Red clay shingles cracked under Lisŗa’s footfalls. Droplets of sweat whisked away like a trail of diamonds, sparkling in the noon light. In that moment, as the chill from her own momentum blew across her face, she was free. Alive.

“Stop! This is your last warning!”

All good things come to an end. Lisŗa laughed once, a single lungful of childish arrogance. It would make the officer angrier, more prone to mistakes. But she needed to pay attention to her own grounds. Her roof was running out. She stumbled, on purpose of course, flailing her arms about as though she was about to topple off the roof. But her momentum was lessened and thereby more controllable. Bits of shattered red clay rolled down the slanted rooftops in her wake. Heads poked out of their homes to investigate the noise.

“It’s that brat again,” someone said.

“Catch her already what are you being paid for?”

The children cheered her on from the safety of their balconies.

“Don’t let him win!” They screamed.

The officer had had enough. “Stop and I’ll make it a lot less painful, kid! I swear on Mother Faleria if you keep running- wait what are you-?!”

The children cried out. The adult bystanders gasped. Lisŗa had fallen into a tumble and disappeared off the side of the roof into the alleyways. In the relative darkness between domiciles a group of hissing cats called a temporary truce as a larger creature landed on all fours in the middle of their quarrel. They arched their backs and bared their fangs at the intruder instead. Lisŗa bit the air at them before leaping away. Behind her, the angry voice of a lawman demanded she show herself.

She was a worm in the dirt. Here in the city of Cadeau de Chires, alleyways were the veins in which vermin like her were undefeatable. These were infinitely twisting passages only her ilk knew. These were-

Lisŗa fell forward, definitely not on purpose this time. A knee scraped the graveled pavement. An anguished scream swelled from deep in her throat. She suppressed it into an inaudible wail. Eyes slanted with anger, she glared behind her at whatever had snared her ankle.

A beggar in robes shook a clay cup at her. It was chipped, full of holes. A couple coins clinked inside. He swayed back and forth in place.

“Ch-change?” The beggar’s tremulous voice spoke.

“Salopard!” Lisŗa said under her breath. She recovered and kept running.

The beggar’s arm slacked. His head lulled back against the brick wall just as his eyes rolled back into his skull. His head resumed a swaying motion. The minutes passed like seconds. Clouds rushed by like precipitated cotton over the river banks. Until another set of footsteps entered this man’s limited cognition, and time slowed back to an unbearable crawl of one second per second. His eyes faced front again, and he pointed at the reddened patch of dirt before him.

“Good work, Rat,” the officer knelt down and swabbed the blood into a vial.

“C-can I?”

“You sure you’ve earned it?”

“P-please! I-I’m so close.”

“Alright, I’m feeling generous.”

The beggar reached within his ragged clothes and pulled out a thin card with ten highlighted boxes. Eight were marked. The officer produced a stamp from his belt and made it nine. Nine round symbols depicting the Falerian hawk in red ink.

“You are close,” the officer remarked. “How long have you been in the streets?”

“Twelve y-years, s-sir.”

“Not that much longer now, then. Good luck, criminal.” The officer went about his way, vial in a leather gloved hand. He stepped out onto the open road and was met with the domestic roar of a busy afternoon. Men and women moved like the wildebeest of Hildir, forced into a calm horde by the pressure of those before and those in front. His quarry had slipped through the wall of people. There was no way to see where she had gone.

A shame he didn't need to. The officer held the vial up to his gaze and closed his eyes. He reached into Rekesh, the plane of the endless hunt and of the eternal climb. One shallow dip into the plane, withdrawing enough energy to rush his head with blood. The world became red, black, and white. He smelled her, the recency of her presence like fresh blood to a hound. The little wench had not travelled far.

--

Jorge Faett knew it had been a bad idea to accept. Yet here he was, taking up an entire corner of a stranger’s house with a red solo cup in hand, listening to four-chord music. He didn’t recognize anyone. They had all changed so much in the years they’ve gone their separate ways.

There was Stefan Crane, a football star who bedded a new girl every couple weeks until his last year of high school, now a TA for classical literature at Lewisport Conservatory. He pulled off the Clark Kent look in green-beige sweater vests. Life must have been difficult trying to teach wealthy liberal arts majors while fighting off the advances of college girls who see analyses of Dante as an irresistible serenade.

Rachel Seydoux, who used to be the talk of the school with a personality like warm rays of sunshine and pollen dense spring air, surrounded by a horde of erstwhile classmates listening to her stories about traveling abroad. Were they really interested or were they wondering how she maintained her track-and-field body while the rest of them aged horribly?

Then there was Benjamin Lin, pursuing a doctorate in a field he could talk to no one about. How else was an academic supposed to make a living if not to teach electives to kids looking to fill credit quotas? He wore thick, rimmed glasses and carried himself with the confidence of someone itching to correct people on what honorific to use with regards to his name.

“Horrendous sight, isn’t it?” Said Najam Dupak, sitting on the floor beside Jorge. “Look at them, trying so hard to impress each other.”

“Can’t imagine what life must be like, embellishing their own lives just for appearances,” Edeard Lumens added.

The three ne’er do wells took a sip from their red cups. Claire Daniels seemingly appeared next to them as she always did, blazing quip already prepared. As Jorge expected, the woman’s tattoo collection had only grown since graduation.

“Better to try living up to expectations than letting yourselves sink like this, wouldn’t you agree?” Claire poked Najam’s belly with the tip of her foot. Najam swung his arm in retaliation, only to add momentum to the jostling that his overweight body now underwent. He fell onto the floorboards, spilling alcoholic punch everywhere.

“Go be a cunt somewhere else, Claire,” Edeard said.

“How’s working part-time to fund your WoW Classic subscription and MTX addiction after dropping out, Eddy? Far more interesting than traveling in Europe.”

“How do you know about that- you whor-”

“And you, Jorge, still generating your own gravity, I see.”

Jorge placed a hand on his own ample stomach, as though stemming blood loss from a well-aimed spear thrust.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he said.

“You were thinking it. Break it up boys, before the house tips in that direction.”

“But here you are, hanging out with celestial objects like us,” Jorge said. He finished his drink. “Why not go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at Seydoux’s tennis-toned ass and her life changing experiences at culturally sterilized tourist traps?”

“Because I’d rather die,” Claire said.

“Yup,” Najam agreed as he recovered what remained of his drink.

“Yup,” Edeard said.

The lights flickered.

“So what are you doing nowadays, Jorge?” Claire asked.

Najam interjected, “Don’t do it man, the she-witch will use it against you.”

“I mine coin in my parents’ basement,” Jorge replied.

“Goddamnit,” Najam said.

Claire laughed, a long drawl of air from deep in her lungs. The whole party quieted to see what had caused the commotion.

“I don’t…” She couldn’t quite get enough air. “I don’t… haha! I don’t even have to… come up with anything!”

“Feel free to put me in my place with your career successes, Daniels,” Jorge said.

“Well…”

“Legend has it you gain a new Kanji on your skin for every overpriced coffee you serve.”

The music snared to a stop like a record on brakes. Claire made an inscrutable face before storming away, a forearm over her eyes.

“Come on, man,” Najam said.

“What?”

Edeard shook his head. “Too far, dude.”

Jorge turned to the rest of the party. He was met with over a dozen despondent looks.

“I wasn’t going to say anything to begin with,” he muttered. He buried his nose in his cup, only to find it empty.

“Hey can someone help me with the speakers?” Someone called out. The lights were dimming, shuddering.

“The hell’s going on?” Another asked.

“I’ll check the breaker room.”

The light came back, but not from the fluorescents. It was everywhere, ambient. Ghostly energy inundated the room. Jorge glanced at his arm. His hairs were raised. Sparks leapt from them. His skin felt prickly.

“What is this?” Benjamin shouted. He wasn't the only one making outbursts.

“It’s the government! The CIA did-”

“Oh god what is hap-?”

It was July the twentieth. An entire suburban lot would be found empty, leaving behind a round crater filling with water from exposed piping. The mystery of its occupants' disappearance would be unsolved.