The alarm shrieks throughout the base, disturbing the pristine silence of the night.

"ALERT. DESERTER DETECTED. CAPTURE ALIVE IF POSSIBLE."

I hear the commander's voice murmuring from the comms device I stole and know they're talking about me. But just as I peek my head around the corner to see what's what, a searchlight grazes my cheek.

Crap.

In front of me stand massive mechanical bodies twice the size of a human. Their eyes gleam ominously in the night as they sweep the area for prey. As I look, another appears. Then another. Then another. While they amass, I creep forward as slowly as possible so as not to catch their attention.

So how did all this happen? That's easy: because of the Flowers. The appeared out of the blue one day and stole all of our happy lives away. My wife and I, we had a son, but... God, he was so young.

I volunteered to fight the Flowers in an attempt to find some kind of revenge, but humanity still hasn't found the key to victory. My wife's been in low spirits lately — she's clearly exhausted by all the fighting — and I worry I may end up losing her at this rate. So that's why I decided to conduct my own survey of the Flowers and find a way out of this no-win scenario.

As I delved into the depths of the base, I managed to download reams of data from a computer in a classified area. It was an incredibly risky move, but it ended up being more than worth it; hidden in all that data was the location of something called the Flower Den, which is the enemy's main base. It was the kind of intel that could change everything.

But before I could even process what I'd found, I tripped an alarm and had to make a break for it. I spent so much time hiding in the shadows as I made my way inch by agonizing inch toward the exit. And now, an eternity later, I find myself so very close to my goal.

I reach up and touch my pocket to make sure the downloaded information is still there. The moment I do, a brilliant white light washes over me.

"DESERTER LOCATED."

The voice is cold, and it grows louder as its mechanical owner moves toward my position. I can't let them catch me here; if they do, all of this will have been for nothing.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON. LIE ON THE GROUND."

Squinting under the light, I put my fingers on the grip of my greatsword. "All right, big fella, no need to get your panties in a twist. I'm not going to fight back."

I toss my weapon, which clatters to the floor. "There. I'm unarmed. We good here?"

"APPREHENDING TARGET."

The machine moves forward, ready to subdue me, but I have a surprise in store. Before it can grab me, I slip through its legs and heave myself up and onto its back, then yank the cover off the base of its neck and jam my device into the waiting socket.

"MALWARE DETECTED. COMMENCING FORCED SHUTDOWN."

See, my sword wasn't my only weapon — I'd also packed a self-replicating virus just in case. As soon as the machine grinds to a halt, I pick up my sword and run as fast as my legs can carry me toward the location of the Flower Den.

I'm going to end this war.

I'm going to end it tonight.

I will never lose anyone I care about ever again.

My journey to the Flower Den continues. It's a long trek, but I just put my head down, follow the stolen map data in my device, and try to trust that I know what I'm doing.

From everything I can tell, the army actually brought the den under our control some time ago, but command didn't send anyone in to investigate. That strikes me as strange, considering it would be the perfect time to learn how the Flowers live, so I intend to find out for myself.

As night fades and morning comes, I arrive at my destination and find corpses scattered throughout the area — most likely the soldiers who were first sent in to take the place. But aside from signs of an old battle, what catches my attention is the building that stretches into the air almost beyond where I can see. Though weathered and grungy, there's a strangely majestic air about the place, and I try to tread lightly as I slip inside through a shattered door.

The building is dim inside, and large enough that I can't see the ends of the rooms. The walls are sturdy, their faces lush with vines. As I make my way further in, the only light comes from small streams of morning sunshine that filter in through broken windows. The hallway is a never-ending stream of shattered glass, splintered wood, and rubble. But then...

"PLEASE. PLEASE."

I hear a woman's voice — barely a whisper.

"Hello?" I ask. "Is someone there?"

The only response I get from the darkness is silence. As I carefully proceed forward, the far end of the building finally comes into view.

"MERCY."

The next voice is male. Multiple survivors, maybe? I scan my surroundings, looking for human forms, when suddenly...

"Okay, what the hell?"

Resting at the far wall are a series of tiny Flower sprouts. The faces in the juvenile petals distort in agony as they attempt to speak to me.

"SALVATION."

Several voices speak at once. I know this is what happens to people who are consumed by Flowers — they become a part of the whole, unable to express their own will any longer.

"They aren't human anymore," I tell myself. "They're not human, dammit. They're Flowers."

The sprouts lower their petals to reveal a series of twisted faces. The way they droop toward the ground gives the impression they're praying.

"MOTHER. SAVE US, MOTHER."

After a moment, I realize the things are actually praying. The subject of their reverence is a dilapidated altar upon which rests a grand portrait. It's dirty enough I can't tell what kind of person it's supposed to show, but it makes my heart beat in my chest for a reason I can't explain.

Why do I feel this way?

But no one is there to answer my question, and the only response is the continued whisper of frantic prayers.

"AHH. AHH. EVERYONE IS DEAD."

In the dingy building, the smallest Flower sniffles. A medium-sized one speaks to soothe it.

"ALL IS WELL, LITTLE ONE. THE MOTHER WILL SAVE US."

"THE MOTHER? SHE WHO CREATED US?"

Voices of prayer fill the building anew. How eerie it sounds. How horrific. The ones who stole happiness from me and my family have no right to look for salvation.

"NO. NO. NO."

I approach silently from behind, cutting down the young Flowers with faces. I kick their remains aside and approach the altar, staring at the dirty portrait atop it.

"Hmm?"

I spy a book fallen behind the altar. Someone's diary. It's tattered, the writing faded in places, but some pages are still legible.

"A Flower...religion?"

I'd heard about such things before. People believed the Flowers would save the world, and so began to worship them. It seems I had found one of their temples.

I carefully turn the pages so as not to tear the fragile paper. For a time, those who worshipped the Flowers took in young Flowers and lived alongside them in this place. But they were all eaten in the end, leaving behind only a mass of Flowers to continue a meaningless prayer without end.

As my eyes continue to scan the diary, I spot the word "portrait." My hurried hands come to a stop and I read, transfixed.

That portrait was apparently one of the religion's symbols, one as revered and important as the Flowers themselves. But why did they find it so precious?

I find my answer on the final page. The people in the portrait were the ones charge of Flower research — the ones who brought those monsters into the world. Their names...

"No. I don't believe this. It's impossible."

I walk up to the altar and wipe away as much of the dirt as possible. Faces slowly appear from beneath the grime. I'm greeted with cold, tense expressions. Though the air about her is different, she looks exactly like HER.

I reel, staggering to keep myself upright. As my hand comes to rest on the frame, I hear something fall.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

This building is a ruin; not surprising that it's falling apart. But as I look to the ceiling, I see something writhing in the dark.

Those are...I first thought the ceiling was covered in vines, but I was mistaken. Instead, an infinite number of juvenile Flowers have tangled together to create a roof.

They rush me as one, crying out in voices of madness. I cut them down as I run, barely escaping with my life. But it was all worth it, for I now have evidence for the theory that Flowers are sentient. This data will be a huge boon to our research — it might even be the thread that finally leads to use eliminating them once and for all.

And yet, even knowing this, I set fire to the church, burning the Flowers and erasing the portrait from existence. The crimson flames howl in the billowing wind. They swallow the building whole, reducing everything within to ash and bone.

Once I burn the church, I set off on the long road back to the base where my wife is waiting, arriving after the sun has set.I can't get caught. I can't. They're still after me because I'm technically a deserter. Cautious of my surroundings, I creep back to our room.

"You're back!"

She's been waiting for me the entire time, and looks exhausted as she leaps from her chair.

"We need to get out of here," I reply. She's bewildered, but I don't wait for her to start gathering our things. I quickly pack the photo of our son, followed by his mementos. After that, I grab some portable rations I'd pilfered on a mission once, just in case.

"Get out of here and go where?"

"I don't know."

Her bewilderment grows at my answer.

"You can't just vanish, then reappear out of nowhere and say we have to leave!"

I probably would have said the same in her shoes.

"Okay. I'll keep this short, but you have to listen."

I tell her what I saw in the church. I tell her about the bizarre Flower buds, the altar, and the portrait. The portrait of the woman who looks exactly like my wife — the one they call "Mother.""

Are you sure you weren't dreaming?" my wife asks quietly. "I mean, that's just not possible."

She's right. She fights against the Flowers. She can't be their mother.

"The superior officers are hiding something."

They must have known what was in that church-turned-Flower den, yet they chose not to send a survey team. I can't understand why; all I feel is an ominous sensation gripping my entire being.

"Let's go."

I zip the bag shut and hold out a hand. But then...

"He has admitted to coming across top-secret information."

That's all she says in return. A moment later, the door swings open and commanders fall into place behind her.

"I believe he found it sometime between the evening previous and this morning. But erase two days' worth of memories, just in case."

"Understood."

The commanders do as she says and grab me.

"Wait! Why are you — !?"

Ordering around commanding officers? Trying to erase my memory? Before I can ask, my mouth is gagged and I'm pinned to the floor. I realize my mistake then: It isn't the superior officers who are hiding something.

"This is for your sake," she whispers.

A cold rod stings to my neck as a shock courses through my body. In the instinctual fear of death, my life begins to flash before my eyes.

I see my wife's smile.

Her tear-streaked cheeks.

Her face colored with anger.

I thought I knew everything about her, but the look on her face right now is cold and distant.

Just like the woman in the portrait.

As the darkness swallows my consciousness, I remain oblivious to her intentions — and her truth.

A prisoner who fights Flowers for revenge...Wow! That story was like a movie, huh? I mean, he seeks revenge for love, and he falls into the pits of the abyss for love, too.

Human love sure is a strange thing! No matter how strong or smart someone is, love dulls their judgement and clouds their outlook. It's almost like a poison that slowly eats them away from the inside, right?

But what makes the man so incredible is how he can get drunk off that poison. Some may think that foolish, but I quite like it. Heck, you know me — I ADORE pure humans like him!

Hey there, friend. Up for some action today? I got the cards if you got the scratch!

How's that? You think I got nothing to bet 'cause I lost to 063y? Ha! You shouda seen the run I went on once the chips were down! I was pullin' aces outta thin air left and right, and by the end of it...

Nah, I'm kidding. Guy took me to the freaking cleaners. Did that thing where he just stares at you without moving and you can't ever tell if his hand is great or crap. But listen, here's the weird thing: After he'd taken everything but my skivvies, he stood up, grabbed a single piece of paper off the table and walked away. Didn't even look at all the other stuff I bet.

Weird guy, right? I mean, I know paper's valuable as hell to us prisoners, but you think he woulda...

Wait, seriously? He needs the paper so he can write a letter to the missus and cheer her up? Well, ain't that a hell of a thing. Almost brings a tear to your eye.

Become a flower and bless us with your presence
(Careful and slow here! Precise breathing!)

Bestow upon us the truth
(Make each note clear!)

We give you our hearts for salvation
(No stomach falsetto. I know it's hard!)

Become a flower and bless us with your presence
(Harmony! Don't rush!)

Come to us as we come to you
(Big finale! Make 'em cry!)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I'm really nervous about the choir performance, but also quite excited. We're meeting at the rear entrance of the prayer chapel at noon, then rehearsing after. Remember where you're supposed to stand, everyone!

Battles with the Flowers grow more int■nse by the day, and the prisoners are ■■■■■■ morale. Those who fight with partners ha■e higher stress levels than those who are single, and I beli■ve one particular male prisoner needs the most attention. He seems do■■■e at first, and is generally trusted by the other prisoners, but he often a■ts unpredictably in situations where his wife is in■■■ved.

How many more misconducts will he have to go through before he ■■ deemed an ■■■■■? Last time, an err■r I disposed of called me a "■■■■■," but I knew that already. My superiors t■■l me prisoners are all expendable, but I ■■■■■ believe that. As I engage directly with them, I get the ■■■■■ they have wills and personalities of their own. To dispose of them is ■■■■■■■■ work. I t■■■ my coworkers about this, and they ■■■■ me such an em■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■■■■■ might see me categorized as an error. I couldn't t■■■ if they were joking, or if ■■■■ ■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■.

Is ■■■■■■■ fear and anxiety another sign of being an error? I'm ■■■■■■.

Verse 1: Festival

The Flowers spoke thusly to their five serving priests: Believe in Us and serve Us.

That was the first day.

The priests, along with all believers, promised to give all to the Flowers, and thus did pay a price most dear.

What came of it was this place of worship.

Entrust all to Them.

Give all to Them.

Only then will we become Flowers and reach a new world.

How many letters have I written you now?

I thought I was out of things to say — that the well of feelings I had to share with you had dried up like leaves in autumn. And yet, I find I cannot put down my pen,
even as its ink runs low.

I know you would tell me to not force myself to write, but I think leaving something in your name like this is saving me. At the very least, it serves as proof that I loved you, and that we once walked together.

We will be sent to different squadrons in the next subjugation. I know this.

So if anything happens...just think of these letters as me.

The only sounds in the empty room are a metronomic beeping and the quiet breathing of my husband. He is bound to the bed, his entire body wired to a machine that controls his body temperature, heart rate, and all other life functions. Next to him, a young officer speaks softly to me.

"He acquired confidential information again, Commander. This is his eight instance of unauthorized access to such intelligence."

As she speaks, details of my husband's previous infractions appear on a nearby wall screen. I'm not surprised; it's always been like this. Whenever he sees a chance, he breaks into some area deep within the base and steals classified data about the Flowers.

"I'm sorry Commander, but I can't cover for him anymore."

Commander. The word stings my ears. I hate being called by that title around my husband, even though he's not awake to hear it.

It wasn't always like this. But one day, the Flowers attacked our world and everything changed. Humanity is yet to find a key to victory; if anything, we fade a little more each time the sun rises on a new day. We've lost so many now: soldiers, prisoners, and yes, even commanders. The Flowers have taken them all. But the lack of people in leadership positions is our most pressing concern, so the people in charge attempted to solve it with a most novel solution:

They promoted the prisoners.

Prisoners like me.

The job of commander is to manage and control the rest of the prisoners. So when news of my own promotion came, I knew instantly that I would have to send my own husband off into the jaws of death. I couldn't bear to share that with him, so I attempted to keep it a secret and live my life just as I always had — until the day he broke into the base and first stole confidential information.

We have rules for people who do such things. The punishment is very swift — and very final. But instead of putting him to death, I used privileges of command to keep him alive. I ordered the classified information deleted from his memories, and we returned to our normal lives. I thought I could somehow keep this up — that I could keep lying to everyone about what I was now. And I might have done it, except that my husband stole classified information again.

And again.

And again.

The irony is almost too much to bear: The reason he risked death to find some path to victory against the Flowers was because he wanted to protect me. But now, once again, it is my turn to protect him.

"Prepare for memory deletion." I say to the officer. When she doesn't move, I slowly turn my head to look at her. "That is a direct order."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot comply."

Her quiet voice rattles in my ears. "What did you say?"

"Your husband should have been eliminated after his first transgression, but you used your authority to delete his memories and protect him. I've stood by as you did so again and again, but I can abide it no longer."

She goes on to tell me that my actions are not as secret as I thought — other commanders are aware of what I have been doing, and they are displeased to say the least. If it does not stop, they will deem me unfit for command and dispose of me in the way all useless prisoners are dealt with.

"I didn't ask for this," I whisper. "I didn't ask for any of it."

And it's true. I didn't. I didn't care for the power of command, or the honor, or the ceremonial trappings. The only thing I cared about was protecting the man I love.

"You have to stop this," says the officer. "We have plans in motions, great plans that may finally turn the tide of this war and give you the revenge you seek. Would you really throw all of that away?"

She takes my hand and places it gently atop the machine. "If you turn this off, his vitals will cease to function. He'll just... go to sleep. Quickly. Peacefully. But we're running out of time, Commander, and we need you to make a decision."

Her quiet voice is a faint echo in the empty room.

The leisurely beeping that disturbs the quiet of the living room tells me the water is boiling. I get up from my chair and head to the kitchen, where I take out an assortment of snacks and prepare my tea.

Treatment like this was nigh unthinkable when I was a low-ranking soldier — or to be more blunt, a prisoner with a slightly more palatable title. But now I own a first-class apartment with a guest room — don't know when I'll be using that — and a constant supply of luxuries like sweets and tea.

Yes, my life certainly became enriched when I took on the position of a superior officer. But every day I wake up and ask myself what the point is to having such wealth. What even is the point?

I glanced over at the framed photograph in the center of the living room, the one showing a smiling image of my husband. He was my rock. My light. The person I loved more than anything.

And the person I killed.

Pressured by command, I made the decision to turn off my husband's life support, abandoning what was most precious to me for the benefit of the base. As a result, my subordinates found renewed confidence in me, and my superiors praised my loyalty. But this brings me right back around to the same question I always ask: What's the point? What is the goddamn point?

I briefly considered following my husband into the afterlife, but couldn't do it. The shrewd watch of my commanders played a part in that decision, but ultimately, I couldn't abandon my plan to end the Flowers once and for all.

Blowing steam across my mug, I press a few buttons on a small screen on the kitchen counter and pull up footage from a surveillance camera. Children's voices come through, as well as the shrill bark of an overseer.

"Get in line, all of you!"

"Kay!"

There are countless prisoners exhausted by this never-ending war with the Flowers—and our recent rise in deserters is proof. But I've come up with a plan to give even the lowest soldier a reason to fight. Want to hear it? It's a doozy.

See, I proposed we implant prisoners with memories of having children, then supply them with actual children to protect. I figured I'd face an uphill battle — or be laughed out of the room entirely — but to my shock, command not only approved the plan, they supplied the children that I needed to make it work. The little moppets now live in a care center in the base, giving the prisoners who are their "parents" a reason to keep fighting in the outside world.

The irony just kills me.

My own son was killed by the Flowers, is the thing — and the animosity born from that memory is what kept me alive all this time. The pain of the loss is a set of teeth on my heart as fresh as the day it happened, so the fact I'm using that same pain to help my former companions rush headlong into death is...

Well it's monstrous.
Monstrous.

But now that I've chosen this path, there's no turning back. I have to destroy the Flowers and have my revenge, because — 

"I'm hooome! What's my snack?"

A small figure rushes into the living room, and I shake myself free from my reverie as I turn to him. "You have something to do before snack time, yes?"

His face lights up as he rushes to the most prominent place in the living room: the memorial for my husband. The boy takes the photograph and holds it reverently in both of his tiny hands.

"I'm home, Dad!"

God, his eyes remind me so much of him...

In my position as a senior officer, I've led countless projects to completion—not just the one that keeps soldiers from deserting. We've also mapped Flower dens around the planet, performed research into their ecology, and developed a host of new weapons. Though we've yet to exterminate the enemy, humanity has stepped back from the brink, and is now in the process of putting itself together again.

"Sorry we took so long, Mom."

I turn to find my son walking into the officer's lounge. He's grown over the years, and is now more a man than the little boy I remembered.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here," I say.

A woman steps out from behind my son, her wide eyes boring deep into my own.

"Uh, so, Mom? This is my girlfriend. I think I...mentioned her?"

His bashful introduction causes me to chuckle.

"Hello, ma'am," she says. "My name is ———, and I work in the research division."

The introduction is sweet, but unnecessary; I already know everything there is to know about her. Her name, age, job, time of birth — every moment of her life is at my fingertips. Yet I manage to put on an expression of ignorance and listen to the rest of her introduction.

"I'm pleased to have met you today," I say when she's done. Our chat is short, but pleasant enough, and I'm happy to see how tactfully she handles her time in the spotlight. But then, at the moment when my son is supposed to ease us out of the awkward silence that follows introductions, he blurts out:

"You two are kind of similar."

"Similar?" asks his girlfriend. "You mean me and your mother?"

"Yeah. Like, I dunno. The vibes you give off."

My mouth twists wryly at that. "Saying your girlfriend reminds you of your mother is the worst possible thing you could say, Son. If she never speaks to you again, I'll fully support her decision."

An awkward expression crosses my son's face, which causes his girlfriend to burst out laughing. The tension eased at last, they give brief farewells and leave the lounge. As I watch them go, a small sigh rises in my heart. A moment later, my commander arrives and places a hot drink before me.

"Thank you," I murmur quietly. The tea is just warm enough not to burn. She knows exactly what I like — no surprise, seeing as we've been mostly inseparable ever since I rose up to the position of senior officer. Perhaps that's why she feels comfortable enough to look me in the eye and say:

"How does it feel to have your husband introduce his girlfriend to you?"

Ah, she's always like this. She seems cold and emotionless most of the time, but in truth, she finds nothing more delightful than pushing people's buttons.

"He is my son now."

Here's the thing: Once I learned that management possessed the technology to create clones, I used my husband's stored genetic data to make one, then took him out of the incubator while he was still a baby. This was only done to protect him; if he were to mature there and have my husband's old memories implanted, he'd only make the same mistake of accessing top-secret data all over again.

"And what about her? Does she meet expectations?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Why not? She has a stellar reputation, and seems extremely well-tempered."

"It's not a question of character. Her performance is simply too average."

This is true. The girl has shown no aptitude for science, and seems content to remain a lowly, anonymous researcher. She's nothing like me, which means she is no proper match for him.

I lean back and close my eyes. Bringing up an image of her smiling face, I mentally scrawl a red X across it.

Something rocks me, stirring me from sleep. When I open my eyes, I'm greeted by a bright, false sun and the familiar sight of my commander's face.

"He's crying. Should you attend to him?"

She jerks her chin toward a small crib, where I hear a baby's disgruntled mumbling.

"Oh, yes. Thank you. Goodness, my hearing has gotten worse as I've grown older; I used to leap out of bed at the slightest sound when my son was a baby!"

I lift the baby into my arms and look into his eyes. "You were sleeping so soundly, little one. What do you need? A diaper change? Milk?"

As I rock the little guy in my arms to calm him down, a smile cracks across my commander's face. It isn't a warm, fond smile, but a cold and pitying one.

"He looks so much like you."

"You think so?" I reply quietly, pretending not to hear the thorns in her speech.

"But I suppose he would. The father is your husb...Apologies. Your son. And the mother is your clone too."

She's correct. Around the time I created my husband's clone, I made a dozen clones of myself. I altered some so they didn't look exactly like me, then removed them from the incubators and gave them to prisoners who could serve as suitable parents.

"I'm surprised it went so well. Was every girl your son dated your clone?"

All my clones had been raised in varying environments, which means they show their uniqueness in different ways. Some are excellent workers with brilliant talent. Some are average. Some dropouts.

"His mother is quiet and seems average at a glance, but she has an analytical mind."

Those who are quiet and tend to have subdued emotions are often more colorful with those they're comfortable with.

"She's family-oriented," my commander says, her tone as flat as if she's reading from a document. "Your son's wife is almost exactly like you, from her skill set to her personality — and to a rather shocking degree.

"I'd spent decades carefully putting this project into motion just for this moment. I sent my clones to my son so they would meet, made sure they dated, then encouraged them to have children.

"Do you think me odd?"
I ask suddenly.

My commander nods. "I do. However, I don't think it's a bad thing. This is the happiest I've ever seen you."

My son has been taken from me. My husband is lost. But now, at long last, I finally have it all back. This child was born from a clone of my husband and my own clone. it is my — our — true son.

I look down and realize the grumpy, crying baby has finally begun to snore softly in my arms.

She needs the support of her family in her fight with the Flowers. This is why she holds her husband and son so dear.

Look at all she has. So many memories. Not just photographs, but sketches, letters — even scribbles. She keeps each and every last one. They serve as her proof.

...Yes, it is natural she remembers her husband in this way. However, it is strange that she keeps mementos of her ■■■■■■■■■ son. You are correct in that.

But they say a woman's prayer will pierce the most stalwart of stones. If she believes this is her truth, it will one day become her truth.

The mementos are there to help her keep her story straight. They are tools to make her believe she had a son — tools to help her play the role of mother.

So please, be kind to her. Watch over her. Especially when it comes time for her to learn the truth and choose her path.

Ugh, I hate getting assigned to expeditions. Prep takes forever, and we're all pretty much guaranteed to die anyway. I don't get why we have to lug all this crap around, and...

Wait, F66x is with us this time? Oh that's even worse! Okay, so listen. She's got, like, a wall around her, you know? We were in the same unit last time, and she never said a word more than she absolutely needed to — I mean, not a word! It was impossible to get to know her. I mean, does the chick even smile?

...Huh? I should ask her about her husband? The hell does that mean? ...Uh-huh. ...Uh-huh. ...Wait, so she's head over heels for him and gets all chatty whenever he comes up?

Heh. That's adorable, actually.

Growing Up

He walks on his own now. But he always stumbles backwards. I guess his head is too big.

He can't produce actual words, but from how he babbles I can only assume he's trying to talk to me. He knows how to gesture hello and goodbye, and he's starting to understand what I'm saying.

He's getting bigger and has more lung capacity, so now his nighttime crying fits are more like screaming fits. And that means I'm always running on low sleep...

I still don't know what I'm doing raising this kid, and there are plenty of days where I hate everything because I'm so busy. But when I see how the shape of his eyes looks exactly like his, I feel my energy rush back to me.

I never, ever in my wildest dreams imagined that something so precious could exist on this planet.

Re: Standards for Individuals Suited for Promotion to Officer and Command Positions

Basic capabilities should be higher than average, as well as a logical decision-making ability. Ask yourself, could this individual sacrifice one to permit ten to live?

However, taking historic data into consideration, we cannot claim that judgments made out of rationality alone are always correct. Actual records shows that superior officers who place too much value on efficiency and push for perfection in battle and experiments are often the subjects of mutiny among soldiers (i.e. prisoners), and sometimes perish as a result.

She is the only one we can think of who prioritizes rationality, yet can also keep dissent from the lowest ranks to a minimum. Though merciful, she is driven by revenge, and we are confident she is willing to sacrifice others to achieve that end.

We do believe there is a chance her husband — another prisoner — may warp her judgment. However, we are planning to deal with that matter separately. If this goes well, we are confident she will prove to be the perfect superior officer.

Hello! Here are the parts I mentioned, the one you need to repair that toy.

Hmm? Oh, you're very welcome! The fight was easy — didn't take much extra work at all to pick these up! Still, you sure are getting a lot more children over at the center, huh? How many caretakers do you have now?

Fifteen including you? Whoa, that's a lot! I guess that all happened since that ex-prisoner became an officer, huh? I mean, what with the prisoners and their kids all staying in the same base now. Still, I suppose they're all grateful, 'cause the morale of the parents has shot through the roof! I thought those Flowers were gonna crush us, but now we're actually holding 'em off. Just goes to show how people get stronger when they've got something they love to fight for.

Wish I had something like that for myself, honestly, 'cause I've got no interest in dying for a good long time. Still, I dunno about having kids. I mean, they're cute and all, but we're nowhere near close to routing the Flowers, and that makes me nervous.

Oh, hey! I know! Why don't I work to protect YOU!? I mean, you take care of the kids, so someone should return the favor! How about it? Sounds like a sweet deal, yeah?

I've learned so many new words that I wanted to write you a letter. But I've said "thank you" and "I love you" so many times that I don't have anything else to write and now don't know what to do. But you always look so happy when I hand you a letter, which makes me want to write you even more.

So I hope you're well, Mom.

Thank you, Mom.

I love you, Mom.

Let's be together always.

I walk along a dilapidated railroad lined by endless fields of sunflowers. High above, an uncaring sun rages against a brilliant blue sky, turning the rows of blossoms into paint-smeared streaks of yellow.

Oh, how I hate it all.

Time is an illusion here. Hunger a constant companion. My steps fall one after the other after the other, until I finally see a tunnel begin to materialize in the heat-shimmer distance. And on the other side of it, a foreign city.

This country used to kidnap children in an effort to improve its gene pool, you see. And while the victims were spirited from countries across the world, the majority came from the city at the other end of this tunnel — the city that is my true home. And that is why I walk through the pain and the smells and the hunger and the heat: in the hope it all somehow leads me to the truth.

A woman stands at the tunnel entrance. She's maybe in her mid-40s, with a staff in her hand. Her steely eyes stare unblinkingly at the sunflowers, but as I attempt to slip past, she spins around and whips a blade out of the top of her staff. I manage to block it with my own, and we stand there a moment, frozen in time.

"What business does a soldier have in a place like this?" she asks, ire in her voice. "I know that sword you hold. It took the lives of countless numbers of my countrymen.

"In truth, I'd brought the sword with me when I deserted the army, which is why it has a military insignia on the scabbard. To me, it's just a weapon — but to this woman, it is the sign of her most hated enemy.

"Found it on the ground," I say casually. Clearly unconvinced by my answer, she makes her move. Our blades begin to ring back and forth in a blur of iron and steel. Her blows are relentless, her strength otherworldly. Any advantage I may have had is long gone, and as I desperately attempt to fend her off, she lands a firm blow on the pit of my stomach, crumpling me to the ground.

The woman looms over me, blocking out that brilliant blue sky. She raises her blade above her head and prepares to claim my life, but before she can act, another voice calls out from inside the tunnel.

"Captain! Enemy approaching!"

An enemy attack? No. Oh, no.

As my attacker lowers her weapon and turns to face this new threat, I manage to tilt my head toward the disturbance. It's a squadron of soldiers all dressed in the familiar uniform of my old intel corps. Were they here for me? Did they really follow me all the way out here?

"Beat them back!" cries the captain. "Do not let them touch the sunflowers!"

On her command, armed villagers pour out of the tunnel and begin battling my old companions. They fight well, these commoners — better than I would have expected. But before I can see more, the pain of my wounds floods through me, turning the sounds of gunfire and screams into the hush of distant rain on a windowpane before fading out altogether.

"You don't have much of a talent for housework, I see."

This scolding comes as I sweep the living room, and I turn to see the owner of this house: the same captain who attacked me on the railroad two days prior. She was permitting me to stay in a spare room by way of apology for injuring me — which would have been a kinder gesture had she not also demanded that I clean and run errands to pay for room and board.

"I'm leaving for patrol. Make sure you clean every inch of this place. Got it?"

This border city lives in constant danger of invasion, and the captain leads a militia that helps to keep it safe. She apparently attacked me because she thought I was the enemy — a mistake put to rights the moment she saw my former intel companions arrive and attempt to kill me. Regardless, I've had enough of this arrangement; I'm going to leave this house tonight if it's the last thing I do. But as I whip the broom around and send dust flying through the air, the air is split by a sudden thunder so loud it almost tears my ears from their moorings.

Shaking the cobwebs free, I rush to a nearby window and see a cannon firing a giant ball of water high into the sky. The unusual missile flies through the air and tunnel before bursting apart and showing the fields of sunflowers on either side of the railroad tracks. The droplets glitter as they fall through the blue, and I find myself utterly entranced by the sight.

"We lost so many children," murmurs the captain behind me.
"So many stolen from us. We planted a sunflower for every one of them."

As she says this, I realize one of those flowers was planted for me. On the heels of that, I suddenly imagine a man looking at the flowers and thinking of his kidnapped child. He's a soldier — the same one I killed to take revenge for my family. But in truth, the parents I had cared for and loved so dearly were the same people who kidnapped me from my home all those years ago. And the other man? The one I killed for revenge?

Well, he was my true father.

"So many of us are still waiting for their sunflowers to come home. Even now. Even still."

The woman's voice brings me back to reality, but I don't want to see the shadow I know is clouding her eyes. So instead of replying, I look away — because I don't have the time or patience to deal with such nonsense.

When midnight arrives, I gather my things and leave the house. My injuries were manageable, and I'd had more than my share of chores — but more importantly, I wanted to learn more about the abductions. After walking for a while, I come to one of the city's main avenues and spy the captain hurrying along with a lantern in her hand.

My curiosity piqued, I hide in the shadows and follow the bouncing glow of her lamp until we arrive at the other side of the tunnel, where she walks over to a sunflower and begins to whisper to herself. But the night is still, and her hush carries to my position. It's a name — the same name, said in a rush over and over and over again.

I take a step backward.
Two.

I don't want to believe what I'm hearing, but my ears do not lie. Because the name the captain is repeating to the uncaring night?

It's mine.

I set the bucket down next to the cannon and attempt to stretch the cricks out of my back. Every morning, this cannon fires water across the sky and over the sunflowers that stand sentinel at the entrance to the city. But all that water doesn't carry itself, so it's the job of the town militia to fill the buckets and carry them up and down, up and down, over and over again. And as the newest member of the militia, I'm now achingly familiar with exactly how lousy the job is.

"Thanks for the help, new guy," says a brawny man as he picks up my bucket. He dumps it into the cannon with a practiced hand, then turns to me and smiles.

"This might get loud."

An earth-shattering explosion rings out, sending a sphere of water flying towards the edge of the city. As I look down from the platform upon which we're perched, I see children playing on an abandoned train car; they look up and cheer with delight as the orb soars overhead.

"Captain started this whole cannon business six months ago," says my burly companion as we wipes sweat from his forehead. "Thought she was nuts at first, but now it's the highlight of everyone's day. Go figure."

"Well, I still think it's nuts. Haven't you people ever heard of a hose?"

The other man grins. "This ain't about being efficient; Captain wants to prove that weapons can be used for more than just killing. Came up with the idea right around the time her husband dies in battle, so maybe that's where it came from."

The captain's husband? He was my real father — and the very man I killed. But I can't let on to this, so I give a vague mumble in reply and climb down from the observation deck. There's still plenty of work to be done, after all.

In the afternoon, I head to the market with the captain to purchase items for soldiers who've been injured in battle. Once we pick up whatever they need, we'll bring it to them ourselves. Between hauling water and playing delivery boy, this is easily the most boring militia I've ever heard of — and yet, I find myself sticking around.

"I've got this one," I say, taking a package from the captain's hands.

"I don't need your help," she says sternly before breaking out into the smile that I'd started seeing more and more over the past few weeks. "But...I appreciate it."

Later, we arrive at the soldiers' homes with the provisions. The captain hands them over and engages with each and every person in conversation. I've never been much for idle chit-chat, so I pass the time by loitering in the yard.

After several such visits, we come to a house where she stays inside much longer than usual. From where I stand, it seems to be a conversation between friends; the patter is rapid, and I hear frequent peals of laughter from the pair of them.

After waiting around for what I consider to be a generous period of time, I finally lose my patience and storm into the house to hurry things along. But when my eyes lock onto the other person in the room — a man with a prosthetic leg — the laughter suddenly stops. The joy and color drains from the man's face as an ominous mood settles over the room.

"YOU!" cries the man. With a speed that belies his injury, he leaps from the couch, tackles me to the floor, and wraps his hand around my throat. "I'll never forget you! Never! NEVER!"

"Stop it! Get off him!"

The captain wraps her arms around the man and yanks him off me as he continues to protest. I want to tell him to stop — I want to scream. But my breath has abandoned me, and all I can do is pray that it returns.

"He's the one, Captain! He's the enemy soldier who killed your husband!"

Silence. Deafening. Eternal.

"Is this true?" asks the captain with a trembling voice. I want to respond, but my body is shaking too hard. I've never been this scared — not in any battle, not from any man. The silence grows and thickens until it feels like it will smother the life out of the three of us and leave nothing behind but dust.

"Get out of here. Leave. I don't ever want to see your face again."

I start to stammer something — some pathetic explanation — but she turns to me with blade in hand, just as she did the first day we met. Yet the look in her eyes is much fiercer that it was then; a wild thing that shows a person on the edge of losing everything that might possibly make her human.

"NOW!"

My quivering legs somehow propel me out of the house and through the streets of town. I curse my stupidity as I run, bemoaning how I'd stayed with the captain in some pathetic attempt to repent for how I'd torn her life apart. But here's the funny thing: I actually thought I could do it. I actually thought I might be able to make amends.

Ah, but that was the wish of a fool.

I urge myself forward.
One more step and my ragged breath echoes in the dark. One more step and my lungs burn pure fire. One more step. One more step. One more step.

"I don't ever want to see your face again."

The Captain's words play in my brain without pause, which is why I'd originally planned to never return to the city after the night I abandoned it three months prior. But then I learned it had fallen into enemy hands, so now I am running back, running with everything I have, all so I might reach a woman who wants nothing more than to never see me again.

I finally reach the city's rear gates and step through. Taking a deep breath, I look around, my eyes scarcely able to process what they see.

The hardy merchants who kept trading despite short supplies. The disciplined members of the militia. The children who loved to play in the abandoned train cars. All the people who once made the city a living, breathing thing are now charred corpses smoking on the ground. The world is silent and still, save for the occasional gust of wind and the uncaring crackle of flame.

Eventually, I discover the body of the brawny militia member in the rubble of what remains of the cannon. The pungent scent of gunpowder is still strong, even through it was now used to fire water. As I press on, I find only death. A familiar face here, a name on the wind there. But what I cannot seem to find is the body of the Captain — the very reason I came back in the first place.

Could it be? Is it possible?

Instinct quickly bubbles into outright conviction, and I set off at a run for the sunflowers she loved above all things. But when I emerge on the other side of the tunnel, I'm horrified to find the fields ablaze, the flowers transformed into an endless river of fire under the dark night sky. Against their light, I finally see a familiar figure lying on the tracks.

I race to the Captain's side and take an involuntary step back, aghast. Her body is an ocean of bloody wounds, her breath a rasp. How many had she fought to get here? How many of them did it take to finally lay her low?

"I'm...sorry..."

Her mouth parts slightly as these words escape, and I drop to my knees and cradle her in my arms. She's cold — so cold. How can someone be this cold when everything around us is nothing but fire and madness?

"I just wanted...to see my boy..."

Each of the sunflowers planted here represented a child that was stolen. So the Captain didn't see them as flowers, but her son. That was why she came at the end of her life.

"I just wanted to see him..."

She repeats the phrase over and over, losing a little more of herself in the process.

"I just wanted to see him...
I just wanted to see him...
I just wanted to see him..."

But he's here, Mom.
He's right in front of you.

I wanted to tell her the truth, but I also knew it would make her last moments even more painful. After all, I was the same person who'd killed her husband not six months before. So instead, I hold her hand in mine and say nothing. Eventually it slips from my grasp and settles on the ground. A petal from one of the sunflowers drifts out of the fire and flutters toward us, and by the time it joins her hand on the earth, she is gone.

"I'll come see you someday." I whisper. "I swear it."

But as sparks crackle off the sunflowers and drift away into the gloomy night, it feels like the dawn has never been so far away.

Carrier: All right, time for handoff!

Substitute: Boy...revenge...

Carrier: I see. A boy soldier entrapped by feelings of revenge, is it?

Substitute: Violent...fighting...

Carrier: Uncooperative and brutish, you say? Always arguing with someone?

Substitute: But...scared...acts to...

Carrier: Mmm-hmm. He acts to hide his past cowardice. Yes, yes, of course. A tale old as time!

Substitute: ...kind...

Carrier: Yet he shows his kind side every now and again.

Substitute: Frees...bugs... Feeds...cats...

Carrier: He even sets lost bugs free and feeds stray cats? Well, doesn't that just beat the band!

Substitute: Squad...him...

Carrier: And every member of the squad adores him. Goodness, were he not born into an age of war, he might have been but a regular boy.

Substitute: ......up.

Carrier: Come again, chum? Couldn't quite hear you there.

Substitute: ......up!

Carrier: What!? There's a part of the boy's hair that's always pointing up, you say!?

Lemme start by saying I wasn't originally going to reply. But there are weird people out there who respect you and will be annoyed if I don't, and I can't deal with them anymore. So here we go.

Sorry my laundry isn't good enough. I'll do better.
Sorry for not cooperating in the kitchen. I'll do better.
Sorry for arguing with the other soldiers. I'll do better.
Oh, and sorry I don't conduct myself as a member of the team. I'll do better.

There. The end. Also, you don't have to write me any more letters. We're in the same squad, and you're not my father. In fact, I've been living just fine without parents for a while now, so maybe stop the nagging.

Oh, but I know you saved my ass on our last mission, and I intend to repay that debt. So thanks for that, I guess. This is both the last time you'll hear me say "thank you" and the last time I'll ever write you a letter. Bye.

―――――――――
TOP SECRET
―――――――――

Superior motor functions.
Off-the-chart intelligence.
This child is special, and clearly surpasses the other "sons" we have raised so far. Indeed, we have procured a particularly fine specimen.

Genuine cowardice, an overly-kind disposition — these are minor faults in the grand scheme of things. And yet, weaknesses can often create a sharper bite. One might even say such imperfections are a kind of benefit, in the end.

Even more delightful is how he displayed a willingness to become a soldier of his own accord. As his "parents," we must express excitement for the day he becomes a hero of our country and changes this world for the better.

Author: ⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜

REGARDING THE RECENT KIDNAPPINGS

- Our enemy has enacted an operation to kidnap infants from our country.- Though the kidnappings have ramped up in recent years, this operation was first set in motion 30 years ago.
- Targets are infants from families thought to be of good military stock.
- Children are handed off to fake parents and then "educated" through love.- Children not considered suitable are reported to be collected by "orphanages."
- This operation is carried out with utmost secrecy.

=============

I know our son is being brainwashed by their evil ideals right now. In fact, soon I won't even be able to call him my son anymore.

My wife seems ready to wait an eternity for his return, but I think that is madness. Accepting someone who has been tainted by the enemy's ideals — even if it is my own son — would spell the downfall of this nation. No, I will not welcome him home. In fact, if I ever see him again, I will cut him down without hesitation or mercy.

The neighboring country abducts out children and raises them as soldiers. They call it "Infant Abduction St██████."

█ years ago, a boy who fell victim to this plan was taken into custody and ████ed his desire to return to his fa████. At first, we thought he was happy to reunite with real parents, ███ he was already tainted by the enemy's ideals.

Despite their initial joy, █t was not long before the boy and his parents ████ to hate each other, and ██████████████ ███, their family ceased to be. Murder suicide. The mother set fire to the house, and everything turned to ███.

==================================

██ short, it's difficult to undo the brainwashing inflicted on these ████████. ██ I were to reunite with my kidnapped ████ ████████, I would have to strike him down with my own hands — I am his ██████ after all.

But █████ he even realize who I am? Does he even know about

*Please check fragments in the file to view the parts that have been torn or otherwise damaged.

I need to talk about my vacation.

I came home for the first time in a long while and found the house filled with dust and mold. It felt abandoned, and it made me wonder if my wife — who leads the city's self-defense force — had even come home, or if she just spent all her time patrolling the streets.

I want to keep this city safe.
He might come home one day, after all.

The last time we sat down to dinner together, she told me why she continues to wield her blade. But as a soldier myself, I found her words hard to accept. I mean, how can we even entertain the idea of welcoming home a child who has been brainwashed by the enemy?

But my wife dismissed my concerns and doubled down:
Better a tragic reunion than to never see him again.

With my vacation over, I leave the city, stopped only to plant a seedling along the abandoned tracks that lead into town. I want it to bloom into a sight that shows the way to those returning home — or at least that's what I told the florist when I bought it. That's why I chose the most brilliant flower, a seed that would bloom into petals that could be seen from miles away.

I have no idea if knowing the truth will bring our son happiness, but maybe it's all right for me to have hope. And because of that, I've been praying that my wife and son might see each other again one day.

But I've prayed enough. It's time to act.

The walls of the barracks shudder with the cheers of soldiers holding a victory feast.

But in a storage room not far from the feasting hall, I find the cooling body of one of my subordinates. This is no accident — his throat has been slit neatly with a knife, and his blue eyes are wide with regret.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

Murder. Murder within the walls of our own base.

The military police begin to investigate the incident; it's their job to maintain order in the army, after all. A few days later, they tell me they suspect our problem child is the killer. He went missing around the time of the incident, and they've launched a search to find him.

The boy is a member of my squad, and I found things were missing from his room — as well as bloodstains in the corner. But when the MPs tell me they intend to shoot him on sight, I can't let the decision stand.

"No," I say. "This course of action is entirely too hasty. You must conduct a more thorough investigation."

No matter how much authority the MPs have, I can't let them execute a soldier without trial — especially when they lack anything but the basest of suspicions.

More importantly, the boy did not do this. I know he didn't. As his captain, and as someone who has lived with him for an extended period of time, I know. Sure, he can be a handful, but he's a kind soul deep down, and not the type to slay a comrade.

When I carried him on my back after his injury in the last battle, I saw him give his squadmates a trusting smile. Faint, yes, but it was there.

Someone like him could never kill one of his own.

But no matter how much I insist, the MPs don't listen. Quite the opposite, in fact: As the captain on duty during the murder, I am suspended without pay for a month.  

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

The sun has set, but I can't find it in myself to turn on any lights. Instead, I stand listlessly in the middle of my room, a being entirely without purpose.

Most of my days are spent like this now.

The boy is a killer. He will be shot on sight.

The highest-ranking officers have made their decision. If they deem a thing innocent, so be it. If they deem a thing evil, then so be it. They need no reasoning; they are soldiers.

But I still refuse to believe the boy is a murderer.

"You trust him? You're just being selfish."

Though I am alone, I think I hear a man's voice beside me. Where is it coming from?

As I look around my small apartment, my eyes lock with the man in the mirror on the wall. Though he has the same face as myself, he wears a lopsided smile as he begins to whisper.

"He ignored your orders and ran off on his own. Had you not gone out of your way to save him, your blue-eyed subordinate would still be alive. Saving him was a mistake. Your actions bring only death to your fellows. You haven't changed a bit — it's the same as when your selfish actions got all your squadmates killed. Oh, you might be able to fool everyone else, but you'll never be able to fool me."

I turn my gun to the man in the mirror. But just as I am about to pull the trigger...

"Captain, can you hear me? I have news."

I hear the quiet voice of one of my men from the other side of the door and I feel the mist clouding my mind vanish. The man in the mirror is gone. All I see is Captain Craven with his finger on the trigger.

There'd been a murder at base, and the victim and young soldier thought to be the culprit were both part of my unit. The military police decided the boy was guilty and placed him on the wanted list without even holding a trial. They also issued an order to kill him on sight.

Eventually, I got word the boy was hiding in a foreign city on the border. This information came from a few of my subordinates, good men who snuck it to me while I was still locked away on house arrest.

And that's how I now find myself on the outskirts of that foreign city. I'm not supposed to be here — I'm not even supposed to have left the base. But the same subordinates who got me the information agreed to distract any curious superior officers and guards. Still, they can only keep their attention for so long. I have to find the boy, and quickly. More importantly, I need to hear the truth from his own mouth, and in his own words.

The truth that he is innocent.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

The border city sprawls beyond the field of sunflowers that grows over the old train tracks. The military has long been waiting for an opportunity to capture this place, and I've heard rumblings it may be the next target on our list.

Still, this is not a city easily cowed — they're used to living under siege, and the self-defense force that protects it allows citizens to live lives of happiness and ease.

I enter the city under the guise of being a common traveler. Then I begin my search for the boy, venturing along the main street in search of clues. Eventually, I feel eyes on my back, and turn to see a group of children staring up at me curiously. It seems travelers are something of a rare breed here. Still, these moppets likely have the run of the place, so I ask them to show me around.

"C'mon, mister!" they say brightly. "You gotta see this!"

With proud little smiles, they bring me to the foot of a high hill, upon which stands an observation platform that contains a large cannon.

"Watch! It's really cool!"

A moment later, the world is shattered by an enormous boom. Yet what comes out of the cannon is not artillery, but a large ball of water. As I watch it soar across the sky, the children explain how their people use the cannon to water the sunflowers growing on the old tracks.

I find the entire endeavor to be remarkable. But when I turn my gaze back to the platform, I see a svelte boy standing beside the cannon. Though the sun silhouettes him against the sky, I cannot mistake the form of a subordinate with whom I've shared so much joy and pain.

It is the boy. The deserter. The accused.

Boom and a globule of water flies through the air. 
Boom and another. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each one is accompanied by the cheers of happy children, but I can't hear any of it over the beating of my own heart.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

Sunflowers bloom proudly along the old tracks. According to the children, the boy passes this place every day on his way to do his shopping. Knowing this, I sit down to wait.

I sit for hours, barely moving, alone with my thoughts. Just as the sun began to set, he finally appears. When he notices me, his eyes widen slightly and he comes to a halt.

"Why are you...?" he begins. He's clearly shocked, so I spare him any further abuse and get right to it.

"You didn't kill him. Did you?"

All he has to do is shake his head and it will all be over. Yet for some reason, he doesn't.

"I can clear this entire thing up," I continue. "Just come back with me and — "

Before I can say more, he draws the blade hanging at his hip and points it at me.

"No. I killed him. That's why I came here."

Though the tip of the blade presses ever closer to my throat, I don't move an inch. He wouldn't kill one of his own. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

Finally, the boy sighs, sheathes his blade, and walks past me with quick steps. "Just leave me alone," he says before vanishing to somewhere further down the road.

It's hot. The sun burns the nape of my neck as my head hangs low. I stare at my feet — at a puddle created by the cannon on the old tracks. The man I see there — a man with the same face as me — begins to cackle.

"Didn't I say this would happen? This is all your fault! You saved him, and now someone with a bright future is — "

I stamp my foot into the puddle and shut the man up.

There was a murder in the squadron. The prime suspect was the boy who was known for being a problem, but I knew he would never do such a thing.

Or at least, I thought I knew.

Because when I broke probation and went to the border city where he was hiding, he admitted to being the killer.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

"Captain. Are you there?"

The voice is followed by a knock at the door. It's my subordinate, the same one who helped me slip away while I was on probation.

I'd returned to the barracks two weeks ago, and he'd checked on me every day since. I know he wants to hear what happened in the city, but I can't tell him.

I can't tell anyone.

Because my men would never forgive me.

If you didn't go out of your way to save his life, there would have been no murder. Everything you do leads us into the jaws of death. All you know how to do is sin.

When I come to, I'm crouched in the corner of my room waiting for it all to be over.

Aw, look how upset you are! Keep that up, and your soldiers will never take you seriously again.

That voice again. Shaking it off, I stand and plant myself in front of the mirror, looking back at the man who shares my face.

I know how you can escape this darkness, he says.

I reach out and brush my fingertips against the glass. "Tell me."

The man in the mirror smiles kindly. It's easy. Kill the criminal and atone. That's the only way to save your soul — and the soul of your dead subordinate.

"I have to... kill him?"

Yes. Kill him. Just like you killed me.

As I gaze into the darkened eyes of the man in the mirror, I think back. My selfishness once cost the lives of many of my compatriots. So once I became a captain, I strove to always be thoughtful and attentive so I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

I killed the true me — the arrogant face in the mirror. It was all I could think to do to absolve myself.

Kill him with your own hands.

I must... kill him.

I must kill him. It's the only way to atone.

So that night, I slip out once more, seeking to avenge one of my soldiers and absolve myself of sin for good and all.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

I walk for hours before finally coming to a familiar set of train tracks. As midnight comes and goes, I see distant flames dancing in the summertime sky.

The fires of battle rage in the border city.

As I pass retreating soldiers, understanding finally dawns. Our army has finally launched an attack on this city. They did so while I was on probation.

As the sunflowers along the tracks crackle and burn, a small moth descends and vanishes into the flame.

The young boy from my squad confessed to murdering one of his fellow soldiers. If I hadn't gone out of my way to save the boy on our previous mission, the other man would still be alive. This is all my fault.

I make for the border city where he's hiding so I can kill him and absolve myself of this sin. But when I arrive, the city is nothing but a burning husk. The army had long been plotting to advance on the city, and this was the night they finally put their plan into motion.

I walk and walk and walk, but all I see are bodies. Bodies. Bodies. There isn't a single survivor to be found.

As the smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils, the stench makes flashes of a hell I once witnessed play in my mind. A time when I had just joined the army — and when my own selfishness caused my entire squad to perish.

I shake my head, erasing the sight. There's no time to be thinking of the past. I have to find the boy, kill him, and finally atone.

But look at this place. Nothing could have survived. If the boy was here, he's already dead.

As the thought crosses my mind, a sound comes from the burnt building beside me. If memory serves, it was once the HQ of the city's self-defense force — the organization that tried so desperately to bring life to the town.

The fire has died down, so I slip through the entrance, hold my breath, and make my way down the hall as I follow a trail of blood.

This will be a fine resting place for you.

I find the boy in a room at the end of the hall. He's on the floor, holding the bloody corpse of a woman in his arms. Next to her is a single burned sunflower.

The blood in the hallway must have belonged to the woman. It seems impossible for the small-framed boy to have carried her all this way, but he must have done so. Whoever she is, she looks almost exactly like him. But none of that matters now, because my only objective is to finish this.

I stand in the doorway and aim my gun, ready to finally absolve myself of my sins. But as my finger slips to the trigger, he looks up at me with a tear-stained face that causes me to take a step backwards.

In that instant, it all comes flooding back. Memories of the time when I'd just joined the army. When I pushed my squad to annihilation because of my selfishness. And the absolute hell I'd existed in ever since.

Captain, I...

I'd sobbed over my captain's body, repeating those two words over and over. As I cursed my foolishness, I told myself I would never make the same mistake again. I would never lose another ally the way I lost him.

"Shoot him!" cries a sudden voice. I look up and see the man with my face shouting at me from a reflection in the window. "Shoot him! Erase your sins! That's why you're here, isn't it?!"

Yes. That's why I'm here. I can only atone by killing him.

Had I not saved him in battle, he would have never killed the other man. It's my fault I lost another of my allies, and I have to fix my mistake.

But the boy with the corpse in his arms and tears streaming down his face...He looks so much like me.

"Shoot!" cries the man in the window again. And this time, I obey. I pull the trigger. The bullet flies, shattering the window where the face had been a moment before.

I lower my weapon and rush to the boy, who drops his gaze and begins to mutter in a voice thick with tears.

"Thought... I told you to stay away from me..."

"Yeah. You did. But..." I pause, unable to figure out what comes next. But at last, I say:

"I'm glad you survived."

That's all.

The boy admitted to killing his squadmate. Yet. And yet. He is still one of my own, a comrade-in-arms with whom I've survived battles and hardships.

And I cannot be happy with his death.

Now that he sits before me, I finally realize I'd taken up a gun to right my own mistakes. I was going to kill for the sake of a dead comrade.

That's not atoning. It's ego. Selfishness.

I'm not interested in saving my companions. Oh no. I just want to be forgiven.

"Everyone wants to hear your side of the story," I say. "Come home. Tell the truth." But he just shakes his head.

"There are some things I can't say," he says in a voice colored in agony. And when he looks at me again, I can't bring myself to force the truth from him.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

A month has passed since we parted ways at the border city.

I'm currently rifling through files in the storage room where the incident occurred. I want to know the truth the boy was hiding, but I'm coming up empty. No surprise there — any files have likely been intentionally destroyed. Hell, even the fact the boy was once part of my squad is now nothing but a distant rumor.

When I think about it rationally, it's all been so strange. A murder happened between two people with a boring, normal relationship, and the military ordered the perpetrator shot on sight without even holding a trial.

Light leaks in through the crack in the reference room door. I stare at it, recalling how distressed the boy had looked. He was a criminal who killed one of his own, which is a fact I've grown to accept. But why did he do it? What was the reason?

I wish I could have brought some light to the dark truth that weighed on him. I wish I could have helped him. That's also the job of a captain, and I failed.

If I ever get the chance to see him again, I'm going to learn the truth. Nothing will stop me this time — no matter how many orders I have to break.

Hello. Mama here. I read over the report you made on the captain. Though it was quite well-written, I feel you are avoiding certain things by using unclear language.

Let's take a look at this part, for example: Though they called him Captain Craven behind his back, he was a calm and gentle soul. But his skills as a soldier kept his hot-headed squad together, and everyone recognized that.

Now, you're right that his squadron felt like a family because of his kindly nature. But you also know what happened back then, right? Don't shy away from what the man is like on the inside. Remember what he's done to protect his men, and how guilt weighs him down as he fights.

These things are important for you to write down, because I'm certain it will prove a bit of salvation for him as well.

Hey there. How you holding up?

Just Kidding. I already know you get all mopey whenever we put you in the discipline room, but I really want you to think about what you did this time. I understand wanting to sneak a little extra food when you're on mess-hall duty — I really do. But getting scolded for it doesn't give you a free pass to knock out one of your fellows. You need to work on solving problems like that with words instead of fists, and that's something I'm going to help you with in the future.

Oh, and while we're at it, please be a little more thorough when you're on laundry duty. You don't want the enemy to smell us coming from a mile away, right? And yes, I know this letter is veering into nagging territory, but I really need you to be more considerate of your squad. If you treated them even half as good as you treat the horses...

You know what? I'm not even going to finish that sentence, because you'll just get mad. But that said, the horses are always in a great mood whenever you work the stables, and I appreciate how you always treat them with so much love and care.

Anyway, look forward to having you back in the squad soon.

The tide of battle turned greatly in our favor with this recent operation. The brave judgment of one particular soldier brought this about, and his achievements in our most recent operation are beyond reproach.

It is for this reason that we propose his promotion to the rank of Captain.

I am aware that his temper was a topic in a recent meeting, but this likely stems from discord with his activist father—and is also not that unusual with young people today. Furthermore, I hear he has been calmer since losing his squad in a recent mission, so perhaps that experience has served as a catalyst for self-improvement. However, even if this change of heart does not stick, command is well aware that soldiers with his personality type are very good at controlling subordinates, which makes the subject of his temperament ultimately inconsequential.

It is our opinion that his particular blend of combat prowess and tactical aptitude, coupled with his personality, will help him rise through the ranks quickly, and that he may, in fact, lead our entire force one day.

Retired Soldier A: That battle was hell. I could hear my fellow soldiers screaming for help all around me, and with each shriek, I told myself they were going to be fine. I had to, you understand? Otherwise, I'd never be able to get them out of my mind, which would have been the end of me.

Anyway, that's when I saw the enemy captain pointing his gun at a soldier begging for his life. His eyes were the devil's, cold and heartless as an ice storm. I don't think that man had a drop of human blood in him; hell, he was the same one who sculpted the mountains of corpses and unleashed the rivers of blood. And sure, I survived, but I still remember the fear. The fear never went away.

I hear that devil is still hailed as a hero in his homeland. I suppose war grants boons like that to creatures such as him.

That sounds like a terrifying experience. May I ask, have you been struck by any particular feelings in the half-century since the war came to an end?

Retired Soldier A: Fifty years already? My god...

Well, that war may be over, but I doubt mine will ever end. Not unless I find a way to forget the look in that devil's eyes...

"This is the western dispatch unit. I need confirmation on a certain matter. Over."

"Make...quick."

"I wanted to ask about the child we rescued from the kidnapper."

"Get to...point."

"Was it really the enemy that kidnapped him?"

"Yes. When he...rescued from...returned...parents delighted."

"But the way he was crying made me think we were the kidnappers."

"...surprised...the army...home."

"He was clinging to the corpse of his so-called kidnapper."

"...a point? If so...quickly."

"Are we sure the kidnapper wasn't his real parent?"

"...to say...orders were mistaken?"

"I can't rule out the possibility."

"If you...career as a soldier, then...not entertain unnecessary thoughts."

"Yes, sir. I apologize. Ending transmission. Out."

"...This is the right thing for a soldier to do. I can't question it."

I gathered all the information I could find on the secret operation and wrote it down in a single document — one I'm now planning to release to the public.

It's wrong for a soldier to do such a thing, and I will doubtless be named a traitor to my homeland if I go through with it. But at this point, I'm used to committing sins. I've completed missions as ordered, and killed more people than those orders even required. My sins are legion, because I firmly believed that by killing, the dead men in my squad would forgive my selfishness.

But if I'm going to keep doing wrong, I should finally commit a wrong on the right side of justice.

I've steeled myself for being ridiculed over my definition of justice, but in the end, it doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. The world will know of this inhuman operation that has brought so much pain to my men.

And they will know it because of me.

I hear a song, but I do not know what it is about, for I cannot understand the words.

As the sound of a language unknown to me echoes in my ears, I cannot help but feel as though this song is one I've heard before.

Seeking out the voice I walk on through the mist, eventually finding a small hut nested among some trees. This hut, too, feels familiar to me somehow. Yes, I remember now... I used to play here often.

----------

Feeling as though someone has called out to me, I turn around only to see that I am alone. All I see before me are my long bangs drooping lazily in front of my eyes.

-----

...The hair is black, which is not the color of my own hair.

"...Who am I?"

-----

I awake with a start, feeling a sharp pain tear through my throat as I gasp.

Steadying my breath, I pinch the hair sticking to my sweat-slicked brow.

"...It's okay. We're okay. My hair is white, just like it should be."

Making sure that nothing is out of the ordinary with myself I attempt to rise to my feet, but quickly find that while nothing may be out of the ordinary with myself, the place I am in is most unusual indeed.

I fell asleep in a room within an abandoned building. Unable to fight the need for sleep any longer, I had lined up some chairs so I might lie down on them. And yet, I awake now to find the sun shining directly overhead.

"...Again?"

I am a living weapon created in a research facility. Created as the youngest of all among all my sisters, I left the facility that birthed me and embarked on a journey of the world on the surface. My destination is a place that the original — the eldest among us sisters, and the one we are all copies of — loved and wished to return to while she was alive. Having inherited her memories, I vowed to go there in her stead.

Unfortunately, it seems the place in question likes across the sea, somewhere far beyond the horizon. Left with no other path forward, I spend my days going from ruin to ruin, searching for a way to cross the great sea. I could not say how many fruitless days have gone by.

During that time, I have begun to notice events of an unusual nature. For example, I might lean my spear against a wall before going to sleep only to find it in a different position when I wake up. Or I might find notice entries in my journal that I do not recall writing myself. It was all small things so I initially thought nothing of it, but now I even have days where I awake in a totally different place from where I went to sleep. There are sometimes even times where I awake to the scent of blood.

Perhaps these could best be described as "symptoms" of a sort. I do not know if it is appropriate to apply such a word to a weapon like myself, but it seems to resemble
what humans referred to as "sleepwalking."

Indeed, as I sleep, my body is engaging in activities of its own volition in places I am unaware of. Worried that whatever it is that controls me as I sleep might also one day seize control in the waking world as well, I fear my own body might no longer be my own. Should such a thing come to pass, I would no longer be able to go to the place my sister wished to return to.

...I cannot have that. That is why I've decided to return to the facility I came from—so I might learn what is happening to me. Even if I were to secure the required equipment and medicine, I do not know if treatments intended for humans would work on a weapon such as myself.

Also, during my journey on the surface, I've read a great many things. I've engaged with the knowledge left behind by humanity. I've read books in libraries, discarded scraps of papers, and journals of unknown origin.

-----

No matter where I search, however, never once have I found records regarding myself or my sisters. If I am to look into matters concerning my own body, I've no choice but to turn back to the facility I came from — the only place where any information about
us exists.

----------

But I've come so far... All I can think about is how I've walked for so, so long in search of this place inside my sister's memories. Turning back and returning to the facility will only put more distance between me and my ultimate destination. How long will it take before I am finally able to discover a means of crossing the sea and reach the place I wish to be?

I find the prospect terribly difficult to stomach, but I begin my march all the same, for I know in my heart of hearts that it is necessary if I am to day one step foot on that land of memories.

"A power outage?"

I sit in the elevator under the sea — which has ground to a halt in mid-ascent — and murmur to myself.

One specific place was imbedded in my elder sister's memory, and after much thought, I decided to leave the research facility and go there. But along the way, I was afflicted with a mysterious illness akin to sleepwalking, and began to feel like my body no longer belonged to me.

Once this happened, I turned around and began retracing my steps along the road. I wanted to find the place where I was born — the place I once called home. Because if I did, I hoped I might find some clue that explained my symptoms.

But then the elevator that connects the facility to the surface malfunctioned and...

Well. Here I sit.

When I place my hands on the doors and yank them open, I see the space where the elevator travels up and down — a space called a "shaft," if I remember the term correctly. I poke my head through the gap and stare down into the dark. The window that looks into the water is open; faint rays of sunlight filter through the ocean depths, bathing the shaft in a faint blue.

It's my way out.

When I leap from the elevator, I put my hand on the glass and slide down its face. There is no time to fear, no time to hesitate. I must figure out what is plaguing me.

I land at bottom of the shaft, brush the dirt from my clothes, and stand. I'm at the entrance to the facility.

The door appears stuck, so I pry it free and step inside. The corridor is shrouded in darkness and silence, making the echo of my footsteps sound like a thunderclap.

"Let's see about getting the lights on," I say aloud, hoping to drown out the sound of my thunder.

I find my objective in short order. The generator is badly degraded, which explains the power outage — and also the breakdown of the elevator. I press buttons on a nearby switchboard, routing what little energy remains to the room in which I hope to find the necessary documents. The lights flicker and warble, but it seems like they'll stay on long enough for me to conduct my search.

They do. But it doesn't matter.

I can't find what I'm looking for. Things would be easier if I could use a computer, but I have no such information in my memory; I wouldn't have even been able to operate the switchboard without the instructions etched on its front. So instead, I find myself leafing through stacks of paper documents. Some are in bundles several pages thick, while others have been shredded into long strips. Regardless, I collect them all.

Still, this is a facility that runs on machinery, and it's likely the documents I'm searching for were never printed out. So what happens then? What happens if I can't find what I'm looking for?

As that thought crosses my mind, I distract myself by trying to piece together various shreds of paper. This proves a fruitful endeavor, and I quickly find a censored sentence unlike any I've seen:

...■■■■■■■■ function, and the regulation and memory management that comes with sleep, we have successfully regained partial control over No. 6 after ■■■■...

Some words have been redacted for security reasons.
This has to mean something. It has to be valuable.

While the cause of the ■■■■ remains unclear, this incident suggests that prolonged activity is linked to the onset of symptoms.

Despite their nature as mass-produced articles, an accumulation of memories creates personality differences. Other anomalies did not come with this risk of creating defined personalities.

I have no idea what the missing words could be, but a loss of control sounds very much like what I'm experiencing.

I race through the document, praying to find some other piece of information, and discover this at the very end:

At present, the best way to manage this is to delete a unit's most enduring, impactful memories.

Something that causes loss of control once symptoms manifest? I can't be certain this is the same thing as the sleepwalking I'm experiencing, but I do know I get neither "regulation" nor "memory management" from sleep. I'm drowsy. I fall asleep quickly and without warning. It's a clear personality quirk I have in comparison with my elder sisters.

But if prolonged activity heightens the risk of accumulating impactful memories, then I am in a terribly unsafe position. Perhaps, at this point, my memory would have been erased. I mean, that would probably be the best course of action if I want to ameliorate my symptoms.

And yet...

All my sisters are dead — all except me. I am the final repository for the memories of our original sister, and I can't let them go.

Not when I promised to reach the place from her memory in her stead.

I hear a sound, then: a click. Metal on metal coming from somewhere behind me. Without thinking, I stick my spear in the ground and use it to propel myself up and onto the wall. When I look down, I see something sticking out of the place where I was standing not a moment before.

A blade.

It does not breath. I feel no heat. There is no life there.

Yet two figures stand in the darkness all the same.

Two figures that, like me, are made to look human.

I am afflicted with an anomaly akin to sleepwalking. Postponing my journey, I returned to the facility where I was born in search of a cure.

There I found documents detailing the dangers posed to us weapons brought on by personality differences. The cure to the anomaly, I read, was to delete my memories.

It was then that I was ambushed.

Though I dodge, my joints scream at the sudden movement. I glare at my assailants through fluttering papers.

Inorganic footsteps approach. Dull, heavy clacks echo around me. The two figures in the darkness hold their weapons at the ready.

They wield large swords. Repelling weapons of that size and weight would be nigh impossible. Cornered against a wall with only a spear, allowing them to approach is tantamount to defeat.

But knowing so little about my opponents, I hesitate to take the offensive.

Why do they attack me? I do not know their goal, origin, or even what they are.

When I first left this facility, I sensed no life besides my own. Did they come from the outside? Or perhaps they laid in wait this entire time? The shadows are devoid of breath or warmth, only standing there, staring.

The swaying tips of their blades lift like cobras displaying hostility.

Deciding my course of action, I kick off the wall. Although their nature is unknown to me, their human form is evident. I will first take out their legs — their center of gravity, their proof of evolution.

Harnessing centrifugal force, I strike the closer android with my spear. She flies backward.

But she dodged me. I expected as much. Tiles and construction materials fly from the floor. I step onto the dust and detritus and circle behind the enemy.

I shout and spin my body clockwise, lending my spear to the movement. I will not leave myself open. I aim for the legs again, my spear swiping at the floor the moment her foot comes down.

I feel it in my hands — I hit my mark. The severed leg slides across the floor, rust-red blood streaking across the white tiles. Something isn't right.

My eyes follow the line to the cross-section of the disembodied leg. Inside are pipes and a metal shaft.

These are machines. But I have no time to process this revelation — a blade slices through the air behind me.

Holding my spear behind me with a pained grunt, I somehow manage to block the attack. My arm stings, my bones creak. I must put distance between us. But a new sound rings in my ears, cutting off my thoughts.

"Weapon escape detected. Activating defense androids."

An alarm blares throughout the laboratory, followed by the sound of a heavy door opening and the shudder of machines dropping to the floor. My instincts as a weapon warn me of the danger.

These machines must be defense androids. And this must mean reinforcements are en route.

Parrying the sword weighing on my spear, I kick the enemy's head. I must get out of here. But just as I begin to run, a shadow descends on me.

An android drops toward me, sword at the ready, at a velocity unthinkable for one missing a leg. I attempt to divert her trajectory with my spear. However...

A loud metallic sound resounds around me. The force behind the sword is unimaginable, spending my spear flying.

I sense impending doom and hear the opponent I kicked behind me. What am I to do? If I die here, I will never reach —

Desperation and instinct force me to whirl around... and I doubt my own eyes.

The dismembered remains of a machine.

"What...?"

Her parts lay scattered, liquid slowly pooling on the floor. In her reflection, a ray of red light.

That light comes from my eye. And now I realize I hold in my left hand a sword — the one that once belonged to my eldest sister.

I feared losing control of my body while I slept, but now it moved all on its own, even in my waking hours.

Is my body no longer mine?

"My" right hand effortlessly swats away the descending blade, and "I" adopt an offensive stance.

With my right hand, I grab the enemy by the arm and hurl her against the wall. She collides violently, her machine body contorting unnaturally. My other hand throws the sword, pinning her there.

A weight akin to being saddled with heavy baggage comes down on my shoulders.

Have my symptoms calmed yet? I hold my tense right hand in front of my eyes. No red light illuminates it. I stare at my palm, closing and opening my fist.

I'm fine now. I can move it freely.

The android pinned to the wall struggles to remove the blade piercing her chest. The corridor behind her is filled with shadows — a whole group of them.

That's my sister's sword. I planned on bringing it to the place from her memories.

I solemnly reach for my spear on the floor.

"Forgive me."

I grasp it, turn my back to the enemy, and run.

I stand no chance against that many foes. If I die here, all will be for naught. And so I rush ahead with but one destination in mind. I have no other option.

Countless metallic footsteps reverberate as the horde of machines chase me through the labyrinthine facility corridors.

These machines are defense androids, deployed to prevent the escape of research subjects. They seem to have been reactivated when I restored a part of the facility's power — they were nowhere to be found when I first awoke here.

Shaking the thoughts, I flee from the androids' pursuit. My destination: the room I saw when I operated the switchboard. There I will find a way to escape this predicament. I know it.

As the door opens, I leap inside. The hallway panel reads
"HANGAR"—this is it. I topple over two nearby shelves to
block the door, though I know it will only buy me a few
seconds.

I begin my search with bated breath, tearing away protective cloth and prying open a metal casing to inspect the contents.

This isn't it. Nor that. It's not here.

I repeat the process until I come to a large case melded into the wall, but I'm quickly interrupted by the shrill sound of the shelves being cut through.

A finger stripped of its metallic skin juts through the gap. I'm out of time. I destroy the lock with my spear and step into the casing.

I find a large machine inside. Brushing off a layer of dust, I can make out an imprint: Si'N-02. Here it is. The motorcycle from the memories I inherited — a machine developed to assist us weapons in battle.

I leap into the seat, but much like the facility itself, it has sat here dormant and long forgotten. There's no guarantee it will function.

The door and shelves go flying. The horde of machines glare at me menacingly from the hideous hole in the wall. I press, squeeze, and stomp everything I can in an attempt to start the engine. "Come on, please work!"

Suddenly, its lights come on, and an electronic voice speaks. 
"Biometrics authenticated. Serial number 123 confirmed. Startup sequence initiated." Vibrations rumble through the handles and seat.

I turn the throttle and the engine purrs. "I can work with this," I whisper to myself as I propel the bike forward. At the far end of the room is a passage appended to the hangar.

It's a long, long chute. The androids still pursue me, but evidently, some diverted this way — many stand at the ready above me.

Spear in my left hand, I shoot up the slope, evading my pursuers, breaking through blockades with the bike, knocking away obstacles with my spear, and pressing ever forward.

I reach the end of the corridor at last. A door stands before me. I grip my spear tightly.

For a brief moment, I envision my sister's sword — a precious thing I inherited from her. But I've long since crossed the point of no return.

Metallic echoes ring out. The door opens a crack. In floods dust and light.

Taking a deep breath, I accelerate full-throttle toward the light.

Once more, I exit the facility and find myself at the surface. I ride the bike over cracked roads. Presumably, this passage was originally used to bring vehicles such as mine to the surface.

The androids still tail me, but I doubt they can keep pace with my bike's speed.

"Phew..."

I heave a sigh, resting my tired body on the vehicle and losing myself in thought. I think back to when my eye glowed red.

I held that sword in my hand, and its weight felt so familiar. It belonged to my sister — perhaps her memories are the cause of my anomalies.

On the other hand, I am a weapon. Surely I'm intimately familiar with all manner of sword hilts.

However...if she — the original — is the one controlling my body...

Should I surrender it to her?

My destination is the place in her memories. Better that she find her own way there than have someone else do it in her stead.

But what would happen to me?

I envision myself in impenetrable darkness.

There is no sound. I am alone.

All I have is my breath.

I can't answer my question, and I don't know why.
I can't even begin to explain the logic.

I learned so much on the surface. The names of so many things. I grew to express so much with words.

And yet... No, perhaps it's for those very reasons that I cannot describe this feeling.

My fingers along the handle tremble, perhaps owing to the cold wind. I tighten my grip and twist the throttle.

The girl lived in a house with her parents, one where the garden was visible from the window. In this garden sat a small shed and brilliant flowers. It was a simple sight, yet beautiful — but now it is only a place of memory.

And a place to which her long-dead sister desires to return.

The girl has taken on the burden of her elder sister's final wish and set off on a long journey. It has been a difficult trial indeed, for she has no leads and no one to rely on. But now, guided by scant clues, she finds herself growing ever closer to this place.

But though I believe she will find her way here. I cannot say for certain if this is a good thing. All the girl wants is to make her sister's dreams come true. She thinks of nothing else — not even her own situation.

What will she have left once her journey is over? Oh, but that question worries Mama...

E3819DE381AEE7BFBCE381AFE697A
2E381ABE79BAEE8A69AE38281E381
A6E38197E381BEE381A3E3819F...

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"...anyone gets...way... none of you...this..."

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Dream Diary
XX/XX

I started writing down my dreams in a diary I happened to pick up. Over the nights, I learned something: I don't always see things in my dreams, nor do I always touch or smell. But I always hear.

I heard a song last night. It was faint, and sounded like it was coming from far away. I wasn't sure how to put it into words, so I began to research it instead.

I guess this is when other people would use the power of visual art. It would be easy to just copy down what you can see in front of you, but putting vague concepts into concrete images is... much more difficult.

I know my older sister would have been good at drawing.

The scent of oil fills a crumbling building. Inside, a girl repairs the motorcycle that will serve as her legs for the upcoming journey. The vehicle was made in the same research facility as the girl, and though there are traces that suggest it was once equipped with artificial intelligence, it's now as lifeless as the wrench she holds in her hand.

The girl places her tools aside and flicks on the engine with a practiced hand, causing a heartbeat thrum to pulse through the air. There's also a faint, high-pitched sound that suggests abnormal engine combustion. The girl listens to it for a moment, then shrugs; lacking the materials to repair such a problem, she'll just have to coax the bike along as best she can.

She understands the vehicle is a mere tool to get her to her destination. Not a partner. Not a friend. But she lightly pats the worn seat cushion anyway, and says to the silent motorcycle:

"Just a little further now, buddy. You can do it."

The original's interests were clear — she was fixated on all types of plants. Every staff member knew that much. But she was clearly unhappy with the holographic data we provided, because she recently submitted a request for a tour of the cultivation room.

We went back and forth over whether to grant permission, and eventually settled on giving it a trial run in order to diminish her stress levels. However, that decision is now forcing us to undergo a review of our security measures.

We're ironing out what sort of steps we need to take, and will issue a report once we arrive at a solution. On a personal note, I really hope we don't have to add any more annoying steps to unlocking the gate...

MODEL
■Q■-■4■■

SPECIFICATIONS
Defense only. Not suited for enemy interception.

RANGE
Proportional to armaments and remaining energy.

WEAPON
As necessary according to the situation.

ARMOR
Same as standard guard androids.

OTHER
To be used only when blocking the outflow of weapons from this laboratory. Automatically activates when outflow is acknowledged.

Line of command and thought routines differ from standard guard androids. Exercise caution when using this unit. As a rule, defense-only androids work in pairs or larger groups, and their thought processes are perfectly parallel with one another.

Weapons that escape are considered to be condemned the moment they leave, so they are to be disposed of along with the androids returning them. In addition, defense- only androids are not to return to the laboratory until their objective is complete.

I breathe in the dusty air of the arcade. Synthesized sound pulses from tiny speakers on the cabinet. The display before me gives a colorful flicker, and the game begins.

A musical note appears on the screen, along with a blast of song. I being to dance, stomping my feet on the correct panels in time with the symbol. I concentrate on the game as my feet fly, riding the waves of the synthesizer with my entire being. I forget everything happening at home. Everything that happened at school. I dance.

When the music comes to an end. I pause to catch my breath. Fervor seeps from my body, quickly pulling back to reality. The screen shows the score for a player whose username is "LEVANIA." It isn't a bad score, but no one competes against me anymore; there are only a handful of arcades now that even have outdated games like this, much less people who want to play them.

My gaze darts to the corner, where a cabinet of the same game sits dark and alone. They used to rest side-by-side so people could play and compete for a high score together. But now it's covered in dust. Like a stone. Like a grave.

A long time ago, Mom would have been on the other machine.

When I was much younger, I'd often dance with Mom after my afternoon lessons. She was awkward in general — and especially terrible at dancing — and we'd always laugh when she stumbled. It was a good way to pass the time while we waited for Dad to pick us up in the car.

But she isn't around anymore. Six months ago, the illness that had been plaguing her for years finally set her free.

I stand there and space out, letting a flood of images roll through my mind. Eventually, a staff member comes and tells to go home; city law states that anyone under the age of 20 needs to leave the arcades by six. Nodding, I grab my school bag and head out.

Dad's there when I get back to the apartment. He usually works late into the night, so it's unusual to see him home.

"Welcome back!" he calls out as he busies himself preparing dinner in our cramped kitchen."

Tell me if you're gonna be home early," I say — and in case my annoyance isn't clear, I slam my shopping bag on the table with a loud thud. "I wouldn't have gone out of my way to buy dinner if I knew you'd be making something."

"You were at the arcade," says Dad, conveniently ignoring my annoyance. "Your teacher said you're not allowed to go there after school anymore, remember?"

I ignore him and go to the portrait of Mom sitting in the corner. I close my eyes and begin to speak, telling her everything I did today. It's something I do every evening, but this time, I barely get started before Dad interrupts.

"Are you listening to me? This is for your sake, you know. Your mother would be worried too."

"Shut up when I'm talking to her!" I snap without opening my eyes. He doesn't know anything about me. All he does is nag, and every little thing he says is irritating.

Why did this have to happen? We got along so well back when Mom was alive.

Hey, Mom. Everyone's annoying me. Dad. The people at school. Everybody. I wish they'd all just go to sleep forever.

A loud thud cases my eyes to snap open. I whip my head around toward the kitchen and see Dad sprawled across the floor. Even though he'd been nagging me just moments before, he now lies there in silence — no matter how many times I scream his name.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

They take Dad to the hospital. The doctors say he's fine. Just...asleep. But that doesn't make me feel even a little bit better. I know about the sleeping sickness that's been causing panic across the city lately. People fall asleep, even though there's nothing particularly wrong with them.

They never wake up.

There's no cure.

And now Dad has it.

I visit him in the hospital the next day after school. I know nothing will have changed — he'll still just be sleeping — but I can't leave him there alone.

The hall smells of medicine as I make my way down the hall to his room. The setting rays of the sun pour in, filling it with an ashy light. But when I get to the door, I see Dad standing next to his bed.

He's awake. He's awake.

I call out to him, my voice a mixture of shock and joy and nerves. But as the words dissipate in the air, I realize something is very, very wrong."...Dad?

"He's facing the wall, a pen in his hand. He's scribbling on them over and over. Turning them black. Like a child might.

When I look closer, I realize the mass of black looks like the kind of monster I'd see in games back when I was a kid. A dark monster that resembles nothing more than a mass of thick, wiry hair.

This isn't normal. Scribbling on walls isn't normal. But no matter how many times I call out, he never replies.

That's when I realize his eyes are closed. He's still asleep, dreaming some unknowable thing as he scribbles darkness onto the white hospital walls.

Creating monsters.

Two weeks ago, Dad caught the disease that's been ravaging the city. It's called "the sleeping sickness," and people who get it suddenly fall asleep and never wake up again. No one knows what causes it — or how to treat it. And since my mom died six months ago, I suddenly found myself alone. But a few relatives reached out to help, so I kept going to school like a normal kid — except that I ended every day by visiting my father in a hospital.

But one day, I found him out of bed and scribbling a picture of a monster on the wall — even though he was still asleep. The doctors said they wanted to keep the drawing "for research," so now I have to look at this black, horrible creature every day when I visit.

And I feel like it's watching me.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

I hear the other students singing off in the music room. There's a school-wide choir competition next month, and all the classes are practicing for their part. But I'm not singing — instead, I'm standing outside as my class president and his lackeys pelt me with questions.

"Why didn't you come to practice yesterday?"

I tell him I skipped practice to see my dad, but they don't care. Other kids have parents with the sleeping sickness, and apparently they're still willing to come sing a bunch of stupid songs, so I should just suck it up.

It's all BS. My mom is dead, and my dad is apparently going to sleep until he dies too. I'm unhappy enough at home; I sure as hell don't need people giving me grief at school.

As the class president continues to berate me, I close my eyes and scream inside my mind as loud as I can:

I WISH YOU'D ALL JUST SLEEP FOREVER!

There's a loud thud, then two more. When I open my eyes, the class president and his goons lying on the floor — the same way Dad did two weeks ago when he collapsed.

But then it gets worse. Way worse. Like someone pressed a switch, a continuous series of thuds and crashes ring out as people start dropping all around me. Students walking the halls. Teachers lecturing at blackboards. The janitor and his mop. Even the sounds of singing suddenly cut off, replaced by a cacophony of thumps as bodies meet earth.

I start running through the halls in a panic. Everyone is asleep. Everyone. The entire school has apparently caught the sleeping sickness at the exact same time. I run to the office and pick up the phone to call for help, but no one answers. Not the hospital. Not the police. No one.

Shaking, I run down the hall and burst out the door into a completely silent city. Everyone is down. Old people out shopping. Men and women in business suits. Kids. As far as I can tell, I'm the only person awake in the entire world.

I wander the city in a daze; it feels like walking through a weird, dark forest. With no idea what to do, I make my way to the shopping center, figuring there has to be someone who's still awake. And the moment I passed through the district arch, I see a tall, thin shadow at the end of the street.

Someone's awake! I think as I start waving frantically. But then my arm slows and slowly drops to my side as I take a single step backward.

Because the thing at the end of the street isn't a person.

It's a monster.

It looks a lot like the character in a game I used to play — and exactly like the thing Dad drew on the wall.

I have to be dreaming. This can't be real. I look down for a second to clear my head, then look up again.

The monster is still there.

And then it sees me.

The moment I catch its attention, it trills a pair of huge insect wings and rushes toward me. I should run. I should scream. But fear is my entire world, and my body has decided that shutting down is the best thing to do right now.

The monster lurches to a halt in front of me, staring down at my shaking, quivering form.

And then? It talks.

"I want to...eat dreams... I ate...everyone else's... I want to eat your dreams."

Its voice is coarse, like vocal cords being scraped over a cheese grater, but I can still understand the horrible things it's saying.

"M-my dreams?" I whisper.

"Your dreams. All dreams. When I eat all dreams, I will become human."

My body finally decides to let me have a modicum of control, and I take a step back, trying to put distance between us. But then, a thought appears in my head:

The monster said it eats dreams. Is that why everyone is asleep? Is this thing the reason for the sleeping sickness?

It's an insane idea, and I wonder briefly if thinking it means I've lost my mind. But then I remember there's a monster standing in front of me, and figure concepts like "sanity" have probably gone right out the window.

"Um, is no one's waking up because you ate their dreams?"

I'm clinging to this idea fiercely now, because if the monster caused everyone to fall asleep, maybe it could reverse the process.

"...Give them back. Give them BACK! GIVE MY DAD'S DREAMS BACK RIGHT NOW!"

The words come out of me in the loudest voice of my life, and the monster leaps away and begins to run. I don't even hesitate — I run after it, pumping limbs with newfound fury.

I have to get my dad's dreams back.

I have to wake him up.

I have to.

Because if I don't, my mom — the person that loved him with all her heart — would be devastated.

I run down the eerily quiet main street of the shopping district in pursuit of the monster.

All my classmates had collapsed into a deep sleep. It was an illness that had been getting a lot of attention in town recently⁠ — one where those who fell asleep never reawakened. The same illness that claimed my dad.

But students weren't the only new victims of the disease. Everyone was asleep now. Everyone except for me.

At the far end of the downtown shopping district, where I'd come in search of other waking people, I'd found a dark monster that looked like it stepped out of a video game. "I ate everyone's dreams," it said, and I was sure that was why everyone was asleep. But when I tried to scare the monster into giving the dreams back, it whirled around and fled. So I gave chase, because I wasn't going to let it escape until it returned Dad's dreams and made him whole.

I dash down the street, making sure not to step on any of the people sleeping in the middle of the road. Ahead, the monster runs with ferocious speed, occasionally pausing to look back at me, almost like it wants me to follow.

I eventually enter a run-down building on the outskirts of downtown. With a start, I realize it's the arcade where I used to spend so much of my time. As I follow the monster through a set of broken, sagging doors, the eerie silence of the city falls away, and soon my ears thrum with the noises of arcade machines.

I make my way forward, searching for the monster. Eventually, I find it standing in the furthest corner of the room, right in front of a darkened and forgotten two-player rhythm game.

I know this game: It's the one I used to play with Mom when I was a kid. And in the six months since her passing, I'd played it over and over, looking for a shadow of her memory in its brilliant lights.

Upbeat dance music suddenly blares out of a speaker as the machine springs to life. The monster stares at the neon screen and tilts its head, a human-like gesture without a hint of terror.

"This game's a lot of fun," I say, speaking to the monster before I even realize what I'm doing. It looks at me, gives a small nod, and timidly reaches out for the screen. But its hands are bulky and awkward, and I realize I'm going to have to take the lead. I drop a pair of coins into the machine — two coins for two players. Then we pick a song from the list. I doubt the monster can understand human music, so I choose for it — a song Mom and I used to play all the time.

The screen explodes with light as the game begins. Notes fly across the screen in tandem with upbeat music. Our task is to step on the correct panels at our feet, and as I move my body, I feel genuine joy start to bubble up from deep inside me. It's so strange⁠, but even with a monster standing beside me, I'm somehow enjoying myself.

As I dance, I glance at the neighboring screen. The monster is hesitant, stepping on panels with clumsy, awkward haste.

"You're so bad at this!" I chuckle. And it's true: The monster is dancing like a clown, and I can't help but laugh.

The monster makes something like a frown then, and begins moving its feet as quickly as possible. But the harder it concentrates, the more it loses its rhythm, and soon any kind of coordination has gone out the window in favor of flailing arms and legs about wildly.

As I watch the monster's awkward movements, I feel something well up in my chest⁠: A nostalgic yearning for a time that had slipped away from me so, so long ago.

The next thing I know, I'm standing in perfect stillness. I've never given up in the middle of a game before, but I can't tear my eyes away from the monster dancing next to me. It's so bad, yet its steps are filled with pure joy—a child suddenly presented with some new and unexpected toy.

It all reminds me of something. I know these movements. I know who the monster is.

"...Mom?"

What the hell am I saying? I wonder. I want to laugh and cry at the same time, but I can't help but think of the monster as my mom. I watched her dance like this countless times as a kid, and relived those memories countless times over the past six months.

The monster stops dancing and turns its eyeless face to me. There's a pause, an eternity filled only with the sounds of unending electronic music. Then the monster opens its mouth and murmurs my name in a dry, scratchy voice.

The name my mom gave me.

Everyone in town was asleep. My dad, the students at school, the people walking down the street⁠ — everyone but me. It was all the result of a strange illness that caused people to suddenly fall asleep and never wake up.

Then a monster appeared before me, one the color of an abyss. It told me it ate everyone's dreams, which I knew was the cause of the illness. Then it ran off to the old arcade where Mom and I used to hang out before she died. We played a dancing rhythm game together, and I suddenly called the monster "Mom."

And the monster replied with my name. It used my name. The same one mom had given me.

Now, as I stand here stunned, it repeats my name under its breath over and over again. Like it's trying to remember something — or maybe confirm it. It then slowly walks over to me and reaches out to brush my cheek with a malformed hand.

"I...want to be human," it says. "I can be human if I eat everyone's dreams. And then I can see you again."

The monster⁠ — my mother — is speaking to me. I can tell she feels terrible for leaving me behind⁠, and I don't blame her. I'm stubborn, impulsive, and terrible with people, and she'd always worried about me. But now, she's returned in the form of a monster.

I pull my mom into a hug. Even though the armor on her body looks like it would be cold, it holds a human warmth. I'm so happy to see her — and yeah, maybe that happiness is all just a dream, but you know what? I don't care. I just want to stay like this forever.

But I know Mom will worry even more if I say that out loud, which is why I have to find a way to tell her I can go on.

"I'm okay, Mom," I whisper. "I'm gonna be fine. But please give everyone's dreams back. Give Dad's dreams back."

When I say that, Mom wordlessly unwinds me from her arms. The next thing I know, her darkened form emits a soft, faint light that sort of...fades away into the air. Worried that she's about to vanish, my vision starts to blur with tears.

But to my surprise, Mom's fading hands reach down and select a new song on the arcade machine. Electronic music pulses. Without a word, she begins to stomp her feet on the buttons, her fading body moving with awkward, uninhibited joy.

She looks over at me. I can't read the expression on her blank monster face, but I can tell she wants me to join her. So I do. We dance together, giving in to childlike glee — just as we did when I was little. And while my heart aches to watch her vanish, that emotion is no match for the exhilaration I feel dancing with her.

Finally, the music ends. My feet stop. When I turn to look beside me, Mom is gone. There's no trace of the monster.

I feel like I'm in a dream. But when I look at the score on the screen — a score for two — I know she was here.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

When I step out of the arcade, the sleeping people are all sitting up, their eyes wide and bewildered.

The monster ⁠— my mom — has given everyone's dreams back.

I run to the hospital and discover that Dad is also awake. When I burst into his room, he's busy cleaning up the drawings he'd scribbled on the wall while asleep—drawings of a monster that looks very, very familiar.

"Kind of creepy I was drawing all this in my sleep," he murmurs. "It reminds me of a fairy tale I once heard — one where people who die are reborn as dream-eating monsters."

He pauses, embarrassed. He doesn't want to finish the thought and admit that maybe Mom died, become a dream-eating monster, and came to see us.

But I knew the truth: Mom did become a dream-eating monster and she did come to see us.

But I don't tell Dad that. I don't tell him tell the truth, because I feel like everything that happened to me is barely hanging on to reality. And if I tell a single person about it, it's going to slip from reality to a dream. So instead of telling him, I join him at the wall and help him clean away the scribbles.

"I hope you've been keeping your room tidy," he says to me at one point. "You don't get a pass on chores just because I've been in the hospital and couldn't remind you."

Okay, seriously? Nagging already?

But this time, I decide not to talk back, because I know Mom will worry if we started fighting.

I mull everything over in my mind as I watch the monster doodles slow vanish from the walls. I doubt the loneliness I feel from Mom's passing will ever go away. But now I know she lives on as a dream-eating monster somewhere. I know she's watching me from afar. And that's why I have to keep walking. Why I have to keep going forward.

Because I don't want to worry her anymore.

"The dream-eating monster is a species that instinctually devours dreams in an attempt to secure a human form. This particular monster, however, chose to turn the girl back into a human rather than keeping the form for himself."

"Then he's acting against his instincts? How kind! It must be love."

Goodness, but those two are such a bother. Carrier always speaks in such a condescending manner, while his substitute just mumbles under his breath.

I know, I know — if Mama can't say anything nice about them, perhaps I shouldn't say anything at all. Still, I find our conversations so unpleasant!

"Why do these monsters want to become human, anyway? I mean, they're sturdy enough as is — far more admirable creatures than those human meatbags."

"How can you say such things considering all the knowledge you have on the matter?"

"Oh, but I don't know as much as you, my dear! Perhaps you'd be willing to teach me more about them, mmm?"

"...teach...more..."

"Well, how can I say no to that face?"

Carrier is right: I know far more about the monsters, which is why I understand just how much of a miracle his sacrifice is — and how close to destiny it flies.

Not that Mama would teach that rapscallion a single thing!

"Hey, Carrier. Is she here yet?"

Silence, you incessant boob! It's always she this, she that with you!

"Goodness me! That is a bit worrying, isn't it?"

Does this fool even remember why he's walking around like this in the first place?
Well, better do my job and remind the oaf that this is no playdate.

"When you eat the young miss's dreams, you will become human."

"...I know."

"But of course you did! You are so clever after all, Master Levania!"

Good god, now I have to flatter this dunce just to keep him on track. You're working for ME, pal! ME! 

And I'M the one using YOU! You ain't worth SQUAT without me, and don't you forget it!

...All right, that's enough internal screaming for one day. Best settle into work mode for the day and keep my darling idiots on the straight and narrow!

"Now then, I believe the young miss should be here soon."

"Hurry up."

"And...here we go!"

Gloomy Monster: This dream...tastes bad...

Shallow Monster: Mine's great. I really hit gold this time!

Doubtful Monster: QUIET, YOU. TASTE DOESN'T MATTER.

SM: Don't be such a stick in the mud. Hey, you agree with me, right?

GM: You...are annoying...

DM: SEE? IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND AS TO SHUT UP WHEN YOU GET THE HINT.

SM: Aww, that hurts! This is why all of you are a miserable bunch of monsters.

DM: I'M FINE BEING MISERABLE. DON'T YOU AGREE?

GM: I want to be...more cheerful...

DM: HAH. LIKE THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN TO YOU.

GM: How do I...be cheerful?

SM: Think of what a delightful future you'll have once you become human.

GM: Delightful...future?

DM: AND WHAT DELIGHT IS THERE IN BECOMING HUMAN?

SM: Oh, that's easy! It's... Actually, I have no idea.

DM: THEN WHY DO WE WANT TO BE HUMAN?

SM: No idea.

GM: Then why...are we alive?

Two figures stand atop red leaves blanketing the cold stone floor. One is the dark monster, the other the girl who follows close behind.

"There are so many things I want to do with you when you turn human, Mister Monster!" says the excited girl.

"Like what?" asks the monster without turning around.

"First I want to look at flowers with you. Next. I want to eat cake with you. Then, I want to study with you so we can learn lots and LOTS of fun things together!"

"What nonsense."

Though the monster immediately dismisses the girl's ideas, the strides which had kept him slightly ahead of her slow to a stop. After a moment, he peers down at her and says gruffly, "Just let me eat more of your dreams. Then maybe we can do some of those things."

A smile blooms on the girl's face. "Okay, Mister Monster! It's a promise!"

A silent girl stands on the dusty stone path and stares at a closed door. She holds thoughts of the dark monster in her heart — the one with willful eyes that appeared before her and Mama and then vanished. Though they pursued the monster, they eventually lost sight of it. However, there can be no doubt it now lies beyond the closed door.

The dark monster stands on the precipice of despair. Unable to understand human emotion, perhaps she will never comprehend the meaning behind the child's pain. The monster hates this thought, and curses her own powerlessness. But she also knows she can be the child's friend — and stay with her.

"I know how you feel, but let's keep going."

Mama's voice comes from behind the girl, gently urging her forward. And she's right — they have no time to stand about. They must restore the warped tales within the memories, collect the weapons, and take back the lost fragments.

All so they might save that child.

"You didn't get to be human, Mr. Monster?"

"It is...all right."

Amidst their struggles and clashing emotions, monster and girl at last assume their original forms. Their hands intertwine. They stand together in the light. And as he basks in the girl's warmth, the monster comes to a realization.

He thought he wanted to become human, and so followed his instinct to consume dreams. He believed that was his sole purpose in life. But now, as he looks at her smiling face, he realizes his purpose is to be her friend.

At long last, he has found the answer he was searching for.

I met a monster in a strange place called The Cage.

The monster ate all my bad dreams so I stopped having them.

But when the monster kept eating my dreams, he turned into a girl that looked just like me, and I became a monster. I was so surprised, I didn't know what to do—so I ran away.

But secretly, I was happy to be a monster.

I wanted to forget about my dead dad. I wanted to forget about my mom who abandoned me. I wanted to forget about the other kids who bullied me. I wanted to forget everything.

I'm not human anymore. I'm a monster.

And I am going to forget everything.

Everything.

                   ＊                   ＊                   ＊

It's snowing; soft, white, and beautiful.

The strange place is made of stone. Some parts are covered in leaves, and some let the snow in. Like this one.

The snow crunches under my feet as I walk down a long white path.

I don't know where to go.

I want to go home, but I didn't know where it is.

I guess I forgot where I'd come from.

I don't know anymore. I can't remember anything.

Eventually I stop thinking about it because it makes my head hurt. I forget all that and begin to run. Snow sticks to my cheeks—it's nice and cold, and helps to erase the fuzzy feeling in my head.

After a while, I come to a stop and see a woman sitting by a cold stone wall. I thought I was alone in this place, so I'm happy to see someone else.

But she's shivering. Is she sick?

"Excuse me, ma'am," I ask. "Are you okay?"

She looks over at me and screams.

"MONSTER!"

She starts to shiver more after that, and I feel bad for her. I want her to feel better. I start trying to spin and dance, because that always makes me happy and I think it will make her happy, too. But I can't dance very well in all the slippery snow, and after a second I fall down on my bum — which causes the lady to laugh.

"Are you feeling better, ma'am?"

She gives a little nod, and we start talking. She tells me she found herself lost in this stone place, and wants to go home so she can see her "family" and her "daughter". Then she asks me how to get out of here. When I tell her I don't know, her face gets all sad again.

"It's okay," I say. "We'll find a way home together."

I take her hand. My hands are super big, so I hold hers gently, trying not to crush it. She looks up at me like she's going to cry, then squeezes my hand tight.

"Your hands..." she says in a whisper. "They're so cold."

I realize then how cold my hands are, and remember how I was trying to endure the cold. But I'm okay now, because the nice lady's hands are so very warm.

I'm a monster in a big building made of stone.

I want to go home, but I don't know where that is. I don't even know where I came from. I don't remember anything. So I walk and walk and walk all by myself until I meet a nice lady. She says she also ended up in the stone building and didn't know how. She says she had to find the way home to her "family" and "daughter".

So I take her hand and start to walk with her.

We walk up a long spiral staircase and the snow just stops. There are red leaves everywhere — it's like a red carpet just for us! The lady smiles and says it's beautiful. Then we see a flower sprouting in the leaves and she smiles more.

"What a strange place," the lady says. "That flower bloomed out of nowhere. My daughter would be delighted to see it."

The nice lady tells me all about her daughter while we walk. Her daughter likes flowers, and also loves the nice lady. They're always together, and are each others' favorite people in the whole world. They also fight sometimes, but they always make up. They're a "family," so even if something is painful, they overcome it together.

The lady seems happy to be talking about her daughter, and that makes me happy. Then she asks if I have a family.

"I don't know," I say, tilting my head. And it's true — I don't remember anything. But I knew it would be nice to have a family and a daughter like the nice lady."

Oh, that's right," says the lady. "You don't remember anything. But I'm sure you have a family. All living things have beautiful families around them."

I leap in the air and say "Yippee!" I still can't remember anything, but I want to go home to my beautiful family.

Suddenly, pop! Another flower blooms from the red leaves. But it isn't the only one! Pop, pop, pop! So many are blooming. Each of the little blossoms gives off a shine. I feel like I can make a huge light if I collect them all!

The lady gasps in delight and starts picking the flowers. "I'm going to pick a bouquet for my daughter!" she says.

Pluck, pluck, pluck. She plucks so many that I feel bad for the flowers. But the lady says flowers bloom so they can be plucked, and that no matter how many we pick, they'll never scream in pain. That makes sense, 'cause flowers are always quiet and never talk or anything. So I pick lots with the nice lady as we walk.

Finally, we come to a tall black statue. The lady says it looks like a scarecrow, which I don't understand. But I want to touch it, so I reach out. And then...

POP!

Me and the nice lady turn into dark mist and get sucked up into the scarecrow!

The big stone building is so very strange. Now inside, I'm trying to help a lady find her way home so she can see her "family" and her "daughter".

When the lady first started telling me about such things, I felt my heart grow warmer. While I couldn't remember anything about myself, I knew I also wanted a "family" and a "daughter". But then we found what looked like a Dark Scarecrow. Curious, I reached out to touch it, and we ended up getting sucked inside!

Now me and the lady are in a small house — a place different from the leaf-covered stone building we were in a moment ago. It's a messy house; bricks are pulling out of walls, and the fireplace is full of garbage. All the chairs and tables are scattered across the floor, and the windows are broken.

Where are we? I wonder. But then the lady's eyes go wide and she exclaims, "I'm home!"

This is the lady's house! Oh, I'm so glad she managed to find it! But then I notice she's frowning, and a second later she starts running this way and that.

"Where is she!? Where is she!?"

She repeats these words over and over like a spell as she runs around the room. She yanks garbage from the fireplace, and even turns over furniture that was already overturned. Suddenly, she spins on a heel and runs into another room. Though this is all very confusing, I decide to follow her.

The next room is just as messy as the first, and I find the lady stretched out on the floor, running her hand back and forth beneath a filthy bed. After a bit, I hear the sound of something heavy being dragged, followed by a harsh cry. A moment later, the lady pulls out a sobbing little girl with a face covered in bruises!

"So it's not enough that Daddy does it?" snarls the woman. "You're going to run from me too?" She then smacks the girl's cheek with her hand, causing her to wail in pain."

Stop it!" I cry. "You're hurting her!"

"Family is overcoming pain together," replies the woman

....Family? Oh, I see. This must be the "daughter" she was talking about. Still, if her child is so precious, why would the lady hit her? Considering the girl's face is covered in bruises, I don't want to think about how long this has been going on.

"Help me!" screams the girl as she reaches for my hand. "She's going to kill me!"I have to do something. I have to. But when I look at the girl, my head hurts and I can't move. I recognize the look in her eyes: they are full of despair because no one will bother to help her.

Wait.

That's right.

...I remember.

I was human before I became a monster — and I had despaired just like the girl. My daddy died. My mommy left and never came back. No one would help me. No one cared. I have no home to return to anymore.

I break into fearsome sobs and begin to run. I have to. Because if I don't, I feel like I'm going to lose my mind.

I leave the messy room and run outside. I run and I run and I run — going for so long I don't even remember what happened. When I finally come back to myself, I'm in the big stone building. There are dead flowers all over the stone floor; the same ones that were so happy and bright moments before.

The petals look like bones. Ash.

They look like they're crying.

But I can't hear the flowers crying.

No one can hear the flowers crying.

I always wanted a home to go to, but never knew where to find it. I'd forgotten so much. I'd forgotten everything.

But now? I remember.

I was human before I became a monster, and I no longer have a home to go back to.

Daddy is dead.

Mommy abandoned me so she could be with a strange man.

I'm alone. In despair. I'm in so much pain. My chest hurts. I don't know what to do. I yell, but nothing happens.

I need help. I need to find someone who will help me, so I run through the giant stone building looking for someone. I run and run until my legs ache and my lungs burn. I feel like I'm going to cry, but my monster body has no eyes, so I can't.

I climb to a higher spot and look at the sky. Sand floats on the wind, turning it a sickly yellow color.

And then...

"Is that...?"

I hear a voice from below. I look down and see a white, floaty creature, as well as a girl dressed in black. Both of them are looking up at me. The girl has beautiful eyes — like a flower. She looks so very kind; I wish I could talk to her.

I'm sad.

I'm lonely.

I'm hurt.

Save me.

There are so many things I want to say to her, but I can't say anything because my head is pounding. And the longer I look at her, the more I feel like I'm going to remember something else.

No. I don't want to remember anything else. I'm afraid of finding despair again, like the moment I remembered about Mommy and Daddy.

The girl doesn't say anything as she approaches. My head hurts more. More. More. I feel like I'm going insane.

Don't come any closer!

"――――――――!"

Before I know what's happening, I fly at the girl, planning to attack. But just as my hand is about to connect with her head, our eyes meet.

I can't hurt her.

When that thought comes to me, I freeze. The girl opens her mouth, but no voice comes out. Maybe she can't speak?

And yet, I feel like I hear warm words from her.

Why is that? I don't know. But as I think about it, my head starts to hurt again. I can't stand it anymore, so I run away from the girl. I climb the stone wall, aiming for a high place. The sand on the wind scrapes against my monster skin.

I feel so lonely. So isolated. I want to see her again — to see her kind eyes. And yet, looking at her makes me feel like I'm going to remember something, and that scares me. So instead, I turn to the sandy yellow sky and scream.

I have nowhere to go, but I still want to find a home.

And the kindness I feel from the girl⁠ is exactly the kind of home I want to return to.

Mama: If I were to describe her in a word, it would be...angelic! Yes, that's it.

Carrier: Seems you ain't been acquainted with her more devilish side yet.

Mama: Society can be so cruel. How could they possibly sacrifice a blameless child?

Carrier: Same cruel society is always sacrificing my poor salary too...

Mama: Still, I believe her fate changed when she met the monster.

Carrier: My fate changed when I met my wife ― in many meanings of the word! Heyo!

Mama: Goodness, but you are an irritating creature.

Carrier: Ow! Hey! don't pinch me like THAAAT! OWWW!

Mama: The girl never lost her kindness, even in the face of needless malice. But though that kindness was not enough to bring her salvation, it saved him, and he brought salvation to her heart. In this feedback loop of benevolence, she became herself anew.

Carrier: GYAAAAAAH! HRAAAAAGH! ...HAH!

Mama: Oh my. You managed to escape my grasp.

Carrier: Gimme a goddamn break already, lady!

Mama: Language! That poor girl would be sad to hear such things from you, Carrier. After all, she adores you.

1. GRADES
Composition: A
Grammar: A
Mathematics: A
History: A
Geography: A
Science: A
Art: C
Music: A
Physical Education: A
Ethics: A
Labor: A
Nature Appreciation: A

2. ATTENDANCE
Days Present: 80
Absences: 0
Late Arrivals: 0
Times Left Early: 0

3. TEACHER COMMENTS
Your daughter's grades and attitude are excellent.
She is considered an exemplary student among the staff, and interacts with genuine care for all her classmates. Your daughter's stellar personality is a testament to her wonderful home environment and the love you show her.

As she is a student of particular quality, we strongly recommend she pursue higher-level education. We believe she will prove a valuable asset for society in the future.

One cold and snowy morning, I looked out the window and watched as my daughter had a snowball fight with some of the neighborhood kids. They were all bigger than her — and probably four or five years older — but she kept making snowballs and throwing them as best as she could. That's when I realized she was the only one without gloves, and that her poor hands were bright red. Yet she still wore a beaming innocent smile on her face, which made my heart hurt.

"Fio's so cheerful, even on a frigid day like this."

My husband, having just woke, came over to stand beside me, watching our daughter amidst the large crowd of children. Once he left for work, I looked for one of my old sweaters. He'd given it to me years ago and I'd always taken good care of it, so I figured it would still be in decent shape. After pulling it out of the closet, I unraveled it and began to knit a pair of gloves from the yarn, figuring the soft hues would look better on her than me, anyway. But when my husband came home that night, we looked at each other and burst out laughing, because he'd gone to town and used what little money we had to buy her a pair of mittens.

That night, I watched as our little girl, worn out from playing all day, snored softly in her sleep. May these blissful days continue into eternity, I prayed as I gently placed a small blanket over her.

Next spring, a new social class will be established below the Noble and Commoner classes.

These individuals will be called "Goat People," and will be required to pay exorbitant taxes on the bulk of their income. Additionally, they will not be allowed to assume any position of public service, and are expected to be stripped of the ability to vote. In essence, these Goat People will not only lose not only their economic freedoms, but their basic human rights.

The council's jurists claim that introducing a lower caste is expected to stabilize the government, but I say this with everything in my heart: There can be no future for such an inhumane system.

Today, the assembly hall was filled with those who oppose the new system yet again. It doesn't matter if we end up Goat People ourselves; no citizen rejoices in finding fortune by means of grinding the less fortunate beneath their bootheel. Even if the council steamrolls public opposition and puts this outrageous class system in place, we will never yield. All of us — Nobility, Commoners, and Goats — must join hands and help one another.

Seeking freedom from their lowly status, a group of Goat People gathered before the council building last night. Guards were dispatched to control the situation, but a riot broke out regardless.

Though the Goat People involved in the incident were purged, residents continue to voice their unease. They are not afraid of the powerless Goat People, but rather a horrible "monster" that multiple eyewitnesses reported seeing at the scene of the purge.

"It was that girl," one witness said as she trembled. "The one they found dead in the ruins a few days ago. She summoned that horrible thing. It was like something straight out of a fairy tale..."

Separate rumors claim the Goat People were driven to riot by their despair over the girl's death, which likely led the eyewitness to make this connection. That said, the council is currently looking into the "monster," and are calling for all citizens to remain calm in the meantime. They have also promised to take this incident seriously, and tighten the noose even further around the necks of all Goat People.

Some hundred years ago, there was a girl who was detested for being a Goat Person, and she lost her life at a young age.

She had been trapped in a long cycle of reincarnation — such is the story of us Goat People. She died, was reborn, lived, died again, and was then reborn once more. Across the eras, she changed form and lost her memories, but she was always born with the same spirit.

It is said that even when she found a dreadful end as a Goat Person, she retained her kindness the entire time. And that most certainly is because her heart recalls the kindness of what was called the Monster.

No matter how many times she is reborn, the Monster always rescues her. The warm memories she holds of it slumber eternally within her heart. And that is why, no matter where or when she is born, she can press on, forever holding onto her kindness.