r/creativewriting

I've recently started really digging into the story I am writing, and have debated with myself on how I want to end the story. I decided on using an epilogue to give a little more insight into the ending of the last chapter (particularly, the last chapter ends with a gruesome character death and the epilogue would show the main character years down the line having come to terms with and eventually thriving after the events of the main story arc).

I've looked into articles and other writings debating the use of an epilogue, but I'm curious as to how the general public feels about them. Obviously not every story needs an epilogue, and in fact I believe some even suffer when including an unnecessary one. But a lot of what makes an ending or epilogue good is largely subjective, not including very obvious plot holes or objectively bad writing/planning.

For me, it truly is how satisfying the ending feels, and how true it is to the overall story and characters. If there is an epilogue, it almost feels like a little bonus to the ending that isn't necessary to the story, but allows the reader to feel more satisfied with the ending of the story, or rather as a way to come down from the high of a good ending.

My question to you is:

What makes a good epilogue? Where would it be necessary? And most importantly, what makes you as a reader or writer like or dislike an epilogue?

Thats a great place to start. We often build our self esteem on things that are out of our control. Be it a career, a hobby, a relationship or a personality trait. But anything thats given to us can also be taken from us. Life has not absolute certainty and therefore I think we should strive to be grateful for what we have but keeping our egos in check. So that we realize that we're more than just a label.

A friend of mine was a straight up math genius and on track to become a professor at a prestigious university in europe until one day a disease significantly started to impact his cognitive abilities.

He then realized that he had nothing outside his cogntive abilties, and started gardening.

I’ve recently started writing a novel, which I haven’t yet titled. I’ve got my sixth draft of my prologue written and wanted to see reactions. Thanks for reading!

Prologue-Drin

The moon hung full above the hills, its pale glow washing the farm in a cold, watchful pallor. From above, the valley lay exposed. Rolling fields were silvered with frost, the dark ribbon of the River Saven winding quietly through it, its voice little more than a distant murmur against the night.

Winds slipped low across the earth, threading through the grass in thin, restless breaths. Somewhere beyond the hills, a wolf pack howled. The winds swallowed the sound, warping it until distance itself became uncertain.

Amid the vastness, the farm revealed itself.

It stood alone against the elements, a small bulwark carved into the frostbound land. Fences traced its edges in uneven lines, some bowed or broken where the wind had tested them. A lone figure moved along their length; Checking for damage, watching the dark for hidden threats. His shape was half-lost to shadow as he peered into the night.

Smoke drifted out of the worn chimney that jutted out the cabin that stood at the farm's heart, its stones still bearing the scars of the last winter. The smoke snaked stubbornly into the sky, wavering but unbroken against the howling winds. Beneath it, a dull orange glow pressed faintly against the dark, the only warmth in a landscape that offered none.

Closer now, the cabin came into focus. Low and squat, its weathered timber walls battered by years of wind and cold, it stood defiant against the wilderness. A narrow porch clung to its front, the door set firm in the centre of the south-facing wall.

Inside the world was smaller. Warmer.

A hearth burned along the left wall, its fire crackling steadily, light spilling out in soft, shifting gold. Before it, a woman stood over a pot, stirring as it simmered. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of herbs as Drin added a handful and stepped back for a moment.

The long table beside her bore the marks of preparation. Cuttings and scattered leaves coated the table. Above, a thin layer of smoke gathered beneath the peak of the roof, caught in the rafters. The firelight filled the space, pressing back the cold, wrapping the cabin in a steady, living glow.

Two wooden swords gathered dust in the corner, while a runed longsword hung on the wall, chipped and worn from use. Curtains, more patchwork than cloth, draped either side of the small window, keeping the warmth from escaping the shutters.

On the floor, a massive grey wolf pelt lay across the centre, covering the planks beneath. A large carved chair sat at its head where an equally large man slumped, his hound beside him and two young boys at his feet wrestling. Drin smiled at the sight.

Two sleeping rolls lay in the corner, where the boys would sleep, and across from that, a large bed, covered in various pelts, its pine frame steady and unyielding as the tree it had been. Carlav had carved it himself before their wedding, as a gift to her. A small loft had been built above, reached by a rope ladder that draped from its edge. It swayed slightly in the draft, but hung fast. A narrow hatch let in what little light the winter allowed. The cabin had stood for decades, built by her husband, his brother and father after the last war.

It was a quiet night, save for the boys playing inside while Drin cooked. A meagre meal, she knew, but enough to keep them going. She had Carlav butcher one of their lambs for the meal. It could stretch for days. Long enough, she hoped, to get to the market to replenish their stocks.

Carlav had protested of course, seeing it as unnecessary. He and his brother had lived on grain and goats’ milk they could steal from the herders, he said, and hadn't he turned out just fine?

Drin resisted.

It was a hard choice, but her children needed to survive this winter. In the past years, the cold had grown harsher, and each year they fought to survive. She couldn't let another die.

Flashes of teeth.

White. Wet. Tearing.

Drin's grip tightened on the knife.

A cry, high and broken.

Not Aevar. Not Torrin.

Another cry. Older. Smaller.

She had left the door open, the security and joy of early summer sun washing away any worries. Carlav and Corvyn had gone to the River Saven to fish for supper, leaving Drin and her daughter Virin alone on the farm. She had been in the barn when she heard it.

Her blood turned cold at the noise.

The barn door had slammed behind her as she ran.

She didn't recognise that wail.

Not until it stopped.

She entered the house to see a wolf lying over the cot, muzzle dark and wet.

Ribs stood out from within the mess of fur as the wolf tore into its meal. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Drin couldn’t remember the struggle, but when the men had returned, they found her, bleeding from several scratches and bites, plunging a kitchen knife again and again into the wolf’s long cold corpse.

A week later they had found three dead wolf pups in a hollow in a hill, starved and waiting for their mother that never returned. Drin had felt no pity when she had heard. Only grim satisfaction. The world had taken. The world had paid.

Her knuckles whitened on the handle of that same knife, and the turnips lay forgotten before her.

The pot hissed as it boiled over, steam erupting where it met the flame.

Drin blinked.

The cabin returned around her.

The boys laughed. The fire cracked.

Alive.

Still alive.

Shuddering, she shook herself out of her memory. She tied her thick brown hair back into a bun, though she knew it wouldn't hold, and returned to chopping the vegetables they had gathered from their garden earlier that day. While they had a plentiful harvest, they were nearly out of food. The mountains to their north and west typically sheltered them from the worst of the cold, but winter this year had been particularly unforgiving. Even in the barn, the animals' troughs froze solid.

The war in the south had raged through the last spring, past summer and autumn. Tribute paid to their lord had tripled to feed his troops, and their stores were nearly gone.

She knew Carlav would need to make the trip into Varstag to buy more food soon. It was no mean feat, requiring 2 days of travel should he choose not to go through the night. She couldn't consider how the farm would tackle the cold without him, even despite his injuries. A necessary trip, but it would be brutal without his strength.

Her husband was strong, a bear of a man, but he tired easily since returning from the front. In his youth, he had been a mercenary, a storm bought by gold and glory. It had taken 5 years of his golden years from him, and the wound he had suffered in his recent battles had taken more than that. He was a giant even in stillness, broad through the shoulders. His weight settled into the chair as though the wood had no choice but to bear him. Dirty blond hair fell loose about his face, sun-faded at the tips, and a rough beard framed a jaw worn by years of wind and war. Once, his presence had filled the room like a storm. Now it lingered, quieter, dulled by his pain, but not gone.

Drin sighed to herself, reminiscing on the man she had loved since they were children. He was slumped in his chair, pipe in hand with the embers still smoking as he dozed. Thick bandages, freshly changed, were tied around his abdomen. Such a blow would have killed a lesser man, but Carlav had survived, but had not recovered in the month he had been home.

She missed his energy. Where he had once moved without thought, throwing the boys around effortlessly, now every motion seemed measured, paid for in breath. She could still see the man he had been, sometimes, in the way he turned his head, or the brief sharpening of his eyes, but those moments passed quickly, leaving only the weight of what remained. Aevar and Torrin wrestled at his feet, where once he would've been the one to start it.

Drin watched them for a moment longer than she meant to.

They were not as alike as they had once been. Aevar moved quicker; always the first to lunge or dodge, his focus sharp even in play. Torrin followed a heartbeat behind, laughing when he lost, brushing hair from his eyes as though the world would give him time to catch up. Aevar hauled Torrin back to his feet. Torrin smiled, all teeth, leaning in as Aevar immediately began showing him where he'd gone wrong- moving just a heartbeat too slow.

The boys had seen seven winters, but this was the first year they hadn't had their father to truly help them. Their youthful energy was muted by the labour they had carried out, chopping logs to feed the fire and keep the family alive. Last winter, during the evenings he would tell the boys the stories of his youth, filling their heads with tales of adventure and glory. Now he slumbered, quiet like he was already dead. He was trying, she knew, but the work required left him exhausted by the days end. While it was better that he was still with them, a part of her felt her husband was already dead, with this shell replacing him.

Guiltily, she shook her head. No. He may be faded, but he wasn’t gone. He was with them, and for tonight, that was enough.

The winds wailed outside, shaking her at once out of her reminiscence. The door slammed open, battered by the winds outside as a lean tall man stepped in. His coat, hat and boots were all coated in frost from his exposure to the elements. Corvyn, her brother-in-law, stepped through and with a heavy push, forced the door closed again. The wiry man stood in the doorway, all sharp lines where Carlav was weight and presence. There was nothing wasted about him- not movement, not thought. Where her husband had always met the world head on, Corvyn watched, measured, and chose where to step. His eyes scanned the room and saw Torrin in a headlock.

Laughing and rubbing his hands, he shrugged off his coat and took his boots off to warm up by the hearth, tripping slightly on a raised floorboard. He cursed under his breath as he turned to face Drin.

"Barn's all locked up," he grunted. "All's clear as far as I can see. When's dinner?"

"Soon," Drin replied, giving him a smile. "Be patient, you greedy bastard."

Corvyn sighed and sagged into the chair across from Carlav, legs sprawling out from him. Varr padded over and sniffed at him, and he scratched the dog's ears lovingly. He had run the farm in his older brother's absence, and while Carlav had funded the farm, Corvyn had saved it. She knew it crushed him to see them near starve after his efforts to refurbish and restore the family land.

"Getting slow, Torrin?" he said, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"I let him!" Torrin shot back, twisting uselessly in Aevar's grip.

"You didn't," Aevar muttered, tightening his hold on the other boy.

Corvyn titled his head back and laughed as the boys set themselves up again. Carlav stirred from his sleep, hearing the conversation. He managed a tired grin when he saw his brother.

“You look half frozen,” he laughed.

“And you half dead,” Corvyn retaliated.

Carlav roared with laughter, before racking into a cough.

“This is what I’m talking about, only a dumb brute like you would take a sword to the stomach and make it everyone else’s problem.”

“You’re one to talk, snowman. Don’t get me started on your stench, have you been fucking the sheep? I know you don’t want to marry, but the town’s close enough that we won’t need to be eating your children come Spring.”

“I wasn’t fucking the sheep; I was fucking your wife! She’s animal enough for the both of us!”

Carlav threw his tankard at him, but Corvyn caught it, laughing at his brother's glower.

“Boys, that’s enough. You're as bad as the kids.” Drin interjected with a glare at Corvyn, which was softened by the amused smile playing across her face.

"Hey! Not fair! We don't smell nearly as bad as those two!" Torrin cut in, barely sidestepping a tackle from Aevar.

“Dinners ready, I’ve half a mind to starve the both of you bastards so you learn your lesson.”

She served up, and the small family gathered at the table for supper, planning the next day’s labour. Drin raised her concerns about food stocks to Carlav. He agreed to travel out in a day’s time, and they continued chatting until supper finished. The boys worked together to try armwrestle their father, and Carlav showed Torrin a way to break out of a headlock. The hearth crackled cheerfully, but the flames dipped up and down as if something outside had drawn a long breath.

A draft? She wasn’t sure.

Drin rubbed her arms against the sudden chill, goosebumps raising.

Carlav eased himself back into his chair, Varr padding faithfully beside him before suddenly the dog froze, a low growl coming from his throat, ears pricked towards the door.

“Thought you said it was all clear out? Corvyn, go check on that, would you?” Carlav rumbled.

Drin caught the faint worry which tightened his features, but Corvyn only laughed.

“Probably just the wind scaring the goats. I’ll check in, but that mutt’s ears are too sensitive nowadays. Keep your crippled arse in that chair, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Corvyn spent a moment collecting himself and grabbed a lantern before heading out the door. It opened without resistance. The wind had quieted, Drin noticed, but she didn’t think anything of it as she interrupted the boys as they set up to fight again.

"Enough," Drin softly interjected. "Bed. Both of you."

They groaned, but not with any real resistance.

Aevar moved first, already pulling at his boots. Torrin waited a heartbeat, grinning after his uncle as he left, then followed his brother. Drin knelt down to help them, worn hands working quickly at stiff laces and damp wool. Aevar held still, watching her fingers. Torrin fidgeted, still restless with leftover energy.

"Did you see that throw?" Torrin chirped.

"I saw you lose," Aevar said, smiling.

"I didn’t!"

"You did."

"Boys. Save it for tomorrow," Drin huffed, grateful her face was hidden as she smiled to herself.

Torrin settled first, wriggling into his furs without complaint. Aevar lay beside him, quieter, eyes still open a moment longer as he watched the room.

Drin pulled the furs up around them, placing a kiss on both their foreheads as she tucked them in. She brushed Torrin's hair out of his eyes, her hand lingering as she watched them for a moment longer. She almost said something, but Torrin snored suddenly, and Drin choked back a laugh as she let them drift off.

She shivered suddenly as she left them.

Without the boys' scuffling the silence felt wrong.

The winds rose again, and she pushed the thought aside.

Varr prowled towards the door, still whining. She ruffled his head reassuringly before going over to Carlav. Outside, she heard a quiet thud, and a few muffled words lost to the wind. Probably just Corvyn tripping again, clumsy bastard. She snorted as she approached her husband.

“Are the bandages okay love? Do you need them changing again?”

“No. They’re fine. I’m fine.”

His jaw tightened.

Drin knew he hated being fussed over, but he couldn’t manage on his own anymore, and he knew it. They both knew it. Her hands clenched into fists at her side, before sighing and walking away, laying the children’s clothes for the next day. Varr growled again, low and insistent, but she forced herself to ignore him and continued her work. Carlav glanced to the door, his head tilted as if trying to hear something just out of earshot.

Then, faint, but unmistakeable, the crunch of frosted grass under boots. Carlav let out a breath he’d been holding.

“Relax boy, it’s just Corvyn. He smells like shit, but that’s the worst of it.”

Her husband patted his leg, calling the dog over, but Varr didn’t budge. He continued growling, pacing by the door. The dog’s nails clicked against the floorboards, freezing every few steps as if catching whispers in the dark. Despite his master’s commands, he refused to lie down, tail stiff and alert. His ears flicked towards the door at sounds only he could hear. The wind railed again outside, trying to scour them from the hills.

“I don’t know what’s gotten in to him. Maybe he needs a piss?” Carlav muttered. His easy tone didn’t match the tension in his shoulders.

Outside, the wind continued. Not the steady howl of earlier, but short, sharp, uneven bursts, as if the night itself was struggling to breathe.

Drin paused mid-fold, a sudden tightness in her chest. Something felt wrong. Off. She couldn’t place it, but the air felt…thinner, like the room had shrunk around her.

It was surely nothing. Just nerves. Just wind. Just winter. She ignored the feeling, smoothing Aevar’s tunic with a hand that shook more than she’d like to admit-

And the door burst open.

Carlav straightened, half a laugh in his voice

“Took you long enough! I thought-”

Whatever insult he meant to throw died on his tongue.

It wasn’t Corvyn.

Four men stormed through the door.

Swords hung at their sides, their hardened leather armour a tattered mess. No sigil lay on their breastplates, or if it did, it was long destroyed. Deep claw marks had torn through first man’s chest, and he was breathing heavily. All four men had a wild, frenzied look in their eyes. Fear?

One raised his hand

“Wait,”

Carlav moved with speed she hadn’t seen since before he had gone to war. His instincts took over as he wrenched the sword from the wall, the blade singing in his hand. As he stood, his presence dominated the room, and she saw him again. The man he had been before his wound.

The great bear roared as he rushed towards them.

“Deserters! Get out of here! Get the boys!”

Steel flashed.

Varr lunged towards one of them, sharp fangs tearing into the man on the left’s calf. A heavy kick retaliated, sending the hound flying into the wall with a crash. He tried standing, but his legs buckled, coming in ragged pulls.

Who was screaming?

Drin realised, distantly, that it was her.

“Drin! Focus!” Carlav barked. “Get the boys out of here!”

"Papa? What's going on?" Torrin yelled as he got up.

Beside him, Aevar was already up, eyes darting around the room as he looked for a way to run. Torrin's voice was lost to the clash of steel as Carlav began engaging two of the men, sword carving through the air with practised skill.

The first blow crushed through a hasty block and bit deeply into a man’s skull, blood spraying across the cabin as he slammed his blade down against the second attacker, redirecting blow after blow as he held the invaders off. The effort caused fresh blood to soak into his bandages, but his ferocity continued as they raged through the home.

Drin started towards the boys, but something hit her. She fell to the ground, skull barely missing the hearthstones as a man tackled her to the floor.

His breath, hot and foul, enveloped her face as they struggled.

She clawed around blindly.

Steel rang on steel, the boys screamed, her flailing hand struck something – handle? – and closed around it, driving the blade into the burly man’s side.

Warm blood slicked her hands. The man's breath hitched over her.

For a heartbeat,

fur,

teeth,

her child, broken in the cradle.

She drove the blade down again.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

She didn’t stop until he stopped moving.

Blood misted from the man’s lips, coating her face as she rolled the twitching corpse off her.

Scrambling up, she ran for her sons. Too late.

Carlav lunged. Too wide.

The attacker twisted aside.

The boys were behind him. The blade caught Torrin first.

A wet sound.

Aevar screamed as the edge tore across his cheek.

Carlav froze. His eyes flicked down.

“Torrin! No!”

Just for a heartbeat.

The attacker surged forward, steel slipping past steel as it tore across Carlav’s face. He roared in agony, stumbling, blood pouring from his ruined eye as he forced himself back into the fight. The fight stormed away from the beds and towards the table.

Drin didn’t look.

She grabbed Aevar, holding him close, hands shaking as she forced his arms into a coat, shoving on his boots with frantic urgency.

A crack rippled through the small building as Carlav kicked the man he had been fighting off of his sword, the blade singing in joy as the corpse crashed through the table where the family had eaten only an hour before.

Drin glanced frantically around the room, and pushed Aevar towards the rope ladder, hurrying him up as a thick hand grabbed her shoulder. She swung back with a wild frenzy, not looking at her target as she screamed for her son, her last surviving child, her baby, to run.

Drin dug her dagger deep into the man's stomach, the man falling in agony as she turned from the ladder. Wrenching it free, Drin finished him off with a swift slash across his throat.

Silence.

She had saved them.

The deserters were all dead.

Drin's knees gave way, breath hitching as she took in the carnage that had destroyed her home.

"Mama? Is it over? Are we safe?"

Aevar's voice, small and shaking, drifted down from the ladder, and her gaze met his. Met the blood on his face, still wet as it wept from his wound.

Her voice wouldn't come.

Behind her, Carlav leaned heavily on his sword, shaking as he stared at Torrin's corpse.

"It's over, son," he said quietly. "We're safe."

He walked towards the door, his heavy strides the only sound beyond the crackle of the hearth.

"I need to find Corvyn."

He went to open the door, but it burst open before he could reach the handle. Carlav staggered back as a fifth man lurched through the door, bleeding, barely standing. One ear hung loose against his head, torn and slick with blood.

The wind howled in with him.

Cold followed.

The hearth died. Darkness swallowed the room.

Steel clashed somewhere in the dark.

Drin ran.

Aevar screamed, and Drin's heart broke again as she heard the window hatch open. A soft thud was lost to the wind as the boy dropped out the window.

Carlav was already engaging the invader. Even now, he was stronger. He raised his sword defiantly, brandishing the weapon as Carlav hammered again and again against the final man’s blade, sparks breaking through the darkness like fleeting stars. Breath ragged, he forced the deserter back with his fury. The attacker’s sword screamed as it shattered under the storm of blows.

They were going to live.

Drin felt it: Hope.

It had come too soon. The man slipped under Carlav's guard.

A jagged edge drove into his throat.

Carlav's hand closed around the man's neck, his runed sword slipped from his grasp as Carlav tried to crush his opponent's windpipe with his last bit of strength. Blood poured down his chest in rivers.

But then the giant of a man staggered. His grip eased. For another moment, he refused to fall.

Then his legs gave way, and his body slammed onto the floorboards hard enough to crack them. Blood poured from his ruined throat, hot against the floor as it spread beneath him.

"Carlav!"

Drin reached him. Too late. He was already gone.

The great weight of him settled into stiffness, and the world seemed to tilt around her.

The deserter glanced out through the door as the giant fell, searching for something in the night.

A raw, broken sound escaped from her throat, she hurled herself towards the distracted invader, but her devastated fury was quenched as the man turned. He reacted quickly, grabbing her wrist and using her own momentum to slide his blade into her heart.

Her dagger stopped inches from the man's face as she froze. Pain blossomed through her middle, colder than winter as blood dripped from the wound.

Her grip loosened, and the dagger dropped from her hand as she gasped, knees buckling beneath her. The man caught her, gentle as she fell, his mismatched eyes staring down into hers.

Blue and green met her deep brown. His eyes were wide with something. Not rage. Not madness. Fear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a voice that trembled. She gasped once, a final, fragile breath, and the world dimmed as her eyes fell shut.

​I dove headfirst into the noise, a fever dream of a fray that left my mother’s heart in pieces. Though my soul remained looped around the front gate, I ghosted my father’s house anyway, chasing a hollow victory that turned out to be nothing but static and cold wind. I was merely camping out for a moment of silence, counting the seconds until I could finally crash back onto the porch of my father’s halls—waiting for a season of stillness that felt a lifetime away.

​The years are now sliding through my grip like frayed silk ribbons, trailing after my crew into the deepening dark. Time has become this glitchy, overwhelming tide, leaving me to wonder where the jagged hungers in my chest are supposed to finally shut up and sleep. I know now that I’m never catching another glimpse of those gold-tinted days; once time spends itself, it doesn't do refunds, and the treasures of the past remain locked away from the living forever.

A good investor knows the secret to a successful portfolio is diversification, good communication with your financial planner and taking advantage of compounding interest. Diversification keeps your portfolio on solid ground. It's what you need to keep it stable. Also a strong and deliberate compounding interest rate provides loads of heavy returns, growing the amount to come so you can LOVE your retirement.

This is very similar to the secret to a successful relationship. Diversification is the foundation. Diversification keeps the relationship fresh, fun and always new. A stale, low energy, predictable and starved relationship is a quick way to end up on Reddit. Diversification (Fresh, fun and new) are a requirement for a healthy sex life. As with your portfolio, Communication is a must for romper room, bumper boats, bounce house, BDSM dungeon sex. All a must for keeping the spark well lit and alive. And to make the bedroom bounce house sex life way more meaningful you need the compounding interest. By keeping the relationship fresh and new you focus on learning fresh and new ways to show love and learn how to love each other. Love needs to be watered and fed or you'll end up on Unsentletters on Reddit. The compounding is so important here. Compounding interest has one major ingredient for it to work. Longevity, time. A commitment to a long term plan and love. You know what's better than young love? Old love. Seasons of love. When two grow together in love with love being the driving force, you'll find old love. And lastly, the RELATIONSHIP is what your focus should be on. Not him. Not her. Not yourselves. The relationship. Think of the relationship like a candle, or a plant. It's both of yours responsibility to do whatever it takes to make sure that candle always burns, never goes out. Or the plant never dies. Both of you work together as a team, covering for each other, never forgetting that plants always need water. It's the most obvious thing about plants yet we've all killed every plant we've ever owned. Kill the plant, your on Unsentmusic and surfing various NSFW r4r sites wondering where you went wrong...

On the same day the internet broke, two people posted at the exact same time.

At 9:00 AM, Luna Aoki uploaded a twelve-second video.

No caption.
No hashtags.
Just her smiling, brushing wind-tangled hair from her eyes, and saying:

“Good morning. Let’s make today kind.”

Within three minutes, it had two million views.

Within ten minutes, the comments were translating themselves into forty-three languages. Fan accounts appeared that didn’t exist five minutes earlier. Someone mapped the reflection in her sunglasses and concluded she was near a seaside café in Okinawa. The café ran out of coffee in fifteen minutes.

At 9:00 AM, exactly the same second, Mateo Rivera posted a photo.

No caption.
No hashtags.
Just him tying his boots in a quiet locker room.

Within three minutes, it had three million views.

By ten minutes, sports journalists were speculating about transfers. A boot company’s stock price rose 4%. Kids began tying their laces the same way. A coach in Argentina rewrote his training session because “Mateo looked calm today.”

By 9:30 AM, the internet realized something.

Luna’s fans were flooding Mateo’s comments with hearts.
Mateo’s fans were asking who Luna was.

At 9:42 AM, Luna posted again.

A single emoji: ⚽

At 9:43 AM, Mateo replied.

A single emoji: ⭐

That was when things escalated.

Someone edited them into the same photo.
Someone else made a fan theory: They were secretly collaborating.
A rumor started: Charity match? Music video? Dating?

At 10:05 AM, Luna went live.

“Hi everyone,” she said, sitting cross-legged on a studio floor. “I heard Mateo is watching.”

Thirty-two million people joined in under a minute.

Mateo, halfway through warm-ups, pulled out his phone and went live too.

“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless. “She started it.”

Fifty-one million people were now watching both streams.

“Do you juggle?” Luna asked.

Mateo smiled. “With a ball, yes.”

She picked up a microphone and tossed it in the air, catching it behind her back.

The chat exploded.

Mateo bounced a football on his knee, then his shoulder, then flicked it off the wall and caught it under his boot.

The internet didn’t explode.

It collapsed.

Streaming platforms lagged.
News sites crashed.
Even the weather app froze briefly as servers struggled.

Then Luna said, “Let’s do something together.”

Mateo nodded. “Name it.”

She thought for a second.

“Every like we get in the next hour… we donate a pound to youth sports and arts.”

Mateo grinned. “Deal.”

They both ended their streams.

The counter started climbing.

One million likes.
Five million.
Ten million.

By lunchtime, it passed fifty million.

By evening, one hundred million.

By midnight, governments were tweeting support. Athletes, musicians, actors, teachers, random grandmothers—everyone joined in.

The next morning, headlines read:

Two Posts. One Billion Pounds Raised.

Luna posted a photo of a football field filled with kids holding paintbrushes.

Mateo posted a photo of a music studio with kids wearing football kits.

Then, finally, they posted together.

No announcement.
No branding.
Just Luna holding a ball.
Mateo holding a microphone.

The caption read:

“Turns out… together is louder.”

The post reached one billion views in twenty-four hours.

And somewhere, deep in the algorithms, social media quietly rewrote its own rules, because it had just learned something:

An idol could move hearts.
A star footballer could move crowds.

But together?

They could move the world.

No matter what, I’d choose her again. Her smile and laugh greet me in the morning, as she turns over in our bed to face me. She rushes to get up, her bare feet clicking across our wood floors. I always go back to bed, so I can be woken up again by her face, her gentle hand shaking me as she hands me coffee and her voice coming across sweetly, the same everyday asking if I want take out or if I want her to cook.

I hug her tightly, my hands wrap around her waist and she giggles, complaining that she has to get ready despite falling deeper into my arms. She’ll push me away after a while, fed up with my love. Yet I'd never be able to get enough of her.

And when I see her again, later on. Though her smile has faded, and she can’t laugh as much. It’s all the same. I’ll cook dinner for her, despite her retaliation. She eats it as quickly as it comes out, I warn her about burning her mouth, and a bit of her smile will return. I hold her tightly once the lights are off, and she’ll fall asleep in my arms.

The next day, her smile isn’t there and laughter isn't present, but as I get ready I can't help but grin. I love her all the same.

Life is funny. It’s really funny because the whole world is built upon us, our experiences, our lives. Yet, we don’t have control over them. Every part of our life is created so that we have to fight it for control. From the day you are born to the day you die. Nothing is up to you. So we fight to find ways to beat our lives for control. Yet.. we somehow always fail.

We are not born because of our will. Our parents created us. 

We do not die when we want to. We die when we have to. 

Oh but if I end my life then that was my choice! Was it? Because that thought did not come out of nowhere did it? No. It boiled deep inside of you. The seed was planted because of a situation in your chaotic out of control life. 

You think you fall asleep whenever you want to. Because you are tired, or you took medication or you just had to. You had to.

You have to. 

You have to give in. To figure out how to manipulate the world, the world that takes all control from you, and mold it into some semblance to a controlled environment. 

When I think of people in control I think of the people who have completely lost it. Lost everything. They are so out of control that in their little meaningless life that they have left, they can control it. So very few people actually have that freedom. I am both impressed, jealous and absolutely terrified to be in their place. Because to reach that place is to give up the whole meaning of control. 

I can’t do that. Absolutely no. I am part of the huge percentage of people who are desperately crawling to find that control. To manage the world in a way that they want it to look like. The worse part is, every time you manage to be in control of something, and you lose that, that fall is horrible. It’s not a fall from the top. No. Because getting the control of something means getting used to it. To let your guard down. To not appreciate what you have. What you have managed. 

Like a car. Yes, when you are driving you are in control.. or a false control of that vehicle. You can go fast, you can go slow. But in the end you are at the mercy of the car, of the people around you and of your own self. And as soon as you get comfortable. As soon as you take a breath, smile, pick up your family in the car, start driving around the city, the country, the world.. and then - boom!

Crash.

A car came out of nowhere. 

Both cars are totaled. 

Both drivers paralyzed with fear. With panic. 

Breathe.

They look back at their family. 

They don’t have any more family. 

Why did you take control?

Did you take control?

Funny thing is this control ain’t it. 

We are programmed to look for it. And yet when we don’t have it we feel terrible.

We are flawed as machines. 

I enjoy doctors. Because they are the purest form of fighting for control. 

A patient comes to the hospital. His head hurts. Sure, treat the headache. We are in control of the headache! 

The patient takes a step outside of the hospital. Recipe in hand for the pharmacy. He smiles. He falls to the ground. Still smiling. Dead. 

What happened? 

Did he never tell the doctors he was hit by a car and thought nothing of it because he got some scrapes? 

Well, the doctors were in control of the headache. They are good. They did their job. Headache is cured! That man will never ever feel a headache again! Hooray!

Our choices were placed on a path long before we existed. The only difference is that when we are born those choices become concrete. And now our only job is to just walk that path. No longer worried about choices. Everything is under control. 

Now that I think about it I feel like the only people who are in full control are dead people. They let go of the path. They went back. They forgot to make decisions. The term dead end is funny to me. Because the end is dead. We walk our little path and then.. end. Dead. 

I want to be in control. Really. I absolutely do. But it feels like a charade now. 

Wake up. Brush teeth. Wash face. Use the toilet. Do laundry. Cook. Eat. Drink pills. Work. Clean. Eat. Clean. Pills. Shower. Wash face. Brush teeth. Go to sleep. 

I can control that! Of course. Until one day I wake up and there is no water. Uh oh. Angry. Mad. Look at news. Why no water? Is it only us?  Did we pay the bills? Ugh the only thing I absolutely did not need today! I have a big meeting at work and now everything will fail. Why? Well.. there is no water of course! How will I attend the meeting without water? 

Water is back. Panic is over after 5 minutes. 

Sometimes the steps forward need to be backed up by steps back. 

Two forward, one back. We have a life to live after all. Can’t breeze through it. And sometimes we just need to let other people be in control. 

And that is fine. 

It is fine. 

This is our rest.

Breathe. 

You will find something else to control. 

And the cycle will repeat. 

Don’t be jealous of other people’s faults and failings. 

You will get your own.

Sort of a poem, but not really. :/

Why is it, I suddenly feel compelled to create something? And yet, there's a block. A twisting, coiling smoke in my mind that prevents it. Words do not wrap around my pen as I write, nor through my hands as my fingers grace the keyboard, they are now clunky and roughened. Dull around the once acute edges, like a sword cleaved in half. Sitting densely, trite with rust. Overused, unmended, then unused and atrophied. And I sit. And I shatter, not like glass, slowly. Like a burning tree, and the ashen bark flakes off, burnt, lacking density. Adrift on the wind, at the command of every stray beeze. And smoking, that stump. Polluting the air, but dead in itself. Alive, but dead. Soon to be gone. Vital enough to feel pain. Vital enough to percieve the agony. Clinging to that feeling, for what but that is left? What but the fragments, glittering. It glitters compared to what else is there. It glitters, even if dully, in the fire's wake. And that is all...

Skitskat woke up in a house; yellow walls decorated with flowers, a large TV hung upon a wall, the smell of her mother's stew in the air, and she sat on a large soft sofa. She sat in a house in a city, pictures of her children with varying talents covered the walls, the children playing or studying in the living room, judging by the colouration and the different scents in the house, she had 6 children, her enlarged stomach indicated twins. Beside her was the man she hoped would be her husband. She had met him in her homeworld, but he left before she got the chance to confess. He sat tired on a couch, clutching her hand with a loving look in his eyes that skit returned.

Keshab woke up in a field with a pain in his nose, his son was in combat stance with a terrified look on his face and his wife was laughing in the background. His wife was as white as snow with emerald eyes and fit from living off the land. Their son was brown, black and white and was strong for his age. Keshab laughed as he picked himself up, nodding with amusement and approval. The two spent years perfecting their technique, learning to travel the cosmos, lock picking, disguises, and all his trades. He watched as his son stumbled and failed, only to rise to heights he could only dream of.

Borvolog awoke in his spaceship at the prime of the Kenesion Empire before the chitin collapsed it. The galaxy was a tapestry of lights. Starwhales in pods of thousands sailed across the void, their excretions seeding a new galaxy, gigastructures bridged galaxies together, allowing for near instant travel across the universe and other universes. In the far-off corner, his budding buddy pointed to a new civilisation reaching for the stars.

Kenisions reproduce via mitosis; each clone has similar memories to the original but different personalities. These are called budding buddies, buddies for short. This one was the closest thing he had to a younger brother. Borvlog, sensing his buddy's excitement, set a course to safely observe the civilisation, promising to take him planetside if he behaved and kept up disguises.

Something was odd, however. The controls hardly felt solid, the time was off by trillions of years, voices of Keshab and Skitskat were heard like distant echoes, and the words “v-39-ip” flashed on the console. He pressed on the word; memories of the emerald twilight, his previous adventures, the fall of his empire, all were displayed on the interface. He felt a dreadful weight on his nucleus as the realisation hit him. He focused on reality, pushing his senses to their utmost. His brother was gone, the empire was gone, the galaxies before him were no more than a congealed mass of writhing, thinking flesh that turned anything that drew too close to it into chitin. His electromagnetic field detected 4 objects, none matched the size, shape or mass of anything in the room. 

At the height of his dread, Borvolog watched in terror as he relived the worst moments of his inherited memories. The gigastructure flexed and buckled as trillions upon trillions of hive ships burst forth like a virus, cancerous tendrils wrapped around the gigastructure, amplifying their will on reality, barnacles grew upon the gigastructure and belched spores into space, an onslaught of Chitin warriors swarmed the structure, digging into every crack and crevice. A pulse of collectivised malevolence ungulated spacetime, his buddy boiled and blackened in an instant, Borvlogs' protective shield broke against the roaring shockwave, insignificant against the hiveminds' might. His last moments in his fallen paradise were of his buddy's protective membrane bursting across the floor and a mass arising from the tar. Borvlog's body sank into the liquid, watching as the chitin tore creation apart.

Its shriek of terror and despair rang through his connected link.

Skitskat's dream altered to her in a hospital bed, her last recollection being driving to the hospital. Behind the hospital window with the words “v-39-ip” stuck to it, her husband stood in front of her 6 children, clutching the newborns tightly, his face relieved and joyful. Skitskat reached for her husband. 

Around the same time, Borvlog's mental shockwave cracked the dream. Instead of her hand, a metal one reached out. She looked down to see most of her body being converted into machinery. A conglomerate of grinding metal and roaring pistons, memories of her friends, her homeworld and her mission were forcefully revived. Skit called out for her friends, for anyone to help. She slashed and tore at her cybernetics, much to her family's horror. Something broke inside her; the pain was agonising, shooting through her body, gears ground to a halt, and her body stopped responding. She fell back onto her bed, her head shifted to a mirror: her jaw was mechanical, one of her eyes was not of her own, black, viscous fluid poured from her mouth and nose.

Borvlogs' disembodied voice could be heard; his pained and terrified cries were a beacon. A beacon that Skitskat clung to. She closed her eyes and focused, blocking out her husband and children's cries, the gargling as the oil filled her failing lungs, until there was only silence and wetness.

Keshab reawoke in what appeared to be a mortuary, rows upon rows of sarcophagi lining the wall up to the ceiling, Thomas and other Chagoran security forces surrounded him. All he remembered was that this was a heist gone wrong. After being caught, his wife and child were separated by armed guards. He barely had enough time to process his surroundings when the sarcophagi hissed open. His wife stepped out: her fur now chrome fibres, her eyes were white flames, her skin seemed to have been dried out and encased in liquid metal. For a brief moment, their eyes met before she marched down the corridor. Keshab knew that the automaton was no longer his wife; his heart sank deeper and deeper at the thought of his son suffering the same fate. 

Thomas pulled him up in front of the sarcophagi, the words “v-39-ip” engraved on the centre. The sarcophagi opened, revealing a bed of needles, sockets and plugs. Keshap was forcefully shoved inside the sarcophagus, kicking and punching as he went. The door slammed shut, the plugs shot out wires that restrained his hands, feet and neck, the air grew thin, a cold wetness began to fill the sarcophagi that bit and stung and hissed. Keshab mustered all his strength, slithering hands out of their restraints. By now, the liquid was up to his hip and became even more excruciating. He punched the door relentlessly, the crack growing with each strike. With the liquid up to his chest, with his free hand, he pulled the rope into his mouth. Kishab's powerful jaws broke the restraint, but he also tasted the liquid in his mouth. He hissed at the taste and pain it brought. With that pain, he sent his head crashing into the sarcophagus door and flying forward. Red liquid forced him back down; it didn't sting, but was warm and thick.

Borvlog and Skitskat found themselves knee-deep in a thick, red substance smelling of iron, bile and amniotic fluids. Keshab burst from the liquid further and deeper ahead, manic and feral, panting in erratic rhythms. His eyes snapped to his crew before turning to the artefact, now further away, an otherworldly radiance illuminated it. He raced towards the artefact through the sludge. If the legend was true, it could get them out of there, it could save them, he could save them. It got deeper, deeper and deeper until he found himself up to his chest in the substance.

He went to push a heavy object out of the way, only to find his wife coldly staring back at him. Keshab stopped, the hairs on his body stood on end, the adrenaline wearing off as he cradled the body in his arms, clutching it tighter and tighter to his chest. Borvolog kept trying to reach him, begging them all to wake up from the illusion. Keshab closed his eyes, mumbling how this wasn't real, how she was fake. But she felt so real, smelled so real, her cold body being the major difference.

When Keshab opened his eyes, he found himself clutching empty air; the vault returned but had grown larger. Skitskat collapsed to the floor, and Borvologs reformed himself from inside the host. Their disguises were deactivated. The trio quickly surmised that they had been discovered. They turned to look at the door, only to find it gone, replaced by a wall. All they needed to do was grab the object and leave.

“Keshab. The teleporter.” Skitskat said, barely holding back her fear. “Get us out of here!”

Keshab looked at her and then at the artefact. It was just within reach.

Keshab picked himself up, and he stumbled towards the podium, claws stretched out, reaching for the object. Keshab became more sluggish. slower, slower, yet slower. Until he came to a halt, a thin veil of light wrapped around his body, as did the others.

In the far-off corner, the vault's wall began to open, and something stepped into the vault. It looked like a shadow trying to pull itself together; metal feet tapped against the floor, it was a robust humanoid automaton, cold white eyes regarded them, the semes of its body glowed an neon green, the id number “OS-459” was engraved on its collar, its body was chrome with orange and green lines going down its body similar to a high visibility jacket, it's skull had yellow streaks going from its mouth, through its eyes, ending at the back of its neck.

Frozen, a primal, visceral wave of fear rippled through their bodies as they tried and failed to move.

It skulked between the team members, systematically analysing them; Its long, talon-like finger poked Borvolog, electricity crackled as it pierced his energy barrier and distorted his membrane. Borvolog thought he had long purged fear from himself, as almost nothing could truly hurt him. His shield made him neigh untouchable, to have his delicate membrane violated by human machines provoked a vile sense of disgust and helplessness in the kenision. His attempts to overpower the field only resulted in the veil constricting him further.

"You are as foolish and arrogant as you are, brave." The machine's voice echoed in mild amusement. 

It moved onto Skitskat: it moved her head to face him, opening and closing her mouth, his hand gliding through her soft fur and stroked her tail, it plucked one of her whiskers and looked at it, the automaton shifted and warped its form into a facsimile of her before reverting to its original form with her nose added to its face. With its new nose, it sensed the fear radiating from her body: her throat began to close up and burn, she felt her head start to spin, and her eyes became irritated by the tears that couldn't flow down her cheek.

“It was fun seeing you finally grow a spine. Though to be honest, I thought you wouldn't have made it.” the machine said to Skitskat.

It finally moved on to Keshab, moving him slightly back, petting and prodding him, stroking him like Skitskat, and just like Skitskat, plucked off Keshab’s whisker and transformed into him. Keshab pushed against the veil, and the veil's grip tightened further. The machine morphed further, finishing on a Panthoran he had not seen but retained a stark similarity to him.

“This whole situation is remarkably similar to a Terran phrase. What was it?” the machine asked mockingly. It morphed again into a human he recognised, his father. “Suspicion has kept us alive many times, but boldness has granted us victories.” it said as in his voice, its eyes narrowed.

It snapped its fingers, the veil dissolved, and the vault burst to life: Skitskat collapsed from terror and asphyxiation, Borvolog lashed out with his telekinesis that tore up the very floor and ignited the air, Keshab unholstered his blaster and fired at the robot. The machine clapped its hands together, and the veil wrapped around them again. The Blaster bolt slowed to a stop in a net of light, the uprooted shrapnel and the telekinetic wave paused by a barrier, Skitskat froze just above the floor, the look of dread plastered on her face, blaster half drawn.

"You have far exceeded my expectations of you; you were indeed worth my attention this time around.” The automaton seemed to slide about the vault, adjusting the position of the teams, crushing the plasma bolt and toying with the electricity in the air. “I am designated OS-459, a security droid assigned to this sector to protect and catalogue artefacts and data for future projects. And you are all intruders." The group was baffled; this was the first time they'd met, yet it spoke as if they'd met before. 

The machine gripped Keshab’s face, his talon fingers cutting a shallow wound into his neck.

“For the last time.” the machine uttered

The machine darted over to the artefact, picked it up carefully, its hand morphing to best fit the grip, marvelling at its craftsmanship before placing it back.

"The artefact has not been taken, disappointing. I shall notify the psycho-neurology team of their success." It put the artefact back, its eyes scanning the group. 

"I shall run another simulation. Cycling through potential candidates." Holographic images show the many victims trapped within the loop. Terror, horror and dread, welded to their faces. Humans, Chitin, Lupinoids, Feninods, Panthorans, aborials, Ursis, Kenisions, Draconians, Baberogins, races and creatures they've never even seen before. The room grew bigger and more crowded with faces, suffocatingly so. Some of them they recognised, like the Corvox informant from the pub, some were familiar, such as Keshab’s wife and Skitskats' dream husband.

Unbeknownst to the machine, hidden by his external shield, Borvlog made an air pocket within himself. Within the air pocket, a ball of energy formed. OS-459 selected a group of Barbrogins for his next test; they were large, boar-headed, red barbarians who sailed across space. Before he could select them, the robot was shocked with a jolt of energy, disabling his stasis veil. Keshab was free and wasted no time; he fired his blaster at the machine. OS-459 batted the bolt out of the way, its fingers morphing into sicles.

Borvlog swiped his hand, and the machine was sent flying back, a long gash opened on its side. It stood up, and the gash was nearly closed, its eyes focused on Borvlog.

“A. Kenision?” it said. For a machine, it seemed almost concerned about facing a Kenision.

Its joints hissed with apprehension and readied itself for the next attack. Borvlog tried to use his telekinesis to hold the machine in place, but the machine's shields glowed in defiance of the Kenison's will.

“Stay down!” Borvlog ordered the others. Skitskat had regained consciousness but was too paralysed by fear to move. Keshab was already aiming at the machine when he felt Borvlog telekinetically throw him down.

With the only obstacle being the artefact, Borvlog felt as though he didn't need to restrain himself as much. OS-459 should see Borvlogs' electromagnetic field skew and grow with power. Arcs of electricity ignited the very air in the room in thin lines; those lines struck him like blades. The blades were too much for its shield to handle, chipping pieces of metal off the machine's body. As soon as one blade struck, 2 more took its place in a random position. The machine was stuck in a lightning storm, slowly being ground down. 

Neither Keshab nor Skitskat had ever seen this level of power from him before and were too terrified to move. The air smelled of ozone and ash, the grating sound of metal being shredded rung throughout the vault; it was as if Borvlog himself was drawing upon air itself. They had no idea Kenisions wielded such power, but were thankful that Borvlog was on their side.

It took a moment for Keshab to track the pattern, but given Panthorans' quick reflexes and sensitive whiskers, Keshav managed to find a consistent area where borvlog avoided striking. Ann area around the pillar and himself. He cautiously slithered his hand up the podium, hoping to take the artefact while he could.

Skitskat, on the other hand, reached into her pocket for a plate-sized disk. After altering its coordinates, she reached inside.

Before either of their plans could finish, a deafening crack thundered throughout the room as Borvlog was thrown into the vault, cratering a wall. The machine stood where Borvlolog once was, heavily damaged but regenerating, its fist outstretched with tiny barbs on its knuckles.

“No one, let alone a human, should have this much power. How?” Borvlogs' voice seemed to irk him as he pulled himself from the wall. The cracks in both the machine and the wall seemed to regenerate at an alarming rate.

Borvlog could feel the body's broken state. Reluctantly, he began to digest the body, quickly breaking down all non-structural parts. He felt violated by the machine breaking his barrier and touching his membrane; this was worse. Helplessness, doubt, fear, and inferiority, things he had not experienced in aeons. He wanted to leave, but the sight of his team quietly concocting a plan stayed his cowardice. He saw Skit desperately fumbling through her portal and Keshab struggling with the t001 gun. He looked into Keshab's eyes, though fearful, and was filled with trust.

“Bide!” he thought, the trust from Keshab ignited a second wind in the Kenesion.

“Company secrets cannot be divulged.” The machine stood confidently, nearly restored. ”But I am man-made. Nothing can beat that.”

From both Keshab and Skitskat's perspective, Borvlog and OS-459 disappeared. The room was filled with ribbons of fire and beams of light, parts of the vault were suddenly pulverised and scorched, though the artefact, Keshab and Skitskat were untouched.

There were brief moments where Keshab could see flashes of images; OS-459 shooting beams of light from his hands, feet and eyes, Borvlog punching and kicking, straining the automaton's hull.

Occasionally, Keshab would see OS-459 lunge towards him and Skitskat but disappear within an instant, beams of light refracting off their bodies in a kaleidoscope of colours. The two could hardly breathe as the air in the vault became a hurricane, still struggling against the odds. Skitskit's eyes brightened as she fumbled in her portal, and Keshab had the t001 gun in his hand.

OS-459 slammed into the ground, metal mangled and red hot, yet persisting. Borvlogs' human host had suffered damage from the duel. Borvlog dissolved the remains until there was only a grey gelatinous blob in the shape of a human with his hand in a gripping position. In tandem with his hand, the machine arose.

A metal ball slammed against the robot's chest, and metal rods jutted out from the ball, causing the machine to spasm from an EMP.

"MOVE!" Keshab bellowed, the t001 gun trained and ready, pulling the trigger.

OS-459's body immediately darkened until it was as dark as the void, engulfed in white flames that ate away at its form. Its body rose weightlessly into the air. With crackling fury, the machine was no more than sparks.

Skitskat meekly rose to her feet, scanning for the door. Keshab admired the artefact, twirling it in his hands.

“That was eventful. Let's get out of here.” Keshab said, examining the artefact in his hand.

“About that.” Skitskat pointed at the door, or where it should have been, before tinkering on her portals.

“And the portals?”

“Nothing bigger than my hand, I'm afraid.”

“Right, we're going to have to blast our way out. Borv you alright?”

Borvlog stood motionless, unresponsive. His membrane suddening in the light's presence, its humanoid face looked up to the ceiling. Keshab looked up too. 

There was nothing, just a white ceiling. Perhaps it was his sharp eyesight or his mind playing tricks on him, but the ceiling seemed to reach higher than what should be possible, beyond the dimensions of the vault from an outside view.

Keshab ignored this oddity, fiddling with the interface on the t001 gun. It was set to disintegrate. Through Keshab's meddling, he set it to immolate, then to petrification. The spawn option piqued his interest.

In the spawn menu was an assortment of items. From walls to cars, ships and living creatures he’d never seen before. Some of them bore a resemblance to the myriad of races in the galaxy, two in particular sparked his interest. Images of cows and tigers. Keshab felt an odd familiarity with a tiger, an orange and black striped predator with a powerful build. it was familiar enough to recognise it as something similar, but bore an uncanny difference to himself and panthorans in general. Keshab found the similarities peculiar but subtly wrong. The cows, however, brought him back to his father's description. Large, black and white quadrupeds. Keshab couldn't help but chuckle at their strange design.

“Ay, skit, you gotta look at this.”

As he turned around, still fixated on the image on the device, he heard a door quietly hiss open. When he lifted his head, OS-459 morphed its arm into a blade, prepared to strike Skitskat down.

On instinct, Keshab fired without thought. A bolt of light struck the machine in the head and was buried under a weight. Skuskat rolled away, and Borvlog snapped out of his trance.

“What is that!” Skitskat shrieked.

The cow immediately stood up and began to run into a wall. The wall opened as the cow approached and quickly closed.

The machine leapt to its feet and shot a ball at Borvlog. borvlog batted it aside with its hand and shot a bolt of energy at the machine, bringing it to its knees. In response, the ball redirected itself into borvlogs back, penetrating his barrier. Before the Borvlog could expel the ball, it detonated.

A pulse burst from the ball crippling everyone in the room, Keshab and Skitskats seized up and collapsed, Borvlogs, hosts nervous system which was not digested, doubled the effect.

The mental link caused Borvlogs' pain to ring out to the others, the others' pain then reflected on Borvlog, the group's pain spiralled into further agony until the connection was severed.

From the ball, Borvolog's form began to blacken and bubble into a tar-like substance.

Despite her aching muscles and spinning head, Skitskat struggled to her feet, trying to pick up her friend's freezing body, only to have them slip through her fingers.

borvlog struggled to maintain its form; it shrieked in pain and writhed to the ground. Its form changed into objects and people whom it had met and disguised itself as over its eternity of existence, dead languages were bellowed, incomprehensible sounds echoed throughout the room, shapes of species long dead writhed in agony, memories burned away like images on film. The faint scent of ozone and sulphur was emitted from the tar.

He had never pictured himself dying in such a way; he never imagined dying in the first place. He had yet to see and experience a multitude of things. The shores of crystals, the inside of a star, the human smuggler's authentic Terran pizza. He had heard rumours of the human cradle world and had longed to see it for himself.

Yet even in his final moments, the eyes never left him. Borvolog could feel its presence beyond the room, now clearer than ever. The eyes carried more detail, a shape, a name that Borvolog could perceive and with that perception came a name, a name that brought visceral dread in the Kenesion's final moments. “Mahan.”

He pulled every ounce of energy he could muster in his failing body and implanted a mental package into his friends. Memories of a previous loop, an instinctual route of how to get out, glimpses of what to expect and how to get out alive. In addition to a new map were locations of ancient treasures scattered across the galaxy that could allow them to retire in luxury, cherished memories from before most civilisations came to be. The last memory was of their last dinner together. Though mundane and simple compared to his millennia of existence, there was a warm charm attached to it that warmed the heart.

“Survive.” it said

A mental void tugged upon the minds of Keshab and Skitskat, like a black hole of deep despair, pulling them closer and closer. Until the tar became still.

There was a deafening silence in the vault, broken by the droid's repairs and Skitskat's cries of anguish.

“Irregular. Victory: not expected.” the machine said, regrowing its arm and leg. It stretched out its arm, the metal liquifying and solidifying with a slight deformity. “This pain is new, something to adapt to, something to learn from.”

Before it could fully repair itself, it was riddled by blaster fire from Skitskat. They darted around, firing relentlessly at the machine. The machine seemed confused, as if it hadn't predicted the reaction; it looked at itself, calculating the damage it sustained.

Keshab hid behind the pillar, fiddling with the artefact until the touchpad displayed disintegration. He jumped up, firing several shots at the machine. As soon as that happened, the chest plate of the machine leapt off and intercepted the laser. 

Tears rolled down Skitskat's eyes, she stopped whimpering and snarled as she attacked the automaton, firing blaster shots at it. It dogged effortlessly, but a stray bolt clipped its shoulder, sending it stumbling back. She didn't stop; she fired more and more until her blaster clicked. 

The machine leapt at Skitskat, slapping away her blaster and holding her in the air by her throat. The robot was shocked by Skitskat's display of bravery, impressed even. Skitskat looked at the machine with newfound fury, desperately kicking and punching. Skitskat heard the t001 gun click and a bolt pass by his eyes. The adjacent wall exploded, revealing a security force outside the vault, unprepared for the explosion. Before they could spring into action, the wall of the vault regenerated.

OS-459 retaliated by throwing the injured Skitskat over at Keshab. Keshab dodged out of the way, but found a metallic fist that knocked him down and a metal foot crashing into his chest. It ripped the t00l gun out of Keshab's claws and analysed the artefact. It tampered with the device until the words “petrify” were displayed on a screen and pointed at Skitskat. 

There was a brief flash of green light, and Keshab saw Skitskat holding her stomach, stumbling back. The robot released Keshab and watched him run to his last remaining partner. He held her as a flash of green lightning leapt from the growing infected area, he watched helplessly as she turned to stone before his eyes, her pained expressions lingering eternally in a stone visage. In her final moments, she felt the eyes, stronger than before, images of a prior loop realised. Borvlog was slumped over and on fire, Keshab riddled with laser burns, a pain in her abdomen, surrounded by armed guards.

The room was silent, occasionally broken by Keshab’s gritting teeth. Keshab turned to face the automaton, a machine riddled with laser shots. Keshab could have sworn that the face of the machine smirked as it shot Skitskat. Keshab stood up, ears rolled back, claws sharp and blaster drawn. He no longer cared about money, his life, his future; he wanted to destroy the device and end the loop, no matter how many lives or retries it took. Both Keshab and OS-459's weapons were at their sides. Keshab drew first, but was no match for the machine.

OS-459 watched as Keshab fell over, stone eating away at his body up his stomach. He fired more shots at the robot, rarely hitting. The stone ate away at his stomach, reaching into his chest, his legs went numb and stopped moving, and the stone was eating them both faster than the rest of his living body. Keshab still kept firing at the machine, and some of the shots grazed and hit the machine. When the stone crept up his chest, he felt his lungs harden too; breathing became near impossible, every breath of air was a fight on its own. It wasn't long until he lost feeling in his arms and neck, leaving only his head. His vision blurred as he suffocated, the growing numbness and stinging failure scourged him with every moment of failure.

The thought of his team, how his greed led them to their demise, the death of a dream with a child who would exceed him, his wife likely never seeing him again. As his vision and hearing disappeared, he was brought comfort by Benny escaping Prometheus without issue.

As the stone engulfed his head, blindness all-consuming, his heart stopped.

Once the machine confirmed Keshab's death, it returned the device to the podium and went back to its place in the vault's wall, sending a subtle signal to its superior.

The signals target stood in a hall: surrounded by obsidian podiums with strange, ever shifting icosahedrons and tesseracts set upon them, each one glowing with an haunting green glow, a gold plaque who’s letters also glowed green detailed the object, the date it was discovered and the contents, the hall itself seemed to stretch forever, rows upon rows upon rows of podiums, grey concrete floor tiles and cubes, the air was deprived from any sensation, heat, movement, odder, at the entrance had a metal door. A tesseract that showed the events was clutched within a metal hand, a grim face reflecting off the tesseract.

I remember walking down the park early morning. The birds were chirping and singing their songs. At this point I wasn't afraid of these puddles yet. Me and my friend were walking after a night of partying. The booze was still dulling our senses and giving us that deliciously turning of the world feeling that it does. As we walked down the path, the water of that specific puddle reflected in my eyes, blinding me temporarily to the surroundings. I remembered being a kid, jumping in those things full of joy. I nudged my friend to actually do it again. The alcohol in our systems loosened our judgement and we went for the puddle. He went first, he was faster after all. The wind of his speed hits me slightly in the face. He looked majestic as he jumped. His silhouette framed by the morning sun. His laughter harmonising with mine. He landed in the puddle, like a big raindrop. He fell further and further. His ankles disapeared into the puddle, then his knees and his waist. His laughing stopped and I could hear a cut off curse coming from his mouth, before he went all in. He disapeared without a trace. The puddle was just there, mocking us, daring me to follow him. I knew I couldn't stay back, I had to save my friend. When I jumped, the puddle was no more deep than the sole of my shoe. I jumped in it again and again, trying to get down. The sound of water splashing felt mocking, like the puddle actually laughed at me. An older couple walked passed, looking at me with endearment. Probably thinking I'm reliving my youth. But the reality is worse… so much worse. The day after I heard that my friend who disapeared had moved to another city. Everyone seemed to accept it, but I know the truth.

It was since then that I avoid the puddles. That I stay clear. And every time one reflects the sunlight in my eyes and blinding me temporarily again, I think I see my friend standing there, begging for help.

A talent and a beauty I tell you, how'd you get her Shawn?- Elia's Father Enzo Arastra asked me. His lecherous gaze took in her entire frame. Elia looked at her father with disgust.

I wonder what mother would say if she heard that?- Elia insulted her father

Well it's a good thing I kept her from joining us tonight- He joked earning the laughter of those sitting beside him.

Now, now, I hope the young lady does not find my words offensive- Enzo looked at Amaran as though he were a younger man flirting with a contemporary.

Only if you skimp out on your contributions to the theatre- she laughed gently with her eyes closed. Elia turned to look at her with disdain.

How could I? Now that they've acquired such a gem. Tell me, did Shawn over here find himself moved to become your partner from your acting?- His question leaning towards a particular angle, one I didn't appreciate.

Shawn found me in a very vulnerable point of my life- Amaran said. Keeping my facial expressions in check, I felt my heart race with the words that would come next.

Oh is that so? Shawn's known for his big heart dear! Now how did this sweet boy help you?- Enzo asked coyly.

He found me weeping one night in the streets, as I was weeping for my beloved guardian.- Amaran lowered her head and her black curls seemed to shine thanks to the chandelier.

Your partner passed?- Enzo asked, more curious than concerned for her. Still letting his malicious thoughts lead.

I've no idea it seems as though he's vanished but my beloved Paolo would never leave me.- she answered. Seeing that Enzo looked uninterested while Elia's eyebrow twitched… I caught on late to her game. A ballsy move on her end.

So Shawn is your Shield I take it?- He chuckled as other patrons groaned at his pun.

Yes! A witch like me is nothing without her guardian. So having Shawn as my conduit has made my work easier.- Her smile strained, if I didn't know the monster she was, I'd pat myself on the back for protecting such a delicate woman.

So Shawn, how long have you actually known her, or is this a heat of the moment thing?- Elia asked unceremoniously.

I could feel the eyes of the other families on me. Thank the blue heavens Mother and Father didn't accompany me this time.

Standing up from her seat, Amaran's eyes glimmered.

I think maybe miss Elia would rather I not be here.- Amaran collected her things swiftly and no one stopped her.

I apologize Miss Elia, your short temper towards me is probably the result of not being able to take the role of Physis, but it's only because it requires extensive mana and skill.- Amaran apologized while making her exit.

To no one's surprise the other guests chuckled while Elia and her father frowned. As she walked out of the room, I couldn't help but notice how the dress draped her.

Her waist narrow, her legs strong and full. I hated the fact that I understood what drew Enzo's attention. As Amaran looked back at me one last time she winked.

I suppose her tears weren't the only thing that made you partner up, huh?- Enzo asked.

I'd be a liar to say her appearance didn't draw me in, I did find her power enchanting and I'd be a fool to let anyone have that, don't take her words to heart Elia, it's the ego of an artist- I defended us as best as I could.

Well I hope she's worth the hassle, Shawn. All she has is youth and battery and those two erode with time, do keep that in mind, Mr. Shield- Enzo advised.

I suppose you have a point Shawn. Such a shame she can't recognize where she's supposed to lie down. There's a reason Icarus is lying in the sea.- Elia lamented.

You look happier with him

I’m glad

You look more confident with him

I’m glad

Change looks good on you

I never meant to dull your light

I never meant to be the cause for your shame

I have stayed too long that I needed to change

I hope that you have a better life

You deserve that

I hope that you find peace from within

You deserves that

Space looks good on you

I never meant to dull your light

I never meant to be the cause for your shame

I have stayed too long that I needed to change

I hope that you become that bright light again

The brightest light in the room

The one that shine the brightest

The one before you knew me

Can you look past my smile and see my sincerity?

Can you look past my eyes and see my integrity?

Can you look past my shaft and see my divinity?

Do you realize that..

I fuck you solely so I can get close to you

Eyes to eyes, hands to hands

I hope that you’re feeling what I’m feeling too

You’re needing love and I do not want to deceive you

that’s why I keep my eyes open so you know I’m in love with you

When we first met, I thought this was just temptation

I was too afraid to open myself up to you

You’ve seen my naked body and my deep cut wounds

I thought you would’ve left, but instead you told me..

I fuck you solely so I can get close to you

Eyes to eyes, hands to hands

I hope that you’re feeling what I’m feeling too

You’re needing love and I do not want to deceive you

that’s why I keep my eyes open so you know I’m in love with you

I see you smile when you’re on top

I wrap my arms around your waist as we hug

I can feel the wetness running down your thigh

as you can feel my seed cover your insides

I do not fuck you, I make love to you

Once we’re done, you lay right beside me

Your head on my chest and my arm around your body

You went to sleep as I was brushing your hair

I hope your happy with him. I hope he is everything I couldn't be for you. I'm sorry I was so sensitive or too sensitive for you. I'm sorry I seem scared of everything when I never know what can happen. I think everyday how would it be if I was the ONE for you and that we didn't last a couple months. I hope your happy.