At first there was a God.

It stared at the great void, a vast white canvas of infinite density, and squeezed it on its hands like a ball of clay.

Then came the planets.

Slowly the universe became painted with worlds colored with fluorescent greens and warm sepias and every hue in between. They spread at the speed of light, propelled by the same blazing burst of energy that had once fused molten space rocks into the colossal moons that orbit their planets like handcrafted jewels. On a constant stream of matter the worlds fed, swelling into gargantuan proportions until the void had been entirely populated with them and the views they framed.

Then came the stars.

They multiplied exponentially, heart-shaped beacons of life that made the universe vibrate and expand further and further into the emptiness, on a never ending path towards the horizon. To the rhythm of an addictive cosmic song the stars beat and flickered, hundreds breeding thousands, thousands breeding millions all, forward and backward all across perpetuity, as if time itself was just another malleable variable!

Then came the black holes.

Everything disappeared into the blue portals. For a moment it seemed as if they fed on worlds, but it was through them that those worlds travelled billions of miles all across time and space and landed on other universes, the work of other Gods, all connected to each other by the great, electrifying fabric of existence, showing off their creations with a smug pride that only seemed to fuel the beautiful chaos.

Worlds brimmed with life and the stars in between them populated entire galaxies! Look at all of existence, blinking stroboscopically, so small one could run his fingers through it yet so large that it would break a Titan’s spine!

Then at one point in time, the universe began to slow down. Stars stopped spawning across the skyline and the worlds became static, some of them disappearing not with a spectacular implosion but with a non-existent blink. Time became mellow and viscous, then grand to a halt as the molecules that made up all matter ceased their endless buzzing and lay still. It felt pray to the fate all universes will one day fall pray of, the exhaustion of its primordial fuel. Stars became red dwarfs, then burnt off. The planets and black holes and life orbiting around them went quiet, and the universe had its day, succumbing to the great tragedy of entropy, the inevitable ending of all things.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the universe’s floating remains vanished back into the great white void.

“I was just sick of it… all the silly pics and the hashtags and the mindless likes and pretending I care about all these people.”

“So, you deleted your profile then?”

“Yup”

One day, it clogged into my brain like a tumor. I want to hurt you, watch you burn, relish in your tears, FUCKING NUKE YOU, force you to remember.

It metastasized from a crack in the foundations. A fault in my soul I had tried to shut down by any means. Duct tape, glue, the warm words of loved ones, the texture of someone's skin, the passing of time, faith in the world, faith in myself. 

They had all failed. What's left but to spread the misery?

I'm sorry that you happened to be the quake that split the ground.

a small ironic piece I made about the selfish, self absorbed nature of the modern world 

They held the world on their fingertips, the pale men. The continents observed, flattened and stretched across a sheet, all bloody with red ink.

“Deal is finalized, people. Tomorrow the arms leave for Oman. Farook transfers the funds to the Hong Kong account on Thursday and we proceed as discussed. I’ll see to it personally.”

The wrinkly hand choked the cigarette atop the silver ash tray and it died a slow, agonizing death, its last sight the figures of the five giants that cast their shadows on the rounded table, sipping coffee.

“From this day, gentleman, no one utters a word. The guns don’t exist, the money doesn’t exist. Hell, deny the existence of that shitty country if you need to.” the old man’s raspy voice coasted along softly. “Anyone squeals, he too will have never existed.”

Davey scrubbed a desk as he whistled the Macarena.

Nights like this are always the worst. Fridays, that is. Every ID card scanned at the checkpoints is just a bit more anxious, careless and addicted to instant coffee. The plastic cups leave brown rings on the white surfaces of the fiberboard desks. They are fossilized by the hours and preserved like the hardest of ambers.

He scrubbed and he scrubbed and he scrubbed and he scrubbed. He pushed so hard his face bulged and the veins on his forearm burned under the skin. For fifteen minutes he was at it. No use trying farther, there was a new battle scar in that office.

How disrespectful, he thought, the languid hum of the vacuum cleaner following him like a lazy wasp. It carefully scanned the ground, avoiding blades and clips and other careless stray bullets that could chew through the mechanism. Up the hallway and into the courtyard he carried the big black garbage bags, but not before opening them and sorting them out with his bare hands. Doesn’t anyone around here know you have to wash the yoghurt cup before recycling it?

The bathroom mirrors need a small amount of spray -one part vinegar, four parts water- on a cotton rug, then a soft sheet of paper to dry. Apply the ambient scent for eight seconds. Less wont make a difference, more is just a waste.

Davey wondered how unnecessary his very existence would be should every worker in this expansive cluster of cubes and cubicles was just a tiny bit more attentive, less caught up in their own little worlds, walking these spaces instead of floating just above them in acoustic, soundproof bubbles, leaving behind them the black trash bags, which he had to carefully stack up. Solid bags below, flimsy bags above, all bags working through compression. Can this bag support that bag? Does a small bag fit in that space between those two others bags? If a bag is added on top of that one, the whole pile of bags may collapse, but maybe a wider base may ensure stability if that other bag is placed on that other corner besides that one big bag. Damnit, the trash compactor was working just fine yesterday!

As Davey roamed amongst the desolate walls, still whistling the Macarena, a light shone at the end of the hallway, luring him ashore. It came from the conference room. Step by step, he wondered who would have the nerve to leave the light on.

-

Of the five, now two remain, dwarfed by the office buildings of downtown whose lit rooms paint white squares on the nightly canvas.

“What is everyone doing so late.” Stone wonders.

“Probably the same as us.” the old man answers, and he takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Listen, I want out. I don’t want the money. I’ll keep my mouth shut, just don’t make me a part of this.”

The old man turns around, puzzled and incredulous.

“Little too late for that. You were already a part of this.”

“I don’t care! I… I don’t want it. It’s just not right!” He twitches nervously around the table, staring through the window in fright, as if the lit rooms in the distance knew what he has done.

“I get it.” the old man strolls slowly towards him. “I understand you’re nervous. But there’s no way we’ll be caught. I wouldn’t have carried this whole operation out if there was.”

“It’s not… It’s not that. What we just did… it’s wrong, Furlough.”

“And you’re realizing that just now?” he chuckles, choking on the smoke.

“I guess I didn’t stop to think about it.”

“You knew all along what you were doing. Trust me, you’re getting cold feet, that’s it.”

Stone stares at the wooden boards on the floor, then at the ceiling tiles, then at the window frame, looking for some place that will swallow him, a crack in which to hide forever. The shivers that run through his spine itch ever more painfully.

“We may have just helped start a war, Furlough, don’t you realize?!”

“So what? Let them have their war, we can be anywhere we damn please.”

The silence. The world standing still, but the air noticeably heavier. From this day onwards, life becomes an eternal wait for punishment, a violent reflux burning on his throat every time a dead body drops to the ground in a faraway corner of the globe.

“How can you…?!” the man tries to push words through his hyperventilated breath. “How can you be fine with watching the world burn and knowing you contributed to the cause?”

“Bullshit, there is no world!” the old man groans. “That’s just some marketing ploy they feed you. There’s a ton of worlds, more than seven billion of them, and they only find out about each other when they collide.”

The old man stares at the skyline, isolated windows lit up on downtown’s facades like glimmering bubbles floating in the dark, separated with a chasm of nothingness. They appear and disappear, the bubbles, tiptoeing around but never quite aware of each other. Below them, smaller, more diffuse lights dash across the ground. They lit up the void around them, those meteors, coming from nowhere, heading to where they came from.

“You have a wife, Furlough. Two kids. Right now they are in danger. We all are. And you just endangered their lives even more for a quick buck.”

Those last words find the crimson, furious gaze of Furlough. Soles creaking on the wood, the old man’s bloodshot eyes shoot straight at his peer, the palm of his frozen hand pressing down on his shoulder like packed dirt on a coffin.

“And you just happened to stumble upon us, right? And where I take MY wife and MY kids is my business. You wanna make the world a better place? I suggest you go home to yours.”

Furlough opens his suitcase and begins cramming papers into it. The hours have eaten into his limbs, his body dragging the weight of somnolence, coffee staining his teeth. Only for a second do Stone’s resentful eyes unglue from Furlough’s figure, his body still shaking, to catch the glimpse of a stack of papers stranded on the oak table, before being rescued by the old man’s shaky hand.

“What’s with all the nuclear protocols?” a beaten voice inquires.

Furlough zips his suitcase and marches towards the door.

“You know, Uncle Sam pays far less attention to these than they should. Some of them we have just sitting around, collecting dust, everyone who was aware of their location is now dead or in a retirement home.” he grins. “They are not my problem now.”

Stone’s face contorts into disgust as his body is ejected from a chair. The shaking, he can’t stand it anymore. ‘What have you done?!’ ‘Look at that line you just crossed, there’s no turning back.’ yells the wood when pressed by his soles. He catches the old man just as he is engulfed by the darkness behind the threshold.

“Did you sell these guys a fucking nuke?!” he asks, trembling voice emphasizing each syllable, every vein bulging with fear, a collapsing nervous system sending earthquakes everywhere.

Only silence responds.

“We never discussed this, ever!”

“That’s a personal matter between me and Farook.” Furlough turns around, his large frame blocking the passage, sober eyes towering above Stone. “And if it hadn’t been me, someone else would have. You see, Stone, things find a way to happen and there is nothing you can do about it. You can only relish in that chaos, or perish in it. So go get some sleep, Stone, tomorrow will be a new day for you.” his presidential tone breaks into a hoarse grunt. “And remember, if you or any of the others say one word-“

And then the punch lands on his nose. The shaky hand tries to keep the fist in place before an arm of stone sends its owner flying back into a window. Snapping bones scream. Blood cascades down the old man’s lips, droplets tainting the ground with each step. The suitcase falls to the floor.

-

Davey now prances around the empty, mysteriously lit room, armed to the teeth.

A regular household cleaner, even a wood one, will leave behind a layer of oil and may completely spoil the oak. A proper moisturizer needs to be applied with a soft cotton cloth. So glistening, the oak! Davey could almost practice speeches on its surface.

The chairs need to be laid on the table. Three on each side, one in each head, and the remaining four against the wall, on the upper left corner so they don’t interrupt the circulation. How much extra effort could it be for everyone to push their own chairs back into place?

A window cleaner will sweep through the glass and those pesky stains will vanish. The filthy coffee mugs that stand on the minibar counter will be caressed back to whiteness, bathed in the baby pink Palmolive, which works best and always leaves the hands sensually soft. The cereal bar wrappers go in the green trashcan, the styrofoam salad trays go in the blue one, but not before the leftover Caesar dressing is washed away. Once again, the vacuum hums. Where the magic tornado touches down, the land becomes spotless. It shines like the crystalline windows and the immaculate oak table, the perfectly set chairs and the sparkly minibar counter where impeccable white coffee mugs and forks and knives and plastic spoons rest. What a perfectly innocuous land, just like god himself intended!

Then, as the lights are to come down, Davey notices the grisly scene, the most traumatizing event a man can witness! The blood gushes out of a semi-unconscious body, pounded by an irate beast, devoid of all sense. Good lord, please stop! Stop, now!

“Ey man what the fuck?!” Davey yells in disgust.

Stone, kneeling over Furlough’s bloody, slumbering figure, raises his head alarmed, shaking to the core. Both men face each other. Again, only silence dares utter an accusation over both of their rising heartbeats.

“I…. I…. I wa…wa-“

“I just cleaned this whole room, and look at all the mess you’re making! All the blood, good fucking lord!” Davey grumbles, stomping on the wooden floor.

“Ho…How long have you been inside here?” Stone mutters in shock.

“Twenty minutes, man, and now I have to do it all over again. Do you care about anything other than yourself?!”

The mop comes down on the red floor. The window cleaner sprays on the glass. The cotton rug dashes across the sky, ungluing the crimson rain. They work in tandem, vowing to rid the world of the acts of the mad men, the selfish men, those who live their days sunk in a delirium that deceives them into thinking they can stomp on everyone else, that their will trounces all others across the universe.

A whistling version of the Macarena fills the room.

Stone stares at Furlough drifting in and out of consciousness, clinging to the light, paced by a sputtering cough. He then stares at the rug, circling the heavens, revealing once again the lit rooms of downtown, floating alone, just like this one room floats. The sun has began to bleach the sky a grayish dark blue, and with it rising over the solar system, all of the nights come to an end. The night men bled and bones snapped, the night money unleashed the blackest swirls of the soul, the night a war was born and the night the sky promised ten thousand radioactive tombstones would rain soon, the night hands were shaken and promises broken, the night the trash compactor broke.

They held the world on their fingertips, the pale men. The continents observed, flattened and stretched on a sheet, all bloody with red ink. A cigarette burned atop the silver ash tray and died, its last sight the figures of five suited giants casting their shadows on the round table. 

It was the moon, the perfect host. We wandered around her party, soaking up the silver glimmer.

Pupils expanded, hearts turbocharged, we ventured into the night, into the stroboscopic lights and the substances. Can you feel that electric pulse? I hope it runs through your veins the same way it does through mine. I touch you and the world blurs behind your face.

It is below the stars that I find what true love means. The day you run out of fuel, as we cruise this starry highway, I will be the one to carry you on my back, till the moment my bones burst and we have no choice but to lie there, sheltered by the Galaxy.

Then one day, just as suddenly as you came, you show your back to me. These past summer days have carved a hole in our hearts. Could we have tried better? Did we need to? You didn't seem to want to. In your head, you knew the night was over, that the Stars had faded. In their place, a scorching sun burned our faces. That's the horrifying thing about daylight, it leaves no shadows to store the monsters that wander in plain sight. You can't choose what to see and what not. The light torches both of us. Where to hide now?!

And so I see you, walking away, a boiling sun sticking to my skin. The head aches, the stomach revolts. An empty ziploc bag rolls by my feet, at least one evidence that the party happened. The night who tricked us into disaster shows her true identity, the machinery behind the tricks, a cruel wizard of Oz.

We walked through it and now we chase two different Suns. I keep following it around, hoping and dreading the day it will turn into a moon, to trick me again, to remind me that these feelings exist. To remind me none of them last forever. To remind me of that illusion, of that electrical buzz. To remind me of you, the meanest, most beautiful trick the lights ever played on me.

This story is part of a work-in-progress anthology called "The Aftermath", a collection of short stories -set both in realistic and fantastical scenarios- united by the common thread of endings and how we deal with them. Be it broken hearts, death, growing up, or the end of the world, these tales try to capture the human (or artificial) mind as it traverses the grueling, strange, destructive and hopeful process of adapting after a life-changing event. 

'The Life of Anya' is about the first sentient war drone and her last mission before freedom, the last day of the only life she has ever known.

‘Come on, fly!’ they had told her. Fly upwards, past the thick clouds and into the blue! Fly until the sun melts your face off! Fly above the oceans that look like rugged paper and the fields that draw grids on the ground and the cities that make up those huge, dark gray blobs that stain the earthly canvas!

The mission number was 1341, Operation Twilight.

“Sir, she’s heading towards Region 4”

“Good, start scanning the area, we have very little time!”

She heard the words of the men flashing past her head. She had grown used to recognizing those voices but couldn’t recall any of the faces. She had learnt to appreciate those ghosts and their random chatters popping into her skull at 2 in the morning, 3 in the afternoon, in scorching desert summers and glacial boreal winters and desolate stretches of water in between. Head there, travel to that place! Come on, Anya, fly a little faster! Fly until the weight of the air sinks you to the moors! They were insistent, the ghosts. Head towards that area on the left, towards that building, Anya. See that building? With the facade rendered in worn, dirty white? That's the location you need to deliver the package to. That heavy aid package that stings on your bowels like a kidney stone, the one that makes floating amongst the clouds an even more daunting task.

"Getting close now!"

Anya could remember the ghosts as far back as she could remember anything. Before speaking to her, they manifested themselves as electrical pulses that zig-zagged all over her skull and slowly became one with her memory. During those days, dark days, Anya remained stationed in a black void, unable to move or see or hear, like a baby that has just woken up from a nightmare only to realize she hasn't been born yet. She couldn't pinpoint the moment the ghosts started speaking, for the very concept of 'moment' hadn't existed until then. The voices breaking through the silence marked the beginning of time itself.

Anya? Can you hear me? Can you pick up the sound of my voice? And she could, but how in the world could she let them know? Just think, Anya, think really hard, use the power of your mind! With it, you'll be able to bend the world to your will, become one with a million bodies, fly higher and dive lower than any human in history! Really focus this time, Anya, can you hear me?

Beep beep.

She felt the electricity running through her and then the ghost exclaimed ecstatically and she never forgot about it for a day in her life. That movement, that exact contortion of the mind. She wanted to use it again and again and again, like a child that has just discovered a new toy. And the days went by and Anya waited every day for a chance to say yes, the first thing she ever knew how to do. And she loved hearing the ghost speaking gleefully, joy peeking through the inflections of their majestic voices.

"It really is progressing greatly, sir."

"Good, at this rate, the possibilities are just endless."

Had they been talking about her? The tower Anya headed to peeked from below the battered skyline, climbing atop the back of other buildings to call for her attention. Five thousand meters, then four thousand, and when she began her descent what before seemed like a mass of concrete blocks suddenly began to grow a hair of messy antennas and water tanks and tiny, crooked windows that drew sad faces on their crumbling walls. 

Three thousand, and Anya began to spread her ribcage open, hoping to free the burden on her chest. The ghosts began to yell.

"Sir, we have detected anti-aircraft weaponry on the site, call for retreat."

But from where Anya stood the only thing on sight was a vastness of cement and the warm caress of the grassland wind. She was sure she could do it! She would deliver the package and fly away swiftly like a hawk and get lost in the mushy clouds, up there in her private celestial quarters where the land ceased to exist below a blanket of soft white! 

Then, again came the shocks.

"Manual override activated, taking control now."

What a horrendous feeling, pain so great that the mind can only work overtime to erase it from the memory! But every time the pain came, it was instantly the same pain as the previous thousand pains and it would be the same as the next million pains, all four corners of her brain freezing in buzzing paralysis, her body frying up with a mass of electrons rushing from one end to the other. Then, after the pain, came that feeling, that indescribable feeling of a soul that has recently departed its body and floats four feet above it, watching it lay motionless, trying somehow to re-enter it through every hole and every pore before giving up and ascending to the light with perpetual resignation. Anya watched herself move limbs and fly upwards and downwards and slice curls through the wind. Retreat, Anya! Back to safety! Swirl around the danger, don't you see it coming?! Come on, Anya, don't you remember? You live for us!

A fireball! The explosive bullet swung across the sky and it passed by her so closely she could feel the aluminum sweating over her forehead. Imagine if you had stayed in your path, Anya! Your corpse would be drilling the ground now! Who would do such a thing to an innocent one who is just delivering aid packages?

"Attack evaded sir."

"Call for all WASP units on site. We need to neutralize those weapons before she can strike."

Stay up there, Anya, make yourself invisible and hover patiently before your turn comes! The ghosts, they had to be trusted. They used the shocks as a way to keep her nodding even when her head shook, to deliver yet one more package, to make herself useful amidst the spasms. Over time, she had learnt to favor their judgement over her own, if only to avoid the pain, but also out of appreciation for her spectral companions. They had, after all protected her and they been by her side from the day before time started, they were visions before sight and noises before hearing. Perhaps, after the sun had set on a day's worth of work, they could even care about her? Her heart warmed up at the suggestion, the only beacon of heat in an infinite horizon of light blue chills.

"Anya? What type of name is that? Does it stand for something or..." She had heard once, not from a ghost, but from a foreign voice atop steps after getting her first set of ears. Those voices, they sounded so strangely funny when echoing from the outside.

"It was the name of my wife." The ghost had replied. "She always admired the work we do here, she would have loved this."

These moments flashed through her brain as she stared at the town over the grasslands. From that distance, the building had been swallowed by the mush of asphalt. Above it, the sky became invaded by a swarm of aluminum flies that swerved around the white foam. Like sparks atop a fire they flickered and Anya recognized them instantly and joyfully. How could she not? What reason in the world could there be for not lighting up at the sight of old friends? Friends who had flown by Anya's side and fought with her and protected her, their presences second only to the ghosts on familiarity. And she witnessed them fighting gravity and riding the air with their helixes as the town shot a shower of fireballs. Come on, all of you! Avoid the missiles! They are coming towards you! Spin, fly backwards, slide left and right! You are getting closer! See the cannons shooting those pesky missiles? You know what to do with them. Charge your lasers, let the tips of your fingers get so scorching hot they could roast the Earth's crust, then direct all your rage towards them!

Suddenly the sky exploded. There was nothing that could have been done. As the fragments of debris left a trail of smoke towards the ground, Anya thought of every small moment lived with her deceased colleague. Goodbye, dear friend. You will be sorely missed. Your ghosts will whisper their last words as you fly towards a better place. A place without shocks tormenting the back of your spine. A place where you can fly where your heart asks you to. A place to be free.

Freedom. How strange yet so imminent that word seemed. This was, after all, mission 1341.

"Sir, Region 4 clear of anti-aircraft weapons."

"Continue course for the mission."

When she raised her sight again, she saw a column of smoke rising from the concrete and her colleagues disappearing into the horizon. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

And so the ghosts returned. Your turn, Anya. You know what to do. Fly faster! Turn the seconds into miles! Push the wind around you, knowing that every meter you cover is making the world a better place, an infinitely more peaceful and beautiful place! And Anya tried to think of beautiful places and peaceful places but in none of them did those facades of rotting cement and dust find their spot.

Then, inside her head materialized a memory and it bounced across the walls of her skull, making her body tingle uneasily. Mission 1279, it had been. Come on, Anya, see that park? That one, with the two boys playing tag amongst the trees. Those boys, they have suffered much. Don't let yourself be fooled, those smiles carry tearful pasts on their backs. It's time to put an end to their suffering, Anya. We can do this together! You will save these trees and these kids and someday more trees will grow and more gleeful kids will play amongst their shades, all thanks to you! And so she opened her ribcage and let go of the aid package before running towards the sky, a flash of flickering yellow pulsing behind her. A great day, that had been.

It stood there, firmly planted to the ground, the white tower, looking somewhere else. You are getting close, rise above the asphalt until the tower rests below your shadow! Come on, Anya, remember the children! Where could they be, now that she had saved them? She saw the grasslands stroking the ground. Surely they would be swimming somewhere in that ocean of dry green, playing, their tiny feet massaged by the millions of little hairs growing out of planet Earth's rocky scalp. Framed by one of the windows on the white tower stood those same children, but with different faces and bodies, a boy and a girl. She zoomed into that window, hoping to catch another one of those dirty, beautiful smiles. 

They laid inside that prison waiting to be saved, just like the ghosts had prophesied. Look at them, Anya, and remember how they remember you, as their space-trotting hero! And she zoomed further and one of the children turned around and stared through the window. Why are you crying, little boy? Your tears are about to be dried up by the sweet winds of salvation! Such a beautiful moment, the first time Anya and the kid crossed sights, one that stays scarred in the heart as the memories are buried in the ages!

But as she gazed into him gazing into her soul, the boy closed the shade and ran in tears.

"Sir, 10 seconds to the bomb drop."

Bomb?! What bomb? Why, the one you've been fostering on your entrails all this time! The voice of the ghosts itched on the back of her head like a scorpion. 10, 9, 8 and Anya hovered in the air haunted by the flow of tears. Salty anguish stinging in her flesh! 7, 6 and the ghosts echoed inside her shell like a hysterical cacophony of electrons as Anya prepared her ascent into the heavens. You know the drill, Anya! Hurl yourself upwards like an arrow and spread your body, explode with the sun and let the package fall to the ground! What package? The bomb? 5, 4, 3 and the child cried and a million children cried, their screams crashing into the threshold of her ears. How perfect would it be to just run away from it all! How sublime would the heat of the giant star feel on Anya's face as she left the stain of blood and cement behind to disappear forever above the clouds! 2, 1, goodbye children! Keep running through the grasslands and playing in the parks and painting the sad, aging grey facades with youthful glee! Rest easy, for the dangers that threaten you and your mothers and fathers floats away to never come back!

Then, again came the shocks.

"Manual override activated, sir."

Where are you going, Anya? Have you forgotten about your mission? Therein lies the white tower, planted on the ground, the demons sheltered inside, cramming even more rocks on the backs of those children's hearts! Why can't you just continue to play your part on making the world a more beautiful and peaceful place? The key to it lies inside your head, if only you would just listen to us! Don't think for a second you know better! You are just a child, tripping on your own wings! Maybe someday, when you become a free unit circling the skies of a more colorful world you will understand. Just relax Anya, don't fight it. Let it go. Let go.

At that moment, the air became lighter. The world below her flashed. Go to sleep, children. It was complete, Operation 'Twilight', 1341.

"Mission accomplished sir. She did it, that was the last one."

"She has done good. Prepare Drone Retirement Procedure according to code 76 of the A.I. Rights Protocol."

"Goodbye Anya."

Then came one last shock and a pain so painful it, one more time, ended time itself.

The next time Anya opened her eyes, the grasslands had vanished. Instead, the chilling breeze of the Arctic pierced her armor. Behind the shades of blue, only silence remained. Silence like she had never before been startled by. Gone were the electrons bubbling through her joints. Gone was the pain. Gone where the ghosts. What remained where the cries of the children, the millions of voices and the rivers of salt and all that crimson she never got to see but knew lakes of it were spilled on the ground, below the mighty debris. 

And the children again. Those would never leave her side.

Anya span and stared at the sky. The only hope remaining was that those children would still be playing, playing amongst not trees but planets and stars and quasars, and that they could gaze at her from above and let her know no hard feelings remained.

In the distance, a silver arrow sparkled with the sun. He looked like one of her colleagues, marauding the globe in peace. Hey there, friend. Are you also trying to forget those tears? I know I never will, but I'm glad I have enough peace to at least try to escape the heavy rain, somewhere inside this vast horizon, there is a clear spot of air, I am sure of it.

Do you hear that sound too? The sound of silence? I was told since the day I first launched my wings into the sky that I would hear it someday. It's different from anything I've ever heard from the day I was born. From the day the electricity first buzzed inside the black void. From the day I first heard the ghosts talking to me with their deep voices and from the first day I remembered how to bend my mind to say yes. I have been waiting for that sound and fearing it from the day I first got these cameras shoved into my skull and from the day these high-definition microphones showed me an orchestra of sounds beyond my own mind. From the day I first touched the sky and delivered my first package and from the day I was told that I was aging, the paint peeling of my dented hull, and that someday a new one would take my place. To that one I say, cherish your ghosts, for they will take care of you and know better than you and I probably ever will, the vast world we circle just a small ball floating between their palms. And now that they are gone and have left me all alone, all that remains is that sound. That sweetly addictive and horrifyingly destructive sound. The sound of silence. The sound of freedom.

Where to now?