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The following short story is set in the world of Endari, the setting for my climate fantasy series. Below, you’re seeing a sneak peek into the early life of one of my protagonists, years before the events that will change her life forever. Enjoy!

From Fear, Find Fire

Shintau. The gutter of the Shendari Empire. No one goes there, unless they’re going somewhere else. Or to die.

Pebbles crackled beneath Selena’s feet. Sprinting down Nactur Alley and away from Old Vincent’s Bakery, she looked over her shoulder, spotting the large man chasing with a rolling pin in hand.

“You bastard girl!” He barreled into the crowd she’d just dodged. “If only your mother could see you now.”

Selena leaped over a sludgy puddle, vaulted the gates surrounding Bhan’s warehouse, and slipped through one of its wooden doors just as it closed behind a worker. Sliding behind one of the large rows of platted shelves, she ducked into a shadowy corner. Satisfied no one noticed her sneak inside, Selena reached into her pocket, revealing a scarlet heat-shard, one of her most prized possessions. Pushing fire into it, it glowed, and within moments it was lightly toasting the bread in her hands. A minute later, she bit into the loaf—the first warm food in over a week.

Vincent may have known mother, she thought, but he has no idea what she’d think of me.

Just like everyone else in the abysmal city of Shintau, he hadn’t been there when Selena’s mother died. He hadn’t heard the words she’d said, lying sick in bed. “Selena, you are strong. It kills me to leave you, but I know you will survive. You’re a McEntyre. Find Henrietta, and she’ll keep you safe.”

Problem, though. Who’s Henrietta? And just hours later, her mother had passed without any further explanation. So Vincent can say mother would have said otherwise, but mother said I’m strong. That I’ll survive. That I’m a McEntyre. She’d emphasized that fact. I’m a McEntyre, not a Thentir.

Selena took another bite of the bread. Its airy, humid warmth drowned out the rest of her thoughts. It tasted like cake, if cake lacked sugar. It was the greatest morsel she’d ever devoured. After a few minutes, she finished her meal and pocketed the heat-shard. Fortunately, Vincent seemed to have missed the Bhan warehouse in his search for her.

From the shadows, Selena watched the movements of the workers as they located goods to ship to far away cities. A few stood near her hiding place, but she’d used this little enclave of wood for weeks. No one ever noticed her. The next worker passed on their way toward a row filled with wine barrels—her opportunity to slip back outside. Wiping the crumbs from her ragged blouse, she sprinted out of the darkness, reached the door, and pulled the handle. Exiting into Nactur Alley, she headed back toward the bakery, hoping Vincent was still off searching for her.

Quite the mistake, she realized, for as she neared Market Street, Vincent was leaning against his rickety sign, speaking with three guards.

His green, hawkish eyes immediately noticed her. “There she is,” he said, wagging his finger toward the alley. “She might be only fourteen, but she’ll slip right through you! Get her!”

Selena dug her heels into the cobblestone and began a new flight into the city. This time, she headed straight for the market. Sprawling beyond Vincent’s bakery, a maze of tents and shacks blended into a sprawl of vendors, con artists, and merchants of all shapes and sizes. In Shintau, denizens could just as easily find a shard merchant from Fendari as they could meet a Chankor silk weaver. But it was Selena’s home. She’d always lived in Shintau. She knew the streets better than anyone else.

Green tent flaps whipped behind her as she dived through Carlo’s jewelry stand. The man gaped as she rolled over his table without touching a single ounce of gold. Around apple farmers and butchers and tailors she ran, the smells of the market complimenting the bread filling her stomach. The only flaw in the flight came from the shouts behind her—the swordsmen in Shintau-purple were gaining even as she somersaulted over a water barrel. These seasoned soldiers can run!

She darted around a wooden cart selling pastries and shot down a long grassy lane between rows of stalls. After a few steps, she slipped between two tents, nearly pulling the cloth down around her. She paused, watching two soldiers run by, and then a third. A sigh of relief arrived, but the feeling was short-lived, for their boot falls clanked back toward her respite.

She pushed further into her ill-fated hiding place, and as the third guard arrived, drew his sword, and faced her, she lifted the tent cloth, sliding into an unknown shop. She had just a second to notice the screams of a tailor measuring a half-naked man’s waist before she was back into the light. Down another grassy lane, she arrived at a brick wall, found its iron gate, and entered the fisherman’s ward, cordoned off from the rest of the market for its very obvious—and salty—stench.

Jogging past two or three stalls, she chanced a glance toward the wall, noting the soldiers hadn’t passed through the gate yet. Slipping behind a massive wagon loaded with trout, she spotted her target.

Benjamin. Right where you ought to be.

He was skinning a tuna, ripping its scales into a bloody mess on his table. Casually walking across the muddy lane, she slid behind his stall and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Benji, glad I found you.” She bit her lip, staring up at his eyes.

“Selena!” He dropped the knife to the table so suddenly it nearly fell off the wood toward his foot. “Uh, what are you doing here? Good to see you, though.”

The rustle of chain-mail alerted her to the arriving soldiers. She had no time to explain, no time to justify, she just acted. Leaning forward, she grabbed his mussy brown hair and pulled his lips toward her own, kissing him. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the three guardsmen round the corner. They weren’t going to pay any attention to two silly children kissing on the job. They walked right past Benjamin’s fish fest, heading deeper into the market.

After ten long seconds, she released the kiss. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

She winked. “Thanks,” she said, heading the opposite direction of the soldiers.

“You’re welcome?” Benji replied, though she didn’t glance back.

* * * 

During the day, Selena enjoyed the warmth and openness of the streets of Shintau. At night, she retreated to a place few wished to visit. Along the cliffs of northern Shintau, overlooking the Sea of Storms and Serpents, tiny stones adorned a flat expanse of grass, bushes, and tree stands. To the east, an unfinished ditch reeked of decaying embalmed flesh. Overlooking the deadly ocean, the mounds of stones symbolized the unmarked graves of the dead.

Beneath a willow, Selena pretended her mother’s body was beneath the earth, somewhere nearby. She knew it was probably in the mass grave over the ridge, but she avoided considering that truth. It was here, at night, that Selena found safety, away from the prying eyes of Shintau’s underworld.

Yet as she found safety, she also found fear, dread, despair . . . and ice, destroying her soul.

A particularly cold breeze blew in from the north, and far out at sea, lightning flashed inside the perpetual storms plaguing the waters. Sometimes, she imagined the sea serpents leaping beneath the lightning blasts, their endless dance sending a clear message to any sailors who wished to venture too far from shore. Tonight, she saw nothing, only her shadow shivering beneath the icy chill echoing through her bones.

Slowly, she gathered a bundle of sticks fallen from the great tree above her. Beneath the tiny pyramid of twigs, she placed a few dry leaves, crackled from the day’s heat. She had no flint, but she can pull fire from her soul—and her heat-shard. At least, on certain days, she can. If it’s too cold, I always fail.

While reaching out with her mind, she placed her hand above the tepee while holding the heat-shard in the other. The brown leaves were aching for heat to explode their dried veins. Her soul tugged at the strands, urging them to accelerate until energy overwhelmed and ignited in flame. Yet today, her power eluded her. Why? I literally heated a freaking loaf of bread this afternoon. And no fire tonight? Today, on a day when she needed heat, she cannot tap her power to bring forth warmth.

After a few more minutes, the effort took its toll. Her eyes drooped, even in the face of the blistering wind threatening to destroy her bones. Smashing her makeshift fire with her fist, she slid against the trunk of the tree. Between two roots, she pulled her knees close. The evening would hurt, but it won’t kill her. I think.

Closing her eyes, she prayed to an unknown god—any god—for a dreamless sleep. Solace didn’t arrive. Instead, the voices drowned her.

You are worthless. No one loves you. Your mother left you. Your father left you. You deserve no one, for you are no one.

Throw yourself from the cliff. It will end the pain. Join your mother. She wishes to see you.

Just end the pain. Join the crews. Let them use you. It’s better than this.

She wanted to scream, but instead, she bit her lip, a trickle of blood dripping toward her chin. She tried to pull forth the words of her mother, the words that gave her strength in the day, but the night smashed the thought like a bug.

“I thought, against all odds, I might find you here.”

A voice crashed through the darkness. Painfully alert, Selena sat up.

Blocking the moon, a shadow of a man looked down upon her. “It’s time you came home.”

A second, then she recognized the voice. “Papa?”

“Selena, this is no place for a Thentir. I expected to find you at Henrietta’s, but you’re here. Why are you here?”

Tears streaked down her face. He’d found her. The thought was both terrifying and joyful at the same time. She remembered the smiles, yet she also remembered the bruises. Blood. Bile.

But her bones were freezing, her arms aching. Her tongue was dry, parched for water. The man above her held out his hand, and she reached out, taking it. It was soft, it was warm—his tendrils wrapped around her consciousness and whispered, welcome home.

 

* * *

 

Potatoes. Inside the bowl, beneath the floury porridge, her spoon crushed the familiar chunks of solid potatoes. She remembered the chowder her father would make them, spiced just right with black pepper and garlic. Lifting the spoon to her crusty lips, she tasted the soup, letting its heat overtake her throat. Its aromas overwhelmed.

“Just like you remember?” he asked.

“Mmmm,” she mumbled through the viscous liquid filling her mouth.

“Good. So when did she die?”

They’d sat at the table for two minutes before he asked the question she dreaded. “Why’s it matter? She’s gone.”

He raised his hands in placation. “I only heard yesterday. I’ve been looking for you since then. Knew you’d need a bed.”

Selena slurped the chowder, swallowing before finding the next few words. Maybe this time, things would turn out differently. “She died about a month ago. Doctor suspected it was the pox.”

“A month? And Henrietta never picked you up?”

That name again. Why, for the life of me, can I not remember who she is? “I don’t know. Guess not.”

“Hey, look at me when you speak.”

Her eyes lifted, expecting flames, but instead—kindness, in his face. He cared. Somehow, he cared.

“Well, you’re Selena Thentir, you’re my daughter. You’re a survivor. You’ve done well. And now . . . we’re reunited. We’ll head west; forge a new life in the Reach.”

After another sip of the chowder, she dropped the spoon into the bowl. He’d called her a Thentir. That wasn’t her name. That was his name, but it wasn’t her name. It wasn’t mother’s name. “My name is Selena McEntyre. I’m not going by Thentir.”

With those words, she stared at her chowder, but she stole a glance further up the table, seeing his knuckles resting on the table. Further still, his buttoned green shirt. Reaching his eyes, she saw pain. Fear. Yet also . . . hope?

“No, you’re a Thentir,” he said. “You’re with me now. I know you loved your mother, but I’m the only one who can take care of you. So you’ll wear my name.”

I should say yes. She should accept his authority, thanking him for his sudden hospitality, even after his distance over the past year. Yet she remembered the moment her mother cast him out of the house. “You’re a fool, and you better never step foot near us ever again,” she had said, bolstered by the strength of the two spirit healers standing by her side.

“No,” Selena said, her eyes truly meeting his for the first time. “My name is Selena McEntyre.”

And with that line, her father’s steeled fire ignited. His eyelids hardened, his eyebrows creased. Her earliest memories returned, awaking in her crib to the screams of her mother from the room over.

“You will obey me,” he said, and he swiped the bowl in front of her off the table and into the barren wall. “This is my house. You are my daughter.”

She stood, feeling not only his anger but her own. The emotions, though having escaped her hours earlier, rose within her, fighting to escape and unleash their power upon the world. Yet in response, a cold embrace enveloped her—it was him. He was assaulting her with a spiritual magic entirely beyond her comprehension. Everything was cold. She couldn’t move. Her legs locked; she fell back into her chair.

“Don’t you think your mother tried to burn me, too?” he said, rising from his chair. “Do you really think you can beat me? You are mine.”

Selena wanted to shrink into a ball. Her back was against the planks of chair, and his power—oh, his power—quashed all her hope for a moment where she would draw upon her own magic, meager as it might be. Instead, she used her only remaining tool. She screamed.

The sound released from her lips for only a moment, but its blood-curling shriek sliced through the air dividing them. He stared. He understood. And he swung his right arm, smacking her across the chin.

Selena flew into the dirt floor, crumpling into a heap. Through the window . . . the moon, its white light contrasting against the orange flames of hell emanating from behind her father. He was practically anointed by rage, his spirit magic revealing his true soul. She crawled toward the door.

But seconds later, he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her, slamming her onto the table. “You’re just like your bitch of a mother. Always resisting control. Never accepting that I am in charge. You are my daughter. You will do as I say.”

The door slammed open, the force fracturing and reverberating throughout the shack. “Thentir, you asshole, get your hands off that girl.”

Somehow, Selena lifted her head, her line of vision reaching just over her chest. Standing in the doorway, a tall, dark-skinned woman was pointing a flintlock pistol straight at her father. Her black coat contrasted with her white shirt, but the ice in her eyes exuded a ferocity never before shown by either of her parents. 

“Oh, what makes you think you have the right ta’ tell me what to do? Where the hell have you been?” But as he said the words, her father stepped away from the table, pressing himself against the wall, the woman’s weapon eviscerating his will.

Selena, frozen with fear, remained on the table, watching the scene. Her brain searched for an answer, seeking a name for the woman before her. I know I’ve seen her before, in some distant recess of my memory.

“You thought you’d get away with beating her like you beat her mother? Did you think I wouldn’t find her? Just because I’m gone for months or years at a time doesn’t mean I won’t visit my best friend when I return. That doesn’t mean I don’t know where to find you, even when you try to hide in your shadowy lair.” The woman whipped the pistol toward Selena’s father, its wooden handle cracking into his ear. Blood splattered against wooden logs, and her father crumpled to the floor.

His concentration finally fracturing, Selena discovered an ounce of strength, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Horror spread across his face. His true self wasn’t one of rage or power. It was simply one of fear, projecting his own insecurities onto the two woman who should have been his family.

“Selena,” said the large woman, “are you all right? I’m so sorry. This never should have happened. I should have been by Theodora’s side.”

Only now did Selena hear her own breathing, releasing at a rate unnatural for most. She slipped off the table, falling to the dirt. Her eyes met her father’s, but they’d glazed over, alien pain reducing his soul to rubble.

The older woman leaned down between them, holding the gun with its barrel pointed toward the crippled man. “You poor, poor thing.” Her hand gently rested against Selena’s cheek.

Selena wanted to feel its warmth, but the world was black. “My father, is he all right? Will he be okay?” The words come naturally to her mouth, even as they taste like ash.

“That man, that man right there? He is not your father. Never has been.”

Not her father. She considered the words. She thought about the fists, the claws, the scratches and scars obliterating her mother’s flesh. She remembered the moments when he’d disappear for weeks, claiming he was off on business. But Selena knew. She’d seen him visit those secret places deep within the slums, where scum exploited men and women trapped in squalor. Scum like her father.

Yet . . . he wasn’t her father.

She pushed herself up from the ground with a little hop, her feet landing lightly on the dusty floor. The power previously evading her reach rushed into her soul—revealing every molecule in the room. Henrietta stepped back, most likely sensing the tempest raging within the girl—no—the woman, facing her tormentor.

“You aren’t my father,” she said, enveloping the man in a blanket of heat, intent on searing his skin. Towering over the crumpled man, she found the void behind his pupils. His emptiness. She recognized it, the same helplessness which had overpowered Selena since her mother died. The man was terribly—and justifiably—alone, especially in this moment. If I smite him, I’m no better than the shell of a man he’s become.

She released her connection to fire magic. His skin glowed a faint red, but nothing more. “You aren’t my father,” she said again. “You never were.”

A hand rested on her shoulder, and she glanced up at the woman—Henrietta. Selena noticed the woman’s woven dreads draping from her hair, and a faint memory returned from years ago, throwing a ball with her mother and another woman. This woman.

“Thank you for finding me,” Selena said, taking a step toward the door.

“Do you have any things we need to collect?” asked Henrietta.

“There’s nothing here I want,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

Enjoyed what you read? Then check out C. D. Tavenor’s upcoming fantasy release, LEGACY OF LIGHT, available December 3rd! You can pre-order it on Amazon, or check out its Advance Reader Copy, available on NetGalley today!

Book cover designed by Kim Tavenor, our Creative Director

If you enjoy the creeping conspiracy of The Matrix and the bestiaries of HP Lovecraft, then Alligator Season is a must read. Tyler Hanson's debut novella will pull you into The Faction, and you'll never want to leave.

What monsters surround us every day? 
When Catalina, a monster huntress, receives a call for help from the town of Corumbá, she immediately answers, aware of their helplessness against the strange creatures that creep through the forests of Brazil. However, she quickly learns that the real fight is not only against the swamp, but also against the shadows of her past. 

Alligator Season, the first permanently free e-book published with Two Doctors Media Collaborative, is available now on Amazon!

Welcome to the Faction.

Learn More about our authors

And Welcome to the Redacted Files.
Tyler Hanson's debut series, The Faction, is set in a timeline not too unlike our own, where conspiracies are connected by sinister means. Follow five individuals who use ill-gotten “abilities” to battle against a global terror. From Ground Zero to the Indian Ocean Tsunami, from Hotel Cecil to Water Fluoridation, the outcasts travel through an altered history as they learn their limits. What are they willing to sacrifice to undo these urban legends?

In The Redacted Files, experience tales outside the main narrative, giving valuable insights into the characters, exploring never before seen locations, and experiencing terrible monsters that will terrify the mind.

Written by Tyler Hanson, Two Doctors Media Collaborative is proud to publish both the first books of The Faction and The Redacted Files. We hope you will support Tyler, download Alligator Season today!

By Tyler Hanson

To learn more about The Faction, visit Tyler’s website, https://jointhefaction.wordpress.com/.

Alligator Season is available for FREE through the following distributors:

Amazon
Smashwords
Nook
Kobo

Alligator Season was edited by C. D. Tavenor, our Director of Editorial Services; the book cover was designed by Kim Tavenor, our Creative Director.

Book cover designed by Kim Tavenor, our Creative Director

If you enjoy the creeping conspiracy of The Matrix and the bestiaries of HP Lovecraft, then Alligator Season is a must read. Tyler Hanson's debut novella will pull you into The Faction, and you'll never want to leave.

What monsters surround us every day? 
When Catalina, a monster huntress, receives a call for help from the town of Corumbá, she immediately answers, aware of their helplessness against the strange creatures that creep through the forests of Brazil. However, she quickly learns that the real fight is not only against the swamp, but also against the shadows of her past. 

Alligator Season, the first permanently free e-book published with Two Doctors Media Collaborative, is available now on Amazon!

Welcome to the Faction.

Download Alligator Season Today

And Welcome to the Redacted Files.
Tyler Hanson's debut series, The Faction, is set in a timeline not too unlike our own, where conspiracies are connected by sinister means. Follow five individuals who use ill-gotten “abilities” to battle against a global terror. From Ground Zero to the Indian Ocean Tsunami, from Hotel Cecil to Water Fluoridation, the outcasts travel through an altered history as they learn their limits. What are they willing to sacrifice to undo these urban legends?

In The Redacted Files, experience tales outside the main narrative, giving valuable insights into the characters, exploring never before seen locations, and experiencing terrible monsters that will terrify the mind.

Written by Tyler Hanson, Two Doctors Media Collaborative is proud to publish both the first books of The Faction and The Redacted Files. We hope you will support Tyler, download Alligator Season today!

Learn More about our authors

To learn more about The Faction, visit Tyler’s website, https://jointhefaction.wordpress.com/.

Alligator Season is available for FREE through the following distributors:

Amazon
Smashwords
Nook
Kobo

Alligator Season was edited by C. D. Tavenor, our Director of Editorial Services; the book cover was designed by Kim Tavenor, our Creative Director.

By C. D. Tavenor

Read the first scene of Legion of Mono below; grab it the story for free today!

Incense wisps through the air. Plated in gold, the shrine flickers in the dancing candlelight, spraying shadows on the stone walls of the room. Kneeling before the shrine, facing west toward the setting sun, I pray.

“My lord, have you forsaken us after all this time?” My left fist flexes. “We are the last bastion of our people, yet you have not stepped onto the battlefield to protect us from their endless hosts. Without end they pour through the passes, yet you have not brought upon them disasters to halt their slaughter. Where are you?”

I prostrate myself on the floor, spreading my arms wide, palms facing the ceiling. Breathing in, the smoke-filled air rushes into my lungs. I savor the flavor, the bitterness of the incense scratching the inside of my throat.

“Today, we face our enemy on the greatest of battlefields. On your battlefield. I ask for a sign. I ask that you bring us victory.” My eyes close, my mind envisioning the future I know I’ll never see. “I ask that you smite our foes so that our children can live in peace, as we once lived in peace before the enemy arrived at our gates. Lord of Light, hear my prayer.”

Propping myself up onto my knees, I swing both arms against my chest, pounding my pectoral muscles. Satisfied with my prayer, I stand. “Ero,” I call through the door, “I am ready to begin.”

"Legion of Mono" is C. D. Tavenor's first story released on Kindle and the first published work of Two Doctors Media Collaborative.

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Read Legion of Mono Today

If only they viewed them as more than accursed.

Read the first scene of Legion of Mono below; purchase the story today!

Read Legion of Mono Today

Incense wisps through the air. Plated in gold, the shrine flickers in the dancing candlelight, spraying shadows on the stone walls of the room. Kneeling before the shrine, facing west toward the setting sun, I pray.

“My lord, have you forsaken us after all this time?” My left fist flexes. “We are the last bastion of our people, yet you have not stepped onto the battlefield to protect us from their endless hosts. Without end they pour through the passes, yet you have not brought upon them disasters to halt their slaughter. Where are you?”

I prostrate myself on the floor, spreading my arms wide, palms facing the ceiling. Breathing in, the smoke-filled air rushes into my lungs. I savor the flavor, the bitterness of the incense scratching the inside of my throat.

“Today, we face our enemy on the greatest of battlefields. On your battlefield. I ask for a sign. I ask that you bring us victory.” My eyes close, my mind envisioning the future I know I’ll never see. “I ask that you smite our foes so that our children can live in peace, as we once lived in peace before the enemy arrived at our gates. Lord of Light, hear my prayer.”

Propping myself up onto my knees, I swing both arms against my chest, pounding my pectoral muscles. Satisfied with my prayer, I stand. “Ero,” I call through the door, “I am ready to begin.”

"Legion of Mono" is C. D. Tavenor's first story released on Kindle and the first published work of Two Doctors Media Collaborative.

Read Legion of Mono Today

[Warning: Simulating the Senses of Trolls includes explicit language]

Don’t ever do drugs, friend. 

Not like I need to tell you, officer, but humor me for a second. 

This morning, I was in class with Jeremy. You know, my roommate upstairs. We were in Philosophy 101, and it was the absolute worst. Have you ever taken an introductory philosophy class? For the past six weeks, we’ve listened to this old guy—literally a living fossil on campus—drone on and on about theories of good and evil, God, the existence of hell, the soul, all bullshit that literally makes me want to curl in a ball and cry. Not because it’s hard to understand. It all makes sense. I’ve got an A right now. 

But the way this guy presents it? His voice, monotone as a metronome, it just drones on and on about logical inconsistencies in arguments that are easy enough to tear apart just by looking at them. He’s teaching to the dumb freshmen in the front row who still think college will get them somewhere. 

Anyway, Jeremy and I were in the back row, messaging back and forth on our pads, essentially just planning our next crawl inside Fantasie Rift. By the way, if you’ve not played Fantasie Rift, you have to try it, it’s a fantastic online RPG, utilizing all the best features of Virtual. As we’re discussing which weapons I’ll bring, and which weapons Jeremy’ll bring, the professor fucking called on us. 

“Jeremy, Brendan,” said Professor Fossil, “I imagine whatever you’re furiously typing about on your tablets heavily pertains to the class.”

Nope. 

“Since you’re most likely taking studious notes, why don’t you explain to me Bostrom’s simulation hypothesis?”

This is where we shine. On the spot bullshit. It’s a skill that’s always allowed me to write five page essays in three hours, turning them in minutes before they’re due. 

“The simulation hypothesis?” I replied. Believe it or not, I did the reading last night. “Back in 2003, Bostrom postulated that if we ever reach a level of technological progress where it’s possible to simulate a universe, we would do so, and run infinitely many of them. Thus, given the number of simulated universes compared to the actual universe, it’s much more likely that we’re living in a simulated universe.”

Professor Fossil snorted. “Well done. Reads like the wikipedia page. Jeremy, tell me, why is this false?”

I doubted Jeremy had done the reading, given the smoke that billowed from his room last night. But you never know. 

“Uh, well, the easiest answer is that such a theory is pretty much non falsifiable,” Jeremy said, though I could tell he was grasping for straws. “If the simulations are sufficiently advanced, then they’re indistinguishable from a real universe. So why would it really matter in the first place if we lived in a simulated universe compared to a non simulated one?”

“It matters a great deal,” our grey haired wizard teacher said. He pointed at the chalkboard, filled with dozens of logical notations I hadn’t bothered to decipher. “And if you’d been paying attention, you would have caught exactly how it is possible to prove the Simulation Theory.”

A few spare chuckles emanated from the class, and I could see Jeremy’s face turn red. The fucker had ridiculed us in front of a bunch of freshmen. Great. Thankfully, he turned away, feigning devotion to teaching the rest of his class. 

He doesn’t really care about teaching, you know. I looked up his websites when you were on your way here, and he spends most of his office time promoting his ridiculous books about the immorality of ethical metaphysical gibberish. He’s tenured, so he can do whatever he pleases. 

Class ended. Jeremy and I darted straight out of University Hall’s basement and onto the oval. It’s a straight shot across the Oval to the bus stop on College Avenue. Twenty minutes later, we’re both sitting in our bedrooms, hooking into our Virtual systems, ready to enter Fantasie Rift. We’ve both popped twenty or so milligrams of edible synthetic weed, stocked up from the pot shop down the street. This is where the drugs come in, by the way. Seriously, what’s about to happen would have been so much less ridiculous if I hadn’t been tripping at the time. But officer, you must believe me. 

My eyes opened inside a tavern. Three seconds later, Jeremy appeared beside me. Well, not Jeremy. In Fantasie Rift, he’s “Sir Edward the Galiant.” And I’m not Brendan. I’m “Wendy the Wonderful.” Yes, I play as a girl, and no, it’s not because I like the armor. Let me keep my gender fluid thoughts to myself.

My character’s full name is Wendy Balizia, actually. I earned “the Wonderful” as a reward in our last guild war. I may have . . . ended a fight through certain powers of seduction. It was wild. 

“All right,” I said, “Where are we headed?” I placed my pale hand on the wooden table, and Edward looked around the tavern. That afternoon, it was fairly empty. 

“Well, I got a tip earlier today from Reynald about a troll attacking some villagers along the road to Newberry,” Edward said, standing. He rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “I think that’s as good a place as any to start.”

I nodded, and we left the tavern. After walking along the road out of town for about five minutes, I could feel the weed start to kick in. If you’ve never taken weed before, especially the synthetic stuff made legal just a few years ago, it starts out light and airy. You feel happy. Then, your body warms, and everything just seems . . . fine. Just fine. Everything’s fine. It depends on the strain, but I often just constantly laugh at anything that moves. 

For instance, we were walking down the road, nearing the tip Edward had received about this troll, but as we passed a pond, I saw a frog sitting in the road. It croaked when we were a good five feet away, and the noise spooked me nearly out of my moccasins. It hopped into the grass, and its absurdly rendered, digital gait just made me guffaw uncontrollably. I doubled over, my hands on my knees, just as another adventurer stopped by, seeing me, a petite pale skinned woman, chortling ridiculously. 

“What’s so funny, m’lady?” Please, cringe now. It gets worse. 

“The frog!” I laughed again. “It smiled at me!”

Edward, feeling the effects of our drug too, cracked his own grin. “Legit, it smiled. Just smiled, croaked, and smiled again.”

Hold on a second officer, I promise this has a point. I know this all sounds absurd, but I’m getting to the point. 

Anyway.

“Wow, that sounds so funny!” said this knight in white, shining armor. “And you’re pretty hot, can I join you on your quest to find your frog prince?”

What an abysmal pick up line. I couldn’t contain my giggles, practically spitting in the boy’s face. Yes, Fantasie Rift simulates spit. “You think I’m hot? Oh brother.” I straightened my posture, popped my hip, and placed my hand on my waist. “Come closer.”

Our new friend crept toward me, and out of the corner of my frame of vision, I can see Edward trying hard not to laugh even more. This little man neared my face, and when he was within six inches, I lightly kissed his lips. 

“By the way, I’m a dude,” I whispered. 

He recoiled, his eyes widening in horror. “What the fuck?” 

In an instant, his body disappeared, Fantasie Rift’s censor programs knocking him off the servers for the next thirty minutes. And Edward and I just laughed again, the whole scene augmented by our weed-fueled binge. That little tool, most likely a homophobe, just got screwed by his own idiocy. 

So I’ve set the scene for you, officer. You see my state of mind. Now we get to what happened. 

We continued down the road, and just a few minutes later, we reached a cliff with a rope bridge crossing a gorge, a troll standing nearby. Well, he more sat, cross-legged against a boulder. Upon our approach, its eyes opened. 

“Hello friends!” it said, much friendlier than I expected, but we rolled with it. “I come with a once in a lifetime offer.”

At this point, the synthetic weed had hit the point in its high where my mind mellowed, and the laughing subsided. My mind started to take on a more paranoid perspective, and I started considering all the potential traps before us.

Edward, however, dove straight in.

“I’ll take it,”  he said, his arms spreading wide. “What’re you selling?”

The troll snarled, pulling a lumpy bag from its back. “Inside, I have a portal. You see, this world isn’t real. This world isn’t real at all. It’s a simulation.”

I sighed. No shit, you stupid troll. It was now obvious that the troll was a real person, not a non-player character, fucking around with people through baubled tricks. He probably sold weird gems that would blow you up upon activating their supposed magical powers. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” it said, “You think, of course Fantasie Rift’s a simulation. But what if I told you it’s a gateway to another world? To the real world? What if I told you the real world is a simulation, too?” 

See, in that moment, my mind should have said, “this is all bullshit, we just talked about this in my philosophy class.” But no,  our weed-enhanced senses prompted a different response.

“No way, my man,” I said. “Can you show us?”

The troll bared its disgustingly yellow teeth. Pulling out a few golden bracelets I recognized as Virtually approved hyperlinks, it said, “Well if you put these on, I can show you. I’ll show you the real world. The world controlling us.”

Edward reached right for one of the gold bracelets, and so did I. My paranoia fired like crazy, but my desire to witness what this troll peddled fired on all cylinders, too. 

We touched the gold, and in an instant, our perspectives warped out of Fantasie Rift into a dark, voided chamber. The troll disappeared, and I could see a rough representation of myself in a shimmering mirror. 

“Jeremy, you there?” I called into the blackness. 

“I’m here!” he replied. “This is trippy as hell.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Welcome to the shadow realm!” a voice shouted, sounding eerily like that of the troll. “You are now in a place that can see into the eyes of those who control our universe. You’ve broken through the simulation. Just step up to the closest mirror, and all will be revealed to you.”

Of course, the weed willed my body forward. I placed my palm on the mirror, and in an instant, a billion lights flash all around me. I couldn’t make sense of a damn thing. At this point, I’d been in Virtual for long enough that my mind had forgotten that I could just power the thing off whenever I wanted. So a few seconds later, the images flashing around my mind coalesced into cognizable images. To my disgust, I now realized what was going on. And this is what you’re here for, Officer. 

The troll had fucking trolled me, and he’d started streaming ridiculous amounts of porn straight into my Virtual system. I closed my eyes—my actual eyes—trying to fight the weed fugue dominating my brain. I sighed. I ripped the goggles off my face, stepped off my omni-directional tread, and rushed to the computer actually running the programs. Pulling out a keyboard, I typed, trying to track the origin of all the data. 

“Jeremy!” I yelled, hoping he could hear me in the next room over. “Log out!”

“But it’s so ridiculously amazing!” he yelled, clearly lost in a stupor. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, “but you don’t know whether any of it’s illegal. Don’t get caught with any of that shit on your computer!” 

I had another plan in mind, though. I was going to figure out who this fucking troll was, and troll him right back. My fingers raced across my keyboard, pausing only when I needed my mouse to switch to another screen. I found the origin of the datastream—this fucker hadn’t even used a proxy. He was right here in Columbus, streaming from somewhere on campus. I created a flash image of the entire sequence, called 911, and now I’m here. With you. 

* * *

She’s staring across the kitchen table at me, a smug look on her face. “You intend me to believe this story?” 

“Yeah, of course.” I sigh. “Why wouldn’t you?” 

“It sounds like a cover for accidentally downloading a bunch of shit that you didn’t mean to download,” she says, “and you panicked.”

I throw my hands in the air. “That’s ridiculous. Look, just assess my computer, okay?”

“Sure. We’ll see.” So we head upstairs to my room, and she takes a look at the files on my screen. I don’t understand everything she’s doing, but she’s the Virtual crimes expert, not me. After she does her thing, we head back downstairs. 

“Believe it or not,” she says, “I think you’re right. I’ll still need to interview your roommate, but I downloaded the report from Virtual’s security interface. Someone hacked you using a laced hyperlink.” She leans back in her chair. “And I got an ID.”

No way. She actually identified the troll. She waves your hands in the air, pulling up what I figure is an invisible projection in augmented reality. “Any chance I can see, in case it’s someone I know?” I ask. “Maybe someone specific targeted us. From one of my classes or something. I don’t know.” That idiot Derek always likes to mess with us, especially when we play video games with him. 

“You have a Lens?” she asks. 

I tap my forehead, and streams of data appear throughout the room. “Indeed I do!”

She nods, sending me a security permission. I accept it. An image appears above my kitchen table. 

“Well holy fuck,” I say. 

Professor Fossil stares at us, a shit-eating grin on his face.

So seriously, don’t do drugs. I mean, let’s be real, I’m probably going to use synthetic weed just a few more times, because it’s a hell of a trip. Just make sure that when you use, you don’t let your ridiculous philosophy professor download viruses straight onto your computer, breaking your entire Virtual system. What. A. Troll.

A Million and One Magazine, a fantastic indie author online ‘zine, featured C. D. Tavenor’s short story, Simulating the Senses of Trolls. It’s the first publication of the story, and we’re keeping those first publication rights with A Million and One, but we also want to give them a shout out.

Everyone should go check out A Million and One Magazine, and while you’re there, read Simulating the Senses of Trolls.

Enjoy!

[Warning: Simulating the Senses of Trolls includes explicit language]

Head over to A Million and One Magazine

Casian Vazquez opened his eyes, pushing his back into the uncomfortable wood of the hearing room bench. He’d dozed off yet again as they entered the ninth hour of this absurd charade. He checked his watch—7 PM. He could smell the acrid sweat of the senators, and he was in the back row. The pungent stench knocked his vision back into focus, and his eyes returned to the scene.

“Thank you, Senator Richards,” Vice-Chair Tarantin said. “I believe just Senator Edwards has a few questions remaining for you, Martin. I’m so sorry this has taken so long.”

“I appreciate the sent—sentiment,” Martin said, the well placed stutter barely noticeable. “I pro—promise. I am fine. I do my duty to my country today.”

Casian could only see the back of the head of Doctor Martin Van Wert, the center of public attention. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he’d listened to him speak many of the same words over and over again all day. No, for the past month, really, ever since he’d returned from Mars. He’s doing his duty for his country. Everyone’s eyes had looked toward the red planet for over a year, and today, Martin had finally answered their questions. Most of the answers had been less than satisfactory to the public. But they would satiate their appetite.  

“Vice-Chair Tarantin, thank you,” Senator Edwards said. “Martin, no one denies the great service you’ve performed for your nation, and for your species. You managed to survive on Mars for three months all alone before the Goliath arrived to pick you up. It amazes me, and all of us, that you did what we thought was only possible in movies.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Martin replied.

“So my final few questions are simply to establish a clear timeline of events. We’ve drilled you on the details all day, and I just want to make sure we have a clear view of things. That we’re not missing any major gaps, that no stone has been left unturned. Does that make sense?”

“I believe so.”

Casian leaned forward, glad they finally reached the line of questioning that most worried him. Senator Edwards had always opposed the joint venture between NASA, the ESA, and a few of the multinational space development corporations, and he’d threatened the operations of Casian’s employers for even longer. But Martin remained strong, even after nine hours. He could hear the resolve dripping behind every word the man had uttered.

“On July 6, 2029, you and five other humans arrived on Mars, correct?” asked Edwards.

“Correct,” said Martin.

“And for a month, the six of you established Home Base and explored the surrounding, let’s say, countryside, for the lack of a better term?”

“Correct.”

Senator Edwards typed something into the keyboard on his arm. “On August 14, you and Commander Hanks discovered a cave three miles north of Home Base, correct?”

“That is correct,” replied Martin.

“What did you find inside the cave?”

Casian breathed in sharply, awaiting the response. He’d heard it five times today, but the man’s answer never got old.

”I—we found a geothermal vent,” Martin said. “Inside the cave. It somehow created a breathable atmosphere of sorts, trapped inside. When I say breathable, I mean only just breathable, of course. It also had liquid water. And—and I don’t really know how to describe it. But in the cave, there were—shadows. Creatures. They attacked. They attacked!”

Martin descended into hysterics for a moment, trembling. Before it seemed like they’d lost him entirely, the Doctor straightened his glasses, smoothed his sleeves, and placed his hands gently back on the table.

“At least, that’s what Commander Hanks believed,” he said. “I promise you, there was nothing in that cave other than the geothermal vent and the water. But Hanks—Hanks became his shadows. He became the monsters. The poor man made the choice to take off his helmet. For a moment, he breathed in the air, and he believed he was safe. But he didn’t account for the extra gases from the vent, even if the cave had an atmospheric composition breathable to humans. Within moments, he went insane, he attacked me, and I fled.”

Casian heard the tears in Martin’s words. He had communicated the necessary emotions with such gusto and skill.

“And why didn’t you have a recording of the initial events in the cave?” Edwards inquired.

“During my altercation with Hanks, he broke my camera. It’s not like we had Wi-Fi on Mars, other than the tiny local network that connected our servers.  Following our expeditions, we uploaded all of the recordings into Home Base’s mainframe. When I arrived home after the attack, I found my suit’s computer system damaged beyond repair.”

Edwards brushed his hair to the left side of his face. Casian suspected the Senator wanted something more, as if he knew Martin hid the truth. Politicians all sounded slimy, though, even when they asked innocuous questions.

“All right,” Edwards said. “So after you returned to Home Base, what happened?”

Martin took a moment before responding. “I informed the rest of the team of what happened. I told them I didn’t think Hanks was dead, and that he might return at any moment. We prepared for his arrival, but he snuck in through the vehicle airlock using his bypass commands.”

Martin breathed shallow breaths. From Casian’s angle, the man’s hands turned a pale-white color. Impressive.

“He killed them all,” Martin said. “He arrived, and he raved on and on about seeing our doom, that hell’s gates would open upon us, that he couldn’t let us leave Mars. He started cutting the power to the rooms…”

“It’s all right, Dr. Van Wert,” Senator Edwards said. “You don’t need to continue. I wanted that clear narrative established for the record. I am so sorry that you’ve had to replay this ordeal today.”

Martin’s hands returned to their normal color. “As I’ve said, it’s vitally important that the public know what happened. I survived to tell the tale of my colleagues, even the tale of Commander Hanks. He acted in pursuit of our species’ survival, even if his act was shortsighted. When we return to Mars, we need to take greater care, lest another horror film play out before another set of unsuspecting eyes.”

Senator Edwards looked taken aback at that last comment, and he furiously typed away before asking another question. “So you believe we should return to Mars?”

“Certainly,” Martin said. “We proved that humanity can survive there for prolonged periods of time, did we not? We suffered great tragedy, yes. But I don’t want the mistake of one man to ruin the future of our species.”

Casian sighed. He had played the final card, the final message that sealed the fate of Home Base. The public would believe this man’s statement, for they pitied him and his experience. They would look beyond the events that precipitated his imprisonment on the Red Planet, they would not think of the ripples formed because one man survived when the other five died.

Vice-Chair Tarantin nodded toward Senator Edwards before turning his gaze upon Martin. “Thank you for your time today.”

“It was my honor,” Martin responded.

Tarantin glanced down at his tablet. “Seeing no further questions, this hearing of the Senate Committee on Science and Technology will adjourn.” He tapped his gavel against the metal plate welded to his wooden pulpit.

Casian stood in unison with the crowd, pushing forward to reach the front of the room. Martin placed his own tablet into his bag before turning to leave the room. Seeing Casian, Martin nodded, as if recognizing the significance of his presence.

“It’s good to finally see you after all this time,” Casian said, reaching the small wooden gate separating Martin from the public pews. “NASA’s sent you through so many medical tests over the past few weeks we thought you’d never make it back to Washington.”

Martin continued nodding to himself, as if holding a private conversation in his mind. “It’s good to see you too, Casian, but I’m surprised to see you here. I would have expected for you to find me when I visited my sister next.”

Recognizing the subtext, he appreciated Martin’s constant vigilance toward discretion. The man was always on guard, going above and beyond even his own call of duty.

“Circumstances have changed,” Casian said. “She asked me to bring you by tonight. She’s got a major announcement to share.”

Martin’s eyes widened, and the man broke character for just a moment, though Casian knew no one noticed. After nine hours of hearings, everyone wanted to make it home for a decent dinner, or to the final minutes of a happy hour.

“I guess we better not keep her waiting, then,” Martin said.

“I agree.”

* * *

The driverless car pulled up to the massive compound an hour outside D.C., located deep in the heart of Virginia. Casian noticed Martin leaning his head against the glass, drifting in and out of consciousness. Understandably, the man was exhausted. As the car stopped, though, he looked up, his eyes darting back and forth from window to window.

“This isn’t Langley,” he said. “Why aren’t we in Langley?”

“A lot of things have changed since you left,” Casian tapped his fingers on the glass. “Our division moved to a new location to keep it isolated from certain interests, especially as we get closer to the 2030 elections.”

Martin nodded, his tired brain not wanting to object. “I assume this means you received my package?”

“We did. I don’t even want to ask how you managed to smuggle it through your medical exams.”

Martin’s face transformed into an involuntary grimace. “You don’t want to know.”

The two left the car parked outside the compound. The building was an old Virginia plantation, though the owners of the building had reforested the plantation fields decades ago to bring about a renewed sense of privacy. Casian pulled a key-card out of his pocket and placed against a small black pad, nestled behind one of the white columns buttressing the entrance. A small green light appeared, and he pushed the door open. Martin followed him inside.

In the middle of the foyer, a brown table stood with two chairs. On the table, a small, unassuming black box rested. A monitor adorned the wall, paused on a high-definition image of a red, rocky surface. Casian stepped around to the far side of the table, taking a seat. He motioned for Martin to join him, and the man accepted the other chair.

“So we’re going to review what you’ve provided us,” Casian said. “We need to confirm from your own mouth what it is you brought back before we officially thank you for your service. Though you’ve done a fantastic job so far; from what we can tell, no one suspects a thing.”

Martin nodded. “I did what I had to do.”

“I know.”

Casian raised his right hand, faced the monitor, and swiped his hand to the right. The video screen sprang to life, transitioning from the still image to a live recording. On the screen, a shaky camera displayed an image from inside a Martian cave, from when Martin first discovered the strange place alongside Commander Hanks. A few feet ahead of Martin, Casian could see a figure he assumed was the Commander.

“Walk me through what’s going on here,” Casian said.

The pair moved through the cave, strange mineral stalactites and stalagmites protruding throughout. In order for such formations to develop, water needed to drip. The first sign that they’d found something unexpected.

“We entered the cave because we detected strange temperature fluctuations in its vicinity,” Martin said. “I advised that we return to Home Base before further investigation, but Hanks wanted to press onward. I followed his lead, and we entered the cave.”

The two men, their clunky space suits making them look larger than life, wobbled between the darkened rocks. They passed between rocky outcroppings, pushed through tight squeezes, and climbed over boulders. Eventually, the cave sloped downward, and a yellowish glow appeared ahead.

“When we noticed the strange lights, we knew we’d discovered something spectacular. But we never imagined what we’d find.”

Casian had watched this video half a hundred times by now, but he wanted to hear the story from Martin’s perspective. Needed to hear it. He had a job to do here today, but he needed to hear this story from the man who lived it.

“We arrive at the geothermal vent I mentioned so often in my testimony, but we also found”—he paused as the video turned to display the subject in question—“this.”

On the screen, a massive brownish green organism grew out of the ground beside the geothermal vent. Vaguely reminiscent of a tree, it was clearly composed of organic material unlike anything native to Earth. From its branches, strange bulbs grew. Yet even though the magnificent, terrifying, wonderful thing had plenty of strange elements, its trunk most fascinated Casian. The trunk grew upward into a canopy, but near the base of the trunk, a distinct face displayed itself. Well, not a face, but just as humans loved to anthropomorphize rocks and clouds and mountains, Casian recognized a face on the tree trunk. More importantly, the face breathed.

“After this moment, everything moved very quickly,” Martin said. “Most of my testimony is, of course, true. Hanks took off his helmet, and within moments, he touched the tree and he transformed into a raving lunatic. He attacked me. I fled.”

Casian’s hand rapped against the velvet of the black box sitting between them, while he held up his other, holding his palm toward the screen. The image paused as Hanks reached his hand toward the mouth of the creature.

“And you believe this—this tree caused him to attack you?” Casian asked.

“I do,” Martin said, closing his eyes.

“And did he kill everyone at Home Base, or did you?”

Casian watched the beads of sweat drip down Martin’s nose as the man reopened his eyes.

“I did what I had to do to keep our country safe,” Martin said, straightening his glasses. “The mass hysteria that would ensue if this sort of thing reached the public? I only followed the protocol that we established for this sort of contingency.”

Casian resumed the video. “For our private record, Martin, we need you to answer the question.”

“Hanks killed two. I killed the other two after I killed Hanks.”

“And the tree?”

Martin closed his eyes again, as if he had avoided reliving these moments of his story. “I buried their bodies outside the base, then I destroyed the tree.”

“Except?”

Martin nodded toward the black box. “Except for that.”

Casian opened the black box. Inside, a small glass sphere rested, and he pulled the object out of the box. Inside the glass, vacuum-sealed from the elements of Earth, a tiny bulb laid suspended: a seed of the tree now lost to the Martian sands.

“So you are confirming that you extracted this organism from the tree before you destroyed it,” Casian said, “transported it back to Earth with you, and managed to slip it by NASA without anyone detecting?”

Martin leaned back in his chair and nodded. “I had the materials to create that object at Home Base, just like we would have prepared countless other samples for our return. I had three months. I did what I needed to do to prepare for my trip home.”

Casian stood from the table and placed the small glass orb back in the box. “You have done a great service for us all, Dr. Martin Van Wert. You’ve ensured humanity has a sample of its first contact with alien life, and you ensured that the public believes that what happened on Mars was a freak accident, nothing more.”

Casian walked over to a cabinet at the side of the room. He opened a drawer, pulling out a set of black gloves. He kept his eyes fixed on Martin, who began to stand.

“So when will the Director meet with me?” Martin asked.

Casian finished fitting his fingers into the gloves.

“I forgot to tell you, Martin, I don’t work for the Director anymore,” said Casian. “I’ve found new employment, and they’re very eager to ensure that this sample stays out of the hands of the U.S. government.”

Casian closed the drawer, a small pistol in his hand. Martin stepped back toward the door and turned to flee, but he stumbled over the legs of his chair. As the man picked himself up from the ground, Casian didn’t hesitate, firing three shots in quick succession. Two missed. The third bullet connected with his target’s spine, and he slammed into the door before he could hope to escape.

After picking up the black box, Casian approached the bleeding man and used his foot to turn him onto his back. Blood spurted from his mouth as if he wanted to croak out a question.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Casian said, though he wasn’t. “Sylvia will know you died with honor, protecting your country. And I want you to know, as you depart from this world, that I too act for this country, but I also act for the entire human species. My employers, they have a vision for the future that goes beyond just one people, one culture, one nation.”

He looked at the small black box wrapped gingerly between his arm and torso. “This seed will open the secrets of the universe to humanity. You’re the final loose end. I know you thought that this was like one of those old movies where the one person who survives gets a happy ending.”

Casian pointed the gun at Martin’s temple.

“This isn’t that type of story.”