The Prophet, Season 1

By Oracle9

Prophet must embrace himself and his past to save the Prime Minister's daughter from a mysterious Tauran assassin.

EPISODE ONE

(My family.)

A grey sedan parks outside of a hotel in Lucia. The sky is a dim blue and the streetlamps are beginning to turn on. It's cold and people are going out to drink and celebrate the end of the week. The radio shuts off and a shape emerges from the driver's side. It is a heavyset man, wearing a tuxedo. He has broad, square shoulders, and his face is obscured by the darkness of the night. He pauses for a moment, looking up at the towering building. He reads the sign above the entrance.

"BONIFACIO"

A cool breeze winds through the branches of the trees and around thick concrete buildings, around Domovoi. The man does not shiver. He walks towards the entrance.

---

Domovoi passed businessmen, CEOs, actors, bankers. Swaths of the rich and the elite filled the hotel lobby. It made him sick. He slipped between them, well-dressed figures conversing. Fake smiles and empty handshakes. There was a band performing somewhere. The jazz mingled with the dull roar of conversation that filled the room. He bumped into somebody, nearly causing them to spill their drink. As he walked away, he heard the man exclaim. "Hey, watch it!" He reached the elevator, hailing it, entering and crossing his hands. There were three packages he needed to collect, all of them on the third floor. The floor was mostly empty, the suites not as luxurious as those on the upper levels of the building. The first package was outside of room `309`. It was heavy, and as he carried it, there was a metallic clinking that accompanied Domovoi's every step. The second was in front of room `327`. As the man carried both boxes, a couple passing by him in the corridor eyed him warily. He paid them no attention. Room `356`. Domovoi bent down to pick up the package, and the door in front of him opened. An old man stepped out, in his pajamas, and the two made tense eye contact.

"That seems to be my pack-"

"This is not your package." Domovoi stared into the resident's soul. He had piercing purple eyes.

"Well, it's in front of my ro-"

"This is not your package." Domovoi gave a forced smile. "It must have been put here, mistakenly."

The old man's eyebrows curved downwards. He looked somewhere between scared and confused. Domovoi peeked into the room behind him, and it was empty. The balcony was open and there was a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. "Alright, then." The old man shut the door. With all three boxes, Domovoi approached a room at the end of the corridor, taking out a keycard and swiping it. The door unlocked. A stocky, bald figure sat on the bed with his hands cushioning his head. Hints of an orange beard wrapped around his face. The TV was on, turned to the local news. He raised an eyebrow at Domovoi and stood up.

"Thought you'd never get here."

Domovoi began laying the boxes down on the bed. He opened each one, taking out mechanical parts and beginning to assemble them quickly. He did not hesitate. A newscaster on the TV rattled on in German in the background. Domovoi detested the language.

"Security's pretty heavy upstairs. Even asked me what I was doin', told 'em I was tryin' to find the pool. Guards are nosy."

Domovoi said nothing.

"You know you're crazy right? This is crazy."

"Will you join?" Domovoi didn't look up when he spoke.

"Fuck no, man. I'm gettin' out of here."

Domovoi had finished. A semi-automatic shotgun lay on the bed before him. He took the final piece, a silencer no larger than a can of soda, and affixed it to the barrel. He loaded the gun and cocked it.

"Where is the vest?"

The man slid out an armoured vest from under the bed, handing it to Domovoi.

"The mask?"

The man retrieved a fireman's mask, throwing it onto the bed. They looked at each other.

"What?" The man said. "It looks badass. Just try it."

Domovoi scowled. He put the mask on, stepping into the bathroom and admiring himself in the mirror. The mask, the gun, and his gargantuan size made him appear alien. Almost godlike. He nodded. "You wait five minutes, and then you leave." The bald man sat back down on the bed and Domovoi returned to the hallway, the newscaster's voice fading as the door shut behind him.

---

Prophet sat on the couch with his eyes closed. It made no difference, but he could concentrate better. He paged through the sounds of the city, flitting through them like folders in a file cabinet. One couple argued a few floors below him, another was having sex just one floor above. Businessmen talked in low voices in private suites, glasses clinked together in celebration. Someone covered Prophet's eyes with their hand.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"... three."

Naomi pouted. She took her hand off of Prophet's face and sat down next to him. "Temi, how can you see things without your eyes?"

Prophet sighed. He leaned back into the cushions. "Here. I'll show you. Close your eyes." Prophet clicked his tongue and it resonated throughout the living room. "The sound waves bounce off of objects in the room and return to your ear. Then you can figure out how far away things are." Naomi looked at him. "Go on," Prophet said. "Try it."

Naomi closed her eyes and clicked her tongue. She frowned. "I don't get it."

"It takes practice is all." Prophet tensed up.

"Temi, what's wro-"

"Sh." Gunshots. In the corridor.

---

Domovoi stood in the elevator. His shotgun was rigidly pressed against his chest. His head nearly touched the ceiling and his body surged with muscles. His neck was solid and venous. The elevator chimed and the doors opened.

A guard was stationed at the door of the elevator. Domovoi shot him three times in quick succession, causing his body to slump over against the wall. The shotgun hissed. Domovoi moved down the hotel corridor, passing a metal detector and setting it off. A second guard, standing outside the door of a hotel room, drew his weapon. Domovoi shot him in the neck, tearing his carotid artery in half. The guard collapsed, clutching his throat. He approached the door of the hotel room, taking aim at the lock mechanism. The shotgun exhaled sharply, like a stifled sneeze, and the lock was blown to pieces. Domovoi entered, scanning the room.

It was clean and spacious and cold. Tall glass windows gave a panoramic view of Novenae's business district. Domovoi lowered his gun. He noticed two depressions in the couch cushions, but nobody was there.

---

Prophet mashed the elevator button despairingly.

"What floor, Naomi?"

Her arms were clutched around the soldier's neck. "Twentieth floor." The Prophet swore under his breath. The shooter was in the hotel room. It smelled like copper and gunpowder. Prophet was trembling now. He took deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He put Naomi down.

"Stay close to me."

Prophet retrieved the MP9 that hung from his belt and pushed a magazine into it. He pressed his body against the wall of the corridor and began to walk forward, keeping his barrel pointed at their hotel room. With his other hand he read the braille on the plaques next to each doorway.

`ROOM 607`

`ROOM 608`

`ROOM 609`

`STAIRS`

Prophet pushed open the door and he ushered Naomi in. He scooped up the child in one arm and descended the stairwell.

---

Two people. The girl and a nanny, maybe. That, or her father. The latter would complicate things. They had escaped through a door leading to an adjoining hotel room. It wouldn't matter. Domovoi stepped back out into the hotel corridor. He was about to enter the stairwell when the elevator chimed and the steel doors beckoned him in.

---

Prophet could feel the child breathing and held her close to his chest. She had wrapped her arms around his neck and clung tightly to him. Her heartbeat was quite fast. The murmur of conversation strengthened as they entered the hotel lobby. Every conversation and sniffle and breath was pronounced. It was overwhelming. Prophet turned down the sensitivity on his hearing aids. There was a bar not far from here where they could hide. He had frequented the place and knew the bartender well, from there he could radio for help. Prophet did not notice an elevator arrive on the ground floor. A woman screamed. Prophet turned. A slug ripped through his left shoulder, passing through it and into the chest of the man behind him. People began to panic, running and trampling over each other. Prophet aimed his firearm and dumped a full magazine in the assassin's direction. The smell of gunpowder tinged the air and danced with hints of perfume and champagne. The magazine fell from Prophet's gun. He crouched low, using the commotion to disguise himself.

---

Domovoi's first hit connected well. He lined up his next shot. In a brief, imperceptible moment, the two were able to see each other clearly for the first time. Domovoi studied Prophet's face. His eyes were milky and glazed over. The Prophet raised his weapon and Domovoi ducked instinctively. A wave of bullets careened over his head and into the wall behind him. Clouds of smoke and drywall billowed out into the air. When Domovoi stood again he could not find the Prophet nor the girl. People swirled around him with expressions of terror, abandoning drinks and high heels. In the middle of it all a man lay motionless on the floor. A pool of blood grew around him. Someone caught in the crossfire. The faint hue of red and blue lights illuminated the entryway to the hotel. He approached the North wall, made mostly of glass panes overlooking the canal. He shot at the windows causing it to shatter and jumped through.

The windows overlooked a vertical garden, and then a pathway that dipped low and followed the canal just near the water level. Domovoi relieved himself of his equipment, dropping his gun and vest and mask into the water. It was nearly midnight, at this hour the waters of the canal were dark like crude oil and reflected the lights of the city. Domovoi vaulted over the railing, diving into the shadow.

---

Prophet had worked his way into the restaurant, cutting through the kitchen, and now the two had left the building through the back entrance. Sirens howled in the distance. It was cold out. Prophet put Naomi down. "Are you ok?" He ran his fingertips along her arms, looking for wounds.

"Temi, you're bleeding."

"I know." He was in shock now, but this was going to hurt much more later. Prophet's shoulder ached. He retrieved a phone from his pocket and held it up to his ear. The half moon shone brightly down on them from above.

EPISODE TWO

(Aftermath.)

Temi was in the hospital for a week.

A dark, unmarked van came to pick them up from the hotel. Naomi watched Temi get placed onto a stretcher and rolled into the back of the vehicle. A tall, skeletal man got out of the van and introduced himself as Mr. Hidori. He had on a surgical mask and gloves and a wide-brimmed hat that made all but his eyes visible. He said that her father had sent him and that he wanted her to join him on the way to the hospital. She wanted to stay with Temi, so Naomi accepted.

They drove for a long time. Temi began to fall asleep and this made Mr. Hidori worried. Blood had soaked into Temi's black shirt and pooled onto the stretcher. Naomi held Temi's hand while Mr Hidori examined him and she noticed that his arms were covered in drawings. There was an image of a dragon breathing fire that extended down his bicep which transitioned into an old Chinese warlord with rustic, detailed armour surrounded by smoke. There was a bouquet of flowers near his wrist and the head of a snake rested on his hand. Some designs were so detailed she couldn't understand what they were supposed to be, and she spent the rest of the drive trying to decipher them.

They arrived at an office building, then the parking garage under it, and finally at an elevator that took them deep within Novenae. Naomi was surprised when the lift dropped them off at a hospital ward. Mr Hidori and a few nurses barreled past her, rolling Temi down the corridor and into a side room. Naomi could barely see Temi as doctors began to gather. They poked holes in his skin with needles and began cutting his clothes off with a pair of scissors. Naomi watched them work through a tall glass window.

The next three days went by fast. Father wouldn’t allow Naomi to leave without Temi, so she had to stay at the hospital. She got clean clothes, a bed, and takeout whenever she wanted. Her room sat just across from Temi’s. Every once in a while she would try to talk to him through the glass. He never replied- Temi slept for three days straight. He must be tired. On the fourth day, Father called. Naomi talked about how she was doing in school and her new project in Robotics Club and if she had made any new friends. Father’s replies were warm and kind. He told Naomi that he was sorry that he couldn’t visit her in person- and that he loved her. His voice trembled when he spoke. They talked nearly all day.

Temi woke up on the fifth day. He fell out of his bed, causing a nearby machine to topple over. It took several nurses and a security guard to pick him up and lay him back down. Mr Hidori rushed into the room and took off his hat, showing his curly black hair. The others left the room and Naomi watched the two converse quietly. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. She grabbed something from her bedside and walked across the corridor, opening the door to Temi’s room quietly.

“Madam,” Hidori said, bowing at the girl. Temi said nothing. She approached his bed, nervously, placing a stuffed animal by his wrist and scuttling out of the room. Prophet’s expression did not change. He grabbed the plushie, feeling around it with the tips of his fingers.

“What is it?”

"An owl."

EPISODE THREE

(Heat.)

Prophet was seated at a bench outside Foundation headquarters in Aberdeen. The heat pulled him down into the soil. He listened to the cars rumble past him on the tarmac until it just became part of the background. The city was breathing, stretching its legs. Next to him, Hidori dug into a folder he had set on his lap.

“No clue when he first came in,” Hidori said.

Prophet had his head bowed toward the ground with his elbows dug up against his knees. Hidori pulled out a blurry photo of a man in a gas mask with a tactical vest on. He had his shotgun trained on something out of frame and he looked strong.

“Some guy was carrying a ton of packages on the third floor. He was smart, kept his face down and looked away from the cameras. About ten minutes later our masked man entered the elevator,” Hidori said. “Wish we had police records.”

Hidori looked over at Prophet from under his wide-brimmed hat.

“You know,” he said, “you can talk to me about it. I can help you.”

Prophet was silent for a minute. “I’m fine.”

Hidori stacked the papers neatly and closed the folder. “Suit yourself. School starts tomorrow at seven. I’ll need you there.” Hidori stood and left the Prophet alone.

---

Tozak poked at a tablet that lay on his lap, chewing the nail of his index finger between his teeth. The bed spanned nearly the entire width of the motel room and was shoved into a corner just below a window. Next to it was a minifridge filled with bottled water. The carpet was maybe thirty years old and gave off a pungent smell that Tozak couldn’t quite place. This part of the city was sparse and poor, just a few squat concrete buildings nestled in a vast plain that stretched out into neighboring Asunda. In the early hours of the morning as a smog settled onto the horizon all you could hear was the cranes of the port of Novenae working away. The pollution in these areas was more tolerable. Tozak’s cell phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize. He held the phone to his ear.

“Is it done?”

“No,” Domovoi replied.

“Shit, man.” Tozak massaged his bare forehead. “I thought we’d be done with all this. What stopped you?”

Domovoi paused for a moment. “There was a bodyguard. He slipped out with the child.”

“How?”

“I had to bring it to the lobby.” Domovoi looked over his shoulder, out at an empty parking lot on the other side of town. A bead of sweat dropped down his forehead. “Tozak, where does a child spend most of their time?”

“Uhm, school, the mall maybe. If not stuck at home.”

“Do you understand, Tozak?”

“Yes.” The line went dead.

---

Prophet had been parked outside of the main entrance of the school for three hours. His body was leaned up against the car door and he had one finger to his temple. Even with the fans going it was oppressively humid. He heard a vehicle roll up outside of the front entrance. A heavyset male stepped out. Familiar. Prophet opened the car door and got out himself heading towards the entrance in large strides. Maybe six feet tall, two hundred pounds. Muscular. The stranger’s heartbeat was bold and strong. Prophet thought about the hotel and it made him clench his fists. It was hard to say what would happen if things went sour in the parking lot. He approached the man from behind and grabbed his forearm and twisted it behind his back. He pushed the man against a nearby wall.

The man grunted when his body hit the concrete. “Private security,” Prophet said. “I need to search you before you can enter.”

“Get off of me,” the man said.

“Please stop resisting.” Prophet twisted the man’s arm and he yelped. He patted down his belt and jeans. Nothing, no weapons. Nothing tucked in his shoes. Prophet relaxed his grip and let the man flip himself around.

“Christ,” he said. “I’m just trying to see my kid.” He took one last look at the soldier as he stepped through the entrance. Prophet stood still and didn’t know what to think.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

---

On a cool evening two weeks later Naomi’s amah tucked her into bed and said goodnight. Prophet gave a small wave to the woman as she went out the door. He left himself to his own thoughts for a bit and it scared him. His chest was heavy and he couldn’t breathe. He walked over to the kitchen, pulling out a can of beer from the fridge and letting the liquid slide down his throat. He finished the entire thing in three gulps and stood there allowing the feeling to wash over him. This wasn’t new to him. He’d felt this way before. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time. He took out another beer and chugged it. Two more. A warmth came over him and he leaned up against a wall and closed his eyes.

---

Prophet felt a small kick against his right elbow. There was a tall thin figure with a wide-brimmed hat standing over him.

“Get up,” Hidori said.

Prophet stood at attention shaking off the morning fatigue. He felt the doctor peering at him.

“You’re taking a vacation.”

“What?”

“You’re going on leave for one month.” Hidori walked towards the entrance and Prophet followed him.

“A month?” Prophet hissed. “With all due respect, sir, very few people are qualified to give my wa-”

“You have to sort this out, Temilo.” Hidori stopped and faced the soldier. “I don’t want to be the one to tell Naomi’s father about this, but I’d have to.” Hidori took off his hat and scratched his head. “You’ve gotta talk to someone.” The sun poured through a nearby window and illuminated the doctor. He wore a cyan dress shirt that was slightly too loose for his gaunt figure. He extended a gloved hand and rested it on Prophet’s shoulder, a rare occurrence. “We’ve got the best private security in the city and all the money in the world. Focus on yourself for a bit.”

Prophet’s shoulders dropped. He may have accepted it.

“If anything happens, I’ll call you. Keep your gun, just in case.” Hidori put his hat back on and walked down the corridor through the front door and held it open for Naomi’s amah, disappearing into a car with tinted windows. Prophet clung onto the wall. He heard Naomi waking up in the adjoining room.

---

The shopping centre was only half-full as it was a weekday but there were plenty of shoppers out and about. Prophet had his folding cane and a thin pair of glasses on but they were mostly for show. People rarely bothered him this way. He went to a café in the middle of the plaza but didn’t order anything and sat down just to think about things.

“Sir, do you need help?”

A figure stood before him. Prophet raised an eyebrow.

“I can read the menu out if you like.”

“I’m not gettin’ anything.”

There was an awkward pause and the man stepped closer and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know, I don’t see many blind people around here.”

“It’s a big city. Not easy if you’re blind.”

“Hell, even if you’re sighted. You mind if I sit down?”

Prophet didn’t say anything but the man obliged.

“You a vet?”

Prophet hesitated. “Yeah.”

The man gave a slight nod. “So am I. What outfit?”

“Four-seventy. Scorpions. Served during the riots.”

Prophet’s chair creaked as he leaned back. Prophet heard the man swallow and his heartbeat lurched.

“Is that why you’re..?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“...”

“You up to anything now?”

“Retired. Not much I can do like this.”

The baristas grinded coffee loudly which drowned out all the other noise and the two waited for them to finish.

“So what brings you out here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You come to cafés often ‘nd just sit?”

“When I’ve got things to think about, yeah.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Prophet pursed his lips. “I keep having this dream. I can see again. I’m in some hotel lobby. There’s mannequins, just a sea of mannequins crowded around me. I can feel them staring at me. Somebody in that lobby’s hunting me down but, I can’t tell who it is. All those mannequins look the same. Could be any one of them. It scares me.”

The man tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling. The plaza had a glass roof that went up into the sky. “If you served in the riots, I’d say fate’s been on your side up to this point. Fear’s not a thing you can shove in a cupboard and deal with sometime else. That’ll make you worse off. You’ve gotta bathe in it. When I was out there, the NPL would mortar us to shit. My ears would ring and my brain’d bounce around my skull. I just let all that chaos pick me up and take me in its arms and it never bothered me again.”

“...”

“Well, that’s my two cents.”

EPISODE FOUR

(Across.)

The door clunked as it unlocked and the realtor pushed it open leading into an empty space. It was lit up only by the glass panes that lined the front door and was presumably the living room. The realtor’s heels clicked as she walked across the hardwood floor into the middle of the room. “This one is a three bedroom, two bathroom. About one point six million marks, so well within your budget.” With every inhale, the woman’s perfume stung Domovoi’s nose. He bit his tongue and strode inside with her, closing the door behind them.

“How is this neighborhood?” Domovoi asked.

“Very safe, and child friendly. As you’ve already seen security is pretty tight with the keypad. That fence goes around the whole neighborhood and we’ve got guards stationed at the gate twenty-four seven.” The realtor gushed, “This is one of the most highly-rated neighborhoods in Novenae. I’ve heard great things about it from the people who have lived here.”

“I see,” Domovoi said. “How far is the nearest police station?”

The realtor thought. “Maybe twenty minutes? I’m not sure.” She was around twenty-seven years old. Her shoes were a vibrant red which made Domovoi’s eyes hurt. Her voice was shrill and echoed off of the walls like a gnat flying around an empty room.

“Can I tell you something?” Domovoi asked.

“Uhm, sure.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for this.”

“Oh, uh, it’s no trouble really,” The realtor brushed her hair aside nervously. Domovoi rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, pulling out a combat knife and jabbing it into the side of the realtor’s neck. She dropped her papers, which fell to the floor. Then she did. She clutched vaguely at her throat and made a gurgling sound and slumped over onto her side. Domovoi stared into her eyes. Nice blue eyes.

Domovoi stooped over the realtor and reached into her pockets. He pulled out the set of keys that she had used to unlock the front door and put it in his pocket. He tucked his knife under his sleeve again and stood up, looking around the home. He went into the bathroom and turned on the sink, letting the water pull the blood off of his hands. He saw himself in the mirror for the first time in a while and checked that his clothes were clean. When he was satisfied he went upstairs. The floorboards creaked as he entered the second floor bedroom. He peeked between the blinds of a nearby window that looked out onto the street. Empty. Rich folk locked up in their homes. The sun was making its last display over the horizon before nightfall. Domovoi laid down on the carpet floor and closed his eyes.

When he woke up he could barely see. The house was eerie with no lights on but he had nothing to be afraid of. He got up and walked downstairs, barely able to make out the realtor’s body in the dark. Her blood was now a river of tar that leached from her neck. He was careful to keep his shoes clean and went through the front entrance, locking it behind him. The street was dark and quiet and there was the electric hum of crickets in the air. He strolled past each house looking into the front yards and the lives of the people who lived there. Domovoi pulled out his phone and looked at his message history with Tozak.

found from school website: Naomi Watts

Registrar says her guardian is “Hidori Tojo”

address Blck 41, Victoria Gated Compound, Chelsea

There was a pink bicycle laying on the driveway of the house, disassembled. It was a skinny concrete building carved out with shimmering blue glass windows. Domovoi pocketed his phone and hopped the fence and made his way around the back of the house to the circuit breaker. There was a lock on it that he jimmied open with his knife and he felt the air conditioning sigh as he shut off the power. Domovoi took one last look out onto the street and saw the guards’ hut, a lamp shining on a man in white uniform keeping watch over the entrance. He entered the home through a nearby window into what Domovoi presumed was the dining room. The house was wholly still.

---

“Keep moving. Put your hands up.” Prophet pulled back the hammer. Domovoi hadn’t heard the soldier sneak up behind him. They both moved into a bedroom on the second story and Prophet closed the door, keeping his pistol trained on the assassin’s back.

“Stop. Sit down there.” Prophet pointed at the bed. Domovoi sat. His Tauran features were apparent in the silver glow that came through the window. Prophet took out a radio with one hand and spoke into it. “This is Prophet. I’ve got him. Call the police.”

“Prophet, is that your callsign?”

“...”

“I assume you named yourself. When I was in the N.D.F, they used to call me beanpole.” Domovoi gave a deep raspy chuckle that came from the bottom of his stomach.

“Stop talking.”

Domovoi sighed. “You know, this was not the first neighborhood I looked at. I suppose I got lucky, in a way.”

“Yeah, you kill every real estate agent you come across?”

“Only when they have expended their usefulness to me.”

There was a tense pause in their conversation. Domovoi opened his mouth but Prophet raised his pistol. “Be quiet.”

“Tell me, Prophet,” Domovoi said, “Are you serving your country?”

“I serve Novenae.”

“Maybe we’re not so different.”

Prophet raised an eyebrow. “You serve Novenae?”

“I think we have different definitions of Novenae.” Domovoi looked out at the night sky from the second story window. The light in the guards hut was out. The window cracked, then shattered as it was hammered by bullets.

Both of the men were showered in glass. Domovoi rolled onto his back and into the space between the bed and the wall. Across the room, Prophet shielded his face, shards falling onto his vest. He shot through the edge of the bed three times, one bullet travelling through the mattress and puncturing Domovoi in the stomach. The assassin grunted. Prophet moved into the hallway and hugged the wall to his right with his pistol angled downwards. He heard the sound of boots punching the asphalt as two sets of footsteps approached the North face of the home. Prophet positioned himself at the lip of the staircase and listened. There was the sound of tires screeching, as another vehicle pulled up, and its occupants opened fire on the first group. Prophet thought, made a decision, then proceeded down the stairs.

Prophet used up nearly a whole magazine on the men entering through the front door. He could feel a couple more, approaching around both sides of the house, and he opened the back door which led onto the porch. It was the type of humid that stuck to your body and didn’t let go. He holstered his pistol, grappling onto the fence that separated the backyard from the rest of the world. Mounting it, there was a sharp drop onto solid concrete and he lowered himself down carefully. Once over he backed up slowly, keeping his pistol trained on the mouth of the fence as he heard the men approach from the other side. He would get them as they climbed over, or so he had thought, and then the Prophet was struck.

---

Domovoi waited until the gunfire ceased. There was a hole in his chest. He kept pressure on it and limped downstairs. There were two dead bodies near the front door, both masked. He rifled through their pockets, collecting ammunition, and pried an Uzi out of the hands of one. He checked how many bullets were left in the clip and went outside. The sky was lighter now and there were two vehicles parked outside of the home, one farther from the other. Domovoi could hear sirens in the distance and moved quickly over to a neighboring house. He shivered, lifting his hand for a moment to glare at the red circle in his lower abdomen. Moving over to the side of the house he found a thick set of bushes and crawled under, covering himself in dirt and leaves. He sent Tozak a quick message, then keeled over onto his side and drifted off under the brush.

---

“Anything?” Hidori asked.

“No, sir,” Junji replied. The two sat on the thirty-third floor of the Foundation office building.

“Track his radio.”

“We lost its signal a few hours ago. It might have been destroyed. I’m sending Foundation operatives to its last known location as we speak.”

“Damn it,” Hidori said, rubbing his eyes. He grumbled and leaned on a nearby cubicle.

Junji took his eyes off of the computer screen and made a promise he couldn’t keep. “We’ll find him.”

Hidori walked off and didn’t say a word.

EPISODE FIVE

(Death is an evil.)

A few days before your father adopted you, he took me hunting.

He came to pick me up outside of Foundation headquarters in his pickup truck. I expected him to be in his usual robe, but he wasn’t. He had on a striking cotton uniform with a belt cinched around his waist. His chest was puffed forward and he had his hands clasped behind his back. He reminded me of a drill instructor I knew back in basic.

Ten minutes later we stood at the forests’ edge. I could only feel a few meters ahead of me until the noise was too much to make anything out. The ground was rugged and uneven. Too much clutter. As Father got the rifles out of the back of the car I stood in front of the brush with my brow furrowed.

We scaled a small hill that overlooked a clearing nestled between the trees. The sound of our footsteps bounced off of the forest and through my ears. A hundred meters or so in front of us stood a deer lapping water up from a nearby river. Father gestured towards me. I set the bolt into place and aimed. It took me a few weeks to figure out how to fire a gun again after they put my hearing aids in. I kept trying to aim down sights but I really didn’t need to. I never had to look at what I was shooting at. It was an advantage, but I lost some of the precision that sighted people had. I pulled the trigger. A hollow snap bounded through the forest, like the crack of a whip. I felt the blood gush from the deer’s wound, a gash just below its left pelvis. It limped further into the forest until I could no longer feel it.

We found the deer a few meters ahead. It lay motionless on its side, cradled in the roots of an oak tree. Your father crouched down beside it and leaned closer.

---

Prophet was drowning. With every inhale an awful, sharp pain twisted his stomach. His breaths got shorter and quicker. There was cold soil under his nails, pressing on his skin, in his mouth. He sputtered and raised his chin, the back of his hair touching the ground. He heard a shovel strike the dirt next to him. It was cold and he shivered which made his ribs ache. A wave of dirt hit his face. Prophet spat. He was in a clearing surrounded by trees. The man burying him had set a lantern down on the ground next to him and was scooping up piles of earth with his shovel. He was slender and took deep, thoughtful breaths. He dropped another pile of dirt onto Prophet’s face. It was getting into his eyes and nose now. Prophet tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound. He tried breaking the zipties apart but there was scarcely any room to maneuver. He was packed in up to his neck. Prophet dug his hands into the ground and tried pulling himself up but it felt as if his ribcage was being ripped in two and he couldn’t bear it for long. He looked at the figure burying him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Prophet croaked. He spoke between raspy, dissonant breaths. The figure said nothing and continued working.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

Silence.

“I can pay you. More money than they ever could. Please.”

The man looked down on him. Prophet wasn’t sure if he was real. The trees around them were impossibly tall. He would have liked to see his mother’s face again. He coughed as the next layer of dirt fell on him and buried his mouth. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching from deeper in the woods. The man yelled something, letting his shovel fall onto the ground, and raised both of his hands. The first shot was so powerful that it knocked him off his feet and echoed through the forest. The man groaned, then went silent lying flat on the cold hard soil. A shell casing hit the dirt and someone strolled over to Prophet and kneeled down. They brushed the dirt from Prophet’s face.

“You gonna kill me if I unbury you?” The voice asked.

Prophet said nothing. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

---

“A doe,” Your father said. I felt strangely vulnerable. I held the animal’s head in my hands, examining it. Its past, present, and future reduced to a gaping hole the size of a bullet under its hip. The sound of fluid dripping onto the grass.

I was afraid.

EPISODE SIX

(A sad sickness.)

The soldiers swayed, jostling with the steady rhythm of the APC. Temilo wore a thick kevlar vest that strangled him at the neck, covered in pockets and straps and holsters. His chin rested on the armour plating and he kept his gaze shifted downward. A pair of fingers snapped just under Temilo’s chest. He looked up. Tenzin stared back at him and grinned from the seat across. Jones, asleep in the seat next to him, was drooling on his own uniform. Temilo smiled back.

The four soldiers emerged. Kaine, Tenzin, Temilo, Jones. The weight of the world was on their shoulders. They stood at a four-way intersection that sliced a lush green forest into four quadrants. The road ahead stretched as far as they could see, and on either side of them were vibrant trees that melted into one another and lurched over the sidewalks. Vines and plantlife wrapped around guardrails and signs. There were some tractor-trailers sat at a nearby carpark, abandoned. The four men wielded sleek, charcoal rifles that matched the freshly laid tarmac. Kaine took point, the others followed closely behind, walking in a line with ten meters between them. A kilometer north they found a small village buried in the green. The houses were squat and put together with corrugated sheet metal. The poorer homes were splotched with a putrid rust. All the residents were tanned from time spent out in the sun. Kaine got the attention of a woman standing by the side of the street. She held a baby in her arms.

“Have you noticed anything suspicious lately?” Kaine asked. The woman furrowed her brow. Temilo repeated the question in Cantonese.

“Men with guns,” she answered. “Every night, they ask for our food. Then they head that way.” She pointed further north.

“Did they say where they were going?”

The woman shook her head. Kaine walked away, leaning up against a tin house. Temilo thanked the woman, approaching his squad leader. Kaine rubbed his eyes and sighed. He had sharp features, a hooked nose and a deep, sunken gaze.

“How is it with you and her?” Temilo asked.

“We’re still just talking. Nothing concrete yet. I really like her.” Kaine said. “I think she likes me too.”

Jones caught their attention from behind.

---

The four squatted in the bushes just outside of the village. Tenzin bought a water bottle off of one of the villagers and poured three-fourths of its contents out onto the ground. He took out his army jackknife and carved a small hole into the side of the bottle.

“Be careful,” Jones said. He looked over his shoulder.

“There’s nobody out here, dumbass.” Tenzin said. “Stop tweaking out.”

Tenzin took out a cheap ballpoint pen and unscrewed the tip of it and jimmied it into the hole he had made. Jones stooped over the plants and pushed the leaves aside and plucked a bud from the green and placed it in the pentip. Jones took out his lighter and lit the bud till it caught fire. They took turns taking deep breaths from the mouth of the bottle. Temilo looked at the other three men as they talked and became deeply warm. He felt at home for the first time in a while. At dusk they set out from the village and pushed North following the roadside, careful not to be seen.

“If they get their food from here, their FOB must be close,” Kaine said. His words pierced through the hum of the nighttime crickets. “We’ll set up camp somewhere safe.” They split off diagonal from the sidewalk and found an area where great oak logs had fallen and blocked the view from the road. Tenzin and Jones were the first two to fall asleep leaving the remaining soldiers crowded around the lazy fire, submerged in a pit in the ground to conceal its glow.

Kaine yawned. “I told you the army wouldn’t be that bad. It’s like camping.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Temilo said. A soft breeze passed over them. Kaine lied down on his back, cushioning his head with his hands.

“I love you like a brother, Temilo.”

“Yeah,” Temilo said. “That makes us family, I guess.” They dozed off to the sounds of the nighttime symphony.

The next morning the men buried the dead fire and set out, following the road again. They passed wide fields of planted crops, guarded by rusted metal farms. Some homes crumbling, some already collapsed. Piles of wood and sheet metal left by the roadside. A bike that once belonged to someone, left laying down in the street. The trees leaned aside as if to excuse themselves. They saw no faces on their hike. It was deadly quiet. Slowly the path crumbled out into large plates underneath their feet. Small cracks became craters that stained the road’s surface. In some areas the tarmac disappeared entirely, making way to grass and weeds that brushed up against the soldiers’ ankles. They hiked between the shade of trees.

They came upon a dark object hugged by the bushes.

“What the fuck,” someone whispered.

A large, wooden cross staked into the ground. Nailed to it was a man wearing a uniform identical to the soldiers’ own. His head hung low and limp.

“Should we bury him?” Tenzin asked.

Kaine brushed off the suggestion. “We don’t have time.”

“Maybe we should turn back,” said Jones.

“Why?” Kaine asked. “We’re so close. We need to get the coordinates of their FOB.”

“We don’t need to,” Jones chided. “We have a pretty damn good idea of where they are. Get them to send special forces out here.”

“Every time we pull back, they get closer. We might not get this chance again. If we can call an airstrike we won’t even have to put boots on the ground.”

“Temilo?” The group looked at him. Temilo paused. In truth, he was worried.

“Stop being a pussy, Jones.” Temilo said. “Let’s keep going.”

“Fuck, you sound like them now,” Jones muttered.

A kilometer ahead, the road straightened out. The potholes and cracks disappeared. A clean, freshly laid piece of tarmac bored neatly through the forest. The men stopped to inspect.

“How are they paving the roads?” Temilo asked.

The road thinned out into a bridge that crossed a putrid brown river. An empty toll booth interrupted one end of the bridge. The other end, farthest from the soldiers, was swallowed by trees.

“Well,” Jones said. “Guess that’s it.”

“I knew it,” Kaine said. “They’re operating out of Byfair. The Bonitañans are helping them.”

“We’ll have to turn back now,” Jones reminded him.

“No,” Kaine said. “We’re gonna keep going.”

“Kaine, it’s a different country. They’ll kill us if we cross over.” Tenzin said.

“Goddammit,” Kaine said. “Why can’t you just listen to me?” The water sloshed underneath their feet. Temilo stared out at the rolling hills with spindly grey cell towers trailing over them. He looked at the trees and the grass with weeds sprouting up that were nearly taller than him. A gaunt brown tree with a philodendron bush at its base. Temilo stared between the great leaves, like oriental fans. He raised his rifle. A young pair of eyes, wide with fear, staring back at him. He fired seven shots into the shrub which rang out like the strikes of a hatchet. The bushes rustled and caved in. The other three soldiers stopped arguing to look at him. Temilo stepped onto the grass and checked the body. A young, Asian man with green facepaint sprawled out. He was still quivering as Temilo approached him but passed on as the soldier kneeled down. He wore a long sleeve shirt covered in mud and leaves, maybe only seventeen years old. Temilo frowned and looked back at the soldiers.

“We have to leave.”

Twilight broke and all the men could hear was the sound of their own breathing. The hiking had winded them and their legs grew sore. It was getting dark. As Jones took a breath something grazed his spine.

“Taking fire,” he yelled.

Like clockwork, the soldiers dropped to the dirt, their heads peering and rotating. Still prone they scooched up against a low sheet metal wall enclosing a farm. Their breaths pummeled the nighttime air. Nothing. Temilo crawled to a gap in the fence and poked his head out. A rotting concrete house, maybe a hundred meters away. He watched it carefully. Shadows shifting by the base of the home. Or nothing? Temilo shivered. They spoke quietly.

“You guys seeing anything?”

“Possibly in that house there,” Temilo said. “Not sure,”

“Where is it?”

Temilo pointed. The house was across a piece of farmland, set slightly above them. The windows were smashed through with the interior completely dark.

“I could try and get a grenade in there,” Temilo said.

“Go ahead,” Kaine replied. Temilo fished a pill-shaped round from his vest and fed it into the underbarrel and slid it backwards. He dragged himself further forward with his upper body now exposed completely. The launcher made a quiet, hollow sound as he fired, and five seconds passed. The grenade passed perfectly through the window and the upper floor burst into smoke. The hills opened fire on them, like heavy rain, making the sheet metal shudder.  All they could do was press themselves closer to the ground, hoping it would stop. Temilo fired three more grenades, destroying bushes and the bases of trees. The gunfire waned off briefly.

“We have to get across the road,” Kaine yelled. “Give-” Kaine said. His eyes widened. He called Temilo’s name.

Was it my fault?

A cloud of shrapnel was the last thing Temilo saw. “Oh fuck,” Temilo cried out. His eyes teared up and melted in their sockets. He screamed. Kaine swore. The whole forest heard them now.

“We have to cross the road,” Kaine shouted. “I’ll cover you, just go.” Tenzin and Jones rose still hugging the sheet metal barrier and looked down the road once over and crossed at a sprint. Kaine rested his rifle on the fence firing wildly into the treeline, lighting up the night. Temilo still writhed on the ground with his hands pressing on his eyes. It was all dark. He couldn’t see. He lay on the ground for five minutes before he took his hands off of his eyes. He couldn’t quite see but they were wet with some fluid. It was quiet and he heard his own labored breath. He called out in a harsh whisper.

“Kaine?”

Nothing.

“Tenzin? Jones? Jones?”

Temilo’s head began to throb. He tried to stand up but couldn’t and slinked back down.

---

He woke up with heat stuck to his face and the sound of a fly buzzing in his ear. He swatted it away and pulled himself up onto all fours. There was a constant flow of tears that ran from his eyes down his cheeks. He saw nothing. Temilo crawled forward, feeling the dirt underneath his palms. He came up to the edge of the road and straightened himself parallel to it and crawled.

EPISODE SEVEN

(Subsurface.)

The first few seconds were blissful. In those dark moments in his bedroom in the weeks after, as he waited for sleep, Domovoi thought about that floating, weightless feeling.

Domovoi was stitched up, pricked with needles, examined, and stitched up again. He watched the date cycle in the corner of the TV in his room, turned to the local news channel. Soaking up all the propaganda and false praise. This must be what hell is like, he thought. It took seven cycles for the ache in his stomach to go away. Even before he could walk, two nurses came and scooped him into a wheelchair. It hurt but he didn’t protest because he knew they wouldn’t listen. He was wheeled through dirty, concrete corridors. The nurses ducked under black, curling wires like matted hair. Down here, you only heard the sound of your own breath and the leaking pipes. Not a single ray of sunlight. The resulting burst of light was almost offensive as they opened the door, leading to a spotless, immaculate hall. The nurses pushed him in, just past the doorway, not daring to step inside themselves. There was the echo of the door closing, and then resounding silence. Although there were seven individuals in the room, only one of them made noise: a man in a suit, seated at a table draped in white cloth, digging into a plate of muck. The silence reminded Domovoi of the moment he arrived on Earth. Those heavy few seconds. Nobody dared speak, should they interrupt the ship touching down. Domovoi wheeled himself up to the table, taking the other side, peered at by six masked guards. A butler entered the hall, dispensing a plate of God knows what in front of Domovoi. He fought back the urge to vomit. Terran food, disgusting.

“Foie gras,” the man said.

“What?”

“You should try it.”

Domovoi looked down at his weeping plate. “What is it?”

“Liver of a duck.”

“I don’t eat meat.”

The man put his cutlery down, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow at him. “Domovoi, the great manhunter, a vegetarian?”

Domovoi frowned at him.

“Okay, no problem,” the man said. He snapped his fingers, the butler retrieving the meal and replacing it with some leaves tucked into a bowl. Domovoi picked up his fork. The table cloth was soft, softer than bedsheets.

“Did you ever eat meat?” the man asked.

“Yeah, before I got on this fucking planet. Hard not to sympathize with animals when you treat us like them,” Domovoi said.

The man paused. “Well said.” He ushered the butler to replace his own meal. Their table was now almost symmetrical. Domovoi noticed the emblem of a scarab tattooed onto the man’s neck, partially covered by the collar of his tuxedo.

“What layer are we on?” Domovoi parried.

“Don’t worry, there’s no cops here,” the man replied, tipping a glass of wine onto his lips.

The Novenae Metropolitan Area’s official population count only encompassed the 1.3 million surface inhabitants of the city of Novenae. All of those blessed enough to afford aboveground accomodations lived on the spine of hundreds of underground layers molded out of concrete and bedrock. It comprised one of the largest slums in civilized Europe.

The man traced the top of his wine glass, making slow circles with his finger. “We knew that Teresita was tracking you from the beginning.”

Domovoi’s arched one eyebrow.

“That squat little bald accomplice you had. You could never have paid him enough to betray la patrona.”

Domovoi looked back down at his food.

“And thank God we were able to get to you first. Using you to get the daughter, they probably would have pawned her off for some drug money, then killed you. A short-sighted waste of time. In any case, I think our interests have intersected rather conveniently.” The scarab on the man’s neck squirmed every time he swallowed a bite.

“You will retrieve the politician’s daughter, Naomi. Direct orders from the Old Man,” the man continued.

“The Old Man?”

“Our saviour, Domovoi. Armageddon is closer than you think. We must all obey him, or risk total annihilation.”

Oh brother.

“You will bring her alive and unharmed to our custody. It will serve as adequate compensation for your resuscitation and subsequent medical treatment.” The man peered around the table, gesturing to Domovoi’s wheelchair.

Domovoi scarfed down another bite of salad.

“You may kill any obstacles in your path. The bodyguard has been disposed of. He will no longer be an issue.”

Domovoi looked up. “You got him?”

“Not us. A passing tractor trailer. What a foolish decision, to hire a blind man as a bodyguard.” This seemed to crack the man up and he chuckled quietly, stifling his laugh with a sip of wine. “Do you accept?” The man stared at Domovoi from across the table with beady eyes.

“I don’t give a fuck. Sure.”

“It’s settled, then.” The man stood.

“What happens after the job?”

Domovoi couldn’t read the expression levied at him. “The Old Man will thank you personally, Domovoi,” he said.

---

It was stupid to leave Naomi alone- and he didn’t for the first two weeks. After a while, it just seemed like theatre. What would Hidori do anyway, if that masked man came again? Fight him off?

“Mr. Hidori,” Naomi said.

Hidori looked over. “What is it Naomi?”

“Look,” Naomi disappeared behind the TV. The screen flickered with colors, distorting, until a pink blob in the shape of a pixelated heart shone.

“That’s great, Naomi,” Hidori said. He tried to force down another bite of food and found his throat to be too tight. He tugged at his collar, drowning the food in his throat with half a bottle of water, and pushed the plate away.

It had been two weeks since the Prophet- their poster boy, their source of limitless government funding- had gone missing. Most of all, the only other person Hidori trusted with Naomi’s safety. The Shogunate had to come together. It would be the most important meeting in the company’s history. This would make or break the corporation- and he was at the helm. He needed to be there.

Hidori looked out the window. It was early evening and the sky roared with a sleeping blue. The CEO saw the outlines of bodyguards along the perimeter of the house.

She would be fine. He needed to be there.

In the morning Hidori woke up to the ceiling of the guest bedroom of the second mansion they had had to rent. He brushed his teeth, frowned at breakfast, and placed his mask over his nose and mouth. Then the gloves, then finally the hat with a wide enough brim that it kept people at a distance. He left the house as Naomi’s amah arrived, giving her a nod as he stepped into a limousine parked on the curb. Hidori took off his hat as he stooped into the car door and his eyes widened as he saw HR’s shifting gaze.

“Hidori.” HR’s face was on the flatscreen mounted to the back of the driver's seat headrest. He could never be there in person- but seeing him at all meant this was a special occasion.

“Mr. HR.” Hidori bowed as best he could sitting down.

“We should talk.” Shit. The limousine pulled off the curb. “Have you found him yet?”

“No, sir. We’re considering doing sweeps of the underground. I’ll have more to say after the board meeting.” There was a tense pause with Hidori fidgeting in the leather seat.

“You’ve done revolutionary work, Hidori.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But I have to think about my family. My country. It’s like a scale. We placed all of our weight, and balanced it onto a single point, causing it to tip over. Do you see?”

Hidori’s eyes flitted. “I’m not sure I do,”

“Make more of them, Hidori. I want thousands.”

Hidori looked back at the politician for a few moments. “Yes, sir.” The call ended, leaving Hidori in the pulsing heat pouring in from the limousine windows.

---

Prophet had strange dreams. They started out with him on his knees, shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. As he tried to stand he felt slick, strong hands pulling him further into the mulch. His holster was always empty. He woke up from those dreams, convulsing.

Covered in soil and shaking, he was dragged by members of the Teresita Clan into a concrete home in the village where he grew up. This was near the edge of Novenae, surrounded by pastures. You could just barely make out the skyscrapers from this far away. It took four men to lift Prophet onto a bed that was nearly too small. He got a brief glimpse of the popcorn ceiling, which he recognized, after which he passed out. For the next two months, a serious and constant fear held him hostage. The palpitations started immediately after he woke, and kept on until he passed out. A clan member tried to bring him outside, but all he could feel were trees, stretching far into the sky above him. He refused to leave his room.

“I thought you said this guy was cool,” one member remarked to another. “He’s traumatized. Let’s just dump him at a hospital and leave.”

Roach, one of the oldest, looked at the shivering soldier, then back at his clanmate. “Patrona said to keep him here until he’s healed. Besides, he’s a clan member for life. As good as family.”

“He left us.”

“He’s family. Always.”

They took to hanging out at the front of the lot, playing cards on a small plastic table and blaring rap music. One day, Prophet stepped outside and just sat on the front steps of the home, trembling. He didn’t say a word to anyone. The next day, he asked to see la patrona. Roach stared at him for a moment.

“Look, man,” Roach said. “That’s not a good idea.” Roach looked at their matching tattoos, that trickled down their arms like blood through veins. He had only seen those tattoos on either current clan members or corpses, not on deserters like Temilo.

“Please, Roach.”

Roach glared at him. “You’ll never leave that room, once you go in.”

“Please.”

They were walking the cracked streets of the village just thirty minutes later. Prophet had listened to la patrona’s file when he joined the Foundation, one of the first things he did with his database access. She headed clan operations city-wide. Novenae Police didn’t know her real name, neither did the Foundation. Her “soldiers” spent their entire careers serving her while never even seeing her in person. She was cut-throat in her management of the clan, with little forgiveness in her heart. Prophet rubbed his forearms. They arrived at a plain two-story home obscured by trees and bushes. Prophet, alone, approached the front door. He lifted a potted plant on the front step, taking out the key hidden underneath, and unlocked it.

The room was decorated, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, in plants. Shelves of luscious potted plants with colorful leaves that painted the living room walls. La patrona, a simple old woman in dotted pyjamas, looked over from the opposite side of the room.

She called out to him. “Hijo.”

“Hola, mamá.”

---

The lake was lined with bright yellow trees, some bent over and lapping up the water with their branches. His boat was weightless, sliding across the water.  There was something special about him, it seemed. They could have sent anyone to do this job. The Cult, as he came to call it, had a wide reach. Maybe it was too dangerous. Maybe they wanted to bring him into the fold. Maybe both. Domovoi’s stomach grumbled, but he didn’t feel anything. He came across a clearing by the lakeside, devoid of trees but still thick with tallgrass and brush. There was an outpost jutting out a few meters into the water connected by a thin wooden walkway, spray-painted and boarded up with plywood. Domovoi aligned his boat with the shore and stepped onto solid ground. He wondered if anyone would steal it, but decided to leave it should he need to make a quick escape. He took out a sleek, brown rifle and a fireman’s mask, and proceeded into the woodline while the sun burned red in the sky.

EPISODE EIGHT

(My family.)

Prophet was born to a Bonitanan mother and Chinese father in the easternmost district of Salzburg. They had met some months prior at a coffee shop, and adored each other, marrying after only a few weeks.

“If I knew what I know now, I would have done things much differently,” Prophet’s mother later told him at his father’s funeral.

The couple bought a house, which plunged them into severe debt, and they found themselves expecting a child. Unable to foot any hospital bill, Prophet was delivered in the living room of his childhood home. His father caught him gently with latex hands as he slid out onto the floor. The baby made a gurgling noise, and let out its first cries, screaming into its father’s chest. Dad let out a wide, beaming smile, holding the baby close as Mom stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and panting. Dad was rarely at home after Prophet’s first birthday. He worked jobs in the capital district, constantly, tirelessly, to keep the debt from swallowing them up whole. His rare appearances during holidays or weekends were more akin to the arrival of a stranger. Prophet would almost always be tucked into bed whenever he got home, listening carefully to hear him take off his shoes and collapse of exhaustion in the bedroom across the hall. The next day, he would be gone, off to work again. This continued until a month after Prophet’s seventh birthday, and he stopped coming home.

It was normal for him to go AWOL, he was almost always in a meeting or too deep in his work to notice his phone going off, but this time Mom couldn’t get a hold of him for two weeks. One night, Prophet listened from the doorway of his bedroom as his mother answered a call. Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes welled up, reflecting the light of the kitchen like a mirror. She dropped the phone onto the floor, rushed to the bathroom, and vomited. The funeral was small, just Prophet and his mother. Corpse Disposal took his father and cremated him, spreading his ashes in the Novenae canal. Prophet watched his fathers’ remains curl in the turquoise water for an hour after the funeral was over. A passing private yacht eventually sliced through, scattering them every which way. As the months following Dad’s funeral went by, more and more people started stopping by the house. They would stay for two or three days, cooped up in the bedroom across the hall with the blinds drawn. Someone would come to pick them up, and they’d be gone. Those days, Mom would sleep in Prophet’s room on an old mattress she laid on the floor. Being close to her like that almost made up for the fact that those people were sleeping in Dad’s old room. Since Dad’s funeral, Mom seemed to know every Bonitanan in town. Just walking down the street, people would come up to her, hugging her, thanking her. “This is our family, Temilo,” Mom would say. She seemed relaxed- happy, even. On the anniversary of Dad’s death, Prophet nestled his father’s portrait in a shrine of flowers and candles arranged in the corner of the living room. When Mom got home that evening she saw the shrine and went straight to her bedroom for the rest of the day.

Twenty years later, Mom hobbled over to the kitchen and turned the kettle on, the water inside bubbling. There was an Uzi loosely tucked into the waistband of her dotted pyjamas. Prophet ducked around a potted fern hanging from the ceiling and sat down on the living room couch. The ticking of a clock filled his ears.

“How’s your arthritis?”

“No me da tantos problemas con la medicina,” Mom said.

Prophet noticed the shrine was still tucked in the corner of the room. He wondered what it looked like now, if Mom had rearranged it at all. Oh what he would give to see his father’s face again, even if only as a picture in a small wooden frame. Mom came from the kitchen bearing two mugs, placing one down in front of Prophet.

“Cuidado. Caliente.”

They bathed in the silence, taking quiet sips.

“I’m sorry, Mamá.”

“Todo lo que hice fue para protegerte. Cuando me abandonaste, fue como si el último pedazo de mi corazón se hubiera arrancado de mi pecho. Nunca conocerás ese sentido.” Her voice was always strong and shrill, piercing through the air. Prophet sank back into the couch cushions with the heat from his mug touching his face.

“I didn’t need the clan anymore.”

“Pero te salvamos.”

“I want to be my own person, Mamá.”

Prophet could feel her eyes touching the scars around his face.

“Pero necesitas mi ayuda.”

Prophet sighed. “Do you remember the shooting at the Bonifacio?”

“Quizás.”

“I need to know more. About the shooter. The one who escaped.”

Mom put her mug down and rose. She knelt slowly, painfully over the aging wool carpet in the middle of the room. Prophet helped her push it aside, lifting a floorboard to reveal an iron safe bolted into the ground. Mom opened it, sifting through a pile of folders, pulling one out.

“His name is Domovoi,” she said. “He paid us to smuggle him and his weapons into the hotel.”

“You helped him?”

“It was a lot of money,” Mom shrugged her shoulders. “Además, we didn’t know his target was just a child. Nonetheless, the secret child of a politician.”

Prophet stifled his surprise. “How do you know that?”

“She’s invisible. No records at all. Only a politician could do that.”

Who else knew?

“His target was valuable, so we tried to intercept him. We were being followed. I lost three of my godchildren that day.” Mom drew the shape of a cross over her body. “That cult probably has him now.” She got up carefully and hobbled over to a window on the adjacent side of the room. “They control most of the subsurface.”

“I thought we controlled the subsurface?”

“Es diferente ahora, hijo. Much time has passed.”

“How do you get there?”

“Cariño. Es peligroso. No te puedo ayudar allí.” She squeezed her shoulders and her voice pitched up in the way it did when she got worried.

“I have to go. I have to.”

“To protect a child that isn’t even your own?” she asked.

“She’s my family.”

Prophet wasn’t sure what time it was. This is what he hated about blindness. Just one eternal night.

“Roach y los otros te llevarán.” Mom squeezed Prophet tight. “Por favor, ten cuidado.”

“Lo siento, Mamá.”

---

The sky was a dark, fading maroon by the time Hidori got out of his last meeting. Meetings all day, meetings eternal. These past few months had left a knot in his stomach. He resolved to never work with the government ever again. He looked out at the Novenae skyline, illuminating as nighttime approached. He texted his driver to meet him downstairs. On the street, most people were walking home. They would catch the metro or take the bus. Thinking about public transportation made Hidori’s stomach lurch. Breathing other people’s air, touching all that bacteria. All those germs squirming on his skin. Prophet used to tease him for wearing a surgical mask and gloves throughout the day. A limousine approached the curb, weightless, like a shadow. Hidori opened the door and took a seat, taking off his hat. A man sat at the seat across from him with a shotgun trained directly at his ribs. At this angle, the shot would probably go through the seat and kill the driver as well.

“Let’s go home,” Domovoi said.

Hidori stared at him, then at the floor. He nodded faintly. “Right.”

The limousine started on its path, weaving effortlessly through traffic. Domovoi had on a dark leather jacket and jeans, like he was going out to a ball game. He had some sort of mask wrapped around his face and wiry silver hair strung up in a ponytail behind him. Hidori looked out the window, out at the pedestrians. Nobody looked back at him, not even once.

“They don’t care,” Domovoi said. “They’re not going to save you.”

Hidori made out a pair of deep indigo eyes through the plastic visor on his mask. They were like ponds of ice, still and muted. “You’re Tauran?”

He got no reply.

“So that’s your angle. Do you really think killing the State Minister’s daughter is going to change the way things are?”

“I should just go join a peaceful protest, then.” Domovoi said. “Starve myself to death in front of the capitol building, in front of Terran hippies feigning interest in a struggle they couldn’t hope to understand, and salarymen who would walk over my corpse to get to their next meeting.”

Hidori glared back out the window. They were on the highway now, passing Kiani lake. Ten minutes, and they would be home.  “I don’t know what happened to you that set you on this path, but I’m truly sorry. The girl hasn’t had any part in your suffering.”

“It isn’t up to me anymore, Hidori.” Hidori felt goosebumps at the sound of his own name. “They will probably kill me once this is over, but I will have taken all I needed. Then HR will understand.”

Hidori sank back in his chair. He flipped through some of his memories. How he might have done things differently. The limousine pulled into the driveway, up to a bleach white home surrounded by dense forest. The new mansion was in the far east, connected to the mainland by a single roadway.

“Don’t be nervous,” Domovoi said. “It will not change anything. Get out of the car.”

Domovoi followed him to the front door with the shotgun pressed into his spine. Hidori rang the doorbell, eyeing the security camera on the adjacent wall. The guard who answered already had his weapon drawn and pointed at the two men.

“Back up,” Domovoi said. The guard backpedaled slowly, keeping his weapon trained on Domovoi.

“Put the gun on the floor. Do it, or I’ll kill him.” The guard lowered his weapon, and raised his hands, and Domovoi shot him in the neck. Hidori shivered as the guard slumped against the wall.

“Keep going,” Domovoi said.

Naomi’s amah was making food in the kitchen when they entered. Hidori mouthed the words I’m sorry when she looked up. There were half-chopped vegetables still on the kitchen countertop as she bled out onto the maple wood flooring.

“Where is she?” Domovoi asked.

Hidori had a lump in his throat. He stared at the amah’s corpse trembling.

They looked through each of the rooms. All empty. Maybe she escaped. Hidori was almost relieved. That didn’t bode well for him, though. As they passed by a closet on the second story, the door burst open and a dark shape swung at Domovoi’s legs. Domovoi looked down at his calf. A grey kitchen knife was plunged halfway into it, just below the joint. It was a dull, radiating pain that gained its teeth as blood began to spill from the wound. Hidori turned. He saw Naomi by Domovoi’s feet, wide-eyed, staring at her handiwork. Hidori pushed Domovoi with all his strength. The assassin toppled onto his back, shifting the knife within the wound, and he screamed. He fired a deafening shot into the ceiling, showering them all with fragments of drywall.

Hidori grabbed Naomi by the hand. They ran down the stairs and out the front door with their ears still ringing. Hidori ripped off his mask, heaving. The limousine was gone. It was pitch black and they were surrounded on all sides by a wall of trees. They could get to the roadway quicker if they cut through the forest.

“Come on, Naomi.”

The brush was almost impenetrable. Hidori’s dress pants snagged on loose sticks and bramble. He kept looking over his shoulder, seeing the lights of the house get more distant. Hidori could make out Lake Kiani, shimmering at the forest’s edge. The tree next to him suddenly exploded, pieces of bark flying in his face. Hidori saw nothing but silhouettes when he looked back.

“It’s OK, Naomi. Come on.”

Every step had so much more weight to it. The forest was pulsing around them. Sweat soaked through Hidori’s shirt. They reached a clearing where the trees ended and the dirt turned to sand turned to water. There was no roadway in sight. Hidori turned back to face the trees.

“Don’t touch her, you hear me?! Don’t even come clos-”

The force of the shot knocked Hidori onto his back. He was on the ground before he could process what had happened, facing the night sky. The water lapped onto him, pulling blood and sweat into the lake. He lay there with his chest heaving as the life drained out of him.

---

“Come on, take a step forward.”

It was a lot smaller than Prophet had remembered it. A patch of unassuming forest hidden from the main road by a row of great, winding trees. Prophet would have died only  a twenty minute drive from where he was born. Roach was leaned up against a tree behind him, whittling down a cigar.

“I read this shit online. It’s called exposure therapy.” Roach took a puff.

“I don’t need therapy,” Prophet said.

“Then take a step forward.”

Prophet could feel the soil pressing against his chest, squeezing him.

“Go further. Up to there.”

Prophet couldn’t see but knew what he was talking about. It was a hole in the ground, a few feet in front of him, where he had been unearthed. He froze in place.

“I don’t know how you’re gonna go subsurface like this,” Roach said.

There was the sound of shoes against soil. Prophet had his weapon drawn before Roach even heard the noise.

“Chill out.” It was a younger clanmate. “It’s just me.” He approached the two from the treeline. “Patrona wanted me to tell you. There’s lots of movement subsurface. It looks like they’re expecting something.”

---

Domovoi rowed quietly across the lake, with the daughter sedated and in tow. Above him were the stars. Maybe his home planet, somewhere in that great canvas.

EPISODE NINE

(Make her proud.)

The air was always thick down here, no matter how many air filters you put up.

Neph had a tube snaked around her bed, feeding into a hookah. She took a puff and blew smoke up into the mural painted on the ceiling, a mural of the night sky. She saw the smoke hit the painted roof and sprawl outwards. Not the same. The door in front of her opened. Seth stared back at her from the open doorway. He gave a sly grin.

“We did it,” he said.

Neph jumped out of bed and they hugged. “She belongs to us now?”

“Yes.”

Neph could smell his cologne. Their two shadows on the carpet flooring became one and then two again. “That’s wonderful.”

Seth spoke as he unbuttoned his coat. “Now we have to plan the celebration.” His voice shrank as he entered a walk-in closet. “Rent out the venue.” He slipped off his shoes. “Buy the cameras.”

“Let me handle it,” Neph said. She laid down on the bed again and looked at him from across the room. Seth’s brown eyes shone like amber in the bedroom’s yellow light. He took off the earrings she bought for him and put them by the bedside, laying down next to her.

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve done enough. Just rest for a few days. I already picked out a suit for you.”

Seth reached into a mini-fridge placed at arm’s length and took out some wine. They both took swigs straight from the bottle.

“What are you going to do with the alien?” Neph asked.

“The Old Man wants to see him.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t tell me. I don’t know what he’s got planned.”

“Are you gonna kill it?”

“Only if he tells me to.”

Neph looked up again. “Do you think we could hold the event outside?”

Seth’s hair hung down lazily over the right side of his face and he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t know. We can rent out the top floor of a skyscraper. Look at the real night sky, feel the fresh air. It would be perfect.”

“It’s too dangerous aboveground. The cops are still looking for us, you know.” Seth watched the rhythm of her chest rising and falling. “Are you getting panic attacks again?”

“No, no.”

“You can tell me.”

“I’m not.”

“Have you been taking your meds?”

“Never mind.” Neph turned over. She felt a hand rub her shoulder.

“I love you, alright? I don’t want you to get hurt. It will be so nice, even if it’s subsurface. We can go out shopping for something to wear tomorrow, if you like.”

Neph nodded and they kissed again.

“I’m going to miss you so much when the rapture happens. When this all goes away.” Seth said.

She dozed off with the stars in her mind.

---

It was a cool day. The bridges of the canal rose in unison to make way for a shipping vessel cutting across the city. They sat in an old truck idling, watching the ship fill up their front windscreen.

“You’re sure it belongs to the Cult?” Prophet asked.

“Sorta,” Roach said.

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll slip out,” Roach said. He had his shotgun tucked just under the car window. “Lay low for a bit, and try again.”

“What if we can’t?”

“We will.”

Prophet frowned. Three cars behind them, a mother was screaming at her children from the driver’s seat.

“You military guys are so paranoid. Just relax.”

The bridges lowered again. Traffic began to roll forward and they were heading downtown.

“What makes you think this is Cult-owned?” Prophet asked.

“There’s no fuckin’ way that an ice cream parlor gets that many customers. Some of our boys tried to get a job there a while back and they turned every single one of us down.”

“Maybe they have high standards.”

Roach’s laugh croaked out like air escaping from a tire.

They pulled up to a narrow ivory building only two stories tall, with three glass windows looking down at them from between intricate floral carvings. The shopfront was only a few feet wide with some tables set out that were too small. “CAIRO GELATO” said the sign above the doorway. People only passed through this part of town if they were going somewhere better and the streets were still, like looking at a photo. Roach and Prophet, as well as the two clan members in the back seat, put on balaclavas.

“Everyone just stay calm and nobody will get hurt.” Roach’s voice carried well through the parlor. “I need you all to lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head.”

The two or three families at the tables still had ice cream dribbling from their mouths. A woman screamed.

“No need for that,” Roach said. “Just get on the ground.” Prophet repeated his clanmate’s words in Cantonese and, one by one, the customers and their kids began to crouch. Roach turned and faced Prophet. “Where’s the cashier-”

Pop.

Roach was knocked onto his stomach. The cashier emerged from behind the counter and pulled back the forend of his weapon, pivoting towards Prophet. All four clan members sprayed the man with bullets, causing him to topple over. The customers started screaming again, screaming into the floor with their hands over their ears. Prophet knelt over his brother. He cursed. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing Roach’s rapid heartbeat or his own. He started pressing down on the wound over Roach’s stomach when Roach grabbed his arm.

“Go,” Roach said.

Prophet eyes were wet as he walked into the kitchen, stepping over the cashier’s body. He stepped past chrome countertops and huge vats of gelato. He stopped, holding his breath and listening. Past the machinery whirring and humming. Past the deep, troubled breaths of the customers lying on the ground in the next room. Past his own heartbeat, he heard water dripping onto the floor of a vast, echoing tunnel. Prophet moved aside countertops and shelves with his free hand, clutching his gun in the other. He went up to the fridge and listened. It wasn’t on. He opened it. It was no bigger than a public call box, with a circular hole with a ladder in the floor that went down farther than Prophet could sense. Prophet tucked his gun into his waistband and lowered himself in, climbing down until the sounds of the parlor faded.

---

“Come on. Let’s go.” The cult member reached out to touch Domovoi but he recoiled.

The cult member, and another, both in pristine white clothing hoisted him up by the shoulders. They were lanky and clean-shaven, with the same style of slicked-back hair. Domovoi could easily have killed both of them, but he hung limply in their arms.

“Get a wheelchair,” someone whispered. They marched slow and silent, pushing him forward. The pipes were quiet today and the only sound was of their own breath in the concrete hallway. They reached a lift which hummed as it lowered them further down into Novenae’s stomach. Domovoi felt one of the men’s hands touch his back softly, more gently than anyone had in years.

“He will cure you,” he said.

The lift doors opened and they were in a spotless concrete corridor. On either side of them were rows and rows of pale red flowers stuck to the walls, blossoming into groups of frail hands that reached out to them.

“What are they?” Domovoi asked.

“Mushrooms,” the man said.

The mushrooms swayed as the men passed, opening and closing like oysters, with veins running along the underside of their petals. They travelled up and down the walls. At the end of the corridor was an oak door, slightly ajar. The men helped Domovoi to his feet, and he stepped forward and pushed it open. There was the sound of running water, and Domovoi realized he had stepped into a cold, dark liquid that went up to his ankles. He was in a large, grey cavern with stalactites lined up over his head. The rocks melted into one another, connected by veins and sinews, forming smooth and uneven shapes. A rock formation at the far end of the cavern jutted in a column from the ground into the ceiling, against which a gaunt figure sat with his head hung low. Domovoi peered into the dark. The figure had no eyes. No nose. Just folds of scarred skin that draped down its head and around its grey beard. The figure rose, unsteadily, and limped a few steps forward. It had on a torn flannel shirt and a dirtied vest, dress pants worn down to the skin. Domovoi froze as it approached him, sizing him up. The light of the reflecting water made the rocks around Domovoi shift and sparkle. The figure stood in front of him, and Domovoi could smell its acrid breath, and the figure took his hands in its own.

“ZALGO,” the figure whispered in hoarse speech.

The cave went alight around them, breaking out into orange flames.

It’s OK.

Domovoi gasped and gasped breathing in the ebony smoke. He opened his eyes.

I’m here.

“Stop,” Domovoi said. “It’s not really you.” His eyes welled up.

It’s alright.

Domovoi’s tears fell down into the dark liquid at his ankles. He sobbed. “Please stop.” He felt a hand travel down his cheek and stroke his chin.

I’m here now.

The fire, and the figure, was a blurred mess behind his tears. He wept.

I’ll always be here.

And he wept.

Always.

He wept into her shoulder, resting his head against strands of her hair while they held each other in the orange light. He was back on another planet, clutching onto the collar of her shirt.

Now you see.

The fires were gone and they stood in the silent cavern with the liquid sloshing around their feet.

“This is what it all leads to,” the figure said in barely a whisper. “This is what you will get back.” His voice scratched against the assassin’s ears.

Domovoi stared ahead, taking ragged breaths, sniveling.

“Make her proud.”

---

Junji stood at the kitchen doorway, watching the amah’s corpse get zipped up by men in crinkled, plastic suits.

“Sir?”

Junji looked over. “Sorry, what?”

“The Shogunate has elected you as interim president.” The Councilmember was sweating through his tight grey tuxedo. He wore a surgical mask, like most of them.

“Oh,” Junji said. The men in clean suits moved past him, maneuvering the amah out the front door.

“Well?”

“What? I don’t fucking know.” Junji sighed. “Have you told HR yet?”

“We thought it would be best to leave that to you.”

They stepped outside into the cool winding air. The trees leered at them. Junji thought about Hidori waking up from his coma, his company in shambles and blacklisted from doing business in Novenae ever again.

“Don’t tell HR yet,” Junji said. “Keep this confidential. We’re the ones who fucked up, we’re going to fix it.”

INTERMISSION

(A deal.)

From the ground floor to the top, Junji clutched the plastic bag tightly.

He reached Hidori’s office, waiting for the hallway to clear before locking himself in. The Novenae skyline peered at him from the windows on the back wall. Junji set the bag on Hidori’s desk, drawing the curtains. He dimmed the lights, moving chairs and desks to clear out an empty space in the middle of the room. Junji lifted an object from the plastic bag- a single, gaunt white mushroom in a flower pot. He placed the mushroom in the center of the office and kneeled down in front of it. He had to keep his eyes closed, no matter what. Junji prostrated, and spoke.

“I summon your presence through this vessel.”

Silence. Junji froze for a moment, breathing in Hidori’s rug.

“Demoe, I summon your presence through this vessel.”

Nothing. The air conditioning turned off. Junji sighed. This was it. By the time they found Naomi, it would be too late. He would ruin Hidori’s reputation. HR would have him killed, whenever he found out.

“Please. I’ll do anything. I can’t let this company sink.”

Junji heard an object hit the floor. Unmistakably a footstep, inches from his head. Then another. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. Slow, careful footsteps circled him, sizing him up. His heart was in his ears. The figure took deep, staggered breaths.

“ZALGO?” Junji asked.

The footsteps stopped just in front of him. Junji felt hot breath dripping down his neck.

What do you desire most?

It spoke in just a strained whisper, as if it were being strangled. Nantekotta.

“I-,” Junji caught his breath. “I want to know where Naomi is. Naomi Rajiv. Daughter of HR.”

And in return?

Junji swallowed. “I offer myself as your vessel. For eternity.”

The shifting of clothes on calloused skin. Junji trembled. Cold hands tugged on his dress shirt.. Junji struggled. The hands pulled him, facing him upwards, pressing red marks into his chest and shoulders. They reached around his neck, pulling his mouth wide open. Junji felt the mushroom growing, sprouting from the bottom of his throat. He screamed.

“Junji?”

Junji stood, panting. He was alone.

“Junji?” came again, muffled from behind the door. “Are you in there?”

Junji turned on the lights and opened the door. A Shogunate councilmember was looking back at him.

“Wow,” she said. “Rough night?”

“Yeah,” Junji said. “What is it?”

“One of Naomi’s kidnappers turned themselves in an hour ago. We know where she is, Junji.”

EPISODE TEN

(Wonderland.)

Layer 1 was utterly silent.

Everything was amplified a thousandfold. The sound of Prophet’s shoes, scraping over rocks and pieces of garbage. Water dripping into thin pools on the ground. Somewhere in the mix was his own shaking breath. Naomi must be terrified. As the tunnel lowered and narrowed, Prophet stooped, keeping his gun ready. The water sloshing at his feet deepened, now up to his ankles. The tunnel squeezed and squeezed, then came out into a circular chamber. An altar etched out of the Earth. He fought the water to the center of the room and took a breather. There were entrances leading in three different directions cut into the stone. A horrible stench. The walls here were soft, reflecting the sound only just a little. Not the way concrete does. Prophet got closer, and put his hand out, putting it up against the wall. It was soft, and uneven, with strange ridges travelling side to side. His hand settled on what could have been a rock. He felt a nose, and a pair of lips. The sensation of human breath against his fingertips. Prophet stumbled back, splashing into the water.

“Hello?” A voice called out. “Is someone there?”

The walls stirred to life. Hundreds of voices.

“Help us,” they begged. “Please help us.”

And Prophet heard a thrashing begin from behind him.

The tunnels were suddenly filled with raucous, howling laughter, like hyenas. Prophet fished his gun out of the water and ran. The laughter swirled around him, suffocating him until his lungs burnt. The tunnels crossed and twisted like yarn. His own hellish maze. Prophet stopped. He could hear open air behind this wall. He felt around with his hands, gripping two seams. He pulled, peeling away a stone slab, revealing a ladder that went down a coffin-sized hole. As the laughing descended into mad screams that scraped against the cave walls, Prophet threw himself in and pulled the slab back into place behind him. He heard the voices pass by and fade away from the other side of the stone. The ladder spat him out into a circular room made of brick. Prophet heard a pair of footsteps behind him and leveled his weapon at the sound.

“Woah,” a voice said. “I mean no harm.”

Prophet stood panting, sopping wet.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

The voice was pleasant. Almost musical.

“You won’t get very far here pointing guns at people.”

Prophet lowered his weapon. “What are those things?” He asked.

“They’re the guards. They keep cops out. I’m sorry you had to meet them like that, dear. ”

Prophet tucked his gun in his waistband.

“What’s your name?” The voice asked.

Prophet paused. “My name’s Kaine.”

“I’m Alice,” she said sweetly.  “Come with me. I can get you cleaned up and looked at.”

As they exited the room, Prophet felt Alice take his hand. She guided it to the wall, where he felt carvings in the brick. Arrows lined up all along the wall, in rows.

“There’s Braille every few meters indicating the destination. The arrows tell you where to go. The lights go out quite often- especially when it floods. This is a city for the sightless.”

The city center smelled like freshly baked food. The air was thick with people talking and music playing. It was a large circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling that extended high above them. Beautiful patterns danced over their heads. Shops grew out of the walls selling food and clothing.

“Hmm,” Alice fretted. “The doctor seems to be busy right now. Let’s get you a bite to eat real quick.”

They passed a statue of a man carrying a stone tablet, surrounded by planted mushrooms. They found a table at a nearby restaurant and Alice brought out a plate of food.

“What is it?” Prophet asked.

“Adobo. A Bonitanan dish.”

Prophet smelled it cautiously, and took a bite. It was delicious. His mother hadn’t made these for him since Dad died. He cleaned the whole plate.

“What brings you here?” Alice asked. She cradled her chin in her hand from across the table.

“I’m looking for my niece,” Prophet lied. “She went down here, but I haven’t seen her in a while. I’m worried about her.”

“I’m sure she’s well taken care of. We all look out for each other down here.”

The music from a nearby shop washed over them.

Alice suddenly stood. “Looks like the doctor’s ready to see you. Follow me.”

She took Prophet by the hand and pulled him through the shops, past freshly baked bread and candy stores. As they walked, Prophet flitted through the sounds of the streets, as he often did. Faintly, down the tunnel, he heard the voices of two people talking.

“Are you sure you don’t have any more suits? The dinner party is in three days.”

A dinner party?

“Please, this is all the money I have. You must have something.”

Prophet listened further.

“They’ll eat me.”

—

“Shh. It’s about to start.”

They were standing side by side in this small tunnel that snaked out from the city center. Prophet listened. The pipes were dripping. Alice’s heartbeat was racing- she must have been excited. Then the music started. Violins and cellos, pouring in from a grate in the ceiling. It was rich like syrup, flowing across the room in waves.

“We’re right under the Novenae Theatre,” Alice said. “But just wait.”

Pinholes of light and dark began to form in Prophet’s vision. Prophet inhaled, quivering, and pressed his back against the wall. Alice massaged his shoulder.

“The mushrooms that grow down here,” Alice said. “They’re magic.”

Blurry shapes formed, growing, bridging out to each other. Prophet looked down at two flesh-colored blobs in front of him. As he flexed and extended his hands, the blobs grew and shrank in size. It was hazy, like a dream, but he could still see. He could see. He looked over at Alice. The features in her face were out of focus, melting into one another, but she was smiling.

“Even just inhaling their spores you can start to see the difference,” Alice said.

“What..?” Prophet mumbled.

Alice held Prophet’s face in her hands. “I was blind like you, Kaine. I couldn’t find work. I was disposable. I had nobody. Nothing.”

Prophet looked into her eyes. The first pair of eyes he had seen in a long time.

“They fixed me. We can fix you, too.”

The music ended. Prophet was thrust into darkness again.

“Please, just come see the shaman tomorrow.”

The next morning, they were in the city center, eating breakfast. Scrambled eggs with bacon. Even better than Foundation food.

“Hang on,” Alice said. “I need to tell the shaman you’re coming.”

While Prophet ate alone, a man in a wheelchair approached him silently. He placed a pristine white envelope onto the table beside his plate. Prophet ripped it open, pulling out a plastic card written in Braille.

Subsurface resident, your presence is cordially requested for a dinner party on the eighty-fifth layer.

A new body shall be christened as the King’s vessel. Guests must wear formal attire.

To take place on the blessed day of Friday, the 6th of August, 3021

“Attendance is compulsory,” the man said, and he left.

Prophet fidgeted with the card in his hand for awhile, reading the Braille over and over again with his fingertips, listening to the sounds of people passing by. Never able to put a face to any one of their voices. Painting mosaics of sound and touch and smell and taste that never look like the real thing. He thought about himself, cowering on the dirt after the explosion with the vision draining from his head- and Prophet let the card fall onto the floor. Alice returned.

“Ready?” Alice asked.

“I’m ready,” Prophet said.

The Shaman’s room was long and triangular, carved out of the native rock. People in white clothing, their calm and fluid breaths, lined the walls. Prophet led the procession, walking into the arms of a man wearing a robe that melted into the rocks around them. The man massaged Prophet’s scars with paternal touch.

The people around them breathed in,

And out.

In.

And out.

Prophet was told to close his eyes. A clump of mushrooms was held up to his face and he breathed them in,

And out.

In.

And out.

Orchestra music was playing, somewhere. The shaman chanted in a tongue that Prophet could not understand. A mess of colors spilled into Prophet’s vision, but he kept his eyes clenched shut.

The shaman breathed in,

And out.

In.

And out.

The chants grew louder. They mingled with the violas which swelled with pride. Spit was flying from the shaman’s mouth. Suddenly, everything stopped. The cave was silent.

Everyone breathed in,

And out.

In.

And out.

“Open your eyes, son.”

Prophet opened them. It was his father, smiling at him. All the details of that blurry memory were instantly filled in.

“Temilo.”

It was such a sweet embrace. Everyone looked proudly on.

“Temilo. It is so good to see you.”

Prophet was expressionless. Tears spilt from his eyes.

“Stay down here, Temilo. With me. Please.”

Prophet’s eyes travelled from his father’s face down onto the stone floor, then back up again. He took his gun out of his waistband and aimed it just inches from his father’s head.

“I watched you die.”

And he was thrust back into darkness.

EPISODE ELEVEN

(Freaks of nature.)

Naomi pressed her back into the chair, as far away as she could get from the thing sitting across from her. The Old Man leaned in, the tendrils of his face hanging over her head.

The carriage started on its way.

Naomi curled into a ball. She looked out the window, watching the tunnel walls pass by. She saw The Old Man’s faint reflection in the glass, tapping his fingers lazily. He had no eyes, and a thin mouth deformed into a permanent frown. When Naomi looked back, he had taken on the form of her father. He had the same, flowing orange robe tucked under his arm and over his shoulder. There was no warmth in his eyes.

“You’re not real,” Naomi said.

Now a woman sat across from her, drenched with rainwater. Someone Naomi did not want to see. Naomi buried her face behind her arms.

“Not real,” Naomi said.

When she heard the wind whistling past her ears she looked up again. They were high above Novenae, sitting at a dinner table on the top floor of the Bonifacio Hotel. The skyscrapers around them fell, one by one, swallowed up by the ground. The bridges across the canal crumbled into pieces of rebar, down into the water. People collapsed in the streets- their arms and legs shriveled up.

“Stop it,” Naomi said.

Everything froze. The Old Man took out a needle from his jacket pocket, leveling it horizontally in midair. Naomi watched the needle float silently towards her, weightless, entering the skin just above her nose. A bloodshot eye opened from her forehead, looking around frantically with the needle plunged into its yellow iris. The Old Man spoke without speaking.

You are a freak. Just like me.

At the edge of her vision, the city crumbled, then built itself up again. This time, she didn’t recognize the skyline. The pale-yellow buildings were much shorter, and stretched as far as the eye could see. The vessels in Naomi’s third eye twisted in pain and blood began to drip down her face.

Matter becomes dust becomes matter becomes dust.

Around them the city dissolved into a primitive walled village. Peasants walked the stone brick streets carrying leather sacks on their shoulders, moving between noisy horse-drawn carriages. The sun was high above them, a great chandelier swinging over their dinner table. It was snuffed out, swallowed by something bigger, plunging them into starry night.

You will assimilate.

—

In his brief moments of consciousness, Prophet felt his feet being dragged across the tunnel floors. Now he awoke, dangling in the air, chained up by his wrists. This chamber was large and circular and water dripped from the ceilings onto a floor wet with blood. All around the room he could hear a symphony of heartbeats. Hundreds of them, slow and weak, thumping against frail bodies. It filled his ears, echoing throughout the chamber. Prophet squeezed his chest, bringing his feet up in front of his body and close to his hands. The chains strangled his wrists to a bright pink. He dug around in his boot, fishing out a lock pick, and dropped to the ground as he unchained himself. The exit was right there, just a simple wooden door. Prophet kicked it open. Dust was still settling to the ground. Prophet hesitated. The heartbeats waltzed in circles around him. He sighed. It took ages, but he unchained all of them. Some were unconscious, some weakly massaged their wrists. Prophet would catch them as they fell, lowering them down gently on the cavern floor. When Prophet was finished, he left, and he could hear them.

“Thank you,” they whispered. “Thank you.”

At the end of the tunnel a Cult member stood guard with a rifle slung across her chest. She looked over, but it was too late. Her head made a dull thud as Prophet slammed her onto the ground. He wrestled the rifle from her shoulders and put his one hand against the tunnel wall, feeling for the shape of the arrows. He was calm as he entered the city center. The cloying smell of cooked meat pouring from the shop fronts was sickening. He thought of lowering all those people to the ground in the chamber, some missing arms or legs. It was the same smell. Prophet approached a man walking with his groceries and pointed his rifle.

“How do I get to the eighty-fifth layer?” Prophet asked.

The man’s groceries spilled out onto the floor. “You have to take the lift. Only shamans are allowed.”

“Where are the shamans?”

“You already met one, Temilo. He saved you, didn’t he?”

Prophet scoffed and moved forward. Alice had shown him the way before. He found the familiar entrance, a beautiful gilded door cut into the stone. There was wailing coming from inside, like animals in pain. Prophet kicked the door open. There was the shaman in the center, cradling someone’s face in his hands, men and women in white robes lining either side of the room. The wailing stopped and they turned to look.

“Take me to the eighty fifth layer,” Prophet said.

The men and women on the sides started wailing again, their bodies  convulsing. They lunged at him.

—

The ice cream parlor was empty when the soldiers entered, just the cashier’s body leaking into the floor before them. The sweet smell of gelato crept up into their masks as they stepped into the kitchen. The freezer was wide open, with a small, dark opening cut roughly into the floor. Vulture, the leader of this group of soldiers, spoke into a microphone in his helmet.

“Team C entering now,” he said flatly.

Their flashlights travelled along the tunnel walls, turning up dark brown bricks and the sodden concrete floor. Avocet, the shortest soldier, dropped glowsticks behind them every few meters. They entered a circular room with the outlines of human figures plastered along the walls. Two of the men groaned.

“Keep moving,” Vulture said.

They walked for eternity, Avocet leaving a glowing breadcrumb trail behind their every step. Their tunnel connected into another, one where glowsticks lined the whole way down.

“Shit,” Dovokie, another soldier, said. “We went in a circle.”

“That’s impossible,” Avocet said. “We’ve been going in a straight line.”

“Do we keep going?” Murrelet, the tallest soldier, asked.

Vulture stared down the tunnel, dark and endless. He asked, “How are we doing on glowsticks?”

“I’m almost out,” Avocet said.

Vulture thought. “We should turn back,” he said. “We’re just going to get more lost if we-” The men trained their rifles on the shuffling sound of footsteps behind them. Just the faint outline, then the obscured face of a naked, elderly man emerged from the dark behind them. His face was sharp and sunken, covered by a grey beard that stretched from cheek to cheek.

“Come, children,” he whispered.

Dovokie felt a sharp set of teeth sink into his shoulder. He screamed. The flashlights scrambled around the walls, training on him. Stringy, greasy strands of hair draped over Dovokie’s arm were illuminated as an emaciated young woman bit into the soldier’s neck. The whole unit opened fire, ripping through the woman’s body. She stumbled back into the dark as Dovokie dropped to his knees.

“He’s bleeding out,” Vulture said, peering at Dovokie’s shoulder. “We need to go back now.”

They sprinted through the tunnels, each heavy breath drawing in the stench of rotting flesh through their masks. They followed the glowing trail until it ended, intersecting with an empty pathway.

“Are we back where we started?!” Avocet asked. Dovokie was leaning up against him.

Vulture took off his helmet, his eyes wide and his face dripping with sweat. There were hundreds of people in front of them, crammed between the tunnel walls, marching towards the soldiers. Their nails long like claws, covered in blood and dirt. The tunnel exploded with the sound of gunfire.

---

“Team C has perished.”

Junji scratched his beard, sitting in the glow of the hundreds of monitors in front of them. “Send in another team. Give them twice as many glowsticks this time.”

Junji felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

“Junji,” HR said. Two Gurkha stared Junji down from behind each of HR’s shoulders. “I will be taking command of this operation.”

Shit.

---

The white robes made a blood-soaked carpet under Prophet’s feet. The shaman put both of his hands up.

“Take me to the eighty-fifth layer,” Prophet repeated.

The shaman slid the caged door of the elevator shut, Prophet’s rifle pressed into his back. He pushed a button on the panel next to him and the elevator began to descend.

“Who is the new vessel?”

The shaman said nothing.

“I’ll shoot.”

“His Majesty’s soul is immortal,” the shaman said. “Impervious to all forms of damage and disease. You can try to delay the inevitable, but it is fruitless. If not me, then those after me will hunt you down until armageddon.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The shaman shuffled his feet. “A young girl. That is all I am privy to.”

The elevator doors opened and a shape passed inches away from Prophet’s arm. A Cult member stepped into the elevator. He brought his arm up again, a machete squeezed in his hand. Prophet slammed his shin into the man’s ribs, knocking him into the elevator wall. His life and memories spewed out of his mouth and onto the floor. Prophet trained his rifle back on the shaman.

“When does it start? The dinner party?”

“In twenty minutes.”

Prophet pulled the trigger.

---

They laid there, twisting and squirming gently in the dark. The light turned on.

“Seth,” Neph said. She hid a look of disgust. Two women and two men laid beside her husband, scattered around the bed. Neph cleared her throat. “Seth. We need to get you dressed.”

“Of course,” Seth said as one of them kissed the scarab tattooed on his neck.

They proceeded down a tunnel that connected their bedroom to the rest of the system. Cult members dressed in white, carrying food and drinks, rushed past them. The ceremony was in less than thirty minutes.

“Does it bother you when I do that?” Seth asked.

“Do what?” Neph replied.

“When I sleep with others.”

“Why would it bother me?”

“I’ve never seen you do it. The end is closer than you think. You should have some fun.”

Neph looked straight forward. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“If you want to join us, just tell me.”

“I’m fine.”

They went into a room, brightly lit, lined with chairs and mirrors. Seth sat down and several makeup artists went to work.

“You will give thanks to His Majesty, and the soul will be extracted. Then consummation. Then, we eat.” Neph sighed. “And it’ll be over.”

“Do you think the police will interrupt us?” Seth asked. Dark lines were being painted all over his face, running down his neck along the ridges of his veins.

“We have the cannibals patrolling the upper levels. If all else fails, the alien will be watching everything.”

Seth smiled warmly. “Splendid, so splendid. You’ve done amazing.” He leaned over and kissed Neph on the cheek. “This will be perfect.”

---

The carriage stopped, the doors opening. A cult member leaned in, offering Naomi his hand.

“Madam,” he said.

They walked forward, into the dull roar of conversation. It was an opulent banquet hall, sculpted out of granite and limestone. Sculptures of winged angels peeked out from the acanthus leaves topping each column. Carved flowers adorned every square inch of the ceiling, rounding off into circular domes high over their heads. The tables looked like lotus flowers rising from the oak parquet. Voices made a thick smog that hung over the room. Naomi was placed on a throne, and carried by four Cult members up onto the stage. People began to applaud, and as Naomi looked out into the crowd, she grasped for any face she could recognize. Temi. Hidori. Her father. None of the faces were familiar at all. The Cult members set her down. She saw a man approaching the stage, with a drawing of a beetle on his neck. He went up to The Old Man, now with his arms strapped to a wooden cross, and bowed, letting his vestments hang down.

“Praise to His Majesty for this blessed day on which we gather,” Seth said.

Seth peeled back the layers of The Old Man’s jacket, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Praise to His Majesty, for curing us of our ailments,” Seth said.

A Cult member handed Seth a scalpel.

“Praise to His Majesty for blessing us with the foresight of armageddon.”

Seth carved a circle into The Old Man’s chest, who made some sort of squealing sound, the chains rattling. The scalpel made a red ring around The Old Man’s ribs.

“And in return, we bestow upon you,”

Seth reached into The Old Man’s chest and pulled something out. A shrivelled brown sac cradled in Seth’s hands, dripping with black fluid.

“A fresh vessel.”

The Old Man hung limp against the wood. Seth walked across the stage, slowly, stooping to Naomi’s level.

“Eat, child.”

Naomi lifted her chin, caught in the man’s gaze. Seth tilted his hands downward.

Pop. The muzzle flash illuminated the audience.

Seth stumbled, then fell backwards. Prophet, lowering his rifle from across the room, bounded towards the stage. People began to scream and moan at their seats. Prophet dodged the tuxedoed guests, swinging their forks and knives at him, weaving past tables. He leapt onto the stage, up to the throne, and hugged Naomi tight. Thank God you’re okay. Several armed guards ran up behind him with their weapons drawn.

“Don’t shoot!” A guard called out. “Her Majesty is in the crossfire!”

“The fuck have you done to her?” Prophet asked with Naomi hiding behind his leg.

“Step away!” A guard called out.

There was a deep heavy slam from the other side of the entryway. Everyone went silent. It happened again, the doors buckling slightly. The guards looked at each other, their weapons still aimed at Prophet. The third time, the doors burst open, and the banquet hall flooded instantly with people. Some missing arms or legs, all with red marks around their wrists. The hall filled with screams as the guests were attacked. Prophet put bullets into each of the guards in front of him and scooped Naomi up, diving into the confusion.

---

Domovoi strolled onto the stage, staring at the empty throne. He went up to Seth’s body and rested two fingers on his neck. A song slowing to a stop. Domovoi uncurled Seth’s fingers, revealing the sac pulsing in his open hand.

Domovoi picked it up and swallowed it whole, letting the fluid coat his throat and stomach.

EPISODE TWELVE

(The plunge.)

On that day, I held you in my arms, and I whispered over your shoulder and into your ear:

“I will keep you safe.”

---

Prophet put Naomi down once the sound of the commotion had faded behind them. Her hair was messy and matted but he couldn’t feel any injuries.

“Did they hurt you?” Prophet asked.

“No,” Naomi said. Her voice rang softly against the cave walls.

“We’re going to go home now, okay?” Prophet pushed some hair away from her face. “Don’t you worry.”

A bullet passed through Prophet’s temple. He went limp, collapsing onto the floor. In an instant, they were gone.

---

The smell of coffee hung stagnant in the air with the sound of chatter. Prophet awoke, but he was not tired. He felt weightless. Someone sat across from him, shoveling food into his mouth. That familiar heavy-set breathing.

There was giggling from over Prophet’s shoulder. They were being watched by a group of young boys.

Prophet didn’t feel inclined to hurt Domovoi. Not here. He seemed harmless, hunched over in his unwashed jacket, mouth smeared with food. The boys from the other table passed them by. Their heartbeats were racing. One snuck a blow to the back of Domovoi’s head, pushing his face into his food. They laughed and ran. Prophet leaned back in his chair.

Why am I here?

---

None of the mercenaries they had sent hourly for the past day had come back. Rain slowly washed out the paint on the front entrance of the ice cream shop, dripping onto navy blue ponchos. Police swarmed from the inside out, armed to the teeth. A few officers were crowded near the freezer entrance, peering into the dark circle on the floor with their flashlights. They spoke to their radios, looked at each other, and nodded. Before they could step in, a figure rose from the mouth of the ladder. Domovoi’s forehead had swollen, covering his eyes and bulging into his silver hair. As the officers drew their weapons, their arms shriveled into blackened stumps. Row by row they collapsed as Domovoi made his way to the front of the store. Outside, Naomi’s hair rested in wet clumps on her shoulders. The gray clouds strolled over them, the rain washing away the dirt of the tunnels from her dress. She held Prophet’s corpse in the crook of her arm. Domovoi stood under the varanda, staring.

“Temi…”

Then they were gone, leaving the officers writhing on the floor.

---

A woman stood in the kitchenette, letting sweet-smelling clouds roll over the whole apartment. Domovoi sat at a table by Prophet’s waist, waiting patiently. The woman took a tray out and the scent wafted into Prophet’s face. Croissants. She placed the tray gently on the table in front of them. They spoke gently, their voices mixed with the sounds of quiet crunching.

Am I supposed to feel sympathy?

---

A trail of abandoned high heels and upended chairs led into the main lobby of the Bonifacio. Domovoi stood at the front entrance. Each breath was staggered and drawn out. The spores had begun to distend the rest of his body, the rivers of black fluid running translucent under his pale skin. Across, in the middle of the glass pane rotunda, Naomi cradled Prophet back and forth in her arms.

“Wake up, Temi…”

Several of the officers, now infected, moved in symmetry and closed in on them. Naomi squeezed, drawing Prophet in close and muscle and skin began to cocoon them. They coalesced into a pulsing glow and shifting skin, something that could not be easily perceived. Their figure blurred like looking through fogged glass. The officers stepped closer in rhythm, the wisps of their arms trailing by their waists. A mass had formed in the middle of the rotunda, its skin falling off in globs onto the floor, melting into the shape of a featureless human being, The figure raised its head, the scars around Prophet’s face caked in the light from the chandeliers. Prophet’s eyes were shut peacefully and an eye blinked to life in the center of his forehead.

---

Prophet leaned against the side of the booth, listening to Domovoi and this woman talk to each other. It smelled of beer and music pulsed steady in the background. He still didn’t understand.

“Would you like to dance?” Domovoi asked. His accent was strong.

Prophet couldn’t see her blush in the neon light.

The music slowed as they stepped out onto the floor. Domovoi rested his hand on her back and they swayed, back and forth. Prophet listened as their heels clicked against the parquet, in time with the music. Their heartbeats were almost synchronized.

Domovoi leaned in, over her shoulder and into her ear, and whispered.

---

The cops sunk into the carpet, drowning in the fluid of the floorboards. Prophet stood. Domovoi began to retch, pulling a thin narrow object up from his mouth. First the hilt, then the blade dripping with black fluid. The sword was a shadow, colorless, and it passed into Prophet’s ribs. Prophet swayed, like a tree hit by the first strike of a hatchet. He stepped back, tilting his chin downwards, and a needle was expelled from his third eye. It glowed, leaving a pinprick hole through Domovoi’s frontal lobe. Domovoi staggered, then lunged forward, grabbing Prophet by the shoulders and pinning him against the tempered glass of the rotunda. Even just holding him Domovoi could feel the power, the authority over all life and matter. It made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. He grabbed the hilt of the sword, pulling it up into Prophet’s lungs and cutting through his sternum. Domovoi gritted his teeth, his palms turning a bright pink. Eyes still closed, Prophet wrapped Domovoi up in his arms.

The glass behind him cracked, then shattered, and they plunged into the Novenae canal.

---

Prophet surfaced first. A morning fog had settled over the canal but the faint outlines of rusted red bridges moving aside for ships could still be seen. He had Naomi in the other hand, and dragged her further onto the beach on which they had washed up. She’s breathing. Okay. She’s breathing. She seemed locked in a gentle sleep. Prophet laid on his side, the sand scratching his arm, the waves crashing into his ears. He held Naomi and whispered.

“I will keep you safe.”

EPILOGUE

(Matter becomes dust.)

Prophet helped Hidori down onto a bench outside of Foundation headquarters. Hidori reached under his lab coat, massaging the mess of bandages wrapped around his stomach.

“Thank you,” Hidori said, grunting. “I haven’t been out in ages.”

“How’s your recovery?” Prophet asked.

“My small intestine will be a few centimeters shorter for the rest of my life. Otherwise, I’m doing alright.”

The sky was thick with clouds. Prophet shivered and buttoned up his trench coat.

“Naomi appears to have no lasting psychological damage,” Hidori said. “We’ve administered amnestics just in case- she won’t remember anything from the past 24 hours.”

Prophet was silent.

“That means she won’t remember you saving her,” Hidori said.

“It’s for the best.”

A cool breeze wrapped around them. It was early in the morning and the streets were mostly empty.

“We raided the Cult’s headquarters a few hours after we found you two,” Hidori said. “You know what we saw? Mushrooms. Thousands of mushrooms, lining every sidewalk and table. On every corpse and countertop. Like petals of snow. They’d all shriveled up and died.” Hidori turned to look into Prophet’s silver eyes. “What happened down there, Temilo?”

“I- I don’t know,” Prophet shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

“I won’t pry. HR has asked to meet you later this week,” Hidori said. “I’m not sure what his plan is.”

Prophet thought for a moment. “Hidori?”

“Yeah?”

“That man. The one tied to the cross. Who was he?”

“Nobody in particular. Some homeless guy who’d gone missing a couple years prior. Why?”

Prophet could hear the Old Man squeal as a scalpel cut into his chest. “No reason.”

Pedestrians began to filter out onto the streets, walking to work or school.

“Wanna get a drink?” Hidori asked.

Prophet smiled. “Sure.”

---

Neph panted, the bright spot at the end of the tunnel growing larger and larger. She stepped out of an old emissary buried between the trees and bushes. The water under her feet trickled into a circular lake, reflective, an image of herself copying her every move in the water's surface. She stared up, past the dangling green hair of the trees and into the clouds.

The sky stretched blue and infinite out in all directions.

「 End 」

---

I will assimilate.