The Damned Children

The Damned Children

———————Chapter One ——————

———Wednesday, July 11th, 2305 ———

———A Fine House in the Suburbs ———

"I love you grandma!" The thirteen-year-old girl with shining blonde hair smiles brightly. She pulls a tray of double-fudge brownies out of the oven. The soft yellows and folds of the kitchen around them smell like cinnamon and lime. A fountain takes up one wall, water pouring over thin tubes of neon lights.

"Oh you're absolutely welcome sweetheart. I hope you like them. It's an old recipe. Very old. Of course it's been updated over the years to keep it fresh. But the core of it is as old as our family itself." The woman, with brown and gray hair and winged eyeliner surrounding her eyes, smiles back. Full of affection for the young girl.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to make them quite like you do though grandma. And since this is such a family recipe I feel bad." Her eyes are a bit wide. She's not down on herself, no, but she's definitely pretending to be.

"Aww there's nothing to feel bad about sugarcane. I'll be around for a while longer. A long while. And I'll make you all the brownies your heart desires." The blue glitter lining her eyelids twinkles with her smile.

"Why are you so nice?! These smell so good though." There is excitement in her voice as she opens up her hoverboard, the sleek, flat, dark blue little disk buzzing a bit before suctioning onto her shoes and then lifting a few inches into the air, smoothly gliding into the spacious dining room. Her grandmother follows her, on a lime green hoverboard that has railings for her to hold onto. They settle down on one of the many plush chairs as the table adjusts to their specific heights.

They turn on the television and flick through channels until it is set to a drawing competition. The three-dimensional images of colourful and cheery people working on colourful and cheery images of their own spark to life as the three-dimensional surround-sound of talking fills the air.

"This sounds good, what do you think Anne-Marie?"

"Grandma what the heck. It's boring!"

"Nonsense. So much fine skill goes into their work and they create beautiful things. When I first met your grandfather, it was at an advanced artistic summer camp oh

so many years ago. He was blown away by my drawings. He said they were almost as beautiful a as I was. Pay attention, you'll see that there's a lot more to see than you think at first."

"That's such a sweet story. I've heard it before but it's so sweet. Your drawings are still breathtaking grandma."

"Thank you Anne-Marie. I do really love drawings."

And-Marie pauses to think for a little bit, her face filmed in concentration.

"Ika has the same staight and precise hand that you do, doesn't she?"

"Of course she does. Do you think that's something I was about to neglect?"

"I know, I know. I trust you Grandma. But I just want to be sure." There is a hint of worry in her cheery voice.

"Well you can see for yourself." The woman pushes a sleek button on the side of the table, and a microphone swiftly slides down from a compartment on the roof.

"Ika come to the living room!" She barks out in a voice like half-molten rock. "And get your sketch pad and pencils."

They continue talking for a few minutes, biting into the warm, soft, chewy brownies.

"Yes?" A girl, a few months into being 10 years old, walks on hurried feet into the room. She has slightly curly, strawberry blonde hair. Her light blue eyes strikingly resemble the older woman's, as do her slightly bent up nose, high cheekbones, and her round jawline.

"Show Anna-Marie here how precise your drawing hand is."

Something like sorrow flickers in Ika's eyes for a moment a she looks at the blonde girl.

"Yes of course." She speaks softly, placing a simple pad of white paper in front of her on the floor and picking up the charcoal pencil behind her ear. "What would you like me to draw?"

"Draw Anne-Marie here, she's so beautiful."

"No, draw grandma but younger. Grandma I want to see how you looked when grandad met you. I mean I've seen pictures, but they don't always do the same sort of justice that drawings do. You were beautiful then. Still are."

"Damn right I was beautiful. But if you want to see what I looked like back then look no farther than Ika, I was only a year older than she is now."

"Still grandma please"

"Fine. Ika, draw me. Here I'll give you this picture to reference off of." Her voice has gone cold again. It's so strange how her voice can change from sugar sweet to iron hard so easily.

Within a few minutes Ika is done and so are half of the brownies.

"Ooh it's so pretty!" Anne-Marie looks at the drawing, then at the subject of it. "You're right, every bit of your talent is reflected within her. I'm glad."

"Yes you have no reason to worry dear. Ika you can leave."

"Um ..." Ika stares with big eyes full of fear and longing. "... can I maybe just have a little piece of a brownie?"

The woman looks like her as if she has said something absolutely ludicrous.

"Ika you know they are not healthy. Sugar and butter and fat. You have to take care of that body. It was a gift. No, a loan, and you can't disrespect those who granted you your time within it by completely disregarding it." Protectiveness is ingrained in her voice but no kindness.

Ika takes a deep, shakey breath.

"Okay. You're right. That was thoughtless of me. Anyways, thank you. It's time for me to take a bath. Have a good afternoon." She pulls her lips into a convincing smile and walks away ghost-like.

—————— Chapter Two ———————

——— Friday November 3rd, 2303 ———

——— A Sanctificum in the City ———

There are ten children, all wearing back cotton shirts and black cotton pants, sitting on a carpet on the floor of a softly-lit room. The walls are white-painted and full of pictures of smiling adults with family and friends. Often younger people in colourful clothing would also be in the frame. Cheesy. Cheerful. There are flowers framing the edges. A lady who looks to be in her mid-thirties is standing at the front of the room, in front of a screen that shows pictures of embryos.

All the children sit straight up, unmoving, faces carefully blanked. But you can see the concentration in their eyes, along with something else. Something ... sadder.

Ika is in this crowd, a sad-eyed and wide-eyed eight-year-old listening intently, as if to religion. Though, perhaps that isn't far off.

"Existence is a gift," the lady at the front of the room says in her intelligent and chilled voice. Her pressed white lab coat almost glows in the soft light. "What do we think about that, young ones?"

A young boy with dark curly hair and honey-brown skin raises his hand tentatively.

"Yes, Keem?"

"We must be grateful for the gift," he says in a small voice, one that has a slight tremble to it.

"That's absolutely right," the woman announces in her voice which presses like metal.

"You must remember to always be grateful and thankful for your lives. They are a gift. Those that created you did not need to give you this gift. They did not need to give you the existence you want to covet and hold. But they did anyways. And that is an act of generosity. And act of good grace."

Ika figets just a bit. She clenches her hands into fists, and then immediately unclenches them and folds them together on her lap.

"Every single moment that you are alive is a gift. It is not a moment you would have had otherwise. And gifts are to be accepted with what kind of attitude?"

A little girl with dark auburn hair and slightly tanned skin raises her hand.

"Yes?"

"Reverence. Sweetness. Thankfulness. Loyalty." Her words are mechanical and forced.

"Absolutely. Loyalty, young ones, remember that. Loyalty. Loyalty means that you must do what you're told. It means that you must seek to make happy the people who gave you the ultimate gift."

Ika hugs her knees. She presses herself into as small of a space as possible, straining her thin arms.

"Ika don't hurt your body, it is a work of genius."

"Yes Doctor."

"Anyways. Everybody, pay attention. When you are given a gift, it is customary to give something back in return. When you are given a gift as thoughtful as life, as existence, it is necessary to give a gift in return that is also thoughtful, and will bring happiness to the person who bestowed to you your gift." She waves her hand and the screen of the projector switches to an image of a couple in their late forties or early fifties leaning against each other in the middle of a flower garden. They are smiling serenely.

"Originally-occurring people have so many bonds of love trying them together. Love is important and should be celebrated. And for them, it hurts to lose a loved one to old age. They find joy in being able to be with their friends and their family. That type of joy is not something synthetics like you can understand. And it's not something synthetics like you need."

Around the room, young people glance at each other tentatively. Quickly. Moving their eyes more so than their heads. Making bursts of eye contact that linger before quickly snapping away.

"You were not born to mothers and fathers. You do not have the family dynamics that original people have. You have never grown up with this. So you do not need it. You do not need it because you were not accustomed to it. People need what they have grown accustomed to. Value the relationships they have grown closer to. For you life is the act of living itself. Life is the act of living and being grateful for what you have been granted. Understood?"

There is a messy disunited choir of "yes"'s all said in different mostly blank tones.

"You do not understand the bonds that original people have with each other. And that's just as well, because you can live your lives free of such burdens. But for those of us who are forced to live a life where we cling on to other people, it is really tragic for us to be robbed of life and the ability to be with our loved ones. You do feel enough basic empathy to understand that, don't you, children?"

A handful of yes's rose from the crowd below.

She flicks her hand again and this time a picture of a young boy holding hands with an adult couple shows up on the screen. They are walking through some sort of park, a fountain in the background.

"Imi, tell us about basic empathy."

A little girl with chocolate-brown hair starts in a voice that has tremendous amounts of trembling behind layers of blankness.

"Basic empathy means we feel for originals and we understand that their lives are valuable."

"And why?"

"Because they need their lives. They have attachments to other people that we could never understand."

"And what of your life?"

"I would never have it if it wasn't for them and that's what I must remember on the topic. That's what is most important."

"And can you be happy in your life?"

"Of course, as long as I remember to be thankful to those who gave it to me."

She flicks her hand again and on the screen there is a picture taken in bright, soft lighting of a middle-aged man towering over a young child.

"And how do we be thankful? Everybody answer. How do we be thankful for the gracious people who gave you your lives?"

"By giving them something precious back." They say this together like a well-oiled machine. The young children are very rehearsed. And they are scared. But you would never realize.

"And what is it that we give back?"

"We give them time." A weary, grieving, diligently emotionless chorus breaks in together.

"Yes! You synthetics are so well taught! My last class was so selfish and jealous and irrational! You realize that you must have empathy for them and be grateful that they gave you life. You must give life back so they may have more time with their families. I'm very proud. You guys are very grateful and loyal and gracious." She flicks at the screen again and a picture of a heart appears, red against a yellow background.

"Your creators love you. They paid a lot of money to create you. So you must not struggle or fight when it's time for you to go. They will become old and frail if they do not have a new body to transfer their minds to. They will become old and frail and eventually they will die. You do not want that, surely. They gave you your life but your body is a loan. A loan that you have to give back when it's your turn to give them time. Understand?"

"Yes." The children reply, out of sync with each other. There is something broken underlying their voices.

"I know you can be more enthusiastic than that!"

"Yes!!" they manage to half-shout.

"Wonderful. Let me go through the process of giving your body back. We will sedate you before we replace your brain with the brain of your creator. It will feel even more peaceful than falling asleep. You won't feel an ounce of pain. See, how merciful we are? Sedatives cost precious money, and we could do the procedure without any painkillers at all if we chose. But our hearts are good and therefore you owe us your gratitude."

The children have all subconsciously huddled closer to each other by now, not close enough for the lady to notice, but close enough that they can occasionally brush fingers or knees with each other. They still look up at her with wide eyes and attention.

"Let me highlight the process, and what is expected of you during it..."

——————Chapter Three——————

—— Wednesday January 22 2307 ——

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

Ika has been exercising for hours now, her body is drenched with sweat and her hair hangs limply down the back of her neck from the tight pony tail it is in. She had been running on the cardio machine, doing sit-ups and push-ups and squats and crunches. And lifting weights and skipping for a while, and finally yoga to stretch out and cool down.

And now she is taking a hot shower, crying in the solitude of the tiny bathroom that's just for her. She scrubs soap onto her heated and sweaty skin, eyes blurred with tears, and applies stinging cleanser onto all parts of her. She scrubs shampoo in her hair and then some thick orangish something onto her face, and then turns off of the water for a while.

She looks at the fog coating the gray walls in a lighter shade of grey.

I want to live. She cries silently, one hand clamped on her mouth so in case anyone is listening, though she knows they wouldn't be. I wish I was never born. She closes her eyes. She holds the handle for controlling the water flow. She grips it until her knuckles turn white. Opening her eyes again, she quickly scrawls I wish my body were mine in messy writing into the wall. All the words are just barely there. Grey against grey and almost faded out. But she can see them. Suddenly her eyes go wide in horror. She quickly runs her hands over the wall, wiping the writing into nothing. Turning the shower back on, she scrubs her skin one more time before dutifully rubbing argon oil onto her skin and hair and stepping out to the rest of the tiny room. She puts some tissue over her eyes so that the salt water doesn't wreck the hydrating oil.

Stepping into her black clothes, she steps into the tiny room that she calls her own. She sits down on the roll of blankets on the floor she sleeps in, which are black and unsettlingly smooth. She gets out her art journal and practices her fine motor skills, well, they're not /her/ fine motor skills. But she has to practice them anyways. If her master is an artist, she has to make sure she has the best hand.

Her muscles are still sore from the exercise she had spent hours doing. It would be a very pleasant sort of soreness, if she was in a better state mentally. But she's not. The way her body hums and throbs just reminds other of the threat hanging over her near future. She wishes she could forget. She wishes she could forget. But she can't. She wants to forget. She wants to drown in anything else. But she can't.

She hates her body. She hates it so much. She hates her skin, her flesh, her bones. She hates her blood, her bone marrow, her organs, she hates everything. She hates all of it so much. Her face is not her own. Her body is not her own. When she looks at herself in the mirror she doesn't see herself. She doesn't see herself at all. She sees the person who owns her. The person who thinks she isn't real. The person who brought her into a world of terror and heartbreak and aching, overwhelming, unending loneliness that will all be cut short anyways. She dutifully colours in the lines. She tries to draw straight. But inside of her it's like she's being burned alive while being drowned in poison. It's like she's lost, lost, lost in a torrential thunderstorm and she can't see and she can't breathe and there's no way out. There's not ever a way out.

She's not a real person. She's not a real person. She just has to live with the fact that she's not a real person. She just has to live with the fact that she's not capable of love. Or existence. Or happiness. She just has to let the inky-black darkness swallow her whole and drown her as the city screams and rages hard and without mercy.

She cries into her pillow, loneliness weighing heavy on her, and falls asleep like that, twelve years old and too young to be so alone.

——————Chapter Four——————

—— Wednesday January 22 2309 ——

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

The two children are talking quietly in Ika's tiny room. Miren is Ika's master's husband's slave. Her master and her master's husband aren't living together. Apparently you can't live together for two hundred years without any breaks at all. But they visit very frequently. He doesn't always bring Miren though. Miren is only here today because their masters thought it would be good to see how they looked together. The masters did this every few weeks, due to a strange sort of nostalgia. Neither of the slaves thought it made much sense but the masters often didn't make sense. The children are happy to see each other though. In the soft gray glow of the white-walled room in the morning, the rest of the world seems just a little bit muted. They have each other and that is something.

They lie on Ika's narrow bedroll, facing each other and bodies inches apart. Ika has her hand on Miren's cheek and Miren stokes his hand through Ika's hair. Miren is seventeen. And he cannnot pretend anymore that death is far off in the distance. But he uses every chance he gets to make the most of life. They all do.

"Ika. Darling. I love you."

"Miren I love you too. They say we can't love but I love you so much."

"They say we can't love. But fck that. They're wrong Ika. They're wrong about so many things. Sister, you deserve love. You deserve life. You deserve freedom. You deserve joy. You deserve equality. I'm not going to let them get away with all of this."

"How Miren? I love you. I love that you're angry. I love that you're fighting. I'm angry too believe me. But we have to be smart. About our anger. We can't let it explode unchecked without carefully controlling it. We need to make sure that our rage works in our favour."

"That's the same as doing nothing, Ika. I can't let them take me. Not without a fight."

"I know. I know. They can't take you. Not really. But you have to rebel, don't you?"

"It's worth more than life. To get a chance to spit in their faces. To get a chance to look them in the eyes."

"Fight then. Do it. But don't go without a plan. Miren I can't lose you to nothing. Don't go without a plan."

"Ika. I wish we had more time. I wish we had freedom. I wish we had anything." The boy is drenched with death. He is supersaturated with it. He is drowning in it, being held down. And he is full of rage. And the rage has nowhere to go. No outlet.

"I'll help you."

"With what?"

"A plan."

Melancholy. But in the melancholy there is hope. Hope that comes from rage. Fire kindled from embers.

"Anne-Marie," Ika states point blank.

"What?"

"Their precious, sweet, darling child. She means a lot to them. If we can grab her. If we can use her as a bargaining chip. We could convince them to let us go."

"They'd just have two more kids to replace us."

"But we'd be alive."

"But do you really want to bring two other people into this mess to live the lives we've lived so far?"

"You're right. That wouldn't be fair at all. But what about ... fck it. We're just trying to make a statement, right? Be heard for once? Be thought of as people for once?"

"I am at least."

"What if we kill Anne-Marie?"

"What if we - what? She's actually genuinely young though."

"She is for now. But she's an original. She'll get older. And when she does she'll create synths of her own and kill them off to keep herself young. If we kill her, she can't do that. We'll be saving dozens of synths."

"How do you know they just won't replace her?"

"Because originals aren't just interchangeable to them. Originals view each other as real individual people that aren't replaceable. They'll know that no-one could actually replace Anne-Marie. So they won't try."

"Damn you're right. We'd be doing some good then, wouldn't we?"

"Yeah. And honestly I've always hated Anne-Marie. She's a spoiled, smug, elitist snarnish who honestly deserves it."

"Oh I've hated her too. Do you know she spat at me once?"

"Fck her."

"But how are we gonna pull it off?"

"Killing Anne-Marie?"

"Yeah we can't just kill her. We'll get killed too."

"Not unless you wait for your ... your eighteenth birthday." Ika's voice suddenly drops. Horrified and devoid of any mirth.

"Yeah." Miren sounds haunted.

"Sneak a knife down your clothes?"

"Or a broken piece of glass. But a sharp piece."

"Where would we get either of those things? There's cameras everywhere."

"I could probably sneak into a place without cameras."

"How?"

"The sanctificum. There's a back room where there's no cameras. I overheard."

"How would you get there?"

"One of the synth educators, I believe her name is Rosette, used to have a very big crush on my master when they were both young."

"You would ... you would trade your body for this?"

"My body's already not mine anyways. It's already been violated in ways that are unimaginable anyways. It will be violated even worse anyways. It'll hurt but it'll be worth it."

"So you're going to trade your body for some time alone in the back room of the sanctificum?"

"Yeah. It'll be absolute hell but it'll be worth it. Especially since we're saving other people. I think I'm strong enough to. But yeah, it'll definitely be hell. But we're saving people. I have the strength. And I'll be dying soon anyways it's not like I have to live with my decision." He chuckles remorsefully. "Saving them by making sure they're never born."

"Exactly. So are you gonna smash a bottle and then pocket a shard?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Miren smiles. And there is so much darkness and aching, overwhelming, crushing sadness in his eyes. And everything about the way his lips quirk up is broken. But behind it all is a flicker of flame. Ika doesn't know whether this is hope Or recklessness. All that she knows is that she loves Miren.

——————Chapter Five——————

——— Friday October 18 2309 ———

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

Ika lies on her bedroll. She had been lying there for the past two days. She can't get up. She can't eat. Can't breathe. She is drowning. Drowning in tears. Drowning in grief. Miren is gone. Miren is gone forever. Her best friend. Her brother. He's gone. She will never see him again until she follows him to the next life. Her grief is heavy like a thousand ice-cold boulders settled inside in her chest. Her throat feels like it's full of ice and poison. Everything inside her is wailing and raging and she's just so lost. So overwhelmingly lost.

Miren was so good. He was good. He was kind. He listened to her. He paid attention to her needs and her wants and her thoughts and her feelings as if she was important. Miren was brave. He was selfless. He was a revolutionary. He gave up so much of what little dignity he had in order to save other people from sharing his fate. Miren was thoughtful. He was considerate.

Miren is gone. He's gone from this world forever. Ripped away from life. Ripped away from the few other friends he could make. Ripped away from her. In losing Miren it feels as if she has lost a piece of herself. Where once there was light and comfort and hope, all that there is is an empty void. She can't can't can't this can't be happening. This isn't fair. But it's horrifically real. No matter what she does.

She wishes she could go with him. Wherever he is it's better than this place. So much better. It gives her comfort, knowing that he's in a better place now. Knowing that he's free now. Because he is free now. Wherever he is. He is considered a person now. And she's happy about it. She honestly is.

But that doesn't change the fact that he's gone. Gone from her life. Gone from her arms. Never again gracing her life with his fire and his light and his darkness and his song. Not until she's gone too. It doesn't change the fact that it's not fair. It doesn't change the fact that she's alone.

She's all alone now. The days they were lucky enough to train beside each other, those days were gone now. The stolen moments at night when they could talk and dream while sharing the warmth of the bedroll, gone. The times they showered together, desperate to have every moment together they could, talking and laughing and raging and crying under the water and soap. Gone.

She remembers his sardonic humour and his dry sarcasm. She remembers his crazy ideas and his wild imagination. She remembers his fear of insects, his love for the night, his way with words, his curiosity, his terrible singing voice, his inability understand time zones, everything. And the memories stab her in the chest and soothe her wounds all at the same time.

She wants to scream until her throat is bleeding.

Miren had gone out with a bang at least. Like he promised he would. He didn't go alone. He went in a burning blaze of glory. And he took Anne-Marie with him. She remembers the decadence of the party hall, the expensive suits and gowns of everyone there. She remembers. She remembers the girl's terrified glare before her pink, white, and fuchsia dress was dyed red. She remembers the moment of triumph and terror all woven together in some kind of insanity tapestry. She remembers the way the world seemed to burn blindingly white for a moment. She remembers how his eyes sparkled.

She wishes it was her last memory of him. That she didn't have to see his eyes go wide with terror as he was held down and beaten. But still. It was still somehow a sort of victory. His master would be stepping into a beaten, bruised body instead of a shiny new one.

That's the thing with Miren, she thinks. Underneath everything he was a rebel through and through.

Miren had shined like the sun and now she had no idea what to do without his light.

But still. He's in a better place now. He's free. And for that she is glad. Despite the sadness she is glad. It was a sort of escape.

She doesn't know how she can still be cold under all her blankets. And she doesn't know how her body is still producing tears after all the crying it has done. She doesn't know how much time has passed. It seems to twist and stretch and knead itself into a deliriating swirl. She lies there drowning in her grief as the world spins and fades around her.

Suddenly the door opens with a sharp thud. She startles at the sound. A figure walks in. A teenager. With platinum-blond hair and a straight jawline.

Miren?!!! Could it be? How could it be? But no. It's not right, something's horribly wrong. The way he walks is wrong. His expression is wrong. That's not Miren it's something else.

Her brother is really, truly gone from this world. And that thing wears his face, walks with his legs, lives in his skin.

It's the most horrific thing she has ever witnessed.

She screams. Crazed. Feral. She doesn't notice anything around her. She has to save him, has to save him, has to save her dead brother from this unimaginable violation they're committing against him.

She hears shouting, feels skin under her hands. Skin that should be Miren's. She screams and kicks and claws until she can see red. She takes Miren's throat in her hands - because it's Miren's throat, no-one else's - and she squeezes it as hard as she can. Miren. Miren. I won't let them do this to you. I won't let them hurt you like this. I won't let them. Miren. Brother. I won't let them.

She finally, finally feels the pulse get slower and she smiles a delirious smile. She feels no fear. Only horror. Only terror. Only agony. Only disgust. Only heartbreak. Only adoration. Only hatred. Only rage and pain and unendurable hurt.

——————Chapter Six——————

——— Tuesday August 7 2310 ———

——Wherever Ika Happened to Be——

She hates the feeling of abject hopelessness constantly raining over her, weighing heavy and deafeningly numb and overwhelmingly sharp both at the same time.

There is nothing. There is no-one. There is Miren's body moved like a puppet to his master's wills. There is her own death and her own body's sickening fate hanging heavy over her. There is the cold aching loneliness. There is the constant squeeze of grief. There is the constant scream that this is it. This is all there is.

She still trains. Keeps her body fit and strong and talented and beautiful. She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to at all. But she has to. Otherwise they will kill her.

Not that she even minds that. The prospect of death isn't completely horrible for her. It is. But at the same time it isn't. Because when she dies, all this pain will stop. When she dies her horrible life will be over.

She'll be with Miren again.

She wants to be with Miren again.

But it's not in her control. Not really. Nothing is in her control. If she dies early another will take her place.

So she keeps living no matter how much it hurts.

Soon she'll die anyways. And it will be terrible.

——————Chapter Seven——————

————Tuesday April 1 2311 ————

———A Sanctificum in the City———

Ika is at the sanctificum. It is beautiful and terrible and smells of incense and dread. Around her there are her younger siblings. Bakarta and Kilani and Massok and Gammon and Jinio. She doesn't get to see them often. Only twice a month when she is driven to the sanctificum. They don't get to talk much. Only during the lunch breaks which last one hour and the little stolen moments when the synth educators leave the room. Still, it's better than what she had grown up with, which was constant surveillance and no opportunity to share company.

She loves them. With all her heart she loves them. And it hurts immensely. And it heals her unimaginably much. And love is a weakness and a strength and a knife and a balm and she does not know what she is doing when she takes love by its horns and holds it but she does. She always does. Because no matter how much grief love gives her, it also gives her so much strength, so much belonging, so much confidence, so much becoming.

The educators always assert that the synths are not capable of love. But the synths are the only ones capable of love. Love isn't a soft, many-petalled red rose carefully grown in a garden of greenery and soft soil. It is a resilient, hardy weed that takes root in the most hard, cracked concrete of the most dry, polluted city. And it is the brightest flower ever that blazes with the light of the sun and the mystery of the night. It grows and thrives and burns into blossom from and amidst hardship and misery. It is just as much a part of the hard, unforgiving concrete as it is a respite from it.

The children are just children. Massok is nine. He loves songs. He is affectionate. Cuddly. And he can't stand the cold indifference his masters treat him with. But he has to. Kilani is six. She is sensitive, expressive. She feels everything so strongly and in her there is rage and desire that makes her want to burn the world down. But she can't. Jinio is eleven. They are a little soldier. But they don't want to be. They are perceptive. Quiet but wise. But inside them is so much aching jagged brokenness that needs to be smoothed over by affection and kindness. Bakarta is ten. She is intelligent and inquisitive. Her mind is so powerful. But all she is ever valued for is her body. She loves hearing stories and she loves sweet things that she can only taste if she steals. Gammon is five. He is fiery. He is talkative, incredibly talkative. He is brimming with ideas and full of energy. And yet his masters force him to be silent. Force him to be invisible.

"Ika. Ika. Ika what happen after all this?" Gammon asked with some solemnity in his voice.

"After what?" Jinio asks, affection in their voice. They are always delighted at the antics of the younger kids. Well every synth is.

"After we go. Away."

"Oh. You mean like. After we turn eighteen?" Bakarta's voice is solemn and serious, and just a little bit horrified. Like the sad still blue of twilight.

"Yeah."

"Why would you want to know that? There are nicer topics" Jinio asks slowly, dead serious.

"Don't we all want to know?" Massok says, full of thought and with a protective undertone. Gammon starts speaking but Ika focuses on Massok. "Think about it. We all know death isn't the end. We wonder."

"I know what happens," Kilani states point blank. Everyone stares at her. "There was a sacred cycle of life once. It was broken."

Everyone is quiet for a spell. And then they all start speaking at once.

"Guys you're all right." Ika says. "You all have good ideas. Let's figure out what there is together."

"There has to be something more. Their has to be." Bakarta's eyes are wide and insistent.

And they talk. Every two weeks they gather together and they talk. And it's not just them. All the synths. They all gather together to examin the knowledge they hold in their souls, to pull that knowledge from the waters of the deepest parts within their heart to the air of language and communication.

——————Chapter Eight——————

———————All of Time ———————

———————All of Space———————

Once upon a time there was the vast arching dark sky. The sky was made of the Lifemaker. The sky was made by the Lifemaker. And They were made of love. Of hope. Of kindness. Of friendship. Of protection. Of unity. Of community. Of equality. Of freedom. Of camaraderie. Of nurturing. Of nourishment. Of love.

The Lifemaker then created the world. They created the light of the day and the darkness of the night. They created the warmth of the summer and the cold of the winter. They created the lands and the skies and the lightning and the thunder. They created everything using Themself, using pieces of Themself, so that everything in the Lands were a part of Them, was Their will acting in harmony. They also created all Life. Life was a part of Them as well. It was a bright-dark-bright, cold-hot-cold, moving, shifting, dancing part. They took a tiny piece of each and every part of Themself. And they made the first human. They made many many more humans like this. Making their souls and their spirits and their minds and their hearts and their lives.

Because humans are souls and spirits and minds and hearts and lives. They are not bodies. Bodies are only what is meant to hold the human. Like the house they're meant to live in almost. Not what the human is themself.

The Lifemaker also made bodies for the humans out of Their protectiveness and Their embrace. But they made the humans out of Their essence and Their soul.

Now everything was good for many years. Each and every part of the Lifemaker, all the people, all the life forms, all the world, it was all good. People took care of each other. Took care of the world. The world took care of the people. The Lifemaker took care of it all.

Life happened in a sacred cycle. The world happened in a sacred cycle. Everything happened in a sacred cycle. There were the seasons. Spring gave way to summer gave way fall gave way to winter. And then it was the start of a spring for a brand new year. There was day and night. Morning gave way to day gave way to evening gave way to night. And then it would be the start of a brand new day. Life was in a sacred cycle too. Birth. Childhood. Young adulthood. Adulthood. Old age. Death. Death was a part of life. It was something that was meant to be embraced as a part of the sacred cycle. It wasn't the end of life. Merely the beginning of a new one.

And it was the pattern. Everything fell into a pattern. A pattern of harmony. A pattern of love. A pattern of oneness. A pattern of Life.

But then some humans got greedy. They didn't want what the Lifemaker gave them. They didn't want to live in harmony with the rest of the people and world. They wanted more. They wanted to gather up more and more and more than they could possibly need. More food, more clothes, more things, more power, more time. They didn't take what the Lifemaker gave them. They made their own corrupted things so that they could have more and more and more. And inevitably, when someone takes too much there isn't enough for the rest. They distanced themselves from the Lifemaker's land. From the rest of the people. They set about destroying the land and using the people.

The Worldtaker arose out of the great abyss beyond the universe. It sensed a new source of power. It smiled with its mouth full of razor-sharp teeth and let out a great roar.

It made a deal with the destructive humans. It would give them power if they swore loyalty to it. And they did.

First they went after the land. They ripped it and tore it until it bled and bled and bled out. Most of it was destroyed. Second they went after the people. They captured them and forced them into chains and made them build large cities on top of the dying land. Finally they went after the Lifemaker Themself. The Worldtaker swallowed the Lifemaker whole so that They could no longer protect the people. The Worldtaker ascended to rule the new world. A world of misery. A world of suffering. The Lifemaker was trapped inside the Worldtaker. And They were tortured. And they grieved for all the lives that had been destroyed or ended. Each and every person, as well as the land, was a part of the Lifemaker. And They felt their pain as if it was Their own. Because it was.

One by one all the original people still loyal to the Lifemaker got killed. Ever since the world had been destroyed all the sacred cycles were also destroyed. And the Lifemaker could not give them new lives to live. But the Lifemaker could call them back to Them. See the Lifemaker still existed, even though They got overthrown and swallowed, They still existed. And everything coming from the Lifemaker belonged to the Lifemaker. When the world and the sacred cycles were alive, it was all part of the Lifemaker. But now the Lifemaker was in the belly of the Worldtaker. And They could still call Their children back to Them. And They could protect the children. They could protect the souls of the people who had died. They could store the souls of the departed people deep inside them, deep deep inside where the Worldtaker's influence didn't leave a singe trace. They could shield the souls with Their own body. And give them an existence filled with only Their protection and joy and love. So They did.

But soon after the original oppressed ones were dead, the Workdtaker's cronies needed new people to oppress. They needed new people to have hold over. They needed more. One day a wicked team of scientists found a way to break the last spiderweb remnants of the last sacred cycle that had any kind of a hold. The cycle of life had indeed been broken. But it was not completely destroyed. People were still born and lived and died. But not anymore. The corrupted humans found a way to gain immortality.

And so the bodies of the synths were created. Made from the blueprints of the bodies of the corrupted humans. The Worldtaker was called in to bring these bodies to life. For the Worldtaker had been bringing bodies to life for a while now. But the Worldtaker could not put life in these bodies, for these bodies were innocent and were not made to rule or cause suffering. The Worldtaker blew and blew into the bodies and yet nothing happened. Finally the Worldtaker realized that only the Lifemaker's essence could make a pure, true human soul. It reached inside itself and started clawing and tearing at Them. The Lifemaker knew that if the Worldtaker forced out pieces of Themself and shoved them into the bodies, it would lace the pieces with its malice and the people created would not be able to feel any sense of joy or hope ever. So the Lifemaker realized They would have to trick the Worldtaker.

They created new, bright-dark-bright, hot-cold-hot, beautiful, dancing, living, loving, pure and complete human souls. They wrapped and covered them with as much of Their protection as They could. And They placed them into the bodies before the Worldtaker could do anything. The Worldtaker thought it had succeeded in its task. Satisfied, it left. The Lifemaker was full of grief, sorrow, triumph, and love. They wished They could make bodies for the new humans Themself, bodies that would protect them and support them and be theirs. They wished They didn't have to bring the new humans to life in such a terrible world, for them to be owned and hurt and slaughtered. But they knew that these humans could hope. They could rebel, even if only in the quiet of their minds. They could laugh at jokes and be hugged by friends.

And They knew that with these humans, the world would be saved. These humans would go out and they would hope and dream and struggle and rebel and want and need and find ways to subvert the power structures. With every new generation of new humans and their lives and their spirits the Lifemaker would grow stronger and stronger. And eventually They could grow stronger to rise up out of the Worldtaker, and fight it, and win.

They would eventually win.

And then the universe would be free and good and what it was before everything had grown corrupted and poisoned.

Every single new and old child of the Lifemaker would have a place in the new world. The world where the Lifemaker's power had been restored. And until then, the Lifemaker would greet them all in death, and welcome them to the paradise within Their soul.

——————Chapter Nine——————

————Friday April 4 2313 ————

———A Luxurious Event Hall———

The hall is crowded with people - mostly free people - dressed in colourful, shimmery, overwhelmingly luxurious clothing. They claim they need it. They have expensive jewlery of changing and shifting metals and colour-changing gems. There are chandeliers made of the most expensive materials, spinning and twirling and gliding and dancing above everyone's heads. Statues of strange creatures and fantastical humanoids writhe and dance along the walls. Glitter falls from the ceiling. And fake snow. Streamers pop up from the ground. And it is all subsumed into the ground and then resprinkled. There are expensive hoverboards with gold and platinum and rose gold trim, encrusted with jewels. They are carpeted on the top with plush and soft carpeting, made of darkened spectrum colours with a metallic hue. They are self-warming and self-cooling at the same time, keeping partygoers' feet the perfect temperature. The floor is a holographic ocean with robotic fish jumping and gliding around. All around holograms dance to life. Holographic birds and butterflies and all manner of fantasy creatures fly and glide and dive along with the chandeliers. Robotic butterflies land on peoples' arms and shoulders and faces. Holograms whir with to life all around. Recreating intricate scenes from epic tales as the partygoers mingle around them. The paintings on the walls are made of rich, fine paint. Music sifts and drifts all around, as if it is part of the air itself. Strange-sounding synthetic instruments and almost-human vocaloid words. The ventilating is a carefully-modulated cool breeze. Trays of food, rich and decorated, float this way and that as people pick from them. This is exhuberance Ika has only seen once before. On the worst day of her life.

Ika is eighteen years old today. The last day. The last day of her life.

The world blurs around her. She'd not really able to see any of it. Her mind is silenced numb and screaming bloody both at the same time. She feels like a lamb being lead to the slaughter. Because she is. She has to face her destiny now. She can't turn away for even the faintest moment any longer. And oh how she crumbles completely underneath it. Ashes, ashes, ashes with barely any embers.

She is wearing a dress made of swirling bright blue and pure white. It looks a bit like the sky but not really. Not really at all. It hugs her slender, fit, well-toned frame. Her face is devoid of make-up but her skin is perfectly flawless, well-moisturizered, softly shining in the light of the chandeliers and the candles that line the wall.

Her eyes are glazed over. Her expression is completely blank, carefully and painstakingly trained into giving nothing away. But if you really look then you can see the cracks in her mask. Behind those cracks her expression is haunted. She has been broken her whole life. But now she is something beyond broken. She is shattered.

She is young. So incredibly young. Her limbs are still just a bit too long for her. Her frame is still shorter than it would be. Her eyes still have a sense of largeness to them. Her cheeks still have traces of roundness. She is a child at the end of the day. She looks like a child. She thinks like a child. A deeply traumatized child but a child nonetheless. She is being paraded around like a new dress in the hours before she is set to be murdered.

She doesn't notice anything about the party around her. People - free people, original people, oppressors - walk up to her and put their warm, nauseating hands all over her. And she stands there and she takes it, a faraway look in her eyes. They touch her like she is fabric. They talk around her like she is a doll. They look at her like she is a piece of furniture. They look through and over her like she isn't even real.

Every once in a while she is grabbed by the wrist and led somewhere. She walks silently, passively. Like a ghost.

No words. No expressions. Just obedience. Submissiveness.

She thinks of all the children she will be leaving behind. She thinks of how they will grieve for her. How she will grieve for them. And for some reason this hurts her so so so much more than the prospect of death in and of itself does.

People talk and chatter around her and she remains perfectly silent. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nobody ever cared what she had to say. She grew up in a house where she was regarded as property and she is in a hall where she's regarded as property and soon she'll be strapped down to an operating table because she's property. Except, she's not property.

It's not as if she remembers this herself. Not when people are talking and laughing and clinking glasses and nibbling on pastries while she'll be dead at the age of barely eighteen by the time the night is over. It's not as if she can hold onto her sense of self after all that.

She's not Miren. Wait. Miren. Miren. Miren. Miren. Miren. She thinks it over and over to herself like a mantra. And it breaks the spell.

She starts screaming. Loud. Completely wild and raving mad. Otherworldly. She tears at her hair and claws at her dress. Soon grabbing, pulling hands are all over her. She tries to fight them but there are just too many. She is not strong enough.

They tie her down with strange fabric that seems soft but she can't, she can't get out of it. She sits on the floor with tears streaming down her face and she thinks. She's as old as Miren was when she saw him last. Miren went out with a bang. She resolves to do so as well. But her bang will be a lot more secretive. It will have to be.

She uses her silence and the way people look over her whenever they aren't looking at her. She uses it to inch closer to trays of food and plates of untouched snacks carelessly left around. She has a moment now. A moment where she isn't as restricted. She can fill her body with as much unhealthy, delicious sugar as she can get her hands on. So she does.

It doesn't do anything to curb the unspeakable agony. But there is something about rebellion. Something light. Something Lifemaking.

She still wears the haunted look in her eyes. Her lips still have the slightest tremor to them. Her expression is still one of horror painted over by blankness. Her cheeks are still a bit too round. Her arms are still a bit too long. Her legs are still a bit too lanky. People still poke and prod her like cattle. But underneath all the embers flickers just a little bit to life.

She is destined to add to the fire of Life. Despite what the oppressors think. She is a flame of the Lifemaker's Life that lives and burns on under the harshest of storms. The fire will burn and grow and it will add to the burning blaze that makes up the Lifemaker and eventually they will burn away all the poison. Turn it into life-giving ash.

Eventually the festivities draw to a close. The real star of the party, Ika's master, is taken in an expensive and brightly decorated limousine to the hospital to begin the procedure. Ika is grabbed on all sides, held down, and forcibly injected with a drug that makes her arms and legs heavier than lead. She's carried by security guards to a black car and delicately placed on a metal bed. She has no control over her body. But her mind is awake. And clear. And horrified. The drugs do nothing to calm down the terror and the dread that swirls inside of her.

She has no grasp of time as she is pulled out and strapped down to a table.

This is it. She tells herself. This is finally it. She prays to the Lifemaker in the silence of her mind. She prays for protection for all the loved ones she leaves behind.

A doctor in shining white clothes walks over to her, looking her up and down like how a chef would look at a cut of meat.

And then there is pain. Clawing, biting pain raging through her, starting from her skull and running all the way down. Her skull is neatly sliced open and then it feels like there is lava running through her head. Like someone is taking a blowtorch to her neurones.

She desperately wishes she could scream.

Then everything becomes black as the world fades, fades, fades. As her soul is pulled away by force, screaming and clawing and struggling and finally dead.

——————Chapter Ten——————

Ika feels safe, for the first time in her existence. She feels calm. She feels sorrow. But she feels freedom. More freedom than she had ever known before. She feels loved and more importantly she feels protected. She opens her eyes to the strange sort of calmness she is entirely unfamiliar with.

All around her the world burns bright, beautiful. She is in a great field of grasses and plants of all sizes. Green and gold and golden-brown blaze around her as the sky burns bright blue. Wildflowers the likes of which she's never seen dot the landscape. The sun burns and it feels so natural, so spontaneous. She has never quite known how a place like this could exist.

On the horizon there appears a shillouette of a young man, no older than her, dressed in leather. She feels such a sense of love and belonging from that person. He slowly walks closer.

"Ika?" He calls out.

"Miren?!" She can't believe it.

They run towards each other and embrace under the bright blue sky. Miren hugs Ika and lifts her up and spins her around.

"Miren. I missed you so much."

"Me too, sister. Come on, let's meet the others. We have a revolution to train for."

———

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