) parents (my aunt and uncle) were going skiing one morning, and I wanted to go too. So I spent the night at their cottage, like I often did when we all went up north.
Angela's bedroom had two single beds in it, and James' room was down the hall. The whole house was open concept, so the hall from Angela's room to James' room did not have walls, but rather was bordered by two railings over which you could see down into the main floor, the open concept living and dining rooms.
James is four years younger than us, and when he was 10, he was such a typical little boy/little brother, it's almost cartoonish to look back on. Like, I'm talking *constantly* bothering us, putting a stink bomb on a remote control car that he would sneak into our rooms, trying to read Angela's diary when we weren't in her bedroom, just all the stuff. But never anything cruel or out of the ordinary or sinister, just a massive handful.
The basement of James and Angela's cottage was filled with storage and old toys, and sometimes (on the rare occasion) that we'd willingly play with James, we'd all go down to the basement and try to freak each other out. Anyway, one of the toys in the basement was your typical Raggedy-Ann doll from the 60s or something. I think it belonged to my uncle when he was a kid and then Angela when she was a baby. Her name was Trilly. I forget who named it. Anyway, I have vague memories of playing with it when we were much younger and pretending it was our third cousin or our little daughter. But since then she'd sat in storage in the basement.
But, what great nightmare material! Right?! A creepy, limp, smiling doll. So the night I stayed over, before we went skiing in the morning, James, Angela and I were up to our playing in the basement, and I remember we tried to freak James out by pretending Trilly was alive or something like that. Whatever. Game over, we all had dinner with the parents, then watched a movie as a family and went to bed. James to his room and Angela and me to Angela's room.
Now this is the thing. Angela and I still joke about this night, and she remembers it just like I do, which is why I sort of wrote off my hypothesis until last week. That night, in the middle of the night, I started tossing and turning. I woke up and could tell that Angela was stirring as well. One of us said to the other, "are you awake?" and the other said "yes," and we realized that we both couldn't sleep or were woken up by the same thing or were both just feeling restless. But then, at the other end of her room, Trilly was sitting in the fucking desk chair.
I think it was Angela who pointed it out. We saw a shadow, thinking it was a person, freaked out, and then relaxed briefly when we saw it was just the doll. But then we got freaked out all over again and were like, "why the FUCK is this FUCKING doll in your room!?!?", murderously standing up and going over to it to pick it up and throw it in James' room and pound the living Christ out of him.
We turn on all the lights, turn on the hall light, stomp down the hall into his room and turn on his lights, and see he's not in his bed. We then go downstairs (my aunt and uncle's room was on the main floor), Trilly still in Angela's hands, and hear my aunt and James in the washroom. Turns out James had been sick for the last few hours and my aunt had been up all night with him as he was throwing up in the washroom. And when we saw the scene we immediately could tell that James had nothing to do with Trilly. Like, it was just one of those really believable situations where we could tell James truly had no idea what was going on. We even felt bad for him. And, to top it off, when we told him the story in the morning it scared him so much that he didn't go into the basement for like a year. Anyway, it just seemed really sincere.
So Angela and I went back up to her room and we were like, "are we *sure* we didn't bring this up here last night? Are we sure? We must have." Anyway, while we were really freaked, we figured that it was explainable. We knew the doll obviously didn't walk itself upstairs like it was some horror movie. But, because we were fourteen and all for the drama (and I remember us having the "better safe than sorry" mindset) we called her dog upstairs (Bella, a poorly behaved black poodle). We started playing tug-of-war with Bella, using Trilly as the toy, and eventually Bella ripped her to shreds.
Anyway, funny memory, making the dog rip up the doll, we laughed and thought we were tough and cool, then we went back to bed.
The next morning, instead of all of us going skiing, it was just Me, Angela, and my Uncle, because James stayed home with my aunt on account of his stomach flu. But when we woke up, Angela was acting weird. Nothing too noteable, just really bizarrely quiet as she moved around her room to get her clothes out of her drawers and get changed. She didn't, like, acknowledge me in her room. I said something like "morning" when she didn't acknowledge me, and she looked at me and then turned back to her drawers and kept getting changed.
And she was looking around weirdly, I remember that too. Almost like she'd misplaced something, but a little more dazed than that. Just moving strangely. Then she went downstairs without saying anything to me at all. I thought maybe she was just super groggy... but it still felt really weird.
When I went downstairs, she was standing at the island in the kitchen buttering toast that my uncle had put in for us. I distinctly remember walking up beside her and the toaster, pulling a piece of toast out of it, putting it on the plate that had been set out for me, and when I dipped the knife into the container of butter, Angela smacked my hand away, hard, and looked at me and snapped, "what are you doing? Don't take things that aren't yours". I was shocked. It honestly felt like being struck in the face. She'd never spoken to me like that before, and even though we were like siblings, I still felt that kind of mortifying embarrassment you feel when someone calls you out on misbehaving, even though I wasn't doing anything wrong; but it *was* her family's butter and bread? I don't know. That's what I remember thinking. But it was awkward and weird and I just said, "um, what?" and then she didn't say anything, just kept buttering her toast, and I mumbled some apology.
The three of us then drove to the ski hill and, I kid you not, Angela and I didn't speak the whole way there. I had no idea what was up, but I didn't want to ask with her dad in the car.
Then when we got to the ski hill, we went skiing just the two of us and on the chairlift during the first run I mustered up the courage to say "Hey, did I do something wrong? I feel like you're really mad at me or something". And she turned to look at me and was confused. Not friendly, not warm, not reassuring, but confused. It was almost as if I was a stranger and she looked at me as if to say, "sorry, who are you? why are you talking to me?"
And she responded in a formal way: "Sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about". The distance in her voice was really eerie, and I started to think maybe this had to do with the doll incident the night before and either she was trying to extend the prank, and she was the one who had put the doll on the chair, OR she felt guilty that we ruined this family doll and she resented me for being a part of it. Anyway, when we got to the top of the hill, she skied down quickly and didn't wait for me to go back up again, and we ended up skiing separately.
I felt awkward and embarrassed like I'd done something wrong. I ended up skiing with my uncle who asked me what was up with us, and I just said I didn't know. Then after our day of skiing, he dropped me off at my family's cottage and continued on home with Angela.
For the rest of that whole school year (we were in ninth grade), Angela and I didn't really speak. It was really sad. We were like sisters before, but better because we weren't actually sisters, but cousins, and so we were like best friends that were related. Seriously, we were really close. And it really messed me up, I felt like she just ghosted me. I would text her and call her house but she was always "fine" or "with Jessica" (her best friend). I chalked it up to her just outgrowing me, and it really fucking sucked. But, to be honest, it was so jarring and such a stark shift that I was more confused than hurt. I talked to my mom about it and she explained to me how rough it can be to be a teenage girl.
But that following summer, we were up at our cottages again, and our family had a barbecue and invited over my aunt and uncle and Angela and James. I had seen Angela at family things a couple of times since and she would just kind of ignore me and spend the whole time texting, which is what I expected this time.
Sure enough, that's what happened for the first bit of the barbecue. But then when the food was ready, she came up beside me as we were dressing our hamburgers at the condiment table and said, "oh my god, remember that night we got Bella to ruin Trilly?" and I was so shocked by her friendly tone, by her acting as though she were picking up a conversation we just were having, that I just stared at her and said, "yeah, that was crazy". And she said, "yeah, so funny. Anyway, how've you been?" again, really different and formal. I almost couldn't get past how altered her tone was, like we'd never even met. In fact she seemed so sprightly and kind that I thought she was mocking me.
And our relationship since that barbecue carried on just like that. She started talking to me more, but I'd reference inside jokes or ways we used to be or things we used to do and she never really latched on to any of them. I was caught between thinking she'd outgrown me and thinking she was like embarrassed of our closeness before or something and was trying to move on. I talked to my mom about this, and again got the speech about how teenage girls can be really cruel/strange sometimes.
So until we were about 22, we were like that. Nice to each other, talking sometimes, not that close, and I learned to not try and act like we were all close or that we had been close. I talked to my friends about it too and they said it was normal for friendships to change like that. But something felt off about this. I started to honestly feel crazy for hanging on to this "before" memory of Angela so much.
Then when we were 22, we grew apart. This time, it was mutual and natural. I moved cities, and she got engaged and became a real estate agent and we just had nothing to talk about. It was gradual and I didn't notice it much. Which brings us to eight years later, just last week.
I was travelling in Iceland. I had to be there (very randomly) for a conference/workshop I was leading for work, and turned it into a vacation. Rented a car, decided I was going to drive across the island after the conference was over and stay on the east part and explore a bit.
Day four of my seven-day long road trip. It's mid-afternoon, I'm hungry. I've been driving for three hours and have come across no sign of civilization at all, and it was fifty miles to the next town. But then, voila! A little gas station/general store/cafe! Perfect!
Ah, fuck. I literally can't believe I'm writing this. It makes me sound fucking crazy. But here I go.
I park in the little three-car parking lot. I get out of my car, step onto the gravel, the sky is white, expansive, there are mountains everywhere around me, fields, sheep. The air is fresh. Seriously middle of nowhere. I walk up the wooden rickety steps and push open the door and hear the door chimes go. A man walks out from the back room and greets me, and the place is cute. There's a little handwritten menu above the cash register and I asked him in my pathetic Icelandic/English mix if I could have the gravlax toast. He's very friendly and kind and says yes, asks if I want a coffee, I say yes please, blah blah, he rings me up at the cash register, and I go and sit at the one table they have and wait for my food.
I look around - it's mostly a fishing supplies store with some general groceries. The man opens the door to the room from which he came, the kitchen I suppose, and says the order to the lady in the back who looks like she's doing some prep cooking. Immediately I stop. It's freaking Angela!!!! Or I thought it was.
Now, remember, I hadn't seen Angela in about eight years. Since her dad passed away when we were twenty-three, and because I'd moved cities, we just had no reason to really see each other especially after growing so far apart.
So, like, OH MY GOD, it's Angela! She's working at a random little general store in middle-of-nowhere Iceland! But wait, I thought. No. This is obviously not-fucking-Angela. Angela is a real estate agent in my hometown. I'd obviously know if she lived in Iceland lol. Right? I don't really use social media but the odd time I do, she'll pop up here and there. But I guess not enough for me to *confirm* she still lived in my hometown.
But anyway, she looked enough like Angela that I went right up to the cash register and rang the little bell and the guy came back out and when he opened the door I was able to get another look at her, and my heart skidded. A chill spread across my crown. It was one hundred percent Angela. Like, my full-on cousin. So, looking over the guys' shoulder, RIGHT AT ANGELA, I smile and say, "Angela!! Oh my god!!" and before she could respond, the door shut again.
And the guy at the cash smiled really big, a nice, friendly, smile and he looked surprised as well, and pointed back over his shoulder and then at me, as if to say, "you two know each other?!" which confirmed for me that her name was Angela, because he seemed really delighted at the coincidence. Expecting her to emerge from the kitchen, I walked around to behind the cash register (the invitation was implied by the guy) and he put his arm back to open the door for me, or for Angela, whom we both expected to be making her way over to me, too.
When he opened the door, she was head-down again, chopping vegetables. I walked through the door and said, "Angela? Angela!" smiling, thinking she hadn't seen me yet or realized who I was, all context considered. She looked up at me, and then quickly, as though avoiding my eyes, looked down. "Hey", she said, quietly, at the cutting board.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON? Before I could ask anything, she said, "I'm really sorry, okay?"
What?
She repeated herself and then continued: "I'm really sorry okay? But we can't talk".
I actually, like, had no clue what was happening. I was looking into the eyes of my cousin whom I hadn't seen in forever in some random fucking shack in Iceland and she was acting skittish and afraid. I opened my mouth to protest and she said, "I need you to leave," then she called the guy's name and said something to him in Icelandic. She can speak Icelandic??!
The guy came in, his demeanour totally different. Almost like he was a bouncer. He gestured to my coffee and toast that were ready to go, took them in his hands and ushered me out of the kitchen and I could tell I no longer was welcome. Either I wasn't welcome or I was in danger, or both. It felt more like the former. And I don't think the guy had any idea what was going on, either. I think she must have said something to him like "I don't know this person, this person is crazy" or something. That's how he was acting toward me.
I got in my car, I drove five minutes down the road, and pulled over. I miraculously had service and I called my mom and told her everything. She kind of just laughed at me and was like "Many-Patient2894, that obviously wasn't Angela". And joked about me making some poor Icelandic woman feel extremely weird. But based off the guy's reaction when I said her name, her name was Angela, and the way she spoke to me and said sorry and said we couldn't talk, like, she knew me too. I told my mom all of this and I sounded fucking crazy and she just was basically like, "Haha, yeah, weird". I think she thinks I was making up the part about the apology.
I told all of my friends this, when I was still in Iceland, and they all reacted like my mom did. At this point, I had four days left in the country, and I kept wanting to return to the cafe/general store. But I didn't. I started to think maybe the woman thought I was someone else. But then I kept coming back to, but wait, this person was Angela. Her name, her body, her face, like I just didn't know what to do.
This brings me to two days ago, the day before yesterday, when I returned to Canada, where I live. It's eight o'clock in the morning and I'm on my way to work. In my car. Just picked up a coffee. Exhausted. Not thinking about Angela at all. Thinking about my laundry, my bills, what I'm going to make for dinner. The traffic is bad and it's a miserable day outside.
My phone dings. It's a random number. The text reads: "Hey! It's Angela! How was your trip?"
Haven't heard from her in eight years (except for our run-in in Iceland, if indeed it was one). No "how have you been??", no "I miss you!!" no "long time no talk/see!". I also hadn't posted anything about my trip on social media. Unless you were a friend of mine, you didn't know I was there.
I immediately call my mom, who follows Angela on Instagram, and ask her to look at her profile. Sure enough, Angela (not at all to my mother's surprise), is posting stories of the bachelorette party she's at in Miami. She's, like, not at all in Iceland.
I have no idea what's going on. And the way Angela/the woman spoke to me in the cafe had the cadence and softness that Angela had, and in my memory, lost, starting the morning of the skiing after the incident with Trilly and the dog. For some reason I'm fully back there in my memory now, realizing that that was the first morning of "the new Angela", the one that seemed to have no emotional memory of me at all. Like, the Iceland Angela seemed more like the "before" Angela.
I haven't replied to the text. I have no idea if it was bachelorette party Miami Angela or Iceland Angela that sent me the message, the area code is from neither Angela's hometown or Iceland.
I need advice, I have no idea what to do or who to talk to. Do I reply to the text? What do I say? I feel like the real Angela is fucking trapped in Iceland or something and has been for a long time. Or I don't even know. I have no idea what to do.

As If It Were Kismet: Prologue
Matt tore through the brush, blind in the dark. He didn’t care where he was going. He only knew he needed to be elsewhere. Far from here.
Behind him a creature howled that shocked his mind. It’s form was cruel and dangerous, though female. Nothing like the young woman she had once been. Nothing but a girl, a small and slight female.
It’s guttural growls and howls only grew closer as Matt tried to pick between seeing where he was going and getting away. The few times he looked he caught sight of the creature behind him. Hopping through the air with a speed that told him he was being toyed with. As if he were a mouse being played with by a cat.
But the reflex in him to run kept him going. His adrenaline going as hard as it could. The tightness and burning in his core tensing and locking up as his legs felt like there were being burned from within while taking on more of a heaviness.
His lungs were starting to betray him as he tried to gulp big breaths of air but only rapid and shallow breaths were all that he could manage. His brain was starting to burn….and then he was falling.
Falling down the side of a hill he saw the creature dart in a spring towards him, imperceivably fast almost. Catching him in mid air it seemed.
Managing to wrap its body around him and cushion his impact against the ground as they rolled. His mind barely took in what was happening during the roll. Only starting to understand what was happening once they were still.
The creature's triple D-cup breasts were unmistakably pressed hard against his back as he laid facing up at the night sky.
For a few seconds the world stilled and the needle light pain hitting the center of his brain took over for the cooking heat his brain had felt. His whole body felt heavy and reluctant to move.
Even if he could have really moved, a dull ache came over his limbs making them feel stilled and trapped as if by immeasurable amounts of sand that had engulfed him.
Slowly the arms holding him started to move. Moving so the creature's hands could start exploring him. Causing Matt to unstoppably let out a pathetic moan that made him go cold inside as hands lifted up his shirt and started to touch his exposed stomach and then his chest.
He would have whimpered so pathetically had he not still been in the depths of terror.
As its hands felt and groped his pecs he tried to situp as if to get away. For his efforts, his reward was a hand around his throat and a collection snarls and growls against his ear. A beastly, guttural voice spat words at him while somehow holding a feminine tone.
“Don’t move….I don’t know if I can calm down…”
Her words were not helped by her moans in his ear and the subsequent kissing of his ear. The flesh of his ear going between her lips as she moaned and seemed to pant. Releasing it and licking the side of his face with a moist warmth. He could feel its spittle, viscous and coating his flesh where the tongue touched. He could smell something in his saliva. Something that subtly entranced him.
Matt went stock still with fear and the confusion of mixed arousal. He barely perceived her right hand traveling lower on his body. A surprised moan and shudder echoed in the night from Matt’s lips as she took ahold of him. Her hand above his pants but still….stimulating him.
A light squeezing and almost probing of her digits kept him aroused and confused within her grasp. Resigning himself to the strange fate, Matt looked up at the stars as his mind tried not to shatter under the strange maelstrom of events and sensation that had started mere minutes ago.
His mind was only more confused as a slight figure, feminine in build, how it seemed to thunk the ground audibly as she landed on her feet out nowhere. Her knees barely bending under the pressure of the landing. Yet dirt was kicked up anyways and some of it onto Matt. Feeling it pepper his shirt and pants as it fell.
The figure, lit only faintly by moonlight, roared some dark tone Matt could only perceive as a demon as her eyes went bright with a crimson light. A light in the darkness that should not have been. “Let him go you bitch.” Was its words following the roar. Spittle escaping its mouth with faint droplets hit Matt's face.
The creature holding him by his throat and crotch seemed to tighten the grasp of both hands as it roared back. “HE IS MINE!”
The figure paused with a moment's hesitation. He was also her quarry. She had felt his fear without him knowing. His confused arousal. His fear. His terror.
And now he laid at the center of a struggle between two monsters. Unsure of who he wanted to win.
As If It Was Kismet Ch. 1
Matthew Berkshire hadn’t seen his mom in two years. Not that he had seen her much over the last six years.
A messy divorce between messy people and mom’s chaotic want for a life in Alaska had been one of the most…upsetting times in life. Setting him up for so much of what had defined his life thus far but then that had really started two years before he ever turned.
His ear buds were basic and simple. A part of cheap five pack, common for his life as he was known to lose little things. Small things. They had a mix of metal and hard rock playing in them. Some classics, some alternative. Whatever made him feel something, anything. Even if it was hate. Anger. Rage. It was better than feeling numb. Not belonging.
The escalator down to his lone bag to go with his lone carry on showed his mom waiting for him. His had a type, that’s for damn sure. Not that it helped him in the genetics department as he was stuck at 5’9” to go along with his mother’s five foot even as his dad stood six foot. Forever leaving him to feel small, to pale, under his dad’s shadow. Did he ever stand a chance?
The guy next to her with the unkempt former seventies porn stache was “Dave.” He’d met him twice when his mother came and visited him in Florida. To his credit the guy didn’t look annoyed. Kind of concerned kind of which made Matthew want to break his frozen look but he was well practiced. Having removed any note of sadness from his face through much…tribulation.
His mother’s look on her face betrayed a hint of worry as the bruises on his face lightly showed up close. Saying his name was his like a distant echo that belonged to someone else.
Dave cut in and pulled out his right headphone. “What the hell bud, they knock you hard enough to hurt hearing? Your mom’s asking how you are doing.”
Matthew pulled out the other bud and grunted an empty “sorry.”
“You still have bruises after two week? What did they do to you?” His mom’s voice was full of worry. Something he hadn’t heard in….too long. Too long to make him feel anything. To ever make him believe there was any sincerity to her words. To not think her voice and mannerisms were an act. An act by someone who…wasn’t really there.
“It’s only fair. I took a nose. Fractured a couple orbital bones. Left one with having to get his jaw wired shut. And one will never walk right again for what I did to his knee cap.” Matthew said it all with a bored and disinterested tone. Perhaps well rehearsed.
“My man, handing out ass kickings, not bothering to take names.” Dave was quick to be the typical man’s man about it. Matthew wasn’t quite done yet. Lifting up his shirt to expose the right side near his kidney. Revealing a nasty scar from a six inch blade. “Luckily they gave me this first so they could rule it all in self-defense. The fuck didn’t get it in more than inch before I ruined his knee cap and then I took the nose of one of the fucks holding me.” Now he chose to smile keeping the well practiced dead look in his eyes.
No retorts. No questions. Just horrified looks on their faces. As he liked. As he preferred. They could hate him. They could be disgusted by him. But by God they would fear him.
“Well the doc did a good job sewing you up.” Dave commented uncomfortably. “Dissolving sutures. Ain’t they grand.” He smiled again and let it abruptly fall off his face and started walking to the carousel for the baggage claim.
Waiting and making small talk with Dave as his mother stood in silence. He was not the little boy she abandoned. The little boy she left with an angry man. While never hitting him. Left him in constant fear till he turned twelve and just didn’t care anymore. Something snapped. Broke. And he didn’t care if he died. Didn’t care if he stole. Didn’t even care if he killed. He just knew not to get caught. Something left over from his grandfather’s wisdom which came to make more and more sense with each passing year of life since that thing inside him broke.
Finally his bag came around and Dave went to try first to grab it but Dave practically leapt ahead of him. “Is that your grandfather’s rucksack bag?” his mother asked in a perplexed voice.
“Figured it’s been around since Viet Nam. So it’d serve me better than any of the worthless stuff they called luggage.” Dave commented after Matthew’s words. “Well hell yeah I still got mine from Desert Storm. You know the first one.” Dave laughed and Matthew eyed him oddly. Be it in the south or whether it was Alaska, country boys are country boys he guessed.
The car ride to the two people’s house, as Matthew thought of them. Was uneventful and full of vistas he imagined metropolitan types wetting themselves over. At most they meant isolation to him. Furtherness from the world as there were no mountains in Florida. And what mountains he had last seen in another state had been when he was eight. Another life, to Matthew it felt like. A life alien to him.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 2
Dave and his mom’s place was some two story type tucked into a tree line far up an elevated point. It was by no means the highest point in the mountain but it certainly felt up there.
Rocks were where the driveway should have been Matthew thought. Grabbing his backpack and rucksack from Dave’s jeep was no hard thing for him. Matthew was in formidable shape for someone his age, maybe even five years older. He had gotten a mix of fairly big shoulders and arms along with the chest to go for it when compared to most kids his age. A side effect of working out at least twice a day. First thing in the morning, some time in the evening, and the school’s gym when had had a good semester in school before he had to leave Florida.
Dave tried to come up and help him but Matthew walked past him towards the house. His mom was not sure what to make of his demeanor. Matthew was not the sweet kind boy he had once been. But she had been gone from his life essentially for a long time.
Ushering him into the house she cracked some joke he did not hear. He was too busy looking about and seeing a mix of old outdated decorating mixed with the strange and odd flair of his mother. Color contrasting against drab and dated. Like brightly painting over an old home that was falling apart he thought.
“Your room is this way Mattie.” His mom brightly intoned.
Without expressing any interest he followed his mother. Still faced and nonplussed. Just going along with the current. Pushed and pulled with its roll like a piece of driftwood.
The room was simple. A single small bed. A set of rubber weights with a curl bar and barbells. “Your dad said you were into weight lifting so we got you a bunch of stuff. Dave says it looks like his department’s gym almost. The woman’s smile felt very alien to him.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ve got most of my stuff from home.” Matthew starting unpacking his rucksack and pulled out cables of repetitive and mixed colors. A single plastic barbell handle. The ruck sack could be filled with water bottles for added weight during pushups he figured. Remembering a Michael Keaton movie he watched with his dad post-Batman movies where he played a convicted killer using plastic bags filled with water for weights.
Matthew caught movement outside his lone fairly large window that could let him step out onto the roof of the house given its layout.
He saw a number of people running together through what he guessed was the backyard of the property, not that it had any fences to mark boundaries
They wore clothes that looked similar yet different from each other at the same time.”Oh those are the Johnston’s. Really nice bunch of people. Been on the mountain for a long time Dave tells me.”
Matthew looked at the group of people running and noticed the lack of resemblance. “They are related?” Matthew quizzically asked. Seeing a black and possibly a hispanic person amongst the bland looking white people.
“Oh well they are all adopted but for one or two of them…besides the parents of course. The family has a long tradition of taking in orphans they say. Real nice of them to do that don’t you think.”
Matthew looked at his mother and the hosier accent made no sense to him as he arched his left eye brow. Her and his dad were both from Florida. Born and raised. Sure her parents were from New York city but…
Matthew shook his lightly without turning to look at his mother as his vision was grabbed by one of the runners in particular. A girl of moderate height. Soft brunette. A plain beauty he figured with a slim build….and lack of remarkable breasts and rear to make any note of but….girls in general were his type at his age.
She was pretty enough. He couldn’t deny that but he found himself transfixed by her visage.
But the way she turned and looked at him, especially at that distance felt very disconcerting to him. Even if she was smiling like…she was a taste of a bright shiny day. Somehow.
Matthew’s mom noticed the exchange and smiled to herself with closed lips. “Oh that’s Vicky. She’s your age I think. Very sweet girl, who does the charity functions. You know bake sales, blood drives, car washes and the like. I think you should get to know her. Might be good for you.”
A truck horn sounded a couple of beeps in rather succession. “Oh that must be Mack, he said he might come by later this evening but he seems early.”
Matthew’s mother turned and left his room. Leaving Matthew to exchange a few looks with the alluring Vicky as she turned her head away from him to talk to the others in her group and look back at him.
Still Matthew’s left eyebrow was arched. In a way that reminded him of Spock from Star Trek that he and his grandpa used to watch on some streaming service or another.
As he heard ambient chatter elsewhere outside the house he figured to check it out as the alluring sight of Vicky would be around he figured. It was dull to stare at artwork. He was a boy who preferred jet skis and the like. Something he could ride and enjoy immensely. Even if at times it got him stabbed.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 3
Matthew sauntered out of the house and down the rockway that stood in for a driveway.
A few new people had come over from what he could first surmise of the situation. As he got closer it was obvious they were indigenous people. A couple of grown men…and a girl?
She was mousey. Maybe five foot. Hiding behind glasses and a big camo jacket that was far too big for her. It looked made for a grown man and the backwards trucker hat on her head kept her long black a beautiful mess of sorts.
She was cute in a way. A little androgynous but she had a cute energy to her. She reminded him of the more tomboyish Puerto Rican girls he had gotten into back in Florida. Given the deer corpses in the back of the truck….probably more dangerous to play with given the men in her family.
Small chatter passed between the adults when the girl noticed but turned away, trying to hide the tiny hint of a smile.
“Oh Mattie, this is Mack. He works with Dave at the sheriff’s department and John, he’s with fish and wildlife.” Matthew nodded at his mom’s words with some blankness as he looked at the deer the in the back of the pickup truck.
“Gale tells us you hunted with your dad some in Florida and Georgia.” Mack offered with a light hearted laugh camouflaged by his big simple and cheery but husky way he spoke.
Looking in the back of the truck he spoke. “We used lever action thirty-thirties and Mosin Nagants in seven-six-two-fifty-four-rimmed.” Mack and John whistled in an exaggerated fashion. Leaving Matthew to wonder if they were mocking him.
Mack spoke. “Well we just used thirty-odd-six in a custom gussied Garand.” That caught Matthew’s attention. “You have a Garand…” Matthew finally demonstrated interest in anything. “My dad has an SVT-40 and a Hakim 8mm but he always wanted a Garand but was too cheap to buy one.”
Gale, his mother, chimed in loudly. “Oh his Dad loved his guns but was such an odd duck about how he bought or why he bought them. Never made sense to me how he wasn’t a collector but he didn’t get the latest and greatest.” Gale laughed uncomfortably. At least it seemed that way to Matthew.
Matthew pointed to the girl with an underhanded pointing hand. “And who is this? A cute little mute mouse or does she have a name?” Dave and the other men laughed.
Mack again spoke. “Well you people call her Rebecca, she’s my adopted daughter.” Matthew was taken aback by what he heard. “You people?”
Rebecca kindly spoke with a soft but almost melodic voice as she struggled to maintain eye contact. “White people or rather not members of our tribe. It’s just easier to appease the colonizer kind of thing. Borrowed from when the Jesuit missionaries chased us up here.”
Mack stepped in. “It’s just easier to have white people names than have them try to say our tribal names. And we don’t want them shortening or Anglicising our names kind of thing.” Rebecca stepped back into the conversation cutting off her adopted father. “It’s an insult to our history basically.”
Matthew cocked his head sideways raising his eyebrows shortly before letting them drop. “Well as soon as I’m eighteen I’m out of here and back to Florida so I’m a sort of involuntary colonizer of sorts. So I won’t be taking any of your land from you. The Seminoles on the other hand are still shit out of luck.”
Rebecca’s smile caused Matthew to reflexively smile. Mack made the moment more awkward. “See Becca, I told you someone off the reservation would like you some. You just have to be creative.” Mack laughed in a chiding manner…Matthew presumed. He sensed that he was the butt of some kind of cultural joke. Like marrying a white guy was some sort of insult or mark of shame. That kind of thing.
Rebecca turning away from him was not something he had been expecting. Her then getting in the truck in a huff left the group in a silence for a moment.
Dave spoke to break the awkward silence. “Well just bring the truck to work on Monday and leave it for me to grab up.” Mack acknowledged Dave and they started to get off as Rebecca looked at Matthew for another instance. Matthew couldn’t look away for some reason as the two seemed to lock eyes for an instance.
Till Vicky and family seemed to come jogging down the road. While Matthew’s eyes diverted from Rebecca’s. Hers did not till she realized he was looking elsewhere. And her vision found Vicky and what had been a hint of smile on her face turned glum and disappointed.
Matthew did not look away from the vision of Vicky but instead of a starry eyed fool looking longingly. It was a baffled look. Well baffled for him, with his eyes drawn narrow and night with a focus.
There was something about her…he couldn’t quite put a name too. The way she appeared to him. One second brunette. The next second blonde or blonde like. As if the color appeared in her air and disappeared in fractions of seconds. Much the same way her body almost seemed to…shift…very subtly…smoothly. A nicer bum. Larger breasts. And then back to a simple and plain form. Feminine no doubt. Attractive. But not so…remarkable.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 4
The next two days passed without incident. Nothing of any real substance or challenge to note.
Matthew got settled somewhat and started working out almost immediately. Exploring around the woods but Dave told him not to go far. Especially without a hunting rifle. Dave had left a simple semi-auto Winchester out for him. His bear gun as Dave referred to it with its four round magazine. But Matt figured till he got some practice with the rifle to leave it alone. He made a hiking stick like his grandpa taught him and treated it over a low fire. He would take some electrical tape for the end his hand would grip around. Plenty enough to ward off anything smaller than a bear he figured.
The ride to school was a pain in the neck but simple enough. Dave would let him use a clunker pickup truck he had laying around. It wasn’t pretty but it would get him to and from. Even if it was from the eighties and still backfired on occasion. But for now Dave and his mom took him on their way to the sheriff’s department.
It wasn’t much of a school. It wanted to be modern but its fifties original construction was very obvious. It serviced the pipeline families and familys’ of fisherman who worked the seasons in between their time at the pipeline.
Matt was to report to the principal for some reason Dave and his mom wouldn’t share. Which annoyed him but he figured it was to read him the law of land. Small towns with their big views of the outside world and like.
Dressed in jeans, a grey sweatshirt under a light jacket with steel toed boots set him more apart then he expected. His buzzed head didn’t help matters. Already he was feeling like a stranger in a strange land but he was quite strange after all. And he liked it that way. Normal people were so pathetically disappointing to him.
A secretary or assistant or some such led him to the principal’s office. Where it reeked of real wood that was old and fabric and upholstery that needed to be updated for the last twenty years, Matt figured.
“This is Matthew Berkshire, Principal Andrews.” The man was turned with his back to the door and he was quick to wave her off as he turned her around.
He was an older man. Fat and large. Tall with a body built like he had once been fit and a demeanour of annoyed and irate already as he fixed Matt with a scowl and look of disgust. Another worthless government whore. Matt thought to himself. His father and his grandfather had bestowed unto him a natural disrespect for government workers and the figures that wore unjustified authority as a shield but pretended the weight of the state was not at their back ready to crush all who resisted. Little figures of valor pretending to be mighty and alone but acting with the tyranny of the state and all the backing.
“Mr. Berkshire, please sit down.” His tone wasn’t unusually hostile, just gruff. As if he had better things to do.
Matt complied and took a seat in the chair while maintaining a friendly facade. Not everyone was an enemy. And not everyone needed to be an enemy. Even if anybody could be any enemy. There was no reason to make enemies you didn’t have to. Another of his grandfather’s bastardised wisdoms.
“Well I looked over you file and you have quite the history Mr. Berkshire.” Matt resisted qiuping back a joke. Instead he waited for Principal Andrews to continue as he remained nonplussed and looking as if he felt no need to respond. A simple head tilt with dead eyes looking back at the principle as if he was not even there would suffice.
Matt’s reaction or lack of a reaction rather made Principal Andrews only narrow his eyes with examination. He was not used to a kid not responding to him. Especially with his gruff and hard act going on.
“Well by all accounts you moved here after some problems at your last school. A fight broke out and you did some real harm to your fellow students it appears.” Of course, he would take the side of the perpetrators. School administrators always did. Especially when they weren’t white. Just a fact of the times. Cowardice and pathetic mediocrity was the way they leaned, like good government workers sucking the dick of Big Daddy government. Worthless whores.
Matt chose to reply. “Oh you mean the criminals that stabbed me. Got arrested at the hospital and then pled to felonies. Yeah Florida, with the American counties are good like that.” Principal Andrews went real still. No shame. No fear. No penitence. He didn’t like that.
“Well be it as it may Mr. Berkshire we don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here…” Matt cut him off responding with a deadpan tone. “You mean self-defense meant to save one’s own life while the cowardly and pathetic school workers look on with zero interest but to keep their money rolling in and will allow known gang members with records of violent acts and crimes that should have them expelled many times over, where in certain Democrat counties such cowardice and idiocy empowered a couple school shooters?”
Principal Andrews looked at the Matt with a note of disgust. “Look here Mr. Berkshire, your beliefs matter not one bit here. This isn’t Florida. We don’t like our way of life being disrupted by outside agitators who have problems with authority.”
Matt did his best not to roll his eyes and let the older fat man drone own as he dead-stared him. Lifeless and without emotion.
The man came to a finish and Matt spoke up without having listened to him or paid him any attention. “Great now that’s taken care of. Can I please get to class and finish my sentence of two years at your wonderful school?”
Principal Andrews huffed and snorted before calling in Vicky. Vicky stood in the corner after entering with a quiet and seamless presence. Matt felt disturbed and tried not betray his feelings as the young Vicky was perceived and not perceived to be moving.
Principal Andrews made the introductions and Matt nodded back. She was to be his chaperone for the day. They had the same classes and she was to show him the ropes so to speak. The ins and outs of the school. The locations of their classes.
He recognized her. It was hard not to. The way her appearance seemed to shift fluidly almost. The petite and skinny brunette ever so lightly had a big bust and blonde hair with curves added when she seemed to shift before his eyes. Like watching a film but each frame had a different person.
Matt didn’t say anything about it. Even if he did he would only be acknowledging his crazed state, if he had one. If.
Unlike an obedient puppy dog he got up in a slow and awkward fashion and followed behind her as his oddly disproportionate frame allowed. Causing her a note of concern for some reason. As if she was seeing something she shouldn’t have been….Or he was just weird. And Matt could admit to himself he was just weird. Part of his charm, he would jest about it at times. Not that he had many people to jest to now.
As If It Were Kismet Ch. 5
Following Vicky into the hall off to their first class was simple. She exchanged small talk and he slightly smiled as if to obviously suggest he was just being polite.
Inside his head, Matt was trying to figure out if he was having a psychotic break. The way Vicky looked kept changing and he looked at the other people around him and they stayed the same.
He was searching his mind as they were walking. And thus he wasn’t paying attention to where he was looking and so fell to his face forward over his feet seemingly out of nowhere.
A series of laughs erupted as it sunk in that he was obviously tripped. Like in prison this was a challenge to his superiority. If he let this pass he would be mocked and sneered at by this same group of boys. He wouldn’t walk to them like he was going to do nothing like a little bitch.
In a rage he turned and punched the stomach of the first face he saw. Some typical blonde haired wannabe jock. He knew from experience not to aim for the ribs. Instead he needed to aim for where he thought the belly button was.
Yells and screams blindly echoed around him as his after the punch he followed up his elbow of the opposite arm slamming into the face of the jock. Harder than a fist, the elbow struck the jock’s jaw and seemingly dropped him against a locker. Just in time to catch an errant and soft punch to the nose that sure enough hurt but did little to slow him down as his dad had taught him to fight through the pain. Blood and scars happened. They were a natural consequence of life to a man.
Taking the punch and falling further into his red state Matt headbutted the punch thrower before another guy arm bared his throat from behind. Which he managed to get his grip on the arm over a letterman jacked and jerk the unprepared boy to the side with him still latched on.
A few feet away from the lockers Matt knew his only chance was to jump and push off the lockers and knock the boy to the ground and so he did. He heard a thunk of the boy’s skull bouncing off the ground and he turned to pull out of the grapple.
The beatings he had taken from his father, the grapples, being choked unconscious. Had prepared him for fighting little bitches who didn’t know what a fight was. It wasn’t gay porn with rabbit punch fists flying.
Blood was running down his face and the pain started to hit him as the threats had been eliminated. Only then did he remember to breathe. Taking breathes as Vicky came up to him with tissues and took a hold of his nose.
“Owww owww owww what the fuck my nose could be broken.” He said to Vicky as she pulled his head up and back.
“It’s ok Carl. It’s done.” Matt tried to look to see who Vicky was talking to. It was a boy taller than his 5’9” by more than a small margin. The boy eyed him bored and annoyed before speaking. “What happened here?” An unoriginal line but one Matt couldn’t be a smart aleck about. “Well you see there was an outbreak of tripping and we all tripped over my dick. It happens.” Matt was about to laugh when Vicky seemed to pull up while still gripping his nose causing Matt no small amount of pain which he audibly evidenced.
Vicky spoke in a tone he wasn’t expecting. As if she was accustomed to issuing orders. “Keep Iris away from the hall till we sanitize the site. We have blood from at least three people contaminating the site. And have Jake bring me a spare jacket and shirt for this moron.”
Carl seemed to acknowledge her orders and seemed to blink away. Maybe the punch hit harder than he expected. He had no time to wonder as Vick took her hand away from his and pushed him against the lockers. With ease he had not been expecting from her form and stature.
Before he could respond Vicky licked his blood covered chin and then his lips and spoke to him. “Focus on me you little blood bag.” Her tone had an annoyed yet feminine sneer.
“Look into my eyes. Look at me. You belong to me. You are just another food source in a collection of food sources.” Her eyes were a beautiful hazel Matt thought. Almost green. Pretty like jewels in some old treasure collections. The eyes he could get lost in before kissing her. Finally Vicky was just a slight and petite brunette and he thought she was beautiful.
She would make a hell of a girlfriend. Some cute thing he could see laying on the beach in Florida on their sides laughing and smiling before trading light kisses while hands wandered innocently. Before his mind could drift further he felt her lips on his. It took him a second to mentally grasp the kiss but his arms were around her back as her hands were at his sides. His eyes reflexively closed as he saw hers close.
It was ineffable to Matt. Beyond words, what was happening. The kiss, the moments beforehand. The way his brain tickled with electricity and gentle warmth. He had never had a kiss like this and he had traded more than a few kisses with at least a few girls.
The kiss was like a warm bath with his consciousness slipping beneath the surface. Their lips only parted to try new angles and approaches as Matt struggled to take in breath. It was a moment he could have stayed trapped in for….he didn’t know. But a curt throat clearing by another girl pulled them out of the moment.
The girl was taller than Vicky. Blonde. With slight curves. Vicky addressed her bewildered and gobsmacked, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. “Tina?”

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