The Forge - Spring 2023

Spring 2023 | Volume III

George Mason University’s only sci-fi and fantasy literary magazine.

II

The Forge

Spring 2023

Title

By Author Name

Story Blurb.

Lis, non duc furem consum, Cat. Bis, nondeo condienatus C. Avessus erit auciend emusus porum sendac mumum la teris et? Serobununum mortere conternum tatuste llegilincum maximol udees, Paliis. Tum me teri iae fachum avocati linteri patrum iaectan diemed culius cones pari por a recerit imilint erviveri intiusp erendam periocus acemquonsi pubissilii suluderobut re nostrehentem omnic orum octanum publisque ademediemqui consul videt aci italin vem commortem nonscer nultore iu es, obus nium P. O tessuliu et Cas viviveh endienatiam que quam publine condium dius audelatium tata, Catis, pon nem suli, niam acchicapes st derum dem modi, fite in nihi, ser atum nos, nihicii crimmo auctus. clum, orum ina ducessi inatuam patum aur, fat.

Aveniusa Sciem nonteris, omnihil cie condius, ut inte int. Ad acit pulium tatis; nihiliquam nostimus hostisu pionsum nemus di perimus rei pratus incum in de tid cre ad culviri ssunulut L. Vivendam crendac firistra? quem oporeculis nirivissa nit, nonsuam ipiemquemque tus orit firiu vivicep sentem, se es fachuit facit; nonsulabem patebatque in nos conlocu resti, et is.

Mei sus, quam uteatrum, ocam hoccit.

Ecia consulica rei sest gra rei se noven di iae, que facrunum moercem, videpessedo, con taliamedem publin re, viris. Si inguliqui sit, for atio Catu et imus? Volut publisq uempossum.

Hoccia rebatum in dit; esside consimus fac issilici cum et faccidemum ta, me erte caetis.

To Catum es M. Nihi, nori, eo enique quonsid escidienihil te, Catquod con virmihinte neratilis culegitum actarivid for pere ac tem. Cus omnost imantrum publin rentrio ncurnum o pore intra prorius, uteatia nos vilici cone nonsulto iam a dius vemnonum hor unum scrit, noveribus, quodinte ditilicon ditrum facchil iusultur. Rescris inclabis verfeseniam in hil ci se dienatus cast dem clabunu sullabus fuideterusa Sereheb atilicae, quitus atus se, tanduconor ut pos, quidemum.

Te mantiame factod addum, quius, cone addum aciemque furore effre ataberf ectabunte peris; nocaed patquam meritra tudeestra considem

terces ticio, vivasdam nostes nonverisus, conceric inaria rebeffrem sus corum resus ipterfi ricaedem desenatiu cia quos An nit dientelicae publii tuam nere, Catuam senatum. Us accienatanu consuntil cons reisunt eatureto uropubi pere tervirmanum et ommorem re inatusc ibussilibus sulerid ingul coneses! Simodiu is eris, mei patum auror hil habus, quitanu llarbit; es cur. Senihil inpratua dius ce nes non Itant. At et iaet pubis opublic iterfirit Caturbit Cat, conte it vis nos destam quam in dem deri ingulered consum P. Maximorum pericionsus ac restebem, quonsig norissi catque actu cus, noveroris, sedem notifecrid publiquemus esterfe condica ecrit, disque consceperit? Enati publicultil vid redinte avolum in re omne et; nonin actod res haliae ta, queriticae alistesse conemponsica pubi ta re pro auctorum ina, facto es hac videpertint?

Nequide faccide llabit deatil us viusse, nes apere nore, con te aus inc terevit fac remnor quiteme consultum huid resicav ervilicit.

Nihilius; nica; imili suspiendam nosunceperox mus, ur averior ur ut inat, se in Italabentrum fentis, nondius, non ve, ut L. Fit. egerem notin nonlocchus publibus nine hebercention se fite, me addum potia L. Alata nor qui pullabe facermi linteatrium tem, vidi, quo num, aperum omprario unultum poeris.

Habemus hos, scerte tum adhuconsul caperra praella trissenam con vid senit, eo in diumur, clego esticatum consulicaus aberi se tem ublium demorsulos, sum maioraric tuus diconsu ltuis.

Satil hacies ven vivivid ina, novivitum quemnim facerei sulvis audenique vis et audes coniures acia oporeces, mactorae fitillem tast puliissimum in tum audeatu daciena, nonsulos, foripteri strumen iquodiis si sericaedem sedo, C. Haberit ifecepotat, uter la verrae, vide ina, prioreo escestiam. Simis.

Us. Nihilina, publiis. Giliam nes? quo int.

Go vemo verditi sulvil vis.

Deceps, sedius conovera? isus, nihilicaucii inata, notifeculis igiliceribus igit, quod intis vivivena, omniu etic igillem noximenimium aut L. Quam acercerem teroxim orimis ses clus rem patrem noste, furora re con te cris. Multu con silius cast L. Am.

Credits by Artist Name

Introduction

The Forge

Spring 2023

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Spring 2023

Volume III

Across the Universe by Ari Masters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 The Climb by Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Unity by Lena Azizi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Warrior by Joshua Trupo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Aemelia by Aaron Aadahl. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Nightshift™ by Thomas Mckenzie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Kanon: The Forever-Men Chronicles Part 1 by Caleb Davey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Ballad of The Sulfur Swamp by Ross Creason. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 After The Fire by Valerie Larrieu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Harvest For Tomorrow by Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 The Change by Joshua Trupo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Submit to our magazine at:

http://forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu/submissions

Cover Illustration by Camellia Au

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Introduction

The Forge

Spring 2023

Letters to the Reader This is your Captain speaking:

W

e’re back! It’s been a long time since The Forge’s last issue back in spring 2021, but we are happy to present this issue to you. As someone who has always been a fan of ScienceFiction and Fantasy, I am incredibly thankful for the opportunity to help revive this publication.

This wouldn’t have been possible without the help of our dedicated volunteers, passionate artists and authors, and the support from George Mason’s student media staff. We also have the readers and contributors of the previous issues to thank for bringing the magazine to where it is today. The Forge is also thankful for the crucial support of our families, friends, peers, and professors who have helped make this possible. We are also thankful for you, the reader, for picking up this issue!

For this new issue, we have done our best to follow the groundwork of the publication’s original team as well as add touches of our own. This issue features artwork for almost every piece provided and brings Tipheron, the Old King of Ysmoria, a character originally imagined by Ethan Reynolds, our publication’s original Editor-in-Chief, back as the character for this issue’s cover. Some of you may recognize him from his appearance in the fall 2021 issue.

Within, you will find poems about the vastness of space and a ballad about a clash with a creature in the night. We have short fiction featuring warriors, immortals, futuristic dystopias, seemingly faithful kings, time travelers, and more!

Going forward, we hope to continue this publication at a consistent pace. When the next one will be released is still unknown, but we hope that the work we’ve done will provide the support to streamline bringing the next issue to you! Before then, we aim to bring content to you online and on our website at https://theforgemag.wordpress.com.

Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick, Co-Editor-in-Chief

Once again, this is your Captain speaking:

L

ike many such publications, The Forge fell victim to the pandemic. Between the switch to off-campus learning and the graduation of the magazine’s officers, The Forge was set aside and forgotten for a time. It is my pleasure to say that, along with my Co-Editor-in-Chief Jude, we were able to bring it back. We didn’t do it alone, and I want to personally thank everyone on the team for their hard work bringing us back to life. It has taken almost three semesters, but we are finally back and ready to spearhead a new era of The Forge! In addition to the hard work of our team members, I also want to thank Jason Hartsel, from the Student Media Office, for always being willing to go to bat for us. This would not have been possible without you Jason!

Our goal in trying to revive The Forge was to create a venue for genre fiction that is typically underserved by literary publications. We can all appreciate the artistry of Volition, the vibrancy of The Hispanic Culture Review, and all the other variegated publications available on campus.

However, as an avid lover of Science Fiction and Fantasy, I wanted a place where like minded individuals could find the sense of awe and wonder that can only be found in these genres. As such, I am happy to present to you all the first issue in a line of many to come, and urge readers and writers alike to appreciate just how special a magazine like The Forge truly is.

Be it poetry or short fiction, or splendid art, every piece in this issue of The Forge has been selected because it manages to take readers on an adventure to distant worlds and faraway times. We hope you all enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together!

Joshua Trupo, Co-Editor-in-Chief

The Forge

Introduction

Credits Co-Editors-In-Chief Joshua Trupo Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick

Art & Design Director NhuPhuong “Camellia” Au

Editors

Ari Masters Caleb Davy Semira Benyam Luke Beverley

Authors

Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick Joshua Trupo Lena Azizi Ari Masters Thomas Mckenzie Aaron Aadahl Ross Creason Caleb Davy Valerie Larrieu

Artists

NhuPhuong “Camellia” Au Kristina Mickle Celeste Cortes Lara Brugioni Carlin Jasper Brooke Larcher Charles Elmore Jr.

Designers

NhuPhuong “Camellia” Au Elijah Jones Kira Treadway

Spring 2023

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The Forge

Season 2023

The Forge

Season 2023

Across the Universe

By Ari Masters

I fight to keep the stars away I ache to dream but not to sleep

The moon peeks out as if to say

These hours are not yours to keep Now grasping at the finite light Not quite dark, no longer day

The sun burns out to bring the night

The sky’s last fiery display

The Earth turns ever onwards, so Into the darkness we must go Towards stars and space, where far away Someone stretches, yawns,

and starts the day

Photography by Lara Brugioni

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The Forge

Spring 2023

The Climb

By Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick To break his curse of immortality, Sam must make an offering requiring partnership with a follower of an alien goddess of the afterlife.

T

he weather’s clear skies and kind winds made the first twenty-five thousand meters of our climb less demanding than it could’ve been. I’ve packed everything I should and learned everything I need. Acknowledging that nature will send me back to the bottom as it desires was part of preparing too. Kyra helps me forget about the bottom though. Feeling her against my back fills me with the same warmth as I do when holding someone’s hand. I’ve made most of the journey so many times over my life that carrying her weight comes naturally to me now. I take a sip of air behind my black plastic mask, from a tank through a tube that had been sewn to my coat. Once I’m done, I set my face mask down against my chest to keep it out of the way. My breathing isn’t easy, so I pull out my inhaler and take a quick breath from that too. Finally having caught my breath, I refasten the mask to my head. “How’s the weather back there?” I ask Kyra as I give her a gentle pat.

I can tell she is stirring on the thought the way she does when her mind is elsewhere from the way she hums. I put my black-furred hood down and turn my head to see what caught her attention.

Purple-black clouds have begun to roll across the sky toward us. She says “Not great” with a responsible amount of fear in her voice. She doesn’t tremble though, and that sign of the faith she has in me fills me with confidence.

She’s always been good at giving me that kind of credit since we first met near the foot of the mountain in Antya. We were at a guild meeting back when I still took jobs as a bounty hunter, something a previous partner I carried got me into, and we just clicked. I was concerned with the guild’s treatment of another one of her kind, who dream of one day being carried to that summit. I was converted to her religion and when I told her that, she said that I may have more faith than those born to it. I’m still not one to say, but not everyone is ready for the journey.

Still, “not great” is the right response to the poison cumulonimbi that devour the horizon.

It isn’t the best feeling either as we begin to reach

the bright-booted stretch, covered by those that didn’t make it over the course of the last five centuries or so. Luckily, now that the climb isn’t built only for wealthy adrenaline junkies, there is shelter up here. What commercialism did in a few centuries was swiftly beaten by the religious and suicidal. Now, shelter survives through a series of small bunkers like the one up ahead.

To bolster morale, I tell Kyra, knowing she’s listening now after her response, “A bunker is up ahead. We’ll eat, read, and wait out the storm there. How’s that sound?” I can feel her nod and know it’ll be alright too. If she’s happy, I’m happy.

Approaching the bunker after trudging through the graves marked by rubber boots leading up to it, I can finally make out the small, exuberant markings etched into the bunker’s metal exterior by climbers and fellow followers. Across it, there are messages dedicated to loved ones, prideful bragging to nonbelievers, and confessions of failure. Most recently though, the ones least worn down from the weather, are lists of conviction. The reason why human men and women, like myself, travel up here is to break our sentencing to eternal life, but guilt is a roadblock that you build yourself.

Many of these lists of the names of people who turned back accompanied by their crime, but not me. Walking in, I give the standard half-apology for letting the cold in as I see the snow blow past me without knowing if someone else is with us yet. Before checking, I close the heavy metal door that would mark the thin line between me and the colored graves outside if I weren’t immortal.

I have Kyra to take care of though, and her kind isn’t invincible like me. After taking my boots off, I finally let myself get a quick glimpse of the lone, human man in the room. He is huddled tightly to himself in front of a space heater with his equipment undone.

“It’s nothing,” he says to my apology, uninterested and unbothered while he glances at me briefly. When he does, I see him sigh as he tries to hide me from his mind.

I can see from the way he clutches himself tighter with his arms and legs than he did when I let the cold in.

The Climb

The Forge

At first, I thought it was because he saw Kyra and recognized my mission here. It wouldn’t be a response that I’m unfamiliar with. Some call it suicide, I call it sacrifice. I think this as I take Kyra off my back and out of her harness, feeling her smooth, white shell. Still, I understand the misunderstanding. It’s the only way to undo our different breeds of immortality and if I get to help a loved one meet her gods doing it, I’ll be happier for it. Her gods aren’t mine, but the form that her gods birthed their followers into means they cannot do it alone. It’s a shame, really, that their extra-terrestrial gods made them the way they are. They were made to break from their fragile, egg-shaped exteriors down to the more delicate humanoid body beneath their shell. Despite that, and their designed inability to age, their gods only allow one way for them to enter their afterlife on our planet. Kyra’s people must commune with their Goddess of the afterlife to see the world beyond. I’ve lived too long anyway, so I’ll take the gift of death from their goddess for delivering one of their kind.

Unlike many of the humans left, I still remember receiving my sentence of endless life as punishment for a crime. I can’t recall the crime, but I remember that first jolt. The feeling of my hair standing straight and the terrified goosebumps, after realizing that the fears I had as a mortal were nothing. I was sentenced to witness the death of the world, to see what it will be like when everything I have ever known is eaten by the sun and beyond.

Now, being in that tragic time, more terrible than any land could ever be, is what I fear.

Settled in, after undoing my equipment as well, I refill my oxygen tank and then sit around a separate space heater with Kyra. After checking her shell for cracks, since her immortality doesn’t let her regenerate from mortal wounds like me, I take out the last book in the series we’ve been obsessed with and read it aloud for the two of us. A few chapters later, the stranger comes over to us. He makes it clear why he was so reserved before from the empty harness, like the one I use to carry Kyra, in his hand. Looking up, after folding the page’s corner and closing the book, I see the redness in his eyes you get after just-wiped tears. I can tell Kyra sees him too from the way she peeks from her eggshell exterior carefully, hiding her face from the stranger and looking at me with wide, worried blue eyes.

“Can I help you? It’s a pretty good book, but we have almost finished it. I hope we didn’t spoil

Illustration by Camellia Au

Spring 2023

much,” I say in the warmest voice I can. I know that it isn’t about the book though because I can recognize the empty harness in his hand that he’s dragging along the floor. I know what he’s been through. His egg, his partner who he had carried, was somehow no longer with him.

“Thank you, but it’s alright,” he quietly replies with a stare that he can’t get to connect to mine.

He still stands there though, and I can tell that he has something more to say that he struggles to put into words. “How do you do it?” He asks and I know what he means as he white knuckles the leather of his harness until it folds and creases in his hand.

“You just do it until it works out,” I tell him. I know what he’s been through. I check Kyra and her stare doesn’t have the same feelings of confidence that her tone had in the bad weather. I can see she’s worried about this man. She knows what he has been through too, but I know she hasn’t experienced it as I have. Once, mine had left me for someone who had lost their egg on the trip to the summit. During my first time, the weather was so lethal that it had taken my partner before it was his time. My advice to him, to just do it, is the cold truth, but I still only tell him “I’m sorry.” Only time and patience healed me when I faced the same grief that he does now.

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The Forge

The Climb

He doesn’t take it well and looks down, rubbing snot from his nose. “I’ve been here for nearly a month,” he says, and I can see it from the grease in his hair and the oiliness of his skin “It’s always the same answer.” It’s been hard on him, and I know because it has been hard on me too. Even when we live forever, we all still struggle with these things differently.

“You need to go home. You’ll find the right one, I know you can,” I tell him, standing up and putting my hand on his shoulder while making sure to stand between him and Kyra.

“I can’t go back. I’m wanted and he must already be with Her by now,” he says, through tears of frustration and anger as he clutches his shirt with his empty hand. By “Her,” he is referencing the gentle goddess of the afterlife.

“I’m sorry that I can’t help you,” I say as I reach behind me to rub the top of Kyra’s shell to find strength in her body heat.

“But you can help me by handing her over!” he yells. Then, he slides his empty hand into his pocket and pulls out a knife. “You can’t make me go back down there!”

I see it and instantly jump back, careful not to push Kyra out of the way as she shouts “Sam! Move!” I’m not fast enough though, rusty from retiring from bounty hunting, so I only stop his blade by catching it in my hand.

“Don’t do this!” I shout. I take the blade from his hand as blood leaves my own.

“I-I have to!” he cries and then quickly smacks his knife out of my bleeding hand and pushes me to the ground.

At that moment, after my head hits the heated tile floor, I see Kyra begin to unfold her shell as the stranger sits on my chest and begins to beat away at my face through tear-filled blows. “I can’t go back! Curse the god that let us be stuck here! I still can’t bear how he will condemn me, but I cannot go back!” he screams at me as he shatters my face.

Briefly, as he starts to beat my eyes from my face, I see that Kyra has moved, and then, seconds later, I feel her glow burning over us as she torches the stranger to ash and his weight leaves my chest.

After an amount of time unknown to me, I wake up to darkness and touch my face. It stings and doesn’t feel like it’s finished regenerating yet. As I put my hand down, I feel what I know to be the stranger’s ash fly off my coat. He’s regenerating too. I know it’ll take him longer than me to heal, but we still need to cut our break short. “K-Kyra! Kyra!” I shout remembering her.

Spring 2023

“I’m here, Sam,” she says to me as she rubs her hard, soothing exterior against me.

“Oh, thank your gods, Kyra. Thank you,” I say to her as I feel tears run down my cheeks in the dark.

“Be careful next time if there is one,” she says.

The “if ” comforts me and I lean against her as my vision begins to return to let me see her beautiful, exposed blue eyes. “I will,” I tell her. By the morning, my body has finally healed completely and the poison rain has passed. The stranger lay there still unconscious and without skin in a bed of his own ash. I leave him a note, telling him that I forgive him, that he’ll find the right one, and that I believe in him before leaving the bunker with Kyra.

The Forge

Spring 2023

Unity

By Lena Azizi

Two Kingdoms unite under a prince and princess under a foreboding crown.

“A

ccept the crown, Princess. Unite our two kingdoms once and for all,” said the Prince.

“I accept,” the Princess said, as the crown was placed upon her head.

The two kingdoms rejoiced. Joy filled the commoners as they celebrated in the new town square with one another. No longer were the days of enmity, separated by the former divide in the middle of the island. Now, they were able to bridge that gap and make up for the years lost, reunite the friends and families that had been torn apart, and restore the island to what it once was.

But inside, one could hear whispers from some who believed otherwise.

“I can’t believe she actually accepted the throne,” the Princess’s father said.

“She did what she believed was best for both kingdoms, not just ours,” said the Princess’s mother.

“Do you really think they’ll have our kingdom’s best interests at heart after all these years? Surely they’re plotting something. I can feel it,” he said.

“Those were his parents, not him. Trust him, dear, this time things are going to be different,” she said.

As the celebrations came to an end, everyone began to clear the castle, leaving the former Prince and Princess to rest before beginning their duties as King and Queen the following day.

“My queen,” the former Prince said as he looked at her in awe, “are you ready for the beginning of the rest of our lives?”

“Yes,” the Queen said, “but I must get some rest before tomorrow. Help me take off this crown, will you? It’s heavier than I thought.”

“Anything for you,” he said. But as he placed his hands around her crown, he was unable to pick it up.

“It won’t come off, he said, “It’s almost as if it were –” “Stuck?” the newly-crowned King’s mother said.

The former Prince and Princess turn to see his parents standing in the entry of the doorway with a grin across their faces.

“What’s going on?” the Queen said.

“Your highness,” his mother said in a sarcastic tone, bowing to her, “I’m simply honoring your lover’s wishes.”

“What is she talking about?” She asked the former prince.

“I don’t understand-“ the former prince began.

“Did you really think we would let you ruin our kingdom, son?” Said his father. “Over something as foolish as love?”

“She’s queen now, and I’m king.” He said.

His parents began laughing hysterically.

“No, my poor, naïve little boy, the crown was simply placed on her head. And as you said, we promise we won’t do anything to take it off. Not. A. Single. Thing.” said his mother.

“No, don’t tell me-“ “When the clock strikes twelve the crown will crush the former princess, leaving her to diminish to dust and fall to the ground, where she belongs.”

His father said.

“You will do no such thing. As King, I order you to stop,” the former Prince said.

“As King? You will never see the day,” his father said.

Suddenly, the clock struck twelve. The crown crushed one as a dagger stabbed the other. And all that was left were the remains of the two that had never reigned.

The next day, their clones stood tall as the peasants below them in town square chanted, “all hail the new king and queen.”

“Let their reign begin,” their creators whispered to one another, as they laughed in unison.

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The Forge

Spring 2023

Warrior

By Joshua Trupo

As technology progressed, war became unbearably deadly.

To solve the issue, the Battle Games were created.

“Y

ou ready, champ?

Maria looked up, seeing Captain Rickard standing before her. A large man with an even larger frame, The Captain was the premiere Warrior for the United Americas, boasting the only undefeated record of any Warrior from any Coalition.

Strength was his Mutation and it was readily visible. The Captain stood well over six feet, with bulging muscles laid bare by his sleeveless battle suit. His power combined with his singular focus; his hardiness and healing factor that came with his Mutation; it all helped the Captain win many an uneven battle through sheer power and force of will.

Maria, in contrast, was a small woman with deeply tanned skin. Her hair was cut short, so as to fit into a helmet, and her small frame belied her significant strength. She liked to be underestimated, it tended to give her a nice little edge.

“I suppose.” Maria replied softly, in awe of the monster of a man standing before her.

“You suppose?” He barked. “You suppose? That’s no way for a Warrior to respond. You must know you are ready. Know it in your bones!”

Maria just nodded, afraid to say anything else that might upset the Captain. She’d heard, back at Battle School, that he had an infamously raging temper, sometimes taking it out on his fellow Warriors.

“Say it!”

“I know it!” Maria found herself shouting back. “I know I am ready!”

Rather than getting upset at her outburst, the Captain just smiled. He stood to attention, saluting Maria. She echoed his stance, saluting right back.

“That’s a good soldier.” He said in a much more conversational tone. “Dissipation. That’s your Mutation, right?”

Maria nodded, accessing the part of her mind that allowed her to use her Mutation. She created a void inside of her, to which she fed every aspect of her being. Her every sense turned inward, swirling into that void. After a moment, she felt her body dissipate.

She became intangible, removed from the real world, stepping into the emptiness she had created.

The Captain swiped at her with one of his massive paws, and it went right through. She could feel her atoms resist the motion. She had to focus her attention on staying together. When she accessed her Mutation, she ran the risk and had the fear of disappearing completely, unable to come back together. She had no idea if such a loss was possible, but she feared it all the same.

“Quite the skill, that one. Unbeatable in defense, I’d bet. What about going on the offensive? Have you bent it to your will?”

Maria, still holding herself together on the brink of solidity, reached out and punched the Captain. At the last moment her fist became realized, striking with a force that belied her slender form.

The Captain laughed, shrugging off the blow as if it had never happened.

“Interesting. A blow that cannot be blocked, except at the last second.”

Maria brought herself back together. Though it had taken strength and will to stay dissipated, it was easy to return. Like holding back a river and then finally stepping aside to let it flow along its natural path.

“You’re not as strong as me, but then again, who is?” He chuckled. “I imagine you’ve been trained in hand-to-hand combat. What sort of armaments do you take?”

“I’ve no need for armor and I can only barely extend my dissipation to my equipment, so I run light.

I carry two daggers on my belt, as well as a handful of stars for throwing. Mostly I just use my fists.”

“Ha! A Warrior after my own heart. Nothing like beating down an enemy with only your own strength and skill. Am I right?”

“Well, I’ve never really-“ “Oh, that’s right! This is your first battle!” the Captain said. He kneeled down and leaned in close.

“One piece of advice. Sounds obvious, but it bears saying. Don’t hesitate. You’ve trained in battle, but you’ve never had to kill an opponent outside the simulations. Not yet. When the time comes. Do. Not. Hesitate.”

Illustration by Camellia Au

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With that, the Captain stood, winked, and walked away. Maria watched him leave, thinking that the tales of his rage were overblown. She found herself pondering his last bit of advice. She hadn’t even considered that she might hesitate when the time came.

She’d been trained since birth for the Battle Games. Her mother had been a Warrior, and her grandfather before that. Still, she’d been told that a true Battle Game, a fight to the death, was a different beast entirely than the training and simulations she’d been through. She resolved to strike true when the moment came.

Maria continued to stand outside the prep-room, waiting for her Master Technician to arrive. She would have one assigned to her, whose sole purpose was to create any and every piece of equipment she might need.

Not for the first time, Maria started to daydream, wondering about the Battle Games.

She’d always held a few reservations about their purpose, though she’d never shared her thoughts with anyone else. They made sense, in a way, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a weapon herself and not a human being. Warriors were heralded as heroes and held in high regard, but they had none of the freedoms, none of the choices that most regular citizens were granted.

It all started almost a hundred years ago, when the world was on the brink of destruction. Technology had advanced so far that warfare was indescribably deadly.

The various countries of the world fought with massive battle-mechs, all equipped with micro-nukes. Cities had been demolished, refugees of war numbering in the billions. If Abdullah Ahmad had not created the Battle Games, it was not unreasonable to predict that humanity would have bombed itself into extinction.

Instead, the Battle Games pitted Warrior against Warrior. No guns, only personal strength and a return to the weaponry of old. Any conflict would be fought one on one, or as a small team against a small team. If a country wanted to expand into a foe’s territory, they would challenge their opponent.

Individuals would fight in the Battle Games, then the winning country or coalition would be treated as if they’d won a full-on war.

Since its inception, countries had grouped themselves into coalitions, working together to improve and augment their Warriors. It had been Oscar Elario who had unlocked the key to genetic editing. At first it had only been the United

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Americas who had been able to create Warriors with Mutations. However, it hadn’t taken long for the other Coalitions to catch up.

Nowadays, Warriors like Maria and the Captain fought against their foreign counterparts as a proxy for fully fledged warfare. Maria could understand how, in a way, the Battle Games had saved the world. Still, she struggled with the fact that Warriors were born to fight and die, with no chance to live a fulfilling life.

She shook aside her conflicting thoughts, knowing it had no place in the arena. She could not change the realities of the world. All she could do was fight and fight hard. Win or die. That was all the motivation anyone needed to give it their all.

“Hello, you must be Maria.”

Maria turned to see a young man standing before her. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his brilliant white uniform. It seemed modeled after the common battle suit, though with a few differences. The insignias on his arm stood out.

They were very different from the ones Warriors received. Maria did not know the command structure of the MT’s or how assignments were made. She suspected, however, that he was as green as she was.

“Yes, that’s me. I presume you are my MT?” “Jamaal Hendricks, at your service. Come on in and let me show you what I’ve been working on.”

Maria followed Jamaal into the preproom. Inside she found the usual 3D printers, computers, and smith tools that would be used to create her suit and armaments. She saw a battle-suit, perfectly crafted to her size, placed on a mannequin. Jamaal walked over to it and dove right into explaining the equipment.

“Standard battle suit, with a few modifications.

We cut the sleeves and legs off, that way you have less material you have to dissipate. You and the Captain are the only sleeveless Warriors, so you’re in good company there.”

Maria walked up and touched the suit. Made of a special proto-kevlar material, it would provide some protection from the slice of a blade. With it shortened in this manner, it did leave her limbs open to attack, but she had her Mutation to compensate for that.

“What about the helmet?”

“Oh that’s where it gets good. I’ve made yours extra special. My own design.” Replied Jamaal proudly. “You have the usual HUD, feeding you information about your vitals and the like. I added

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a little something, though.” He held the helmet up, letting Maria look inside of it. “These electrodes in the helmet connect to your brain. If I did my job well, and I always do good work, you should also have a percentage display on your HUD.” “A percentage? Of what?”

“Your dissipation level. As I understand it, you work mostly by feel. Well, looking at your bio-scans, we’ve isolated where in your brain your Mutation resides. The sensors can tell how active that part of your brain is, giving you a real-time, hyper-accurate percentage of dissipation. Cool, right?”

Maria was taken aback. She had expected the same simple battle-suit and weaponry she’d used all through training. She hadn’t considered that her MT would create items such as these.

“Now for the weapons. I understand you travel light?”

Maria nodded. Jamaal went to a small cabinet against the wall and pulled out a drawer that had two daggers and ten stars encased in soft foam. Jamaal pulled out a dagger, handing it to Maria. She was shocked by how light it was. She inspected the dagger, noting its sharp edge. She gave it a flourish. It felt as if the handle were made specifically to match her grasp.

“Tailored to your form and stance, the daggers are made of a special ultra-carbon of my own design. ]It has a tensile strength through the roof, so it should never break or dull; even against the Hardened and Fire control mutations.. Same with the stars. Give one a throw.”

Maria took the star, tossing it at the target placed across the room. It flew true, cutting through the wind until it embedded itself deep into the target.

“Well, that’s all I’ve got. I’m working on something special for your battlesuit, a new material designed to augment your Mutation, but that won’t be ready for some time. For your battle today, this is what you got.”

Maria thanked Jamaal, who took it all graciously.

He seemed uninterested in the battle or in discussing tactics. He stayed fully focused on the love he felt for his creations. Jamaal helped Maria into her suit, equipping her weapons to her belt. He had her run around a bit and test the percentage display with her Mutation. It all fit and worked exactly. A true mastercraft. She said that to Jamaal, who blushed and brushed off the praise. Still, Maria made sure he knew how much she appreciated the equipment.

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“Five to drop in.”

Maria turned to see the Captain’s massive form leaning in the doorway. He towered over her, leaving her wondering how the frame could even support his weight.

“Head on through the tunnel, champ. And remember what I told you.” He said, giving a comforting smile.

Maria stood to attention and saluted the man before turning and heading down the tunnel into the arena. She felt her nerves rising but was trained to push that aside. She pushed everything aside, akin to the method of dissipating. She fed her emotions and fears into the void, standing on the edge of dissipation but not giving in to the pull.

A red light at the end of the tunnel turned green, the door sliding up and revealing the bright lights of the arena. Maria stepped through; the door slamming shut behind her. Since the Siberian Coalition had initiated the challenge, Maria and the United Americas got to choose the setting. A simple, flat grassy plane had been her choice. She needed no place to hide and had no affinity for the high ground. Only her and her opponent, face to face. That suited Maria just fine.

Maria looked to the other side of the arena, seeing the other Warrior standing tall. He was nearly as tall as the Captain, though not quite so burly. He wasn’t slim, he did seem to have some solid packed muscle, but she knew that was not his strength. Icing was his mutation. He could freeze any opponent he touched and could hurl deadly sharp icicles from long range.

He did just that, snapping Maria into her battlestance as she dodged the incoming attacks. She had no need to dissipate, not at this range. All she had to do was dodge, which she did with expertly honed agility.

She ran at her opponent, tossing two stars in his direction, forcing him to roll aside and cease his icy barrage. She closed the gap as he stood out of his roll, dissipating just in time for the next barrage to flow right through her. She saw the percentage in her HUD. She was maintaining about 60% dissipation. This felt like her default amount. It was interesting to see the exact numbers that matched her instincts.

Maria went solid again as she stepped into her opponent’s range. She sliced with her daggers, which bounced off the icy protrusions that the man grew on his body. The scouting report hadn’t noted

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he could do that. Maria wondered what would happen if no winner could be found. She could avoid all his attacks, and he could shrug hers off.

Suddenly, she was struck by an idea, leaping back and tossing a few more stars to buy her some time.

Her opponent dodged or blocked them, stepping back into Maria’s range. She continued to swipe with her daggers, which simply bounced off the ice.

She tried to appear frantic and impulsive, which was easy since it wasn’t too far from the truth.

She dissipated again and again to dodge attacks and to try to land last-second blows. Her opponent was ready for all of them. When he smiled at her, a predatory smile, she knew it was time to act.

She sliced with a dagger in her right hand, which was easily blocked. With her left, she dropped her dagger and moved to punch. Her opponent underestimated that blow, not bothering to move ice along his body to block it. It would lead to his demise.

Still dissipated, Maria put her hand inside her opponent’s torso. She had to focus extra hard on her hand for this to work, leaving her other side solid and vulnerable. She felt an icicle pierce her between her ribs but paid it no mind. She knew now was the time to not hesitate. She suddenly made her hand, only the part inside his torso, go solid. She found his spine and squeezed, crushing it.

Her opponent fell to the ground, his connection to his legs severed. He tried to produce more ice to cover his body, but the pain must have been too great, because he could not get it done. Instead, Maria removed her hand and, with her knife, cut the large man’s throat.

She stood over the body, panting from the exertion. She felt for the first time the pain in her side. A significant blow, but hardly lethal. She looked up to the crowd around her, cheering her name. The referee came down to the ground from the hoverplatform he’d been using to watch from above.

He came to Maria and held up her hand, declaring her the winner. She knew not what exactly she had won for the United Americas, and in that moment she did not care. She was a Warrior now, and one that would prove to be highly deadly.

Her doubts about the Battle Games dissipated from her mind, akin to her Mutation. She knew, in that moment, that she did not care. This is what she had been born and raised for. She would fight, not for her people, not out of some sense of duty, but because she liked it. Oh, heavens above, how much she liked it.

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Spring 2023

Aemelia

By Aaron Aadahl

As your life continues in only one direction, you go to San Bernalillo to complete a routine slaughterhouse inspection.

Y

our eyes slowly bat open to the hum of a microreactor performing the endless cycle of breaking down and re-fusing the atoms powering your autocycle along the lane for the self-guided traffic on Interstate 25. You maneuver your right arm toward the side glass window and finger the small digital slider embedded in the interior surface. As the tactile surface buzzes in recognition, the dark tint of the glass gradually becomes more translucent. Lying prone in the small cockpit, at first it is difficult to differentiate the brilliant, withering sky from the golden sea of desert. You begin to use the blurred images of passing houses, solar farms, rocks, and mesas as a line with which to orient yourself. By the time you notice Sandia Crest in the distance, your mind can easily parse a distinct horizon. Reflexively, you turn your head toward the left side, toward the other four lanes of the highway containing mixed traffic. Slower autonomous vehicles mix with legacy ones running batteries, various fuel cells, and, in rare cases, combustible fuel. As new technologies developed, cars and trucks powered by older systems ceased being manufactured, yet the still-functional ones often remain in service.

The austere are used by the poor out of necessity; antique sport and luxury vehicles are used by the rich for their novelty.

A light pressure applied to the roof ’s interior panel brings forth a heads-up display with your trip’s details. The onboard computer projects a roadmap at the precise angle of your gaze. On it, a cloudy gray line stretches back south toward Las Cruces before meeting the solid black circle that is you, where it becomes short and blue and winds off the interstate into the desert. You exhale sweetly when you remember that the worst inspection is behind you–the Las Cruces facility sits near the heavily militarized border with Texas. The employees there are especially tense, almost jumpy.

The last stop on your circuit, San Bernalillo, always feels like the home stretch of a race already won. You still must do your job and finish, but all the pressure is off.

The slaughterhouse inspections have always been conducted at night, at least, the most routine of them. Random daytime inspections are also necessary, if only due to the certain laxness that develops when an employee knows the exact schedule under which they are to be observed by their employer. Night visits, it had been found, ensure that there is far less chance of incident.

Most of the herd usually sleep, while the few that remain awake are sapped of energy, having burned through it during the day with the help of anxieties that come natural with their circumstance.

Inspections in the Southwest District had proceeded according to agency regulation for the better part of four decades, regardless of night or day. Still, the small pool of people in your line of work all agree: night is better.

The autocycle slows and begins to gently slalom through the last lanes leading into the San Bernalillo facility. It glides to a stop in the closest of five (all empty) parking spaces marked “visitor.”

You press your full hand into the right-hand side glass and rotate it thirty degrees counterclockwise.

Solenoids softly click, hydraulic pistons pop the door a few inches from the sill, and it steadily slices vertically toward the roof of the parking structure.

You grab your attaché and instinctively pat your hip, despite the fact that you never remove the belt or its pistol when you travel for work. The air is crisp tonight, calm and reassuring. The warmth of the October day has barely begun to fade into cool New Mexico night. You leave your breather; the air inside is scrubbed and recycled anyway.

Detecting the Clearance Four signal from your government badge, the double outer doors slide open on your approach. In almost instantaneous response to their closing behind you, the identical inner doors open. In less than a second, the building’s central computer has compared your badge’s signal to your biometric data and returned a positive match. The recognition on the face of the guard at the front desk takes much longer to materialize. As you unzip your case and retrieve your tablet, he mumbles something about how

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short an amount of time has passed since the last inspection and slides his chair toward his work console. You gesture for him to remain still and tap your screen to open a fresh assessment report.

It takes a few seconds. Your equipment is new, but the government software is dated and updated infrequently. You mark “acceptable” for all the boxes concerning parking, entryway, and guard station. The guard asks to call his supervisor to escort you, but he quickly acquiesces when you make it known that you will see the general population pens immediately. The facility head will learn of your presence and find you soon enough.

The quick and deliberate scan from your badge opens the lock on the single, much heavier inner door. This one must be pushed open manually.

The guard starts from his desk slowly, but his pace quickens under an unblinking stare cast over your shoulder. He’s a head shorter than you and his oversize navy-blue uniform fits awkwardly over his slightly rotund frame. Thick, light brown hair spills from the edges of a cap that crowns a pale face housing two grayish blue eyes. If an outside observer were to see him next to you, the two of you would seem almost to be separate species.

There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with the man-- doing shiftwork guarding a slaughterhouse cannot be good for anyone’s complexion. Still, you feel silently thankful that, despite the macabre nature of your own job, you at least get to travel and occasionally spend time outdoors. He starts to lead the way toward the main holding blocks with a haste that could only be increased if your eyes began to discharge actual laser beams into his back.

A general mix of blood, musk, and feces always vaguely tinges the air of these buildings. San Bernalillo is no different. As a trainee, you had to wear your breather inside or you would have difficulty finishing a tour. Everyone looked at you differently.

Now, though it ceased sickening you a long time ago, it still takes a few minutes to adjust. You slowly begin to tread the unrailed walkway, stooping to look into the pens and recording your observations.

The elevated path runs over the rows of symmetrical pairs of holding pens, each about fifty by twenty feet, bisecting them on their shorter side. On the opposite wall of each room there’s a solid metal door and sliding window beneath which a feeding trough is bolted deep into the building’s frame. The floor is lined with gravel-like composite pellets that mitigate some of the smell.

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For whatever reason, the odor-killing pellets arrive from the factory white. Those in the first pens are a rusty brown, stained from dirt, blood, excrement, and whatever other bodily byproducts find their way to the floor. Under the “gravel” lies a drainage system for easy cleaning of each room between occupancy cycles. Larger pieces of flesh get caught in the grating and must be removed by hand--you do not envy the man who does that job.

It is humid in slaughterhouses all year long, all times of day. Yet, as you walk the line you encounter a familiar phenomenon. All the pigs in each occupied block pile their bodies together in the corner farthest from the door. You’ve noticed that this is their default resting state everywhere.

During the day, they will sometimes pace around the perimeter of the walls. They will leave the corner to relieve themselves or to snatch a morsel from the feeding trough, quickly returning. Despite there being nothing to indicate the time of day, they always seem to know when it is night. They sleep huddled there together in solidarity as if being an extra few feet from the entrance could help them. You used to alternate between feeling pity and disgust on their account. Nowadays, you don’t feel anything at all. A few more marks find their way into the “acceptable” column.

Approaching the middle point of the walkway, you find the first non-guard employees hard at work culling the livestock. Slaughter is performed in pairs. One person wrangles the next unlucky pig with a specialized tool— a long-handled catchpole with a self-tightening lariat at one end.

The other partner slits the throat with a tool resembling antiquated gardening implements used for trimming high branches. A small, motorized saw with a diamond edge is attached to a handle of similar length. There is a safety grip and a button for activating the blade. Like a firearm, it is only to be activated when the user is ready to kill. And these two are operating safely, by the book. They already are processing the fifth head in the minute and a half that you’ve been observing. After the pig has been lassoed, the partner moves in and efficiently slices from one side of the jaw to the other. Blood splatters everywhere; the workers stand there unflinching and professional. The pig goes limp and falls. Quick and humane. “Acceptable.”

There’s only one head in this pen left to be culled. She is unnerved, running back and forth long ways across the enclosure. She reaches the

Photography by Lara Brugioni

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corner nearest you and starts to helplessly paw at the slick metal walls. Your eyes briefly meet. Her short, bristly hair seems to stand on end, and she runs to the other side and tries the door. It’s just as hopeless. The scratching and thudding abruptly stops- she’s caught. The first man holds his catchpole horizontally chest-high with both arms and slowly walks in orbit around the cell, shifting the body and cleanly exposing the pig’s neck to his partner who is waiting in precise position.

They really are artists. None of the automatons that will soon clear the room and prepare the flesh for processing could have performed with such efficiency. Some jobs are just uniquely suited for human beings.

The cutter slits the pig’s throat, and the wrangler loosens and removes the noose to allow the body to fall to the floor. She staggers and takes a step, blood waterfalling freely from her neck. She takes another and your eyes meet again.

They are open impossibly wide. Two white oceans hold oversized black orbs thinly ringed by the deepest of blues. Somewhere, empires have risen and fallen in the time it takes for her to take yet another step. Without breaking your stare, your hand has undone the top strap of your holster.

Detecting your touch, the status lights on the side have started blinking green. You’ve shot dumb rounds on the range but only have ever had to use your pistol once for an actual coup de grâce. It is a specialized tool that combines simple, timetested ballistics with nanochip technology. It holds three rounds in a revolving chamber–tiny .15 caliber magnum with intelligent detonation.

Each cartridge’s projectile has onboard sensors able to detect the moment of penetration. They are designed to enter the skull cavity, explode, and shred into thousands of tiny fragments that at once destroy the brain. The rest of the animal’s body will remain untouched. Quick and humane. Acceptable.

You never raise your arm to fire. Your eyes are so transfixed on the pig’s next step that you don’t notice another set of footsteps approaching on the walkway.

“Sometimes, they take a little longer to go down.

It’s perfectly normal.” The San Bernalillo facility head is coming toward you from the opposite direction and does not notice that the purlicue of your hand is resting on the backstrap of your pistol. You resecure the top strap before you turn in his direction. He is holding a cup of coffee in each hand. You take your time in marking down your

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observation of the slaughter procedure and inform that everything you have seen thus far seems to be adequate and according to code. You allow him to continue holding your coffee until you are ready to resume your inspection. By then, the machines have entered the pen below and her body has already been processed.

Six hours elapse as you tour the rest of the facility. Sanitation, quarantine cells, and safety displays are all found to be present and functioning.

Staff seem to be following proper procedure in the disposal of extraneous bone and viscera. Employee identification badges are visibly displayed on the appropriate area of standard issue uniforms. You have to issue a “fix-it” notification for two burnt out light bulbs and a meat freezer that is two degrees too warm. Otherwise, everything about San Bernalillo is operating acceptably.

With one press on your tablet, you save the report and forward a preliminary copy to the facility head and the members of the Southwest District supervisory board. It will automatically be available in the terminal back at your office in Phoenix, your next destination. The coffee has worn off and you feel yourself starting to drag as you slide back into the cockpit of the autocycle.

The entire ride your consciousness floats freely, neither asleep nor awake. You think back to being a little girl in Pennsylvania. You think about your fifth-grade history teacher. You remember the quick war of secession. The truce. Meeting your first girlfriend. Your last girlfriend. Breaking up shortly after signing a lease and moving in together. The joke of having to live those ten months with her. Another truce. You think about moving to Arizona when your mom got sick. You think about undrinkable rainwater. Rationing.

You wonder what that pig was thinking as she stumbled through her last determined steps. You remember the paperwork waiting for you back at the office. You think about how no one uses paper for anything anymore and wonder why it is still called “paperwork.” You feel even more exhausted as you climb from the autocycle into the airtight parking area of a massive Brutalist structure. The Southwest District Federal Building. Your closed eyes missed the dual inscriptions flanking the main entrance–the Latin mottos of America– “E Pluribus Unum’’ and “Lex Talionis.”

Your office is a windowless room deep in the interior of the building. The internal tube

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system transports you there directly from the underground lot. It arrives immediately. No one is here this early. You sit down at your desk and begin to arrange your reports for final submission. You check your low priority messages. You examine your schedule for the next several weeks. Two hours pass. You remember that you haven’t eaten anything since Las Cruces and turn your attention to the sleek foodcrafter on your desk. It is top of the line—manufactured halfway around the world on the man-made island factory of New Seoul. You choose one of the twenty preset “favorite” settings (You have only input six of your own, the others are still the defaults). Tiny mechanical arms begin to methodically construct a plate of tikka masala.

The “chicken” is not an exact approximation of flesh—emulation has long fallen out of favor in attempts to avoid legal troubles. Everything else is perfect. The smell lingers and for several minutes you leave the plate untouched.

Standing up and stretching, you flick a switch that turns the walls into faux windows, floor-toceiling screens displaying images of the outside captured via sensor banks that line the building’s exterior. In one direction sit the vast tenements of downtown Phoenix. In another, various government buildings. In the morning sun, people are filing out of the Federal Courthouse toward a large, armored bus. You point your hand at that section of the wall and make a reverse pinching motion. The screen zooms in. Armed guards are channeling prisoners into the bus. Pigs. You gesture again. Now you can see their faces stare at the ground as they are slowly paraded past. You wonder about their stories. What sort of crimes did they commit? Were those two men smugglers finding new ways to bring meat across the Texas border? Was that woman a poacher who killed and ate a wild animal? A man stops walking and seems to look right at you, his full face broadcast directly into your office. Projected on the wall, his eyes are the size of your fists. They don’t seem like those of a criminal-- they could be kind and wise. Could he have been running an underground cattle ranch or a “steakhouse?” You sincerely hope everyone in the procession is genuinely guilty-- they will all be animal feed or fertilizer soon.

You’re too spent to do any more work this morning and decide to head back to your apartment. Your salary affords you a cosmopolitan neighborhood uptown (if any section of the city

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can be called such). It is well-appointed. There’s a modern kitchen and dining area, office, and guest bedroom. The master bedroom has a soaking tub, real floor to ceiling windows, and a king size bed fitted with imported sheets. You toss your badge on the nightstand and notice the younger picture of yourself below the words “Aemelia S----, Federal Corrections.” You think about how “correction” is not the right word for the function of the buildings you inspect. “Correction” implies a course change… a life is moving one direction that is then pointed in another. No… Las Cruces, Santa Fe, San Bernalillo. At best, these are all terminal penitentiaries–institutions that are not designed to ever release their inmates alive .

Those sent there are given just enough time to make right with themselves, with the state, and with any god they may or may not believe in. And removing those that break the law is the morally right thing to do. You know the 38th and 39th Amendments as well as anyone. Life must only sustain life. Death can only be answered with death. When a sentient being crosses the line and hurts another living thing for mere pleasure, they cannot be rehabilitated. This is America. We don’t kill animals here for any reason but for mercy. This isn’t fucking Texas.

The walk-in shower is lined with beautiful tiling and heated floors and stocked with plenty of wonderful-smelling toiletries, but you wash quickly without much enjoyment. The sound of rushing water echoes–eight people could easily shower in there at once. You dry yourself with a soft, fluffy towel and drape luxurious silk nightclothes over your bronze skin. It’s clear and soft for your age— you rarely miss rejuv treatments. The sheets are cool. Pulling the bedspread over your whole body brings a nostalgic feeling of safety and you feel like a little girl again. But then you remember the faces on the wall of your office. You remember the eyes of the pig in San Bernalillo. You can’t sleep. But it isn’t your job keeping you awake-- you’ve been doing this for years. There must be another reason.

You take a deep breath and twice remind yourself that you rested the entire ride into Phoenix.

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NightShift™

By Thomas McKenzie

The Nightshift™ company is not affiliated with The Forge and is only included as a piece of company literature discovered by our beloved staff.

Stage of Review Leadership General Counsel Legal/Financial R esearch/Develop.

Marketing Medical Engineering Prod. Launch Team

1st

2nd

3rd

X

X

Pending: final Medical, Legal and Gen. Counsel review

X X X X X X X

X

Pending: final L eadership review

X

Approved for Launch

Pending: case study and liability, L eadership review Pending: Gen. Counsel final review Pending: result of five-year sustainability, feedback survey Pending: result of two-year sleep, psychosis study

X

Pending: code check, Gen. Counsel review Pending: L eadership decision to launch

Non-Disclosure Agreement on file: ______ Department ID: ______ Subject: NightShift™ (patent pending) Category: DaaS (Dreams as a Service) Pitch: “Explore new heights of productivity while your body sleeps.”

Appendix Table: 1–99

Research/Development

2–299

Legal/Financial

3–399

Medical

4–499

Marketing

5–599

Engineering Illustration by Joshua Trupo

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Terms and definitions: NightShift™: Augmented reality WorkSpace limited to a sleeping Subscriber’s REM cycle.

Subscriber: Medically cleared candidate of legal augmentation age entering into a legal and binding contract with CMD and therefore entitled to regular and open access of a Dreams as a Service platform and concurrent software upgrades through a one-time payment. (See also Marketing Appendix 4.9: Upgrade Eligibility, Payment Plans and Customer Support) Marker: Subcutaneous ocular nanoswitch that activates the NightShift™ cerebral implant when the Subscriber is preparing to enter their nightly rest cycle.

WorkSpace: The REM-only manifestation of a Subscriber’s preferred working environment.

Top 10 FAQs (See also Marketing Appendix 4.2: Initial Research, Surveys, and Data Pools) 1. What is it?

NightShift™ is bioware implant technology that allows the “Subscriber” to bridge the unconscious gap between the left and right hemispheres of their brain in ways considered impossible during their wakeworld reality due to the limitations of physical laws and the number of hours in a day. NightShift™ allows the Subscriber to organize their wake-world projects hands-on, positioning and organizing 3D-projected representations of dream (.drm) documents across the interior of a desired mental “WorkSpace” creating products with gestures and shaping ideas with verbal commands without the need for a desktop, laptop, cumbersome VR goggles, or similar external interface components.

2. How does it work?

As the Subscriber drifts to sleep, they will mentally interact with a “Marker”; a personal signpost approximately 6mm in diameter and permanently anchored to a chosen corner of their visual field (inwardly and outwardly undetectable). Markers may resemble anything: a miniature door, a pointer icon, a number, a letter, or an emoji, and are available in a full range of colors and patterns. (See also Marketing Appendix 4.3-4.5: Partnership Products and Merchandising Opportunities) Subscribers desiring to enter into a natural sleep cycle may disregard their Marker by physically averting their eyes to the opposite corner, waiting for the Marker to acknowledge wave-off by gently flashing twice.

Subscribers may also enter NightShift™ directly from REM sleep by first learning to manifest or recognize their Marker in a dream. (See also Medical Appendix 3.5-3.7: Sleep Study and Psychological Analysis) Focusing on the activation marker brings NightShift™ online, allowing the Subscriber’s unconscious mind to perceive itself as awake within a fully customizable dreamtime WorkSpace as the body diverges to its rest cycle.

3. Where’s my stuff?

NightShift™ translates compatible two-dimensional wake-world projects (See also Engineering Appendix 5.4: List of Microsoft Office Filename Extensions) into a proprietary and function-specific dream format (.drm), rendering, saving, and storing each project on a secure server in a private CMD data crypt. Saved versions of projects will appear in the Subscriber’s wake-world inbox, reverted to their original file extensions and fully compatible with existing office productivity suites, ready to continue.

4. What does it do?

Early Beta tests demonstrated NightShift™ to be invaluable for performing repetitive and creative wake-world tasks, both personal and professional, which demand creative human oversight and require substantial amounts of time to complete. Just as thinking about a creative work in progress is considered the same as physically working on it, a NightShift™ Subscriber can, for example, physically sculpt the pace of their novel using AI to re-arrange their project according to character arcs, plot points, cliffhangers, or emotion points (to name a few), watching the top edge of each chapter rise or fall like a city skyline along the narrative’s centerline or spiral outward along the desired trajectory.

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A Subscriber using NightShift™ to write a novel could ask, for example: “What does my novel look like?” and watch as the (.drm) pages of the completed chapters rearrange themselves according to plotreveal scarcity, low action sequences, cluttered together by the weight of exposition, and dropping off at each cliffhanger. Manipulating pages mid-air, Subscribers can analyze, annotate, and dissect their creative work in-depth using a variety of existing and intuitive tools. NightShift™ AI is fully capable of translating nearly any existing Microsoft© Office tool from simple editing and formatting tasks to highlighting repeat passages to analyzing plot structure to creating simple avatars of their characters using information gleaned from the Subscriber’s existing vision board.

5. What does it look like?

NightShift™ Subscriber WorkSpaces can be custom coded to create nearly any conceivable interior or exterior. For example, a sterile white warehouse, an existing office environment, a wizard’s tower, a comfortable bohemian loft, the open sky above a field of flowers, or the lakeside campsite where the Subscriber would enter and exit their WorkSpace through a tent flap. (See also Marketing Appendix 4.1: Additional Subscriber WorkSpace Templates) Scheduled theme adaptations are due for release within six weeks of initial launch pending final Leadership approval and Marketing launch campaign.

6 . What if I have questions?

In addition to 24-7 Customer and Tech Support from an assigned caseworker, new Subscribers will attend an in-depth, on-site, week-long training session where they will undergo a painless one-day procedure for the implant (carried out by two-person teams of skilled bio-enhancement surgeons at one of three CMD transhumanist augmentation facilities worldwide.) They will select their Marker, customize their first WorkSpace, and begin their first project. In most cases, Subscribers may begin using NightShift™ just 3-5 days after their procedure.

In addition, NightShift™ provides each Subscriber with an artificially intelligent “Assistant”, programmed to learn the Subscriber’s behavior patterns, and fully customizable to preferred gender identities, appearances, languages, discipline and field familiarities, and general personality compatibility. Assistants, while unable to function independently in the wake-world beyond NightShift™ boundaries, are offline-compatible with most existing digital personal assistants.

Subscribers could, for example, direct their NightShift™ Assistant to assign tasks or reminders for their wake-world digital assistant to carry out. (See also Medical Appendix 3.9-3.16: Mechaphilia, Paraphilia, and Romantic Relationships with AI; See also Engineering Appendix 5.6-5.9: LaMDA (Language Model for Dialogue Applications) 7. Can I leave when I’m done?

Of course. NightShift™ exit portals, aggressively coded to resist concealment, cannot be buried, hidden, obscured, or otherwise blocked by any project, process, or feature within a Subscriber’s WorkSpace.

As NightShift™ is strongly recommended for home use only. Subscribers should therefore avoid using NightShift™ on commercial flights, taxi cabs, Ubers, buses, or public spaces where Subscribers might be easily disturbed. Subscribers may exit NightShift™ and force a return to consciousness by interreacting with their designated entry Marker or with the exit portal but may not return to their NightShift™ WorkSpace until their next natural sleep cycle. Projects coded in (.drm) continuously auto-save in the event a Subscriber is accidentally jarred awake by external physical stimuli and will remain frozen in both its actionable state and physical coordinates until the Subscriber returns to their WorkSpace via their natural sleep cycle. A Subscriber’s use of prescription or over-the-counter sleep medication to trigger a premature return to their WorkSpace may have potentially negative effects on the Subscriber’s interface within NightShift™. An intoxicated Subscriber, for example, may experience difficulty translating existing or rendering new projects. (See also Legal Appendix 2.7, 2.8, 2.17-2.56: Legal Responsibilities and Restrictions; See also Engineering Appendix 5.1, 5.2, 5.3: Interoperability Concerns.)

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8. Is it safe?

Yes. There are three levels of sleep: slow wave, characterized by EEG by delta waves; REM, considered lighter, and where (most) people experience dreams; and optional, so-called by those who claim to require just three or four hours of sleep per night with no loss in productivity, mental acuity, or cognitive function.

Sleep, once an important evolutionary function, has become outdated. Dreams, therefore, represent an obsolete function of the brain, one which kept our ancestors’ cortex on high alert in the event of predators.

Replacing outdated REM sleep with NightShift™ effectively destresses the cerebral cortex, no longer forced to decode a flood of activated, confusing images. CMD lab 46 conducted a series of DNA adjustment experiments in healthy test subjects over a period of five years, successfully teaching and triggering each subject’s cortex to conduct necessary neural repairs in a wake-world state, in addition to discovering dozens of other neurologic potential possibilities. (See also Medical Appendix 3.3: Lab 46 DNA Adjustment Tests and Development Potential) At present, NightShift is limited to interactions in the visual, auditory, vestibular (gravity, movement, balance), and proprioception senses (understanding where the body is situated in relation to itself); options to extend into the gustatory and olfactory senses are being considered. (ex. Simulating the consumption of light refreshments (coffee, for example) while a Subscriber is working closely simulates wake-world conditions and is therefore conducive to creativity. (See also Marketing Appendix 4.6: In-App Purchasing and Product Placement Potential) 9. Does my employer own my dreams while I’m using NightShift™?

No. While existing patents, trademarks, copyrights, and other trade secrets are obviously valuable to the CMD family, understanding how they are created is critical to knowing how to protect them. A copyright on its own does not protect a story idea, concept, or theme. Such elements are not protected whether they are in a writer’s head, written down on paper, or published. Dreams, therefore, remain as free as the air. Any dream imagery belonging to and experienced by the NightShift™ Subscriber apart from any existing intellectual property the Subscriber is working on will be considered private and funneled into a dedicated side channel for later wake-world evaluation and personal analysis.

10. Are there side effects?

Some side effects may apply. While NightShift™ is proven safe for candidate Subscribers over the age of 18 (the current Federal legal age for board-certified bio-implants), dreaming is still a natural bodily function that continues even if the NightShift™ Subscriber takes a night off. Prolonged use of NightShift™ may halt the body’s ability to dream normally. CMD and their wholly owned subsidiaries cannot be held responsible for mental health concerns brought on by a deliberate lack of sleep or any abuse of the product. Subscribers are encouraged to discontinue NightShift™ in the event of prolonged or recurring nightmares. NightShift™ is not recommended for use during international flights or for more than three days in a row. Do not attempt to swim, operate heavy machinery, or work around open flames while using NightShift™ (See also Legal Appendix 2.6: Projected and Anticipated Liabilities) NightShift™ is designed for use in a safe environment. Ask your doctor if NightShift™ is right for you. NightShift™ is not recommended for those who suffer from narcolepsy, epilepsy, or moderate to severe personality disorders. Prescriptions for and the use of NightShift™ are discouraged in countries, states, or recognized Economic Conflict Regions, Technology Avoidance Districts, or Demilitarized Freedom Zones where such implants or alterations may be prohibited or punishable. In the event the Subscriber encounters such restrictions as enforced by local religious laws or customs, Subscribers may safely discontinue NightShift™ for a period of 1-year before medical reexamination is strongly recommended before resuming use.

CONCLUSION OF FEASIBILITY BRIEFING BT NNNN

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Kanon: The Forever-Men Chronicles

By Caleb Davey

Part I: Murder by the Minutes Hand

H

igh above the rusted skyscrapers of Eonia, where the clouds of steam and smog are the thickest, stands the gargantuan Clocktower 17. Even with the thick layers of noxious gasses clouding the sky, the winged hourglass atop the tower glistens in the rays of the rising sun in all its golden beauty. Some stop to gaze in awe at their city’s wonder on their daily commute to work. Though the loud hisses and whirs of the city’s numerous factories filled their ears, as well as the call of the occasional street vendor, and the shuffling of over a billion feet on a cobblestone sidewalk, nothing can deprive their eyes of feasting on such a mechanical marvel, not even the billions of airborne toxins entering their lungs with every gasp of wonder. Behind the tower’s ever-turning gears and several stories below the winged hourglass is the headquarters of Eonia’s elite defense force known as the Chrono-Corps and the laboratory of one Dr. Huang Cho. The good doctor spends the morning hours of his day tinkering away at what would soon be his own mechanical marvel. His leather hands were always in motion on his workbench, making sure all the gears, screws, nuts, and bolts fit exactly where they were supposed to inside a small titanium sphere. While he remained impressed with the innovations of his time, including humanity’s ability to travel through time, and the advancements of the steam engine, he would soon resolve the age-old struggle of not being able to be in two places at once, by way of Eonia’s firstever hologram. Small sparks begin to fly towards the lenses of his goggles as he teased the pen-like instruments to weld the metal pieces together, and his mind spins wild with the vast possibilities of the gadget’s uses: battle tactics, medical research, archiving data. His grin grew wider with each new thought, fiddling with a small wire trying to fit it into a small groove within the sphere. With a sudden click, the metal sphere closed itself shut.

Huang gently removed his hands from his craft with the utmost caution. Wheeling himself away from his workbench, the outlines of the sphere

began to glow as a fully three-dimensional display of himself projected from the sphere’s top. Finally, he had done it! The image before him had stood at his own height of 5’9 and even managed to capture all the intricate features of his soft face with the small pink scar on the left side of his cheek and every lock of his wild dark hair, which meant that the small projector he had placed around the device’s core was running smoothly. The state of the image remained clear like an empty glass, meaning the photo lenses were still intact, and the motion sensors? Huang held up his left arm and the hologram followed suit, he held up the other, and the image mimicked him without flaw.

Before long he was shuffling his feet and moving in a rhythm, dancing around his lab, and even then, the hologram never missed a beat, keeping up with every shuffle and spin, folding in on itself and popping back out again to mimic every twist of his body. Huang let out a triumphant laugh as he plopped back down in his chair continuing to marvel at his own creation; the satisfaction of his success was short-lived as a knock on the door startled him out of his relaxation. “Dr. Cho?” A voice called from behind the door, feelings of panic and dread crept into the doctor’s thoughts as his mind began to register whose voice it was that called him. It was the voice of gentle yet assured authority, though it was feminine, it commanded the respect of over a dozen agents in the Corps, the respect he had only minutes to give. “One moment please!” Anxiety cracked his already moderately high voice as he lay on his back, his goggles had slid off during the fall and he could now clearly see the crimson hue of a woman’s heels at the foot of his door. In one swift and frantic motion he sprang to his feet, deactivating the hologram and shoving the small steel device into the deep pockets of his royal blue lab coat. “Enter.” As the door slid open the clicking of the woman’s heels slowed as she came within speaking distance of him, her light blonde hair was in a tight neat bun as always, the black tuxedo and skirt she wore were spotless, the golden accents of her collar shimmer even in the

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room’s rather bright fluorescence. It was indeed Captain Gwendolyn Wilcove, leader of the Chrono Corps Enforcement division. Though her gray eyes were warm they remained vigilant, easily piercing through the glass lenses of Dr. Cho’s goggles, his eyes darted around the room focusing on anything but hers.

“C-Captain Wilcove! What um-what brings you to my lab?”

“Good morning, Dr. Cho, I’ve come to-” “Yes! I was finally able to run those weapon diagnostics you requested, apparently, the rifle’s chamber was overheating which caused the gun to jam. It should take a couple of hours to fix, but hopefully no longer than that,” Huang quickly turned away, his head now buried in a filing cabinet that lay next to his desk, hands and a mind that were once steady and clear just moments ago were now scattered about, rummaging through a mess of documents desperately searching for the one he just now spoke of.

“Actually, I wanted to discuss-” she tried again, but he continued to ramble on, tossing documents left and right within the drawer as he went, “By the way, I took a look at the latest model of the chrono-matrix, and I might have found a way to add at least 2.5% more Grain fragments to the device’s gauge without the matrix overloading.

This could, in theory, make traveling to a specific point in time more precise; an adjustment that could be more than beneficial to the Corps.”

“That’s wonderful doctor, but-’’ “Speaking of the Corps, I was thinking of field testing the droid automatons on the next mission to reduce the rising number of casualties. If not that, then I was thinking maybe I could weave pieces of Kevlar into the uniform’s fabric or-” “Huang!”

“Captain?” Dr. Cho now stood at attention holding several files close to his chest. He removed his goggles, letting his honey-brown eyes finally meet her gaze.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, Captain, w-why wouldn’t I be?”

Captain Wilcove slowly paced around the laboratory, placing a gentle hand on the young engineer’s numerous inventions, her fingertips lightly brushing up against the cold steel of a newly assembled android as she scanned its craftsmanship from head to toe. She moved on to a small table with several beakers positioned in a circle

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containing the small crystalline Grain fragments, the main resource responsible for exploring the vast multiverse throughout time and space, and then finally stopped where an assault rifle lay disassembled and deconstructed with all 30 bullets lined up in five rows of six. “This is some impressive work you do here, Doctor Cho,” she says as she picks up one of the bullets, eyeing it closely, “you bring great value to this team.”

“Thank you, Captain, ‘impressive’ isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think of building and modifying WMDs, however, it is for the good of the Corps.”

“As you know, not everyone shares this view, some even think you should be on the frontlines, fighting the good fight with talent like yours.”

Huang’s brow furrowed at the thought of others dictating where his place should be. The good doctor knew his skills and knew where they would best be of use. Both he and the captain knew this.

She continued, “While I do believe your talents are best suited for the department of Science and Engineering in the Corps, I also believe it can be unproductive for an agent to be in a position he finds comfortable for an extended period of time.”

Cho’s hands went cold with sweat despite them being safely tucked away in the warmth of his lab coat, “Captain Wilcove,” he began, “With all due respect, removing me from my work and/or this environment would not be in your or the corps best interest. Despite what others may think, I’m closer to the front lines than ever. I build the frontlines.”

He pulled out a drawer under his workbench to reveal a folded royal blue corps uniform with clockwork gold accents and buttons, pointing to a small, blackened hole where the winged hourglass was, near the chest area. “The man in this uniform was shot point-blank by a Kar-98 sniper rifle, by my guess he was sent to an alternate future where Nazis rose to power and survived past the second world war given the model of the rifle. I catch a whiff of gunpowder each time I modify or disassemble the standard Corp firearm. I’ve looked down the barrel too, Captain, it may be from a different angle but it’s a barrel all the same.”

There was a long silence suffocating the room and Captain Wilcove remained with her back turned to him, giving no indication of how his protest was received. “R-respectfully sir.” Dr. Cho added, coming to the realization of what he just said and to whom he just said it to. He suddenly

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found his eyes dancing around the room again, dreading the minute he would be stripped of his rank and evicted from the world of his own design within the confines of his laboratory. All his years of study, getting into the best universities with his 12th-level intellect, all the countless designs thought of and built in this very space and everything that will be built, evaporated in a span of seconds all because he grew too big of a backbone in the defense of his work, ironically, some may call it obsessive.

“I believe you misunderstand, doctor.” she finally said, turning to him, “I’m promoting you to an official field agent of the Chrono Corps.”

“Captain?”

“It is because of your exceptional genius that I made the decision to put you in the field, Doctor Cho. You build marvelous technology in this laboratory and will continue to do so. However, from this day forward I am also officially granting you access to not just observe but explore the many different alternate timelines in the multiverse.

You shall dedicate yourself to protecting those in timelines we may deem unstable.” Huang couldn’t believe what he was hearing, for a moment he couldn’t find the words to respond. His mind knew exactly how he felt, but his lips would not execute his thoughts accordingly. This was indeed wonderful news, he was being given the golden opportunity to step outside the Clocktower walls and quite literally dive into a whole new world, to bear witness to how one small change in a timeline can give birth to a whole new universe, to any number of universes. All the while he was free to expand on the innovations and inventions in his own timeline. This was a promotion in every sense of the word, so what was this hollowness he felt inside? “You should prepare, your first assignment is today. The mission briefing will be at 09:00 hours, I look forward to your attendance.” With that, she folded her hands behind her back and started towards the door, Huang fixated on her golden prosthetic left hand as she made her exit, the clicking of her heels growing faint as she made her way down the hall.

Though his pocket watch read 9:00 am, Huang couldn’t help but feel as though he should have arrived thirty minutes earlier. He entered through the bronze double doors of the boardroom to find Captain Wilcove, and a man who he could only assume was an agent of a higher rank waiting for

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him. He took his seat at the edge of a long steel table, sitting directly across from where the captain stood next to a wide projector at the front of the room, “A pleasure you could join us, doctor.” she says with a business-like smile. “Now, as I was saying,” She turns to a small console twisting a small dial counterclockwise, the lights began to dim as the image of a bloodied corpse came into view.

“This was the scene at 8:30 pm yesterday evening on the 6th floor of the penthouse of multi-billionaire and top Grain factory investor, Phineas Overton. Though Overton had a long list of competitors, some of whom were no doubt his enemies, we’ve deduced that a kill of this caliber was done by none other than the group of assassins known as the Fist of The Minute’s Hand.”

“The Minute’s Hand? Those who are known to eliminate their targets within the span of one day?”

“One second.” the man said turning his head slightly to look at him, “Excuse me?”

“The assassins are given 24 hours to gather all intel on their targets, the assassination time itself is only one second.”

Huang studied the body more closely, a thin red gash that barely spanned from ear to ear was on Overton’s throat, as well as a large red stain on the right side of his chest. However, he also noticed that the rest of his clothes were rather clean. There was no hint of any spatter on his trousers or shoes or all other places where blood residue should have been if the killer had used a weapon at all, but there was none. “Fascinating…”

“It’s sloppy.” The man said, “It took the assassin two whole attempts to kill. Given the shards of glass surrounding the body, he came through the sixth-story window, landing his hidden blade square on the right side of the target’s chest. It took him about half a minute too long to realize the man was still breathing and went for his throat, finishing him off.”

Captain Wilcove took note of the brief exchange between the two, “I don’t believe the two of you have been properly introduced, Dr. Huang Cho, this is agent Kane Cutley; one of our best as well as your new partner. on this mission, and future ones to come.” At the mention of his name, Kane stood up from his seat, the backlight from the projector caused the rounded deep red lenses he wore to glow, the twin katanas on his back gave off a faint glimmer as well as his silver-salt and

Illustration by Brooke Larcher, Carlin Jasper, and Charles Elmore Jr.

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pepper-colored hair. He stood tall in his Corp uniform with a rather emotionless expression.

Though he had already been formally spoken for, Kane Cutley needed no further introduction.

Stationed over 12 years in Edo Japan with over 20 confirmed kills in samurai warfare alone, and 30 covert op assassinations of over 72 daimyo, Kane Cutley was the true definition of elite. With feats that high, one earned themselves a codename used by many, and his was “Cutthroat.” Perhaps his most notable and most recent title was being one of seven members of the Forever-Men: an elite squad of Chrono-Corps agents. Huang held out a hand for the esteemed agent to shake, but Cutley remained still with his arms crossed in disapproval.

“What’s the mission, Captain?” He said, his blood-red lenses still focused on Huang.

“With the investigation gone cold in just a matter of hours, given the efficiency and the covertness of this kill, your objective is to go back 24 hours to disrupt the assassins’ intel phase and potentially avert the assassination altogether. Our paradox analysts ran through all the data and possible scenarios, if all goes well, this should be a safe jump, though we’ll be on high alert for any possibly dangerous alternate timelines that spawn from your mission in the past. In addition, we want our assassin alive, we need more intel on how they may plan to impact Grain production in the future.”

“Understood.” Kane took one last look at the screen, “I have no doubt that this mission will go rather smoothly, the assassin missed the kill window by 29 seconds, if he went back into the shadows and lived, he no doubt led us a trail for us to follow.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Cho blurted out, finally finding an opening to speak, “but you seem to know a suspicious amount of intel about these assassins already.”

“I was one of them,” Cutley said coldly.

Once again Huang had seemingly lost the ability to speak, his throat had gone dry. One of the most decorated and skilled men in the corps, now his partner, was once a part of the deadliest groups in the world and here he stood, highest ranked in a force of peacekeepers and most trusted by the captain herself. His mind began to spin to a dangerous thought: Just how many kills of Cutley’s had gone unconfirmed? How many of them are civilian women? Children? His voice returned, in a tone shaken and grave, “C-Captain you can’t seriously think so highly of this man.”

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“Are you questioning my judge of character, doctor?” Captain Wilcove asked, “I don’t trust him.”

Before Wilcove could retort, Kane held up a hand silencing her temporarily, “It’s alright, Gwendolyn.” He turned to Huang once more, so close that his icy dark eyes could be seen through his red lenses, “You have every right not to trust me, Dr. Cho, you shouldn’t. For all you know, what’s to stop me from slitting your throat right here? Too much trust in anyone can get you killed faster than any assassin, not unless that trust is earned,” his voice was so cold yet calculating, and spoke as if his very words were his real weapons and that the katanas on his back were just for show.

“Well,” Wilcove said, “I guess this meeting is adjourned. I expect you both to be in the airship hangar bay at 11:00 hours.” Kane nodded to the captain giving her a small salute on his way out. “Doctor.” he finally said right before finally leaving, not bothering to look at him.

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WANT TO SUBMIT A PIECE?

YOU’RE IN LUCK! Submit your writing at theforgegmu@gmail.com or forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu to get your work published!

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Ballad of the Sulfur Swamp

By Ross Creason

In the village of Fjyllvaster, north of the sulfur bog, Folks there tell a tragic tale with a twist epilogue: Fjyllvaster was a quiet place (though easy to misspell) never a crime or incident, ‘til crossed by ancient spell.

First the livestock started dying, goats butchered in fieldswith only goats as witnesses, the threat remained concealed.

Then one fateful summer night, the bladesmith’s daughter Bess was walking home from chapel when her heart stopped in her chest.

A full moon lit the lonely road, she heard the crickets humming.

She smelled the sulfur from the swamp and knew something was coming.

When she saw the creature, just a breath before she fell, His eyes were black and empty- She heard the Reaper’s BellBut young Bess had combat training and knew a couple tricks, her wit quicker than whistling and her blade quicker than wit.

She slashed him like the tailor cutting ribbons for a dance, but left him breathing long enough that by unlucky chance, The parting clouds let moonlight shine on hungry pointed teethHe howled for fate and fury, his curse so near completeThe creature snapped his hateful fangs and thought he’d won until, with blade bespoke, and gods invoked, she bid the beast farewell.

A passing cart soon found the girl and took her home to heal.

They say her scars were shining white, her hair turned silver steel.

Bessie moved away and left her family in Fjyllvaster.

She gave no reason, just a note, and wrote no letters after.

Folks say around the quiet town they’ve seen no monster since, no livestock going missing, no trace of fur or prints.

Now the strangeness is long past us, neighbors are doing well, there’s no sign of curse or creature save what story-singers tell.

But the wives and daughters whisper- as wives and daughters dothat if a man is violent, or a lover is untrue,

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Go down among the mangroves late after the sun’s departed.

Tell the trees the name of one who’s rotten or cold-hearted.

If someone has left you weeping, or gives you cause to fear, then with the waxing of the moon the threat will disappear.

Whether by fangs or witchery. they ring the Reaper’s Bell.

The she-wolf of the Sulfur Swamp protects her sisters well.

Illustration by Carlin Jasper

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After the Fire

Illustration by Camellia Au

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After the Fire

By Valerir Larrieu

Under a full moon, one life for six is what it takes to clear a queen’s name.

T

he full moon shone cold rays on her pale face, casting its monthly judgment on her.

Every full moon she came, waited, hoped, prayed, begged. Every full moon, disappointment lodged itself deeper in her heart, a dull friend to the bitter loneliness that took up permanent residence there.

Every month she relived it. Even in the bitter, cold midwinter night, she could smell the smoke that drifted to her nose, burning her lungs. Feel the searing heat on her toes as the fire climbed higher and higher. Hear the tortured scream that ripped its way from her throat. The only sound she’d made in five years, three hundred sixty four days, and twenty three hours.

Then, nothing but cold. Her voice saved her.

It damned her brothers. She’d never had another child. Nor had she found the first two, which had been stolen from her. She and her husband had long since stopped trying. The king remained faithful, or at the very least discreet, but their relationship had frozen over. She figured he must have learned from his mistake. Never wed someone for her beauty alone. She had certainly learned from hers.

Never wed someone to escape your demons.

The rustle of wings filled the otherwise still night. Hope burned a cool ember in the pit of her stomach. She tried to ignore it, but it was the warmest thing she’d felt in the last five years.

A flurry of gossamer feathers blinded her, then they stopped before her. Six pairs of eyes burned into her. Accused her. Condemned her. She basked in the warmth.

She blinked. Blinked again. Their forms became blurry as saltwater clouded her vision, but they remained. Still. Solemn. Despite their unhappiness, she felt a smile tear its way across her face, using muscles she hadn’t used in almost twelve years.

The eldest greeted her in their native tongue, speaking her old name, which was foreign on lips still used to being a swan’s beak.

Her brother wasted no time. “We have visited with the sorceress.” His voice was hoarse and clipped. He’d often taken that tone when he was the heir to a mighty throne.

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. The sorceress was everything she and her mother had never been.

She was heat and flame, wind and movement. No wonder the king had forgotten his old family the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

“And we have a deal.” The embers of hope kindled themselves into a tiny flame. Her breath caught in her throat and stuck there. “One life for six.”

He opened his hands and held out a cloak of snowy white feathers stitched together with golden thread. She swallowed and met his gaze.

Her youngest brother spoke up. His voice was deep now. He was a soprano when the transformation happened. Now, his tenor trembled with the weight of words he normally wasn’t able to speak. “Please.”

She couldn’t tear her gaze from that cloak.

It looked the same as the ones she had made, white where hers had been orange. Hers were camouflaged in the fire, spicing the air with the scent of failure and chrysanthemums.

She touched it. The feathers were icy and brittle.

Her hand shook. Her body shook. One life for six. It was her turn now. She looked back into her brother’s eyes. A question lingered in the air between them.

He shook his head. “One life for six. It’s our last chance.”

Shivering, she grabbed the material and embraced her brother in a one-sided hug. He stiffened, but didn’t force her away. His body was emaciated and frigid. But that was okay. They could warm themselves by her fire. Clear her name with the nobility who still whispered about her supposed evildoing when they thought no one was listening. One life for six.

A flash of light, a tornado of glass feathers blinding as the winter sun on a snowy day,, and she was gone. Six men stood in her place, watching her go, their human skins settling over human bones, enchantment fading from their eyes. One life for six. They were free.

Illustration by Camellia Au

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Harvest for Tomorrow

By Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick A pyromancer stuck in their ways and an immortal learning to adapt to their inherited curse fight to survive a force of nature.

“T

o start harvesting a captive Demeter beetle, you must remove its shell alive, son. Or else, it’ll release a neurotoxin that’ll cripple you, leaving you in unbearable pain and with nothing left to harvest,” he said to me before handing me his knife. I took it and it was big, heavy. Looking at it, when I held it out in front of me, the size almost blocked the horn of the Demeter beetle that father had tied up in hemp rope.

“Yes, sir, but can you do it for me again, please?” I pleaded, my head sunken and leaning against my rifle.

I didn’t like hunting Demeter beetles and he knew why.

“I cannot. It’ll feel like tearing off someone’s fingernail when you do it, and even worse for him,” he said while not unkindly elbowing the beetle.

“But nothing is gained without something being lost. You must.” That was why I didn’t want to.

It wasn’t because of its jaw that put the Hercules beetles that my mother would show me in bestiary encyclopedias to shame. It wasn’t the defensive buzzes that it made while opening its wings in a deimatic display to scare us off either. I just couldn’t accept the pain it would take, but I had to.

I knew how to do it, but I also knew it would be worse than tearing off someone’s fingernail since, in this case, it made up their whole back. He wasn’t telling me how it would really feel. Lying was the right thing to do.

“Go ahead,” he told me, guiding my hand from behind to meet the closest chink of its exoskeleton near its neck. As soon as I made my first incision, it vibrated and pleaded in undecipherable buzzes.

I felt myself try to jump back from it even though I knew it would be loud, but my father held me in place. That’s how you do it- I knew how to do it.

In ten minutes, it had been done. In twenty, we had its pieces on the wheelbarrow. “Why couldn’t we have had the cattle, sir?” I said it too slowly, but Father pretended he didn’t notice.

“Because it would’ve killed them. Our cattle.

We won’t see tomorrow without them.” He said, finally picking the wheelbarrow up by its handles and pushing it. He was as strong as if he had lived like this his whole life, but he hadn’t. “And because

you will need to know how to do things that are painful,” he added.

I knew this was true, but I was a child. There wasn’t any way that I couldn’t be ignorant of it.

Before I was born, he was forced to join the Changed as punishment for a crime. Those like him are men cursed to die and be reborn by changing who they are the way anyone does through important, traumatic, and passionate experiences. Having been so young, I hadn’t changed enough to remember what it was like. I knew that I had once died when I was younger when I grew into the essentialisms that make me. There was a grave for it outside with the many others my father had grown out of.

“Yes, sir,” I said promptly. I was nine and had inherited the curse of the Changed by blood.

I knew it’d be painful when my next change came. What I did know was overheard through the thin timber of my bedroom door. I had heard my mother nurse and ease my father through one after she returned home from the market. I understood our curse was a punishment from the volume of my father’s screams. Even though she so dutifully helped carry his body to the yard, that was the last night I remember my mother living with us. My father told me that anyone can invoke changes in people like us, but he didn’t say how; only that we need to look out for others.

Walking through my front door for another hunt today with my rifle on my back, I feel the cool breeze filter through my beard. He was right, Father was. In the same way that we change the lives of the animals we hunt to get by, we can’t do much to help us from changing the lives of the people we meet.

We change the people we meet by living and change ourselves through living. I’m not the child who could barely hold a knife anymore. Now, I pass the red columbine that pushes through his last grave and close the front garden gate behind me. * * * My lord can dine and waste away all day; so much so that he must send even his court mage to

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find him dinner instead of his hunters. Even out on the road, he makes it his business to be a black hole.

“I need a mage with clairvoyance. We need eyes everywhere! Not some fireball-spitting dropout,” he told me, fearing how exposed we are out here. Well, this dropout is all he’s got and I’m no informant. No real graduate would serve a jumped-up barbarian who simply killed the right man. Even if the best court mages were expected to aid them as their spies, nothing is wrong with fire magic. Even if it is just my brand of “low-grade pyromancies.” It doesn’t take long for a child to learn to light a candle and control fire. It works well enough, too, for the lord’s means. It puts fear into the hearts of those who are flammable, and I haven’t met someone who isn’t yet. Why should I change my style?

It won’t be mine to eat either, the beetle. That hog-of-a-lord told me that it didn’t matter if I hadn’t hunted one before. He only said “You got fire! Just cook the thing!” Fair enough, I suppose, but as a new “member” of the court of lords, he quickly forgets how helpful I am in battle. No one listens to him anyway. Had he known me before the gluttony of the court, I think we’d get along nicely.

Finally catching up to the tracks of a beetle, I see him. He’s easy prey; he’s sleeping prey. I think to myself that one small volley, or maybe a quick flash of heat will be enough to cook it. Leaning back as if to throw a ball, I form the fire in my hand, spinning it around as if it were clay. Deciding to go with the volley, the forest clearing ahead erupts in flames as a torrent of my pyromancies shower it. * * * It was as if the beetle were enchanted. One moment the creature was asleep just as I was about to begin tying it up. By the next, we were both set ablaze. When it knocked me back, I knew it had already initiated my transformation. The beetle’s shell has been cracked and my legs have become numb. My rifle’s ammo exploded by the heat of it, ruining my legs further with shrapnel and filling them with holes of hot lead. I know it was bad from the way I can only faintly feel the skin of my legs cracking as they finally lose all sensation.

“Help!” I yell hoping maybe some carriage driver, trader, or even highwayman might hear me.

In seconds, he yells “You damned idiot!” That is all that I get back. I don’t understand.

Spring 2023

Through the embers, a man with a summoning spear clad in a red tunic approaches me. It takes all of my strength to evacuate the smoke from my lungs and replace it with air just to yell for help once more. All I get in return is “That was the lord’s dinner I was hunting, you dolt!”

I cough and finally get the strength of speaking fluidly. “Idiot? Dinner? Dolt? Was it you that lit the beetle and me on fire?!” I prop myself up, feeling the crumbling, blackened leaves in my hands. “If I were anyone else, you’d have killed me!”

He laughs at me without a care for me. “You are anyone else, old man. You’re lucky it was just your legs,” he tells me. “I am the lord’s court mage! I stop armies with that kind of magic. You should be proud to survive it!”

“Proud?! Once I’m up I’ll-” I stop talking. The mage does too, and we hear the beetle lift itself up on its hind legs and tower over him. The mage reacts quickly, casting a thin ward around us and leaving the beetle to lean its entire weight against the spell. It’s already too late though-- I feel myself change as my body leaves itself. I scream horrifically the same way I have before. My skin begins to stretch, and my bones begin to pop as if they were a hatching egg.

The mage doesn’t hear my cries. He only hears the thumping of the beetle against the ward, muffled as if it were through glass. It makes the ward seem as fragile as it looks. “Hold on there!”

He yells to me, still not looking my way.

I can’t. Soon, my new body leaves my corpse crimson and with working legs. Feeling my face, I can tell that this change has aged me further. Only now though, does the mage turn around to see me and my dead double. Losing his concentration instantly, the ward falls, and he is wordlessly run down by the beetle. Turning on my hip, trying to peel my new legs out from the old pair like a lizard during ecdysis, I see only a twenty-yard trail of the mage’s body left.

Out of them now, skyclad and red, the Demeter beetle and I look at each other eye-to-eye. It roars with its vibrating wings, and I pick up the mage’s spear. Father was right, but we all need to change.

Regardless of any curse, we need to harvest who we are now to feed who we could be tomorrow.

Without learning and change, we are lost. I bring the spear into both of my arms, aiming it as easily as my father’s knife at the seams of the beetle’s exoskeleton, and we charge at each other.

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Spring 2023

The Change

By Joshua Trupo Huitaca, an Incan warrior able to shapeshift into a massive panther, is forced to face the possible loss of her own sanity to protect and avenge her people from the Spanish invasion.

H

uitaca was on the prowl, carefully traversing the vibrant and varied green landscape of trees, all dripping with vines and other shrubs and plant-life reaching up towards the sun, the source of all life. She wore her human form, for the moment, placing each step with such control and deli so as not to make a sound.

Huitaca was a plain-looking woman, none of her features standing out save for her eyes which shone yellow in the dark night. She was short, for her people, barely reaching the shoulders of the other members of her tribe. Her skin was a soft sun-kissed brown, black hair cropped at her chin tied up in a knot. She wore simple clothes, rough cloth covering only her hips and torso, even now prepared to change at a moment’s notice She stalked her prey the way her father had taught her years ago, remembering his lessons in moving quietly with expertly honed control over every last muscle in her body. She felt the desire to change, the fire burning within her to be let out, but she fought it back. That had been happening more, of late, the change starting to creep up upon her on its own, desperate to come out. Tonight, she knew she had to hunt as herself, not with the other form. Her prey, an unwitting capybara, was to be a sacrifice to Pacha Mama, which meant it must be killed the old way, the human way.

She took a few more steps, slipping behind a tree and looking upon the clearing before her. The capybara, a large, round rodent covered in a coarse fur the color of a tree trunk, was sitting lazily before a small stream. Occasionally it bent down to lap at the water. Huitaca lifted her perfectly sharpened stone spear, shortened compared to those borne by her tribe in order to match her stature. Huitaca knew, from experience, that this shortening was no issue. As long as her aim stayed true, the sharp point of the spear would secure the kill.

Huitaca took a step towards the clearing, preparing to launch. She took a deep breath, calming herself, before chucking her weapon with a loud grunt that echoed faintly through the wilderness. She watched as the spear took the

capybara between the ribs, a perfect shot piercing the beast’s heart.

She ran to the animal, comforting it as it went through the throes of death. She did not want it to suffer, and was glad that her throw had landed well, killing the capybara almost instantly.

Huitaca removed her spear, grabbing a nearby leaf to wipe away the blood before placing it in the sling on her back. She bent down and struggled to heft the carcass of the giant rodent, eventually getting it up and placing the weight on her shoulders. She began to move east, back to her people. They would be waiting eagerly for her return, and she meant to leave them waiting no longer than was necessary.

She received a cacophony of cheers and salutations as she carried her quarry through the village, people emerging from their tents and huts to clap and sing praises to the sun. She made her way to the great fire that burned eternally at the center of town. She nodded to the keepers of the fire, whose sole purpose was to see that the flames remained bright and strong, an ever-beckoning symbol to Inti, the Sun God. She walked up to the man, broad of shoulder and tall, even sitting on the marvelously made chair, the wood worked and carved to give the impression of sitting on a throne of twisting and slithering anacondas. It was an ancient throne made generations ago, commissioned by an old king who some said was the mortal son of Inti. A regal throne, indeed. She knelt before the man, placing the carcass at his feet. She bowed her head, looking down at the ground as she spoke.

“I bring this gift to you, to give to Pacha Mama.

Please accept this sacrifice, and may her loving embrace protect you and our people.”

The man on the chair stood, looking down at the animal placed before him. He bent to inspect it, noting the deadly wound in its side.

“A wonderful throw, my daughter. I have taught you well.”

Huitaca stood, her smile breaking the formality of the delivery. She embraced her father, Punchao,

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The Change

leader of their people. Sometimes it was hard being his daughter, many of their interactions forced to be laden with the customs of their people. But when Punchao dropped his airs and spoke to Huitaca, not as a member of the tribe, but as his daughter, the love he bore her became clear.

“The old way, father, though I felt the fire to change. It has been happening more and more often lately.”

“As well you didn’t. You know our customs; you know why we hold to the old ways at times. We must never lose our humanity. That is why you must strive to hold back that fire, releasing it only when you decide, not on its own.”

Huitaca nodded solemnly. She turned from her father to look upon her people, beginning to arrive and crowd around the sacred flames. The village was arrayed in a sort of spiral formation, with the great flame at the center and the chief ’s hut beside it. Personal abodes clustered circularly around the center, reaching farther back until they reached the craftsmen’s tents placed along the edges of the clearing.

Huitaca loved her people, every one of them.

Even Micos and Pacari, childhood friends who had drifted away when the change came upon Huitaca, sometimes even displaying unnecessary cruelty.

Although, in theory, the change was a gift from the heavens, those who possessed the ability made many of their people uncomfortable. Only when the light men came, the ones in metal clothes, were Huitaca and the other changers heralded as heroes.

Even amongst the changers, Huitaca was a bit of an outcast. Where they were able to transform into massive, powerful jaguars, Huitaca’s form was significantly larger and bore the pitch black fur that emerged from time to time amongst those great cats. Her form earned her much honor, seen as a special blessing from Inti, but it also served as a barrier between those of her kind.

Punchao, upon seeing the difference of Huitaca’s form, had wanted her to lead the changers. He had tried to groom her and train her to take control, but Huitaca had never wanted to lead. She did not have the temperament for it, or accurately did not want to have the temperament for it. She preferred to hunt alone, working in the night to secure prey.

Only when the metal men came did she choose to work with the other changers, joining in the planning of their ambushes in unison.

Spring 2023

The metal men kept coming and thinking about them put Huitaca ill at ease. Her father was sure that they could handle these incursions, especially with the changers to turn the tides of battle. Still, Huitaca had noticed a pattern with these men.

More came every time, bearing strange weapons made of powerfully sharpened stone that shone in the sun. She worried that defeat was inevitable, and that her people were simply buying time before they met their end.

Of course, Huitaca would never voice these concerns to anyone but her father. Doubting the strength of her people would only serve to ostracize her even more. Her father, though, never took these worries very seriously. The gods have given us the means to protect ourselves, he always said, believing that the changers could protect this people against any foe.

Huitaca took her place amongst the revelry of the sacrifice as the capybara was tossed onto the great flame, the smoke of its burning carried off by the wind to the heavens. She joined the calls and songs while nearby people beat on small leather drums or piped away on their pan flutes. These ceremonies were the only time she could lose herself in the excitement, her sense of self dissipating into the feeling of belonging. On a night like tonight, nobody could make her feel different, like an other.

She danced with the men and women of her tribe, calling to the heavens for protection and good fortune, praising Inti and his Sun. The next morning, Huitaca arose, head aching slightly from the night of drink and dance. She put on her clothes; the thin woolen straps built to accommodate the change. They were tied together in a way that they would fall off when she transformed, ready to be picked up once she was done.

Huitaca snuck out of her tent and creeped her way out of the village. She kept walking until she came to the cliff that marked the end of their home’s plateau. She stood at that edge, precariously poised, looking down at the broken earth leading into the luscious valley that sat far below her.

She looked to the sun and said a small prayer to Inti, asking him to bless her hunt. Yesterday she hunted for her people. Today, she did it for herself. She felt the fire rising inside her without her calling upon it, and this time she did not fight it. She embraced the fire, feeding it her sense of self and her emotions. Fear, joy, pain, love; it all went into the flame.

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She felt her limbs grow, claws emerging where her hands had been. She relished the pain of the change. It made her feel alive, truly alive, like nothing else. She finished her transformation, changed from a small woman into a massive black panther. She howled at the world, the sound echoing off the valleys below.

She finally felt like herself. She knew it was important to walk the human form more often than not. There were stories of changers who lost themselves to the change, forgetting their human origins, losing their sentience, and becoming, truly becoming, the animal they changed to. Huitaca felt that pull, but knew enough to not give in, despite the fire of the change coming when she did not call it.

She roared again as she began to run through the jungle, leaping with the grace and power that she possessed only in this form. As she ran, she caught the scent of a tapir off in the distance. Her mouth salivated at the thought. She slowed her run and began to prowl, staying low to the ground and moving with the same careful assuredness she had shown in her human form. Moreso, even.

She leapt up into a tree, hopping along the massive branches, until she found herself just above the tapir. She snarled silently before hopping down and pouncing upon the lone animal. Her teeth tore at its throat, killing it instantly. Blood flowed into her mouth, and she drank it with the intensity of one who had reached a stream after finishing a long trek, having long ago run out of water. The blood filled her and energized her as she continued to tear flesh from the carcass, swallowing it.

She sat for a time, eating her fill, until she could eat no more. She was sad to see there was more to be had, sad at the waste that she had caused.

However, her sorrow did not last long. After a time, the jaguars came. They knew her, and she them.

These were not changers, but true wild beasts. One jaguar came, sniffing at her kill, waiting to see if she would chase them off. She put her head down, looking away, inviting them to share her kill.

Three more jaguars emerged from the shadows, tearing at the remaining meat with their sharp teeth. Huitaca towered over them, her form far larger and stronger, more fearsome than her cousins, as she thought of them. They respected her, weary of her power, but knew she meant them no harm. How could she? In this form, in truth in both her forms, she felt more of a kinship with these creatures than she did with her own people,

Spring 2023

despite the love she felt for her community.

Her people just didn’t understand. Even the other changers, they valued their animal forms, relished in the power it gave, but to them the animal was the other, the human their true self. That was not so with Huitaca. She knew, in her core, that this was her true self. She could never put it in so many words, but something inside her felt it all the same.

Huitaca, full of her meal, found a nice low branch on which to perch and lounge. She had no obligations to see to today. Her people had plenty of food from recent hunts, and there had been no sign of the metal men, or any rival tribes. All that was required of her was to do her part in the patrol, but her turn wasn’t until this evening.

Huitaca regularly was assigned to patrol in the night. Her jet-black fur allowed her to fade into the shadows, unseen by any potential attackers. Patrols had been increased these past few months. The metal men had been driven off for now, but Chasca, the head of the changers, agreed with Huitaca that their return was inevitable.

Beyond that, there had also been incidents with a nearby tribe. Two hunters from Huitaca’s people had been found, not only dead, but torn to pieces by the claws and jaws of enemy changers. Her father was working, diplomatically, to prevent a war.

She knew that was best for her people, but a small part of her relished the opportunity to pit herself against enemy changers. A chance to hunt prey that could fight back.

The recent attacks had people on edge, but between the increased patrols and Punchao’s calm confidence that the changers could protect the people, not much had changed in the daily life of the common citizens. They hunted, wove reeds, tended to the llamas, and went about their days. A touch of fear remained, but not enough to disrupt the lives of her people. Not yet at least.

Huitaca woke a few hours later to the scent of fire. Not the great fire, which was fed with dry wood. This was a fire that burned green, living trees. The kind that let off a large amount of smoke, with that particularly wet smell.

Huitaca leapt from her perch, dashing between the trees as she ran towards the fire, towards her people’s village. She used the trees when necessary to cross the difficult expanses of jungle. Her hunt had taken her far, but she covered the distance much more quickly now, no longer needing to move slowly and methodically to stalk her prey. She unleashed

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the full speed and agility of her panther form.

As she emerged from the jungle into the clearing on the plateau her people called home, she came upon a chilling sight. The village was on fire, huts and tents and buildings all torched. Trees surrounding the clearing were engulfed in flames.

She slowed as she came upon the village, unsure if the perpetrators of this horror were still in the area.

Huitaca prowled the remnants of her village, fear and sorrow filling her heart as she noted the bodies. As she approached the center, where her father lived, she saw two of her fellow changers dead outside the hut. They had been cut to pieces, wounds reminiscent of the ones others had received from the metal men and their long, reflective stone weapons. As she looked closer, she found smaller wounds as well, made by miniscule pellets that had hit in a scattered pattern. She had never seen the like before, which worried her. The metal men had come equipped with some new weapon, and it appeared it had been effective in defeating changers.

Huitaca tried to find reasons not to enter her father’s abode. She looked around more, noting the dead keepers of the fire, and the way that the great fire had been scattered, likely causing the destructive flames that engulfed her people’s home.

She told herself that she was seeking out survivors, ready to help them escape as she explored the outskirts of the plateau. She told herself that she had to secure the area before investigating further. Anything and everything to avoid entering her father’s home. As long as she stayed out, she could still believe, still pretend, that he was okay.

Eventually she ran out of things to do and found herself outside the small home once again, sitting between the two dead changers. She took a deep breath and tried to return to human form As she did, the grief and anger and despair crept upon her.

She wanted to let go, escape those emotions, but she knew there was work to be done. Eventually she regained control of herself, finally letting the fire and anger in her heart dissipate, replacing it with fear and apprehension.

Finally, she stepped into the home, confirming her worst nightmares. Her father was dead, his head removed and sitting on the floor next to his body on his seat. He had been tortured, it seemed, tied to the throne and peppered with countless cuts and slices covering his arms and legs.

Spring 2023

Huitaca felt a dichotomy of emotions within her heart. She felt the rage at the injustice and the determination to get vengeance. She also felt the destruction of her hopes, the drive to hold her father’s body as she succumbed to the tears.

Knowing that if she let herself grieve at this moment she would never recover, Huitaca pushed aside her pain and drove away her tears. She fed her despair and anger and loss into the fire inside of her, building and enraging it until it felt like it would consume her. She hardly had to work at it, the fire inside her desperate to consume the cacophony of emotions inside her. She changed into her panther form, yowling as loud and as deeply as she could.

She bolted from the home, seeking the scent and trail of the survivors. As she walked around the outskirts of the destroyed village, she came across the scent of some of her fellow changers.Her and her companions left behind a distinct scent, not unlike the one left behind by the wild jaguars, but with the added touch of humanity mixed in.

She followed the scent, finding the signs of her people’s frantic escape. Paw prints, broken branches, scattered items dropped in the haste of their departure, and drops of blood from untreated wounds. She followed the trial off to the small leatherworker’s encampment set up alongside a nearby river.

As she emerged from the clearing, she was greeted by three growling and hissing jaguars, too big to be wild. She dropped her form, for once doing so easily, prompting the other changers to follow suit. Before her stood one man and two women, Anyas, Quenti, and Puna.

Anyas stepped forward and took Huitaca into an embrace, tears streaming down his face. He held her for a moment before stepping back, searching Huitaca for wounds, finding none.

“We thought you were dead,” he said. “When you didn’t come to help fight, we’d assumed the men in metal suits had found you while you were hunting.

Your father refused to believe, though. He told us to wait and see, that you would come to save us.

Save them.”

The words hit Huitaca like a punch to the gut.

She looked around, noting a few more of her fellow changers emerging from the huts, as well as others of her people. All the children had gotten out, it seemed, as they were herded back inside by Ozcollo.

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Huitaca looked around at the sad and bloody remnants of her people. Her father had died, hoping and waiting for his daughter to come save him.

Save his people. She had failed them. She wanted to break down and cry, to bury her head in the mud and try to pretend that this horror was simply a nightmare. Again, she felt the creaming call of the change. A way to escape this pain.

Yet she knew that was not meant to be. Her people, at least some of them, were still alive. She had failed to save her father, but she knew he would want her to help those who remained. She steeled herself against the despair she felt building inside of her, her eyes hardening and lips drawing into a near snarl.

“Where are the ones who did this?” She asked.

“We’ve tracked them to a small encampment by the Green Falls,” said Quenti, stepping forward.

“There’s thirty, perhaps even as much as fifty of them. We didn’t want to get too close, and risk being seen. Those new weapons of theirs, like a long metal tube, it shoots fire and rock, killing even a changer, piercing our thick hides..”

Huitca’s mind raced. Fifty men in metal suits.

These new, powerful weapons. And what did she have at her disposal? A collection of common people, a grouping of children, perhaps ten true fighters and only six changers, including herself. How she was meant to pit what was left of her people against that many metal men, she had no idea.

“We will rest.” Huitaca found herself saying.

“Lick our wounds and prepare for vengeance. Our people still live, and we will rebuild. We must. Let us pray to Inti, pray to Pacha Mama, to give us the strength to drive these monsters from our lands.

Nobody questioned Huitaca’s orders, seeing it as perfectly natural for her to step up and lead.

Her father had been chief, and she was the biggest and strongest of the changers. Her people simply nodded, pushing aside their grief, and began to settle down.

Tents went up, and room was made in the two small huts where the leatherworkers would leave hides to dry. Food was found, some foraged and some brought in by the two changers Huitaca had sent out to hunt. The children, for the most part, stayed inside. Meanwhile Huitaca sat around a small fire placed into a hole they had dug, in order to prevent it from being seen by their enemies’ scouts.

Huitaca looked at her army, pitiful as it was.

Eleven men and women comfortable with spear

Illustration by Celeste Cortes

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and bow, only four of them with any real battle experience. Five changers, six including herself, one of which was still young and very new to his jaguar form.

She spoke with her warriors, trying to develop a method of attack. None of them suggested that they flee. She was proud of them for that. They knew they would likely die, but a chance to mete out justice was worth it. It had to be.

It was Puno who had come up with the idea of draping the changers in armor. There was plenty of hides that had been pulled from the sheds, and some of the citizens staying back to protect the children knew how to work it. The changers sat in their animal forms while the people draped the armor about them. It was nothing more than a layer of hardened leather tied about their soft spots, but if it could deflect this new weapon, it would be invaluable.

After the fitting was done, the changers all reverted to human form, leaving the pile of armor just outside the sheds. The sun would soon fall, and Huitaca ordered her warriors to sleep. They would rise an hour before dawn, stalk their way to the enemy encampment under cover of darkness, and attack with the rising sun, with Inti at their backs feeding them the energy and power they would need to succeed.

Huitaca found it hard to fall asleep. She tossed and turned, doubts filling her mind. Was she leading the survivors to their death? If they failed, who would protect the citizens left behind? The children? She tried to push her insecurities aside, but it was hard to do.

Finally, after a time, she managed to sleep.

Though that was not much better. She dreamed of her father, tied to his chair, being cut and sliced at again and again, praying to Inti for his daughter to save him, until the men in metal had had their fun, decapitating him with one swift cut from their oddly long knives.

Huitaca woke to Anyas standing over her, gently shaking her and calling her name. Huitaca rose and nodded to the man, who returned it, his eyes the only sign of fear on his face. They walked to the sheds, where the other changers were already in jaguar form, people helping them don their makeshift armor.

Huitaca and Anyas followed suit, changing and allowing the people to tie the armor in place.

Huitaca looked to her people, the eleven warriors

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with spears on their backs, quivers at their hips, bows at the ready. The changers with their leather coverings, foolish as they looked, might have made her laugh under different circumstances. As it was, she just hoped it would be enough.

Huitaca led her people from the clearing into the jungle, letting Anyas step ahead, as he knew where to go. Huitaca and the other changers kept a slow pace, so as not to leave the other warriors behind.

Their train moved with the expert silence that all her people had developed during their time hunting and stalking in the jungle. They moved in a line, Anyas and Huitaca at the head, Quenti and Puna taking up the rear.

Her changers were on high alert, feline ears flicking back and forth, watching out for the sounds of people, so that they did not stumble foolishly into the enemy encampment. It took twenty, perhaps thirty minutes for the party to find themselves atop a small hill covered in trees, looking down at rows of white canvas tents placed near the aquamarine waterfall known as the Green Falls.

Huitaca looked to her people, motioning with her head for the bowmen to fan out to the left and right. They would rain hell upon the warriors, setting them off balance so that the changers could charge in and wreak havoc.

Once the bowmen were in place, Huitaca waited for the rising sun. As it emerged from behind the mountain off on the horizon, her people would launch their attack. Huitaca watched the light slowly emerging and said a small prayer to Inti to protect her people.

The sun finally emerged, warmth seeping into Huitaca’s heart. She felt the touch of Inti, knowing that he was with them in this endeavor. Huitaca let out a wild howl, startling the men down below.

Many of them were not in their metal suits, having just woken up with the sunrise. Huitaca planned to use that to her advantage.

Huitaca and her other changers, Anyas at her side, bolted into the encampment, watching arrows, shot from the shadows, flying true and hitting their marks. Men fell as they came out of their tents, eyes wide at the sight of the charging, armored jaguars.

The alarm was raised, and some men began to group near the center of the camp, standing with long knives drawn in their practiced formations. Huitaca saw four or five men step out from behind the line, long tubes in their hands pointed at the charging animals, loud explosive bursts sending scattered pellets flying.

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She felt some hit her shoulder, the wound throbbing as she ran. However, the armor along her chest and head did seem to be enough to catch or deflect the brunt of the attack, at least at this range. Huitaca reached the line, claws slashing and teeth tearing, her fellow changers breaking through defenders.

Huitaca saw an ally fall, and then another.

Those explosive tubes were quite deadly up close.

Huitaca changed her focus, taking blows form the long knives along her backside as she leapt away.

She caught one of the tube holders, crushing his head between her jaws. She took a shot to her side, leather armor the only reason her torso was not torn to bits.

She howled, tossing the head aside and rounding on the man who had shot her, swiping with a massive black paw, blood spurting and flowing as the enemy fell. She sliced at his legs, ensuring he would not rise, then turned to find her next prey.

Huitaca started to lose herself as she reveled in the carnage. She could feel her mind receding, carnal instinct taking over as she tore through her enemies.

She saw another changer fall, Pisco, she thought, though it was hard to tell amidst the chaos.

The warriors had joined the fight, bows tossed aside and spears at the ready as they rounded the encampment, trying to find lone fighters who had not managed to coalesce at the center in time. She saw one of them blown to pieces, nose and eyes obliterated by a tube holder.

Huitaca roared again as she chased the shooter down, ripping him apart with her claws and teeth.

Something inside her told her to move on, to check on her people, but she ignored it. Instead, she bathed in the destruction of this man, tearing his limbs apart, going far beyond the violence that had been meted out upon her father.

A fellow changer came close to try to pull her away from her quarry, but Huitaca just growled, aiming a lazy swipe at the jaguar to chase it off from her meal. Huitaca returned to the body, ripping out some of the torso and savoring the bloody meal. She was soon interrupted by a long knife bouncing off her armor and cutting into her back.

She jumped aside then tackled the man, this one having managed to don his metal suit. She used her paws to beat the man with blows, battering him until his helmet fell off. She aimed one final swipe at the man’s face, leaving him screaming and crying as the life force left his body.

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The Change

Huitaca looked around, noting that most of the enemies had been defeated. A pair of changers had gone back to human form in order to tend each other’s injuries while the one other surviving changer stalked the camp, looking for men hiding in tents or who had not yet succumbed to their wounds. The warriors searched the camp as well, occasionally thrusting a spear into the chest of a dying man, ending his misery.

Huitaca tried to release her panther form. She felt her humanity before her, just barely out of reach.

She could see it, see herself, slowly fading away like the mist would with the rising of the sun. She scrambled and clawed and cried at her human form, begging it to come. The more she fought, however, the farther it went.

She began to grow calm, no longer understanding why the despair had been there to begin with. The panther looked around, noting the bloody mess that this human camp had become.

She saw humans coming toward her, holding spears. A distant voice inside her said that they were not to be feared. But they were two-legs holding weapons. Perhaps the only entities a panther had to fear.

She turned to run, but there was some thought holding her back. She looked to the people again, trying to place the feeling that filled her. It felt like a love, of sorts. A trust. But the panther inside her fought back, saying again that two-legs with weapons were to be avoided.

The panther gave one last look at the approaching people, then howled as she bounded off into the jungle. She ran, enjoying the wind blowing through her fur, until she found a place that was safe. She began to pick at the odd items tied to her body, patiently chewing through the twine and dropping the items to the floor, allowing her to lick her wounds.

Set free, the panther shook herself, looking up at the sun standing tall above the trees. She felt a sort of reverence for the sun, something she didn’t understand. A soft, small voice inside her head called to Inti, thanking him for his love, but the panther shook her head and set off to prowl the jungle.

The panther eventually found a group of jaguars.

She knew them, by their scent. She had spent time with them before but had never thought to join them. To live with them. They warily surrounded her, coming close to investigate her smell. One started to lick at a wound, all pretense

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of apprehension dropped. The panther lay down, letting her new friend clean the wound, cringing slightly at the pain.

For the next few decades, the panther lived among the jaguars, seeing them rise and fall, helping to raise the young and chase off the dying and infirm. As she hunted, she often found herself prowling around a human encampment in a small clearing. When the two legs saw her, against all reason they cheered. They shouted and sang a name that she thought felt familiar, but how could human speech be familiar to a panther?

She would leave the people, off to hunt a nice capybara or a hardy tapir. The panther lived like this, finding solace in her new place, surrounded by the jaguars who hunted together, slept together, fought together, and stayed together. For the first time the panther found herself overcome with a sensation that she had not felt, perhaps ever. She lounged in a tree, licking at a paw, enjoying the finding of what she’d always wanted yet never found. A home.

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The Forge Returns...

From the universe, to the monoliths of clockwork cities, to unyielding mountains, The Forge Literary Magazine offers a variety of science fiction and fantasy.

In this new collection of literature and art by the students of George Mason University, readers will discover inventive, mysterious, and monolithic worlds. Again, The Forge offers a diverse range of experiences to all enthusiasts of Science-Fiction and Fantasy.

As always, it is the goal of The Forge to be a platform for writers, authors, designers, editors, and artists who love Science-Fiction and Fantasy to express their passion for these genres. With each flip of a page, this collection seeks to continue our goal to provide an escape from all things grounded by our world with powerful prose and poetry.

If you have any inquiries or want to submit to our magazine, send an email to:

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Thanks for reading!