She tried not to worry about the empty space too much, lest she accidentally remember, and there was no use in worrying over spilled milk or forgotten piano lessons anyway.

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Name: Elizabeth Cooper-Hughes
FID#: 715316
Security Clearance: L–3/TSQ/MDI
DOB: January 8, 2031
LOB: Hell, Michigan, United States
Biographical Summary: [REDACTED]
Pay Grade: E-4
Current Assignment: MTF Alpha-1
Current Station: Site-01
Certifications: A-1 Marksmanship, A-1 Physical Fitness, Exotic Biohazard Safety, French Language Fluency, Heavy Machinery Repair, Nonstandard Reality Acclimation and Preparedness (Expired,) Operational Infohazard Safety, Advanced IED Construction.
Employment Status: Under Review

Forgetting was a skill Wren took to quickly during her training. Alpha-1 field agents were all acclimated to it through hypnosis and medication, standard amnestic procedures, but mental exercises had been enough for her. It was difficult to erase something from her mind entirely, but certainly not impossible. Her health was proof of that. Years of work and her mind still remained free of whispering nightmares and festering secrets. With how bad some of the things she could remember were, the missing weeks and months must have been terrible indeed. The forgotten nightmares and secrets worse still. She tried not to think about the empty space too much, lest she accidentally remember something. No use in fretting over spilled milk or forgotten piano lessons.
Similarly, there was little point in worrying when Wren found herself strapped to a chair in a dim room with a humming machine wrapped around her forearm and a superior officer seated across the table. Something disastrous had obviously happened. She hadn't done a precise job forgetting what exactly it was though. The last two weeks were completely gone from her mind, and the month before was little more than a smear of crummy hotel rooms and frantic gunfire. Two pieces of her custom dentistry were gone (the explosive ones) and her back felt like a swamp of dark bruises. Well, maybe there was a small reason to worry after all.
"Wren, are you– No, excuse me, this is on record. Ms. Cooper-Hughes, do you need further medical attention?"
"No, no. I'm okay," said Wren, trying to detect some hint of what they had just been talking about.
"You've been staring at nothing for nearly five minutes."
"This is a weird situation to be in, sir."
"I'm sure it is. We'll have it resolved soon enough."
'Resolved' was not necessarily a positive outcome, especially out of his mouth. Wren's superior twice-removed, Coxswain was a portly man with a kind face and a fearsome reputation. Even without knowing his real name, Wren had heard much of his involvement in the last great battle against the Insurgency and his systematic elimination of the Sarkic cults crawling up along the West Coast. While he silently fiddled with dials on a blocky terminal, Wren began to resent her past self for whatever she had done to end up in this interrogation.
"As I was saying, I'm going to ask a series of questions. Please give the first answer that comes to mind, even if it's not knowing any answer. I'll know if you try to lie. Do you understand?"
"Yeah. I mean, yes, sir."
Coxswain cleared his throat noisily and straightened a thin stack of paper in between his thick hands. "Ms. Cooper-Hughes, does the Black Moon howl?"
"I don't know."
"Where were you on the 23rd of December?"
"I don't remember."
"Who did you meet with on the 23rd of December?"
"I don't remember."
"Where does the last road lead?"
"I don't know."
"What did you sell to the individuals you met with on that date?"
"I don't remember."
"Do you admit to making a transaction of some type on that date?" Wren could see Coxswain's grip on the papers tightening, sending tiny crinkles throughout them. It was hard to avoid thinking about those fingers closing around her throat.
"I really don't remember."
"Have you ever consciously mishandled classified information?"
"No."
"What came last from inside the Garden?"
"I don't know."
"Are you a faithful servant of the Foundation?"
"I am."
"Who knows the best course for the Foundation?"
"The Overseer Council."
"Are you a faithful servant of the Council?"
"I am."
"How many stars have already died?"
Some half-formed thought snagged in her mind, tugging when she opened her mouth to dispute this line of questioning. It was just one of those insubstantial phrases people repeated over and over. They all were. "I don't know," she said just a heartbeat later than she meant to. The machine wrapped around her wrist began beeping furiously. "I really don't know." It beeped faster and louder, feverish pitch closer to a scream than anything a machine should be making. "I said I don't fucking know!" she shouted, struggling against her restraints to smash the damned thing.
"That's enough," said Coxswain, pressing a button on the terminal. The noise ceased immediately.
"I wasn't lying, I swear," said Wren, feeling her lips spread back in a nervous smile. It felt disingenuous, even to herself. It felt curdled and rotten no matter how much she believed what she was saying.
"I'm inclined to believe you." Coxswain sighed mightily and laid his papers down on the table. "That's even worse. We have irrefutable evidence of… well, it's not good, Wren. If things are as they seem, a hostile force has been in control of you for nearly a month."
"What?"
"Something that's still in there, or at least the traces it left. I'm sure you don't need more of an explanation than that after your time here."
"It's just a stupid koan," whined Wren, gently testing her bindings again. The thick straps of the chair didn't budge. "It doesn't mean anything."
"That's all it should be, yes, but some part of you has an answer. They'll look into that during outprocessing. Hopefully the doctors will be able to help you, but – "
"Wait, wait, outprocessing? I can still work! You can't kick me out just for this!"
"Just for this?" asked Coxswain, deadly calm.
"Yeah, you know…" said Wren. The phantom sensation of a pulled trigger ached in her finger as she spoke, and ghostly warmth from a vast fire rushed against her. She could feel herself prying out one of her teeth, feel herself walking through a field of bleeding soldiers, feel herself smiling in the face of a hundred more hale ones. "For forgetting."
"Your loss will be felt, I promise. You were always a good agent, but sometimes retirement is what's best for everyone. We'll get you some happy memories and–"
"No, no way! I refuse. I'm good at this. This is the only thing I'm good at! You can't do this to me!"
"Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be. Think of what's best for the Foundation."
"Right, right, I am." Wren smiled again, and it spoiled before she could finish. "I want to make an appeal. To the higher powers."
"Granted," said a voice pitched higher than either of their own. What little color was in the room drained through the floor as Wren looked for the voice's source, and the walls peeled away one by one in turn. The chair she sat on vanished, as did the table in front of her and the floor below. Wren was momentarily engulfed by a terrifying nothingness that resembled nothing quite as the empty half of the night sky.
A moment later, Wren found herself in a blindingly bright room. The light was cold, sterile, and harsh enough to obscure everything but the ornate desk in front of her and the woman sitting behind it. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, severe in expression, her hands were clasped in front of her, one bare and the other heavy with rings.
"I've been listening," she said, each word heavy with enough authority to erase any doubt about what position she held. "State your case. Quickly. Clearly."
"Of course, Overseer. Like Coxswain said, I wasn't in control of my actions, so I shouldn't be blamed for them. I know I can't go into the field like that, but there has to be something else I can do. Right?"
"But you were in control, weren't you?" said the woman, pausing to shift her hands so that the ringed one lay atop the other. "Forgetting does not excuse treason, no matter how completely you managed to do it."
"I would never!"
"Wouldn't you though? Didn't you? Tell me honestly that you think you're innocent."
Wren bit back a quick denial. She was walking through a minefield, no doubt about that, but she wasn't dead yet. "I may not be innocent, but I'm not guilty either. Some version of me might have done whatever it did, but that version isn't me anymore."
"What you did was kill twenty-six of your fellow agents, destroy a great deal of valuable equipment, and sell some very important secrets to the Autumn Firm."
The mines felt awfully close to the surface here, but Wren pushed on regardless. "Those are useful skills though, right? Aren't they? The Foundation's going to need people like me once all the weirdness is taken care of and other people are the problem. Turning me into a… a farmer would be wasteful!"
"The 'weirdness' is already more under control than you could imagine, and our enemies are different from who you think. That said…"
Wren sat silently as the Overseer considered her. She felt a bit like the room she had just been sitting in, with each and every bit of her peeled away and discarded just to expose something deep inside. More than just being exposed, she was analyzed. Broken down into her component parts and weighed. Poked, prodded, probed. Judged.
"I may have use for you. That is, if you truly want to keep doing this sort of work."
"I do!"
"Serve me well then. Hurt who I say to. Kill those I need you to. I'll pay you, give you new teeth, and new allies too. Betray me and I'll make you remember everything you think you've buried. Swear it."
Wren was about to grumble about how ridiculous the statement sounded, but thought better of it under her sharp glare. "Yes, Overseer. I will. I swear."
Any fate was better than the alternative, better than forgetting all the things she had preserved by cutting away at the rest of her memories. Any existence was better than being forced into a shape other than herself too. And if nothing else, this was what Wren excelled at.

Wren sat on a bench in northern Florida two days later, chewing gum and wishing it wasn't quite so humid. She kept running her tongue over her new teeth and worrying over how sharp they felt. It was only a matter of time before she managed to hurt herself with them, biting off a chunk of cheek or tongue. Well, she had other people to hurt first.
Two men and a woman passed in front of her seat, speaking quietly and reeking like a chemical plant. Each matched a description she received early in the morning and each walked with calm intention. Wren waited a minute after they passed before rising, languidly stretching, and giving slow chase.
The small group moved as predicted, heading toward the location of some important meeting the Overseer was embroiled in. Knowing that, tracking them was as easy as it would have been with the drone arrays and subverted cameras she had enjoyed in Alpha-1. She stalked them past closed bookstores and open bars, through a tiny park, and around the glass facade of a skyscraper. She hunted across concrete, gravel, and grass. Easy.
Nine blocks from where she began, Wren came to the entrance to a long alleyway just a few steps behind the group. She reached through her sweatshirt's open zipper, drew her pistol, and fired. Twice into the back of the closest. Once into the head of the next. Three times into the chest of the last. Not a good showing from the Ethics Committee, but who could expect any better? They had bite, but their teeth were fresh and soft. A few more years and they might become real fangs.
She shot each of them once more before walking off into the wet night. It seemed like an excessive solution to the Overseer's problem, but Wren wasn't going to complain. Not when she was being put to good work again. She looked up at the night sky as she went. Even if half the stars above were already dead and gone, the rest were radiant.

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Posts from the reddit thread “Did anyone hear about that time loop town in South Dakota?” on /r/FoundationWatch

This one's a weird one, guys. Apparently there's this little town called Kleinberg, pop. 2,300, that's stuck in the 1920s. The years 1920 to 1928 repeat over and over again. They call it SCP-1309.
RealTwilightZone

Jesus, that sounds horrible. I can't imagine living 8 years of my life on repeat, with no way out…
idk6942069

No that's the weirdest part dude. They're born, they live, they have kids and they die…in those same eight years. So some guy who's 60 years old will tell you he was born in 1922.
RealTwilightZone

WHAT
THAT'S EVEN WORSE WHAT THE FUCK
FucktheFoundation

I take it this is the part where I learn the Foundation has been keeping them there?
4thwalldestroyed1

Obviously. We have to do something about this guys
idk6942069

Well, you know that anti-Foundation protest in New York?
RealTwilightZone

Yes…?
FuckTheFoundation

Anti-Foundation Protestors Descend On State Capitol Building
The Capitol Journal - January 10, 2018
PIERRE - Braving the cold and rain of the unforgiving South Dakota winter, approximately one hundred protestors gathered outside the State Capitol yesterday to demand the legislature take action to free the affected citizens of Kleinberg, Dewey County (“SCP-1309”) from the jurisdiction of the SCP Foundation. The protest, believed to be organized by the anti-Foundation group “FoundationWatch” on the website “reddit”, was done on the first day of the new legislative session to draw the maximum amount of attention.
Shouting slogans and brandishing placards ranging from crude to noble (the most popular being “F**k the Foundation”, with “Free Kleinberg” in a close second), protestors appealed to the goodwill of the South Dakota legislators.
“These people are trapped in the 1920s but they still have rights,” said one protestor. “If anything, it's more important to make sure they have their rights protected because they're a minority. A temporal minority!”

“Fuck them!”
“Doctor Selvece, please keep in mind that-“
“What the hell am I supposed to do, Laura? They CAN'T LEAVE THE TOWN! These idiots on reddit know nothing about this damn anomaly they're protesting over.”
“I know, sir, and it is frustrating.”
“Life since the breaking of the masquerade has been frustrating. So did you just come in here to give me bad news, or-?”
“Doctor, I finished the report you asked me to write. The long and short of it is that I recommend making SCP-1309 a Semi-Accessible Public SCP.”
“That bad, huh? A bunch of reporters poking around Kleinberg while Site 24 has to track their every move…”
“I agree it is not ideal, but it is a compromise, and seems like the best solution at the present time.”
“Fine. I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss North Korea.”

Amelia Wong did her best not to wince as her interviewee lit another cigarette. One thing she had not considered when the Foundation had allowed reporters into SCP-1309 was that this “town locked in the 1920s” had yet to ban indoor smoking.
“Do you mind if we go over this again?” She asked, doing her best not to let her exasperation leak through her voice.
The man frowned and took a deep drag. “Look, ma'am, I don't mind talking to you ‘till Judgement Day as long as you keep paying me and foot the bill for our dinners. But I don't see what the point of this is.”
“Just bear with me, okay?” God, I might prefer an eldritch nightmare to report on over this mindfuck… “So, your name is Martin Smith, correct?”
“Yes, it is. And I was born on October 3rd, 1923, since you're gonna repeat your questions from last time.”
“Which was two years ago.”
“That's right. It's August 31, 1925.”
She sighed and took another sip from her malted milkshake - which, admittedly, was utterly delicious despite the smoke. Things really did taste better back…now. “And you're thirty-five years old, right?”
“Yes,” Martin rolled his eyes. “Look, those Foundation folks have already pointed out the whole time loop thing. I don't really see what the big deal is.”
“You don't…” She visibly struggled for words. “Mr. Smith, it's only been a few years since our entire perception of reality was changed. The Foundation was responsible for keeping normalcy intact, and they failed. Now the world knows about the plight of Kleinberg, and-“
“Plight?” Martin interjected, slightly annoyed. “You out-of-town folks don't get it, do you?”
“What is there not to get? You're trapped here! Your ‘vacations' don't exist!”
“And can you give me a single reason why we should get all worked up about it?” He ashed his cigarette and pointed it at her. “Those movies that the culture people brought us. You ever seen ‘The Matrix'?”
She paused. That wasn't expected. “When I was a teenager, yes. Why?”
“I like it because I think it fits our town pretty well. Kleinberg might not be on the same time as the rest of the world, but it's real enough for all of us. And I love my town; wouldn't live anywhere else in this time or yours. So who cares if we're some ‘anomaly' or whatnot? This little simulation of ours works fine, and we don't need saving.”

At the primary SCP-1309 observation room in Site 24, Doctor Selvece smiled warmly. Laura's hunch was right.
“She's not getting anywhere, is she?” He asked, more to himself than to Laura.
“Nope,” she nonetheless replied.
“If she accurately reports Mr. Smith's statements - hell, if all the reporters we've approved do - those protestors should calm down. Nobody in that town wants to be part of the ‘real' world.”
“And it's hard to blame them,” Laura added. “This world is pretty messed up, and they've got a nice reprieve from it. Even if they could leave for real, they probably wouldn't. The phrase ‘Don't fix what isn't broken' comes to mind.”
Selvece's expression soured again. “As long as she doesn't figure out it's already a bit broken-“
“She won't.”
Laura was usually right, and there wasn't any evidence Ms. Wong had noticed the smell of cannabis that had pervaded the diner she was in just hours before. As had been previously documented, SCP-1309 deviated from the norms of the 1920s at irregular intervals, and the deviations seemed to have accelerated upon the revelation of the “future” world. The latest deviation was the legalization of recreational cannabis, passed in the 2014 local elections and going strong with three dispensaries now, five years later.
Three dispensaries…and no opposition. It had taken awhile for Selvece to notice, but the expected “reversion” to previous norms had yet to even begin among the locals. That gave rise to the disturbing hypothesis that SCP-1309 was now permanently incorporating temporally-inspired cultural anomalies.
“Well,” he sighed. “We're doing the best we can. The Foundation was never meant to operate in public, but…”
“But Safety Continues in Public.” Laura replied with the Foundation's new motto.
“Yes it does,” he agreed. “Yes it does.”


The tribe was secluded. Nestled in the mountain range between the Black and Caspian seas, they kept quietly to themselves. Life could be difficult at times, food scare and the comfort of warmth absent for long stretches, but God kept them alive. It was the old man's turn to part ways and leave behind his memory. They were worried at first. Since he had lost his partner, he had been distant and clouded in thought, but his time had come even if she would never have the chance. He was their elder and the wisest of council, they could not lose what experience had gained him. If he was lost…
The trek was a long one. Three days and two nights with little rest during the most bitter of winter days. He could not keep pace in his old age, but they shared the burden of his old bones on their backs. As the sun touched the summit of the sky, they came to the cove. Torches in hand they bounded inside, eager to complete the ritual and return home, paying no mind sanctity.
The old man saw God and stumbled towards its warm flesh. Paces away, he stopped in awe of the creation. It was alive and well, but as the flickering beauty of its bark streamed light in the cave, its shadowy leaves shook. Closer he went, each step more labored than the last, it's leaves vanished and burst back into existence, splattering Godly ooze across the stone. Finally, he reached the trunk, with a wide grasp he embraced God, and tears streamed.
First came the string. For their union, a blue line was drawn to mark the day, and while the line faded and decayed with time, he remembered. He took the line and folded the piece again and again, knotting his fingers to one long passed.
Second was she. In perfect recreation, his woman assembled from dust to greet him. She was beautiful and young as she was in a time long passed. She smiled and took the line in her hands, binding herself to him once again. But even at this reunion, his tears never ceased. They watched with silent joy at the sight. All was right. His tears did not cease, and they shuddered at his pain.
Third was cruel. The creature was of straw and darkness. It could not be. The beastly soul was tall and slight, with a face carved from fear itself. One by one it flayed them, with malicious intent it drew blood from body wildly. Last left was he and his bride. She smiled at the end that was to come, and as he looked in her eyes he knew his pain was true. She was not the woman he knew, and neither was he. The beast broke him slowly, as only he could have wished.
Pain was all the beast knew, and all it wanted was to give. Where though, would it share it's knowledge? Far from this place, God had dreamed of others just as pained. All that was left was to greet them.


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NAME OF TALE A Kind of Redemption

They made him –

No, let's start from the beginning. Let's start with D-5913. D-5913 is not the protagonist of this story, but he is something like the protagonist, in some ways.
D-5913 is a man. D-5913 moves through the world, interacting with all that's around him. He grows up, aware of his past and believing in some kind of future. He lives in a small terraced house in north London. He has a younger sister who likes to go bowling. His mother is loving, but she dies; his stepfather does not die.
When he's 21, he ends up on the street. He is not on the street for long. The reason is that he had probably stolen something, or killed someone, or done something else that meant that he probably would have ended up as potential recruitment fodder anyway.
He is thus a mix, like most people, of specificities and generalities. He enjoys the taste of apples; he is a Spurs fan; he likes the smell of earth after rain. He doesn't like classical music. He doesn't enjoy nightclubs, but he enjoys the possibilities they contained. He hasn't been to any for a while, of course.
These days, he mostly stares out of a window. There is a sense of nagging claustrophobia. His cellmate has lost a lot of weight; a little more each time he goes away. And every time he returns, he sits on his bed, trying hard to act normal. D-5913 thinks that he looks less normal with every trip.

They made him –
The room is grey. He focuses on that. He doesn't know why he has to focus on that, only that he had a nagging sense that it is somehow important to do so. He thinks about sensations, and the sharpness of them; that which is in the mouth, in the body. That salt red taste.

He hasn't always been D-5913. He's been D-5816, D-9159, D-0182. The number isn't important; only that he is a number, rather than a name. Names are complicated; they give the person a kind of shape in the mind, which makes it harder for the jobs that need to be done to be done. But numbers make him ideal. They make him a hook on a wire, to be removed and replaced at a moment's notice, wearing through in mind and body.
The rooms he moves through are grey. They are the product of a mind that thinks functionality and efficiency are a sort of mental cost-cutting. He moves under regulated, mandated light and shade, heading to a cafeteria, an exercise yard, a laboratory.
At first, he tried to escape. This didn't work, so he tried to make a rhythm for himself, to keep him from going mad. But rhythms impose regularity on chaos, and here all was regularity, monotony. He'd look up and wouldn't know where he was. He'd look down and the crisscrossed floors would intersect with the light.
The accident was inevitable, in the end.

There is something in his mouth. He doesn't know what it is. He can feel it; can it feel him? Did it have colour, reflection or light?
The men look at him without seeing him. They don't realise they are doing it, but they do it all the same. They made him –

“We just want to run some tests.” Dr. Halliwell smiles at him. It is a broad, comforting smile, the kind his stepfather used to wear. D-5913 moves his chair back slightly.
“It's nothing, really.” Broad hands. Greying, salt-and-pepper hair. Careful, precise stubble. “It's such a fascinating accident, really. I know you're in a lot of pain, and you must feel bewildered, but this could be your ticket to an early release. I know you'd like that, right? Your file said you were on the streets, down on your luck. But here, we can really make a difference. Get you up on your feet, get you working – “
There'd been a Christmas where his stepfather had come to find him. He doesn't know how he managed it. He'd been shivering under a bridge, staring at the fire the others had set up. A barrel. Such a cliché. He'd been thinking about how he knew what a cliché was, and how little and how much knowing that mattered here.
His stepfather hadn't said a word. He hadn't noticed him until he was above him, towering down. There was that broad, comforting smile on his face. So he'd scrabbled backwards and put his hands over his eyes and nothing had happened, no pain, so he'd opened them and he was gone, and it was just the fire and the cold water all over again.
He doesn't know if he imagined it or not.

And now he is on the floor, and the sky is dancing, and there is something that he once would have called red, but can't any more.
And he wants to scream but he can't, he just makes a small pithy sound. It all keeps slipping in and out. He remembers that they said “male vocalisation”, but now he doesn't know what it meant to say something. But something has happened. An event has occurred and a seal has been placed on the top of things. What was it, now? What was it?
They made him –

So they take him to another grey room. It is getting harder to remember where he was. They've patched his head up, but not quite enough. They want him in that sweet spot of comfort and pain, where he is most useful. They were very apologetic about it all, but they didn't stop.
There is someone else in the room. No more Halliwell. Someone called Ortega. A different face. They keep frowning at him, like they can't see him.
That Christmas, he'd wanted to put his hand in the fire. But he put it in the cold water instead, and that just made it worse.
Their eyes are glassy. They are frowning more, confused. Someone says something to someone else. An entity speaks to another entity. Movement takes place between atoms, and for some reason he can see it all. Atoms in the shape of a tongue.
He doesn't understand. He doesn't really remember where he is but senses something else instead. Like he doesn't have to believe in a future but can see it, can see the design of it, even before they can. The inevitability of things. And it is horrible, but it is so comforting. So final. A kind of redemption.
They put something in front of him. A pie? A pie. A strawberry rhubarb pie.
And so it begins again.

He has a younger sister who liked to go bowling. He kept thinking about that.
They made him chew.


The Player stood there, overlooking the vast complexities of the Machine. His dark eyes panned across the dully gleaming bronze, his mind calculating the different routes out of this hellhole.
Why am I here? The question resonated from somewhere deep within himself, the part that hated this Game, the part that hated the Machine.
I'm here now, best get on with it. And with that thought, he selected his route. There were several that seemed promising, each one leading in a different direction, each one offering various options in difficulty and overall stability.
That won't last. He thought as he began the arduous climb up a nearly vertical face, his climbing shoes somehow finding traction on the smooth metal. It never is this easy.
As if on queue, a sonorous groan filled the air as the huge gears began to turn, shifting the path ahead into a network of branching pathways. Which one now? Each one is so… different. Sweat began to bead on his brow as he continued, stretching, climbing, leaping. Each step took him further along his choice among the myriad of different options. Sure, certain, confident in his decision, somehow knowing that this was the right way.

The Machine

The Machine opened before him, each way becoming more and more distinct as he chose path after path. At each choice, the gears and pistons moved slowly around him, eternally shifting the maze into a different configuration, each change threatening to crush him beneath the inexorable change enfolding around him. Almost there. I think I can feel the heat lessening.
Suddenly, the walls seemed to drop away from him, and he stood alone upon a small square of gleaming bronze within a huge room, the walls rising around him into the shadows, the floor dropping away to…. The Grinder. The place of Failure.
A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek as he gazed down into that ruinous maw. The great cogs of the Machine churned endlessly far beneath him, their massive and punishing weight held in perfect balance, each spoke of the wheel falling perfectly into place with the next.
He took a deep breath, glancing around him, searching for his path. There must be a way out of here…
Then a bell tolled somewhere far off, and a window slowly slid open in the wall opposite him. A man and a woman stood there, each dressed in austere robes of some ancient and decrepit religious order.
"You have been judged." His voice was quiet and deep, full of resonant power, a judge proclaiming the verdict upon the Condemned.
"We have made our decision, and you must abide by it." He sounds reasonable, a man of logic, a man of Faith without question, but one who sounds as if he carefully thought things through before pronouncing sentence.
"We have decided tha-" His voice was suddenly cut off as the woman next to him shrieked in apparent rage.
"YOU MUST DIE!" Her keening screech hit him like a hammer blow, completely unexpected, her voice more the sound of tortured gears grinding against each other than the voice of something human. The Player on the platform swayed slightly under the force of such an unexpected assault . "You can never measure up! All of your feeble workings pale in comparison to the mighty crafting of the One True God!"
The robed man just looked on in silence, a slightly pained look upon his wizened features. Slowly, he nodded, and the platform upon which the Player stood slowly began to retract into the wall. He sighed and looked up at them, his eyes growing colder.
"You have changed me forever, and proven yourself unfit to be called Followers of the Builder." His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but he knew they could hear him as they watched his condemnation. He moved slightly, staying within the remaining space of his vanishing platform, his eyes never leaving the two watching him.
Then it was gone and he was falling, the dark maw of the Machine opening for him, embracing him, pulling him down and into agony.
Pain, crushing and endless. Mindless spirals of bone shattering agony. Then… nothing.

The Player stood there, overlooking the vast complexities of the Machine. His dark eyes panned across the dully gleaming bronze, his mind calculating the different routes out of this hellhole.
Why am I here? The question resonated from somewhere deep within himself, the part that hated this Game, the part that hated the Machine.
He started, shaking his head in confusion, glancing about with a wary eye. I have been here before. Flashes of memory erupt through his mind, hours of climbing and running and sweating… and dying. I survived. Good, I knew that couldn't be the end of it. A bit of a shock, dying.
A slight grin curved across his lips as he selected his pathway and moved out into the dull heat of the Machine. I must try something different this time. He decided, taking each turn and branching with deliberate care. He turned up where he went down, left where he went right, always selecting the second option that came to his mind, each step once again confident, sure.
He moved forward, a gleam of white catching his eye. Hmm. Bones. That isn't very reassuring. It looked as if they'd been there a while, and with the constant change of the Machine… Who knows how long they've been there.
With a shrug, he continued on, climbing up a series of advancing ramparts of a cog in the unknowable complexity of the Machine. Sweat began to pour from him, stinging his eyes and making his hands slick. The oppressive heat seemed only to build, and slowly he began to be forced deeper and lower into the Machine. More and more bones began to appear along his path, each one newer and… fresher.
The corridor suddenly branched off, and the Player skidded to a halt, an apparition appearing before him. "You're…. real." His voice stuttered, unsure of how to proceed. "I mean, you're a Player, trapped in this Machine."
The man looked up at him, his bearded face streaked with sweat and caked in grime. "Yeah…" his voice was soft, cracked from long periods of silence. They stared into each other's eyes for a time, silently sharing a moment, the camaraderie that forms from having been dead. "How many times?" He asked again, his voice still choked with emotion.
"Four? Five?" The Player's voice was also soft, though not nearly as beaten as this man's. "I've been through the grinder several times at least. Hard to keep count."
They both chuckle, extending the moment of peace as long as possible. The Machine responded to their need to pause, to reflect, the great cogs turning and grinding out another sonorous groan. "Well, time is up, time to move along. Together?"
The Other Player nodded, and they continued forward, finding a bit of ease in their companionship. Hours passed in silence, but it is a silence punctuated by the shared breathing and grunts of their labour, together finding obstacles less obstructive, less…. arduous.
But the Machine is a treacherous bitch, and their newfound ease wasn't to last. With a heave and a jolt, the companions are knocked off their feet, the floor to either side of them falling away to nothing, steep slopes sliding down into…. The Grinder. This will not end well.
They struggled to their feet, their eyes meeting as they balance precariously on the edge of oblivion. A moment, a place to catch their breath, to decide what next.
The Other Player shifts to glance directly behind the first Player, and his eyes widen. "Daylight. It must be!"
Suddenly, he rushed forward, heedless of the narrow ledge, and with a mighty shove, the Player is pushed off the walkway to begin the long slide into oblivion. He looked up at the causeway and watched as the Other reached the open doorway, his cruel eyes flitting dowered towards him for just a minute. "Thank you mate, for helping me get out. Too bad the door only opens for one, and that one will be me!"
His laughter, the last thing the Player hears, it resonating through his entire being as the awful grinding gears close in around him.
Pain, crushing and endless. Mindless spirals of bone shattering agony. Then… nothing.

The Player stood there, overlooking the vast complexities of the Machine. His dark eyes panned across the dully gleaming bronze, his mind calculating the different routes out of this hellhole.
Why am I here? The question resonated from somewhere deep within himself, the part that hated this Game, the part that hated the Machine.
Again, he started, his body groaning from another resurrection. Already, the memories of his previous routes were fading, becoming a part of the background noise in his tired mind. Not another one. When can I get peace?
He sighed, and continued to glance around, reveling in the momentary peace of the start. I am dreading this run. The soft voice inside of him spoke into him, tinged with regret, sadness, and an emptiness that scared him.
What am I becoming in here? What has the Machine done to me? He sighed to himself, and took a step forward, halting suddenly as a noise drew his attention upward.
Oh, the goddess has blessed me, the SKY! His inner voice quailed deep within, and a shudder ran through his whole body. The night sky twinkled serenely above him, dark blue with pinpricks shining upon him in a radiance that bespoke clarity and wonder.
"HERE!" A voice called down from far above, a melodious and beautiful voice. "Please take this, I can use it to help pull you out!" An angel sang from the heavens, and his entire being responded like a harp thrummed by a maestro. A long rope ladder fell into place before him, and he could barely make out the woman tying the ladder in place far above.
Tentatively, he placed his foot upon the lowest rung, his hands running lightly over the higher ones, incredulity forcing a pause. This can't be this easy. A step, then another. Upward and upward he climbed, the task not easy, but a far cry from the crazed scrambling through the Machine that marked his earlier attempts.
"Come on, my beloved! I'm here, just a bit longer. You can make it!" Her constant encouragement called to him, pulling him upward, lending strength to his tired body, giving rise to a wellspring deep within him that he had thought long dead. Further and further he climbed, finally pausing for a moment to catch his breath.
"Heya, dude." A voice called from somewhere, to the right? Yes, that's it. There's another Player, a different one. He looks like shit.
A brief spurt of laughter escaped his lips. The pot calling the kettle black. He waved at the other man, noticing with a pause that the other Player is climbing a steel ladder. How did he get a steel one? I'm making do with this crummy rope one.
He shrugged, silently crushing the tiny pinprick of jealousy welling within him. "Heya, mate. Finally getting out?" The Other Player shrugged, not really certain. "Yeah, maybe. I kinda like it in here though. The Crusher is exciting!"
The Player shook his head in wonder, confused by this strange man. "Dying can be interesting, yes. Exciting? Not so much."
The Other shrugged again. "I guess so. But that's what this Machine is all about. Suffering and pain." He climbed a few rungs down his ladder, looking below towards the gaping maw of the Machine. "Perhaps I'll go back…"
Whatever, friend. The Player turned his attention back to his task and continued to climb. This time, however, his travel is further hampered by the deteriorating condition of his ladder. Each rung seems to be more rough than the last, until he's finally crawling up a ladder covered in spines and splinters, each grasped rung caused a gasp of pain as the sharp points dig and tear into his skin.
The entire time, however, his Angel called to him, beckoning him forward, guiding him, strengthening him, helping him stay on target, urging him on. Her voice calmed him, gave him a sense of purpose, and so he continued, step after grueling step, the pain only heartbeats away from overwhelming him, his muscles screaming for relief.
He paused for a moment, breathing deeply, and he noticed the Other on his steel ladder. As his has become more and more difficult, the other's has seemed to become even easier, each rung broad and comfortable for the person climbing. Little handholds and foot grips wrapped in velvet and cushions. How lucky for him.
Then he noticed that as his Angel paused in her encouragement of him, she was sending similar words down to the Other.
What the hell…? He paused, again confused by what was happening. The Other seemed to be beckoning HER to come to HIM! To join him within this cursed Machine, to revel in the agony and torture that had become so intricately marked onto their lives. At first, she seemed to ignore his invitations, but more and more he seemed to be having some sort of effect on her.
Suddenly, the Player knew what he must do, and with a burst of strength, he began to climb faster and faster, desperately trying to reach his Angel before she made a terrible choice.
Then his world shifted and whirled, and he desperately grabbed hold of the rope as the rungs fell away. With a grunt as the effort sapped what was left of his strength, and he clung precariously to the coarse strands. His Angel was only a few feet away from him, he can clearly see her beauty, smell her scent, even taste her desire. "Come to me, my beloved." She whispered to him, her voice soft and loving. "Come to me, so I may give you rest."
The trip is horrid, blinding horrendous agony coursed through his veins with each slow pull on the rope. Reach and pull, reach and pull. Slowly, ever so slowly, he continued to pull himself up, each breath came with a gasp, each lungful of air infinitely precious. And the entire time, She stood there, her hand extended to him.
He looked over, pausing again, and the Other has already reached the top. Shock ripples through him as he sees the man that has somehow become a rival for Her reach over and casually begin cutting at the top of his rope.
"NOOOOOOOO!" He screamed, his agony rippling through his single anguished plea. He begged his Angel with his eyes, agony lacing everything, blurring the edges of his vision with a fine black mist.
"No….."He whispers, his voice ragged and broken as still he tries to climb to her, to save her. Don't do it, he is a poison…
He was simply too tired to warn her, his shame welling deep within him as he watched her take a step over the edge and onto his ladder. He will destroy you, trap you in this madness…. don't. My love, don't.
Anguish welled up in his soul more terrible than the agony of his body. The pain of the flesh melted away as an overwhelming sadness reached for him, blackness enveloping his entire being. The last few strands of his rope parted with a sigh, and the Player barely noticed as he began to fall, his eyes locked on his beloved Angel.
"I love you…" his last words, torn from him as he fell, once more, into the waiting embrace of the Machine.
Pain, crushing and endless. Mindless spirals of bone shattering agony. Then… nothing.

The Player, a man once named Bumaro, stood there, overlooking the vast complexities of the Machine. His dark eyes panned across the dully gleaming bronze, his mind calculating the different routes out of this hellhole.
Why am I here? The question resonated from somewhere deep within himself, the part that hated this Game, the part that hated the Machine……

~More by this author~


Last one, last one.
I show the lady at the gate my ticket. I think it's blank, but she doesn't seem to notice. I go into the tunnel before the plane, lost among the rest of the passengers. I have no luggage. I have nothing on me but my clothes. My name, right now, is Randy, but it hasn't always been.
Last one, last one.
I woke up on a chair, several minutes ago, knowing that I needed to get on this plane. I just know. It's not something I can explain. This is just where I need to be, there's no question about it. I don't know why yet. That's something I have to figure out.
I don't know where my seat is, because it is not listed on my ticket. I confuse many passengers before finally finding a spot that no one else has claimed, at the back of the plane. I buckle in, as I know I must do, and wait for a sign. There's something I need to do here. Something, something. I just don't know what yet.
Last one, last one.
I mutter to myself as the plane begins to move.
"Hello, I'm Finley Fischer, your pilot today, but you can just call me Fin. Please buckle your seatbelts, and remember that there is no smoking allowed in the cabin. In case of an emergency… don't worry! I'm sure it won't happen, and if it does, there's nothing you can do about it anyways. Have a safe flight!"
I grab at the armrest, and scan my environment. A sign, a sign, I need a sign. Sometimes I don't find them in time, and that becomes a real problem. Sets me back years. Can't afford that. After all…
Last one, last one.
This is my last one.
The plane takes off, from where I do not know and to where I do not care. I know that something will happen before we land. It never takes that long. Never, not ever. Could happen any second. I just need a sign, I just need a sign of some sort. The pilot speaks to the passengers again, and I listen carefully.
"Alright, you can unbuckle now. Feel free to get up and move around. Or even stand in the aisles. That might be useful."
I take the offer, and get up. Where is the threat? From what angle will they strike? When do I need to strike? Do I need to strike? Sometimes, the arbiters are cruel — no, it is wrong to think that. They are not cruel, they know what is right, and they will test me. Sometimes the threat does not strike. It is subtler. The signs are important. And sometimes very small.
My feet feel wet.
I look down, and see that there is water lapping at my feet. In it are small floating dots — green. Algae? I take in my surroundings. I don't think that is usual for a plane. Water. Water, first sign, the first sign is water. Important, the first sign is always the most important.
It has been a long time. I don't know precisely how long. Long enough that there were not planes when I was first named, back when I headed the cotton plantation. Since then, I have gained habits. The first sign marks the first prayer. It is always good to pray after the first sign. So I pray.
I put both hands on my forehead, and begin to hum from deep within my throat. A melody, if you could call it one, that I use to contact the arbiters. If I ask for the right things, I will receive them. The first sign always tells you the most important thing to ask.
I know I am right, so it does not surprise me when gills cut into my throat, and thin slimy fins begin to pierce out of my forearms and calves. These will help in the coming moments, but I know I can't spill my hand so early. My fins are already under my clothes, but just in case, I pull a jacket off of a nearby passenger so I can use it to cover my gills. They seem unhappy, but don't pursue me.
Coming down the aisle, I see a lady. A flight attendant, I think? They have a cart, and are pushing past the people standing in the aisle. When she comes to me, I see that the cart is full of jars filled with clams and jars of green water. She mutters "excuse me", and then shoves me into the seats. I let her pass.
After she passes, I make my way down the aisle, scanning each person. Looking for more signs. No one seems perturbed by the water, which is no longer lapping at the soles of my shoes but instead threatening to pour into them. The smell of salt fills the air, and I realize that I can hear the cawing of gulls. You aren't supposed to have birds in a plane. That I know for certain.
The plane begins to shake, and the lights in the cabin flicker to a pale turquoise color. I lean down to look out a window, and see that the view is obscured by clouds — no, not clouds. It's in the shape of clouds, but that is a foam of some sort. Seafoam.
Signs, signs. Water, ocean, plane. People on the plane, they are in danger, they are the ones I need to save. Easy. It can't be that easy, but it might be. The difficulty of my tasks is sporadic. Maybe this is as straightforward as I think it is.
I put my hands on my forehead and pray again, this time acquiring a feature too imposing to be hidden under my clothes; I quickly grow large folds of skin between my limbs. Three, to be exact. From my right arm to my right leg, right leg to left leg, and then my left leg to my left arm. I then pray again, and my arms begin to stretch and multiply, some with folds and some without. I can see that some passengers have noticed my transformation, and are beginning to panic. Strange, considering the sea within the plane does not concern them.
"Fear not!" I command. "I am here to save you! You are not safe, but I can guide you to safety. I am here only to help! I am here to—"
My speech is cut short as the plane undergoes a new bout of turbulence, this time forcing the entire plane to tilt to the left. Then, there is a deafening crash, as a disproportionately large spearhead forces its way through the outer hull. Two passengers near the impact site are thrown, and one falls completely limp and bleeding. I have lost one. All my anxieties return at full force. I know that sometimes I can not save everyone, and the task is still considered holy and complete. But too many more incidents like that, and I will be doing damage control instead of succeeding.
The other passengers, however, don't seem to notice. It seems that it will be difficult to convince them of the current danger. Sometimes, people did not cooperate with salvation. Often, actually.
"I am here to help you! Please, for your own sakes, come into my arms, and I will carry you to safety!"
My current form is too awkward for me to stand with, so I instead learn to crawl and skitter with my arms acting as extra legs. Passengers scream and cower when I come near, but there is no time to argue with them. Without hesitation, I engulf a woman and child. I know that the arbiters like it when I rescue women and children.
Shrieks erupt from the cabin, and muffled ones join them from under my tent of skin. My arms grow longer to accommodate my passengers, forming a couple more elbows. I can feel something sharp — a pen? — jabbing at my soft belly, poking holes. If they will not cooperate, I will have to adapt to them. I bring two of my hands to my forehead and hum, soon growing a slick black covering of scales over my vital areas. I can not wait for it to spread fully before I must continue my collection of passengers.
Something brushes up against me, and I crane my head upwards. Tentacles are pushing open a luggage compartment from the inside, and one has begun to graze my back. Unsure of a threat, I scurry away from the growing mass of tendrils, and begin to pull more passengers under my expanding folds and creases. In their resisting, I am forced to scratch some. The arbiters dislike when I hurt people, but they can be convinced of its necessity on occasion.
The passengers have now split into two groups. Both head away from me, but in opposite directions — one towards the front of the plane and the other towards the back. They are screaming, rushing, pushing each other out of the way. The now knee high water impedes their movement, and I see an assortment of fish swimming between their legs. I will have to prioritize. It occurs to me now that the passengers are very numerous. To save all of them, I will need to become significantly bigger.
Another hum alerts the higher beings of my needs, and grants my wish. There used to be a time that not all my wishes were granted, but I have been at this for a long time. Now, now, they trust me, they trust me so much that I can get away with praying for things I don't necessarily need on occasion. I don't often, though. They get especially upset if I do that and still fail. But I haven't failed in a long time, and I'm not about to end that streak.
Last. One.
I am now large enough that I am pressed against the left and right walls, floor, and ceiling. I am an almost airtight barrier between the two sides of the plane. The group that went to the back of the plane is significantly smaller than the group that went to the front, so I choose to handle them first. My countless arms carry me swiftly down both aisles and over the seats, so that I am soon grabbing and constraining the writhing passengers en masse. The only problem is that my approach has pushed the water level higher as my body lets very little pass, and people within me are beginning to have a hard time breathing.
Another prayer will fix this.
My chest splits open and my ribs part to allow tubes to protrude from my lungs. With the passengers held still, it is trivial to use my extra arms to force the tubes into their mouths, at which point the ends inflate to make an airtight seal behind their teeth. Their jaws will range from sore to dislocated in the aftermath, but it is necessary that they breath. My one mouth and gills can not breath for all of them, however, so mouths and gills burst and flare from the outside of my forearms, outside of the enclosure I have made with my body. Now I will pull in enough oxygen for all of them.
Meanwhile, the passengers on the other side of the plane have made little progress, though some have taken to throwing objects and luggage at me. Where my scales have extended over my skin, I am relatively protected from the brunt, but some land in soft spots between my armor and force me to contort and react. Once upon a time, I had to be conservative with my wishes, but since those days are behind me, I use one to grow a mirror of my current configuration on the other side of my body so that I don't have to handle the hassle of turning around when I take up the full width of the plane.
When my second head forms, I can see that some passengers have begun to retreat from the doors leading to the cockpit, and thus come halfway towards me. A sign. To overcome their fear of me, they must be threatened. But in my current state, I can not get past them. I see blood spill into the water, and realize I can not waste time.
Two hands and a hum allows me to grow three fleshy appendages with mouths at the end. The teeth are so tough as to be almost unstoppable, and I send them to gnaw through to the outside of the vehicle. Once outside, I must fight the unbelievably strong headwinds to creep them up towards the cockpit. To combat the force, they become greased with adhesive and stick to the hull of the plane. While they creep forward, I feel that they need to move to avoid barnacles that have grown onto the plane. Once I sense the cold glass of the cockpit, they break in.
I immediately feel an intense burning. I am about to wish for heat protection when I then feel one of the mouths get smashed by a blunt object. I decide I need more senses. A prayer later and they grow eyes, noses, and ears. Then I see them.
The final sign.
The beings in the cockpit startle me. They look alike only in that they are equally inhuman. One is shaped like a star and covered in pustules and lumps; another is a long, floating, undulating transparent tube with a blue disembodied head floating in its center; a third one is a school of fish flying through the air in a roughly humanoid shape; the last one that I can see is an amorphous mess of wires and hooks with veins and other organs hinted at throughout its mass. It, however, is facing out the open door of the cockpit, into the crowd of people.
It is the menace I must kill.
I wish for more defensive and offensive abilities on my heads, but the prayer is not answered. It seems my well has run dry — I have reached the limit of prayers that the higher beings will fulfill for this task. I hope that will not reflect poorly on me when this encounter is inevitably reviewed. In the hesitation during which I hummed and prayed, the cyst-covered starfish sent an intense blast of heat towards my leftmost head, singing one of its eyes shut and forcing me to retreat out of the cockpit with it. I can not heal that wound. I have only the resources already on me, now. Only this body and these capabilities with which to save these people.
Sweat forms on my body in the few places that still allow it.
My first moves are simple. I reenter with my left head and lunge for the lumpy starfish. Its next heat wave manages to take care of the other eye, but I can still see with my other two heads and manage to land the hit. I clamp down on its body with my teeth and take it out of the cockpit, where I then bite down until it explodes, taking my cheeks and nose with it. Thankfully, my indestructible teeth are untouched and my jaw still functions.
My rightmost head gives me an angle on the floating tube, allowing me to see the distress in its face. Of the three beings, it is the only one from which an emotion can be gleaned, and that emotion is fear. This invigorates me. I lunge for it and it swims through the air and out of my reach. It then launches its head at my own, hitting with such force that I lose my senses for a moment.
In the background of my mind, I can feel a passenger run into my open arms in the cabin. I immediately ensnare them.
I lunge with my middle head, and the tube avoids me just as easily. I decide that its demise is unimportant for now. In my preoccupation with the other two beings, I missed where the school of fish went. I decide that's not worth worrying about either. Next, then, is the hook-beast.
I first attempt to use my middle head's adhesive to stick to it. Once I slam my chin down upon it, several hooks end up burying themselves into my mass, one completely going through my jaw. But when I pull with the head, only those few hooks and the attached strings come with it. Once I get far enough away that the tangle begins to pull the entire hook-beast, it attaches hooks to the doorway around it, which effectively counters my maneuver. At the height of my pull, I end up only breaking the strings attached to those two hooks. Once free, it retreats into the cabin.
As a side effect, many people run from it and towards the groping range of my arms, allowing them to be pulled into my comforting embrace. This does present a problem, however, as my appendages are not long enough to get through the cockpit and then into the cabin. I backtrack with my head that has no eyes, nose, or cheeks, and then gnaw through the side of the cabin, near where the spear punched through earlier.
Once through, I am able to effectively flank the hook-beast. I send my middle head to be as close to the door to the cockpit as possible, while using my burnt head to menace the beast towards the cockpit. My third head is used to attach the bleeding bodies to itself using the adhesive, and bring them back towards my flesh shelter.
While it does that task, the hook-beast begins to tear into both of my heads. It is a mad flurry of blades and points that sends me into spasms of pain, but in doing so it makes a terrible mistake. Once the hooks are buried deep into both of the heads, I begin to pull with them, straining the wire and hooks and organs in both directions. It tries to anchor itself to a seat, but such an action is futile against the tearing tension at the center of its being. Eventually, wires begin to snap, and the mass starts to fall into two pieces.
By now the cabin is halfway full of water, and the hook mass is deep within it. It is difficult to see, but I make out that one half of the snapped mass is still twitching — veins within it pulse with a heartbeat unseen somewhere beneath the metal spines. Unsure of what else to do against such a creature, I do the only thing I can think of.
My burnt face drifts towards the mass, and begins to consume it. The process is slow and incredibly painful, but necessary. The hook-beast only fights back in twitches and spasms, reflex and instinct rather than intent and strategy. I am able to store the majority of it in my throat, freeing the teeth to be used on something else. I retreat the burnt head outside of the airplane, and then peel the majority of it off of the outer shell. Once that is done, I pull it into a loop, and, like an ouroboros, begin to eat at its root. The hook beast lashes out at the soft walls of my large esophagus, but makes no headway before I successfully have the appendage chew threw itself, letting its severed body then fall into the abyss beneath the plane, the hook-beast along with it.
The combat is over. All of the enemies are dispatched. But my job is not over. I need to get the people off of the plane safely now.
Only a few passengers remain outside of my tent, and they are quickly acquired with use of my two remaining appendages. However, I have run into a problem. I am no longer able to exit the plane, as I am too large. Furthermore, I will need to separate my two mirrored halves from each other before we reach the water, and I do not know how high up we are.
I decide the first course of action is obvious. Using both of my appendages, I gnaw through the plane surrounding my two connected bodies, essentially splitting the plane in half and allowing me to fall with all of the passengers in tow. The plane falls apart ungracefully, sputtering off into the distance in the case of the back and into the abyss below in the case of the front. It occurs to me only now that below us might not be… anything, depending on where this plane transported us. We careen through the seafoam clouds. No time to think of that.
The next issue is to separate both bodies. My mouths are too big to be surgically precise, so I end up dealing great damage to my own two spines in the process. In little time, though, it works. I am no longer in control of the one half that was facing the cockpit, which goes immediately limp. My original half, however, is completely under my sway. Now, it is time to use the skin flaps for their real use.
I extend my outermost arms in a fashion that creates a large umbrella shape, catching the air and creating a parachute. I slow down immensely. My riders move suddenly as they can now see the yawning void below us, but can not scream or question due to the tubes from my lungs that still fill their mouths. Panic consumes me as I realize I have no way to ensure that the other body follows form.
In fact, the other body spirals out of control, both of my appendages still attached to it, trailing behind like twin tails. It does not fold open into a parachute — and chances are that if it did, it would not be holding its passengers and they would free fall to their doom. I ruined it.
I lose.
But just as I have that thought, that terrible crushing fear of failure, the void brightens, and I see at once that we are over the ocean. I slowly drift down, and see from my vantage point the landing of the other body. It hits the ocean, but then… it floats. And then I see movement. From under the folds of the body, passengers emerge, pulling the tubes from their mouths and coughing. My body will sink eventually, but they have survived the initial impact. My spirits rise. No one was lost due to my ignorance.
Then, I see the most promising sight yet. A boat. A big cargo boat is passing this direction. They will be brought aboard and saved. Safe. All these people.
I did it.
I did it!
As with all my bodies, as soon as my task is over, I can feel my grip beginning to fade. This vessel will die, and I will return to the arbiters, the deciders of my fate. I have done all that they have asked of me. I only lost one passenger as far as I could tell. Everyone else, everyone had made it out alive.
My vision fades as we land in the water, and I release my grips on the people. I smirk at the humorous thought that I must look like a kind of jellyfish. A jellyfish that just removed people from a sinking plane.
They will be happy with me. When I died, for the first time, I was told that slavery was immoral. That I could not run my business that way. I was told, despite my churchgoing and my god fearing, that I would be sent to hell. Eternal damnation. "Unless," the arbiters said, "you become our errand boy." A position had just opened up, the previous errand boy had proved themselves and gone to paradise. I was lucky even to have the chance.
I asked them what that meant. They told me that to earn my freedom, to become redeemed in the eyes of the lord, I had to do one thousand good deeds. And this…
This was my last one.