The Scientist
Beneath the canopy, sunlight filtered in jagged, stuttered lines through gaps in trees. In the wilderness, in the beauty of nature, she thought only of the double-slit experiment. Rays, like heaven. Rays, like quasars shooting gouts of energy like arterial blood into the aether, into the nothing that comprised the most there was. Expelling. Spitting. Like the sunlight above her head.
It had been a long while since she had seen another living human being. Dead ones, sure. Many, like her, had fled the cities when things began to truly fall out of control. The cities were where people had more access to things that could hurt. The final trappings of civilization wasted for destruction. Most of it seemed mindless. Even if it wasn't, there was no way of knowing otherwise.
It had been five or six years since she had last heard a human voice. Seven since she heard an actual living human, in the flesh, speaking.
The way that things were had not been good. But the wilderness was not much better. Many others had the same idea. Many were not as successful. She had been lucky. Her wife had always been interested in survivalism. She always teased her for it. The scientist couldn't imagine a world where any of these things would be useful. Where she'd have to rely on herself and only herself.
She was reminded of Leibniz's monad. Humanity as completely closed systems, incapable of interacting with each other. The grace and beauty of the universe's dance only making things appear as though they are reacting.
Except this was so much worse. So, so much worse. This was monads without the chessmaster. No elegant universe. Only broken toys battering against each other. G.I. Joe soldiers and Barbie dolls smashing their bodies against each other in frustration and lust, and shit. What was that?
Sticks breaking. Twigs? Whatever. Her hearing was still good, at least.
There was little time to duck out of the way. She saw that the person who made the noise was a woman, coming out from the trees. Maybe it had been as sudden for the woman as it had been for her. The scientist still had her revolver in her hands. The woman had a shotgun. It looked old. Unreliable. But her revolver was in condition that was just as bad. She had never known how to do any upkeep. Never really liked hearing about guns or any of that.
She wish she had listened to her wife before all of the things happened.
The woman's hair was tied up in a messy bun. Long hair. Black. But her eyes? The woman's clothing was tattered, but the scientist reasoned that hers were, too. Her backpack was filled. It looked heavy. She looked at the bottom for any pooling of blood. That was usually a good tell, she had found. A good tell that someone wasn't the kind of person she should be around.
Sometimes it was an animal. But it was better to be safe than sorry.
There was blood on the woman's shirt. It could have been an animal. It could have been someone attacking her. The scientist wasn't certain. But it was better to be careful.
They did not move. The woman and the scientist stood still. Silent, untouchable monads. Would that be the plural? Blinking. But only to moisten eyeballs. Their bodies didn't twitch or quake beyond the bare minimum required by a working human body. Rigid arms pointing guns straight ahead. Silence.
The wind battered the limbs of trees. They scratched and whined, like a see-saw noise. She had always wanted children. Two of them. Up and down on the see-saw. Her arms hurt, but there weren't a lot of comfortable positions that she could maneuver her body into. Everything felt rigid. All movement, robotic, defined, calculated. Not exactly animal anymore.
She had a twin before all of this. He had died like so many others. Hunger. Torn apart by maddened, silent crowds. The same end. Almost the same pain. Except one was longer. Sharper. So maybe not the same pain.
She still didn't know which she would rather have happened to her.
The guns weren't clean. She wondered if the shotgun would misfire. That would be wonderful, wouldn't it? The few people that she had seen since she had left the city had been desperate. Men that came to her with palpable need despite their unflinching, unemotive faces. She was never one to put a lot of stock into the brightness or life of someone's eyes, but she had taken to looking at them as deeply as she could. The only windows into any inner life.
It was so easy to believe that people didn't have any thoughts or feelings in this world. So easy to make the other alien. But she stared at the eyes as much as she could. Mostly what she saw was fear.
The other woman's eyes were hard to read. They were grey. Or a different color. But she thought they were grey like granite. Hard. She cocked her revolver.
Movement. The scientist's eyes slid right.
A child behind a tree. Dark hair, dark eyes. That same calm face that everyone had. The boy's face was dirty, but his cheeks were red. He seemed healthy, or as healthy as could be expected in a situation like this. A mother. The woman with the shotgun was a mother. His clothes were clean. Tattered. A backpack on his back. Like his mother.
They had the same eyes, didn't they?
The scientist stepped forward.
Birds chirped. There were deer in the woods. She hadn't seen them. She had only killed a few. They were fast. Revolvers were hard to aim.
She had never killed another person. And she couldn't do it to someone in front of their child. Especially like this.
Maybe it was okay.
A mother couldn't be someone to fear, could they? A mother would understand. A mother would empathize.
The shotgun worked, and it was the last and loudest thing that the scientist had ever heard.

The Poet
The baby no longer made a single sound. It did once but no longer. The infant child, a boy with rosy cheeks and startling bright eyes, cried in silence. Impotent tears streamed down its face. Locked in itself from such a young age. The eyes followed him with the same need as any other child. But it could not speak. Would never speak again. Gestures would soon be lost to it. It did not grasp for him. It did not move. But it breathed. And it cried in that horrible way. No facial movement. Nothing but breathing. Nothing but the most base physical ways to stay alive. And the boy would know nothing else but this feeling. Locked-in.
He did not hold him. He could not hold him.
Before it had taken speech, it had taken writing. After it had taken speech, it had taken sign language. Then it took body language. It took pictographs, and it took morse code.
There was nothing that they could do. And still, so many clung to life.
The poet looked at his child, and he wished to any god that would hear it that he could touch him.
The loss of art had been the worst thing he had ever experienced. The written word had always been his only solace. Besides his wife. Of course. Gosh, he loved her. And he loved his child. He had taken to painting after language had fully left him. Written and vocal. When the word had been fully depleted, he had gone to color. As impressionist as his poetry. But even that was taken away.
There was no love without art.
The child would be silent. The child would never know language. Never understand the significance. Could someone appreciate art without being taught to understand? What would one think of the outside world if one was born in silence, raised without touch, and kept at arm's length without any stimulus besides animals?
Did that make humanity separate from all other kingdoms? Even the animal was capable of body language. Even, shit, fuck, the parrot could speak. Just the words of humanity and whatever sounds they could mimic, but still. They had meaning.
What was humanity raised without meaning? Raised without language? Without signification? Derrida. He barely remembered it. But he'd have something to say about this. Probably. If he weren't dead. Dead as all fuck. Dead like so many.
It had been a year since all speech, all communication, had been taken from everyone. Things were collapsing. That was easy to tell. When things had gotten bad, he and his wife had gotten as many supplies as they could. And they went off into the wilderness. A cottage. In his mother's family. Shitty. No electricity, but what was going to be providing electricity anymore anyways?
There weren't many supplies left.
And his child would never know a world with touch. With speech. Of any kind. Nothing.
The poet cried along with his child. Soundless, thick tears dripping down his nose. He had brought his painting supplies. They had long dried out. The painting in front of him, he could understand it. He could grasp it. But would anyone ever be able to again?
Would a child even have an idea of aesthetics? What would happen to humanity? To internal monologue?
Locked in without any way to put words to your experience. A nebulous terror world of confusion. Things happenings with no show of cause and effect. No understanding of cause and effect. And in it, the boy would die. Everyone would die. Humans without communication. Without possibility of communication, forever. Locked into themselves. Would they get selfish? Would their desires turn dark and twisted? Would you think the best of your brother or the worst?
And there would be no expression. It would devour whatever attempt there was to create some kind of understanding. Untouchable. Forever untouchable.
The man, in his silent cottage, watched his sleeping wife and child. Poor thing had exhausted himself. Which, perhaps, was the method to go in this world. When self soothing was the only kind of soothing possible, such things were important.
It would be his duty to teach his child to live.
And he could not do it. Not in this world, lacking of metaphor and simile. Lacking language and play and anything that he could understand and grasp.
He told himself that he was doing them a service. That the supplies would last longer. But it was only forestalling the inevitable. The world was inhospitable now. The Tower of Babel had fallen, and it fell hard. He wondered there, dimly, without humor, how many ex-poets in this dead land had composed works about the Tower of Babel, alone in their heads like that dude in the Russian short story. Or whatever.
But it was because he could no longer live in a world like this.
It was because he could not face his child and his wife and see those unfeeling faces. He could not do it. He would not do it.
There was no way to leave a note. The act of suicide was, perhaps, the only possible avenue he had left for some self expression. It was a message. And an apology. An admission of guilt, for what he did not know.
His child slept. His wife slept. Peaceful. If there was anywhere else, he would like to remember them like that. Truthfully, maybe he didn't deserve it. Maybe he deserved to see what he had brought them.
The poet held the shotgun under his chin, and he pulled the trigger.

The Mother
The woman walked with her boy.
He was quiet. They were quiet. Sometimes, she wondered if he loved her. Did humans have an innate concept of love? It had been on her mind for so long. Animals understood love and affection, didn't they? What things would a human not understand if they had never known any facility toward understanding?
She could never hug him. Or teach him to talk. Or to sign. Or to draw. All she could do was give him the largest shares of food. All she could do was protect him when they were menaced, when she saw that there were others, those with ill intent and bad souls.
But she had taken to that sparingly. Other things had been taken away. What if her communication of love, of maternity, through protection and support and food was taken away from her? She didn't know what she'd do without her son. It was impossible to think of.
Since her husband had died, since he had taken his own life, things had been hard. Rough. Long. But she had kept the boy alive. She had kept the boy as healthy as she could. Maybe he would understand that it meant that she loved him. Maybe he would know that she was his mother and protector, maybe he would understand that he was her son.
She could not tell how much her son understood of their relationship, of the things around them. It was impossible to tell anything about anyone anymore, besides their appearance. Besides the most base ways of understanding an individual.
The mother had always wondered how this was affecting people's bigotries. Things were festering, undoubtedly, when it was the only thing anyone had to go on. A limited understanding of wide swathes of people. And fear. Mixed with so much fear.
Since they had lost the cottage, things had been tough. But they survived. They had always survived. Her child was strong. She regarded him with pride, and the mother found herself so often wishing that he would understand that she was so proud of him. He always waited. He never did anything bad. No misbehaving.
A good boy. A perfect child.
She had killed before. She never counted. The bullets in the tin coffee can, protected from the elements by paraffin wax, were depleted. Noticeably. That's all she knew. It had taken a few lives. Only human. She didn't use it to hunt. Bow and arrow were good for that. There had been one in the cottage. Which was fantastic, because she knew that she never would have been able to make one.
Motherhood doesn't change. At its most base state, it doesn't.
She heard a rustle in the trees. She picked up her child, seven years old, as though he weighed nothing. She put him behind a tree, bodily. He would stay there. He knew what that meant. Some things were beyond words, beyond communication.
The noise was a woman. The mother walked towards it.


8:00 AM
hey

nic

yeah

what up

not much

ive just been thinking about pinto a lot

oh

im sorry

if it makes u feel better she was a good dog

she was

the pictures of her were pretty cute

remember that fuckin photo of you and her sledding

you complained about how she fell into the snow

yeah

it was bad

she smelled like wet dog

and got water all over the floors

didn't you let her sleep in your bed that night

she would've borked all night if I didnt

:p

man she was a yappy dog

a *good yappy dog

thanks

i loved her

i wish she was still here

im sorry

dont appologize its not your fault

it was mine

only if i had waited a week she would still be here with me

she would bark and run around

i couldve been able to save up the money to get her that surgery

you did the right thing

you didnt want her to suffer

they couldve removed the cancerous cells

she could still be here

she wouldve suffered

vets said we had a month but i let her die that day

she would still be here she wouldnt have died

Ari

she wouldve died before then a long and really painful death

nic

don't you remember this

oh

yeah

she died a week before rapture

yeah

everyone else got lucky

i mean

its better than her suffering

right?

Read 8:30

Ari you okay?

9:25 AM

Ari u still there

Yeah, sorry.

I was making food.

whatcha makin

pancakes

sounds good

They really are.

It's a family recipe.

is it a super secret family recipe

No, Nic you dink.

I can teach you if you wanna know it

sure is there any catch to this

bring coffee?

lol sure

also Ari

Yeah

want me to bring my cat

I like that idea

just promise me that she wont scratch me again

of course Ari

9:49 AM

In front of Nic stood a house, cold and hollow. A layer of dirt and dust blocked the little light within the windows. Debris spread across the porch and the stench of rot rose from the garden.
Nic's hand lifted up the knocker before letting it slam onto the door. Yowls arose from within Nic's jacket and out climbed the cat onto his shoulders while he let the knocker drop again. A light went off on in one of the lower floors rooms before more began to appear. Footsteps approached the door and a series of clicks played.
Out swung the door and the inside light spread across the porch.
“Nic!” Arms wrapped around Nic and squeezed tightly before a volley of yowls launched out of Tiger.
“Awwww poor Tiger. Has your owner forgotten to pet you?”
“Psh no, he's just an ass,”
“Aww you poor wittle guy, is your owner a meanie poo who doesn't give you enough pets?” Inside her arms, Tiger curled up letting out a mighty purr.
“Damn thing doesn't purr for me,”
"Probably cause you call him mean words,"
Ari's giggles filled the sky before guiding Nic inside. The house reeked of rot and death. Floorboards creaked as they walked along. Books, that at one point sat lined up on the shelf, were now strewn across the room with dog-eared and ripped pages.
At last, they entered the kitchen where pancakes laid on plates already made.
“Couldn't wait for five minutes?” Nic questioned
“You were just a wee bit slow,” she replied. It was only ten minutes… maybe she just needed something to do.
“Oh, well. Guess you'll teach me some other time,”
“As long as you're not late.”

10:06 AM
Nic, halfway through his breakfast feast glanced up and saw Ari's glassy eyes and reddish nose.
"Ari?" He said. She looked up and about as if she had been pulled away from space, before giving a weak smile.
"Mm."
"You good?"
"I mean, I'm going." The words were followed by a series of half-hearted chuckles
"Ari, I'm sorry."
"It's okay Nic, there's no reason to apologize"
"I just want you to be okay. I mean look around you Ari. You aren't going, you're breaking down, there are books everywhere, your house is a fucking mess, and your garden looks like a war zone. I know she was important to you, but you can't let her death destroy your life."
Ari stopped and thought before shaking her head and taking a sip of tea.
"I was cleaning up the garden and well, I was unable to finish it yesterday. And the books I was organizing. If it makes you feel better it will be done soon."
"Do you need any help?"
"No, I got it. You have important things to do anyway."
"You sure?"
"Of course, Nic."
Nic shrugged his shoulder, it would take her some time to heal from her dog's death. Later on, in the pancake feast, he excused himself for a bathroom break. He walked down the never-ending hallway when he paused, noticing the small unmistakeable figure that was Tiger. Within its mouth was a strange little thing dangling and dripping off sludge. Walking closer Nic could better see the outlines of the elaborate fur matted up into a ball. Bending his knees, he reached out toward his cat, extending his hand out and making quick clicks with his tongue.
Slowly Tiger approached him, watching Nic with fierce eyes. Nic shot back horrified as to what was dangling within his mouth. Nic backed into the wall, staring towards his cat.
"What the fuck?" The words spilled from his mouth as he noticed a small figure behind his cat, perched, watching him with rotting eyes. Its jaw tumbled from off the top of the bed slamming into the floor with a slop. His feet stumbled back and the stench of rot and death filled his body and mind. It laid watching him with a lifeless socket and a tar-filled pit.

8:33 AM

The door slid open slowly mocking the little strength Ari had left. Hollowness flowed within her body and into the tips of her fingers leaving everything cold. She stumbled forward off of the steps and into the grass. A deep breath in then out as her body jerked toward the shed in a puppet like fashion. The door opened with little resistance and the shovel fell off of its hook with a clank. It settled on her shoulder with almost no weight.
Step by step. She moved out of the shed.
Step by step. She moved across the yard
Step by step. She approached a patch of young grass.
A Pause.
The shovel swang off her shoulder and into the ground, impaling it with a single strike. The dirt flew and onto the flower patch. Soon enough the yard was covered in brown and grey. The shovel fell from her hands and kneeled down before stretching out them and stroking Pinto's still soft patch of fur. Pinto's head moved up and her socket met her owner's eye. She wanted to be with Ari… and Ari wished to be with her. Hands reached down and picked Pinto up. Black sludge poured from the grave as Ari brought her close. Snapping and sloshing filled their ears as the body slowly slipped away from the little, fluffy face. The corners of Ari's mouth stretched upright and coos left her lips.
“You're a good dog. Yes, you are.” Pinto's head tilted back and diamond-like eyes watched Ari with joy.
Black liquid splattered across the hole and a headless body lay still. Ari watched her dog with pride and joy before taking her inside. There she laid the dog onto her bed; in Pinto's favorite sleeping spot so she could get some rest after having played outside this entire time.
Ari watched her dog with adoring eyes when her stomach began to growl. Time for breakfast.


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NAME OF TALE There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Wishing Well

Imagine, if you will, a hole.
This is not a hole in the ground. The ground is a long, long way down. This is a hole in all that's above the ground. Two thousand feet of steel and concrete, gradually encompassing everything below, entirely separating the earth from the sky.
It's a strange place, if you were to look at it from the outside. Its edges are several miles of slow build-up; thin and dirty containment zones with barbed wire all around. These places would be considered miserable as sin by the standards of the early 21st century, but they're really quite tame in comparison to some of the horrors of the early 22nd. At least, they are for now. The people in them live in dread of when the construction deeper within catches up with them, but they try to make the best of what they have. They don't look behind them much.
This slow build up eventually rises higher, and higher, and higher. The gaps are fewer, the buildings filthier. Until eventually there's nothing at all but a singlular mass. Its tops are covered in irregular houses and towers, built by people desperate to stay at the top and not be absorbed themselves.
There is nothing below. Or rather, you can see nothing below, so you imagine it doesn't exist. Not to you; you only see a grey and unpleasant skin. But every now and again, you come across a hole. Miles and miles apart, these are rare things, usually square or circular.
And all around their edges, the people come to pray.

Imagine a human society on earth. Any such society that depends on the dominion of the powerful on the weak needs its safety valves. If you want to build your rich plantations or half-baked utopias, you need someone whom you can safely exclude but still use as a source of labour. The Romans launched endless campaigns to staff their mines with able-bodied men. The Qarmatians of medieval Arabia built what appeared to be a communist paradise- if you ignored the thousands upon thousands of slaves who toiled to provide the necessities of life. The Americans transitioned from dependence upon chattel slaves to dependence upon migrant workers, for whom they kept finding unique ways to stamp on and humiliate.
But you know all this already. This is all ancient history. The year is 2110, and the question is why this place has been allowed to exist for so long in a world dominated by a thin elite. The answer is simple: surrender. The slums which housed the workers grew and grew, only being regulated when it affected those on the outside. As long as a steady supply of workers kept emerging to go to work, they could not care less what happened within.
But eventually, the number of workers began to decrease. Fewer and fewer people emerged from within the walls. And nobody understood what was happening. Were they dying? Were they finally dying?
Everyone wanted an end to the ache. Most couldn't afford the new brain transplants, and even fewer could afford to go to sleep. But as long as they ached, they'd be sure to ache a little less, and have their needs taken care of by people who ached a little more. So what would they do when not enough people came out of the slums any more?
They sent people in to see why the numbers were, gradually, declining. And it became obvious: nobody saw the point. It was becoming miles and miles to get from the centre to the outskirts, and passing through so much territory was dangerous. It was too much trouble to go to just so they could be exploited when the rising gangs offered such better wages. And so, more and more, there was just a hole, an unproductive, bleeding hole, and it would never stop growing.
It was given up for dead. Barbed wire, walls, attack dogs were placed around it. The perimeter would be reassessed every year, and adjusted accordingly. There was not enough political will in what remained of China to do anything about it.
These places popped up all over the place, surrounding what had been cities and then spreading beyond that, faster, faster, more. A name was given to them: the New Kowloons. It was obvious why. Little else was.

And thus, imagine the holes. They are the only gaps that even exist any more. As you circle around them, they look up at you. They are frightened, and hungry, but you see many smiles among their faces. You wonder why that is.
The answer is quite simple. These people spend their lives under the glow of an electric light. There is no sunlight, except through what are known as the watering holes. They go their whole lives without seeing any, and to be able to reach one and see the sky is an aspiration that can take years to accomplish.
The food and water supply is sparse. Those on the top eke out a living bartering the rainwater that falls on their heads for food and supplies. They have become the leaders of a caste system, and the heads of the militia gangs that guard and scrap for territory. They dominate the watering holes, charging through the nose in order to allow people to, for a second, feel something real.
Food comes from three places: artificial farms deep within the slum's bowels, natural farms on the rooftops of the upper layers, and the intermittent aid drops which plummet from the sky. Needless to say, there isn't enough to go around. The should-be-dead litter the streets, twitching and groaning from drought, starvation or old age. They splutter and collapse and ooze into the gutters, their minds fragmenting and reforming as every new kind of hell infects them. And all the while the rest of the populace shuffles by, eyes cast upwards, trying to forget the inevitability of their fate as it claws at their ankles.

Imagine a helicopter. It is black, and sleek, and moves efficiently over the roofs below. The sun shines brightly, and the faces dwelling below are so small and scared. The shadows move, and are solid, regulated movement over a state of endless flux.

Imagine a gun. A shotgun, to be precise. Imagine that it's being held by a woman. She's about thirty, and has known no other life but this. She eats, she sleeps, she fights, she sings to her daughter, she survives another day without collapse.
She lives around the middle of her structure. It's not the grinding existence of below- if you've got this far up, then you either have gangland connections or a particularly marketable skill. In her case, it's the former; she works as a part-time enforcer for the Ching Shih Dynasty, a family of drug-peddling warlords with pretensions of kingship. But beneath the golden thrones they're just the same crooks as all the rest. The rulers rule and the poor obey.
The woman's job is to make sure that the tenant farmers on the Dynasty's northern properties are providing their quotas. These are people who are allowed to live and work on the many rooftop farms owned by the gang, as long as they give a certain quota of food to the Dynasty each month.
She does not like the work. She does not like hurting people, or forcing them to give more than they can. She does not like yelling, shooting, or inflicting pain.
But then she thinks of her daughter's laugh, and the beginnings of decaying teeth, and blue eyes crinkled in a smile.
She shoulders her gun and goes to work.

Imagine a company called Prometheus Laboratories. This company has a patent on certain materials, which essentially amounts to a patent on a certain type of procedure if performed properly. This procedure involves removing the brain from a body and inserting a new one in, so that aging will never be a problem again.
This company sources its brains from a variety of people. The demand is fairly low, because of the expense; but the expense is such that it's a very important source of income for them. Therefore, they can afford to pick only the cream of the crop; excellent genetics, unearthly beauty, a lack of any known disease. And nobody capable of finding them.
But although they can patent the genetic materials and synthetic tissue necessary for the procedure, the law prevents them from legally patenting the procedure themselves. And, as always, scavengers begin to hang around the large predators. They offer cheap and nasty procedures, using lower grade products and synthetic materials different enough to avoid an unwinnable lawsuit. These companies cannot afford to pick supermodels from a lineup. They need something else- an easy and cost-effective source of bodies.
A lot of people aren't interested in beauty, or customisation. They're just interested in not aging, in not having to exist daily in a slow descent towards the twitching madness. They won't pay as much as the super-rich, but they'll pay enough.
Where do the brains come from? Why, mostly from genetically grown clone-stock, of course. No, we can't disclose any information about the process, or our facility. Yes, there are sometimes willing volunteers- we have people in Chongqing who take care of their every need, and they usually come to us excited about the new, better lives we can make for them. Really, we're almost a charitable institution- giving the worthy poor a new, better life, away from the New Kowloons or the Yellow River Ranches.
There are no cloning facilities, of course. And the vast majority of people are taken, not made. But there are some volunteers; a few who believe the billboards plastered on the edges of roads, or the adverts bellowed out over the watering holes. They enter a room, smiling. It's not clear what their expression is when they leave.

Imagine that you also have a gun. Imagine that you are standing on a helicopter, 50 metres above the surface, you and your compatriots training your weapons on a single woman standing below, who screams as she attempts to dodge the tranquiliser shots.
This woman fires at you, but a shotgun's range is not quite that far. She misses, and fires again, and again, yelling and sobbing while she does so. One of your darts hits her. You give a whoop, and your colleagues cheer and clap you on the back. As she falls asleep, the helicopter's screeching blades swoop down below, its wheels looking like great talons.
You're not a bad person, you say to yourself. You are just doing your job; someone has to do it, after all, if the world's going to keep turning. And besides, you've been told that the brains are fine. They have all their comforts dealt with by specialists in Chongqing, who make sure they'll never want for anything. Really, you're helping this woman; bringing her out of poverty and to a brighter future. You consider her as you haul her on board. Pretty. This one will sell for a lot.
You own a silver watch and gold cufflinks. Your flat is rich, tasteful, expensive; mercenaries willing to fly over the New Kowloons can earn a lot of money. You have no bookshelves and no paintings. You have a television, a computer filled with tasteless pornography, and a grey table.
Sometimes you stare at the table, and feel things you don't have names for.

Imagine a child. She has been wandering for days, scared and alone. Her mother did not return one day. She told the child never to leave the little flat they dwell in, but she needed to eat, and drink, or the pains would come. She'd felt the pains before, when she was very little, and she never wants to feel them again.
Imagine begging. Imagine being sneered at, crushed in crowds, pushed down crowded staircases and breaking your fall on kicking knees. Imagine finding yourself desperate, and alone, and wanting something, anything, to bring your mother back.
Imagine her mother's eyes.
The child knows where she has to go, but she resists going there. Her mother wouldn't want her to. Her mother would tell her that she must never think about them, but she does. She knows where to go to get food.
And finally, desperate and cold, she enters a golden room, where a dynastic prince sits on a golden throne. She explains who she is and who her mother is. She explains how her mother has taught her to be careful, reliant, good with a gun, fierce with her words. She explains how she would be a good enforcer, given enough time. How she could learn very easily to yell, or shoot, or inflict pain, if it'll stave her own pains away.
The prince's mind considers her. The prince's mind smiles to itself.

Imagine green eyes and a smile of decaying teeth, singing the songs of the old country. Imagine not being a child any more.

Imagine all of these things. Imagine your daughter is alright. Or, at least, imagine she's alive. Imagine you are rich, you are powerful, you are alive, imagine that you were the captor instead of the victim, you have the tranquiliser gun. Imagine that you are not here. Picture these images, keep them hard and whole.
Keep your mind together. Pray that the plastic bag you are contained in does not break, as you slowly sink to the bottom of the upper Yangtze. You are not aware that you are inside a plastic bag, but your synapses keep firing anyway, screaming in pain and confusion, forcing you awake when all you want to do is die.
So imagine, and keep on imagining, so you can stave the hurt away for a few frail moments in the dark.


"This is the damn jackpot! I told you the outer solar system was the right place to be for us 'nauts!"
To an outside observer, D-type asteroid 86235 Holt looks like an unspectacular dull red blot in the midsts of the ice orbiting through Uranus' ζ ring. But Ji-yeong has a prospector's eye and the knack for resource extraction one would expect from a former Luna Korean ice miner. She can list what you'd find in 86235 Holt — all the frozen water and organic-rich silicates — without batting an eye. Several minutes ago she did just that.
Of course, she still needs a spectrographic imager to get a good sense of what is actually in there. The one implanted into her left iris does help, though.
She floats down the central cabin of the Precious Flotsam to where Mihail hunches over a computer terminal with scrolling blue diagnostics cluttering its screen. She yanks his arm, tugging him to one of the windows.
"See that?" A cybernetic finger points to the asteroid. "Along those cracks?"
Mihail blinks, adjusting to the light. Ignoring the looming mass of Uranus's cloud cover, focusing solely on the asteroid, he spots a mote of purple luminescence. And then another. And another, and another, and another. The whole asteroid is dotted in the light.
"Inert ectoplasm. Maybe from some dead extraterrestrial back when this planet first formed. But, you notice how we can actually see it? Without needing to apply electrical currents of our own to light it up?"
He slowly nods, blankly watching the rock. Ji-yeong waits for his expression to change but quickly gives up.
"Well, this whole thing is generating its own electricity. Anomalously. Better yet? I checked reports on past electrically generating asteroids that've been mined. Most of them have been the result of demonic entities that got accidentally or naturally sealed into them." A wild grin flashes along her face.
Still no reaction.
"This is a once in a lifetime find, Mihail! We're going to net no less than a million sols from this! One to the power of— wait, what are you going to use your share of this money for?"
"Condo, maybe at Ashburn Station. Anything that isn't an alleyway, unregistered station, or cargo hauler to sleep in…" His voice trails off.
"Ah."
Pushing from a wall, she glides to the jumble of screens, dials, and switches that operate the Precious Flotsam's positioning systems. She glances to the screens, then back to Mihail. "Seriously, what's wrong?"
"Have you checked the date?"
"It's uhhh…" Pauses to bring it up on her retinal display. "December 25th, 2047, solar calendar."
He nods in response. She raises an eyebrow. "Well it sounds familiar but I don't see what's special about it." Her legs idly kick at an emptied beer pack and send it careening through the cabin.
"Christmas."
"Ooooh, right. That. Earth holiday, right?"
Nods.
"Ah."
It takes a moment for Ji-yeong to realize just how silent the ship is. Mihail isn't speaking, Precious Flotsam's orbit is far enough above the bulk of ζ ring's debris that the thrusters don't need to be running; only the heating systems are sending their rumbles throughout the hull.
"I don't know if I've ever asked, but Mihail, where are you from?"
"Inbetweener Station, Huygens Gap of Saturn's rings."
"No but before then?" Inbetweener Station was too recently built to be somewhere a scrawny, 20somethings kid like Mihail could be born. Besides, nobody in their right mind would try raising a kid in an unregistered Carter-run station like that.
"Ashburn Station."
That wasn't opened to the public by the Foundation until 2026. It's possible but it doesn't feel right. "And before?"
"…Earth."
Suddenly everything links up in Ji-yeong's head. "Wait wait, were you from one of the batches of Earth evacuees they sent to Ashburn Station? 2041?" He keeps gazing out the window, but the lack of acknowledgement still feels like an answer. "Holy shit I didn't know you were an evacuee! Why didn't you tell me?"
"You know how much flak I caught when I stayed in Ashburn? People were pissed that we were crowding the apartments there, that we weren't used enough to working in space to actually be useful for jobs. I had people refuse to hire me the moment I mentioned I was from Earth, let alone from one of the worst Lethe'd regions."
"Oh, I'm… sorry to hear that."
He glances at the window. "Sorry, I should be working. Diagnostics came back normal. I can start turning on the claws and autominers."
"No, it's fine. I understand how you feel." Taped to the wall is a photo of five year-old Ji-yeong with her moms, held up high while a rocket bound for the nascent Luna Korea settlements lifted up even higher in the background. "I never had much memory of Earth, and my parents weren't the holiday type, but after we left for Luna Korea and later were forbidden to return to Earth because of the Lethe events, my parents couldn't stop wishing they were home. They kept buying hologram systems and VR sets to try pretending they could return but it was never the same for them." She runs her fingers along the photo. "They still do buy them."
"Mmm. My parents never got evacuated, so they never experienced that, but—"
"Fuck, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't worry, I've had years to cope."
"Still."
He sighs, face turned enough to the window that it avoids any form of eye contact with Ji-yeong. The light reflecting from Uranus's atmosphere bathes his face in a pale blue haze.
"Last time I was with them was Christmas of 2040. I'd been off world for a year, working at a Foundation-run construction project because it was the only money I could get for my parents and I, so I was homesick but safe from the Lethe events that hit home that year. When I and others landed back the Foundation screened us like mad. We got hard limits to only stay a week. They kept giving us warnings about potential memory loss, the collapse of local governments in some areas, and handed us contact numbers in the event of emergency."
Ji-yeong is motionless, listening.
"The whole place felt like a wasteland when I drove to my parent's house. People were still around but they'd ignore corpses, buildings nobody remembered to fix, decaying bridges, anything that was Lethe'd out of them. Took a day to get past every Foundation checkpoint and reach my parent's house. And when they saw me they were so, so happy to see me." He lightly chuckles. "We couldn't stop talking about what we'd been doing and where we'd been.
"I was happy enough that, for the first few days, I forgot about Lethe events. Everything felt so normal. Just like when I was a kid. I never saw anything odd in town, I never saw abandoned buildings, I never saw anyone act weird. It was the most relaxed I'd felt in a while, but… Problems came up. I told them about how pretty stars looked up in space but they said I was delusional. They didn't believe stars existed. I asked about getting a Christmas tree, but they nearly fainted when I tried to explain what trees were. Same with the 'alien things' they thought cats were.
"And then Christmas came. My parents strung red and green lights around a telephone tower, not even knowing what telephones were. They dropped empty gift boxes on the ground, which they said were decorations, and sat to stare at the lights for an hour. I heard them state a fragment of a Christmas carol before heading back inside to do their normal routine. Like nothing happened. I tried to offer them little souvenirs as presents, bits of welding equipment from the construction job, anything to brighten up the day, but my dad only turned to me and said, 'I thought we taught you better than this.'"
The beer pack Ji-yeong had kicked slowly rebounds from a set of computers, reaching Mihail, who gently pushes it to the side.
"We didn't talk much the rest of the time. Once my week stay was over I left without saying a word. Mandate to evacuate came soon after." He shifts from the window, returning to the terminal Ji-yeong had tugged him away from. "I asked about my parents when I arrived in Ashburn, but Foundation staff said they weren't registered evacuees."
Sighing. "It was the last Christmas I bothered celebrating."
Ji-yeong can't respond. What is there she can say?
She refocuses on the computers in front of her. A flurry of lever switches and keyboard clacks later and the ship, running on some of the oldest orbital mining software available, engages RCS. Thrusters send subsonic reverbs through the hull as the Precious Flotsam adjusts trajectory. A minute passes and it is parallel to 86235 Holt. Mihail engages the automatic mining systems. A mechanical arm extends, its claw cracking into the surface, gripping hard. Silo doors slide open, releasing a swarm of BERGMANN-ETA mining drones that expand their safety nets, latch to the asteroid, and drill into the densely packed ice and ore.
All the while Mihail gazes at the nothing past his computer. Glancing around, Ji-yeong propels back, spinning to face storage containers lining the cabin "ceiling." Punching in the numbers on a combination lock, she gingerly opens a safe.
"Hey, Mihail?"
He turns.
"I realize there's nothing I can really do to make today feel better for you, but…" She fishes through the safe and pulls out a semitranslucent plastic chip. "…while I was at Inbetweener Station I won this in a gamble. 250 grand worth of sol." With a swift toss it flies to Mihail, who grabs it, eyes wide.
"You… Want me to—"
"You can keep it. Once we return to Jovian space go buy that condo for yourself, or get out of this mining biz altogether, up to you. After what you've been through you deserve this."
He stays stunned. She moves to the door at the cabin's end, single button press opening a slab of metal for a door with a hiss and clunk, ready to put on her spacesuit and inspect the drones. "Oh, question."
"Yes?"
"What's the phrase? The one that people always said for this day?"
"There's multiple, but… Merry Christmas? Is that what you're thinking of?"
"Yeah. Merry Christmas, Mihail."
Outside, protective thaumic sigils radiate their warmth from the drones as rubble bundles in their safety nets and as the ζ ring ice drifts, Uranian skies shining.


"Mommy, we're next, we're next!" Elizabeth bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, her rosy cheeks lit up in a bright smile. She looked up to see her mother's face looking down at her, her lips pulled tight into a thin grin. Her mother soon turned back to the man wearing glasses standing at the head of the line.
"Is… is this really safe?" Valerie asked quietly to the tired-eyed Ethics Committee member standing in front of her. He passed his eyes quickly down the long line of parents standing hand-in-hand with their children.
He scrunched his nose in annoyance. "Well, I mean, she's not gonna die."
"Of course she's not—" Valerie felt her face redden slightly, but bit her tongue. "I mean, he won't hurt her?"
"Hasn't hurt anyone since, y'know, September." He replied offhand.
"And you really think that makes it safe enough to let our kids around?" Her tense whisper was slightly louder than she had intended, drawing a curious tug on her hand from Elizabeth. She looked back down with another forced smile.
"Is what safe, mommy?"
With a small sigh, and wanting to avoid an unnecessary panic, Jeremiah Cimmerian bent down and put on a perfectly clinical smile for the young girl. "Oh, don't worry, everything is safe. Your mom is just being cautious." He stood and turned his gaze to Valerie, whispering "Look he's a lot less dangerous than I am if you throw my line into chaos, got it?"
Valerie squinted scornfully at the burned man's contemptuous gaze, but before she could think of a reply, one of Santa's helpers called out.
"Next!"
Elizabeth snatched her hand away and ran forwards, past the slightly confused child coming from sitting on Santa's lap. She paused just for a moment to ask the boy, "Is he as weird as he looks?"
"Weirder," the starry-eyed boy confirmed.
Elizabeth couldn't contain a squeal of elation as she ran. She finally turned the corner around Santa's village decoration and got a good look at him. She marveled at his piercing eyes and bony white mask, paying little attention to the red cap and fake beard he had been outfitted with.
"What do you desire for this Yuletide celebration, small child?" The strange doctor asked, lifting Elizabeth to sit on his lap.
"Are you for real?" the girl asked, still enthralled by his porcelain visage. She tried, vulgarly, to reach out and touch it. He kept his back stiff, his face upright, out of her reach.
"Yes, I am very much real." He confirmed. "It is customary, I am told, for children to tell Father Christmas what gifts they desire." He paused, cleared his throat. "If you have behaved well throughout the year, you are to be rewarded. And if you have misbehaved, the demon Krampus will come and steal you away from your parents to whip you with a bundle of birch branches."
"But I have been good, I have!" Elizabeth wailed in protest.
"Very well, then tell me of your worldly desires."

Valerie watched, tensely, as her daughter rattled off the list of toys she'd been begging for for weeks. Once she was satisfied she knew how the next 3 minutes would be going down, she turned again to the official in charge of the line.
"Did you guys really have to tell him to say all that weird stuff? Couldn't you have given him the old 'ho ho ho, merry Christmas' run down?" She needed to scold something right now, and Jeremiah found himself the victim of her wrath again.
"We did. I've got no idea where he's getting this nonsense from, but, hey the kids have been loving it."
"They're being traumatized." She huffed.
"Same difference." He decided quietly.
"Besides, what is the point of introducing the kids to the anomalies like this? Doesn't it violate the whole "contain" bit of our mission statement?
"Look, with the way things are now, there's a non-zero chance that the good doctor over there might operate on you, or her, or me in the future. Don't worry," he added, seeing her pale. "Not his normal method. We convinced him to perform more useful surgery since he says he can't ply his cure anymore."

"Very well, Elizabeth. I have heard the account of your desires. When I return to my lair, I shall consult my list. If I find you to have been a well behaved child this year, you shall receive gifts."
"Thank you, Santa!" She wrapped her arms around his stomach in a brief, tight hug. "I love you, Santa!" As quickly as it had come, her hug departed and she hopped down from his lap.
He sat there for a long moment, watching the girl go, at a loss for words. He had never, in the entirety of his life, been hugged.
When Jeremiah turned to the sound of the helper calling for the next child, he could swear he saw the plague doctor wiping something from its eye.


Groups Of Interest » Marshall, Carter and Dark Hub
Groups Of Interest » GOI-001: Chicago Spirit

"A para tech attack in broad daylight?"
Two men silently stood before their boss, having returned from a failed delivery of goods. Neither dared to even breathe as the most nightmarish of the company owners eyes rested upon them. The two clenched their fists in fear, their knuckles and faces drained of color as they stared straight ahead.
"Care to elaborate?"
"Y-yes sir. They set up a trap of some sort. It felt like we hit a dog or something, and then the next thing we knew the truck was floating. The goons came rushing out of from all the backstreets and robbed us blind. Before we could try doing anything, they disappeared. Drove their truck into thin air, sir."
"I see."
Percival Darke's long and decrepit fingertips drummed against the cold steel of the apparatus he was tethered to. His appearance was ghoulish, his sunken and corpse-like facial features accentuated by the darkness of the makeshift office. Though his sense of smell had long gone, Darke could tell that the two quivering messes before him were mortified.
"You are dismissed. Thank you."
They stared at each other in disbelief for a moment before deciding it was best not to question their situation. Both men nodded and left faster than Darke's chair could rotate. The machine crawled along on spider-like legs, carrying their master around with unmatched elegance. Coming to a stop before a window, the shell of a man looked down upon his empire. A massive warehouse full of goods, millions of dollars waiting to be made from the crates below.
With an array as profitable as his, finding competition was inevitable. It wasn't as if he and his company had gone in unprepared, though. He and his network of rats had spent months collecting information on the Spirit. Who they liked, who they didn't. Darke knew a few of their members were wielders of the Library's magic, but he had not expected for them to execute such a bold heist. Though this was more than a heist.
For too long had he been content to simply pay off the Outfit to continue pressuring the Spirit. Too long had he been hiding in plain sight, letting the police do his dirty work for him. Too long had he allowed criminal scum to leech money off of his business deals and hard work. Too long had he been passive.
But he found himself in a delicate situation. Though he had the liquid assets, weapons, manpower, and influence necessary to blow the entire city of Chicago into a blackened pit of ashes, that would be bad for business. Besides, armies of men outfitted with anomalous technologies and weapons were sure to draw the ire of the Foundation, which would be even worse for business.
Friends, on the other hand, were very good for business.
Darke thought back to the first time the Spirit met his company. A man named Cartwright had shown up at their freshly constructed central operation hub in Chicago. He made outrageous demands, demanding the company paid him and his thugs a cut of our profits 'for protection.' Naturally, he was promptly shown that Marshall, Carter, and Darke were more than capable of defending themselves.
In hindsight, turning the man inside out in front of his men may have been overkill. Darke had wanted to set a precedent at the time. He wanted the gangs of Chicago to know that they were not to be fucked with. Of course, this had greatly put a hamper on any possible relationship the two groups may have had, and had no doubt lead to the hostilities they were experiencing today.
Maybe he could try again. Maybe the Spirit and his company could be working partners. Their ability to operate under the nose of the Foundation and FBI would be invaluable in assisting with the movement of their goods. They even had their own trucks. All he would have to do is pay some clever pencil pusher to burn the books just right and no one would suspect a thing.
The mechanical legs of his device clinked against the tile floor, moving Darke towards his desk. He picked up the ornate rotary dial on his desk and used his decrepit, bony fingers to punch buttons and spin the device. The soft mechanical clicking of the rotor accompanied the muted sounds of Darke's artificial breathing device.
"Hello, Margarie. Please tell Alfred Pines to come down to my office. I have a message I need him to deliver to Richard Chappell."

A full moon shined bright on the docks of Lake Michigan. Members of the Spirit were busy loading an unassuming trolley with moonshine, guns, and other such supplies to be smuggled across Detroit and into Buffalo. The police had been paid to look the other way that night and the waters were calm. Everything was going according to plan.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of unexpected footsteps alerted a lookout, who produced his piece from the pocket of his coat. He jumped down from the crates he had been resting on and approached the mysterious figure emerging from the fog. It wore a trenchcoat and fedora, and the lookout couldn't quite make out his features in the darkness.
"Fixing for a swim this late at night?"
The figure threw his hands up in surrender.
"I come with a message for your boss."
The lookout raised an eyebrow and lowered his gun.
"And who the fuck are you?"
"Alfred Pines."
"Alright. And what's this message?"
"I represent the, uh, Bankers. My superior is interested in carrying out a business deal with your superior. Maybe we can reach an agreement together."
The lookout scoffed, putting his gun away. His conversational partner kept his arms up in the air as he further elaborated.
"If you'd like, I could meet one of your superiors next Thursday at the deli in Rush Street. That is all."
Upon concluding his message, Pines began a backwards pace away from the docks and the lookout. He stepped forward but decided against pursuing. His colleagues needed him to stay behind and keep an eye out for other vagrants such as this one.
With that, Pines slipped into the night. After putting a few blocks of distance between himself and the pier, he reached into his trenchcoat's pocket. He flipped it open, thumbing the pages until reaching his most recent to-do list.

To Do:

Interrogate Pines   Ditch the body
Interrogation information in next two pages.
Got carried away. Need to get trenchcoat cleaned.
Arrange meeting between self + Spirit

He scratched out the latest to-do before scribbling in another.

* Very important date, THU AT MICKEY'S DELI!

Try French dip reuben sandwich this time, heard good things

One step closer to getting his damned hat back.

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Hare 023: The Cheshire Cat


Elewynn crouched upon the uppermost balcony of the Titania Spire of Fata Morgana, her bare feet clutching the smooth white stonework. Beneath her was the Fairy City, silver as moonlight and immaculate as freshly fallen snow. Its gleaming marble towers, impossibly tall for masonry, a product of Seelie spellcraft. Beyond the hundred-foot wall that ensconced the city perimeter was a Quicksilver sea, and beyond that the Nexus gradually blurred into the rest of the multiverse, which appeared as a ground-based, ethereal green aurora to those in the city.
Elewynn stared downwards, musing on how the top of the tower had seemed much closer from the ground then the ground seemed from the top of the tower.
“It's been a lifetime since I've done this,” she said to her sister nervously. “What if I fall?”
“But darling, what if you fly?” Erelynn asked encouragingly.
Elewynn nodded, steeling herself for the jump.
“Think of the happiest things,” she sang softly. “It's the same as having wings.”
An iridescent pair of spectral, diaphanous wings formed over her back out of the aether as she sang.
“Think of all the joy you'll find, when you leave the world behind, and bid your cares goodbye.”
With her eyes closed tightly, and her hand clutching her sister's even tighter, they jumped.
She felt the wind rushing past her at a hundred miles an hour, and had she still possessed her mortal name she soon would have felt the hard stone of the ground. Instead, she felt both the air and the Aeronous aether flowing over her wings, granting her lift and thrust. She felt gravity tug at her a little less, for she was Fae and obeyed or ignored the laws of physics at her fancy. Most importantly of all, she felt an unparalleled sense of pride and elation as she opened her eyes and saw the city and its people blur together as she glided over them.
“I can fly,” she murmured softly. “I can fly!”
“You can fly!”
“I can fly! I can fly!”

They did not, however, fly straight on until morning. Spectral flight was still taxing, and after only a few circles around Fata Morgana, they landed on the soft grass of a park. The twins jumped joyously over the prodigal sister's first flight since reclaiming her name, hugging and kissing in ecstatic triumph.
“I did it! I did it! I can fly, I can really fly!” Elewynn gasped. “I'm really Fae again. This can't be real, this feels like a dream.”
“Only because the world you left behind was a nightmare,” Erelynn assured her. “You're on Blessed Soil again, where you belong.”
Elewynn turned to examine her reflection in a monument of Morgana Silver. She looked much the same as she had when she was mortal, though thinner with more angular features. The irises of her eyes had grown to eclipse the cornea, making them look larger. They were still blue, but their hue was now much more striking. Her skin had grown as fair and smooth as porcelain, while also acquiring an omnipresent blue glint. She wore a shimmering, gossamer dress that was so light it should tear like tissue paper, and yet had just withstood the rigours of flight. Finally, she swept back her midnight blue hair to see her tapered, elven ears. She had wept for joy the first time she had seen her Seelie reflection, and she wept for joy again now.
Erelynn hugged her supportively, wiping the tears from her face.
“It was so hard, not seeing that reflection. Having no one in real life to support me, to have people accuse me of just acting crazy for attention or something. But I knew that I wasn't what I was supposed to be, that I didn't even belong in that world, and… oh god, I missed you so much. I didn't remember you, but I missed you. I was only half a person without you. It must have been worse for you though, being able to remember. I'm so sorry.”
“Don't think on it. It doesn't matter now. What's thirty years apart when we have bodies that last centuries and souls that hold their memories from one incarnation to the next?” Erelynn asked. “Timeless beings such as we need not lament the past or dread the future. Only the present matters, and now we're both where we belong: together.”
Elewynn chuckled, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes.
“Were you always the mature one or am I just a mess from living as a mortal for so long?”
“I was always the mature one. I'm seven minutes older, after all.”
They both laughed, then linking their arms together the twin sisters took a walk through the park they were in.
Elewynn was still trying to make sense of all her reclaimed memories, but the park looked familiar to her. The trees had grey bark and silvery green leaves that made a chiming melody when they were rustled by the wind. The soft grass glistened with eternal dew, the cobblestone paths sparkled with diamond dust, and the strung lanterns and swarms of fireflies glowed in every colour their Fae eyes could see.
Equally as wondrous, if somewhat out of place, was a gentleman with the head of a white rabbit sitting at a toadstool picnic table, pouring over some great tome.
Elewynn sifted through her memories, and yet couldn't find an explanation for the peculiar park patron.
“Erelynn, who's that over there?” she whispered quietly. “Is he Fae?”
“I think he's a Child of the Nameless Queen,” she whispered back. “He must have stolen someone's name and escaped from…”
She cleared her throat conspicuously instead of finishing the sentence. Elewynn nodded in comprehension. She definitely remembered the taboo of naming those woods that should never be named.
“Well, even if he followed the Winter Queen, he is still our kin. He's like me, don't you think? Returned home after a long exile,” she said, gazing at those long furry ears with a sudden sense of comradery. “Can we go talk to him?”
“Talk? Certainly, but please don't invite him back to our bed. I prefer suitors who won't shed on our pillows.”
“You have nothing to worry about. I was an Otherkin, not a Furry.”
The twins giggled slightly, and waltzed over to speak to the furry, yet not Furry, Fae.
“Good evening to you sir,” Erelynn said as she and her sister curtseyed.
“And a fine evening to you as well ladies,” he said, rising from his seat, doffing his hat and bowing in proper Seelie etiquette.
“I am Erelynn Levainn, and this is my sister Elewynn. She has only recently rejoined the Seelie Court and we presumed from your form that you have as well. May we join you, and discuss the matter at more length?”
“I'd be delighted, though in my case I must be cautious in discussing my past, lest I be reclaimed by that Forsaken Forest. Please, have a seat.” With a wave of his hand, two stool-sized toadstools rose from the ground to accommodate the two girls. He placed his hat on the table, and when he lifted it back up a tea set had appeared. “Care for some tea? It's herbal, so it shouldn't keep you up.”
“That's very kind, thank you,” Elewynn said, each girl bowing politely before accepting the cups. “You know, back when I was mortal, I never would have approached a strange man in a park at night, let alone accepted a drink from him. I imagine that you had to be rather more cautious yourself, living where you did.”
“I suppose, though the nature of that Unnamed Wilderland often posed more of a threat than any neighbours ever did,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head and began stirring his tea. "The fickle footpath alone was a headache to navigate, rarely taking the same route twice, and may the heavens have mercy on anyone foolish enough to stray from it."
“And how is your name?” Erelynn asked. “You didn't say.”
“I regret that I cannot tell you my proper name, as I've yet to reclaim it myself, but you may call me Dr. Japers.”
“Japers? That's a rather tart name,” Elewynn said, mulling over the taste as it tainted her tea.
“Indeed. My proper name had a more floral palette to it, I'm fairly certain, but beggars cannot be choosers. I spent 102 years without a name at all.
“Proper or not, it is good to be whole again.”
“Did you lose your name in the war with the Jailors?” Erelynn asked, casually catching a flower bloom adrift upon the breeze and weaving it into her hair.
Japers grew suddenly silent, staring pensively into his tea.
“You know of that?” he asked softly.
“Not much, only that there was a war and that those who followed our Queen's Sister were left Nameless and unable to walk the Planes.”
“That's all you need to know then. I won't burden you with my memories, as much as I'd like to be rid of them. But yes, the Jailors stole my name, and I ended up where all nameless things do, until I borrowed a name from a Jailor.”
“You stole your name from a Jailor?” Elewynn gasped, astonished at his audacity.
“Borrowed, miss. I borrowed his name,” he said ruefully, his head and ears dropping at the memory. “He had done me no harm though, nor meant any harm. He was just a fellow scholar. I do hope no harm befalls him while he wanders The Wooded Wonder. And when I say I borrowed his name, I do mean to give it back, someday. Though I'm not so selfless as to swap places with him, if ever I do reclaim my proper name I will return this one to its rightful owner.
“Enough about all that though. It's dangerous to speak of The Outcast Outdoors lest out tongues slip and we name something we oughtn't. I'd very much like to hear how you lost and reclaimed your name. You look to be Titania's people, and surely you're too young to have had your name stolen in the war.”
“No, it was a more recent tragedy,” Elewynn nodded solemnly. “Have you learned of the Attack on Hy-Brasil since your return?”
“I had heard of it even when I dwelt among the Untitled Trees, and I have walked there myself since my return. It was heart-breaking, seeing such a once great city lying in ruin and so greatly diminished. How fortunate that Fata Morgana has lost none of its grandeur. But what does that have to do with you losing your name?”
“We were there that day, when the great Quin-Krake laid waste to our home,” Erelynn told him. “In our last life. It's how we died.”
“Thousands died that day, not only Fae but mortal as well, from all across the Planes. With so many different types of souls, dying in such a sudden and violent matter in a realm outside the Worlds, my spirit got lost in the chaos,” Elewynn said. She whistled and summoned a night lark to her fingertip, petting it softly on the head before continuing. “Erelynn managed to be reborn as Fae, here in Fata Morgana, but I was born to a human mother as a Changeling, and given the name Ellette. I don't know why I couldn't find my way back.”
“You did find your way back. It just took you a little longer,” Erelynn assured her, lovingly squeezing her hand.
“Thankfully my dear sister kept my name safe for me all those years, and I was able to reclaim it without much difficulty. The iron in my mortal blood was the worst of it. I had to have an alchemist purge enough of it from my body that I could barely stay conscious, and then once I was returned to my Fae form the little iron I had left made me sick until it too was purged.”
“I can sympathize. Iron is a key impediment for me reclaiming my name as well,” the fairy rabbit said with a sad nod.
“How so?”
“Back during the war, it wasn't the Jailors who stole our names, but rather The Factory who did so on their behalf,” he began. “Once I was free, I began to research whether they had kept the names they stole or merely destroyed them. I soon discovered that they had indeed kept them, each and everyone, locked up within the heart of The Factory itself.”
The twins gasped slightly at this revelation.
“Iron,” Erelynn muttered in horror.
“Yes. Iron, iron, iron. Miles of rusted iron surround my name, ensuring I will never see it again,” he lamented. “I haven't completely given up hope, however. I've been reading up on The Factory and Nominative Magic, trying to find a way to reclaim what they stole. Maybe there is a way a Fae can walk the halls of The Factory, or maybe there is someone capable of stealing my name on my behalf for sufficient compensation, or perhaps even that The Factory cares little for the names they've let lay idle for a century and might be willing to part with just one.”
Japers shook his head and smirked deprecatingly to himself.
“I'm sorry to have darkened your evening with such melancholy talk.”
“Don't be absurd, we're the ones who brought it up,” Elewynn said. “My sister and I, we're royal minstrels. We have the favour of the Queen. We could ask her -”
“No, please. I would not have you risk such a position for my sake. The Queen would not risk attracting the ire of The Factory for the sake of a single citizen, and nor should she. This is my burden alone to bear, and the fact that I have your sympathies is kindness enough.”
“We are Wanderers though, often walking the Ways. If we come across anything that may be of assistance, we'd share it with you readily,” Erelynn told him.
“You really are too kind, especially to a stranger you just met,” Japers said. “Has it occurred to you I may not deserve such kindness? I followed Queen Mab, after all, and she was known for her cruelty. When she ordered us to attack the Jailors I, I…”
“Whatever you did, it was against enemies of the Fae. Just or not, you've surely paid for any war crimes with your century in nameless exile,” Erelynn argued. “Besides, you're not guilty of any crimes against our people, or you never would have been able to set foot within the city walls.”
“And I know what it's like, maybe not to be nameless but to have the wrong name. To be incomplete, so incomplete you can't return home, to never be able to call the World you're trapped in home, to look into a mirror and see that your very reflection is wrong,” Elewynn explained, placing her hand on his. “It's a privilege to meet another who can understand what it's like, and I hope that one day you will be able to introduce yourself with your proper name and that I will gaze upon your Fae form. I'm sure it's very handsome.”
Erelynn nudged her slightly with her elbow, reminding her of their agreement regarding their sleeping arrangements.
“Well, you've already shown yourselves to be far too considerate to tell me if it was otherwise,” Japers japed. He noted that the ray of moonlight near the table had changed position since he last looked, and he took out his pocket watch to check the time.
“Are you late, White Rabbit?” Erelynn asked.
“It seems so,” he replied, rising from his seat and placing the teapot back inside his top hat. “I'm sorry to leave so abruptly. Please, keep the teacups as a gift. I did enjoy our conversation, and would appreciate speaking with you again.”
“As would we. Come to our next performance at the Palace, and we'll take you to the soiree afterwards as our guest,” Elewynn invited. “You'll no doubt be quite the conversation starter.”
“It would be an honour to be your guest,” he said with a curt bow, picking up his book. “Farewell for now, gentle maidens.”
“And farewell to you, kind sir,” the sisters curtseyed.
The rabbit turned, revealing a tuft of a tail protruding from the top of his trousers. Elewynn watched it bob until he was out of sight, only then noticing her sister looking at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Not a Furry, you said,” she asked in equal parts amusement and annoyance. Elewynn shrugged sheepishly, trying to hide a sly grin.
“Well, you know what they say about guys with long ears,” she said, biting her lip in embarrassment. Her brow furrowed in thought as she contemplated Dr. Japers' situation. "Not a lot of people have escaped from The Factory, have they?"
"No. Fae or not, no one's going to break in to steal a name," Erelynn replied somberly. "Bargaining with The Factory would be his best bet, but as desperate as he is, their price would be steep."
"I'm not so sure. The Factory excels at mass production, but their actual grasp of commerce can be rather daft at times. Swindling them out of a name shouldn't be too hard."
"What are you thinking?"
"During my absence, did you ever cash in that favour The Man With The Upside-Down Face owes us?"
Erelynn groaned at the suggestion.
"If anyone could get something from The Factory for cheap, it's him," Elewynn said.
"You really want to cash in a decades-old favour for someone we just met?"
Elewynn sighed, gazing into her teacup as the leaves formed into runes that were supposed to predict her future, but were usually about as accurate as a fortune cookie.
"As I said, I just know what it's like to lose your name. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
Erelynn exhaled a small lamentation, unable to bear seeing her sister unhappy.
"I suppose it would be nobler to use that favour to help someone in need then to continue hoarding it until the end of time," she agreed.
"You mean it?" Elewynn asked with a beaming smile.
"I do," Erelynn nodded, finishing the last of her tea and reading the leaves. "It says 'You will succeed in your endeavours so long as you are pure in heart'. I take that as a good omen. What did yours say?"
Elewynn glanced back into her teacup, reluctant to reply.
" 'An Upside-Down frown isn't always a smile'."
Erelynn nodded with a knowing smirk.
"I never could tell with him anyways."


Content Warning: Themes of Suicide, Depiction of Suicide Attempt
December 24th
Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Seren Pryce stared blankly as she disassembled her rifle for the fifth time that night. Over her shoulder, Robert Tofflemire stood, looking concerned.
"You okay, Sera?"
Seren twitched. "I'm fine. Yeah."
Robert frowned. "I know this isn't a great time of year for you. If… you need anyone to talk to…"
"I'll be fine." Seren swallowed, double-checking the firing pin in her rifle. "What are you doing here, anyway? Thought Weiss barred you from the barracks, because your whole weird… y'know."
"'Narrative manipulation abilities' is the official term." Robert scratched his head. "I just started walking and ended up here. Crazy, right?"
Seren rubbed her face. "No offense, Bob, but… I kind of need to be alone." Pryce looked over her rifle again— her eyes widened. The firing pin was missing. "Dammit. Did it roll away?"
Robert Tofflemire spotted the glint of metal from underneath a locker. He sat by Seren and produced a square of Ghirardelli chocolate, offering it to the sniper. "Don't be a scrooge, Sera. Talk to me."
Seren took the chocolate and unwrapped it. "Thanks. But… well, like you said. This time of year isn't great for me. And I'd really like to be alone."
Carol of the Bells came on over the speakers outside the barracks. Pryce looked, and felt, like she was going to vomit. Her hand tensed around the butt of her rifle, and the motion caused the various pieces of it to scatter. "God dammit!"
"I'll get it." Robert stood and started picking up pieces of the rifle as they rolled away. He placed them around Pryce, and again, sat down by her. "I've never seen anyone react that way to Carol of the Bells. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, maybe."
"It's…" Seren shook her head. "It's fucking stupid."
"I literally have the ability to pull plot devices out of nowhere, and Alice can weaponize irony." He smirked. "We are the embodiment of 'fucking stupid'."
Seren snorted, and rubbed her face. "I hate Christmas because I can't ever bring myself to be happy during it."
Robert put his hands together. "I'm listening. I'm no Dr. Phil, but… you sound like you need to talk."

Within five minutes, both of the agents had moved to Site-87's canteen to talk in semi-privacy. Seren tapped her mug of cocoa against the table. "I've not been able to have a really good Christmas since… I think '95. I was twelve. I didn't find out mom was schlupping Santa Claus or anything like that. Dad made sure I never believed in Santa to begin with."
Pryce's fingers wrapped tighter around the mug. "I was unwrapping presents that morning, and I just started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I didn't know what was wrong. I just felt inexplicably sad, and… and hollow. Mom and Dad gave me cocoa and hugs, and I managed to calm down. But ever since then…"
"Seasonal affective disorder?" Robert hazarded.
"That's what my parents thought at first. Took me to a therapist after repeat incidents when I was thirteen and fourteen. Light therapy helps, but…" She scrunched her face. "Something in me broke that day, Toff. And I'm not sure what the hell it was, but I haven't liked Christmas since."
She flinched as another Christmas carol started playing on the intercoms. "I just… get so sad around this time of year. Even listening to music or seeing decorations is enough to make me sick with anxiety."
"Depression causes physical reactions like that, sometimes. I've been there." Robert tapped his head. "You'd think the Foundation wouldn't hire a bunch of headcases, eh?"
Seren snorted. "It's… gotten better, at least. A little bit." She popped her fingers and sipped at her cocoa. "God, I hate this stuff. Always dries out my throat."
"That's why marshmallows are borderline mandatory. Or whipped cream." Robert produced a bag of mini marshmallows from his pocket and laid it next to the cup. "Take all you want."
Seren nodded. Her hands shook as she put the marshmallows in, one at a time, as if she was counting the ammo in a magazine.
"I can't imagine being in the army helped."
"What do you think?" She rolled her shoulders and sipped at the chocolate again. Then, she produced a hip flask and poured a measure of whiskey into the cup. "I come back from Iraq and see people flipping away from a news report of a suicide bomber so they can see a Rankin-Bass production. Nobody wants to remember the war around Christmas."
Robert's fingers came together, twitching. "I can't imagine. Sorry."
"Right." Pryce shook her head. "You were, what, Navy?"
"National Guard. Got sucked into this when it turned out the wildfire I was helping people evacuate from was sentient." Robert frowned. "How'd you get sucked in here?"
Seren chewed her lip. "Funny thing about ghosts: they don't take as long to form as one might think."
The rest of the story went unsaid. Robert stood after several seconds of silence, obtaining some Christmas ham and corn casserole. When he returned, Seren was gone.

Seren Pryce's heart rang in her chest like a bell's clapper. Every step she took, she felt the emptiness inside her echo. People throughout Site-87's hallways avoided her, almost by instinct. A few who passed looked at the agent, concerned.
The walls of the site were suffocating. Christmas music played through the intercoms. Ugly holiday sweaters lined the walls. Candy-cane fingers scratched at her soul. Her anxiety rose in tune with the notes of Jingle Bells.
At the elevator bay, her finger hammered the call button. She couldn't breathe. Her throat was closing. Shame filled her— she was a crack shot, and yet here she was, having a panic attack like a maladjusted college student.
She kept hammering the call button. When the doors opened, her legs gave out from under her, and she fell face-first onto the floor. Researchers gathered around her, propping her on her side. She heard someone press the medic alarm before drifting off.

The first clue Seren Pryce had that she was dreaming was the fact that there was a woman next to her with her head ablaze. Her body was covered with black blood, and she smelled of sulfur. On her front, a baby carrier rested, vacant.
Unlike most people, Seren had actually paid attention when her English teacher covered A Christmas Carol in 5th grade. She remembered, quite vividly, the fact that Christmas Past had a head aflame, much like this woman here. "I don't have time for this Dickensian bullshit. Sorry."
"Not your place to decide." The woman adjusted the baby carrier. "Christmas hasn't exactly been a great time for you, has it?"
Seren shook her head. "It's not like I've gone through a great trauma. Didn't have a parent kill themselves like that girl in Gremlins, didn't have anything major happen while I was in the military, didn't—"
"Christmas, 2000."
Pryce raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
Police sirens and flashing lights filled the void around them. Seren felt cold on her skin, and her vision was obstructed by snow. She turned to see her mother's Volvo, in a ditch, Christmas presents thrown from the car. Seren was driving, her head bleeding. The front of the car was wrecked— she remembered she had been doing sixty in a twenty-five.
A pair of police officers talked as the ambulance pulled up. "What happened?"
"There's some black ice up the road. She probably hit it and careened off."
"She lives four miles in the other direction." One of the cops frowned as the stretcher was pulled out. "Think she's gonna make it?"
"Air bag did its job. Probably gonna have a broken rib, but… she got lucky."
Pryce felt her ribs ache where she had broken them. She remembered, and her stomach fell. Seren had turned the radio on to the sound of 24 Hour Christmas station, hoping to get some pop music instead. By the time All I Want for Christmas is You played for the third time, she had had enough.
She had swerved off the road on purpose. She still didn't know why.
"It's because you're selfish."
Pryce turned on her heels to face the woman. There was something familiar about her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Seren thought that she would remember a woman with her head on fire. "Excuse me?"
"You can't stand people being happy around this time of year. Seeing people smiling and wearing bad sweaters and exchanging kisses beneath mistletoe— you're jealous because you can't be like that." Christmas Past shook her head. "You're a psychopath, Seren."
"Spare me the quackery, Freudette." Pryce started walking away from her. "I'm a lot of things, but I ain't no psychopath."
"2005."
The scene around them changed again. Seren was walking through her hometown, a little place in Illinois called Carol Stream. She had managed to finagle some time home, away from the quagmire that was the Middle East. Having a retired general for a father had its perks.
She was on her way from the bus depot to home, when she passed an electronics store, with some Rankin-Bass thing playing. One of the lesser-known ones— Jack Frost. She stopped to admire the what was then cutting-edge flat screens, trying to ignore what was playing.
She didn't even notice him at first; laying down below the store's window was a man in a tattered jacket, shivering. His breath formed clouds before him. Pryce stepped back. One of his arms was absent, and there was a coffee can with change next to him. He wasn't much older than her.
A sign was next to him; by the light of the televisions, she could just barely make it out. "I sold my medals and still couldn't afford an apartment. Please help."
Both in the past and in the present, something caught in Seren's throat. Anxiety had started building up in her then— what if she ended up like that one day?
"And there's that selfishness again." Christmas Past grinned. "You didn't even think about him. You just thought, 'what if that was me?'. Guy's having the shittiest day of his life, and you can't even bring yourself to sympathize."
Seren's memory clouded. Something else had happened that night. She didn't remember what.
"2009."
Seren's first year at the Foundation. She had just been assigned to Site-36. SCP-089 duty. She was just a guard at the perimeter tower, but she had been briefed as to what went on within.
An Elocution event had just taken place. Nobody wanted to think about it, and nobody wanted to confront the car that was pulling up to the site, containing some mother and her child. It would be another four and a half years before a woman would stab 089 through its heart to save her daughter. Until then…
Pryce had a perfect view of the courtyard. The woman had her child bundled in her arms, against the cold. She was terrified, shaking. She knew what was going to happen.
And then she ran. Pryce hated it when they ran. She brought the stock of the rifle to her shoulder, and took aim.
The memory faded away. And Seren realized where she had seen Christmas Past before.
"…you're her." She clenched her fist. "Mary-Ann Lewitt. The woman who single-handedly killed a demon to save her daughter."
"More good than you've ever done." Christmas Past rolled her shoulders. "You're selfish, Seren Pryce. Simple as that. You can't be happy, so you can't stand seeing others happy. That is why you feel this way around Christmas."
Christmas Past stepped before her. "This would be the point where you would extinguish me. But I don't have a cap that you can just pull down over me." With that, the ghost faded away, with a word of warning. "It's going to be time to unwrap your present, soon."
With that, Seren Pryce was left alone.

"'Unwrap your present'?" A familiar voice bleated. "I thought the typical humor you people have was corny. That was just bad."
Pryce turned to face the caprine form of the Goatman. Fitting with the season, he had taken on a more Krampus-like form, with antlers and a squashed face, clothed in wool and carrying a stick.
"So, Christmas Present." Seren rolled her eyes. "Just tell me who my Tiny Tim is so I can get back to not reforming myself, because this is clearly some kind of fever dream."
"Mary-Ann was right." The Goatman lit his corncob pipe. "Selfish as always. When was the last time you cared about someone other than yourself?"
Seren stared. "Does the term 'Black fucking Autumn' mean anything to you? Go chew on a can."
"You cared then because of duty. They don't mean anything to you— not really. And that's because you're weak and afraid."
The world faded into the barracks. Raymond February, Alice Carol, and Bob Tofflemire were all present. Raymond was pacing.
"Hard to believe, isn't it?" February frowned. "That she would just… freak out like that."
"She puts up a good act." Alice nodded. "But… well, we're all a little weak. We all have breaking points."
"Ain't her fault," Robert agreed, pulling a Hershey's bar from his pocket. "But March is saying that she's going to get put on psych leave after this. For an 'indeterminate' amount of time."
Pryce's heart fell. Psych leave. She couldn't afford that. Sloth's Pit was her home, now, and psych leave meant months-long exile from the town. Maybe even a whole year— what if something happened, and she wasn't there to stop it? Bob was a good sniper, but she was the best at taking down threats at a long range.
"You see?" She swallowed, looking at the Goatman. "I'm worried about them. I care."
"You care about the fact that they won't survive without you. Because you think you're the best around."
The world swirled around her. Elsewhere in the site, a vigil was being held— the tenth anniversary of the Christmas 2008 incident. Most of the site was present, heads bowed. She had never even heard of Site-87 at that time. She'd taken part in every vigil, but she'd always felt like an outsider, mourning people she'd never even heard of.
Still, there were faces here who hadn't come to the site until much later who were paying their respects. Seren felt like she was watching something she wasn't meant to. It was disgusting— she didn't belong.
She looked back at the Goatman and frowned. "I thought you had to be dead to be a ghost."
"It's metaphorical. More of a Spirit than a Ghost." He puffed on his pipe. "Then again, I can pretty much be whatever I want. Rules don't apply to me."
A clock chimed somewhere. The Goatman bleated. "And now, our time is up. I take it you know what happens next."

Seren was left alone, again. But her loneliness didn't last. Soon, it was replaced by the form of an old man, one she recognized from a file that she was quizzed on back when she joined the Foundation. "Christmas Yet to Come, I presume."
The old man nodded, staying silent, and bowing, waving her onward.
"When I get out of here, I'm going to fucking burn every copy of A Christmas Carol in the site."
A door appeared before her— a sliding door, made of metal, like most of the ones in Site-87. She opened it, and found herself in a common area. It was a normal day— researchers went about their business, drinking coffee, talking about presents, about things that they were going to do with family, exchanging hugs. There was absolutely nothing remarkable.
"…I know the punchline to this." Seren sighed, slouching through the halls, towards the barracks. By the entrance, there was a wall where they posted the names and portraits of task force agents that had died, regardless of whether or not it was in the line of duty.
She didn't even try to feign surprise when she saw her name on the board. But she looked next to it— dozens of others. She recognized all of them— Tofflemire, February, Carol, Ewell, the Williams twins… all of their deaths were dated to October 31st, 2020.
"So you're saying that my death leads to all of them dying on Halloween?" Seren scowled. "What the hell does this have to do with your Dickensian bullshit?"
She knew Christmas Future wouldn't speak. It never did, unless it was a comedy. "I shouldn't be forced to like this holiday. Whatever part of my conscience is trying to make me think otherwise can fuck off."
She turned, and found herself alone. The rest of the site was vacant— the buzz of activity had died. She was left facing the memorial wall.
It was then that she analyzed the nameplates— all of them had marks on them that indicated their cause of death. Stars were deaths in combat, squares were containment breaches, two half-circles were MIA, presumed KIA, and so on. Her plaque had nothing on it. She knew what that meant.
"Suicide." She shook her head. "No. I'm not suicidal. I'm not!"
"You are selfish, though."
She was left facing the three ghosts again. Christmas Past was sneering at her.
"So utterly inconsiderate."
"Ruining everything for everyone else with your mopey attitude around the holidays." Christmas Present agreed.
"Better off gone."
"Away from this site."
"Away from this mortal coil."
"Nobody likes a Grinch or a Scrooge."
"And you don't want to reform!"
Seren found her back against the backboard of a sofa. A pistol was pressed against her forehead. 2014. She had been laid up with a bum leg for six months, ever since a giant tentacle made from wheat product burst through her guard tower and nearly killed her. Something summoned by a ruthless father, trying to save his daughter and wife.
It had hurt so much. The painkillers had destroyed her ability to do anything resembling normal human function. Even with the Foundation's care, it would be another three months before she would walk again. Her thumb had been twitching on the trigger, but something made her stop. Tears came down her face.
Then, the phone rang. With a shaky breath, she put down the pistol, and picked up the phone. "H-" She swallowed, composing herself. "Hello?"
"Is this Seren Pryce?" A woman's voice was on the other end.
"Speaking," she confirmed with a loud sniff.
"My husband would be calling, but I'm afraid that he's out with Naomi." There was a pause, before a long sigh came from the other end. "Word came through the grapevine about your condition. I'm sorry."
Seren wanted to snipe at her, yell, scream, throw the phone across the room. But she contained herself, and let her speak.
"Salah's been calling all of the people who got wounded in the raid, and would have gotten to you, but… I felt like I should call you myself." She paused. "We're both vets, you know. You got out a little earlier than me. And I know how hard it can be, but—"
"How's she doing?" Seren cut in.
"Sorry?"
"N-Naomi. How is she?"
"Well, she's going to get some odd looks from kids once she starts preschool, and… I think she's having nightmares. But she's going to get on famously."
Seren rubbed her face. "Thank you."
With that, she hung up. Something welled up inside her.

"Can't have a ghost unless you're dead."
Seren was back in 2009. Her scope lined up with the fleeing mother's leg. Then, a burst of comm static came through her ears.
«Let her go.»
"What— but sir—" Pryce said.
«The procedure won't work unless she does this of her own free will, anyway. And… I just…» A sigh came through. «I can't, in good conscience, order something like this to happen today of all days. And… I don't know.»
The report showed a car accident had delayed the arrival of the transport to Site-36 for long enough that an attempt to carry out Protocol M8 would have been unsuccessful.

Back in 2005. Pryce went for her wallet, before realizing she had no money in it, just credit cards. Stupid.
Through the snow and the glare of the television, she pulled out her phone and dialed her father. "Hey, dad? This is gonna sound weird, but do you think we could have a fourth at dinner?"

Back in 2000, Seren Pryce woke up in a hospital, with her mother standing over her. They stared at each other for an excruciatingly long time, before her mother embraced the seventeen-year-old girl. And at that moment, she felt completely selfish. She nearly took herself away from one of the few people who gave a damn about her.
"Mom—" Seren began.
"I know." She sniffed. "I know how hard it is for you to enjoy this time of year. But… it's okay." She pulled away and smiled at her daughter. "You don't have to. You can tune it out. It's okay to not like Christmas— you aren't a Scrooge or a Grinch, and you should never feel like that you have to be happy for the sake of others."
Seren Pryce hugged her mother again in the hospital bed, and tears flowed freely.

In 2018, Seren Pryce woke up in Site-87's infirmary. Her eyes were wet, and she was alone, but for a single package on her bedside table.
Nurse Liao came into the room as she reached for it. "Had us worried there." She came over and smiled.
"What date is it?" Pryce asked.
"Still the 24th. You were only out for a couple of hours."
"Feels like years." Seren sighed. "Am I free to go?"
"Just let me get you unhooked." Liao went about the business of removing electrodes from Pryce. "Hey, I get it. This time of year sucks for some people. Stress is a killer, and agents probably get it the worst."
"Thanks, Liao." Seren looked away with a sigh. "Do I have to fill out a report regarding the breakdown, or…"
"Like I said: shit happens, and you didn't hurt no-one." Liao took off the last electrode. "That being said… Tofflemire was in here. I talked to him, and I'm recommending that you have at least two sessions with Dr. Palmer in the new year."
"All right." Seren sat up on her bed, and took up the package. A label on it read 'Do not open until Christmas. Or do. I'm a sign, not a cop.' "He bring this?"
"Yeah."
Pryce collected her package and made her way from the infirmary. As she walked, she unwrapped it, and within, found a hand-drawn card on top of a box. The card depicted her, caricatured in the style of Dr. Seuss's Grinch, with a broad smirk on her face. She opened the card, and read what was within.

Ya can't spell 'Grinch' without 'Grin'.
Thanks for stickin' around, Pryce. Christmas can suck, but you don't.

Beneath it, all of Squad 25 had signed, along with Tofflemire and Carol. She recognized Tofflemire's handwriting also made up the corny text on the card.
She placed the card beneath the box. It contained an assortment of Jack-o-Lantern-shaped chocolates. The perfect gift for someone who loathed Christmas.
The next anyone would see of Pryce was her standing in the corner of a common area, keeping to herself, and sipping on eggnog mixed with fireball. For her, it was the best Christmas she'd had in years.