DESCENT ISSUE #7: ELYSIAN

Dear Descent Community,

Welcome! Thank you so much for reading Descent’s seventh issue, Elysian! We’re excited to showcase this edition that features a new, lighter direction. With pieces that electrify your soul and open grand gates – Elysium is here, and we’re happy to enjoy it with you.

We’re overjoyed to highlight the personal growth of our returning artists across semesters and our new members’ first editions as well. This is our first issue that will launch in an exhibition space, allowing us the joy of celebrating in a fresh environment together. We’d like to extend our gratitude to our partners, KACE and Goodfight, as well for their belief and support of our mission. Thank you too to our wonderful interviewees who we are honored to spotlight. We invite you to join us as we continue to expand throughout this year, the year of the dragon.

We are beyond grateful for your support as we build our community of APISA creatives in Los Angeles and beyond. If you’ve been here for a while, grab a cup of tea and enjoy the issue. If you’re new, feel free to grab several cups of tea and catch up with our past editions. With that said, please enjoy Elysian.

Sincerely,

Marissa Ding Director of Art and Multimedia

Isabelle Lim Director of Visual Design

Z Luo Chief Writing Editor

Harmonious bells chime as resplendent gates open magnificently. Welcome to this elysian realm, where your cups never empty and your glory never fades under the brilliance of the ever-midmorning sun. With Descent’s seventh issue, Elysian, we invite you to dance with delight and defiance. What ghosts of heroes will you sing here? Who deserves eternal bliss?

She smelled smoke first.

Instantly, she imagined billowing clouds lapping at the edges of her city. It might have smelled sweet, like nectar or honey pudding. The scent alone would have tempted the citizens. Tendrils of sweetness fingering wool fabric, prodding deep linen pockets. She knew such sweetness would run sour eventually. They just didn’t listen to her warnings.

Eventually was the end of her city.

She did not have to be a prophet to have known that soon after their entrance, black clouds would no longer lounge carelessly. The clouds were barely able to contain a deeper, guttural craving for the city’s flesh: the canals, the holy temples, the forum. The citizens could not have done anything to stop it by that time. The way the people bathed in it, lathered in it, purred to it, disgusted her. But she couldn’t exactly distinguish the lines of desire, where the clouds ended and where the people started. She couldn’t recall who started the affair they called love.

They would kiss anything to feel fine.

What she could remember was her favorite place in the city, the butterfly sanctuary. It was well taken care of, and she would never forget the dome that shined with promise. A million little creatures balancing on sturdy trees, flitting back and forth between eyes and laughter. After dark, she would map their winged patterns on her ceiling, hoping it would lead her to something she was sure she was missing. Then the citizens, with their amorous flirtation with the clouds, left the butterfly sanctuary wide open. The butterflies did the only thing they knew and collapsed because of it.

How should they have known a dark sky was bad? They could have been saved. The city could have been safe if they had only believed her.

Before stepping outside, she felt her skin peeling back. After stepping outside, she had to touch her face to make sure her nose still sloped down and her lips still cracked under her fingertips. She had lived through dozens of uncomfortable summers, yet none of them prepared her for such a confrontational and hateful heat. She made her way carefully out of her home. The garden was catching fire, anyways.

She wandered the streets of her city, amazed to see it stripped of its former glory. She marveled at a crumbling home, a sight she had never seen before. It was like watching the muscles in a brain toil. It was vulnerable. It was seeing a fresh wound, watching protein seep out from flesh. How else could she describe an abandoned wooden rattle on the ground and not in the clutches of an infant’s hands?

She bit back a sob and kept walking.

The shrieks swelled like the tide, pooling in her ears and refusing to recede. She closed her eyes, letting it wash over her. Then through the city she continued her walk through the streets of extinction.

While her gut turned at the sounds, she could not help but stare at the golden ribbons rise and fall against melting clay walls. She blinked the sweat from her eyes. The burning was terrifying, but also beautifully interwoven with architectural destruction. This was what her city was now. A city of broken branches. They told her she was wrong about this, about everything

A low-pitched obscure screech interrupted her thoughts. On the horizon the noise turned into a speck, which slowly transformed into a man, halfrunning and half-stumbling towards her. His sooty face was streaked with tears.

She examined the stranger as he approached, trying to recall the wrinkles between his brows and the shape of his cupid-bow lips. No, he wasn’t a stranger. She knew who he was. Months ago, she had swallowed her pride to stand up in the forum and describe the city on fire. He was there.

When she had walked out, trembling, in front of dozens of snickering mouths and rolling eyes, she felt something hit her cheek as she passed the man. She reached up to touch it, gingerly rolling the droplet of saliva in between her index finger and thumb. Her eyes had met his narrowed ones, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The message had been loud and clear. Yet now, his world as he knew it was ending. There was no point in casting a condescending disposition back onto him.

He staggered past her, almost through her like she wasn’t there. The man ran into her shoulder, knocking her down. Her arms flew out to break her fall against the ground, but her back absorbed the impact. Stinging, she stretched her fingers through the sandy soil, letting the gravel gather in her fingernails. He took a few more strides. She could almost see the cogs in his mind working elsewhere.

But he stopped. He looked behind him, to see clearly who he knocked down. The mist in his eyes seemed to clear for a moment. She could discern it wasn’t sympathy but rather recognition.

The man said nothing, but his eyes screamed, You were right about all of this. How did you know?

She stared up at him and got up slowly. The two of them faced each other.

She had no more to say to him, so she merely gave him a slow, arduous nod. She motioned at the drool spilling from the corner of his mouth.

It was time for her to keep going. So she did, leaving the bewildered man limp and on the verge of death behind her.

She walked further until she reached what was left of the butterfly sanctuary, stepping inside the fiery remains. It burned all around her, and she drew pieces of her hair out of her scalp and let them fall to the ground like a sacrifice.

There were no more black clouds. Only the aftermath of it, unfortunately.

She smiled and breathed in. She was shining brighter than she had ever before, ready to return to ash.

Elysian

Writing By Ethan Huang

Cockpit

Pilot’s Log 1 – March 7, 3019, AD.

I sit in the cockpit.

Design by Isabelle Lim // External Submission

It’s quiet except for the hum of the machine. The internal cooling system keeps the engine running at a low roar.

ONE MINUTE TO DEPLOYMENT

This is my third sortie, but my assigned vehicle is different. Heard they found it in a crater, smoking, abandoned.

THIRTY SECONDS TO DEPLOYMENT

My hands grasp the levers before me. The skin-tight suit clings to my body. I feel the cold metal handles through my

TEN, NINE, EIGHT…

Who are we fighting again? Rebels opposing Terrestrial Government? Not sure. Not really my business.

THREE, TWO, ONE…

I take a breath and squeeze the levers’ handles. The cockpit illuminates. The engine screams as neon green lights

targeting system drifts for a moment before locking onto him.

The masked man panics. He shouts at his men. Too late. I pull the trigger. A green laser incinerates him, burning a gaping fissure through the center of the ship.

Mission complete. I fly away to sounds of an exploding ship.

I return to the hangar and pry the cockpit open. As I lower myself, I look at the looming 20-meter-tall mech. Its pointed horns glisten under the lights, while its metallic face has that awkward triangular frown.

“Ace 777, deploying.” The force of movement slams my helmet into my

The machine slingshots out of the dark hangar, my vision blurring as the beaming sun strikes the camera. My eyes adjust, and I see the ocean below me. The thrusters guide me to the target: a derelict destroyer in the middle of the Atlantic.

I prepare, grabbing the gun strapped to my “back.” My mechanical hands aim the 30ton sniper rifle at the ship.

On the front deck, the crew aims their cannons at me.

I shift my aim to the man near the cabin wearing a red welder’s mask – the captain. The

The cockpit hangs open, like a gaping mouth on the torso of the blue, humanoid giant. The top brass has been calling it “Unidentified Military Artillery,” or UMA. Odd to use a found piece of tech, but at least it’s a smoother ride than the Standard military mechs. Maybe it belonged to some enemy, but I guess if you paint it up with enough red and blue, it becomes a proper government asset.

The machine shut down, but the hum continues. I walk to my dorm.

Pilot’s Log 11 – July 19, 3019, AD

I’m flying again. This time, over the sands of Mars’ red desert. Despite countless battles, the UMA bears not a single scratch.

The commander said there was a coup at the state capitol. A group of ex-military in stolen Standards hold the governor hostage and wish to “negotiate” their own independent colony. Apparently Terrestrial Government owes Federation some debt among some other alliance

nonsense, hence why we’re doing the dirty work.

“777, have you reached the capitol yet?” the commander asks over the comms.

I respond, “Nearly there.”

The commander sighs. “I know your concern, but it’s just orders.”

As I switch off the comms, the HUD flashes. Hundreds of red dots flood the screen. I stop and look through my camera– a tidal wave of missiles pierces the sky, heading right towards me.

I slam the blue button on the console and flip the red switch. I feel the UMA shift, hands and feet retracting into its limbs. In their place grow long, protruding cannons.

RAILGUNS ACTIVATED

I pull a lever as the mech transforms. The arms and legs aim towards the legion of missiles and beams of electricity shoot from all four cannons. The energy spreads across the sea of metal, detonating them mid-air.

The UMA rotates as the camera zooms in on a crew of green, dome-headed Standards. The pill-shaped mechs have weapons attached to their backsides and additional guns equipped on their

I dash towards the squad and pull the lever again. The cannons point to the ground and fire away. The Standards try their shots smoke in the wind.

As the dust settles, all that’s left is a sea of black clouds and

I reach the capitol in all its gaudy brutalist glory and switch my mic to megaphone.

The pilot sprints to the UMA.

Pilot’s Log 34 – August

The stormy skies of Venus greet our squad. The UMA shakes as we enter atmosphere. As we pass through the

A reptilian subterranean wanders near the domed city. Flanked by two Standards, we approach the creature

We fire our guns at the subterranean, but everything bounces off. Annoyed, the monster turns around, its long tail grazing the dome of the city. It charges us, slicing through one of the Standards

I switch to my laser rifles and blast, barely leaving a scratch on its skin. I activate the railguns, aiming towards the creature’s eye. I fire, missing, blowing a small hole onto the dome. With a screech, the subterranean jumps, tackling me to

It claws at my camera ineffectively, but its saliva begins to drip onto my mech. – it’s corroding the machine. Pinned

READJUST BALANCE READJUST

The engine no longer hums. It’s violently screaming. Suddenly, the console

Panels move, revealing another lever.

My breaths quicken, and beads of sweat stream down my head. My hands shake, but I hear the burning acid and the machine’s deafening shriek.

Elysian

I choose to live.

Engineer’s Log 10 –August 20, 3019, AD

It’s been a week since the UMA pilot’s been locked in the brig. Surprising he got off with just that. After all, whatever he did not only killed the subterranean, but flattened everything in a 30-mile radius, including a city of three million.

I remember watching on the monitors when it happened. The room stood still and the blood drained from my face. All those people, gone.

I approach the UMA. Once again, it looks different. Its face is warped, and the cockpit’s entrance has become more jagged, like a row of teeth.

As I wipe it down, I hear a loud bang. The pilot storms into the hangar screaming. He’s wearing nothing but a prison jumper, and his body…

Sharp pieces of metal poke out of the suit and his eyes glow red. He’s screaming. “Let me in! Give it back!”

Ten guards try to restrain him, but the jagged metal moves on its own, protecting him like a porcupine. He stumbles in front of the mech, begging me to let the wire down.

The captain barges in, yelling. “Just let him in!”

I lower myself with the rope and hand it to the being in front of me. “Thank you,” he says.

He zips up to the cockpit as the jaws close shut behind him.

Pilot’s Log 35 – August 20, 3019, AD 16

집에 갈래요?

Elysian

Elysian

집에 가야돼요.

God of Flight

God of Flight

Illustration by Michaela Chang

Illustration by Michaela Chang

Design by Michaela Chang

Design by Michaela Chang

Photography by Esther Jung Design by Avia Wen Elysian

Elysian

Elysian

Elysian

Hobbes and Calvinism

Writing by Pia Pelaez Design by Isabella Murray

One of my best friends from high school was a witch.

Or perhaps she’d have been more accurately described as an aspiring witchcraft practitioner.

Before my freshman year of college, we had a bad falling out. And in the months that followed, I grew anxious and I grew observant. Getting stuck at five red lights in a row. Hating all of my major classes. Getting food poisoning. Stubbing my toe, breaking a nail, wearing my skirt backwards. Of course, these things happened as a result of a variety of reasons. But

there was one reason—though—I could not rule out. In fact, some days more than others, this one felt the most probable: She cursed me.

Now, I am fully aware that a high schooler who listens to Lana Del Ray and collects crystals is logically not the arbiter of my demise. Yet, there is a tiny, tiny part of me that can’t help but linger on the claim’s validity.

I was unfortunately raised to be the type of person to believe everything happens for a reason—Every bad thing that happens, happens for a reason. What comes our way is what we deserve, what comes our way propels us to where we are meant to be.

I can but attribute this to being a product of 13 years of Catholic schooling. At every grade level you are taught about the failure of man, of original sin. That Jesus died on the cross so everyone could go to Heaven. That Mary was picked from the beginning of time to be free from sin (but didn’t do that for the rest of us – which feels like a set up?) I get into this Catholic dogma because in many ways it feels like being cursed: My fate is the product of

someone else’s whims.

As of writing this, the gruesome fate I often fear myself to be beholden to hasn’t yet been realized. Perhaps my fears of eternal damnation can be chalked up to anxiety. Maybe my fate isn’t cloaked in blood and disaster, but something else.

A look around my bedroom speaks for itself. The shelves decorated with participation ribbons and a quarter-filled notebooks I promised myself I’d finish. The shoes I bought from high school track before dropping the team a week into the season. The rust bitten blades of ice skates I never was quite good enough to compete with.

When I take a look at my life now, perhaps the word fate is too grandiose for what my life could ever have in store. Maybe, I’m meant for as much ruin as I am for praise. Maybe, I’m just average. The first thing I ever remember drawing was a waterfall. It was no bigger than an index card, with hasty blue chicken scratches for water and shiny, gem-like circular stickers for the mist that gathers at the falls bottom. My mom hung it on my wall in a green picture frame, and it stayed there until middle school.

From then on, I drew and drew. Having just discovered both Death Note and Youtube, I binge watched Mark Crilley “How To Draw Anime” tutorials, subsequently filling sketchbooks with original characters donning aggressively V-shaped chins and glassy eyes the took up ¾ of their facial real estate. Drawing wasn’t my only love; I took to my composition books to write plays about my elementary school friends

(and enemies), I designed outfits for my Webkinz out of printer paper, I stubbornly tried and failed and tried again to teach myself how to knit. I’ve always loved to make things, and I have always aspired to make things well.

Now, at twenty-one, I find that this love has warped itself into burden, into shame. I’ve spent all my life making things, but with what to show? It seems I’ve loved art more than it’s ever loved me.

So I come back to the nebulous idea of fate. If God so chose everything I was to be from the beginning of time, why did He make me like this? Why was I not graciously bestowed with the gift of talent? Of effortless skill? Of course, I’ll work harder and harder.

But what—literally—could that guarantee?

Are there enough hours left in my life to reach the skill level of someone simply born lucky? Is it even possible to match the skill levels of my peers? What if my best is mediocrity? What if the best I can ever work to be, the product of thousands upon thousands of hours, is mediocrity? How can I make myself more deserving of a fate otherwise? Now, the tentative answer I’ve come to is this: It’s just not that serious.

And I don’t mean that facetiously, I mean it with all of my bone marrow and every muscle fiber. I don’t have to rationalize my existence and what will come of it, I just need to exist.

I think of the satisfaction of finally figuring out how to draw the right proportions for a piece; how I eagerly try and fail and try again to place a line exactly the way I want, to put the right colors next to one another. I think of the late nights I’ve spent dancing in parking lots, the way my blood rushes

when I’m finally able to capture the energy of a song through movement. I think of every skein of yarn I’ve tangled and untangled. Everything done with intention. Of course I will always aspire to improve my craft, but maybe the love I pour into my passions doesn’t need to be rationalized.

I think of my former friend and aspiring witchcraft practitioner. I think of the bus ride in 12th grade that we spent going through The Merchant of Venice tag on Tumblr. The way the sun began its slow descent at four in the afternoon. The gray peeling plaster of battered school bus seats, worn down by the shoes of students resting their feet anywhere but the ground. The way laughter sat in my stomach, stretched my cheeks, and crinkled my eyes. I remember it all, and I find myself much less concerned with any curse or predetermined fate. My time is limited. To feel is enough.

The room had been too stuffy to breathe with incense and sighs. A few people tried to talk to me to convey their condolences before taking off; at one point I sensed there was a small group gathered around, throwing glances to check whether there was a vacancy around me. After saying “Thank you,” and “Yes, I will take good care of my mom” for a good while, I apologized to those who were still waiting and left the room.

Bendigo was in its midsummer. Eucalyptus trees’ leaves shadowed over the car park, leaving no gap to be seen. It had been pouring earlier but had now quieted down, with some drops dripping from the rooftops, almost evaporating before reaching the ground. I looked up and saw one slice of sunlight piercing through the clouds, leading me to fix my gaze on my car. It was parked not far away from the room I was in. I looked behind, people who were waiting earlier were now dispersed; some went to chat with Mom, patting her on the back. Leaving for a few minutes should be fine.

I started walking towards the car in the heat, stepping in small water puddles every step. When I finally sat behind the wheel, my forehead felt sweaty, and my undersized black jacket became sticky from the humidity. Looking up at the rear mirror, I saw a tired face and a pair of swollen eyes. Maybe it’s not the best time to leave mom behind. But it’s been a while since I was on my own, since Dad died. It’s just 15 minutes, I will come back in time to

say bye to the guests.

Relaxed on the seat, I took off the jacket and turned on the AC.

The funeral was held in one of the quietest suburbs of Bendigo, where Dad grew up. It was full of labyrinth paths that it took me a while to reach the highway, which was merely a wider road with two lanes on each side. The road led to Geelong, where I attended school since we moved there when I was seven. In my early memories, Mom fought with Dad a lot because he wasn’t home often. It wasn’t like he was doing anything suspicious, he was just a workaholic, and I never minded that. I enjoyed spending time alone or hanging out with neighbors. On weekends, Dad would take me to play tennis, where Mom would join and beat us all, as if she was taking revenge for all the time Dad wasn’t at home. At such times, I always automatically allied with Mom, standing on one side of the court with her and laughing at Dad together.

“I wonder why you are so weak now!” Or “Told you to sit less in that stupid office!”

Even though Dad’s work involved a lot of travel, he never said anything back, just giving bittersweet smiles as he supported himself with the tennis racquet. I could still tell he was enjoying the times we spent together.

The road remained endless. The sun was beaming on top of me, blocking anything

100 meters out. I kept driving for a while to remember more details of those tennis matches. By the time I realized, I saw the “Geelong, 15km” sign appearing in a huge blinking green sign above me. It’s probably time to go back. It was when I was trying to do a U-turn, that I spotted the reserve.

It wasn’t any reserve; it was a reserve that I almost went to every day before moving to Geelong. Usually after dinner, Mom would take me out for a walk, and because of my begging, we always ended up in the same place—the reserve. Same as all the other parks, it had two swings; one for babies, one for teenagers, or adults if they wanted to fit in there without embarrassing themselves. It also had my favorite thing: monkey bars.

Bendigo’s summer was always extremely long, and I remembered sitting on the swing for a long time, Mom would be strolling around the grass playground. Sometimes I got tired and wanted to go home, but Mom insisted on staying for a few more minutes as if she was waiting for something to happen. In those extra minutes, Dad would show up, not always, but a decent number of times. The reserve was on his way back home, so he always easily spotted Mom and me. He then would get out of the car and play with me or talk with Mom for another half an hour. Now that I think about that, some of the most important conversations happened in those 30 minutes, especially the one that led us to Geelong in the following years.

At the particular dusk I was thinking about, I was hanging myself on the monkey bars as usual, trying to break my previous record of a minute or two. It was when I was about to fall off that I saw Dad’s car moving towards us, which motivated me

to tighten my grip one more time. When I finally fell off the bars, I heard Dad’s voice,

“Thought you’d be able to hang there for a bit longer, little monkey!”

I looked up and saw Dad approaching with a big grin on his face. I deliberately looked away to show my dissatisfaction with his comment, hoping he would come to pull me up or say something to compensate. But instead, he turned towards Mom, who was finishing up her daily walk and returning to us. It was then that the conversation happened.

In the beginning, they were chatting about the usual stuff, Dad’s day at work, Mom’s day at home, or my day at school. But I soon heard something unusual when Dad spoke – he was being cautious about every word he said as if he was in an oral exam where Mom was the supervisor.

“How was your work today?” Mom asked.

“It was good. You know, my boss has always been appreciating my, eh… hard work,” said Dad.

“You mean leaving for work in the middle of a tennis match with your daughter?” Mom said without looking at Dad.

“That happened only once, you know it too. Anyways, this won’t happen again.”

“What do you mean?” This time, Mom turned around and looked at Dad.

“Well, as I said, my boss likes me. He knows I have a family. So he said I could move to the Geelong office if I wanted to. You know, less client-facing, more of the back-office stuff.”

Mom looked uncertain and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Are you sure? What about your clients here? It took you some time to build up the network.”

“It’s the same thing in Geelong. I’m sure people will go to Geelong for business in the future. Don’t worry,” said Dad with a reassuring smile.

Mom still looked unsure, but this time, her eyes looked gentler than before.

“It will be fine. It’s a higher pay too, I’m technically getting promoted. Heidi can go to a better school as well.” Dad reached out to pat Mom on the shoulder, and Mom returned an approving smile.

Similar conversations happened a few more times on different occasions in the days that followed, and they all ended just like the first time. I used to not understand why they had to have this conversation over and over again, and none of them seemed to be getting irritated over this repetition. On my end, I was excited at the fact that I could meet new people and go to a school that had 3D printers.

Not long after, we moved to Geelong. Everything was what Dad described – I went to a small private school with two 3D printers in every art classroom, and Dad never left in the middle of a tennis match again.

The sun was gradually vanishing on the horizon, and I just made it back to the funeral in time. Some people were still waiting in the room, and Mom was chatting with a different group of people.

I sped up my steps and went inside. Seeing me again, Mom lowered her tone and said, “Where have you been?”

“Sorry Mom, I had to go for some air.”

Mom’s eyes were no longer that red, but some tear stains were still to be seen. There were also wrinkles that I had never seen before, speckles that appeared from nowhere. I hugged her before my tears fell again.

“Mom, I miss Dad.”

“I know, I know. I miss him too.”

Slowly letting go of Mom, I asked, “Do you still blame Dad for not being at home often enough before we moved to Geelong?”

Looking slightly surprised about the question, Mom answered, “No, not anymore. In fact, I never really did. He sacrificed a lot.”

“You mean moving to Geelong?”

“That too, but all the time he wasn’t with you, with me, I knew it wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with us; he was trying to secure a good life for us,” said Mom with the same reassuring smile Dad had at the park that day.

“Is that why you always waited for him at the park? To make him feel warm?”

“You saw through my trick, little monkey. That may be true, or maybe I just wanted to see him earlier,” said Mom with a gentle smile.

Mom’s eyes started to fill with tears again, so did mine. But this time, it wasn’t all sorrow; it was filled with the happy memories we shared. It might take a long time for us to get used to the life we were going to have, but at that moment, I was certain that my family was whole, and it still will be.

All things considered, there are worse places to wake up hungover. At least the paintings on the walls are tactfully chosen and the bathroom smells like lavender when I throw up last night's margaritas into the toilet. The voice on the phone is chirpy and sweet when it tells me that yes, I can order pancakes even though breakfast is technically only supposed to be served until 11:00 a.m., and someone will be right up with it shortly, my pleasure

Sure enough, the maid arrives in less than ten minutes, rolling in a cart with a big silver serving cover. She's a stout woman with a smattering of freckles so dark that I wonder if they might be cancerous.

"Good afternoon," Freckles says in the same freakish singsong tone as the voice on the phone.

"Room service."

“"Thanks," I say. "Could you also clean

the room for me, while you're here? I'd like the bed made, and some fresh towels if you have them. Maybe vacuum a little too."

Freckles's smile falters a little. "Also, I threw up in the toilet and now it won't flush."

Now Freckles isn't smiling at all. She gives me a murderous look as she bites out, "Anything else?"

"I might've thrown up in the shower last night," I tell her. "You can check."

While she trudges off to the bathroom, I turn on Dateline and demolish the pancakes. There's a knock on the door and I know it's Dee because she always knocks seven times, rapid-fire, like an overeager Girl Scout. "Busy," I shout through the door.

"It's 2 P.M.," she yells back. "You have to be at the rehearsal dinner in a few hours."

"So I have a few hours."

"If you're not out here dressed in the next five minutes--"

Dee is already waiting for me in the hallway when I step out, her brow furrowed in consternation. She hates when I call her Dee, which is why I'm always extra careful to do it.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she says as she takes in the sight of me: the bags under my eyes, the makeup from last night, the swimsuit that hasn't fit since freshman year of college.

"He's not here right now," I tell her. "But I can take a message."

"You're not wearing that, are you?"

"I'm going to the pool today."

"The rehearsal--"

"In a few hours, I know, I'll change by then." As a matter of fact, I have zero intention of doing that, but she doesn't need to know.

"God, look at you," she hisses as I follow her down the hallway. "Unmanicured, unstyled, unkempt--"

"Unemployed, single, female," I continue.

Elysian

She takes that as a sign to ignore me the rest of the way into the elevator. As she presses the lobby button, I decide to tell her, just to see what she'll say: "I think I'm depressed."

She clicks her tongue in response and glares, like I've just made some off-color innuendo. "Stop," she says.

"Stop what?"

"It's your sister's wedding. You better not be depressed."

"It's not exactly something I can help, is it?"

"Sure you can. Just keep it to yourself." The elevator starts to slow to a stop and she adds: "Your appetite is too big for a depressed person, anyway."

"Mom, oh my god," I start, but then the doors slide open and she's already waltzing through the lobby.

Dee hauls me over to Christine and Twitch, who are eating lunch at the hotel café. Christine smiles thinly at me as she saws into a piece of avocado toast with a plastic fork and knife, and the whole time I'm so busy thinking, Pick it up and eat it like a normal human being, you psychopath, I nearly miss when she says, "You're going to change for the rehearsal dinner, right?"

If another person asks me to change, I think I might pop the last of my Valium and take a jump in the lazy river. "I'm pretty comfortable in this," I say. Then I look at Twitch and bat my eyes a bit. "What do you think? Do you want me to change?"

Twitch--whose actual name is Garrett, but he fidgets so much around me that I decided I'd honor it with a nickname-bugs his eyes slightly, his gaze darting to my chest for a moment too long. "Y--es," he says. "I mean, whatever you--you can--well, if you're comfortable I can't really--"

"Garrett, don't enable her," Christine clucks, lifting a ringed hand. Then she turns to me. "You're not wearing a bikini to my rehearsal dinner."

"I'm getting a drink," I respond helpfully before stalking away. Behind me Dee and Christine break off into furious murmurs; I can't get away from it fast enough.

Unsurprisingly, the pool is brewing with mucusy children and ugly old people, so I beeline straight for the bar. I order a Manhattan and spend a couple minutes bullying the bartender into giving me a little paper umbrella to go with it. I'm nearly

through with my second round when a voice calls out, "Is this seat taken?"

A tall, hawkish man hovers over the spot next to me. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt that I can only think to describe as utterly grotesque, so ugly that it makes my stomach turn with genuine dread: vicious shades of red and yellow clashing on flowers that look like limp noodles.

"No," I tell him. I can't h myself from staring at his shirt like a lobotomized deer. He seems to mistake my horror for interest, smiling cheerfully as he sidles down into the seat beside me and orders a Tom Collins.

"I"m here alone too," he tells me. “My friend Garrett's getting married. I didn't have much on the calendar anyway, so, here I am, one red-eye later."

"My sister's the bride," I tell him.

"Oh, really?" Tom asks. "Your sister's Christine? She's really pretty."

"Yeah, I know."

"Like, model pretty. I was shocked when I heard she was a doctor, because usually women who are that pretty don't go that route. Not because pretty women are stupid or shallow or anything, but because not a lot of people are lucky enough to be both beautiful and talented in general. It's very rare. I'm sorry, is this weird of me to say?"

"No," I deadpan. "Please, keep telling me about how my older sister is more accomplished than me in every way."

Tom laughs a little, more to diffuse the situation than anything. "I didn't say that. You said that." He doesn't deny it, though. "I see the resemblance."

I give him a thin smile. "No, you don't." Tom returns it. "No, I don't," he admits,

surprising me. "But that doesn't mean I don't think you're beautiful."

"Hell of a double negative to compliment a person."

"I think you're beautiful. There.

"No, really," he says. "Beautiful in a specific way. Like a tree that's lost all its leaves, or a fly trapped in a wine glass. I wouldn't be able to explain it in words."

"Please do the world a favor and don't ever write poetry."

"You're right, I'd be a horrible poet," he laughs. "I like the truth too much. Are you going to compliment me back, or am I going to just look like a desperate creep?"

"You're doing that just fine on your own."

Tom pouts at this, actually pouts, and it's honest-to-god so pitiful that I have to wrack my brain for something half-decent to say to

"Here's some truth for you. You have a really

"Really? Strange how?"

"The features are fine on their own." I lift a hand to make my point, covering his nose first, then his mouth. "Nice symmetrical pair of eyes, good sharp nose. But they're put together just out of place. It's very offputting. Do you do alright with women?"

“"You said that way too fast to be

"I'm starting to see why you were sitting here alone. Is it like a kind of game for you,

Elysian

I throw my hands up. "You can leave anytime you want, Tom."

His eyebrows furrow, and I realize my mistake. "Tom?" he echoes, puzzled.

"You ordered a Tom Collins," I say. When he still looks confused, I explain, "It's just this thing I do. I don't like learning people's names, so in my head I just call them by something else. A physical feature, or a nervous habit, or--" I gesture to his glass. "A drink order."

I wait for him to get angry. How dare I humiliate him by treating him like an object. How coarse, how horrible. Instead he just presses his lips together, his eyes scanning over me.

"It makes it easier not to care that way, doesn't it?" he says. "I've done something like that before."

"Really?" I don't have to feign my surprise. He strikes me as sort of annoyingly polite, the kind of person who folds his napkin every time he eats and goes out of his way to speak Spanish at Mexican restaurants.

"Used to do it to women I slept with," he says breezily. "I'd categorize them numerically. Girl One, Girl Two, Girl Three, so on. And when I lost track of numbers it turned into the places I fucked them, or some weird thing they liked in bed. Ferris

Wheel. Hair-Puller." He looks away at this last one: "Barnes and Noble Bathroom."

"Ugh." I wrinkle my nose at the imagery. "So you do have game."

"Nothing I'm proud of, unfortunately. It seems like all I have is a long list of women who I've made deeply unhappy."

"I think I have a problem with happiness, in general."

His eyebrows lift. "How so?"

"I hate when other people are happy. It makes me sick. Like, when I see a little kid holding a balloon..."

He smiles, amused. "You want to pop it."

"No, I want to break his wrist."

He stops smiling, but I go on. "I hate theme parks. I hate weddings. I don't like to drive near crosswalks because I always get this mad urge to run over couples, even if they're young and pretty--especially if they're young and pretty." I take a breath.

"I sometimes think about dropping babies--"

"Dear god."

"Actually, I often think about it-"

"Really, you've made your point."

"And I hate when I'm happy, too," I say, staring into my empty glass. "It's like I'm determined to be miserable and lonely at

all costs. Anytime I feel good, I start setting fires everywhere so I can get back to being miserable as soon as possible."

Something like recognition glows behind his eyes.

"But you still want it," he says. "To be happy. Even though you're not made for it. Even though you don't know how to be." He offers up a smile. "I do, too."

We sit for a while after that, finishing our rounds in thoughtful silence.

He pays for my drink after I half-heartedly insist against it, then places a five on the counter before turning to me. "I'll see you at the rehearsal dinner, then...?"

I nod wordlessly. He starts to get up and I say, "Hey."

He whirls back around fast, like a puppy that's been waiting to be given a command.

"You should change," I tell him.

"What?"

"For the rehearsal dinner. Your shirt is ugly."

He holds my gaze for a moment. "You change first," he says.

Then he turns around to leave, just another stranger in a bar, another paper face that ll drift out of memory in due time. But before he can get far I grab him by the wrist. My grip is firm enough for me to feel his pulse against my index finger, a soft, beating creature. Real, alive, human, after all.

"What's your name?" I ask.

He smiles.

my PRoFiLe

Elysian

The world is just so hot.

Writing by Ally Guo Design by Prithika Kulkarni

You arrive at the pool on a Sunday. The sun is burning. It’s always burning, and it’s so blinding you slip on the step going down and almost crack open your head.

Was it your foot or the stairs that missed? you wonder as you fall. Well, it was bound to happen sometime. Everything’s a little wobbly these days, and you’re not sure what’s gonna give first.

It seems like you’ll last another day, though, because someone grabs you before you hit the ground. “You always miss that step,” They say. “Haven’t you learned yet?”

Have you learned? You don’t think so. Why would you, when They’re always there? Unlike Them, muscle memory has never come easy to you.

“I never learned how to dive,” you say, looking into the pit.

Not that there’s much use for diving now. There hasn’t been water in the pool for years. It’s the type of place that nature long should’ve reclaimed, grown over a thousand times by hungry moss and vines. You’re sure it would’ve happened—if only the sun wasn’t even hungrier.

Your grandfather once told you, before he died, “This world is too hungry. I should’ve told you not to come.”

You should leave. We should leave. We’re going to leave. You should leave with us.

—that’s what everyone said. When the sun came too close, the people piled into the trains and left. We should leave, they said. But where? they asked. We should leave, they said. You should leave, and more and more people left, until the tracks split apart and no more could flee.

But you didn’t leave. No, instead, you’re sitting beside Them, leaning against Their shoulder, at the pool you always visited as kids. Your feet dangle in invisible water, trying to ignore the heat gnawing at your skin. It’s so hot your mind begins to waver. You think you see people splashing in the waves, and for an insane moment, you wonder if Eri has returned.

Elysian

can never forget the feeling of Their hand pressed up against yours. We should’ve left. We should’ve left. We should’ve left. We should’ve left.

When you walk down the street, you can still see shadows. They’re huddled away in broken homes, shrouded behind smoky windows. It’s weird, you think, how they’re never in focus for you. Even when the air thins, they’re vague, shapeless, and indistinct. Like you’re looking through rippling water, flickering flames at something six feet under that’s not quite breathing.

You wonder who those people are. You wonder if things would’ve been different if you’d gotten to know them. You wonder if they would hate you if they knew you’d had a way out and thrown it away. After all, there are so many train tickets crumpled in your left pocket.

Your hand’s clenched in your pocket when They stop at a familiar place. The candy shop Ar’s family ran has a ceiling painted across with the swirl of the galaxy. Even now, after the roof’s caved and the sun’s swallowed the stars, glimpses of another world still peek out of the dust.

The reason, Ar’s mother once gleefully explained while he rolled his eyes behind her, was that the only thing that could ease baby Ar’s crying was the sight of the night sky. You’ve never seen Ar cry, but you can believe it. After all, he cut candy in the shape of the moon and stars, and you could always taste the universe melting on your tongue.

But now, the taste of the universe has melted across the peeling walls and cracked floor. In the window display case, shades of Pluto and Neptune froth and foam, bubble and boil, like little molten geysers waiting to burst out of the shuddering glass. On the counter, the rings of Saturn ripple in sticky hypnotic circles, and you step over the great red puddle of Jupiter as you follow Them deeper into the shop.

They go to the backroom, to the workshop where Ar’s family once carved sugary chunks from blueberry nebulae and stripped lengths of licorice from the tails of comets. Now, all that greets you is the overwhelming stink of burnt fruits that were never meant to melt and meet.

It’s strange how such beautiful stripes and shades can have such a stench. You wonder if this is what it smells like when cosmic creation collides. When the sun eats the Earth, will it smell like this, too? The world is just so hot.

You cover your nose, but They don’t seem to notice. Instead, They grab something from a cabinet, round and almost as blue as the Earth used to be, and shove it into Their mouth.

You grab Their arm in a panic. “Spit it out!”

They crunch with a vengeance. They chew with an anger. They swallow with a force. They exhale

with a resignation. Whoosh.

You step back slowly. They still look enraged, and even though there’s blood welling at Their lip where the chipped candy sliced it open, right now, you don’t know if you’re allowed to wipe it.

“What was that about?” you finally ask, because even when They’re mad, you’ve always been allowed to ask.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” They glare at the wall, where Ar’s handwriting hasn’t quite faded from the recipe pinned to the corkboard.

They lick their lips and finally notice the cut. “Ah, what the hell…” They bring Their top lip over the bottom and suck up the blood, but the red immediately bubbles over once more. You’re still not sure if you’re allowed to help.

“Let’s just go back outside,” you suggest instead. “The sun will dry it up.”

It’s desperation more than suggestion. You’d go wherever They go, stay wherever They stay. But the smell is too much, and you think you’ll explode if you stand in this suffocating candy shop much longer. The stench has begun to warp, and suddenly you remember how train fumes smoked and train bells screeched as the engine departed for the last time. When you had one foot on the train, one hand in Nna’s hand, and They asked you to stay…

Nna was good at holding grudges. You can’t forget the look on her face when you let go. You can only hope that wherever she is, she isn’t too mad at the two of you.

Somehow, you make it back outside. They must’ve noticed the plea in your voice because They’re looking at you with concern in their eyes.

Elysian

“I’m fine,” you say, and it’s not true yet, because there’s still sugar and smoke in your nostrils, but it will be true soon, so really, it’s not a lie. And then, because you want to say more of the truth, “I was just thinking of Nna.”

They fall silent. Then, “Do you miss her?”

You don’t hesitate. “As much as you do. As much as we miss everyone else.”

They’re silent for even longer. Then, “I need to get closer to the sun.”

“Why?” you ask. You hate the sun.

I hate the sun, They agree, but “I need to know what Nna was thinking.”

Fair enough, you suppose, as you put hand above hand, foot above foot up the rickety ladder. Their shadow casts over you, and you wonder what’ll be at the top. The world is just so hot.

Whenever Nna was in a mood, she could be found on the roof. Something about the sun helped burn her rage out. You never liked going after her, to where your foot shook on loose shingles and the wind buffeted your body brutally. But sometimes you went up. Because even when she stomped and screamed,

leagues away from anyone else, sometimes she didn’t want to be alone.

They’re standing in Nna’s place now, though, at the edge of the roof, staring off into the burntorange forever. Slowly, They sit beside you, and you lean against Their shoulder.

You open your mouth to ask, Where do you think Nna is now? But they beat you to it with, “Do you think Nna’s still alive?”

It should be a simple yes or no. It should. But… how can there be a world where Nna can be dead? What does that even mean? How can she be dead when she still feels so alive?

All you can say is, “I remember every eye-roll she’s ever made.”

“Sure.” You can feel Them roll Their eyes, but They don’t disagree. “Nna’ll find a way out. She’ll eat the sun if she has to.”

“Nna would make a better sun,” you muse. “Even at her angriest, she never wanted to hurt you.”

Their body stiffens at your words, and then there’s a thump. You turn and see that They’ve buried Their face in Their knees. You wrap your arm around Their shoulder.

“There’s something wrong with me,” They say. “I’m happy here.”

“Okay? I’m happy, too.”

“No,” They say. “You don’t understand. I’m happy that I’m here. I’m happy that you’re here. Isn’t that messed up? We’re going to die, and I’m happy we’re not even trying to survive.”

You frown. Of course you know you’re going to die. Of course you know you’re probably already dead. But even at the end of the world, there’s so much to be happy about, too.

“I know why I wanted to go to the pool,” They say, voice murky. “And why I ate the candy even though I hate blueberry. I wanted to make myself sad. Because I am sad that everyone’s gone, but I’m also happy that some things remain. I’m too heavy to leave… There’s so much of everything here… Where would I even put it?”

(“I think… people are just a combination of weird things,” Eri once said. “Weird memories we don’t know why we remember, weird feelings we don’t know why we feel. And sometimes it spills out like water, but that just means it’ll flow into the rest of the world.” Eri grinned. “I don’t know what that means, but I think it’s nice that there’s always a part of us in the river.”)

The sun is so close you wonder how it ever could’ve been far. It claws at your face, digging shimmering nails into your eyes. You should probably stop looking, you think mildly. But you’re leaning against Them and it’s too much to leave, so you don’t.

“I’m sorry,” They say, face still buried in Their knees. Your arm is still around Their shoulders. “You should’ve taken the train out with everyone else. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

There’s a lot of should in this world. Nna always hated that word. “Should,” she would scoff, “like I should tell you to shut up.” You’re starting to think you agree.

“That’s silly,” you say instead (because you could never be as blunt as Nna). But you think you can hear her derision in your voice. It’s fond. “There’s no place in the world I’d rather be.”

They turn to you sharply, eyes wide, and you can see fragments of the sun in Their irises. The colors and lights shimmer and

shiver, ever-shifting in an infinite number of configurations. The cut on Their lip has stopped bleeding. You just grin in response.

Once upon a time, your grandfather told you, before he died, “I should’ve told you not to come. But I didn’t, and when you finally arrived, I couldn’t tell you to leave.”

You’d like to think that, in the end, he was glad you came, if only because you’re glad you did.

Someday the sun might finally explode and eat you up. Someday you might trip going down the stairs and then it won’t matter what the sun does. Someday you might reunite in a happier world. Someday you might die happy in this one.

Someday it’ll rain, and someday the sun will stop hurting. Someday you’ll burst from dying stars as cosmic dust, and someday you’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean as marine snow.

Ar always talked about the sky, about far things and even farther places. He was the first to go when it got too bright to see. You hope wherever he is, the starlight that tickles his face is kinder than the sunlight searing yours. You’re certain no matter where he is, you’re still looking up at the same midnight sky, even if darkness never falls over this town anymore.

I’m so happy I got to meet you. / I’m so happy I still know you.

For all the heat burning your flesh, the ghosts that live in your city, and the crumpled what-ifs buried in your left pocket, you’re glad you’re in this moment.

Because this world—despite its uprooted train tracks and empty swimming pools; its blisters, bones, and broken lollipops—gave you an eternal sky to share and the heat of Their hand pressed up against yours. And there are some things in this world even the sun will never burn away.

Elysian

When Time Stands Still

Photography by Aaron Ogawa Design by Mina Jung

Elysian

Elysian

Photography by Marissa Ding Design by Ally Wong

Elysian

choose We Choose The Night

Writing by Maia Cho Design by Lynn Wee

he bot throws me to the ground in the dark, dripping alleyway of the Appeals Office.

The bot beeps, flickers, responds with programmed lines work towards Asphodel, Rana K— Rana, I correct, an ache in my chest—70% of citizens go to Asphodel.

The door slides shut in front of my face with a hiss

In the ceaseless dark, the brilliant blue screen on the door sears my eyes. I look down, and a puddle reflects the same blue right back. Elysium Appeals Office.

I’m tired of this blue. The same electric blue of everything in this city. The endless night.

I kick the heel of my boot in the puddle with a splash “Asphodel is just being dead,” I mutter under my breath.

Someone laughs.

chimes,bright tones,birdsong.

I turn to see a person sitting, face and jacket spattered with water. A drop beads down their hair.

“Dude,” they say. “What the hell?”

I tense, not wanting a fight. But they’re grinning. “You just assaulted me like you should’ve assaulted that bot.”

“I’m not assaulting a bot,” I say. “Don’t want a oneway ticket to Hell.”

I try to walk past them, but they stand up.

“What’d you do? Steal something, and mess up your chance at Elysium?”

I try to move past them.

They block me. There’s a dip dyed section on the front of their cropped hair, like they tried it to look cool and only half succeeded.

“I tried, too. They won’t let us in,” they say. “We’re trying another way.”

I stop. I size them up. They’re tall, on the bulkier side. Physically strong—that’s good. But the main issue, I think, looking at their guileless face, is smarts. Without smarts in Veil City, you lose to the cops, you lose to other people, you lose your Elysium.

I can’t work with this person. I have to be careful with what I say.

“What other way?” I say.

Their face brightens. “Briar’ll be here in a minute,” they say. “She’d love to have another teammate!”

“I have someone alr—”

“Jekyll,” a voice says. I look up. Backlit by blue light, a figure strides up to us, purposeful.

She stops, and, infuriatingly, the neon blue of the Appeals Office sign looks good on her. Looks amazing; her black hair is wind-blown, shoulders strong, eyes a flinty brown. A helmet under her arm.

“Who is this?” she asks.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“This is Briar!” the other person, Jekyll, says. “Rana’s interested.”

the way her eyes hold mine

“I never—” I begin. And pause, because something about Briar the way she stands, shoulders squared against the world, the way her eyes hold mine tells me if anyone can find their way into Elysium,

she can. she can. she can.

I can use that.

The corner of Briar’s mouth twitches. “You alone?”

I say nothing.

“She’s alone,” Jekyll says. Maybe they’re not as dumb as I thought.

Briar turns. “Come on, then.” She turns, and I see the motorbike at the curb outside. Rustic. Bold. I’ll redo it all, I think, and I follow.

“You’ll have to earn your spot,” Briar says. Their plan: break into Elysium.

I almost leave.

“We’ll make it happen,” Jekyll says. “We’re all disqualified. The plan comes first, no matter what.”

They point, explain. Won: hacked a city mainframe. Briar: obstructed justice during a bar raid.

I ask them what they did. Their smile holds the weight of many seasons.

“They were kind,” Briar says. We speak of it no more.

The test: I have to use one of their forged IDs in the Bureau. “They’ll detain me if it fails,” I say.

Briar and Won say nothing.

toto get get mymy family family back back

I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes to start over, to get my family back, even if it means their heads. I’m sure they feel the same.

Won presses a device to my forehead. It beeps. He turns it around to reveal the ID of an entirely new person, with my face.

“I’ll take her,” Jekyll says, and it’s time.

I find myself being scanned by a service bot in the Bureau, hands flat on the metallic chair below me to conceal my sweat.

The ID got me into the building. This is the real test.

The service bot flashes. “Miss Lydia Han,” it says. “Welcome. Congratulations on your Elysian status.”

I breathe out and smile. “Thank you.”

“Of cou—” A flicker, and then a series of flashes.

They take me back to a husk of a home. A top corner, crumbled away; dull, green things sprouting through cracked walls; obsolete geometric design. The city must have a demolition scheduled. They introduce me to Won, who speaks in touch. He angles my face toward a gadget with a gentle nudge of a finger. It beeps, then he waves me off.

“Miss Han,” it says. “Are you estranged from your family?”

A jagged spike of panic pierces my chest. That’s not Lydia’s data.

Elysian

I keep smiling, pleasant. “Of course not. They got me here.”

“Of course,” the bot says. “One moment.”

It flickers. I stand. “Is a restroom close by?”

The bot doesn’t respond.

I edge to the door, then sprint out. I hear a bot behind me. I tear out of the front door and see Jekyll.

They see me and immediately rev the bike. Shit.

And then they hold out a hand for me, grinning. “Didn’t work?” they ask.

I take their hand and scramble up. “Drive.”

And on a laugh of bell chimes and the warmth of the sun, we’re gone.

The light of Jekyll’s home is a beacon in the night.

Won found a bug in the forged ID code. He waves me over, points to something on the screen. I don’t understand, but give him a thumbs up. I should learn how to speak to him.

Briar sees my nervousness, assures me they don’t have facial recognition anymore—why would they, when their ID tech is so advanced?

I’m tense. I ask if they can still erase my visit from the system.

They exchange glances. Briar says Won can try.

“For now,” Jekyll says. “How about Briar and I give you a little makeover?”

I hesitate, eye their dip-dyed streak. “Hair dye?”

“Of course,” they say. ***

They sit me in a chair in some abandoned room—so we don’t have to clean up if we don’t want to, Jekyll says and I get my first makeover.

Briar cuts my hair.

“You feel good like this?” she asks, before the first cut.

“Yeah,” I say.

And for the first time in my life, my long, black hair is cropped short. Briar’s calloused fingers hold the back of my neck lightly. I shiver.

After, I stare at myself in the half-shattered mirror. I cannot put words to how I feel.

“You match Jekyll.” Briar brushes the hair off my clothes. “Looks good,” she says. I feel the beat of my heart, after.

Jekyll enters, puts a towel around my neck, and begins assaulting my hair with chemicals. “Color?”

I may be high on chemicals when I say, “Red,” but I

mean it.

Jekyll hums in approval and slathers my hair with the stuff. We sit in the room after, Briar watching us from the back, Won fiddling with a device to the side.

“How about we move up to the roof?” Jekyll says. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

And so we climb up the crumbling staircase to the roof. ***

The wind and the sight steal my first breath away. Sweep it up, into Veil City’s canopy of visually-enhanced night sky—a tapestry of gradient starlight, blazing plasma, cold brilliance—and whorl it down, to the night sky below: the city and its people and all the light they create.

I stand next to Jekyll. Briar sits, feet dangling off the edge, and Won stands behind her.

“Tomorrow,” Briar says. “I’ll have a family again.”

My head whips over. “Your Elysium?”

Briar nods. “Hate my real family, so not them. Maybe in my coma I’ll make a new one.” A wry smile.

Won touches her back. Briar sighs. “Not a coma. Elysium.”

I open my mouth, then—

“I want something better,” Jekyll says, looking up at the sky. “Something real. I hate this city. A place where a little girl can’t live an afterlife because she wants to be herself isn’t somewhere I want to be.”

This is a different person. A Jekyll who’s defeated, bitter, angry.

“You tried for her,” Briar says. And we’re quiet, for a long time.

“I want my family back,” I say to the wind. “I want to be with them, as myself.”

The others look at me and say nothing. They don’t have to. In the cradle of the wind, I feel held.

For a second, I think it wouldn’t be so bad to stay. But we’re only together because we’re trying to go.

***

Today is the day.

Briar preps us. We’re people passing to Elysium young—the terminally ill, the special exceptions.

And then we walk in, and hope.

If this goes wrong, Briar had said. We could die. For good. And no one’s succeeded before. You sure you’re coming?

No one’s had Won before, either, I said. Briar had smiled at me. I wish I’d gotten to see it more.

Now, we approach the Bureau. Jekyll and Briar drive Won and I on twin bikes.

Jekyll parks right in front. We get off and see Briar roll her bike under a bush. I raise an eyebrow, amused.

She shrugs. “I love that bike.”

Jekyll tosses the ignition chip onto their seat.

“Let’s go,” they say. ***

We’re immediately scanned by service bots. I barely get to say goodbye before I’m alone.

The scan goes perfectly. I answer their questions and pass on to the preparation chamber.

Soon, Briar and Won join me. I smile at them, relieved that I get to see them one last time. They smile back.

Time passes, and there’s no sign of Jekyll.

A bot appears. “Your preparations are complete.”

We look at each other.

“Wait,” I say. “Was—”

Elysian

The bot flickers. “Sorry for the delay. We are experiencing a disruption in our systems.”

From the room beside us, I hear a metallic crash, then a thud

“Proceed forward to your Elysium,” the bot says. The door opens to reveal three sleeping pods. So many electric blue screens.

It’s so close. This was everything to me. My family, regained.

Another crash from the room next to us. Briar cursaes. It might not be them, I think.

I take a step forward.

Then: a shout of pain, and I know I’m wrong.

“Theirs didn’t work,” Briar says.

I make a move toward the bot, right as she does the same.

“Won!” Briar shouts.

She rips open the bot’s back panel. Won plunges his hand into it, plucks a wire.

The door opens. Behind it, Jekyll is bleeding, grappling with a cop bot, and losing.

I sprint forward. The thing doesn’t see me. The steel toe of my boot connects with its side, and it loses hold of Jekyll.

Jekyll grins, blood coming from a crooked nose. They gesture at the beat-up bot.

“One-way ticket to Hell,” they say.

A terrible laugh erupts from my throat, and I blink a sudden wetness away.

“Hey!” Briar bashes the attacking bot behind me. Its electric blue lights go dark. Briar pants. “Let’s,” she manages, “get the fuck out.”

The other bots don’t expect us to come bursting through the Elysian Gates, so we successfully leave the building before they give chase.

We sprint to Briar’s bike.

“I’m so glad you love that bike so much,” I yell.

We get to the bush, and Briar and Jekyll drag it out.

“I think,” Briar says between breaths. “I wanted to stay here all along.”

They right the bike and we all pile on, as the bots stream out after us.

“Dude,” Jekyll says, as Briar starts the bike with a lurch. “We’re going to Hell.”

She pulls out of the driveway with a screech. Won touches Briar’s back, and she barks out a laugh. “He says, ‘Tartarus for all.’”

She swerves and a shot narrowly misses us. Then we turn into an alley, and turn again, and hear no more.

The distance grows between us and the Bureau. I clutch Jekyll, squished against their back. My heart begins to slow.

“What if,” Briar says. “This is Elysium?”

“Woah,” Jekyll says. We all go quiet.

I consider it. Elysium is perfected memory. Veil City, with its fake sky, desperate people and endless night, is imperfect at best.

But we chose it anyway. And even if someday we forget, in this moment, we chose it for each other.

“Definitely not,” I say.

The cold, night wind burns my face, whips at my fiery red hair, and the four of us are crammed on a motorcycle meant for one. I begin to laugh against Jekyll’s back.

They start to laugh, too. And soon, we all laugh, our hysterics echoing between the Veil City skyscrapers. We hurtle through the deserted street to our home, together.

Elysian

Writing by Aahana Chowdhuri

Saketa

You’re a mistake.

The Sentinels were not your forte. There is little meaning to be found in bloodshed, as you’ve realized.

I know you think this because it’s in your eyes. I’ve been there before. Despondent. Languid.

A shell of what you are.

Those in Fatehminar all carry that same sorrow upon their spines. I was born in a municipality in Jheni, not far off from here. I too had a stint in the Forces - surveillance work. We are of the same cut, you and I. The re-chambering has not been kind to us.

You knew the Sentinels don’t take kindly to defectors. You returned to the razed remains of your home. Or at least the semblance of what “home” you had.

You thought back to your refusal to engage in Production, claiming that there was more to existence than slogging in a factory. You dodged the draft up until they dragged you out of your home, kicking and screaming. Now here you sit in the skeleton of your past life.

I too suffered like you. I was starving. I was listless. What plagued me most was my own futile search for meaning in my life. There was this query I had that nipped at my ankles.

What meaning can rational man have in this irrational world?

I turned to religion; stayed in the temples, burning the incense. I tried to find the answer in patriotism - I chose to enlist in the Forces ahead of my conscription date. I found that fighting for Jheni gave me no individual meaning. I was merely a lens in the fly’s eye. After my term of service, I returned to my empty life. I continued to slog forward to no avail. I cast my eye over the edge. The question had ripped me apart.

When I was torn to shreds, she saved me. She took me from Jheni and into a refuge crafted for me. I no longer looked for meaning, for everything I could have sought in this world was presented before me.

Jheni was my birthplace, but Saketa has defined me.

You’re a smart one.

Yes, she came for me as I come for you. I take her mantle not out of obligation, but because I truly

Design by Grace Wu

believe in what Saketa stands for.

You look at me with those pretty eyes that betray your thoughts. I assure you, I’m not here to prey on your misfortune. Saketa takes nothing from those it accepts. There are millions of people languishing in Fatehminar alone - if we were powered by misfortune, there would be no misery left in the city, and the strength of Saketa would be renowned the world over.

We keep our numbers meager; there exists no more than one hundred forty eight of us at any given time. It’s one of our calculations - derived from the pre-chambering theory called “Dunbar’s number” and extrapolated by our scholars. I have come to you because the scholars believe you could contribute to our balance.

You are questioning the math we have done, the results we have achieved. No fear - I did too, when I was like you. It is…difficult to comprehend at first.

You see, we have found that Ideal is attainable.

Our scholars have analyzed each and every facet of humanity to find the optimal path of existence. We have maximized these facets and placed them into Saketa, humanity’s experiment.

In Saketa, we find that the rain’s more comfortable when it flows upwards. You see, there exists a largely unexplored field of scientific study - natural ergonomics. We not only understand the study of human efficiency, but we extend this comfort to the world around us. A morsel of the infinite freedoms we have attained, a sample of what Ideal is.

In Saketa, we find that society is better off in a healthy relationship with the arts. The woman who brought me here showed me it firsthand - the wondrous galleries and sprawling landscapes created by the passion of our residents. The articulation of human nature is paramount in Saketa, and every creative knows true art stems from tormenting, velveteen anguish. We staunchly believe in stimulating and curating the pain, so that those inclined to create can do so at the highest level of excellence.

In Saketa, we find that most of mankind’s expression of annoyance stems from injuries sustained to a certain phalange, colloquially known as the “big toe”. We ask that residents enter hallux removal facilities at their earliest convenience to remove the threat of this emotion. Do not fret, as the procedure is entirely subsidized by Saketa’s governing organ. It may seem sadistic to the untrained eye, but patience will show you the necessity of this action. Our residents certainly don’t complain.

It is through this kind of deliberate craft that we have grown beyond mankind’s need for meaning.

We search for meaning as humans because we want to believe we are purposeful. I know you have sought meaning too. You don’t have to turn to your higher power, your country, or the void to find said meaning anymore. Each life is innately purposeful - nourished by our science. There is nothing more that is left to be desired.

I don’t fault you for not knowing about us. It is only when you have accepted human’s fundamental question do we open ourselves up to you.

Come, off your feet. Give me your hand. Let us take a walk.

It has not been an easy life for you thus far. When the east split from the west, we were cordoned off along criss-crossing borders. Many were upended, torn from all that their ancestry knew. From these circumstances, from the new world that sprung from the ashes, you emerged. There was violence - you soldiered on. There was destitution - you endured. The re-chambering took you by the horns, and you spun and spun along with it.

All of these circumstances bring you to this moment.

You deserve respite. These are bitter winters, but I can bring you the sun. You can indulge in what was promised to you after spending your life in these unfortunate circumstances.

What can we provide? Oh, love, your skepticism is delectable. I could lick it off your skin.

There is no boundary we have yet to surpass. Saketa heeds not the concept of progress - what we have attained here is untouched by time. All the trivial needs were fulfilled by the first solsticewhat remains are desires beyond human conception.

Surely, we could provide anything you can conceive.

I have committed a select few doctrines to memory, so that I can better help you understand the excellence of Saketa.

We have perfected Shelter - polygonal-roofed for optimal light-spotting. The premises are coupled with a fingerful of windows for you to gaze through, seven-eight odd. On the matter of Consumption - the greatest of our minds have uncovered the ultimate form of food is a fungi roux. It proves satisfying to all gustatory regions, covering all twelve nutrition groups as outlined by our scholars.

On Expression - You can speak whatever crosses your mind, even if it’s critical of Saketa. Rest assured; we won’t punish you.

You can let go of the breath you’re holding - although the rouge upon your face is utterly sublime. If you scream in anguish, we will join you, and rejoice. We will feel the anticipation of how your current pain will paint your next joys ever so tenderly.

And if that scream abets abreaction, we shall hold you and relive it with you. You can seek solace from that bitter reality you once belonged to, that catharsis you so desperately seek.

You haven’t sought catharsis? Well.

I’m sure there is some part of you which desired release, the end of everything? Not in any form?

You still see benefits in this world? You wouldn’t. Believe me.

I know you wouldn’t. You can’t. It’s impossible.

Nevermind that, darling. I know that look. You’re wondering. I’ve heard it before.

How could these achievements be enabled?

How could Saketa achieve Ideal?

In Saketa, we don’t believe in secrets.

I shall tell you.

Our strength is in Sumac - the tender berry. Thought to have perished when the re-chambering occurred, a handful of specimens survived in Adazar, an enclave in what was Persia.

We nurtured the saplings. Initially, we sought to use Sumac as it was intended. As you know, culinary experimentation has not been a priority in a post-chambered world. However, we soon found that there was more to Sumac; ingesting it through the olfactory receptors brings to us a heightened understanding.

Yes, it was that simple, that bizarre. The cradle of human civilization had the reagent of excellence in their mortars. All we have done is unlock its potency.

Our scholars are allotted higher portions of Sumac to enable their pursuits. When we studied the world pre-chambering, we found that those responsible for the optimization of society were given lesser resources than those who spread libel. We are sure to not replicate that error.

Fear not - you too will receive your ration of Sumac. Ingesting it does sting the first few times, but once you get a handle on it, your mind will be opened to a new plane of being.

What’s that? You think we’re absurd?

Oh, how you amuse me so.

You call us absurd, yet you hang onto all my words. You feel my nails dig into your skin, but you haven’t relented. You act indignant, but you and I both know you are looking for an escape from this meager existence you’re scratching out.

I have been you before, don’t you remember?

My apologies. I must have gotten carried away.

Here. Come close. I’ll let you in on a little secret.

When you’ve been contradictory for as long as I have, eventually you arch back to sense. The method in the madness may as well not exist. You’ve found your place in this contradiction. You know it too. There’s more sense in giving yourself to the nonsensical than to continue trodding along in the mud, hoping a way out will present itself to you.

That is how time flies, love. That is how our lives trickle past us.

Here we are now, at Saketa’s gates. Never mind the rust - we have to ward away unwanted visitors, after all. Now go and see what you have been waiting for. See the answer to the question you have held onto this whole time.

Oh, foolish me. I never introduced myself. My name is Maya. I hope you enjoy your stay.

Elysian

Elysian

Elysian

Photography by Avana Wang Design by Molyka Duong

Elysian

Elysian

Elysian

Heaven Sent

A collaboration with Onsora

Elysian

Photography by Nicole Joseph Design by Grace Wu

Elysian

a hero’s welcome

Writing by Z Luo Design by Avia Wen

Blargh. Murky, sickly-sweet sludge spews across the grinning face of the Embroiderer, who retreats from your face instantly. Pulling out a cream-colored handkerchief embroidered with crimson petals, they gingerly wipe at the dripping bits of liquid.

Ew ew ew, just had to wake up didn’t you little hero? Oh my flowers, my flowers, don’t worry dearies, I will blossom you soon.

Wincing, your right hand grasps at the empty space at your hip. The Embroiderer’s mouth slants at your motions, tossing the handkerchief aside for a pair of absurdly shiny axes.

Now now little hero, easy there. No one’s claimed you yet.

They study you again, staring strangely at the joints and webbing along your fingers.

Such a perfect specimen. Yes, no one’s claimed you yet. No one’ll notice if I–

One axe flicks up to slice at the stitching in their cheek, a graceful crescent of blood gulped by the blade as its twin flies towards your neck.

I’m sorry, I don’t want to fight.

You mumble as the axe phases through your body and spins back to an outstretched hand.

Please.

I don’t want to fight anymore.

Meanwhile, the other axe crashes towards your head, so you slip to the side, feet lashing out but slipping right through the Embroiderer’s shadow.

A slender, scaly index finger plucks the axe from the air, squeezing it into scrap.

This one is mine.

Immediately, the villain scampers off.

Took you long enough you say, before frowning. Who are you?

Her sword eyebrows furrow, fangs half-out.

Lì. Who are you?

You pause. Who are you?

I’m … a hero?

OFFICIAL POST-OPERATION REPORT FOR HEROES:

How many units did you lose the company?

Name the victims you failed.

What will you do better next time?

You have questions.

You nod.

It’ll be easier if I show you.

She holds out a hand expectantly but your fingers slip right through, webbing caught partially amidst iridescent violet scales. Tugging, you fall, shaking as your hand remains stuck. Somehow, you’ve begun keening.

Breathe. I’ll catch you. You drank the tea, didn’t you?

Knowing that it was to wipe your memory?

I only took a sip to be polite.

You try rejecting a kind old lady of her favor. How did you get out of it?

I merely stated that I didn’t drink.

You’re forgetting how to exist with a body. Trust that I will be here and let’s try again.

Trust. You can do that. Absolutely.

But, as you look at her, the way her throat hums with that subtle growl, the way her hands still gently brush the space around you, that warms itself from your fingertips to your heart. Somewhere, you’d held that hand before. Felt a heart beat with your own through strangely supple scales.

That’s it, darling.

Habit. Do you mind?

Darling?

No, it’s fine.

Mind the doors. They’re not fond of unannounced visitors.

Doors? And suddenly, there are doors, glimpses of teeth and tongues peeking from behind yawning thresholds.

Who are they?

She arches an eyebrow.

They’re … heroes.

Heroes? Coiling horns and charcoal feathers do thread somewhere in your memory but a long, sticky tongue grabs you and you’re tumbling and–

Enormous spoon in hand, you ladle rain and catapult snow at wildfires and cracked earth. But, the blazes keep rising and the steam blinds you until the anger and the blame shove you to drown in your ladle –

Her steady, thrumming drone drags you from the biting chill as you sputter uselessly.

What was that?

A glimpse of a life, a dream. Be careful. It’s easy to lose yourself.

Just as you nod, you crash into a woven door of bright silver yarn that captures you in a choking embrace.

Delicate, vibrant blooming asters burst along your arm, one stitch each for the little buds and their tiny, frozen fingers. So many splintered but this time, this time you can make two more watch caps, to slow that coming frost. Oh that’s two more to hold woven shrouds, two more to ask where, two more to ask why.

Her grip on your hand tightens, scales scraping harshly. Your… hand? You look down and it’s your hand again, familiar webbing fluttering amok.

Who will mourn the children?

Ah, the Embroiderer. Lost heroes must mourn each other when the world forgets.

Embossed with a magnificent shield set against a miniscule sword, a massive door emerges. Only, the shield sweeps you away, hurtling you through–

You’re off duty for the first time in months. You’ve bought your wife a pretty bouquet, strolling home when you hear the screams. You think you see someone familiar running away, but there’s a n elderly person buried in the burning rubble and sprinting into the flames is not a question.

Hissing brings you back, coughing up smoke. As you exhale billowing clouds, you wonder about the flowers. Did they burn to ash? Were they delivered? Then, you see the source of the hissing. You’ve squeezed her hand so hard that scales have shattered. You didn’t know the dead could bleed.

I’m sorry. I keep hurting the people I want to protect.

It doesn’t hurt.

I hissed in surprise. Not pain. You have never hurt me.

Liar. Your hissing brought me back.

But you don’t believe her. You move to unclasp your hand, but she grasps tighter.

Don’t let go. Please.

You don’t have to believe me now. But one day, I hope you will.

Descent Magazine

Inside a slice of deep space, streaks of sunset become stars over a tranquil lake. Mesmerized, your hand reaches forward and something pulls–

Your head rolls away from your body again, launching merrily into a spiel on the benefits of meditation. You tense to catch the next blade that comes your way, but your body doesn’t resist at all. Even as blood spurts and splashes, you cheerily recite tips for deep breathing.

Don’t fight it, please, you don’t have to fight.

Come back. That world isn’t for you.

But I wouldn’t have to fight.

You don’t have to fight here, either.

Why am I here, if not for how I fought?

You have always been more than the battles you won and lost.

I’ll fight for you.

And if I have to fight again?

You promise?

Promise.

You nod hesitantly. Somehow, you think, she’s just echoing a promise already made

Tell me, do you remember who you are?

A hero. One who fights. Fought. And you are too?

You… you really don’t remember me.

Laughter.

You’re still so endearingly sincere.

Focus. The ones here are…

I’m sorry. I truly wish I could remember you.

She’s trailing off, you’re pitching messily into a lone leaf, fluttering from an uprooted tree, oh–

弟弟’s palms have gone cold, but he’s still trying to smile at you. You want to tell him he doesn’t have to be brave, to play at heroism, when you haven’t given him the watercolors you saved up for yet. His favorite artist is holding a new exhibit. You have to go. You have to tell him what new colors there are.

Tap, tap, tap. Your blues have darkened and there’s extra depth to your yellows now, delicate crystalized forms within the amber. In her scales, still tapping along your joints, you see cusps of dancing worlds.

What did you dream?

I don’t know. I’ve never been good at differentiating between dreams.

You once told me it wasn’t about the dream but the dreaming. And that when you were lost, you would listen to the lynx.

You’ll lead me home?

My apologies, I seem to have forgotten myself.

Glimmering ultramarine scales and trailing tendrils of featherthin cerulean beckon such a welcome that you find your free hand knocking and in you go–

With gossamer thread and bethorned hands, a surprising surge of warmth reawakens you to the hands in your wounds, strange stranger but, oh, it’s you, spun of silk and shielding, shielding this form, from tethers of corrosive blood.

Relax. This is a gift. Just watch.

Meng po?

Yes child.

Can I truly not persuade you to return?

My apologies. I want to rest. With her.

I understand. This realm has always been for the both of you. Farewell.

You as well.

Meng po brushes a little burst of ethereal magic against your essence.

Safe travels.

And she’s you, you watch her expressions on your face, as she studies herself and you wonder how she thought you saw her. Mangy and broken? Wild and untamed? But you’ve only ever seen a lynx, quietly majestic and wounded for you. You’ve only wanted to dream with her.

You had a dream once. You shivered under a coarse blanket. Tantalizing scents of roasted sweet potato drifted by, begging you to follow. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. In three minutes, the scent will begin to sour. You can count out three minutes now. One, two, three…

You’ve seen her smile before, small and subdued. Nothing like the electric glee when she cuts through one of your battle line. But you see the stutter in her eyes. How she hisses whenever a little sandal, barely smaller than her own, blinks from a dark corner. The clumsy lilies stitched into once sunshine socks. Stitched into the thrum of your traitorous heart. Is this envy you feel?

Perhaps you had a dream. You swung a scythe, howled under roaring rays of light. You stood in icy storms and infernal maelstroms, left fist raised to thematic flashes of lightning. Your calligraphy grew precise, to standardized, sanitized strokes. You forgot to look down, eyes fixed upon corpses of giants.

Your eyes are crashing shut but you’re a marionette, and your puppeteer is not done with you. There are butterfly wings sprouting down your shins and vines rippling upwards, oh you could take root right now, amidst quiet yips and mews, but your strings are pulling again and again and once,

Once, you had a dream. You stumbled upon a lynx in a grove, its graphite fur matted with streaks of scarlet. Those golden eyes had studied you so warily as you reached out to inspect the wound. Beneath your hesitant fingers, the weeping gouges had sewn themselves shut and split back wider. You’d bent your joints, fingerbones spiraling into the wounds as you offered your other hand for the snarling creature to bite. As you cleared out chalky strands and shards of inky indigo, sharp teeth sunk into your heart line–

–You glance, expecting the mark fossilized in your phalanges, but it’s gone and your hand splinters and beyond the gate is a child who you fed or who fed you and there’s a swing set where you once pushed something small and furry, like the soft, slate fur left across your [redacted] but oh, there are children who starve and now is the time to fight.

Did you ever dream? Maybe once. Maybe you’d teleported to a small, shaded grove. Maybe you’d heard the river giggle as it played with your fins. Maybe you’d found yourself wishing. On dying stars and baby teeth. On iron and forgotten steel. On lynxes that vanish with the night.

They took your home, your life, but they couldn’t take your dreams. The Dream rushes and it crashes, waves along the shore, not to fight but to exist. Burning your tongue on a yam, liles stitched down your tongue, bloody hands shaking to write, oh, the mewing and yipping of a lynx crescendos until it coalesces into come home Hero.

Heaving, you expel a lumpy mass, swirling with tea leaves and chunks of fleshy ideals. Ask me one more time.

Alright. One last time. Who are you?

You laugh. The Dream surges through your lungs and surfaces for breath. You don’t have to fight anymore. You’ve followed the lynx home.

I’m Hero.

Leaning forward, you whisper cheekily–

And a little lynx told me I was your hero~ I’m home, Lì.

She bats at your shoulder, but she’s beaming.

Welcome home, Hero.

foggy moon foggy moon

photography by jasmine wan design by raina paeper

Elysian

Elysian

Speaker 1

I wonder why the fish tank.

Hm. It also kinda stinks.

I just wasn’t expecting it to be realistic, honestly.

Mmhm.

Are we really talking though, like making noises with our mouths? Or are we just hearing each other in some abstract sense of the word?

Mm. Yeah?

Writing by Rui Zhang Design by Mina Jung

Speaker 2 ...

So this is limbo.

Whimsy. Romance. The only downside is that I can’t sit shoulder to leg pressed against you. But this is probably more conducive to conversation.

Yeah. It’s a total lie that fish are unobtrusive pets to keep. I mean, you don’t have to walk them and give them little belly rubs or whatever, but these big fishtanks always have that weird cloying algae smell that sinks into everything. You know how Chinese restaurants sometimes have keep fish as decor ‘cause they have good 风 水? It’s fortunate that Chinese food tends to be really strong aromatically, because fish seriously dominate the overall aroma of any room.

It’s kinda not. You can hear me through this thing, right?

That’s unrealistic. Water sucks at carrying sound. That was like, the whole point of that fishtank scene in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet (1996). It’s the uncrossable barrier between the starcrossed lovers. All they could do was look at each other. But we’re talking just fine.

Huh. I kinda can’t tell.

I guess it doesn’t really matter. Hey.

You look pretty good like this. You fit in with these pretty fish nicely.

[BLUSH]

I’m actually turning red with anger at the implication that I look like a fish. Especially after you went out of your way to emphasize how much they stink.

What a moving proclamation of love.

Yeah, this can’t be all that realistic. I can still see your ears turning pink through this thing.

You started it! And I was not implying that you look like a fish— not that it would even be a bad thing because I think they’re pretty cute—just that they suit you. And I would still like you even if you did smell of algae constantly.

I’m glad you think so. I wish you were sitting next to me. They keep it chilly in limbo.

Yeah. I think we want It a few degrees warmer than this. Like, 21℃, give or take.

I don’t mind It being a little cold. Circumstantial justification for us to stay close together. Not that we need it.

[BLUSH]

You can’t just say stuff like that. Don’t smile at me. Stop. I see you smiling.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I agree on 21℃. I know your hands get cold.

I remember. It was beautiful, but you suffered too much.

Hm, yeah. That cycle we spent as Mongolian horsemen was miserable. You’d think I’d get used to the cold.

It’s a shame we didn’t have photos then. You were made for those mountains. At least I remember it. Oh, I thought of something!

I mean, I don’t know if this is possible, or who or what decides “possible,” but where we’re going after this—It’s supposed to be the end of everything, the after, Elysium, Paradise, etc, etc.

This was under my chair. I guess they knew which one of us has legible handwriting and which one writes in Russian doctor cursive.

We should have a movie room where we can watch all of it back. I want to be able to stare at the water stain in our shitbox New York apartment again. And to see you in your tight-fitting cowboy get-up. I was thinking DVDs, but everything’s on streaming nowadays. Maybe they can make us a special Netflix or Speaker 2 ...

So I am, as is my right, assuming that anything goes.

…

Are you taking notes right now?

I resent that, but I can’t refute it. Anyways.

I don’t know.

My wrist is fine.

I’m not opposed, but…

Isn’t it. Kind of embarrassing?

That’s not what I meant. Shut up.

You’re scaring the fish laughing like that, idiot.

I meant like.

You know I love you.

You do. And I know you do. But. It’s different for you to see that I love you.

Hah. Yes. But. It’s different.

You know I’m bad with words.

I want to give you the orange slices. And I want to keep the fingernail that opens the wound in the orange.

I think—

the thing inside me sometimes runs too raw to recognize as love.

[HELPLESS LAUGHTER, FOR A LONG TIME.]

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

something. Oh, and it turns into a library in case we feel like reading instead of watching. And by we, I mean you. Are you getting all this?

No?

Is your wrist acting up? Gimme. If they can make Paradise, they can figure out how to read my handwriting. Try, like, thinking real hard and phasing it through the fishtank or something.

I mean, I’m sure they’ll cut the nasty stuff. I doubt there’s gonna be like B-roll of the time you knocked the chamber pot over. Well, maybe on the blooper reel.

[UNCONTROLLABLE LAUGHTER]

Sorry. Sorry. Go on.

I do.

But I do see it, dear. I’m looking at you right now.

How so?

I know you think that. But I understand you just fine.

You could tear me limb from limb and I’d know exactly what it meant.

[HELPLESS LAUGHTER, DUET.]

You would never. But I would still understand you. Even a you that’s not you.

I can’t believe you’re still catching me off guard. Even after all this time.

After everything, I sometimes think that there can’t possibly be more I haven’t seen, and that I’ve had enough. And then I look at you and you prove me wrong without even trying. I’m glad. It was harder before you. It… there can be no after you. There can be no after. A very wonderful barnacle. My beloved pest. Shh. I’m stable enough to write this down now. Tell me how you want It to be. Every detail.

Same thing. Indistinguishable from whatever you want. Hm?

Ah.

I understand.

Okay.

Yes. Like I said—what you want is what I want. What you are is what I am. Anything with you. Plain as that. Just one thing. Let me follow you. Just this time. I want to look at the fish a little longer.

I won’t. I’ll see you in fifteen.

Of course not. Seconds. Just enough to miss you.

That’s what I do, dear. That’s why I’m here with you. That’s why I keep following you around. You can’t get rid of me.

There won’t be. I’m attached to the essence of your soul, like a little worm. Or a very insistent barnacle.

I told you, you can’t get rid of me.

You’re trying to be funny, but somehow it’s so romantic. Stop that.

What about how you want it?

You know what’s so funny?

When we first materialized in this room, I thought for a second that this was It. That they had just sent us straight there, and that this was going to be the final destination, our eternity. And I wasn’t unhappy about it. I would’ve liked to be sitting next to you, but I thought that I’d figure that out. And then I realized it was limbo, but it didn’t matter to me that much, either way.

Yeah. So what I’m saying is, maybe this is entirely stupid and irrational and turning our backs on the Garden of Eden, but right now I can’t think of wanting anything but to hold your hand and have you hold mine.

Doesn’t matter where, when, what. Maybe we just leave this room, in whatever sense that we can “leave” it, and let it be. Whatever it is. As long as I can follow you. Anything. Anything.

Okay? Just like that?

That’s so fucking cute. I’m so unstable right now. Okay. Okay. I’ll be going then, dear. Don’t be long.

Minutes?

Inky. Salamandar

FEATURING: SALLY

INTERVIEW BY: ARIEL CHENG

PHOTOS: SAMARA CHAPLAIN

DESIGN: ISABELLA MURRAY

Portrait of A Tattoo Artist

DESCENT: Hello! Thank you so much for speaking to us today. My name is Ariel, and I’m a reporter for Descent Magazine. To start off, could you tell us a bit about yourself and your journey as a tattoo artist?

SAL: My name is Sally. I’ve been tattooing for around two and a half years. I first started when I was in college. I didn’t study art or anything, but I grew up drawing like my whole life. So yeah, I have a background in art. I studied Molecular Biology at UCLA. And I’m 22.

DESCENT: Could you walk us through your creative process when working on a tattoo design?

SAL: So whenever I do customs, usually my clients will give me guidelines. And if that’s the case, it’s a little easier, because I already have, like, a concept to work with. But if they let me have free reign of creativity, then usually

I will start by designing something that’s suited for the space that they want tattooed. So something that’s fitting towards the curves of the curves of their body. And whenever I do flash, it’s usually whatever I’m interested in at the moment for inspiration. I don’t really have a set style or anything. It’s very fluid.

DESCENT: So what made you transition from molecular biology to being a tattoo artist?

SAL: It happened during COVID. So I was at home, and I was really bored. I just wanted more tattoos for myself. So I learned how to do stick and pokes. The majority of my tattoos are done by myself when I was stuck at home for like a year.

SAL: As for my transition from STEM to tattooing, there wasn’t really a full transition. Because the possibility of me using my degree and getting a job in biology or something like that – I’m still open to that possibility. But yeah, I think while I was still in school, I just kind of diverted like half my attention to tattooing

because it was turning out to be a pretty good job for me.

DESCENT: I feel like it’s such a good place –being an artist in general.

DESCENT: Can you share any insights on how your background has influenced your artistic journey and how your family has responded to your work as a tattoo artist?

SAL: If you look at my tattoo portfolio, you’ll notice that I do a lot of anime style tattoos. Even though I’m not Japanese, I think a lot of Asian Americans in particular grew up enjoying anime. So that really influenced my art style. And if you notice that whenever I draw girl characters, they all kind of look like me. You know, like, stereotypical Asian faces. I think that it’s partially an aesthetic choice, but also because it’s what I’m comfortable with. It’s what I grew up with. There are other tattoo artists who come from Asian Pacific Islander

“i feel like it’s such a good place - being an artist in general”

or anything. They came around.

DESCENT: I guess you kind of already answered this, but are there ways that you incorporate your culture into your tattoo designs?

SAL: Aside from, I guess, the faces of the characters I draw? I think that’s as far as incorporating Asian culture goes. I don’t force myself to be more Asian than I am, because I did grow up here. I think that’s still relatable to a big Asian Pacific Islander American demographic here.

DESCENT: And what challenges have you faced in the tattoo industry?

SAL: Well, being a woman, first of all, and being really young too – actually, most people at the backgrounds and they do designs that are more traditionally inspired by Asian art. I don’t really do that. Because it doesn’t really come naturally to me, I think.

SAL: In regards to my parents, they were obviously apprehensive at first – even though they found out accidentally. My roommate at the time, when I was tattooing at home, kind of snitched on me. I was so scared. I was home and my parents just randomly asked me, ‘So I heard you’re tattooing in your apartment.’ And I was ready to just, like, pack my bags and leave that night. But after dwelling on it for a bit, I think my parents were just more so concerned about the safety aspect of tattooing random strangers and what kind of clients I was getting. But after I started making more money, they still encouraged me to go back to school, like grad school or something, to find a more professional job. And now, as time has passed, they just kind of accepted that this is what I do for now. I did kind of tell them I might go back to school just to ease their anxiety. But yeah, I’m not, like, getting criticism from them

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SAL: People who are more experienced, particularly male tattooers, kind of see it as illegitimate that we started off like tattooing at home. And within tattooing as a profession, they’re just very traditional. It’s still a very male dominated field. I mean, sexism exists everywhere.

DESCENT: And on the flip side, what are the most rewarding aspects of being a tattoo artist?

SAL: Being able to meet so many people who are like you. In addition to all of us being, like, queer women, most of us are Asian, as well. So it’s really nice to see an Asian woman-and-queer-owned space, as well as meeting so many clients who fit our demographic. Also, it’s good for building connections, because there are people who I’ve looked up to on social media for years, and I was finally able to meet them. It’s like, Oh my God, I’m meeting an idol.

DESCENT: I feel like getting a tattoo is such a big moment for some people. It’s pivotal and really meaningful sometimes – being able to do the process of creating.

DESCENT: Now let’s do a tattoo tour! What’s your favorite tattoo that you have?

SAL: All of the tattoos on my arm. Most were done by myself, except for this one. It’s from an anime called Bleach. And I have this cross on the back, which my coworker did. The rest of the tattoos on this arm are done by me. And, yeah, I also have some tattoos on this other arm…

SAL: I also have a lot of tattoos on my legs, but they’re not as well done because I did them on myself. And I was still practicing. So I feel like they’re not that good to show. But yeah, I’m not super heavily tattooed.

DESCENT: What’s your favorite tattoo that you’ve given?

SAL: Oh, that’s so hard, because every time I do a new tattoo, I’m like, ‘This is my favorite tattoo ever!’ But I really like doing my custom anime girls – I think they’re really fun to just design in general. ALso, probably my most recent tattoo. It’s like a girl inspired by a beetle. She’s kind of wearing alternative fashion, and she has little horns on her head.

DESCENT: I’d love to see it later. What advice do you have for aspiring artists who are interested in pursuing a career in tattoo art?

SAL: There are a lot more Asian Pacific Islander tattoo artists now, particularly in LA and New York, so it’s a really fast growing field. And even though it’s probably very different from what our parents want us to do, I still think it’s a very fulfilling and interesting job to have. So if you’re studying something different, especially as an Asian student, I think it’s important to realize that you shouldn’t close yourself off to different jobs or interests you might have. It can be very scary, especially when I first started. I didn’t know if I was going to be making a living off of this. And that money is what I feel like a lot of Asian students are afraid of – they’re craving a job that’s stable. But it’s not always about money. I’ve had priceless experiences here that I wouldn’t have gotten if I just did pre-med.

DESCENT: Are there any upcoming projects or goals that you have in the future, or that you’d like to share with our audience?

SAL: I grew up in the Inland Empire, like Coronado. So I plan on traveling, because I’ve been kind of stuck in LA since I first started tattooing. But I think it’s really important to go to different cities next year. Maybe even international, I don’t know. But yeah. Traveling. That’s my most immediate goal.

SAL: Chicago and then New York.

Contact Sheets by Helen Kim

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY JESSICA FU DESIGN BY LYNN WEE Elysian

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