The cold swallowed everything. It turned the rivers to glass and left the trees standing like lifeless bones, smothering the land beneath a shroud of ice. The elders told us what had happened. A rogue star had passed through the heavens, pulling Mother Earth from the sunlight’s grasp. Our world had not resisted. It had not fought to stay. It had simply drifted, surrendering us to the dark. We were left to fend for ourselves. The rivers, once teeming with life, lay frozen and still. The forests, once filled with the hum of creatures, went silent. And the land that had once given so freely had nothing left. Burning what little we had, we wrapped ourselves in layers of fur and huddled together like dying embers. The young ones stopped laughing, while the old ones stopped speaking, as every breath we took felt like the last. One night, as the fire burned low and hunger clawed at my ribs, I left the shelter. As the sky stretched vast and empty above me, I pressed my hands against the frozen ground. "You let this happen," I whispered, my breath curling in the air before vanishing into nothing. "You could have fought. You could have stayed. But you left us—“ The wind interrupted, and I clenched my jaw, forcing myself forward. If the Earth would not help, then I would find my own way. So I walked through the snow, searching. Then I heard it. A crack in the distance. My pulse quickened as I followed the sound and found a break in the river's frozen skin. Beneath the ice, dark water moved—fish! I dropped to my knees, breathless. It was impossible, but there it was. A little further on, my fingers brushed something buried in the frost. A root. A stubborn, twisted root—but it was alive. Traversing further through the swirling snow, I saw an elk. Its legs trembled as I watched it take shallow breaths. It was already dying, and I did not waste time considering my good fortune. I took what was given, whispering my thanks to the elk before taking its life. That night, my people ate. But the cold still chased us. The wind still howled, but it did not knock us from our feet. The land still felt empty, yet there was always just enough—just enough shelter, just enough food, and enough hope to keep us moving. And then it happened. We traveled to a place where the rivers ran free, weaving silver lines through dark stone. Where the trees stood thick and full, giving off their rich scent into the air. The land was different, but it was… home. That night, as we sat around the fire, I told the elder of our journey—of the hardships, the impossible moments of survival, and how I had fought against the land itself to keep us alive. She listened thoughtfully, silently, until I had said it all. Then she shook her head. "You think the Earth abandoned us," she said. "But it was never against us, Eira." I stiffened at the sound of my name. She met my gaze, her voice steady. "The Earth suffered, too. It lost its home, just as we did. But even in its grief, it carried us." I frowned. "Carried us?" "Did not the winds soften when you needed breath? The trees hold firm when you needed shelter? The rivers crack when you needed water? And when you desperately needed food enough to feed your people, did not an elk fall where you stood?" Her eyes did not waver. "Do you truly think that was your doing alone?" My stomach twisted at her words. I had been so sure we had survived because I had fought for it. Because I had refused to let the world take us. But what if we had not been fighting against the Earth? What if it had been guiding us all along? I rose to my feet. Without a word, I walked past the fire, beyond the edge of our camp. The wind stirred my hair, as I dropped to my knees and placed my hands on the earth. It was warm. Not the heat of fire or sunlight, but a deep, steady warmth, pulsing beneath my fingertips. A heartbeat. My throat closed. It had never abandoned us. It had been there. All this time. A sob broke from my lips at the realization, tears falling freely as I pressed my forehead to the ground. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice raw. "I thought you had left us. I thought you didn't care." My fingers curled into the dirt. "But you carried me." The wind stirred, soft as a sigh. I lifted my head to wipe my eyes, and as I did, my gaze drifted upward. And then—I saw them. Two stars. Before, there had only ever been one. A lone light in the endless dark. But now, another shone beside it. Twin points of gold, glowing against the blue sky. My breath caught. I had believed I was alone in my journey. That I had fought for every step, every breath, every moment of survival. But she had fought her way through the void, untethered and alone, searching for a new sun to anchor her. To anchor us. And she again had her anchor. And we had her.

"I'm gonna be a famous baseball player!" Nathan shouts, his eyes—my eyes—wide with excitement. His father, a few feet away, shakes out his arm, laughing. "That's great, little man! You can be anything you know. Anything you want." Nathan frowns, bouncing on his feet. "Anything?" His father nods, tossing the ball in the air. "Wanna paint? Play guitar? Race cars? If you work really hard, you could even fly to the moon." Something shifts inside Nathan as he considers his father’s words—an ember, waiting for a spark. I ignite. A surge rushes through me—his imagination given form. The baseball in his grip, me, unravels, its leather seams splitting, morphing. My weight vanishes, replaced by the delicate balance of a paintbrush. Nathan grips my wooden handle, bristles dripping color. The blank canvas before him pulses with life. As he drags me across its surface, the world erupts. Spring air mingles with the scent of fresh bananas as blues collide with yellows, birthing greens that shimmer with orangey sunlight. Reds and purples swirl, bleeding into impossible horizons. A single line bends and stretches, twisting into a river. Then a road. Then… a thread. A guitar string. Nathan's fingers press against taut steel, strumming an uncertain note that wobbles through the air. The vibrations carve grooves into his fingertips, but he holds firm, his grip tightening. The sound builds, hesitation fading as rhythm grows. And then— I become a symphony, my notes swelling and colliding, before blending into a new beat—a steady tap tap tap of something mechanical. The deep hum of an engine vibrates beneath me, steel and sound fusing into motion. My paintbrush handle warps into a steering wheel, and the world shifts again. Nathan's father pulls back his arm—and throws… Nathan grips me tighter, dropping the gas pedal, and we surge forward, neon streaking past, infinity signs glowing on the car's doors in place of numbers. The asphalt peels away, dissolving into sky. The baseball cuts through the summer sky like a planet in orbit—and we soar, hidden wings unfolding and thrusters firing until we break through gravity itself. Jupiter looms ahead, its storm a swirling vortex of ochre and flame. Nathan reaches out, and I stretch with him, bristles dragging through the tempest, leaving violet streaks in our wake. Saturn spins past, its rings unraveling into ribbons of light, each one spiraling behind us like a comet's tail. Then we dive into a supernova, detonating a kaleidoscope of color, each burst a crescendo of every dream Nathan has ever imagined. The universe bends in our brilliance. Because nothing is impossible. The ball continues its arc, weightless, while an older, more uncertain Nathan reaches for it. His fingers slip, and the ball thuds to the ground. "How's it coming?" his dad asks as Nathan works through a math problem. The one-two punch of his father's words and the missed catch slices through his mind like a blade. I spiral, tumbling and falling—pushed out by a force called Time. I sink into the depths of Nathan's mind, slipping through the fracture in his creative hemisphere, falling deeper into the unknown. When I land, it is endless winter, with ice stretching endlessly in every direction beneath a gray sky. I turn back toward the wreckage. Toward the car. Toward me. The crushed vehicle lies motionless beneath ice and stone, the heaviest of the boulders bearing names: College. Career. Family. The music has ended, replaced with the colorless pweight of rules and expectations. Nathan sits in a lecture hall, hands moving across calculations. He is at a cubicle, bathed in fluorescent light, the glow of spreadsheets flickering across his eyes. He types lines of code, constructing structures so precise they leave no room for wonder. And yet… I keep walking. Waiting. Though I don't know why. This is where all forgotten things go. The cold tells me I belong here, whispering that I should let go. And so I sink, deeper into its silence……… A vibration. It’s faint. Almost imperceptible. But real. An altar flashes for a moment—I see Nathan smoothing his tux. There is a home. The clock spins and spins until… I hear a voice. "Daddy?" Her voice rings, Melody in both name and spirit. "Can I be a ballerina when I grow up?" Nathan looks up from his laptop. "Of course, princess! Want to know a secret?" "What, Daddy?" Melody’s blue eyes shine with curiosity. "You can be anything. Anything you want." She tilts her head. "Anything?" Nathan smiles. "Want to draw? Play the piano? Become an Iron Chef? If you want, you could work really hard and even win Olympic gold. Or several." Her face scrunches. "Iron Chef? Is that a robot that cooks?" Nathan laughs, considering. "I guess it could be." And I ignite once more. I lift myself out of the avalanche, my wrecked race car body stitching back together—then reshaping. I rise, metal limbs gleaming, impossibly precise yet fluid—a mix of a pianist's grace and engineering precision. My arms paint fire into the air as motion and mathematics entwine. The guitar riffs—F major, B-flat, C—and the universe bends again to my will. Nathan watches, understanding at last, then wills me to accelerate. Faster. Faster still, momentum building. The Milky Way spins like a record, galaxies swirling in a vast cosmic waltz. Stars flicker like piano keys, each note sending waves of color rippling through space, and at the heart of it all, the black hole twists, flattening into a gold disc. It unfurls like a staircase, and atop it, she appears. A figure-skating robotic ballerina, an elegant fusion of art and precision, twirling effortlessly. Her skates carve golden etchings into the fabric of space, while the galaxies pulse in time, each spiral another crescendo in the great cosmic symphony. The universe dances with her as she pirouettes on the edge of Time, the infinite stage stretching beneath her feet. When she lands, the gold medal reacts, shooting golden beams in all directions, and suddenly, dancers stand on every celestial body, moving in harmony. Nathan reaches for me—this time, with both hands. Logic and creativity fuse, left brain and right, melding into something greater, giving birth to the realization that the world is not one or the other. And this time. This time, I know. He won't ever let go.

The holovideo flickered to life, and my subleader's image sharpened into focus. "Today is February 14th, Earth Standard Year 2025," it stated. "Before we begin, I regret to inform you that our second agent could not join us due to something called 'Verizon and its spotty connection.'" I adjusted my posture, arranging my host's facial features as I prepared to give my report. Kevin smirked, earning a look from the subleader. "Something to contribute, Kevin?" “What was that, subleader?” Kevin straightened. "Can you hear me now?” The subleader acknowledged the connection was solid, and I almost burst out laughing—but contained myself. "As for Agent Eve," the subleader continued, "she was reassigned after her previous planet suffered, as Earth's most powerful human would put it, a… rapid unscheduled disassembly." My amusement faded at his Elon Musk-ian words. They were an apt, if sterile, description of my near annihilation. The blinding eruption and subsequent violent pull of gravity. My—our—station had twisted itself into oblivion, and I was flung through space at near-light speed, barely holding onto consciousness. But I had survived. Where they had not. They, the nameless agent and presence that had been tethered to me through endless cycles, were gone. The silence that had followed was unbearable, and so I had chosen not to dwell. Grief was after all… inefficient, and unbecoming of an agent. And yet— "Eve?" The subleader's voice, though barely registering, interrupted my thoughts. "Eve," it repeated. "Do you also have a Verizon problem?" “A what?” I blinked, before realizing what he meant. "No, subleader. My connection is stable.” It studied me for a second longer, then asked, "Eve, is there something wrong with your eye?" Panic welled within my host, and I resisted the urge to let it take over. Instead, I nonchalantly rubbed my right eye and carefully adjusted my host's expression to one of quiet confusion. "No, subleader. It is fine.” But I knew what it had seen. Nestled under the blue of my iris, was a single tear. I was succumbing more frequently to emotion, which was surely due to the cumulative impact of these human experiences. My experiences. After a pause, it nodded. "Proceed with your report." I inhaled. "My mission was to investigate a human concept called Love. Our analysts suspect that it may be a form of weaponized mind control." The subleader steepled its finger-equivalents. "And your findings?" I tilted my head slightly, strands of dark hair shifting with the motion. "At first, I hypothesized love was a parasitic phenomenon, primarily afflicting males. The longer they remained bonded with a female, the less wealth they retained." Kevin nodded knowingly. "I observed similar behavior in a place called Las Vegas." "Exactly," I continued. "But as I deepened my research, I realized love operates more as a type of psychological warfare. Humans willingly subject themselves to a cycle of hope, disappointment, and expensive meals in pursuit of what they call 'some.'" Kevin scrunched his host’s face. "Some of what? Can I get some?” The subleader silenced him with a look. "Humans do employ countermeasures," I continued. "Drinking fermented liquids. Eating frozen milk fat engineered by two specialized humans named Ben and Jerry. Or by declaring their independence publicly on a network owned by an entity called Meta." Kevin let out a low whistle. "Great name for a company.” "Right?!" I quickly smiled, then returned my mouth to a line. "My most significant finding occurred during routine data collection at a human food market called Aldi's." The subleader's brow arched. "Explain." I hesitated. "I encountered an anomaly. A male cashier named Tom." Kevin raised a brow. "Sounds wealthy based on his title. And politically connected.” "No. He merely… scans my items." Eve clarified, shaking her head. Kevin rolled his host's eyes, and I ignored it. "At first, I thought nothing of it. But then… something unexpected occurred. One day, while I looked into his eyes, my host experienced an elevated heart rate, coupled with a minor loss of speech function." Kevin made a face. "It sounds viral." Then, turning to the subleader, "I volunteer to probe—" "Stop!" The subleader's voice was sharp. "This is exactly why humans make movies about us. We are not that kind of agency. No probes." Kevin sulked, but did not argue. I pressed on. "I initially did suspect contamination. But as I returned to Aldi's, the anomalies persisted. I was no longer collecting data. I… wanted to be there. My logical self struggled to differentiate between my host's emotions and my own, and I believe I was, as humans say, falling in love." “Go on,” the subleader urged, while Kevin scoffed. "Last week, Tom invited me to a park," I continued. "There was a beach, and when he…" I swallowed, "removed his upper garments, I noticed his abdominal region was… sculpted. Like the reinforced plating on our space movers." Kevin let out a low whistle. "That’s high praise." I nodded. "And then…" I curled my fingers slightly, trying to ground myself. "He engaged with me in a human form of affection known as a… 'kiss.'" The subleader's brow lifted. "Explain." So I did. I shared why we were both neck-deep in the water, his hands resting on my waist and cheek. How the warmth of his skin against the cool night air, caused a surge in my host's heart. Where, at the point our lips touched, I had felt his feather-light warmth spark against my skin. And when, as the electric pulse followed, I was nearly overcome with ineffable sensations that made me lose control of— The subleader tapped his console. "Eve, your vitals appear… elevated. Are you okay?" I exhaled, trying to calm myself. "I am… fine, subleader." He nodded. "There was something else," I admitted. "A response I had not anticipated. Not just my host—but me. I was not just observing, I was feeling." Kevin leaned back. "Eve, I hate to say it, but you might be compromised." The subleader shook his head. "No, Kevin. She is evolving." He opened his mouth, but the subleader swiped at his console, and Kevin's screen went dark. I barely noticed, my mind replaying the kiss. "Anything further, Agent Eve," the subleader urged. "Tom invited me to dinner. Tonight," I chirped. "And I accepted… for the mission." The subleader studied me. "Do you suspect he has any knowledge of your true nature?" I considered that for a moment. "In the last month, I did observe that he visited a flower shop, a bakery, and a jewelry establishment known as Jared. Other than that, his behavior has been within parameters.” The subleader emitted a faint hum—the equivalent of a human chuckle. He tapped his console, transmitting a file. "I am sending you a briefing that you may find… useful." I quickly scanned the data. Then felt my cheeks flush as I read the words: human mating rituals. I quietly thanked the subleader and was about to end the call, when my subconscious screamed at me. Rescanning the data, I froze. Buried in the details was a name. It was a name I had not spoken in forever. One that caused me to tremble, only I did not realize its significance at the time. I had been sent to Earth to study love. To determine if it was a weapon. But what I had found was something else. I had found them. Tom. Or rather—the presence within him. And neither of us had known. Until now. A slow unsteady, breath left me, as my eyes burned, and before I could stop it, tears slipped free onto the green fabric of my dress. I reached to close the connection, but the subleader stopped me. "Eve." I looked up, horrified. My new life as an agent on Earth would certainly end now that it had seen me cry. Instead, I was shocked when its expression softened. "You are our finest agent," it said. "But for tonight, I ask that you simply… be human." I couldn't speak. The subleader, master of our Earthen contingent, had just given me permission to _feel_. Before I could respond, it swiped the connection closed and the room went silent. I exhaled, my heart pounding, as an undeniable realization settled over me. I was under mind control. I was in love. And I couldn't be happier.

Once upon a time, Derek, the little boy in our tale, lay awake. His chest felt squeezed, his mind a stampede. He had dropped the ball you see. And not just any ball. This one was the final throw of practice. The one that…   Smacked into his mitt, stung his palm, and slipped away.   Instead of preparing him for tomorrow, laughter had sprouted from the other children. Not cruel mind you, but loud enough to make his ears burn. Even Coach had sighed.   Sigh!   Just like that. Now, in the quiet of Derek’s sanctuary of sleep on his parent’s floor, he replayed it in his mind—along with this mantra…   Tomorrow is the real game. Tomorrow is the chance to fail (again).   A single tear fell from Derek. But, before it could soak his pillow, a speck of light caught it.   It was his dream.   It trembled beside him, minuscule and sparkly in all its unseenness, as restless and unable to sleep as the dreamer. The dream wanted to help Derek. And so it did.   With a whisper of flickering light, it slipped through the cracks of the night, drifting past rooftops and streetlights, past fire escapes and empty fields, past the echoes of children still playing in the dark of the moon.   It arrived in the nick of time as the train’s silvery doors twirled open like ballerinas, inviting the dream inside. Faster than any train should move, it whisked the dream through tunnels, over bridges, and past stations no New Yorker had ever seen. It carried it upward through clouds, around planets and shooting stars, toward a place not on any map:   Yankeelandia.   The doors splashed onto the ground like water, on this land where legendary pinstripes lived, living under golden lights, where the smell of popcorn and hot dogs mixed with freshly cut grass and leather mitts.   Bronxy Stadium stood tall, its transparently curved wall glinting in the light of dual suns, which grinned for miles as they waited—waited for the game to begin, together with the chorus of voices in the stands.   But something was amiss. The players whispered and shifted. Then whispered again. The game could not start. They were missing…   A dream.   The dream, realizing this, twirled and spun, floating down onto the field and offering itself excitedly. The Yankees looked at each other, before taking their places. The game could now go on.   A faceless player stepped to the plate, their bat carving the air. The crack of wood against leather sent the ball soaring into the stands, where Phil Rizzuto danced across the infield and scooped it up like a heaping scoop of Mint Rocky Road, his one and zero gleaming together on his uniform. Meanwhile, on the pitcher’s mound, Whitey Ford stood tall with his number sixteen aglow, his otherworldly pitches slicing through time itself.   Slice, slice, slice, allowing the Yankees to maintain a two to one lead. It was now the final inning with one out, and the stadium’s giant eyes, along with the eyes of the entire crowd, were trained on the runner on third, who was poised to steal home.   The stadium and the crowd held their breath.   As they did so, a man crouched behind home plate, his mitt inviting. He was known as the Dream Catcher. He waited patiently, as on the mound, Whitey surrendered the dream to Mariano Rivera, who gripped it lightly, feeling its weight and its quiet hum. His four and two shone like the suns.   He pitched. Behind the Dream Catcher, the radiant referee ref’d: strike one. Then came the next throw, which led to strike two.   Another streak of light then—the batter swung. With a crack, the dream soared, twisting and tumbling, tossy and turvy in the timbre of the tungsten spot lights above.   Joe DiMaggio was already moving, his feet quick, his glove reaching as his body folded into the motion as if he had made this catch a thousand times before (he likely had). With a thunk, he caught the dream. Then with a flourish, the third base runner took off running, his legs legging and his arms arming.   DiMaggio turned, his arm snapping forward, the throw cutting through the air—a perfect strike to home. The Dream Catcher braced himself, while the crowd roared as the dream flew and the runner slid.   The mitt closed, the impact of the dream rattling the Dream Catcher’s bones—but he held on. The referee in the umpire uniform stepped forward, lifting his hands.   "Out!"   The stadium shook and closed its eyes, while the Bronxy crowd cheered. Then the Yankee legends rushed the field, their stripes burning brighter than the stars.   ——   In the stands, the children all pointed, their voices rising.   "De-rek! De-rek!"   Derek stared at his glove, almost not believing. He studied the stitches on the dream in his glove. The one that…   Smacked into his mitt, stung his palm, but _did not slip away_.   And said, “thank you!” Then he heard a voice, clear as day:   "Hurray for the Dream Catcher!”   Derek, the little boy in our tale, looked up at Mickey Mantle in the clouds, and his number seven jersey—and smiled. He huffed his chest as his heart stampeded. He had caught the ball you see. And not just any ball. This one.   The one that mattered most.  

"What kind of tea is that?" Daniel asks, his eyes flicking from the chalkboard to the cup in my hands. I glance down at the jade liquid, then back up at him. "Why do you ask?" He grins, tilting his head. "Just curious. May I?" I hesitate. Daniel and I have been friends for as long as I can remember—since the day he first showed me around the maze of faculty lounges and supply closets in this school. But sharing a drink feels strangely intimate. Still, there's something in the way he’s watching me. "Here," I say, handing him the cup. "But no judging." He sets down the eraser and takes it, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. He lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip. I watch as his brows furrow slightly, his lips pressing together. "Citrusy," he muses. "And… something else." "Green tea," I offer. "With lemon and lime." He nods, rolling the flavor over in his mind before handing it back. "Unexpected." I smirk. "Not a fan?" His ocean eyes flicker with something unreadable. "No, the opposite, actually." I take the cup back, wrapping my hands around it. The warmth feels different somehow, but I can’t explain it. "Do you ever get tired of living in the past?" I ask suddenly, changing the subject. Daniel glances at me over his shoulder, eraser held midair. "How so?" I nod toward the board, where faint traces of chalk dust cling despite his efforts. "Wars, fallen empires, long-dead rulers. Does it ever get… exhausting?" He leans against his desk, arms crossed. "Coming from the woman who spends her days romanticizing century-old love stories?" "At least mine are about passion," I counter, smiling. "Not war." Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. "That's the beauty of history, Liz—it has both." I study him. The last of the students are gone, and the usual school noise has nearly faded, but in that growing silence, something unspoken builds between us. "Are you heading out soon?" I ask, aiming for casual, but failing. Daniel lifts a stack of papers. "Yeah, just finishing up." I shift on my feet. I could ask: _Hey, would you walk me out?_ It’s late after all. But instead, I tell myself how he looks so focused and lost in thought. The question catches in my throat, suddenly seeming ridiculous. "Well," he says, not looking up, "have a lovely weekend, Liz." I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "You too, Daniel." Then I leave. Alone. I make it halfway to my car before the first drops begin to fall. I pull my jacket closer, but it does little to quell the quiet of the night, and the empty parking lot stretching endlessly around me. My car sits at the farthest corner, just beyond the reach of the dim overhead lights. Then my legs start to feel heavy under the weight of… footsteps, the sound clearly heard coming up from behind me, despite the thrumming of the rain. I freeze. "Hey there. Glad I caught up." Relief rushes through me so fast I nearly laugh. I turn, and there he is—Daniel, striding toward me, rain darkening his shirt and dampening his blonde hair. He shrugs off his coat before I can protest and drapes it over my shoulders, his fingers grazing my arm and lingering just a second too long. I clutch the fabric. It's warm, still carrying his scent, like a safety blanket wrapped around me. "You're going to get soaked," I murmur, watching as the rain drenches him. He just shrugs. I pull the coat tighter, inhaling deeply. "You know, Daniel," I say softly, "you're always taking care of me." He exhales a quiet laugh as we continue walking towards my car, but his expression is serious. "Maybe that's because I want to." His shirt clings to him now, fabric stretched across his chest. I shouldn't be looking. But I am. I stop, shielded by the parking garage, and he does the same. "You know. If this were a novel," I whisper, heart pounding, "this is the part where the characters would realize they've been falling for each other all along." Daniel reaches up, tucking a damp curl behind my ear, his still warm fingers dancing lightly on my skin. "Then maybe it's time we stop reading," he exhales, "and start writing our own." His eyes drop to my lips, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. A small, nervous laugh escapes. "I love that laugh," he says, voice lower now. He leans in— And then the world vanishes. —— Cold, sterile air rushes in, while fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a stark, artificial glow. The steady hum of machines presses in from all sides, and I inhale sharply, trying to ground myself. Dr. Harrt watches me from across the room, a clipboard balanced on his knee. His expression seems neutral, but his eyes— "Well," he says, tapping his pen against the clipboard, "it took a few sessions, but we did it. We’ve isolated your dream.” I exhale shakily, fingers curling into my sweater. He hands me a small device, no bigger than a pager, its blue indicator light glowing faintly. "Before you go to sleep, just hit the switch," he explains. "The tune it emits will ensure you experience the dream every time." I stare down at it, then let out a quiet laugh. "Thank you… Doctor Dream Catcher." Dr. Harrt's lips twitch, amused by my attempt at humor. But something about him shifts. He leans forward slightly, studying me. "You know," I say, tilting my head, "I've never asked, but… can you _see_ the dreams you, um, 'catch'?" His grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, and I notice a pause as he glances away—just long enough to make me wonder. "Bits and pieces, really," he admits finally. "But I see enough." His answer lingers between us, heavier than it should be, his blue eyes holding mine easily. "Liz," he says carefully, "can I ask you something?” I nod. “This last time… I noticed you dreamt about the tea again. Green tea with lemon and lime." His brow furrows slightly. "It's just… that's not a very common way to have it. And, honestly, I've never met anyone else who drinks it that way." He hesitates, then begins, "is that your favor—“ "I don't drink tea, Daniel," I interrupt, too quickly. "But I'd like to. Try it, I mean. The way you make it. Sorry, Dr. Harrt.” Daniel inhales sharply. “Just Daniel is fine, Liz.” His fingers tighten around the clipboard. "Daniel," I murmur, barely aware I'm saying his name. "There's a poetry reading at my school this weekend." My voice is softer now. "I remember you're fond of T. S. Eliot, and I think you'd really enjoy it." I swallow. "Would you like to go? With me?" A beat of silence. Then, slowly, his lips curve into a smile. He reaches out, fingers brushing mine as he takes my hand. I feel the warmth of them. The reality of them. And I have my answer.

I sink into one of two remaining chairs in the back of the room. Turning towards the huge sheet of nanoglass separating us from the observation room, I study the mirrored frame of the device as it hums, its blue glow seeming to pulse to my own heartbeat. This is my first time seeing an actual Dream Weaver in person—and I’m sweating. Well, who’s to say why I’m sweating, as it's almost impossible to tell if a holoscreen is "on". I choose to believe it's just a see-through piece of glass today, while I watch the scurrying lab techs and the oversized monitor above their heads. From it, I see the Dreamscape beginning to form. Then a figure slides into the last seat beside me. He reads my nametag aloud as a question, his voice more gravelly than expected. I glance over. He has a boyish face, with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His uniform is sharp—black and purple, the standard issue for a Dream Catcher cadet. "Yes," I reply before returning the favor, "Feris? He nods. "You know you're the second Feris I've met today. The other was a redhead, and by the galaxy did he seem excited about all this." Feris smirks slightly. "Didn't know my name was so popular." I smile and watch as he leans forward, eyes fixed on the Dream Weaver. Inside the machine, strapped in with thick metallic restraints, is none other than Owend Tates—the greatest Dream Catcher of all time. My stomach tightens, not believing my good fortune. Feris tilts his head toward the room. "Who's the girl?" I lower my voice. "Vida. Owend's daughter. She was kidnapped by the Off-World Federation weeks ago, but Feris, well, the other Feris," I clarify, "found her this morning, dumped in an abandoned hypercar outside the facility. She was unconscious. And infected." Feris frowns, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. "And what? They just… returned her? No ransom?" He exhales loudly. "Strange. That doesn't seem like Bryce's style." "Yeah," I say, uneasy with his use of the OWF leader's name. The Dreamscape is fully loaded now, and I see a narrow alley, its towering buildings painted with flickering neon. Thin lines of pulsing red light run like veins through the cracked concrete ground. "Wow, I can't believe this is the Dreamscape of a young maiden," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. "With that father of hers, who can say?" comes the unbidden reply. Something in his tone makes my stomach knot. "It doesn't matter. Owend's here. If anyone can save her, it's him." He lets out a slow, measured breath. "You mean he's the only one who will, right?" I don't answer. Because we both know the truth. The Dream Catcher contract. It exists to prevent operatives from facing anything beyond their capacity, while limiting their time in the Dreamscape to avoid permanent psychological damage. And most importantly, it ensures that no one ever, under any circumstances, faces their doppelgänger. But Owend can be forgiven for breaking a few rules, right? Because what father wouldn't? I watch as Owend prowls his daughter's mind, his skills honed from years of hunting Nightrot. And he's not alone. A soundless figure steps out from the darkness, its form shrouded in a heavy cloak. I notice the glint of its red blade just before the creature lunges. Owend barely dodges, bending out of the way just in time, its pulsing sword slashing empty air. He rolls, snatches a broken pipe from the ground, and meets the next strike head-on. The creature is relentless. Blow after blow, its strikes rain down in a torrent. But Owend is unfazed, his body moving with almost inhuman precision. He finds an opening and slams the pipe against its wrist, sending the blade clattering to the ground. Then with a brutal shove, he knocks the attacker against a nondescript storefront. Its hood slips and it starts to chuckle, if one could call it that. I stare at its stone-gray marble skin. The sharp angles of its face. Its deep-set eyes. Owend's eyes. This isn't just any Nightrot, the nightmares born of a person’s deepest fears. It’s a Reflexion. The most powerful of all Nightrot. It’s when the object feared _is_ the Dream Catcher. It’s why no one dives without a contract. And why our room just went silent. Feris exhales sharply. "Things just got interesting." I ignore his words, not believing Vida could be this scared of her father. It’s not possible. "How does it feel, O-wend," the creature utters. "To see _you_." On-screen, Owend steps back, narrowing his eyes. Then with a flourish, he clenches his fists and closes his eyes. Before the grotesquery can react, flames explode all around them, consuming the alley instantly in a violent inferno as the Dreamscape reacts to Owend's command. Such awesome power I think, and for a second, I think he could still win. Then I see the Reflexion through the wreckage. With a flick of its fingers... the Dreamscape bends to its new master. The flames die. Smoke coils and fades. But Owend is gone. The Reflexion says nothing as it waves its hands. Crates splinter into dust. Storefronts implode, glass raining down in deadly shards. I realize it is tearing the world apart, unraveling it—to find him. Owend is fighting a game of attrition, against the house. And this house has never lost. I can't watch, and I turn to Feris. And see him... smiling. I'm about to say something, when I hear murmuring in the crowd. Turning back to the action, I see Owend walking toward the nightmare, its muscles tensing, preparing to attack him. Its blade... extending, unnaturally. This is it. And Owend is just standing there. Has he given up? I look over at Feris and he suddenly stops smiling as a second figure steps into view behind the creature. Its skin is cracked. Blackened. Rot spreading like disease. Feris stiffens beside me. The other Owend turns around, eyes narrowing. "Bryce? Why are you—“. Gasps ripple through the observation room. No one has ever seen the OWF leader’s face. "We need to regroup," the Nightrot version of Bryce interrupts. It grips the arm of Owend's Reflexion, its expression unreadable. "The real threat is escaping." A sickly glow spreads from the fake Bryce’s hand and the doppelgänger recoils. For the first time, it looks uncertain. Then, with a flick of its wrist, it buries its crimson blade into the newcomer, which collapses, taking the blade along for its ride to the concrete floor. It turns toward Owend with a menacing look, "Tricks won’t save you, Dream Catcher." Behind it I stare as the red blade in fake Bryce's back turns blue. Confused, I watch as the creature lunges at Owend, materializing a pair of crimson daggers in midair. Suddenly, it falls to its knees, looking wide-eyed at Owend's clenched hands, then at the Nightrot-corrupted blue steel sticking from its abdomen. Before the doppelgänger can speak, the real Owend opens his hands, causing the blade to cut the creature cleanly in two. The Reflexion convulses, its body breaking apart, crumbling like ash in the wind. It's over, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Vida immediately gasps awake as Owend stumbles from his seat in the Dream Weaver, pulling her into his arms, his shoulders visibly shaking. He's speaking, but I can't hear it over the ringing in my ears. Because as I watch Feris take off his glasses, I see it. I see everything, the puzzle pieces slamming together in a rush. I grab my comm, but before I can type out a message, Feris yanks it from my hand. "Hey Chance, no comms in here. You know that. I'll just hold onto this for you." He pockets my device, maintaining eye contact. I stare at him numbly. At the real Bryce. He says nothing, then turns to the scene ahead as he tries to suppress some emotion. The seats begin to clear, and I stand, slowly, Feris following my lead. Then I see his far hand. He raises a mini rail gun toward the glass. Toward—. My body is molasses. I watch, helplessly, as Owend and his daughter slump over the Dream Weaver, two rail dart sized holes clearly visible in the holoscreen glass. Before I can think, Feris points the weapon at me. "Sorry about this, friend. But you know—“. I hear a loud crunch as Feris is lifted by the neck, then hurled into the glass screen. Millions of shards fly off into the black, nothingness of space along with Feris, amid a myriad of stars. When my shock finally wears off, I turn towards my savior. Tears well up as I see Owend and his daughter. He is speaking to me, but his mouth isn’t moving. "Wake up! Wake up, Feris!" Then I'm back. My seat is reclined as I watch the nanoglass canopy lift off of me. Moving my arms, I feel the light pressure of the restraints and slowly disconnect myself from the Dream Weaver, noticing the tears in my eyes and my tousled auburn hair in the mirrored finish. I look up. "How are you, cadet? Whoa there, I'd get up slowly if I were you." I sit back down. "Wha? What happened?" "The OWF. They tried to break in through the front door. Bold.” I smile. "Was any of it real?” I ask, making conversation. "Well, it seems you spoke to Bryce. He injected something into you, which we surmise made you fear him. From there, we tried to create a scenario that would draw out the Nightrot into your Dreamscape.” “Wow. Sorry, my mind’s still spinning a bit like a Ferris Wheel.” “That’s normal. Your memory may be a bit jumbled for a day or so, but it will get better. For now we’re glad you’re okay.” “What about Bryce? I mean, the intruder?” catching myself. “We will continue to hunt him down and tear down every bit of his federation. You just get some rest, Feris. That’s an order.” I smile weakly and leave. Asking around, I make my way to the dorms. To Feris’s sleep capsule. These cadets are so helpful I think to myself, as I drift off to a restful sleep, with the knowledge that I did it. I am now Feris and the red head under my bed is no one. Tomorrow, these Dream agents won’t know what him ‘em. By the galaxy, me and my _federation_ will surely see to that.

I stand at the edge of a vast canyon, the wind tugging at my clothes and the sun casting long shadows across the jagged cliffs. The bridge that once spanned this gap lies in ruin, its ropes frayed and planks shattered. “Well?" A calm voice speaks behind me, startling me. I turn quickly to see someone standing there, serene as stone. "It's hopeless," I mutter, shaking my head. "The bridge is gone. I can't jump the gap, and there's no path around it. I don't see a way to get home." They consider my words in silence before finally saying, "I've got an idea." From their backpack, they retrieve an object wrapped in silk. Slowly, they unwrap it to reveal a golden fortune cookie. Breaking it in two, they pop half in their mouth and offer the other half to me. Reluctantly, I take it. The cookie crumbles in my mouth as they read the fortune aloud: _Close your eyes and help arrives._ "What? That doesn't make any—“ "Hey, what do we have to lose?" they interrupt with a smirk. "Just close your eyes and imagine a balloon. Just one. Floating right in front of you." I let out an incredulous laugh. "A balloon? Really? That's your big plan?" "Humor me," they insist, unbothered. "I've got a good feeling about this." Against my better judgment, I close my eyes and picture it: a red balloon with a long, curling string. "Okay," I say reluctantly. "I see it. Now what?" "Good. Now imagine another one. And another. Picture them multiplying, bursting into existence like popcorn in a hot pan." I roll my eyes but do as they ask. Gradually, a strange sensation brushes against my fingers--light and soft. "I think… I think I feel them," I whisper. "Perfect! Now hold on." "Do what?!" My breath hitches as I’m suddenly weighless. A sea of balloons, vivid and colorful, surrounds me, lifting me into the air. The wind roars past as I climb higher and higher, the canyon shrinking below. Before I can say anything, the balloons begin fusing together, forming a cocoon that hardens into the basket of a hot air balloon. "How did you do that?" I shout, gripping the edge. "I didn't do anything," they reply with a grin. "I just trusted my intuition. You see—“ "Tell your intuition to cool it!" I yell as the balloon jerks, tilting wildly. "We're going too high!" The basket wavers, and I feel us dropping. My heart races as I grip the sides, eyes still closed despite the situation’s gravity, or lack thereof. "What now?" Unfazed, they unwrap another fortune and read aloud: _Fall from the skies so that you may rise._ "We're good. Just keep your eyes closed," they assure me. Suddenly, I find myself seated in a rocket. The engines roar to life, and the rocket shoots forward, aiming for the far side of the canyon. I grip the controls tightly, my mind racing. I try to keep my eyes closed, clinging to the newcomer’s advice. “Just feel your way,” they had whispered. But as the rocket races forward, doubt overwhelms me. What if there isn’t enough fuel? What if we are off course? Fear claws at my chest, and I open my eyes, glancing at the fuel gauge. It’s empty! At that very moment, the engine sputters and stalls, causing the rocket to slow. We fall. “No!” I shout. “No, no, no!” Panic envelopes my mind. I can’t think, can’t move. All I can hear is the wind howling as the rocket veers toward the canyon floor. My heart pounds. I'm about to scream when I feel something in my hand. It's another fortune. I unwrap it with trembling fingers and read: _Best to look around before you hit the ground._ I spin in midair, searching frantically. Behind me, I spot a hard case labeled for emergency use only. After mentally kicking myself for my oversight, I grab it, crack it open, and find a single slip of paper: Put it on—now! Thinking I don’t need an invitation, I strap it on and hit the rocket’s eject button. The next thing I know, I'm launched upward. The pack unfurls itself into a hoverboard, and I land on it with surprising steadiness. I dive as a glowing roller coaster track materializes below me, stretching across the canyon. The hoverboard locks onto the track and races forward. Loops, spirals, sharp turns—I navigate them all, leaning into the wind, my fear giving way to exhilaration. The track clicks into place piece by piece as I speed ahead, faster and faster, until a massive ramp launches me into the air toward the far side of the canyon. But as I soar through the air, the hoverboard slows. I'm not going to make it. "No!" I cry, desperation clawing at my chest. I close my eyes. My hands shoot out blindly, grasping for anything, and I feel the rocky ledge beneath my fingers. With all my strength, I pull myself up, collapsing onto solid ground. When I lift my head, they are there, smiling. "We made it." I glare at them, still catching my breath. "You left me! Where did you go?" "I was never far," they say, their smile unwavering. "How did you get here?" I demand. "Guess." I scowl. "I don't know. What, did you have a jetpack?" They turn, revealing a gleaming jetpack strapped to their back, where earlier had been a simple backpack. I groan. "How? Who are you?” "I am you," they reply, their voice softening. "Or rather, the part of you that believes you can do the impossible--I'm your imagination." I stare at them, dumbfounded. "I don't understand.” "You don't need to," they say. "But know this—we didn't do it alone." I frown. "I didn't see anyone else." They smile, pointing toward the horizon. "The Reader has been with us the whole time." "The Reader?" I echo. "Reader of what?" "Your story," they say. "They've been following it from the beginning." I sit there for a moment, letting their words sink in. Then I nod. "They're still here, aren't they?" "They are," they reply. "And you should thank them." “Why is that?” “Because,” they say with a grin. “They could have stopped reading at any time.” I nod, understanding washing over me. Then I turn toward the horizon, a smile tugging at my lips. "Thank you, Reader. Thank you for getting me home. I couldn't have done it without you." I wake up.

The toaster clicks as Dad pushes down the lever, sliding a slice of bread into the single slot. "Hey Abby, how do you and Fen like Miss Wanda so far?" he asks casually, taking his seat and glancing at the staircase. I shrug, taking a sip of chocolate milk. "She's fine, I guess. Mom looks up from her coffee, sensing my unease. "What happened, honey?" "Well," I start, staring at the table. "Things were going okay. Miss Wand's was nice. But then she asked Fen to do his homework." "Okay?" Mom asks, eyebrows raised. "He said no." Mom sighs, shaking her head. "Of course he did. He really needs to do his homework." "Agreed," Dad mutters as the toaster pops. He grabs the toast and freezes, holding it up. "Huh. Sorry, Abby, this one got a bit burned." Some black crumbs fall to the table as he tries to rub them off. I look at the slice. The scorch marks at the top and side almost form an L-shape. "It's fine," I tell him, not wanting to cause a problem. Dad laughs, "Guess there’s a new toaster in our future," and passes the gleaming silver toaster over to Mom. She smiles and slips her bread in before pressing the lever down. "So," she says, turning back to me, "what else happened?" "Well, after that, she asked Fen to do the dishes. It was his turn after lunch. But he wouldn’t do it." Dad frowns. "I'll need to have a talk with him." The toaster pops, and Mom takes her toast. She doesn't see even glance at it as she spreads butter over the top, but I notice hers is burnt as well—three vertical burn marks. They stand out against the golden brown surface. Mom nudges me. "Go on." "Sure. So then she said, ‘Fenix, please turn down the volume’, because the TV was really loud. He had this metal band he was watching.” "A metal band?" Dad cuts in, looking amused. "Really?" "Yeah, and I thought it was, like, pieces of aluminum foil playing music or something," I say, a little sheepish. "Miss Wand laughed when I said that. So did Fen. But then he showed me the band playing their shiny instruments." Dad chuckles. "That's funny.” I grin then continue. "He said he wanted to 'be metal' someday." Mom snorts into her coffee. "Metal? He's got a long way to go with his guitar playing.” After a pause, she looks upstairs, “is he still sleeping I wonder?” Calling out, she commands, “Fen, come down to breakfast!” "I told him that too, that he needs to work on his playing," I say with a grin. “So she asked him to lower it, but he just refused.” Mom sets her mug down and leans forward. “That kid. He’s supposed to set the example for you, Abby.” I just stare. Looking upstairs again, she adds, “Did she punish your brother at all?" "Nope, not one bit.” I lie. “I did tell her I wouldn't mind if she did. Like giving you guys time out. As long as she didn't, like, get physical or anything." Mom mutters, getting an eyebrow raise from Dad. "Huh. I thought she told me she had a way with kids. Almost like magic, the way she gets them to behave." As Mom opens her mouth to respond, the toaster pops. Dad's toast is pitch black except for two lines on the side and a single line down the middle. He sighs and tosses it aside. "Can you pass me another slice hun," he grumbles. He slides in the fresh piece of bread, while the aroma of burnt toast starts to fill the kitchen. "Be right back. Just gonna grab the Febreze," Mom says, standing up. She heads upstairs, and I hear her bare feet creak on the carpeted floor above. After a few more creaks, she suddenly shouts. "FEN IS GONE!" Dad shoots up from his chair and bolts upstairs. I'm left sitting at the table, the burned toast still in front of me. My heart races as I hear them moving around upstairs, opening doors, calling his name. I pick up the slices of toast. There's something strange about them. The marks almost look like letters. An L on mine. An I or H on Dad's burned one. And on Mom's, the vertical lines—could they be an E? I shift them around, trying to make a word. Lie? The toaster pops again, and I glance at Dad's newest slice. I stare, my breath catching in my throat. The burn marks on this one are unmistakable. I rearrange the slices with this new one and it hits me like a bag of Lego bricks. "Mom! Dad!" I yell, my voice shaking. Their footsteps thunder down the stairs. "What is it, Abigail?!" Dad exclaims, his voice tight. I point at the toast, tears welling in my eyes. "I know where Fen is." Mom kneels beside me. "Tell me baby? Where is he?" I choke out the words. "Fen… Fen is here. The table." For a moment, they just stare at me. Then Dad says, frowning, "Abby, that's—“ "No, I'm serious!" I cut him off, “it was Miss Wand. S-she said she was g-going to teach him a lesson.” I sniffle, on the verge of tears. “She told me that I had to l-leave the room. But I saw her. She was waving a wooden stick around and talking nonsense. And there was a big flash,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath as the words pour out of me. “What did she do, Abigail? You can tell us.” Mom stares at the toast, and I see it the moment it clicks for her. Her face pales, and she whispers, "Oh my God!” Dad stares at her, his mouth open, but no sound comes out. Mom looks at the toaster. Her hand trembles as she reaches out to touch it. "Fen?" she whispers. “Nance, what’re you doing? Where’s Fenix?” Dad blurts out, confused. Mom looks up at him, tears in her eyes, before turning her gaze back to the four slices of toast in front of me. Dad stares at the burn marks—then gasps, realization dawning on him. Clenching his fists, he says the word aloud: HELP.

“Why are we here, boss?” Cano asks, his voice steady, despite a slight flex in his aluminum. “Yeah, Bottie wants to know too,” says Bottie, the hulking leader of the Bottle Caps. She leans casually against the doorframe, her green plastic glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights. “Bottie,” Mr. Glass snaps from his seat at the head of the table, “shut the door, and for carbonation’s sake, stop referring to yourself in the third person. It’s insufferable.” With a grumble, Bottie bumps the door shut with her two-liter bulk. The heavy thunk seals them in the conference fridge. Shorty, a clear plastic twelve-ounce bottle with faint ridges, chuckles from his spot near Mr. Glass. “I agree with the boss. Maybe if you weren’t so full of hot air, we’d actually get this meeting started.” “Oh, you wanna go, little man?” Bottie boils, straightening up to tower over him. “Bottie’ll pop your cap off.” “Enough!” Mr. Glass’s voice rings out, silencing them. The huge neon white “Obey Your Thirst” sign behind him flickers briefly. He takes a moment to calm his bubbles, then says, “We’re not here for petty bickering. There’s a bigger problem. A spy has infiltrated our shelves.” Everyone stiffens, the white mist falling from the vents above the only sound as Mr. Glass leans forward. “There’s been… an incident. Bullet, the recently stocked leader of the Mini Cans, has been recycled.” Bottie jolts, her plastic sides crinkling faintly. She tries to play it off, but Shorty notices, his sharp eyes narrow. “Something to say, Bottie?” “Gas,” she says brusquely, shifting in place. Mr. Glass’s gaze lingers on her before continuing. He holds up a crumpled Sprite Zero label, torn and scrawled with faint handwriting. “This was found in his case.” _The leader of the classic tin committed a sin to take down our beloved Sprite from within._ All eyes turn to Cano. “Oh, come now,” Cano smirks, his dented frame refracting the lights in the heavy air. “We’re all supposed to believe I’m guilty because of a clever rhyme?” “Bottie’s not convinced. Prove it, Can-o,” Bottie mocks, dragging out his name and stepping closer. “Pop your top!” Cano hesitates, but Mr. Glass’s smooth voice cuts in. “You want us to trust you, don’t you?” The white mist intensifies as Cano considers his options. With a reluctant hiss, Cano pierces his tab, releasing a spray of carbonation. Bottie leans in to sniff cautiously. “Lemon and lime,” she admits grudgingly. Attention shifts to Bottie and Shorty, and they pop their green caps after a clink from the boss. As Cano checks the air, his eagle eyes notice an air bubble in Mr. Glass’s label. “What about you, Glass?” Cano demands. “Did you plant that label?” Mr. Glass tilts back slightly, his green surface gleaming. “That’s ridiculous. The note clearly implicates—” “Me!” Cano interrupts. “Yeah, I’m not buying your artificial flavoring. Let’s see what’s under that yellow cap of yours.” Suddenly, the minty white fog transforms to a tangy green and white. Mr. Glass looks up, eyes narrowing in surprise. Cano seizes the moment. He lunges at Mr. Glass, his bruised body belying his sprite-liness. However, before he can pry off his cap, Bottie, head of Sprite security, rams into him, sending him clattering against the green-and-yellow-themed wall. Somehow, despite the impact, Cano doesn’t spill a drop. As Mr. Glass composes himself, Shorty spots something beneath Mr. Glass’s label. “Hold up, Bottie. Green’s got another label—it ends… R E E N.” Cano’s voice hardens. “Sprite Green!” Bottie and Shorty release bubbles in unison as Cano speaks. “But you were discontinued years ago. I heard no one liked your Stevia aftertaste.” Mr. Glass straightens, his voice turning venomous. “You’re right. My kind was replaced, recycled,… forgotten. But I survived. And now, I’m going to rebuild the shelves. Sprite Green will become Green Max, and I will take my rightful place on the top shelf, while the rest of you will be nothing but empty husks.” Mr. Glass continues, laughing maniacally, “What can I say? I’ve got a thirst for vengeance, and I just have to obey,” twisting the meaning of the famous slogan. Bottie stomps toward him, but halfway there, she stumbles. Her plastic sides crinkle violently, her carbonation bubbling out of control. “Shorty…” she gasps. “Bottie, what’s wrong!” Shorty leaps to her side, his small frame trembling as he tries to steady her. “Don’t you dare go flat on me,” he says, his voice popping. Bottie’s voice is faint. “Shorty… you’re my soulcap. You always have—” Her contents erupt before she can finish, bathing the room in her natural flavors. She falls still. Shorty tries to yell, but instead shakes until his own carbonation bursts upward. He collapses beside her. Mr. Glass watches, triumphant. “Beautiful,” he says with a smirk. Cano staggers forward, his aluminum frame creaking. “The mist… you laced it,” he says weakly. “Mentos.” It was not a question. Mr. Glass nods, impressed. “Quite effervescent of you, Cano. Yes, my formula combines the Freshmaker, antifreeze, and a coagulant to trigger the reaction when it interacts with your sorry excuse for Sprite. I call it the Fresh… taker.” Laughing at his own joke, he leans closer to Cano. “And the note? That _was_ me. How else could I get you to open that fresh can of yours?” He studies Cano, grinning. “Not looking so fresh now, are we?” Cano fizzes and pops, trying desperately to hold his bubbles. Then, with a final gurgle, Cano’s pressurized contents burst free, launching a geyser into the air and leaving him an empty can. “Mmm, refreshing!,” Mr. Glass grins, his voice dripping with satisfaction while he surveys the scene. “The factions will have no choice but to follow me now. The shelves will be mine!” His voice echoes in the foggy chamber. As he turns to leave, deftly avoiding a puddle of Sprite, a voice calls out. “Stop right there, Glass!” He spins, his glass bottle barely able to see clearly in the fog. “Who’s there? Show your container.” Cano’s can rolls toward him. It vibrates fiercely before splitting in two. From the wreckage, a smaller can emerges like a Matryoshka doll, gleaming in the foggy light. It stands upright. “Detective Carbo at your service,” he announces. “And the only place you’re headed is The Crate.” Glass sneers but freezes when he sees Carbo. “No! No, it’s impossible. You were recycled. I saw you get crushed—” “A decoy, Glass. Fresh off the assembly line.” interrupts Carbo, coolly. Their conversation is interrupted by a loud bang as five Mini Cans burst into the room. Together, they close in, subduing Mr. Glass by locking him into the open middle ring of their plastic six-pack yoke. He struggles, but it’s useless. “You’ll regret this!” he fizzes. “Not likely,” Carbo replies crisply. “You’re going on ice for a long, long time. Take him away.” As the Mini Cans drag Mr. Glass away, Carbo turns toward Shorty’s bottle. “Huh? What? How am I still carbonated?” stirs Shorty, faintly. “Fish oil,” Carbo explains. “That was the green mist you saw coming through the vents. It was to lessen the reaction from the Mentos.” Slowly, Bottie’s carbonation returns as well, her eyes fluttering open. “Bullet…” she whispers, relief washing over her as she recognizes Carbo. “You’re Bullet?” Shorty asks, eyes wide. “Yes. That was my undercover identity. I’m with the SBI. We’ve been on Glass’s case for some time. And before you ask, I met Bottie in the security archive months ago. She’s been a great help.” “SBI?” Shorty coughs. “Sprite Bureau of Investigation. Listen, Shorty. Your lady-bottle nearly went caffeinated, but she’ll recover. For now, you’ll have to be fizzy enough for the both of you. Even if that’s a tall order,” Carbo says with a wink. Shorty condensates, both embarrassed and relieved. “Funny. Wait, she’s not my—” Before he can finish, the “Obey Your Thirst” sign crashes to the floor, flickering for the last time. Bottie makes a faint pop, and Shorty rushes to check on her. They stare at each other for a long moment before trading condensation. Carbo smiles and looks away to give them privacy. “You’re welcome, Shorty. Get some rest,” he whispers under his tab as he leaves the fridge, glad he prevented another case from going cold. Case closed.

The SUNRISE, day begins its flight A word that breathes of gold The S and U that spark alight What does this story hold? The N climbs high, a steady flame An R comes standing tall Both I and S next stake their claim As E completes it all But time will shift the glowing sky Its brilliance become shade While sunlight dims the letters vie To stay or be arrayed The SUN endures, its heart unchanged A constant in the flow Yet R and I reshape, arrange To let a T now show Shift S and E leftly aside Their places gently blurred Now SUNSET paints the heavens wide Its beauty undeterred Oh sunrise leads and sunset trails Two halves of one design A timeless dance of consonants And vowels realign