The End

… of Volume One of the Chronicles of Coralende.

And so ends this first installment. We apologize for nothing.

The Escape

Last time, we left winfry all alone and knocked out in a dark cellar, which wasn’t too nice of us. And you probably were wondering why didn’t they, whoever they are, just censor winfry’s myth. Well, they tried. It didn’t work out so well.

jacob martin, remember him? winfry’s editor friend?, well he, he was suspecting both the censorship of winfry’s myth and the stability of the nilbmahian government so he pulled, without traces, the aces out of his sleeves. Before even the second issue of winfry’s myth, jacob, in a completely convoluted fashion, had the rest of the myth published at a smaller publishing company in episodic pamphlets that got stored in various places throughout the citadel. How all this exactly went down is a tale for another day; suffice to say jacob martin was foxier than the, the, philip moor, the infamous chief investigator of the nia himself. So when censorship did anchor onto winfry’s myth, these pamphlets started trickling out in even higher demand than before. In other words, censorship was the best thing that could have happened for winfry’s myth but probably not for winfry because that’s when he got napped into the cellar.

winfry woke completely disoriented. He couldn’t see anything; his head was pounding; his memory was shot; and his senses of time and balance had been twisted sideways. All he could tell was that he had been lying on a hard, cold and concrete floor and that his spinal cord was taking its revenge.

winfry had just begun to bump out the layout of the room and he was cursing the bruise he would inevitable have after crashing his knee into what he guess was a bulky wooden table, when an uncannily neutral voice shattered winfry’s solitary confinement.

“I trust you know why you’re here, mr. winster.” It wasn’t a question but it was for winfry.

Why was he there? Presumably because of his myth, considering all the phone calls, but it wasn’t like locking him in a cellar was going to stop the myth and his disappearance would probably just trigger another tidal wave of popularity. And then he remembered the nights isa and he had spent in the periodical section of the library. They had been collecting articles about LusciousLocks leading up to the sudden and mysterious black curtain that sealed it off from all communication. Obviously that means they thought the same thing might be happening to nilbmah. But they hadn’t found out anything too interesting – the credibility of most of the stories was questionable and the only worthwhile knowledge they could glean was that before the curtain, the government had also become much more active. And besides, who would have seen them? mrs. weatherwood had left and there was no one else even in the library. And then there were all those discussions with jacob martin about what would happen if nilbmah had a similar black curtain dropped over it. Even without any explicit proof, jacob was convinced that whatever it was that happened to LusciousLocks was happening to nilbmah – there was something his political connections refused to, or perhaps couldn’t, tell even him. So jacob had begun to gather his closest friends to begin resistance. But the movement, if it could even be called one, was nothing more than a group of 20 or so people having coffee at mr. martin’s apartment; they talked a lot, but the only real thing they had done was publish winfry’s myth against censorship. And surely they didn’t know anything about the librem. He had finally grasped on to some inkling as to how to use it.

No. There’s no way any one except for isa knew about that. Definitely not. And then winfry realized that all this was probably what they were hoping to hear, trying to hear.

“Actually, I don’t. Why am I here.”

The blow launched his head into the wooden table and he blackout again.

__________________________________________________________

In the meanwhile, isa was wreck. For the first time in, well for the first time since falling out with sarah mitchells in the 6th grade because isa couldn’t yet wear a bra like the rest of the girls their class, for the first time, isa felt truly comfortable with someone else. She didn’t have to worry about putting on a mask for winfry; she of course understood this in a much less cliché way but your stuck with me who has to live vicariously through my characters so deal. Anyways, isa was more elated with winfry than a 6 year old on his birthday in a candy shop. She finally had someone to cry to, to rant to, to worry to, to reveal herself to. And more importantly, she finally had someone to distress with, to drink tea with, to laugh with, to be with. And now that someone was missing.

Panic came over her like a slug: slow and nauseating. It licked her slim ankle when winfry didn’t meet her at the periodical section of the library like he normally did on Tuesday evenings. And coiled around her calf when he didn’t answer her 14 calls. And it slimmed up her inner thigh when she found his apartment completely trashed and deserted. That’s when she almost lost it.

Afterwards she would be surprised how, after a decade of utter independence (by 16 she bought her own food with the money she made working on the university gardens) – even after all that, it only took a month to almost forget her former independence. In spite of her 16-year-old grocery shopping, in spite of learning to completely disregard the disdain and ridicule of all the other girls in her middle and high school classes, in spite of pulling herself together after being blown to bits by her family’s deaths and her car crash, in this moment, without winfry, isa thought, for the first time ever in her life, that all hope was lost. And although this thought was as fleeting as ephemerid, it was no less terrifying for being so. Such was her falling for winfry.

When isa did snapped out of it and stepped back into her former poise, she knew exactly what to do. The first thing she did was search winfry’s room for the librem and sure enough there it was, dumped on the floor with all winfry’s other books, in the guise of Alexander Bates’ “Myths and the making: the influences of mythology.” But when she picked up the book, it rippled back into the rough leather journal strapped up with a bronze buckle. She also looked around for his fountain pen but couldn’t find it and assumed it must be in his pocket. The next thing she did was pack a bag for winfry and take it to her place, where she packed her own bag. They were leaving nilbmah; they no longer had a choice. The librem’s clairvoyance was proving itself 20-20.

What’s more, isa had been dreaming about this. In her dreams, she and winfry were sleeping together (only in her dreams mind you) but when she woke up in her dream winfry would be gone; only his undershirt and night shorts remained as if he had evaporated. But before depression could overcome her, winfry’s night clothes became animated and started to push her out of her apartment. When she went back to do her dishes the undershirt barred her reentry and she knew she would be leaving for good. The next thing she knew, winfry had filled in his night clothes and they were running through the great LusciousLockian symias searching. What they were searching for always remained elusive; the sensation of her dream was like what she imagined having Alzheimer’s was like: remembering you were looking for something but forgetting what it was.

But at that moment she wasn’t bothering herself about what they needed to find; she knew who she needed to find and she knew where to find him. She just needed to talk to jacob martin first.

__________________________________________________________

“Good evening, ms. englewood. This is quite a surprise. Would you come in?”

“I don’t have time for all the niceties, mr. martin,” isa replied as she reluctantly entered the apartment, “How much security do you have at the basement of the lemnyn building.”

Something about her tone and the way she said ‘you’ must have offended jacob because he became very defensive. “Look, ms. englewood, I don’t know why I rub you the wrong way, but surely you must know I’m not actually with them.”

“It’s hard to trust someone who keeps secrets from even his best friends.”

“Fair enough,” jacob said with a shrug, “So why do you need to know about the lemnyn building?”

“They’re holding winfry there.”

jacob cursed and kicked over his mahogany coffee table sending a flock of old newspapers and magazines flying. “I thought I had taken care of that. What is landers up to now? … Wait. How do you know winfry’s at the lemnyn building?”

“Surely, you of all people, mr. martin, will permit me a few secrets. Just trust that my information is sound.”

“Ok. Ok. Fair enough. The lemnyn building? Really? But that’s only where they take the worst…” the flash of panic across isa’s face immediately made jacob regret letting that slip. Man, that woman was quick. “So you’re planning a rescue. I don’t know ms. englewood; the lemnyn building isn’t exactly your local police station. I can take care of this.”

“No.” isa’s look was all the reasons he needed to give up convincing her to let him deal with the fiasco.

An hour later, 11 pm, isa left jacob completely at a loss. She had refused all his offers for help, refused to tell him what she was doing, refused to calm down. There parting was just as peculiar.

“Good bye mr. martin. winfry and I are leaving and I trust all three of us will see much more than we would like before we see each other again. You’re a better man than I thought. Take care to stay that way. It won’t be easy. Till we meet again. Adieu.”

“Ahh… same to you ms. englewood?”

__________________________________________________________

The second time winfry woke up in the cellar was a little better than the first, but not by much. As far as he could tell, he was in the same room and more importantly he was alone with only his thoughts for company. Of course I never had the privilege to meet his company but why not speculate. Maybe he was planning his escape. Maybe he was remembering about all the messages the librem had been slipping him lately about leaving to look for whatever it was they should look for. Well, it’s sort of hard to leave when you’re locked up. Maybe he was worrying about isa and how she would feel when she realized he was gone. Maybe he guessed that isa had used the quilaire to see through space to find him there in the cellar and was on her way to bust him out. Maybe he regretted not having the librem with him because then he would surely be able to find some way out. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But he probably didn’t think about how much confidence he surprisingly still had – about how much he had changed since isa and the librem. If this had happened to him a year ago he would have lost it sooner than a toddler losses a pacifier and they would have had a much easier time with him.

__________________________________________________________

Entering the lemnyn building was easy. isa just used a crow bar to pry open one of the windows. With jacob’s information and what she had seen of the building while searching for winfry with the quilaire, she felt fairly comfortable with the layout of the building; she guessed winfry was two floors down on the far side of the building. All she would have to do was avoid the security that jacob had told her about. The building was dark except for the exit lights, so she made it to the stairs fairly easily.

__________________________________________________________

“Ok, mr. winster, it’s time you talk”

It was the same uncannily neutral voice from earlier. But this time winfry could see the woman behind the voice. They had moved him to a different room where they tied him to a chair in the middle of a concrete cube and she was pacing the room. She would have been attractive if he weren’t tied to a chair, if she weren’t wearing military boots and a trench coat, if she spoke with even the tiniest bit of expression, if he had met her at the park on a sunny day with introductions and all. But there in the concrete cube, tied to the chair with her pacing inches behind him with who-knows-what up her trench coat, he was very much intimidated.

“Ok then, lets go to auntie mays. They should still be open at this hour. I hear the ambience there is nice for a conversation.” In retrospect, it was a really stupid thing to say but winfry must have found it funny. auntie mays was a whore house.

No sooner than winfry could chuckle at his own crudeness than the flat, pale yellow face, blank as ever and framed by straight black hair down up in a bun swooped down into his. And without even lowering her eyebrows, she spit in winfry’s face.

“Cut the jokes, mr. winster. They aren’t going to help you.”

With his hands tied down, there was nothing winfry could do except shake his head to no avail before resigning himself to having her saliva slip down his face and into the collar of his shirt.

“So wooing you won’t work? Shucks.” winfry was probably also wondering how he could be so snarky but, maybe that’s just me.

winfry felt the pain before her boot even hit his groin. It took a few minutes for winfry to regain anything other than his sense of excruciating pain.

“Tell me what you know about the quilaire.”

“You’re a bitch. You know that?”

__________________________________________________________

Isa knew it had been too easy when she got to were winfry should have been without running into any security.

“Well isn’t this lovely,” she muttered to herself when she realized winfry was no longer being held there. Under normal circumstances she of course would have developed several backup plans, but at this point she had to muffle that side of her personality with a plastic bag. What really concerned isa was that there was no real reason they would abduct winfry just because of the myth; there were other more effective ways to deal with that. Something else was going on and it couldn’t be good. And whatever it was would probably get worse the longer they had winfry. It was sky high time they left so the least we can do is permit isa this splash of rashness.

isa considered looking through space to find winfry but that would waste too much energy and time and leaving with out winfry wasn’t an option so she decided to explore the rest of the basement.

__________________________________________________________

“I repeat. What do you know about the quilaire.”

“What? I don’t exactly follow?”

“mr. winster, even your jokes are better than your lies. Tell me what you know about the quilaire.”

winfry was finally starting to sweat. How could they know about isa’s quilaire? Did they even know about her quilaire? Had they done anything to isa? Oh god this could be bad. What should he say?

“What’s the matter mr. winster? Did they turn the thermostat up?” Even this sarcastic comment was delivered with a neutrality that was slowly starting to cheese-grate against winfry’s face.

“Why would you think I know anything about the quilaire? I’m just a boring actuary in case you didn’t know.”

“I doubt that. And I ask the questions,” she paused only to backhand winfry, “Don’t ever forget that, mr. winster.”

__________________________________________________________

“Who’s there?”

A security guard with a flashlight and a pistol heard isa trying to pry her way through a locked door. She could easily take care of him with the quilaire but she needed to conserve her energy. So she slipped behind a corner and held her breath as a beam of light flickered back and forth down the hall.

The footsteps were about to reach isa’s corner and she was ready to mesmerize the guard when his intercommuncatory piece buzzed. He was so close to isa that she heard the other voice buzz, “lieutenant tern, report to cell d12. mr. winster is proving more feisty than we imagined.”

“What’s your name?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s your name?”

winfry's question completely caught his inquisitor off-guard, which gave him the instant he needed to throw himself back in the chair and send his legs crashing into the woman’s knees. Her scream as her knees bent awkwardly and she slumped to the floor was the most expression she had shown all evening.

Unfortunately for winfry, he was still tied to the chair that he had cause to fall to the chair. He hadn’t really thought that part through. All he knew was that he felt the influence of the quilaire pushing him to do it so that meant isa was near.

But after two security guards ran in and kicked him in the ribcage several times, he started to doubt whether it had been such a good idea. At least the woman was having a hard time getting up as well. But eventually she seemed to recover and return her face into the disturbingly blank stare.

“That wasn’t wise, mr. winster.” She hid her hand within her trench coat and pulled out a rusty old pair of pliers.

BOOM!!!

__________________________________________________________

The explosion was much more dramatic than isa excepted but that was for the best, or at least that’s what she thought at the time. She had followed the guard to the cell where they were holding winfry and she was able to recognize winfry’s voice through his screams as the guards kicked his chest but by that point there were far too many people around the door so she created a distraction. She had brought an aerosol can just for such an occasion. She left it at the end of the hallway and then took cover before bending fire to set off her homemade fireworks.

It did the trick. Most of the guards ran off to investigate the explosion and the one guard and unemotional interrogator who did stay behind were so startled that isa easily knocked them unconscious with the crowbar.

“Wow isa, I didn’t think you could be so violent.”

“Yeah, well growing up in the country side and having to deal with the wildbeasts will do that to you and I believe people normally thank their rescuers instead of making sarcastic comments”

“Well, I’m still tied up actually.”

“It’s good to know you’re still ok.”

isa quickly untied winfry and they slipped out the room before any of the security returned from the explosion. Apart from hiding from a few more guards that were called in to investigation, the duo quickly made it back to the first floor. All they had to do was cross the main hall to the window isa came in through. They had practically made it cross the dark wide hall when a dark, in spite of the moonlight that lit the rest of hall, figure appeared on the other side of the hall.

“Surrender the quilaire and you can leave in peace.” The voice was very peculiar. It was like a wolf that had learned to speak but still had a thick accent. The jokes were no longer coming to winfry like they were earlier. The figure was slowly approaching but neither isa nor winfry moved. Something about the creature was stunning or maybe hypnotizing them like a dose of curare and it was more than just fear.

“Surrender the quilaire,” it said again, now about 10 meters away. But even from that distance it was still impossible to distinguish any of its features.

Then the side doors burst open, security poured in and winfry and isa snapped out of it.

“Leave! Leave! I can handle this on my own.” Even without seeing it’s features, it’s anger could be felt more strongly then a finger on flames and isa took advantage of the distraction to close the doors by bending wind and locking the people in by warping the wood.

“It’s of no use. I will destroy them all. I don’t care. Surrender the quilaire.” The creature swelled and continued it’s advance.

isa had taken the quilaire from around her neck and was clutching it like a knife, or better yet, a wand. “Never.”

Letting herself go to the quilaire she lunged forward like a fencer and blue flares sparked towards the creature who somehow managed to grab hold of them and pull isa forward. A strange struggle of tug-of-war ensued over the blue flares and isa was losing ground. The creature managed to pull her within a meter away and he started to stretch out a charred black hand towards isa’s face.

“Feel yourself slipping. Let yourself go. Enter the abyss.” The wolf accent was now completely overbearing and only isa could really understand what he was saying. In spite of all her efforts the influence of the quilaire was slipping and she was overcome by a falling sensation.

winfry watched in horror as isa was overcome by the creature that had now swelled to twice the size of a human. He panicked when he saw isa’s eyes glaze over as the creature spoke some strange language meters away from her. And then the presence of the quilaire rushed into him and he ran, diving full force into the creatures knees bringing it crashing to the floor. It’s legs felt like charcoal scrapping up winfry’s face and arms.

Ignoring his ripped up upper body, winfry got up, rushed to isa, grabbed the quilaire out of her hand, pulled her to her feet and ran like lightning, literally out the door that the creature had come through.

The next thing they knew they were at isa’s apartment gathering their things sneaking out to nighline with a stolen car, which they would abandon to head into LusciousLocks by foot.

Magic, Awakened

Latvia sat alone, up inside her secret black room. Sunbeams poured in through the room’s small circular window, tiny particles of dust dancing whimsically in the pale light. Latvia thought about her sisters. She thought about Lithuania. The sense of fear she had felt over her sister’s wellbeing had vanished, inexplicably. Just a day ago, all she had wanted to do was rescue her. But then she found the quilaire… and now all she could think about was whether Peter had managed to figure something out about it at the Phsyiological Engineering and Improvement Station. Latvia no longer sensed Lithuania to be in any peril… at all. But was she right?

Latvia shook her head. In the crystal orb, she had seen Lithuania dying—or something. Clearly Lithuania had used her gift… but it wasn’t right for Latvia to just sit around, doing nothing, simply waiting for news of the quilaire. She had to get her mind back on track—she had to find a new crystal orb, and seek Lithuania.

She began rummaging through the crates and piles of old boxes again. She knew her mom had at some point delved into the arts of foretelling—and sure enough, within a matter of minutes Latvia found her mother’s Fortune box.

It was much like Latvia’s own mahogany box; it would have been passed down to Latvia as an inheritance, had Latvia’s mother not believed every Fortune box to be a highly individual affair. Trying to see something through another person’s orb, she said, was like trying to fit into another woman’s bra. Possible, but probably extremely uncomfortable, not to mention sub-optimal. As for using another person’s fortune dice and oracle cards—well that was just out of the question. “Like a man trying to get pregnant,” her mother had said. “You just can’t do it.” Latvia’s mom had always come up with the most ridiculous analogies.

Yet as Latvia unfastened the bronze clasp of her mother’s old box, she couldn’t help but recall the day she acquired her own mahogany box… The day she walked with her mother into the old store of the Occult… Checking out the Fortune sets one by one, each box holding the same exact contents, yet all the contents of one box being imperceptibly distinct from those of the next… Then finally, she came across the mahogany case she would come to call her own. The box with the mysterious gold inscriptions she wasn’t yet able to read—the box that, for some inexplicable reason, took a hold of her sight and almost called her by name—the box that was supposed to hold the crystal orb which just one day ago Latvia had idiotically shattered against the wall.

“Dumbass,” Latvia muttered to herself, opening her mother’s box. There lied her mom’s orb, larger than what Latvia was accustomed to, along with the pouch of fortune dice, the familiar set of oracle cards, and—a book? Latvia frowned. Fortune boxes weren’t supposed to hold more than the three classic tools of divination. Throwing anything else in the mix was taboo.

Latvia picked up the book and eyed it carefully. It looked ancient. The dark leather cover, the worn spine with its three raised bands, the golden fore-edge… No title, no inscriptions. The book smelled and looked almost prehistoric, but it seemed to be in good condition. Book later, Lithuania now, her mind reminded her. Latvia nodded. Whatever was in that book could wait. She had to try and reach Lithuania now.

“Alright Latvia,” she told herself, taking her mother’s orb and placing it at the center of the table, “You can do this.” Self-encouragement was silly, but it helped anyway. She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the orb, and closed her eyes.

“Spirits of the ghostly plane,
Come before I turn insane,
Help me see Lithuania now,
Just help me out, I don’t care how.”

Latvia knew she was a terrible poet, but luckily those spirits weren’t very demanding in terms of poetry. Soon enough, the room was growing dim, and the familiar chill swept through the walls and over the floorboards. The crystal orb grew cold, and Latvia began to wonder at how it had been so easy to summon the spirits when she wasn’t even using her own crystal orb.

The answer came soon enough. “Latvia,” whispered a voice, familiar but faint. Latvia opened her eyes, startled. To her surprise, all she could see was mist, thick and white. She knew the mist wasn’t actually around her; it was as if her eyes were seeing through someone else’s—as if she was foregoing the process of having to look into the crystal orb, and simply seeing what was inside.

“Mom?” Latvia said.

“I’m sorry we did this to you, Latvia. Your father and I…. we didn’t know any better, at the time.” Through the mist in her eyes, Latvia was catching sight of a faint human silhouette.

“Mom, you don’t need to apologize. I’m happy with my—”

“You don’t yet know the full repercussions of our actions.” The figure in the mist was growing clearer. “What we did to you and you sisters… It will soon make you three the focal point… of everything.”

Latvia shook her head. “Mom, I don’t—”

“Read the book. Take it to Estonia. Save Lithuania. You will understand everything soon enough.” The voice of Latvia’s mother sounded urgent—rushed. There would be no time for her and Latvia to talk at ease, and Latvia felt it. She didn’t want her mother to go away so soon. It had been so long since she had heard her mother’s voice… So long since she had seen her face… And she had so many questions to ask her. She wanted to speak with her—know where she was, know what she had been up to all these years, hear news from her dad—not receive cryptic messages through a blurry haze.

“Mom—” Latvia choked. Was the figure forming in the mist her mother? "Mom… how are you communicating with me?”

“There isn’t time for us to speak. But you must know this: an event will occur soon, that will cause you a great deal of pain. You must endure it, and have faith that everything will work out for the best. No matter what your heart tells you, you can’t linger here longer. You must go to Lithuania, and guide her.”

“Mom!” Latvia choked. “Why did they take you?” The figure in the mist was growing more and more distinct. “Are you even alive?!”

“Read the book. Take it to Estonia. Save Lithuania,” her mother repeated. “I love you.”

“Mom!” Latvia cried.

And suddenly, the mist vanished, and the indistinct figure became clear. It was Lithuania, walking through dark woods, wiping her eyes. She was somewhere in the LusciousLockian woods... The time of day was ambiguous, but it was clear she was walking unaccompanied... she was by herself... she was...

Alone, and she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Lithuania would never have wanted anyone to see her break down like that—like a little girl, just because she’d taken a slap to the face. Timoteo was an asshole. An entitled, overbearing, disrespectful son of a bitch. Lithuania should have known better than to let her emotions get the best of her. After all, it wasn’t like soldiers weren’t trained to take a beating.

But this beating had been different. This wasn’t the result of war—it was the result of an outright lack of decency. Granted, Lithuania slapped him first—and that was out of line. Not that she hadn’t been provoked, but again, she should have known better. Still, her slap had hardly fazed Timoteo. Timoteo’s slap, on the other hand, had knocked her to the ground.

Lithuania shook her shoulders and quickened her stride, making her way back to the concrete tower. She didn’t want to think about such things. A chill was setting in, and she didn’t want to get caught outside after nightfall. Not that it would be such a big deal, seeing as daytime and nighttime had become almost synonymous in LusciousLocks…

Still, Timoteo had been such a prick. The force with which he had slapped Lithuania was entirely uncalled for. Lithuania couldn’t help but recall the hundred and one thoughts that had sped through her mind as she fell to the floor in Timoteo’s dungeon. Or maybe not thoughts, exactly… but a combination of images and emotions. A medley of sensations she hadn’t felt since she was a child… Feelings reminiscent of a time when she had been… powerless.

Lithuania paused. Then, with a kick, smashed a rotting log in two. She could feel her cheeks growing hot with anger. She smashed the remains of the log even further. She was doing it again, and she didn’t care. She was turning her fear, her sorrow, her frustration—she was turning it all into rage. She was pissed. She was pissed. She was pissed.

And in an instant she remembered why she had become a Foggistani soldier in the first place—why she clung so fervently to her lineage—to her family mission. Why she so arduously strove to climb the ranks of the Foggistani Helo-Fleet, to receive every possible medal, to secure the favorable opinion of every single high-ranking officer—

Lithuania picked up what was left of the rotten log and hurled it against a tree. It smashed to bits, though not as satisfyingly as Lithuania would have wished. She cursed aloud, and fumed, and paced back and forth, and clutched at her hair. She hated what she was feeling, but she couldn’t help but feel it. People like Timoteo brought out the worst in her. People like Timoteo reminded her of everything she couldn’t control. They embodied everything Lithuania was against—everything she thought was wrong with the world—everything she feared.

He was irrational. He was impetuous. He was a loose cannon. Lithuania’s words had no effect on him. People like Timoteo left Lithuania feeling totally and absolutely powerless. And she wouldn’t deal with that. She couldn’t deal with that. Not again. Not after everything she had been through. Not after the helplessness of losing Marco—the powerlessness she felt when she had to let her parents go. The emotions that almost killed her when she was forced to watch her mom and dad be taken away. Not again. Not again. Not—

A monstrous trumpeting sound shook in the distance. Lithuania froze. The woods grew still as death, as the leaves, the wind, and the trees—all movement ceased. Lithuania couldn’t tell why, but just the sound of the monster shook her to her very core. An irrational fear kept her rooted her to the ground—

Until the sound repeated itself, and everything in the forest burst back to life, terrified. Lithuania snapped out of her panic, and dashed frantically in the direction of the tower. The ground shook—softly, at first, but more and more noticeably with every step the monster took. It was approaching, and quickly. Lithuania couldn’t tell if it was in the woods, or skirting the forest edge—she only knew it’d be ridiculously stupid of her to wait and find out.

“FELIX!” she shrieked, the terror escalating through her veins. The wind quickly picked up, turning in a matter of seconds into a gust, swerving, weaving, dashing through the forest trees like a tempest. “What the hell is going on?!” Lithuania thought. She gripped the pistol in her holster out of instinct—then realized it felt just about as useful as a twig. “FELIX!”

The tower appeared in the distance. Lithuania burst through the forest edge, running full speed towards the heavy, black iron door. “FELIX!” she cried. Though her feet were hardly touching the ground, she could feel the earth trembling continuously now. The monster was running—

And then it trumpeted again. Lithuania felt every inch of her skin burst into flames, just as she reached and crashed into the tower’s iron door. She screamed—it was the same sensation she had felt before—her skin, her muscles, her limbs—all burning and falling to pieces.

And then the pain went away. Lithuania opened her eyes and gasped for air. She was on the floor, her fists against the iron door. “Shit,” she thought, picking herself up and tugging furiously at the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. “FELIX!” The shaking of the earth was causing bits of cement to break off the tower. Lithuania looked behind her in horror, expecting the monster to pop into view any second now. “FELIX DAMNIT OPEN THE DOOR!” she yelled. And then the floor trembling ceased, and silence reigned absolute.

Lithuania could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She could hear her own panicked breathing, and feel every ounce of blood traveling through her veins. It was as if all her senses were heightened, unnaturally so, and the colors of the LusciousLockian twilight had become ten times as vibrant. She let go of the door handle, and turned around in dread.

Only a hundred meters away, just outside the forest edge, stood the monster. Imposing, terrifying, and enormous, the creature and its rider were staring straight into Lithuania’s eyes. Lithuania slowly pressed her back against the iron door, wishing with all her might she might somehow vanish into the concrete tower. Time had come to a standstill, and gravity had lost its hold. Dry leaves, pebbles, chunks of cement from the concrete tower, and even Lithuania’s hair, all were rising slowly but steadily into the air, like ashes from a flame. And then the rider of the beast raised a blackened hand, and pointed at Lithuania.

The beast charged. Gravity returned. The earth convulsed under the monster’s weight, and Lithuania’s heart leapt into her throat. “FELIX!” she screamed, pressing herself against the door in terror. And then again, she felt her body light on fire—briefly—before she found herself crashing onto the floor, inside the concrete tower and behind the door she had so desperately been trying to open. “What the hell!?” she thought. She had made it inside, but the door was still closed.

“Lithuania!” Felix called out, his head popping out through the trapdoor beneath the stairs. “Where the hell have you been? Get in here, now!” Lithuania scrambled to her feet and jumped into the tunnel. Felix grabbed her hand and led her top speed through the underground passageways.

“Felix,” Lithuania said, glancing at the walls as they sped by, “What is that thing!? And why are the walls—why are they glowing?!” All around her, tiny specks of blue glitter-like light were emanating from the walls, creating an iridescent, otherworldly glow.

“It’s the beast. It makes the magic in the air go haywire.”

“Magic? Are you kidding?” she cried, straining her voice to make it audible over the deafening rumble of the earth.

“Yes, magic. No, not kidding. And we want to be as far away from that thing as possible before it—” he turned to glance at Lithuania mid-run. “Why the hell are all the lights following you?!” Confused, Lithuania turned to look behind her. Sure enough, the tiny specks lining the tunnel walls were drifting towards her, following her as she ran and sticking to her skin.

“How am I supposed to know?” she cried. A cracking sound. Then a fissure splintered its way along the length of the passageway ceiling. “Shit! Are these tunnels safe?!”

“I thought they were!” he said alarmed, tightening his grip on Lithuania’s hand. “We’re going to the vault. We should be safe there!”

“But Timoteo! We have to make sure we don’t leave him in—” And then a dreadful series of pounding sounds rose above the earthquake’s rumble, followed by a crumbling sound that could only mean the concrete tower’s collapse. Then the trumpeting sound was heard, as clearly as if the monster had been in the tunnel with them, and Lithuania felt her body split open.

She shrieked and toppled over. “Lithuania!” cried Felix. Her body was vibrating—blurring—he couldn’t quite tell what the hell was going on, but he released her hand as soon as he felt it turn slimy, and then, right before her eyes, Lithuania disappeared in a burst of sparkling blue light, and in her place appeared—

“OH SHIT!” Felix yelled, covering his mouth. A burnt corpse lied before him, its entrails oozing thick, partially coagulated blood. “LITHUANIA!” Felix cried, completely at a loss. Another trumpeting sound, and the tunnel walls made a loud, cracking sound. Another burst of blue sparkling light, the corpse was gone, and Lithuania was back. “Lithuania what the hell?!” Felix yelled, horrified.

Lithuania looked up at him in terror, her face pale, as tiny specks of light hovered gently around her skin. Felix put his shock on hold, scooped Lithuania up in his arms, and ran, just as the tunnel behind them collapsed in a thunderous roar.

Lithuania felt her eyesight dimming and her consciousness slipping. Whatever had just happened to her body, it had hurt, and had drained her of all her strength. She couldn’t hear anything anymore. The roaring of the earth was nothing but a dull drone in the distance. And Felix, dashing wildly through the tunnels as everything around them fell apart… She knew she was safe with him, and everything would be alright, so long as she remained in his arms...

What she didn’t know was why her body burned every time the monster trumpeted… why the world around her seemed to spin, vanish, then reappear every time her body burned… and she didn’t know why, just now, she had traveled somewhere entirely different… To some other space—in some other world…

A world where she had seen him. Where he had seen her. A world from which, just before she had the chance to open her mouth, she was torn away—and thrust back into her own reality.

A world where Marco was still alive.

The Procedure

The Physiological Engineering and Improvement Station, a Foggistani outpost nestled in a small wooded region within the borders of Econometric Elation, was a four hour hoverdrive away from the Helo-Fleet Headquarters. Peter woke up at 0400 hours, left at 0500, and reached the station promptly at 0900. “Good morning Commander,” said Jessica Bangs, First Assistant Neuropsychologist, shaking Peter’s hand as he arrived.

“Morning,” said Peter, looking at the woman carefully. “Jessica?” The woman nodded, a broad smile on her face. Her title was First Assistant Neuropsychologist (what other scientists at the Station dubbed “a FAN”), yet she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, exposing a broad, philosopher’s forehead, and her prominent cheekbones and perfectly straight and pearly teeth made her smile seem all the wider. Based on her rank, not to mention the tone of her electronic messages prior to his arrival, Peter had been expecting a woman well into her thirties, maybe early forties.

“Expecting someone older, were we?” Jessica asked.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “A Psychic? Really?” Jessica’s nodded, her ponytail bobbing in the wind. Peter chuckled to himself, intrigued but at the same time slightly uneasy by the fact that Jessica had already used her power to peak into his mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your face.”

Peter started. “But—but didn’t you just—”

Jessica laughed, an amusing, rather squeaky sort of laugh that reminded Peter of hiccupping mice. “Your face, not your mind,” Jessica repeated. “I’ve been working on the Perception Enhancement project for some time now—you’d expect to pick up some perception-related skills along the way, don’t you think?”

Peter smiled. “Well you’re pretty good.”

“Thanks,” said Jessica, grinning. “Follow me!”

Peter turned to absorb his surroundings as Jessica led him up the granite stairs to the Station. The Station itself was a rectangular, entirely unimpressive glass building located in the middle of a broad valley surrounded by low wooded mountains. The day was bright, almost painfully so, and the sky was clear for miles around. “Is it always this hot around here?”

“Always this hot, and always this dry,” said Jessica, her glasses reflecting the bright morning sun. “This is one of the more optimal spots for continuous communication with the Foggistani Space Station. And the nature of the work performed here oftentimes makes our experiments and procedures extremely susceptible to shifting weather patterns—and the weather here is incredibly stable. So…”

Jessica led Peter into the glass building, through a lobby that was almost indistinguishable from every other Foggistani lobby Peter had ever walked through, and down a narrow, brightly lit corridor. “It’s a very simple procedure,” Jessica said, a glass door opening before her, “But you’ll have to fill out a few forms first, and complete a series of physical exams.”

Peter nodded. He had been thoroughly briefed before arriving at the Station. He had no worries. He was more concerned about the quilaire, and how to mention it to Jessica. Her electronic messages had been so professional—stiff even. But in person she seemed pretty friendly, almost perky, and the fact that she was several years younger than Peter had expected made her considerably more approachable. Still, Peter couldn’t be too careful. And it was Latvia’s quilare he was carrying—not his own. He couldn’t risk having it confiscated by the Foggistani government.

So for the next several hours, Peter spent his time at a desk in a small room, filling out forms and a number of psychological surveys, all the while thinking mainly about the quilaire. He was feeling oddly protective about it, his hand reaching into his jacket pocket every other minute just to ensure the small, rectangular red box was still where it was supposed to be.

And then, a sudden urge caused him to pull out the box, open it, and take a look at the quilaire. Lying there, motionless in its bed of ordinary white wrapping paper, the quilaire was instantly recognizable as anything but an ordinary spoon. Its smooth surface shimmered, as if the metal within the quilaire were shifting and swirling while the object itself maintained its unchangeable spoon shape. It glowed, even, though the room Peter was in was lit by nothing but a few fluorescent tube lights—the quilaire seemed to be capable of absorbing the world around it, and reflecting it back in the form of pure, unadulterated beauty. It was mesmerizing.

Peter felt the urge to touch it.

“You done?” Jessica peeped in.

In a startled instant, Peter scooped the bare spoon from its packaging and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. A split second later, he thought “Oh shit.” He had touched the quilaire, with his bare hands.

Jessica gave Peter a curious look. “What have you got there?” she asked, observing the rectangular red box.

“Chocolates!” Peter blurted. He was cursing at himself top speed in his head. “Sorry, all out!” he said as he closed the box and tossed it in the trash bin next to his desk. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had just been. But nothing seemed to have happened… yet.

“Well, looks like you’re done.” Jessica said. “It’s ti…me for your… phy...sical…. ex…..aaaaaam………s…..s…..s.” Peter suddenly felt ill.

Blackout.

An explosion.

Peter Pidgeons opened his eyes. He was lying on his back on the floor, wrapped in smoke and orange flickering light. His ears were ringing. Ringing—noise—chaos—

Screams.

Spirals of black smoke billowed above him. He couldn’t see the ceiling—he couldn’t even sit up. He didn’t know where he was. He tried to breathe—the air was acrid—his lungs burned.

He tried to turn onto his side—

He winced. Something on his chest stung, terribly.

He called for help. He couldn’t hear his own voice. Things around him were falling. Collapsing. Burning.

He coughed. His chest seared again. He clutched at his shirt—it wasn’t a shirt. He was wearing some sort of thick body suit. He touched his chest—and screamed. The world around him spun. “HELP!!” he cried again. The pain was unbearable. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t remember.

He squinted through the flames and pillars of black smoke. “Can anyone hear me!?” he cried. HELLO!” The building around him groaned. It was about to cave in. “SOMEBODY HELP!!!”