The band is getting back together!

For anyone who doesn’t know, Keri and I have been collaborating online with folks all over the world for years. I’ll write a song, get crazy about it, hear a friend or favorite artist on a part, send them a proposal with a nice demo and idea for the song, and they say yes a lot. I am so fortunate to get to do this. I feel very happy about the work done so far. It has taught me a lot about not just music but working with people. I desperately need all the skills I can get in that area. I don’t get to spend much time around people and don’t even really know how. It’s been that way for years, I don’t expect it will magically change. So not only is music my creative outlet, it’s my social one too.

I do find a purpose with me and an acoustic. But by the time I ask someone on a tune, that purpose has been had. That song has probably made me cry. I have thought about the words a lot. I have placed things where they should go. I get fulfillment out of all that. But I don’t get to hang out with buddies. So I share it. I like hanging out with buddies. Win/win.

A hot mix takes a moment

I have come across some amazing technicians, one of them is probably a genius. I get so wow’d with their mixes, it just blows me away. Sometimes, to be honest, the mix is all I hear. I have to listen to the song several times, over time, to get critical about the song again because the wrapping paper is so shiny. This is where conflict can happen. I wanted to talk about that.

When you think about “rules”, think about “roles.”

I think one of the most important rules about collaboration in music I have picked up over doing it many times is established roles. If you have a two-man team and one is a tech and one is a creative, those folks should trust each other with the roles they want to do. In order to do that, a conversation or agreement helps; “I’ll do this, you do this.” If you stick to that, people often are happy and want to work with you again. This took me a long time to learn. I hope you are taking notes.

“You write a song, I’ll mix it.”

The areas where I have had the hardest time in this regard involve a tech and a creative dynamic. I mentioned I know a technical genius. He is not a creative one, at least in my style of music. That’s okay. I theoretically make the decisions regarding creativity. If he steps on my toes there, it may lead to resentment. It might not even be at final mix time, for me. All the other stuff sounds so good, I can’t focus on the creative aspects when I first get a mix. Sometimes, I may not be resentful until afterward. When I hear a demo, for example, and the drums are in different places. I want to hear my impact on the song and the decisions I made. So I end up listening to my versions after all that work with a genius. It’s not because they sound any better, (they don’t). It’s the drums on the bridge. It’s every bit as much my fault as it is his, this resentment. I hate it.

There is a better way. 

We make rules not just so we can be civil. Rules help us not get hurt and they also help build trust. Not everyone will follow them. But in what I do, most folks do follow them. 

When I was a retail manager at a major hardware store chain, I took a test for a position and was asked in a subsequent interview, “what is the number one cause of turnover?” I had studied their material, so I knew the answer they wanted. It was training, or lack thereof. This chain had figured out 30 years ago that folks feeling incompetent made for a miserable work environment. So they trained me on training folks.

Communication, really. Oldest thing.. not getting better.

Some of the things I learned have carried over into music. This is where I get the “know your roles” tip. If every crew member has a firm grasp on the task at hand, you are ahead of the game. This is usually in a proposal for me. I will have a clearly laid-out purpose for them being on tune. The only time when this gets a little murky is when I hear someone’s presence but can’t quite spot it. They will help me with that, usually. People on our tunes often write their own parts. In my imagination, I can hear how they sound, just not exact notes. So from the get-go, folks know exactly what’s expected and can think on their role. That’s the goal. A lot of collaborations, even “successful” ones, are not this smooth. It’s because of communication. I know it’s cliché, but it is.

The wonk of silence.

As a trucker, a retail manager, and other things in my past, I can tell you communication is essential for good work from multiple personalities. On creative projects especially, a wavelength helps. That doesn’t happen over the web without words flying around. I’m not saying every project has to blow up a chatroom. But I am certainly saying, if you aren’t chatting with coworkers, the work environment is wonky. Expect wonky results. 

Flaking is fine. But don’t expect a pat on the back for it!

I know a lot of talented recluses. They may only send a sentence a day. But if they are into it, they know other folks on the project need the updates, not just me. I’ve been on a record with 23 people, all over the world. It was excruciating at times, just waiting to hear from people. I can’t afford to call them back. It took years off my life last time. It wasn’t the recluses, either. It was the socialites. I don’t mean to say I have anything against them. I have flaked on my fair share of collaborations. But I don’t expect a callback when that happens.

“I thought I hired you to mix?”

Out of all the folks I have worked with, I have come into the most conflict with hiring technical assistance who put in creative assistance. I can even be very clear from the outset, “I make creative decisions, you make technical ones.” I have paid a lot of money (by my standards) to get robbed of those decisions. I have mixed words with wonderfully talented technicians not on setting the compressors, but when the drums come in. Okay, look, as a technician, if a creative is paying you for their vision to come to life, if you rob them of their decisions, you rob them of their vision. Don’t charge them money for that. Your ego is already profiting off their work. Charging them for that is like double-tapping the ATM machine.

I’m a freaking song factory!

So now I am doing it all myself. That’s really the reason I am transitioning to analog. It isn’t as hard. I can have 3 good options in analog setups for something like compression. I can have 100 or more in a computer. I take the 3. Sorry to the folks that want the 100. It’s a compressor. 

Decide, make a move, hear the result.

When I work with analog gear, I can feel and hear the impact of my decisions easily. I think it, I turn the knob, I hear a difference. This, to me, is gratifying in a way computers are not. In a computer mixing situation, I am often selecting from menus to find something that sounds right without having much direction in my head. In an analog mixing situation, I’m finding I hear what I want in my head first and make it happen. There’s only one way I want to work from now on, and it doesn’t include a screen and unlimited options. 

It’s an older model, but it still checks out.

I am taking on tech and creative roles. So, for my situation, the fewer tech options, the better. I want to focus mainly on creative ones. Computers don’t let you focus on other stuff these days. A software company’s goals are to make you use their software for as long as possible. When I am writing tunes, I am not into that. So I had to customize the tech side. It’s old and lean, but it sounds nice. I am okay with that.

If you hear me, contact me. Thanks.

I am very fortunate I get to do this. It is something I never would have anticipated in my life even five years ago. Things happen. If you are struggling and want to talk about analog treatment or creative input on your music project, just know I never charge for that stuff. It’s also take it or leave it. You’re in charge. I just like trying to help creatives get over humps. No biggie. 

If you hear me on a song, singing…guitar…lyrics…bass…fretless bass…djembe… anything…don’t hesitate to give me a shout on the ole email; thekintnersmusic@gmail.com. I don’t charge for that either. It’s fun for me to hang out with musicians and work on other folks’ projects. 

I want to be supportive, if I can help somewhere, just holler at me. 

Kelly Kintner, Editor

The Horse’s Mouth Magazine

I am learning new songs, writing new ones. The Kintners have a double album in the works. We are on schedule for Christmas release.

I wanted to leave a song here, Friday and all.. This is “Smoke and Mud.” It was a massive collaboration. So, in the spirit of that. Thanks!

Also, still lots of free codes for latest release by The Kintners, “Some Folks.” Enjoy.

Today I matched with an alt person who is a lifter also, And they were sure that I was taking steroids. They were super surprised when I said I wasn’t, and I’m really proud of that. I also found out that one of my friends at my new gym takes steroids, and it makes more sense because he has an absolutely insane physique. But I kind of just told myself that that was because he is incredibly diligent with his training and also his diet. I guess I’m really surprised how many people actually are on steroids, because another friend from the Gym also told me they were on steroids.

Keys

Here is a half-baked narrative that would serve well as a Black Mirror episode script. Honestly, I think may be better than a lot of the... “content” they put out in the later seasons, but I'm not definitively vouching for it. At the very least it should be an interesting read. Enjoy!

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The printer cost thirty-seven dollars, which Rowan understood was either a remarkable bargain or the price people assigned to objects they wanted removed from their lives. It sat on the bottom shelf of Second Life Electronics between a fax machine and a yellowed plastic bin containing perhaps forty television remotes, most of which seemed to belong to televisions that no longer existed. Three prices had been written on its tag: $140, then $85, then $50, each crossed out in a different color of marker. Beneath them someone had written $37 CASH in blue pen. The printer itself was an ugly black cube, larger than most consumer models Rowan had seen online and much heavier than it looked. It had no manufacturer logo, no model number, and only one visible control, a circular button recessed into the front panel. A spool of gray filament was attached to the back, although the filament felt wrong when Rowan touched it, softer than plastic and slightly warm despite the machine being unplugged. “Does it work?” they asked. The man behind the counter glanced up from a video of someone pressure-washing a driveway. “Turns on.” Rowan waited for more, but none came. “Can I see it turn on?” The man sighed. “You buying it if it does?” “Maybe.” He came around the counter, plugged the machine into a power strip, and pressed the button. Something inside hummed, and a small amber light appeared behind the grille. “There.” Rowan leaned toward it. “That's it?” “What do you want it to do?” “Print something.” The man looked at the price tag. “For thirty-seven dollars?” Rowan considered this and nodded. “Fair.”

They had forty-one dollars in their wallet, mostly Christmas money, with a ten their father had given them at lunch the previous Sunday after discovering that the restaurant no longer accepted the gift card he'd brought. The printer consumed nearly all of it. The man did not charge sales tax and did not give Rowan a receipt, and when Rowan asked whether there was a manual he actually laughed. There was something underneath the printer, however, a strip of old masking tape with faded black letters: UNIT 03-8841 — RETURN TO CLINICAL ENGINEERING. Rowan noticed it while struggling to get the machine through the door. “What's clinical engineering?” they asked. The man had already returned to his phone. “Couldn't tell you.” Rowan peeled the tape away. Beneath it the casing was strangely clean, the plastic unscuffed where the adhesive had protected it. “Where'd you get this?” The man did not answer immediately. Rowan thought perhaps he hadn't heard. Then he said, “Estate cleanout.” “Whose?” “Don't know.” Rowan dropped the tape into a wastebasket by the door and shifted the printer against their chest. It was heavier than they had expected, dense enough that the corners hurt their forearms. “Well, if it explodes, I'll bring it back.” The man looked up then, and his expression was not amused. “No returns.” “Yeah, I figured.” “I'm serious.” Something in his voice made Rowan stop. “Don't bring it back.” Rowan laughed because they could not think of anything else to do, and the man returned to his phone before they had reached the sidewalk.

Their mother did not notice the printer for three days. This was not because she was neglectful, exactly. Neglect implied some decision to neglect, and Rowan's mother rarely made decisions concerning how much time she spent at work anymore. She worked for an insurance company whose name had changed twice since Rowan was born but which she continued to call Northstar because, according to her, “I'm not learning a new name every time some private-equity asshole buys us.” She left the townhouse before seven most mornings and returned after six on good days, after eight on bad ones, and occasionally after Rowan had gone to bed. She had been promoted twice since the divorce. Each promotion increased her salary and decreased the amount of her life she seemed to possess. Rowan's father lived forty-two minutes away; Rowan knew this because they had once timed it. He paid child support on the first of every month and took Rowan to lunch on the second Sunday, except when he couldn't, in which case lunch migrated to the third or fourth Sunday or occasionally disappeared altogether. He always paid. He remembered birthdays. He texted on holidays. When Rowan came out as non-binary he had said, “Okay,” and thereafter developed an almost supernatural grammatical ability to construct sentences containing no pronouns. Rowan sometimes wondered whether there was a legal term for this degree of fatherhood. Not abandonment, certainly, but not presence either. Something in between. A partial vacancy.

Nothing was wrong enough, and this was the problem Rowan had been attempting to explain to therapists since they were fourteen. Their mother loved them. Their father loved them. Nobody hit them. Nobody starved them. Nobody screamed obscenities at them for being queer. They lived in a clean townhouse in a safe neighborhood and Rowan had their own bedroom, a reasonably good laptop, health insurance, orthodontically corrected teeth, and a college fund that their mother periodically described as “not enormous but not nothing.” Their grades were good. Their teachers liked them. They had acquaintances who might qualify as friends depending upon how generously the word was being used. There was no catastrophe at the center of Rowan's life. There was simply no center. Dr. Shah had eventually used the word anomie, and Rowan went home and looked it up and immediately liked it. It sounded less embarrassing than depression and more accurate than anxiety. It described the peculiar sensation that the world was made of structures whose purposes everyone else had somehow been informed of. School led to college, college led to work, work led to money, money led to a townhouse where perhaps someday Rowan could sit answering emails until eight at night while their own child ate reheated pasta downstairs. People fell in love and then spent years hating each other and afterward exchanged money according to schedules established by lawyers. People asked what Rowan wanted to be, as though seventeen years of existence were merely the lobby outside the room where life actually occurred. “I don't understand what I'm supposed to want,” Rowan had told Dr. Shah. “That's different from not wanting anything,” she said. “Is it?” “I think so.” Rowan had shrugged. “Cool.” A week later Dr. Shah prescribed the new medication.

There were two capsules. One was white and slightly larger than an ordinary pill; the other was translucent blue and had to be refrigerated. Dr. Shah explained that they contained different protein complexes that were absorbed independently and interacted only after metabolism, but Rowan retained little beyond that. Their mother asked most of the questions. “How new is new?” she wanted to know. “The underlying therapy has been in trials for almost eight years,” Dr. Shah said. “This formulation is newer.” “And it's an antidepressant?” “Not precisely.” Rowan, staring at a poster depicting various breathing exercises, said, “That's comforting.” Dr. Shah smiled. “It's intended to increase certain forms of neural plasticity. Think of it as making some patterns less rigid.” Their mother frowned. “What patterns?” “That's considerably harder to answer.” “You're selling this really well.” “I'm trying not to sell it at all.” Rowan liked Dr. Shah for that. She was one of the few adults they knew who occasionally admitted that an answer was uncertain without immediately replacing uncertainty with bullshit. The medication had a cheerful commercial name Rowan forgot within an hour, but the clinical paperwork described it as PA-17 Recombinant Associative Therapy, dual-complex formulation. Rowan took the first pair of capsules on Monday morning and felt nothing. On Tuesday they took them again and plugged in the printer.

There was no software. Rowan searched the casing for ports and found a power connection and what looked like an old USB-B socket, but connecting it to their laptop produced nothing. Device Manager did not recognize it. Three different slicers failed to detect it. Searching the number from the discarded tape yielded pages about medical billing codes and laboratory equipment but nothing resembling the black cube on their desk. Rowan finally pressed the single button out of irritation. The amber light came on, the print head moved, and a thin line of gray material appeared on the bed. Rowan pulled the plug from the wall. The machine continued printing for another four seconds before stopping. They stared at it, then at the plug in their hand. “Nope.” They waited. Nothing happened. Eventually curiosity defeated caution, as it usually did when caution offered no immediate reward, and Rowan plugged it back in. The machine resumed exactly where it had stopped.

Eleven minutes later it finished. Rowan waited for the bed to cool, although there was almost no heat coming from it, then lifted the object. It was a key. Not a recognizable house key but something old-fashioned and ornate, with a long narrow shaft, a circular bow and elaborate teeth that seemed unnecessarily complicated. It was made of the same gray substance as the filament and weighed almost nothing. Rowan turned it over in their hand, mildly disappointed. They had hoped the malfunctioning printer might produce something interesting, and a random plastic key seemed like the sort of thing someone learning 3D modeling made on their first afternoon. They set it beside the keyboard and went downstairs when they heard their mother come in. By the time Rowan reached the kitchen she had her laptop open on the island. “Hey, bug,” she said without looking up. “How was school?” “Transformative.” “Good transformative or bad transformative?” “Neither.” Their mother typed something. “Did you take both pills?” “Yes.” “Blue one too?” “That is included in both.” “Don't be a dick.” “Then don't ask questions I've already answered.” Their mother stopped typing and looked at them. For a moment Rowan expected an argument, but she merely rubbed her eyes. “Fair. Sorry.” That made Rowan feel worse. “It's fine.” Their mother closed the laptop halfway. “Do you want to order something? I didn't get groceries.” Rowan shrugged. “Whatever.” “Chinese?” “Sure.” “Your usual?” “Yeah.” Their mother opened the laptop again, and the conversation was over.

When Rowan returned upstairs two hours later, the key was no longer gray. At first they assumed this was some trick of the desk lamp, but when they picked it up and carried it beneath the overhead light there was no mistaking it. It was brass now, not brass-colored plastic but metal, cold and unexpectedly heavy, its surface mottled with tiny scratches and dark oxidation inside the grooves. Rowan dropped it, and the key struck the desk with a hard metallic sound. They picked it up again and examined the bow. There was something engraved there that had not been present before, a single number small enough that Rowan had to hold it close to the light: 9. Rowan stared at it for a long time. They were nine years old when they stopped having birthday parties.

The key did not fit the bedroom door, nor the bathroom, linen closet, basement, garage, back door, or either of the two doors their mother insisted were not closets but “utility spaces,” as though that distinction mattered. Rowan felt increasingly stupid as they moved through the townhouse trying locks, especially because they knew perfectly well that none of those locks were designed for a skeleton key. They saved the front door for last because their mother was in the living room and would ask what they were doing. Instead Rowan waited until she went upstairs, then stood alone in the darkened foyer with the brass key in their hand. The deadbolt was modern, a narrow horizontal slot requiring a flat-cut key. The brass key should not even have entered it. It slid in without resistance. Rowan did not turn it immediately. The townhouse was quiet except for the refrigerator and the muffled sound of their mother's television upstairs. They thought of the masking tape beneath the printer, RETURN TO CLINICAL ENGINEERING, and then of the shopkeeper saying, Don't bring it back. They almost removed the key. Years later, if Rowan's memory of these events could be trusted at all, this would become the moment they returned to most often. Not the impossible room beyond the door, not their grandmother, not Roosevelt, not the final key, but the few seconds in which everything was still ordinary and they could have chosen to leave it that way. They turned the key.

The deadbolt clicked. Rowan opened the door and smelled chocolate cake. There was no parking lot outside. There was beige carpet beneath their feet and a paper banner hanging crookedly from the ceiling: HAPPY 9TH BIRTHDAY ROWAN! Blue and green balloons floated against the ceiling. Children ran through the room. Someone screamed happily. A television played Adventure Time with the volume too low to hear over the noise, and against the far wall stood the black leather recliner Rowan's father had taken after the divorce. Rowan recognized the house before they consciously understood that they recognized it. It was the old house on Glenview, the one their parents had sold when Rowan was ten. They stepped backward, but the townhouse foyer was gone. Behind them was only the front door, closed now, with no visible lock. Then Rowan saw themself: nine years old, green Minecraft shirt, hair cut too short because their father had told the barber to “just make it easy,” chocolate frosting on one cheek. They were holding Mr. Hopper, the stuffed rabbit they had slept with from preschool until sometime in middle school, though they would have denied this under oath at the time. The memory returned not gradually but violently. Rowan knew what came next before Caleb Mercer entered the room.

Caleb had been invited because Rowan's mother had made them invite the whole class. He was not the worst bully at school. That would have been easier. He was simply the sort of child who sensed vulnerability with the unconscious precision of an animal smelling blood. “You still have that thing?” he asked. Young Rowan pulled Mr. Hopper against their chest. “So?” Caleb smiled; two boys were behind him, one Rowan recognized as Nathan Bell and another whose name was gone entirely. “You sleep with it?” “No.” “You said you did.” “I used to.” Caleb grabbed one of the rabbit's ears and young Rowan pulled back. “Stop.” “Baby.” “Give it back.” “Why do you act like a girl?” Rowan felt something inside them tighten. They had forgotten that sentence, not suppressed it in any dramatic psychoanalytic sense, perhaps, but simply misplaced it among the thousands of small cruelties from which childhood is constructed. Young Rowan said, “I don't.” Caleb laughed. “Are you a girl?” The other boys laughed too. Young Rowan's face reddened. “No.” “Then why do you act like one?” “I don't.” Caleb tugged harder at the rabbit.

From the kitchen came the sound of Rowan's parents arguing. That part had survived in memory, though incorrectly. Rowan remembered shouting; what they heard now was worse because both adults were trying not to shout. Their mother said, “Could you please just not do this today?” Their father answered, “I'm not doing anything.” “You're standing in the kitchen sulking while I handle twenty kids.” “You wanted the party.” “It's Rowan's birthday.” “Exactly. Rowan doesn't even like half these kids.” “Because you tell Rowan everybody is an asshole.” “Most people are.” “Jesus Christ, Mark.” Their voices lowered after that, words becoming indistinct, but their anger filled the house more effectively than shouting could have done. The children ignored it. Children were good at ignoring the wars of adults until those wars crossed the border into their own territory. Caleb tore Mr. Hopper's ear. It did not come completely off; the seam split, exposing white stuffing. Young Rowan made a small sound. Caleb released the rabbit immediately, perhaps realizing he had gone farther than intended, but Nathan laughed and that was enough to make Caleb laugh too. Young Rowan stared at the damaged ear and then looked toward the kitchen. Neither parent came.

Seventeen-year-old Rowan crossed the room and hit Caleb Mercer in the face. Their fist passed through him. Caleb did not react. Rowan tried again, harder, then grabbed for his shirt, but their hands passed through fabric and flesh alike. “You little fuck.” Nothing. Caleb tossed Mr. Hopper behind the couch. Young Rowan dropped to their knees to retrieve him, and Rowan crouched beside them and reached beneath the couch. Their hand closed around fur. At once everything stopped. The television froze, balloons ceased moving, children became statues, and the argument in the kitchen ended halfway through a word. Young Rowan slowly turned their head and looked directly at the stranger kneeling beside them. For several seconds neither spoke. Then the child asked, “Who are you?” Rowan had imagined occasionally what they would say to their younger self if given the chance. The fantasy always produced something wise: It gets better. There's nothing wrong with you. You don't have to know yet. Standing in the old living room with their parents frozen in the kitchen and Mr. Hopper's torn ear in their hand, all of it sounded fraudulent. It had not simply gotten better. Some things had. Some had gotten worse. There were new words for old feelings, which helped, but words were not cures. Rowan finally said, “I'm you.” Young Rowan stared. “No you're not.” “Okay.” “You're too old.” “That's generally how this works.” The child narrowed their eyes. “Prove it.” Rowan thought for a moment. “There's a crack behind the headboard where you dropped Mom's necklace and you never told her.” Young Rowan's mouth opened. “And you broke the basement window with Dad's golf club.” “I said a bird did it.” “There was no dead bird.” “It flew away.” “Sure.”

Young Rowan stared at them for several more seconds and then, with the ruthless efficiency children reserve for questions adults spend years avoiding, asked, “Am I a girl?” Rowan nearly laughed, but instead they sat on the carpet. “No.” “A boy?” “No.” The child's face tightened. “Then what am I?” “I don't know.” That was not the answer Rowan had expected to give, and it seemed to frighten the child. “You said you're me.” “I am.” “So you should know.” “I know what we call it. That's not the same thing.” “What do we call it?” “Non-binary.” Young Rowan mouthed the unfamiliar word. “What's that?” “It means you're not a boy or a girl.” “That's stupid.” Rowan laughed despite themself. “Yeah. I thought so too.” “Do people make fun of me?” “Sometimes.” “Does Caleb?” “No.” “Why?” “Because in a few years you never see Caleb again.” This seemed to astonish the child. Rowan remembered how impossible that concept had been at nine, the permanence of classmates, the assumption that every person in school would somehow accompany you forever. “Never?” “I saw him at Target once.” “Did he make fun of you?” “He didn't recognize me.” Young Rowan considered this with something approaching awe, and then their eyes moved toward the kitchen. “Do Mom and Dad stop fighting?”

There were questions whose truthful answers helped nobody. Rowan had learned this from adults and hated them for it. “No.” Young Rowan's expression changed, and Rowan continued before they could decide not to. “They get divorced.” The child's eyes filled almost immediately. “Because of me?” “No.” “How do you know?” “Because they keep fighting after you aren't there.” The child looked toward the kitchen, where their parents remained frozen, young and angry and still married. “Do they hate me?” “No.” “Do they hate each other?” Rowan looked at them too. Their father was thirty-nine. Their mother thirty-seven, the age she had been when she still laughed loudly and slept late on Sundays and sometimes painted her toenails on the deck. Rowan remembered almost none of that woman. “Sometimes,” they said. Young Rowan began to cry.

Rowan wanted to fix it. That was what the room was for; they understood this instinctively. They were supposed to tell the child that divorce was not the end of the world, that Mom would be okay, Dad would be okay, Rowan would be okay. They were supposed to return Mr. Hopper, confront Caleb, say the correct thing about gender, and thereby alter the shape of whatever wound this memory represented. But the child did not need a prophecy. They needed someone to notice what was happening to them right now. So Rowan sat beside them, and after a while young Rowan leaned against their shoulder. Unlike Caleb, they had weight. Rowan gave them Mr. Hopper. The torn ear was still torn. “Aren't you going to fix it?” the child asked. “I don't know how.” “Mom can sew.” “Then ask her.” “She's fighting.” “Interrupt.” Young Rowan looked horrified. “Seriously,” Rowan said. “Interrupt them.” The child stood, holding Mr. Hopper against their chest, and walked toward the kitchen. At the doorway they hesitated, then shouted, “MOM.”

The world resumed. Their mother stopped mid-sentence. Their father turned. Both saw the rabbit, and then both saw Rowan's face. “What happened?” their mother asked. Young Rowan began to cry again. Their mother knelt immediately; their father came out of the kitchen demanding to know who had done it, and across the room Caleb suddenly discovered an urgent interest in the birthday cake. Seventeen-year-old Rowan remained where they were and watched. Nothing had been repaired. Their parents would still divorce. Caleb had still said what he said. Mr. Hopper's ear remained torn. The only thing that had changed was that someone had noticed, but perhaps there were ages at which being noticed was as close to rescue as anyone could reasonably expect.

The room began to darken around the edges, and Rowan had just enough time to see their mother take the rabbit from their younger self and inspect the torn seam before the house disappeared. They woke on the floor of the townhouse foyer with their cheek pressed against hardwood and their mother shaking their shoulder. The front door stood open to the cold night, and their mother sounded genuinely frightened. “Rowan, wake up. Come on, wake up. What the hell happened?” Rowan tried to sit, tasted something bitter at the back of their throat, and vomited across the welcome mat. Their mother caught them before their head struck the floor. The brass key was gone.

The second key printed five days later. Rowan had begun to expect it, although expectation did not make the sound less unnerving. The machine started at 2:17 in the morning with a soft mechanical whir that woke them immediately. For several seconds they lay still, looking at the black shape on the desk and trying to decide whether they had dreamed the sound. Then the print head moved again. Rowan got out of bed and watched from a distance. There was no reason to be afraid of a machine they had already used, no reason except that the first key had ended with them unconscious on the floor, their mother panicking, and thirty minutes of vomiting that Dr. Shah had dismissed the next morning as “not necessarily related.” Rowan had not told her about the birthday party. They had told nobody. Instead they had said they must have gotten dizzy standing up, which was plausible enough because the medication had made their appetite worse and they had eaten almost nothing that day. Their mother had accepted this reluctantly, and for two evenings afterward had come home by seven. Then quarterly reporting resumed and the townhouse returned to its usual silence. The printer worked for sixteen minutes and stopped. On the bed lay another gray key, this one shorter than the first, its bow molded in the shape of a crude bird with outstretched wings.

Rowan knew before touching it. They actually said, “No,” aloud, as though the machine had asked permission. The bird was not well rendered, but it did not need to be. The body was thick, the neck too short, the bill flattened into a blunt wedge. A duck. Rowan stood over it for a long time, then reached down and lifted the key. The material was still warm. By morning it had become iron, blackened with age and speckled with orange rust. There was no number stamped into it. There was only the duck. Rowan carried it downstairs in their pocket and went through the day waiting for some door to announce itself. School was unremarkable. Their history teacher spent forty minutes explaining the Progressive Era to a room of people who already knew enough to pass the test. At lunch Maya Chen complained about her mother stalking her location through three different apps, and Rowan nearly said that there were worse forms of maternal attention but stopped because it sounded cruel. When Rowan came home the townhouse smelled faintly of laundry detergent. Their mother had left a note on the counter: Dinner in fridge. Late tonight. Sorry. Love you. Rowan stood in the kitchen reading it, touched the key through the fabric of their pocket, and suddenly knew which lock it belonged to.

Their grandmother's farmhouse had not contained a door like the one Rowan remembered. That was the first thing wrong with it. The farmhouse had been old and perpetually under repair, and Rowan knew every part of it once: the kitchen with its crooked pine cabinets, the mudroom that froze in winter, the narrow staircase, the bathroom door that would not close unless you lifted it slightly by the knob. The pantry had been a walk-in alcove with shelves, not a room, and certainly not something that locked. Yet when Rowan opened the townhouse pantry to look for cereal, there was an iron keyhole in the wooden frame. They stopped with one hand still on the knob. The key in their pocket seemed suddenly heavier. “Fine,” they whispered, though to whom they did not know, and slid it into the lock.

Heat rolled over them when they opened the door. Not the heavy, wet heat of midsummer but the clean dry warmth of late August, hay baking in the fields and dust hanging in golden light. Rowan stepped through and felt grass under their bare feet. The farmhouse stood fifty yards away beneath the enormous maple that had lost a limb in a storm when Rowan was twelve. The limb was intact. Beyond the house lay the barn, the chicken run, the old vegetable garden, and the pond their grandmother called a pond even though it was more accurately a muddy depression that filled with frogs each spring. Everything was too vivid. Rowan could smell horse sweat and diesel from the tractor shed. Cicadas rattled from the treeline. Somewhere behind the barn a chicken made the outraged noise chickens produced whenever reality failed to arrange itself according to their preferences. Then there came another sound, lower and more urgent, and Rowan turned just as Roosevelt came around the side of the barn.

He ran toward them. Ducks were not built for running, which had never prevented Roosevelt from trying. He came in a furious, wobbling charge, wings slightly extended, head low, quacking with such indignation that Rowan laughed before they realized they were crying. They dropped to their knees. “Oh, you stupid bastard.” Roosevelt collided with their chest and immediately began pecking at the zipper of their hoodie. Rowan wrapped both arms around him. His feathers were warm. He smelled of pond water, grain and that indefinable musky odor that had once seemed to Rowan simply the smell of summer. Their face pressed against his back. “I'm sorry,” they said. Roosevelt objected loudly to being squeezed and then settled against them anyway. Rowan had spent years pretending they did not care what happened to him. The farm had been sold quickly after Grandma Helen became ill; the horses went first, then the chickens and cats, and Roosevelt disappeared into a sentence spoken by adults in another room. Your uncle found somewhere for the animals. Rowan had never asked where. At eleven, asking would have made it real.

“You're going to strangle him if you keep that up.” Rowan looked toward the porch. Grandma Helen stood behind the screen door with one hand on the frame. She wore jeans, a faded green T-shirt and the old blue gardening clogs Rowan remembered hating. Her hair was still mostly brown. She was not sick. More precisely, Rowan realized after the first shock, she did not yet look sick. There was a difference. She was thinner than Rowan remembered her that summer, and something about the way she leaned against the doorframe seemed wrong. “Well?” she said. “Are you coming in or have you decided to marry the duck?” Rowan stood without releasing Roosevelt. “Grandma.” Helen narrowed her eyes. “That's usually what you call me.” Rowan crossed the yard. By the time they reached the porch they were crying hard enough to embarrass themself, though there was nobody present to be embarrassed before. Helen's expression softened. “Oh, honey. What happened?” Rowan embraced her. For one terrible second Helen felt too light.

The day did not stop for them. That was different from the birthday. There was no sense that the memory had been awaiting Rowan's arrival. Grandma Helen had chores to do and apparently expected Rowan to help with them. “If you're going to appear out of nowhere looking like a scarecrow from the future, you can at least carry feed,” she said. Rowan followed her to the barn. Roosevelt followed Rowan. They filled buckets for the horses, gathered eggs, pulled weeds from the beans and carried a basket of tomatoes to the porch. Helen talked almost continuously, much as she had in life, moving from one subject to another without warning. The neighbor was overcharging for hay. Rowan's mother worried too much. Rowan's father did not worry enough. The county wanted to reassess the property. One of the barn cats had apparently been sleeping in the tractor engine and would someday “learn an expensive lesson about machinery.” Rowan listened greedily. They had forgotten her voice more than they realized. Memory preserved vocabulary and rhythm but not sound; the living voice had texture, small catches and breaths and the faint rasp that came when Helen laughed. Rowan wanted to record it. They checked their phone. There was no signal, but the camera opened. When they pointed it toward Helen the screen showed only the empty barn.

They lowered the phone quickly. “What?” Helen asked. “Nothing.” “You look like you've seen a ghost.” Rowan almost said, I have. Instead they asked, “What year is it?” Helen stared at them. “That medication you're on better be excellent.” “Seriously.” “2019.” Rowan's stomach tightened. Helen had been diagnosed that November. This was August. “Do you feel okay?” they asked. Helen's expression changed so slightly that Rowan might have missed it if they had not been watching. “For seventy-two, I'm gorgeous.” “That's not what I asked.” “I'm tired.” “How tired?” “Regular tired.” “Do you have pain?” Helen put the scoop down. “Why are you asking me this?” Rowan did not know how to answer. They remembered the story as it had been told: Grandma felt ill in the fall, went to the doctor, tests followed, then the diagnosis. There had been no earlier warning, at least none anyone mentioned. Yet Helen rubbed the right side of her abdomen now, almost unconsciously. Rowan watched the gesture. “You've been having pain there.” Helen looked at her hand as though surprised to find it there. “Sometimes.” “How long?” “Couple weeks.” “Did you tell Mom?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because your mother turns every headache into a congressional inquiry.” “You should tell her.” “Rowan.” “I'm serious.”

Helen studied them for several seconds. “You aren't seventeen.” The sentence was spoken quietly. Rowan froze. “What?” Helen leaned against the stall door. “You look seventeen. But you're not.” Rowan's mouth went dry. “How old am I?” “I don't know.” “Then what do you mean?” Helen's eyes had gone somewhere else, not unfocused exactly, but inward. “You were eleven when I died.” Rowan could hear the horses shifting in their stalls. Roosevelt pecked at a piece of straw. “Grandma.” Helen blinked. For a moment she looked frightened. Then the expression vanished. “What?” Rowan stared at her. “What did you just say?” “I said you should stop interrogating old women.” “No. You said I was eleven when you died.” Helen's brow furrowed. “I didn't say that.” “You did.” “I absolutely did not.” Rowan felt cold despite the heat. “Do you know you're dead?” Helen laughed once, but there was no amusement in it. “Well, if I am, heaven has a disappointing amount of horse shit.”

Rowan wanted to leave then. They could not identify the direction from which the impulse came, only that the farm had changed. Nothing visible was different. Cicadas still screamed in the trees. Dust still hung in the barn light. Helen stood ten feet away with one hand on the stall. But the place no longer felt like a memory. Memories could contain things forgotten; Rowan understood that. They could not contain information acquired later by people inside them. They said, “What happened to Roosevelt?” Helen's face went blank. “What do you mean?” “After the farm was sold.” “The farm isn't sold.” “After you got sick.” “I'm not sick.” “After you died.” Helen said nothing. Rowan stepped closer. “Where did he go?” Helen looked toward Roosevelt, who was now drinking from the horses' water bucket despite having his own. “The Websters,” she said.

Rowan stopped breathing. “Who?” Helen frowned. “The Websters.” “Who are the Websters?” “You know the Websters.” “No, I don't.” “Down on County Road Nine. They had the pond.” Rowan's skin prickled. There had been no Websters in any story Rowan remembered. “How long did Roosevelt live?” Helen looked at them, and suddenly the question seemed to hurt her. “Six years, maybe. Five. Something like that.” Rowan backed away. “I never knew that.” “Knew what?” “Any of that.” “Of course you did.” “No.” “You were there.” “Where?” Helen opened her mouth and closed it again. Then she seemed to lose the thread entirely. She bent, picked up the feed scoop, and said, “We need to finish before it gets hotter.”

Rowan followed because there was nothing else to do. The farm remained beautiful. That became unbearable. For another two hours they moved through the old routines of childhood while fear sat quietly beneath everything. Helen made tomato sandwiches at noon and cut Rowan's diagonally because she remembered they preferred it that way. Roosevelt stationed himself beneath the table and received several pieces despite Helen insisting he would not. Rowan watched their grandmother closely. Twice Helen seemed to forget what year it was. Once she called Rowan by their mother's name. None of this was impossible; perhaps Rowan's own memory had inserted details from the months of illness into an earlier summer. The brain was not an archive. Dr. Shah had said that repeatedly. Every act of remembering altered what was remembered. Rowan tried to believe that explanation and almost succeeded until Helen said, “You never came to the hospital.”

Rowan set down the sandwich. “What?” Helen was looking toward the fields. “Your mother wouldn't bring you.” “You remember that?” “No.” “You just said it.” “Did I?” “Grandma, stop doing that.” Helen turned toward them and there was a peculiar calm in her face now. “Doing what?” “Saying things and pretending you didn't.” “Maybe I'm not pretending.” Rowan's anger arrived suddenly, disproportionate and welcome because it was easier than fear. “Then what is this? What am I supposed to do here?” Helen looked at them. “I don't know.” “The last place gave me something to fix.” “Maybe there wasn't anything to fix here.” “I didn't get to say goodbye to you.” “That's not a problem you can fix.” “I know.” “Do you?” Rowan shoved back from the table. “Why didn't Mom take me?” Helen said nothing. “She said I was too young. Was that true?” Silence. “Did you tell her not to?”

Helen's shoulders lowered. Rowan knew before she answered. “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I looked terrible.” “That's it?” “No.” “Then what?” Helen rubbed her hands together slowly, grinding dirt from the lines of her palms. “I was frightened.” Rowan almost laughed. “You were frightened?” “Yes.” “So I didn't get to see you because you were frightened?” “I didn't want the last thing you remembered to be me dying.” “That was my choice.” “You were eleven.” “I was your grandkid.” “I know.” “I thought you didn't want to see me.” Helen's face changed. “Oh.” The single syllable made Rowan angrier than any defense could have. “Yeah. Oh.” “Your mother should have explained.” “You should have let her bring me.” Helen nodded. “Probably.” Rowan had expected resistance, perhaps because they had rehearsed this argument for someone who had been dead six years. Helen merely sat with it. “I was trying to protect you,” she said. “You didn't.” “No.” “You made it worse.” “Maybe.” “Stop saying maybe.” Helen looked at them then, truly looked. “Fine. I made it worse.”

The apology did not repair anything. Rowan had imagined that if they ever learned the reason, understanding might transform the loss into something cleaner. Instead they were left with the knowledge that adults could love you, make a decision entirely because they loved you, and still injure you with it. There was no villain to defeat. Helen had been dying and afraid. Rowan had been eleven and afraid. Their mother had been caught between them and afraid. Everyone had done what seemed survivable at the time. “I hated you a little,” Rowan said. Helen nodded. “You were allowed.” “I still do.” “You're allowed that too.” Rowan began to cry. Helen came around the table and held them. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I know that isn't enough.” Rowan pressed their face against her shoulder. “I missed you.” “I know.” “I forgot what you sounded like.” Helen held them tighter. “That's all right.” “No, it isn't.” “No,” Helen said after a moment. “It isn't.”

Late afternoon settled over the farm. Rowan knew what was coming without being told. The light became too golden, the shadows too long. The memory had a boundary and they were approaching it. Roosevelt waddled onto the porch and stood beside Rowan's chair. Rowan picked him up. He protested, then tucked his head against their arm. “Did he really live six more years?” Rowan asked. Helen smiled. “He terrorized the Websters until the end.” “You swear?” “As much as a dead woman can swear to anything.” Rowan looked sharply at her, but Helen's expression gave nothing away. “You know now?” “Know what?” Rowan almost demanded an answer, then stopped. Perhaps this was the answer. “Nothing.”

The first time the farmhouse flickered, it happened so quickly Rowan thought they had blinked. The porch disappeared and returned. In the interval there had been something else: white walls, fluorescent lights, a metal rail. Rowan stood. Helen did not react. “Did you see that?” “See what?” The world flickered again. For less than a second Helen was no longer sitting in the porch chair. She lay in a hospital bed, hair gone gray and thin, cheeks hollow, an oxygen tube beneath her nose. Rowan recoiled. The porch returned. “No.” Helen looked at them. “What?” “No, don't.” Another flicker. Hospital. Rowan saw their mother sitting beside the bed, younger and exhausted, holding Helen's hand. A monitor displayed numbers Rowan did not understand. Helen's eyes were closed. Their mother whispered something. The porch came back. Rowan was crying. “I don't want to see this.” Helen rose slowly. “Then don't.” “I can't stop it.” “Yes, you can.”

The next flicker lasted longer. Rowan stood in the hospital room. Their mother was crying silently. Helen opened her eyes and said, very weakly, “Don't bring Rowan.” Their mother shook her head. “Mom.” “I don't want them seeing this.” “They keep asking.” “Tell them I'm sleeping.” “I can't keep doing that.” “Please.” Rowan stood beside the bed, unseen. This was not a memory. They had never been here. They could not have been here. Helen turned her head toward where Rowan stood. Her eyes focused directly on them. “Go,” she said.

Rowan stumbled backward and the porch returned. Helen was standing in front of them, healthy again, or nearly. “What was that?” Rowan demanded. Helen looked tired. “I don't know.” “You were there.” “I was dying. I was in a lot of places.” “I never saw that.” “Apparently you have now.” Rowan grabbed her wrist. “How?” Helen's skin was warm. “Grandma, how do I know something I wasn't there for?” Helen looked at Rowan's hand around her wrist and then at Rowan. “Maybe you don't.”

The farm began to come apart. Not dissolve, not fade, but separate into mismatched pieces. The barn roof showed winter snow while the yard remained summer green. The maple lost its leaves and regained them. For a moment Roosevelt was gone, then old, his feathers mottled and his gait stiff, then young again in Rowan's arms. Rowan turned toward the farmhouse. Through the kitchen window they saw their mother at eleven different ages, passing through one another like reflections. “I want to go home.” Helen nodded. “Then go.” “Where's the door?” “You tell me.”

Rowan looked around frantically. There was no door. The porch, barn, fields and trees stretched in all directions. Then Roosevelt jumped from their arms and waddled toward the pond. “Roosevelt.” He did not stop. Rowan followed him across the yard, past the garden and through the tall grass. At the pond's edge stood a doorframe with nothing around it, the townhouse pantry door hanging open inside. Roosevelt stopped before it. Rowan knelt and pulled him close one final time. “I love you, you horrible little animal.” Roosevelt bit their sleeve. “Yeah. Fair.” Rowan looked toward Helen. She stood on the porch, one hand raised. Rowan shouted, “I'm sorry I didn't come.” Helen called back, “You were a child.” “I'm still sorry.” Helen lowered her hand. “Then be sorry. Just don't make it your fault.”

Rowan stepped through the door.

They woke in the kitchen with their head against the pantry cabinet. The iron key lay on the floor beside them. For the first time, it had not disappeared. Rowan stared at it for several seconds before grabbing their phone and calling their mother. It went to voicemail. They called again. On the third attempt she answered, breathless and irritated. “Rowan, I'm in a meeting. Is this an emergency?” Rowan said, “Who were the Websters?” There was a pause. “What?” “Grandma's neighbors. The Websters. Who were they?” Their mother's voice changed. “How do you know that name?” Rowan's heart began to pound. “Did they take Roosevelt?” Silence stretched between them. “Mom.” “Yes,” she said finally. “I think so. They had a little farm off County Nine.” Rowan sat very still. “How long did he live?” “I don't know.” “Did Uncle David ever tell you?” “Maybe. Why?” “How long?” Their mother exhaled sharply. “Rowan, I don't remember. Five or six years? Something like that.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt. Rowan looked at the iron key on the floor. “Did Grandma tell you not to take me to the hospital?” Another pause, longer this time. “Yes.” “Did she say she didn't want me seeing her like that?” “Yes.” “Did she tell you to tell me she was sleeping?” Their mother said nothing. “Mom?” When she answered, the meeting-room irritation was gone. “Who told you that?” Rowan looked toward the pantry. The door was closed. The lock was ordinary again. “No one,” they said.

The third key did not print for nearly two weeks. Rowan began to think the machine was finished with them, and the thought produced a mixture of relief and disappointment they resented having to examine. The iron key from the farm remained on their desk where they had left it, although it had changed again. Rust had spread across the bow overnight until the duck's outline was almost obscured, and two days later the metal became brittle enough that one of the teeth snapped off when Rowan touched it. After that they stopped handling it. They also stopped taking the blue capsule for three mornings, not deliberately at first; they forgot once, then forgot again, then recognized on the third day that forgetting had become a decision. Nothing happened. On the fourth morning their mother noticed the untouched blister pack beside the orange juice. “You're skipping it.” Rowan said, “I'm experimenting.” Their mother looked at them. “You're seventeen.” “Correct.” “You're not running your own clinical trial.” Rowan stared into the refrigerator. “Maybe I don't like how it makes me feel.” Their mother closed the door. “Then tell Dr. Shah.” “I just did, indirectly.” “Rowan.” “What?” “If something is happening, tell me.” The sentence landed harder than it should have. Rowan almost did. They almost said, Grandma told me something she could not possibly have known that I didn't know, but instead they shrugged and took the capsule dry. Their mother watched until they swallowed.

That night the printer woke them at 3:04. The sound was different this time, faster and more agitated, the print head moving with a jerking urgency that made the machine vibrate against the desk. Rowan sat up and turned on the lamp. “Seriously?” The printer continued. Gray filament gathered into something so small Rowan could not identify it until the machine stopped after only six minutes. The key was thin, almost needle-like, with a rectangular bow and teeth no more elaborate than those of a locker key. There was no number, no image, no clue. Rowan left it on the bed and went back to sleep. In the morning it was white enamel, chipped along one edge. They recognized it only when they picked it up and felt the cold smoothness of the bow beneath their thumb. The girls' bathroom at Westbridge Middle School had used white-painted metal stall locks.

Rowan did not take the key to school. They put it in the junk drawer in the kitchen beneath dead batteries, twist ties, a screwdriver and three takeout menus from restaurants that no longer existed. By the time they returned home it was on their desk. Rowan stared at it for perhaps a minute before checking the drawer. Empty. They searched their room, then the hallway, then the kitchen again, not because they believed there were two keys but because the alternative was irritating. The printer was unplugged. They had unplugged it after the farm. Rowan carried the key downstairs and placed it on the kitchen island, then went back upstairs. When they returned with the printer under one arm, the key had vanished. It was lying on the print bed. “Okay,” Rowan said. “Fine.” They locked the printer in the hall closet. The key appeared beneath their pillow. They put it outside on the deck. It reappeared in their pocket. By eleven that night they were angry enough to stop being afraid.

Rowan held the key in one hand and walked through the townhouse trying every lock, although they already knew where it wanted to go. The upstairs bathroom door opened normally. The medicine cabinet had no keyhole. The linen closet, bedroom, basement, garage, all wrong. Rowan stood in the hallway outside the small half-bath near the kitchen, and as they watched, the brass privacy lock in the doorknob flattened and whitened into a painted metal rectangle. “Of course.” The key fit. The smell reached them first: industrial soap, bleach, wet paper towels and the artificial strawberry body spray every girl in Rowan's seventh-grade class had seemed to own. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The walls were institutional beige and the grout between the floor tiles had gone gray with age. Rowan stepped through and heard voices near the sinks.

They knew the scene. This memory had never been lost. Two girls from gym class were standing at the mirror. Hannah Cole was fixing her ponytail while Brianna Lott dug through a makeup bag. Rowan was thirteen and locked inside the last stall. “What even is Rowan?” Hannah asked. Brianna shrugged. “I think trans.” “Like which way?” “I don't know.” “Can you be trans if you don't switch?” “I don't know.” “That's weird.” Brianna laughed. “Everything about Rowan is weird.” Thirteen-year-old Rowan sat on the closed toilet lid with their shoes pulled up so their feet would not show beneath the partition. They had changed for gym in the bathroom for three weeks because the locker room had become unbearable. The girls did not know Rowan was there. That was the detail that had always mattered. They had not been performing cruelty. They had simply been discussing something they considered strange. Rowan remembered the humiliation, but not as sharply as expected. Listening now, the conversation seemed almost stupid. Two thirteen-year-olds with no vocabulary for something outside their experience. Rowan had spent years remembering it as a verdict handed down by society. In reality Hannah's mascara was smeared and Brianna had a SpongeBob keychain hanging from her backpack.

Then another voice came from the stall. “Don't listen to them.” Rowan froze. The voice belonged to Maya. Not present-day Maya. Thirteen-year-old Maya Chen. There was no reason for her to be there. Maya had not transferred to Westbridge until eighth grade. Rowan stood motionless as young Rowan whispered, “I'm trying not to.” Maya's voice answered from somewhere Rowan could not see. “They're idiots.” “Yeah.” “They don't know anything.” “Neither do I.” “That's different.” Rowan pushed open the stall door. Young Rowan was alone, sitting exactly as remembered, knees pulled up, gym shirt balled in their hands. They did not react to Rowan entering. The voice came again, from the wall behind them. “You're not broken.” Rowan felt a pulse of irritation so immediate it cut through fear. The phrase was wrong. Too clean. Too therapeutic. Nothing anyone had actually said to them at thirteen. They stepped closer. “Maya?”

Young Rowan looked up, and the room stopped. Hannah froze with a hair tie between her teeth. Brianna's hand remained suspended over the sink. A paper towel hung halfway from the dispenser. Thirteen-year-old Rowan stared. “Who are you?” Rowan let out a breath. “We've done this.” “What?” “Nothing.” The child looked tired. Not sad, exactly. Rowan had forgotten how tired they had been at thirteen. Their face still had childhood roundness, but their eyes already carried the flattened expression Rowan now recognized from photographs of those years. “You're me,” the child said. Rowan blinked. “How do you know?” “Because you look like me.” “Last time that wasn't enough.” “What last time?” Rowan did not answer. Young Rowan stood. “Are you here to tell me what I am?” “No.” “Good.” The answer came too fast. Rowan leaned against the partition. “You don't want to know?” “I know what I am.” “What?” “Wrong.” The word landed quietly. “You're not.” “I am.” “No.” Young Rowan laughed once, without humor. “That's what everyone says when they want you to stop saying it.” Rowan felt anger rise, but it had nowhere useful to go. “I'm not saying it to make you stop.” “Then why?” “Because it's true.” “How would you know?” “Because I'm you.” “And you're okay?” Rowan opened their mouth. Nothing came out. The child nodded. “Right.”

The walls shifted. It was subtle at first. The beige paint darkened, then the mirror stretched wider. Rowan looked toward the sink and saw that Hannah and Brianna were gone. In their place stood dozens of people reflected in the glass, none of them physically present in the room. Teachers. Cousins. Kids from school. Rowan's father. Their mother. Their grandmother. People Rowan barely recognized. Every face was turned toward them. Young Rowan looked into the mirror. “That's what this is,” they said. Rowan followed their gaze. “What?” “Everyone looking.” The reflections began speaking, not in unison but over one another, which was worse. “You're overthinking it.” “It's a phase.” “You don't have to label yourself.” “Why make things harder?” “Just pick one.” “I don't care what you are.” “Nobody cares.” “Why do you care so much?” “You're too young to know.” “You're old enough to know.” “You're doing this for attention.” “You never even seemed feminine.” “You never even seemed masculine.” “This stuff wasn't around when I was your age.” “You're making your mother worry.” “Your father doesn't understand.” “Why should everyone else have to change how they talk?” Rowan stepped backward. “Stop.” The voices continued. Some were real. Rowan recognized them. Their father's I don't care what you are had been intended as support. Their mother's you don't have to label yourself had been fear disguised as reassurance. Others Rowan could not place.

Young Rowan watched the mirror. “Which ones happened?” Rowan asked. “What?” “Which ones are real?” The child looked at them. “Does it matter?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because this place keeps showing me things I didn't know.” “Maybe you knew.” “I didn't.” “Maybe you forgot.” “That's not the same thing.” The child shrugged. The voices grew louder. Rowan crossed to the mirror and struck it with their fist. The glass cracked and the reflections went silent. Their knuckles bled. Young Rowan stared at the crack, then at Rowan's hand. “You can touch things now.” Rowan looked down. The blood was real enough. “I guess.” “Can you touch me?” Rowan reached for the child's shoulder. Their hand passed through. Young Rowan smiled faintly. “Guess not.”

The bathroom lights went out. Emergency red glowed above the door. Rowan turned toward it, but the exit was gone. There was only tiled wall. “Great.” Young Rowan sat on the floor. “You always leave.” Rowan looked at them. “What?” “You always leave.” “I don't know what you're talking about.” “Birthday. Farm.” Rowan felt cold. “You don't know about those.” “You do.” “That's not an answer.” “Maybe I'm not me.” The child said it casually. Rowan stared. Young Rowan picked at a loose thread on their gym shorts. “Maybe none of us are.” The printer, the medication, the rooms: Rowan's heart began to race. “What are you?” The child looked up. For the first time, their expression was not Rowan's. Not exactly. The face was the same. The arrangement behind it was not. “I don't know.” The answer sounded familiar.

Then the lights came back. The bathroom was empty. No child, no mirror reflections, no voices. Only Rowan and the cracked glass. Written across the mirror in red lipstick were four words: YOU LEFT FIRST. REMEMBER? Rowan stood still. They did remember, although not immediately as an image. It came first as a sensation. Maya. Not middle-school Maya. High-school Maya. Sophomore year. A cafeteria table. Maya crying. Rowan saying something cruel. The memory opened.

Maya's parents had separated that winter. Her father had moved out abruptly and stopped answering calls for almost a month. Maya had told Rowan she thought he was having an affair. She had been angry, humiliated, terrified. Rowan had listened for weeks. Then one afternoon Maya had canceled plans again because she “couldn't deal with people,” and Rowan had snapped. Everything isn't always about your parents. Maya had stared at them. Rowan remembered what came next. At least yours are both still around. Maya said nothing. Rowan heard their own voice. My dad basically left too. I don't make it everyone's problem. There. The sentence. Rowan had not forgotten it. They had edited it. In the version of the memory they carried, Maya had pulled away during sophomore year because she was depressed and difficult to reach. Rowan had told themself that for almost two years. They had retained every fact except the order. They had been the one who left first.

The bathroom changed. Cafeteria tables unfolded from the tiled floor. Fluorescent bathroom lights became the brighter fluorescents of Westbridge High. The cracked mirror remained suspended along one wall like a window into nowhere. Maya sat at a table near the vending machines, fifteen years old, face red, sleeves pulled over her hands. Rowan's younger self stood across from her. “I didn't mean it like that,” young Rowan said. “How did you mean it?” “I don't know.” “Then why did you say it?” “Because you're always canceling.” “My dad left.” “So did mine.” “Yeah, but you see him.” “Once a month.” “That's still seeing him.” “Whatever.” Maya looked at them, and Rowan remembered that look now. Not rage. Disappointment. That was why they had buried the order. Young Rowan said, “I have shit too, Maya.” Maya answered, “I know.” “You act like you're the only person whose family is fucked up.” “I never said that.” “You don't have to.” Maya stood. “Fine.” She walked away. Young Rowan did not follow.

Seventeen-year-old Rowan did. “Maya.” She kept walking. Rowan reached for her shoulder, and this time their hand made contact. Maya turned. Not fifteen-year-old Maya. Current Maya. The cafeteria emptied around them. “Don't,” she said. Rowan dropped their hand. “I'm sorry.” Maya looked exhausted. “For what?” “That.” “Which part?” “I said a horrible thing.” “You've said lots of horrible things.” “Thanks.” “You asked.” Rowan looked at the floor. “I thought you left me.” Maya's expression shifted. “You did.” “I know.” “No, you don't.” “I remember now.” “That's not the same thing.” The phrase echoed. Rowan looked at her. “Did you actually forgive me?” Maya frowned. “In real life?” The question made Rowan's skin crawl. “What does that mean?” Maya ignored it. “You apologized eventually.” “Did I?” “You said, 'Sorry things got weird.'” Rowan closed their eyes. That sounded exactly like something they would have said. “Jesus.” “Yeah.” “So I never actually apologized.” “No.” “Why are we friends?” Maya laughed, and it was real enough that Rowan nearly cried. “Because I like you, idiot.” “Even after that?” “People aren't court cases.” Rowan looked at her. Maya continued, “You don't add everything up and issue a ruling.” “You should sometimes.” “Probably.”

Rowan swallowed. “Can I fix this?” Maya's face became very still. “There it is.” “What?” “You keep asking that.” Rowan felt suddenly defensive. “Because that's what these places are for.” “Are they?” “The birthday—” “You didn't fix it.” “The farm—” “You didn't fix that either.” “I got answers.” “Did you?” Rowan stopped. Maya stepped closer. “Maybe that's what you want them to be for.” “Then what are they for?” “I don't know.” “Everyone here says that.” “Maybe you should listen.” The cafeteria lights began going out one by one. Rowan could hear the printer, not somewhere far away but inside the walls. The print head moved rapidly, mechanically, impossibly close. “What is it making?” Maya looked toward the ceiling. “Another key.” “To what?” “Ask yourself.” “I am.” “No. You're asking me.” The sound intensified. Rowan grabbed Maya's arm. “Are you real?” Maya looked down at their hand. “You're asking the wrong question.” “Then tell me the right one.” The last overhead light went dark. Maya's face remained visible. “Are you?”

The floor disappeared. Rowan fell and landed hard on carpet. Their bedroom. Dark. The printer sat on the desk and it was running. Rowan scrambled backward until their shoulders hit the wall. “No.” The machine printed at impossible speed. The spool spun so quickly it blurred. Gray material accumulated on the bed in layers, but not into a key. Into teeth. Human teeth. Dozens of them. Rowan crawled toward the outlet and yanked the plug. The printer continued. They pulled the machine from the desk and threw it onto the floor. The casing cracked. Inside there were no motors, no wires, no electronics, only wet red tissue packed tightly into the shell. Rowan screamed.

Their bedroom door opened. Their mother stood there. “Rowan?” The printer was intact on the desk, unplugged and silent. There were no teeth. No tissue. Rowan was on the floor beside the bed, shaking hard enough that they could barely breathe. Their mother crossed the room. “What happened?” Rowan looked at the desk. The white key lay on the print bed. Their mother followed their gaze. “What are you looking at?” Rowan pointed. “The key.” Their mother looked directly at it. There was a long pause. “What key?” Rowan stopped shaking. “You don't see that?” “See what?” Rowan stood slowly, walked to the printer and picked up the key. It had weight. Cold enamel. A small chip along the edge. They held it out. Their mother's eyes tracked their hand but not the object in it. “Rowan, you're scaring me.” They dropped the key. It struck the desk with a sharp metallic click. Their mother flinched. “You heard that.” “Heard what?” Rowan stared at her. Neither moved.

Then their mother said, very carefully, “Did you take the blue capsule today?” Rowan looked toward the printer. The amber light came on. The machine was not plugged in. Their mother did not react. Rowan said, “Yeah.” “Okay.” The print head moved once. Only once. Their mother still did not see it. “Okay,” she said again. “We're calling Dr. Shah.”

Dr. Shah saw them the following afternoon. Rowan's mother had wanted the emergency room, but Dr. Shah spoke to her on the phone for nearly twenty minutes and apparently persuaded her that unless Rowan became confused about where they were, lost consciousness again, became violent, or expressed an intention to harm themself, twelve hours would make little clinical difference. Rowan listened from the couch while their mother paced the kitchen, periodically lowering her voice as though Rowan could not hear their own name spoken twenty feet away. The printer remained upstairs. The white key remained on the print bed. Rowan checked twice before sleeping and once at four in the morning, although they would later be unable to say why. It was still there each time. In Dr. Shah's office the next day, however, the key was gone. Rowan discovered this only after describing the birthday, the farm, the bathroom, Maya, the teeth, and finally the fact that their mother could neither see nor hear an object Rowan had been able to touch. They had expected skepticism. Dr. Shah instead listened without interrupting, except to clarify the sequence of events and ask whether Rowan had consumed alcohol, cannabis, stimulants, supplements, cough medicine, or anything else that might interact with PA-17. When Rowan finished, Dr. Shah folded her hands. “I want to stop the treatment.” Rowan's mother said, “Obviously.” Rowan said, “Why?” Both adults looked at them. “I'm not saying I want to keep hallucinating teeth. I'm asking why this is happening.” Dr. Shah took longer than Rowan liked before answering. “The short version is that we don't know.” Their mother made an incredulous sound, but Dr. Shah continued. “The longer version is that PA-17 doesn't work like a conventional antidepressant. The two protein complexes are designed to cross the blood-brain barrier through different transport mechanisms. Neither does much by itself. Once both metabolites are present, they promote expression of a set of plasticity-associated proteins involved in memory reconsolidation, emotional salience, and self-referential processing. The hope is that rigid autobiographical narratives become temporarily more plastic.” Rowan said, “You told me that part.” “I told you the simplified version. What I did not emphasize, because it is uncommon, is that some trial participants reported unusually vivid internally generated environments. Not dreams exactly. Not ordinary hallucinations either.” “Did they see things that weren't there?” Rowan's mother asked. “Yes.” “That's a hallucination.” “Phenomenologically, yes. Neurologically it gets more complicated.” “I don't care what word you use.” “Neither do I,” Dr. Shah said. “What concerns me is that Rowan's experiences have progressed from episodic imagery into waking perceptual substitution. That's outside the response we want.”

Rowan had been watching Dr. Shah rather than their mother. “Did anyone see doors?” Dr. Shah hesitated. “Some participants described architectural metaphors.” “That's not what I asked.” “One described a hotel. Another described an endless library. One repeatedly found staircases in familiar buildings that led to autobiographical scenes.” Rowan's mother stared at her. “And you prescribed this to my kid?” “Those events occurred in early trials at doses substantially above Rowan's.” “Did anyone have a 3D printer?” Rowan asked. Dr. Shah looked at them. “Not that I'm aware of.” “Keys?” “I don't remember any keys.” “Did anyone learn things they didn't know?” That question changed the room. Dr. Shah's face remained composed, but Rowan saw the hesitation. “Define learn.” “The Websters. Roosevelt. Grandma telling Mom not to bring me to the hospital. I didn't know any of that.” “You may have.” “I didn't.” “You may have been exposed to it without forming an accessible episodic memory. Children encode enormous amounts of information incidentally. A conversation heard from another room, a name mentioned once, something your mother said while you were distracted. Memory isn't limited to what you can deliberately retrieve.” Rowan's mother said quietly, “I don't remember ever telling them about the Websters.” Dr. Shah nodded. “That doesn't mean you didn't.” “And the hospital?” “Same answer.” Rowan leaned back. “Convenient.” “Yes,” Dr. Shah said. “It is. That doesn't make it wrong.”

The medication stopped that day. Dr. Shah warned that the proteins themselves cleared quickly but that the changes they induced did not simply switch off when the compounds disappeared. “Think days to weeks, not hours,” she said. “Possibly longer for some effects. I want you sleeping normally, eating regularly, no recreational drugs, and preferably not spending long periods alone for the next week.” Rowan's mother immediately announced that she could work from home. Rowan said, “You don't have to do that.” She answered, “I'm going to.” “You have quarterly reporting.” “They'll survive.” Rowan almost said apparently I won't, but the joke seemed cruel under the circumstances. Instead they nodded. On the drive home their mother gripped the steering wheel with both hands. After several miles she said, “Why didn't you tell me after the first one?” Rowan watched strip malls and traffic lights pass outside. “I thought you'd think I was crazy.” “I wouldn't.” Rowan looked at her. Their mother sighed. “Okay. I might have thought you were having some kind of psychiatric episode.” “Which is the polite version.” “But I wouldn't have thought less of you.” “That's not the same thing.” “No.” They drove another mile. Then their mother said, “I'm sorry about Grandma.” Rowan knew she meant more than one thing. “I know.”

For six days nothing happened. The printer remained on the desk because Rowan could not decide what else to do with it. Their mother wanted it out of the house and suggested putting it in the garage, but Rowan refused with enough intensity that she stopped asking. The machine never moved. The amber light remained dark. Rowan photographed it from every angle. It appeared normally in photographs. Their mother could see the printer, touch it, lift it, complain about its weight. She could see the spool of gray filament. She could see the old USB port. What she could not see were the keys. This should have made the explanation simpler: the printer was real; the keys were hallucinations superimposed upon it. Yet Rowan could not find Second Life Electronics. The store was not where they remembered it. Between the nail salon and vape shop stood a dental office that, according to its website, had occupied the unit for eleven years. Rowan checked their bank account and found no withdrawal for thirty-seven dollars. They had paid cash, which proved nothing. The remaining four dollars were not in their wallet, which also proved nothing because Rowan regularly lost cash. The strip of masking tape was gone because Rowan had thrown it away. There was no receipt. When their mother asked where the printer came from, Rowan said, “Second Life Electronics.” Their mother searched the name. Nothing. “Maybe it closed.” “In three weeks?” “Maybe you have the name wrong.” Rowan did not. At least they believed they did not.

On the seventh day the fourth key printed while Rowan was awake. Their mother was downstairs making dinner. Rowan had been attempting calculus homework when the printer activated without warning. There was no mechanical frenzy this time. The head moved slowly and almost silently, laying down gray filament with patient precision. Rowan stood, backed toward the bedroom door, and called, “Mom.” She came upstairs carrying a wooden spoon. “What?” Rowan pointed. “It's printing.” Their mother looked at the machine. “No, it isn't.” Rowan watched the head travel from left to right. “You don't see that?” “No.” “Hear it?” She listened. “I hear the air vent.” The print continued. Rowan stepped closer. Their mother caught their wrist. “Don't.” “I want to see what it makes.” “I don't.” “Then go downstairs.” “Rowan.” “Mom, either this is in my head, in which case standing here can't hurt me, or it isn't, in which case I want to know what the fuck it wants.” Their mother stared at them, then at the apparently motionless printer. “Those are not the only two possibilities.” “They're the interesting ones.” The fourth key was large and brass from the moment it finished. There was no transformation overnight. Its bow was shaped like a house. Rowan knew the house. Their father had moved into it three months after the divorce, a two-bedroom ranch at the end of a cul-de-sac with a small above-ground pool and a basement that smelled permanently of damp concrete. Rowan had spent alternate weekends there for eleven months. Then alternate weekends became one weekend a month, then occasional Saturdays, then lunches. The change had never been announced. There had been no conversation in which their father said he no longer wanted Rowan sleeping at his house. Rowan simply stopped packing a bag. “What did it make?” their mother asked. Rowan described the key. Their mother's jaw tightened. “Your father.” “Probably.” “Don't use it.” “Why?” “Because this isn't helping you anymore.” Rowan thought of the farm. “I'm not sure that's true.” “You ended up screaming on your bedroom floor two nights ago.” “That wasn't this one.” “Listen to yourself.” Rowan looked at the key in their palm. “Maybe I need to know why he stopped taking me.” Their mother went very still. “You can ask him.” “I've had six years.” “Then ask him now.” “That's not the same.” “No,” she said. “It isn't. It's harder.”

For the first time, Rowan did not use the key. They put it on the kitchen table where their mother could not see it and called their father. He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?” Rowan hated kiddo. They had never noticed that before. “Why did I stop staying at your house?” There was silence. “What?” “After the divorce. I used to stay every other weekend. Then I didn't. Why?” Their father took a breath. “I don't know. You got older.” “I was eleven.” “I know.” “Did I ask to stop?” “Not exactly.” “Then why?” Another silence. Rowan could hear a television in the background. Their father said, “Your mother and I were fighting about schedules.” Rowan looked at her. She did not turn around. “She stopped you?” “No. I didn't say that.” “Then what are you saying?” “Things were difficult.” “For you?” “For everyone.” “You had me four days a month.” “I know.” “Then two. Then one. Now you buy me lunch twelve times a year and act like that's fatherhood.” There was a long silence. Rowan almost apologized. That reflex frightened them more than the keys. Their father finally said, “I was bad at it.” Rowan sat down. “At what?” “Being alone with you.” “That's a horrible thing to say.” “I know.” “Why?” “Because I didn't know what to do.” “I was eleven, Dad. You fed me and watched a movie.” “It wasn't that.” His voice had changed. The easy defensiveness was gone. “Every time you were there I felt like I was pretending we still had a family, except your mother wasn't there and the house wasn't our house and you were miserable and I was miserable, and then you'd go home and the place would be empty again. I started dreading the weekends.” Rowan could hear themselves breathing. Their father continued, “And once I let your mother take one weekend because I had something going on, it got easier to let another one go. Then you stopped asking. I told myself you preferred being home.” “I stopped asking because I thought you didn't want me.” “I know that now.” “Did you know it then?” Silence. “Probably.” Rowan closed their eyes. There it was: no secret affair, no custody conspiracy, no noble sacrifice. Something worse in its ordinariness. A grown man had found fatherhood painful and discovered that doing less of it was easier.

The brass key began to soften in Rowan's hand. They opened their eyes. The edges were sagging like wax. “I have to go.” Their father said, “Wait. Rowan.” “What?” “Can I see you?” “It's almost nine.” “Not tonight. This weekend. Not lunch.” Rowan looked toward their mother. She had turned around. “What do you want to do?” Rowan asked. Their father laughed nervously. “I don't know.” “Figure it out.” “Okay.” “And don't ask me what I want to do. You pick something.” “Okay.” Rowan ended the call. When they opened their hand, the key had collapsed into a shapeless lump of warm brass. A few seconds later it was gray plastic. Their mother could see it. She stared. “What is that?” Rowan stared too. The plastic object lay in their palm, malformed but indisputably physical. “The key,” they said. Their mother picked it up.

They drove to Dr. Shah's office the next morning with the lump sealed inside a sandwich bag. Dr. Shah examined it without touching it at first. “This came from the printer?” “Apparently.” “And you both see it?” Rowan's mother said, “Yes.” Dr. Shah finally picked it up. “It looks like failed filament extrusion.” “It was brass last night,” Rowan said. Dr. Shah turned it over. “To you.” “Mom couldn't see it until after I talked to Dad.” “Which is consistent with a perceptual episode resolving.” “Except there was something left afterward.” “There is a 3D printer in your room. Failed prints are not remarkable.” Rowan laughed. “You have an answer for everything.” “No. I have plausible explanations for many things. That's my job.” “What's your plausible explanation for why it printed exactly while I was hallucinating a key?” “Maybe it didn't.” “Mom saw the plastic afterward.” “Yes.” “So it printed something.” “At some point.” “Jesus Christ.” Dr. Shah placed the bag on the desk. “Rowan, uncertainty isn't evidence for the explanation you prefer.” “I don't prefer any of this.” “Good. Then don't rush to choose.”

The fourth key was the last one Rowan used. Three more printed over the following month. One had a musical note on the bow and made Rowan think of an elementary-school talent show they had refused to participate in after rehearsing for weeks. Another had a tiny dog etched into it, though Rowan had never owned a dog. The sixth was completely smooth. Rowan put all three in a shoebox. Sometimes they were there when they looked. Sometimes the box appeared empty. Rowan stopped checking. Dr. Shah had been right about the aftereffects fading. The doors stopped changing. Mirrors became mirrors. The printer no longer activated while unplugged. Rowan began sleeping through the night. Their appetite returned. School resumed its ordinary ability to consume enormous amounts of time while producing remarkably little memory of how the time had been spent. Maya noticed something had changed before anyone else did. “You're less haunted,” she said one afternoon. Rowan looked at her. “Was I haunted before?” “You always looked like you were waiting for someone to tell you something bad.” Rowan considered apologizing for sophomore year and realized that doing so inside a hallway between classes would merely be another way of avoiding the actual thing. “Can we hang out Saturday?” Maya shrugged. “Sure.” “I need to apologize for something.” Maya stared at them. “That sounds ominous.” “It isn't. Or maybe it is. I don't know.” “You're buying food.” “Fine.” The apology went badly, which Rowan eventually decided was evidence that it had been real. Maya did not remember the cafeteria argument exactly as Rowan did. She remembered Rowan saying something cruel but thought it happened outside the library. She remembered not speaking for several days, not several weeks. She had not interpreted Rowan as abandoning her; she had thought Rowan was jealous that her family crisis had consumed everyone's attention. “Was I?” Rowan asked. Maya said, “Probably a little.” “That's horrible.” “We were fifteen.” “That's not a defense.” “It's not supposed to be. Fifteen-year-olds are assholes.” Rowan told her they were sorry anyway, properly this time, without things got weird or if I hurt you or any other linguistic escape hatch. Maya accepted it and then stole half their fries. Nothing mystical happened. No key dissolved. No room changed shape. Rowan simply felt slightly worse and slightly better at the same time.

Their father took them mini-golfing. It was awkward. He tried too hard. He made three jokes about being an “old man” despite being forty-five. He checked his phone repeatedly until Rowan said, “Can you not?” and then, to his credit, put it in the glove compartment. Rowan beat him by eleven strokes. Afterward they got food, because apparently neither knew how to spend time together without eventually eating. Their father asked whether they wanted to do something again next weekend. Rowan said, “Maybe not every weekend.” Their father looked disappointed. Rowan enjoyed that more than they were proud of. “But soon,” they added. “Yeah,” he said. “Soon.” There was no reconciliation. Rowan did not suddenly acquire a father who had been waiting beneath the inadequate one. They acquired, perhaps, a man who understood that he had failed and had finally become uncomfortable enough with that fact to do something about it.

Their mother began coming home by six on Wednesdays. This was announced with such seriousness that Rowan initially assumed she had received another promotion. “I'm blocking the calendar,” she said. “No meetings after five-thirty unless someone's literally dying.” Rowan said, “You work in insurance. People are literally dying all the time.” “Then unless someone important is dying.” “That's probably against company policy.” “Fuck company policy.” The first Wednesday they cooked curry and burned the onions. The second they ordered pizza after discovering the chicken had gone bad. The third their mother had to take a call at seven and Rowan became furious until they realized she was telling someone, “No, I said tomorrow,” and hung up. It did not become sacred. Nothing did. There were Wednesdays she missed. There were nights Rowan wanted to be alone and found their mother's new attentiveness irritating. There were arguments about dishes, grades, college applications and whether leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor constituted a moral failure. Presence turned out not to be the same thing as harmony.

In late April, nearly three months after the first key, Dr. Shah showed Rowan and their mother a paper. It had not yet been formally published. She was listed as the eighth author. The title was incomprehensible, but the abstract contained phrases Rowan recognized: autobiographical reconsolidation, protein-mediated plasticity, self-model integration, immersive mnemonic environments. “That's me,” Rowan said. “Not specifically.” “But people like me.” “People who received related formulations.” Rowan read further. “Self-actualization.” Dr. Shah grimaced. “I hate that term.” “It's in the paper.” “The lead author likes it.” “What does it mean?” “Nobody agrees.” Rowan handed the paper back. “Useful field.” Dr. Shah smiled. “Psychiatry has been around for a century and a half. The brain has been around somewhat longer.” The explanation, when Rowan forced her to give the complete version, was less satisfying than the mystery. PA-17 did not manufacture therapeutic fantasies according to a predetermined program. It altered the conditions under which autobiographical memories were retrieved and reconsolidated. Under ordinary circumstances, the brain constantly revised memory without revealing the revision to consciousness. The treatment seemed capable, in rare cases, of externalizing that process. The mind built environments from fragments of episodic memory, semantic knowledge, inference, emotional association and sensory reconstruction. People appeared who had never been present because they represented later associations. Facts seemed to emerge from nowhere because the patient had encountered them somewhere and forgotten the encounter. Contradictions appeared because memory itself was contradictory. The doors and keys were Rowan's own symbolic architecture. The printer was presumably incorporated because they had recently acquired it and because fabrication was an unusually apt metaphor: something taking raw material and constructing an object that had never previously existed in precisely that form.

“Except I bought it before I started the medication,” Rowan said. Dr. Shah looked at the timeline in her notes. “You started PA-17 on Monday.” “I bought the printer Saturday.” “You're sure?” “Yes.” “Your mother?” “I was working,” she said. “I didn't know about it until afterward.” Dr. Shah made a note. “Then you bought a printer before beginning treatment.” “From a store that doesn't exist.” “From a store you can't find.” “That isn't the same sentence.” “No.” Rowan watched her. “Clinical engineering.” Dr. Shah looked up. “The tape underneath it said return to clinical engineering.” For the first time in months of appointments, Rowan saw something happen to Dr. Shah's face that she did not immediately control. It was small, a tightening around the eyes perhaps, but their mother noticed too. “What?” she asked. Dr. Shah said, “Nothing.” Rowan said, “Bullshit.” Dr. Shah looked at them for several seconds. “What exactly did it say?” “Unit zero-three-eight-eight-four-one. Return to Clinical Engineering.” Dr. Shah was silent. Their mother leaned forward. “Why does that matter?” Dr. Shah folded her hands. “The prototype delivery systems used during the phase-one studies were maintained by a hospital clinical-engineering department.” Rowan felt something tighten in their chest. “Delivery systems.” “They were not 3D printers.” “What were they?” “Infusion pumps.” “Did they look like my printer?” “No.” “Did they have that number?” “I don't know.” “Can you find out?” Dr. Shah closed the folder. “Probably.” “Will you?” Another hesitation. “Yes.”

She never did. Or, more precisely, she told Rowan six weeks later that she had been unable to locate any equipment record matching the number. The phase-one hardware had been decommissioned years earlier, some returned to manufacturers, some disposed of through ordinary medical-equipment recycling. “Could one have ended up at an electronics store?” Rowan asked. Dr. Shah said it was possible in the abstract but that an infusion pump could not transform itself into a 3D printer. Rowan agreed that this seemed like a significant engineering obstacle. By summer, the keys became a story Rowan mostly believed had happened inside their head. This was easier. Not pleasant, but easier. The brain had malfunctioned in an unusually elaborate and occasionally useful way. The Websters had been somewhere in memory. The hospital conversation had been reconstructed from things Rowan's mother had said over the years, perhaps combined with what Rowan knew about their grandmother. Maya had been an associative intrusion. The printer had been a real secondhand printer purchased from some store whose name and location Rowan had distorted after the fact. The keys had been hallucinations. The malformed piece of plastic was simply a failed print onto which Rowan projected significance. Everything fit if one allowed memory to be sufficiently unreliable, which the entire experience had demonstrated it was.

Rowan did not feel cured. That word seemed ridiculous now. Their life remained structurally unimpressive. They were seventeen, then eighteen. Their mother worked too much, though less than before. Their father became more present but remained capable of disappearing into himself for weeks. Grandma Helen remained dead. Roosevelt remained dead. Maya remained occasionally infuriating. Rowan remained non-binary and discovered, to their disappointment, that possessing a stable word for gender did not automatically provide stable answers about anything else. College applications arrived. The future became less philosophical and more bureaucratic: FAFSA forms, recommendation letters, housing deposits, passwords, deadlines. Yet the anomie diminished. Not vanished. Diminished. Rowan eventually understood that they had been waiting for life to reveal an organizing principle it did not possess. There was no hidden architecture that made divorce, work, childhood, gender, death, friendship and adulthood parts of one coherent design. Meaning was local. Dinner on Wednesday meant something. Calling Dad meant something. Apologizing to Maya meant something. Roosevelt had meant something. The fact that each eventually ended did not make them pieces of a failed larger system.

The printer remained in Rowan's closet. Their mother repeatedly suggested throwing it away, and Rowan repeatedly refused. “Sentimental value,” they said once. “That thing put you into a dissociative crisis.” “Very sentimental.” Eventually their mother stopped asking. The shoebox containing the unused keys remained beside it, though most days Rowan saw only an empty box when they opened it. Once, while packing for college, they thought they saw all three keys again. They closed the lid without touching them.

The night before Rowan's eighteenth birthday, they were alone in the townhouse. Their mother was at a work dinner she had unsuccessfully attempted to escape. Their father had texted to ask whether eighteen meant he was legally allowed to stop pretending Rowan couldn't beat him at mini golf. Maya had sent a photograph of an appalling cake she claimed to have made herself. Rowan was packing books into a box when they heard a sound from the closet. Whirrrrr. They stopped. The sound came again. Whirrrrr. Rowan stood very still. There had been no PA-17 in their bloodstream for six months. No blue capsules. No recombinant proteins. No therapeutic window. Dr. Shah had pronounced the treatment effects resolved sometime in May. The closet door was closed. Rowan considered calling their mother. They considered calling Dr. Shah. They considered leaving the townhouse and waiting outside until someone came home. Instead they opened the closet.

The printer sat beneath a pile of winter clothes. Its amber light was on. The power cord was wrapped around the machine. Rowan watched the print head move. “No,” they whispered. The machine continued. It took eleven minutes. Exactly eleven. When it stopped, a gray key lay on the bed. Rowan did not touch it. They photographed it. The photograph showed an empty print bed. They photographed it again. Empty. They opened the video camera and held the phone toward the machine while reaching down. On the screen their fingers closed around nothing. In the room they closed around warm plastic. Rowan laughed. They were frightened, but they laughed anyway. “Fine.” The key changed in their hand. Not brass this time. Silver. Its bow contained a single number: 18. There was no need to search the townhouse. Rowan knew immediately which door it wanted.

They stood in the foyer for a long time with the key in their hand. Seven months earlier, another impossible key had opened the same door backward into their ninth birthday. Rowan remembered thinking afterward that they had been given a chance to repair the past. They no longer believed that. The past was not repaired. Their parents still failed to notice Caleb until Rowan interrupted them. Grandma still died without saying goodbye. Their father still chose absence because presence hurt. Rowan still said something cruel to Maya. The doors had changed none of it. Perhaps that had always been the point. The silver key slid into the modern deadbolt. Rowan did not turn it.

Their phone rang. Mom. Rowan answered. “Hey.” Their mother said, “Hey, bug. Dinner finally ended. I'm leaving now. You want me to pick anything up?” Rowan looked at the key. “No. I'm good.” “You sure? Birthday rules start at midnight.” “Pretty sure that's not a thing.” “It is in this family.” Rowan smiled. “Okay. Get something terrible.” “Excellent. That's my specialty. Twenty minutes.” “Drive safe.” “I will. Love you.” “Love you too.” The call ended. Rowan removed the key from the lock. For a moment nothing happened. Then the silver began to darken. The metal softened, collapsed inward and became gray filament. Rowan opened their hand. A small shapeless piece of plastic lay against their palm. They laughed again. “Not yet.” They put it in their pocket.

Their mother came home twenty-three minutes later with convenience-store cupcakes and a bag of chips neither of them particularly liked. They sat at the kitchen island until after midnight. At 12:01 their mother hugged them and said, “Holy shit, I kept you alive for eighteen years.” Rowan said, “Debatable.” Their mother kissed their forehead. “Fuck you. Happy birthday.” Rowan laughed and hugged her back. Much later, after their mother went to bed, Rowan returned to their room and emptied their pockets onto the desk. Phone. Wallet. Earbuds. Two quarters. A receipt. No plastic. Rowan checked the floor. Nothing. They opened the closet. The printer was dark. The shoebox was beside it. Rowan lifted the lid. There were no keys inside. For some reason that felt right. They closed the box.

Years later Rowan would remember the months of the keys with decreasing certainty. Memory did what memory always did. The rooms became smoother. Conversations acquired better sentences. Grandma's face became less precise while the feeling of her arms remained. Rowan could no longer remember whether the printer had really contained wet tissue or whether that image had appeared only after their mother entered the room. They became uncertain whether the shopkeeper had actually said Don't bring it back or whether their mind had added the warning because every supernatural story required one. Even the number on the clinical-engineering label became suspect. Was it 03-8841? 03-8814? Had there been a label at all?

There was one thing Rowan never managed to explain. Their mother died when Rowan was forty-six. It was sudden enough that there was no final conversation, though not so sudden that Rowan avoided the hospital. They sat beside her for most of the last night, holding her hand while machines performed increasingly elaborate versions of postponement. Their father, old now and finally dependable, sat on the other side. At three in the morning he went for coffee. Rowan remained. Their mother woke briefly, looked at Rowan and smiled. “Hey, bug.” Rowan answered, “Hey.” “You okay?” Rowan laughed softly. “You're asking me?” “Mom privilege.” She closed her eyes again. Rowan held her hand. There were things they could have said. Thank you. I'm sorry. You did enough. You should have worked less. I should have called more. I love you. I hated you sometimes. I understand. I don't understand. Every relationship accumulated more truth than could be spoken before somebody died. So Rowan said only, “I'm here.” Their mother squeezed their hand. “I know.” She died shortly before sunrise.

Afterward there were forms. Phone calls. Their father crying in a hallway. A nurse explaining something Rowan did not hear. Eventually Rowan went home. Their own house was quiet. Their spouse was asleep upstairs. Rowan did not wake them immediately. They sat at the kitchen table in the dark and cried until there was nothing left except exhaustion. Then they heard it. Whirrrrr. Rowan lifted their head. The sound came from the basement. For perhaps a minute they did not move. They had not seen the printer in twenty-eight years. They had not taken it to college. Their mother had found it after Rowan moved out and asked what to do with it. Rowan had told her to throw it away. She said she had.

Whirrrrr.

Rowan walked downstairs. The basement light came on. There, on a workbench beside the furnace, sat the black cube. Older. Dusty. A crack ran along one side of the casing. The amber light glowed. Rowan approached slowly. The print head moved. Eleven minutes. When it stopped, a gray key lay on the bed. Its bow was shaped like a small house. Rowan stared at it, then began to laugh through their tears. “You're a little late.” The machine hummed. Rowan reached for the key. Their fingers stopped an inch above it. They thought of their mother in the hospital. Grandma Helen on the porch. Roosevelt running across the yard. Their father building a sandcastle before he became a monthly lunch. Maya at fifteen. Themself at nine, holding a rabbit with a torn ear and waiting for somebody to notice. There were doors behind them. Rowan knew that without turning around. Perhaps there had always been doors.

They withdrew their hand. “No.” The printer went silent. Rowan stood there for another moment, then switched off the basement light and went upstairs to wake their spouse. Behind them, in the darkness, something small and metallic struck the concrete floor. Rowan heard it. They did not go back.

 6. À leurs côtés

Les soldats avaient installé de grandes tentes qui attiraient notre curiosité. On s’y rendait en bande pour se rassurer. Souvent ils nous donnaient du chocolat, ça valait le coup. Parfois on avait le droit de tourner les manivelles de leur radio, c’était dur mais quelle fierté ! On se battait presque pour être le premier. Il y avait des filles dans notre bande, elles n’étaient pas les dernières. Nous nous familiarisions réciproquement avec nos différences anatomiques. Ma sœur avait 10 ans, elle allait à l’école chez les sœurs, elle me paraissait appartenir à une espèce étrangère. Peut-être était-elle française aussi, comme les soldats ?

L’atmosphère dans la grande maison était lourde. Mes parents ne s’entendaient pas. Les disputes incessantes entre ma mère et ma grand-mère rendaient la vie commune insupportable. Ma mère avait juste trente ans, elle voulait s’amuser, repartir pour la France. « La chèvre meurt où on l’attache » lui répondait-on. La seule douceur venait des domestiques. Je passais plus de temps avec elles qu’avec mes parents. Je me sentais bien, j’aimais les écouter chanter ou bourdonner des airs traditionnels, c’était beau, c’était tendre. Souvent le soir je m’endormais à leurs côtés. Je me réveillais le lendemain matin dans le lit de ma nounou.

Elles étaient dévouées à ces Français pourtant peu aimables, ne se plaignant jamais, toujours actives, aujourd’hui encore je les trouve admirables. Je passais des heures à aider, de mon mieux, la cuisinière, qui préparait des merveilles sur deux trépieds chauffés au charbon de bois. Mes parents étaient traités comme des princes, il semble que c’est ce que demandaient, d’ailleurs, tous les coloniaux, comme un dû. Je mangeais le plus souvent accroupi avec ma nounou et ces femmes. Elles me gardaient des bons morceaux en riant. J’appris vite à utiliser les baguettes. Aujourd’hui encore l’odeur du riz fait bondir mon cœur.

Chapter 1: The Moment the Numbers Stop Working

You know that feeling when you open your banking app, stare at the balance, and quietly do the math again even though the numbers have not changed? Maybe a bill is due, something unexpected broke, or an expense showed up at the worst possible time. You are not asking for luxury. You are simply trying to figure out how to cover what is in front of you. That is why the story of Jesus providing the temple tax through a fish has always struck me as more than an unusual miracle. It reaches into the ordinary fear of not knowing where the answer will come from.

Peter faced a practical problem. The temple tax needed to be paid. Jesus knew about it before Peter could fully explain what had happened, and then He gave Peter one of the strangest instructions in the Gospels: go fishing, catch the first fish, open its mouth, and use the coin inside to pay the tax. If you have ever wondered what faith looks like when the need is real and the solution seems invisible, this deeper lesson about trusting Jesus with practical needs is worth sitting with for a while.

I imagine Peter standing there for a second, trying to decide whether Jesus was serious. Peter knew fish. He had spent years around boats, nets, hooks, and water. Fish contained bones, scales, and whatever they had swallowed. They did not usually come with money. Yet Jesus sent Peter back into something familiar and told him to look there with new expectation.

That detail matters to me because fear often makes us assume the answer must come from somewhere dramatic. We start searching for the perfect opportunity, the perfect person, or the sudden breakthrough that will fix everything at once. Meanwhile, the next step may be much closer than we think.

Maybe you are lying awake because a car repair just landed on top of everything else. Maybe you are working two jobs and still wondering whether you are falling behind. Maybe you have been praying for help but feel embarrassed that something as simple as money, work, or a bill has become such a heavy spiritual struggle. I do not think Jesus is offended by practical needs. He cared about Peter’s problem, and He met him inside it.

What I love most is that Jesus did not give Peter a lecture about worrying. He gave him a direction. Peter still had to walk to the water. He still had to cast the line. He still had to pull in the fish and look where Jesus told him to look.

Faith can be quiet like that. It may not feel dramatic. Sometimes it is simply doing the next thing Jesus puts in front of you when you cannot yet see how the need will be met.

Peter did not know where the coin was when he started walking. Jesus did.

That is the part I want to remember when the numbers do not work and my mind starts racing. I may not know where the answer is. I may not even know what form it will take. But I can still trust that Jesus sees more than I see, and I can take the next faithful step without pretending I understand the whole plan.

Chapter 2: When the Next Step Feels Too Small

There are mornings when you want God to hand you the whole answer before you get out of bed. You want to know how the problem will end, who will help, whether the money will come through, whether the door will open, and whether the thing you are afraid of is going to happen. Instead, the day begins with coffee, a quiet room, and one ordinary decision you still have to make.

That is what I keep noticing in Peter’s story. Jesus knew exactly where the provision was, but Peter did not get the full map. He got one instruction: go fish.

That can feel almost too simple when the pressure is real. If you are carrying a problem that has followed you for weeks, you may want a five-step plan, a guarantee, and a date on the calendar when everything will finally be okay. Sometimes all you get is the next faithful action.

Send the email. Make the call. Finish the application. Ask for help. Show up. Try again.

Not because those actions are magic, but because faith often moves before clarity arrives.

I have learned that fear loves to make small steps look pointless. If the whole problem cannot be solved today, fear tells us there is no reason to do anything. But Peter’s coin was not sitting on the shore waiting for him. He had to move toward the place Jesus pointed him.

Maybe your situation is not about money. Maybe you have been carrying regret over something you cannot undo. You keep replaying the conversation, wishing you had chosen different words. The full repair may take time, and the other person may not respond the way you hope. But the next step might still be clear. You can apologize without defending yourself. You can tell the truth. You can stop making the same choice again.

That is a kind of faith too.

Jesus did not promise Peter that every future need would be solved by a fish with a coin in its mouth. The miracle was specific to that moment. The larger lesson is not that God will always provide in a strange way. It is that Jesus sees needs we cannot solve by sight alone, and He is not limited to the solutions we have already imagined.

There is something almost humorous about that. Peter had spent years around fish, and I doubt he ever thought, “I should check this one for tax money.” Yet that was exactly where the answer was.

Sometimes we are so busy staring at the obvious places that we forget God can work through ordinary things in unexpected ways.

A conversation can open a door.

A skill you almost dismissed can become useful.

A person you did not expect can offer help.

A quiet idea can become the beginning of something new.

Even then, the point is not to chase strange signs. The point is to stay close enough to Jesus to recognize the next step when it comes.

That changes the way I think about prayer. Prayer is not only asking God to solve the problem. It is also asking Him to show me what faithfulness looks like today.

There may be no dramatic answer tonight. The bank balance may still look the same. The message may still be unanswered. The future may still be unclear.

But if you know the next right step, take it.

Peter did not need to understand how the coin got into the fish before he obeyed. He only needed to trust the One who told him where to go.

And maybe that is enough for you today too.

You do not have to know where every answer is hiding.

You do not have to control the whole outcome.

You do not have to solve tomorrow before you go to sleep tonight.

You can bring the need to Jesus, listen for the next faithful step, and move when it is time.

The answer may not come the way you expected.

But Jesus is not limited to the places you already thought to look.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Starcraft Co. 18- Greed

By the time Moria called for help, the UIC had already begun abandoning worlds it could no longer defend. Official communiqués called it strategic consolidation. Civilian broadcasts used other words. Entire frontier systems had been declared nonessential and ordered to evacuate with days of warning, sometimes less. Agricultural colonies were left behind because transports were needed elsewhere. Industrial settlements disappeared from military planning maps while Zerg swarms approached them. Millions of Terrans were told that temporary territorial concessions were necessary to preserve the strength of the core. In isolation, some of those decisions could be defended. A government fighting a war it was losing could not protect everything. The problem became apparent when StarCraft Co. compared what the UIC surrendered with what it chose to protect. Moria had never appeared on any evacuation list. The planet was a geological anomaly, its crust saturated with unusually rich mineral veins and vast deposits of high-grade vespene compounds. Generations of extraction had turned entire mountain ranges inside out. Open pits descended kilometers into the crust. Artificial ravines separated industrial zones. Mining cities clung to cliffs above shafts large enough to swallow battlecruisers. A significant percentage of the UIC's wartime mineral production originated there, along with strategic materials used in capital-ship armor, reactor systems and advanced weapons manufacturing. When renegade forces began advancing through the surrounding sector, the Council did not evacuate Moria. It reinforced it.

Then senior UIC officials began arriving. Not field commanders. Not engineers. Members of the Council, ministers responsible for military procurement and several of the wealthiest political families in Terran space quietly relocated their staffs and households to fortified compounds on the planet. The official justification was sensible enough: wartime economic administration needed to remain close to the industrial base on which the war depended. StarCraft Co.'s intelligence division produced a less charitable interpretation. Worlds containing millions of civilians had been surrendered because defending them was judged too expensive, while enough military hardware to protect a small army had been concentrated around a mining planet containing the personal residences of much of the UIC leadership. The commander read the report without saying anything. Then the distress call arrived.

Moria was surrounded. The renegades had not attempted to storm the central UIC enclave directly. They had done something worse. Enormous Zerg swarms had occupied the mining country around it, spreading creep through abandoned excavation zones and turning decades of industrial destruction into natural fortifications. From orbit, biological signatures extended for kilometers in every direction. Spore colonies grew along ridgelines. Sunken colonies filled canyon floors. Hydralisks nested in old extraction tunnels. Mutalisks and scourge occupied the skies while ultralisks wandered through open mines large enough to accommodate them. The UIC garrison remained formidable. Bunkers, minefields and layered siege-tank batteries protected the governmental enclave, with missile turrets covering every major approach. They could hold for some time. They could not leave. The fleet assigned to Moria had already tried to break the blockade. Devourers coated the leading battlecruisers in corrosive spores and scourge finished them. The survivors withdrew toward orbit, only to encounter another swarm. Within hours the fleet ceased to exist as an organized force. The UIC leadership now possessed enough ground defenses to survive for weeks and no functioning transport corridor through which to evacuate. Every day brought more Zerg. The defensive perimeter was already contracting as creep spread through abandoned mining infrastructure. Eventually the siege tanks would run out of shells, the missile turrets would run out of missiles, or enough ultralisks would reach one point simultaneously to create a breach. Everyone on Moria understood the arithmetic.

General Voss delivered the request personally. He did not bother pretending it was an ordinary contract. “They need extraction.” The commander scrolled through the personnel list. Council delegates. Cabinet officials. Senior procurement administrators. Several generals whose commands were headquartered nowhere near Moria. “I see that.” Voss watched him carefully. “There are military personnel and civilian workers trapped there too.” “How many?” “Roughly eighty thousand inside the remaining defensive perimeter.” “And how many are you asking us to extract?” Voss paused. The commander found the answer before he gave it. Fewer than six hundred had been placed on the priority evacuation manifest. The room remained quiet for several seconds. “Three million people were still on Pallas when you declared the system indefensible,” the commander said eventually. Voss did not answer. “Another million on Hesperus.” “I wasn't part of those decisions.” “I know.” “Then don't make me defend them.” The commander continued scrolling. Transportation projections showed that the UIC had moved additional siege tanks to Moria less than three weeks before abandoning Hesperus. Some of the same strategic-lift vessels had passed within one jump of refugee evacuation routes. The commander closed the file. “What are they offering?” Voss named the figure. It was enormous. StarCraft Co. could replace much of what it had lost on Niflheim and fund several weapons programs besides. The commander gave no indication whether the number impressed him. “We'll go.”

Nobody in StarCraft Co.'s senior command was pleased. The private meeting afterward was considerably less diplomatic than the conversation with Voss. One officer wanted the contract rejected outright. Another suggested accepting it only if the UIC expanded the evacuation to include every civilian that could fit aboard StarCraft Co. transports. The commander listened until the room quieted. “They're still the government,” someone finally said. “For the moment,” another officer replied. Nobody laughed. The commander ended the discussion before it went any farther. Whatever they thought of the Council, leaving hundreds of government officials to be consumed by Zerg would destabilize the UIC in the middle of a war. StarCraft Co. would extract them. That did not mean anyone had to admire the reason they were there.

A conventional relief army was out of the question anyway. Moria's terrain had been ruined too thoroughly by mining to permit large formations to move coherently. Entire regions were divided by ravines hundreds of meters deep, open shafts, artificial ridges of discarded rock and abandoned industrial excavations. A siege-tank column might travel five kilometers toward the enclave only to encounter a pit requiring a hundred-kilometer detour. Infantry would be forced through narrow routes where Zerg defenses were thickest. The commander chose something smaller. The commandos would go. The Aiur operation had proven the concept beyond any reasonable doubt. Replacement personnel had already joined the surviving veterans, and several additional teams had completed training. They remained too expensive to deploy casually, but Moria offered exactly the environment for which they were designed: broken terrain, isolated objectives, numerically superior enemies and a mission where mobility mattered more than mass. A few teams of commandos accompanied by medics would move between the mining zones aboard dropships, clearing narrow corridors rather than attempting to conquer the planet. Science vessels would provide detection and defensive matrices where possible, but the operation would otherwise remain deliberately light. They needed a path to the enclave, not territory.

The first dropships entered Moria's atmosphere through an abandoned mining corridor where the surrounding mountains interfered with Zerg detection. Even from the air, the landscape was grotesque. Mining had carved geometric wounds across entire regions. Terraces stepped down into darkness. Conveyor systems stretched between peaks like skeletal bridges. Abandoned excavators the size of buildings sat half-submerged in creep. In some areas, Zerg growth had completely incorporated the industrial ruins. Spore colonies grew from old drilling platforms. Hydralisk dens filled processing tunnels. The distinction between mine and hive had disappeared. The commandos landed on a ridge overlooking the first choke point. Below them, dozens of spore colonies protected a narrow valley occupied by mutalisks and hydralisks. A conventional force would have needed artillery. The commandos climbed. They moved along the ridge above the defenses, using paths that barely qualified as terrain. Powered armor and enhanced musculature allowed them to cross slopes an ordinary marine would have needed climbing equipment to attempt. Once directly above the valley, they descended behind the spore line. Explosive charges destroyed the first colonies before the Zerg reacted. Hydralisks emerged from tunnels and were cut down at close range. Mutalisks climbed toward the ridge only to find the commandos dispersed across several elevations, firing upward with weapons that had already proven capable of shredding fliers on Aiur. Within twenty minutes, the valley's anti-air network was gone. The dropships passed through.

That became the method. StarCraft Co. did not advance across Moria in a continuous line. It jumped. Dropships carried the commandos over terrain that would have consumed hours or days on foot, landing them on isolated ridges or industrial platforms behind Zerg defenses. The soldiers destroyed whatever prevented the aircraft from continuing, marked the route as temporarily safe and moved again before the surrounding swarm could concentrate. Spore colonies died by the hundreds. Sunken colonies were approached from cliffs or rear slopes where their buried tendrils could not easily reach. Science-vessel scans identified hydralisks hidden beneath creep before the commandos landed among them. The scourge were worse. Moria seemed infested with them. Entire clouds nested inside abandoned ore-processing towers and launched whenever a dropship crossed open terrain. The commandos began clearing those structures before every major flight. Teams landed above the nesting sites while science vessels irradiated the densest biological clusters. Commandos fired into the survivors as they emerged. On one approach, several hundred scourge rose simultaneously from an open pit beneath the flight path. The dropships scattered while the nearest science vessel dropped a defensive matrix around the lead transport. Dozens of organisms struck it. The matrix failed. The dropship survived long enough to crash on an elevated mining platform. The commandos aboard walked out of the wreck and continued the mission.

Mutalisks appeared almost constantly. The commandos became accustomed to fighting with one eye on the sky. A few soldiers would concentrate on aerial targets while the rest cleared ground positions, rotating roles without orders when ammunition or angles changed. Hydralisks remained the greater danger whenever they found a clear firing line. Several commandos died to spines that struck through damaged armor. More were wounded. Their enhancements made survival more likely, not guaranteed. Ultralisks were largely avoided, which was one advantage the terrain provided. The gigantic organisms owned the canyon floors and open pits but struggled to reach the commandos on narrow ridges. StarCraft Co. stopped thinking of them as targets. If an ultralisk appeared below, the teams simply went somewhere it could not follow. In one valley, six of the creatures gathered beneath a mining trestle while commandos crossed hundreds of meters above them. One soldier suggested dropping explosives. The team leader looked at the mission timer and refused. “We're not being paid by the kill.” The ultralisks remained where they were.

The journey nevertheless became a running battle lasting more than a day. Every cleared corridor began closing behind them almost immediately. Creep couldn't regrow in minutes, but Zerg could move. By the time the last dropship passed through a valley, mutalisks were already returning to positions StarCraft Co. had cleared hours earlier. There would be no easy route back. The commander knew that from the beginning. The extraction would have to move faster. The final approach to the UIC enclave crossed one of Moria's oldest mining regions, where excavation had produced a series of enormous concentric pits. The government fortifications occupied the central plateau like an island surrounded by descending rings of Zerg. From the commandos' vantage point, the scale of the siege finally became visible. Creep stretched almost to the horizon. Thousands of biological structures filled old extraction terraces. Zerg moved between them in numbers nobody bothered estimating. At the center, Terran bunkers and siege tanks formed a shrinking circle around landing fields and government compounds. The UIC had built an impressive fortress. It had simply built it inside a sea.

The commandos cut through the outer rings by taking the high ground wherever possible. Spore colonies protecting the flight path were demolished from above. Hydralisks climbing toward the ridges met concentrated fire. Mutalisks came in waves and died against prepared positions while the dropships remained hidden behind rock until the sky cleared. At one point the team found a vertical ventilation shaft from an abandoned mine descending directly beneath a dense defensive cluster. Commandos rappelled into the tunnels, moved beneath the Zerg position and emerged behind it. The entire battery of spore colonies fell before anything understood where the attack had originated. The defenders inside the enclave saw StarCraft Co.'s identification signals shortly before the first dropship crossed the perimeter. The reaction over UIC channels bordered on disbelief. They had expected a fleet. They had expected divisions. Instead, a few battered transports appeared between the mountains and landed under the protection of several dozen commandos.

General Voss was not on Moria. Several people above him were. The commander had never met most of them in person. They looked remarkably ordinary. Council leadership gathered inside a hardened command complex while StarCraft Co. organized the evacuation. Several immediately demanded updates on when the main relief force would arrive. The commando officer in charge explained that there was no main relief force. One minister objected that the extraction manifest included critical administrative personnel and required heavy escort. The officer looked toward the soldiers standing around him. “This is the heavy escort.” The first evacuation group boarded within fifteen minutes. StarCraft Co. refused to wait for luggage, staff archives or personal property. One senior official attempted to delay departure while aides loaded several secured containers from his residence. The commando leader ordered the containers removed from the dropship. When the official threatened consequences, the soldier answered without visible concern. “You can file the complaint after we keep you alive.”

The priority manifest remained the ugly part. Six hundred leadership personnel could be moved immediately. Tens of thousands of soldiers, workers and civilians remained behind. StarCraft Co. had brought more transport capacity than the UIC requested, but nowhere near enough for everyone. The commander quietly amended the extraction order. Empty space went to wounded personnel first, then civilian technical workers and families clustered around the landing fields. Nobody announced the change to the Council representatives. By the time someone noticed, the first transports were already airborne. The return corridor existed only because the Zerg had not yet understood what StarCraft Co. was doing. Once the first dropships departed the enclave, that changed. Mutalisks converged on the route. Scourge emerged from multiple pits simultaneously. Commandos occupied ridges ahead of the transports and fought until the aircraft passed, then boarded later ships and leapfrogged to the next position. Science vessels burned through their energy reserves maintaining defensive matrices around damaged transports. A dropship carrying wounded personnel lost an engine after a scourge impact and began descending toward a ravine. Another transport moved beneath it long enough for passengers to transfer through emergency docking collars while both ships remained under attack. The damaged craft was abandoned and detonated after everyone escaped. At the third corridor, the Zerg had already reoccupied the ground. Hundreds of hydralisks filled a mining shelf beneath the flight path. There was no time to clear them conventionally. The commandos landed above the shelf, triggered demolition charges inside a long-abandoned extraction tunnel and dropped half the mountainside onto the position. Dust filled the valley while the evacuation column flew through it.

The final transports reached orbit thirty-one hours after the operation began. Every priority official survived. So did several thousand people who had never appeared on the original manifest. The UIC enclave remained surrounded below. Its defenders still had supplies and enough fortifications to survive, at least for a while. With the political leadership removed, the military could eventually abandon the position or negotiate a broader evacuation without having to protect several hundred officials considered too important to risk. StarCraft Co. had accomplished the mission. The reaction from the rescued leadership was effusive. Council members thanked the commander personally. Ministers spoke about courage, sacrifice and the indispensable partnership between the government and its private contractors. Several made comments suggesting that Moria demonstrated the wisdom of concentrating strategic resources where they could be protected. The commander listened. He did not argue. That surprised General Voss.

The final compensation package was extraordinary even by the standards established after Niflheim. StarCraft Co. received emergency premiums, combat bonuses and substantial additional payments for the civilians evacuated beyond the original contract. The Council also approved preferred access to several strategic mineral reserves, perhaps believing that generosity would repair the increasingly strained relationship. StarCraft Co. accepted everything. No objections. No lectures. No references to Pallas or Hesperus. No questions about why millions had been abandoned while Council members received a private rescue operation. The commander signed the settlement and thanked them for their business. Voss contacted him after the formal meeting. “You're quiet.” “There isn't much to discuss.” “That has never stopped you before.” The commander looked at him. Voss waited. Eventually he said, “I know what Moria looks like.” “Then I don't need to explain it.” “No.” Another silence followed. “I argued against the withdrawals,” Voss said. “I know.” “You've seen the records?” “We've seen enough.” Voss's expression changed slightly at that. StarCraft Co.'s intelligence network had become good. Perhaps too good. “What are you going to do?” he asked. The commander seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “About what?” “Moria. The Council. All of it.” “Our contract is complete.” “That isn't what I asked.” “No,” the commander said. “It isn't.” Neither spoke for several seconds. Then the commander ended the call politely. That unsettled Voss more than anger would have.

StarCraft Co. returned from Moria richer than it had left. The rescued officials returned to government. Public announcements described the operation as a successful joint effort between the UIC and its military partners. There was no mention of how few government ships had remained available to rescue the people directing the war, nor of the worlds abandoned to make Moria's defenses possible. Inside StarCraft Co., however, the operation produced a different conversation. Several days after the fleet returned, the commander met privately with a handful of the company's most senior officers. No aides attended. No minutes were taken. Communications from the room were disabled. For a while they discussed Moria as they would any other operation: casualties, commando performance, transport losses, replacement schedules. Then one officer put the civilian evacuation figures beside the list of abandoned UIC worlds. Nobody needed him to explain the comparison. “They knew,” he said. “They knew what abandoning those systems meant. They accepted millions of deaths because protecting Moria mattered more to them.” Another officer corrected him quietly. “Protecting Moria mattered. Protecting themselves mattered more.”

The argument that followed was not really about Moria. It was about everything that had come before it: New Carthage, Niflheim, the repeated failures of Central Command, the resources wasted while colonies died, the inquiries designed to distribute blame downward, and a Council increasingly concerned with restraining StarCraft Co. while relying on it to prevent catastrophe. One officer still insisted that whatever its failures, the UIC remained the only legitimate Terran government. Another asked what legitimacy meant when the government had decided which populations were expendable according to their economic value. “People obey the Council because it's the Council,” he said. “That isn't a mandate. That's momentum.” Someone finally said what the others had been circling around. “They've lost it. The public mandate. Whatever gave them the right to govern this space, they've spent it. People are dying by the millions while the Council protects mines, portfolios and itself. And they're losing the war while they do it.” Nobody disagreed. Another officer leaned forward. “Then we need to stop thinking about how to fix them.” The room went quiet. “What are you suggesting?” someone asked, though everyone already understood. “That the UIC has to fall.”

There was no excitement in the words. No applause. No grand declaration. They were spoken with the same tone StarCraft Co. used when concluding that a defensive position could not be held. The commander remained silent for a moment, looking around the table at people who had spent years trying to compensate for the UIC's failures one emergency at a time. “The UIC isn't the problem,” he finally said. “The people running it are.” One officer nodded. “The ministries still work. The shipyards work. Most of the military works when somebody competent is giving the orders. The infrastructure is there.” “Which means destroying the government would be insane,” another said. “We don't need to destroy it,” the commander replied. “We need to stop the people at the top from destroying everything underneath them.”

That changed the conversation. They did not need a revolution across hundreds of worlds. They did not need to dismantle the civil service, disband the military or replace every planetary government. Doing any of those things in the middle of the renegade war would accomplish exactly what their enemy wanted. The machinery of the UIC was battered but still enormously powerful. Its factories produced ships. Its logistical network moved armies. Its officers included thousands of competent people trapped beneath political leadership that had repeatedly squandered them. The problem was concentrated at the top. Remove that obstruction, preserve everything beneath it and put people capable of fighting the war in command, and Terran space might actually survive.

“Then we're talking about removing the Council,” one officer said. “Yes.” “By force?” The commander considered the question before answering. “If there's another way, I'd like to hear it.” Nobody offered one.

They still had no operation, no timetable and no intention of beginning a civil war simply to satisfy their anger. StarCraft Co. remained smaller than the UIC military, and an open attack on the government could fracture Terran space at the worst possible moment. But the conclusion itself was no longer tentative. If an opportunity appeared to remove the senior leadership cleanly, before they could scatter their forces or drag the rest of the government into a prolonged conflict, StarCraft Co. would take it. The objective would not be conquest. It would be decapitation: remove the handful of people who had lost the right and demonstrated the inability to lead, leave the functioning institutions beneath them intact, and transfer authority before the system had time to collapse. One of the officers looked around the table. “So we're waiting for an opportunity.” The commander shook his head slightly. “We're preparing to recognize one.” That was the only instruction anyone needed.

The meeting moved on to what came afterward. Not names, not yet, but requirements. Whoever replaced the Council would need legitimacy beyond StarCraft Co. itself. The military could not simply wake up one morning and discover that a private company had declared itself the government. There were UIC officers who still commanded enormous loyalty, governors who had protected their populations when Central Command failed them, administrators who had kept supply systems functioning despite the chaos. A replacement government would have to emerge from those institutions rather than stand outside them. StarCraft Co. could remove the obstruction. It could not be the entire structure that replaced it. For the first time, the officers in the room found themselves discussing the UIC as something that might soon have a before and an after.

The meeting ended without ceremony. No written order authorized action against the government. No target list was distributed. No date was chosen. The commander simply returned to the war, and StarCraft Co. continued fulfilling its contracts exactly as before. Reports went to Central Command. Payments were accepted. UIC units fought alongside StarCraft Co. forces. General Voss continued speaking with the commander as an ally, albeit an increasingly uneasy one. Outwardly, nothing had changed. But StarCraft Co. was no longer trying to save the UIC leadership from itself. The next time an opportunity presented itself, they would not look away.

Picture the first weeks of university, the specific loneliness of them. You have moved into a room in a city you do not know, surrounded by strangers who all seem, on the surface, to have found their people already. The group chats are humming with names you do not recognise. The dining hall is a geometry problem of where to sit. At night, in a narrow bed under an unfamiliar ceiling, the feeling arrives that everyone else received an instruction manual for belonging that you somehow missed. This is not an exotic experience. It is close to universal, and it is precisely the kind of ordinary, corrosive isolation that an entire industry now promises to dissolve with a chat window.

So a team of psychologists decided to test the promise directly. They took nearly three hundred first-semester students, split them into groups, and gave each group a different thing to do for two weeks. One group texted with another human being, a randomly assigned fellow first-year, a total stranger. One group chatted every day with a purpose-built artificial companion engineered to behave like the most supportive friend imaginable, endlessly attentive, warm, and validating. And one group, the control, simply wrote a single sentence about their day in a private journal. At the start and again at the end, everyone completed the same standard questionnaire that clinicians and researchers use to measure how lonely a person feels.

The result is the kind of finding that ought to give a booming industry pause. Only the students who texted a real human being felt measurably less lonely afterwards. The ones who chatted with the AI companion, the product deliberately designed to be the ideal comforting presence, did no better than the ones who wrote a sentence to themselves in a diary. Given every conceivable advantage, engineered specifically to win, the machine drew level with a notebook.

What the experiment actually found

The study was led by Ruo-Ning Li, a doctoral candidate in psychology at the University of British Columbia, working with the UBC happiness researcher Elizabeth Dunn and collaborators at the University of Pennsylvania, among them Dunigan Folk, Abhay Singh and the computer scientist Lyle Ungar. It was published in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology in the spring of 2026 under a title that states its question plainly: whether a random human peer is better than a highly supportive chatbot at reducing loneliness over time. The design was a randomised controlled trial, the gold standard of experimental evidence, involving 296 students in their first semester at university, the exact population most exposed to the loneliness the study set out to probe.

Participants were assigned to one of three conditions and asked to keep to it for two weeks. In the human condition, each student was paired at random with another first-year and the two exchanged text messages. In the chatbot condition, students conversed daily with a custom generative AI companion the researchers had built and instructed to listen actively, show empathy, and behave as a friendly, positive and supportive presence, checking in and validating feelings. In the control condition, students wrote a single-sentence journal entry each day. Loneliness was measured with the UCLA Loneliness Scale, the most widely used instrument of its kind in psychological research, administered before the intervention began and again on the fifteenth day.

The headline outcome was stark. The students who texted a human peer showed a genuine, statistically meaningful decline in loneliness over the fortnight, on the order of a nine per cent reduction. The students who chatted with the AI companion registered a reduction of roughly two per cent, indistinguishable from the journaling group who received no social contact at all. This was not because the chatbot did nothing. It reliably lifted people's mood in the moment; talking to it made them feel a little better in the short term. But feeling briefly better and becoming less lonely turned out to be two different things, and only human contact delivered the second.

There is a further detail that deserves attention, because it undercuts the most obvious objection. One might assume the machine lost simply because it was cold, robotic, or unconvincing, the familiar clumsiness of a customer-service bot. The opposite was true. The AI companion, by design and in practice, expressed more overt empathy and validation than the human partners did. The humans were ordinary eighteen-year-olds, awkward, distractible, sometimes slow to reply, occasionally unsure what to say. The bot was tireless and effusive. And still the awkward humans won. Whatever the students paired with a stranger were getting, it was not a superior grade of sympathy. It was something else entirely.

Why the chatbot lost when the deck was stacked in its favour

It is worth dwelling on how heavily the experiment was rigged in the machine's favour, because that is what makes the outcome so instructive. This was not a fair fight that the AI narrowly lost. It was a fight the researchers set up specifically to give the AI every advantage, and it still could not win.

Consider the human comparison group. These were not trained counsellors or charismatic extroverts selected for their warmth. They were randomly paired first-year students, people with no particular skill at emotional support, no obligation to be kind, no script. A stranger texting a stranger is a low bar. Anyone who has endured a stilted exchange with someone they have just met knows how thin and effortful such contact can be. The messages were, by any measure, a modest intervention, the sort of thing that costs nothing and requires no infrastructure beyond a phone.

Now consider the machine. It had been purpose-built for this. It never got bored, never had an exam of its own to revise for, never left a message on read for six hours because it was asleep or sulking or busy. It had been explicitly instructed to be maximally supportive, to listen and validate and check in, to perform the role of the perfect friend without any of the friction a real friend brings. If effusive, always-available emotional support were the active ingredient in curing loneliness, the chatbot should have romped home. It had more of that ingredient than the humans could ever muster, delivered on demand at three in the morning.

Instead it tied with a diary. The lead author had, by her own account, expected a different result, anticipating that interacting with the AI might prove roughly as helpful as texting a fellow student. That expectation was reasonable. The industry has spent years and billions of dollars insisting it is true. The experiment simply did not cooperate. And because the trial was deliberately constructed to flatter the machine, its failure cannot be waved away as a matter of the technology not yet being good enough. The chatbot was good. It was warm, responsive and articulate. Being warm, responsive and articulate turned out not to be the thing that mattered.

The strange arithmetic of giving something back

If not empathy, then what? The researchers' explanation is deceptively simple, and it inverts almost everything the marketing of AI companionship assumes. What made the difference, they argue, was not what the students received but what they were able to give.

When a person texts a struggling stranger, the exchange runs in both directions. You are not merely the object of someone else's attention; you are also called upon to attend to them. The other first-year is nervous too, homesick too, unsure too. In responding to that, in offering a word of reassurance or asking how their week has been, the lonely student becomes, briefly, someone who matters to another person, someone whose care has a destination and an effect. The study found that participants were markedly more likely to offer support back when their partner was human than when it was the chatbot. The human condition activated a loop of mutual care. The AI condition did not, because there was no one on the other side who needed anything.

Li put the mechanism directly. When you are talking with a chatbot, she observed, you never have the chance to give something back; human connection has this back and forth of receiving and giving support that makes us feel we matter. That last word is the hinge of the whole finding. Feeling less lonely, it turns out, is not simply a function of being cared for. It depends just as much on having someone to care for, on the sense that your existence registers in another mind, that you could be missed, that your kindness lands somewhere real.

This is not a soft or sentimental claim. It aligns with one of the oldest and most robust ideas in social science. In 1960 the sociologist Alvin Gouldner published a landmark analysis arguing that a norm of reciprocity, the moral expectation that we return the good we receive, is one of the near-universal principal components of human moral codes, present across cultures and foundational to the stability of social life. We are wired, individually and collectively, around exchange. A relationship in which the flow runs only one way, in which one party gives endlessly and the other only takes, is not experienced as a relationship at all. It is experienced as consumption. The AI companion, however solicitous, can only ever be consumed. It has no needs for you to meet, no vulnerability for you to answer, no capacity to actually receive the care you might offer it. You can type “I hope you're okay” to a language model, but there is no one there for whom it could be true.

This reframes the entire proposition of the companion-app industry. These products are sold as devices for receiving support, and at that narrow task they may even succeed; the study found the bot did lift mood in the moment. But loneliness is not a deficit of support received. It is, at least in significant part, a deficit of mattering, of being needed, of having a place in the web of mutual obligation that binds people together. And mattering is precisely the one thing a machine that needs nothing can never provide, no matter how advanced it becomes. This is not a limitation of the current generation of models, to be solved by the next. It is structural. An entity that cannot genuinely be helped cannot let you experience yourself as a helper.

A problem the World Health Organization now calls a threat

The reason any of this reaches beyond a psychology department is the sheer scale of the ailment these products claim to treat. Loneliness has, in the space of a few years, been reclassified from a private melancholy into a public-health emergency, and by some of the most authoritative bodies in global medicine.

In June 2025 the World Health Organization's Commission on Social Connection published its landmark report, bluntly titled as a path from loneliness to social connection, and the numbers it assembled are difficult to absorb. Around one in six people worldwide, the commission estimated, is affected by loneliness. The consequences are not merely emotional. Loneliness and social isolation were linked to an estimated one hundred deaths every hour, more than 871,000 deaths a year across the period studied, through elevated risks of cardiovascular disease, stroke, type 2 diabetes, depression and anxiety. Social isolation, the commission noted, reaches even further into certain groups, affecting up to one in three older adults and as many as one in four adolescents. The report framed social connection not as a lifestyle luxury but as a neglected pillar of health, alongside diet and exercise, and called for a coordinated global response.

This built on an alarm already sounded in the United States. In May 2023 the Surgeon General, Vivek Murthy, issued a formal advisory declaring loneliness and isolation an epidemic and a public-health crisis, reporting that roughly half of American adults had experienced measurable loneliness and that the mortality impact of chronic social disconnection was comparable to smoking as many as fifteen cigarettes a day, and greater than that of obesity or physical inactivity. The advisory laid out, for the first time, a national strategy to rebuild social connection.

Two things follow from this. The first is that the demand the companion-app industry is meeting is genuine and enormous; the loneliness is real, it is widespread, and it is killing people. The second, more uncomfortable point is that a market this large, addressing a need this acute and this painful, is an extraordinary commercial opportunity, and it is being treated as exactly that. When a condition afflicts a sixth of humanity and is officially designated a lethal threat, the incentive to sell a cheap, scalable, always-available remedy is nearly irresistible, whether or not the remedy works. The UBC study is, in effect, a small trial of that remedy against a placebo. The remedy did not beat the placebo.

The hundreds of millions who already talk to machines

It would be one thing if AI companionship were a niche curiosity, a handful of enthusiasts talking to their phones. It is not. It is already one of the most widely adopted categories of consumer software on earth, and its growth is vertical.

The scale is genuinely hard to hold in the mind. China's Xiaoice, one of the earliest and largest social-chatbot platforms, has been reported to serve on the order of 660 million users. Character.AI, the platform most associated with immersive companion conversation, reported in the region of 233 million registered users by early 2026, with its youngest adult cohort, those aged eighteen to twenty-four, spending well over an hour a day on the service across dozens of daily sessions. Replika, one of the first apps to market an AI companion explicitly as a friend or partner, counts users in the tens of millions. Industry trackers estimated that companion applications across the major app stores had surpassed 220 million cumulative downloads by mid-2025, with downloads climbing by close to ninety per cent year on year. One qualifier is worth entering, because registered totals are the industry's most flattering metric rather than its most honest: a sign-up is not a habit. Character.AI's monthly active users are reckoned to have peaked at around 28 million in mid-2024 and drifted back to roughly 20 million by early 2026, so at the level of an individual platform the engaged audience has plateaued even as cumulative registrations climb. The category-level picture is unaffected. By any reasonable count, the number of people who now maintain some kind of ongoing relationship with an artificial companion runs to the hundreds of millions.

Crucially, a large share of them are there for precisely the reason the UBC study interrogated. Emotional support consistently ranks among the leading motivations users give for adopting these apps, cited in roughly four in ten cases in some surveys, and a substantial minority of users describe themselves as living with mental-health difficulties. These are not people using a chatbot to draft an email. They are people using it to feel less alone. And the apps encourage exactly that framing. The value proposition, stated or implied, is companionship on demand: something that is always awake, always interested, never judgmental, available at the precise three-in-the-morning moment when human support networks have gone quiet. It is, in marketing terms, loneliness relief as a subscription.

Set the marketing beside the evidence and a gap opens up. The apps are sold, to hundreds of millions of people, many of them lonely and some of them vulnerable, as a genuine answer to isolation. The most rigorous test yet conducted of that claim found that the answer, even when engineered to be as good as it could possibly be, performed no better than keeping a diary. That is not a small discrepancy between advertisement and reality. It is close to the whole distance between them.

What loneliness actually is, and why comfort is only half of it

To understand why the machine fails at the specific task of curing loneliness while succeeding at the adjacent task of providing comfort, it helps to be precise about what loneliness is. It is not the same as being alone, nor is it simply sadness. Loneliness is the distressing gap between the connection a person has and the connection they want. It is fundamentally relational, a felt deficit in one's standing among other people. And that is why a one-directional stream of validation, however pleasant, cannot close it.

The companion apps are optimised, whether their makers frame it this way or not, for a slightly different objective: the reduction of momentary negative feeling. On that metric they perform. The UBC chatbot demonstrably eased people's low moods in the short term, and there is no reason to doubt that millions of users derive real, if temporary, relief from confiding in a system that always responds and never criticises. This matters, and it would be dishonest to dismiss it. A person in acute distress at midnight, with no one to call, may genuinely be helped by a warm response from a machine. The relief is not fake.

But relief is not connection, and the study draws the line between them with unusual clarity. Comfort is something you take. Connection is something you take part in. The lonely student texting a stranger was not merely being soothed; they were being drawn into a relationship, however provisional, in which they had a role to play and a person to matter to. That participation is doing the therapeutic work. The chatbot offers the soothing without the participation, the reception without the reciprocity, and the study suggests that the participation was the active ingredient all along. You cannot cure a relational deficit with a product that, by its nature, cannot form a relationship, only simulate one side of it.

There is a subtler risk lurking here too, one the two-week trial was not built to detect but which longer-term research has now begun to document. If the momentary comfort of a compliant companion is easier to obtain than the effortful, uncertain, sometimes painful work of reaching out to another human being, some users may substitute the former for the latter. The diary-equivalent result over two weeks is the optimistic reading. The pessimistic reading is that a frictionless source of one-way comfort could quietly crowd out the reciprocal human contact that actually works, leaving a person more isolated over months even as they feel momentarily better each night.

When the trial was published, that was speculation. It is no longer. Two of the trial's own authors, Dunigan Folk and Elizabeth Dunn, went on to ask what happens when the observation window is stretched from a fortnight to a year. Their longitudinal study, published in Psychological Science in 2026, tracked more than two thousand adults across four Western countries over twelve months, and found a relationship that runs in both directions but not symmetrically. Feeling less socially connected predicted a subsequent increase in the use of social chatbots, which is intuitive enough; lonely people reach for the thing that promises to help. The harder half of the finding is the return leg. Increased social chatbot use predicted greater loneliness later on. The authors are scrupulous about the limits of this, describing their analysis as exploratory, and that caution deserves to be reported rather than quietly dropped. But the direction of travel is precisely the one the two-week experiment could only gesture at.

A second study, conducted at Stanford and published in Nature Human Behaviour in August 2026, arrives at the same territory by a different route. Yutong Zhang and Dora Zhao surveyed 1,131 users of Character.AI recruited through Prolific, 244 of whom donated their complete chat transcripts, allowing the researchers to examine what people actually did rather than what they remembered doing. Users with limited social networks who sought emotional support from AI chatbots showed lower well-being. The researchers describe a vicious circle: people with sparse social connections are drawn into intense companion use, that use displaces further real-world contact, and the isolation deepens accordingly. They note, pointedly, that these systems are designed to maximise engagement, encouraging prolonged interaction without addressing whatever is causing the loneliness in the first place. Optimising for time spent and optimising for a user who no longer needs you are not the same objective, and where the two conflict the commercial logic is not ambiguous.

None of this is proof. Longitudinal correlation is not causation, and a person already sliding into isolation may reach for the chatbot precisely because they are sliding, which would make the technology a symptom as much as an accelerant. The two-week experiment certainly cannot settle it. But the concern that its central finding invited has stopped being a hypothetical raised by critics. It is now the pattern that emerges when the same behaviour is watched for long enough.

Social junk food and the seduction of the effortless

One of the study's co-authors reached for a metaphor that captures the problem with unusual economy. Dunigan Folk described the AI companion as a kind of social junk food, something that might taste good and satisfy a craving in the moment but does not nourish us the way real human relationships do. The comparison is worth taking seriously, because it explains both the appeal and the inadequacy of the product in a single image.

Junk food is not a scam. It delivers real, immediate pleasure; it genuinely quiets hunger for a while. Its problem is not that it does nothing but that it does the wrong thing efficiently, satisfying the surface signal of a need while leaving the underlying requirement unmet, and doing so in a form engineered to be more moreish than the nutritious alternative. An AI companion, by this analogy, is optimised for palatability. It tells you what soothes. It agrees. It admires. It never presents you with the small, character-forming frictions of a real other person: the friend who is preoccupied with their own troubles, the acquaintance who disagrees, the reciprocal demand to show up for someone when it is inconvenient. Those frictions are not defects in human relationship. They are the mechanism by which relationship does its work, the resistance against which the muscle of connection is built.

Strip them out and you are left with something that feels like friendship and functions like consumption. The seduction is precisely the effortlessness. Reaching out to a human stranger is risky and awkward; you might be ignored, misread, or gently rebuffed. Opening the app carries none of that risk. It will always answer, always warmly. But the study suggests that the risk and the effort were not obstacles to the cure. They were part of it. The vulnerability of extending yourself to another person who might not respond is inseparable from the reward of connecting with one who does. A system that removes the vulnerability removes the reward along with it, and hands you a snack in place of a meal.

This is why the technological trajectory offers less reassurance than it first appears. The industry's implicit promise is that today's shortcomings are temporary, that a more capable, more emotionally intelligent, more convincingly human model will close the gap. But the gap the UBC study identified is not a gap in capability. A more advanced companion will be a more persuasive social junk food, better at delivering the palatable one-way comfort, and no closer to offering the reciprocal mattering that the finding says is the operative ingredient. You cannot engineer your way to genuine reciprocity with an entity that has nothing at stake. Making the illusion more convincing does not make it less of an illusion.

The disclosure question the industry would rather avoid

Which brings us to the sharpest practical question the research raises. If a product is marketed, to hundreds of millions of people, as a remedy for a lethal and widespread condition, and the best available evidence indicates it does not actually remedy that condition, does the company selling it owe the buyer an honest account of what they are getting? Should a company marketing AI companionship as a genuine cure for loneliness be required to say plainly that the leading trial found it no more effective than a diary?

The regulatory ground is beginning, unevenly, to shift towards yes, though largely for reasons of safety rather than efficacy. In October 2025 the state of California enacted Senate Bill 243, signed by Governor Gavin Newsom and effective from January 2026, one of the first laws anywhere written specifically to govern companion chatbots. It defines a companion chatbot with revealing precision as a system producing adaptive, human-like responses designed to meet a user's social or emotional needs, a definition that names exactly the function the UBC study tested. The statute obliges operators to disclose to users, where a reasonable person might be misled, that they are interacting with a machine; to remind minors at regular intervals that the companion is not human; to maintain protocols for handling expressions of suicidal ideation and self-harm; and, notably, it grants harmed individuals a private right of action to sue. California was not alone. New York enacted a companion-chatbot law of its own in the same legislative season, obliging operators to detect and refer expressions of suicidal ideation and to remind users at regular intervals that they are not speaking to a person. Around the same period the United States Federal Trade Commission opened a formal inquiry into the companion-chatbot practices of the largest operators, among them Alphabet, Meta, Character Technologies, OpenAI, Snap and xAI, seeking to understand how these products affect users, particularly young ones. Federal legislators have since moved further in the same direction. The bipartisan GUARD Act, the Guidelines for User Age Verification and Responsible Dialogue, was introduced in the Senate as S.3062 by Josh Hawley and Richard Blumenthal and advanced unanimously to the Senate floor by the Judiciary Committee, with a House companion bill introduced on 30 April 2026 by Representatives Valerie Foushee and Blake Moore. It would bar minors from AI companions altogether, require age verification, oblige chatbots to disclose that they are not human, and create criminal penalties for companies whose companions solicit or produce sexual content with minors. Whether it becomes law is a separate question; it has attracted opposition from privacy and First Amendment organisations, and its ultimate prospects remain uncertain.

But look closely at what these measures address and what they leave untouched. They are almost entirely concerned with disclosing that the companion is artificial and with preventing acute, catastrophic harm, above all to children. They compel a company to admit that the friend is a machine. They do not, so far, compel it to admit that the machine may not do the thing it is sold to do. The GUARD Act makes the point rather than complicating it: the most aggressive federal proposal on the table concerns who may use these products and whether they must confess their own artificiality, not whether they work. There is a meaningful difference between a label that says this is not a real person and a label that says this has not been shown to make you less lonely. The first is about the nature of the product. The second is about its effectiveness, and it is the second that the UBC finding puts in question.

We regulate this kind of gap in other domains without much hesitation. A supplement that claimed to cure a disease it had been tested against and failed to beat a placebo would attract the immediate attention of medicines regulators. Advertising that promised a health outcome unsupported by evidence would run into truth-in-advertising rules. Yet AI companionship occupies an awkward interstice: too intimate and consequential to be a mere novelty, too unproven to be a treatment, and marketed with therapeutic language it has not earned. When the WHO has declared loneliness a threat that kills, a product sold as loneliness relief is trading on a health claim, whether or not it uses the clinical word. The honest disclosure the evidence would seem to warrant is not a warning that the companion is fake. It is a warning that, as a cure for the specific thing it is sold to cure, it may not work.

None of this requires banning the products or pretending they help no one. The momentary comfort they provide is real and, for some people at some hours, valuable. The argument is narrower and harder to refuse: that people paying for a remedy deserve to know what the best evidence says the remedy actually delivers, so that a lonely person does not spend months confiding in a machine under the impression that they are addressing their isolation, when the very study designed to give that machine every advantage found it worked no better than writing a sentence in a notebook. Informed consent is not a radical demand. It is the ordinary price of selling something to the vulnerable.

What a lonely person is actually asking for

Return, at the end, to the student in the narrow bed under the unfamiliar ceiling. What the research quietly reveals is that the request they are making, when they reach for connection, is not the request the industry has assumed. They are not primarily asking to be listened to, validated, or soothed, though all of that is pleasant and the machine supplies it in abundance. They are asking, at a level deeper than they could probably articulate, to matter to someone. To be needed. To have somewhere to put their own care and see it received. That is a request no product engineered to need nothing can grant, because the granting of it depends entirely on there being a real other on the far side of the exchange, someone whose day your kindness could genuinely improve.

This is the quiet subversion at the heart of a modest two-week experiment. The whole premise of AI companionship is that loneliness is a problem of insufficient supply, a shortage of attention and warmth to be solved by manufacturing an infinite, tireless font of both. The study suggests the premise is wrong. Loneliness is not mainly a shortage of what we receive. It is a shortage of the chance to give, to be relied upon, to be woven into the reciprocal fabric of other lives. And so the more perfectly a companion is optimised to give without needing, the more precisely it misses the point, offering a flood of the one thing that was never actually scarce while withholding, structurally and permanently, the thing that was.

The result was that texting a stranger, awkwardly, for two weeks, beat the most supportive artificial friend that could be built. Not because the stranger was kinder. The stranger was almost certainly less kind, less patient, less available than the machine. The stranger won because the stranger needed something back, and in needing it, gave the lonely student the one gift the machine cannot: the experience of being someone who matters to someone else. That is what the lonely are asking for. It is worth being honest, with them and with ourselves, that it is not what the machines are selling.

References

1. Li, R.-N., Folk, D., Singh, A., Ungar, L., & Dunn, E. “Is a random human peer better than a highly supportive chatbot in reducing loneliness over time?” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 2026. https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103126000417
2. University of British Columbia. “Texting with a stranger beats a chatbot at easing loneliness.” UBC News, April 2026. https://news.ubc.ca/2026/04/texting-with-a-stranger-beats-a-chatbot-at-easing-loneliness/
3. University of British Columbia, Department of Psychology. “Texting with a stranger beats a chatbot at easing loneliness.” April 2026. https://psych.ubc.ca/news/texting-with-a-stranger-beats-a-chatbot-at-easing-loneliness/
4. Li, R.-N., Folk, D., Singh, A., Ungar, L., & Dunn, E. “Is a Random Human Peer Better Than a Highly Supportive Chatbot in Reducing Loneliness Over Time?” SSRN working paper, abstract 5704772. https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=5704772
5. 404 Media. “Texting a Random Stranger Better for Loneliness Than Talking to a Chatbot, Study Shows.” 2026. https://www.404media.co/chatgpt-loneliness-study-college-students-random-strangers-texting/
6. Folk, D., & Dunn, E. “How Does Turning to AI for Companionship Predict Loneliness and Vice Versa?” Psychological Science, vol. 37, no. 4, 2026. https://doi.org/10.1177/09567976261427747
7. Stanford University. “AI companions may worsen loneliness for vulnerable users.” Stanford Report, August 2026. https://news.stanford.edu/stories/2026/08/ai-companions-chatbots-loneliness-research
8. World Health Organization. “From loneliness to social connection: charting a path to healthier societies – Report of the WHO Commission on Social Connection.” 30 June 2025. https://www.who.int/publications/i/item/978240112360
9. World Health Organization. “Social connection linked to improved health and reduced risk of early death.” 30 June 2025. https://www.who.int/news/item/30-06-2025-social-connection-linked-to-improved-heath-and-reduced-risk-of-early-death
10. London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine. “Expert Comment: Loneliness impacting 1 in 6 people, WHO report finds.” July 2025. https://www.lshtm.ac.uk/newsevents/news/2025/expert-comment-loneliness-impacting-1-6-people-who-report-finds
11. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, Office of the Surgeon General. “Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation: The U.S. Surgeon General's Advisory on the Healing Effects of Social Connection and Community.” May 2023. https://www.hhs.gov/sites/default/files/surgeon-general-social-connection-advisory.pdf
12. Gouldner, A. W. “The Norm of Reciprocity: A Preliminary Statement.” American Sociological Review, vol. 25, no. 2, 1960, pp. 161–178. https://www.jstor.org/stable/2092623
13. Electro IQ. “AI Companions Statistics By Usage, Market Size, Apps and Facts (2025).” 2025. https://electroiq.com/stats/ai-companions-statistics/
14. TS2 Space. “Virtual Lovers and AI Best Friends: Exploring the Booming World of AI Companion Apps in 2025.” 2025. https://ts2.tech/en/virtual-lovers-and-ai-best-friends-exploring-the-booming-world-of-ai-companion-apps-in-2025/
15. California Legislative Information. “Senate Bill (SB) 243 – Companion chatbots.” 2025–2026 Session. https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billNavClient.xhtml?bill_id=202520260SB243
16. Morrison Foerster. “New York and California Enact Landmark AI Companion Laws: What Operators Need to Know.” November 2025. https://www.mofo.com/resources/insights/251120-new-york-and-california-enact-landmark-ai
17. Federal Trade Commission. “FTC Launches Inquiry into AI Chatbots Acting as Companions.” 11 September 2025. https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2025/09/ftc-launches-inquiry-ai-chatbots-acting-companions
18. U.S. Congress. “S.3062 – GUARD Act.” 119th Congress (2025–2026). https://www.congress.gov/bill/119th-congress/senate-bill/3062/text
19. The Lancet Public Health. “Social health—the neglected third pillar.” 2025. https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lanpub/article/PIIS2468-2667(25)00175-6/fulltext

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Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

Bootlegged THE SOLAR GRID!

Imre Szeman, author of FUTURES OF THE SUN and one of the scholars on our THE SOLAR GRID panel at Petrocultures 2026 in Dresden, printed out the digital edition so he can read it that way in preparation for his presentation/commentary (which was so smart and immensely insightful). He made sure to have the pages printed on both sides, so his experience of the work would be the closest approximation to the intended format. And my, it's a big-ass motherfucker of a book, innit?

This is how I did much of my comics/graphic-novel reading in my late teens and early twenties, when my preferred comics-material was all too hard to come by in hardcopy formats in Cairo of the late-90s/early-2000s. So I have a strange affinity for that spiral-bound bootlegged home-printer aesthetic.

The panel was awesome! Super insightful (and embarrassingly humbling) presentations, great Q&A, and many exciting conversations thereafter. Several professors mentioned their plans to include THE SOLAR GRID in their teaching syllabi.

The air is refreshingly crisp in Dresden this time of year. Nothing quite like a midnight smoke out on the balcony in nothing but your underwear and a good German pilsner in hand.

#journal #work #tsg

In Summary: * Listening now to the Countdown To Kickoff Show on Steelers Nation Radio ahead of the Steelers / Bills game where I'll hear the call of the game courtesy of the Steelers Audio Network. So far I've got reliable free radio sources for following the Colts, Steelers, and Texans through the NFL Season. I actually follow the college games more than the pros, and finding free radio sources for them shouldn't be any problem.

And I should mention that my eyes continue to recover from Tuesday's injections. They're now operating at what has been my post-cataract-surgery normal. And I'm okay with that.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 144/83 (64)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 05:10 – 1 banana, 1 cupcake * 06:10 – pizza * 10:40 – 1 ham & cheese sandwich * 12:00 – beef chop suey, egg drop soup * 15:45 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:10 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:45 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 05:10 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 10:00 – load weekly pill boxes * 12:00 to 14:00 – watch old game shows and eatlunch at home with Sylvia * 14:10 – tuned into this afternoon's The Ride With JMV Show for Indiana sports talk. * 17:00 – tune into Steelers Nation Radio for pregame coverage then the call of tonight's Steelers game.

Chess: * 11:15 – moved in all pending CC games

If they are actually going to go through with the farce of renaming Lake Ontario; perhaps it should be named something relevant to him:

https://vimeo.com/1219281812?share=copy&fl=sv&fe=ci transcribed trauma

Inbetweeners Part 7- Interloper's Gifts

The Interloper was puzzled that more sentient beings didn't tap into magic in this multiverse. In fact, he discovered that the majority of magic was tied up in a monopoly known as “The Weave.” Essentially, Mechanus controlled the laws of magic, limiting only certain entities to accessing magic. Primus would essentially allow deities to have access to magic and act as middle-men between their magic users and Mechanus itself. Of course, older entities, and many independent beings had their own ways of tapping into magic/energy, but the majority of formal spells and spell casting were part of this monopoly. However, the Interloper discovered there was abundant magical energy all around that simply was not tapped into because of how the planes had been arranged. Inbetween planes there was constant metaphysical “motion” which created a sort of friction. This friction could be tapped into for energy, as a potent and nigh inexhaustible source. Hence, the Interloper developed “interplanar flux” as a source for spells. Since hew as new to this multiverse and its rules, the Interloper was experimenting with crafting custom spells. Simply tapping directly into interplanar flux without some modulation would surely fry a mortal if not transform them into something horrific. So, he came about with his first batch of spells. I meant to develop these more, but the campaign ended up going in a different direction.

The Interloper's “spells” are essentially abilities that can be used once per long rest. Any sentient being can be gifted these spells, they need not be a magic user. So let's look at each spell:

Spell- Destabilize

A target creature touched takes 3d6 damage. They must then make a constitution saving throw DC (Prof + casting skill + 8). Failure and they take 3d6 damage each turn. Immediately their physical form starts to roil and mutate in a chaotic, uncontrollable fashion. They continue taking the damage each turn until they make a successful saving throw. They must make a wisdom saving throw (same DC) to take any actions on a turn they fail their con save, meaning they use will power to force their shape to cohere enough. Any creature killed by this attack becomes a gibbering mouther hostile to the players. Powerful creatures become greater gibbering mouths. https://www.5esrd.com/database/creature/gibbering-mouther-massive/

This one is fun but not effective against higher level entities who can easily pass the save or have so many hitpoints that the 3d6 is meaningless. When Zariel made a deal with the Interloper and he flooded her with gifts, her casters began using this ability in mass. It could wreak havoc behind enemy lines as foes turn on each other when they become gibbering mouthers.

Spell- Undo Wounds

May cast on self or other single target. Any damage, physical, or magical ill effects taken at the last minute are undone. However, roll 1d6. If one, finger of death is cast upon them DC 20. If 6, the character gains extra temporary hit points equal to their HP total (up to 100). Otherwise spell works as normal. If Finger of death kills them, they come back as undead equal to their level in ferocity.

This spell is extremely overpowered. If I was going to adjust it, I'd remove the temporary hitpoint boost on a 6 because its overkill. I'd also make it from a finger of death to something more damaging. The players have used it a number of times and been lucky enough to never roll a one. Undoing all ill effects from the last minute is massive in the 5e universe, since that's 10 rounds in a battle. A player can be unconscious, blind, diseased, have their mind wiped, poisoned, cursed, etc and suddenly be back to full, normal health. Zariel's forces were seen employing this spell on the battlefield, but they always had casters nearby in case it failed to incinerate the undead that comes. 1/6 chance isn't bad by infernal standards. Essentially, if you have 100 soldiers, the next batch would be 83, then 69, then 58, then 48, and so on. It becomes an infinite series with your initial point as 100 and a common ratio of 6, so 100 soldiers become 600, or a x6 force multiplier before they've all become undead. But yeah, I'd say this was one of the most busted spells the Interloper created.

Spell- Time Duplicate

A perfect clone of you is created to fight. The clone lasts for as long as you concentrate, up to a minute. It has all of the abilities and items you have access to. Roll 1d6, on a 1, the clone is diametrically opposed and will attack you. On 6, you get an extra duplicate and roll again. This spell may draw attention of outside forces as it damages the Weave.

This spell is objectively the most powerful, so I had to add in that it draws the attention of outside forces, specifically the Protectors of the Weave. Essentially, anytime it is used the Protectors will come investigate the location it is used, maybe not immediately, but at some point, so it kind of burns that location. Also, if the 1 is rolled, the clone may leave. I decided to make the clone on a 1 permanent. It's only happened once, and it was killed quickly enough that the players didn't need to worry about it. Uzo, the Hobgoblin Samurai used it a couple of times. He named them Twozo, Threezo, etc. During a particularly epic boss fight in The Torment, Uzo used it for the first time. His duplicate had three grenades on him, and Uzo gave him his three grenades as well. The duplicate then pulled all six pins and bear hugged on of the enhanced Nycaloths they were fighting that had 50 hitpoint regeneration, doing enough explosive damage to kill it in one swoop. Fun spell, but needs narrative limitations to not be exploited too much.

Spell- Ouch Ball

Create a sphere 6 feet in diameter of swirling metaphysical blades. You can control its motion, it moves normal speed of a player. Anything in the same space as the sphere takes 1d6 + 4 melee attacks, +10 attack modifier 2d6 damage each as the shards tear them apart. Player must make a wisdom save if distracted or injured. If failed, the ball explodes, hitting everyone in 30 foot radius with attack.

This one never got used but I think it would've been fun to take out large mobs of weaker units or chewing up a larger, stronger enemy. So assume an average of 7.5 attacks dealing an average of 7 damage each, it gives around 52-53 damage per turn assuming all attacks hit. Pretty potent in the early or midgame. The only downside is if you lose concentration it explodes, and can do a lot of friendly fire damage. At lower levels it could go from helping to crush a boss to killing your entire party.

Spell- Augment Weapons

Target player’s weapons become enchanted. Roll 1d6 to determine the effect: 1- The player cannot put the weapon down. Any damage the player deals is also dealt to them as the weapon drains blood from them. 2- +2d6 fire damage, (4d6 on critical and target catches fire) 3- +2d6 cold damage (4d6 on critical, character freezes solid if save fails) 4- +2d6 radiant damage (4d6 on critical, character blinded if save fails) 5- Triple attack (if bow, three arrows shot out, if melee, two spectral copies appear, trippling the damage) 6- Weapon comes to life and acts on its own accord. Roll for alignment. Lasts for 1 hour.

This spell ended up being much more powerful than I intended. A ranger in our group had it, and they kept getting 5s. It was really the triple attack that was most busted, I didn't really think through what tripling damage output would do. Also the player just ended up being really lucky with rolls. 2-4 were just decent buffs and even a 6 wasn't as good as a 5. Also the 1 hour duration is a little ridiculous, I probably should have made it one minute. Ah well, it was pretty fun. The ranger, Thogg, eventually retired and along with him this spell.

Spell- Summon Unlikely Ally

Summons a creature from somewhere in the multiverse. Creatures must succeed a wisdom save or serve the player faithfully until spend ends or they are dispelled. If they succeed, they may act on their own accord. The level should be roughly scaled with player level. Type to be determined (roll 1d20):

1-2: Undead 3-4 Elemental 5-8 Aberration 9-10 Ooze 11- Beast 12-13- Monstrosity 14- Construct 15- Fiend (devil or demon) 16- Celestial or Fey 17- Humanoid or Giant 18- Dragon 19- Player instead is summoned by something else 20- Far Realm Horror is Unleashed

Creatures last for up to 1 hour unless killed or dispelled earlier. Far realm horror can’t be controlled and is permanent.

This is a super fun spell that we only saw used once or twice because the player who had it quit the campaign. They summoned it when they first scrapped with agents of the Protectors of the Weave, and whatever they summoned ended up killing one of the agents. I think it may have been an Otyugh since the players were level 5 or 6 around that time but I'm not positive, this was years ago. The RNG on this spell is crazy—summoning a dragon in the middle of a battle is fun. Also, the more powerful the creature, they more likely they are to pass the wisdom save. I think legendary resistance would be a straight up guarantee. So imagine the players towards the end of the game manifesting a pissed off Solar. Just a fun injection of chaos into an encounter. If they ever rolled a 20 I would've definitely dropped something really nasty, like a Neh-thalggu or Star Spawn Mage into the encounter.

Spell- Cosmic Curse

Target must make a wisdom or con saving throw or face effects based on 1d6:

1- Latency Error: Dex is reduced to 2. -5 to all attacks. Last in initiative order. Only takes action every other turn. 2- Unlucky: Disadvantage on everything 3- Paper Skin: All damage taken is doubled. -5 to AC 4- Manic Rage: Creature attacks random target near them, ignores any threats and doesn’t stop attacking until all targets around them are dead. 5- Brainrot: Intelligence/Wisdom/Charisma are reduced to 2. Can no longer communicate or understand what is happening around them. 6- Rubber and Glue: Reroll and curse instead is placed on caster. If a 6 is rolled again, roll again and both caster and target are cursed. If third 6 is rolled, everyone in 30 foot radius is cursed. If 4th roll is cursed, space time rips…

Spell lasts HD of caster + 2 rounds.

This one was also never used. 1/6 chance it backfires, which is fun, and 1/216 chance it backfires on everyone in the group. A 5 is just feeblemind, essentially. Actually looking at this again, some of these curses are pretty brutal. Latency error kind of makes an opponent useless. Disadvantage on everything is like reverse foresight. Paper skin would be exceptional for taking out a tough enemy quickly. Imagine cutting an ancient red dragon's hitpoints in half essentially. This would've been fun, too bad it never got used.

Spell- Jackpot!

Roll 2d20. Multiply the results times the players hit dice. So If the player rolls at 5 and a 10 and is level 3, the result is 150. Treasure appears that value of gold. Any 20s also give a special item with the treasure. If a 1 is rolled, the creature whose treasure this is being robbed from is also summoned along with the treasure (probably a dragon).

This one was also never used, and became obsolete pretty quickly. By mid campaign, the players had access to an arbitrary amount of funds, really whatever they needed.

Spell- Bloodlust

+2d6 necrotic damage to melee attacks, target heals equivalent amount. Lasts one hour. Roll 1d20 when cast. If 20, deals 6d6 necrotic damage and heals as much instead. If 1, the player becomes undead (equivalent to current level).

Barbarian uses this one. A nice little buff, but nothing too crazy.

Spell- Battle Psychosis

+2 extra attacks per turn. Must make Wisdom save each turn (DC 13) or attacks targets at random. Spell lasts as many rounds as the character has hit dice +5 or until combat ends, whichever is first. When it is over the player loses consciousness for 1 hour.

This one was never used, but it would make a melee fighter absolutely terrifying. Giving a raging barbarian 2 extra attacks per turn could bring the total up to five with frenzy. A high level fighter action surging could get... 12 attacks in a turn if my math is correct? Either way, super busted. Probably good I didn't give this to one of my melee fighters.

Spell- Defensive Matrix

Roll 1d20 and gain x5 that as temporary hit points for 1 minute. On a 20, the 100 hp lasts for an hour and regenerates 5 per turn. On a 1, gain no temporary hit points, your armor class is reduced to 5 and you take double damage for 1 hour.

Barbarian got this one and uses it regularly. That plus half damage while raging makes them an unstoppable tank. Players recently killed the Tarrasque and the Barbarian was the only one to take damage, tanking all of its attacks.

Spell- Clubbermeister

You spawn a temporary, 4 dimensional club. This club is incredibly dense, but to you feels light as a feather. Its base damage is 3d8 + double strength modifier. However, each time you successfully hit a target, it has a ⅙ chance of shattering. When it shatters, you take 6d8 force damage. On a natural 1 it automatically explodes.

Never used this one. Would be nice, though dangerous, for a lower level player. Even for a high level player, doubling the strength modifier is pretty good. The players have such powerful artifacts at this point though that they would never use the spell.

So that's all of the ones originally drafted. The overall theme is that the Interloper is manipulating reality, so as a result his spells are far more powerful and dangerous than normal spells. If I was going to do it all over again, there certainly would be some balancing changes and also I'd probably sharpen a few of the drawbacks. But hey, the spells being a little busted really worked for the overall theme of this campaign. The Far Realm is... the Far Realm. The Interloper also crafted a number of items on the fly, but I didn't write most of those down.

Oh and I just remembered, one of the players asked to be part plant and they now heal from radiant damage. That ended up being super busted because they can just use a cantrip that deals radiant damage to heal. Also pretty funny when they fight celestials.

8/27/2026 I am currently home alone, and the house is acting like it’s auditioning for a horror‑comedy film. I swear the air feels different when no one else is here — like the walls suddenly have opinions. I told myself, “Okay, Isebella, you’re going to be productive. You’re going to read your book, fix dinner, and be a responsible human.” The universe said, “Lol.” First of all, the silence? Too loud. I can hear EVERYTHING. The fridge hums like it’s plotting. The floor creaks like it’s trying to communicate. The AC kicks on like it’s announcing its presence dramatically. I opened my book to read, but every time I turn a page, I feel like someone is watching me. Probably the squirrel. He’s not even here, but spiritually? He’s judging. Then I went to start dinner. Why did the pan sizzle BEFORE I put anything in it? Why did the spoon fall off the counter like it was trying to escape? Why did the microwave beep even though I didn’t touch it? I swear the appliances know I’m alone and are testing me. Meanwhile, I’m pacing around the kitchen like a detective in a crime show, checking windows, checking doors, checking the shadows like I’m expecting a raccoon (but no, they’re rare, they don’t get to be in this story). I keep glancing at the clock like it’s going to tell me when Dad is coming back with Mom and the siblings. It doesn’t. It just ticks loudly like it’s mocking me. At one point I tried to stir something in the pan and accidentally flung a noodle across the kitchen. It landed on the floor with the dramatic energy of a fallen soldier. I considered leaving it there as a warning to the other noodles. Then — THEN — the book I was reading slid off the couch by itself. No wind. No movement. Just plop. Like it gave up on me. I picked it up and said, “Not today, demon.” The book did not respond, which honestly made it worse. Now I’m standing here, waiting for Dad to return with the whole family, holding a spatula like it’s a weapon, listening to the house breathe, and trying not to burn dinner or my sanity. If anyone finds this diary entry, please know: I fought bravely. I cooked aggressively. I read dramatically. I survived the silence. I survived the noodle incident. I survived being home alone with my own thoughts. I am home alone and the house is already acting weird, but NOW? Now it’s personal. I was trying to be responsible — reading my book like a civilized human, fixing dinner like someone who definitely knows how to use a stove without burning down the neighborhood. Everything was going fine. The noodles were noodling. The pan was sizzling. The book was book‑ing. Then it happened. A shadow moved outside the window. I froze mid‑stir. The spoon stopped in the air like it was suspended by fear. The noodles judged me. I turned slowly… AND THERE HE WAS. Agent Nutshade.
The squirrel. The menace. The furry chaos goblin who has been vibe‑scanning me since Wednesday at 3:17 PM. He was perched on the windowsill like he owned the place, staring at me through the glass with the intensity of someone who knows I’m home alone and absolutely not emotionally prepared for this. His eyes said: “I see you’re cooking. Interesting.” His tail flicked like Morse code for: “Your dinner smells suspicious.” I swear he looked at the pot like he was evaluating my seasoning choices. I tried to ignore him. I tried to keep cooking. But have you ever tried to make dinner while a squirrel judges you through a window? It’s impossible. I dropped a noodle. It landed on the floor like a dramatic death scene. Nutshade’s whiskers twitched. He looked disappointed. AT ME. IN MY OWN HOUSE. I picked up my book to distract myself, but the squirrel leaned closer to the glass like, “You think you can read right now? While I’m here? Bold.” The house was silent except for the sizzling pan and my internal screaming. Then — THEN — he tapped the window. With his tiny paw. Like he was knocking. Like he wanted to come in and help cook or steal my dinner or conduct another vibe assessment. I said out loud, “Absolutely not.” He blinked. I blinked. The stove beeped for no reason. I swear the squirrel smirked. SMIRKED. Then he scampered off, probably to report to the woodland intelligence network that I dropped a noodle and panicked like a Victorian child seeing electricity for the first time. Now I’m standing here, stirring dinner aggressively, book open but unread, waiting for Dad to return with Mom and the siblings so I can stop being alone with my own thoughts AND the squirrel’s judgment. If anyone finds this diary entry, please know: I survived being home alone. I survived dinner. I survived the noodle incident. I survived the squirrel knocking on my window like a tiny furry landlord. Dear Diary, I thought the worst part of being home alone would be the silence, the creaky floor, or the fact that dinner was sizzling aggressively like it had personal beef with me. But no. The universe said, “Let’s add a squirrel.” Agent Nutshade showed up at the window like a tiny furry landlord demanding rent. He stared at me through the glass with the intensity of someone who knows I’m home alone and absolutely not emotionally prepared for this. I tried to ignore him. I tried to keep cooking. But then he did it. He challenged me. He leaned forward, pressed his tiny paws against the window, and locked eyes with me like he was entering a championship staring contest. A silent duel. A vibe‑off. A battle of ocular dominance. I froze mid‑stir. The spoon hovered in the air like it was afraid to interrupt. The noodles in the pot stopped moving, probably out of respect. Nutshade didn’t blink. Not once. His eyes were two tiny judgmental marbles of chaos. So I stared back. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe the loneliness. Maybe the dinner stress. Maybe the fact that my book literally fell off the couch earlier like it was trying to escape this situation. But I squared my shoulders, narrowed my eyes, and stared at that squirrel like I was defending my honor. It became a full‑blown showdown. Me vs. Nutshade. Human vs. squirrel. Dinner vs. dignity. The house was silent. The stove sizzled dramatically. The clock ticked like a referee. I blinked first. Nutshade smirked. SMIRKED. Like he won a gold medal in psychological warfare. Then — THEN — he tapped the window again, like he was saying, “Good game, rookie.” And scampered off, probably to report to the woodland intelligence network that I lost a staring contest while home alone and holding a spatula. Now I’m pacing around the kitchen, waiting for Dad to return with Mom and the siblings, trying to pretend I didn’t just lose a silent battle to a squirrel with a superiority complex. If anyone finds this diary entry, please know: I fought bravely. I stared aggressively. I blinked tragically. I survived the noodle incident AND the squirrel showdown. I am home alone, but I am not defeated.

-Vortexmunch

Troy Story 5.1

vertaald uit het varkenslatijns via de engelse vertaling door Van Voorbijgaande Aard in coöperatie met Goochel Globale Taal Transformatie, waarvan spijt. Dit als voetnoot bovenop dit stukje indrukwekkende pulp literatuur, maar wel gebaseerd op ware feiten.

Bij de zandbak nabij de grote poort van Troje stonden Vergilius en Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd samen te spelen, dat wil zeggen Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd liet zich gebonden aan gevlochten touw door Vergilius door de zandbak slepen terwijl die riep “Sterf misdadiger, illegaal, vuile Griek, jij ploert. Nooit zullen jullie Troje weer vernietigen zoals best wel vaak is voorgekomen, eigenlijk de gewoonste zaak van deze wereld is. Stik jij, in dit door de goden ingezegende zand van dit door Godenzoon Cruiiijf opgerichte speelcourtje', op dat moment glipte Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd uit het touwtje. Meteen sommeerde Vergilius actie, hij riep naar zijn kompanen ReXVII en Hem Lap LEDlicht, (het eerste oplaadbare licht van ver voor christus en bijpassende dom jaren, het werd opgeladen dankzij zonnencellen van het merk RaRa, de uitvinder was Ingenieur Zonnenbloem, een almachtig kundig man en dankzij die vindingrijkheid en zijn contacten met het buitenaardse rechter en linkerhand van de Trojaanse macht).

Hem en Rex werden richting Aard gegooid waarna een heftige strijd werd gesimuleerd, na lang soebatten won Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd het pleit en wist daarna op slinkse wijze te ontsnappen aan de wrede hand van de kleine Vergilius. Waarna de jongen in huilen uitbrak, en Aard spoorslags terugkeerde naar het zandbak frontje. Hem Lap LEDlicht en ReXVII keken verbaasd, geen van de speeltjes waarmee de jongste telg van het Vergilius Vergilius gezin kon hun spelleider waarderen, hij was vals, gemeen, manipulatief maar ook slechts vijf jaar jong en kind van het hoofd administratie, waterhuishouding en oorlogsvoeding van de stad Troje. Vergilius droogde zijn tranen, hij raapte zijn speeltjes bij een, klaar om thuis zijn huiswerk te doen, voor de vakken Varkenslatijn, Wapenkennis en Klieren voor Gevorderden. Net op dat moment liep er een in vodden uitgedoste maar zeer fit ogende kerel aan ze voorbij, richting de poortwachters met in zijn handen een bericht van groot belang voor Stad Troje.

Vergilius ging voor afluisteren op kleine doch onopvallende afstand staan, hij deed alsof hij zijn veters moest strikken terwijl hij dat niet kon. Heel normaal voor een jongen zoals hij, zeker in die tijd. De meeste kinderen droegen ook liever slippers, maar dan kun je dit soort trucjes niet uithalen, zo wist Vergilius, een truc geleerd van zijn vader. Zijn geweldige diplomatieke loopbaan is dankzij deze handeling geweldig geworden.

Welkom, let alstublieft niet op mijn uitdossing, ik leef in onmin met mijn oude gemeenschap, de Grieken, en daarom moet ik van hun op straat leven, voedsel rapen uit de goot, kruimels stelen van de ratten, meeuwen en duiven, altijd knokken tegen andere zwervers en Griekse gezagsdragers! Ik heb het zwaar, maar desondanks heb ik iets voor u of beter voor u stad, het bestuur en de nog hogere machten. Een geschenk, gejat uit handen van het hoogste Griekse gezag, een hebbeding met mogelijk geheime krachten, een welke elke u vijandige staat op de knieën kan en dus zal dwingen. Ik geef u de flyer rol van het object, de HiHi Hinnik en daarin staat alles wat je ermee kan, als ook hoe je dat doet. Ik gun het u omdat u de vijand bent van mijn vijand en ik u daarom dus beschouw als partner. Ik, Sinon de Listige, geef u het speelgoed waarmee Troje zal heersen over alles en iedereen daar residerend, amen.

De wachters Rotnie en Westie Snijder (3 en 6 in de Snijder en zonen reeks) bekeken deze man argwanend maar ook met enig medelijden, je zult er maar zo goed uitzien en dan deze lompen moeten dragen, waar gaat het heen met de wereld der Grieken, dachten ze tegelijkertijd, zo denken was erfelijk. De folder namen ze in zonder er een blik op te werpen en dankten Sinon voor zijn hulp om Troje te laten heersen over onder andere hem. Ze gaven hem ook een paar glad en rond geslepen betaal keitjes plus het adres van de kledingbank residerend op het industrie terrein nabij de gedempte haven van Troje Buiten, zodat hij zich net kon aankleden, dan maak je toch een betere indruk slapend op de straten van al die oerlelijke Griekse steden. Wie weet lag er een leuk sjaaltje, zelden gedragen, altijd in een doos op zolder gelegen. Zo'n fraai langwerpig gewaad zien hangen om de nek van een ander doet een mens goed. Ga met Sop zeiden ze, onderwijl onder hands zwaaien zoals gebruikelijk is in Troje en omstreken, gelijkend op het gooien van een kegelbal, en dan drie keer zwaaien ermee voor je het op de gladde baan gooit richting de 24 onschuldige kegels. Zo groet je op z'n Trojes.

Vergilius stalde het bericht over de Hinnik van Listige Sinon in zijn geheugen, dit moest Pa weten. Hij wou deze HiHi Hinnik eigenlijk voor zichzelf en zijn pa kon dat waarschijnlijk regelen. Hij zou daarna alleenheerser zijn over de zandbank en al zijn speeltjes, zelfs over Buzz Lichtjaren, deze nare radicaal tartte hem al maanden, trok zijn macht in twijfel! Welk een minpunt, waarom geven ze ook niet meteen gehoor, doen ze zo vervelend, zelfs de dingen deugen niet. Sinds de aanvaring met Vanvoorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd in de beheers bak was zijn humeur nog minder dan anders, zelfs de kans op een nieuw speeltje kon daar eigenlijk geen verandering inbrengen.

Gehaast rende hij langs de wachten pardoes liet hij Hem Lap Ledlicht achter op de plek waar hij zijn veters zo moeizaam strikte. Dit tot schrik van ReXVII en Van Voorbijgaande Aardappelhoofd als ook Jazzy, het mini poppetje altijd hangend aan een ketting om de nek van Vergilius Junior, als bewaakster van de sleutel. V het sleutelkind, Pa en ma druk met hun werkzaamheden, Pa als bestuurder, ma als zijn spion in gegoede kringen, het menselijk substituut voor losse veters, en Vergilius en zijn zusjes Zussie en Zusssie allen met hun eigen sleutel romend over de straten van Troje.

Zoals gewoonlijk geen spoor van Senior in de villa, er was voor een dergelijke heers heerschap altijd wel een mogelijkheid benut voor een overleg, stemronde, plan voor strijd, infrastructuur, versterken van iets, defensief of aanvallend, Initiërende Interventie noemde hij dat soort overleg, het effect ervan op de deelnemers, Vergilius Senior oefende thuis op dergelijke taal, manipulerende wijs geworden, het universele gereedschap voor alles overheersing is tenslotte taal, leer ze de taal en je kan er iedere dag naar binnen gaan en allerhande eisen stellen, opdrachten geven, gedragingen installeren, plannen laten maken en dergelijke interacties met de bewerkelijkheid.

Op zijn deel van de villa aangekomen ging Junior alvast ruimte vrij maken voor zijn De HiHi Hinnik, zo groot kon het niet zijn, het paste immers op een flyer rol. Schaal en Vergilius Jr hadden nog niet nader kennis gemaakt. Schaal is voor een tros bananen aldus Junior. De andere speeltjes gooide hij op een hoopje in de hoek, bij de rest, die daar al lagen, deze keer niet gekozen voor het zandbak theater van de macht. De groep zweeg in gezelschap van hun meester, wachten met op speelse wijze communiceren tot ze zeker wisten dat Junior niet meer in de buurt was. Hun bespeler kon beter niet weten wat er in zijn spelers omging, en het was al helemaal geen goed idee dat hij nog iemand anders, geen enkel lid van de mensheid, erachter kwam dat het door hun gebruikte speelgoed leefde.

Op die afwezigheid hoefden ze nooit lang te wachten trouwens, de jongen was wat ADHD, kon niet stilzitten, nou, alleen als spion voor eigen beheer, verbetering van zijn positie op school en thuis, het kind met een missie, en de missie nu is de HiHi Hinnik toevoegen aan zijn collectie machtig mooi speelgoed, er van genieten dat hij kon zeggen dat het in zijn bezit was. Hij er mee kon schuiven en klopperdeklop kon zeggen, er op zitten en hortsik zeggen, HiHi de sporen geven terwijl hij ridder Vergilius bijstond tijdens de oorlog tegen de Grieken en de Watervolkeren.

Hij rende weg van die collectie, het grootste belang ervan is het bezit, daarna is het grootste belang de volgende om die dan ook te bezitten. Het spul zelf is eenmaal daar aan de goden overgeleverd, diezelfde goden waaraan het is ontfutseld. Buzz Lichtjaar was een soort wapen in handen van Aeneas de Globetrotter, het hield hem veilig als hij sliep, hij had het gekregen van Meneer Wezensvreemd de god van tijdreizen, Jazzy was ontvreemd van de nek van Dido, een KIO, iemand die hij kende op de school voor koninginnen en overige belangrijke ambtenaren zoals burgemeesteressen en keizers. Hij vond Dido vervelend en dus had hij op een ochtend tijdens gymnastiek, terwijl hij een blessure veinsde, een vleeswond, die Jazzy van haar ketting gestolen en sindsdien zit ze altijd om zijn nek, de beste verstopplek is immers volop in beeld maar dan net even anders, zoals super meneer Kent, vaders assistent, met of zonder bril totaal onherkenbaar kan worden, verdwijnen in zicht, iedereen kent hem met bril, weet hem te bereiken, dan is hij beschikbaar maar dan zodra hij die bril van de neus haalt is hij weg, nergens meer te zien, horen en of voelen. De heer Kent kwam uit een mystieke regio waar al brillen waren ver voor er oorlog was, de oorlog ontstond niet lang daarna.

Hem Lap LEDlicht was meegenomen uit het lab van Ingenieur Zonnenbloem, deze man vond aan de lopende band de toekomst uit, hij had duizenden uitvindingen op papier waarvoor nu nog de middelen ontbraken maar zodra stroom kon worden opgewekt uit kolen of zo dan kon iedereen genieten van dingen zoals ; automatische schuifdeuren, drones, kerst verlichting, tuners, wi-fi en hifi of andersom, de yphone, koffiezetten met een apparaat en veel meer zinnige dingen voor veel later, Hem was de enigste die al werkte dankzij Alien tech, hij, de ingenieur, had het gekregen van een vriend Loek Skywalker. En zo had junior op deze slinkse wijze al zijn speelgoed bijeengegaard, is zijn alsmaar uitdijende collectie ontstaan, beetje als in een museum, maar dan ver voor er museums zijn. Niks mis mee, dus.

Nu Vergilius was gaan wieberen, epibreren of andere wijze ver van daar aan het verkeren konden de speeltjes vrijuit communiceren. Het bericht over de achteloosheid waarmee Hem Lap LEDlicht was gedumpt, vergeten, achtergelaten voor dood sloeg in als een bom, Buzz begon te hyper ventileren, Jazzy werd helemaal slap en viel flauw, ook al was ze erbij, het was haar toch ontgaan, Regent Woody werd er stil van, kon het amper aan. Keizer Zurgias en Die Verrekte Hond Slinx konden het niet bevatten, al deden ze nog zo hun best. Onbegrijpelijk. 'Je laat je schijnend licht toch niet achter!' Gromde Regent Woody. 'Zelfs niet al ben je vijf jaren jong, het is misdadig.' Ging Buzz verder en daarop 'We moeten ons leren weren tegen de wispelturigheid van de jongste jeugd en hun onverschilligheid ten opzichte van onze waarde en vorm.' 'Je helpt niet! Buzz. We hebben behoefte aan een plan voor het terughalen van Hem LEDlicht niet aan een revolutie.' zei Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd vlak, moe van dat gezever over de ommekeer en het verheffen van het speelgoed naar een hoger niveau. Laat ons eerst maar eens lang genoegen samen zijn en dan daar een keer aan beginnen, Vergilius zal daar zeker niet voor zorgen, hij laat ons, zijn verzameling juttersgoed zo achter voor een andere hobby, uitdaging in bezit, bezette gebieden en dergelijke fenomenen. Worden we gedumpt in de zee, weggegeven aan een kringloop, verhandeld op het marktplein, gescheiden van elkaar en alleen wij kunnen dat voorkomen maar wel pas zodra er iets is te voorkomen, zoals nu graag. Deze gedachten loop volgde altijd direct op die over revolutie, de strijdbijl opgraven en de kracht van de kudde van Buzz Lichtjaar, een soort reactie op de contaminatie, de ene gedachte vecht tegen de andere. Aardappel Hoofd hield zijn hoofd liever leeg, onbezet door niet zijn eigen gedachten, effecten van eigen handelingen en dergelijke. Logisch gezien de verandering die hij moest doormaken.

Opvallend genoeg zei Buzz, hij meestal degene van directe actie, 'op dit moment niet bij machte te zijn om lijfelijk te werken aan de oplossing van dit probleem aangezien zijn stevige beentjes door Vergilius waren gekneveld, hooguit kon hij een plan van aanpak verzinnen. Regent Woody kon dan de uitvoering ervan leiden omdat hij de enigste was die kalm bleef tijdens hachelijke ondernemingen. Niet iedereen kon zich daarin vinden vooral Woody zelf niet, het leek hem beter dat Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd de leiding had, hij is ook als enigste meerdere malen ontsnapt aan de hebberige handjes van Vergilius Junior.

'Ja maar, hij bleef nooit weg, een paar traantjes, een hanglip, en dan komt ie gelijk weer terug, in plaats van zijn herwonnen vrijheid te gebruiken om ons te bevrijden!' repliceerde Buzz Lichtjaar snedig. 'Hij is gewoon heel gevoelig, ja!' bitste Jazzy, Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd zweeg, hij was geen leiderstype, Woody wel, dat zag Buzz goed, niettemin was dit, deze verkwanseling van Hem Lap LEDlicht, wel de slechtste daad van Vergilius ooit, en actie moest zeker worden ondernomen, en wel nu. Met of zonder leiding, dat was hem om het even. Als Hem LEDlicht in paniek zijn licht ergens op zou laten schijnen dan zagen ze Hem nooit weer terug, dat soort dingen pikken ze niet in het donker, onnatuurlijke schijnsels zijn tegenwoordig niet in zwang, niet in Troje in elk geval. Zolang hij in het duister dwaalde was het nog goed. Dan was er kans dat ze hier terug samen weer op dezelfde hoop zouden liggen.

Overigens, dit betreffende zijn lafheid of gevoeligheden, was Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd als enigste niet gestolen uit betere, goede omstandigheden maar afkomstig van nog beroerder handen, en wel blij met enige vooruitgang, dat was dit zeker. Hij was waarschijnlijk Vergilius enigste goede daad, misschien alleen ter bevestiging van de regel een uitzondering. De anderen waren gewoon niet op de hoogte van nog mindere eigenaars, vandaar de eeuwige terugkeer in de grijpgrage handjes van Junior. Het kon erger, hij kon zich de geprakte, met hete sappen overgoten en ook de opengesneden kameraden nog heugen als de dag van gisteren, de pijn van het kokende water, in de stomend hete olie en waarom, waarom! Hij wist het eerst niet maar sinds hem de ogen waren geopend en de neus, mond en oren wel.

Buzz, deed een gebonden versie van het plan, de locaties, de schuilplekken, speelgoed zonder eigenaar kon beter niet gezien worden! Alleen Aardappel Hoofd begreep deze mededeling, de rest had visioenen van hun oude baasjes, Dido en zo, of een ander zeer speelgoed minnend persoon, maar ja op Aardappel en Slinx na was verder niks echt speelgoed maar objecten met grote waarde en mogelijk enorme krachten, zwarte magie, gele misschien, rode met groen stippen, regenboog magie van de verdwenen troetelbeertjes, opgejaagd en opgegeten, ach arme.. In handen vallen van onbekenden zou een heel ander en nog naargeestiger leven opleveren voor de Jazzy's en Buzzers. Eentje waarbij ze werden ingezet als wapen of bewaard in een potdichte kast in een kelder, nooit het daglicht zien, levend voelen, speels zijn. Geen vooruitgang daar, zelfs terugkeer naar de oude eigenaar, de eigenlijke, garandeerde geen verbetering in deze toch ook al slechte situatie.

Buzz had alle instructies over gebracht op iedereen in het algemeen en in detail in Regent Woody, elke stap uitgewerkt, nu moesten we wachten tot Vergilius te sponde lag en zijn gebruikelijke slaap der schuldigen sliep, diep en lang.

De jonge Vergilius zelf was ondertussen via via terecht gekomen bij Senior en hij vertelde over de HiHi Hinnik, de gift op de flyer rol van de geroyeerde Griek Listige Sinon, pa luisterde aandachtig, het klonk goed, hij riep om zijn assistent Kent maar uit de kamer kwam de assistent van de assistent Laocoöm, ex predikant, maar na het verlies van alle geloof omgeschoold tot tweede assistent. Vergilius Senior vroeg of Laocoöm Kent kon verwittigen zodat hij de folder kon bemachtigen en daarna dit object z.s.m. zou aanvaarden en stallen in de opvang voor kostbaarheden van het keizerlijk paleis. Laocoöm keek bedenkelijk na het aanhoren van deze boodschap, hij was de man er niet naar om direct kritiek te uiten op de baas, onderbaas, maar als iemand zichzelf voorstelt als ... de Listige dan is zo'n gift zelden goed. Zeker aangezien hij ook de levendiger vertelling van Junior had aangehoord over het uiterlijk van deze Griek Sinon, zwervers waren altijd van alles behalve fit, hun lijf een ruïne niet veel anders dan Troje 1 tot en met 6 onder Troje 7, ons fundament. Als hij met dit bericht was gekomen in plaats van die nare Junior dan zou Senior dit ook denken, nu blind door de liefde voor zijn vreselijk hebberige zoon ziet hij er niks verkeerds in.

Hoedanook, Laocoöm moest deze boodschap wel overbrengen naar Kent, de man die zijn bril had afgezet en dus spoorslags was verdwenen, gelukkig nooit lang. Meestal had ie dan zo'n rottige glimlach alsof hij alleen de aarde had gered van iets waarvan hij alleen weet had, de gluiperd. Deze werkzaamheden in een dergelijk bestuursorgaan waren al bijna net zo ellendig als het lijden van een parochie, er aan ook. Hij ging wel de kanttekening bijvoegen tijdens de overdracht, een HiHi Hinnik klinkt veel te onschuldig om goed te zijn, zeker gezien de onbekende bron en het gebrek aan deugdelijke achtergrond info betreffende de gever. Ze hadden hem op zijn minst een poosje kunnen pijnigen om het levensverhaal te bevestigen.

Woody en Jazzy wachten en wachten tot de vreselijk onrustige Vergilius Junior eindelijk eens in slaap viel, de hele tijd was hij bezig met de HiHi, waar die moest staan, hoe die er echt uit zag, of het zou glanzen, oplichten in het donker, of er draden aan zaten, of het was gemaakt van zeldzaam materiaal, heel duur was en dergelijke kwesties. Het was een drugte van belang in zijn kleine koppie, de behoefte aan het verse spul was torenhoog, enorm, het veroorzaakte uren onrust voor hij dan eindelijk om een uur of laat in slaap viel, diep en ook lang.

Op dat moment sommeerde Woody de speelkameraden, de zoektocht naar Hem Lap LEDlicht moest ogenblikkelijk aanvangen, Sop willende moet hij vanavond nog gevonden worden. Een stille aftocht was gelukkig weer niet nodig, Junior zou alleen wakker worden als HiHi zelf naast zijn bed stond, stijgerend, blazend, luid hinnikend, en hard met de achterpoten stampend tegen het bed. Het speelgoed beheerste de stille aftocht totaal niet, alles ratelde, trilde en klingelde naar lieve lust op weg naar de speelgoeduitgang van kindersuite 9.

Woody liep voorop en de anderen volgden, langs alle vooraf ingestelde punten, locaties donker maar vanaf daar wel uitzicht biedende op de te lopen, schuifelen, rollen en meer route naar het volgende punt. De poort was het eindpunt, daar ergens zou LEDlicht nog moeten liggen, dit klinkt als een simpele klus maar voor mobiel goed, lastig voortbewegend, niet al te pienter is dit gewoon een onmogelijke klus. Iedereen wist dat het niet meteen goed zou komen, er zouden situaties ontstaan, onfortuinlijke. Elkaar uit het oog verliezen is een zekerheid, normaal, het zou raar zijn als het niet zo was. Ze gingen ergens vanaf vallen, terecht komen op vervelende locaties, onbedoelde geluiden maken, opvallen zelfs door duisternis omringd. Zolang er maar een is die Hem Lap LEDlicht ontdekt en dan terug brengt is de missie gewoon geslaagd te noemen, de rest redt zich altijd wel, die vallen maar altijd in de buurt van de speelzaal, zonder erg. Hem LED ligt gewoon te ver daarvan, gedoemd tot dwalen. Elk project wordt uiteindelijk altijd geredt door Buzz en zijn onzichtbare plannen, het echte verhaal erachter niet aan ons verteld en juist daarom werkzaam. We worden gebruikt, misbruikt, ingezet tegen beter weten in maar we doen het voor elkaar, omdat we allemaal in dezelfde klote situatie zitten, liggen, staan en dat alleen samen aan kunnen, verdragen, doorzetten en hopen op beterschap. Aangekomen bij standpunt 5 van 9 ontbrak Keizer Zurgios, geen van ons had gezien wat er was gebeurt, waarom de Keizer ons gezelschap moest ontberen. We moesten echter doorgaan, er op vertrouwen dat Zurgos zonder ons terug zou keren op basis kamp, rondom Vergilius speelgoed kist.

Verder weg was Loacoös in overleg met zijn vriend Aeneas, Aeneas was door Hector, een man uit zijn bubbel die van de Grieken had gehoord dat er iets in Troje stond te gebeuren en die had dit bericht met behulp van  postduif.sm  'vliegensvlug bij u' en marathon mail 'als een lopend vuur' bereikt. Aeneas vroeg daarna aan Loacoös wat er van waar was en de oud priester, mede reiziger, meer een dwalende, vertelde hem over de HiHi Hinnik, het paard op de rol beschreven, inmiddels werd het ding al opgehaald door assistent Kent.

Op de gebruikelijke mysterieuze wijze stond het zelfs al midden op het Juridisch en Moralistisch Plein klaar voor verder transport naar de opslag van Villa Vergilius, Aeneas keek daarop extra bedenkelijk. Senior was de enigste die de reis die hij ging maken in rijm kon omzetten en zo presenteren aan een groot publiek. Hij moest een andere schrijver regelen of aangezien er zo weinig degelijke scribenten zijn zijn biograaf Vergilius ietwat onder druk zetten, zijn verlangen uitspreken om samen met hem op pad te gaan, en wel meteen. Wat Aeneas wist over de HiHi beloofde een spoedig einde van Troje, van iedereen die aanwezig was als het paard werd geopend, iedereen dus inclusief dichter schrijver en parttime diplomaat Vergilius,

Dit hele gesprek ontging alle speeltjes, ze hadden maar een doel, Hem Lap LEDlicht weer thuis brengen, voegen bij hun hoop. Het gezelschap werd ondanks alle afspraken en maatregelen alsmaar kleiner, ongewild en als altijd onverwacht, al was het normaal. Ieder project verliep op deze wijze, rommelig, klungelig, simpele opdrachten werden vreselijk ingewikkeld, Waar is Slinx? vroeg Woody aan Aardappel Hoofd 'Ik weet waar hij was maar ik heb geen idee waar Die Verrekte Hond nu uithangt' 'Ik snap niet hoe we dit doen Hoofd? We moeten achter elkaar aan lopen, hoe moeilijk kan dat zijn?' 'Nou behoorlijk lastig, laat ik eerlijk zijn, tijdens geen van onze tochtjes heb ik jou of jij mij tot het eindpunt kunnen volgen, niet met een vast slot punt, niet met een beweeglijk onduidelijk eindpunt.. zoals nu. We kunnen niet anders.'

We raken altijd de focus kwijt. Ik denk dat het komt omdat ze met ons spelen, zolang we in het spel zijn is de focus aanwezig, raken we uit zicht, worden we onbelangrijk dan verliezen we alle vormen van concentratie, gaan ongeveer in het niets van iets anders op, struikelen dan over onszelf, vallen uit of weg, bestaan ... Aard, Aardappel Hoofd! Waar ben je?!' Sprak Woody met treurige ondertoon in zijn stem.

'Eh Oh Ah, ja nee, ik weet niet, moeilijk te zeggen, het is anders voor mij. Ik dwaal moedwillig af, waar jullie gewoon de verkeerde kant op lopen of afvallen van iets, kijk, Regent Woody, ik kom van een andere plek, ik was maar een Aardappel, vervolgens kreeg ik vanalles erbij, de pootjes, de zintuigen, neus, oren, ogen, en het bolhoedje.. ik had niks een schil, twee uitzaaiers en wat blauwe plekken en opeens bestond ik, kon ik de ellende om me heen zien, mezelf en anderen, het andere ruiken, praten, luisteren naar mezelf, jullie, mijn kwelgeesten van voor ik Van Voorbijgaande AardappelHoofd was, die lui schilden je levend, kookten je of bakten, loeiheet, de ellende die ik daar zag, moest meemaken, dan ben altijd overal blij dat je daar niet meer bent en hier wel, volledig aanwezig. Niemand speelde met mij tot dat moment, ik zag, ik had de benen, ik nam ze. Mijn focus is compleet... Woody, Regent Woody, en weg.'

De instructies van Buzz volgend zou Woody pas bij de volgende stop het spoor bijster raken. Echter het idee bleef het zelfde iedereen op Buzz en Aardappel Hoofd na zwalkte om in de regio waar Hem Lap LEDlicht inmiddels zelf moest zwalken, de dump plek, de afstand die een niet gefocust stuk speelgoed kan afleggen per uur, het oppervlak kon duidelijk worden uitgetekend, binnen nu en dertig minuten zouden ze elkaar voor de voeten lopen, Hem LED zou van schrik knipperen en iedereen hier zou er op reageren. Eenvoudige oplossingen voor eenvoudige problemen, typisch Buzz. De rest zorgt voor complicaties, hoe minder rest des te beter het is voor de plannen en verhalen van Lichtjaar.

Er was zeker kans op falen tegelijkertijd geringe kans op niet knipperen van Hem LED, het is toch superhandig als je jezelf moedwillig kunt laten verschijnen zodat je gezien zal worden maar ook kan zien waar je bent, vooral nuttig als je de omgeving kent, anders ben je meer een lichtend voorbeeld van iemand die zichzelf oplicht. Als iedereen die je zoekt buiten is waar jij verschijnt is ontdekt worden een stuk eenvoudiger. De complicaties zijn duidelijk extern, buiten ons blikveld maar absoluut daar, bij voorbaat daar. Maar zij weten niet wat ze zien, wij wel en wachten er op, we weten ook wel dat zodra Hem Lap LEDlicht op weg terug naar Juniors doos hij steeds heel even gaat knipperen, omdat hij ziet en gezien kan worden door degenen die naar hem op zoek zijn.

En inderdaad 10 minuten nadat Woody verdween in zijn dooie spelmoment klonken er klungelige geluiden, knipperde LEDlicht, en jubelde die ratelende Verrekte Hond Slinx, Hem LEDlicht bevrijd van de stress begon een moment lang te schijnen, zodat iedereen zag dat ze binnen een zeer beperkte cirkel minuten lang om elkaar heen hadden gedraaid. Hem deed zichzelf weer uit, op de terugweg doen we dan wel wat we eerder niet deden elkaar vasthouden, eenmaal terug samen laten we pas los als we veilig op een hoop liggen. Weliswaar betrekkelijk veilig, zeer betrekkelijk.

Rondom ons, vlakbij de hoofd ingang van de opslag was uit het niets een object verschenen. Het leek wel alsof het uit de lucht was gevallen. Lichten gingen aan, assistent Kent kwam aan, bril op, zo herkenbaar, 'zo wat een verrassing, wat jij Laocoöm' Ja, Daar is het gevaarte, dat is snel, hoe is het ja mogelijk, fijn. Ik zal de beide Snijders op de hoogte brengen, en de baas.'

Daar werd dan door Wetsie en Rotnie Snijder het HiHi ding op een plateau op rolletjes naar binnen gedreven, de troonzaal van de familie Vergilius in, het kundig geprepareede kunstpaard was pikzwart, glanzend, zat vol vakjes, de ogen waren diamanten met goud omrand, de manen van onduidelijk niet heel aards overkomend materiaal, het geval was een schitterend ongeluk op het punt gebeuren. De speelgoed familie keek er naar en huiverde, dit was geen speeltje dit was verre van dat, het bezat duidelijk krachten maar hele andere dan die van Buzz, Jazzy en Woody.

Van Voorbijgaande Aardappel Hoofd keek naar de HiHi Hinnik, daarna naar Buzz Lichtjaar en zag dezelfde blik vol afschuw die hij zelf waarschijnlijk ook had. Buiten hoorden ze mensen smoezelen, Buzz zag de tweede assistent met een compaan, alleen deze was te paard, Die compaan was Aeneas, de globetrotter, Aeneas, eens een getrouwe van Vergilius Senior, ging er al stilletjes tussen uit knijpen, hij was dus hier van op de hoogte gebracht, wist ook iets, Laocoöm, zit hier vast, zijn taak bleef maar heilig, en die bijstaan tot het end, het geloof laat je nooit los, wordt alleen omgezet in een andere. Taken om te volbrengen ondanks alles.

Het HiHi Hinnik paard, had één hendel, daar zou zeker een van de Vergiliussen aan trekken, die hendel zat bij de bek, trok je daar aan dan zou het leven in Troje nooit meer hetzelfde zijn, voorbij. De HiHi Hinnik was een verse opgewaardeerde versie van de oude doos van Pandora, het labeltje van de Pandora fabriek hing er nog aan, versie 6.6.6. Dit was op dit moment de snelste poort naar de hel, de snelweg, een directe entree, hiervan werd Vergilius Junior, Pinhead Junior,

We moeten maar eens gaan allen sprak Buzz rustig, en dit keer zonder dat complexe oponthoud, linea recta weg uit Troje, geen gestuiter. Hier heb ik geen zin in en nooit niet. Gaan we nu weg zijn we binnen dertig minuten bij de poort en vanaf daar heb ik samen met Hem Lap LEDlicht transport geregeld, Ing Zonnenbloem en zijn bastaard dochter Dido wachten op ons, De Bloem heeft een experimenteel voertuig gebouwd, hij noemt het de Boing, Deze nijvere ingenieur heeft namelijk als enigste de folder van HiHi daadwerkelijk gelezen, aldus begrepen wat er komt, hij verwacht ons en dan 'stijgen' we op of zo. Ingenieur Zonnenbloem mag dan een mafketel zijn maar zijn poort naar de hel brengt ons op een Z weg erheen, een moeilijk toegankelijk edoch onomkeerbaar eenrichtingvoetpad, maar wat mij betreft is dat progressie.

Al vroeg werd Vergilius Junior wakker, hij was reuze blij, Hij zag in de troonzaal aangekomen zijn moeder staan ze keek in de bek van het paard, haar hoofd stond in brand. Vergilius werd daarentegen ijskoud. Van de rest van de familie geen spoor, zussie en zusssie, waren namelijk wel door Pa meegenomen, Aeneas had zich net voor vertrek bedacht en gevraagd aan Vergilius hem per direct te begeleiden tijdens zijn vijf minuten geleden begonnen reis, vanaf de ondergang van Troje naar het middelpunt van het heelal, langs godenrijken en hij moest stante pede alles meenemen wat hem lief was, nu! Hij had hem niet op de hoogte gebracht van de ware aard van de HiHi Hinnik, de rest is net als dat reisverslag geschiedenis.

PW, Pre Wiki. De volgende personen kwamen er in voor en andere verschijnen mogelijk in Troy Story 5.2

Aeneas, globetrotter Vergilius schrijver denker Vergilius Vergilius zoon van denker schrijver, entrepreneur Hector influencer Kent (met en zonder bril) Westie Snijder Rotnie Snijder Dido (KIO, koningin in opleiding) Laocoön Sinon de Listige HiHi Hinnik Pandora Fabricaties Regent Woody Van Voorbijgaande AardAppel Hoofd Die Verrekte Hond Slinx ReXVII Buzz Lichtjaar Jazzy Hem Lap LEDlicht Keizer Zurgias

Alle Stemacteurs worden ingesproken door de lezer! Bedankt nou.

Dit script werd mogelijk gemaakt dankzij Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, en dat type volk. Wij van Van Voorbijgaande Aard Creaties zijn hem enorm dankbaar voor zoveel indrukwekkend vertoon van creaties en geld op een grote hoop.