The first time he come, it was just after supper.

“D’you have any matches, ma’am?” he asked straightaway when I opened the door.

He couldn’t’a been more than ten or eleven, I reckoned then, the top of his curly head not even as high as my breastbone. And I could tell he weren’t from around these parts neither -- or leastways his family weren’t -- on account of the way he called me ma’am instead of missus.

Wherever he come from originally, I’d’a wagered the clothes off my back on one thing. It weren’t from a poor district like this one. Something about him just stank to the heavens of money. 

Ain’t nothing I need less, I said to myself, than to find myself wrong-side of a HIgh-Ender’s kid.

I must’a looked at him sideways one minute too long, ‘cause he opened his big brown eyes impossibly wide and fixed them on me. “Please, ma’am?” he squeaked, his lower lip all aquiver.

“What on this green earth’s a child like you gonna do with matches?” 

“It’s cold and I’m lost,” he said, but I seen how them doe eyes couldn’t quite meet mine.

“What’s your name, child?” I asked, just as gentle as I could.

His little body tensed all up at the question. He looked up at me again, his eyes near the size of dinner plates. For a hot minute he didn’t say nothing, just stared at me like a cornered deer.

“Eric Woods, ma’am,” he finally got out.

If that ain’t the fakest name I ever did hear, I said to myself then. In the Sentry Wood district, the forest’s both life and death. Ain’t nobody here named after it, though. I shook my head.

“Please,” he said again.

“You know you’re too young to play with matches,” I chided him. “Where’s your momma live? I’m more’n happy to help you find her. There’s leftovers from supper too, if you --”

My words caught in my throat and I seen I was talking to empty air. The boy was gone.

* * * * *

He showed up again a week later, still in the same plaid pants I seen him in before. The cuffs of ‘em was black this time, and the front of his grey shirt was streaked with the same black dirt.

Or soot, mayhap, I thought to myself. I reckon he found them matches after all.

He didn’t look like he’d found any means to warm his self, though, on account of the way he was hugging his self and shivering. And I couldn’t hardly blame him for that, with the wind howling through the trees like a wounded beast. He gave me the saddest little smile.

“D’you have any matches, ma’am?” he asked just the same as the first time I seen him.

‘Cept this time the words sounded wobbly ‘cause of how bad he was shaking.

“I told you, you ain’t old enough to be playing with matches,” I said. “But you’ll catch your death if you don’t warm yourself a bit. You can set by my fire for a spell if you --”

But just like that, I might as well’a been speaking to the stars, ‘cause the boy was gone again.

* * * * *

I started to fret in earnest, once he come knocking a third time. His cheeks had gone hollow by then and his dark curls were matted. Just like before, he come looking for matches again. 

And just like before, he vanished as soon as I offered him anything other.

That night, I set up late and scoured the ‘net for a trace of an Eric Woods. It weren’t a surprise when I came up empty -- I knew all along it couldn’t’a been his real name. But by then, I couldn’t just leave sleeping babes to lie anymore. I’d already let that boy suffer alone for too long.

In my line of work you can’t hardly just sit by and watch when a child’s in danger like that.

It weren’t strictly legal, looking him up in the Citizens’ Record. A Care Assistant’s never meant to access the Record for personal reasons. But I reckoned the good I could do canceled out any sin on my part. ‘Sides, I never expected no more’n the goose egg I’d already found on the ‘net.

You could’a knocked me clean over with just a breath when his name and pic come up there.

And I near fell flat out when I read the last page of his record:

Citizen perished in a house fire on Wintertide Eve, one week after his twelfth birthday. The fire claimed the life of his mother, Drea Woods, as well. The only surviving witness was Sasha Tolliver, a classmate at Sentry Wood Middle Grade School. Tolliver died tragically less than three years later, while detained in the Home for the Intractably Insane on suspicions of --  

I had to pause there, ‘cause I knew full well what they thought Sasha Tolliver done.

* * * * *

“Remind me again why you brung me here?” I fight the urge to squirm in my seat.

Doc Brinkley crosses his arms and leans ‘gainst the conference room table, tall and towering over me. I smooth down my skirt and cross my legs tighter ‘neath it. There’s something ‘bout being all by my lonesome with him that makes me feel naked as the day my ma birthed me.

He smiles the same fake smile my instructors always did when I asked why a girl couldn’t grow up to be a doctor -- or even a measly Care Tech -- instead of a stupid Care Assistant. 

“I’ve brought you here,” he corrects me, speaking nice and slow like I might be too thick to understand him, “because the boy trusts you as much as he’s capable of trusting anyone. Which means the Board will take your word if you --”

“If I betray that trust?” The words spill past my lips like bile before I can stop ‘em.

“If you present evidence supporting my case,” the doc says, that smile near cracking his face.

My eyes narrow of their own free will. “You know full well I ain’t got that evidence.”

He leans in, near enough so’s I feel his hot breath on my face. “I know ‘full well’ that the boy’s real name is Sasha Tolliver. That he’s suspected of setting a house fire that killed his best friend.” He takes my hand and squeezes, hard enough that I’m biting my lip so’s not to cry out.

“And I know about your career aspirations, Ms. Page, along with the allegations against you before you came to work at the Home. It’d be a shame to --”

I stand up, my blood fit to boil. “I ain’t never laid a hand on that man.”

It’s a lie, a’course. They told me the records were sealed, when they helped me smooth it all over. Said I deserved a second chance on account of how my husband-to-be hurt me. But it don’t change the law. It won’t change what’ll happen to me if word of what I did gets out.

The doc smiles again, for real this time. It’s the grin of a wolf on the hunt. “And I never laid a hand on the Tolliver boy. It appears it’s not only my future that hinges on proving it now.”

 

* * * * *

The Wood’s ablaze, the trees on three sides of me in flames. I’m running for safety, my lungs fit to burst and my feet pounding hard ‘gainst the forest floor. The sound of my shoes on the hard-packed dirt swells ‘til it fills my ears and I can’t hear nothing else, and -- 

My eyes fly open. I set up with a start, my head full of fog, and blink at the Wintertide log still burning merrily in my fireplace. I must’a fallen asleep in my chair -- on a holiday eve, no less.

 

I shake my head. It’s been a dog’s age since I had a full night’s rest. 

Someone’s pounding at the door, I realize, loud enough it’s a wonder the windows ain’t rattling in their frames. I hold my breath, my heart slamming into my breastbone. It’s him, I just know it.

‘Cept it can’t be him, can it? He’s been dead nigh on four years and I know that now. It’s my guilt getting to me, ain’t it? On account of me selling out that Tolliver boy to save my own -- 

“Joyous Wintertide, ma’am,” pipes a sweet, clear voice from behind me.

I leap from my seat like I seen a ghost. Which I s’pose I have. He’s covered in soot from head to foot, ‘cept for clean tracks on his cheeks -- mayhap from tears, but he’s smiling softly now.

For once, it ain’t him shivering. “I told you, child, I ain’t gonna give you any matches.”

He bites his lip. I reckon he’s gonna plead with me again, but he don’t.

“You don’t need to, ma’am,” he says, in the saddest little voice. “I’ve got something better now.”

His hands are behind his back, I notice. And whatever he’s got in ‘em, it’s… bright. He holds it up to show me -- the kerosene lamp I keep in the shed out back. It’s lit up and I don’t understand how I ain’t seen the shadows it’s casting ‘til now. I shake my head. 

Mayhap I’m still dreaming. 

He shakes his head too, his filthy curls bouncing. “Believe it or not, I’m sorry to do this.”

The lantern’s sailing through the air before I can say boo. I duck, but it ain’t headed towards me. It hits the fireplace dead-center with a tinkle of shattered glass, and it hits me that I oughtta run.

I turn to do just that. There’s a thwump from behind me, along with a rush of heat.

And then his little voice: “Joyous Wintertide, Sasha.”

“Aidan.”

I can almost hear her lips purse, as though my name tastes sour on her tongue. Tension tugs at a spot between my shoulder blades, and I brace myself for what’s to come.

We’ve done this dance one time too many, and I know I’m in for a lecture; I always am, when she calls me by my given name. I linger at the window, prolonging the inevitable. It’s only once the sleek black car pulls away, my young companion safe inside, that I turn to face my fate.

“Yes, Lilly? I ask, meeting her glacial blue gaze.

With swift, efficient fingers, she plucks a vial from my living room table and tucks it into her medical bag. “I expect you already know what I’m going to say, not that it’ll make any difference.”

But she’s going to say it anyway, I suppose. My teeth clench against a retort, and the action sends a flare of pain through my newly set nose. I hold myself still, forbidding my face to betray my discomfort. It’s a cardinal sin, after all, for a man of my ilk to display any sign of weakness.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” The hard line of Lilly’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Good.”

“I won’t fire him.”

“Oh, of course not.” She snorts, crossing her well-muscled arms over her chest. “The last one tried to stab you on more than one occasion. What’ll it take before you let this one go?”

“They have names, you know.” Heat rushes into my cheeks, and I’m certain that whatever I’m about to say, it’s going to be the wrong thing. “You met Mosan tonight. The ‘last one’ was Jasen, and I hired him on your advice.” My voice rises in pitch, becoming a feminine falsetto. “‘At least take a Majerian boy this time,’ you told me. ‘They’ll talk less if he’s one of our own.’” I let out a gusty breath, raking a hand through my hair. “That certainly worked out well, didn’t it?”

She regards me with narrowed eyes. “You’re really going to blame me for that.”

“I’m not --” I pause and replay my own words. “I suppose I just did, didn’t I? My apologies. I only mean to say that there’s a reason I prefer Umani sidearms. They’re --” I glance down at the dark stain on my uniform shirt, and a ragged laugh escapes me. “They’re less prone to violence.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Sit down. You look exhausted.”

I open my mouth to protest, but her fingers close around my bicep.

“Yes, yes, I know.” She shakes her head, all but dragging me to the couch. “You’re Major Aidan Ellis, a fearsome Majerian warrior, and are therefore impervious to fatigue. Now sit.”

I do as she says, though I suspect it’ll only make her more insufferable. She settles herself beside me, her back straight and strong as a girder, and waits for me to state my case.

“What happened tonight, it wasn’t Mosan’s fault,” I say at last.

“He was drunk,” she says, each syllable clipped and clinical. “At a military ball.”

“He’s Umani." My pulse quickens, and I fight to keep the pleading note from my voice. "His people don’t frown upon such indulgences the way we do, and it settles his nerves. He suffers from anxiety, you know, and he’s little more than a boy --”

She lifts a hand, and my defense dies on my lips.

“It’s never their fault, and they all seem to suffer from something,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You’ve always liked the pretty, broken ones, and --”

She shakes her head and stares off into the distance. I know what’s coming next, the list of allegations. It’s difficult to watch me sabotage myself, she’s going to say. If I’d only held my tongue when the general baited me, or hired a female sidearm instead, I’d never have been demoted.

We’ve done this dance one time too many, after all, and I’ve long since learned the steps.

“It’s never your fault, either, is it?” She speaks slowly, moving to an unfamiliar rhythm. “You parade them about like exotic pets, with no thought for how it affects them. Do you think they don’t hear the whispers on the ballroom floor, or do you let them drink to drown them out?”

I flinch as though she’s slapped me. “They know the truth, regardless of the rumors. I don’t… indulge myself with any of them, nor have I ever wished to. I’ve only ever --”

My words catch in my throat, Mosan’s shrill accusation ringing in my ears.

You say you don’t look at me that way, but -- you get off on this, don’t you? I’m not a person to you at all. I’m just here to make you feel good about yourself, to inflate your stupid ego.

Once more I hear his screech, the crunch of bone and cartilage beneath his fist. I blink, my vision hazed. “I’ve only ever had their best interests at heart, haven’t I?”

She tilts her head to one side. “Have you?”

“Pa?” The voice breaks into Dr. Jansen’s thoughts, squeaky and a touch breathless. “You got visitors.”

Jansen pushes his chair back from the solid stone table and stands, running a hand through his close-cropped brown hair. Something hurtles into him and he stumbles back a step; his son Weston’s skinny arms encircle him with impressive strength. The boy, eleven years old and already near as tall as his father, buries his face in Jansen’s labcoat. The scientist pats his shivering son’s dark, curly head in an absent way, knowing without looking who's at the door.

The boy’s never liked the Manips; Jansen can’t say he blames him.

“Come on in,” he says, his own voice even.

The Manip glides inside, its feet noiseless on the stainless alloy floor. It waits, silent, as Jansen makes his clumsy way over to the data-safe, his son still clinging to him. His back to the Manip, he opens the safe and retrieves the chip with last quarter’s reports.

A chill comes over him, and he turns to find the Manip inches away; skin crawling, Jansen suppresses a nervous laugh.

The Manips don’t appear to have any sense of humor, but he’d swear they enjoy startling him. He offers this one a wan smile and drops the chip into its skeletal hand. It nods as its white, fleshless fingers close around the chip, its face obscured by the hood of its billowing black cloak. The creature retreats to the hall, its movements so quick it appears to flicker. It doesn’t speak; the Manips never do.

Weston slowly releases his his death-grip on Jansen; moments later, a young, paunchy man steps into the doorway. The breast pocket of his ill-fitted brown suit is adorned with a Government employee's identification badge.

Tugging at the collar of his lint-flecked black button-down, he clears his throat. “I apologize for the interruption, Sir, but the Program Director requests your presence.” He clears his throat again. “There’s a hoverpod waiting outside.”

Jansen sighs, eyeing the slides he’s just finished preparing, the jars of phosphorescent serum composites. He shoots a wistful glance at the half-assembled prototype for his largest public client’s latest Productivity Assistance Management system. His work will have to wait; Jansen Technologies hasn’t earned its reputation by keeping Government officials waiting, even middle-grade ones with delusions of grandeur.

“Weston?” He turns to his son. “Keep an eye on the place for me?”

The boy stands, taut as a bow string and wide black eyes fastened on the shadowy figure lurking in the hall. On any other occasion, he’d be squealing in delight over the chance at even an hour alone in his father’s lab. Now, however, he only nods and offers a weak, “Sure, Pa.”

Jansen unlocks a tall, metal cabinet; its double doors open with a loud screech. He removes a garment bag and a pair of well-oiled dress shoes from inside and locks it back with nimble fingers. “Go on home if it gets too close to dinnertime. Tell your Ma I might be late, too--okay, kiddo?” Pulling Weston into an awkward, one-armed embrace, he whispers in the boy’s ear. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

He follows the public servant out. The halls are empty; most employees lack the clearance to enter this sector of the building. Two pairs of footfalls echo in the hall--the squeak of Jansen’s sneakers and the clippity-clop of the other man’s hard-soled shoes. Beneath the sound of their steps, Jansen hears his own breathing, the slight whistle of the younger man’s nose. The Manip trails behind them; its respirations--if it breathes at all--are inaudible. No one speaks on the way outside; the conversation at the meeting isn’t likely to be much better.

By the time he arrives at Program Headquarters, Jansen’s folded his labcoat and tucked it away in his garment bag, along with the jeans and Attack of the Killer Sprinkmelons T-shirt he was wearing underneath. He’s changed into a charcoal gray suit, expensive and tailored to fit his slight figure with precision. His shoes and socks are business black. The pressed, pristine white of his collared shirt offsets his smooth, dark skin--a complexion some spend good money to fake. Born and raised High-Ender, Jansen knows how to dress; it’s with perfect intention that he ruins the look with a smiley-face tie.

In the lobby, the Government lackey does the usual check-in routine--retinal scan, DNA sample, time in and expected time out of 23:59, Government-speak for “you’ll leave when we let you.” He takes his leave with a slight bow of his head. The Manip hovers at the back of the lobby; when Jansen approaches, it begins to drift down a dim corridor with a polished faux-marble floor. Jansen follows it onto an elevator that whisks them up seventy-odd floors and opens onto a hallway identical to the first. Exiting the elevator, the Manip leads him to a conference room with its imitation-wood door closed. It waits.

Jansen pushes the door open. The entire back wall of the room is a single sheet of shatterproof glass with a slight tint; the light filtering through this window-wall is the only illumination. At the center of the room is a long, simulated-stone table. The others are already seated at one end, stiff and unsmiling. Not one of them wears an interesting tie, unless Director Willard’s grease-spotted one counts. Willard occupies the head of the table, flanked by Stillwell and Adams, both of whom Jansen’s met before at various social events. The remaining man is young, mid-twenties at most and pulling off business casual far too well to be a Government employee. He glances toward the door and nods; the Manip floats out into the hallway and pulls it closed.

“Fashionably late as always,” Stillwell cracks as Jansen eases himself into an empty chair.

Rocking back in his seat, Jansen meets Stillwell’s honey-colored eyes with a level gaze and a small smile. He bites back a caustic remark about being fashionable, at least--Stillwell’s jacket sags just a touch in the shoulders, and its sleeve reveals the entire cuff of the man’s shirt. Jansen chides himself for his pettiness; it’s not Stillwell’s wardrobe that bothers him anyway.

“A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jansen.” Director Willard sounds almost sincere. “I trust that your family’s well?”

“Very well--thank you, Director,” Jansen replies. “Both boys’re growing like weeds and my wife’s research is--”

“Women’s work,” Stillwell interrupts, flashing Jansen a cold smile. “I was under the impression we had real business to discuss.”

“Stillwell,” the Director warns, his graying, bushy brows bunched together.

It’s all Jansen can do to repress a smirk. The unfamiliar young man seated next to Stillwell isn’t as successful, and Adams seems to be suffering from a sudden and unfortunate attack of coughing. Stillwell’s thin lips press together to the point of invisibility. Willard waits, expressionless, while Adams regains his composure.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I've brought you here, Dr. Jansen.” The Director says when the room is silent again.

Jansen chuckles. “There are a great many things I wonder about. Scientists are inherently curious individuals.”

“Let me introduce you to our team, and we’ll get straight to the point.” Willard inclines his head toward Stillwell. “It seems you’re already acquainted with our Deputy Commissioner of Schools. Seated next to you is Dr. Richard Adams, Associate Vice President of the Bureau of Mental Fortitude. And last but not least,” he says, gesturing to the man beside Stillwell, “our young friend over here is Victor Larkin, Program Liaison. He assists with both recruitment and mentoring of Program members.”

Larkin smiles, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And the Manips?” Jansen asks. “You work with them as well?”

The smile freezes on Larkin’s face; it fades from his eyes as they dart toward Adams. Adams, in turn, goes a bit gray in the face and looks over at Willard, who fiddles with his tie clip. “Yes, and them as well,” the Director says after a moment. He clears his throat. “How much do you know about the Program and your involvement with it?”

Jansen stretches, his jacket suddenly feeling restrictive. “My understanding is that the Program trains young men to become special operatives. Potential recruits are found through the school system using standardized tests and other screenings.”

“That’s a vast oversimplification of the--”

“Stillwell,” The Director barks. “Let the man speak.”

“As far as my involvement,” Jansen continues as if he was never interrupted. “I synthesize a chemical known as C-3614X, which is one component of an organic device the Government’s created for the Program. I believe the Manips are somehow able to use this device to observe the potentials, and these observations help determine which ones are a good fit for the Program.”

“Yes,” Willard says. “Very good. Adams, can you take it from here?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Adams clears his throat. “While surveillance is a helpful tool, on its own it provides a success rate of only thirty-five percent. In other words, almost two thirds of the boys we induct into the Program are unable to complete their training and become...” He trails off, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Special operatives. Our hope--”

“Our hope is that with some tweaks to your formula,” Willard interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can greatly reduce this rate of attrition.”

Rate of attrition. Jansen turns the words over in his mind; he dislikes how businesslike they sound. These boys, these potentials, aren’t much older than his own son. “What kind of tweaks?”

“Based on your research data thus far,” Adams says, “We believe it’s possible to enhance the organic monitors to establish a--” He pauses to examine his fingernails. “--a telepathic link between the Manips and the potentials.”

“A… what?” Jansen’s mind whirls; he wonders if he’s being mocked. “You want to read their thoughts?”

“Of course n--” Adams begins.

“Not at this time,” the Director says, his voice firm. “We intend to establish a simple bond with each potential’s brain. By measuring the strength of the bond, we’ll be better able to determine which candidates have sufficient abilities to excel in the Program.”

A sudden chill creeps over Jansen; he folds his hands in his lap to keep them still. “Isn’t that a bit… invasive?”

The young one, Larkin, leans forward. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

“Being cut from the Program is, ah, it’s very hard on these boys.” Adams rubs at the remains of his hair again. Jansen notices beads of perspiration along the man’s receding hairline. “They often require extensive counseling, and returning to their old living situations is--well, it’s quite difficult to say the least.”

“So you see,” Director Willard cuts in. “The telepathic link would, in fact, be less invasive than our current methods.”

* * * * *
Randall keeps it together until the break room door’s closed behind him. He tosses the grungy backpack onto the table, trying not to think about the way the kid fought to keep it. Tiny little thing, not even five feet tall, and it took five men to take him down. His ankles felt so small, the bones so delicate under Randall’s huge hands--

He bites back a scream and fights off tears, his whole body shaking with the effort. His fist slams into the wall and bounces off, useless. Randall blinks at the undamaged wall and then his reddening knuckles; he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. The Program was supposed to be a way out of his dead-end life, a way to help smart kids from shitty homes who never had a chance.

It isn’t helping the kid out there any, that’s for sure. He never quit struggling, not even after they got the restraints on him. Like a cornered animal, growling deep in his throat, back arching up off the table and head jerking from side to side. Wrists straining against the cuffs and cords standing out against his stick-figure arms, even after the first injection--

The door opens with a slight creak. “You okay in there, big guy?” Larkin asks.

Randall sinks into one of the too-small chairs, pulling the pack toward him and unzipping it. He’s not okay, can’t stop hearing the kid’s screams. Can’t un-see the bloody tracks down his hairless cheeks where he’d clawed himself before they managed to bring him in.

Not okay at all.

“I’ll get by,” Randall mutters, broad shoulders tensed.

“They’re not always like this, y’know,” Larkin says, taking a seat. “The intakes, I mean.”

“Hope not.” Randall keeps his eyes on the table, trained on the kid’s belongings as he sorts through them. They don't amount to much--cheap phone, ratty old clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, some polished stones in a fake leather pouch.

“It’s this new observation device.” Larkin sighs. “Things’ve been a lot rougher around here since they started using it."

Randall nods, distracted by something he's pulled from the pile of crumpled clothes. It's one of those souvenir-shop bottles, filled with shells and sand; Randall's willing to bet this kid's never seen the shore. He picks up the pouch he set aside earlier, running a thick finger over its soft, scarred surface. Sniffs at it, his brow furrowing--not fake after all, and hides are a luxury for a kid like this.

"Lots more kids like that one the past couple years, out of their minds and seeing shit that ain’t even there.”

Randall looks up; this wasn't covered in orientation. “The device makes them hallucinate?”

“Some of ‘em, yeah.” Larkin grimaces. “It wasn’t supposed to, not really. The point was to let the Manips communicate with the potentials, to ease them into things. To gauge whether they’d be a good fit for the Program. Least that’s how it was presented to me.”

“Let me guess. This one wasn’t a good fit.”

“That’s the worst part--not necessarily." Larkin picks up the beach-bottle from the table; he rolls it between long, slim fingers, passes it from one hand to the other. "The mind-link does something to some of the kids, makes their brains go haywire. But it’s not like it weeds out the ones without enough talent. It's--" He falls silent, eyes down and lip caught between his teeth.

Randall waits, turning back to the objects on the table. He picks up a cloth bundle about the size of a loaf of bread. It's a vidframe, cocooned in layers of wash-worn T-shirts--a girl, thirteen or so, with a mop of black curls and eyes like tumbled jet. Dark skin, shy smile and straight white teeth. Randall shakes his head. Poor kid got himself mixed up with some High-Ender's daughter, some sweet little thing with money for trinkets and trips to the shore. Randall wonders what they’ll tell her when she asks what happened to him.

"Y’know Number Two?” Larkin finally asks, voice low. “That one’s the worst intake I ever did.”

“Really?" Randall almost drops the vidframe. "Two?”

Two was born to be a Manip; none of the other Program kids can keep up with him.

“Yep." Larkin swallows and looks down at the table. "Came in here hollering about ghosts and dead things, clawing himself up like that one did tonight. We had to keep him holed up here on the Processing Unit for ages, but you’d never know it now. The kid’s amazing. Doesn’t remember a thing about all that bad stuff, either.”

“So this new kid," Randall pauses, afraid to ask. Afraid to hope. "He might actually end up okay?”

“Might." Larkin picks up a pair of jeans, shakes it out and folds it.

Randall picks up a paper napkin from the table, shredding it as he waits.

"It’s hard to say this early on," Larkin continues. "The ones that come in hot like this, they’re always a mess. Most of ‘em won’t eat or drink; I think they’re too mixed up to remember. The ones who’ll sleep tend to get nightmares. Treatments help some of them, clear up the hallucinations and the dreams. Those’re the ones with the best chance. We’ll know in a day or two if this one responds to the treatments or not.”

“And if he does?”

“It’ll be critical to keep a close eye on him. Even once they can think clear, they’re scared out of their minds. They tend to hurt themselves, to hide wherever they can. You have to talk to them, try to draw them out. Make sure they know you’ve got their back.”

“That’s what you did with Two?”

“Yep. Like I said, it was touch and go for a long time. But after a while, he adjusted. Some do, if you watch ‘em close enough.”

“What happens to the ones who don’t?” Randall asks.

Larkin opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. He stands, sweeping the scraps of torn napkin from the table. Patting Randall on the shoulder, he says, "We really ought to go back out there, y'know."

It's all the answer Randall needs.


(next chapter is here)


[A/N: This was originally posted for Open Topic in... some week of LJ Idol Season 9.]

Deep in the bowels of the city, a garden grows.

The city itself is sickly and gray, choked by the smog that swathes it day and night. Buildings stand empty, windows broken and boarded, and no weeds push through the cracks in the crumbling pavement. Pallid people come and go, sad, silent bundles of twigs trundling past dead trees in sidewalk cages. Their eyes are dull, despondent as the grimy glass fronts of the few surviving stores. Only the near-feral children show signs of life, roaming the streets in grungy packs.

But within the garden, the air is always clean and fresh. Sunlight filters in through an impossible canopy of green. Enormous blooms of every color imaginable nod in the gentle breeze, and the ground is carpeted with soft grass and sweet-smelling wildflowers.

And within the garden, she waits, her massive jaws open wide.

Her mouth is a brilliant fuchsia blaze. Near her wicked, glistening teeth, the flesh fades to a delicate pink, translucent as an infant's ear. She yawns, stretching sluggish extremities; the winter has been long and so has her slumber. But now a warm breeze blows and a pungent, earthy aroma rises up all around her. And the wind brings with it another scent, this one weaker but far more tempting: prey.

A deep, aching hunger gnaws at her insides. Her leaves quiver; liquid drips from her fangs. Two-legged beasts, not just one but many. Vines unfurl, slithering through streets and creeping around corners. They zero in, near enough to hear. To touch.

Six of the animals dash through the city, big and brawny juveniles, pursuing their own quarry. Their sweat and shouts fill the dry, dead air. Up close, the smell of fresh meat is maddening; she longs to grab the nearest one and be done with it. But she knows better. She needs more than one, and she can't ensnare them all from this distance. With grim restraint, she turns her attention to their target. It crouches in an alley, panting. This one is scrawny, hardly even enough for an appetizer. No matter--she'll save it for the wildflowers.

With one trembling tendril, she reaches out and taps it on the shoulder.

This way. She speaks directly into its mind, what little it possesses. You'll be safe here.

In the delirium of near-starvation, she senses something impossible. Something beyond the primitive, gabbling thought process of which these creatures are capable. There are words, full sentences, with a cold coherence that can only be a hallucination.

It's probably a trap, it thinks, but what other choice do I have?

She feels a flicker of doubt, but the beasts are not intelligent; everyone knows that. They are food, pure and simple.

Follow the vines. She curls a slim feeler, beckoning. I will protect you.

Howls of triumph ring out; its hiding place has been discovered. Its compact body explodes into action and its tiny mind falls silent. She hears only the rasp of its quickening respiration, the slap of its shoes against the ancient asphalt. It moves toward her, its would-be predators following. As the beasts approach, her consciousness winks out of existence. The urge to feed eclipses all else.

They burst into the garden. With her last shred of self-discipline, she bats the small one aside. Her serrated jaws snap shut around the others; their tender flesh gives way and hot juices drench her tongue and dribble from her lips. She sighs, relishing the crunch of bones between her teeth. A pleasant lassitude steals over her. Her leaves droop, and for a time the ecstasy of fullness is all she knows.

Why didn't you eat me, too?

She comes back to herself with a start. The small beast stands near the edge of the garden, its fur-tufted head bowed like a blossom too heavy for its slender stem. Outrunning its pursuers has come at a cost; its bony chest heaves with every labored breath. She wonders why its lungs, unlike the others', are not adapted to the city's poisoned air. Why it hasn't tried to flee nonetheless.

I'm not from the city. It lifts its head to look at her, its pupils dilated. I don't have anywhere else to go.

Her insides twist once more, but not with hunger. It won't last a day in this city. Though she's devoured countless of its kind with no compunctions, this one is different. She unrolls her vines, baring her stem in a gesture of welcome. You have somewhere now.

It blinks at her, a silent, strange intelligence in its dark eyes. Cautiously, it crosses the garden to meet her, wrapping its spindly arms around her stem. This is its way of showing gratitude, she surmises. Secure in the knowledge she has done the right thing, she sighs. Gorged on food and fellowship, she enfolds her new companion in slender shoots of greenery, and--

"I'm sorry," it says in a cracked whisper. "With what you'll fetch me on the black market, I can eat for a year."

Something sharp pierces the soft spot beneath her jaws, and the world goes black.

"We have to talk," Katie's eyes are hard and her brow's all creased up.

I nod and I try to look agreeable, but I don't say a word and I keep on brushing Daniel's hair. And I focus on the sweet floral scent of his shampoo and how soft his hair feels and the way it slides like black silk through my fingers. Katie wanted to cut it last year when all of this started, but I wouldn't let her. It's his pride and joy, or at least it was.

He won't be able to keep it up, Katie said, and you'll have your hands full anyway.

But my hands don't feel full, not with all I've lost.

"It's about Daniel," she continues, and her voice's so cold.

He doesn't react to the sound of his name, but I do. Because I don't want to talk about Daniel--not now with him here and not later, either. I know what Katie's gonna say, and I don't want to hear it. My hands won't stay steady and I almost drop the brush and it snags in Daniel's hair. And he turns to me with a small, hurt noise, and he's too pale and his eyes are big and shadowed and scared. But he's every bit as beautiful to me as he's always been, and for a second I swear he's there, really there--

And he blinks and the moment passes, and my heart breaks all over again.

"Sorry I scared you, dude," I whisper, and I lay a hand on his back. I can feel his ribs through his T-shirt and the too-fast beating of his heart. His whole body tenses under my touch, and I've gotta stay still 'til he relaxes. But then he leans in and rests his head on my shoulder, and I hold him close and breathe him in and remember how he used to be. How we used to be. And I remember those first awful weeks last year--how lost he looked and his endless questions.

What happened? Was I dead? Am I alive now?

One year and who knows how many tests and treatments later, and we still know so little.

Every thirty seconds and sometimes sooner, his memory resets and for him there's nothing in between. And he's quieter now with all the meds they've got him on, but those questions are still there and I can see them in his eyes whenever he looks at me.

Where'd I go? How long was I asleep?

But there's never any answers to give him, because even the doctors're stumped. It's a brain injury, they say, but they're not clear on the cause and I can't help because I wasn't around when it happened. They tell us it's a rare case and they look at Daniel like he's a puzzle for them to put together. But they can't find all the pieces, and they can't say for sure if he'll get better or how long it'll take if he does. It could happen tomorrow or in a year or not at all. And that's the worst part, that nobody really knows anything.

All I know is Daniel's gone, maybe forever, and I wasn't there when he needed me most.

"Jess?" Katie's voice is softer now, but she's not gonna let me ignore her.

"What is it?" I ask, and I'm so tired, all worn out from fighting so hard to hold onto what's left.

And I feel selfish saying that when Daniel's the one who's lost everything. It's not so much work taking care of him, really. Because it turns out he can take care of his hair and his showers and all those things just fine on his own as long as you remind him every day. The doctors call that procedural memory, and it means his body remembers how to do things even though his brain doesn't. So he can still tinker with his circuits and wires and stuff, and it makes him so happy and it's the only time he's almost him.

But you've gotta watch him so he doesn't get distracted and burn the house down... like he almost did the other day.

Katie twists a lock of her own black hair around one finger. "I think we need to consider... other options for his care."

My eyes well up and my stomach's in my shoes and I think I might choke on this lump in my throat. But I knew this was coming and I've gotta stay calm, so I wait to speak 'til my voice won't shake. "There are no other options."

"Jess." All the steel's gone from her now, and her voice's flat and kinda robotic. "He's not getting any better."

My arm tightens around him of its own volition and he lets out a soft little sigh. And there's no way I'm gonna abandon him again, not now and not ever. "He's--" My words come out all squeaky and I swallow and start over. "He's calmer, isn't he?"

Katie snorts. "More like catatonic." She shakes her head, and her dark eyes flash. "How long do you think you can keep this up? You're only nineteen, Jess. You're supposed to be going out to parties and... doing whatever normal people our age do."

"You don't understand--" I start, but Katie cuts me off.

"Understand what?" she demands, and her face might as well be made of metal except for the flush rising on her brown skin. "That you blame yourself for a breakup that wasn't your fault? Or that you're wasting your life playing nursemaid to make up for it?"

Her face's too close to mine and her breath's hot on my cheeks. Daniel squirms away and he huddles in the corner and makes himself small and I want to tell him it's all gonna be okay. But it isn't okay, and I don't know if it ever will be. And I want to tell Katie it is my fault, because I knew he didn't mean all those things he said to me, the last time I saw him before. I knew it was just a fight and I walked out on him anyway, and he never takes care of himself when I'm not around, and--

"Snap out of it, Jess," she growls, and she lunges toward me and I think she's gonna slap me. But she grasps me by the tops of my arms instead and lifts me onto my feet. She shakes me like a ragdoll and her long nails dig into my skin.

"H- he belongs with me, K--"

"Yeah, right," she snaps. "That's why you were on that six-week 'vacation' at your parents' house when all this started."

And she might as well have slapped me right across the face, the way that stings.

"You didn't break him, you idiot." Her arms fall to her sides and she stares at the floor, and I've never seen her look so sad. "I heard him yelling at you clear across the house, and I heard the front door slam when he left. He walked out on you first, and you were right to leave him when you did. He was broken from the start--"

"He's. Not. Broken," I hiss through gritted teeth, and that low, icy voice's coming from my mouth but it doesn't sound like mine. My blood's pounding in my ears and there's this crazy strength surging through me. And I'm shaking but it's not because I'm scared, and all of a sudden I don't feel like sweet, harmless little Jess anymore. I march right up to Katie and I stare her down and I swear I could throw her across the room. Daniel shrinks away from me, and he mutters something I can't make out.

But Katie doesn't back down one bit. "Well, he's not coming back, is he? Look at him."

He's cowering against the wall, and his eyes are bright with fear.

"Is this the man you love?" Katie won't let up, not for one minute.

And all my rage drains away in an instant, because that's a question I can actually answer. "Yes."

She hollers something back, but I don't hear what it is because my eyes are on Daniel. And he blinks back at me with this light in his eyes and I want so much to believe it means something. That this time it's him, it's really him and he's back for good. But I've been hoping so hard for way too long, so I swallow and I brace myself for the moment the light flickers out again.

But it doesn't come.

Daniel's perfect brows knit together and he clears his throat. "Don't fight," he croaks. "Please."

His voice's like a thousand rusty hinges but it's the most wonderful sound I've ever heard.

I throw my arms around him and I snuffle into his shirt and he holds me like he's never gonna let go. My hands tangle in his hair and now I'm the one with all the questions but I'm too busy clinging to him for dear life to ask them.

"She's right, y'know." His words're soft puffs against my ear and they make me shiver. "Did this to myself."

I'm drenched in tears and my head's spinning and I don't want to pull away, but I do. "What d'you mean, dude?"

"Might not want anything to do with me once I tell you," Daniel mutters.

He leans forward and he lets his hair fall over his face like he always does when he's ashamed. And it's so him it makes me ache, and there's nothing he can say that'll change the way I feel, and--

"You left, and I--" He pauses and picks at the carpet, and he takes a deep breath. And he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Look, I fucked up, okay? Knew this guy..." He trails off, and he looks straight at me with his big wet eyes and shakes his head. "I don't deserve you, Jess. I wanted this."

And I can't think straight, because nothing makes sense. "You wanted this? To lose all your memories?"

"Not all of them." He sighs. "Guy wasn't supposed to take everything. Just--" His voice cracks, and my heart does, too.

Because I already know what he's gonna say, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less. He cups my chin in one gentle hand and he plants a soft kiss on my forehead. And he whispers the words against my skin.

"Just... you."



Author's Note:
This story and its characters are fictional, but the idea was inspired by a real person. They did not teach me about Clive Wearing when I got my psych degree, and I feel a little cheated (especially since I'm still paying back my student loans).

theun4givables and alien_infinity and I gave each other writing challenges! Mine was to do a cute, fluffy, HET pairing. I was specifically told that it had to be done "with the couple actually together instead of that 'almost but not quite' thing she does". Yeah, you got me.

This takes place in a future where Sam and Daisuke from my s&d stories are actually together. I really don't know whether this happens in my canon.


"Dinner's all ready." Daisuke smiles as I pull off my boots and sink into my favorite chair. "I kept it warm."

Ten years gone, and he's still my best friend. We're different, but the same - his hair tinged with gray at the temples, my body fleshier than before. He loves it all the same, savoring every curve.

"What'd you make?" I ask, not that it matters. After my travels, I'm always so hungry I'd eat my own arm.

"Do you even have to ask?" Daisuke sets a steaming plate, homemade macaroni and cheese with the crunchies on top, on the table beside me. He leans in to kiss me, pulling me to him. My arms wrap around him as I breathe him in.

"Mmmmm, my favorite." I break the embrace and turn to my food. "I'm starving!"

"Me or the food?" Daisuke asks. He picks up my shoes and puts them away.

"Both, obviously." It's hard to stop shoveling it in long enough to answer, but I manage.

So many years, and so little has changed. Daisuke's still the solid one, working steady hours and still making time to keep the house clean. He doesn't get mad when I jump out of bed at 3 am with a story idea that must be written right now. When I come home from my travels, there's always food waiting. Daisuke takes care of me, like he always has.

I'm not sure what I contribute, besides the crazy. A sense of adventure, maybe?

All I know is I never stop thinking about him while I'm gone. On every trip, I bring him back a souvenir. He keeps them on a special shelf, a tiny altar to our lives together. There's the rock I found in Cliffton and the strange glowing orb from a place that had no name. And of course, there's the very first thing I ever brought him back, a mangled green matchbook with the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" printed on its cover.

Does a shelf of tiny knickknacks make up for all the things he does for me? Does it balance the equation?

Dinner finished, I stretch out and put my feet up. It's been a long day - or week, or however long it's been. Jumping from world to world tends to make you lose track of time. My eyes slip closed.

"Oh no you don't," Daisuke murmurs.

"Mmmmph, sleepy," I mumble, scooting over to make room for him.

Daisuke climbs onto the chair and gathers me in his arms.

"Now you can go to sleep," he says, planting a soft kiss on my forehead. "Sweet dreams, Sam."

"I love you, Daisuke."

Then I drift off, knowing it doesn't matter if the equation is balanced or not. It just works.

The moment I open my eyes, I have a good feeling. Today is gonna be exciting!

I bound out of bed, trying to remember why. Morning people are misunderstood. Our brains take a few minutes to come online when we wake up, too. You just don't notice because our mouths pick up the slack. I throw my boxers on and wash my face, full of the feeling that something important is about to happen. It puts some extra bounce in my walk as I step out into the hall to make some SynthBrew.

...Where I nearly crash into Devin. Who shouldn't be up this early at all.

That's it! I remember now. Today is Devin's first day at work. He's been talking about it for a week. It's gonna be fucking epic. We can fight the system from the inside! The possibilities are endless! I haven't seen him spaz out like this about something in ages - usually that's me.

How can I not be excited for him?

Of course, right now, he's shooting me his standard why-am-I-awake death glare. He thinks I don't notice, probably. I know he hates me for being cheerful this early - I just can't help it. Devin's like this for the first two hours of every day, but I know he's been awake less than 10 minutes because his hair is all over the place.

You'd think this would make me not want to talk to him, but it never works that way.

"Are you all ready for work today? Did you pack your lunch last night? I could pack you a lunch if you want - I'm up anyway. I hope everything goes okay. Are you nervous?" The words pour out and I'm powerless to stop them.

Devin grunts in response. I'm pretty sure he's trying to make me spontaneously combust with his eyes.

"Okay, I'm gonna make some SynthBrew now! I'll make extra for you. Bye!" I make my way to the kitchen, whistling as Devin grumbles something unintelligible at my back. It probably includes the word "fuck" and I'm sure if there's anything important in there, he'll tell me later. Meanwhile, I might as well focus on what to put in his lunch bag.

* * * * *
For at least 20 minutes after Devin leaves for work, I'm focused on the limitless options before me. I'm looking forward to some me time. Just me and my pot of SynthBrew and whatever I want to do with my day. This is new and different!

Then the newness wears off, and I'm a little bored. I've already lost at SimFighting at least 5 times - there are people on the Splinternet who're even better at it than Devin! And by the way, I kinda miss him. It's too quiet here without him around. If he were home he'd still be sleeping anyway, but somehow it feels different from the usual silence.

I wonder if I should call Devin, just see how he's doing. I bet he's nervous even though he'd never admit it. Yeah, I should definitely call him. He needs the moral support.

"Wes, I'm about to walk into the building. Is this important?" Devin's voice sounds weird, kinda subdued. Either something at the WeaponsDev building's messing with the connection between our neurovision implants or he really is nervous.

"I was bored! And I wanted to tell you you're gonna do great so there's no reason to worry."

Devin makes a noise that either means "thank you" or "fuck you".

"Did you remember the lunch I packed you? We were out of orange LaserAde so I gave you red. That okay with you? Wanna play SimFighting when you come home tonight?" I know he has to go into work in a minute, so it's important I say everything right now before I forget.

"Wes, I've gotta go." Devin's laughing, though. It's good I called.

* * * * *
It's a little shocking how much I can accomplish in 2 hours when Devin isn't here. I've cleaned out the FrigiBox, which turns out to have really needed it. There were some very old leftovers and this green ooze that might have been one of Devin's projects. I'm pretty sure it was just an old muscle tonic that Brendan forgot about, though.

Then I was gonna spend the rest of the morning playing SimFighting with Kalen, but after a couple games he suddenly got all worried about Brendan's rage issues. I didn't even know Brendan had an anger problem, but Kalen says it's really scary sometimes. He said since I'm so great at researching things on the Splinternet, maybe I should look into it. Isn't that sweet how Kalen's so concerned for his brother's well-being?

My research isn't turning up so much so far, but I'm gonna keep trying. It's amazing what you can find on the Splinternet. If you search long enough, you'll come across all kinds of things. How great is that?

You know, I bet Devin would be really proud of how productive I'm being! I should call him and tell him all about it. When I talked to him an hour ago, he was downloading procedural vids. If he's watching them now, I bet he's really bored.

"Hey, Wes." Devin's whispering, but it sounds like he's happy to talk to me.

"Hi! Do you miss me yet? Are you watching the procedural vids? When do you get lunch?"

"My lunch is in an hour." He lowers his voice even further. "These vids are fucking boring. And you'd have to be pretty stupid not to know this stuff already. I mean, it's common sense not to leave toxic chemicals in the break room FrigiBox, right?"

That answers the question about the green goo I threw out earlier. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"You still there, Wes?" Devin must be even more bored than I thought. He normally hates talking on our implants.

"Yeah. Dude, guess what?" I remember why I called. "I cleaned up the kitchen, and now I'm doing some weapons research just like you! Aren't you proud of me?"

"You don't say." I'm not sure why he sounds so surprised. "Huh. Well, yeah. I guess I am."

* * * * *
I know I shouldn't call Devin again. It's his second day, and when I talked to him 2 hours ago, he said he might have real work to do soon. He's probably gonna be mad if I interrupt him, but I really need someone to talk to.

The thing is, my research into Brendan's temper finally turned up some results. I think his problem might be the result of an abandoned mind control experiment. Problem is, if that's the case the odds of helping him aren't exactly great. I don't want to scare him and Kalen if I'm jumping to the wrong conclusion somehow.

When I need advice, I always go to Devin.

"Wes, this is a really bad time."

"Okay, but - " I consider whether I should just wait. "Hey, did you get any projects yet?"

"Wes." This is the tone of voice Devin uses when he's trying really hard not to yell.

"But I just really wanted to tell you - " I know I should just shut up because I'm only gonna make things worse. Of course, that doesn't happen. "Um, I just... are you okay? Why do you sound so stressed out? Did someone give you crap about your pretty hair?"

Oops. Too far.

"Yes, I got a fucking project." I have to turn down the volume on my neurovision implant because Devin's all but screaming in my brain. "I've been in fucking meetings all day and I've had to fucking pee for an hour and a half. This is my only 10 minutes to eat lunch before my next fucking meeting. And now I only have 8 minutes left because you keep calling me all day long while I'm at fucking work."

I don't know what to say to that. That lunch he's not eating right now is the one I made him. Also, I had something really important to talk to him about, but now I can't remember what it was. I'm too busy thinking about how I always say the wrong thing.

"Wes? You still there?" Devin's already sorry for jumping on me. I can tell.

"Yeah, dude." I hate how small my voice sounds. "You should go eat. I bought you orange LaserAde."

"You... what?" I can almost hear Devin shaking his head. "When the fuck did you - I'm sorry."

"I know. Sorry for bothering you at work. Go eat, okay?" I should probably clean the bathroom anyway.

"You know what, Wes?" This is the tone of voice Devin uses when he doesn't want to admit something. He's probably blushing, even though he says he doesn't do that.

"What? Oh, and you probably only have six minutes left now."

"Um, it was kinda nice that you kept checking on me yesterday. It's weird here. Sterile."

"Yeah?" I knew he was nervous!

"Yeah," Devin continues. "And I'm sorry for snapping like that, okay? It's just I have work to do already and I'm really stressed out and - "

"I know." I check the time. "Dude, you've only got 5 minutes. You should go."

"Okay, yeah." Devin pauses and I think maybe he's hung up. "You can still call me if you want, you know. Just maybe only once or twice a day from now on?"



This story takes place around the beginning of Tumbler. For people who haven't been following my Cliffton stuff, here's a little back story for Wes and Devin. It was weird writing from Wes's POV. Kind of tiring.

(also using for "unrequited pining" square on my h/c bingo card because, well)

Young Niko stood beside his uncle in the museum hall. He turned the steel engraving over and over in his hands, his mind doing somersaults along with it. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyes, followed by a cascade of images that rivaled the waterfall in the etching. He saw a great wheel, twirling under the force of the frothing waters. The vision faded; Niko breathed a wistful sigh that echoed in the large and empty corridor.

"See these falls, Uncle Pavle?" he said, holding out the portrait.

Offering only a cursory glance, Pavle gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Someday," Niko continued, "I am going to America to harness their power."

"What will your father say?" Uncle Pavle snorted.

"Nothing good, I'm sure," Niko admitted.

"You know what he wants for you," Pavle chided.

"But is that truly my destiny?" The boy's voice, just beginning to change, cracked. "Ever since I was small, I've known I was meant for greater things."

Pavle cleared his throat and said nothing.

"One day when I was scarcely old enough to speak, my cat Macak came in from the chill. I stroked his back, and the sparks danced and crackled beneath my hand," Niko's voice quavered with passion. "Then a halo of light surrounded his body, as if he were a saint or an angel. It was then I knew."

"Hm?" Pavle shot the boy a distracted look.

"That mystical power, Uncle," Niko continued. "It is my calling to master it."

"Your father expects you to join the priesthood," Pavle said.

"Yes, Uncle," the boy replied, a small smile curving his lips. "But perhaps I'm meant for a different path."

"Hmmm," the older man mused. "Perhaps you are, at that."

* * * * *
Niko walked in the city park with his friend Anthony. The sun hung low above the horizon and the evening breeze blew soft and clean. It was good to be out in the fresh air, good to feel strong and healthy again. The illness had seemed to last an eternity. Unable to work or rest, he was tormented by too-bright lights and sounds that echoed like gunshots. Doctors had come and gone, unable to provide any remedy, finally giving him up as a lost cause.

He was better now. The puzzle had saved him - the riddle of alternating current and his need to solve it.

"Have you made any progress?" Anthony's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I have the answer," Niko replied.

"That's wonderful - " Anthony began, but Niko silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"I have the answer," he began again, "somewhere inside my mind. The solution is there, waiting for me to find a way to express it."

Anthony's smile faded. The two men paused, watching the sun as it slipped below the horizon. Pink and orange streaks began to trace their way across the evening sky. Suddenly, a verse crept into Niko's thoughts.

The glow retreats, done is the day of toil;
It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring;
Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil
Upon its track to follow, follow soaring!

Niko didn't realize he was reciting the words aloud until he saw his friend's forehead crease with confusion or perhaps concern. By then, he was in no position to explain himself; he was too absorbed in the task at hand. Snatching a stick from the ground, he began to sketch a diagram in the sand. Behind his eyes, the solution was drawn in perfect detail. Throat constricting with excitement, he watched it come to life.

* * * * *
In the quiet of his empty office, Niko's pen scratched against a sheet of paper. Late nights at work were not uncommon for him; his daily hours were from 10:30 am until 5 the following morning. Tonight, however, was different.

He finished writing the letter and signed his name. With a leaden heart, he sat back and examined his handiwork.

Dear Mr. Edison:

It is with great sadness that I resign my position at Edison Machine Works, effective immediately. Thank you very much for the opportunity you have provided to me. I wish you the best in all your future endeavours.

Sincerely,
Nikola Tesla

Sighing, Niko placed the letter on his desk and began to pack up his few belongings. He was starting to wonder if coming to America hadn't been an enormous mistake. Perhaps when his pockets had been picked on the way to his ship, he should have taken it as an omen. But how could he, with his letter of recommendation in his pocket and his goals so firm in his mind?

Upon arriving in the Land of Golden Promise, he'd been taken aback by its spare and stark appearance. Buildings were rough and utilitarian, as were the people inside. Still, Niko had been able to put his misgivings aside in the excitement of meeting Edison, the man who would help him realize his dreams.

Edison had dismissed his statement that alternating current was the future of electricity as "utterly impractical". Even so, Niko had been sure that things were looking up. After all, the man had hired him on the spot to redesign his generators, promising a payment of $50,000 upon completion. It was a foot in the door, and surely Edison would come around to his point of view sooner or later. If not, Niko would have a small fortune with which to seek the backing he needed elsewhere.

All those hopes had been dashed in the space of a 5-minute conversation this morning. Bursting with pride, Niko had approached Edison in the hall and informed him that he'd finished redesigning the dynamos. The other man had nodded brusquely and continued walking.

"Sir," Niko had asked, "Might I inquire as to when I shall receive my payment?"

"Payment?" Edison had chuckled. "When you become a full-fledged American, you will appreciate an American joke."

Personal effects gathered, Niko pulled on his coat. Taking one last look around the room where his dreams had lived for the past several months, he turned off the light and walked out the door. It was a joke, all right, and he was the punchline. Still, he was determined to have the last laugh.

* * * * *
Niko stood at the back of the crowd, hat pulled down over his eyes and shoulders hunched. Up at the podium, his former employer had already begun his rhetoric.

"Think of direct current as a river flowing peacefully to the sea," Edison called out. "Alternating current, on the other hand, is like a torrent rushing violently over a precipice. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Uncontrollable."

Edison paused. Voices buzzed in affirmation. When they were silent, he continued.

"Even lethal."

An approving murmur rose from the audience. This was the part they had been waiting for.

"Topsy here is crazed," Edison said, gesturing with a flourish at an elephant, slumped and forlorn. Chained to post a few feet away, the enormous beast was outfitted with sandals of wood and wire. Large men flanked her on both sides.

As the throng pressed closer to the stage, the drone of voices took on an almost fevered pitch.

"Topsy has murdered three people," Edison said, "and her handlers have called for her execution. You'll find that alternating current is the perfect tool for this deadly job - and for no other purpose."

The crowd rumbled in anticipation. A consummate showman, Edison let them wait before nodding to his technician.

Stomach churning, Niko watched as the switch was thrown and smoke billowed into the air. Without a sound, the elephant jerked briefly before collapsing onto her side. By the time the scent of burning meat reached him, it was already over. Inside the pockets of his overcoat, his fingers curled into angry fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.

Niko's ears rang with the shouts of the crowd. Despair flowed over him like an incoming tide. All his efforts would be for nothing if Edison's smear campaign succeeded. His whole life, he'd worked for nothing but this one goal. Time and time again, this man had made a mockery of it, and all in the name of egotism and greed.

The familiar white light flared behind his eyes, blinding him to all else. Gone were the park in which he stood, the people, the despair and anger. In their place came the images, etched in his mind's eye with a painful clarity. He saw himself, lying in bed at age 17, extracting his father's promise to send him to University if only he'd live. Studying at the Polytechnic Institute, hell-bent on a conquest the world thought impossible.

Lightning flashed again; the scene shifted. Dirty and exhausted, he stumbled home after digging ditches for $2 a day. The vision changed; he was building his invention at long last. With no blueprints, he'd used only the picture in his mind. Brought to life, the machine worked just as he'd imagined. One final burst of white heat - he was signing the contract that would bring his dream to fruition.

By the time the world returned to normal, the crowd was dispersing. Head pounding, Niko stood alone and watched them go. The scent of singed flesh still hung in the air, but he barely noticed. None of that mattered now.

All his life, Niko had always found a way. This time would be no different.

* * * * *
The air in the small room vibrated with activity. Around him, engineers were abuzz with frenetic activity, but Niko remained calm as he watched the falls crashing over the rocks. The rushing water was just as it had been when he'd seen it in his mind's eye as a boy. In only moments, the dream would come full circle. All his life, he'd known this day would come.

In his five years as a consultant for the Niagara Falls Power Project, he'd been questioned over and over. Would the machines really work? After all, they'd existed nowhere beyond his own imagination. Investors and engineers on the project had been reluctant to believe the devices would function as well in reality as they did inside Niko's head. As they waited now for the switch to be thrown, their anxiety was palpable.

Niko himself had no doubts. The visions had brought him to this point, against all odds. They would not fail him now.




This entry tells part of the life story of Nikola Tesla, the man who made AC electrical current possible. For anyone who's wondering, yes, he really did experience visions and no, I didn't know this when I initially chose to write about him. It was obviously fate. If you're interested in reading more about Tesla, you might check out his autobiography.

Fred lifted the bottle of rum, tipped his head back and took an eager swallow. Liquid fire seared his parched throat, and a contented sigh escaped his lips. It wasn't his drink of choice, but it would do just fine. Under the circumstances, he was grateful to have it at all.

At their last stop in New Guinea, he'd fought tooth and nail to keep his own bottles aboard. Every last ounce of fuel could mean the difference between life and death, and they were leaving all but the most essential cargo. Fred argued that the navigator's sanity might become their saving grace, but somehow the pilot hadn't understood why that required whiskey.

Now here they were, stranded on this coral reef in the middle of nowhere, but at least he'd finally gotten his drink. The remains of the old ship proved they weren't the first to make an unexpected landing here; they might also be their salvation. A quick search of the wreck had yielded a few tins of sardines, some dried peas, and of course, the blessed liquor. These supplies would hold them over for a few days, by which time they might be rescued.

And if not, I might just get a sailor's burial after all, he thought wryly.

The irony was not lost on Fred. He'd given up two decades at the helm of a ship for a career as an aviator, but it seemed the ocean had laid claim to him nonetheless.

Learning to fly had never been his real goal; his first love and true skill was navigation. The sea and stars spoke to him, whispering the way to go. He was an expert with charts and sextants, but a healthy dose of guesswork and a sailor's intuition were two of the finest tools in his kit. In seven short years, he'd become one of the best aerial navigators around.

His skill hadn't been enough this time. They'd gotten off course and been unable to get their bearings again. With their fuel tanks almost empty, an emergency landing on the coral reef had been their only real option.

The sound of footsteps broke into his reverie.

"Anything?" he asked, knowing the answer the moment he saw her face.

Amelia's critics loved to question her talent as an aviator, but her spirit and determination were indisputable. Her gap-toothed grin shone from the pages of papers and glossy magazines, a beacon of hope to guide a nation in dire need of it. Fred had learned quickly from working with the her that the smile was not just for show; she had a love for life that few could match.

At the moment, however, that smile was nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were chips of ice and her face was set in grim determination. Today, she was nobody's lighthouse; all she wanted was to find her own way home.

* * * * *
Fred swirled the ice cubes in his drink and sighed. He hated parties like this - industry mixers where the only point was to see and be seen.

At least there was free booze. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, relishing the warm glow as it spread through his chest. Scanning the room, he wondered where the hell Larry was. He'd only come because his friend insisted there was someone he needed to meet.

"There you are!" Larry's overly enthusiastic voice came from behind him. Fred turned to greet his friend, and his heart sank. This was who Larry wanted him to meet?

"Fred, meet Amelia Earhart. Amelia, meet Fred Noonan."

A no-nonsense man, Fred had never been overly impressed with Ms. Earhart or the whirlwind of publicity surrounding her. Sure, she'd achieved feats no woman and few men had managed, but she'd also crashed several planes in the process. Besides, Fred found it hard to trust a pilot who spent as much time writing books, giving lectures, and even designing clothes as she did in the air. Was she an aviatrix for the sake of flying, or for the love of attention?

Still, it wouldn't do to be rude. Taking another slug of his drink, he offered his hand.

"Ms. Earhart," he said coolly.

"Please, call me Amelia," she replied, "They say you're one of the best." Media darling or not, he had to admit she had a firm handshake and a great smile.

"They say you wreck a lot of planes," Fred said. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. This was another reason he didn't like parties. Larry groaned beside him. Cursing his lack of self-control, Fred drained the rest of his whiskey in one swallow.

"You're a man who speaks his mind," Earhart replied, "I like that."

She was still smiling, and it didn't look forced. Fred had to hand it to her - if nothing else, she certainly had spunk.

"Well, enough small talk," Earhart continued. "I asked Larry to introduce us for a reason."

Fred's head was spinning. She'd asked Larry to... what?

"Are you still working for Pan Am?"

"Yes, for almost seven years now," he replied, not adding that he'd quit in a heartbeat given half a reason. He was drowning in the airline's bureaucratic nonsense.

"Ever thought of leaving?" she asked, seeming to read his mind.

"Well, I'd like to open a navigation school someday," he said.

"Before you do that, would you consider joining me on a flight around the world?" Earhart asked.

This was certainly unexpected.

Why the hell not? he thought. If nothing else, it should get me plenty of publicity for the school I want to open.

Fred shook Ms. Earhart's hand and gave her a genuine smile. "I'd be honored."

* * * * *
Fred watched apprehensively as the roiling sea pounded the shore.

"We need to move inland," he said.

"But we can't leave the plane behind," Amelia argued, "Without it - without the radio - how will anyone find us?"

He opened his mouth to tell her they'd probably abandoned the search by now anyway, but the words withered on his tongue.

A week had passed, and she'd never once given up hope. She made it her mission to raise someone, anyone, on the plane's radio. From dawn until dusk, every hour on the hour, she sat at the controls, shoulders squared, jaw set.

"I'm sure they'll find us sooner or later," he said weakly.

"Fred, don't coddle me like I'm some sort of child! If you don't believe they're going to find us, just say so." Her blue eyes drilled into him, freezing him in place.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Heaven help the man who underestimated this woman.

In the months since he'd signed on with her, his feelings had changed from grudging admiration to real respect. Amelia worked twice as hard as most men he knew and rarely complained. If she'd wrecked a few birds, it was only because she was forever impatient to fly farther and faster, her ambitions outstripping her level of learning.

She did have skill as a pilot, though, and a cool head in a crisis situation to boot. When they'd decided to land on this godforsaken reef, she'd pulled it off without a hitch.

"What makes you think they've given up?" she asked, her eyes and voice softer now.

With her cropped and tousled hair, freckled nose and trim figure, she could easily pass for a girl in her early twenties. Fred felt an almost irrepressible urge to protect her, even knowing it was the last thing she wanted. Instead, he gestured toward the surf as it pummeled the reef.

"If the water stays this rough it'll dash the plane to bits in no time, and us along with it," he said, "and if they are still looking for us, there's not much chance a rescue team will get close enough to see us here anytime soon."

Amelia nodded slowly.

"Let me try the radio one more time," she said, "and then we'll go."

* * * * *
Nighttime in the forest was peaceful, resting under a roof of leaves and lulled by the drone of the insects. Fred leaned back against a tree trunk, watching the moonlight filter through the tops of the trees.

Two weeks had passed since they'd found the campsite. The trek inland had been brutal, requiring them to hack their way through tightly interwoven bushes higher than their knees. Had they been equipped with machetes, this task would have been formidable; with nothing but his pocket knife, it was near impossible.

Fred couldn't have asked for a better travel companion. Though the sun beat upon them until he was on the verge of collapse, Amelia never flagged. She never complained aloud, though at times Fred caught her muttering what sounded suspiciously like swear words.

The campsite was in a clearing shaded by magnificent tall trees whose leaves formed a green canopy. Fred supposed the people from the wrecked ship might have camped here. Whoever had occupied the area had left behind a makeshift shelter and the remains of a fire circle.

It was as good a place as any to stay. The forest offered protection from the sun, and was home to many birds and small turtles that they could catch and eat. With a nearby shore unblocked by brush, they could easily hunt for fish and clams by the sea.

Their existence might have been almost idyllic had it not been for one major want. They'd found no fresh water anywhere on the island. When it rained, they used shells and empty bottles to collect the precious drops.

Fred had sacrificed his beloved rum for the greater good. His argument about the antiseptic properties of alcohol had failed to impress Amelia, who rightly shot back that he was only going to drink it anyway. Though he'd pointedly asked when she planned to donate her glass bottle of hand cream to the cause, his protests were little more than bluster. What good was alcohol anyway when you could be dead of dehydration at any moment?

Apart from that argument, they'd gotten along well. When they weren't foraging, they'd sit in camp and share stories of their loves back home. Fred told Amelia about his new wife Bea, and Amelia regaled him with stories of her husband George and her lover Gene.

Amelia was a study in contradictions. She worked like a man and wore men's underwear in the name of convenience, yet faithfully applied lotion every night. When a crab nearly three feet across came up to their campsite, she wasn't the least bit squeamish about smashing it with a rock and eating it for dinner. However, after a week of observing the enormous crabs, she became enamored of them and refused to kill them anymore.

Fred found this juxtaposition of toughness and vulnerability quite endearing. He was certain that it was best for him to keep this sentiment to himself. To do otherwise would surely earn him a fate worse than death.

At night when he couldn't sleep, he wondered what would become of them. If they never made it home, how would they be remembered? Would the world remember Amelia as a great pioneer, or a careless adventurer prone to crack-ups? Would it remember him at all?

"You couldn't sleep either?" Amelia asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

"No," Fred replied, "I'm worried about our water supplies."

"Good thing you got rid of the booze, then," Amelia teased, "It's dehydrating. Besides, it makes you snore."

"I don't snore!" Fred protested.

"Right, and your boots don't stink, either."

"You know, Amelia, I'm really glad I've gotten to know you," Fred said changing the subject, "If I could choose anyone in the world to keep me company while I died of thirst on a deserted coral reef, I'd choose you."

"Don't be silly," Amelia said, "I'm sure we'll be rescued soon."

"We'd better be," Fred retorted, "I'm all out of rum now, so who knows how long I'll be able to put up with you?"

Fred didn't know if they'd make it another week, or even another day. He was sure that no one out there was still looking for them. But he was comforted by the knowledge if there was any way for them to get by, Amelia would be the one to find it.

She was tricky like that, and she never gave up.




This story is based on one hypothesis about what happened to Amelia Earheart and her navigator Fred Noonan. There's no definitive proof, but of the alternate theories out there, I think it's the most believable. It's unfortunate that Amelia and Fred probably died shortly after this, but I'd like to think that they really were friends.

237 BCE - Carthage

The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.

May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.

It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.

Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.

As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?

"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.

"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.

It was time he learned to fight like one.

"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"

The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.

"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.

"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"

The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."

Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."

"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.

Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."

The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.

"I swear it on my life!"

The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
216 BCE - Capua

The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.

As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.

His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.

Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.

Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.

Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.

One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.

In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.

He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.

However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.

Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.

Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.

He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.

Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.

The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.

There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.

Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.

It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
206 BCE - Croton

Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.

The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.

Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.

His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.

The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.

Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.

It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.

Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.

In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.

Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.

Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.

So many lives lost, and for what?

He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
183 BCE - Bithynia

The Romans were coming for him.

Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.

Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.

It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.

Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.

All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.

It was only a matter of time.




When I was 12 years old, I took a summer course about the ancient Roman empire and became obsessed with Hannibal Barca and the Second Punic War. I was supposed to write a paper for the end of the class, but got so sidetracked by researching Hannibal's conquest that I never actually finished the paper. The same thing almost happened to me when I went to write this entry.

Because history is generally written by the victors, most of what we know about Hannibal and his people is written from a Roman perspective. I used this book and this website for the majority of my research. When in doubt, I made things up.