Good morning (or whatever it is where you are), everyone!

Due to the overwhelmingly positive response I received from my school's faculty about this piece (the Department Head basically said he wants to read my novel one day), I've decided to post it on here for your perusal. The following short story was created as part of my Senior project for my English 491 class. I waited until after I presented it to post, so as to avoid any plageurism checks that might wonder if the person who wrote "Final Approach" stole it from one "Fyn16" on the Gang of Five forums  

The story takes place in a not-so-distant future, and provides a commentary on the advance of automated technologies, and, to put it bluntly, on their potential to suck the fun out of everything (not as eloquent as I'd hoped, but then I'm in a hurry to get to class), as well as painting a picture of futility, and how one man finds a way to cope with his overwhelming feelings of uselessness in a world that no longer needs him. And so, without further ado, I present "Final Approach!"

edit: I'd like to apologize for the mess that is this story's indentation inconsistency. I've been having trouble removing tabbed areas, so unfortunately what you see is what you get.


Final Approach

The crisp rasp of paper on mahogany was deafening as a tall, balding man in his late forties slid something over to his compatriot, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the room in the space of just a few short seconds. Both men, Air Force officers dressed in their finest blues, knew what was coming; neither wanted to acknowledge it. Opposite the first man, the second officer took the paper in hand, but did not look at it. Instead he kept his hand flat on the table, as if doing so might keep the paper from revealing its horrible statement.

That man was Robin Hart, a soft-spoken pilot whose demeanor served to hide his accomplishments. Few seemed to notice the shiny, four-bladed propeller on his uniform: the United States Air Force’s Distinguished Flying Cross. Fewer still knew the story behind it: Rob had been the first pilot to shoot down a satellite with a specially-designed missile, a feat that remained unmatched. His squadmates reported that he was unshakeable; a career of political tension for someone of his chosen occupation tended to have that effect, but finality of the sheet he was currently holding spooked him a great deal more than any unidentified blip on the radar ever could.

   He turned it over. “Honorable Discharge,” he read aloud, then stopped.Without even looking, he could already tell that the rest would be a well-crafted slew of patronizing bullshit.

   The officer opposite him cleared his throat awkwardly. Rob didn’t imagine this was easy for him. Colonel Travis Mahon was a friend of his. The two of them had gone through pilot training together. They’d been inseperable right up to the point at which Mahon chose to fly a desk, and Hart retired from the Air Force. Times were a’ changing, and each man had his own way of dealing with it.

   “So.”

   “So,” Hart echoed, and then added “that’s it, then?” half-questioningly.

“Yes it is.”

Hart turned the paper face-down, sliding it to the side. From here on out, he was a visitor in this office, not a functioning component of it. And while his apparent apathy might have conveyed otherwise, deep down he was relieved to finally remove himself from the machinery.

“I’ll never understand why you turned down the 5th Fighter Wing’s offer,” Mahon said. And there it wasó the single, prying statement Hart had anticipated. An answer was clearly expected here, even if Mahon hadn’t technically asked a question. Despite his long-running friendship with Mahon, Hart couldn’t help but feel miffed.

“I had my reasons,” he answered.

“Everyone does.” Mahon rocked back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and nodded. It wasn’t the in-depth answer he’d been hoping to hear, but it would suffice. He knew exactly his friend’s reason for retiring from military service at forty-five, a relatively young age for someone with his kind of promotion potential. Most of his fellow pilot knew too. Drones.

   Hart was an old-fashioned sort of person, the kind who’d grown up pouring over books about dashing daredevils and flying aces ripping apart the skies over Europe and the Pacific Ocean. He felt intrinsically obligated to resist the growing automation in the armed forces, but his deep-rooted sentiment didn’t seem widely accepted in his circle. The Air Force had its reasons, and if Hart couldn’t play ball, there wouldn’t be a spot on the team for him in a few years, simple as that. It didn’t make the parting any easier for him, though.

   “Travis, how long do you figure before they replace you?” Hart said.

   Mahon straightened up in his seat. He hadn’t expected this.

   “Replace me? I don’t follow.”

   “Yeah, you do,” he said. ”You just don’t want to think about it. It’s planes today, but tomorrow it’ll be leaders, businesses, jobs, shit like that. Where’ll we fit in when that happens? What then?”

   Mahon laughed.. “Come on, man. This isn’t Terminator. They’re not taking the pilots out of flying, just out of the airplanes.”

   Hart rose slowly, then stood firmly at attention, fixing Mahon with his icy, blue eyes. They were the eyes of an aviator, capable of tracking a target across three dimensions or processing a multitude of incoming signals every second. Standing in front of him, as lifeless and rigid as a plank of wood, Hart may as well have been a stoic, grizzled tree standing in defiance of the storm to come. In a way, Mahon supposed, he was just that.

   “Take care of yourself here, Travis,” Hart said, bringing his hand up in a crisp salute.

   “Thanks. You too,” Mahon returned the salute, then the two men relaxed their arms and clasped their hands in a brisk handshake.

   “Dismissed, Rob. Good luck in the civvie world.”

   “Thanks, I’ll probably need it.”

   “Nah, you won’t. They could slap wings and a motor on a cardboard box and I’m sure you’d find a way to fly it.”

   Hart uttered a dry, humorless chuckle. “Somehow I doubt those skills are in demand these days.”

   Mahon saw it again, thenó a twinkle in Rob’s eye, buried underneath a brow creased by months of accrued stress. It worried him.

   “If you ever need a recommendation, give me a call,” he said. “Whatever skills they’re looking for these days, I’m sure I can vouch for you.”

   Hart nodded. The twinkle vanished and Mahon was momentarily relieved. For a second he’d beenó

   Scared? Worried? Not for Rob, surely.

   The return of casual normalcy he’d observed in his friend offered a sense of relief. This had to be a tough time for the seasoned pilot. People in his situation had a tendency to do stupid things. Stupid, reckless things.

   “Well, I do appreciate that,” Hart replied, smiling as he turned to leave while jauntily tipping his flight cap. Mahon grinned. There was a reason the pilot’s callsign was “Dork.” There weren’t a lot of folks that could get away with his old fashioned (mean-spirited younger folks called it “cringeworthy”) behavior, but Hart had it down pat, channeling the image of a swaggering aviator from the golden age of flight.

   But that image seemed to fade for a fleeting moment as Hart exited the office. Mahon looked down at his right hand, which still clutched the silver pen (from the SecDef himself, he liked to report) and saw that he was shaking.

…

   Hart settled into the seat of his staff car, Toyota’s latest self-driving hybrid, and left the door ajar, staring up at the tacky white trim above him. Even climbing into the car was a sore reminder of where the world was heading. Once people began to trust machines’ automation and so-called intelligence, it was inevitable that the military would follow suit.

   On his last sortie, a Red Flag mission (something he’d requested to stay on for), he’d flown top cover above the Air Force’s largest training area alongside a squadron of computers: drones. There, soaring through the cloudless blue desert, he’d had an epiphany, an almost divine revelation: humans in the pilot seat would soon be a thing of the past. Flesh and blood was fast becoming obsolete. It was both humbling and terrifying knowing that fewer than two hundred feet away on either side of him, he was flanked by unmanned hunks of metal, held aloft by electrical and aerodynamic witchcraft. He recalled back to when the Air Force had debuted its Raptor fighter jet in the early 1990s. It was becoming clear that development would eventually reach a plateau, a point where pilots would be pushed to their physical limits before reaching the point of self-destruction. Drones were the answer; fast, nimble, and devoid of human needs and functions, they could also carry a larger payload than any manned fighter. They would surpass these human limitations, providing the perfect solution to a specifically sentient problem. A problem he was a part of.  

   He shivered as the thought crossed his mind once again as he sat in his car.

   Getting into some dystopian-level bullshit, aren’t we, Rob?

. His hands relaxed at his sides as the wheel moved by itself. Hart had tried and failed long ago to avoid pondering the potential, the idea that one day the entire military might be automated, that there might no longer be a need for people like him. For people like anyone really. Anyone with a job, at least. What then? The question constantly nagged at him.

Hart relaxed as best he could, resting his arm on the windowsill and letting his mind wander as he transposed the metallic, half-skeletal face of Arnold Schwarzenegger on every pedestrian he saw. He chuckled to himself. He still had enough faith left in humanity that he doubted Skynet would ever become a reality. Then he allowed himself to consider whether this would even be a bad thing. At least a fictitious hostile robot takeover would affect everyone. At least existence as we knew it would end swiftly, a sharp bang rather than a long, whimpering cry that he saw imagined down his own road. As it seemed to him, few actually stood to lose anything from this transition. His personal disadvantage stemmed from the fact that he put himself in a position of potential eradication to begin with. The public loved the idea. No more soldiers in harm’s way, no human error leading to headline-causing disasters. Technically, he should have been right on board with them.

   But he wasn’t. As the car merged onto the highway, he saw a KC-46 “Pegasus,” one of the few large, manned aircraft left in the military, taking off outside his window. The pilots were probably just beginning to level off, running through all of their dated checklists just as their predecessors had done decades ago. Sure, he knew some of the processes on board were automated, but they were still flying the plane hands-on. He felt a pang of jealousy as he watched them depart, something he could do now that he no longer had to watch the road in front of him, and wondered why he hadn’t asked to become a tanker pilot.

   The Toyota pulled off the highway five miles later, following a two-lane strip of worn asphalt leading to the countryside, instinctively delivering him home like a trustworthy family dog. It was probably why he didn’t mind the car so much anymore. He’d been just as opposed to the idea of a self-driving car as he had been toward that of an automated Air Force, but the car had taken on a personality of its own. Sort of a weird, Furby-esque artificial personality, perhaps, but it was something. The car turned into a small community, surrounded by several mature trees, their leaves tinted orange at the first hints of fall in the air.

   His was the second house on the right, a small but nice two-bedroom with a two car garage and a yard that was almost green enough to be astroturf. As he pulled in, Hart realized that this was probably the last time he’d make that trip from the base to his house. Not that he couldn’t do it- he still had the proper ID after all, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to go back. As he pulled into the garage, the car parked itself, shutting off with barely a whisper as the electric motor died down. Hart got out, freeing the plug from a cleverly concealed socket in the car’s bumper, and plugged it in.

   His other car sat low, much lower than the Toyota, her tapering coupe roofline mimicking the shape of a predator perched on its haunches, ready to strike. His eye caught the sparkling metallic luster of her dark green paint from the light of the garage’s overhead light fixture. This was a daily ritual for him, a moment of worship he practiced daily upon his return home from work at the base. He ran a hand over the Mustang’s fender. The car was nearly eighty years old. If the Toyota seemed to possess a personality, then the Mustang offered it in spades. As he imagined driving full throttle, the whipping wind and the roaring of a hungry V8 in his ears, he noticed the sticker, a little white square in the upper left corner of the windshield reading HEV (High Emission Vehicle). Date of Registration: October 5, 2044. Expiration: October 31, 2045.

   It was 2036, and the reason his dark green beauty sat alone in the garage, the reason her old wings were clipped, was that registering the likes of such an old ride was becoming too costly. Gas guzzlers weren’t extinct yet, but they were definitely headed the way of the dinosaurs. He couldn’t disagree with the prediction. He wanted to leave a clean earth to someone else’s kids just as much as the next guy, but going out without his HEV registration, something he decided he was done paying for, would be financially disastrous, possibly thousands of dollars in fines. Hart let his hand drop limply to his side and turned away, pausing only to turn off the lights as he entered his house.

   The garage door opened into a small, marginally tidy kitchen with a small bar-height counter and all the basic necessities of a single man’s life: can and bottle openers, a few wrinkled dishcloths, a set of knives, anything to make cooking and eating alone a little more enjoyable. A tin sign hung above the kitchen sink: “See the world, fly Adler!” it advertised in blazing red letters just below the image of a sleek Lockheed Electra. He’d never heard of “Adler” before, aside from the fact that it mean “eagle” in German, a language he’d devoted less than a year to in high school, but he loved the image anyway. It was a relic dating back to a time when one didn’t need to carry a brick-sized regulation book, pages of checklists, and a bag of electronics aboard a plane. He felt wistful gazing at it, almost painfully so. He turned away after washing his hands, snatching a little black tablet off the bar top before collapsing into his couch on the other side. He powered it on and flicked through his emails, sifting the useful stuff from the junk. He paused suddenly, his finger hovering over one addressed to him from Horizon Aerospace, a firm that he’d submitted a “why the hell not” application to a few weeks back. Intrigued, he touched the email, opening it.

   Mr. Hart,
   We thank you for expressing interest in becoming a part of our team here at Horizon! We are proud to provide aeronautical services to firms looking for daring new pilots to test the boundaries of the new and exciting aircraft emerging from the production line every year. Based on your prior experience, we feel you make an excellent fit on our team. If you are interested in hearing more, please call the number below or email us to set up an interview.

   “So far, so good,” Hart thought aloud, scrolling down to check out the numbers. There was more to the email, but he ignored it for the moment and scribbled the attached telephone number on a yellow legal pad. He would call them, he decided. Calling was more professional than emailing, even if it was going out of style. Who knew? Maybe he’d hit the jackpot and find a group of like-minded individuals with enough wild and crazy pioneering ideas to keep him flying well into his sixties. Maybe.

   Then he scrolled back up and finished reading.

You’ll no doubt be excited to learn of the newest addition to our fleet, the SH-44 autonomous pilot! With “Ottoó”

   “Airplane” reference, Hart thought, glowering at the screen, how cute.

   ówe can test the boundaries of new aircraft in ways that we never could before. With the increasing popularity of drones in the military and civilian markets, we at Horizon find ourselves leading the market when it comes to stress-testing new airframes, ones that might have been laughed at only a few decades ago. Supermaneuverability, hypersonic flight, things that were previously believed to exist only in science fiction are possible now due to Otto and systems like it. Should you choose to pursue a career at Horizon, you too will learn to utilize this new technology as we march towards the future, pioneering new systems that better integrate automated functions with human ingenuity and creativity.

   Hart immediately closed the message and tossed the electronic tablet aside, disgusted. If that was Horizon’s vision, they could kiss his ass. He hadn’t left the military just to go do the same exact thing in the civilian market. There was still hope, he thought. He hadn’t heard anything back from the cropdusting business in North Dakota, or the aerial firefighting unit in Oregon, but he had his doubts about those, too. He suspected automation would be the “magic pill” for both of those jobs in the near future as well.

   The whole thing was a joke. There were no such things as pioneers anymore; every new advancement in flight technology was being methodically tested by detached scientists growing old in the artificial light of a lab, never having experienced the feeling of a well-trimmed elevator, or a smooth throttle response. It was all numbers now; even before the onset of drones, it had been numbers in the military, too. “Try flying an F-15 Eagle by the feel of it alone,” he remembered telling a journalist once, “you can’t. There’s too much going on, too many computers working to keep the plane in the air. It’s why workload is stressed so heavily in pilot training. We have to multitask all the time.”

   At the time, the quote had felt more than a little badass, possibly even a lure dropped in the hopes of attracting a prospective love interest, but now he saw it for what it really was: a confession, thinly veiled as praise for his fellow pilots. An admittance that it was the aircraft flying him, not the other way around.

   What had drones really changed? He pondered this as he sat back, his feet up on the arm of the couch. Something he’d always skirted around was the truth that most flights these days were already automated. Sure there was always a pilot’s hand on the stick, but the plane was basically flying itself, even in the civilian world.

   Especially in the civilian world.

   Would going automated change anything at all, or had mankind already lost that sense of wonderment with being able to do something that was biologically impossible for itó to defy the laws of nature by soaring among the birds? He knew he didn’t have an immediate answer, but he suspected this was because he already knew the answer. He was just too afraid to say it.

   He found his eyes returning to the tin sign, to the gleaming silver plane sketched and then painted with just enough artistic exaggeration to make it appear as if it were leaping headlong into the sky, eagerly throwing itself toward the clouds as it climbed onward to its next adventure. He thought of himself in that seat, leather jacket wrapped around his torso to fight off the cold, red scarf around his neck, maybe a cigar clamped between his teeth because who the hell cared? We all knew we were going to die one day, why not live a little?

   Why not live a little?

   Though he felt like an archaic monster for admitting it, safety was the norm now. It was inevitable, really. With flying as mainstream as it was these days, it could not be left to the hands of crazy daredevils and daring aces. It had to be chopped up, restructured, regulated, and then dispersed back to the public in a tamer, less intimidating form. He was reminded of a favorite book of his, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. There was a force in that story, a dark, formless thing lurking behind the scenes known only as the Combine. It swept across the land, chewing up America and sorting it out into little identical houses with cookiecutter families all working bland, similar jobs. If the last few years were anything to go by, then Kesey had been right: the Combine was real, and it had won. Unsatisfied, in his case, with just transforming, chewing up, and processing the life of the common man, it was now coming for his job, the primary reason for his personal existence. The harvest of his livelihood was inevitable.

   Hart stood slowly and made his way over to a drawer beneath the sign. He opened it, selecting a pair of shiny, brass-colored keys from inside. It was a simple keyring, no fancy remote starters or fobs, just two keys and a blue rubber oval hanging between them, a logo older than he was: Ford, written out in flowing, white cursive, the same logo that had bedecked the wings and fuselages of the Trimotors, some of the greatest planes of the “golden age of flight.” He smiled as he pocketed them. Then he selected a worn leather jacket from the coat hook by his door, looked one more time up at the tin sign, and re-entered the garage, where the Mustang sat waiting.

   The engine turned over on the third try with an almost prehistoric roar, the likes of which few heard anymore. He enjoyed that the neighbors knew what he was up to, just by the sound of things. He was in another world now. His steering wheel had become a stick, his dashboard: an array of gauges, switches, and dials. His shifter: a throttle, and the world beyond his garage, cheering crowds. He took all of this in from his vantage point of control, an eagle, roosted so its majesty might be experienced by all. He glimpsed into his audience, knowing that a simple wink or a smile could inspire a lifetime of achievement. The throaty bellow of the V-8 had become for him the cyclical purr of an enormous rotary engine. He stood now at the threshold of a time where there was a place for him. A golden age of manned flight called to him, beckoning for him to take the next step.

   No computers, no electronics, just me and the airplane.

   Hart shifted into reverse.

   He felt a tug from the back of the aircraft; two young, overall-wearing men were pulling him backwards, away from the crowd and out onto the flightline. The freshly-painted stripes below his wheels welcomed a new era of travel and adventure. He rolled his window down, acknowledged his spectactors, saluted, then returned to his minimal preflight tasks. In a crate like this, there wasn’t much to monitor. He ran through the checklists, most of which he knew by heart, mentally checking off every item in rapid succession.

   He paused for a moment when he noticed, once again, the sticker in the top left corner of his windshield. It once held some significance in another time or place, but here it meant nothing. He shrugged it off just as the boys finished tugging him into position.

   Hart put his foot down.

   He ran up the engine, its throaty roar sending a shiver down his spine before he let off the pressure. Everything was in order. He throttled up again, and released the brakes.

   The craft leapt forward eagerly, clawing at the asphalt as it lunged towards the sky.

   Hart shifted.

   With a bone-shaking lurch, he felt the wheels leave the ground, reluctantly at first, then eagerly as he built up speed. Now things were changing. He could see the gleam of silver outside his windows. The roar of the radials was still there, but it was muted, a little more comfortable. Two wings, much longer than the first, stretched out on either side of him, glistening in the light of the late afternoon sun. He heard murmurs behind him. Passengers, off to experience adventures of their own in exotic locales, spurred on by stories told in the newspapers and magazines, too fantastic to be true. Right now, he was their hero, their guide to adventure. He would not disappoint.

   The Mustang barreled through the neighborhood’s entrance, its old tires leaving strips of rubber coating the ground where it slid. As it merged onto the road,Hart opened the throttle wide. Then it was gone, leaving only the rapidly-fading sound of its victory roar in its wake.

   No more propellers. Now the sound came from behind Hart, a rumbling, bone-shaking sound like thunder in a can. Everything around him was shuddering, protesting against him as he edged his machine closer and closer to the threshold of its peak performance. He could hear radio chatter in his ears, but the words were garbled and nonsensical, unimportant compared to the mach meter in front of him, a simple dial that counted up to one. He pushed harder on the throttle. What would happen at one? Would his tiny craft shake itself to pieces, or would he open the gateway to a new era of aviation? Unsure, he pinned the throttle and hoped for the best. The needle edged closer to mach one, a simple fabrication of fluorescent plastic between him and the coveted sound barrier, the holy grail of all jet jockeys…

   Behind the Mustang, a white and black police interceptor accelerated, leaping towards the fleeing muscle car, a predatory cat on the hunt, but Hart paid it no heed as he now found himself back in the familiar cockpit of his F-15, cruising steadily at supersonic speeds above some nondescript, sandy location. This was familiar turf for him; he’d flown these skies many times in his life. Lights, red and blue, lit up the sky behind him. Missile warning tones blared in his ears, and he pushed harder on the throttle, coaxing his metal bird to go faster, to pour every ounce of its power into fleeing.

But he couldn’t do it. His pursuer was gaining. He rolled the aircraft to the right, hoping the abrupt maneuver might throw the aggressor off, but escape was impossible. No matter what maneuvers Hart flung his Eagle through, nothing would shake his pursuer. Alone and outmatched, he finally decelerated, the mighty jet engines behind him spooling down as he awaited the inevitable.

The officer pulled up alongside the stopped Mustang. Procedure dictated that he stop behind the car, but this was a lonely road; he doubted anyone was coming in the opposite direction, and he wanted a closer look at the driver.

“License and registration, please,” he said, bending down and leaning his elbow up against the car’s low roofline. The driver turned toward him slowly, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and passing him the requested documentation. The officer marked down what he needed on the little notepad he carried around with him, then stopped.

“Robin Hart? Aren’t you the guy that shot down that satellite last year?”

The man behind the wheel nodded.

“Well, hey, I s’pose you’re human, too,” he remarked, handing back the documents and a speeding ticket. Hart didn’t say a word. It took only a moment for the officer to register why. The car was an HEV, and driving an unregistered one without the appropriate documentation was a serious crime. In his former profession, something like that could undoubtedly land the pilot in hot water.

Hart could see him thinking things over, his eyes darting between the windshield and the pilot. Hart tried to remain calm, but his fingers shook, tapping lilliputian drum-beats on the surface of his steering wheel. Both of them knew why.

But in that moment, the officer did something that only could have happened on a quiet dirt road between the rows of gently waving corn under an orange sky. He smiled, nodded to the pilot, and said, “might want to make sure all your papers are up to date if you plan on driving this thing,” before returning to his police cruiser.

As the officer pulled away, Hart sat silently behind the steering wheel, the warm afternoon light washing over him as he tried to comprehend what just happened. The cheers had vanished, as had the clouds, the wings, the images. Yet something remained. He comprehended then what he’d seen on his tail in that last dogfight, the thing that had overtaken him. It wasn’t the police car, or a fictional missile. It was a squadron of drones, his squadron. Progress. The future. It had caught up with him, stripped him of his wings, and set him back on the ground to make his living in a dull, adventure-free world. And yet it had not changed him; it hadn’t chewed him up and spat him back out as a carbon copy. His interaction with the officer hadn’t been artificial, it had been real, one human being to another. Perhaps, he thought as he twisted the key in its recess and started the car, there still existed room for the human spirit here, in a world that felt as cold and mechanical as the machines that drove it.

Hart shifted into reverse, pulling back onto the road in the direction he’d come from.

Hello everyone! I'm back with my last prompt response for Season 1 of the GoF forums' Fanfiction prompt challenge. This month, Rhombus and I found ourselves declaring a tie between two writers, Darkwolf91 and LBTlover247. To settle the matter of how to divide up the prompts, we had each author pose their own unique prompt, and then flipped a coin. I got Darkwolf's prompt, while Rombus got LBTlover's. Darkwolf's prompt is as follows:

One of the gang loses respect for somebody they care about deeply. What was the incident that caused this, and how do they deal with it?

I've got more to say about this, but I'll save it for after the story. Until then, I'm gonna shut my mouth and let you read through this tale of family, the breaking of bonds, and the loyalty of friends.

Strength

For the first time in many long, dry months, skywater came to the Great Valley once more.

It started off with the greying of the clouds. Those who still bothered to watch the skies were rewarded when they saw the white, puffy clouds darken, but many only remained skeptical. The skies had been grey before, with little to show for it afterward, and no one was interested in garnering false hope. Then, the first sprinkles came, barely more than a mist. Little droplets of water fell from the sky in pale, white sheets. In the previous weeks, the air was so dry and clear that one could easily see from one side of the Valley to the other, but now, as water began to fall in a steadily-increasing drizzle, distant objects became less clear, shrouded by the misty veil. Children ran around with open mouths, catching whatever water they could, and for the most part, the adults let them carry on with their games.

Most of them, however, remained doubtful.

"It will pass," some said.

"A drizzle won't revive the soil," others warned.

But despite their words, the skywater continued to fall, in defiance of the hot, dry season that had plagued the Valley for so many months before.

Beyond the protective walls of the Great Valley, a young female Threehorn stood beneath a thick canopy of leaves and branches, working away tirelessly at the trunk of a tall tree. Every so often, she would back up, and then charge forward, ramming herself into its unyielding trunk. The tree would creak and crack, but despite her best efforts, it stood fast. Between hits, she buried her smaller nose horn into the wound she had created in its bark, digging at the lighter wood within in an attempt to weaken it. Once satisfied, she would back up, and then the whole process would start over again. This had been her routine for the past few weeks, and while it was exhausting, she hardly felt the sting of fatigue. There was simply no time for it.

But as the sound of skywater changed from a soft hiss to a steady patter, she stopped what she was doing and turned her head skyward. Droplets of water fell from the leaves above her as they gathered, and she blinked as they cascaded down into the forest below, where she stood. She hadn't paid much heed before. The Valley had experienced mist already during its dry-times, and it never amounted to much once the clouds had cleared, but this- this was different. The sky was darker, the clouds fuller, the fall of skywater heavier and louder, and as she regarded the sky above with a marked interest, she allowed herself to think the one thought she hadn't dared to think since the greens of the valley had turned to yellows and sickly browns.

Is this the end of our suffering? Are we going to make it after all?

It was a question she had avoided every time the skies became cloudy and grey, because to embrace it was to embrace false hope. Until now, the skywater had always been short-lived, thin, and misty, but what she was seeing now was different. Her heart beat a little quicker as she noted the change in the sound of the skywater. Even as it fell, she could hear it growing louder. The ground beneath her feet was soaked, even becoming slippery in places, and though common sense warned against it, it was hard not for her to feel a little hopeful.

Or, at the very least, inspired.

With a renewed sense of purpose, the Threehorn charged forward again, taking care to keep her horns well clear of the impact site. One of the males had lost a horn like that last week. It had snapped off with a sound like a breaking stick, only much louder and far more gut-wrenching. The Threehorn had survived, despite losing a fair amount of blood, but his mishap had been a lesson for everyone. So, as she approached the tree, the female twisted her body to the side, impacting it with her shoulder. The hit still hurt, but it was better than losing a horn. This time, she felt the trunk give, letting out a loud splintering sound that grew louder the longer it went on. She stepped back, away from the swaying cracking wood, and observed her handiwork.

The tree wobbled for a moment, balancing on its shredded stump, but it could only balance for so long. As its trunk frayed under its own weight, the mighty giant swayed one more time, and then came crashing down to earth in a tremendous flurry of mud, leaves, and dirt. The Threehorn beamed at her fallen foe.

"Hee," she said through her grinning teeth as she looked on in pride, uttering an old expression from her childhood that she had never quite been able to get rid of. Satisfied with her handiwork, she closed her eyes before plunging her shielded head into the tree's branches. It was heavy, almost as resistant to moving as it had been to falling, but she'd dealt with plenty of heavy trees already, and this one was no exception. Grunting, she began to push against the ground, the leaves rasping against the dirt serving as proof enough that she was making forward progress. Spurred on further by the cool water falling on her back, she pushed harder, and as the trunk of the tree began to move, she fell back into her rhythm: one step at a time, even paces, never let up. She was already visualizing her way back; she stood at the bottom of a shallow hill in one of the many groves just outside of the Great Valley, and that hill was all that remained between her and whoever was going to start the arduous process of taking her tree back to the Valley. Normally, this was a two dinosaur job, but lately, more and more of her helpers were feeling the effects of the drought. Just today, three more of them had remained in the Valley, sick: one Longneck and two Spiketails. It was the most they'd ever lost at one time, but she wasn't about to let productivity suffer too much, so she insisted she could move her logs alone.

As she felt the ground shift upward beneath her feet, she allowed herself to stop, raising her head from the leaves in order to ensure she was still on course. On her left, not far away, a Spiketail and a Threehorn were busy with their own log, pushing it up towards the gaggle of able-bodied dinosaurs at the top of the hill: their relief. Taking a deep breath, the yellow Threehorn set her head back down, making sure her horns were locked into the branches, and started to follow them. Starting up again was immensely difficult, especially alone, but it wasn't long before she had her rhythm going again, and in no time at all, she was moving steadily up the hill. It was only when she heard the sudden cry of surprise beside her that she realized she'd overtaken the other two dinosaurs.

"Look!" one of them groaned, "she's passed us! Come on, let's move it!"

"Wait, I don't know if I- oh!"

The female looked up just as the Threehorn, the one with his head in the branches like her, started to slip in the muddy ground. The tree pressed against her, trying to slide her back down the hill, but the yellow Threehorn dug in, fighting it as she stood and watched the others. The Spiketail had managed to surge ahead with his sudden burst of inspiration, tipping their tree diagonally and leaving his partner, and the top of the tree, farther down the hill. His partner, who had only just lifted himself free to see where he was going, was desperately scrambling for purchase on the slippery ground.

"Easy there!" she called down to him, and immediately both dinosaurs fell silent.

"Take it slow, one foot at a time. This isn't a race. Getting that tree to the others is more important than some dumb competition. Tors?"

The Threehorn looked up at her at the mention of his name.

"Don't be afraid to stop if you have to. This ground's getting slippery fast, and if you need to stop and replant yourself, I'd rather you do that than fall down the hill. And Weru?"

This time it was the Spiketail's turn to be addressed.

"Please, for all of our sakes, don't try to be a hero. Stick with your buddy and get up the hill together."

The Spiketail nodded and muttered a hushed apology to his partner. The Threehorn smiled at them.

"Good. Remember, dig in when you need to, and find a rhythm. You'll be at the top in no time as long as you two work together."

She turned back to her own tree just in time to see her smeared tracks in the mud. She'd descended almost half a tail-length while she'd spoken with the others, and the ground underfoot was only getting wetter. Groaning, she closed her eyes and repositioned herself, digging her feet in as tightly as she could manage.

"Okay, you stupid pile of sticks, let's go!" she growled, charging forward. As she pushed off, her feet lost grip almost immediately. Her heart leapt into her throat, and it was only due to her fast reaction that she caught herself and managed to stay upright. Any slower, and the tree might have run her back down the hill. She stood frozen in place, pushing against the tree that threatened to bring her crashing back down the hill at any moment. Skywater dripped down her face as she considered her options. She had to find a new foothold, but if she couldn't do that, she'd have no choice but to let the tree fall, and that would mean starting the climb all over again and wasting precious time. Carefully, she began poking around with her feet, looking for a spot in the mud, a rock perhaps, anything she could brace herself with to get her moving again.

And then, inexplicably, the log began to move on its own.

"Come on, Cera," a familiar voice spoke from nearby, "I've got your back."

The Threehorn's eyes snapped open just in time to see a towering, light brown Longneck bracing himself against the trunk of the tree. Longnecks weren't particularly good tree-pushers, but she knew that wouldn't dissuade this one in particular. Littlefoot wasn't exactly one to give up.

It was odd to see her friend here. Most days he was running back and forth between the Mysterious Beyond and the Valley, making sure the trees were headed in the right direction, and ensuring everything was going according to plan. He'd left her in charge of overseeing the gathering of trees so that he could cover as much ground as possible. There was a great deal of distance between this grove and the Valley, and stopping to check up on the tree-gatherers would eat into his time. Why he'd chosen to do so today, she had no idea, but right now, she let it go. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed all the help she could get. Not to be outdone by her friend, Cera dug her feet in and pushed, taking advantage of the brief respite Littlefoot's aid had provided for her. She established her pace quickly, locking her horns in tightly and matching Littlefoot's own halted, lopsided stride as he sidestepped up the hill. With the two of them working, they once more passed the Threehorn and Spiketail, and before long, their tree was on level ground again.

With the weight of her burden gone, taken by a fresh-faced, eager young Threehorn, Cera collapsed to the ground, relishing the cool touch of the wet grass and skywater upon her skin. Littlefoot looked down at her cooly. It was a reassuring look, but it was easy to see that his stoic expression was a poor mask for the emotional turmoil he was dealing with on a daily basis.

Fighting the dry-times was a much more personal endeavor for Littlefoot. When skywater became scarce and the grass began to die, grazers like Cera and her family found themselves running out of food. The Valley's trees were still relatively green, so most tree-feeders had no trouble keeping themselves nourished, but as squabbles began to erupt among the grazers, the Valley's elders knew something had to change.

That change came as a suggestion from none other than Littlefoot's grandmother, his only relative left in the Valley. She proposed that the tree-feeders do their part to provide for the grazers, knocking down trees, stripping branches, and allowing them to eat the fresh food that they enjoyed on a daily basis. It was a noble, selfless idea, and most of the Valley was quick to adopt it. Much to everyone's delight, the plan seemed perfect.

But as the skies remained clear and the trees of the Valley became bare and scarcer, unease grew again. Littlefoot's grandmother continued to give more than her share of food to whomever needed it the most, but other Longnecks began to pull away. A rift was opening yet again, and with no solution in sight, it seemed the Valley was about to lapse back into conflict.

And then, one warm night, something happened that changed everything. On that night, Littlefoot's grandmother fell asleep peacefully next to her grandson, and never woke up again.

Some said she'd given so much of her own food that she was unable to nourish herself, others suggested that the heat had gotten to her in her old age, but for whatever the reason, something changed inside Littlefoot that day. The passing of his grandmother had left a void in the Valley's leadership. Unchallenged, he stepped into fill it, and immediately came up with a plan to put the Valley back on its feet. The able-bodied would venture outside the protective walls of the Valley, and bring back whatever green food they could find to ensure the Valley survived its particularly harsh dry-time. It was a strange idea, one that, to Cera's knowledge, no herd had ever tried before, but to her surprise, it was exactly what the Valley needed. Before long, she was at his side. Together, they worked tirelessly to ensure that a constant supply of food was provided for those who needed it, and once Littlefoot was able to divide his tasks between the two of them, it seemed that hope might not yet be lost. With Petrie running messages, Ducky and Spike coordinating where food should go in the Valley, and their Mysterious Beyond allies, Ruby and Chomper, keeping the canyons between them and the Great Valley safe, the dry-times seemed to weigh a little less heavily on everyone's shoulders.

Everyone, it seemed, except Littlefoot.

She hadn't seen him shed a tear in the wake of his grandparents' passing, but neither was he as talkative as he once was, either. He was setting his grief to the side, choosing to deal with it later rather than let it interfere with his duties. But the impact of the tragic event could not be entirely ignored, so he worked to forget the hurt. That, she reasoned, was why he could no longer bring himself to smile, even as the relieving skywater came pouring down from the sky, a symbol of hope and future prosperity.

"So, do you think this is it?" Cera said, nodding up towards the sky, "do you think the Valley's going to make it?"

Littlefoot turned his own eyes skyward, following Cera's gaze, and for a moment, looking up at the tall Longneck silhouetted by the life-giving grey sky, Cera realized just how grown-up he looked. It seemed only yesterday that she and her friends were younglings, bouncing around the unexplored regions of the Valley and beyond without so much as a single care. In truth, she realized, they were still doing those things. Only this time, they were allowed to do them, and there was a great deal less bouncing.

"You know what I say every time we get a drizzle of skywater," Littlefoot said, his voice low, almost blending with the sound of the pattering water, "this could stop at any moment, and we'd be right back to where we were yesterday. Even so…" he turned back to Cera, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw the sparkle of a tear in his eye. The corners of his mouth were turned up slightly. It wasn't really a smile, but it was the closest he'd come in a long while.

"Even so, I can't help but feel good about this one."

Cera nodded. "You feel it too, then. There are a lot of dark clouds up there. If this keeps up, we could have skywater for days if we're fortunate enough."

"Well, let's not count our eggs before they hatch," Littlefoot pointed out softly, "even if this does last for a while, it'll be a few days before the grass starts to grow back again. The grazers will still have to eat the greenfood we bring back, which means we've got a few more days of this ahead of us-" he gestured towards the fallen trees being pushed back to the Valley.

"Well, I have a feeling we'll all be pulling our weight knowing that this is finally over,"

Littlefoot nodded. "I think so too."

From the look on his face, Cera could tell that there was more he wanted to say, but she could also tell that he was holding back, whether out of fear or sadness, she could not say.

"So what's the part you're not telling me?" she asked finally, "why are you here?"

Littlefoot let out a deep sigh. "Well, apparently the elders have made a decision."

The moment the words left his mouth, Cera knew exactly what he was referring to. . Littlefoot had never formally accepted his leadership role, and the death of his grandmother left the Valley in need of a new speaker, one to represent them, a sort of "leader" in a sense. It was no secret to either Cera or Littlefoot that they were both being considered to fill the gap. Both of them had experience beyond the wall, both were capable leaders in their own right, and both had proven instrumental in putting the Valley on the road to recovery. They were opponents, vying for the same position in the Valley's leadership, and yet neither of them felt a sense of rivalry. There were much greater things at stake than a simple position in the circle of elders. Their competitive spirit was nonexistent, squashed beneath the weight of responsibility and necessity. Right now, with so many lives on the line, the last thing they needed was a rivalry.

But now, with the return of skywater to the Valley and the revelation that the elders had apparently made up their minds, came the realization that they were opponents again. Cera hated it. She didn't want to see Littlefoot as an enemy, not after all they'd been through, and judging by his own downtrodden expression, he didn't want to see her as one, either.

"Listen, Cera," Littlefoot said, and when he spoke she could tell he was already beginning to choke up. The dam holding back his emotions was already beginning to crack, "whatever they say, whoever they choose…"

"I know," she answered him, smiling warmly up at the Longneck, "I'll never stop being your friend. We've been through too much to let a little title get between us."

Littlefoot nodded. "I'm glad you see it that way, too."

His mouth quivered as he looked down at the Threehorn, and Cera could already see more tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He blinked, turning away to look up at the sky again, but he wasn't fast enough to hide the the new streams pouring down the side of his face, mingling with the skywater. Cera watched, him, trying to stay strong, to remain as stoic as she'd always strived to be. Threehorns didn't cry, but seeing Littlefoot try to hide his own sorrow and relief was becoming a challenge too difficult even for her.

Screw it.

Cera couldn't help it. She could already feel her own eyes beginning to water, and watching as her friend finally confronted the feelings he'd held back for so long, she at last allowed herself to drop her own toughened facade.

"Come here, big guy," she whispered, fighting the lump that was rising in her own throat. Slowly, hesitantly, the Longneck turned back down the Threehorn. Their eyes met, and for just a flicker of a moment, Littlefoot actually smiled. He brought his long neck down until his head was resting against her own. To some herds, this was an expression of love, but between the Longneck and the Threehorn as they stood drenched beneath the grey sky, it meant something else. It was the mark of a bond, of a friendship more powerful than any herd relationship, and as their faces brushed against one another, the tears of both dinosaurs flowed freely. They wept together, and together they felt the weight of the world lift, if only a little.

"It's over, Littlefoot," Cera sobbed quietly, no longer able to hide her tears of joy, "the skywater is here, and I just know it's here to stay. We did it."

She felt the Longneck nod.

"I… I miss her so much, Cera."

Cera couldn't even begin to imagine herself in Littlefoot's position. He'd lost a mother, his Grandfather, and now his Grandmother, all of whom he'd known and loved while they were still alive. Her only remaining blood relative was her father, but as she'd never really known her mother or grandparents, she couldn't even begin to imagine how hard this was for Littlefoot.

"I know you do. But she's up there in the stars somewhere, watching. And I guarantee she's proud of you today."

"Proud of all of us," Littlefoot agreed. "Thank you, Cera. You've been right there for me throughout this whole mess. Without you, I would've… I don't even know."

"Save it," Cera said, laughing softly, "that's what I'm here for, you know that. And regardless of what those elders say, that's never going to change."

Finally, the friends parted, each taking a moment to compose themselves. It wouldn't do either of them any favors to show up in front of the elders as a pair of blabbering messes. Cera drew in a long, deep breath as Littlefoot sniffed back the last of his tears.

"Ready?" she said, looking solemnly up at the Longneck. Littlefoot nodded.

"Let's do this."

…

The elders, or at the very least those who were not too weak to attend, were already gathered around the meeting circle when Littlefoot and Cera arrived. Both young dinosaurs were pleased to see that the fall of skywater had only increased since it began. The meeting circle was a soggy mess, but no one seemed to care. In fact, despite the solemnity of the occasion, there was an obvious undercurrent of excitement among those who were gathered.

"Littlefoot, Cera, please step forward."

The voice was none other than that of Petrie's mother. The regal flyer stood poised atop a stone at the opposite end of the circle, her wings folded neatly despite being positively drenched. Since the death of Littlefoot's grandmother, she'd taken it upon herself to be the voice of the elders until a successor was chosen, and now that day had arrived.

Heeding her call, Littlefoot and Cera both stepped into the middle of the stone ring. It was then that Cera saw a familiar group of dinosaurs among the crowd: a light green Swimmer, a darker green Spiketail, and huddled atop them, trying to keep his wings out of the water, sat a brown Flyer. Ducky, Spike, and Petrie. It seemed even their friends had turned up for this moment.

"As you both know, it is the duty of the circle of elders to choose the Great Valley's next Speaker. We mourn the loss of Tapa, grandmother to Littlefoot, but now we must choose who will take her place in our circle."

Cera and Littlefoot shared an anxious glance.

"We have watched you two carefully, observed how you conducted yourselves under the stress of handling the Valley's current crisis. If any good can be gained from this tragic event, it is that we were able to see firsthand how you dealt with a disaster. Both you and your friends have all done more than anyone to pull the Great Valley through these troubled times…"

Here comes the "but," Cera thought.

"But when it came to displaying true leadership potential, it was Littlefoot who grabbed our attention almost immediately. Littlefoot devised the plan that would save our Valley, and tide us over until the skywater returned. Littlefoot was able to set aside the most personal of tragedies in order to uphold the greater good. His intellect, efficiency, and dedication has set an example for us all, and so, with a nearly unanimous decision-"

Nearly unanimous? Cera wrinkled her brow. As disappointed as she admittedly felt, she wasn't particularly surprised. Even she had to admit that Littlefoot's leadership skills had far surpassed her own in the last few months, something that should have been obvious to everyone. So who had voted against him? Who among the Valley was so supportive of her that they were willing to overlook Littlefoot's own accomplishments?

Then she saw her father, glaring pointedly at the brown Longneck beside her from across the circle, just beside Petrie's mother.

Oh no.

"-we of the circle choose Littlefoot as the Great Valley's newest speaker."

Turning to Cera, she added, "Cera, your contributions will not be forgotten either, and neither will those of your friends. Without you five, sometimes I wonder if this place would even still be standing to this day. You might not be the new Speaker, but our hearts stand with you just as much as they stand with Littlefoot."

Cera nodded, "thank you."

"Now, you may return to the circle. I see your friends are probably eager to speak with you. Littlefoot, will you grace us with a few words before we disperse?"

Littlefoot gulped, looking down anxiously at Cera. Despite the pang of defeat, she shot him a friendly wink.

"You've got this, Littlefoot. I'll be waiting when you're done."

The Longneck gave her a curt nod, breathed in deeply, and then began as Cera made her way back to where her friends were waiting.

"I guess the proper way to start is by saying thank you to all of you. Thank you for welcoming me into your circle, but more than that, thank you for doing your part. The Great Valley has had to count on each and every one of its denizens during these troubled times…"

"Congratulations, Cera!" Ducky whispered as the yellow Threehorn tucked herself in next to Spike.

"Hmm hmm," Spike agreed, nodding.

"Huh?" Cera said, perplexed, "what for? Littlefoot got the position."

"Yes, but you make it this far," Petrie pointed out, "that mean you good leader too."

Cera shrugged. "I suppose. But you don't have to coat it in tree sweets for me. I lost fair and square, and Littlefoot deserves to be here today."

Ducky raised an eyebrow. "That does not sound like the Cera I know. It does not."

"Huh," Cera chuckled drily, "that Cera left the Great Valley after the dry-times came. She'll be back eventually, I'm sure, but there's no place for her here right now. Today, what matters is that we stand by Littlefoot and help him, and if that means accepting defeat-" she clenched her teeth. The "d" word was not a word most Threehorns were proud of saying, "-then I'll accept it. Littlefoot's going to need us now more than ever, and we have a responsibility as his friends to be there for him. Right?"

Impressed with the yellow Threehorn's mature conclusion, the three friends nodded.

"There's a lot that still needs to be done," Littlefoot finished as his eyes swept over the crowd around him, "there are wounds to heal, friendships to mend, and feeding grounds to reclaim, but we can do it- we will do it- together. My grandmother is smiling down at us today, and while I may not be her, I hope that with your support, I can be half the leader she and my grandfather were."

"Humph! Unlikely."

The rough bark of her father's voice caused Cera to jump. Topps had taken a step closer to the center, standing apart from those around him as he faced Littlefoot.

"I opposed you in the elder's decision, Longneck, and I stand by my convictions," he said, staring defiantly up at Littlefoot. The Longneck seemed surprised, but despite Topps' harsh words, he stood his ground as the Threehorn berated him.

"You might have pulled our Valley through these dry-times, but that does not make you the leader we need. Look back! Look at where listening to Longnecks has gotten us time and time again! Every time we're faced with a new disaster, the Longnecks have always advised caution, and every time we listen to them. Not once have we sought the problem out immediately and confronted it head on. Why? Because that's the Threehorn approach, and everyone in this Valley is too damn soft to realize that it works!"

"Mr. Threehorn," Littlefoot countered, "I'm not opposed to changing the way we do things around here. If you can just calm down, maybe we can talk, and-"

"Calm down?!" Topps roared, planting his foot into the ground in a gesture of defiance, "listen here, Longneck. If you had acted immediately when the dry-times came instead of sitting back and waiting for things to get worse, maybe those of us who had died would still be here!"

Littlefoot's eyes widened. Topps hadn't explicitly mentioned his grandparents, but Cera could tell he'd implied it. She could see him shaking slightly, looking down at her father in disbelief.

Come on, dad, she thought, give him a break already.

But Topps seemed to have no such intention as he entered the circle and turned to address the rest of the elders.

"And you, all of you- you're just as sad. You're all so afraid of change that you were unwilling to take a chance. You were afraid to put your trust in my daughter instead of this Longneck. Why? Because she's a Threehorn? My Cera is twice the leader Littlefoot is. Maybe you'll start to understand that while you watch our Great Valley continue to crumble beneath our feet!"

He whipped around back to Littlefoot, his eyes burning, his nostrils flared.

"My daughter did just as much as you did during the dry-times. You think losing a family member is tough? Some of us lost more than that. I watched an entire family of Threehorns die starving while you tree-feeders sat back and wallowed in your ignorance. I don't care if we're free now. The next time something like this happens, I know I won't be able to count on you."

Cera had had enough. She leapt forward, pushing herself through the crowd of dinosaurs until she was standing between Littlefoot and her father. She faced the old Threehorn down, horns bared and eyes narrowed. A look of surprised disappointment crossed her father's face.

"Cera, stand aside," he ordered gruffly.

"No!" Cera snarled, "how can you say these things, Dad? Littlefoot might not have lost as much as others, but he still lost someone! That's more than you can say!"

Topps took a step back, surprised by his daughter's harsh rebuttal, but Cera wasn't finished yet.

"You blame him for failing to help the Valley in time, but if it wasn't for Littlefoot acting when he did, many more would have died. Would you have come up with the tree-moving plan on your own? I know I wouldn't have. You're blaming him for things that haven't even happened yet. How do you know he won't be a good leader?"

"How can you stand there and make excuses for that Longneck?!" Topps shot back, deflecting the question.

"Because he's my friend, and he deserves a chance!"

"He's your opponent!"

"So that's what this is about?" Cera spat, "this is all some hatchling's tantrum because I didn't win? Get over yourself, Dad."

Her last words were spoken in a hushed tone, and they seemed to pierce right through the old Threehorn. The rest of the circle had fallen silent, transfixed by the unexpected clash of voices that had just taken place. Topps took a moment to compose himself before matching his daughter's tone.

"Fine. If that's how everyone in this Valley sees it, then I'll back down, but know this-" he glared up at Littlefoot "-you may be Speaker, but you are not my Speaker. This Valley needs strength in its leadership, not more of the same. I speak for my herd when I say that your words will fall upon deaf ears." He turned his glare down to his daughter. "All of my herd."

And then he was gone, turning his back on his daughter and her Longneck friend as he pushed his way silently through the circle, leaving the congregation in stunned, uneasy silence as the sound of skywater droned on.

…

For Cera, everything afterward passed by in a blur. The meeting was over, but a few elders came by to congratulate Littlefoot, offer their own advice, or to reassure him (albeit somewhat uncertainly) after Topps' outburst. Some of them spoke to her as well, and for her part, Cera was able to respond to them, but her mind was elsewhere, trapped beneath layers of anger, confusion, and frustration. It wasn't right. Littlefoot had earned his title fairly, just as anyone else in the elders' circle had. For her own father to deny him was a sharp blow to the gut. She knew her father had never seen eye to eye with Longnecks, but this blatant insubordination was dangerous. It was difficult to determine how Littlefoot felt through his conversations with the other elders, but while he seemed to have an understanding of how serious her father was, he didn't seem to grasp just how bad the outcome of Topps' declaration could be.

There was one solution, and only one solution, that she could see. She'd have to meet with her father and handle the situation as quickly as possible. Doubtless Littlefoot wouldn't want that. He'd probably see it as unnecessarily poking the Buzzers' nest, but he also didn't know Topps as well as she did. He couldn't sit on this situation and wait for it to get better. Topps would be waiting for that, and every day Littlefoot ignored him, his points would become more valid. She needed to handle this now.

So she waited for the opportunity to speak with him again, watching as the elders' numbers thinned, gradually tapering off to the last four dinosaurs to speak with him. Cera's friends remained too, patiently waiting with Cera for their chance to have a few words with their new speaker. But as the day went on, and midday turned to late afternoon, they finally approached Cera. Ducky was the first to speak.

"Cera, we should go eat. We should. It is getting late, and Littlefoot will probably be hungry when he is done."

Cera sighed, hanging her head and doing her best to breathe out the pent-up aggression she'd been storing since earlier.

"I guess we should. Why don't you go on ahead? I need to speak to Littlefoot alone."

Ducky grew concerned. There was still an undercurrent of anger in Cera's tone, one that despite her best efforts, she was unable to hide.

"Is it your dad?" she asked hesitantly, hoping she wasn't about to be on the receiving end of one of Cera's verbal attacks.

The yellow Threehorn snorted, kicking at the ground. It was all the answer Ducky needed.

"Maybe he just being his usual self," Petrie offered, alighting on Cera's back. She winced as his prickly claws touched down on her skin, and shook her head at him.

"No. I know his usual self, and this isn't something he'll get over in the near future. Littlefoot needs to know that." Trying her best to conjure up a smile for her friends, she added, "look, we'll be right behind you. It won't take me long to get my point across, I'm sure. But you three look hungry. There's no reason you should have to wait to dig in. Stars know you've all earned it."

As if to answer her statement, Spike's stomach let out a loud, rumbling growl, and Cera chuckled in spite of the situation.

"See? Spike agrees."

But Ducky looked unconvinced.

"I do not want you to be angry at your dad, Cera. No, no, no."

Cera narrowed her eyes. "It's a bit late for that, Ducky. He lost any respect I had for him the moment he refused to listen to Littlefoot. I have to confront him. I have to make him..." she trailed off. She'd already revealed more than she intended. Surprisingly, now that she had some inkling of Cera's plan, Ducky only nodded. Perhaps it was her understanding of Cera's kind, one that she'd developed over the years as her friend, that allowed her to empathize with Cera's way of thinking. No matter the reason, she finally gave in.

"We will see you later then, Cera."

"Like I said," she said, trying her best to sound reassuring, "I'll be right behind you."

And then they, too, were gone, and before long, only she and Littlefoot stood in the middle of the meeting circle, their backs to one another, silhouetted by sheets of falling skywater. In the distance, thunder rumbled through the mountains. Apparently the skywater had brought with it a storm. To Cera, it felt appropriate. For a moment, the two stood in silence, still processing what had taken place, and when the silence was finally broken, Cera was the first to speak.

"Littlefoot, I'm sorry," she began, her head cast down, "my father- I- I don't even know where to begin. That stuck-up, arrogant-"

"Cera, stop," Littlefoot silenced her, turning his neck around so that he could see her, "you can't control how your father feels about me. He's proud of you, really proud of you. He thinks you should have won, and I don't hold that against him. I heard you talking to Ducky a little while ago, and I think she's right. I don't want you to do anything that'll drive you two farther apart."

Cera's brow furrowed as she looked up to Littlefoot in disbelief.

"You heard us?"

The Longneck nodded. "After hearing 'good luck, we're all counting on you' for the tenth time, I sort of stopped paying attention. And I'm glad I did. The last thing we need to do right now is fight your father."

"I didn't say that-"

"But you were thinking it. I've known you for too long not to know better." Littlefoot's gaze dared her to say otherwise and, for a moment, Cera's old, pre-dry-times self re-emerged, wanting nothing more than to yell at her friend like old times. But then she saw the skywater and the brown vegetation around them, and her shoulders sank. She didn't have the spirit for that yet.

"Alright, you've got me. I was going to find my dad and try to change his mind."

"So you're going to argue with him."

Cera's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to try to start something, but if it comes to it, yes I will." In truth, she'd been planning to argue from the start, but Littlefoot didn't need to know that. He was too opposed to her plan as it was.

"Then do me a favor and don't," Littlefoot sighed, turning fully to face Cera with as most sincere an expression as he could muster, "the skywater-times are for healing, not for opening more rifts between us. You need to try to understand him-"

"Oh I understand him perfectly," Cera spat, "I know that he lives every day like he's still out there in the Mysterious Beyond, leading his herd towards the Great Valley. I know that he still can't see us all as part of one big herd here. I understand my father very well, Littlefoot." She added, with a hint of venom, "better than you do."

Littlefoot flinched, surprised at the sheer volume of hatred in Cera's tone. On the one claw, it was nice to see that she was willing to stand by him, but on the other, letting her go off on her quest to antagonize her father, he felt, was only going to cause more trouble in the long run. He had to make her see eye to eye.

"Cera, listen to me," he pleaded, "let me handle this. If I can sort this out, maybe it'll help your father to gain some confidence in me."

"Don't you get it?!" Cera hissed, whirling around to face Littlefoot, "my father has no confidence to gain!"

"If we just let this calm down over the next few days, keep bringing in trees-"

"No!" Cera barked suddenly. Hurt flashed across Littlefoot's face briefly, and she felt a moment of regret, but she had to go on, for Littlefoot's sake.

"Littlefoot, if my dad were anyone else, I would agree with you, but that's not how Threehorns think. If you leave him alone, his grudge will only grow stronger. The ones he's already convinced? They'll be watching for you to do nothing. The more you ignore them, the more they're convinced that my dad is right, and for all I hold against him now, I'll give him this. He's right about one thing: you could stand to be a little more proactive, think like a Threehorn, that sort of thing. So if this new responsibility matters to you, if you really want to prevent a rift, you'll let me handle this myself."

Their eyes met. Cera saw a budding leader, one faced with the first of many difficult decisions. It wouldn't be the hardest one he'd ever have to make, but she knew it weighed heavily on him nonetheless.

Littlefoot saw only a concerned friend. Not a beaten opponent, not one jealous of his new stature, just a concerned friend who truly believed her way was the best way for him to succeed. His mind screamed at him, urging him to keep her out of the fight. Before today, he would have insisted on it, but after hearing Cera's side, after watching her grow under the care of her father and the rest of her fellow Threehorns, he knew what the right decision to make was.

"Go," he said quietly, "you're right. I can't afford not to listen and learn. If you honestly think this is the best way, then I won't stop you. But please, be careful okay? I just don't want to see you end up at each other's throats."

Despite her anger, Cera managed to muster up a smile, and winked at her friend before turning to leave.

"He's my dad, not some Sharptooth, Littlefoot. What's the worst that can happen?"

Nevertheless, she was long gone before he had the chance to answer her.

Hey guys! I'm not even sure why I felt it necessary to reintroduce myself, but I do feel that my lack of presence on the forums merits an explanation. So here we go!

I've been without internet for a while now, and recently got it back. That's about it. No crazy stories, no insidious plots, no ties to world-encompassing heists. Just me getting my internet back. Up until now I've had to use my phone at hotspots, so for those wondering why I've stopped posting, stopped writing, stopped drawing, etc, I have one simple answer: my thumbs can only type so quickly.

So that's about it. I'm back after about a month and a half of absence. No need to respond or anything of that nature, just an update from me! See you out there on the forums!

My response to Rhombus's "Sharptooth Narrative" prompt. Details are in the author's note on fanficion.net, as once again this fic is a bit too long for me to post here, lest I (God forbid) miss a set of italics or some such.

Feels good to get back into the swing of writing canon characters, I must say

Guardian

Hello, everyone!

My campus is currently hosting a fiction writing contest, with contestants required to write a short (800-1500 word) story or poem to the theme "Spring Green." The following is my entry, which I wrote in about forty-five minutes (many thanks to Rhombus for proofreading it!). I submit it here, for your consideration and perusal! I don't think it's my best work, but I guess that's what happens when you spend two years writing nothing but dinosaurs.  
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Spring Green

Spring comes to the world, Spring Green, reaching up through the snow, brushing the ice from the branches of trees with warm, soft fingers. With a quiet, powerful suggestion it coaxes the flowers from their buds, preening their delicate petals with the skilled, discerning hand of an experienced watchmaker, or a seamstress. It reaches up to the sky, parting the gray clouds, spilling the warm sunlight upon the starving land below. Thus the land is nourished and rejuvenated by its arrival.

He notes it, too, he who walks the well-trodden paths of the woods on surprisingly delicate hooves. He sees the arrival of the new season, sprouting from the ground just as his new antlers grow, spreading from the humblest of nubs into what will one day be reaching, sprawling, triumphant statements. “See my magnificence,” they will whisper in challenge, “I have lived another year, and my very existence demands your respect.” But for now they are small, soft, velvety. These are not the accouterments of a ruler, but in time, they will be.

This creature, this monarch of his wooded domain roams this forest each day, and each day he sees these things, sees Spring’s touch as it clears away the snow and ice, hears its voice as it breathes its warm, soothing breath, and hears its song in the sounds of a world reborn from the cold.

Summer spreads its wings and hovers over the world, majestic and powerful. Its strength rivals even that of the buck, his antlers now fully-grown. He admires Summer, admires its strength and its beauty as he traverses golden oceans between islands of green woodland. He cherishes the long days and lazy afternoons, but also knows to respect Summer, for its touch is a double-edged sword. Its warmth is comforting, but lethal. Its heavy, hot days bring with them the cool caress of rain, falling to the ground to quench its parched surface. But the rain, in turn, brings storms.

Dark, ugly, rolling clouds sweep over the fields like a thick blanket. Thunder shakes the ground with its awesome roar and lightning strikes without warning, bolts of light that lash out with a speed and fury unmatched by any natural predator. Where the land cries for water, this lightning strikes without mercy. From its touch springs fire, a small, bright creature that quickly grows to become a roaring, lumbering, hungry beast. It leaps from the ground, spreading from wood to grass to field, its appetite insatiable. It craves life. Some of the monarch’s kin fall, but he does not. He has seen fire before, and understands its power.

When the fire finally dies, it leaves nothing behind, the ultimate grazer. He moves on, there is nothing left here. And when the sun finally shows itself again, he welcomes the Summer heat. Better to respect it than to hate that which he cannot change.  

Fall creeps up upon the world. Its presence is barely noted at first, and it makes itself known in different ways. Sometimes it can be seen as fruits ripen, their soft, plump bodies food for the monarch and his kind. Other times it is the crisp, white edges that grow around the leaves and the grass each morning as the monarch wakes up to the bite of cold now present in the air. But when the leaves take on the hue of the sun, their warm colors a final expression before falling to the earth, Fall’s presence is known to everyone, and the monarch is no exception.

His antlers stand proud, bearing the scars of a hundred stories. One scratch is the young buck who challenged him. A gouge marks his escape from the fire. A chipped end, a hectic river crossing. As Fall arrives, he remembers these things as he walks through a vibrant, dying forest. Leaves fall upon him and around him. He tastes sweet fruit and crisp, cool water, but at the back of his mind, he knows these things are fleeting. Fall is beautiful, true, but it is also a portend of something far worse to come.                                            

Winter falls upon the world. The white clouds of summer return, but this time they are grey, brooding. They move close together, as if to huddle against the coming cold, and in doing so hide the sun, so that it may not see the death and dark days that are to come.

And they come. The monarch hears it, Winter’s fierce, chilling howl, a sound that pierces flesh and bone in the shrill screaming of the wind. The scattered flurries that once drifted so peacefully down from the sky become an unforgiving swarm of stinging, unrelenting insects as the howling wind drives them on. Snow smothers what little green is left; it becomes the land’s burial-shroud. Ice chokes the rivers, reaching out with skeletal hands across the water’s surface. The nights are cold, but with a cold that reaches past the skin, deep down into the bones and into the soul. Steam escapes the monarch’s open mouth- it is his livelihood, scattered to the bitter air as he stands quietly beside the dry, cracked bark of a dead tree. His once proud antlers are but a memory. One is gone. The other, withered and cracked, resting above his right eye, will fall off soon, too. He knows this, but the loss of a part of him, no matter how temporary, is still a loss. The biting wind and cold snow weigh heavily on his mind as the nights grow long.

Perhaps this winter will be his last. For some, it is. They sleep, unaware as Winter reaches down and spreads its delicate touch over their eyelids with one soft sweep. Winter is cruel to the living, but it treats the dead with a strange, unexpected form of grace. Every night the monarch expects never to wake the next day, but each morning he is greeted by the same cold, the same white world.

Everything looks the same under Winter’s veil. Every tree, every river, every day is exactly the same. The spectrum of the seasons has faded, leaving behind a ghost of itself, and that is how the monarch feels as he walks the same forest that held such rich sights and sounds not long ago, traverses the sea of grass that once stood proud but now slouches, defeated under the Winter’s all-encompassing embrace.

He feels it will never end. He always does.

And then he sees it. Sometimes it is the first sign of velvet above his own eyes, the shape of a bud pushing back against the frost strangling its branch, the bright, defiant patch of green beneath a rapidly-fading snowbank. He hears the steady drone of water, the chorus of birds as they return to their roosts. He wakes up and feels a familiar, friendly touch upon his skin, and he knows the worst is over.

Winter clouds retreat from the sky, and the sun and the grateful monarch below return to their domains as Spring Green returns once more.
                       

Cera eats her first red treestar.

Hello everyone,

I've decided to post a writing project I did back in 2014 here, for the perusal of anyone interested. The assignment, our final, was to create a short story. The goal was 10 pages, but I went over that just a bit    . Regardless, I got some positive reviews from my classmates and aced the project, so I figured I'd share it with you guys! Take note: the story would probably receive a T rating by fanfiction.net standards due to a single, graphic scene.


Mother

Daniel woke up to the warm, soft fleece of his blanket pressed against his nose, filling his waking world with a familiar, comforting scent that he’d come to know well. Mother had told him that this blanket had been with him ever since he’d been a baby, and as far as he could remember, it had never left his side. Tattered as it was, the scrap of fabric had held up nicely for the past sixteen years, and down here, it was almost like a companion.

He yawned and rolled over, not sure he was quite ready to get up yet. The clock beside his cot read 7:06- not too early, but probably early enough to let himself adjust to the day still. Gritting his teeth, he stretched, groaning as his muscles released their built-up tension, and immediately froze as a dull throb began to build up in his right calf.
“Dammit,” he hissed, recognizing the onset of a Charlie Horse immediately. Slowly he lifted his back off the cot, doing his best to massage the tense muscle. As expected, it was no use, and he lay back down, immobilized as he waited for the pain to subside. All in all, not the best way to start one’s sixteenth birthday.

As the pain dulled, his breathing returned to normal, and Daniel simply stared up at the ceiling above him. it was hard to believe he’d spent sixteen years in this shelter now. Sixteen years, and the only thing he’d ever known about the outside world was what Mother had told him. Books were informative too, but Mother often reminded him that after the Reckoning, the world had become a much different place than the one his literature depicted. He smiled as he remembered his young, naive curiosity he’d experienced as a young child about the outside world. Once, he’d almost made it up the shelter stairs and out the door, but (thankfully, now that he knew about the dangers outside) Mother had intervened. Catching him before he could leave his place of sanctuary.

Daniel lit a match, taking care to keep the flame burning (he was only allowed one a day) and lit his bedside lamp. The warm light flickered along the walls of the shelter, and Daniel shivered a bit, in excitement. Turning sixteen was an accomplishment. He was one step closer now to becoming an adult. Mother had promised him that, one day, he could join her in her brief expeditions to the outside world. Every birthday, he posed the question, and each time he did, he was refused. Perhaps this year would be different.

“Daniel, are you awake? I’m coming down.”

Daniel fixed his eyes on the door at the top of the stairs as it slowly cracked open. Apparently Mother was awake too. Good.

Bearing a wide smile, Mother made her way down the stairs, pulling up a chair and landing a kiss on Daniel’s forehead before sitting down opposite him.

“Sixteen years,” she said, shaking her head and brushing her dark brown hair back as she smiled at her son, “sixteen years already. I swear it seems like only yesterday you were born.”

Squirming on his elbows, Daniel inched himself upright. “Good morning, Mother. Did you go outside today?”

Mother frowned. “I did, Daniel, and-”

“Well, I was wondering-” Daniel stopped, realizing he’d interrupted her. Mother nodded at him and he continued. “I was wondering if, perhaps, I could at least see what it looks like… you know… out there.”

Mother’s face turned ashen almost instantly, and she drew back slightly.

“Daniel, I thought I told you never to ask me that.”

“I know,” Daniel sighed, “but I’m ready now! I’ve been ready! I do my exercises every day, just like you told me to, and I’ve read every book down here. I know what it’s like outside.”

Mother shook her head. “You have no idea what it’s like out there, Daniel. The things I’ve told you about- the things I’ve seen… words don’t do them justice. One day you’ll be ready, but today-”
“Mother, I’m sixteen!” Daniel said, raising his voice, “I’m almost an adult now. Don’t I even have the right to look?”

Startled by her son’s change in tone, Mother shut her mouth, looking down as she drummed her fingers together.

“We’ll discuss this later,” she whispered, “for now- I was going to ask if you wanted me to make a cake.”

Daniel’s eyes lit up in spite of himself. He wanted answers, he wanted the truth, but Mother’s words were enticing to say the least. Cake was a luxury, Mother had often reminded him, that he’d most likely never have. Baking one required a great deal of resources, so he’d had to resort to simply looking at pictures of them in his books and imagining what they’d taste like. This was a devilishly effective tactic on Mother’s part, and he had to admit- it was working. Even better, this cake provided an opportunity- a distraction for Mother. From what he’d read, cakes took time, and if Mother was focused on baking one, perhaps he could slip past for just one look outside.

“I’d love a cake,” he said with a wan smile, “if it’s not too much trouble that is.”

Mother lifted her head and smiled at Daniel. Her old son was back. “Of course not, dear.”

“And Mother-” Daniel added as she turned and headed for the stairs.

“Yes, Daniel?”

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Daniel said, “it was rude of me. But would you please consider what I said anyway?”

Mother closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temples. “I’ll think about it, Daniel. Go ahead and do your exercises; I’ll bring your cake down later.”

And without another word, she departed, leaving Daniel alone once more. Letting out a quiet sigh, Daniel rolled off his bed and started on his daily exercises- push-ups and sit-ups. His mind should’ve been focused on his routine, but the thought of the outside world was back again, tempting him like the sirens he’d used to read about in his books on Greek mythology. A set of stairs and a door were all that separated him from a completely new, wide-open world. How hard could it really be to slip out for a few seconds and gain a peek while Mother baked her cake?
Daniel rolled to his feet, walking over to the stairway. He found that his steps were muffled; he was tiptoeing almost unintentionally. Gingerly, he placed his hand on the railing and gazed up. Farther away, he could hear his mother moving about. Now wasn’t the time. When the movement stopped, he’d make his move.

So today’s the day, is that it?

Turning around, Daniel immediately recognized the voice of Blanket, his ever-present sleep aid and guide. Mother had told him once to stop being silly- that inanimate objects like blankets couldn’t talk. She’d even gone as far as to call him an imaginary friend, but Daniel knew the truth. The scrap of fabric was capable of so much more than even Mother realized.

The surface is really tantalizing, isn’t it?

Tantalizing. A big word. Daniel liked big words.

“It is,” he whispered. “I think I’m going to do it today- just a quick look.”

It’s a dangerous world out there, Blanket pointed out, Mother won’t let you go for a reason, you know.

“Mother doesn’t know how ready I am,” Daniel retorted. “And besides- it’s not like I’ll be in danger.”

You seem awfully sure of yourself. Why don’t we talk about this before you rush into something rash. You always liked talking to me before.

Daniel shrugged, “well, I wasn’t sixteen years old before. Why do we still have these chats? Mother says I should just outgrow you and move on.”

And yet here you are. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

“Wonder what?”

The blanket’s tone suddenly became chillingly calculating. Ever wonder if Mother really knows what she’s talking about? I mean clearly she doesn’t know you’re ready to go topside. Some of the heroes in your stories were far younger than you when they made their big accomplishments. Maybe she’ll never let you go up the stairs. Ever think of that?

“No,” Daniel shook his head, grabbing tighter on the railing, “don’t say that.”

Don’t pretend you’re not thinking about it.

Daniel shivered. Blanket had a good point; it was one of the things that kept him up at night- the constant wonder of why he was really down here after all this time. Generally he could quell this anxiety by reminding himself that Mother knew best, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked finally.

I propose we go up there; if for no other reason than to find out the truth.

Taking in his surroundings, Daniel thought about the question. The cot, the lamp, his four walls, piles of books in every corner- these things were familiar to him, and each exuded some sort of comfort. Upstairs, it’d be a different story. Even if only temporarily, he’d be saying goodbye to every shred of familiarity and comfort he’d gotten used to all these years. The call of truth was strong, but was it really enough to tear him away from his childhood? Daniel paced over to Blanket, picking him up and draping him over his shoulder.

“Okay,” he said at last, “we’re doing this.”

…

Mother shut the door quietly, then let out a sigh of relief. The illusion was getting harder and harder to maintain each day. Conditioning was effective, she’d proven that much, but despite her best efforts, curiosity was impossible to completely block. The tiny, thirty-five by forty-foot basement that her son knew as a “shelter” wouldn’t keep him contained forever. One day, he’d make his way up here and discover the truth. It was inevitable.

As she made her way to the kitchen, a familiar red journal caught her eye, and she sighed. She had a cake to bake, but- as always- science came first. Cracking open the journal and removing a pen from her pocket, she made a note:

August 4, 2035

Date marks subject’s sixteenth birthday. After sixteen years, the conditioning has not been broken. However, subject also shows increasing curiosity about the world outside. Illusion may be difficult, possibly even dangerous to continue upholding, but I will strive to do all I can.

-Sheila Baumgart

With a heavy hand, she set the journal and pen down, looking outside. There was nothing out of the ordinary outside her window, of course. Just the scenic Oregon wilderness. And why should anything be out of the ordinary? Secluded up here in the mountains, she was finally free to do what she wanted. In her younger years, Sheila had always been fascinated by Psychology, constantly reading up on the brain’s functions and human behavior. The possibility that man’s seemingly unpredictable behavior may actually be quite predictable indeed had always been intriguing, and her goal had always been to study these topics at a higher level of education. Sadly, these dreams had hardly been met. College was, and remained to this day, vastly out of her reach. Faced with a life of boredom, She’d settled down to a steady job and bought this beautiful house in the mountains.

But everything changed the day she met Daniel.

Daniel, of course, wasn’t her true son. Sheila had never married, nor had she planned to. Marriage, after all, would only complicate things. All things considered, her visit to the foster home fifteen years ago had been nothing if not successful. When she made eye contact with the smiling baby, Sheila had known then and there that she’d finally been given the chance to live the life she wanted. She needed him, and Daniel needed a mother. It was all too perfect.

Sheila made her way to the kitchen and took down her cookbook, flipping through the pages until she found the recipe she wanted. Gathering her ingredients she reflected on the past few years since Daniel had fallen under her care. The baby boy had been troublesome at first, almost escaping upstairs. Thankfully, she’d caught him before he caught a glimpse; the crisis had been averted. After that, she’d made sure that the warnings were stricter, and over time Daniel had come to be a very obedient boy. The story was simple; Daniel had been led to believe, at an early age, that the upstairs world had been destroyed long ago in the fires of a nuclear winter, or “The Reckoning,” as Sheila called it. He, of course, was one of the few children born after this cataclysm; the only hope for the future of humanity. The story had settled in nicely, and results weren’t hard to see. Daniel had come to terms with death long before other children his age, to the point that the topic never bothered him. When they spoke about it, he spoke freely, without hesitation. In all honesty, sometimes the child even scared her. She had no doubt that he could kill to survive if he had to. After all this time, Sheila had proven to herself, through Daniel, that conditioning someone to believe they lived a completely false reality was not only possible, but easy, given the proper tools. Easy, that was, except for the fact that as he’d gotten older, Daniel had also become more nosy.

Just so damn nosy.

Why? She thought to herself as he whisked eggs, sugar, and the rest of the cake mix together in her bowl. She wasn’t really sure why. Perhaps it was that despite everything he believed, all the falsehoods he took for reality, Daniel still held a spark of curiosity that, try as she might, could not be extinguished. Maybe it was all the books he’d read, or the stories she’d shared with him as a younger child. In any case, keeping him in the dark was becoming an exhausting task. Something had to be done; after all, Daniel could never be allowed to reach the surface. Such a revelation would be so shocking as to be borderline cruel. She’d thought about this for weeks, eventually buying a gun as a result. There was one answer to keeping Daniel forever in the dark, and though she often had trouble considering it, it was the only practical option. She couldn’t live forever, keeping Daniel locked away. One day he would outlast her, and on that day he’d know everything. The knowledge would probably torture him, and she couldn’t let that happen.

Setting down the cake bowl, Sheila removed the shiny, polished revolver from a nearby drawer. Easily accessible, in case she had to “intervene” in the event of a breakout. She looked at it for a moment, feeling the cold, heavy metal in her hands. It felt definite, like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. This was the only way Daniel’s story could end; one day, she knew she’d find her son on the other end, and on that day, she would have no choice but to pull the trigger.
But for now, she had a cake to bake. Sheila went back to her wisk, merging all the ingredients together in a thick, sand-colored goop. Daniel would have his cake today; and then, perhaps, he could die happy and oblivious. It was the only way.

…

The footsteps faded away, eventually stopping altogether, and Daniel removed his ear from the door frame. Mother was almost certainly in the kitchen now, preparing the cake. He could open the door now- this would be the perfect chance. He clenched the doorknob tightly, daring himself to twist it. A whole new world was on the other side for him to experience. Just one quick twist…
Daniel slumped down, lungs heaving in his chest. Why was he such a coward all of a sudden? Why now, when his world was just a doorknob away? Perhaps even now, it was his respect for the rules. The outside world was forbidden, after all. Part of him still felt that permission was required. Dejected, he moved back down the stairs, sitting down on the edge of his cot, head in hands.

“What do I do?” he whispered to himself, thinking. Maybe it was the security that this shelter granted him; after all, deadly things like nuclear fallout and terrifying monsters roamed the lands outside the shelter. In here, had nothing to fear. Or maybe it was simply that, like it or not, this place was his home. Departing even for a moment would feel like leaving an old friend behind. All of the things he’d come to familiarize himself with… he’d be leaving them in the dust, and now, Daniel wasn’t sure he could do it.

The fleece blanket still lay on his shoulder, and Daniel clutched it tightly against his face, breathing its warm scent in. He’d get his look at the outside world today, one way or another.

Come on, Blanket whispered, farther up the stairs.

“It’s not easy,” Daniel shot back, “I’m trying!”

I’ll guide you, just like always. Come on-get back up on those feet.

Shakily, Daniel set his feet and the cold, concrete floor and stood back up.

Good. Now grab that railing. First step.

Daniel put a foot, once again, on the stairs, clutching the railing as tightly as possible.

Next one. You’ve got time; you can do this.

The steps went by, one after the other, each one as challenging as the trials of Hercules, but it wasn’t long before he made it to the top.

Now open the door.

Daniel set his shaking hand on the doorknob, grasping it with his sweat-slicked fingers.

Turn it.

This was it- no going back. With some hesitation, Daniel’s hand- and by extension the doorknob- turned, and he cracked the door slowly open, shielding his eyes from the bright light streaming in. Slowly, quietly, he stumbled into the world outside, bracing himself for the horrors beyond his door.

But when his eyes finally came into focus, Daniel nearly recoiled at the shock of what he was seeing. In front of him was a white hallway, carpet, stairs… a window graced the wall ahead of him, through which he could see live trees, and a sky, blue and certainly without the dark clouds that Mother had always told him hung over the land. This was wrong. This place was a lie. Either he was seeing things, or-

She lied to us.

No, she couldn’t have. Blanket was wrong. What reason would Mother have to lie? Behind Daniel, the door creaked shut.

Move.

There was something different in Blanket’s tone now; something new and panicked. Heart racing, Daniel’s head whipped around as he tried to find a direction to take. If Mother discovered him up here, there was no telling how angry she’d be, and now that he knew what lay beyond his place of refuge, he wasn’t sure what to think anymore. To his left was a hallway leading to what he was almost positive was the kitchen. On his left was a staircase, and just below it…

A cupboard. Get in.

Wasting no time, Daniel yanked the door open and scooted inside, holding his breath. It wasn’t long before he heard the footsteps and fell silent.

…

There was no denying it; she’d heard something. Sheila’s head snapped up from her baking at the sound of the creak. It was a door, she was sure of it. Her heart skipped a beat. If he’d seen even one glimpse of the world above…

Her grip on the gun tightened and she slowly, silently made her way to the stairs.

“The experiment is over,” she whispered, “and it was going so well, too. Why, oh why? Why couldn’t you just stay still?”

As Sheila rounded the corner leading to the basement door, her eyes darted about the corridor, searching for any indication that Daniel had come up. The door… the basement door was just slightly ajar. Perhaps it wasn’t even Daniel’s doing, but one could never be too cautious.

…

Daniel sat frozen as his mother’s feet moved in front of the slats of the cupboard door. They were the only parts of her he could make out as he cowered in his dark hideaway. She was mere inches away. Part of him seemed to say that she was simply worried, and that just saying “here I am, Mother!” and walking out of the cupboard would be the best option.

But right now, he wasn’t so sure. And as she moved forward just a bit, he noticed something else. A gun. His mother was holding a gun. Of this, he was certain. Why? Surely she wasn’t going to use it on him.

Was she?

“Daniel?” he heard the creak of the basement door as his mother’s feet moved forward a bit. She was checking on him. Had to be.

“Daniel, your cake’s just about ready. I’ll-” the voice froze, and the feet disappeared down the stairs. Daniel could hear the thump of each foot as his mother raced down the staircase.

“No no no no no no!”

She’d discovered his absence, then. There was no going back now. Nowhere in the house was safe anymore; she’d almost certainly be searching for him. Daniel considered his options. Mother would be back upstairs any moment now; doubtless the cupboard would be the first thing she’d check, given its proximity to the door. He had to move again. Quickly he darted out of his hiding spot and shut the door, then took off around the corner, finding himself in what he recognized as a living room. Surrounded by a soft couch, a television, some reclining chairs and clean carpet, Daniel almost forgot the danger he was in, but the frantic crashing of Mother’s feet as she ran upstairs again got him moving once more.

“Daniel!” she called, “Daniel, I know you’re here!” Daniel took cover behind a couch, but the footsteps moved farther away, traveling upstairs. They were safe for the moment.

“Is that gun meant for me?” Daniel whispered to his blanket.

How should I know? We should act as if it is. Can’t be too cautious.

“As long as she’s in the house with us, we’re in danger,” Daniel added, “we need to think of something…” he racked his brain, thinking about all the stories he’d heard as a young child. Often characters in some of his old fairy tales found themselves in similar perilous situations, but inside a house they were generally safe. But Mother was inside, too.

That was it- the key. What if Mother could be lured outside? Then he could lock the doors and have time at least to think about what came next. It would be risky, but worth a shot. The front door wasn’t far away, after all.

Keeping careful tabs on Mother’s footsteps above him, Daniel inched toward the front door, making sure to create as little sound as possible. Fortunately, she wasn’t anywhere near the stairs, and when he managed to pry open the front door, her footsteps were faint and far away. He closed the door quietly and turned his attention to the surrounding trees and beautiful mountains around him.

“This isn’t The Reckoning,” he whispered, “it’s not what I imagined at all. Everything’s so… green.”

It’s beautiful, Blanket agreed.

“We could just go now,” Daniel said, “we could leave now and… and... “

You can’t leave her so easily, can you?

Daniel sat down on the front step, head in hands. “No, I can’t. She’s my mother, after all. What would you do?”

We have a plan. Let’s stick to it.

“Right,” Daniel nodded, getting to his feet, “okay. Here goes nothing.” Standing tall, he raised his hands, cupping them to his mouth, and yelled “Mother, Mother! It’s me, Daniel! I’m outside!”
Almost instantly, one of the windows upstairs rolled open. Daniel gasped at what he saw. He’d never seen Mother in a state like this before. Her hair was a mess, frazzled and unkempt, and she was twitching nonstop. Nevertheless, her eyes widened and she broke into a smile at the sight of her boy.

“Daniel!” she crooned, “son, what are you doing out here?”

“Mother, I don’t understand- where is The Reckoning? This place doesn’t look like the one you told me about!”

“It’s… it’s complicated, son. Just wait there and I’ll explain everything, okay? Mother’s coming for you.” The window slid closed and Mother’s silhouette disappeared. She was heading downstairs. Daniel dove to the left, sprinting for the corner of the house, and just made it as he heard the front door slam open. He pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving with intakes of breath, and peeked around the corner. Mother stood on the porch, wildly moving her head about as she tried to locate her son.

“Daniel!” She called out once more. This time, however, her call wasn’t so much a cry as a bellow, and the animal-like howl from her diaphragm shook Daniel to the core. Something was wrong with Mother. Something terrible was happening. Absently, she wandered out towards the treeline, turning her back on Daniel and raising her gun in the air.

“Come out, Daniel!” she screeched, firing the gun. The sound cracked through the air and Daniel almost fell to his knees in shock. He’d never heard anything that loud before.

Go, while she’s distracted.

He’d almost forgotten about Blanket. Grabbing it tight, he darted out from behind the corner, sprinting for the door as quickly as possible. As soon as his feet hit the gravel path leading to the door, the crunching sound caught the attention of Mother. She whirled around, mouth drawn back in a snarl, and leveled the gun at Daniel, firing two shots. Daniel could hear the whistle and ping as the rounds ricocheted off the house next to him, but he managed to reach the door unscathed and shut it, locking it behind him. Wasting no time, he ran right, heading for the kitchen. A warm, sweet smell filled the air; he’d almost forgotten about the cake.

No time for that now. Make sure there’s no other way in.

Outside, he could see Mother racing him, running the same way he was. There had to be another door; one she knew about that he didn’t.

As he exited the kitchen he saw it- a door leading towards a backyard patio. He slammed it shut, locking it as well, but not before the crack of the gun sounded once more, piercing the window in front of him. As he locked the door he dropped, shielding his face from the flying shards which cut into his arm. The pain was sharper than anything he’d ever felt and he bit down on his lip to stop from crying. Tears streaming from his eyes, he slumped down, back against the door. Outside he heard footsteps. She was approaching.

“Mother,” he sniffed, “Mother, what’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Why have you locked me out of my own house, son?” she replied, peering in through the hole in the glass above him, “why did you have to… to ruin everything?!” Her last words were nothing more than a screech, and Daniel heard something heavy fall to the patio, most likely kicked.

“You needed me; I needed you. Don’t you see? I had to know what would happen if I told you the things I did. That’s why you were down there. You complete me, Daniel! You help me do what I’ve always wanted. In return, I gave you something you never had before- a mother. Is that so bad? Huh? Am I really such a bad person?”

“You’re not my real mother?” Daniel whispered, shaking.

There was a soft rasp as Sheila ran her hand down the door. “No, Daniel, but I came to you when you needed me. I took you away from that foster home; made you the strong boy you are today. You love me! You need me! Just like I need you!”

“Then why are you trying to kill me?” He cried, the tears flowing freely through his fingers now.

“Because it’s over, my little sweet. You ended it when you chose to leave that basement. Down there, you could have lived the rest of your life happily. But you didn’t. You came up here ,and.. and... “ she paused for a moment, and Daniel could hear a few sobs and sniffs. But when she spoke again, her voice carried the same guttural snarl he’d heard earlier.

“You came up here and ruined the entire plan! You’re a bad boy, Daniel. A bad boy. And now?
Now you’re going to be punished. Unlock the door like the good little boy I know you are, and it will all be over soon.”

“N- no,” Daniel said, scooting away from the door, “no I won’t- I can’t believe this! This is wrong; it’s… why?”

His arm was bleeding now, but Daniel hardly cared. His eyes remained fixed on the eye of his mother, still glaring through the window.

“I already told you why, Daniel. Let me in. Let me in now, or I promise you- I will find a way in.”

Daniel retreated back into the kitchen, away from the door. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? Again, the smell of the cake flooded his mind with sweet thoughts, running counter to the sheer panic he felt. All he wanted to do now was to curl up in a corner and cry, but unlike those times when such actions protected him as a child, curling up was hardly going to make his problems go away this time.

As he backed up, head spinning with different, impossible solutions to his problem, Daniel’s hand touched something sharp. Not expecting the sharp prick, he quickly drew his hand back. Something behind him had drawn blood; that much he could tell. He turned around.
On the counter behind him was a knife; a large, sharp cake knife. No doubt Mother had planned to use it for his birthday cake today.

It’s an option, Blanket said, voice cold.

“What are you saying?” Daniel was shaking now, staring down at the cold steel next to his fingers.

Look at it this way. We’ve trapped her outside- for now- but it’s time we faced the facts: she may never let you go. Even if we escape, who’s to say she won’t hunt us down?

Daniel grasped the knife’s handle, testing its balance and weight with a grim determination.

It’s the only way to be sure.

Something else on the counter caught Daniel’s attention- a small, red notebook with his name on the cover. He grabbed it, sliding it across the counter until it rested in front of him. He was almost afraid to look inside.

“I’m not acting on anything until I read this,” he said, “maybe now I’ll finally get the answers I need.”

Before Blanket had a chance to respond, he opened the notebook.

Start of Year One,

Daniel is mine. After all of these long years, I finally have a son. The foster home didn’t seem to mind turning him over to my care, and as he’s barely two, I don’t think he’ll have any recollections of the world he was born into. I can begin with a fresh slate. I’ve started the experiments today; he’s sleeping in the basement now. It’ll be a long process, but I have no doubt my work will yield results.

Daniel’s stomach was twisting itself into a knot now; with each word he felt sicker, yet he forced himself to press on.

Start of Year Five,

Eventful year. Daniel almost found his way upstairs, but I caught him before he could. A few close calls with social workers, but they were dealt with, thankfully without violence. Don’t need bodies on my hands to complicate things. Daniel believes everything. The conditioning is working beautifully. Looking forward to the years ahead.

It was all here- everything. The reason behind everything his mother had once told him about the world.

-conditioning still going strong-

-more reinforcement may be needed-

-don’t know how much longer-

-need an end of experiment solution-

-some kind of contingency plan-

Daniel slammed the book shut, throwing it across the counter. This- this was all he was to her. An experiment. Some kind of mouse to be studied as it ran through an unwinnable maze only to find that, at the end of its short life, all he’d lived for was a lie.

“I won’t die here,” he said, breathing shakily. “Not now. Not while I still have a life ahead of me.”

A bang shook through the house- the sound of Mother’s gun- followed by the sound of the back door swinging open. Daniel’s fingers tightened around the knife.

Time to make your choice, Daniel, Blanket said at last. Daniel nodded. Time indeed.

…

Sheila moved slowly, quietly through the house. No doubt Daniel had heard her coming. It was fine. She’d hear him long before he had a chance to make it to either of the exits.

“Terminate the sample,” she muttered, “subject has been compromised. Experiment… abort.”

Sheila paused, gun raised. From the kitchen, she could hear a sound: a soft, whimpering cry. She knew that cry, and padded softly towards it. Entering the kitchen she saw Daniel, huddled against the wall with his head and hands between his knees. He was curled up, rocking back and forth while sobbing, as he used to. Evidently some of his psychological traits hadn’t developed fully after all. Daniel looked up as she approached, then back down at his knees. He never budged an inch.

“Tired?” Sheila said as she drew nearer. She lowered the gun. The boy was no threat now.

“I think you see it now, Daniel,” Sheila said, “I think you understand why I did this. You’ve changed so much, shown me so many things; you’ve taught me, given me the chance to be someone I’ve always wanted to be. And now you see- now you know that I can’t let you go into this world. It’s so unlike anything you were prepared for. The subject must be contained, and if containment fails,” she drew back the hammer on the gun, “then the subject must be terminated.”

Sheila bent down, kneeling in front of her son as she slowly raised the gun to his head.

“I’m so sorry Daniel. I’ll make this quick, I promise.”

…

Now, Blanket said.

…

As she knelt closer, preparing to pull the trigger, Sheila suddenly felt a sharp prick, followed by a strange, unnatural coldness in her chest. The shock of this feeling forced her to draw back, and drop the gun in surprise. Looking down, she could see the cake knife protruding from her heart. There was surprisingly little pain, just the surprise of what had happened. She looked from the knife back to Daniel, who was now staring intensely at her through tear blurred eyes.

“I’m not your experiment anymore, Mother,” Daniel whispered, choking back tears, “it’s my life now.”

Sheila opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead she gasped once, then keeled over, face-first onto the floor beside her son.

The experiment is over, she thought to herself as her vision began to gray, what was it I’d observed? A marked detachment from the concept of death? How true.

How true.

…

Nothing had prepared Daniel for what happened when he stabbed his mother and captor. Thinking through it had hardly been difficult, especially with Blanket’s guidance, but actually going through with it- he hadn’t expected so much blood. In the stories he’d read, they never talked about the horror, the sickening warmth as the scarlet liquid flowed over his fingers, wrapped in a death-grip around the knife’s handle. No story told of the shock in the victim’s eyes, the sudden rush of adrenaline followed by the crushing wave of regret. This woman had taken him in, experimented on him his entire life; this was justice.

But it didn’t feel like it.

He clutched his blanket tightly, then pulled it away as he realized he was staining it red with the blood on his hands. For a moment he just stared- stared at the monster he’d called Mother for so many years. Regardless of everything else, she’d been his protector, the source of direction in his life. Without her, everything suddenly felt so empty.

“Blanket… did I do the right thing?”

No answer.

“Blanket?”

Still, he heard nothing. No answer; and now he finally realized that his companion, Blanket, might have been just that all along- a scrap of cloth to cling to for comfort. From where he sat, Daniel could see the forest through the kitchen window. Mother was dead, Blanket was gone; his sense of direction was lost now. Steeling himself, eyes on the trees, Daniel grabbed his blanket and folded it over his shoulder. There was only one way to go now.

Forward.

Hey all!

Two days ago I had the pleasure of picking up the original soundtrack for Star Wars: Rogue One on disc (yes, I'm a tad old-fashioned). After giving the entire CD a listen, I've come to the conclusion that, at least as far as the year's blockbuster franchises go, this is arguably the best film soundtrack to come out of 2016. Allow me to elaborate.

This is the first Star Wars film to have utilized a composer other than John Williams for its score (though Williams's themes do appear at times throughout the score). Instead, the reigns were handed over to modern composer Michael Giacchino. I was quite pleased to hear about this, as I've been following Giacchino's work since his first production- the score for the Lost World Playstation 1 videogame. Since then, I've watched him tackle bigger and bigger projects until he landed the unenviable (or arguably very enviable) task of filling some very large shoes by taking on the Star Wars franchise. I'm happy to report that his work does not disappoint in the least. We still have Williams's brassy tones and heroic, brooding, and peaceful cues, but these are mixed in with Giacchino's signature incorporation of a variety of percussion instruments. Seriously, the guy loves his drums. In addition to building on classic thematic cues, the central musical theme for Rogue One is an extremely versatile musical signature, able to sound triumphant, hopeful, or in some of its most effective cases, wistful and a little sad.

If there's any indication of how seriously Michael Giacchino took this project, it's in the song titles. Normally, his track list is full of puns and humorous names, but these are all serious titles, in keeping with the franchise's other pieces so far (though I was happy to note that he released his own version of the track list on the inside jacket, which I'll attach below. In classic Giacchino style, it's highly amusing).



The two standout tracks for me where "Rebellions are Built on Hope," which adopts that sadder tone after about the one minute mark:

Rebellions are Built on Hope

And of course the grand finale, "Your Father Would be Proud," which manages to hit all the feels throughout its runtime:

Your Father Would be Proud

In conclusion this is a highly fitting tribute, and indeed somewhat of a love letter to a franchise enjoyed by many. Even if you're not a fan of Star Wars, I'd highly recommend giving a few of these tracks a listen. You will not be disappointed!

Greetings, my fellow Land Before Time fans!

So, thanks to a suggestion from Rhombus, I started watching the Land Before Time TV series. In fact, I'm very nearly finished with it. I've got some good things, and some negative things to say about it, but I intend to hold off until I'm completely done. I will say that I got more than I bargained for thus far. I was expecting something a bit "dumbed down," but instead got a kids' show with some surprising variation and quality in it! Overall, I've enjoyed my time with the series. I'll be posting again as soon as I'm finished for the full report.

Hello, everyone! Fyn here! So as some of you know, I've been working on a story for a little over a year now, called "To Tread Upon Fields Afar." While it's been coming along smoothly, I feel like having a pre-reader could benefit me a great deal, in that I'd have some feedback before posting my story to the general public. There would be benefits to holding this position. One thing I've done before involved trading pre-reading responsibilities, that is to say both read each others' stories and offer feedback to one another at the same time.

So, long story short, if anyone wants to lend their editorial prowess to a humble writer, please let me know!