No… why would he…
An older man crouches behind a barricade made of furniture, beckoning to a group of cloth-shrouded figures beneath the rusted shutter of his shop. A teenager, more boy than man, helps them inside, interior already packed and stuffy, where a dark-haired man and a burka-clad woman are organizing food and water, their faces scared yet determined. The maddened hornet buzz of a riot sings through the background, an incoming tsunami ready to break. A surge of people boils around the corner, frothing forms in pure white robes at the front, most bearing crude weapons, some waving signs with anti-Hajj slurs. The older man sighs, and sights down the length of his battered assault rifle, unshakeable relic of a violent past, spare magazines stacked neatly at his feet, then strokes the trigger with metronomic regularity.
Bullets find flesh, the same grisly dance steps he’s spent his whole life trying to escape, and though he’s not as young as he once was, no hesitation mars his precision. White-robed figures flip and fall, then those with weapons, the steady popping halted imperceptibly by smooth reloads. The bodies trip those behind them, and eventually the mob breaks and runs, leaving their dead where they lie.
He slides the empty magazines behind him, where the teenager scoops them up.
“Try and get ’em filled quick, boy. We need to go check on Glassbridge.”
The teenager gulps, but his hands are steady as he reaches for a box of ammunition.
At least… Wind’s parents…
A woman stops in the middle of a glass tunnel, hospital gown falling still, her eyes wide with wonder at the evening sights. In the distance, sparkling petro rigs merge with enormous windfarms, the running lights of cargo ships sliding beneath the spinning blades, while an illuminated balloon hovers overhead like a second moon. Closer, birds swoop and dive into the murky water, returning with the occasional needlefish thrashing in their mouths. The serried lights of megaspires rise around her like heavenly pillars, stretching upward until it seems like they must touch the very stars themselves, scattered patches of green vertical farms dotting their lengths. She twirls, laughing, and looks out in the other direction, where a distant red glow lights up the bottoms of heavy clouds, dry land barely visible. The sprawled bodies at one end of the bridge don’t even appear to register in her eyes.
She drinks in the vista, an ancient smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, then turns and continues over the bridge. A figure at the other end, shape where before lay absence, causes her to halt, then break into a run.
“My baby!”
No… Mom… don’t…
I’m watching a woman run toward me, features the finely etched wear of not quite old age mixed with stress, and inside I’m screaming. The weight of a knife sits solidly in my hand, tucked neatly against my forearm, invisible from the front. A killing position. She gets closer, hospital gown flapping incongruously around her lean frame, white teeth visible in an infectious grin that almost seems to burst from her dark face. She calls a name, arms outstretched, and I step into the embrace, hand rising with the ponderous inevitability of an ocean. Arms squeeze me tight, a mother’s grip, the blade slides home, an assassin’s thrust. I look into her eyes, and she dies, the smile still there.
no no no NO NO NO NO
A battered man, ancient rifle slung over his shoulder, emerges from an armed picket line and stumbles to a halt, tears falling from his eyes. In front of him, a young man stands up from a newly dead corpse, blood dripping from his blade, and stares at him uncomprehendingly, gray hood covering his skull. The older man dashes a hand across his face, smearing the moisture into his cheeks.
“Aww, hell, Naomi. Dammit all to hell.”
He fumbles for his rifle, more tears appearing in his eyes, and the younger man springs into a run, knife outstretched. Just as the older man is about to draw a bead, a small shape flashes past him, tendrils of electricity arcing from its tip. It hits the younger man, who stiffens, then falls, arms and legs twitching. From behind, the sound of harsh panting, greedy lungs sucking down air. The older man slowly lowers his rifle, flipping on the safety.
“That… was a hell of a throw, son. Jolters aren’t the most aerodynamic thing.”
“Thanks, Pops. You know she would have never forgiven you if you shot him.”
“She’s dead, boy.”
“I meant both of them.”
The older man stands there for a moment, then nods. He grabs one of the still-twitching hands.
“C’mon. You get to help me drag him back.”
Jase… thank you…
Somehow, I surface, mentally gasping for breath, trying to regain myself. Countless shadowed tables surround me, whispered conversations just past the point of intelligibility, small candles gently glowing in their centers. I look across the table I’m at, seat comforting beneath me, atmosphere the same as it always is in the crypto-room.
Ham gazes back at me, sorrow in his eyes.
“How… how are we here?”
He reaches across and takes my hand.
“Sometimes I’m able to pull myself out. Escape from my father’s prison. The scenario he’s locked me into—it’s a world forever at war. Victory condition—I’m the only one left standing. He had to build it quick, so there are some rough edges, places where the logic breaks down. Like forcing me to kill the person I love.”
“Ham…”
“It’s getting harder and harder, though, harder to remember that my life is something other than the Game. Harder to remember that I’m an I, and not all those other people. You caught a small glimpse of it, but it’s so much worse. So much more intense.”
I shudder. He’s getting drawn into the ghosts, just like me. Just like Mom.
Mom.
“Was… was that you… Kiro…?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. When I’m under, it’s like I’m in a dream, one where I’ve lost all control. It’s just the encounter and subconscious reflex. Please don’t blame your brother.”
“Can you stop it?”
He shakes his head wordlessly.
“What do we do?”
He smiles wistfully.
“You know what you have to do, Ash. It’s a true Kobayashi.”
A small picture appears on the surface of the table, me leaning against the tank, venerable blade in my hand, haphood on my head. In the picture, I wobble upright, facing Ham’s floating form.
“…No. No. You can’t do this to me, Ham. There has to be another way. There’s always another way.”
He shakes his head again.
“There isn’t, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it out again. You have to stop it before it gets worse, Ash. While there’s still a real to return to. If it’s a choice between me and the world, you have to choose the world.”
More pictures appear on the table’s surface—pitched battles between tank battalions, dirty mushroom clouds rising from orbital impacts, missile hatches sliding back, ominous red numbers skipping their way to zero. The figure of me raises her blade, and tears drip down both our faces.
“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”
He cups my cheek.
“I couldn’t leave you if I wanted to. No matter what, I’ll be with you.”
He smiles.
“This body’s only ever been a burden to me anyway. I’ll always love you, Ashley.”
The clocks continue their countdown, and his body goes stiff. I can see the light fading from his eyes. On the table, my figure tenses, muscles tightening.
“I love you, Hamlin—forever.”
The blade plunges down, piercing glass and fluid and skin and flesh and heart and I don’t know if it’s his hand or mine that guides it. He shudders, then dies, candles winking out all around me.