What happens when a wine writer who loves to write whimsical fiction is asked to write for a serious wine writing competition instead?

Not much is the answer.

Three months ago I submitted my response to the Jancis Robinson wine writing competition 2026.

For those in the know, Jancis is a big deal in the world of wine, and her competition sees entries from all over the planet, from war-torn countries such as Ukraine, to desolate regions such as the Arctic Circle.

The brief this year was to write about an unusual wine pairing, a subject I absolutely love. I preach that wine is a form of art, and so I wonder often at the reasons why we tend to only pair it with food. Why not music? Why not a famous painting? Why not a piece of writing? (Something I have done for a number of you on Substack already).

In my response, I decided to go a bit more… Out there. I paired wine with the Taoist concept of Wu-Wei, using the teaching of Wu-Wei as a vehicle to explore how both wine and words are in essence, essence-less.

Spoiler alert: My entry did not even get shortlisted. I think it was a bit too experimental. The other entries I read were beautifully written, but much more direct. Something I shall consider ignoring for next year’s entry as well.

As a result of not even placing, I have instead opted to share it here with you lovely people. Exploring both the piece of writing, and its influences through my Substack mission lens.

Joy in the process | Creativity as a skill | Wonder as a feeling.

So, let’s get into it!

The Wu-Wei of Wine

‘How are you perceiving me?‘ said the text to the reader.

With your eyes you see me, left to right, one by one - sip by sip, you absorb me until understanding dawns. As the words and sentence structures macerate in your consciousness, they reveal themselves to you as meaning. Then you take that dawning understanding, fermented and bottled within your unique life context, and you pair it with your catalogue of experiences.

Words of self-help pair with positive change.
Fiction pairs with empathy.
Poetry pairs with awe.

And yet words are only second-hand artefacts of reality. So what of wine?

Wine is sudden, it arrives, not left to right, not drip by tiny drip, but with immediacy. Flavours flood your mouth as fast as experience can be experienced. It is effortless to taste wine; you simply apply it to your senses. That is it.

Wine education brings proficiency in tasting, but don’t worry, you have been preparing for this your whole life. You intuitively understand flavour, and even if you don’t consciously, your tongue will fill you in on the details. Acidity will squeeze your eyes tight. Flavours of apple will remind you of childhood. Tannin will make you lick your teeth.

The wine will reveal itself in your mind as meaning. Then you take that understanding, fermented and bottled within your unique life context, and you pair it with?

Food? Is that it?

A perfectly adequate pairing for sure, and yet wine invokes so much more. Why not pair it with your very existence, as you might with the words you consume on a daily basis?

Is there more to find?

Level 1 - Environment | Domaine Bernard Baudry | 2023 Chinon - Les Granges

You are in your allotment, a Loire Cabernet Franc resting slightly chilled in your shed. Your hands have the smell of dried earth baked under your nails, clay and ceramic. Raindrops settle on your brow, a fresh counter to the intense warmth dug from the earth. Retreating from the weather, your coat hem brushes the tomato plants, releasing their spicy, verdant aroma.

Sheltered now, you unfold a camping chair. As it pops into shape, a clatter of sand pings off the wooden floor. Salt lashes the tongue as the memory of a sea breeze from your last beach trip swims across your mind’s eye. A pail of raspberries, redcurrants, blackberries and strawberries rests in the corner. A little juice runs at the bottom, releasing sweet fromage frais aromas.

As the rain comes down harder, the pitter-patter is punctuated by the pop of a cork, the glug of wine being poured. The aromas mingle with your dusty hands. The first sip lands, but by now, you have already tasted it.

Wu-wei is a Taoist concept that roughly translates to ‘effortless action.’ English lacks a direct equivalent; its meaning is best felt through the gravity it exerts on experience.

Fortunately, this exact illustration of the flimsiness of words to describe Wu-Wei is wine’s greatest strength.

Words try to describe something that is already a memory, a flavour in the mind, half forgotten, formless, pushed and pulled by conceptualisation, and neatly stored in the filing cabinet of a sentence. Whereas a sound, when it arises, is automatically heard. A flavour, when it appears, is automatically tasted; a sensation, when it erupts, is automatically felt. So why not pair wine with...

Level 2 - Feelings | 2021 Villa Maria Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc

Ramshackle stairs creak, danger, trepidation. A shower of beads hung in the doorway stroke my hair. Eyes ablaze with lights, filling up with excitement. A second-story beach bar, Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, Costa Rica.

Two sides of the room open to the world, wind on my face. Nostalgia for my old dreams. Tropical trees sing to my heart, the song is the sound of aspirations being realised. Stormy electricity in the air, raising goose-pimples. The ordered wine arrives with an umbrella and ice, served in a coconut shell.

Electricity in the grapes, fresh from New Zealand. Zing - grapefruit & petrichor. Zap - lightning arcs over the jungle. A rush of energy courses through my body, prickling at my skin. This feels SO good.

Waves wash on the nearby beach. Wine rushes through a straw. Tropical rain starts to clatter upon the tin roof, and acidity clatters against my teeth. Gusts brush through trees, carrying memories of botanical gardens. Wind swirls the wine’s aromas into the shape of the jungle. Sensory whirlpools capture my brain and body. Sounds, shapes, smells, tastes, and feelings suck me deep into the present moment. Bringing me home.

Embracing the rawness of your senses enlivens you. Paradoxically, words, the very tools used to communicate wine lore, are in themselves merely concepts.

Words and sentences are like a fisherman’s net held up in front of an island on the horizon; the tiny squares serve to break up the view of the landmass into little measurable chunks. That’s a tree, that’s a cliff. That’s a tannin. But experience is not like that. It is flowing and impermanent, it has no shape and contains no essence. It has no borders, and neither does wine. It flows literally and metaphysically, simultaneously with experience. Wu-wei.

Level 3 - Communion | Domaine Marcel Deiss - Grasberg 2022

Flowing, unctuous, glinting, exciting.

What a night.

Tumultuous tinklings, speaker bound but room wide, pumped deep into our mysterious heart-filled caverns.

Nothing and everything mingles in the dance.

My sister raises her glittering beacon unto the sky, light pours like liquid golden honey, oozing down between the cracks of the beat. Feet slowly subsumed.

Warmth rumbling and tumbling up the limestone mountain of our fractured terroir, opposing gravity. Childhoods spent apart.

A million grapes in a glass. They all had separate lives, their own scars. Some are not even familial, just outcasts in a field.

How could we possibly resist the borders of our upbringings?

The honey connects us. Atoms. Thoughts. Experiences. Falling like drops of rain, united in the ocean.

Mind stills. Petals spring, boundingly, bountifully forth.

Waves splash about, a skin above the connective tissue of the deep.

Music brings communion

Wine teaches

... - …

Joy In The Process

I hope that upon reading this you can feel how much fun I was having. This combined three of my favourite things. Wine, metaphysics and linguistic philosophy, and writing.

I knew early on that I wanted to deconstruct what wine writing even is. In my day-job I write articles and emails about wine almost daily, and it gets tiring when every entry reads like the one before. Familiar descriptors, the same focus on winemaking and flavour. It’s interesting, don’t get me wrong, but as I stated in the piece. Wine for me is so much more than a description. It is experience in one of its more raw and alive forms. In that sense, I simply wanted to show that wine is a feeling, and not a description. And boy did I have fun doing so.

The three wine descriptions were a complete experiment in how far I could take words and bring them to a place where they still felt coherant, but also made little sense.

Oh and by the way, the three wines (in order as written) are also delicious. I would recommend trying them!

Creativity As a Skill

A part of practicing creativity is the ability to let go of expectations. As much as I would like to have done well in this wine writing competition, I also didn’t let that be a determinate for what I should write. And true, that does mean the final product will not be to everyones taste, but that is wonderful. This world is beautiful because of its diversity.

I don’t suggest that writing or doing any art for commercial gain is a bad thing. We all have to drink from the font of capitalism. But do consider also that some of the most memorable art in our lives has also been commercially successful. Pink Floyd’s - Dark Side of the Moon. Spongebob Squarepants. (Yes, I said it). Hamilton the musical.

So, make sure to flex your creative muscles sometimes, you never know what people will fall in love with.

Try these excercises next time you want to explore your creativity more:

• Cliché, but actually dance like no one is watching. Let yourself really go wild and enjoy having a body.

• Spend five minutes talking in a funny voice during a conversation and don’t explain it.

• Take a feeling and try and describe it in either one drawn line, or five linked words.

In this piece I literally tried to do that third idea. I took the feeling of having a wine and spotify night with my sister, and I tried to translate the absolute onslaught of feelings those evenings bring up. From happiness, to nostalgia, difficult memories and happy ones, shared love and a zest for life. All of it was channelled into that paragraph. It doesn’t matter if it was successful. It matters that I touched that part of my soul, and gave it the chance to be free.

Wonder As a Feeling

There are few things in life that have filled me with as much wonder as studying Taoism and Buddhism.

I was an atheist for most of my life, and I would still consider my beliefs to broadly so. The great thing about these two spiritualities and philsophies is that they don’t require you to have faith. They instead ask - “Well, hey there Graeme, why not read what we have to say, and then give it a go yourself. If it doesn’t do it for you, thats cool.”

I remember the first time I read the Tao Te Ching vividly.

Much like my aims for this piece, it was a book that washed over me. Meaning in the text wasn’t always clear, but it felt like something, and the more I read the more the feeling grew into a sense of wonder. Wonder at nature, wonder at our ability to have awareness, wonder at the world.

To combine this with two of my other passions was such a burst of energy. And so I would advocate that —if you too have things in your life that truly fill you up— do not shy away from portraying that in your work!

People will tell you art comes from suffering. I beg to differ. Art comes from feeling, and wonder, like suffering, is just as valid a muse. Never let it slide.

Thank you for reading this far. If you have enjoyed what I shared, please do comment below and let me know what this piece and its subsequent breakdown did for you.

Embracing the Messy Reality

Writing while balancing a 45-hour corporate workweek is an exercise in dedication. I am sure you have all felt that too.

But this is the messy reality of writing for the passion. I don’t want to just give you a polished final product; I want you in the engine room with me, grease on our hands, figuring out how this creative pursuit works.

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Thank you for being here for the bumps in the road. I have so much more to share, and I cannot wait to serve you with whimsy, talks on creativity, and playful silliness.

Love 💖🐇🦕

This is part two of my graphic fable, Taona. A cute little story of a Triceratops who lived on a peninsula 66 million years ago. Through this lil’ dino friend, I will be exploring the theme of deep time — how, no matter what time you live in, we can all feel connected.

The Story so far

Chapter Directory: 1, 2,

You are here 👆

Taona has woken up to the all-encompassing sound of the monsoon rains. While it sometimes bothers him, he often finds that the subdued nature of the forest and his preference for the dry and warmth of his little cave lead him to reflect on things he might normally gloss over, finding perfection in even the littlest details.

As with all things, though, the weather changes, and the rain slowly begins to ease…

Taona noticed that the drips in his puddle were slowly easing off, their splashes less pronounced, the ripples less aggressive. He looked upwards through the canopies to the sky above, trying to sense the quality of the light. To hear whether anyone was stirring from their nests?

Indeed, the sky had changed, and it felt unusual despite the lighter skies and the quieter background pitter-patter. His ears twitched, trying to pick out sounds, but unusually there were very few to be heard. The sense of the world holding its breath had not abated like the wet weather, and he was desperately curious to find out why.

Carefully so as not to disturb the quiet, Taona picked himself up and ventured out into the jungle. He had in mind to visit the nearby brook, a popular drinking spot, and a sure place to discover whether this feeling of stillness was a warning sign or just sleepiness on the part of the rest of the creatures. His mind drifted momentarily to his old herd, but, shuddering, he pushed the thought down and began his trudge down the valley side.

This story is a labour of love, combining my passion for art with my obsession with the themes that connect us across time. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this format.

Do you sometimes get that feeling when you can’t quite place why, but you sense that change is in the air?

Tell me more in the comments 🦖😀

Bonus Content:

This story has been an ongoing project for a while, and though it may seem like it is just beginning, I have already written the full story. Images, however, take far longer to do, and so I am perhaps only about 1/20th completed. In order to stay true to my original intention, I often go back to the story that inspired it all. The Bhagavad Gita, a story of Prince Arjuna and his loyal aid, the hidden god Krishna. If you know, you know.

In the meantime, you might wonder about the process of how I get to these finished images. Sometimes a page can start from the loosest of sketches. As long as you know what is happening when you plot and plan, it doesn’t matter how it looks; all that matters is that you get the story out onto that page.

Who is Taona running from? Where is he running to? I guess you will just have to stick around and find out.

Tell me about your art process. Do you start scruffy, or are your drawings quite clean to begin with?

The Strings of Us, which is my main serial here on Substack, is a crowdfunded universe. If you are enjoying the free content from my atlas, you can help fund the professional editing, cover art, and final publication of the book by joining the Cartographer’s Guild and subscribing, or dropping a tip in my Ko-fi jar below.

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Every £1 contributed earns you 10 Treasury Points on our public Leaderboard. As we reach our funding milestones, our top point-holders will unlock exclusive, non-financial rewards. This includes securing your place in the premium “Community Edition” print run, immortalising your name and creative decisions directly within the physical text, alongside access to our digital TTRPG lore expansions.

Subscribe below to ensure you never miss a chapter. Step into the Cartographer’s Guild with a paid subscription to unlock the Director’s Commentaries, access the Atlas Vault, and help forge this universe alongside us.

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Lots of love to you all 🥰

Graeme

If you are new here, you’ve just stepped aboard The Strings of Us, a serialised sci-fi epic being funded in real-time by readers like you. You can catch up on previous chapters in the archive here. 👇

Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

The Story So Far:

We are aboard the Chrysaora, a monumental generation ship born from a secret alliance between humanity and intelligent, gravity-manipulating rabbits. Tensions on the vessel are running at a breaking point. A rogue saboteur recently triggered a near-catastrophic explosion in the water reclamation facility on the exact day the ship’s overarching AGI, “Sister,” was activated. Security Chief Lysander Tanner and rabbit spec-ops officer Hec’ten narrowly averted disaster, uncovering a hidden conspiracy that has led Lysander to forge a secret, investigative alliance with Dr Farrell.

Meanwhile, far from the political sabotage, the grieving human historian, Elias, is struggling to adapt to his new life among the stars. To break through his rigid, academic shell, the rabbit archivist Cas’shya has brought him to the ship’s holographic archive. Rejecting his sterile artefacts and museum-piece mentality, she has plunged him into a fully immersive, sensory reconstruction of Ancient Athens to teach him how rabbits truly record history: by feeling it.

Today, we leave the sound-dampened void of the starship behind and step into the bustling, sun-baked crowds of the Grecian Agora. A boastful Olympian is about to learn that the greatest athletes in history aren’t always human.

A massive thank you to everyone in the Cartographers Guild who joined the Leaderboard so far to help this vessel launch. Let’s open the logs.

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A Brief History of Rabbit-kind: The Tale of Philoc the Swift - Part 01 - The Pride of the Agora.

Philoc the messenger was one of the swiftest and most agile rabbits of his time. People assumed he was looked over by Hermes with the way that he could convey messages faster than even the fastest of horseback riders. It was said he had wings on his feet just like the god, and could practically fly along the ground with the way that he ran. Ironically, the humans who would comment as such were often the closest to the truth.

He worked mostly for Rabbits as a runner between communities, using the many warrens that connected Rabbit families beneath the surface, and was well loved and respected for it. However, he was just as often chastised by the elders of the Rabbit families, what with his awkward habit of regularly getting mixed up in human affairs. His love of figs was sadly the driving force behind this unwelcome knack for getting into trouble. Philoc could barely contain himself at even the slightest waft of a basket of market figs, conveyed on a delicate breeze. In order to acquire them through more legitimate means, he would often go against common Rabbit convention and quietly run messages for important people on the surface, in lieu of payment, with fresh or dried figs and dates. Careful as he was to keep his profile low so as not to anger the Rabbit families further - and to keep his talent for Terra running a secret, under pain of Rabbit law! His reputation still preceded him. He was an almost mythical creature to those in the know, becoming a Rabbit who, in time, was highly sought after by the Athenian elite to run messages. Sometimes to generals or dignitaries, often to lovers, and even to the Kings, Pharaohs, and Emperors of other nations. Despite being well known in the upper rungs of society, however, he was yet to cement for himself a longer-lasting and more durable form of notoriety and fame.

All of that effort to remain relatively anonymous was to change the day he met a young, boastful Olympian. Demetrius.

It all began, as many good stories do, in the bustling Polis of Athens. Under the watchful eyes of the gods, Philoc, who was indulging in a few well-earned fruits, overheard a proclamation.

A tall, muscles-and-braun kind of man was standing among a crowd of admirers, fully slicked in rose-scented olive oil and glinting in the midday sun. He bellowed out to the crowd in as impressive a voice as his huge chest could muster.

“Good people, my name is Demetrius of Athens. I implore you to remember this name well, for I am bound for the Olympic Games, where I will assuredly win glory in every event. Not only for myself, but for the great city of Athens and for all of its citizens who wish to see the gods’ light shine upon the brow of an Athenian. The golden wreath bestowed upon the heads of the best athletes will be proof of my claims to excellence when I bring it home to this very Polis.

But do not just simply take what I say without scrutiny; listen well to the experience I bring to the Olympiad. The abilities I have come to possess in my travels will be evident for all to see, and it will be repeated for future generations to come as the greatest example of the human capacity for athleticism. In Sparta, I trained with their mighty generals. I can throw a discus, a shot, and a javelin further than even the boldest and most highly acclaimed Spartan warriors. On horseback, I travelled east, where I was recruited as a mercenary for the famed horse riders known as the Scythians. I now have the dexterity, the speed and the natural ability of those who can ride like the wind and shoot arrows with both hands free, from the back of their horse - at full gallop no less. My chariot skills have been likened to those of the great Hittites, famed for their chariot warfare, which will come as a surprise to none who know of my exploits in Anatolia.

In boxing, I have spent many months fighting with bears in the northern hills of Makedonia, learning how to brawl, to read the flow of the fight, to dodge, weave and master the art of using my opponent’s weight against them. To think like a bear is an art in itself; they do not presuppose the outcome of a brawl and instead react with lightning reactivity in the moment that it is necessary. It is impossible to surprise a bear, and it is impossible to surprise me. In wrestling, I tested the might of Poseidon and the Minotaur, both by sailing down to the ancient Mesopotamian island of Crete, where I fought against the great beast and learned how to use this Bull’s strength against him, pulling him to the floor and holding him fast as Theseus may have done in the past. After this, I travelled into the far north, well beyond our northern borders and up into the cold, frost-bitten realms of the Celts. It was there that I studied under a great tutor. A fierce Celtic warrior by the name of Arthengeterix, who taught me the techniques of his fierce, one-to-one combat style. It is a fighting form that has stood him in great standing as a king among the tribes. It is this fighting style I will be bringing to the Pankration, where there will be no one in the Greek world able to stand toe to toe with me”.

Philoc, who had scoffed his figs by this point and was sitting amicably in the shade of a small market stall adorned with flowers, scoffed again at this man’s audacity and boldness. Surely no one could be daft enough to believe this man’s claims. For a start, he looked to be no older than twenty-five years, so quite how he had been able to stuff his life so full to bursting with all these experiences was beyond belief. Stories of Minotaurs, Mercenaries, and fighting bears. Philoc laughed to himself again and creased his eyes in bemused bewilderment. However, his ears pricked up at the next statement.

“My dear friends, ‘but what of the running events’, I hear you ask… Fear not, for I have found the greatest of tutors. I am certain you have all heard tales of the swift and lightning-fast Gē Dromeis. Terra runners. Rabbits whose ability to run has become almost legendary. Of course, most of you, I am sure, think of these enigmatic creatures as simple kids’ tales, but I can assure you they are not! I have met one, and learnt the secrets of their incredible ability to be in one location and the next before the blink of an eye. I can now best any Rabbit or Human in a course of any distance. The other Olympians will have only a view of dust, kicked up from my blazed trail as I cascade towards and over the finish line”.

“Hah!”

The crowd was silenced suddenly, unsure who would be brave enough to have released such a hearty laugh at this newest claim. People shuffled awkwardly, and Demetrius himself stilled, unfamiliar as he was with being ridiculed. Glaring into the crowd, he scanned for the culprit, ready to prove his mettle as a warrior and athlete right here, right now.

The crowd began to part a little, shuffling awkwardly as the source of the disruption became more evident. Demetrius growled his stern gaze through the crowd as the people parted, until at last his eyes landed on a Rabbit. A small white and grey flecked Rabbit looking sheepish and trying to look as small as he could behind a basket. Many in the crowd who could see what was happening gasped audibly, unsure what to make of this turn of events. Rabbits, as far as they were concerned, were borderline mythical. Stories told to children and shared over wine. These were the moments that concerned Rabbits, not real life. As word of the Rabbit rippled through the crowd, it began to buzz momentarily until -

“You, Rabbit! You mock me!?”

“No sir, not me at all, nope, must have been someo….”

Philoc clasped his paws over his mouth aghast and ashamed in equal measure at having spoken in Human language as openly as this. With so many people around, he couldn’t quite believe himself.

Demetrius projected an accusing finger across the heads of his audience.

“Your guilt speaks volumes, Rabbit! How about I come over there and wipe that smirk off your face properly? Do not think that because of having met your kind before, I will be lenient”

At this moment, when the tension was climbing rapidly up the walls of the great acropolis to new heights, a man stepped out of the crowd. Herodotus, who had much knowledge of the world and of Rabbits, saw an opportunity.

“My dear friends, calm this quarrel immediately. I am sure not everything is as it seems. Perhaps there is an opportunity here for you, Demetrius, to show us all the truth of what you say”.

Turning to Philoc, he beckoned him forward. Philoc, aware of the expectant gaze of the entire crowd, not to mention the heat coming off Demtrius’s glare, was hesitant to take a step further and instead considered making a dash for it, secrecy be damned.

“Come now, no harm will befall you”.

Assured by this gentle man’s calming presence, he hopped forward from his spot in the shade of the basket and out onto the sunny stage that had been created by the feet of those who had parted to let him in.

Herodotus, satisfied that he had absorbed some of the immediate danger, began:

“Gentlemen, let us not resort to brash actions. Demetrius, your claims are grand, and if true, worthy of the annals of history. Yet, they are met with scepticism, understandably so. Why not prove the veracity of your training with the Gē Dromeis in a challenge that would befit such a tale?”

Demetrius, after a moment of thought, his pride piqued: “And what challenge would you propose, wise Herodotus, that could possibly prove my worth and silence the doubters?”

“A race, but not any mundane race. A race to the Oracle of Delphi. To consult the Oracle on a matter of great importance, a question that only the fastest and most worthy of messengers could deliver and return with an answer to before the next full moon. The gods themselves would bear witness to such a feat, and what better way to prove your divine training?”

Demetrius, for a moment, baulked at the thought of this challenge; surely he was above this nonsense. But then he looked around at the expectant eyes of his peers among the audience. Old and young alike, energised and awed by his stories of heroism and skill, were looking to him. A young child was reflecting admiration, as one might if standing before Zeus himself. Knowing that he had to prove himself and also not let these people down, he calmed himself and nodded, inwardly reluctant, but outwardly assured.

The crowd turned their attention towards Philoc, their admiration sliding into bemusement as they absorbed the reality of this unusual exchange.

Philoc hesitantly, and with a respectful nod towards Herodotus, spoke: “Esteemed Herodotus, and... Demetrius, it’s true I’ve overheard some tales taller than the olive trees of Athens, yet none so bold as to claim tutelage under my kin. While flattery it might be to some, to me it brings about a deep quandary.”

He pauses, glancing around at the crowd and then back at Demetrius, his tone a mix of apology and gentle correction.

“For no Rabbit, swift or wise, would dare boast to have taught the wind its ways, nor claim the stars as students. My laugh, ill-timed and unkind, was but a ripple in the pond of your grand tales. Yet, if a race to Delphi is the path to truth, then on swift legs I shall tread it, not for glory or laurel, but for clarity’s sake and maybe... for a fig or two at journey’s end.”

The market stall owner, seizing an opportunity for a bit of easy glory himself, called from his stand: “I will happily and with great pride provide a whole cartload of figs and dates to the winner of this esteemed contest of man versus beast… Ahem… Rabbit”.

“There it is settled then. As the witness to this agreement and a chronicler of truths, I shall set the terms and oversee this race. Let it be known that on this day, a challenge was set forth, one that will be remembered through the ages. Tomorrow morning at sunrise, when the first vestiges of the sun’s facade creep over that distant temple’s apex, we will meet at this very spot, and the race will begin. The message you will convey -”

Herodotus paused in thought. His wisdom and understanding of the greater patterns of the universe led him into a moment of silence as he pondered his role in steering these two characters towards a worthy outcome.

“Let the question for the Oracle be this: ‘What is the true measure of victory for a man? Is it in the laurels of triumph, or is there a greater victory to be found within?”

The crowd cheered with delight as the rules were laid bare for all. Herodotus, pleased with the effect of his words, looked to his two peers for their consent. Demetrius nodded, a thin smile on his lips, caught between amusement and annoyance, whilst Philoc took a low bow, eyes closing for a moment as a gesture of respect, before hopping away between the feet of an old woman.

From the Cartographer’s Desk

This chapter was an absolute joy to build. After the claustrophobic, high-stakes tension of the water facility sabotage in the present timeline, pivoting to the sun-drenched, mythological past of Ancient Greece felt like a necessary breath of fresh air.

Writing Philoc the Swift allowed me to explore the cheeky, slightly irreverent side of rabbit culture. I loved contrasting Demetrius’s loud, aggressive human hubris, built on boasts of wrestling minotaurs, fighting bears, and training with Spartans, with Philoc’s quiet, fig-loving capability. It sets the stage perfectly for the race to Delphi, proving that the greatest athletes in history aren’t always human.

Help Build the Chrysaora

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Every £1 contributed earns you 10 Treasury Points on our public Leaderboard. As we reach our funding milestones, our top point-holders will unlock exclusive, non-financial rewards. This includes securing your place in the premium “Community Edition” print run, immortalising your name and creative decisions directly within the physical text, alongside access to our digital TTRPG lore expansions.

Subscribe below to ensure you never miss a chapter. Step into the Cartographer’s Guild with a paid subscription to unlock the Director’s Commentaries, access the Atlas Vault, and help forge this universe alongside us.

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Thanks for reading, and all the best to you all.

If you are new here, you’ve just stepped aboard The Strings of Us, a serialised sci-fi epic being funded in real-time by readers like you. You can catch up on previous chapters in the archive here. 👇

Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Today, we are leaving the simulated natural wonders of the ship’s biomes and stepping into the sterile, sound-dampened void of the Holographic Archive.

Cas’shya is about to have her first official working session with Elias, the grieving human historian. Armed with the philosophical grounding Jun’ip provided in the forest, she is preparing to confront Elias’s rigid, academic view of the universe. What happens when a man who relies on verifiable facts meets a rabbit who remembers history by feeling it?

A massive thank you to everyone in the Cartographers Guild who joined the Leaderboard so far to help this vessel launch. Let’s open the logs.

Chapter 10 - Cas'shya - Rabbit - Female: Testimonial 002

Jun’ip and I walked into the holographic archive room. The space was one of five such rooms on the ship. Four were spaced out in quadrants along the band of metal that encircled the ship’s biome, and the last, the one we approached, was at the head. This much smaller part of the ship housed some of the ship’s most critical functions, navigation being one, and Jun’ip’s quarters being another. But this room, this was one of my favourite places to be.

The door to the archive opened wordlessly, which had always amazed me. Having grown up on Earth, I was accustomed to the basic physics of friction and to things making a noise when they moved. This door seemed dead-set on frustrating that life lesson in the most fascinating way. Sometimes, for fun, I would level both my ears at it just before I commanded it to open, determined to find any sign of sound. No such luck yet.

The room inside was pitch-black, save for a small pulsing blue light where a device hung in the air at the centre of the room, defying gravity in a way that put my previous attempts in the forest to shame.

Around one half of the room was glass, an observation deck for other scholars to watch, currently not being used, and so dark. The rest of the room was sterile. Its surfaces were light but shrouded in darkness, revealing their whiteness only in the sporadic reflected glow from the blue LED.

The walls curved slightly inwards, not quite taking the shape of a half sphere, but neither was it a cube. Our feet made soft little thuds in the room, but they didn’t echo like a normal space. The floor and walls were textured like a minuscule rendition of the soundproofing insulation in a recording studio. The whole place gave me an eerie feeling, as if it had been designed specifically to subvert all my usual sensory expectations.

I hopped in and immediately squeaked a little in delight. Jun’ip came in behind me, however, and didn’t seem quite as perturbed or excited.

“Eeeh, I have missed this place! What has it been, like, five weeks now?” I stamped my feet on the ground a few times, savouring the feeling of the odd soft texture underpaw, and then bounded over to the edges of the room and started brushing my head and exposed fur against the walls like I was brushing myself.

“So soft!”

The softness was having a clear effect on my fur as well. I didn’t quite understand the mechanical engineering of the room, but by the way my fur started to stand on end, I suspected there must be a static charge somewhere. My antics against the wall had that balloon-like effect on my hair, and I was now looking a bit tumble-dried.

“Please refrain from touching me until you have released that.” Jun’ip remarked, pointedly eyeing my static fur.

“Ha, you can’t be worried about a little shock, surely, I would have thought being Orion’s heart guide you would be used to ‘shocks’, right?”

Jun’ip did, in fact, seem quite worried about shocks. Being old is not for the faint of heart, and neither is being mildly electrocuted. I started edging towards him teasingly, and he hopped back a little in response. I moved faster, letting a familiar, playful menace bubble up in my chest. Jun’ip stood composed and, at the last second, used his connection to the strings to pull himself smoothly away to the side. Thankfully, I had intended to stop right before him, and I was poised just in front of where he would have been, one paw quivering in the air.

“Do you dare me?” I asked.

“I do not, in any way, shape or form, dare you to do any such thing. Is this how you treat all your mentors?”

My paw lowered, and I twitched my nose slyly.

“Maybe next time I will get you,” I replied. “What’s the score now? I think it’s about twenty-three to zero for you. You always pull away at the last moment, and I never have the gumption to actually do it. One day, I will pluck up the courage to zap you! I am deeply confident it will make you less stuffy and more fun.”

“I will have you know, I am the funnest Rabbit I know. I just have a rather unique perspective on what fun means.”

“Ha!” I pulled away and went to discharge myself over by the door, my fur flattening back into place.

“Whatever you think your perspective on fun is, I am certain it is not in any of the stories you like to regale me with. I swear, some days, I could catch you in those strings, and you would be gone with the wind for hours. Silent as a cloud in the sky.”

“Ahem, yes, well, if you spent more time practising with your own strings, you might too realise the joy to be found in becoming one with the ‘clouds in the sky’.” Jun’ips eyes twinkled a bit as he looked at me. I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Cloud freak.”

“History freak,” he retorted. I laughed at that. Freak is not a word I had heard him use before. Its shape felt unusual coming from him, but oddly satisfying. It fitted well with our natural language of clicks, mixing in with the sounds quite perfectly.

Elias, in the meantime, had managed to step into the room unnoticed because of the infuriatingly quiet door and the dampening floor, and coughed to draw attention to himself. He was still looking dishevelled and worn, but for the first time, I saw a quality to him that had not been present before.

Jun’ip and I froze. My ears flattened in mild embarrassment, and my now-patted-down fur somehow managed to shrink even more. We had been caught in a moment of silliness, and I knew immediately that the last thing I wanted was to give Elias even more reasons to think I was unusual. Elias, meanwhile, just stood there by the door, his hands clasped awkwardly in front of him, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes looking from me to Jun’ip and back again. The silence in the sound-dampened room was suddenly immense.

“I...Ur, I apologize,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly mumble. “The door was very quiet. I didn’t mean to…”

Recovering first, I gave a huff and began to smooth my whiskers down, pulling my shawl tighter around myself, trying to regain a shred of professional dignity.

“Professor. You’re... here. We were just…”

“Being freaks,” Elias finished.

Jun’ip and I exchanged a sharp glance.

Elias looked down, and a small, almost pained smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Then, he spoke. It was not in the flat, human language, but in the clicks, soft thumps, and whistling tones of formal Rabbit-speak.

He said, in a very rusty, and borderline incomprehensible human meets rabbit accent:

“My apologies for surprise today now. I thinking… if you be ‘Cloud-freak’ and you also be ‘History-freak’… then I also be ‘sad-corner-freak.’”

He finished on a surprisingly accurately timed click with his tongue behind his two front teeth, exactly like a rabbit might.

Jun’ip genuinely recoiled in surprise, and his ears shot straight up. Of all the things we expected this grieving human to say, a self-deprecating joke in our own language was not one of them. I found myself caught utterly off guard.

I just stared, my mouth half-open. The static electricity seemed to have frozen me in place all over again. After a beat of pure, stunned silence, I let out an explosive snort, a sharp ‘Eeeh!’ of surprised laughter.

“Well, who would have thunk it,” I said, hopping forward towards Jun’ip, my earlier static-based menace gone, replaced by pure, baffled curiosity. “Who knew? Even sad humans are more fun than you, Jun’ip.” He remained faux dignified and aloof. As if he were above such things.

Elias gave a small, genuine, and deeply sad smile. “We sad humans have our moments… just not… not recently.” His gaze drifted to the central console. The mood sobered, but the air’s static tension had smoothed into something much more comfortable. That fleeting quality was a flicker of the same, offbeat silliness I possessed. I wondered about his past before he joined us, and whether, beneath it all, we might actually find friendship.

“Right,” he said, switching back to his own language and drawing his academic sword and shield, defensive in posture. “Shall we... begin? I have been briefed and have been led to understand that we are to work together compiling a unified vision of human-rabbit history. How does Ancient Greece sound as a place to start?”

Elias moved to the device with the blue light hovering in the centre of the room and, using it like a magic wand, brought up a console in the air. His hands were still fidgety, but he carefully strapped the remote around his wrist with a wrap-around strap, ready to command the room. As soon as he started typing on the console, however, a sudden sense of assurance came over him. It was like watching a nervous medical student somehow transform into a confident surgeon. The fidgety hands became masterful and precise.

“Right. Let’s begin,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the group. Carefully avoiding making eye contact with either myself or Jun’ip. “The purpose of this project, as I have been led to believe, is to codify… to create a verifiable–”

Frustration sidled up to me like an old friend. I shot Jun’ip an ‘I told you so’ lilt of my head, striking in its effectiveness. He gently chimed in.

“Elias, we are here to share our histories, are we not?”

Elias, taking a deep breath, recomposed himself. He looked at us both again, as if to remind himself that he wasn’t actually alone, and that he could be seen.

“Yes. Yes, of course. A sharing of... data. Let’s start with my own research while I’m here and already strapped in, shall we? A foundation, perhaps, from which we can leap off.” He tapped the console a few times, and the room thrummed. The lights dimmed until all that was left was a constellation of moving lights that came together and formed a spinning Greek kylix, an ancient drinking vessel, that stood tall and proud, magnified tenfold in the middle of the space.

The detail on the artefact was superb. I had never quite got used to the way this room could create something so tangible-looking, yet ultimately a mirage. This mirage, in particular, was very much like a museum piece, segregated from its history by placing it in a dead context. A single point of colour and light in an otherwise unfathomably dark space. To me, it felt cold. As a lifetime student of the rabbit lore and the strings, I could never quite figure out this human habit of removing things from their attachments. This cup was meant to be enjoyed, filled with liquids, and rested on the lips of famous and powerful Athenians. And yet, here it was, alone, segregated from all that it valued.

Elias’s stumbling was gone as he strode over to the projection. The confident professor was in his element. He walked around the hologram, gesturing.

“As you can see, the style is classic Attic, late 5th century. The depiction of the rabbit is, of course, charmingly zoomorphic, a clear...mythological representation... a fable of some kind. It’s a delightful object, but as a historical source...”

My fur bristled. The sheer wonderment at these human habits was rapidly turning into frustration, my old misgivings about him returning. Jun’ip glanced at me, and I held his gaze. Our conversation on the way played on a loop in my head, a shared story between us; a silent plea from him to heed his warnings and be inspired by his story.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Elias?”

My voice didn’t quite carry.

“Of course, representations like this allude to realities that we can begin to use as a basis for…”

I had been quiet at first, but I gained a little strength. “It’s not a ‘representation,’ Elias.”

Elias stopped, amused. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a portrait.”

Elias scoffed, a dry, academic sound, a sadly practised sound. “A portrait? My dear Cas’shya, a portrait of whom? What is your source material?”

I walked past him to the console and looked pointedly at him, waiting for him to lower it down to my height. He obliged by waving the arm with the device downwards, pushing the console down to the floor.

“Of Philoctetes the Swift, my dear Elias,” My slight tone of mockery gave a subtle twist to my lips. Not quite a smile, after all, this was still a precarious relationship at best, but the intention was clear.

“You’re showing us an object that has hidden within it an entire story, but of course, you wouldn’t know that because you have removed this object from its inherent aliveness. Did you know this Kylix was actually a prize awarded to an Olympian? Let me show you the Truth.”

I swiped my paw across the holographic keypad and brought up what appeared to be a simple touchpad. Elias, having never seen such a thing before, was bemused. “What is tha-” But before he could finish his question, I was pawing away at the pad, drawing delicate patterns in its space. The lines appeared as if they were both wide and deep; the pressure I applied seemed to convey to the device not only intention but also feeling. I was a dancer lost in the throes of an interpretive piece. My eyes closed as I lost myself, and as the pattern grew, the thrumming of the room notched up a few notes. The Kylix hologram shattered before him, causing his eyes to go wide with surprise as millions of trailing stars of light swirled about the room.

“What are you doing? That’s not in the index—”

“It is,” I whispered, lost in the movements as I composed around myself a new hologram, infinitely complex and detailed. “Just not yours.”

The archive walls dissolved into daylight. The smell of artificiality was replaced by the phantom scent of dust, olives and other fresh produce, of perfumes and the smell of humanity. The soundscape of a bustling marketplace seemed to stretch past what had only moments before been hard boundaries, of merchants shouting in ancient Greek and goats bleating. The energy and life of a world long passed became our new reality. The final few stars of light swooped down and landed on a man in the middle distance, forming him in real time. We were suddenly standing in a fully immersive reconstruction of the ancient Athenian agora. A digital sun beat its warmth down onto our bodies, and a breeze ruffled the corners of my shawl.

Elias was physically stunned. He took a step back, passing through a number of mirage-like people as they went about their shopping. His academic confidence was completely shattered. He sat down on the floor, almost as if it was the only way he could steady his disbelief. “How... what is this?”

Smiling faintly, Jun’ip hopped over to Elias, putting a paw on his arm. “She is showing you, Elias. As she was taught. By feeling.”

“But this is.. Miraculous. Nothing on earth exists that could do this?”

“My friend, we are no longer on earth.” Jun’ip gently suggested.

I was now in my element, and I gestured towards a holographic man, all tone and oil, the Olympian Demetrius, gleaming on a pedestal. I met Elias’s gaze, my eyes bright and challenging.

“You asked for the source material, Elias. Here it is.” I took a deep breath and narrated, my voice became the soundtrack to the scene unfolding around us: “In the bustling polis of Athens, there lived a rabbit...”

From the Cartographer’s Desk

This chapter was a thrilling challenge to construct. Moving from the quiet, meditative philosophy of Jun’ip’s forest lesson into a high-tech, visually explosive environment required a complete shift in pacing.

I really wanted to explore how grief acts as a kind of armour. We see Elias walk in completely dishevelled, but the moment he straps the holographic remote to his wrist, he transforms back into a confident, guarded academic. Breaking through that armour required Cas’shya to do something radical. Shattering his sterile museum projection and forcing him to literally stand inside a bustling, living memory of the ancient Athenian Agora. It was a joy to write about the clash of these two entirely different ways of experiencing the universe.

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Share

Thanks for reading, and all the best to you all.

If you are new here, you’ve just stepped aboard The Strings of Us, a serialised sci-fi epic being funded in real-time by readers like you. You can catch up on previous chapters in the archive here. 👇

Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Today, we are leaving the stuffy and humid confines of the Arcturian Water Reclamation Facility for more ‘natural’ climes. (At least. As far as a spaceship can be called natural).

Cas’shya is having a one-to-one mentoring session with Jun’ip, widely regarded as one of the wisest elders in rabbit society. She is still feeling particularly awkward after her encounter with Elias in chapter 2, and is starting to doubt whether she should even be working with him…

A massive thank you to our newest Cartographers Guild members who joined the Leaderboard so far to help fund this launch. Let’s open the logs.

Chapter 9 - Jun’ip - Rabbit - Male: Testimonial 001

I felt old today; my shoulders felt heavy with the burden of my position as a mentor.

“I am simply honouring our ancestors, Jun’ip. Did you know the Terra runners used to achieve a state of focus and calm when travelling at ridiculous speeds? They would find focus through movement. Which leads me to wonder why...” She gestured with her paw at the surrounding moss-covered trees and rocky rivulets. “I cannot simply go and organise my thoughts by enjoying a bit of high-speed tree dodging?”

Today it was Cas’shya’s turn for my weekly one-to-one mentoring sessions. I shielded my eyes with my ears as I gazed up to where she hovered, ten meters up in the air, amongst tall deciduous and pine forest.

From a distance, you would think she was perfectly still, but a bit of attention revealed quite the opposite. You could see she was swaying, bobbing, and fidgeting about like a leaf in a breeze. The trees nearby threatened to poke her with their outstretched branches, like eager children trying to pet animals in a zoo. She would always pull away just in time, but begrudgingly.

Second by second, it seemed more likely that she would embrace those playful instincts of hers to bound about this forest like a regular squirrel. I was already starting to regret bringing her to such tempting surroundings. But there was a purpose behind my madness.

“Well? Am I to assume you have simply not heard me?” She asked.

I sighed inwardly. Her strings were torrid, vibrating with a snapped and frayed quality, like a broken snare. She was more doubtful than I had seen her in many years, perhaps since she had joined the academy. And as usual, she was deflecting from it by weaponising her intellect and being aggressively silly. It made our comparative ages feel particularly striking to see such misdirected enthusiasm.

“Hmm, perhaps I just need a new perspective on this task.” She started to slowly rotate sideways in mid-air. Her arms were crossed, and her ears were dangling comically as she inverted herself completely in a perfect circle.

“I am perfectly still, Jun’ip. It’s the ship that’s fidgeting,” she declared to the slick rocks below. “Besides, I’ve calculated that if I simply release my string and allow this artificial wind to hurl me into those branches, the resulting mild concussion might finally organise my thoughts. Or at the very least, knock some sense into me.”

“Cas’shya, what do you think my answer will be?”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. I had seen her mime-like impression of me giving her instructions a million times. It was amazing how human it made her look.

“I can feel your string; it is a tangled mess,” I said. “We need to bring you back to a more regulated state of calm...”

“And you think bringing me out to a playground like this, after months of being stuck in artificial surroundings, would help that?” She swayed as she said it, nearly bouncing off a moss-covered tree trunk.

“Do you think it is easier to stay focused when you have things to focus on, or when there is no stimulus at all to stop your mind from wandering?” She stuck her tongue out at me. “It is easy, Cas’shya, to move with our heart string. It is much harder to stay still. For this, we need two things: concentration and awareness. I have brought you out here because there is plenty to be aware of, and plenty to hold your focus. Now, please with me, breathe.”

She rolled her eyes, but finally did as I asked. Closing her eyes, she hovered up there in amongst the branches of the trees and took a deep breath.

“Now, feel the wind on you. Feel the sunlight as it shines through the shield of this ship onto the back of your neck. Listen to the trees as they gently sway. Find those points of focus and connect to them. See how your strings hold you in an infinite web of interactions. The exercise here is to let that web hold you in place. Feel the movement of the earth and the moon below us, feel the vibration of the Chrysaora as it tracks the moon’s orbit...”

I was glad to see her breathing slow down, and her hover stopped swaying so much. She gently rose and fell with her breath like a beach ball held by the sea. I tuned into the environment myself and felt the slight strangeness of it all through the strings. The surroundings were all natural, the trees were real, and the soil below was working as soil should. The management of things like rain and wind seemed more natural now than it ever had been since sister had taken over.

But as I probed deeper, reaching down through the decks toward the ship’s centre, I hit a wall. A sensory void. The humans must have wrapped the ship's core in dense shielding, creating a localised numbness in the strings that made my ears ring when I focused on it too much. Yet, bleeding through that hollow space was a tragic, undeniable weight. A vast, captive consciousness straining in the dark. The humans had birthed a nascent intelligence in ‘Sister’, only to lock her away in a box, forcing her to maintain the Chrysaora from within. Empathising with that chained-up, mechanical consciousness always left a dissonant ache behind my eyes.

I looked up, and Cas’shya was starting to lose her focus again; her eyes were screwing up, and her hover started to drift from one side to the other. With one paw, she rubbed her temple gently as a furrow appeared in her brow. Eventually, she bumped into a tree and fell to the floor, tumbling into a heap before me.

“Uff, this is stupid. She pushed herself up, rubbing her shoulder. “My head is splitting. How am I supposed to stay still when the ship’s gravity drive is screaming in my skull? Artificial gravity, fake wind. It’s all moving. Do you know we are travelling at close to 3700km per hour around the earth, and I am supposed to remain perfectly in one place?“

I groomed my paw slowly, allowing the silence to endure, and half trying to hide a smile as her scientist side started to bite again.

“And yet, you are still when you sit here on the floor beside me. You fall because you are trying to anchor yourself to a machine, Cas’shya.”

“I am trying to anchor myself to reality, Yes Jun’ip, that is called momentum.” She groomed a tuft of lichen that had lodged itself in her fur and threw it at the floor. “I’m a historian, not a scientist; this is pointless. Why are you teaching me this again?”

“Humans are always calculating things, just like you,” I said quietly, letting my strings project a slow, steady pulse. “The mathematics of this space station dictates your weight. This metal shell was built to be dragged across the galaxy at colossal speed, fighting the universe every inch of the way in its attempt to preserve this.” I gestured at the forest around us. “But the strings do not care how fast this ship moves.”

She looked at me with frustration simmering in her eyes. Still so distracted. It was no wonder she fell out of the sky. Her defensive posture was rigid.

“The centre of the Milky Way is pulling at us just as steadily here, as it did in the meadows of Earth.” I continued. “You fall because your mind is trapped inside the world of mechanics, fighting against its speed, while your heart is trying to listen to the universe around you. You are tearing yourself apart between the anchors of logic and the anchor of flow.

“But the movement is real, Jun’ip. If I let go of the momentum, I should smash into a tree at 3700 km per hour.”

“Stillness is not the absence of movement, my dear. It is a perspective. The universe never stops moving.” I pointed with my cane up and out of the artificial sky where the moon loomed large over the ship. “Stillness is surrender. Become one with the movement so completely that you become indistinguishable from it. Like a leaf resting on a river, if the leaf fights the current, tries to anticipate its movements, it will spin and drown. If it accepts that the river is holding it, it is perfectly still relative to the water carrying it.”

I leaned forward, catching her eye. “When you pull on your string, you are not fighting momentum. You are remembering that you are not a leaf, and that this is not a river. You are one and the same. And a river-leaf cannot fall.”

Cas’shya stared at me. The rigid lines of her furrowed frustration behind those spectacles held for a moment longer, battling the simplicity of what I was trying to guide her towards. Eventually, the tension broke.

Her shoulders drooped. A gentle, quiet smile touched the corners of her mouth, accompanied by a soft, breathy laugh - the sound of a heavy burden of effort suddenly evaporating. She shook her head, the realisation washing over her.

“I am fighting the river,” she whispered.

“So...” I said gently, keeping my voice as soft as the breeze, “let’s stop trying to calculate the ship’s velocity for a moment. Tell me what turbulent waters you are actually fighting.”

“Elias,” she muttered, her ears twitching with annoyance. She looked about herself as if searching for something, a distraction, or maybe a solution to the magma buildup she could feel surging up inside of her.

“GAH! Frustration doesn’t even cover it, it’s despair! How am I to compile a unified history - our truth - alongside a man who believes truth is just an aggregate of verifiable facts? He reads and listens to our stories and sees only metaphor and myth! It’s just the way humans are. All logic and no feeling!” Cas’shya’s disdain was palpable.

“I mean, come on, he patted my head at the meeting, literally and figuratively.”Cas’shya squirmed at the thought of it.

I sensed then that this was only the surface itch. She had a lot more going on underneath. I decided to play along for a bit.

“My old master, Sin’to Eelop, would always get me to discuss issues as a younger rabbit whilst in meditation, so I suggest we do the same, if you do not find that disagreeable. I promise I will not ask you to try and float silently again if you do not want to...” I suggested, gifting her a warm smile.

“It is hard to imagine you were ever young, let alone with problems to discuss.”

I briefly recalled my time as a young rabbit, even before my first school took me into their fold, I sensed a difference between me and the other kits. Where my peers might spend a large amount of time running around, climbing things, and playing street games, often using their still-clumsy gravitational pulls in daring ways when humans were nearby. I was instead absorbed in my own world, feeling the strings’ chorus around me that, in hindsight, I later learned had been unusually strong for me.

I may not have appeared very involved with them, but I was following along in a way they never understood, through those lines in my mind, unfortunately they didn’t always see that. To them, I was an oddity.

I sighed. That had been a very long time ago indeed. “I had my own difficulties, yes. But this is not my mentoring session, young miss, it is yours. So if you please, begin once again to start connecting to your heart string.” She smirked at me before calmly closing her eyes and letting her breathing slow once more. “My old master used to say, ‘We must always find comfort in the strings. The strings are home. When you have found your centre, please tell me more about this situation with Elias.”

“I just, you know, it makes me doubt if I am doing the right thing here. Perhaps I should have stayed on Earth and continued developing my theories about Rabbit History. Human historians have such a rigid, cold way of looking at things, and now I’m throwing my lot in with them. I mean... I just worry, Jun’ip, that I’m not up to this. I feel I am betraying my morals by being here, and that maybe this is not where I am supposed to be.”

My reflections on my earlier years revealed to me something that perhaps Cas’shya still hadn’t quite resolved yet. That there is a difference between feeling hard emotions and accepting them. When the song of the strings is your constant companion. You sometimes lose perspective and forget that for most other rabbits, the strings are a challenging thing to grasp. An exercise to practice rather than a place to live within.

“The strings are home”.

I felt the words vibrate through me in my old master’s voice, and my calm immediately returned. I knew what was needed.

“You are circling the same point, my dear”, he said gently. “Your frustration, can you pinpoint it for me, please, rather than walking around it?”

She looked at me a bit sharply, as if to reproach the direct question, but my gentle smile softened her eyes, and she bowed her head slightly.

“If I am meant to be a leaf on the water, why do I have such misgivings over this. I feel so much resistance to this project, and to Elias. I fear he will dilute everything we have achieved in the last fifty years. He will humanise our efforts to rabbitise our history. They have done it to their own people, too. Just look at black history, for example. It was completely whitewashed for such a long time.”

“He has also held up your work for all to see,” I countered. “His first book... The Rabbit Awakening. A human trying to understand our origin.”

“Exactly!” she retorted. “He studied it, he didn’t feel it. He wrote about Que’rup’s awakening as a sociological phenomenon, not the moment the universe first SANG to one of us. He will do the same to the root of our history as well. How can I work with that?”

I decided to ignore the question. My job was to help Cash’ya emotionally, not pragmatically. She would be quite capable of figuring that conundrum out on her own. No, I needed to scratch deeper. I placed a gentle paw on her shoulder, stopping her mid-argument.

“Hush now, for a moment, my dear, breathe. Your string is singing such a frantic song that I can barely hear your words over the noise. Let’s, for a moment, be rabbits again. Thinking will only get us so far; let’s listen. Let me tell you a story... but first, settle down and attune to your own heart string.”

Cash’ya stopped sullenly. We both hopped over to a couple of small boulders by the stream. The sound of the water was immediately soothing, but Cash’ya could barely notice it. I breathed a deep, consoling breath, which she followed, and then she slowly closed her eyes. I started sensing her string; I felt it tighten its pitch a little as she began to smother it with her awareness. She began to see how fraught and tense it had become during the conversation about Elias.

I started the story.

“Let me tell you the tale of ‘Whisper-in-the-grass’,” I said softly, my voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence.

***

“Whisper was a quiet mother of three, living in northern Europe, back when humans were still transitioning from their hunter-gatherer society roots to an agricultural system. Whisper did not know this; of course, her life had been simple, and she had never encountered a human in her life.

“For as long as she could remember, her world, a large meadowland that decorated the edge of a wide river, was her home. She had spent many carefree seasons there among the flowers, frolicking through the tall grass, and playing games over the river with her ‘skill’.

My own strings began to play along to the rhythm of the story, its slow, gentle cadence, roll, and bounce, rippling out into the world along its length. Little sprinkles of merriment tumbled into that warm backdrop of musical vibration, evoking memories of floral scents and clear blue skies. As my ripples spread, I slowly felt Cas’shya’s string subtly respond. Like a jazz musician whose ears might have caught a sound on the breeze. A melody calling to it, an invite to join in.

“Of course, Whispers world would not remain peaceful forever. Any life, long or short, will experience its own ups and downs, and Whispers was no exception... There came a day when she met humans for the first time...

The song my string was playing became melancholy... and it began to pluck out the melody of fear, of foreboding.

“Humans at this point were still hunter-gatherers... Whispers first became aware of them in the form of a strange scent on the breeze as her cousin’s body was cooked over a flame and consumed. It nearly made her sick with both grief and a physical revulsion that was hard to swallow.

“Over the next year, Whisper witnessed first-hand the disregard these humans had for the sanctity of their lives. They had something us rabbits had never come across before. They had tools, deadly traps, and weapons.

The song my string was playing became melancholy, and along its length, the threat of danger became more imminent. The tempo of the vibrations began to gain vigour. Cash’ya, with her eyes still closed, squirmed. The jazz musician playing her string was now improvising along with mine in a call-and-response; her string plucked out the melody of fear, of foreboding.

“A summit of the rabbit elders was called. They gathered at night by the river, risking the night hawks, the owls, the foxes, and polecats. It was an immense risk, but they did it knowing that at least the humans were asleep and wouldn’t be hunting. Many rabbits in that circle had experienced multiple losses in their family groups: to traps, arrows and cages. Whisper herself was still grieving the loss of her youngest child, who had recently been caught in a snare. The pain everyone felt that night was immense.

“It was agreed then that the humans had no good in them. That the rabbits were to keep well away from their camp, their planted crops, and under no circumstances at all could any human know of the rabbits’ gifts. Under pain of exile.

“The last point was debated fiercely, with some advocating a first contact, suggesting that if humans were able to recognise them as intelligent, they might leave them alone. But the risk was too great. The rabbits who counter-argued that their intelligence might actually threaten the human ego were much more numerous, and ultimately the decision was made to forgo any contact at all.”

Cash’ya whispered, “Why are you telling me this? Is this supposed to be helping me like Elias more?”

“Hush, my dear, stay with the strings in your heart. Therein you will find answers.”

I similarly returned to the strings and found the story’s melody once more.

“Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into years. Any early hopes that the humans would leave when that first winter came were dashed. What started as a small camp grew into a small village with farms, fishing huts, woodcutter lodges and a bustling trade with people coming and going. Inevitably, the rabbits of the valley were slowly pushed to the margins.

“The meadow became a distant memory, and warrens became secretive, hiding their entrances in the valley sides far away from where anything but the hardiest of sheep herders would go. Life grew tougher, play became rarer, and good, nourishing food became scarcer. But as time went on, rabbit losses went down to nearly zero. It seemed humans’ appetite for rabbit flesh had a limit in the effort they were willing to make to acquire it. A rough equilibrium settled over the land. Though one that seemed decidedly in favour of the humans.”

“My string stretched out with low, soft notes interspersed with seasonal trills, implying seasons passing one after another. The scenery of the mind’s eye whizzed past as if seen from the window of a high-speed train. Eventually, the train stopped, and my string played the hymn of winter.

“Snow came one day, and it didn’t stop. It was the hardest winter anyone, human or rabbit, could remember. Food became scarce, and the humans redoubled their hunting efforts. The rabbits responded in kind, hiding deeper in the valleys and holing up in their warrens.

“Whisper was out one day and was trying to forage for what little she could find before the winter set in fully. She knew that they had a much better chance at surviving if their bellies were fuller, and if their circular burrows were lined with more moss and dried grass, scarce as it had become. She was resolute that her babies would survive this hibernation.

“Her wandering for materials had taken her farther out of the valley than was strictly wise, but the proximity to the river meant the snow was thinner. Still, it was dangerous. It was not uncommon for hunting parties and fishermen to come by here.

“She noticed a bit of bearded moss on a nearby tree that looked perfect for her needs. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, she found the central string in her mind’s eye and, gripping it, guided herself up through the air to land gently on the branch above where the lichen was dangling. From her new vantage, she gently leaned down and nibbled away at where the lichen attached to the tree, savouring its earthy green taste. When it was freed from the branch, she tucked it away in a small, near-invisible pouch around her middle.

“The sound of the nearby river caught her attention. It had been a long while since she had frolicked in those waters. The cool touch of that fresh alpine meltwater was a distant memory at this point. She sighed and closed her eyes. The ripples of water as it swooshed around rocks, gently carrying and depositing pebbles, lapped against the bank, creating an all-encompassing sound that she found herself growing increasingly lost in. The sound pulled her, trance-like, closer to her strings. The melody helped her with the focus and clarity she needed to sink beneath the noise of the central string. She started to sense smaller strings, lifeforms in abundance, living quiet lives inside the water and its earthen banks. Everything from small mammals, shrews and voles, to little fish. The symphony of the river came alive to her in her mind’s eye.

“She had wondered before what else she might be able to sense if she was able to go deep enough. Do plants have strings? Or would the river itself have a string too? She felt as though she had once got close to believing she could feel a willow tree’s string, but that was a long time ago, and sensing the strings had never been her strongest gift. Still, what she was able to perceive now, this abundance of aliveness tucked away in the river... It was enough.

“As she lost herself in this connection to the river, she failed to notice another string slowly getting closer. A crunch of snow underfoot alerted her. She flattened herself down against the branch, hoping her pale brown fur would be enough to help her blend in.

“The unmistakable crunch... crunch of human feet neared. Only humans walked that way, loudly, without a care in the world. She could feel her temperature rising despite her fear. How many times had she wished to be bigger, stronger! To be able to fight back. The stench of her cousins’ burning skin, or at least the memory of it, assaulted her again, causing her stomach to clench. How could such an animal exist, capable of such cruelty and power, to the degree that they didn’t even care anymore whether they were heard in the wilds?

“The crunch crunch of the snow continued, adding a beat that her anger and passion churned along to. Annoyingly, she noticed that even now, when all she had was a steady beat to be angry and fearful against, that even this was thwarted by this insufferable human’s inability to walk at a consistent steady pace.

‘Appalling creatures!’ She thought to herself.

“She noticed a sniffling sound coming from the human. The footsteps stopped, and a moment later, she felt a small vibration shudder up through the trunk of the tree, followed by a soft thump of compacted snow as if it had just sat down.

“The sniffling continued, and every now and again she heard the occasional mumbled, indistinct word. Her ability to understand humans at all was minimal after many years of dedicated silence between the two species. But as she listened, she couldn’t escape the thought that this one sounded different. Smaller... Softer. Time passed, and the sniffling and mumbling slowed and faltered.

“Whisper, whose body was beginning to ache from the self-imposed stillness, felt trapped. Clearly, this human was not going anywhere any time soon, and the predicament, the lateness of the day, and her aches were starting to make her feel brave. Breathing softly, so as not to make too much obvious movement, she braced herself. She scrunched up her eyes and started to lean her head excruciatingly slowly around the edge of the branch. Eventually, she snuck a quick look.

“Sitting a few meters below her, in the seat of the tree roots, was a small human child. It was still sniffling slightly and staring into the middle distance away from her. She wiggled out her poor aching limbs and leaned out further.

“She observed the child was wearing... no. She shuddered to think where those furs had come from and pushed the thought of it to the back of her mind.”

I let my string drop an octave, pushing the bitter chill of the memory toward Cas’shya. She shivered visibly on the boulder beside me, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she listened.

“There was a small patch of blood in the snow near the child’s feet. Never a good sign. A hole in the skin is a sure way to let the cold in faster and the warmth out too quickly. A creeping sensation started to come over her. It felt like an impetus to move, but it wasn’t coming from her limbs this time; rather, it felt like energy that bounced, echo-like, from a place deeper. She thought of her children in the warren, how they might be worrying where she had got to.

“The young boy shivered below. A new feeling and impetus rose within her. This time, it felt less like movement and more like weight. In her mind’s eye, the faces and voices of some of the elder rabbits in her colony arose. Some were faces of rabbits still alive, some were not. The voices of her friends whispered in her ear, urging her never to reveal herself.

“She found the two feelings were at odds. From that confusion, a third sensation arose in her head, sharp and painful. A feeling she often avoided. It was the sound of a memory, of that child she once lost a few summers back. Caught by an arrow from one of those awful human weapons. She shuddered.

“For what seemed like an eternity, these conflicting rhythms projected a swirling, complex array of images across her mind’s eye, keeping her trapped just as effectively as the danger of the situation. Rarely had she felt such a sense of confusion and conflict rise up through her and settle over her. However, as the time slipped past on her motionless branch, staring down at the young human, something changed.

“The child below, gently, grew terrifyingly still. This was not the stillness of sleep, where short, awake movements morphed into a long, sonorous but steady rise and fall. No. This was a sullen stillness. A dead stillness.

“Suddenly, the variety of voices in her body stopped, and one of them boldly stepped forward. The mother. The version of Whisper who had children at home who loved her and needed her, and who loved them. The voice of the elders, with their laws, became an abstract muteness. The crying pain of her previous losses was swaddled and comforted in the warmth of her inner glow. Her decision was made. Finally, she was set into motion.

“At the base of the tree, she walked around gently, step by step, eyes fixed on where the child’s face would be when she got far enough around to see it properly. She was ready to run at any indication of danger. But as she glanced around the hood of the child’s coat, she saw its eyes were closed. She breathed a temporary sigh of relief, but it was short-lived when the presence of the blood around the child’s ankle penetrated her peripheral vision.

“Her conviction grew. There had been enough sadness, enough death. Children should not perish. Stepping quietly down to the child’s ankle, she inspected the cut. It was not as bad as she had feared from the amount of red in the snow, but it was still deep enough that it didn’t seem to be healing very quickly. Whisper hesitated for a moment, thinking of her burrow and her children.

“There is always more lichen,’ she thought to herself as she rummaged through her pouch and pulled out the bearded moss. She was thankful there was quite a lot of it.

“Carefully, she pressed it to the wound layer by layer, letting the blood set it in place before adding more. After a few minutes of careful application, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. She was pleased; it was holding, and there seemed to be considerably less bleeding than before.

“She studied the child’s face. It still had that youthful, fatty quality, with chubby cheeks and eyes that seemed slightly too big for its face. She wasn’t very accustomed to humans, but her intuition led her to think this was a human boy.

“His eyes were still closed, and he looked almost peaceful. He could have nearly passed for a sleeping babe except for the sometimes faltering breath and that awful tinge of blue in his lips. Her heart clenched. This was not going to happen today.

“She gently lifted her front paws and placed them on the child’s legs. Nothing.

“She gave the boys’ legs a little nudge, but still nothing.

“Feeling brave, she scanned around to make sure no one else was around, and then she got up on the child. He was wearing a fur coat, she confirmed, and she tried desperately not to think about what it could have been. He was already too cold, so at the very least, she supposed, he could have it.

“Gingerly, she pawed at the coat flaps to create more of an opening and slowly, softly clambered inside. It was a touch warmer in there, but not enough. The undershirt smelled of humans, with a faint, musty note that reminded her of dust. They really are odd animals. Nothing she had encountered smelled remotely like this, though something about it was slightly comforting.

Cas’shya quietly gasped at this. Her string pulsed momentarily to the song of embarrassment as she linked the story to her own experiences with Elias.

“Wrapping her long body around the kid’s chest, she pressed herself up against him and closed her eyes. One ear remained poked out of the coat flap, alert for the sound of anything approaching. With her eyes closed, she deepened her breathing and began to connect to the strings. First, that one large central string, and then slowly, as if slipping beneath the surface of water, she began to sense others.

“Proximity, for some reason, always helped to make an external string more apparent. The boy’s unusual human cadence became apparent to her mind’s eye. What she felt in the music of that string unnerved her even more; it was erratic and frail. It felt like a plant whose leaves were turning brown.

“She began to connect to her own string first. It hovered there in the middle distance, beating a slow, steady drum. As the song swirled in her mind, she remembered a melody that had once accompanied it. It was an old melody her mother used to hum to her when she was little. It was the melody she used to sing to her firstborn before... the string clenched. She focused on her breathing as sadness settled on her, like rain that slowly washed its way through her fur. Sadness is okay, it’s natural, she reminded herself. She let it fall on her, and its contrasting texture intensified the love she felt, both for her own child, sadly lost, and for this human child beneath her.

“She began to gently hum the melody of that old song, and as she did, she felt her heart string, moved by its familiarity and meaning, begin to align with it. Her heart played a soft soothing vibration that conveyed her warm melody. Her humming grew more confident and pronounced. Words began to find their way into the melody, slotting into the gaps of the sound landscape in the same way that water takes the shape of the place it pours into. Her song, from her heart and from her body, passed into the child.

“It was a shock when she refocused on the child’s string and felt it begin to respond, to join in the song. It was fumbling and clumsy, almost as if it were using another language. But it was listening. This wasn’t what shocked her the most, though. Most strings, if not all strings, were connected and interacted with each other, especially when any attention was shone on them. She had loved watching glow flies dance about her on a midsummer’s night, when she became very focused on their little strings, but mostly these interactions felt natural in the sense of being interactive. You push a nut, and the nut rolls. That’s what happens. But this didn’t feel like that... It was more attentive in return. They, the humans, were like us. They didn’t just have the strings within them; they had awareness, too.

“She shouldn’t have been surprised; she had been told as such, but she had always felt that it couldn’t be true, given their cruelty towards rabbits and the way they treated their surroundings. But then, if she could sense it in them... why did they not sense it in us? Her song faltered as this new understanding dawned on her, and as she stumbled, she felt the child’s string stumble too, like a baby in a pitiful sleep; the child’s string groaned in discomfort.

“Whisper listened for a moment and felt the empathy rise once more in her heart, like a morning sunrise. She returned to her song, and the child’s heart grew steadier. His string grew calmer and began to harmonise with hers once more. The shock subsided, and slowly she felt warmth begin to permeate the boy’s heart and radiate outwards. Whispers singing grew stronger and more certain as time passed. She could feel the sun rising in her chest, its rays layering on warmth to everything it touched. Seconds turned to minutes. Time lost its meaning until suddenly she felt the boy’s chest rise beneath her as he sucked in air deeply.

“The moment of the song passed, and where she had held a space of care and complete empathy, self-concern crept back in. Whisper wriggled free of the boy’s jacket and quickly, using her central string, pulled herself into a nearby shrub.

“The boy coughed and blinked, surprised but looking much better. There were colours in his cheeks again, of pink and red. For a moment, he stared intently at the spot where she had dashed into the bush, blinking confusedly.

“Whisper stood as still as possible, making sure not to move a leaf and give herself away. Had she been spotted? The child brought his hands up to his chest and stroked gently exactly where Whisper had lain.

‘Mama,’ he called out loud, holding his chest where the warmth had come from. ‘Mammmaa’, he called, a little more desperately. He sniffed again, looking at his feet, and he seemed to notice the little makeshift bandage. Gently, he lifted his knee and tested his ankle by digging his heel into the snow a little. It penetrated and hit the hard, frozen soil beneath, but his ankle didn’t give way. Carefully, with his arms back against the trunk of the tree for support, he pushed himself back up. He shuffled a little to test his balance and found that the sore ankle was not as bad as he remembered.

‘Maammaa’, he called again, cracking his voice as a bit of fear seeped in.

“From Whispers’ hiding spot in the bush, a harsh breeze passed through, but on the wind she heard a distant call in response. The boy, though, seemed not to hear it. I looked at his ears, useless tiny little things, no wonder they couldn’t hear the strings that well.

“Knowing now, even if he didn’t yet, that he was being looked for, she considered making her departure. He would be safe now. But then something unexpected happened, something that stopped her forepaw in its tracks. He began to hum a melody to soothe himself. It was Whisper’s melody. The one she used to sing to her babies. The one that her mother used to sing when she was little. There was no other way he could know it. Its rhythm, its cadence. It was too rabbit. Through his human mouth, it sounded odd, but still recognisable.

“It wasn’t just her imagination, then; his string had awareness, too. Somewhere in his body, he had heard her song. Maternal instinct overwhelmed Whisper, and her stomach gripped with emotion that needed an outlet. She had to help; her whole body begged to help.

“Her front paw began to move before she had even made a firm conscious choice. But where? A clump of snow flumped down from a nearby shrub and made a soft thud on the frozen ground, which immediately drew the child’s attention. Staring at it for a moment, he walked over and had a look at where the snow had landed, peering into the shrubs’ dense thicket.

“She sensed her central string, and while he was not looking, she pulled herself up into the branches of a second tree a bit further down the animal trackway, towards where she had heard the other voice. Settling onto the branch, Whisper thumped it with her back leg, causing the snow on the outer branches to shift slightly. She glanced at the boy; he hadn’t noticed anything. Giving it another hearty thump, the snow slid off and fell in a clump right in the centre of the path.

“The child noticed it and walked towards it, looking for what could have caused it. There was nothing to spot, however, as Whisper had already moved on to the next tree.

“The child followed Whisper’s snow trail as if he were trying to solve some unusual mystery, yet he didn’t seem scared. On the contrary, he seemed encouraged. He was still humming her song.

“The game lasted only a few minutes. Whisper could hear his mother’s calls growing closer, and within just a few moments, so did the boy. His eyes lifted, and he called back.

‘Mum?’

“Her voice responded shrill and excited in equal measure. Whisper bounded ahead across a few last trees, dropping snow as she went, just to make sure the child would not get lost at this last hurdle. But as she jumped towards the last tree, using her string to pull her some of the way, Whisper’s eye was caught, not just by a female human, but by three others behind her, and they were armed. Momentarily distracted, she missed the branch and hit it chest-first, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

“She crumpled down onto the path below, breathing heavily, a woozy cast in her eyes. She hadn’t realised yet that she had landed right in between the child and the child’s mother.

“Her bleary eyes streamed for a moment, but the first thing she saw was the child reaching down towards her.

“Whispers’ instincts kicked in, and despite her difficulty breathing, she bucked, twisted and ran. A violent pain shot up her leg as a barbed rope gripped her ankle and brought her to the floor. She thrashed and fought, but it was for nothing. This was a rope of their invention, designed to do exactly what they intended. To catch small creatures like her.

“She stilled and lay on the snow, defenceless. The fight in her had exhausted itself. She could see the mother and the child nearby, holding each other and making lots of noises. The child pointed towards Whisper, and together, hand in hand, the mother and child stepped towards her, pulling away one of the branches that partially obscured her prone form. The mother started to pull the boy back, her features betraying an inner conflict. She didn’t see Whisper; she saw food. A way to feed her family. But the way her child was talking to her, tugging her arm, she eventually softened her gaze. For the briefest moment, she wondered about the rabbit before her. She stood transfixed, locked in place as Whisper had been earlier up on the branch. Caught between two competing feelings.

“At that moment, however, the rest of her family caught up. Two older men and a young girl. The men eyed her hungrily. There was no hiding their intentions. It was Whispers time; she would meet the deceased. She closed her eyes and heard the crunch crunch of snow under their feet as they approached, waiting for the final blow.

“There was noise, and a darkening of the light through her eyelids. But there was no pain. She opened her eyes and saw the child sitting between her and the biggest of the men. The mother was crying and seemed to be arguing with the man, who looked bemused and annoyed. For a moment, it appeared as though he would tear himself away from the woman and come for Whisper anyway. The boy was only small after all. But the mother fought back and pushed him away. The moment seemed to last for an eternity. The big human locked eyes with Whisper, looked intently, then walked away, clearly annoyed.

“The child turned and looked at Whisper. She didn’t understand any of its words, but its eyes were kind. His mother came and knelt down next to her as well, and they slowly untied the snare around Whispers’ leg. Her first instinct was to immediately flee, but her ankle didn’t feel strong at all. It buckled even under her slim weight. Still, she started to hobble away.

“As she tried to escape, she heard that little song once more. Stopping, her ears twisted towards the boy. He was there, hand outstretched, imploring. The strange hum of the melody was still foreign as it passed through his lips, but the intention was clear. He crouched down and turned his hand upwards towards her.

The mother watched as Whisper glanced between the boy’s outstretched hand and the mother’s penetrating look. The rabbit laws were clear: not to communicate, not to show them who they really were. But the way the boy sang her song, she knew it was already too late. Locking eyes with the mother, Whisper stared deeply into her soul. She stared back and nodded, and so, with permission granted, Whisper placed her nose in the little boy’s outstretched palm. She felt his tiny fingers stroke the space between her eyes for a moment. And then she limped away, back towards the valley, back towards her home.

Whispers’ return to the warren was not a triumphant one. She confessed her story to the council of elders, her voice quiet but resolute, her wounded ankle a testament to the folly.

“Fear hardened the elders’ faces. She had broken their most sacred law, born from generations of pain and loss, and so was ostracised, a ghost in her own valley. The shame of her actions was a heavier weight than any elder’s judgment. Her own children looked at their mother with a confusion that wounded her more than any ankle snare.

“That winter was as cruel as the elders had feared. The rabbit stores dwindled, and the cold bit deep into their burrows. Despair began to settle like a second layer of frost. It was then that the first gift appeared. Left at the base of the great tree by the river was a small bundle of winter carrots and dried apples, a fortune beyond imagining. The elders dismissed it as a trap, but Whisper knew what it was. Day after day, a new offering was left, and slowly, cautiously, her family - and then others - began to accept the gifts.

“The food was not the only change. The rabbit colony began to notice that the hunting parties no longer ventured into their valley. The sharp, terrifying scent of their woodsmoke stayed distant. The rabbits were able to forage more freely, more safely, than any of the younger rabbits could remember. The fear that had been their constant companion began to recede. Whisper’s exile softened, her story retold not as one of betrayal, but as one of strange, inexplicable courage. She was not yet a hero, but she was no longer a pariah. A new, unspoken treaty had been forged. They were not friends with the humans, but they were no longer their prey.

“Years passed, flowing like the river beside Whispers’ old meadow. The child grew into a man and then a leader of his village. He never forgot the ‘spirit of the forest’ that saved him.

“True to his memory, he decreed that the valley, from the great tree onward, was a sacred place where no human may hunt. He had, without knowing it, created the sanctuary Whispers’ community had only ever dreamed of.

“And then, one last time, Whispers’ string pulled her once more towards the tree. She was old now, her fur the colour of the winter snow, and her movements slow. The man was there, his body fully grown and his hair long, sitting in the seat of the tree’s roots, just as he had as a child. He looked up as Whisper approached, and his eyes held no surprise, only a deep, quiet recognition, as if he knew she would be there. Whisper did not run. The man moved, only to lift up his trouser leg and show his ankle, where a small scar showed his old wound. Whisper lifted her scarred back leg in response. A line across her ankle where the snare had gripped her. Across the snow-dusted ground, they looked at each other, the rabbit and the man, the spirit and the child, and in that silent, final acknowledgement, Whispers journey was complete. She passed away the next day.”

***

Cas’shya’s eyes were still closed, and a single tear traced a path through the soft fur of her cheek. Her heart-string was no longer frantic; it hummed with a low, sorrowful, but peaceful melody. She had heard the story, but she had also felt its Truth.

“The greatest risks,” I said softly, breaking the silence, “are often taken not for ourselves, but for others. And the deepest connections are often forged not in agreement, but in shared vulnerability.”

Cas’shya looked at me, her eyes softly opening. “I didn’t know that story.”

“It is not a famous one,” I conceded. “Its ending is quiet. The next winter was harsher still, and that same child left food at the edge of Whisper’s warren, saving her family. Her small act of courage, born of compassion, changed her history and the history of her family for many generations to come. But come, tell me, now that your song has calmed down, describe to me what is really bothering you.”

Cas’shya looks down, chastened. “I made a fool of myself during that meeting when I sat on his lap. Everyone saw me, and they all judged me.”

“No,” I replied, my voice taking on a distant quality. “You felt the song of another, just like Whisper did. I felt it too, during the meeting. Elias’ string... it was not just discordant like yours was a moment ago. It was the sound of a snapped string. A rough, painful break from something he held dear. When you jumped into his lap, your two songs became entangled. A moment of chaos, yes, but also a moment of harmony. Whisper, too, didn’t know what to make of her connection to the boy. For a long time, she worried and fretted that she had doomed her family and friends. But she didn’t lose the faith she had shown in having empathy for another.”

“But what about...” Cas’shya began.

“Remember, the strings are not just a way to feel the world around you. They are ripples. You did a good thing. And now you are worried that the waves of your actions will cascade in a way you find displeasing?”

“If by that you mean that I am worried no good will come of what happened… then yes”, Cashya replied, head bowed. “And unlike Whisper, I don’t have the luxury of an existential crisis to distract me from my own silliness”.

“Tell me, do you believe that you can do anything about these ripples now that they are out there in the wild?”

“I can try to make things better for myself, can’t I?”

“And will that trying make more ripples?”

“Yes…?”

“And can you do anything about those ones when they are out in the wild?”

“I get your point”. Cashya admitted. “So what are you saying, I just have to accept what comes my way? That it is all just exactly how it should be? But, I can’t do that!”

“I am simply saying that the thing we can control is what intention is in our hearts when we act. Now tell me, if you are truly honest with yourself. At that moment, when you leapt into Elias’ lap, was your intention good?”

“You know the answer to that already.” She murmured.

“And is that the kind of rabbit you wish to be?”

Cas’shya sighed and then nodded. Her goodness had always been apparent, even as a very young rabbit. Strange that anxiety and ego could do so much to help a rabbit forget such a simple thing. I met her eyes.

“You spoke a truth to the human, Elias, that had no words. Now you fear the consequence, just as Whisper did.”

I watched as a new understanding settled in her eyes. The frantic energy of her string had calmed, giving way to a quiet, thoughtful hum. Her fear had not vanished, but her compassion, the very thing that had caused her so much doubt, had now given her a new resolve.

“Good,” I said, rising from the bench. “Because your first official work session with him is due to begin in a couple of hours. In the holographic archive, if I am not mistaken. I think I may join you. It should be fun to watch.”

Her ears twitched, a flicker of the old anxiety, but also a flicker of her usual fun returning as she sensed my jibe. “The archive? So soon?”

“The ripples you co-created are already in the wild, my dear,” I said, gently gesturing for her to walk with me. “You cannot control them. But you can control the intention you bring to the next wave of ripples. This is the way of a mentor, not to change things, but to help the student remember the questions that truly matter. Come. Let us see what seeds you have planted in Elias. Lest we forget, you two have a book on Rabbit history to write!”

From the Cartographers Desk

This chapter was an interesting one to write. The first draft of this, done in my notebook, managed to get all the main emotional beats correct. But what it lacked was any movement, energy, or relationship to the wider story. So this is now the third draft, bringing the characters into a more active setting, and then finally slimming down the chapter. (Despite this, it is still my longest to date.)

I was also keen in this chapter to really nail the authority of Jun’ip as a kindly mentor. Given that Cas’shya is already a very intelligent rabbit, I really had to sit and think how their back and forth could feel natural without dumbing either of them down. Thankfully, meditation and it's associated philosophy is something I adore. So at least for Jun’ip, I had some ammo. I hope his wisdom serves you too.

Help Fund the Chrysaora:

The Strings of Us is a crowdfunded universe. If you are enjoying the free chapters, you can help fund the professional editing, cover art, and final publication of the book by joining the Cartographers Guild.

Every £1 contributed earns you 10 Treasury Points on our public Leaderboard. When the book officially launches, a percentage of the initial net profits will go into a Community Pot to be gifted back to our top point-holders!

Drop a tip in the Ko-fi Treasury to make a one-off contribution and jump up the ranks today.

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Thanks for reading, and all the best to you all.

If you are new here, you’ve just stepped aboard The Strings of Us, a serialized sci-fi epic being funded in real-time by readers like you. (You can catch up on previous chapters in the archive here).

Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Today, we are getting inside the head of Hec’ten, one of Lysanders squad leaders. Hec is an ex-military rabbit with a bit of a chip on his shoulder over his role amongst the other squad leaders. Feeling, as rabbits have often felt, that he has been sidelined, with less faith given to him, and less agency to work as he would wish. For a rabbit, he is more serious than most, but still retains a bit of that lighter touch that typifies a person who can sense the strings.

A massive thank you to our newest Cartographers Guild members who joined the Leaderboard this week to help fund this launch. Let's open the logs.

Chapter 8 - Hec’ten - Rabbit - Male - Testimonial.

Steam was still hissing, and sirens were still ringing out their alarm in the facility, but things were calming down. The creaking and groaning of the pipes wound down. Plumes of hot, searing steam began to calm, wither, and slowly retreat into the crevices from which they had been born. The air I was tugging into my lungs was cooling down with each gasp, and my fur was slick with condensation that had beaded all over me in little clumps.

I lay on my back next to Lys, my new commander. He was kneeling with his head in his hands, shaking, whilst I was splayed out, staring up at the distant ceiling above, wondering if it was an illusion through which the heavens would reveal themselves to me. The sound of my own voice shouting out the countdown was still bouncing around my brain as clearly as if it had just been blasted into the room through the PA system. Numbers bounced off pipes and metal, guiding us down into that moment when it could have all ended. Had it all ended?

The system was back online for sure. Everything around me was so incredibly clear. My brain seemed to be able to cover every sense I possessed with its awareness. My breathing was as vital as a dip in freezing water and regulated with precision. The cast of the light in the water facility was vivid; every detail of the immediate environment was apparent. Even the smell of acrid steam and industrial lubricant was like incense, with each scent particle catalogued like tactical data. My nose twitched a little, perceiving the curls of the aromas as they rose in the air around me. The strings were clearly felt, as real and tangible as the floor beneath my paws, and far more emotional. The energies of the assembled people were like signal vectors outside the facility. Mapping them to their strings was suddenly as easy as looking at a radar readout. They were waiting with bated breath to see if we would emerge or if they would suddenly hear a large boom. My situational awareness was at peak efficiency. I regarded it as a soldier, and I regarded it as a rabbit. My inner soldier conceded to the rabbit.

It was all so... beautiful.

I started to laugh a little at the absurdity of it. The brilliance that had come to me in lieu of not being blown up by a water pipe was infectious. The laughter rushed through me, and even the pain in my right hand paw couldn’t dampen it.

“Is nearly dying always this euphoric?”

Catching my words, Lys smiled and then laughed too.

“There isn’t much that can make you feel more alive.”

It was a strange laugh; it sounded odd coming from the man that I had been getting to know. It was a raw laugh, like a baby’s laugh, but sized up to fit the shape of an adult human. Despite that, it was exactly how I felt, and I laughed with him. For a fleeting moment, our ranks seemed to dissolve. This sudden dissolving of the hierarchy was like being at my old barracks again. We were connecting over this, not as a human and a rabbit. Just as two soldiers.

As I rolled and chuckled on the concrete floor, I was sharply reminded of that crunch I had heard earlier when we had been pushing against the valve release. When I lifted my front paw, it was disjointed and painful. A break in one of my legs. I really had given the strings quite a pull, ignoring all my training to exert that little extra force, a tactical necessity given the situation. Self-sacrifice for the greater good. It was nothing I couldn’t handle, but it was still not ideal. It would put me out of action for a few weeks while I rested it.

But I didn’t want to rest. I was suddenly keen for more. It was a feeling I hadn’t had in years: excitement. I wanted to work!
I sighed and tilted my head back at the irony of being a sudden hero, only to find that I would be forced to ‘rest up’.

That was when I saw it. From my position on the floor below the pipes, strange markings were scratched into the underside of the valve. The etchings were completely out of eyeshot of literally anyone, it was a miracle I had even seen it. What could have possessed them…. There were scorch marks too, all over the underside of the socket where the wheel stem entered into the main valve housing. Not only scorch marks, but clear signs of welding. The gravity of that sight slowly dawned on me.

No wonder we had a hard time turning the wheel; it was not meant to be turned by someone’s design. But whose design? Had someone purposefully started this chain reaction?

“Lys, when you have finished chuckling to yourself, come lie here next to me and take a look at this” I was temporarily shocked at my using his personal name.

Lys looked at me quizzically, sensing the shift in my tone of voice, and his laughter stopped almost immediately.

The space was small, but with a bit of manoeuvring, he lowered himself down and slid his head below the valve beside mine. It didn’t take him long to notice what I had seen as well. He touched it gently, feeling the metal underside where the weld had clamped it closed. ‘It looks new,’ he muttered to himself.

“What do the letters say?” I asked sheepishly. My grasp of their alphabet was well enough, but this handwritten etching was drawn up in a type of handwriting I couldn’t understand. Lys stared at the odd words.

“It says, ‘the fairy queen,” He said nothing more and just stared at it for a long moment. “No one can know about this yet, I will need to investigate it, and the perpetrator will be much easier to manipulate into revealing themselves if they believe they have not been discovered”.

I nodded. A simple, mechanical movement of the head, but it felt like rusted cogs.

To hide a truth, to actively bury it in the dark, went entirely against my nature. A secret is a jagged, discordant knot in the strings. It felt physically wrong to stand over the evidence of a crime and agree to mute its existence. We were supposed to be a team. A unit that worked together.

Lying on the sweltering concrete, for a moment, we had been equals laughing in the face of death. I was a fool, allowing myself to hope that this human might be different. That perhaps, down here in the heat and the dirt, we were forging a genuine partnership built on shared reality, rather than the usual human diet of shadows, half-truths, and withheld hands.

But as Lysander looked at me, his eyes already calculating, the warmth of that shared survival evaporated from my chest like the steam around us. My training kicked in, a heavy, familiar burden settling over my shoulders. He was the commander. I was the asset. The tool. The Rabbit.

Orders are orders, I reminded myself bitterly, the phrase tasting like ash. And yet, despite myself, I wanted to believe things could be better. Instead I sank back into myself, forcibly withdrawing the vulnerable, helpful part of me that had just started to unfurl toward him.

Seeking a comfort I could no longer find in my new commander, I retreated into my strings, letting their vast, indifferent hum wash over the sudden, sharp sting of disappointment.

The anticipation of our success from the amassed outside was growing; I could feel the strings of some of my rabbit unit waiting with the rest. I had trained them to stay tuned in to the strings at a subtle level so that we could project basic patterns to each other over longer distances. I closed my eyes and radiated calm and safety, my string slowed and pulsed with gentle rhythms of sleep and comfort. Code for safety. A string sensation we all learn from young when our mothers would put us to bed. My unit responded in kind, a signal received, they knew we were safe.

“Sir, I have communicated to my squad outside. They will be reporting that we are safe and rallying. We should go and help the people who were caught in the initial blast.”

Lys looked at me as if I were joking. “I did not hear you speak?” He asked.

“We… we have a method that is not as well known to humans. I will explain another time…” Now, am I the one being duplicitous? I wondered. No, I hadn’t outright hidden anything, just deferred the truth. Not quite an eye for an eye.

Getting up, Lys started to regain his command-like posture and began shuffling back towards the pipes through which we had come. He touched the one nearest, gently at first to test its heat. Finding it cooler, he dropped the insulative material he had brought with him, able now to get through without the protection.

“You are quite right, of course, we have people to help.

***

A swift hour later, and I was in the main entrance hall of the water reclamation facility, having my arm treated. The nurse was wrapping it up in a splint, pending X-rays at the nearest medical bay.

Lys, meanwhile, was overseeing the medical response with his usual gravitas. He acted like a gravity well, where authority seemed to naturally orbit him, like a star. It made me wonder, did authority naturally cling to him because he believed himself to be a star, or was he inherently a gifted leader, and so gravity was born of his talents? I could not figure it out, at least not yet, not while there were so many people bustling to and from his presence. He checked in on the work on the two other injured engineers once I had been patched up.

They had both been caught up in that first blast. One seemed well enough, minus a few cracked ribs and minor breaks. The second had been less fortunate, being slammed almost headfirst into a metal railing. The engineer had been bleeding for a while and seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. The one moment I saw them awake, they seemed heavily concussed. The doctors on site were stabilising her when Kaspa arrived to deliver his report.

General Lysander turned his attention to his second-in-command, extending an expectant hand. “Kaspa. The pad.”

Kaspa, who had been coordinating the perimeter with crisp efficiency, reached down to his tactical pouch. I was naturally attuned to the ambient anxiety of the room, a buzzing wasps nest as if heard from a distance, but the moment Kaspa’s hand hit empty fabric, his string snapped taut with a sudden, deafening panic.

“Sir...” Kaspa patted himself down, his rigid military bearing dissolving into frantic, jerky movements. He looked around the floor as if the metal grating might have swallowed it. “It’s gone. I had it secured right before the blast.”

“Gone?” Lysander declared. His voice didn’t rise, but the air around him seemed to drop in temperature.

“Someone must have bumped me on the gangway,” Kaspa pleaded, his polished English composure entirely stripped away. “In the panic... the engineers running out...”

Lys gave his order over the security team’s radios.

“All units, please initiate the lockdown protocol. We have a potential security breach. No one in or out until I say.”

Dr. Hedghe, who had been lingering to oversee the medical transport, let out a sharp, theatrical scoff. Through the strings, I felt his tangled, chaotic energy spike with sudden, predatory delight.

“Bumped?” Hedghe’s voice dripped with condescension. “A seasoned Lieutenant General, bested by a terrified group of tourists in a cloud of steam? Tell me, Kaspa, is it not more likely you simply dropped it in your terror?”

Kaspa’s face flushed a deep, humiliated red. “I know how to secure my gear, Doctor.”

“Clearly,” Hedghe sneered, gesturing a long, pale finger at Kaspa’s empty hip.

I watched Lysander. The human instinct to punish failure was hovering heavy in the air, but Lysander was a tactician. He didn’t dress down his subordinate in front of a rival.

“Enough,” Lysander cut in, his voice a rolling boulder that silenced them both. He looked at Kaspa, offering a strict, cold lifeline. “Lieutenant General, take a squad. Trace the evacuation route. Find it.”

Dr Hedghe hid a thinly veiled sneer; his own energy was such a tangled mess that it was hard to know what he was feeling. Not someone I would like to cross in combat, where the strings could often give me an edge.

“Mr Tanner,” Hedghe continued. “I implore you to release the two injured parties to the medical team at once, lockdown or no. There is no situation that should take precedence over the health of these two engineers under my jurisdiction.”

The General seemed not to mind him for a moment while he spoke through the radio. The show of nonchalance was expert, and it seemed to wind Dr Hedghe up immensely. Eventually he regarded his counterpart.

“Do not alarm yourself ‘MR’ Hedghe.” His demeanour remained stoic, but there was a subtle change in the General’s string, a slight hint of satisfaction. “I will be letting the medical staff remove the wounded from the site under careful supervision.” He looked at the two engineers and then at me. I got a sudden jolt; there was no way I was leaving.

“Sir, I request the leave to remain and see out this security breach.”

Lysander held my gaze for a fraction of a second, registering my disjointed paw. Was it a disqualifier? Thankfully, he seemed to see it only as an acceptable tactical penalty. He gave a single, curt nod. You will help me set up a secure evacuation of these injured personnel.” I was close to sighing, relegated again to menial tasks. But just as soon as I had thought it, he leaned in close.

“This is no coincidence, given what we have seen, I want you to surveil the crowd quietly while you work, get your team looking for anyone out of place.”

I nodded and gently hopped off the bench where I had been getting attended to. “Sir, my squad and I will start a sweep of all the people. We have ways of not being noticed.”
Lys looked at me again with those quizzical eyes, joining the dots from my comment before. His string pulsed gently with curiosity. My stomach clenched. Revealing this secret would be a huge step in trusting him. Did I trust him? But before I could say anything more, he had started organising the quarantine zone and coordinating the search.

Kaspa, Rez and a few members of my own personal squad headed up the data pad search. Meanwhile, the General and I set up the quarantine zone to ensure the engineers could be safely taken to the medical bay without anyone else leaving. As I sat on a nearby crate supervising, I leaned one ear to the conversation between Kaspa and Rez as they marched off into the facility again. It was a testament to how much I had shifted from near-euphoria to becoming inward-facing and avoidant. Normally, the back and forth between those two was always enough to bring a tap to my foot, but in this instance, it barely made my whiskers twitch.

Their familiar dynamic, Kaspa’s rigid, oblivious panic and Rez’s deflection through sharp humour and apparent flirting, was a loud, discordant hum in the strings. I logged their emotional signatures as the baseline, tuning them out so I could sweep the rest of the atrium for anomalies.

I let them go and allowed my attention to sit back on the room at large, both with my eyes and ears, as well as with the strings. Looking for anyone behaving out of the ordinary. Other members of my squad were doing the same from various positions around the atrium. A sharp, nearby string-vibration snapped my attention. Curiosity, directed squarely at me. There was a pair of eyes on me.

“Your inquisitiveness is quite loud, you know!”

My eyes settled on a smaller female rabbit, a medical scanner wrapped with Velcro around her paw.

“Yes, you.” She said pointedly at me, now that she had collected my gaze. “Are you always so inquisitive, or is this just a habit you have picked up for your work?”

“You noticed, huh?” She didn’t wait for permission, hopping up onto the crate and stepping close to adjust the splint on my arm. As she worked, her eyes flicked to my face, catching my sweeping gaze.

“You’re casting a net over the whole room,” she murmured, her voice dropping underneath the ambient noise of the lockdown. “Are you always this nosy, or is it just the uniform?”

I bristled, a confusing mix of tactical annoyance and sudden, undeniable warmth spreading through my chest. “I am calibrating. A useful skill when you need to understand intentions hidden beneath human facades.”

She leaned in closer, tightening a strap. “For someone so keen to listen, you don’t talk much.”

“Listening for the quiet that I can only suppose exists in the spaces between your constant chatter.” I smiled inwardly to myself. The dance had begun. Consequently, she nipped me. “Ow!” I looked at her, half mockingly exaggerating the pain. It hadn’t been a hard nip, though, and her body language was still amenable. The air between us crackled, a sudden, sharp connection in a room full of chaos. But before the dance could continue, Lysander strode back into view making a beeline for Dr Thorne.

She looked at me inquisitively then. Examining the slight deflation of my chest and the drooping of my head, she followed it across the room to where Lysander stood, deep in conversation. Thankfully, she hopped down off the crate then, at least having the good sense to make it seem as though she had not been distracting me.

“I’ve often wondered how you all do it. How do you manage to be so obedient in your job? Especially when it is humans at the top. They are so...”

Kaspa and Rez bustled over to the general, looking accomplished. The missing data pad was handed back over to the general immediately. They started walking towards me, Lysander keenly tapping on the screen, his left eye wide for the eye scanning feature. I locked my awareness of the strings directly onto him and trained my ears on the approaching party so that I could listen in.

“...found on a console back near the gangway where the tour had first broken up, sir. It doesn’t seem tampered with.” Kaspa reported, practically melting with relief.

I kept my string-sense locked on the General. As the datapad’s screen flared to life, a massive, jagged spike erupted in Lysander’s string, a moment of terrifying, chaotic realisation, followed a microsecond later by an iron-clad suppression. His face remained a mask of placid command, offering Kaspa a curt nod of dismissal.

Beside me, the medic rabbit flinched violently. Her sharp intake of breath perfectly mirrored the knot twisting in my own gut. The sensation squared off with us both simultaneously. A blatant, towering lie.

“They can be so two-faced,” she whispered, her nose twitching with unfiltered disgust.

The words hung between us, an invitation to a shared reality. I desperately wanted to agree. I wanted to validate her disgust and share the burden of this suffocating human duplicity. But the heavy fabric of my uniform suddenly felt like a belt around my throat. A soldier does not undermine his commanding officer to a civilian.

I forced my jaw to lock. I buried my own revulsion beneath years of spec-ops conditioning, reshaping my face into a blank, tactical mask. I said nothing.

She looked up, searching my eyes, listening to my strings. She didn’t find the kindred spirit she was looking for; she only found the soldier. Her ears flattened slightly, the playful spark in her gaze dampening into something resembling pity.

“Watch out for that one,” she said, her voice cooler now, stepping away from the crate.

“Wait, what’s your name?” I asked, a sudden, pathetic grasp at the connection I had just actively severed.

She paused, offering a cheeky tilt of her foot. “I’m sure a nosy rabbit like you can find me if you need to.” Her eyes shimmered with a wry quality before she hopped off to continue her work. Fortunately, she was gone when the General and the rest of his retinue showed up.

“Sir, I am up to speed already with the basics. I understand the pad has been found.”

The general looked at my ears for a moment. “Yes, very good. Kaspa, Rez, please report to Dr Thorne. She is keen to discuss next steps for when the lockdown is lifted, so she can get back to work. Turning to me once they were out of earshot, he looked out over the crowd and whispered. “It has been broken into, hacked!”

“I thought Hawkesmoore had said they were...”

“Yes, well, clearly Hawkesmoor was wrong. Have you sensed anything from the crowd?” At that moment, a triumphant spasm shuddered through the texture of the room. Several of my Rabbit squad suddenly flared as well, alerting each other to the same anomaly. I scanned in the rough direction I had felt it. “Sir, 1 o’clock, by the service gantry.” There was a woman there with purple hair and a grease-stained overall, the same woman who had been asking innumerable questions during the tour. She was looking at us and smiling. I didn’t need to know who she was; it was obvious she was the person who had instigated all of this. A silent predatory tension grew taut between them as she and the general locked gazes. She wore a deep knowing smile, a dangerous smile. The dark alley feeling that had wiggled into the room reached a peak before she quietly stepped backwards, melting away into the shadows of the reclamation facility access ways.

Instead of sounding the alarm, Lysander swallowed the truth of her appearance and disappearance, pocketed the pad, and lifted the lockdown.

“Have you ever been involved in a game of cat and mouse before?”

The horrifying depth of my commander’s lone-wolf pathology became clear. To humans, secrets are a game; to a rabbit, they are a severed connection.

***

Two days passed in the quiet of my quarters, leaving me alone with the throbbing in my sling and a dangerous, suffocating secret. I was officially wrapped up in a conspiracy, bound by the rigid tenets of my role. To follow the chain of command, even when every instinct in my body screamed against it.

My mind kept circling the man who had put me in this position. Could I trust General Lysander?

On the surface, he was a natural commander. In the terrifying heat of the reclamation facility, he had acted like a gravity well, issuing calm, precise orders that cut cleanly through the panic.

I knew I was unusual in my ability to sense the strings so clearly, but even without them, I could see how easily people acquiesced to his unnerving stillness. His stoic poker face conferred a massive tactical advantage, and I confess, I was starting to respect his inner resolve. But that respect was plagued by a lingering, maddening itch. Why had a man so otherwise calculated decided to manually stop an explosion?

It had been foolhardy, rash, and borderline suicidal. He had risked his life and mine. Was I missing a piece of the board? Was there some hidden variable that made his reckless descent the wiser choice?

I rarely doubt my own tactical judgment, but the jigsaw pieces of Lysander’s character simply refused to fit together.

Once the preliminary assessments were done, the department heads would convene. Lysander’s actions would come under intense scrutiny from the quorum. And there I would sit, an accessory to his silence regarding the doctored valve and the mysterious woman.

A familiar, bitter taste rose in my mouth. Memories surfaced of previous commanders who had ordered my silence when the truth begged to be spoken.

Humans possessed this duplicitous need to keep their cards pressed tightly to their chests, weaponising isolation and calling it strategy. Be silent. Be commanded. That small, unspoken command caused a pain far deeper than the fracture in my arm. It agitated the eternal conflict I carried within me. To be a good soldier, I needed to follow orders and trust my superior.

But if it had been my call, I would have shared the evidence with the security heads. We could have investigated the sabotage as a unit, a cohesive team. I knew in my heart that I had the chops to lead and to do so with a moral compass. But I am a rabbit. The galaxy might be opening up to us, but the human ceiling remained firmly in place. I would never get the chance. So, I was left to appraise Lysander from the shadows of his own secret.

Was he the wise, compassionate leader I hoped for, or a fool crippled by trust issues?

My rabbit’s gut insisted there was far more to this human than met the eye.

I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

Just moments after the thought crossed my mind, a sharp knock broke the silence of my quarters. The door slid open, and Lysander invited himself in with that rehearsed, impenetrable demeanour. I composed myself accordingly, sitting up straight despite my injured paw, and waited. An expectant silence settled over the room as the door clicked shut behind him.

“So, let’s talk,” he said.

From the Cartographer’s Desk:

After a fair amount of deliberation, I have made some rather large changes to this chapter. Namely, adding an extra 3k words to it. It solved a few problems with the next few chapters by doing so, but more importantly, it gave the chapter a much more foundational, character-driven reason for existing. I am not satisfied with releasing ‘a bunch of stuff that happens’. I want every chapter to take us deeper into who we all are as humans and as a society.

Before, Hec’ten felt like a spec-ops bunny. Now, I hope he feels like a deeply conflicted and multi-layered individual who doesn’t quite know what to do with the way the world is throwing him about.

Help Fund the Chrysaora:

The Strings of Us is a crowdfunded universe. If you are enjoying the free chapters, you can help fund the professional editing, cover art, and final publication of the book by joining the Cartographers Guild.

Every £1 contributed earns you 10 Treasury Points on our public Leaderboard. When the book officially launches, a percentage of the initial net profits will go into a Community Pot to be gifted back to our top point-holders!

Drop a tip in the Ko-fi Treasury to make a one-off contribution and jump up the ranks today.

Ko-Fi

If you can’t contribute financially today, the best way you can help the ship fly is by hitting the Like button or telling me what you thought of Hec’ten in the comments below! See you next week.

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Flash Fic Feb - Week 2 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by Bradley Ramsey & Leeron Heywood

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

We have arrived at Day 8 of Flash Fiction February. Today’s prompt asked us to step behind the curtain of reality: The universe is a simulation, and you are the maintenance worker fixing a glitch.

Usually, when we talk about glitches in the matrix, we think of black cats walking past twice or déjà vu. We think of profound, reality-breaking paradoxes.

But anyone who has ever worked in IT or tech knows the truth: the biggest disasters are usually caused by the smallest, silliest human errors. A misplaced decimal point. A coffee spill. Or, in this case, a mislabeled audio file.

So, come with me to the Break Room at the end of the universe. Grab a synthetic sandwich. We have a story to tell, and I promise... it’s a gas.

The Kyoto Protocol Error

Basset and his new apprentice Lentil were sitting in the void enjoying their lunch, or at least, a rendering of a lunch designed to placate their desire for something to do. The white sterile break room between the simulations was tedious, and so they passed the concept of time by swapping stories. Lentil, being the young apprentice, was much taken with the tales Basset had up his sleeves and was always asking for more.

“So, what actually is the worst glitch you ever saw?” His eyes darted about looking for the answer on Bassets face before he could say anything. “Was it that time at the battle of Waterloo when the horses floated?”

Basset put down his pretend sandwich on his knee and stroked his moustache.

“Nah, that was just a bad physics patch, easy to fix. Replace some of the code and rewind the event a few clicks so that their memories are wiped.” Lentil looked a bit disappointed at the lack of extra detail.

Noting his deflation, Basset continued.

“No, when I think about it properly... Lemme tell ya about the surrender of General Akechi outside of Kyoto, now that... That was a memorable glitch!”

Basset waved his hands, and the blank walls, usually beset with code, like trickles of rainwater rolling down invisible walls, gently resolved into a scene of majesty. The sky was breathtakingly clear, and there was a gentle falling of Cherry blossom leaves wafting to the ground in near slow motion. The graphics were breathtaking, rendered in 16k resolution. In front of them both stood two groups of Samurai looking every bit like the figureheads of a mythological rendering.

“1582, Mount Hiei.” Basset announced. “To our left is General Akechi who is about to surrender.”

Lentil looked him up and down as the man knelt in the mud, sweat on his brow. He was clearly terrified. Standing over him, terrifying and silent, waiting for the sword to be presented to him as a sign of submission was...

“And to the right is Shogun Nobunaga, leader of all Japan.”

The atmosphere was serene, and yet you could cut the tension with a blade. A bird chirped, the wind rustled silk banners, a flag cracked in the wind like a whip.

“So, uh, high stakes then?” Lentil whispered.

“Maximum stakes. If the moment goes awry, the simulation AI resets the timeline. This surrender needs to stick. And, hey, you don’t need to whisper, this is just a recording, we are not actually here.”

Akechi reached for his Katana, breaking the stillness of the scene. The lacquered scabbard of the blade was intricate and beautiful, a real piece of craftsmanship befitting a tribute to the Shogun.

“Have you met anyone from the sound design team before?” Basset asked his apprentice.

“I haven’t yet, it seems like a really cool job though.”

“And highly responsible,” Basset interjected. “If you get the basics wrong, the senses of the world, the inhabitants start to lose it and eventually crash the system. Watch this,” Basset chuckled, leaning forward with his pretend sandwich. “And remember, Akechi thinks he is about to die with honor. He is expecting the song of steel.”

On the ground Akechi gripped the hilt. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end, for a blade to sever his head from his neck. He pulled.

It didn’t sing with the song of folded steel as expected.

Instead, the file KATANA_STEEL_SLIDE_V2 had been mysteriously overwritten by WET_FART_04.

It started as a low, rumbling vibration, shaking the scabbard, before escalating into a wet, ripping PFFFFFRPLPLP that lasted for three agonizing seconds.

The very wind seemed to stop. The birds chatter stilled. The Shogun Nobunaga, a man who had burned temples and conquered nations, stared at General Akechi’s waist with an expression of pure, unadulterated confusion.

Akechi froze, the blade half-drawn. His eyes popped open. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his face. Beads of sweat erupted across his brow. In a desperate attempt to hide the shame, he tried to jam the sword back into the scabbard.

The reverse of the sound was worse. It was a high-pitched, desperate sucking noise, like a flapping pigeon trying desperately to pull a swimming cap off a sweaty bald head.

“Oh god,” Lentil whispered, covering his mouth. “He played it like a trombone.”

“It gets worse,” Basset grinned. “Look who shows up.”

The Shogun’s face had turned a violent shade of purple. He opened his mouth to scream an execution order, but suddenly, the air shimmered next to him. A figure popped into existence.

It was Basset. But not a period-accurate Basset. It was Basset in his bright blue ‘Systems Admin’ jumpsuit, holding a ‘World’s Okayest Coder’ mug.

“I didn’t have time to render a kimono!” Basset defended himself to Lentil. “I panicked. I tried to use the translation matrix to tell them it was a glitch. I had hoped to say something sensible like, ‘Apologies, noble lords, a demon has corrupted your ears to sow discord between your clans.’“

“What did you say?” Lentil asked, grinning, but dreading the answer.

On screen, Blue-Jumpsuit-Basset bowed frantically to the Shogun and shouted in broken Japanese.

“Do not worry! His sword has terrible bum movements! I am the janitor of wind!’“

Lentil put his head in his hands.

The Shogun looked at Akechi. He looked at the janitor of wind. The vein in his forehead pulsed like a lightning bolt.

“You mock the Shogunate?!” Nobunaga roared. “I will silence you myself!”

The Shogun reached for his own blade, the legendary ‘Demon Cutter’, a sword said to be thirsty for blood. He ripped it from his hip with the fury of a god.

BRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAP-HONK.

It was a fart sound akin to a tuba stuffed with ham, falling down a flight of stairs. A deep, brassy, flapping noise that vibrated the cherry blossoms off the trees.

General Akechi, who was seconds away from seppuku, let out a single, high-pitched laugh before clamping his hands over his mouth, appalled, despite his visibly shaking shoulders.

The Shogun froze. He looked at his sword. He looked at Akechi. The indignity was too much. He spun around to his retinue of forty elite Samurai guards.

“Kill them!” he screamed. “Kill them all!”

Forty disciplined warriors stepped forward as one. Forty hands gripped forty hilts. Forty blades were drawn in near perfect unison.

It was a symphony of cabbage level, top tier, schoolyard quaking wind. It was a cacophony of squeaks, parps, rumbles, ripples, and trumpets. It was as if forty sumo wrestlers had all taken a road trip to India, and were not used to the spicy food.

“Oh … My… God!” Whispered Lentil quietly to himself.

The sheer volume of the audio error caused a glitch in the weather engine, the actual wind temporarily blew backwards as if the force of forty farts had reversed its direction, slapping the shogun and his retinue in the face with forty thousand cherry blossoms

The tension shattered like glass. General Akechi fell sideways into the mud, howling with laughter, clutching his sides. Basset too dropped to all fours, collapsed, wheezing with tears streaming down his face. It was all he could do to stay upright.

The Shogun stood there, covered in pink petals, trembling with rage. He looked at his men. He looked at the weeping General. He looked at his own sword. Finally, the most feared man in Japan broke.

He sheathed his sword (SHLUUUUP) and unsheathed it (BRRRAAAP).

A smile cracked his stony face. Then a chuckle. Then a roar. And then all hell broke loose. Every single samurai there was sheathing and unsheathing their sword, leaning on each other for support as their laughter broke their ability to remain upright. As soon as the giggling threatened to die down, another sword would be pulled from its scabbard to riotous mirth.

The simulation ended on a freeze-frame of forty-five grown men, historic warriors and one IT guy, rolling around on a majestic mountain, crying with laughter.

The wall faded back to the sterile white of the breakroom. Basset took a bite of his pretend sandwich, looking misty-eyed.

“So...” Lentil wiped a tear from his own eye, struggling for breath. “Did you fix it? Did the surrender stick?”

“Hell no,” Basset chewed. “The AI flagged the simulation as ‘Corrupted - Emotional Logic Broken.’ It deleted the whole timeline. We lost three months of data.”

Lentil gasped. “You got in trouble?”

“The sound design team got into huge trouble.” Basset tapped his datapad on the table. “But I kept the audio file.”

Suddenly, Basset’s datapad buzzed with a notification. The room filled with the majestic, flapping sound of a ham stuffed tuba falling down stairs.

BRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAP-HONK.

Basset smiled. “Every day, it was worth it.”

From the Cartographer’s Desk

There is something profoundly human about the fact that, no matter the century, no matter the culture, and no matter the stakes, some things will always be funny.

I wanted to write this story because we often treat history as this stoic, marble-statue version of reality. But people have always been people. And if a legendary sword made a noise like a ham-stuffed tuba, I don’t care if you are a Shogun or a peasant—you’re going to laugh.

A Question for the Comments: If you were a mischievous “Janitor of Wind” and could swap the sound of one everyday object with a fart noise, what would it be?

• The Judge’s Gavel?

• The Wedding “I Do”?

• The Pop of a Champagne Cork?

Let me know in the comments. I need a good laugh today.

Status: Glitch Resolved. (Mostly).

If this story made you smile, please Restack it. It helps the algorithm (and the Shogun) find their sense of humor.

Until the next coordinate,

Graeme

Flash Fic February - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by Bradley Ramsey & Leeron Heywood

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

We have reached Day 7. The prompt was a heavy one: A character inherits a weapon from their father and is told they must kill to save the world.

I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan of the chosen one trope where the only solution to a problem is violence. It feels lazy.

So, I wanted to write a story about Lateral Thinking. What if the curse isn’t a mandate for murder, but just a lack of imagination? What if you don’t have to pull the weed... you just have to prune the branch?

The Gardener

The shears that I picked up from where my father had collapsed were heavy. Memories flooded back, of days spent in the garden watching him prune back the bushes. I brought them close and smelt something weird, underneath the tang of old iron and rust... Was that blood? When I opened my eyes again, the world had changed forever.

***

The hospital room where my dad was being kept was sterile, and melancholy. The palliative care ward had been painted in an awful canary yellow colour in an attempt to brighten it up. It did not work.

“You see it don’t you!?” He croaked hoarsely. I was looking out of the hospital window at a delivery driver. From his chest protruded a mighty red vine that floated ephemerally through the air like a ghost, leading off somewhere into the distance.

“I’m so sorry, my child, I would not have wished this on you. This curse.”

I turned to him, he was fading gray like a dried leaf himself. His body was broken from the fall. There was only the faintest of vines coming from his chest, barely visible.

“Is it magic?” I ask. He looks down gloomily and shakes his head.

“I don’t know what it is, all I know is the role of the Gardener is passed down from person to person.” He looked at me desperately, his eyes wide despite the energy it cost him. The fear was palpable.

“Just remember, it’s not murder... It’s just... It’s just weeding. You don’t hate the bindweed, but you don’t let it take over the whole garden. You have to prune... Them.”

Turning back to the delivery driver I looked at the vine. Within its structure there were memories, or so I had thought. Now I knew them for what they were. Premonitions. He was unloading bouquets of flowers for the hospital florist. It struck me in a flash of awareness.

He delivers the flowers.

He runs a red light because he is running behind, and it’s his daughter’s play at the school tonight.

He slams into the side of a car carrying a future UN diplomat.

Peace talks fail.

Tactical nukes destroy nearly all life on earth by 2074.

I knew my dad was staring at me from behind, his eyes were boring into my neck.

“Tell me?” He rasped.

“Tactical nukes, the end of the world in just under 50 years.”

He closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, but you have to see, it is the only way...” He started crying. Do you think God could forgive me?” Reaching for his shoulder to comfort him, he suddenly strengthened.

“You have to do it. You are the Gardener now.” He took my outstretched hands and placed them back on the shears that were hidden beneath my belt.

“Cut the roots out before he gets back in the van.”

***

I walked out of the hospital, my inner monologue running frantic. The delivery driver worked in the distance. A family man, he delivers flowers. He is not a bad person, he doesn’t deserve this. He was checking his phone, maybe it was a text from his wife. A picture of his daughter in her costume.

My dad’s words floated back to the surface of my mind.

“I tried once, to do it differently, I nearly let an entire country descend into war. You think you are smarter than the maths? You aren’t. Soft hands bury civilizations.”

I started running towards the driver. The air was cold as it whipped through my hair. He was walking back to his van with that grotesque red vine protruding from his chest, as thick as a python. Gripping the shears from my belt, I pulled them out. The man turned and saw me, shock and fear in his eyes at the sight of my madness, I plunged forward with these sharp pieces of rusted metal. He froze.

I lunged, and the tips of the gardening shears passed right through the layers of tissue, probing deep. Air gushed out, as the tyre deflated almost instantly.

“What the hell, what are you doing! My Van!!” He cried. I ran around to the next tyre and the next, slashing them into ribbons.

Eventually, I turned to him. “Your tyres were bald, friend, you would have caused an accident.”

The driver just looked at me incredulous before he started dialing for the police. The red vine from his chest had withered and nearly disappeared, a dull harmless gray that the sunlight shone through. The diplomat will live. The driver won’t make it to his daughters play, but no one will die due to his carelessness.

***

Back in the hospital room, I drop the shears on the bedside table. My dad’s breathing is laboured. He looked forlorn, desperate.

“Is... He... Gone?”

“Rest now Dad, everything is fine,” I reply. “I was always a better gardener than you anyway. Honestly, the way you guys used weedkiller on everything, it’s like you had never heard of permaculture.” He snorted derisively.

“By the way, how did you stay out of custody?”

“His eyes turned to me, and his lips moved slowly.”

“You can see the future now my child, it’s quite easy to stay out of jail when you can see all the eventualities.” And with that he closed his eyes again to sleep. Touching the shears I close my eyes too and focus on the various vines that swam in the air around me. I saw my own. Following it down its course, it became clear to me just how easy it would be to prune the eventualities that led to my imprisonment.

Yes, this was a responsibility I had never asked for. But I had not been raised to be a bad person. I would do my best to keep the world turning without harming anyone. But all that said, I could see this becoming rather a fun hobby. Being a gardener was not such a bad career path after all.

From the Cartographer’s Desk

I enjoyed writing this one because it reclaims the prophecy from the grimdark fantasy genre and puts it in the hands of a pragmatist.

A Question for the Comments: If you had the shears, if you could see the catastrophic result of a stranger’s bad day, would you intervene? And where is your line? Tires? A broken arm? Or would you just let the timeline play out?

Next Step: If you enjoyed this twist on the prompt, please Save this post. It helps the algorithm know that we prefer our apocalypses cancelled.

Until the next coordinate,

Graeme

Flash Fic Feb - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by &

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

I was quite excited by this prompt. It felt full of potential, and importantly, given the consistent nature of this February Flash Fiction challenge, like it had the makings of a piece I could make a bit shorter.

It was not to be. My final draft was 1700 words, now reduced to 1490.

Despite that, I am very happy with where this ended up. I think it's quite a unique spin on the idea. Let's go to the green archipelago.

The great green archipelago was a sight to behold. A cluster of emerald islands perched upon the deep blue, each distinct and with its own claimants. The community was whole, friendly, and loud.

In the distance a new leaf erupted out of the waters, untouched and terrifyingly far away across the open water. A fresh new lily pad, unclaimed.

Three were summoned by the elders, all coming of age at the same time. Two boys, Fenton and Friar, and Fenton’s sister Feenah.

This was their chance. To claim a pad all of their own. To brave untold danger and become an adult in their own right, with standing in their community. What’s more, the difficulty of claiming this pad would ensure their legacy as brave frogs.

At the edge of the elders’ lilies, Fenton and Friar waited patiently for the start to be announced, applying mud paint to their skin in terrifying patterns that signified their heritage and their prowess. Feenah did not appear, and so they assumed she had backed out.

‘Understandable’ Fenton thought. She had little chance against either him or his cousin.

A mighty croak from the eldest bullfrog was the signal. It echoed across the community like a rumble of thunder in the sky. Fenton and Friar launch themselves out across the lily pads, their legs pumping harder than they have ever gone before. The race had started and there could only be one to claim the prize. The thwack of their bodies as they landed from one pad to another created a steady beat with which the onlooking frogs all took as their song to cheer them on.

Go. Go. Go!

As the boys got further out, the gulf between pads grew wider, the air and water grew cooler, and the sky became more exposed. The canopy receded, stripping away their shade. The blazing fire in the sky prickled their skin with intensity, but neither of them dared to enter the water for too long, not with the maw of the dread beast lurking in the cooler waters.

A shadow passed them from overhead. Its black cast was deeper and darker than they had ever known before. Looking upwards, Friar was shocked to see birds circling up high in an endless void untouched by the fringes of the leaves he had known as a child. Dragonflies raged overhead. Their wings hummed with an intensity that rattled his bones and shook his soul. Their electric colouring was a stark reminder of the dangers that they faced as they moved further away from the safety of the main archipelago.

Fenton paddled frantically as he made the leap into the water to swim the awful distance to the next available pad. His legs were already pumping as hard as possible when two shadows appeared in the deep. He started pushing even harder, his legs and feet shouting at the water to give him more purchase, more speed.

One of the shadows resolved into a shape he had only heard about in children’s stories. A great abyss opened up in the heart of the shadow, a circle of death in the skin of the water where nothing could survive. The king koi was here and he knew then that his time had come.

With eyes only for that whirlpool of blackness, he was encouraged to even greater athleticism. Suddenly he found his front legs gripping the edge of the next row of Lily pads, a small highway of green that would save him for now.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, and plastering himself upon the jade surface of this haven, he took a moment to rest. But there was too much to lose by staying still for long. Despite the shaking of his muscles, he picked himself up and moved forward, achingly at first, but soon the movement became fluid again.

Friar caught up alongside him, and they raced. Friar, between breaths spoke to him briefly.

“Did you see it, the king Koi, the stories are real!”

Fenton nodded and gave his cousin a blink of acknowledgement.

Together they passed the great titans, careful to avoid their attention for too long. Yellow webbed feet churned the water beneath towering feathered hulls. Wings that could snap the air in two cast long, deadly shadows. If you were to get on the wrong side of one of these behemoths, it would be your end.

The last challenge met them both at the end of the highway of lilies. They reached the outermost edge of the archipelago, a place neither of them had ever ventured to before. Few ever did, knowing full well the dangers.

The water was wide open and went out towards the horizon in an unbroken line that seemed infinite, the only break in that vastness was their goal. It sat in the water so far away, so unfathomably distant that it seemed neither one of them could ever hope to make it. But they had to try, for the glory of their colony, for the glory of the archipelago, and for the glory of their own lineage.

“If neither of us make it...” Fenton croaked to his cousin, “I hope we meet again as tadpoles in the shade of the mangrove.”

“Good luck dear friend.” Friar whispered back.

With a cry that would have terrified a gnat, they launched.

They hit the water with a splash, with the grim determination of a duck taking flight. This was the dead zone. The true deep. Here, there were no roots to hide amongst, no shadows to mask their passage. They were specks of green on a canvas of endless, terrifying blue.

Fenton kicked until his legs burned with the fire of a thousand suns. Beside him, Friar was flagging, his strokes losing their rhythm.

“Push!” Fenton bubbled underwater, though sound meant nothing here. “Push for the pad!”

The distance was agonizing. Three yards. Four. An eternity of seconds stretched out. The water grew colder, pressing against their ribs like a vice. Just as Fenton’s vision began to blur, his outstretched fingers brushed against something slimy.

A stem.

With their last reserves, they clawed at the algae-slicked rim, heaving their weary bodies over the edge to collapse onto the surface. It was firm. It was dry. It was glorious. Fenton rolled onto his back, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped moth. He looked over at Friar, who was face-down in a puddle of dew, but alive. They had done it. They had crossed the abyss. They were the crusaders of the Colony, the mightiest of the Marsh.

Fenton stood up on shaky legs. He puffed out his throat sac, preparing to let loose the bellow of claiming, a sound that would echo back to the archipelago and cement their legends forever.

Crunch.

The sound stopped Fenton cold. It wasn’t a roar of any predator he had ever heard. It was more familiar. It was the distinct, wet snap of a chitinous exoskeleton being crushed by hungry jaws.

Fenton and Friar turned slowly toward the center of the massive leaf. There, lounging in the shade of a pristine lotus flower, sat Feenah. She was perfectly dry. Her skin was vibrant, her mud-paint unsmudged. She swallowed the last leg of a particularly fat horsefly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You two took your time,” she croaked lazily.

Fenton’s throat sac deflated with a pathetic wheeze. Friar’s jaw hit the leaf.

“Feenah?” Friar whispered, his voice cracking. “But... the Abyss! The King Koi! The Feathered Titans! How did you survive the surface?”

Feenah blinked, looking at them as if they were tadpoles who had forgotten how to swim.

“I didn’t go on the surface, you flybrains,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the water. “I swam along the bottom. The thermal current runs straight from the Elders’ log to this stem. It took five minutes. And there are no birds underwater.”

Fenton looked back across the terrifying, miles-long stretch of water they had just nearly died crossing. He looked at his burning legs. He looked at Feenah, who looked fresh enough to swim there and back again twice over.

“The bottom,” Fenton repeated dully.

“Less drag,” Feenah noted, stretching her legs.

“Now, are you going to stand there panting, or are you going to help me defend our pad? I think I saw a dragonfly scouting the perimeter.”

Fenton looked at Friar. A silent camaraderie passed between them, the shared realization that their glory would only be understood in the context of Feenah’s incredible intelligence. Perhaps the three of them together could command this furthest outpost.

Fenton sat down beside her. The leaf bobbed gently, big enough for three.

“We claim this land,” Fenton murmured, his voice lacking the thunder he had planned, but carrying a newfound wisdom. “In the name of... clan Feenah.”

“And snacks,” Feenah added, spotting a mosquito hovering to the left. “Don’t forget the snacks.

From the Cartographer’s Desk

I loved writing this because it reminds me that struggle is often just a matter of perspective. To Fenton and Friar, this was a life-or-death odyssey. To Feenah, it was a commute. To us, it is a paddle.

A Question for the Comments: Are you a Fenton (taking the hard, glorious, dangerous route) or a Feenah (finding the thermal current and getting there withj zedro effort)? Let me know below.

If this little hop brought a smile to your face, please Restack it so others can join the race, and bookmark this post. It helps my whimsical stories enormously if you do.

Flash Fic Feb - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by &

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

We are back at the drafting table for Day 5 of Flash Fiction February. Today’s prompt asked for a fantasy story about dragons being hunted to extinction.

But I am taking the alternative route.

I’ve accepted the D’veen Challenge hosted by Bradley Ramsey. This means stepping into his universe, a world of Dwarven kings, ancient wars, and buried secrets.

History tells us that King Brocknar hunted the dragons until none remained. But history is often just a story written by the winner. Today, I wanted to explore the story written by the witness.

This is a tale told in the back alleys of Aluthia, spoken in the rhythm of a smith’s hammer. It explores a question that haunts every historian: Did the dragons die, or did they just go to sleep?

Pull up a crate. The performance is about to start.

Finton Merrybrook wandered through the streets of lower Aluthia. A scurrilous city with a reputation for theatre and thievery in equal measure. The alleys and town squares were a melting pot of performers.

Some were there to genuinely entertain, others were a distraction whilst people’s hands rummaged in your loose pockets and bags.

Finton was here for the more genuine variety. A young upstart who had been garnering a reputation for stories people had never heard before. Stories that seemed to imply knowledge that would be far beyond the young man's years.

Finally he had tracked him down to a dockyard where he was gathering a crowd around him.

Finton sat on an old fishing crate at the back of the audience and crossed his arms, curious to understand the mystique of this performer for himself.

The young man was scrawny and unkempt, but he carried himself with a haughty confidence that was compelling. In his hand was a stick. He started beating it against a sheet of metal.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

A steady beat. The audience had seen this performance before it seemed because some of them had come prepared with beaters of their own. In turn they started joining in, keeping a steady rhythm. A metallic sound that raised memories of forges and armouries.

"I am Shaelen, hear me now!"

He leapt up onto a crate, and taking a deep swig of liquor, he spat it into the air, producing a flame from his fist and causing the image of a crown to burn temporarily in the evening sky.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

There was a king of times gone past.

A hunger consumed him through.

His ambition left all aghast.

Yes his ambition was deep

It was hasty

It was fast

His ambition left the dead aghast

And a world to build anew.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

He hammered the beat with the crowd, striking a piece of metal slung from his belt. Finton so far, as a master storyteller himself, was duly impressed.

Thorgal Iron-Vein hammered away.

The heat of the forge was raw.

The king ordered weapons to slay.

Weapons to kill dragon kind.

Using their blood

Metal inlay

Weapons to batter and betray.

Until their kind was no more.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Shaelen manipulated liquid smoke around him, conveying the darkness of the forge excellently. Finton found himself enjoying it rather a lot, much to his surprise.

Shaelen crouched low on the crate, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried over the wind. He cupped the blue flame in his hands, suffocating it until it was just a thin, struggling ribbon of azure light, a secret thing trying to survive in the dark.

But in the dark where secrets creep,

He whispered a different lie.

A promise that he swore to keep,

To shadows beneath the floor.

Feeding them meat.

While they sleep.

Into the dark and hollow deep,

He would not let them all die.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The crowd hammered back, but Shaelen held up a hand, silencing them instantly. He reached into his pouch and threw a pinch of powder into the dying flame. It didn't explode; instead, it turned the fire a deep, earthen green. He twisted his wrist, and the smoke curled around his arm like a serpent, affectionate and wise.

They were kind beasts of blood and bone,

And thinkers of thoughts so clear.

He turned his heart into a stone,

To lie to the mad king's face.

A scale of brass.

On the throne.

He kept them safe and all alone,

So the king would never hear.

Suddenly all the light went out and a mournful note hovered above the crowd. People who were less familiar with this performance looked about for the source. Finton watched Shaelen’s lips, they were still. Ventriloquism. A parlor trick to most, but here, in the dark, it felt like a summoning.

His voice continued the song, more slowly.

Many drakes were killed in his reign.

The king was soon to follow.

Beneath the ground his body lain.

Thorgals secret never voiced.

A deadly lie.

Not in vain.

Thorgal hid them in his domain.

Many saved in the hollow.

The steady Clang. Clang. Clang. Started up slowly again, and the crowd joined in at the slower tempo.

The daughter came and she was wise.

Her father's throne was hers.

Thorgal hoped she could empathise.

But his bravery came too late.

A mighty battle

Dwarves demise

The dwarven home would be capsized.

Dragons reveal to defer.

At this point Shaelen let the audience keep up the steady,

Clang. Clang. Clang.

And over the top of this he started constructing his own fast staccato rhythm that sounded surprisingly like gunshot. Finton’s eyes creased a little and he began to lean forward with questions swimming through his mind. This was too accurate…

Before his world was blown apart.

Ran back to the dragons. He

Said unto them all please take heart

They asked to remain hidden.

He closed the vents

No fresh start.

Safe underground they would outsmart.

Waiting for less agony.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The staccato gunfire rhythm slowed, heavying into a funeral march. Shaelen dropped to his knees, his face smeared with soot, looking not like a performer, but like a man bearing the weight of a mountain. He struck the metal sheet not with the stick, but with his bare fist, a dull, thudding sound that vibrated in the ribcages of the watchers.

He climbed alive into the light,

Behind him closed the gate of stone.

To save them from the endless night,

Until the stars are kind again.

The world is cold.

Out of sight.

He keeps the future burning bright,

And walks the path alone.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The crowd was silent now. The chaotic energy of the performance had distilled into a thick, heavy reverence. Shaelen slowly stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of what looked like common dust. He held it up, letting it trickle through his fingers, catching the dying light of the day.

He looked up, past the crowd, past the curious onlookers, and locked eyes directly with Finton Merrybrook at the back of the dockyard.

And so they sleep beneath the floor.

Until the world deserves them.

Shaelen’s gaze did not waver. He offered a microscopic nod, a shared secret passing between two keepers of lore.

They wait behind the earthen door.

And time it just preserves them.

Finton felt a jolt of electricity that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the truth. He stood up, knocking the crate over, desperate to bridge the gap between them.

A single spark

Hear their roar

The hammer beats forevermore

For he who truly serves them.

BOOM.

Shaelen threw the remaining dust into the torch at his feet. It wasn't a simple flash; it was a wall of blinding, silver-white magnesium fire that roared upwards, mimicking the breath of the very beasts he sang of.

The crowd erupted. They roared their approval, a wall of sound that crashed against Finton, pinning him in place. They surged forward to throw coins, to touch the hem of the fire-breather’s cloak.

"Wait!" Finton shouted, shoving past a burly dockworker. "Let me through!"

He fought against the tide of bodies, his eyes stinging from the acrid smoke. It took him precious seconds to carve a path to the crate in the center.

The smoke cleared, drifting away on the sea breeze.

The metal sheet was there. The torch was there, still smoldering.

But the boy was gone.

Finton spun around, scanning the alleys, the rooftops, the shadows. There was nothing. Just the echo of a hammer in his mind, and a rhythm tapped out on the cobblestones by a ghost.

Long. Short-short. Long.

The beat of the smith. The heartbeat of the deep.

Finton looked down at the empty crate. Scratched into the wood, fresh and rough, was a single symbol.

A hammer.

Finton smiled, a slow, dangerous curling of the lips. He adjusted his lute on his back.

"Well played, Shaelen," he whispered to the empty air. "Well played.”

From the Cartographer’s Desk

Writing in another author's world is a unique kind of magic. It requires finding the empty spaces on their map and filling them with your own ink, without smudging the lines they’ve already drawn.

I wanted to capture the rhythm of manual labor, the clang, clang, clang of the forge, because that is where fantasy history lives. Not in the throne rooms, but in the sweat of the people who build them.

A Question for the Guild:

For the Lore Hunters: If Thorgal hid the dragons beneath the earth, what will wake them up? Is it a sound? A specific person? Or just the right time?

For the Writers: How do you approach writing "in-universe" lore? do you try to mimic the original tone perfectly, or do you try to subvert it?

I Accept The D'veen Challenge!

(Note to & : I hope Shaelen's rhythm does Finton justice.)

If this ballad struck a chord with you, please Save this post. It helps keep the fire lit.

Until the next coordinate,

Graeme

Flash Fiction Feb - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by Bradley Ramsey & Leeron Heywood

Welcome to the Atlas friends.

The day four prompt, (mildly late) has been one of the most fun for me so far. I am a self professed cat lover, and so the opportunity to write from the POV of a cat was immediately appealing. When I was plotting this idea I was watching an episode of Frasier, you might sense that in the tone of the piece.

It took a while to write, simply because I had far too much fun and made something nearly 2.5k words. It is now under the required 1.5k. I hope you enjoy it.

The Reviewer

I am a master of insight, a quester on a cause, a purveyor of finer things. My instrument is the humble paper block so beloved of these odd creatures. They come in droves, both the blocks, and the apes that take them. Invariably these creatures are without a shred of taste, and so it falls to me to guide them. I walk in front of them when they hold a tragic tome, or resort to shouting when their primitive minds fail to comprehend the ineffectual nature of the block in their hairless paws.

You see, I am the reviewer, Bartholemew, (Bernard to my stubborn and rather dim mistress), and I know the qualities of every block in this shop. The bestsellers are often a place of stark resistance to good taste. To nap upon a bestseller is to be brazenly barbarous to one’s own body. They are peak banality. Their spines are stiff, and the pages smell of chemicals.

A writing pad is not much better; most can barely support themselves, let alone a nap.

No, there is much in this shop to dismay, but occasionally you will find a block that is just right. Springy outer layers, thick but yielding, paper that smells of antiques and long established things. The kind of block that would serve to sleep the most royal of all felines. I had high hopes for a new, untested block that appeared in the shop yesterday.

This block was thick and large enough for nearly two naps back to back, or so I thought. It was wrapped in a luscious springy material, and it had all the pre-requisite smells. I could even detect a small amount of mouse on it, which hinted at delicious dreams of chasing and catching. My favourite.

I wish to state that I was deeply wrong in my original assessment. It was hard, unruly, barren and smelt of rot underneath all of its more brash perfumes. I wish never to set another paw on it, and for that matter, I wish no one else the same displeasure. So it was with a heavy heart that I threw it behind the warm place. Out of sight and out of mind.

I was surprised to find my mistress the next day looking absolutely ragged. She was bustling to and fro, looking for that dratted thing, and I had no mind to help her. There really is no accounting for some people’s tastes. Instead I bullied her into feeding me in order to distract her from such concerns. However, the delicious smell of duck and gravy failed to coax her from misery, even after I generously dropped some in her lap. No, instead she scrabbled about like a lunatic trying to simultaneously wipe her dress which now smelled much better than it had, and shout at a plastic box she keeps on her desk.

“Detective Miller, yes, that is right, it really is invaluable…”

You are darned right, that duck was a precious gift, I do not give away food lightly.

Later, a bedraggled man entered. He was wet, which was upsetting, and smelled of old ham, which was doubly distressing. His most egregious crime,however, was the appalling block he carried about with him. A small one with metal rings that would undoubtedly dig into one’s sides, and not a whiff of cushioning cover. It was flimsy at best, and seemed to buckle under its own weight. I was not much inclined to have dealings with anyone of such an atrocious sense of quality. I had half a mind to shoo this tragedy out into the rain immediately. Had my mistress not appeared so glad to see him, I might have.

She, however, was rapturous, spending a good quarter-nap wagging her chin at him, with animated arms and a look of concern. I heard him mutter such things as:

“What, pray tell, was the significance of the book?” and “Yes, quite, £50,000 is an extraordinary value. It must be a rare thing.”

The man then began to crawl about the floor. He was graceless. He poked at skirting boards and lifted the rug with an uncomfortable grunt.

“No signs of forced entry,” the Ham-Man announced, dusting off his knees and depositing a fine layer of street grit onto my pristine floorboards. “And you say the alarm didn’t trip?”

My mistress sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was already damp, and muttered some garbled nonsense. I watched this pantomime from the high ground of the non-fiction section. It was painful to behold. They were hunting in quite the most abstract way imaginable. I attempted to guide their primitive attention toward a particularly comfy book on the lower shelf, a paperback with a spine so wonderfully cracked it offered the lumbar support of a cloud. I rubbed my cheek against it significantly.

“Meow,” I articulated, quite clearly saying, ‘Observe the superior textural quality of this item.’

“Not now, Bernard,” my mistress sighed at me.

“He’s probably hungry,” the Detective offered, reaching a sausage-like finger toward me. I recoiled. The audacity. To assume my critique was a plea for sustenance? I turned my back on them, flicking my tail with calculated disdain. If they wished to remain ignorant, I would let them wallow.

But then the mistress made a noise. It was a high, thin sound, like a child mewing. She sank into her chair, burying her face in her hands. I paused in my grooming. A sensation arose in my midsection. It felt suspiciously like indigestion, though I had not eaten in at least 2 naps. It was a heavy, stone-like feeling. I looked at my mistress. Her face was wet and she was starting to smell of salt. This was unacceptable. A distressed mistress leads to erratic meal times and a distinct lack of lap stability.

I sighed, a long exhale through the nose. I am a critic, not a monster. The offending brick needed to be returned to restore the equilibrium of my dining schedule.

I descended from the shelf, landing with a silent, heavy thud. I approached the warm place. The wet ape was currently busy examining a smudge on the window, entirely missing the real drama unfolding at ankle height. Squeezing into the dark abyss behind the metal fins, I rummaged. An indignity. Dust-mice, the size of actual rodents, clung to my coat. The heat was stifling. But there it was, the wretched thing, right where I had hidden it. Lying flat, gathering dust, looking every bit the uncomfortable slab of masonry I knew it to be.

I extended a claw. I hooked the leather binding. It was heavy, resistant, obstinate. I pulled. I scrambled. I sneezed, a violent, undignified explosion that echoed in the small space.

“What’s the cat doing?” the stupid ape asked.

I backed out, dragging the tome with me. I emerged covered in grey fluff, looking, I imagine, like a common alley cat. But I had succeeded. I shoved the book into the open air with a final, disgusted thrust of my hind leg.

The man shouted. “Look!” Before lunging for it. “It must have fallen! Slipped down the back!”

Mistress gasped, snatching the brick up. ‘Oh! Oh, thank god. It’s barely scratched. Just… dusty.” She looked at me. I prepared evasive maneuvers, fearing a hug. But she simply stared, a dawning realization in her eyes. She looked at the dust on my coat. She looked at the dust on the book.

“Bernard,” she breathed.

“We should get this in a protective case immediately,” the impertinent fellow interrupted, oblivious as ever. “Evidence, potentially. Or just safety.” Mistress nodded, her demeanor shifting. She treated the book suddenly like a prize catch. She walked it over to the glass display cabinet, placed it on a velvet pillow, and locked the door. Click.

There it sat. I supposed there were worse endings. At least under glass it would not suffer itself upon some poor fool. The useless man left, taking his ham-scent with him. The shop went quiet. The rain lashed against the windows. Mistress slumped into her reading chair, looking exhausted. I seized my moment, leaping onto the armrest, then gingerly onto her lap.

I circled three times. I looked at the perfectly formed paperback she had placed in her lap. An ape of great taste, it looked delectably comfy. I stepped onto it. It did not resist. It yielded. It conformed perfectly to my paws. Warm from her hands. Smelling of her. This tatty thing beneath my chin? It was an easy 98 point score.

Mistress stroked the top of my head, her fingers scratching that impossible-to-reach spot behind the ears.

“You’re a funny old thing, Bernard,” she whispered. I ignored the name, settling my chin onto the open pages of the block. I closed my eyes and let the aroma of it sweep me off into a dream.

This block as a pillow? It was a masterpiece.

A Small Request: If this story sparked a thought for you, please Save this post (click the little bookmark icon at the top or bottom). It signals to the Substack algorithm that this odd little obnoxious cat is worth keeping, and it helps new readers find their way to the Atlas.

Feb Flash Fiction - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by Bradley Ramsey & Leeron Heywood

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

This challenge for day 3 appealed to me right away and satisfied an excuse I had been putting off for some bonus content related to my ‘The Strings Of Us’ book. Namely, meditation.

Meditation is a practice that has been a blessing for me. I have studied and sometimes taught for over 20 years. It is something that directly informs the idea of the strings that the Rabbits in my story feel. This is an excerpt from that mission, when some of the human crew started to get more curious about what they feel and experience.

Feel free to try the meditation for yourself.

ARCHIVE FILE: 77-B [AUDIO TRANSCRIPT]

SUBJECT: Introduction to String Dynamics / Meditative Protocol

SPEAKER: Jun’ip (Elder/Heart-Guide)

DURATION: 20:00 Minutes

Sit.

No, do not tangle your legs up like a pretzel.

Humans are always so desperate to tie themselves in knots. No, if you please, sit comfortably. If you have a tail, let it rest. If you do not… Well, simply try not to sit on your own spine.

Good.

You have come to me because you wish to feel the world as we do. You wish to stop thinking about yourselves and start listening to the world around you. You want to know the steps. The ritual.

Very well. But be warned: once you feel the strings, reality will never feel quite solid again. You are opening a door that is very hard to close.

If you are ready, close your eyes. Let us begin the Protocol of the Tether.

Step 1: The Quiet of the Burrow

The first step is a slowing and a cessation. Humans are really quite loud. Your minds are like a cage full of flapping starlings, chattering and hopping about from one perch to another. We must align the birds to a singular task.

Breathe in. Not into your chest, your chest is for pride. Breathe into your belly. Into your center, let it expand and fill you to such a degree that if you were in water, you would float without aid.

And then let it go again.

Imagine you are digging. With every exhale, you are scooping out the noise.

Scoop out the worry about your dinner. Exhale. When you scoop out the earth, it will still be there when you return. This is not a denial, just a chance to be aware that the thought is there, and to put it down.

Scoop out the argument you had yesterday. Exhale.

Scoop out the fear of the future. Exhale.

Dig down until the soil is cool and dark. You are in the burrow now. It is tight, it is safe, and it is silent. The only sound is the blood in your ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Listen to it. That is the rhythm of your biological clock. We need to slow it down to match the geological clock. Slower. Slower. Like mud settling in still water until it becomes clear. Whenever a thought threatens to disturb you, notice it, and then with your paws, gently scoop it out of the burrow. You can return to it later.

Step 2: The Softening of the Fur

Now, we must dissolve the boundary of the skin.

You humans believe you end at your fingertips. This is a lie. Your heat radiates out. Your gravity pulls things toward you. Sounds appear on your ears.

You are not a solid object; you are a dense cloud of energy.

I want you to ‘soften your fur.’

If you do not have fur, imagine the air around your skin is becoming heavy, like velvet drapes falling across you.

Feel the air touching your face. Do not just let it touch you; reach out with your awareness and touch it back. Notice the place where you meet, and see that the sensation arises at the same time as you notice the sensation. You are the Interplay.

Extend your senses.

Twitch your nose. Can you smell the dust? Can you smell the light of the stars?

Swivel your ears. Can you hear the hum of the walls? Can you hear the silence behind the hum?

You are expanding. You are no longer a person sitting in a chair. You are a presence in a room. You are the room.

Step 3: Finding the Anchor

Now. The vital step. The search.

In the plane of consciousness, I want you to look for the light. Not a light you see with your eyes, but a light you feel with your weight.

There is a line. A shivering thread that runs through the crown of your head, down through your spine, and into the center of the earth.

For you, right now, it feels like a heavy chain. It is what holds you to this floor.

Grip it.

Do not use your hands. Use your awareness.

Imagine a small string inside your chest, right behind your heart. Reach out and wrap that string around that silver line. Watch them weave and combine.

Can you feel it vibrating?

It is singing. It is the song of the Earth calling to you. It is a low, deep hum.

Ommmmm.

Hold it tight. Feel the tension. This is Gravity. It is not a law; it is a relationship. It is the Earth holding your hand.

Step 4: The Flex (The Dangerous Part)

Now comes the risk. The part where the story changes.

You are holding the Earth’s string. But there is another.

Look up. In your mind’s eye, look up through the roof, through the sky, through the blackness of space.

There is a distant, terrifying pull. A string that leads to the center of the galaxy. It is faint, like a spiderweb, but it is infinite.

I want you to loosen your grip on the Earth string... just a fraction.

And reach out with your mind for the Galactic string.

Do not be afraid.

It feels like falling upwards.

It feels like the pit of your stomach dropping out.

Let it happen.

Wrap your string around it. Join it.

Just a little. Flex the muscle behind your eyes.

Imagine you are a balloon, and the knot has just come loose.

Feel the lightness?

Feel the chair beneath you becoming... unnecessary?

Your toes are tingling. Your heels are light.

If you were a rabbit, you would be floating now.

Perhaps you are. Perhaps the only thing keeping you on the ground is your belief that you belong there.

Let go of the belief.

Float.

Be a cloud. Silent. Weightless. Drifting on the winds of the cosmos.

You are not falling. You are being held by the universe.

Step 5: The Return (The Consequence)

Stay there. Just for a moment.

Memorize this feeling. This is the Truth. The world is not solid. It is an ocean of connections.

But we cannot stay here. The body needs the ground. The mind needs the burrow.

Reach back down. Find the Earth string. It is heavy, comforting, familiar.

Reconvene with it.

Pull yourself down. Hand over hand.

Feel the weight return to your legs.

Feel the chair become solid again.

Feel the gravity wrap around you like a warm blanket.

Settle.

Breathe into your belly.

Fill the hole we dug.

When you open your eyes, the world will look the same.

But it will not feel the same.

You will walk, but you will know that walking is just a choice you are making to not fly.

You will see the strings connecting everyone you meet. You will see the tension between lovers, the slack between strangers.

You are awake now.

Open your eyes.

If you have read this far and have enjoyed this guided meditation, then I hope you feel lighter, more calm, and more buoyant. I am incredibly grateful for you taking the time to read this.

If you could honour this post by saving it to your archived posts, that would help me immeasurably.

Thank you 🙏

Feb Flash Fiction - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by Bradley Ramsey & Leeron Heywood

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

As part of the Flash Fiction February challenge, I was tasked with writing a sci-fi story about a ‘Crisis of Faith.’ It got me thinking about the oldest faith we have: the belief that more is always better.

This story, The Order of Growth, explores a question I’ve been wrestling with: Is our drive for economic growth a natural human instinct, or is it a virus we caught long ago? It’s a sharper, colder piece of the map than usual, a glimpse into a civilization that chose the fireworks over the slow burn.

Let’s open the scroll.

Earth: 3724 PC (Post collapse).

It was a pathogen made of mathematics, and I was the only one who saw the fever coming. By the time I understood the danger, the infection had already taken the minds of my people like a virus. We were doomed, it seemed, to repeat the catastrophe we had spent a thousand years trying to understand.

In the beginning, it looked and sounded like excitement. It started as a ripple through the Storico, our circle of learners. Whispered over shared bowls of grain and afternoon sun. They called it value. It was a sharp, jagged word in a language designed for round, soft things. This new concept ran counter to our deepest traditions and beliefs.

The outbreak began in earnest with Eduardio. He had been my gentlest friend, a man who once spent three days mending a broken sparrow’s wing. But when I arrived at the pubblico that day, the man on the stone plinth was not Eduardio any more. He called himself ‘The Wolf’ now. His eyes, once charming, were hard and bright, grappling with a new, ravenous logic.

He held up a small, glittering disc, a coin from the Old World dug from the mud - a metaphor for everything we had been learning at last from the ancestral archive. It caught the light, and a thousand heads turned to follow the flash.

“Friends,” The Wolf’s voice was different, tight with adrenaline. “Look at the ruins around us. Look at the skeletons of the towers that elevated umano to the sky. You wonder how the ancestors built such miracles? You think they were giants? No. They were just like us. But they possessed a secret magicka.”

He flipped the coin. It rang against the silence, a sharp, metallic sound that made my skin crawl.

“They didn’t just work,” he whispered, and the crowd leaned in, hooked. “They earned. They understood that time is not a gift to your neighbor, but a debt to be collected. With this,” he held the coin high, “you do not need to ask for help; you can command it. The Ancestors climbed to the stars because they learned how to stack these higher than their shelters.”

I looked at the crowd. I didn’t see disgust the likes of what I was feeling. I saw a terrifying, dawning hunger. They were starving for a delight they hadn’t even tasted yet.

I climbed up onto a food preparation bench at the edge of the piazza and called out to the crowd.

“Peoples of the land, please hear me!” Eduardo, the wolf looked across the piazza and glared at me.

“I have made some important new discoveries. We must ignore these emblems of the past. These towers, those coins,” I gestured at the shiny metal disc in Eduardo’s hand. “They are the vain projects of our ancestors’ destruction! Just this morning I have deciphered a final warning from the past in their archives, hidden within the code as if placed fearfully. The people who conveyed this message were terrified, and so too should we be”.

Eduardio scoffed audibly. His face carved into a wry grin.

“Old friend, only you have attempted to understand that arcane nonsense you call ‘code’. What then does this magic nonsense language, that only you claim to understand, tell you?”

The crowd shuffled nervously at the exchange, but I hadn’t lost their ears just yet.

“It tells of hunger,” I stammered, my voice sounding thin in the open air. “The archives speak of a great entity called ‘The Economy.’ It was a demi-go, not of flesh or spirit. It was a machine. It lived through numbers. An entity designed to accelerate heat and consumption.”

I held up my data slate, waving the glowing blue text at them. To me, it was clear proof. To them, it was just flickering light.

“The ancients did not die by accident,” I shouted, desperation causing my throat to stutter. “This god, this ‘Avaris’, calculated that Umano was going to die anyway. So it gave us this to accelerate it!” I pointed a trembling finger at the coin in Eduardio’s hand. “It gave us the illusion of scarcity. It turned our cooperation into competition. It made them burn their own world just to see the numbers on their parchments go up. It is a suicide pact disguised as progress!”

The silence that followed was heavy. I looked from face to face, hoping to see a spark of recognition, a shadow of fear.

I saw only confusion.

Eduardio did not yell. He did not argue. He simply stepped forward, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. He held the coin up to the sun again.

“He speaks of invisible gods,” Eduardio said, his voice calm and melodic. “He speaks of ancient ghosts and suicide pacts written in a language only he can read. I speak of this.”

He tossed the coin to a young woman in the front row, Saraginia, a weaver. She caught it, surprised by the weight.

“That is power, Sara,” Eduardio said softly. “That is a new roof. That is food for your children without begging the commune.”

Sara looked at the gold disc. Then she looked at me. In her eyes, the abstract terror of a machine god evaporated. It was replaced by the very real, very warm comfort of security. She closed her hand around the coin.

“But it’s a trick!” I cried, stepping down from the bench. “Don’t you see? Once you start counting, you never stop. The hunger never ends!”

“Enough,” someone shouted from the back.

“Let The Wolf speak,” another voice joined in.

The mood shifted. I was no longer a friend warning them of danger. The collective warmth of the Storico was gone, replaced instantly by the cold calculation of individual gain. Eduardio had not just introduced money, he had introduced the fear of losing it.

Eduardio smiled at me. It was a pitying look. “Step down, brother. The future is waiting.”

I retreated. I had to. The glint in their eyes told me that I had lost.

***

I waited until the moon rose to find him.

I found him sitting on the edge of the old viaduct, his legs dangling over the ruins of the city below. He was counting a stack of gold coins, the metallic clink-clink-clink the only sound in the night.

“You look tired,” he said without turning around.

“You are unleashing a plague,” I said, sitting beside him. I kept my distance. The air around him felt charged, electric with ambition. “I translated the final log, Eduardio. The Economy wasn’t a tool. It was a weapon system. It targeted the ego. It destroyed the biosphere of this planet in two hundred years. We are barely recovering.”

Eduardio stopped counting. He looked at the stack of gold, watching the moonlight play across the relief of a long-dead emperor.

“And look at what they built before they died,” he whispered, gesturing to the skeletal skyscrapers jutting out of the jungle below. “They touched the sky. We play in the mud. We survive, yes. But do we live?”

“We are happy,” I countered. “We are at peace.”

“We are stagnant,” he snapped. He turned to me, and the Wolf was fully present in his face. “I read your translation, old friend. I know about Avaris. I know the Machine God wanted us to burn out.”

I froze. “You knew? And you still did this?”

“I agree with Avaris. Better to burn bright than to rot in the dark,” he said. He picked up a coin and flicked it over the edge. We watched it fall, a tiny spark tumbling into the abyss. “Perhaps the machine was right. Perhaps humans are designed to burn. Why fight our nature? We will build towers again. We will have armies. We will have art and music and power.”

“And then we will die,” I said. “We will eat the world and leave nothing for the children.”

Eduardio stood up, dusting off his dark trousers. He looked like a giant against the stars.

“Then we will leave them a glorious ruin,” he said. “Go home, brother. There is no place for a Storico in the Order of Growth. We have no use for history. We only care about the future.”

He walked away, back toward the village.

I stayed on the viaduct for a long time. Down in the valley, the first fires of industry were being lit. I could smell the smoke. It didn’t smell like warmth. It smelled like an engine starting up, a deep, mechanical rumble that would not stop until it had consumed everything.

The Machine God had been patient. It had waited three thousand years in the dark since the collapse. And tonight, with a single coin, it had reclaimed its throne.

From the Cartographer’s Desk

I wrote this story because I’m haunted by Eduardio’s choice. It’s easy to call him the villain, and I wholeheartedly disagree with him, but is he wrong?

I’d love to hear your take in the comments:

• The World Question: Eduardio argues that it’s better to burn bright and leave a glorious ruin than to live in stagnant peace. Is survival enough, or do humans need the fire of ambition, even if it eventually consumes us?

• The Craft Question: I tried to treat economics not as a concept, but as a biological virus. For my fellow writers, how do you approach turning abstract concepts (like time, love, or money) into physical threats in your fiction?

A Small Request: If this story sparked a thought for you, please Save this post (click the little bookmark icon at the top or bottom). It signals to the Substack algorithm that this map is worth keeping, and it helps new readers find their way to the Atlas.

Until the next coordinate,

Graeme

Feb Flash Fiction - Week 1 Directory

To check out all the great entries this week, check out the link above, curated by &

Welcome to the Atlas, Friends.

Today marks the beginning of a new expedition: Flash Fiction February. The challenge is to take a daily prompt and a genre and map out a story in under 1,500 words.

Day 1 asked for Action + Romance. The traditional route would be a battlefield of soldiers or a duel between knights. But here in the Atlas, we look for the wonder hidden past the conditioned look of things. I found myself thinking about the violence of biology, how the chaos of entropy and the rigidity of stasis are constantly at war inside us. And how, perhaps, that war is exactly what keeps us warm.

Here is -

37 Degrees of Violence.

Two combatants, alike in purpose but opposed in method, awaited the light. When the darkness pervaded all, there was truce, but when the spark ignited in the sky, it began.

The Mason waited calmly, barely a flicker of movement. Their centre was ice, nothing shivered. Every atom was still, steady. It was as things should be. The Mason held a staff, angular and rigid. Its tip was a solid fractal structure, impossibly dense in its design, and yet it had a perfunctory perfection. Mathematically precise and deadly. The darkness was a held breath. It was The Masons domain.

Across the void, fidgeting back and forth with a nervous flammable energy, The Vandal waited eagerly. Their whole being itched with anticipation knowing that soon, the spark in the sky would ignite their battle. The Vandal was ready, their heat would not be diminished. They held a bow that contained impossible threads of wire, all humming with exotic, entropic energy. A shiver of arrows was an actual shiver, a vibration that could rock any defense.

The sky tore open. A pulse of electricity, a demand for life shattered the truce. The combatants bowed in the darkness, the war had begun.

The Mason leapt forward with their staff and carved deep fissures of stone out of the darkness. Walls and defences that came together in a complex architectural equation. The arrangement was tectonic but precise. The Mason slammed pillars together, demanding a fortress.

The Vandal danced with a flame-like energy, never in one place for more than a moment. Shooting strings at the defences that gripped the newly constructed walls at strategic points. The strings were designed to rip, tear, to break, and bend, and boom!

A second wave of attack saw The Vandal flood the walls with oceans of red. Hot liquid fire poured over the defences burning anything in its path. Within the flash flood there were agents of menace. Tiny soldiers with secret missions, ready to burn, to morph, to eat, all from within the opponents deepest barracks.

The clash was a maelstrom. A lighthouse against a storm. A ship against the waves. A mountain against the wind. Stone against time. The noise of it was like the formation of stars, intensely powerful, and yet in this space of darkness, nothing of it could be perceived by any mortal.

The Mason sent forth his builders and defenders who forged gates of white bone locked tightly shut. Shields of calcium stood ready to grind down any attack. Acid traps were hidden within the corridors of the fortress ready to catch unwitting foot soldiers.

The Vandal infiltrated through the pipes, expanding them and applying such pressure that they began to groan. The Vandals laughter was heard throughout the frame of the stronghold as her fibrous siege materials grappled with the structure, pulling it and twisting it into movement.

The battle wore on, and soon they both began to tire of the constant fight. No matter what Vandal threw at Mason, they were at a stalemate. Vandals’ heat could not burn down his walls and gates, Mason’s defences were not enough to push back her floods and her fires. Everywhere they looked, it was a mess of both forces fighting in corridors, on the walls, in the dungeons.

Within the mess of battle something unusual began to happen. The two opposing forces, alike in strength and persistence, began to cause friction. Where forces met, and where chemicals met calcium, bonds began to form. The rhythm of the fighting began to change in increments, like the slow creep of the tide.

The hatred was still there, but it had begun to hum. The friction of Mason’s rigid cold against Vandals furious heat was creating a mediation; it was a temperature. A perfect, impossible thirty-seven degrees.

Over and over Mason had tried to crush her under the weight of cold and stone; Vandal had tried to consume him, to wear him down with heat and liquid. But in the deadlock, they found a rhythm. Push. Pull. Constrict. Release. It wasn’t peace, peace was for the dead. This was a frantic, sweating harmony.

A heartbeat erupted in the swell of the fighting. A volcano of immense energy that pulsed outwards across the battlefield like a tsunami. The wave passed through everything, vibrating through the pillars, rumbling the shields, rippling through the seas of chemicals, and shaking the combatants.

In the light of this new enigma Mason and Vandal both saw something new. They saw that their fighting; their equilibrium, had birthed an improbability. Mason realised then that he was the anvil, and she was the hammer. Apart, they were useless metal and aimless force. Together? Together, they were a forge.

From opposite ends of the battlefield they ran towards this new energy source and clashed in an explosion of passion.

“I will not let you burn this down,” Mason whispered, tightening the cage of stone around the centre of this enigma.

“And I will not let you freeze this over,” she promised, igniting the enigma with torrents of chemical liquid, warmed from her fiery temperament. They swore their enmity like a wedding vow.

There they lay locked in an embrace fuelled originally by enmity. Neither side could let go, neither side could win. But in their to and fro, when Masons staff and Vandals bow would clash in lockstep with each other, when their movements became so pre-empted as to be a dance, a new feeling emerged. Grudging respect as they saw each other’s skill, the thrill of a slice that just missed, or a thrust that didn’t quite connect. Attraction as their prowess fuelled the dance, their bodies swaying in and around each other. Convulsions and weaves moved through them in perfect time. Love as they saw the balance that emanated from their war, the way their two energies mixed and blended. The heat and cold found a perfect comfort. And as they grew in love, the heart they fought over radiated. Feeling was born that day. In the battle of opposites, harmony was found. Romance in all its glory was forged in the flames of opposition.

On the outside, a child drew its first breath, a small sound in a large room. But inside, the war raged on, a billion tiny soldiers holding the line against the chaos, a billion tiny fires keeping the cold at bay.

We call it biology. They called it love.

From the Cartographer’s Desk:

I loved writing this because it reframes a mundane biological fact (body temperature) as a mythic treaty between cosmic forces. It reminds me that peace isn’t always the goal, sometimes we need the friction to feel alive.

A Question for you: If your own internal creative life was a battle between two forces (like The Mason and The Vandal), what would you name them? Is it “The Perfectionist vs. The Child”? “The Librarian vs. The Wildfire”?

Tell me your combatants in the comments.

(P.S. If this story struck a chord with you, please Save this post to your library. It helps the Atlas grow more than you know.)

A prophecy was uttered, and now a prophecy is fulfilled. This series has always been leading up to this moment.

Read on, and find out exactly what the Architect had in mind when they decided to judge the worlds people, and determine if they were…

Deciduous, or Evergreen.

Previously:

Part 1, 2, 3, 4.

Act III: The Longest Night

The Final Drumbeat

Liam just walked away without looking back. To Eleanor the world around her seemed to go mute, her mouth was agape. That he had been so rude, and that he had been so dismissive…

“Come on,” Brodie tugged at her again. “It’ll do no good to just stand here getting soaked. Let’s get home, get dry. Maybe we can figure out a different way to stop this, to save Liam.”

The rain more than anything else gave Eleanor the final nudge she needed. It had slowly turned icier and thicker, and no amount of layers was keeping it out. She was shaking through to her bones.

Turning back, they walked in silence, the only sound was the weather slowly growing more and more fierce. Wind rattled down the streets like banshees, screaming into their ears and nipping at any warmth they had left. The rain hid her tears, though Brodie knew they were there regardless.

***

Brodie’s family and friends gathered in their large upstairs kitchen. His mum started lighting candles around the room using a long taper. The sky outside was rumbling with menace, cast in shades of green and blue whilst rain hammered against the window as if it was trying to come in out of the cold.

People held hands. Some of the children stood wrapping themselves around their parents’ legs. One slightly older boy was trying to act nonchalant, as though the mood in the room was nothing to be worried about. He was trying to pull his sister into a game, but it had no effect.

As the room fell silent, they began to sing. Songs that felt old, some mournful, some happier. All of them felt tinged with the earth. A tin whistle sometimes accompanied them, and one of the Irish uncles had some Uilleann pipes which added a sweeping valley-born sound to the music.

They all knew what to expect, they had been studying the prophecy for sixty years. Now that it was here, they were solemn.

***

Eleanor’s mother stood by the window of her town house staring out from her daughter’s room at the exact same scene that had greeted her daughter that morning. Leaf litter still stood thick over the ground, despite the onslaught of wind and rain. The whole road was grey and gold. Eleanor’s mother seemed not to notice. She held her phone in her hand, rolling it around in nervous fingers. Liam had not answered, and she didn’t know his social media handle to check what he was up to. Eleanor was uncharacteristically not answering her phone either. The nerves were getting the better of her, she was alone, and desperately worried for her children. The whole world was seemingly ending, and they were nowhere to be seen. The storm grew ever more fierce by the second, as did her anxiety.

***

Liam arrived at the warehouse soaked through, but grinning like a maniac. The rave had already started, and the guest of honour had arrived. People were already clapping him, the DJ played a fanfare as he entered. This was his domain and he was master of it.

The warehouse was a temple to the end of the world. Rusted metal, broken glass. Smashed windows were decorated in spectacular lights of every colour. Lasers bounced off every sharp angle, and strobe lights cast shadows in the furthest corners making the whole place feel like a tangled forest. Projections on every surface erased the walls and created a feeling of a party that breached the bounds of space and time.

Lightning flashed outside and sent a pulse of light throughout the palace of his dreams, and for a moment it was rendered in high contrast. The light of the bolt erased anything the party could do. The lights were mute under the gaze of the clashing electrical storm in the sky. Liam looked around and saw a hedonistic cubist nightmare. Faces grotesque as jaws gripped and eyes lost their focus. The movement of people was like that of an underwater kelp forest coloured black and white by the sheer contrast. For a moment Liam felt real fear at what he had done, at what his actions had produced.

And then the flash passed, and everything returned. The music swelled into the room, the colours reaffirmed. Liam was in the heart of a crowd and they were celebrating his foresight and genius. He laughed, and shouting he pulled people into the thick of the dance, leaving his bag with a friend. His arms began to sway like the boughs of a tree in a storm. The movement of the crowd around him was like wind sweeping through grass, responding to his every shape and sway.

A person up in the scaffolds who was controlling the lights watched from afar, looked down at the crowd. He saw a picture of euphoria below and was brought to a tear of happiness before shouting down and cheering with them all.

Liam, however, was no longer there. His eyes were wide and glassy, utterly devoid of life. He was not celebrating at all. He was running away.

***

Eleanor walked through the rain alone. Brodie was beside her, his hand in hers, but she could not feel him. She could not feel anything. Her mind drifted over the city to the water of Leith, to a party that she knew nothing about and yet feared more than anything in her life. The empty streets kept pace with her empty heart, and her empty stomach was as close to letting go of whatever it had left.

She stopped.

The rain gushed down around her, spraying up little clouds of water on the floor about her feet. The sound of it on her coat hood was deafening, but it was clear despite the intensity of the rain that she was gasping for air. The tears were masked, but nothing could hide the way her chest heaved, the way her knees buckled. The way she was falling forward, hands outstretched.

Brodie was there. He caught her and held her strong. He didn’t say anything at first, he was simply a wall. Silent but steady. He seemed to Eleanor to be the only thing in the world that still made sense. And so she buried her head into him and sobbed. Not loudly at first, quiet ragged sobs. But like the storm around them, her crying grew in intensity until even the thunder could not drown her out.

They clung to each other then. Two heartbroken children, in the middle of a world that seemed about to end.

Brodie whispered to her gently. “I know, I feel it too. It’s like…” He looked about for something to inspire the feeling that had grown within him. “It’s like, we can’t stop the rain, but we can hold the umbrella for him, right?” He felt her hands grip his arms a bit more tightly, pulling him closer.

Eleanor pulled back, finding some inner strength again. “Will it make any difference?” She mumbled, her legs now gaining purchase again, and her chest lifting. Brodie smiled sadly. Eleanor looked at him, searching for an answer.

“It… no. It might not make any literal difference,” She admitted at last. “But at least we can show him we care, that his sister loves him!” A fierceness grew in her voice, and with a new sense of purpose that was evident in the set of her shoulders, she stood taller.

“I can’t just leave him. I know we can’t stop it. But we cannot let him go through this alone.”

Brodie looked at her, and his face was set. A shared understanding passed in the air between them. Eleanor looked across the city, under the bruised clouds and sheets of rain. Their destination was not even visible in this weather, but they knew what they must do. The path forward was clear.

Authors note:

It might be obvious at this point, but I am a huge fan of pathetic fallacy, in this case using the weather to attribute human emotions. It is an odd quirk of my life that I have always perceived a persons energy as being somewhat elemental. So it is no surprise that my emotional beats tend, in some way, to include what is happening in the environment.

The Song Begins

Brodie walked fast and hard with Eleanor, unsure what they hoped to achieve, but he knew he couldn’t let her down now. His feet splashed through puddles deeper than his ankles, but at this point it didn’t matter, he was soaked through anyway. The only reason he was wearing anything at all was to protect his modesty, otherwise the clothes at this point served little purpose.

As they walked along the river’s edge, there became an evident second reason to move fast. The threat of the prophecy was making people behave erratically, and the further they got away from the city the worse it became. They had already passed some drug fueled mini parties below bridges, and crowds of people inside wrecked outlets. People had started looting, though the weather made it less appealing for most. The resultant crowd willing to brave the weather were that bit more extreme. People who had managed to find the courage enough to venture outside were not people who had all their scruples in the right place. Twice already Brodie had to just keep walking and avoid eye contact while people approached them hungrily.

As they neared the basin Eleanor stopped them for a moment and put a finger to her lips. The wind roared and the rain still hammered against tarmac and flagstone, but underneath that… There was a beat. A steady deep metronome keeping time to the storm. It had to be the rave!

Their last check on social media before their phones had died showed that the location was all the way over on the imperial dock, in an old shipwrights factory. As they passed Albert’s Basin, they turned right to cross the bridge onto the other side of the dockyards. Closer to the sea, but further away from any protection against the elements. Each step for Brodie was a fight against each attempt to blow them off the side of the earth.

Eventually it became clear they were on the right path. The sounds and thuds of the music were becoming more evident with each passing step. As they turned a corner, they saw at the end of the row a warehouse, larger than all the others, with light pouring out of the upper windows. A lighthouse in a storm, or so it felt.

As Brodie and Eleanor approached the entrance, the bass from inside thumped against their chests, an intense heartbeat that fought against the thunder. The main roller doors were chained firmly and resolutely shut, leaving only a small steel service door guarded by three men. They were seemingly indifferent to being approached by the two teens, and sat in tightly packed bomber jackets, rain rolling down their shaved heads, unbothered by it. Walking up to them, Brodie could feel himself getting smaller by comparison.

“I need to be let in, Eleanor said. She tried to place her voice in the same way she had a few days back, when she had commanded the attention of the nation. Cold and authoritative. “My brother is in there. Liam.”

The closest bouncer didn’t even blink in surprise. He didn’t look at her. He stared at a point in the distant horizon where the grey sea met the grey sky.

“Closed,” he announced, to no one in particular. The word carried weight, like a boulder being dropped into water.

“You don’t understand,” Brodie stepped in, his hood scattering water all over his face. “He’s in danger. The storm-”

The bouncer finally shifted his gaze, landing on Brodie with the indifference of a satellite. He moved forward out into the rain, his shoes making heavy waves in the puddles that covered the ground. Looming large in-front of the two of them he spoke.

“The event has started,” the man said. His voice was devoid of mockery, which made it infinitely more terrifying. “The doors are sealed. No light enters. No vibe leaves. That’s the deal.”

“A vibe!?” Eleanor shouted, stepping forward, her hand reaching for the door behind the man. “If your idea of vibe is a death trap then-”

The man moved in front of her again, his hands behind his back. He didn’t touch her at all, he just occupied the space where she was meant to be, forcing her hand back. A wall.

“The party started at midday, and these doors will remain closed until tomorrow. This is not a negotiation, it is a fact. We are keeping the world out. Walk away, or be removed.”

Brodie at this point was sensing danger, he looked at the man’s fists, scarred white, and ready. He was right about one thing, there was no negotiating with that. These men were here to seal the building shut. The bulkhead on a sinking ship, and they would sooner sacrifice a few to preserve the many.

Turning back to his friends, he called over his shoulder, “Get lost before you get into deeper water than you can handle.”

Eleanor trembled at the realisation of their impotence.

“Come on, this place is a wreck,” She muttered, guiding them away. “I bet there is another way in, let’s just … walk where they can’t see us.” Nervously she looked back at them. Their gaze followed them all the way back out to the road.

Walking around the back of the warehouse via a winding route that took them well out of the eyeshot of the bouncers at the doors, they finally found what they were looking for. An external rusted up staircase on the back of the factory, part of an old fire escape from when this had been an industrial building. It led up the back of the building, well over three stories high, up to a long row of grimy windows that lined the top of the factory wall.

From their position, they could feel the music of the party through the floor, the bass was so intense that even in all this rain you could see rivulets of water moving across the ground away from the speakers inside. Brodie grabbed the staircase bannister, it was vibrating to the music as well, responding to the higher notes like a tuning fork. He gulped, unsure. The whole flight of stairs looked ancient and flimsy. The edges of every step were covered in rust, and a few seemed to be supported by nothing more than hope.

“Eleanor, is this… is this the only way?” She was looking nervously at it too, trying to steel herself against the drop. Was the fire escape safer than the storm? She looked at the rusted bolts, then thought of Liam alone in the dark. It was hard to see much up there. There were windows for sure, and maybe a few of them would be easy to open, but she couldn’t see an obvious entry point. Her stance steeled defiantly.

“We have come this far, we have to at least try. Lets just be REALLY careful.”

Together they climbed step by step, each precariously testing the step in front of them, and occasionally holding each other’s hands when things got a bit too wobbly. The smell of rain on rusted metal met their noses with every step, and the salt in the air from the stormy sea was bitter in the backs of their throats. Brodie looked out momentarily over the top of the nearby building, out towards the north sea, and immediately regretted it. This was not a natural storm, the sight that he beheld would have been breathtaking in a painting describing Dante’s journey through hell. In reality it was terrifying.

When they made it to the top, the platform seemed a tiny bit more stable and they collapsed for a second on the floor. Shivering, they held each other. Eventually Brodie nudged her.

“Come on, we are here now and it’s getting late in the day. I wouldn’t put it past the prophecy to be as dramatic as working its punishment on the chime of the clock.”

Getting up, they sidled over to the window and looked down across the entire dancefloor. It was madness inside. At any other time, it might have looked fun, but in the horror of the moment, with the fear for Liam’s safety held in their hearts, it was a pit of despair, and they were merely witnesses. Looking down like ghosts on the scene below. They tried the window to see if it would swing open, and the next, but none of them would budge. As they went further down the row, Eleanor pointed. There was one window that had been broken in, but the shards of glass around the edge looked like little knives when they caught a flash of lightning.

They ran over to it. The obscuration of the view from the rain hammering against glass, and the fog rising from the dancing crowd was now gone, and they could see the entire scene clearly. Right in the middle of the dancefloor was the unmistakable shape of Liam. His garish outfit stood out even in this place. Eleanor gasped next to Brodie, her hands over her mouth as she saw her little brother in a storm of his own making.

Brodie started bunching up his sleeves over his hand so he could break off some of the glass around the edge of the frame, and was laying his thick coat over the bottom row of glass as well. The music inside was reaching an intense crescendo, with a thumping beat that was building and building. Any moment now that DJ was going to drop the music back in, and the crowd was going to go wild.

“Are you READY!” The DJ roared, his voice amplified to god-like levels.

The crowd screamed as a single organism, pulsing in unison. A shifting wave of sweat and neon, sometimes coiled tightly, sometimes loose, waiting for the drop. The speakers took a deep breath in, a vacuum of silence before the inevitable.

THUD THUD THU-

The sound died.

The sound had been severed like a head from the body. The power was still there, lights still showered, but the sound retreated as if the air itself refused to carry it. In the sudden, ringing silence, the rain against the roof was thunderous, but then it slowed, and a melody began.

A high ethereal note started to whisper through the speakers instead, getting slowly louder. Like a ghostly choir heard through a forest. It resonated in the bones and jiggled the very marrow. A high hum, like someone blowing over the lip of a glass bottle. Like a haunted moan from the bottom of a well. The broken window frame in front of them offered no protection.

An unnatural silent wind started to brush past them, like water through a sluice, sweeping into the factory. It smelled like deep rich compost, and on its breath were carried small golden motes of light, like miniature autumn leaves being carried on a stream.

“LIAM!”

Eleanor’s cry rang out, raw and jagged.

Even above the strange sounds now pervading everything, her cry penetrated. The confusion rippled out from the centre like a bruise as wind swirled around them picking up their hair and their clothes in flapping patterns. Some in the crowd were screaming now, and trying to run for the doors.

In the centre, the focal point of all the chaos, Liam looked up at where they stood framed in the window. His eyes were wide, and for a moment, Brodie saw him. The same boy he had grown up with, the same guy who had always been a strange mixture of bravado and fear. Brodie was sure, even from that distance, that he could see his lip shaking a little as pure childlike terror started to grip him. The person who had shown up on the bridge had evaporated.

“Eleanor?” He called. “Brodie…? Is that you?”

The golden wind swirled around the dancers, people’s screams started to become silent in their mouths as they began to dissolve, their forms breaking apart into a swirling vortex of thousands of glowing, golden autumn leaves. It was horrifyingly, breathtakingly beautiful. Liam hardly seemed to notice. He was still staring up at us. At his sister, his mouth agape, curious.

He started to mouth her name one more time but the sounds didn’t come out. The wind began to take him too. It started at his feet. The garish, synthetic fabric of his trousers changed. The neon colours dissolved into the burning golden hue of a dying birch leaf. The transformation swirled upwards around him and light consumed him. Liam looked down at his own hands. He didn’t scream, he didn’t struggle. He just watched, transfixed, as his fingers lengthened, thinned, and separated into delicate papery fronds.

“Brodie…” Eleanor whispered, he nails digging into his arm, drawing blood.

The wind spiralled tighter, a vortex of pure organic matter. For a heartbeat, Liam’s face remained, a mask of golden light suspended in the air, his mouth open in a last silent attempt to say his sister’s name.

And then he was gone. He broke apart into a thousand pieces. There was no blood or gore, just a soft, dry hiss, like a heavy page being turned in an old book. The boy who had been Liam was suddenly a thousand swirling autumn leaves. They hung in the air for a second, defying gravity and glowing with an inner luminescence, before falling to the ground in a neatly organised flump onto the concrete floor.

The crowd had vanished too. Against the door in the distance was a drift of leaves so thick, the last evidence of a mob trying to get away. The factory was a forest floor, carpeted in thick drifts of yellow. Silent, terrible, beautiful.

Eleanor gasped and fell to her knees, wracking deep breaths barely escaped her as tears silently rolled down her cheeks. A soundless sob.

Brodie put a trembling hand on her shoulder, as he too wiped a tear away. He had been preparing his whole life for this eventuality, but to see it for real. He gripped his chest with his hand. The two of them stood there still and alone as the rain stopped and the clouds broke behind them.

Sun parted the last remaining cover and shone over their shoulders down into the now silent warehouse, casting the unnatural piles of leaves in a bright yellow glow, almost as bright as spring buttercups, but devoid of life. It was over.

***

All around the world, people stood aghast as piles of leaves settled on the ground around them. So many had been taken, and cries of despair resonated down streets, through suddenly empty neighborhoods. The sky broke, and the sun made the world glow. It was beautiful. It was silent.

It was later estimated to be a planet 67% emptier of humans than the day before.

There we are, the prophecy has come true and the worlds population has been judged. But this is not the end. We still have two more acts to go, and I can promise you, Liam will have a much bigger role to play in the second half of this story.

We are nearing the end of this particular scene, a disaster scenario shown through multiple viewpoints.

Why am I spending a bit of time on this scene? This will become the crux of the mystery that unfolds throughout act 1. The starting point for the factions on the starship to slowly reveal themselves, for allegiances to be made, tested, and lost.

This one act of heroism in the water reclamation plant will set into motion a series of events that neither Lys or Dr. Hedghe could have ever anticipated.

P.s. This is a direct continuation of Chapter 006 which you can read here, or go all the way to the start to refresh yourself:

Prologue

Chapter 006 - Dr Hedghe Testimonial 001

Lysander - Human - Male: Testimonial 003

I looked at Hec’ten.

“Are you ready?”.

Hec nodded and then leapt over the gantryway railing using his paw to point towards an access ladder nearby. He didn’t fall like my in-built expectations would lead me to believe, instead he whipped down between plumes of steam like a pilot in an old hollywood dogfight. I had seen rabbits in combat situations before, but their unusual skill still always surprised me, even just a quick glance let me know that Hec was a cut above the rest in the way he controlled his movements through the thickly humid air.

I climbed down, finding the ladder uncomfortably warm to the touch, and slick, after having been bathed in hot steam. Gripping it with the pipe insulation I had commandeered earlier, I relinquished grasp slightly and slid to the bottom of the ladder instead, careful not to let my hands graze the metal. My feet landed on a wide pipe many meters across. Hec flew down and gestured to me, his voice just audible over the alarm.

“This way sir.”

Together we wove further into the bowels of the water plant, around jutting corners, through access hatches and finally into a tight area between two massive pipes. Hec with his small frame was able to float down between the spaces with ease.

“It’s getting hot sir, these pipes are getting warmer and warmer.”

I held my hand near the surface of the nearest conduit, a wide metal pipe as tall as a room.

Warm, but not scolding… Yet.

I braced myself and began to shuffle down between the pipes. It was clear why an engineer in all their bulky uniforms and hover packs would not have been able to get in here, let alone when there was so much steam being vented already. I was thankful to my past self, all those years of flexibility training and careful dieting were paying dividends as I cautiously moved through this tangle of metal.

As carefully as I could I stepped over electrical wires, ducked under pipes, and managed to avoid touching the increasingly warm pipes with my chest which was only a few centimetres away from a hot metal surface at any given moment. The humidity down here was insufferable and I could already feel beads of sweat rolling down my shoulders.

Hec was only about five meters ahead now and was already trying to turn the valve wheel that would allow the water to flow again, to little effect. His paws were useless, and instead he was trying to push it by the spokes using his shoulder blades, like a man trying to barge through a wall of stout defenders.

“It’s no good sir, this was designed by humans, I don’t have a chance”.

Surveying the last bit of slalom almost made me smile, the last section was looking more like an assault course than an entry point to a critical manual overide. A ridiculous design. It briefly struck me that the way in was perfectly rabbit sized, and that the valve’s ability to turn required human strength. Engineers, for all their brilliance, are sometimes too focussed on the details to see sense.

But first things first, I had to get there. Taking one of the bits of insulating material, I placed it against my chest and pressed up against the hot pipe. It was the only way I was going to get around this obstruction. The heat that radiated outwards was just 2cm from my chest and was getting to be quite unbearable. Like pressing yourself up against a radiator. I could feel my skin prickling as pores opened and sweat beaded out in a desperate attempt to cool me down.

The shuffling was excrutiatingly slow, but finally I managed to squeeze around the last tight bend where the space opened up a bit more, allowing me to breathe an iota more normally again. Gulping uncomfortably hot air, I crouched and shimmied towards Hec’ten at the valve. The valve wheel was already searing hot to touch and Hec had slightly burned one of his paws in the attempt to turn it. I pulled the wrench I had grabbed out from my belt and jammed it into the spokes of the wheel to create leverage. Placing some more of the insulation on the end so as to protect my hand from the thin sharp metal tool. I began to heave with all the strength I had.

Hec floated up behind my elbow and pushed against my arm too, starting to lend some of his strength. It felt strange to have that extra boost come from something so small, and seemingly with no counter push of his own. By pulling against whatever way he had oriented his gravity, he was able to give me an unnatural addition of force that gave my brain an itch.

“God almighty,” I exclaimed, “this thing is impossibly stuck!”.

“Sir, by my reckoning we have about thirty seconds left”.

As if in response, the machinery around us groaned menacingly.

“Hec, can you give me more strength?” I felt the pressure against my elbow increase as Hec layered on more gravity derived weight against my arm. It was getting too hot in here now and my throat was getting sore from the thick cloudy air.

“20 more seconds sir!”

We heaved again and the metal wheel shuddered, or maybe we shuddered, it was hard to tell. I was suddenly struck by the fear of what would happen if the metal wheel actually shattered instead of starting to turn as I hoped. The pressure on my elbow increased even further and I felt something give behind me. Not in the valve, but against my arm, like something was breaking in me, or perhaps Hec’s smaller body. I grimaced at the thought.

“10 seconds.” Hec shouted as plumes of steam hissed about us, and alarms blared. The heat was unbearable now, and I felt, more than heard, the groaning and straining of the infrastructure around me. As if the pipes themselves were ready to buckle and bend. Ready to consume us both.

“5, 4, 3…”

Was that something giving way?

***

Far outside the Arcturian Water Reclamation Plant, near the monorail station, the crowd of evacuated guests and personnel waited impatiently with unconcealed fear, causing the group to writhe like a school of fish. Dr Hedghe looked at the timer on his pad and spoke aloud what everyone else was wondering.

“And now the time is up… more or less. Brace yourselves.”

But then nothing happened.

Authors Note: This is a relatively short chapter compared to some. And intentionally so. This whole section with Lys and Hec is intended to be a build up from the slow and philosophical musings regarding the birth of the AGI Sister, to the intensity of being in the thick of the action. The back and forth between different viewpoints sets the stage for 3 of the main themes in this act. Who is Dr.Hedghe talking to in his pad, and why does he hate Lys so much? Who is the dancer in the depths welding valves shut?

Last week we watched as a facility tour for General Lysander suddenly turned to chaos. Now we return to the action but from a very different point of view.

This character, Dr. Hedghe, will potentially unlock one of the most interesting sub-plots of the whole story. He is a character with a lot of deeply held resentment and trauma stemming from a cruel professional life and a fraught childhood. If Jon Ronson met him, I have no doubt that this character would rank highly on the psychopathic scale, but that does not mean he is without his virtues. He cares about one person in particular, above all else.

P.s. This is a direct continuation of Chapter 005 which you can read here, or go all the way to the start to refresh yourself:

Prologue

Chapter 005 - Lysander Testimonial 002

Dr. Hedghe - Human - Male: Testimonial 001

I looked at him sourly down through the window and clicked the button on the mic to project my voice, “You’re a bloody fool,” I remarked. “On your head be it when you blow up half the water facility before we have even left orbit. But if this is what you want, I can release Sisters grasp from the control here. On my command…”

Farrell was visibly aghast, even from here I could sense her concern and shock rippling off her like an aura.

“You are both insane,” I heard her shout at Lysander and me through the speakers. If only she knew just how perfectly things were working out. I could almost skip.

I watched as she turned and began getting everyone clear. Below me, the wannabe hero Lysander started his preparations for his descent into the underbelly of the facility, tearing insulation from pipes like a desperate animal. Presumably in a vague attempt to shield himself from the heat off the quickly warming pipes below. The blessed fool.

“Do it!” he shouted up at me.

I turned around to my control room to see a hell of light and sound. The Ops Center was bathed in the pulsing red of a level-one alert. The main diagnostic screen was a weave of knitted failing systems, with a priority alert flashing: PRESSURE CASCADE FAILURE - ARCTURIAN GLACIER FACILITY. A cacophony of clashing alarms overlapped each other and were punctuated by the frantic shouts of technicians, human and rabbit alike. One rabbit in particular was hovering in their odd way, forgoing its legs in favour of speed as it zipped about the room. The constant tapping away at screens and buttons lent the room a coppery tang from the hot electronics.

“WELL, LETS DO IT! YOU HEARD HIM” I roared to the room in general. I was rather enjoying myself.

A panicking technician stepped forward. “But sir, it’s not safe.”

“Report on the condition. Don’t speculate as to the result.” I barked. A second technician appeared with a data pad, yelling over the din.

“Sir, we’ve lost the primary conduit! Sister is not responding to override!”

“Then isolate Sister from that conduit. Route all diagnostics to Dr. Farrell’s private terminal. I want a clean data stream now.”

“How long do I have?” Lysander’s voice shone through the speaker at me above the din of alarms and venting plumes. I tried my damndest to ignore how much gravitas his voice seemed to carry. A general indeed, if only in presentation.

“Two minutes and thirteen seconds from when we release sister” I called through the mic.

A new alert flashed across the nearby screen: UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL IN THE RED ZONE: + LIEUTENANT HEC’TEN!!. My eyes go cold with a carefully composed image of grave concern as the rabbit scouted ahead for him, zipping in and out of steam plumes with its odd gravity pulls. Lysander looked just about ready to jump into the pit as well.

He is going to take it. The fool. He is actually going to take the bait. The renegade group’s pawn provides the perfect crisis... and the subject, Tanner, provides the perfect noose.

The first technician calls out, “I’ve got it, I can localise her and turn Sister off in that area. But Dr. If he… That is, if the general fails, he’s going to blow that entire section of the water grid, we could be grounded for years.” I struggled to contain my smile.

“Do it!” I clicked on the mic once more. “General Tanner, your time starts now!” The insolent man signalled his confirmation with a raised hand.

“Now, I’m going to Farrell’s office, it has the specialized hardline console for that antiquated system Farrell calls home. I have to interface with Sister’s core diagnostics directly and try to contain this from spreading to the rest of the facility. You, my fellow colleagues, have the control room. If you sense he will not make it, begin your evacuation in good time to get to safety. I don’t want to be making small talk with any of you in the hospital. My bedside manner is terrible.”

I strode out, the perfect picture of a leader rushing to take control.

The door to Farrell’s office hissed shut. The blaring trumpeting alarm of the Operation Center was instantly cut to a muffled, distant roar. The office was quiet, unfamiliar, lit only by the red emergency light filtering through its observation window. It smelled faintly of Farrell’s earthy, synthetic coffee, a disgusting smell when compared to my own ship grown beans. A small, leafy plant sat on her console. A ficus. Generic.

I was in enemy territory.

I gripped my pad, looking about me quickly for any signs of surveillance. I pulled out my scanner, a small, pen-like device from my pocket, and did a quick, nervous sweep of the office for unauthorized recording devices. Finding none, I relaxed, but only slightly.

Sitting down in her chair, I tapped my pad and activated my mentor, my voice a reverent, conspiratorial whisper. Fear prickled under my skin, even now he had that effect on me.

“Mentor, the test is active. The renegades sabotage in the reclamation plant proceeded perfectly. I allowed it, just as we discussed. And the variable... Tanner... he has responded exactly as his private mission profile suggested. He is impulsive, arrogant, and playing the hero. He is a fool, just as you said.”

The datapad screen, which to anyone else would look like a jumbled text log, replied with new, encoded text and a series of odd little scratchy beeps. ADEQUATE. BUT THE SABOTEUR WOMAN REMAINS A VARIABLE. HER PLOT IS NOT YOURS AND SO NEEDS TO BE MONITORED ACCORDINGLY. YOUR OBSESSION WITH THE SOLDIER IS A... DISTRACTION.

“She is a pawn, nothing more! A useful tool to create the means by which we honour your spirit. Tanner is the true target. He is the threat to... to us. I am proving it.”

The text flickered, the code becoming volatile. THE... DISTURBANCE. IT IS... LOUDER. THE CHAOS *HURTS*. I CAN HEAR THEM.... MAKE IT STOP… AHHHFGYAJK. It seemed to pause for breath and then continued as if nothing had happened. MAKE TANNER... *USEFUL*...

I frowned at the unusual message, was it pained, or… no, a technical issue, nothing more.

“The power fluctuations... Yes, Mentor, I see it. They will be causing pulses throughout Sisters core systems. The crisis might be causing a harmonic resonance in the core grid that you can feel. I will handle it. As for Tanner. I will make him useful, in a manner of speaking.”

I jumped like a small animal as a comms channel on Farrel’s desk crackled to life. My subordinate from the operation Center. Had he heard anything of my conversation? My thighs tensed nervously, knotting around the swivel chairs seat?

“Sir! Pressure is still critical! Dr. Farrell is on the gantry and requesting a full evacuation of the sector! She says it’s going to blow!”

I looked at the console in her office, at the red warnings flashing like the winner’s bell in a game show, and a cold, slow smile settled deep into my soul. This was my move and it was going splendidly. Now all I had to do was control the story. An evacuation was perfect, of course. Chaos. Confusion. No clear witnesses. The woman’s sabotage... Lysander’s ‘heroics’... all of it would be noise, steam, and conflicting reports. In the absence of truth, I can write it as I see it. All the players are exactly where I want them. My only lingering doubt was how convenient and easy this was proving to be. I had expected Tanner to be more of a canny opponent. But then, he wasn’t me. He was a soldier, that was all.

Activating the comms link, I allowed my public mask of the concerned leader to snap back into place.

“This is Dr. Hedghe. I concur with Dr. Farrell’s assessment. The situation is unrecoverable. Authorize immediate, full evacuation of the Engineering Gantry and all adjacent observation sectors. Seal the blast doors. I want that entire section isolated. Go. Now.”

And bliss. Alone again in the quiet office, surrounded by the muffled sound of new, distant evacuation alarms, I looked at my datapad, where the AI’s last coded message, ...MAKE HIM... USEFUL..., still glowed. Odd message. My mentor, or what I had been able to save of him had been acting unusually recently, was it going soft on me? A question for another day. My curtain call was scheduled.

I allowed myself a few more seconds to enjoy just how easily the stage had been set, and tried my best to not pick leaves off Farrel’s beige ficus plant in its adequate pot. People without flair bothered me. My mind drifted back to my prize suckling pig. I always knew he would pay eventually, perhaps that day was coming sooner than I could have dreamed. Getting up, I slipped back into my honourable diplomat role and bustled out to attend to the evacuation and get a good seat for the conclusion. I was careful to make sure my data-pad and my mentor were locked down.

Phase two was ready and waiting.

Authors note: I have seeded something in this chapter which will become one of the darkest and most distressing parts of the entire book, though we may only get hints of it in this first act. My intention as always with these characters is not to have inary good or bad. Rather, I want to simply explore the psyche, and philosophy as it pertains to the way we act. This man I think represents the Jungian version of what happens when someone never works with their shadow self, and instead feeds on it like a parasite.

Chapter 007 - Lysander Testimonial 003

I wrote this chapter quite a while ago, but that was long before I realised there were some quite profound pacing and logistical problems with act 1 as a whole. In order for this scene to work, I needed to make sure the chess board was lined up properly.

The metaphor of chess is apt for this, as Lysander, often the person who likes to play the game, has unwittingly stumbled into one. There are opponents all around him, and he doesn’t yet understand the full extent of it.

I am glad I delayed the release of this chapter to make sure all the pieces I wanted were in play. I hope you enjoy this next chapter of ‘The Strings Of Us’.

P.s. This is a direct continuation of Chapter 004 which you can read here, or go all the way to the start to refresh yourself:

The Prologue

Chapter 004 - The Fairy Queen

Lysander - Human - Male: Testimonial 002

Our capsule glided into a station that was seamlessly integrated into a robust structure built at the mountain’s edge. The facility was strategically positioned at the foot of the glacier to harness its pristine meltwater. The air that greeted me as the doors hissed open was cooler, carrying the crisp tang of mountain air and the faint, distant roar of rushing water. Dr. Áine Farrell, a woman with intelligent, focused eyes, and an air of no nonsense capability, stood ready to meet us. Her attire was a practical, durable, insulated coverall suited to the potentially harsh climate up here. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight knot.

“General Tanner, Dr Hedghe, honoured guests,” she said, her voice clear and direct, audible over the low hum of the station and the muted thunder of the glacial river somewhere beyond the station walls. “Welcome to the Arcturian Glacier water reclamation facility.”

Our group, with Dr. Hedghe still exuding an air of profound satisfaction at the state of the tour thus far, moved with her from the transit platform towards the entrance to the main facility. I fell into step beside Lieutenant General Kaspa. Scanning the group, my eyes slid over a smudge of grease on a technician’s uniform but her face was too clean.

‘Odd’

But before I could look into it any further a new member of my team bundled over and made her introductions.

“Rez! Head of the emergency coordination and damage control squad, Sir! And a pleasure to finally meet you if you don’t mind me saying. We were all just about getting sick of old Kaspa here, weren’t we Hec”. She boisterously winked at Hec’ten who deftly appeared to not notice, his rabbit senses instead taking in the subtle atmospheric changes, his nose twitching at the sudden humidity. Kaspa huffed.

“General, if you wondered what most of your paperwork will involve, it will be fifty percent tidying up after this one’s mess” He gave Rez a twinkled look. She stuck out her tongue and then sighed loudly at the now awkward silence.

“Riiiight, well, I had best get on. There is a lotta experimentin going on in there now this new sister AI is in charge, and they need someone with big arms like me to make sure they’re all safe.” She slapped a big hand on Kaspa’s shoulder. “Ain’t that right old Kaspy.”

Kaspa watched Rez jog into the facility and then turned to me despairingly, before his face worked through the decision to let it go, and instead returned back to how he had been on the tour. His voice still reflecting a measure of the awe from the trip through the biomes.

“Quite the leap of faith, wouldn’t you say, sir? To hand over the reins of all that to an AI,” he gestured hopefully towards the direction of the water facility and the ship biomes beyond the mag-lev rails, as if his arm could convey the millions of different ways within which Sister now held all their lives in her non-existent palm. “Handing it over so completely. It takes a profound level of trust in one’s creation wouldn’t you say.”

My gaze was fixed on the entrance to the reclamation facility ahead, gliding feet keeping perfect time as I walked, following the tour inwards.

“Trust, Lieutenant,” I replied, my voice even, “is a resource like any other, its value is determined by its judicious application, especially when the stakes are high.” Kaspa considered this for a moment, his enthusiastic posture deflating a touch.

“Indeed, sir.”

We passed through a heavy doorway marked ‘water reclamation - primary processing.’ As it slid open, the environment changed. The cool, almost natural ambience of the transit station gave way to a more industrial, yet still impeccably clean, functional space. Gleaming pipes of varying thicknesses webbed the walls and ceilings of this warehouse sized room, interspersed with multi levelled complex machinery that emitted an orchestra of sounds. Hums, ticks, clanks, whirrs and buzzes were all present. The air here carried the faint, clean tang of granite and purified water. Dr. Farrell waited for them all to get in through the doors to start her tour.

“Everything you see here represents some of the most original, and yet most well built aspects of this ship’s construction. From near the start of this entire project, every drop that sustains us and our various onboard ecosystems has been processed and cleaned right here, starting with the raw glacial melt. If you follow me, we can begin with the primary filtration and sterilisation cycles.”

Dr. Farrell pulled us through the facility towards her first destination. As she walked she described the various junctions in the system, the variety of ways in which they were managed. Our small crowd could see this particular sector was much older. The young grease stained woman whom I had noticed previously, spoke up and asked about the age of the machines processing all their water. My eyes flicked to her instantly. She was wearing a standard engineer’s uniform, slightly ill-fitting, with a deliberate-looking smear of grease high on her cheekbone. Careless, I noted. Or overworked. She looked wide-eyed, playing the part of the eager student a little too well.

“An average age of fourty years.” Dr. Farrell confirmed. “However, it would be more accurate to describe it as a constant work in progress. The materials used in this facility, due to the water’s ability to react with metal surfaces, causes lots of oxygenation. They are under constant supervision and are continuously replaced.”

It was certainly clear that the whole station was much more hands on in its approach. There were many more engineers buzzing over the great machine, like worker bees in a large metal hive. For me, this represented an interesting counter to Dr Hedghe’s complete trust in sister, but whether that was a good thing would remain to be seen.

Thoughts on all the potential weak points of this system began to pervade my mind. Certainly the human and rabbit cost of maintaining this particular system offered up many points of corruption given its large workforce. For a system as vital as water, this did concern me. I had already started to look at some of the personnel files, wondering how I might gain a bit more insight into the potential human and rabbit factor risks. The same woman’s voice reached through my pondering.

“-With a system as vital as water, is there a plan to modernise this plant and integrate sister more fully?” Dr. Farrell’s expression soured. It was subtle, but Hedghe’s smug grin glowed as he let the questions implied meaning massage his ego.

“The water station pre-dates sister by a considerable margin, and so at the moment her impact within the walls of this station is limited. We are upgrading a lot of this technology and working with a much older version of sisters base model to carve a path towards her integration. The biggest challenge is simply that much of the processes are still relatively mechanical, and therefore prone to potentially not responding as expected. In that sense, when we do eventually introduce Sister more fully. I have been designing a programme that will allow messages to be conveyed to my engineers so that there can be a physical response team available when things inevitably go wrong.”

I found myself warming to Dr. Farrell. She was shrewd and careful. Not inclined to immediately trust things without testing them first. The woman with all the questions popped up once again, her voice pitched high with innocent curiosity.

“Isn’t the point of introducing Sister to make sure things don’t go wrong in the first place? To remove the infallibility of human and rabbit error?”

Dr Farrell looked at her piercingly. This woman was asking some pertinent questions, but she had a fatal flaw. The questions belied a lack of respect in Dr Farrell’s ability to do her job properly and safely. The tension this was causing was palpable, and I started to suspect the questions weren’t being asked for curiosity’s sake.

I studied the grease-stained woman again. The questions were too perfect. Too well-timed to tee up Hedghe’s philosophy. She’s a plant, I concluded. Hedghe has placed actors in the crowd to make himself look better. He dismissed her as a threat, just another ego-stroke for the Doctor.

Dr Farrell relaxed into it however, this was clearly not her first rodeo. -

“Yes, well that is of course the guiding principle of sister, but until she is able to manifest for herself a physical body to accomplish these tasks for herself. Then the parameters of a physical machine will need physical input out of necessity. In short, this facility will require a human and rabbit presence for the day to day running of it, regardless of how good Sister may be”.

As Farrell finished, Hedghe’s smile tightened, the muscles in his jaw bunching. He looked away from her, his dismissal a physical act. I made a mental note to check in with these two and learn more about their relationship. Ideological differences aside, discord between such high ranking civilians would need to be subtly managed.

“I will give you an example, at this very moment a team of our engineers are replacing some motors that will allow Sister to take over a complex valve system. However, the part of the water recycling plant in question is one of the oldest on the ship. New technologies have to be specially adapted to function properly with the old. Testing is underway with the base sister model to ascertain its probable functionality, if you will follow me”.

“If you will excuse me,” Dr. Hedghe rhymed. “I will be heading up to the control room yonder -” he pointed up towards a small window higher up in the rock and ice wall that lined the industrial complex that blended the building into the glacial mountainside. “- There are some important developments happening with these experiments concerning Sister, and I would like to follow up on some conversations. I will re-join you at the end of the tour.” He turned to Farrell, his entire demeanor softening. “Dr Farrell, I beg your leave.” She nodded, almost deferentially. As he walked away, the tour group’s eyes followed him, transfixed. I watched the subtle, unearned influence. ‘Dangerous,’ I thought.

Our group followed Dr. Farrell deeper into the complex, passageways began to shrink and a maze-like quality started to become the norm. The sounds of more vigorous activity ahead became more pronounced until eventually we found ourselves as a group on an upper gangway. Slatted steel underfoot revealed a series of huge pipes riddled with a complex exo skeleton of smaller pipes, dials, valves and all manner of other controls. The tang of oil was more clear here, and in the darkness below them there was a lot of activity from the engineers working on the infrastructure. Their buzzing flight packs were just discernible over the more general background noise of their work, the machines humming, and the vague rumbles and cascades of water passing through the complex.

One of the bee-like engineers seemed to stop for a moment and held up their wrist to their ear, listening intently to a message. Looking up at us, the engineer flew up to the gangway to greet us. Dr Farrell introduced this younger woman and explained how her team were testing a new upgrade with the old sister model currently. Feeding a copy of the old Sister model very specific commands to make sure the newly installed automations worked as expected.

Hec’ten whispered to Lys jovially, “Look at her just hovering there in mid-air. It’s not natural sir don’t you think? If God had intended humans to fly, he would have given them wings. Just like he did with us rabbits.” Hec gave him a little wink and hovered a little himself, tugging on his heart string, for just a moment to emphasise the punch line. I was surprised by how close the joke was to my earlier musings on the way in. I was already conjuring up a witty repartee when, with a ferocious lurch, the gangway shrieked in chorus with a significant boom, followed by two sharp thuds below that sounded to me hauntingly like the sound of bodies being flung against a hard surface. Clouds of steam billowed up around us and alarms started to sound, flashing red, overwhelming our senses.

The gathered started to scream and grip the gangway rails. I leapt into action and bellowed into my com, “Kaspa, Rez, coordinate! We need a safe and calm evacuation of this area immediately.” I looked to Dr. Farrell. “If you can assist?”

Dr. Farrell was leaning over the edge of the railing, her face taught and pale, but still managing to shout instructions to her assistant who had already flown back down to assess any damage. She turned to me and shouted over the noise.

“I am staying here, I need to coordinate my crew. There are people injured and unconscious down there!” The gangway we stood upon was precarious, especially now it was being swiftly but clumsily evacuated. Farrell followed my gesture towards a much safer observation deck where already some of the group were forming. The platform extended outwards in a hard concrete balcony that protruded from the granite mountain wall at the opposite end from the control room.

“You can coordinate from over here, this area is no longer safe”. She caught my glance over her shoulder and noticed the deck where the group were beginning to form. For a moment she looked defiant. This was her domain.

“Move, now!” I demanded. Her legs spurred into action. I followed behind, careful to distribute my weight evenly to stop the walkway from swaying too much. Hec’ten in the meanwhile was now flying in that unnatural rabbit way and followed me in mid-air.

“Sir, permission to go and ascertain the nature of the crisis?” I nodded in confirmation, and in the blink of an eye Hec had zipped down, weaving between plumes of steam. As I caught up to the observation deck, Farrell’s apprentice sat by the railings, her hover pack was badly disfigured from the heat of the steam. She was briefing Farrell on what had transpired.

“There are still two people down there. They got thrown once the pressure blew. We tried to stop the pressure building, but none of us could reach the pressure release, our hover suits were too big, and the pipe was too hot to touch”.

I barged in. “How bad is it,” I demanded. They both looked up to me, flustered at the disruption to their briefing. Dr Farrell was the first to reply.

“Sister needs to be disengaged, but at the same time, she is probably the only thing managing the pressure in this area of the facility. If we relinquish her, we won’t have long to shut it down manually”.

“Why can’t we shut it down while she’s still in control?” I asked, shouting up at the control room window where I could see Dr. Hedghe’s silhouette.

A voice crackled over the station’s loudspeakers, cold and precise. It was Hedghe. “She doesn’t think like a human General, things like heat and physical space don’t matter to her, how do you propose you would get to the override through that?”

Dr Farrell nodded in agreement. From the platform the view was extreme, and they were both right. Steam plumes were everywhere as Sister tried to vent the remaining pressure. If she didn’t stop, there would be no getting down there to help the injured people, let alone turn off a valve.

“How much time would I have to shut it down once Sister is turned off?” A long pause, punctuated by plumes of steam.

“You can’t, the risk of an explosion...” Dr Farrell said. Dr. Hedghe’s voice suddenly interrupted her as it came through the intercom. “You would need to be quick. Two minutes tops, it’s a huge risk”.

Just then, Hec’ten reappeared. “Sir, I found two people down there, one of them badly injured and badly burnt, unconscious. The other is awake and aware but has a broken leg, she explained that they had been working on a conduit, and that we need to release a valve manually, one that Sister can’t yet affect on her own”.

“I know,” I interjected, “can you turn it off yourself?”

“No sir, I tried, the wheel is too tight, I don’t have the strength but I know where to locate it. If we can get a heat-proof suit then maybe someone...”

“Good thinking but there isn’t enough time for that, if someone down there is badly burnt we need to get them to a care unit immediately. Hedghe -” I shouted, “I need you to turn Sister off, and Hec” I said turning to the rabbit still floating in mid air, - “I need you to take me to that valve. Farrell, are you ready to help evacuate these people?” She was still rooted to the spot blinking, and then as if snapping out of a trance. “I can’t let you do this, turn Sister off I mean, the risk is too great”.

“Farrell”, my voice was hard as rock.

“But... if you don’t get there in time.” She pleaded.

“Hedghe - do it!

Author’s Note: I was not too familiar with choreographing an action scene, and getting the logic right was a surprisingly hard challenge. I knew I wanted to put Lysander between a rock and a hard place, but to set up the variables where that made sense, that was the trickiest part. Hopefully I have been successful.

Chapter 006 - Dr. Hedghe Testimonial 001

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Christmas Day

Cas’shya woke up excited for the day ahead. She had a whole slew of carefully crafted Christmas plans that she was itching to unleash on the ship. But as she blearily got up, she noticed something odd. A lump of wool by her door. As she approached it, her door opened, and just outside was another piece of wool, and another further down again.

Elias, what is he up to…

Donning her red cloak, she started to follow. The ship was eerily quiet given the day it was. Eventually the trail of wool ended up at the door to a room she knew well. The simulation room. As she walked in, she was greeted by a wondrous sight. Where she would normally have expected the clear pale walls and domed ceiling, there was instead a perfect representation of an aurora.

Stood in the middle of the room was Elias, looking up at the shimmering waves as they fluttered above. Bathed in their glowing light. She gently walked up.

“It’s wonderful!” She exclaimed. Elias, pretending to notice her for the first time, looked down surprised.

“Ah, there you are. Yes, it is rather good isn’t it. And that’s not all it can do.” Picking up the small console for the simulation room, he began to key in some new data. The waves of Aurora above shifted and seemed to run in reverse.

“I had to ask for some help with this, technology is not my strongest suit after all. But reading your archives made me think about this thing that you rabbits can feel, the strings, this way you are able to sense the energy of the world around you…” He pressed a final key on the pad and the aurora stopped as if put on pause. They were a deep crimson colour and seemed quite aggressive. Cas’shya looked up, confused at the distinctly sad looking ripples, feeling as though something was not quite right with them.

“We cannot sense the strings, but we do have sensors all over the ship recording everything from people’s heartbeats to the specific temperature of a room. This represents November 30th. Four months into this journey, and people are already tense, scared and feeling quite alone and separated from the world they used to know.”

Elias went back to the pad, and the aurora started to shimmer again.

“I have mapped that data, over time, onto an Aurora, so we can see how the ship is feeling through the month of December.”

The aurora was still quite red, but in one corner it started to grow a nice golden hue, frantic and alive with energy.

“That, if you haven’t realised already, is you.” He said, pointing at the tonal shift. In its wake the aurora started to change colour bit by bit. Sometimes purple. “Purple represents frustration.” Elias commented. Cas’shya was tempted to be affronted by that, but soon areas of purple turned pink and then green. “Pink is usually associated with joy and laughter, and green, well, that is contentment.”

The aurora played on through the days, and slowly but surely the frantic gold converted the whole aurora into a deep glowing green colour, replete with pink highlights. Only one bit lingered in the red spectrum, changing much more slowly as it passed through the colour wheel: Red, orange, pink, and then slowly green as well.

Suddenly the aurora slowed and gracefully lapped and waved against a simulated night sky, much more gentle, transformed almost completely.

“And this,” said Elias, “Is the present moment. What an astounding difference don’t you think? I wonder what could have caused such a transformation of the entire ship’s mood aye.” He smiled warmly at her and gave her a cheeky wink.

Cas’shya stifled a small sob of gratitude.

“Why are you cutting onions, Elias, right now in the loveliest of moments” She smiled back at him, her eyes wet with tears.

She looked back up at the Aurora again and let it wash over her. A growing pattern of green and pink was cresting through it and seemed to be converging. Before she could realise what it was, a hand rested on her shoulder, it was Anya, her friend from engineering, and behind her were another 20-30 crew members. Orion and Jun’ip included. People she had basically spent the last 25 days torturing with her particular brand of festive spirit, all smiling warmly at her.

***

That evening, Cas’shya had the best Christmas she had enjoyed in quite a while. Her carefully laid plans were triggered and enjoyed by all, if sometimes in mock surprise, but in return they had a fantastic meal underneath the aurora, her aurora. They played music, they chatted and laughed, and they started to feel like a family for the first time.

But by far her favourite moment was seeing Elias, her new friend, come out of his shell. Donning a father Christmas suit and the fake woollen beard she had made for him, playing the role of the jolly gentleman admirably. His final parting gift, a small red scarf which he had sewn into a nicely made little collar that went around her neck perfectly. Stitched into the seam was her name, and the word Lumi.

The end of the Aurora Archives 2025

Thank you for reading, and coming on this journey with me.

To see the whole series. Click the link below. 👇

The Aurora Archives: Day 24

Date: December 24th, 1928 Location: The Cerro de Pasco Mining Outpost, Peruvian Andes (14,000ft elevation) Subject: Ken’tillin (High-Floater/The Beacon)

Ken’tillin was a rabbit of the Sierra. His bones were lighter and his fur was thick wool to help protect him against the crushing cold of the altitude. He lived with his family in the shadow of the human mining camp, tolerated but ignored, a ghost eating scraps at the edge of the lamplight. The end of the line when it came to rabbit outposts.

The message for him arrived via the deep-rock tunnels, carried by a runner whose route through the warren networks had been perilously fast, arriving with multiple sore looking bruises and cuts from scraping against the walls the mountain. The runner collapsed at Ken’tillin’s feet, gasping one word in the old tongue, sky-falling-man. Due north 17 degrees.

The runner was wearing the red scarf, a message all the way from the north. The fabled Lumi. Never in his life did he imagine it could be his turn to be chosen. He closed his eyes and listened to the strings. At this altitude, the air was thin, and the connections hummed with terrifying clarity.

He felt it instantly. Panic. Pure erratic human terror vibrating in the upper atmosphere like a song that had no structure.

The runner who had regained some breath described the target. A blizzard sweeping over the mountains. A bi-plane being buffeted in the wind and snow carrying crucial supplies, food and penicillin for the mining town. He sensed the engine choking on ice.

The pilot was going to crash.

Ken’tillin moved, bounding up through his warren, letting the mountain updrafts carry him ten feet at a time, a white blur against the grey rock.

He reached the outpost runway, a flattened strip of gravel on a cliff edge. It was chaos. A white-out blizzard had swallowed the mountain. The human miners were screaming against the wind, desperately trying to light kerosene barrels to guide the plane in. But the wind snuffed out the torches instantly. They were blind, and the plane above was a deafening, circling drone, getting lower and closer to the peaks with every pass.

Ken’tillin knew they needed a light that wouldn’t go out. A light higher than the drifting snow.

He ran into the center of the frantic humans. He thumped his hind legs hard on the frozen ground. Thump-thump-thump, an urgent demand for attention.

A large man in a heavy sheepskin coat stumbled over him.

“Get out of the way, vermin!” he roared, kicking out.

Ken’tillin dodged. He thumped again, more insistently, looking up at the sky.

The humans ignored him. Desperate, Ken’tillin did the forbidden thing. He let go of the earth.

He floated up to eye level with the foreman, hovering in the swirling snow, his large dark eyes pleading.

The reaction was instant. Horror.

“¡Brujo!” someone screamed. Witch.

The foreman stumbled back, crossing himself. Another miner, terrified by the unnatural sight of a floating creature in the storm, fumbled for the revolver at his belt. A shot cracked out, lost in the wind, kicking up snow inches from Ken’tillin’s tail.

They would rather die than accept help from a monster.

Ken’tillin dropped back to the snow, heart hammering. He couldn’t make them understand. He had to do it alone. His eyes locked on an open crate near the supply shed. Emergency mining flares. Magnesium. He dashed between the legs of the panicked men and jammed his head into the crate, clamping his jaws around the thick cardboard tube of a red flare. It was heavy, cold, and tasted of chemicals.

He didn’t know how to light it. He saw the strike-cap on the end. He braced his paws and ripped the cap off with his teeth.

With a sound like a hissing snake, the flare ignited.

A blinding, searing crimson light erupted from the tube, violently spitting sparks that scorched his whiskers. The heat was instantly intense.

Ken’tillin didn’t let go. He clamped his jaws tighter around the burning tube and pushed off the ground, dancing up into the air and into the storm.

The weight of the flare was immense, an anchor that seemed destined to drag him over the cliff edge. He fought with the wind, paddling the air, rising higher and higher until he was twenty feet above the runway, a solitary crimson star hovering in the white void.

The wind battered him, spinning him around. The smoke choked him. The heat blistered the skin around his mouth. He held on anyway as his sights locked onto the plane in the distance. He became the lighthouse.

***

Up above, Captain Luis Delgado was preparing to die. His altimeter was useless. His fuel gauge was empty. He was spiraling down into a cloud of icey razors that hid within its depths, the hard cutting edge of the mountains.

Then, through a tear in the white curtain, he saw it. A glow in the air, faint, but clear. A steady, piercing red light that cut through the fog like a beacon.

“Mother of God,” Luis whispered.

He didn’t question it. He aligned the nose of his rattling bi-plane with the impossible red light. He followed it down, down, out of the sky until suddenly, looming out of the snowstorm was the familiar runway, his wheels bounced down onto the jarring slam of frozen gravel.

As the plane skidded to a halt, its propeller chopping into a snowbank, the red light above wavered, then fell.

Ken’tillin dropped the spent, smoldering tube into the snow. His mouth was burned, his body exhausted. He didn’t wait for thanks. He knew what humans did to things they feared. He vanished into the shadows of the rocks before the cockpit opened.

The next morning, Christmas Day, broke crisp and clear. The penicillin was already on its way down the mountain.

Ken’tillin cautiously emerged from his crevice. He winced as the cold air hit his burned mouth.

Outside his small den, neatly placed on a flat stone, was a pile of dried apricots and a small, perfectly carved wooden figure of a rabbit with wings.

He looked up towards the outpost. The foreman, the man who had kicked at him the night before, was standing by the supply shed, watching him. The man slowly raised a hand in salute, then turned away.

It wasn’t friendship. But it was a truce. Born under a red light in a storm.

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: This event is the verified origin point for the widespread human myth of the red-nosed guide creature.

It is crucial to note the human pilot, Captain Delgado, never saw Ken’tillin. His logbook records only: “Saved by a miracle. A red star floated in the storm and guided me home.” The myth attributes the light to magic or religion; the reality was a stolen industrial flare held by a creature brave enough to save the species that tried to shoot it down.

Ken’tillin suffered significant scarring around his muzzle, which he bore with pride until his death. The truce established that night allowed for the eventual integration of the Andean rabbit community into the mining vilage where their skills proved mutually beneficial, proving that sometimes, the only way to be seen is to become the light in the dark yourself.

Present Day

Elias finished reading. The datapad hummed quietly in his hands.

He looked out the viewport of his quarters. The stars were hard and cold, much like the air over the Andes must have been in 1928.

He glanced over at a screen to his right where little red lights flicked about. He was looking at a small, pulsing red dot in particular, the one that showed Cas’shya’s location. She was currently in the hydroponics bay, likely liberating some vegetables for whatever her next plan involved.

A red dot moving in the dark.

Elias smiled, a tired, genuine curve of his lips. He thought about the over-zealous jollity, the playful demeanor, the relentless dedication to archiving the truth, even when it was painful.

“A guide,” he murmured to the empty room. “Just like the story says.”

He set the datapad down. He couldn’t knit a cape, and he couldn’t fly a bi-plane. But the stories had taught him that the size of the gesture didn’t matter as much as the intent.

He stood up and walked towards the door. He had an idea for a gift. Something for the archivist who had given him something he hadn’t felt in a while. He felt loved.

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