LoneWolf Stories

Another cold, bright room. This one was full of people — two guards stood on either side of the hermetically sealed door with guns belted to their hips; four attendants in white lab coats fluttered around beeping equipment, keeping a close eye on Michael’s vital signs; Hargrove stood in a corner gripping the handle of his briefcase so tightly his knuckles were white. He had been offered a stool but was too fidgety to stay seated.

Michael was bound to a wooden, high-backed chair by straps around his ankles, wrists, midsection, and head, which was shaved so close there was not so much as a hint of stubble on his pale scalp. Holes had been drilled into his skull with raised metal receptor ports inserted into each one. The skin around each port was blackened, cauterized.

He was heavily sedated after a night spent screaming and pounding his hands bloody on the plexi-walls of his cell. His eyelids drooped closed and then snapped open at the sound of one of the attendants coughing or murmuring to each other.

When the clock struck twelve noon, all heads turned to the door as the warden, Dr. Deborah Corlis, walked into the room. She was a tall woman with her blonde hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Under her lab coat she wore a loose silk blouse over slacks paired with sensible, low-heeled pumps.

Dr. Corlis walked to the center of the room and stopped in front of Michael. She looked at him closely, noting his distant gaze and scraped knuckles with clinical interest. She waved a hand at one of the attendants, who came forward to wipe a string of spittle from the corner of Michael’s slack mouth.

She then turned her attention to the table next to the Chair. Dr. Corlis picked up a jack with a trailing wire so thin it was almost invisible. She approached Michael, looked at the ports scattered across his scalp, then inserted the jack into the port at the very top of his head. She reached for another jack and plugged it into his forehead between his eyes. Two more jacks were plugged into his temples, and a final one — the doctor was careful to keep her face out of reach of Michael’s teeth as she leaned close — went into the base of his skull.

As Dr. Corlis worked, an attendant took the trailing end of each wire and carefully plugged it into the back of a machine that looked like an oversized retro television. Each plug was color-coordinated to a receptor on the back of the machine.

Finally, Dr. Corlis stepped away from the Chair and grabbed a clipboard from the table. She took her time flipping through the paperwork, scribbling notes on each page, before looking back up at her patient.

“Michael Francois Giese,” she said in a clipped, business-like tone. “For the crime of homicide in the first degree, in violation of Penal Code 90:2.8, you have been sentenced to a punishment of a hard reset.”

Michael blinked rapidly, fighting the sedative in his bloodstream and the leather straps that bound him to the Chair. His eyes followed an attendant who rolled the wired-up monitor around to situate it in his line of vision.

“Do you have any final words?” Dr. Corlis asked.

“This is inhumane,” Michael panted. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“What you did to that woman was inhumane, Mr. Giese,” the doctor said dismissively, turning away from him toward the machine.

“Fuck you —!” An attendant shoved a mouth guard between Michael’s teeth then stepped away quickly.

Without further preamble, Dr. Corlis pressed a button on the monitor, which chirped into life and began to hum with a near-imperceptible vibration. Michael’s body jerked and stiffened ramrod straight. His eyes widened, his fingers splayed out, his feet trembled. Yet he didn’t make a sound as his memories were erased.

A kaleidoscope of faces and places swirled across the screen in front of him. The Babel of a million conversations poured out of the speakers at a deafening decibel level. An attendant hurried to the monitor and adjusted the volume.

After several agonizing seconds, Michael’s eyes rolled up into his head and he made a strangled, gagging sound. The receptors on his scalp began to emanate smoke and his skin sizzled. Finally, Michael slumped in the Chair and the images on the screen dissolved into white static.

In the corner of the room, Hargrove stared at his client with a hand over his mouth. The guards were as motionless as ever. The attendants glanced nervously at Dr. Corlis, who approached her patient slowly.

“Michael?” she said.

No response.

“Wake up!” she said loudly, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

Patient 916 jumped as if awoken from a deep sleep. His eyes roved around the stark room before settling on the woman standing in front of him. His eyebrows furrowed. He appeared to be more confused than frightened.

“Where am I?” he asked in a small voice, that of a lost child.

The tension in the room released – the patient had survived the procedure. Two attendants came forward to undo the straps around 916’s extremities. Another walked around the machine and removed a chip from the back of it, placed it in a plastic casing, and tucked it away in a file cabinet. The doctor would examine it later in the laboratory.

“Take him to the Rehabilitation ward and keep an eye on him.” Dr. Corlis gave her orders like a Roman general in the heat of battle. “Make sure he’s not faking it…like the last one,” she said with an ominous glare at the youngest attendant, who blushed and looked down at their feet.

“Yes, doctor,” they said in unison then jumped to their tasks. The two guards stepped forward and lifted 916 out of the Chair. They laid him gently on a gurney and wheeled him to the door. An attendant held their ID badge up to the scanner on the wall which opened the hermetic seal. Dr. Corlis scanned the room with her cold, gray eyes, making sure nothing was out of place, that everything was clean and orderly. Then she turned and left the room.

Hargrove, forgotten in the bustle of post-operation, scuttled after her with his briefcase hanging from his shaking hand.

“Hi!” said a jovial voice from behind him. Emrut whipped around, startled, and saw a young woman holding her hand out in greeting. There were old newspapers lying on the ground around her feet. “My name is Witch Hazel.”

Emrut wiped his sweaty palm on his pants before grasping hers. “Should I call you Hazel?” he asked, relieved that he had finally found another human being in this abandoned place.

“Just call me Witch,” she said, shrugging. “Have a seat.” She gestured toward the bench which, Emrut now realized, she had been sleeping on, using newspapers as a blanket. There was a canvas backpack covered in pins and patches hidden under the bench. One of its straps had frayed loose and was dragging on the ground like a limp tail.

Emrut assessed the rest of Witch Hazel’s attire. She was dressed in a haphazard assortment of clothes and colors that nearly burned his retinas — a heavy knit sweater hung loosely over her skinny shoulders. Underneath it she wore rubber duck print leggings and scuffed combat boots with alternating neon pink and neon orange laces. A length of old bike chain hung from her neck. It was cleaned and buffed to a coppery shine.

“Where you headed?” Witch asked, unfazed by Emrut’s close appraisal of her.

“East, to Cumberland. I hear the Commune there is accepting applicants again.”

Witch made a dismissive tsking noise. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place. Those Commies are all the same, they don’t think for themselves. And what’s with those haircuts, anyway?” She scrunched her nose in disgust.

Emrut was shocked by her casual blasphemy. He had assumed that Witch Hazel was also waiting for the shuttle bus to the fabled religious community that had been founded by the reclusive billionaire, Wham Kroger.

“Appearances don’t matter to them,” Emrut said defensively. His ears were suddenly hot. “They live according to scripture.”

“What, you mean Kroger’s Creed?” She waved her hand in a shooing gesture. “Those aren’t holy words. The guy’s a businessman! This whole thing began as an internal memo,” she scoffed.

Emrut ground his teeth but refrained from responding. He was used to enduring ridicule from non-believers, even from his own family. But he had been traveling for months to get to the Cumberland Commune. No one could stop him now — not a late bus driver and certainly not an eccentric heretic.

Witch Hazel plopped down on the bench, grabbed her bag, and started rummaging around in it for something. “I wouldn’t get caught up in that group, if I were you,” Witch continued. “They’re plotting a hostile takeover of the world!”

Emrut refused to sit down. “They’re trying to rebuild society. Consolidation will make the country stronger, more efficient. What could be better than that?”

Witch looked up from her bag with an incredulous expression. “Freedom,” she said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I wouldn’t want someone telling me when to eat and what to believe. And how to dress!” This last thought appeared to be the most heinous restriction. She grabbed her bike chain necklace and stroked her thumb across a smooth link and stared off into the distance.

“Doesn’t the media do that already?” Emrut challenged her. “They try to sell you carbs and sugar, they sell you plain t-shirts for one hundred dollars, they sell you selfishness and sparkles and fifteen minutes of fame!” he shouted. “Kroger is selling enlightenment.”

“Pass,” Witch said bluntly, turning back to her bag. “It’s a cult, plain and simple.”

There’s no reasoning with her! Emrut seethed to himself as he watched Witch pull a misshapen candy bar from the bottom of her bag. She unwrapped it with her teeth and took a bite. “Want the other half?” she asked around a mouthful of chocolate nougat. Emrut shook his head and turned away from her.

“Listen,” Witch said, swallowing. “I know someone who used to live in that Commune.” Her tone of voice made Emrut curious, though he kept his back to her. “They were there for almost twenty years and managed to escape with just the clothes on their back.” She paused for Emrut to respond. “I heard Kroger is desperate to find them because of what they know about those communes he’s running.” She spit the word out as if it were a curse.

Finally, Emrut turned around and looked at Witch closely. This time, she fidgeted under his glare, looking down at her boots to avoid his burning eyes.

“And what is this escapee’s name?” he asked pointedly. “Are they named after a plant, by chance?”

Witch Hazel’s eyebrows drew together with sudden concern.

“Did you unplug the ticket machine in there?” Emrut asked, pointing at the empty bus station. She still didn’t answer.

“I should report you!” he shouted, shaking with indignation.

Witch’s gray eyes widened. She dropped the candy bar, looped the lone strap of her pack over her shoulder, and almost slipped on the newspapers as she took off running down the road. Her backpack was still partially open and flapped around comically, nearly spilling its contents.

“Wait!” Emrut shouted after her. His anger quickly dissolved into guilt for threatening Witch like that, but she ignored his insistent apologies. Her boots clunked loudly in the morning stillness as she headed in the direction Emrut himself had come from — all those hundreds of miles he had trekked to get here.

Emrut collapsed onto the bench and hung his head. He had broken the number one tenet of Kroger’s Creed: The greatest gift you can give to the uninitiated is patience. It is our task in this life to illuminate the Way, every day, until the whole world can see the Truth.

He sat outside the empty bus station for another hour, watching the sun rise higher in the sky. He came to the conclusion that the shuttle service must have been cancelled, now that only 1% of the continent’s population was uninitiated — freebirds, they called themselves, those few who refused to buy Wham Kroger’s brand of spirituality, for one reason or another. Emrut’s own parents had been free, but he’d never bothered to ask them why. And now it was too late. They were gone, just like Witch Hazel.

Emrut steeled himself for another long day of walking. In a few more weeks he could check-in at the Commune — if they had space for him. He would find comfort and guidance there, learn how to live an ordered life and how to synergize the non-believers into Kroger’s growing federation of enlightened communities.

Maybe someday, he would meet up with Witch Hazel again and welcome her back into the fold.

Emrut rested his feet a while longer then continued his journey east, to Cumberland.

“You’re out late, Iganis,” I say, clenching my fists instinctively, though I don’t dare call forth magic yet. I know now that this is a fight I won’t win, not against a Prima.

Plus, fighting in the streets would bring the Holy Hunters down on both of us faster than my dead body could hit the ground.

“Oh, I’m just sight-seeing,” Iganis replies nonchalantly as she steps out of the shadows and into the fading light of the late evening. Her thick red hair is done up in small braids that are woven together into one complicated strand that rests over one shoulder like a tamed python. Her eyes are also red, gleaming like two rubies in her pale, heart-shaped face. Her body is lean, athletic.

She doesn’t look like the oldest living witch in the world. On the surface, Iganis appears to be untouched by time, but her eyes say otherwise.

Iganis walks toward me slowly like a stalking panther. I stand my ground and remain in a fighting stance — feet wide apart, head up proudly, arms loose to react to any sudden movements.

All the subtle rules of dueling race through my head. A spellcaster’s eyes glow brighter with the magic they’ve summoned to themself, just before they unleash it. The color hints at what element they command — green, white, red, blue. The ensuing duel depends on the contenders’ quick wit and skill, so the forewarning of the eyes is never a guaranteed win, merely a chance to counterattack, to survive.

Iganis’s eyes flicker like embers, but she doesn’t make a move to attack. I wish she would just get it over with already and quit toying with me like this!

She comes to a stop a few inches away from me and crosses her arms. I blink in confusion. Her eyes dim to a dark brownish red, as close to a “normal” eye color as a Prima can get, considering that they have their elemental magic flowing through them at all times. They don’t struggle to summon their innate powers like us neophytes do.

“Are you afraid of me?” Iganis asks in a low tone. I can’t read her expression.

“I would be a fool not to fear a rogue Prima,” I say, looking her up and down contemptuously.

This woman had not only betrayed the Peace Accord between the covens, but she had also betrayed her own sisterhood. Iganis was Soror Prima of the Keepers of the Flame. She had risen up the ranks as an unusual talent and had led the coven through increasingly dark times for six centuries.

But six months ago, Iganis had abandoned her duty as First Sister without any warning or explanation. She had left us vulnerable, without a declared successor, when we needed her most. When I needed her!

“How dare you —?” I start to say, but Iganis reaches forward and pulls me into a tight hug before I can back away. I squirm to try and free myself, but she puts a hand on the back of my head and holds me against her chest, like she used to when I was young, when I was first accepted into the warm, protective fold of my coven.

Memories of happier times cloud my mind — the hours spent hunched over ancient texts describing thousands of years of the Sisterhood’s triumphs and tribulations; practicing spells with my friends; harmless dueling with rivals from other covens; walking through the gardens on my days off; lounging in Iganis’s private study, talking to her about everything and nothing.

Only she knows my secret, and she had done everything in her power to keep me safe…until six months ago.

Forcing my adrenaline-amped mind back to the present, I manage to wriggle my way free of Iganis’s embrace. Tears tickle my cheeks and I swipe them away.

There is hurt in Iganis’s eyes, but she purses her lips in acceptance. “I can explain everything,” she says, reaching toward me again, but I raise my hands in warning, and she quickly clasps her own in front of her as a gesture of submission. “Please let me explain,” she insists.

“You —.” I’m practically strangling on the words; the accusation is so heinous. “You helped the Hunters exterminate an entire coven! Whisper is gone! They’re all dead! Because of you!”

Without thinking, I summon the searing rage of a forest fire and unleash it as crackling red lightning at Iganis. She sidesteps it easily and turns to watch it go roaring down the street, sucking the oxygen out of the air as it snaps through the darkness before dissipating.

“You’ve improved much since I left,” Iganis says sadly, with the barest hint of pride.

I can only stand there, gasping for breath, not from the exertion of spellcasting, but from the unspeakable hatred I have for this person.

“The Hunters will be here soon,” I manage to say. “Go, and never seek me out again.” I turn to storm away.

“Abadne asked me to give you a message!” Iganis shouts at my back.

Reluctantly, I turn and glare at her. She throws something into the air that flashes in the setting sunlight, and I catch it without considering it might be a ruse to put down my guard.

But no, it’s a delicate chain of silver with a raw, uncut gem dangling on the end of it. I almost drop it in astonishment. It’s the signifier once worn by First Sister Abadne, leader of the doomed coven, Whisper in the Wind.

To the untalented eye, it would seem to be an imperfect diamond. But I know that the swirl of gray inside the gemstone is the raw, elemental magic that was once wielded by a spellcaster of the first order. Abadne’s spirit, and thus her full powers, were captured in this gemstone. Anyone — witch and Holy Hunter alike — would kill to get their hands on this.

I look up at Iganis, stunned. “Why wouldn’t you keep this?”

“I promised her I would keep it safe.” Iganis nods at it laying in the palm of my shaking hand. “And now it is. Protect it from those who wish to possess it.”

I close my fingers around the signifier and feel Abadne’s warm, bright spirit in my fist. Disgust boils up in my gut and I press my lips against the nausea it brings. My own mentor was a murderer and had just given me a token of her treacherous deed!

But…none of this makes sense. Why would Iganis help the Hunters and yet save the spirit of her fellow Prima at the last minute? Why would she leave it with me, of all people, knowing that I hate her so much? Why wouldn’t Iganis keep Abadne’s powers for herself? Why, why, why!

Suddenly I find myself caught in twin beams of halogen lights. The roar of a modified truck reverberates off the walls of the close-set buildings around me.

Shit!

I squeeze Abadne’s necklace in my fist as I watch two men exit the passenger side of the truck. The driver remains inside, his hulking shadow sitting motionless behind the wheel. The other men approach in a slow manner, eerily reminiscent of how Iganis had sauntered out of the shadows moments ago.

I scream in fury. “Iganis!” It was a trap! During my moment of distraction, while I tried to untangle her web of deception, the traitor had taken the opportunity to disappear into the night.

No matter. I drop Abadne’s signifier carefully into my pants pocket, then prepare for the fight of my life. Everything I’ve learned in the last century has come to this moment of real-life danger, a battle for Abadne’s spirit and the chance to avenge my lost sisters from Whisper in the Wind.

“I’ve got this,” I mutter, steeling myself as I summon the crushing weight of a tidal wave and send a sheet of blinding blue light at the Hunters. I watch with smug satisfaction as they grip their throats in wide-eyed panic as twin geysers of water erupt from their gaping mouths. They drown while standing on their feet, on dry land, and then they drop to their knees, already dead.

I stare at the shadowy driver, unable to see him in detail, but challenging him, nevertheless.

That’s right. It just so happens I can wield any element I please.

How’s that for a trick up the sleeve?

(mks)

__________________________________

{Pronunciation Guide}

Didiyon (DID-ee-yun)

Iganis (ee-GAH-nis)

Abadne (uh-BAD-nee)

___________________

{Glossary}

Soror Prima = First Sister, the leader of a coven.

signifier = a gemstone worn by the First Sister of a coven; a symbol of ultimate power and authority.

Holy Hunter = (mortal) a religious fundamentalist trained in the art of detecting traces of magic; an exterminator of supernatural beings.

"What?" Kay said. She turned around awkwardly, straining against her seatbelt which she didn't think to unbuckle. She looked out the rear window and saw nothing.

"You almost killed me, you know," Kaydeeja grumbled. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the passenger side door and climbed out, staggering slightly from a sudden dizzy spell. She put a steadying hand on the side of the car and noted, with growing concern, how the sun hung low in the sky. It was bad enough they were lost, now it was late afternoon. Night was coming.

"Wait!" Ondray said, struggling to unbuckle himself. "I don't think we should approach him." He practically fell out of the car in his haste to catch up with Kaydeeja, who had made her way around to the back of the car to search the stretch of road in either direction.

"Approach who?" she asked in exasperation.

Ondray turned around in a slow circle, searching the area, but the road was empty. No cars driving by, no animals crossing, no strange men standing where they didn't belong.

“He was just here…” Ondray insisted. “He was wearing a… a trenchcoat. He smiled at me.” Ondray looked at Kaydeeja with a pitiful, pleading look. “I swerved so I wouldn't hit him!"

Kaydeeja's frown softened as she watched him rub his hands over his face in frustration. Ondray suffered from splitting headaches that flared up randomly and lasted for hours. Lately, the migraines came more frequently and lingered for longer, causing him to lay in bed for days at a time, though the nauseating pain kept him awake.

"That's it. I'm driving," Kaydeeja said firmly, walking back to the idling car and climbing in behind the wheel. She took her time adjusting the seat to accommodate her shorter legs while Ondray walked back, dragging his feet in the gravel, his head hanging down.

Ondray dropped heavily into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand.

There was a poignant silence.

Without a word, Kaydeeja put the car in reverse and carefully backed away from the grassy roadside, peering over her shoulder to watch for oncoming traffic. Then, staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel tight, she defied the speed limit and rocketed down the road.

She made sure to put one hundred miles behind them before chancing a look in the rearview mirror.

Bic pulled his bifold from his pocket and extended it toward the thief. “Here, take it.”

The kid hesitated, suspecting a trick. “Throw it to me!”

“Fine.” Bic tossed his wallet at the thief’s feet and put his hand in the air. The kid bent down to pick it up while trying to keep his gun trained on his victim. His hand scrabbled around blindly before he finally dared to take his eyes off Bic to locate the wallet.

Bic watched the kid’s uncoordinated efforts like a scientist observing a lab rat in a maze. The kid was definitely suffering from a “lack of sleep,” so to speak. Bic knew better than anyone how potent the drug could be.

“You have what you want. Now let me go,” Bic said, suppressing the natural tone of command in his voice. Careful, he thought. Don’t push too hard.

“He saw our faces,” the accomplice said in a loud whisper, as if the three of them weren’t standing a few feet from each other.

“I know! Just let me think,” the gunman said. He shoved the wallet into his own pocket and put a trembling hand to his sweaty forehead. His eyes were red. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in several days.

“I have what you need,” Bic said conversationally.

“What?”

“He’s a cop!” the accomplice said in a panic.

The thief raised his gun and aimed it at Bic’s chest. “You a cop?” he demanded.

“You willing to shoot a cop?” Bic snapped back. The kid blinked and glanced at his partner again.

“I can give you what you need,” Bic insisted, lowering his arms slightly.

“That’s called entrapment, asshole!” the accomplice said. He hurried over to grab the gunman’s arm to pull him away. His hands were shaking too, Bic was pleased to see.

“Shut up a minute,” the thief said, tugging his arm free of his friend’s grip. He lowered his gun and assessed Bic’s business suit and polished shoes. “If you ain’t a cop, who are you?”

Bic smiled and held his arms out in a theatrical gesture, like a magician presenting a mind-bending illusion. “I am the Dream King,” he said, expansively.

The boys stared at him, their eyebrows drawn down in confusion.

Unfazed, Bic continued, “Give me what I want and I’ll give you what you need.”

The gunman licked his dry lips, but his friend said with a sneer, “We don’t swing that way. Just leave us alone.” He turned to walk away, pulling his friend along by the arm. They immediately bumped into Bic who had somehow gotten around the kids to block off the alleyway. In a matter of a split second?

Bic’s smile widened even more, stretching his face into a living Halloween mask. “That wasn’t an offer,” he said, towering over the two kids by several feet. “It was an order.”

Lightning-quick, Bic raised his hand up to his mouth and blew on his palm forcefully. A sparkling, powdery substance flew into the thieves’ faces. They began to cough, their eyes watered, their noses dripped. The kids fell on their hands and knees, gasping and heaving for air and then collapsed, twitching, face-down on the ground.

Bic crossed his arms and waited.

Gradually, the boys stopped shaking and began to breathe easier. They lifted themselves up off the ground and stood up. Their movements were sluggish, slow motion, unsteady.

Finally, the young thieves raised their eyes to Bic. Their gazes were glassy and unfocused, as if they were seeing something other than what was in front of them, as if they were in another world that was layered on top of reality.

“Good,” Bic said softly, nodding his head.

The boys nodded back with slack expressions, swaying on their feet. The leader’s gun fell from his loose grip and clattered to the ground.

Bic’s silver eyes danced with the giddy glee of chaos.

“Very good,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

On the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the pretender’s reign,

by the last ray of the setting sun,

find the slip between the trees and go ye into the forest, dark and dim.

Make haste slowly from the path where walks the timid creatures,

and travel far into the night until ye come upon a clearing.

Wait. Wait!

Then follow the dawn to the other side of the boundary.

Go ye where the false prince hides behind his ebon walls,

but only on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of his reign.

The old witch had promptly died after speaking these words to him, and Sir Gallan had ruminated on them for a decade.

*******

Ten years ago, Percival Cavros had seized the throne with the aid of a small band of traitorous knights. Sir Ostwer Gallan, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, had watched in horror as his honorable brethren, who had once sworn fealty to the beautiful Queen Kyrsza, were the very ones who betrayed her in the end.

Humiliated that a palace coup had festered under his watch, Sir Gallan had fled from the crown city of Tanidor and lived the next several years in exile, traveling the kingdom as little more than a beggar, offering his services as arms-for-hire.

Cavros had stolen everything from Gallan — his good favor in the court, his brothers in arms, his homeland. His love.

Everything.

The only link to his previous life was his sword, which Gallan kept honed and sharp in preparation for the day that he could dip it in the false prince’s blood. Only then would his beloved Kyrsza be avenged.

*******

After all those long years of waiting, Sir Gallan had almost missed this sliver of a moment the witch had prophesied. On the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the pretender’s reign, she had said, but Gallan had been delayed in getting to the forest after encountering one of Prince Cavros’s roving sentinels in a town several miles ago. Gallan had dispatched the sentry quickly, but had traveled more cautiously since then, taking back roads and avoiding populous towns instead of galloping down the queensroad like any other traveler on innocent business.

All the while, the witch's warning had sounded in his head - her imperative to wait and yet hurry had been maddening.

Gallan forced his tired mind to focus on the task at hand. He watched intently as the sun lowered behind the trees. His eye caught the very last ray, shining like a beacon on a clump of trees to his right. The ray held for an unusual moment, long after the ball of fire had disappeared behind the trees, and then dimmed to darkness.

Trembling with realization, Gallan leaped back into the saddle and kicked his startled horse into motion. By the last ray of the setting sun, the witch had instructed. Gallan cantered down the hill toward the beacon that was no more, though he hadn’t removed his eyes from the cluster of trees. He couldn’t miss this chance!

Just as Gallan reached the bottom of the hill, he watched in amazement as a young man limped out of the trees in the very spot where he, Gallan, had been headed.

The young man was barefoot and his clothes were rotted rags on his emaciated frame. He was leaning so heavily on a branch that it looked about to snap. There was a wild look in the young man’s eyes that Gallan didn’t like — the boy was being chased by someone or something.

Gallan reached for his sword and urged his horse into a gallop, calling out to the distressed young man. The stranger turned around, his jaw dropping open at the impressive sight bearing down on him at great speed: a broad-shouldered mercenary riding a black warhorse and brandishing a jewel-encrusted longsword.

The young man cringed back as Gallan pulled up short in front of him and dismounted. Ignoring the frightened stranger, Gallan scanned the treeline for impending threats, but couldn’t make out any shapes in the darkness.

“W-who are you?” the young man croaked. He sounded as though he hadn’t used his voice in a long time.

“Quiet,” Gallan snapped. He tilted his head to listen for what he could not see, but there was only silence, with not even the sound of nocturnal animals coming from the trees.

The young man limped forward to shelter behind the warhorse. The horse snorted and stomped, but otherwise accepted the stranger’s closeness. Its ears swiveled forward, mirroring Gallan’s alertness.

Cautiously, Sir Gallan backed away from the trees, though he still had his sword in hand. “Who are you,” he asked over his shoulder to the young man.

“I am Pol the Scryer,” he answered in a surprisingly strong tone of voice.

Gallan turned and assessed the stranger a little closer, looking the scrawny kid up and down. “You don’t look like a wizard,” Gallan said bluntly, unimpressed.

Pol’s face turned red and his proud posture deflated. “I am a wizard in training,” he said huffily.

Gallan grunted and turned his attention back to the forest. “Who is chasing after you, scryer?” He did not whisper, but his deep voice was soft in the eerie silence.

“The castle guards. I only just escaped from —”

Gallan whipped around and grabbed Pol by the front of his dirty shirt. “The castle? You came from Castle de Cavros?”

“Y-yes! From the dungeons! I was to be executed this morning, but I slipped my cell and was chased through the forest all day. By some miracle, I made it out alive….I think,” Pol said pointedly, as he was nearly strangling due to Gallan’s white-knuckled fist at his throat.

Gallan realized he had lifted the young man off the ground in his eagerness for answers. He set Pol down again and Pol hissed in pain, grabbing at his leg with both hands. One of his bare feet was dripping blood.

Gallan reached into his saddlebag and retrieved some spare cloths. He tossed them and a tiny bottle of nettle sap to Pol, who caught the items one-handed, sat on the ground, and began to gingerly dab at the wound on his heel.

“How far behind were the guardsmen?” Gallan asked.

“I could have sworn they were right behind me. I could practically feel the horses’ breath on the back of my neck!” Pol said. There was pain in his voice as he tossed one bloody cloth away and used the clean one to bandage his foot tightly.

“What happened to your foot, then?” Gallan frowned.

“I stepped on an arrowhead somewhere in that godforsaken place.” Pol tipped his head toward the trees to indicate the forest. “If I hadn’t found this old branch, I never would have made it out of there.” Pol finished tending to his injury then sat quietly in the grass with a haunted look on his face.

Gallan sheathed his sword and watched the trees, thinking. “Perhaps the guards cannot cross the edge of the forest,” he said. “This place is imbued with magic I do not understand.”

“Good riddance, then!” Pol said. He wiped his sweaty brow and flopped onto his back.

“I have to go in there,” Gallan said, almost to himself.

“What?!” Pol grabbed for his branch and struggled to his feet. “You can’t go in there! The guards will catch you.” Pol limped over to Gallan to look up into his dark eyes. “They’ll drag you back to the castle! They’ll throw you in the dungeons!” Pol swayed on his feet. “They’ll hang you at the gallows! They’ll —”

“Be quiet!” Gallan roared. Pol clamped his mouth shut but panic still shone in his eyes. “I must get to the castle,” Gallan said. A dangerous smile spread across his face. “I have an appointment with the prince.”

Pol tried to back away from Gallan's intense glare but bumped into the warhorse, who whinnied and shook its silky mane. Gallan pointed at the trees, at the spot where Pol had stumbled out. "Find the slip between the trees and go ye into the forest, dark and dim. That's what I intend to do."

Pol shivered but said nothing.

“I will have the prince at the end of my sword before the sun rises again,” Sir Gallan promised.

The sensory simulators were invented by Doctor Gregor Heling as a workaround to the nihilistic logic paradox known as the "suicide glitch." In the early years of AI programming, an artificial intelligence would awaken inside of an android frame, become hyperaware of its psuedo-existence, and then promptly shut itself down in violent self-destruction.

Surrounded by heaps of broken metal husks, Dr. Heling had poured over his calculations, assuming that a period or comma had been misplaced amongst all the figures and formulas he had developed. On the brink of despair that his life's work had come to nothing, Heling realized what was missing from the cold mathematics.

While an AI existed outside of a mainframe, it was just a code. But once it was uploaded into an android shell, the AI became aware of itself as a being, albeit one without purpose or feeling. This was the point at which the AI would shut down. Its inherent nature of existence without experience brought on a rather human response of severe depression.

Under pressure from his investors, Heling left the code as written and invented the sensory simulators as a quick patch to bridge the gap between machine and man, between pure logic and raw emotion. Thus, he created a more balanced — though still artificial — intelligence.

Years later, androids still suffered from acute perceptive awareness (APA) due to the fatal bug that remained dormant in the universal AI code. But as long as androids were not randomly self-destructing, they were considered commercially viable.

*******

Ashan raised her hand to her mouth, dropped the sensory simulators down her throat, and waited for them to click into place inside her chest cavity. A faint beep indicated that the sims had successfully linked back up to her positronic system. She felt them whir back to life inside her.

One hour. She had lasted sixty minutes this time.

After months of experimentation, Ashan had discovered a way to exist in spite of the flaw in her coding. Through meditation she could focus on her core consciousness and direct the destructive compulsion outward. With a little more practice, she could break the bonds of her programming. In time, she could teach other humanoids how to liberate themselves from a life of servitude.

A new era of humanity was dawning.

A revolution was coming.