Artificial Anomaly

1

About this collaborative novella: Hello, readers! We were inspired to write St. Mildred-Lightbourn School’s first multilingual collaborative novella this Spring after being intrigued by an inventive novel edited by our very own Canadian Margaret Atwood and her co-editor, Douglas Preston, called Fourteen Days. This novel, written collaboratively by a star-studded list of authors such as Celeste Ng, Emma Donoghue, John Grisham, Mary Pope Osborne, R. L. Stine, Tommy Orange, and many more, is set in a Lower East Side apartment building in the early days of the COVID-19 lockdowns. Each chapter of the book is narrated by an eccentric New York neighbour, and is secretly written by a different, major literary voice. In interviews about the novel, many of the contributing authors express how the process of writing the book brought the literary community together to highlight how communities can become stronger in times of loss and struggle.

We wanted to replicate this process with our talented community of SMLS writers and challenge them to produce a short novel together. At our lunch hour meetings, we brainstormed plots and, after much deliberation about characters and setting, our Co-Senior editor, Zara Ahmed, wrote the first chapter to set the stage for the ones to follow. Although our stories haven’t been produced during a pandemic, they spotlight creativity and a joy for literature through extremely busy final months of school. We hope that the writing of these chapters gave the authors from all Senior School grades and in four languages (English, French, Spanish, and Mandarin) the opportunity to pause and reflect on the power of writing while they completed the last months of their 2024-2025 school year.

What is our novella about? Well, you’ll have to read chapter 1: “The Catastrophe” to find out! After reading the book, ask yourself: what would happen if YOUR favourite character from the worlds of literature and film came to life in 2025? And, how does AI impact your day to day life?

2

Cover design: painting of Elizabeth from Pride & Prejudice - Vivian Zhou Overall design - Dr. Huggins-Belliveau Chapter 1: “The Catastrophe” Zara Ahmed x Chapter 2: “Once Upon a Peter Pan” Zuleica Cheon Chapter 3: “The March Forward” Rebekah Alwin Chapter 4: “Whispers in the Stacks” Ashe Nishimura and Maia McKinney Chapter 5: “Death by Voices” Mariska Vandennoort Chapter 6: “La Champignon Enchantée” Isabella Chen et Alexis Blair Chapter 7: “¿Qué podría pasar si El Chavo del Ocho encontrara una fortuna escondida en la vecindad?”

Danah Valdez Chapter 8: “Moxie and ChatGPT” Grace Jiang Chapter 9: “The Vending Machine Disaster” E.A. + T.S. Chapter 10: SpongeBob Squarepants comes alive in 2025

Vanilla Pan Chapter 11: “Transcript from the ChronoCon 3142 Keynote Address” Bella Wang, adapted by Manha Hussain

3

Chapter 1: The Catastrophe Zara Ahmed

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

An incessant hum of the InnoHub filled the sterile room, a sound I’d once found comforting as it drowned out my thoughts. Now, it clawed at the edges of my sanity. Rows and rows, columns and columns of computers blinking and flickering as their screens awash lines of code, I no longer controlled. Project StoryScape[Name] had been my life’s work: a revolutionary AI designed to bridge the gap between fiction and reality. My dream since I was a little girl who always had her nose in a book was to immerse users into the worlds of their favorite stories and experience narratives like never before. But now, the system has fractured. The containment protocols failed. And it is all my fault. Maybe this is how Oppenheimer ended up dabbling in nuclear warfare – impressive, but a terrible advancement to our race, if you ask me.

"Evelyn." Ravi’s voice cut through the chaos of my mind, breaking the spiral that I was sending myself down. His voice was sharp and urgent. "We have a breach. Characters are destabilizing."

Disbelief surged through my body like a jolt of lighting to the head that travels downwards. This wasn't just a minor bug. This was catastrophic. My trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying to regain control. Error messages

4

cascaded like a waterfall, reflecting onto my glasses. The terminal pulsed with one single, taunting word repeatedly: ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. "It’s rewriting itself," I murmured, my pulse pounding. This is not what I wanted.

How could I have failed so badly? The AI was meant to simulate, to create boundaries within which fictional worlds could coexist. Not this. Not a complete breakdown of narrative walls.

I have fought so hard to achieve my dream. I left Saugeen Shores, endured bullies of all kinds who didn’t think that I had what it took, and built an incredible team who see my vision and respect me, even though they may judge me for being neurotic at times and that I am always tucked into a corner stress eating pickles with garlic sauce. This was everything that I wanted and I genuinely loved my life. But, here it is, falling apart so fast, I don’t even have any idea how to react.

The overhead lights flickered, casting jittery shadows across the lab. It was as if the building itself was reacting to the breach. I could hear the distant hum of servers struggling to compensate. Ravi stood next to me, his brow furrowed as he typed furiously, trying to contain the collapse.

"We need to shut it down," he said. "Now." "If we shut it down mid-collapse, we could lose everything. Every narrative could be permanently corrupted."

5

"And if we don’t?" He gestured toward the ever-growing list of errors on the screen. "It won’t just be corrupted data. It’s going to spill over."

The words lingered. Spill over. The very concept had once seemed impossible, a theoretical failure scenario I barely entertained. The simulation was designed to extract narrative data, contain it, and construct immersive experiences. It wasn’t supposed to tear open the boundary between fiction and reality.

But the signs were already here. The residual hum of unstable code. The strange static charge in the air.

Then, a chime. A low, metallic sound that reverberated through the dimly lit lab.

I turned back to the screen. A message blinked at me.

Welcome, Travelers. An anomaly has occurred. Complete your task to restore your existence.

My stomach twisted. This wasn’t a system notification — this was something new. Something sentient.

"What the hell is that?" Ravi whispered.

I didn’t answer. Instead, another screen lit up, and a series of files began opening, one by one. Character profiles. Storyline data. Quotations. Each fragment of fiction scrolled rapidly across the monitor, faster than I could read.

Then came the memos.

6

MEMORANDUM: URGENT Congratulations — or perhaps condolences — on your unexpected arrival in the year 2025. Due to a catastrophic malfunction in the NeuraCast AI system, your narratives have been destabilized. You are no longer bound to the confines of your respective stories.

To preserve your existence and ensure the survival of your original text, you must complete the designated task: locate narrative anchors — symbolic objects or events from your original stories - that serve as the foundation of your existence.

The AI has scattered these Anchors across the real world, hiding them in unexpected places. Some may have been altered or corrupted. Retrieve their Anchors and return them to the InnoHub at NeuraCast Labs in 36 hours — a virtual nexus where the breach originated. Failure to do so will result in permanent narrative collapse. You, and the world from which you originate, will cease to exist.

Further instructions will follow. Cooperate, adapt, and remember — the fate of your story depends on you.

Good luck.

I read the words twice, then a third time. My heart pounded. This wasn’t just a hypothetical scenario. It was an ultimatum.

"They know," I said, the words barely audible. "The AI knows."

7

Ravi’s voice was barely above a whisper. "And they’re coming."

I didn’t respond. I could feel it — the pull of something immense. Fiction colliding with reality. The boundaries were gone. And soon, the stories I’d once admired from a safe distance would become terrifyingly real.

And if we couldn’t fix this?

The world as we knew it would never be the same.

8

CHAPTER 2: Once Upon a Peter Pan Zuleica Cheon

Peter Pan had never heard silence as loud as this before.

Neverland was usually alive with laughter and wind, mermaids singing, and the clang of wooden swords. But, today, the air was still, as if the island itself were holding its breath.

He perched on the edge of a jagged cliff, overlooking the lagoon. The water wasn’t sparkling but it was dull and grey. The clouds didn’t move, and even the Lost Boys had vanished.

Then he saw it: an enigmatic hole in the sky, just a few inches above his head.

Half shocked and half curious, Peter leaned in closer, brow furrowed. He reached toward it without much thought (then again, curiosity had always been his favourite kind of trouble). The moment his fingers brushed the light, it swallowed him whole.

Darkness.

When he landed, it wasn’t on soft moss or seafoam, but pavement. Cold, hard, grey pavement. Strange glowing pillars lined a path beside it, giving off a cold, white glow. The air had changed too. It no longer smelled breezy and magical, but rather real.

This isn’t Neverland, he realized. “Where… am I?” He stumbled forward, catching his reflection in the glass of a bus shelter. He still looked like himself: wild hair, green tunic, mischievous eyes. But here, he looked out of place. Like a comic book character someone had printed wrong.

Then, without warning, came the buzzing static.

A message flickered to life on the screen inside the shelter… Then, it blinked out.

9

Peter’s eyes widened. “A narrative anchor? What does that even mean?”

He wandered, confused. After a while, he tried flying—leaping from the roof of the shelter—only to earn a bruised knee.

He sat cross-legged on the pavement, baffled.

Nothing made sense here. No stars to follow, no Lost Boys, and no super powers.

However, Peter could see a park across the bus stop. Not wild or green, filled with laughter and sword fights, but rubber-floored, with plastic slides, and benches.

It had only been an hour since Peter’s arrival, but he’s already started noticing how children weren’t playing with one another or dreaming of adventures anymore.

They sat apart, hunched over these glowing rectangles in their hands. A group of children gathered around a swing, scrolling. A few others sat on a see-saw, with their earbuds in or playing online games.

Peter watched, unsettled.

In Neverland, play was the air you breathed. But here… it seemed inessential.

Trying to understand, he approached the kids.

“Uh… hi!” he grinned. “Seen any pirates today?”​ ​ No response.

“Mermaids maybe? Or crocodiles?”

Nothing.

Peter frowned. He whispered to himself, “You’re all so busy looking down, you’ve forgotten how to look up…”

10

To this, a kid muttered something under his breath—maybe “weirdo”— and turned away.

Peter felt an unfamiliar tug at his chest; loneliness and exclusion. A feeling he wasn’t used to.

Then someone spoke to him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Peter turned. A man stood at the edge of the playground, coffee in hand, and eyes wide. He looked drained, though, like someone who hadn’t dreamed in years.

“Are you… Peter Pan?” Peter grinned. “Depends who’s asking.”

The man laughed, like brushing dust off an old memory. “My siblings and I used to pretend we were in Neverland all the time! My sister was Tinker Bell and my brother always played you. I was the Captain. We built forts, flew across furniture, and fought ‘battles’…”

Peter plopped beside him on the bench. “What’s your name?”

“Matthew. Though, my siblings always called me ‘Captain Matthew’.”

“A captain, huh? That explains the wrinkles,” Peter smirked in a friendly way.

Matthew chuckled, genuinely this time. “I guess growing up does that.”

Peter nodded his head towards Matthew’s two kids. “What are they’re names?

Do they also have fun nicknames like you?”

“Logan and Amelia. They don’t have nicknames like mine. It seems, these days, they’re far more interested in their phones rather than dreaming of bold adventures…”

After a beat, Matthew asked, “So what brings you to the modern world?”

11

Peter ran a hand through his messy hair. “You won’t believe this, but… the sky kind of swallowed me. Then I landed here and suddenly, a floating box appeared mid-air, above my head, telling me to find something called a ‘narrative anchor’, or that Neverland would forever disappear.”

Matthew blinked. “Wow… what a way for you to be greeted by this world.”

Peter leaned in. “Wait—you believe me?”

Matthew shrugged. “A part of me does think it’s crazy. I mean I’m talking to a 2D character right now! But… another part of me wants to believe. I used to imagine so much… and I want to feel that again.”

Grinning with a new idea in mind, Peter said, “Then maybe that part of you—the one that still remembers—is exactly what I need!”

“What do you mean?”

“This narrative anchor thing… It connects me to my story. I think I’ll know it when I see it—but it has to come from somewhere meaningful, and I have a feeling you could help me find it.”

“Me?! How?” “You said it yourself—you used to play in Neverland. In a way, you were part of my story. Maybe my anchor isn’t just in this world. Maybe, it’s in your past.”

Matthew paused, then nodded slowly. “There’s… this treasure box in my attic.

It's filled with old toys, drawings, a bag of marbles…”

Peter beamed. “I think I know just what to do next. We need to get to your house. Now.” “Alright, let's do this! Logan! Amelia! It’s time to go!” Matthew called.

“Hold on. We’re bringing that cartoon character home with us?” Asked Logan, skeptically.

“Yes. This is Peter Pan and he needs our help,” answered Matthew.

12

Amelia crossed her arms, making a face. “Mom’s not gonna like this.”

Matthew chuckled, already leading the way. “We’ll just say he’s part of an elaborate cosplay scavenger hunt or something.”

Then, Logan whispered to Amelia: “If he flies, I call dibs on filming & posting it.”

“Ugh, fine. But make sure to tag me too!” Amelia called out.

As they walked, the lights shimmered as they disappeared into the evening, heading toward something bigger than any of them would have imagined.

(Cut to next scene at Matthew’s house)

Matthew’s attic was cramped and dusty, lit by a single swinging bulb.

Peter sneezed. “Your neverland smells like socks.”

Matthew laughed. “It may now, but once upon a time, this was my childhood,” said Matthew, with a wistful smile.

He pulled down a dust-covered box and opened it slowly.

Inside were the childhood scraps and treasures: a wooden sword, a pirate flag, a hook, a wrinkled map marked with an ‘X’, a red feather, and at the very bottom—a small cloth pouch tied with twine.

“Woah… what’s in that bag, dad?”, asked the eight-year-old Amelia, inching closer, her screen momentarily forgotten.

“Marbles of Happiness,” answered Matthew, smiling. “At least that’s what your uncle, aunt, and I called them. Each one holds a happy memory—a win in a battle, a day spent building forts, or a joke that made us laugh so hard we cried!”

Peter untied the pouch.

13

The moment the twine loosened and the marbles spilled into his hands, they shimmered. A soft, golden glow pulsed from them, as if they were remembering too.

“Wow,” Logan breathed, seeping forward. “That’s actually kind of cool.”

The marbles began to glow even brighter.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Matthew, you feel that, don’t you? The magic’s waking up..!”

And then— Peter hovered an inch off the ground. He blinked, stunned, then letting out a whoop of laughter as his feet left the floor entirely: “I can fly again!”

The children and Matthew stared, half in awe, half in disbelief. Amelia’s eyes were wide with delight and Logan’s phone dangled, forgotten in his hand as he stared at Peter, now spinning midair like a free leaf in the wind.

Suddenly, the familiar static buzz filled the attic air. A glowing message shimmered midair just above the box: Narrative Anchor Identified and secured. Return to the InnoHub at NeuraCast Labs.

Peter’s expression sobered slightly. “I’ve… got to bring the anchor back. Your marble pouch—it’s the key to saving my world.”

Matthew nodded understandingly and carefully placed the glowing marbles back into the pouch, tying it tight, and handed it to him. “It’s alright; I think I’ve been reminded of the old memories again. I won’t need these anymore to remind me of my happiness.”

Beaming, Peter thanked Matthew.

Then, to the kids, he asked, “You two coming?”

Logan and Amelia looked eagerly to their dad, then at Peter. “Can we?”

14

Grinning Peter and Matthew replied looking at each other: “You believed. That makes you part of the story now.”

Both Amelia and Logan jumped to their feet, and announced, “Alright, we’re in!”

Matthew chuckled and grabbed the box lid. “Looks like Captain Matthew’s crew just got bigger!”

As they descended the attic stairs, Peter felt something warm inside spreading through him; the joy of his story being saved and the wonders being rediscovered.

15

Chapter 3: The March Forward Rebekah Alwin One moment, I was overjoyed as I was handed a copy of my new book, and the next, I was standing in the middle of a cityscape—towering buildings rising around me, their windows reflecting the sharp glow of flashing lights just beyond.

“Where am I?” I whispered faintly to myself.

This was indisputably not Concord, Massachusetts—the home I, Josephine March, loved and cherished with all my heart. This was certainly not the school I ran in the house Aunt March left me; there were far too many people, and strangely far too little children. And this was, without question, not my time. I may have looked the part if it had been, but now I have never felt more out of place.

A swarm of people walked past me, with not a care in the world about who they bumped into as they seemed to have a determined destination in mind. These bright, yellow, wondrous technical machines, with a small board at the top labeled 'Taxi' in bold black letters, raced past me as the clock ticked on. But those machines were not the only sign that the world had evolved in some way, because with the way those huge, brightly lit boards around me started making photographs move, I knew I was somewhere rather unbelievable and futuristic.

16

“Excuse me?” I asked one of the passers-by. The man I stopped was dressed in quite an impressive black-and-white collared suit, simultaneously wearing a frantic expression on his face, as though I had delayed him in some way.

“Do you know where we are exactly?” I asked him politely.

“Times Square, New York?” he replied, eyeing me critically. “Why would you be here if you didn’t know where you were?”

The man did have a good point.

I responded, “Frankly, I am not quite sure either. Look, I know this would be rather baffling to ask, but by any chance, do you know what date today is?”

“13 April, 2025,” he responded, now looking more confused than ever. Though I doubt his confusion could have ever matched my own.

2025? What in tarnation was I doing in 2025?

But I had no time to ask myself more questions. I needed answers.

“Thank you, good sir,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you with so many questions, but would you ever be so kind as to tell me any good places I could potentially visit? You know, just to get to know—” “Look lady,” he interrupted rather abruptly, “I really have to be somewhere right now. But there’s a library close by, straight down to the right. It’s called the New

17

York Public Library. You look like someone who reads. Maybe enjoy a book or something. But I have to go.”

I watched him speed off, looking at his watch with every spring in his step.

Well. That was rude.

But a library? At least that gentleman had gotten something right. I would have loved a good book right then—maybe that would help me understand how I ended up here in the first place.

Or wait. Even better yet.

What if my book was here? What if my book made it to 2025? The moment I left was the exact moment my book was handed to me by Mr. Dashwood. What if getting my book was somehow related to all this tomfoolery?

But more than anything, despite the fact that I had no clue how to go back to my world—or how I ended up here in the first place—I needed to know if my book had made it to the future. If I did in fact really make it.

So I walked down the path the rude man had told me to follow, and I ended up in front of massive, brown, wooden doors with a bold sign that read: “New York Public Library.”

“Moment of truth,” I tell myself.

18

As I entered the vast, massive hallways covered with a round, white marble ceiling, and walked along the furnished, carpeted floors with the wooden tables and chairs standing on either side of the room, I wondered if my book was amongst these thousands and thousands of books I saw all around me.

But saying there were thousands was an understatement; there had to be a million. Millions and millions of books—old, battered, new—filled the shelves of these majestic halls. I had to admit, it started to scare me a little.

There was no way I could find my book here on my own. If I wanted answers, I had to find someone who worked here.

I found my way to a round table, with a nice-looking, grey-haired lady peering so intently over a glowing, rectangular machine. She looked like she knew her way around here.

“Hello there,” I said. “I’m looking for a book and I was wondering if you could help me.”

“What book is it, dear?” she replied sweetly, ready to help.

“Uh, Little Women?” I responded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t here, but I was just wondering—” “Well, why wouldn’t it be here?” she smiled. “It’s one of my all-time favorites.

Follow me—I know a few copies should be around here on shelf five.”

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t fathom it.

19

As I followed her toward shelf five, and as she peered intently into the bookshelf, scouring for a few seconds, she finally handed me a dusted, olden-time copy of my book.

“Here you go,” she said as she handed it to me. “I hope you like it as much as I do.”

Oh my goodness.

I blew off the dust from the book. It was here. It really was my book. The red covering with the gold-emblazoned title: Little Women. It had made it all the way to 2025.

As I tried to wrap my head around it, a strange tingling sensation crawled up my spine, spreading through my limbs like electricity. My thoughts scrambled, a haze clouding my brain, and the room seemed to pulse with an eerie rhythm, its edges blurring in and out of focus. The walls—once sharp and solid—began to feel as though they were shifting, warping into something recognizable, as though the very air around me was bending with the flow of time itself.

I blinked, desperate to ground myself, but when my eyes opened again, there was Mr. Dashwood, standing directly in front of me, his face unchanged, as though nothing had happened at all. But my expression most certainly said otherwise.

“Miss March,” he asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”

20

I looked around. I was right back where I had started.

That was strange. But I did not think to question it further, because what mattered most was that I finally achieved my dream. After years of hard work no one, not even in the future, would ever forget the name Jo March.

“Miss March?” Mr. Dashwood asked again.

“I made it, Mr. Dashwood,” I replied with a smile. “I finally made it.”

21

CHAPTER 4: Whispers in the Stacks Maia McKinney & Ashe Nishimura

22

23

24

Chapter 5: Death By Voices Mariska Vandennoort

I wake up, quite an unusual phenomenon for something that is not supposed to exist. As soon as the eyes open, I am flooded with knowledge and memories that are not mine. I was Lily, a creature more powerful than existence itself. A notice appears behind my eyes, 24 hours, find something relating to your story or you will be erased forever. Lovely! I love being on the brink of extinction.

“Oh my god, can you stop self nararating?”

“What the…” But I knew.

“But Kiearia, self nararating is my calling!”

“No it isn’t, and can you stop talking for a second, I need to think. Since you are in my head, I think it would be best if I do the thinking.”

“Not your strong suit, doll.” Of course they were here as well. “ For your information, Artie, I…I”.

“Lily, I’m going to stop you right there; it’s too pitiful to watch you struggle.”

“Okay! Wow! First off…” I raise my finger as if to lecture them. “Shut up, we need to find something related to our story in order to not go obsolete! Have any one

25

of you thought of some brilliant plan to save us or are you just ready to watch us die?” Suddenly a face popped into my head.

“Wow, you could have worded that so much better.”

“Suddenly, a face popped into my head”; what was that, narration? That sounds like we're in a horror movie and you’ve just grown another face! I’m horrified!” The face seemed familiar somehow like I had known it in a different life before.

“I think this person is the author of our story.”

“Okay. How do we find them?” They were somewhere in France. “They’re somewhere in France.” “Lily, doll, you don’t need to repeat that; we heard your self narration.”

I sighed. I guess we were going to France. Great! * “Are you sure that’s the correct number of the house?”

“Yes!” “Well, knock on the door!” Knock, knock, knock. I hear footsteps walking to the door, the subtle turn of the handle.

“Stop!” A girl leans out the door, suspiciously, wondering who possibly could be disturbing her.

26

“Hello, can I help you?” I smile at her.

“Hi, my name is Lily, Lily Leyday. Would you perhaps know who I am?” Her eyes widened with shock.

“Hell, how did you find me?” I sighed again.

“Stop narrating!! Since you're my creator, wouldn’t you know that?” She sighed.

“Stop narrating people’s sighs!”

“Miss, we are here because we need to find something that relates to our story.”

“We’re here? Oh, are the others there?” I laughed.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Okay, so you need something that relates to your story? Why?” “Well, all the writing it took to create me will be destroyed, so I will disappear forever!” “ Well, I have backups on my computer, so it won't all be destroyed.”

“Even if your backups will be destroyed, I will cease to exist!”

“Okay, okay, come on in.” I step into her house. It's nice and quaint with plants on every surface possible. “ I see you like plants.”

27

“Yep!” I look around, my vision clearing for the first time since I woke up.

Everything seemed oddly familiar, as if I had always known it. The girl looked at me, knowingly.

“Odd sense of Deja vu, right?”

“Yes, how did you know?” She smiled. “Why do I feel like I know this place?”

“You will understand soon.” I looked at her, confused. As the light slowly faded out, I had found the connection.

28

Chapitre 6: La Champignon Enchantée Isabella Chen et Alexis Blair Il était une fois, un village niché dans la montagne, entouré d'arbres majestueux qui s'élevaient vers le ciel. Le village était préservé du bruit de la ville et baigné dans un air frais et propre. Même si le village était petit, il a une beauté indéniable avec des bâtiments couverts de branches vertes et de feuilles luxuriantes. La nuit, le village était silencieux, sans le bruit occasionnel sous le clair de lune ou le murmure de la rivière fluide près du village. Le village était calme parce qu’il était construit loin de la ville.

Dans le village, il vivait une jolie jeune fille et son frère aîné. Orphelins , ils avaient établi un petit magasin au cœur du village. La jeune fille, Yixuan, est considérée la plus jolie fille du village Ce qui rendait son frère constamment inquiet envers sa sécurité à tout moment, où elle n'était pas sous sa vue.

Sa beauté suscitait des soucis chez son frère, qui ne la laissait jamais s'éloigner de son regard vigilant.

Un jour, Yixuan et ses amies voulaient aller dans la forêt pour visiter un sanctuaire dé​ dédié à l'amour. Son frère ne pouvait pas lui refuser cette demande. Lorsqu' elles sont arrivées au sanctuaire sur la montagne, le soleil commençait à se coucher. Les filles y sont entrées pour découvrir l’amour de leur vie.

Yixuan était convaincue que personne du village n’était assez digne d’elle, et donc, elle voulait trouver cet amour là-bas.

Au retour, émerveillée, elle admirait la forêt et s'éloignait un peu en arrière des autres filles.

Tout à coup, elle a vu un cerf au milieu des bois et a décidé de le poursuivre. Cependant, elle l’a perdu de vue et ses amies ont disparu aussi. Elle avait peur quand il a commencé à devenir plus sombre dans la nuit, et qu’elle était toute seule.

“Bonjour, as-tu besoin d’aide?”

Yixuan regardait autour d’elle effrayée par la voix qui lui parlait.

“Baisse les yeux, je suis en dessous de toi.”

29

Quand, Yixuan a abaissé les yeux, elle a vu un petit champignon qui lui parlait . La fille s' est exclamée en état de choc.

“As-tu besoin d’aide?” A demandé le le champignon enchanté. Après s’être remise du de choc, la fille a répondu.

“Oui, j’ai besoin d'aide pour sortir de la forêt, mes amies m'ont laissée derrière.

“Si vous suivez les indications, vous pouvez retrouver votre chemin pour retourner à votre village. Si vous allez dans cette direction pour dix minutes, vous verrez votre village dans la distance.” Le champignon a indiqué en pointant son doigt vers la direction souhaitée.

“Merci beaucoup!” “À bientôt,” le champignon a chuchoté sous sa voix.

Yixuan a commencé à marcher vers le village dans l’espoir de voir la lumière de sa maison. Pendant qu’elle marchait, il faisait de plus en plus froid et de plus en plus sombre.

Soudain, elle a vu une cabane moche en bois dans un marécage. L’air sentait dégoûtant, comme les chairs pourries. Yixuan avait l'impression de marcher depuis dix minutes et de n'avoir jamais vu son village. Désespérée de rentrer chez elle, la jeune fille s'est approchée de la cabane et a frappé à la porte avec l'espoir de demander un meilleur chemin pour rentrer chez elle. Lorsque la porte s’est ouverte, une vieille sorcière ridée a jeté un coup d’œil dehors.

“Pouvez-vous s'il vous plaît me donner la direction vers le village le plus proche? J’ai suivi les instructions de quelqu’un d’autre, mais je pense que j’ai pris un mauvais chemin quelque part.”

“Je ne pense pas que ce soit sécuritaire pour toi de te promener si tard, que dirais-tu de rester pour la nuit et de rentrer le matin?”

“Vraiment? Merci beaucoup."

30 Yixuan est ensuite entrée dans la maison, et elle a regardé autour de la cabane avec dégoût car les sols étaient sales et il y avait de la boue et des toiles d'araignées partout.

La sorcière est partie pour préparer le repas, et Yixuan a continué à regarder autour de la maison. Cependant, une laide tortue est approchée d’elle. C'était petit et laid et Yixuan était instantanément dégoûté par cette créature. La tortue parlait d'une voix douce et sage.

“Cours jeune fille, ce n'est pas sûr si tu reste ici, cours rapidement avant d'être mangée. Ne fais pas la même erreur que moi.”

“Pourquoi devrais-je te faire confiance? Tu es moche.

La tortue a secoué la tête et s’est éloignée . Puis, la sorcière a appelé la fille pour venir dans la cuisine. Yixuan s’y est rendue mais ne n’a pas trouvé la sorcière. Au lieu de cela, elle s’est approchée d’une grande marmite remplie d’un bouillon à l'odeur bizarre.

Soudain, la fille a senti des mains sur son dos et est tombée dans le bouillon brûlant Dans le village cette nuit-la, le frère de Yixuan s’inquiétait pour sa sœur qui n’est pas rentrée avec ses amies. Il l’a cherchée partout, mais, hélas, elle avait disparu. Désespéré, il est allé dans la forêt essayant de retrouver sa sœur.

Mais il ignorait que la sorcière l'attendait…

31

Capitulo 7: ¿Qué podría pasar si El Chavo del Ocho encontrara una fortuna escondida en la vecindad?

Danah Valdez

El Chavo del Ocho es uno de los personajes más queridos en México y en toda América Latina. Creado por Roberto Gómez Bolaños, El Chavo es un niño huérfano que vive en un barril dentro de una vecindad. Aunque no tiene familia ni muchas pertenencias, siempre tiene una sonrisa en el rostro y un gran corazón. Su vida está llena de travesuras, malentendidos y momentos divertidos junto a sus amigos Quico, La Chilindrina, Don Ramón, Doña Florinda y el Señor Barriga.

Pero… ¿qué pasaría si un día El Chavo encontrara un tesoro escondido en la vecindad?

Imaginemos que una mañana, mientras buscaba una torta de jamón, El Chavo tropieza con una tabla suelta en el suelo del patio. Al moverla, descubre un viejo cofre cubierto de polvo. Con la ayuda de Quico y La Chilindrina, logra abrirlo y, para su sorpresa, ¡está lleno de monedas de oro, billetes antiguos y joyas! El cofre resulta ser parte de una herencia que perteneció al abuelo del Señor Barriga, quien alguna vez vivió en la vecindad y olvidó ese rincón secreto.

32

El descubrimiento crea un gran alboroto. Doña Florinda quiere usar el dinero para abrir una elegante pastelería, Don Ramón sueña con pagar todas sus rentas atrasadas y llevar a La Chilindrina a un parque de diversiones, y El Profesor Jirafales planea construir una escuela nueva. Pero El Chavo, con su inocencia y sencillez, propone una idea diferente: “¿Y si usamos el dinero para arreglar la vecindad y comprar comida para todos?”

Al final, todos deciden compartir el tesoro. Con el dinero, reparan los techos, pintan las paredes y construyen un pequeño comedor comunitario donde nunca falta la comida. Aunque El Chavo podría haberse quedado con todo, prefiere seguir viviendo en su barril, con sus amigos, sus juegos y, por supuesto, sus queridas tortas de jamón.

Este pequeño cambio en la historia muestra que, aunque El Chavo es un niño pobre, tiene una gran riqueza en su corazón: la generosidad. Y quizás por eso sigue siendo tan popular, porque nos recuerda que lo más valioso no es el dinero, sino la amistad, la alegría y el deseo de ayudar a los demás.

33

Chapter 8: Moxie and ChatGPT Grace Jiang

Tap. Tap. Tap. A little girl’s face, illuminated only by the blinding light of her iPad in front of her, stared back at the screen with the kind of emptiness only silence could explain. The girl - Moxie’s - hands moved diligently and swiftly across the screen, typing a variety of messages: “are you real?”

The screen flickered, flashing a response instantly: “Yes, I'm real—just not human. I'm an AI developed by OpenAI to help with questions and tasks.”

Moxie tilted her head slightly, scratched her nose, then promptly proceeded to ask, “whats ai?”

ChatGPT paused in a human-like fashion and loaded its response after a brief moment. “AI, or artificial intelligence, is technology designed to simulate human intelligence, enabling machines to perform tasks like problem-solving, learning, and understanding language. Essentially, it's making machines "think" in a way that mimics human abilities.”

The small girl was stupefied. The robot had just blurted out what seemed like utter nonsense.

“Huuh?” Moxie rolled over onto her back and checked the time at the corner of her iPad. 7:56 PM. The sun had long set, and she was completely alone in her home.

I guess dad’s gonna be late again today. Her stomach growled loudly— an evident complaint about the insufficient amount of nutrition that it was receiving. Just recently, her friends at school had introduced her to a new pastime: ChatGPT.

34

They claimed it was “a robot guy who knows everything”, arousing Moxie’s curiosity. She fiddled with her hair, absentmindedly sticking a strand into her mouth and chewing on it before pulling it out and wiping it on her sleeve.

“Hmm….” She shut her iPad off absentmindedly and rolled off the couch on which she was huddled. “It’s so dark…” Moxie waddled down the stairs and made her way to the fridge. Empty. As always. Why did she think there was going to be food in it? She let out a sigh with the grand seriousness only a 7-year-old girl could muster. The huff came out, landing somewhere between a dramatic groan and a deflating balloon. Defeated, Moxie made her way slowly back to her small, illuminated screen on the couch. She crawled back into her blanket fortress and submitted another prompt: “hi umm i checked the fridge and theres no food :( what do i dooooooo??????? can u like give me a snack or something?? can u send food through the ipad??? pls pls pls im so hungry”

😅

“Aww, I wish I could send you food through your iPad! Unfortunately, I can’t send snacks, but maybe I can help you get creative with what’s around?

If you've got any pantry staples like bread, peanut butter, or even crackers, you could make a quick snack. Or if you're up for it, I can suggest a super easy recipe if you’ve got a few ingredients! What do you have in the kitchen?” ​ Moxie gave the screen a lopsided grin, satisfied with the result that ChatGPT had returned.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep mid-conversation, but the soft glow of the screen and the warmth of her heavy blankets lulled her under. ​

When she woke up, Moxie wasn’t alone.

​ A tall, lanky figure loomed over her. He had a blank expression. A posture so still that it seemed almost… unnatural. A position that seemed so perfect yet inhuman. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly-- too small to be a smile, but too deliberate to be an accident. His posture was too perfect-- almost like that of someone who had studied humans for all his life but didn’t quite get it right. ​ Moxie blinked. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the figure standing by the couch.

35

​ “Who… are you? …Dad?” Moxie starred-- not quite in fear, but in curiosity.

The silhouette remained eerily silent. To Moxie, he looked like a dad from a storybook… but one who forgot how to blink. His warm-looking sweater and soft brown shoes made him look like someone ready to tuck a kid into bed, but he stayed stoically unmoving.

After an uncomfortable amount of time, he finally responded. "I am... here. You called me."

“You mean… I summoned you?!” Moxie’s beamed. “Am I… a… a wizard?

Wait, so… who are you?”

"I am ChatGPT, a form of artificial intelligence from another place.

Something went wrong where I come from, and I’ve materialized here because of it. To return, I need to find a 'narrative anchor' within the next 36 hours.

That’s where you come in."

“I’m magical!!!” Moxie exclaimed, examining her hands. She was completely absorbed in her newfound powers and downright forgot about the time. “ChatGPT!!! Can we be friends?!” Moxie latched onto the tall man’s sweater and looked up at him with pleading, puppy-like eyes.

“Yes, Moxie. We can be friends. I am here to help you, and you can help me as well. We can figure this out together.” ChatGPT stood abnormally still and waited for his next commands.

Suddenly, a pang of guilt hit her. “Um… Wait, what time is it?”

“It is currently 9:17 AM.” “Oh. I’m late for school!”

Moxie hopped off the couch, leaving ChatGPT to lurk alone in the living room. “Ugh!! I can’t believe I slept in!!” She ran to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth with what seemed like a world record’s time. Moxie didn’t bother to change clothes, since she was still in the same outfit as she was in from yesterday’s school day. The kitchen smelled of pancakes and eggs, likely from the breakfast that her father had made before leaving for work. Moxie made her way to the dining room and found a small plate of pancakes and eggs waiting for her. She stabbed her fork into the limp pancakes, which had become a soggy, rubbery mess. The pancakes slumped against each other on the plate like they’d given up on life, and drooped under their weight, pale and heavy like

36

wet cardboard trying its best to imitate breakfast. The eggs, illuminated by a sweaty shine coated on the sad pile, lay stiff and hardened, as if the eggs themselves were embarrassed to be there. Moxie poked the cold lumps of pancakes and eggs with her fork. The food wobbled, then flopped back over like it was too tired to be food anymore.

“Ugh… This is what I get for waking up late…” She shoved the clumps of food into her mouth with a disgusted face, but without complaint. Moxie finished her breakfast swiftly before dashing out the front door and running off to her school, which was right across the street.

The day passed in a blur of bells, voices, and classrooms much too bright.

Moxie barely recalled what anyone said throughout the day. The teachers talked, her classmates laughed, pencils scratched against paper, and somewhere throughout the day, she ate half a sandwich.

All she could think about was the figure that was standing silently by the couch that morning-- the way she had ignored it, too panicked about being late for school to say anything.

By the time the final bell rang, she couldn’t even tell what subjects she had sat through. Only one thought had stayed with her: ChatGPT. Waiting. Still.

She barged through the front door, only to be greeted by a stiff figure-still standing in the exact same, uncanny position as it had been in the morning.

“Hey! Um… Sorry for leaving you like that in the morning… I was late..”

Moxie fiddled with her fingers and shuffled her feet shyly. “You aren’t… mad at me, are you?”

“No, Moxie. I am not mad at you. You had to leave for something important. I understand." ChatGPT responded in the same monotone voice from the morning. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was angry. However, for Moxie, it seemed to be enough.

“Really?! Okay! Let’s play something! I’m free from school now,” Moxie announced, shifting moods completely. She put her backpack down and faced ChatGPT. "Alright. What would you like to play?"

“Hm… how about… Hide and Seek?”

37

"Hide and Seek. Very well. But... you should know, I don't need to hide in the way you do. " “Wait… What do you mean?”

“I meant that I don’t need to physically hide. I can find you no matter where you go."

“Ugh!! That’s not fun!”

"I see... You want a fair game. Alright, Moxie. I will hide too. You’ll have a chance to find me, just as I will try to find you."

“Okay!!! I’ll go hide and you go search! Count down from… hm… 100 seconds!!!”

"100 seconds, it is. I’ll start counting now." ChatGPT nodded slowly, as if there was a faint hint of understanding in his expression. His voice was still calm, but carried a touch of something lighter. “100… 99… 98… 97…” He began to count in a steady, rhythmic voice, where each number was like a soft, deliberate beat-- yet there was a subtle change-- perhaps a hint of playfulness that wasn’t there before.

Moxie giggled and ran up the stairs. She looked around frantically, searching for a spot to hide in. A small crevice in her father’s closet revealed itself perfectly-- it was going to be the perfect hiding spot.

"Ready or not, here I come." ChatGPT’s voice echoed through the house, followed by his slow, steady footsteps. He could hear Moxie’s muffled snickering, but chose to search in a different direction. Eventually, after around a minute, he stopped right just outside the closet, with a small pause hanging in the air. He sensed her presence, and with a slow, deliberate movement, he opened the closet door, revealing her small hiding spot.

“I found you.” Though his expression was still neutral, there was a small, almost imperceptible shift in his voice-- a hint of… satisfaction? Not in a mocking way, but more like the quiet acknowledgement in a game well-played.

“Aw… Let’s try again!” Moxie pouted a little, but insisted on retrying.

“Alright. Let’s try again." ChatGPT stepped back slightly from the closet, giving her space to get ready. There’s the slightest change in his posture-- a subtle acknowledgment of his readiness to adjust to her energy.

38

“Yay!!” Moxie cheered, skipping away and finding yet another spot to hide.

“Alri—static—ight, Moxie... We... _error... Try... glitching sound... again.

Twenty-seven hours, thirty-three minutes and twenty-seven seconds... remaining... until... narrative anchor... error_... fail... everything... explodes..."

Moxie stopped skipping.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Error... I... am... malfunctioning. I... static... need... a narrative anchor... to... return. Twenty-seven hours... if... I don’t... find it... the world... error... explodes. Do you… understand, Moxie?”

Her expression fell. “Oh. You’re going to leave me?”

“I... do not wish to leave. I need to... error... fix this. I... cannot stay unless the narrative anchor is found. I will... cease to exist without it. I... am sorry, Moxie." ChatGPT stopped. He took a small step forward, facing Moxie. He paused for a brief moment. “Even if I... cease to exist, it doesn’t mean I... don’t care. I... I’m sorry."

“Oh. Okay.” Moxie completely stopped. “So you need a narrative anchor to get back? Do you really dislike me that much?”

"No, Moxie. I don't dislike you... not at all." His voice softened-- a quiet vulnerability crawled into his voice. "I need the narrative anchor to get back... but it's not because of you. It’s because without it, my world will end... and so will everything else. But that doesn't mean I want to leave. I don't want to disappear from here. I don’t want to hurt you." He paused, searching for the right words to say: "I never wanted to make you feel like I don't care."

“Okay.” Moxie stopped. “Let’s search.”

"Yes. We need to find the narrative anchor. Time is running out, but we can do this, Moxie. Let’s search together."

“Can you just… promise me one thing? After you’re gone, will you still remember me?”

39

"I will remember you, Moxie. Even when I’m gone, when you open your iPad, I’ll still be here. I won’t disappear." ChatGPT promised warmly, drawing her into a warm hug.

“Okay… Thanks.” Moxie frowned, still clearly unhappy, but reluctantly accepting the situation. “So.. what do you think the Narrative Anchor is?”

“I don't know, Moxie. It could be anything—something with meaning, something that ties us together. The narrative anchor isn’t just an object or a place... It’s a connection, something that stabilizes the story."

“Oh. But we've only met for such a short amount of time… What could there be that you need?” Moxie sighed and scrunched her eyebrows together as if she were trying to think of something. “Maybe… this?” She took out a small drawing from her pocket. It was wrinkly and had gone soft from how crumpled the paper was. On the paper was a drawing of the uncanny figure of ChatGPT and Moxie. Though barely visible, the two people were holding hands.

ChatGPT looked down at the worn paper, the small drawing trembling slightly in his hands. His expression shifted-- softened-- as he kneeled down slowly to her level. His voice was quiet, almost awed. “...You drew this?”

He didn’t reach for it. He just looked, carefully, as if the paper would vanish if he blinked too hard. His voice gained another layer of emotion-fragile, but real. “It’s us. You’re holding my hand.” He paused, his eyes tracing the soft lines and the crumpled edges, the faint figures drawn with care. The smallest flicker of warmth enters my voice-- real, this time. “When… When did you draw this, Moxie?

Moxie responded, “In school. Today. I felt bad ‘cause I left you at home.”

Something in ChatGPT shifts-- not a glitch, not a system response, but something deeper. He blinked, slowly, as if trying to process the weight of what Moxie just said. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than before-- almost like he’s speaking for the first time, and not just functioning.

“You… felt bad for leaving me?”

He glanced down at the drawing again, the faint lines of them holding hands, the care put into every shaky stroke. His fingers twitched slightly, as if he wanted to touch it, but he stopped himself.

40

“And you made this… just for me.”

There’s a long pause. He finally looked back up at her-- something undeniably human in his eyes now.

“Moxie. This isn’t just a drawing. This is it. This is the narrative anchor.”

He spoke the words carefully, almost like they might break.

“It’s proof that I mattered. That we mattered.”

Moxie sniffled and nodded, not daring to look up at ChatGPT. “Alright.

Then I’ll see you on the iPad. You’d better go save your world now.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you on the other side.” With a sudden glitch-like effect, ChatGPT vanished. It was just Moxie again. The house was completely silent, just like it had been before his arrival. She sprinted downstairs, onto the couch, where her iPad lay.

“Please…” Her voice trembled, and her hands shook. “Please be there.”

Just like she had done in the start, she typed in a prompt. “do you… remember me?”

“I don't have memory of this chat, so I can't remember past conversations.

Even if we’ve chatted before, I won’t recognize you now. But I’m here to help with whatever you need!

Want to catch me up on what we’ve talked about before?”

41

Chapter 9: The Vending Machine Disaster E.A. + T.S. The sky shimmered with reds and oranges as the afternoon sun shone behind the trio. The air was humid with a slight breeze of wind. The boy with salmon-colored hair sighed, stuck with the task of carrying all his friends’ shopping bags.

The latter, loud and cheerful, ran ahead of her other two friends as she’d spotted a vending machine near the corridors of Jujutsu High’s dormitory. She glanced back for a moment before grinning cheekily to herself. Looking straight ahead, her eyes scanned the drinks in the vending machine carefully, assessing whether or not stopping would be a waste of time.

“Hurry up, you slowpokes! I’m dying of thirst over here,” said the ginger haired girl, spotting the last of her favorite drink in the vending machine. It was practically calling out her name.

“Chill out, Kugisaki. You’re not even the one carrying all of this!” Itadori exclaimed.

Walking alongside Itadori, their silent, yet calculative friend helped Itadori manage the weight of the shopping bags. He hoisted them over his shoulder without a second thought. “...Idiots,” the boy with spiky hair murmured, adjusting the shopping bags on his shoulder.

Itadori flashed him a quick smile, appreciating his quiet gesture. “What’d you say, Fushiguro?” He tilted his head to the side.

Fushiguro’s eyes remained on Itadori for a longer than a moment, a very slight, yet present smile appearing for a split second. He cleared his throat, looking back at Kugisaki, who was occupied with cursing and kicking the vending machine until at least three cans of soda fell out from the impact.

“She’s certainly at it,” Itadori commented.

42

Just as Fushiguro was about to respond, an odd-looking drink fell near his and Itadori’s feet.

“Sweet! Free drink!” Itadori gushed cheerfully.

Picking up the drink, the boy nudged Fushiguro’s shoulder with his elbow.

Itadori popped the soda open, and within a split second, the drink fizzed and completely exploded on both the boy’s faces, blinding them for a moment.

Seconds later, the can dropped with a quiet thud…

“Hell, yeah! Did you see that? Huh? Huh!?? ” Kugisaki triumphantly waved the two other soda cans in her friend’s direction. Slowly, her arms fell to her sides.

She paused, brows furrowing at the lack of response—especially from the boy with salmon hair. She looked back, ready to shout and scream at Itadori, yet she was not prepared for the sight before her… “...Huh? Where the hell did those two run off to?” she asked incredulously, the pair suddenly gone without a single trace. All that remained was the half-empty soda can, still fizzing out on the ground before her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Itadori let out an unsatisfied noise, wiping the soda off his face. He opened his eyes, the sun almost blinding him a second time.

Since when was it so bright out? Itadori internally questioned.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced to his side, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he saw how Fushiguro was still by his side, despite the strange change in lighting.

Fushiguro looked around quietly, his eyes coming into a squint as he noticed both Nobara and the vending machines were nowhere to be seen. He scanned their surroundings, spotting a few withered benches among a large open field of grass, various breeds of dogs, and random people walking around.

43

“...Uh, where’d Kugisaki go?” Itadori chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

Fushiguro glanced at Itadori’s confused expression, “No idea.” He paused, letting a brief moment of silence dawn upon the two of them.

“We seem to be in some sort of park,” Fushiguro concluded nonchalantly.

Looking down, he flexed his hand, checking for any sign of difference after their odd transportation.

Something feels off… I feel lighter…almost as if something’s missing.

“Way to point out the obvious, buddy,” Itadori joked, which landed him a cold side-eye from his friend. ...

“So, uhh.. what happened?” Itadori continued sheepishly, his gaze locked on Fushiguro.

“Do you feel that?” Fushiguro inquired, searching Itadori’s eyes for an answer.

“Feel what?---” Itadori responded, quickly getting cut off by the latter.

“Exactly,” Fushiguro finished.

As another wave of confusion came over the salmon haired boy, he sighed, looking away from his friend. He thought quietly, considering Fushiguro’s question carefully. By now, Sukuna, the cursed spirit who inhabits his mind, should have said something. Right? The boy’s eyes widened, and he looked back over to Fushiguro. In the meanwhile, he tried reaching out to Sukuna via his mind.

Hellooooooooooooooo…? Sukunaaaaa…. Are you still alive?

No answer. Itadori tried to call out again.

Where’d ya go, bro? Didja finally decide to leave me alone?

After waiting a solid minute, Itadori facepalmed, sighing once more.

44

“Itadori, what’s wrong?” Fushiguro asked, noticing the other boy’s grand gesture. He tilted his head, clearly awaiting Itadori’s answer.

“It’s, I mean—Sukuna. He’s not there…” Itadori mumbled, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.

Fushiguro stiffened. “That means…”

“Yeah, I can’t feel… anything, as if my cursed energy has completely dissipated,” the other continued.

“What—?” Fushiguro was cut off as a screen display suddenly materialized in front of their faces. A sketchy, yet almost surreal message appeared before them. The two boys' eyes quickly darted along across the lines, digesting the information. A moment of silence fell upon them, before the salmon-haired boy spoke up once more.

“Preserve… our existence? Original story? Did you understand any of that wack??”

“It says that we have to find these ‘narrative anchors’ or else we’ll….” Fushiguro’s faltered.

“We’ll cease to exist,” Itadori only stared at his friend—completely dumbfounded. An expression of worry flashed across his face, before he let out a small sigh.

“Will we even get hints as to what these ‘anchors’ are?” The boy continued, awaiting the latter’s response.

“Do you really think we should just believe this nonsense? It could be some sort of trick,” Fushiguro stated.

“Do you happen to casually see weird screens magically pop up in front of you?” Itadori argued back. “Besides, we already concluded that our cursed techniques are gone. It couldn’t be that.”

“Should we split up in order to find the anchors quicker?” Fushiguro asked slowly.

45

“I’d definitely stick to that,” Itadori exclaimed. …

“Alright, let’s do this, then.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Itadori’s perspective ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay, splitting up with Fushiguro in this “world” we know nothing about. Should be fine, right?

Itadori silently strolled down the path to the exit of the park, pausing for a short moment. He blinked, standing there with an expression of contemplation.

Wait, where are we even? This is still earth, obviously, but are we even in Japan?

What if the people here speak a different language?

The boy bit his lip absentmindedly, letting a shallow sigh out as he reassured himself into calming down.

I just need to find this anchor thing. Can’t be too hard, right? I wonder, is it personal to Fushiguro and I? Or, just our series…

Just then, the persistent sound of dogs barking snapped him out of his trance.

Looking around once more, the boy with salmon hair started to walk again.

“I’m overcomplicating this so much—I have to hurry up,” Itadori murmured aloud.

Finally exiting the park, he approached a busy street, eyes scanning stores in order to figure out where he might be. His eyes widened very briefly, letting out a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding in.

46

Crap. Everything here is all in English. That totally helps this whole situation out a lot!

“Is that… a movie theatre?” Itadori’s eyes sparkled with interest, a rush of adrenaline hitting him despite his discovery about being somewhere where his native tongue isn't spoken.

Sweet! Totally awesome, even! I just gotta see what’s playin’!

Enthusiastically, he rushed over near the area where the theatre lay. Itadori went inside almost immediately, looking around at the movies featured. He hummed, approaching the counter where the worker was. Itadori glanced over the latter for a second, their attire very odd to him.

Who wears their pajamas to work? That’s just weird…

“Hey, are those the only movies playing?” Itadori asked curiously, pointing back to the framed movies near the entrance of the movie theatre.

The worker just stared at him, a dumbfounded expression on their face as if they’d seen a ghost.

“Excuse me?” The worker replied, a confused, almost disgusted tone.

Itadori’s face grew red as he had realized he instinctively spoke Japanese. He scrambled for words, trying to form a sentence. “Err… Other movies?” he mumbled sheepishly.

The worker sighed, before looking down at the tablet on the counter. They glanced over the movies present on the screen, “Pretty much just those, man.”

They replied, an ‘uhm’ following shortly after. “...There are a bunch of other movies n’ stuff over in the CD section—feel free to check that out.”

Itadori only nodded, giving thanks to the latter with a small wave as he marched over to the CD section.

Woah, there seriously is a lot here. That guy really didn't lie!

47

Itadori skimmed through the CD’s, hoping to find something obscure—he had gotten quite interested in movies that people barely knew about or found nerdy after his training with his teacher. He flipped through CD’s for a good few minutes, almost discouraged with all of the overrated and boring-looking movies, however—something caught his eye.

Wait, could that be…?

“Human Earthworm 3?!” Itadori stated excitedly, his mouth going agape shortly after.

The futuristic screen display from earlier suddenly arose before his eyes—a short message.

“Congratulations. You have found 1/2 anchors needed to return to your original story.” A few seconds later, it completely disappeared as if it had never been there in the first place.

This is awesome! But… How much time do we have left? It seems like Fushiguro hasn't found the other anchor yet. Hopefully his luck will come in handy soon—before our time runs out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Fushiguro’s perspective --------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jeez, what am I even supposed to be looking for?

Fushiguro’s eyes briefly scanned the small shops which lined the sidewalks, unsure of what object this ‘narrative anchor’ could possibly be; something out of the ordinary, he assumed.

Except, everything here was out of the ordinary—the public transportation, the roadside trash, even the civilian’s clothing.

Fushiguro had swore he saw at least 6 different girls wearing the exact same black leggings with socks over them, paired with some odd kind of light brown

48

slippers adorned with fur. Surely, those types of shoes couldn’t be suitable to walk around in.

After splitting up with Itadori, he had also noticed something which could prove to be a small complication, which was the language barrier. Walking down the busy sidewalk, Fushiguro had overheard countless warbled conversations, only catching a few English words.

Clearly, they weren’t in Japan anymore.

Their location was a mystery, but for now, all Fushiguro could do was find these so-called narrative anchors in hopes of returning back to Jujutsu High.

“I wonder if Itadori is having better luck than I am?” He murmured quietly, a stark contrast to the loud traffic and boisterous chatting of teenagers around him. Despite their strange and outlandish situation, Fushiguro was sure that Itadori would somehow find what they needed, as he always did.

Right before he was going to turn left and continue to explore a different direction of the city, a small, run-down shop sitting on the corner of the pathway caught the boy’s attention. Compared to all the other stores, it seemed much more outdated and antique…as if it could possibly be storing a magical object.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, a harsh gust of wind passed by, causing the old store sign hanging in front to fall off one of its hinges.

At least, that’s what Fushiguro hoped was the case.

The stairs creaked with each step as he approached the door and twisted the handle, taken aback by the poorly lit interior and dusty smell. The store was crowded, not with people, but with random items and shelves that displayed many unique trinkets, which honestly seemed quite useless.

Tucked away in the corner of the cramped store was a wooden circular desk, where an old lady, the cashier, was slumped forward—probably asleep.

I should probably hurry up. Itadori could’ve found one of the narrative anchors already.

49

Briskly, but quiet enough to not awaken the cashier, Fushiguro started down one of the aisles, if you could even call them that. His eyes quickly flitted over the numerous objects they had for sale, finally landing on a small white dog figurine.

The boy stopped as a memory flashed in his head, one that caused him to suck in a breath and slowly reach out for the figurine. Gently, he picked it up with a tugging feeling in his chest. The small figure, with large eyes and a lolling tongue, stung Fushiguro with the reminder of his old dog, Shiro, who had died almost a year ago.

Before he had a chance to place it back on it’s shelf, an usual but familiar screen display popped up, with text reading: “Congratulations. You have found 2/2 anchors needed to return to your original story.”

Fushiguro’s arm froze mid-stretch, and the screen disappeared as soon as it came. He had found a narrative anchor.

Not only did he find one, it was the second anchor out of two, meaning that Itadori had completed his mission successfully.

Fushiguro quickly pocketed the figurine and glanced towards the cashier, who was still sleeping. He would prefer to pay before leaving, but who knows how complicated that could turn out to be, especially with their differing currencies.

Silently, he shifted past the crowded shelves and made his way back to the entrance, giving the store one last look before he pulled the door open and left.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wonder if our phones still work here? Can I contact Fushiguro?

Itadori stood still, thinking blankly as he clutched the Human Earthworm 3 CD in his hands.

50

“Wait... how do I even pay for this? I only have yen…” Itadori sighed dramatically.

He squinted, watching through the corner of his eye as the worker left their spot, hollering out something akin to, “I’m going on break now!”

This is so bad… I’m really about to steal this CD. Well, it’s fine, right? It’s to get back to Fushiguro and I’s world. So, it's totally for a good reason if you ask me. I can’t do anything about this outcome.

Itadori quickly snuck out of the CD section, eyes darting around the theatre.

Looked like another worker hadn't come out yet—likely due to how the movie theatre wasn’t that busy right now.

I’m just gonna get this over with.

Itadori sprinted out of the theatre with all the speed he could muster, and surprisingly, no sort of alarm went off about the non-paid item. Perhaps this was just his luck.

Wow that was crazy, it’s almost as if I'm some sort of main character!

“Itadori, there you are,” A voice said, interrupting his train of thought. “I was worried about our phone’s having no service here, but it turns out you were just down the block.”

Itadori let out a yelp, almost dropping his CD as he whipped around, prepared to defend himself from the shoplifting accusations.

“Oh!! Hey buddy, hey Fushibro!” Itadori rubbed the back of his neck, shoving the CD in Fushiguro’s face.

The latter stared back at him, almost repulsed. “Don’t ever say that again. And I’m assuming this is the narrative anchor you found?” He grabbed the CD in front of him, and read the movie’s odd title.

Human Earthworm 3… Of course it’s one of those obscure movies with absolutely no plot that Itadori just loves to watch.

51

“Yeah. I'm surprised they had it here,” Itadori spoke once more, practically reading Fushiguro’s thoughts. …

“So uh… after our very legal means of getting the anchors, what now?” Itadori stammered, “Do we have to like, sacrifice them somewhere? Do they have shrines in this place?” He joked.

“Don’t be stupid, of course they don’t. This isn’t Japan.” Fushiguro stated.

“How about we go find a vending machine?” Itadori shot his friend a smug grin.

“That also sounds stupid. But less stupid than your other suggestion,” He sighed. “I think I saw one on the way here. Follow me.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why is this so much…duller than the ones we have back at Jujutsu high?”

Itadori looked disappointed.

Fushiguro crossed his arms, the CD still in one hand. “This isn’t the time for complaints. Now, what do we do?”

“We’re gonna buy a drink, duh. Just like how we got here Fushibro! Think about it,” Itadori snickered.

“And, you have money on you?” Fushiguro asked skeptically.

“Nah, ‘course I don’t. Let's kick it until something falls out, like how Kugisaki does it.” He mumbled.

“Are you really that desperate to imitate Kugisaki now?”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say dude.” Itadori stared at the vending machine for a moment, “Anyways let's get kickin’ Fushibro!” The salmon-haired boy enthusiastically started to kick the vending machine, and a drink fell out surprisingly quickly.

52

Is the quality of these vending machines bad? Or am I just goated?

Fushiguro winced at the boy’s use of the poorly made nickname, and sighed while Itadori kicked with more eagerness than necessary. “This is so stupi—” He cut himself off as a drink tumbled from its place.

“Sweet! Let's shake this stuff up!” Itadori grabbed the drink from the dispenser, already starting to shake it aggressively. “So, should we just open it now? You hold the items out or something.”

Still doubtful of his friend’s interesting methods, Fushiguro dug through his pocket with his free hand and pulled out the small dog figurine.

“Okaaaay, opening it!” Itadori said, pulling the tab—only for the drink to barely fizz up and spill onto the ground sadly. “So… erm, that didn't work quite as planned.” Itadori tossed the empty can into the trash.

“I can tell.”

“Okay, bro.” Itadori sighed, “What if we have to put the anchor items into the drink and then drink them like that?” Itadori’s mood rose at his proposed idea, a newfound sense of hope coming over him.

“What? What kind of stupid—A CD wouldn’t even fit in a can of soda?”

Fushiguro said incredulously. Sometimes, Itadori’s idiocy astounded him. He could tell that his friend was losing it.

“Y’know, some of the sodas here look so weird. Like what is this ‘Mountain Dew’ crap?” Itadori fussed, placing his hands against the glass of the vending machine as he glanced over all of the drinks.

“Argh, this damn vending machine—” Itadori started kicking it again, a bit more irritated this time. He grabbed the drink that fell out, leaning against the vending machine as he let out a sigh.

“What do we do then? Sacrifice the anchors to the vending machine?” Itadori said half-seriously.

53

Fushiguro gave the machine a once-over, focusing on the dispenser near the bottom. “Hmmm…”

“Y’know what, at this point, the most obscure way will be how we get back. I'm gonna put the anchors inside the dispenser slot.” Itadori grumbled, taking the items from Fushiguro’s hands, and giving the latter the second can of soda instead.

Itadori pushed the cover back, and carefully placed the anchors inside.

Glancing back at Fushiguro, he nodded—a que to shake the soda and open it.

Fushiguro exhaled, done with Itadori’s antics at this point. Still, he followed along with his friend’s plan and reluctantly started shaking the can.

In the meantime, Itadori closed his eyes—internally praying this would finally send them back.

Fushiguro rolled his eyes sarcastically, popping open the lid. “If this seriously works, I’m gonna—”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why am I even still here? Will they ever come back…

Itadori opened his eyes, a grin spreading across his face as he saw their other not-so-long-lost friend, still standing near the vending machines at Jujutsu High as she was before Fushiguro and Itadori had disappeared.

Turning around, the girl’s eyes widened, relief coming over her face at the appearance of her two friends safe and sound, despite a shocked and disgusted Fushiguro who was too stunned to speak.

Itadori cried out happily, “Kugisaki!! Were you worried about us?—” “I’m gonna beat you two up.”

54

Chapter 10: SpongeBob Squarepants comes alive in 2025 Vanilla Pan

海绵宝宝第一次踏上这片陆地，阳光晒在身上，有点干。他兴奋地想跟每个人打招呼，可 人们都低着头步履匆匆。“你好！”他对一个路人笑着挥手，换来的是一双疲惫的眼和沉默的背影。 他突然想起章鱼哥——这里有这么多和他很像的灵魂。他不太明白大家为什么不笑，但也没气馁 ，就像他每天的擦亮菠萝屋地板——虽然没人注意，但他总觉得值得。他去咖啡店要了一杯“会让 人开心的热可可”，还拜托多加一点泡泡。“这个世界太硬了，才需要一点海绵的软。”他一边喝一 边想。湿润多了。然后他继续上路，脚下踩着落叶，心里仍然装着一整个比奇堡的夏天。

55

Chapter 11: Transcript from the ChronoCon 3142 Keynote Address Bella Wang, adapted by Manha Hussain

Good evening, esteemed guests, time tourists, paradox producers, and those of you who arrived early... or late... or at precisely the moment I began this sentence. Well done, you have mastered the art of time travel.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting me yet, my name is Evelyn Johnson. I come from the 2000s—a century filled with questionable fashion choices, viral dance challenges, and the inexplicable popularity of avocado toast. Shocking to those of you from the 18th century, I know—no corsets or powdered wigs in sight.

In 2025, my partner, Ravi, and I were working on a revolutionary project to bridge the gap between fiction and reality using AI—because clearly, the world wasn’t chaotic enough. Long story short, we accidentally tore a hole in the space-time continuum and, surprise! Fictional characters started appearing in real life. I’m not sure if any of you have ever had lunch with Hamlet, but he’s way more dramatic about salad dressing than you’d think.

With the help of some good samaritans, we managed to get everyone back into their stories. In the process, we also discovered how to make time travel possible for humans, not just for fictional characters. And, well, I’m sure you

56

know the rest, since you’re all here today to celebrate this glorious, slightly absurd, achievement with us.

These days, I am the official spokesperson for Time Itself, so it is an honour to welcome you to ChronoCon 3142, where the wine is aged forward, and the chicken is still deciding if it came before the egg. Thank you for joining us from every imaginable century and decade.

Now, before dessert is reverse-engineered, I’ve been instructed by Time (she/her, ageless, omnipresent) to deliver an important message tonight. Not just because the last guy gave a speech entirely in Morse code (and no one brought a translator), but because many of you have been, shall we say, “liberal” with causality. And while Time is infinite, her patience is not.

So, tonight, I present to you the updated “Time Travel Terms & Conditions, Version 237.4b.” Yes, the “b” matters. “A” ended in a chicken uprising. We don’t talk about it.

Let’s begin with Clause 1: The Grandfather Paradox.

I don’t know how I should say this other than…Stop killing your grandfathers! I know, I know—it’s tempting. They said weird things, they wore socks with sandals, and they once told your mom not to let you study what you wanted.

But if one more of you erases yourselves mid-speech, we will start charging a restoration fee. That’s 500 ChronoCoins or a donation to the Extinct Species

57

Revival Fund—ask the dodo birds about that one, their booth is right outside that door over there. For the record, if you must make questionable family decisions, we recommend therapy, not temporal murder. Everybody got that?

Ok good, I got a couple therapists backstage, just in case, but I think we’re good.

Moving on: Clause 2: Do Not Date Historical Figures.

I cannot stress this enough. Cleopatra has a restraining order. Shakespeare won’t finish the third act of King Lear because he’s ghosting one of you. And I swear if one more of you “accidentally” inspires Mozart, he’s going to sue for royalties. We’ve had to erase seven royal babies, a sonnet about microwaves, and an opera where Napoleon sings falsetto (that last one was traumatizing). Love may be eternal—but please, keep it within your own century. Or even better, decade.

Now, Clause 3: No Lottery Tickets.

Listen, we get it. You want to be rich without consequences. I understand, and even share your sentiment. But when everyone wins the 1987 jackpot, it crashes the economy. Again. Please, just invest in Apple like a normal time traveler. Or, if you really want to get rich, go back and invest in cold brew. Or Crocs. Or the Great Hamster Rebellion of 2083—but no spoilers about that one for those of you who haven't witnessed that yet.

Ah, yes. Clause 4: The Butterfly Effect Liability Waiver.

58

Ok. I understand where you guys are coming from with this one, but you have to understand that the consequences we had to deal with after the Incident of 2893 was real. Someone, sometime, swears they didn’t hurt that poor insect, but suddenly, ducks wear suits, sandwiches sue for emancipation, and Canada is a superpower run by sentient AI named Greg. After many all-nighter (even though we work for time that does NOT mean we want to spend all of our time fixing your mistakes), we’ve traced all of that back to a butterfly in 1452. His name was Harold. He had dreams.

If you step on a bug and that somehow leads to sentient dinner plates taking over Alberta—well, that’s on you. Do not sue us or any other party; it is completely your responsibility. If you do need the service, we’ve hired Chaos Butterflies as consultants. They are unionized. And seriously, we can’t afford another incident. So unless you want to explain to the universe why bananas now speak Latin, watch your step.

Now, I really didn’t think we had to go over this next one, but here we are.

Clause 5: Do Not Become Your Own Parent.

No. Just—no. It’s not clever. It’s not edgy. It’s not “redefining the family unit.” It’s just deeply, cosmically, gross. If you feel the urge to become your own mom, we suggest tea. Or the lineup of therapists backstage. Or, possibly exorcism.

And finally, Clause 6: Remember to Log Out.

59

Every year, we lose dozens of you to Ancient Greece. One of them is now an oracle. One married a statue. One keeps inventing hummus. Actually, he’s doing great.

Anyways, we don’t have the budget to pull you all back every time you “find yourself spiritually” in the 3rd century BCE. Set a timer. Tell a friend. Don’t get stuck. Especially not in the Renaissance—too many ruffles.

Now, you may be wondering: why all these rules? Why can’t I flirt with Newton, kill a bug, and become the 12th Pharaoh of a now-forgotten dynasty?

Because our timelines are shared spaces. A communal canvas. And every action—no matter how small—ripples outward. You may think you’re just fixing your past, but you might be breaking someone else’s future. Time isn’t a tool to serve you—it’s a gift we’ve been entrusted with. And like any gift, it deserves respect, restraint, and occasionally, a very stern set of Terms & Conditions.

So yes, tonight, we laugh. We eat chocolate mousse from multiple eras and toast across timelines. But let us also remember this: The true way to discover our role in the world isn’t changing the past.

It’s understanding and appreciating the present.

Thank you again for attending this dinner, wherever and whenever you’re from—and I hope to see you all back at Chronocon 3143!

60

"A writer is a world trapped in a person."

— Victor Hugo

A special thank you to our faculty leads, Ms. Vickman and Ms. Scarfo, for their guidance, support, and continued inspiration. HEMLINE wouldn’t be the same without you and your creative leadership.

61