In the heart of every person there exists a secret scale. So secret it's rarely even recognized by its owner.

On one side there is Hope, and the counter-balance is that old familiar Dread. We weigh these opposing forces against one another constantly—subconsciously—trying to decide if it's safe to proceed. This scale isn't simply metaphorical – it's metaphysical.

Trouble is, Dread possesses a mass which is always terminal. As if it exists in its own cosmos, with its own special brand of gravity. Balancing Dread with Hope requires an overwhelming overabundance of the latter.

We think we're alpha predators, perched at the top of the food chain. But we're not. We're programmed with the brains of prey animals. We default to a fear state.

Overcoming that programming is everything.

Ava and Bach come back into Cripple Creek towing their primitive cart, overflowing with [Medium Log(s)] and [Supple Branches] and crude [Bow String(s)]. The villagers mostly just sneer. Everyone is anxious and edgy. The sky is a fat, drab cloud hanging so low they can nearly reach up and touch it.

“Horst has his thumb on the scale,” Bach says, “tipping these people toward terror.”

“Then we better give them something to believe in,” says Ava, “and it better be big.”

“Hope you're not too late.” Darby inspects a basket of nasty melted-plastic arrowheads, like brightly-colored obsidian. He passes it off to one of the Slaps who hustles down the thoroughfare. “Seems like the grownups are kinda losing their shit.”

“But the Slaps are still itching to fight?” Ava asks.

“You know it.” Darby waves for one of the youngest—no more than seven or eight years old—to come over and join them. “Cobra, come say 'hi'.”

The little boy jogs over at once and snaps a crisp salute.

“Private Cobra reporting for duty, Captain.” His voice is high-pitched but his tone is serious.

“At ease,” Darby says, returning the salute. He turns to Bach and Ava. “This is Cobra. He's our youngest recruit. Private Cobra?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Can you tell these two your mission?”

“Eat the rich, Sir!”

“Good man. As you were.”

Cobra salutes once more and then runs off toward whatever tasks he's on, sprinting right on the verge of losing control because that's the only speed boys his age know.

“But the adults probably aren't too keen on their kids fighting their battles,” Bach surmises, “could be why so many are tucking tail. It's shameful.”

“Maybe I can inspire them,” says Ava.

“What do you have in mind?” asks Darby.

“Where's the bowyer?”

“Artis is his name.” Darby points over toward the pub, where the bowyer awaits their return.

He grins as they approach.

“Impossible.” He rises to his feet, clapping his hands once, old and gray and wiry all over. “How could you possibly fashion so many strings – just the two of you? In one day? Let alone collecting so many beautifully supple branches!”

“All will be revealed.” His excitement is gathering a crowd around the heaping cart, and Ava intends to put on a show. “Can you craft me a bow?”

“Certainly.” He takes a branch and a string and goes to work and:

“What good does one crappy bow do us?” someone heckles.

“Just watch,” Ava says.

She strikes a pose like she's pulling back the string on an invisible bow. She's showing off – and Bach beams with pride like she's his little protege. And then in the next moment she visualizes the ItemID and summons a perfect duplicate of the first [Crude Bow]. She tries to hand it off to the heckler but he refuses, batting the weapon away like some sort of cursed object.

“What the hell are you?” he cries.

“Scum witch!” someone shouts and Ava can't help but let a nervous laugh escape – it's just such a backwater and absurd insult.

For a moment she feels simple pity for these people but then she realizes the crowd is actually turning on her. They sound scared and angry and dangerous. Is she in danger? After all this?

Blurting it out this way wasn't the plan but there's only one choice – she has to trust these people enough to shout above the din and tell the townies:

“I'm Ava!”

And that quiets them down. They look collectively stunned, like Alice has just stepped through the looking glass and into their ramshackle town square. She doesn't know how she expected them to react – but this isn't it:

“I thought that was a fairy tale.”

“Yeah, some stories leftover from Before.”

“I thought AVAs were just something parents threatened their kids with to make them behave. Like, 'sit there and shut up or I'll put you in a pod like an AVA!'”

But as more and more of the villagers share their testimonies they begin to realize it's true. She's real. She just fashioned a bow from thin air. And right on cue the clouds part and the sun shines down. It worked, she's inspired them.

“Okay,” she calls, “form a line. Artis and I will make bows for all who want them.”

She smiles at Artis and he gets to work. The citizens line up.

Ava holds her hands out palms up—less dramatic this time, absent the archer's pose—and visualizes the [Crude Bow]'s ItemID.

And nothing happens. She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her jaw and concentrates and just nothing happens. And she doesn't have memories of school but she knows this nightmare. This is the one where she's giving a speech to a packed auditorium of her peers when she suddenly notices she's forgotten her clothes. And then the other kids point and tease and laugh.

But when she opens her eyes it's just the dirty-faced adults staring back. Scratching their heads and whispering to one another. Ava finds Bach among the crowd and sees him frowning.

It's like the flask all over again. It's useless and embarrassing for her to try any more – and suddenly the puzzle pieces fit together and she realizes: it must be that she can conjure crafting materials in unlimited supply but when it comes to completed items she can only summon a single copy. There can only ever be one of any replica she creates.

Artis works fervently beside her, spitting out bows nearly as quickly as Ava could have manifested them, anyway. And she knows the recipe – she can fashion a bow in a matter of seconds, too.

But she also knows it wasn't simply about arming these people. It was about inspiring them. Making them feel like they had an advantage because they have an Ava on their side.

“That can't really be an AVA,” she hears them say. The doubters don't bother whispering; don't care if she hears.

And some resume their preparations to abandon Cripple Creek altogether, packing their carts and wagons with whatever meager possessions they wish to preserve. All Ava can do is watch.

She fashions bows automatically—almost as fast as summoning—but it's not enough for them. They want a pocket-God to warp reality until the battle is won.

And now a woman called Irina is leaving with her husband and kids. She's the town healer – the closest thing they have to a doctor. She shuts the door to her healing hut and tries to slink away with her cat tucked under her arm but her plan to flee doesn't go unnoticed.

“You see that?” A bald man with a dirty face points at her. “Irina has sense to get out while she can. What are we still doing here?”

Even Ava is starting to wonder the same thing. What are they doing here? How can this be going so poorly when she's been following the quest laid out before her? She focuses to view the details in case there's something she's missing:

She doesn't notice anything glaringly wrong. She's following the directions as far as she can tell. Are they simply not supposed to have the town healer? Are they intended to lose half the townsfolk before the battle even begins? Is this all just part of the script?

And then for the first time in a while Ava wonders:

What if there is no script?

What if all this game shit is just in your head? Inside your crazy, Scum brain?

“Shit,” she whispers, feeling beaten.

“Wait!” cries Ellie, her voice cracking. Something in that voice quiets the entire crowd completely.

She has emerged from the healer's hut, holding Uri around the waist like an over-sized rag-doll with his arm draped limply over her shoulders. His face is pale and his body listless and Ava worries for a moment that he might already be dead.

But then without ever looking up he speaks, croaking, “wait.” And blood seeps out from the puncture wounds upon his throat, soaking his gauze bandaging bright red.

“You're awake! But you can't be out here,” says the quack with the root compresses and the cat under her arm. “I have to go now, with my family – but you should stay here and rest. Get back in bed. Continue with the prescribed treatment.” She fixes a serious stare on Ellie like, “what are you doing letting him out of bed?”

The townsfolk can't seem to resist the spectacle. They close in around the healer's hut, waiting for her decision, treating her with a reverence which reminds Ava of how they behaved toward Miss Sessions.

And Uri speaks again, croaking out for Irina to, “just wait. And watch.”

He bows his head and chants, more bright red blood trickling from the places where the Scum-bat sunk its synthetic fangs. Ellie braces, holding him up through the entire ritual with her head bowed, lending her mind to his cause. And then:

He begins to twitch and jerk and Ava worries that it's all gone wrong. Somehow the psionic has failed critically and rather than healing Uri the tandem mind is killing him. Ellie can't contain his spasms and she loses her grip and he falls.

But in the last moment before he collapses in the dirt he catches himself. He kneels for a moment and then he stands on his own. And he's suddenly well – cheeks flush and eyes bright.

Ellie swoons, clearly drained. She slides back a step to brace against the wall of Irina's hut.

But the stunt has worked. In unison the townsfolk gasp: “Psions!”

Without so much as asking permission Irina peels the bandage from Uri's throat and the puncture wounds are nowhere to be seen. She prods with her fingers and Uri chokes. He laughs and she comes away wide-eyed.

She looks to her husband and her children and says, “get that wagon unpacked. We're staying put. We can win this fight.”

And the crowd goes wild. Ava goes to Ellie.

“You two saved the day,” she says. Ellie flinches at the sound of her voice. “What's wrong? You okay?”

“Ava,” she whispers, feeling around timidly for a hand to hold. “Help me into the hut. Please, Ava – I'm blind.”

Time Remaining: 19 hours 59 minutes