You Can (Not) Undo (Steins;Gate)

 A Commission for Hunter O’Connell

A lot of conversations I've had involve awkwardly standing
and hoping the other person would speak first.

You ever watch something and realize very quickly that you watched it too late.

This isn’t just me bemoaning the fact that it took me roughly five years to actually watch Steins;Gate, between the time I was commissioned to watch it and when I actually started the damn show. But rather, it’s the sort of show that I would’ve absolutely loved if I watched it back when it came out in 2011, when I was sixteen years old.

 

It’s a good show, don’t get me wrong. The plot is well structured, the character work is charming (if problematically so), and the animation works for what the show is going for. But it’s also not a show for me. There are a number of reasons for this.

 

The most obvious being the gender shit. One of the supporting characters, Urushibara, is very flagrantly a trans woman, such that it’s a major plot point that Urushibara uses time travel to speed up her gender affirmation via ensuring that she was AFAB. There are many works of fiction I love that have problematic relations with trans people (the Morrison/Chase Doom Patrol being an obvious example). But where those works had moments of transcendence and/or were experienced at a point in time where I could overlook the flaw, Steins;Gate is a well-made show that doesn’t transcend in ways that appeal to me now. And, well, they don’t involve plotlines wherein the crux of saving the universe is forcing someone to detransition.

 

The other obvious aspect being the show’s approach sexuality. More specifically, there’s a scene midway through the show where the main character, Okarin, puts himself into a position where it looks like he’s trying to rape an antagonistic figure, Moeka. There is also a running gag that runs out its welcome a bit too quickly in which another supporting character, Daru, asks the various female characters to repeat what they just said in tones of voices that highlight their sexual undercurrent.

 

There’s a degree to which this is to be expected from both an otaku and tech bro landscape. Indeed “Mad science losers try to make their mad science actually work” is a pretty good description of Urbit. And considering the show’s extremely deep state approach to the semi-fictional SERN, the heroic actions of a bunch of conspiracy minded tech nerds has some implications it didn’t in 2011.

 

But, if I’m being honest with myself, I just wasn’t grabbed by the show. There are moments that I liked, scenes where the character dynamics charmed me. I liked the card game that Okarin loses because he only had to play the game. I liked the adversarial romance between Okarin and Kurisu. Mayushii is a delight. And I do rather like the ending, bar the OVA which felt a bit too complete to fully work for me. But for most of the show, I kept asking myself if I could be doing something else.

 

Sorry it took so long to write, and I only had so little to say.

Git Good (The King of Fighters: A New Beginning vol. 1)

 A Commission for David Shevlin

…Shit.

The King of Fighters anime
was so much better.

This article was commissioned as part of a Kickstarter campaign for my upcoming book The Tower Through The Trees. This specific article was asking for a 2,000 word look at the manga The King of Fighters: A New Beginning vol. 1 from the perspective of an outsider. However, the problem with such an article is that, to put it bluntly, the manga doesn’t have enough in it to make it possible to write more than 500 words without filler paragraphs such as this.

The main issue with the manga is that it is very much one that is based on the assumption that the reader has already familiarized themselves with The King of Fighters franchise. As such, it doesn’t feel the need to introduce any of its cavalcade of characters beyond broad strokes and archetypes. The rival, the hero, the amoral assholes, Mr. Satan. There’s no sense of progression to the point where everything fits into place. There’s no build up to the fighting the way you would see in most sports manga (of which this could arguably be placed in, if you ignore all the Ka-Me-Ha-Me-Has and Sure-You-Cans). It’s just twenty pages of character names and archetypes, then fight scene. The volume doesn’t even end with the fight resolving, simply putting a “To Be Continued” at the exact moment when the “main event” is supposed to take place.

The art style utilized for the manga is reminiscent of the art style of the video game’s cover art. And while that is admirable in regard to sticking to an aesthetic vision, that vision is a bit… uninteresting. It’s the sort of art style you would expect from someone who had only read 90s shonen manga and nothing else. In terms of American comics, think not of Todd McFarlane or Rob Liefeld, but of their knock offs. A sort of generic version of an aesthetically arresting (if, at times, simplistic) art style that lacks the flare and attitude to get away with the worst excesses.

And therein lies the core issue with this manga: it lacks ambition. It doesn’t see itself as anything more than a mere throwaway comic tie-in to a fighting series that has a very paper thin plot as it is. It’s very much of the sort that thinks what makes a good story is the fight scenes. The sort of mentality that goes “I’m just here for Godzilla, can we fast forward through the human bits.” Now, there is an appeal to wrestling fiction where the plots are often paper thin and the fights are more important than anything else. But with wrestling, there’s at least some measure of set up. It’s a multi-decade story about a group of weirdos, bastards, and heroes fighting not only their opponents, but their image. Imagine watching The Reunion of The Golden Lovers or Childe Cena to the Firefly Fun House Came without the years of buildup, context, and so much more.

The King of Fighters: A New Beginning vol 1, ultimately, expects me to either already care about these characters or roll with the punches and enjoy the fighting. However, the fights are too uninteresting to fully invest in without those years’ worth of character development. I think I’ll watch Dirty Pair instead.

And Once Again, We Return to This (Grendel: Devil Child)

Commissioned by a Kickstarter Backer

Nothing ever ends.

I should begin by noting that I am unfamiliar with Grendel. This is the first Grendel comic I ever read. As such, there may be things I am missing out because of this. For example, throughout the story, there’s reference to a character named Argent who is depicted as a big bad wolf. Now, it’s quite possible that this is a metaphorical representation of the character (someone who should not be trusted, even if they seem friendly), a fabrication on the part of our unreliable narrator, Stacy Palumbo, or a literal, actual Big Bad Wolf. I do not know.

What I do know is that this is a hell of a comic. It’s certainly not for the feint of heart. It deals in various touchy subjects matter including rape, mental illness, suicide, and child murderers. It tells of the life of Stacy Palumbo in the years following her murder of the first Grendel. In these years, she’s confined to a mental hospital where she does not get the help she needs. Her first therapist, a man named Erik, physically and mentally abuses her up until the point where she murders him shortly after he rapes her. It’s not a pleasant sight, to say the least.

Grendel: Devil Child is the story of what happens to people who are treated as mere objects of use. Not in the sense of, say, the horde. But rather as a thing to be flaunted to other people. Not someone to be cared for, raised, treated as a person. Stacy was raised by men who couldn’t tell her basic things like what periods are or what it means to grow up. They just left her alone with other people, never giving her the attention she needed. They didn’t notice she was coming undone until it was far too late.

 

In many regards, it’s fitting that Stacy is, time and time again, referred to as the Devil’s child. There’s an air of cyclicality to the stories of the Antichrist. The same players of God, the Devil, and those in-between is played out on a different landscape. The most interesting of Antichrist stories tend to be the ones where the child of the Devil attempts to prevent the apocalypse. But here, the apocalypse has already happened. The wolf and the devil are dead, the antichrist locked in a cell, never to be freed.

And when Stacy talks to her daughter, Christine, for the second and final time in her life, she understands that the cycle has come again. There will be another Grendel in the form of Christine. Another war between the Devil and the Wolf (who is shown to be alive and well, witnessing Stacy’s funeral). Another child to be left aside in the name of cruel intentions that care little for them. The circle closes and once more we begin again. There is no escape.

The art by Tim Sale is some of his best work. While not to the degree of his work on Spider-Man Blue or The Long Halloween, each page is nevertheless filled with the melancholy flatness one expects from his work, especially with the help of Teddy Kristiansen’s colors. But it’s Diana Schutz’s script that really takes center stage. She paints for us a picture of isolation, depression, and inevitability that few writers can. It’s an absolutely miserable story to read and one that isn’t going to be for everyone. I’m sure I’d get more out of it if and when I actually read more Grendel than this.

The Growing Anticipation of Saying Goodbye

Commissioned by Crow T. Robot

The last time Rose Quartz met Death was on the beach. He was sitting on the pier, looking at the ocean waves move back and forth along the surface. An orchestral movement of liquid instruments creating a melancholy tune. She was on the beach, dancing to the orchestra like a ballerina performing swan lake to an audience of one. She did not see him at first. Her dance was hers and hers alone. Rose always liked the beach. The way the ocean tenderly kissed her toes, the taste the sand gave the air. The chirp of seagulls and the ruins of castles. Like all kingdoms, nothing more than sand to the totality of the ocean.

When she saw Death, she waved to him. She hadn’t seen him in centuries, but she was sure old Bill Door was sitting on that bench watching the night sky. She thought it had been a long time since she had seen an immortal[1], but Rose figured she was bound to meet one of them one of these days. Death was shy. He wasn’t sure why he arrived early to their rendezvous. It wasn’t as if he knew her as well as he did other gems[2]. But he had a compulsion to see her before their final conversation. It had been a long time since he had had such a compulsion. Typically, they occurred due to a mystical ritual or an old friendship. But Rose Quartz was neither of those things. She was just a typical, ordinary mortal who had lived a long life. Death had encountered many of them.

 

Whatever the reason, when Rose approached Death, he simply said, HELLO.

 

“Well, hello yourself,” she replied with a slightly off smile. For a long time, Rose’s smiles belay a profound sadness undetectable to those who have first seen it. It wasn’t quite a frown or even a disingenuous smile. It wasn’t even forced. But the way she smiled felt as if smiling made her sad. And yet, for Death, her smile looked like any other smile. “What brings you to my neck of the woods, Bill?”

 

Death turned his head away. BUSINESS.

 

“Oh? I don’t think I ever asked what it is you do.” Death did not respond initially. He couldn’t quite name the feeling he was having. It didn’t as of yet have a singular word for itself, at least not in English: the growing anticipation of saying goodbye[3]. It wasn’t that he disliked Rose Quartz. From the way she behaved, she seemed to be an approachable woman. Highly likeable in many respects. She had secrets, sure. But what mortal didn’t have secrets. Besides, he knew them all. He wouldn’t be good at his job if he didn’t.

 

I’M SOMETHING OF A FARMER. I TEND TO THE CROPS AND HARVEST THEM WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT.

 

“Oo. Can I have a demonstration?”

 

THE TIME ISN’T RIGHT.

 

“Awww. When will it be right?” Death pulled out an hourglass.

 

IN ABOUT ONE HOUR, FIFTEEN MINUTES, AND he looked at the hourglass again FIVE SECONDS.

 

“Well then, I look forward to watching you work.”

 

I PROMISE YOU, YOU WILL HAVE A FRONT ROW SEAT. They both shared a chuckle to a joke Rose didn’t quite understand, yet knew intimately. She sighed, her smile returning to its normal melancholy.

 

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ll make your demonstration.”

 

I THINK YOU’LL MAKE IT. Death smiled his trademarked closed, toothy smile.

 

“I appreciate your optimism, Bill. But I don’t think I have much time left.” Death raised an eyebrow, a difficult task for most skeletons, but not as impossible as some might think. “I’m pregnant.”

 

CONGRATULATIONS!

 

“Thanks.” Rose paused for quite some time. “I’m probably not going to make it. I read some baby books Pearl gave me. They went into a lot of detail and depth. Probably a bit too much. At one point, it said that the child will get genes from the mother and father, and that will make the child. But I don’t have any genes to give. I’m a projection of light made solid. I can’t give my child anything. The only thing I could give them is…” She placed her hand around the jewel protruding out of her navel. “So they’ll live, and I’ll die. Fair trade, I suppose. They’ll probably do better than me.” Rose looked at the evening sky. A star shot across it like a man on the run from the law. “Such a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

 

YES, IT IS. Death held the hourglass in his hands. The scythe was neatly in his other pocket, the sword far away. He considered bringing the sword. All things considered, Rose Quartz was royalty. Even if she discarded the crown for the life of an exile, she was still a princess at heart. But in those many years of doing the duty, Death had understood the roles we choose. He chose the duty as much as she chose the child, the beach, the Earth.

 

The ocean beat back and forth across the sand. He had seen this beach when there was no ocean, when there no life save for the molecule. He would be here when it was but ash, when the star went nova and the world long abandoned. He was here now with a woman who thought nothing would be better than for everyone to get on without her. He wasn’t quite sure where that analysis came from. Maybe it was the smile, or the urge to see her before her end, or the way she talked about her own death, or something invisible, intangible. Ineffable. Whatever the reason, he wanted to say something to her, something that would ease her pain.

 

Instead, he asked, A BOY OR A GIRL? Rose perked up at this question.

 

“It’s a surprise. I told Garnet not to say, but I think it’s starting to get to her. She’s been very jittery for the past couple of weeks. She almost unfused on five different occasions. Amethyst has been hanging out with Greg a lot. Watching old TV shows, playing games. He’s been a real good influence on her and I bet she can’t wait to meet the little kid.“

 

AND PEARL? Rose paused and turned her head towards Death. She looked at him with an inquisitive glare she hadn’t used in a long time[4].

 

“…You know Pearl?”

 

WE’VE MET… IN PARIS. Rose nodded in understanding.

 

“You know, she never talks to me about what happened in Paris. I’ve asked her so many times, but she always dodges talking about it.”

 

ARE WE NOT ALLOWED OUR SECRETS? Rose chuckled to herself.

 

“I suppose, but she doesn’t tend to keep secrets from me. It’s rather disheartening.”

 

YOU MUST HAVE SOME SECRETS FROM HER.

 

“Me? Nah… I’m an open book with her.” Rose didn’t even convince herself.

 

DOES SHE KNOW YOU’RE DYING? She turned away from his gaze and into the far sharper gaze of someone she loved. Pearl was standing on the dock, tears in her eyes, shaking all over. Rose didn’t know how long she had stood there, listening to their conversation. Maybe she was always there. Another relationship ruined by her own foolishness. Before Rose could say anything, Pearl ran off. Rose crumpled into a ball, her hands tightly clutching her knees.

 

“I think she does.” Her voice was small, like a child who had just discovered death. She didn’t cry. She didn’t want to cry. She just wanted that hour fifteen and five to hurry up already. The world froze the way it often does when you’re expecting something to happen. There was a slight rumble, like a drum of an infernal marching band. The boardwalk was empty save for two people shaped beings.

 

GO TO HER. Said one of them. The other looked him in his deep, black eyes. She had no word for what he was beyond Bill Door. He was a man like any other. He looked at her not with the contempt of her elders or the adoration of her fellows. He looked at her the way Greg looked at her when they danced, how Bismuth looked at her when she finished her doomed pitch, how Pearl looked at her that fateful night at the palanquin. She looked at him like any mortal does.

 

And she ran. There was no fear in her run, she had long since accepted her destination. She knew she lacked the time to fully explain herself, to say everything she should say to everyone. To admit her misdeeds and hope they wouldn’t hurt her child for her crimes. If it’s a boy, Steven, she thought, if it’s a girl, Nora. These words echoed in her mind like a mantra spoken before slaying a dragon, fighting a monster, or saving a princess from certain death. Death, in his turn, walked. He still had an hour left to go.

 

Rose found Pearl cradling her knees beside a stone hand. She was bawling. Rose had never known Pearl to bawl like this, words incomprehensible to the English tongue. Eyes more liquid than solid. It looked as if they were about to explode into a geyser of tears. She was trembling with fear and sorrow. Rose could see the others standing by the warp pad. They had let Rose handle it. Surely Rose Quartz, leader of the rebellious Crystal Gems knew what to do.

 

But she didn’t. All these years, all this time, and she had no idea what to say. She could never convince Pearl of stopping when she was younger. When the war was hurting her, when she was close to being shattered. But Pearl wouldn’t take no for an answer, even from Rose. She loved that about her Pearl. She loved that most of all. She didn’t have much time to say what she had wanted to say. Instead, she asked a question.

 

“I’ve been working on a new song. Do you want to hear it?” Pearl said nothing Rose could understand. She sighed and pulled a ukulele out from nowhere like a bunny who could talk his way out of anything. She tuned the guitar so the melody hit just right. Then she strummed a bit of a tune before singing…

 

“If I could begin to be half of what you think of me, I could do about anything. I could even learn how to love…” There was a soft melancholy to her voice. The words only expressed her guilt. Her voice trembled with each word, uncertain if this could break the spell or damn Pearl to an eternity of sadness. “When I see the way you act, wondering when I’m coming back, I could do about anything. I could even learn how to love like you.” For a moment, Rose thought she could hear those last three words echo in the cool night sky. Instead, she heard something else.

 

“I always thought,” sang Pearl in an uncharacteristically weak tone, “I might be bad. Now I’m sure that it’s true. ‘Cause I think you’re so good, and I’m nothing like you.” It wasn’t weak in the sense of a dying child. It was weak the way one gets when confessing insecurities to a lover. Of saying something you’ve kept buried for so many years, something that isn’t quite yet unearthed. Rose could only feel the most painful of swords Pearl never meant to thrust.

 

“Look at you go,” Rose responded with tears in her eyes, “I just adore you.”

 

Pearl responded by speaking, not singing, “I wish that I knew what makes you think I’m so special.” She collapsed into Rose’s giant arms. They were both crying when they held each other. Rose was the one to break their tears.

 

“If I could begin to do something that does right by you, I would do about anything. I would even learn how to love…” Rose wiped the tears away from Pearl’s eyes. A smile wasn’t forming on her face, but the tears were gone. She cupped the woman whose love changed the universe. One of the few good things to come out of Pink Diamond’s court. A gem with eyes that could see and imagine so much, who was free and eternal. She shown brighter than Rose could ever dream of shining. “When I see the way you look, shaken by how long it took, I could do about anything. I could even learn how to love like you.” Once again, the world echoed her words. Rose didn’t hear them. She was far too busy kissing the woman she loved most. It felt like it was forever, it felt like it would never end. But as the end came, so too did their kiss.

 

They walked together to the warp pad. Greg was sitting on the steps, strumming a guitar. He looked up at the pair and only nodded. Amethyst had a giant, childish smile on her face. She raced towards hugging the pair of them, nearly tackling them both to the ground. Garnet stood in the corner, aloof with understanding. Her hands were glowing, and it was starting to spread across her arms. She would make it to the ending, and a little past that moment. Pearl, melancholy Pearl, had just let go of Rose Quartz’s arm. She sat next to her romantic rival, not with hatred in her heart, but acceptance. An acceptance as stable as a sandcastle. Rose simply stood there, surrounded by friend and lover alike, and waited for the sands of time to click to the end.

 

Meanwhile, a man in a black robe with a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in another stood by a van.

 

---

 

From now on, I’m just gonna tell it exactly like it was. Because that’s all you can do.

 

There was a sharp pain near the bottom of my chest. I felt like my whole body was on fire. Everyone was coming around me, confused and horrified. They tried to get me into the van, but it hurt every instance I tried to move. Greg was panicking, his eyes full of terror as he held my hand. Amethyst was still trying to get me to move, but to no avail. Garnet was simply standing there, shocked and on the verge of unfusing. And Pearl…

 

“What’s happening! Are you ok?”

 

Here’s the most cowardly answer I’ve ever given the woman I love.

 

“I’m going to be just fine.”

 

“Can you feel anything?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I can feel something going on, but… it doesn’t hurt. It’s a bit like being a washing machine. Heh.”

 

And then, there was a bright shining light, brighter than any I had ever seen before. It was as if the whole world was completely engulfed in light.

 

“Oh my god. Rose, it’s a… Rose?”

 

“It’s a boy.”

 

I felt smaller, confused. Most of all, I couldn’t see a thing. I was pretty sure I was supposed to feel something about that. Didn’t feel a thing. I just wanted to go in the van, watch a video, and eat bits.

 

“Amethyst, do you want to see him?”

 

I couldn’t tell who was where and why that mattered. There was is annoying screeching sound coming from… somewhere. Couldn’t tell where. And I didn’t feel anything you’re supposed to. Nothing at all. I was… Rose Quartz.

 

“Fingers and toes. Count them.”

 

“Yeah, h-he’s fine. It all looks pretty average. …No eyes though.”

 

“WHAHAHAUAW!”

 

“His eyes are shut, Amethyst. It’s the sun.”

 

So they shaded my eyes. And then… and then I looked at them. And oh my goodness me, I became someone else entirely.

 

November 1, 2020-November 27, 2020

---

[1] Indeed, she had never met an immortal in her entire life.

[2] The closest relationship Death would ever have with a gem would occur thousands of years later with an Aquamarine wandering the shores of an alien world that, when loosely translated to the dead language of English, means “The Hat That Never Fit Right.”

[3] This is a common feeling had with the dying, especially among those whose deaths are quite painful.

[4] The last time she had used such a glare was when she was given a weapon called a Breaking Point.

City of Death

Commissioned by Crow T. Robot

It was either in the 70’s or 80’s, during a time apart from her first love[1], that Pearl met Death. She had not meant to meet with Death that fateful August evening. At the time, she was working on a script. In her life, Pearl had become quite the prolific author. She had penned numerous poems, fairy tales, and other such trifles. It was something to pass the time when apart from her love. Currently, she had been commissioned to work on a science fiction television series called Doctor Who that aired in the English side of the pond. The circumstances behind her getting the gig still confuse and, at times, agitate her, but Pearl was never one to back down from a challenge. 

And yet, it was as if this might be a bit too much for her to handle.  The pitch was rather straightforward: Doctor Who and the Vampires. She had seen many a story about immortal aristocrats who suck the life out of everyone around them. Hell, she had written some[2]. And yet, she had difficulty writing it. She had the plot all set, a nice four part tale[3] of woe, anger, and love. Maybe it was because she was in Paris at the time. She had only been in the city once before, when she and Amethyst wandered the streets looking for Amazonite. And the city left a rather distasteful impression upon her.

 

The city had changed since then. The air of romance had returned after it was snuffed out when she was there last. The utopian dreamers had long since gone extinct, and yet the city had a bouquet about itself. Lovers could be seen kissing on bridges above the canals. The architecture had the angularity of age, built less as a place to live in and more like a museum piece to be admired. And yet, Pearl couldn’t like it as much as the other places she had traveled to. She had only been there for a week, but she had already wanted to be anywhere else.

 

She left her two room apartment and wandered the streets. Paris, even all these years later, was a city that was easy to get lost in. Its streets curved and dead ended into occult meanings and narratives. The lights of the night shown across the sky like lightning bugs in summer. Pearl waltzed through the streets. The sky was clear of cloud and stars. Only the moon shone brightly in its full radiance. She wandered the streets for hours that seemed like moments. Time was a companion for people like Pearl.

 

In the end, she found herself atop a tall tower shaped like the letter A. She could see the whole of Paris from her perch. The city shone like an array of diamonds. How Pearl disliked this city. She sighed before she saw that she wasn’t alone. Right next to her, leaning on the handrails of the tower, was an old man dressed in a black cloak. He had a wry, melancholic smile on his face. His eyes shown of the infinite potential of the universe. He looked at her and a chuckle began to form.

 

ALWAYS IN PARIS, EH PEARL?

“Hello William,” Pearl said with a small sense of nostalgia. “Are you still going by William?”

BILL.

“Right,” Pearl nodded as she climbed down from her perch to stand right next to him. “So what are you doing here? It doesn’t look like the business needs to be done here. Unless there’s an old guy with a bad heart round back.”

 

Death chuckled. NO, NO. I’M ON VACATION.

“Vacation?” Pearl mocked a sense of shock. “I wouldn’t think someone in your line of work got vacation days.”

 

THEY COME FEW AND FAR BETWEEN, BUT IT HELPS WHEN YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER OFFERS A HELPING HAND[4].

 

“I didn’t know you had a granddaughter.”

 

SUSAN. SHE’S BEEN AROUND FOR A LONG WHILE. TRAVELS, MOSTLY. BUT WE ALWAYS TAKE THE TIME TO SPEND THE HOLIDAYS TOGETHER. Death tried to make a chuckle to make himself sound more human, forgetting just who he was talking to.

 

“That sounds lovely.” There was an air of sadness in Pearl’s voice. There was always a sadness in her voice, but it was more palpable now than before. She turned away from her companion.

 

IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?

 

“Oh! It’s nothing, just… I’m working on a script for Doctor Who.”

 

OH, REALLY?

 

“Yes, are you familiar?”

 

NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST, BUT A LOT OF CHILDREN HAVE TOLD ME HOW DELIGHTFUL IT IS. There was an air of sadness in the way he said that last part.

 

“Well… I got commissioned to write for the show. They want a piece about vampires and the like. Kinda stuck on where to go with it. There’s this scene I’m working on. Doctor Who and Romana, his companion, are having an argument about… Well, Doctor Who is considering making a new character his companion, Rosalind Tyler. But Romana, she feels like she’s being left on the wayside. Like he doesn’t respect her at all. He brushes it off, like he always does. But this time, Romana just lays into him. She’s furious at him for being so aloof, so charming, so… childish! Why can’t he just talk to her like a person?” Death moved one of his bony fingers across the bottom of Pearl’s wet eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t think I’d get so worked up about a story.”

 

YES… A STORY. HOW IS ROSE, BY THE WAY?

“Rose? Oh, she’s doing marvelously. She’s in America wandering the desert as she does from time to time. We’re, uh… we’re spending some time apart.”

DID ANYTHING HAPPEN BETWEEN YOU TWO?

“DABAWHA-NO! Nothing happened between us. We just needed some time apart. Any couple that’s lasted as long as ours can’t be together forever. I’m sure even Garnet has periods when she splits up[5].” A sweat began to creep down Pearl’s forehead. She sat down, her feet dangling between bars, floating above the Paris skyline. She smiled, if only briefly. “Do you remember when we first met[6]?”

 

YES. Death sat down next to her, his feet cross-legged the way one does when they don’t know how to cross their legs.

 

“What was it that the kid said? The one with the blond hair and brown eyes that always felt happier than they should have been. I couldn’t quite make it out from everything else that was going on.”

 

“I LOVE YOU.” HE WAS SAYING IT TO HIS LOVER, JOAQUIM WILLIS. JOAQUIM NEVER HEARD IT.

 

“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. A romantic swept up in a war that cost the lives of countless people, innocent or not. A failed revolution that, at best, didn’t change a thing. We won, in some respects. They aren’t coming back. But Amazonite is in a bubble. Never to see the sun again. Never to dance across the fields. Never to find love. She’s trapped in a bubble, in a sea of bubbles. Everything I did, I did for her. What am I without her?”

 

Death looked at his friend with a sense of curiosity. He had only known her for moments at a time, but there was a palpable sense of certainty whenever he saw her. She knew who she was and what she wanted. She had an understanding of everything that Death wished he could have. He reached for something he’d heard from somewhere once.

 

YOU HAVE EACH OTHER. ISN’T THAT ENOUGH?

 

Pearl smiled and pulled herself up. “Yeah. I guess it is.” She walked away from her friend.

 

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

“Are you talking philosophically or geographically?”

 

PHILOSOPHICALLY.

 

“Then I’m going to write.” She skipped down the steps of the tower with a bounce in her heart.

 

Pearl returned to her apartment three hours later. It was quite easy to get lost in that ancient city. She approached her script and tossed aside the Rosalind Tyler subplot. It wasn’t quite working for her and didn’t feel right for this story. Maybe she would find herself in someone else’s story one of these days, but she had no place in Pearl’s. It took Pearl five days to finish the story[7].

She would never again meet Death directly.

If you would like to support me, consider backing my Kickstarter for the book The Tower Through the Trees or sponsoring me on Patreon.

---

[1] It is the province of Romantics to assume that capital R Romances can only happen once in a lifetime. But then, most lifetimes are surprisingly fleeting.

[2] Of note, is the poem The Hole in the Ground, which frames the vampire as an ecological threat rather than a physical one. It is considered by many scholars to be among her lesser works.

[3] The story would ultimately be expanded to six parts, then lost due to a production strike that would ultimately cause uber fans who think Doctor Who should be kept as far away as possible from identity politics to attempt to recreate it before being novelized by a noted reactionary (Pearl was busy at the time mourning the loss of her first love to write it herself), and finally animated by the BBC.

[4] This is a rather polite way of saying SUSAN NOTICED THAT I WAS OVERWORKING MYSELF WITH THIS VIETNAM BUSINESS AND TOLD ME THAT IF I DON’T TAKE A WEEK OFF, SHE’D HIT ME WITH A POKER. I WASN’T SURE IF SHE WAS JOKING. SO MUCH OF HER MOTHER IN HER.

[5] She would, but it wouldn’t happen until shortly after Rose died.

[6] It was in May of 1968, when she and Amethyst were chasing after a corrupted Amazonite. For many, Paris is a city of art and romance. For Pearl, it would always be a city of death.

[7] From here, the history of Pearl within Doctor Who gets a little bit more complex. She would not write for this incarnation of the show for many years, but she would have a rather prolific career writing for the various novel spin offs that were made shortly after Doctor Who was canceled. She would work with various incarnations of the Doctor, including the seventh and eighth incarnations, where it was said that she did her best work. She wrote at least one draft of Human Nature and Return of the Living Dad, as well as edited the Virgin Decalog series, wherein she first encountered the work of Steven Moffat. While the work was extremely clever in a “look at me, I’m putting an entire academic essay into my short story while also alternating between two timelines” sort of way, it was nevertheless still capable of pulling off that cleverness such that it was charming rather than grating. She would not meet the Scottish playwright until the production of the comedy short The Curse of The Fatal Death, which Rose Quartz had a small cameo in. They hit it off rather nicely, exchanging phone numbers (or, rather, Steven gave Pearl his work number while she stood there looking rather confused). Pearl would write three more novels before inexplicably dropping an incomplete draft of her final novel, the Eighth Doctor Adventure Loveless, onto her editors, forcing a rather dreadful back half by Gary Russell that received a number of wretched reviews such that even Doctor Who Magazine openly dunked on it upon release. Pearl would attempt to return to the world of fiction writing during the depressive state that made her send in an unfinished draft, including a rather ill-advised one season American television series that still has a modicum of a cult following among the AV Club crowd and a collection of poems from over the millennia with annotations that were often longer than the poems themselves. But eventually, she gave up on writing altogether. Roughly a decade and a half after Loveless, Pearl finally got herself a cell phone and decided to call someone whom she had met at a rock concert a few weeks earlier. Unfortunately, for some inexplicable reason, she instead grabbed the phone number Steven had given her all those years ago. When she asked to speak to S, she was transferred to Steven’s new office at the BBC. He was quite pleased to talk to Pearl after all these years. And while she wished she could be talking to her lady friend, Pearl was likewise pleased to hear from him as well. After sharing pleasantries, Steven asked Pearl if she had be writing anything as of late. Pearl noted that she hadn’t, but (for reasons she couldn’t quite articulate) she’d be up to start again. Unbeknownst to Pearl, Steven was in a bit of a bind. He was in the midst of editing the script of the two part episode We Dare Not Go a-Hunting/For Fear of Little Men. However, due to a last minute vacation on the part of writer Peter Harness, it had to be pared down to a first part while the second was to be written by a safe pair of hands. He was just about to call Toby Whithouse to write the second part when Pearl accidentally dialed his number. And Steven, being aware of her work four years prior showrunning the rather underrated (if somewhat flawed) Return (though still capable of being aired such that it didn’t need too much retooling for a BBC budget), asked if she’d be willing to write a script for the season. Pearl accepted and began work on a script. It took her roughly three months to complete, with the final draft taking the longest to work on due to personal issues occurring in Pearl’s life. But she got the draft done just in time for the wedding. The story, For Want of a Rose, was aired on June 3^rd, 2017 to critical acclaim (though that didn’t stop certain segments of the notoriously catty Doctor Who fandom to treat it as if it was a blight against everything that’s good about Doctor Who). It told of a romance between Doctor Who’s companion, Bill Potts, and the late Heather in the backdrop of a fascist utopia. It was a story of letting go of loves lost, of fighting against systems of cruelty while still remembering that there are people within them. It also had what is considered by many to be the funniest Nardole gag, wherein he, dressed as Kerry Moonbeam during his “Fascism is OK” phase (down to the absurdly rubbish wig), proceeds to perform a punk rock ballad about conforming to the fascist order that the audience instantly falls in love with. It was a fitting end to Pearl’s career in Doctor Who. (That it wasn’t is a completely different story entirely.)

When the Cat Was Alive

Commissioned by Crow T. Robot

Death never cared for collecting cats. He could never place why he had this disdain for the death of cats. Death, as he very well knew, was a part of life. All things die because all things live. Even the long lived, the immortal, the divine, would meet their end. But cats were another matter entirely. At first, he thought it was because of the cruelty of their deaths. Often, humans would merely fill a bag with ten cats and a stone and that would be that. But even when the cats died of something mundane like a fever or a fellow cat just feeling mean[1], Death felt a pang of sorrow. 

As such, whenever a cat died, Death would often linger, if but for a moment. He wasn’t one for sentiment, all things considered. He rarely knew the people he was sending to the next bit, never knew where they went. He rarely[2] saw them again. He never attended a funeral, save for when someone died. He never held a coffin. He never even planted flowers. There were certainly a small handful of people he would visit the graves of. But never for more than a century, if that. Death healed very quickly.

 

But cats were just something he couldn’t let go of. Whenever he got near one, his heart would melt and he’d just want to keep it around for a bit. Not that he’d admit this to anyone[3], he was a somewhat proud sort of concept. He had dignity to think of. So when he arrived in the desert, dressed with a pillow sticking out of his red cloak, his beard almost falling off his face, the sack of toys lit aflame by the desert sun[4], he was none too pleased to see a cat dying.

 

It was a rather large cat, mane bushy as the forest and teeth sharp as daggers. The eyes of the cat were dull, though still capable of sight. They were tired eyes that had seen far too much. Or, perhaps, far too little. The pool beneath the cat was growing as the still air burned the sandy landscape. Death looked at the hourglass in his hand. Death smiled at the name. It was the kind of name a child would devise for something too big for them to fully understand. The cat had only a few moments left before the end.

 

A cool wind invaded the blistering world of the desert. Death sighed, silently in the cold desert air. He looked at the cat. There was no sadness in his eyes. Little regret. Maybe that it was going to die alone, Death thought. Maybe that there was someone he was never going to see again. Death considered giving the cat a present. A little more time, perhaps. Not too long, even a full recovery would not save the cat. A starving girl in the city could survive for years. A cat with his innards pooling out of his stomach had maybe moments. He looked at the cat, eyes full of pride and sadness. Death tapped on the hourglass, time filling up only for a few moments. Hope can be a good present, Death thought to himself. He would not add any more time[5].

 

In the distance, Death could see a woman climbing up. She was dressed in a flowery white dress with a star cut out around the belly button. At the center of the star lay a gem, a pink diamond, Death thought. Geology was never his field. She had long, curly pink hair that seemed to go on and on forever. One duff of hair covered her right eye ever so slightly that it gave both of them a permanent shade. She was rather large but walked like a ballerina, each graceful leap landing at the exact spot she meant it to.

 

“LION!!!!” Shouted the woman. Her cries were full of guilt and self-loathing. She was about a minute away from finding the cat, which was one minute before he would die. Good, thought Death. At least someone will mourn his passing. Few cats get even that. Death thought for a moment that he recognized the woman. That he saw her somewhere, long ago. He couldn’t quite place where though[6].

 

“LION!!!” The shout had turned into a cry as the woman approached the cat. Her tears flowed from her eyes like waterfalls in spring. She fell to her knees mere feet before the cat. They scratched atop the crusty sand. Her hands clumped in front of them, burrowing tunnels of self-flagellation beneath the desert. Death would not know the lives they had lived together. The adventures they had, the people Lion helped woo, the families they lost to time, to cruelty, to the world. Death would only know the sorrow at the end of their stories.

 

Many stories end in sorrow. Not everyone gets a happy ending. The woman knew this, but it always hurt to remember the cruel lessons. Everyone she touched would wither and die. Her friends deserved better than she could ever be. She should just sleep here with her cat. Just let the desert consume her like it consumed everything. She’d deserve it. She’d done worse.

 

“Rrrrr…” mewed the cat. He had crawled its way towards the woman, each pull more painful than the last. His open wound was like a scab and the desert fingers that couldn’t help themselves. The cool breeze shifted the sounds. It was as if he was trying to say something to the woman. Something human ears couldn’t quite understand. She smiled at his words. It is tempting to provide translation for these words, perhaps “A tear, old girl? Don’t cry. While there’s life, there’s…” or “I love…” or even “I hate mon…” But the fact of the matter is the human skill for language is lost on the inhuman tongue.

 

But whatever the meaning, Rose cried. Death looked at the hour glass, the cat’s time was nearing. He returned the hourglass to his side. Death pulled out a scythe from his pillow. The resemblance of a frown was on his featureless skull. He pulled back his arms, preparing the final swing. Time froze. The world changed. Death’s arms moved towards the cat. And then…

 

The scythe stopped mid-swing as a pink glow emanated from the cat’s fur. The glow encompassed the feline, diamonds sparkled in the barren desert. His hair turned white with glow and meaning. The woman crawled back in astonishment and wonder. Her sullen face shifted to a hopeful smile. Her eyes lit up with anticipation, with hope, with wonder. She was shaking, more than she ever did when the cat was alive.

When the glow faded, the cat was a different kind. His fur was pink, though paler than the woman’s. His face and body were likewise pink, a darker shade. Even the poof at the end of his tale was pink. The wound where the blood and entrails had been spilling out had vanished as if it was never there. The cat slowly shook himself awake. He pushed himself up onto his four legs. He approached the woman and licked her face.

 

“LION!!!” She was laughing, life long thought dead had sprung anew onto her body. Death didn’t understand the full significance of this jubilation, and he suspected he may never. He put away the scythe and pulled out the hourglass. Where once the sand was a typical golden tan, now new sand had been added to the mix. Indeed, it had filled the whole hourglass to the brim. What’s more, the sand moved slowly. To the untrained eye, it would appear as if it had not moved at all. That this was a stasis. But Death, who had met many an immortal, knew this would not last. Indeed, he could see the sand shuffle in the glass.

 

Still, a sense of relief overwhelmed Death as he returned to his sleigh, nine white wolves in the front[7]. Their eyes, all blue with determination, teeth sharpened for the dangers that may come, and noses all prepared to sniff out where the good children where[8]. He sat on the sleigh full toys and merriment, a sleigh built on the revolutionary need for mutual aid, and let out a chuckle that could be felt the world over. It wasn’t as big as that of the sleigh owner, but it filled even the chilly air with some warmth.

 

The woman hugged her cat as the sleigh departed. She never saw figure nor beast. It was just her and the dying Lion in the desert. They sat there in the desert they met each other in. The wind picked up a warmer temperament as they watched the sun set upon the fields of old. The distant roll of thunder could be heard from miles away. She would return to the temple soon. She often wondered why she never told the others about her secret animal friends. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough, she considered. She dashed that thought away as nonsense, as she rarely did with such thoughts.

 

Maybe she wanted something for herself? Again, that didn’t feel quite right. There was a sense of selfishness to her, even she was aware of it. But that selfishness lay in areas outside of secrets, she thought. She couldn’t quite place it, but she wasn’t really in the mood to figure out another reason why she hated herself. She was far too busy smiling about Lion. What a wonderful gift she had been given. She would tell her friends about it, the woman decided. This wouldn’t hurt them, and it might even help them in the long run. Maybe she could even heal the contained gems.

 

As she approached the warp pad, the woman turned back to Lion. A sorrowful, but familiar gaze was on his face. She knew where it was she saw that face before. She would never return to that face for as long as she lived, but she knew it well. She hadn’t thought about that face for a long time, like a toy in a long forgotten toy box waiting for a new kid to play with it. But Lion wasn’t a toy. He was a cat. 

 

“I’ll be back soon, Lion,” said Rose Quartz with a slight smile. She was glad for a number of reasons. The face of the lion perking up on her departing words. The friends who would be there for her when she returned. The snow that cloaked the statue behind her. Bust most of all, she was happy for Lion being alive. What a wonderful present she had been given. There’s no better present, thought Rose for no particular reason, than a future.

If you would like to support me, consider backing my Kickstarter for the book The Tower Through the Trees or sponsoring me on Patreon.

---

[1] Which, to be fair, was often the case.

[2] Rarely is an apt word considering the fate of note revolutionary turned cop, Reg Shoe, who was so devoted to the cause of changing the world, he refused to die even after his pulse went dead. A similar fate befell one Joseph Hill, though some speculate that this Gothically Marxist icon’s afterlife had more to do with metaphor than literalization. Then again, consider “And standing there as big as life/And smiling with his eyes/Says Joe, What they forgot to kill/Went on to Organize” in contrast to “That is not dead which can eternal lie,/And with strange eons even death may die,” both written around the same time.

[3] Or that the cat would necessarily want to stay with him if that meant being kept from doing as they pleased. Death learned that the hard way after a game of chess with a knight errant.

[4] For more on the circumstances behind this, see Klaus and the Doctor of War by Grant Morrison and Dan Mora. Coming soon from Boom Studios.

[5] Many have argued a degree of cruelty in this action. But then, many haven’t been slowly dying of having your innards ripped out by a wrongly placed long dead desert bush.

[6] In total, they had met and conversed a total of two times prior to this meeting. The second time was in a ruin calling itself the Sea Spire. The first was by a palanquin.

[7] Their names were Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph.

[8] Save Rudolph’s, whose electronic nose guided them through the fogs of confusion and the pitch dark depression of a black hole.

A Cleansing Breeze

Commissioned by Crow T. Robot

It was near the end of her self-imposed exile that Rose Quartz decided to go to the ocean. There are many reasons why Rose decided to exile herself from the rest of the Gems. Guilt. Shame. An argument that wasn’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. A desire to be away from the people you love. The exile wasn’t that long, all things considered. Roughly a week at most, probably less. She’d come back when she was ready, but for now, she wanted some privacy. 

The ocean was barren, as it had been for the past 20 years[1]. A desert with the wind howling and the dust forming clouds mere feet above the land. Still, it would always would always be the Ocean to Rose. She remembered when she first visited it with Pearl. It was before the war, when she was young and foolish. When she thought nothing of others, only of herself. When she was always happy, even when she was sad. Now, older and full of regrets, her mind wanders wistfully to those halcyon days.

 

Her nostalgia is broken by the sound of footsteps. They’re close by, not even walking distance. They shuffle on the ocean’s floor like falling dominos. Each creak of footfall a plan foiled, an empire fallen, a world ended. Rose felt a shiver as the figure walked. He didn’t walk towards her, she was thankful for that. But she also wanted to know where they were. Something inside of her drew Rose Quartz to this figure.

 

The figure was cloaked in a robe made of midnight. His bald head reflected the morning sunlight. He walked with a slight limp, though he often forgot to do the limp[2]. Along his side was something that could easily be mistaken for a scythe, but he often corrects people, claiming it’s something far less mundane than it actually is. He smiles a slight, melancholic smile, almost glued to his face. It takes him a moment to come out of his own nostalgia to recognize he’s being watched.

 

IT’S A BIT RUDE, he says in a slight baritone, TO SPY ON OTHER PEOPLE.

 

“Oh, sorry.” Rose said with a slight bit of anxiety hidden by centuries of bravado. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just wanted to say hello.”

 

OH, IS THAT ALL? He sighed, slightly.

 

“Rose Quartz,” she said, sticking her hand out to be shook. She wasn’t sure why she felt off saying those two words. They were her name after all. Yet saying them to the man in black felt like she was lying. No, not lying, she thought. Telling a half truth. She was far more than just another Rose Quartz. And yet, at her heart, she was Rose Quartz. She declared herself Rose Quartz, behaved like Rose Quartz, and lived deliciously. But there was a part of her that didn’t feel like she could ever be Rose Quartz. A part that was still the sad, lonely gem trapped in a system of cruelty. She wanted to believe herself more than she was, or thought she was. But-

 

BILL DOOR, he said with far more certainty. It was a lie, that much Rose could tell. He said it with too much gusto, like a line from a play he had practiced for hours on end[3]. Rose was slightly suspicious of the lean man, a head taller than her, but expressed none of her concerns verbally. Instead, she said

 

“What brings you to the Ocean?”

 

THE OCEAN? Bill scraped his foot along the dry seabed. THERE’S NOT A DROP OF WATER HERE.

 

“There used to be, a long time ago. I’m sure the water’ll come back when it’s feeling better about herself.” Rose let out a humorous chuckle. She avoided his gaze out of habit. Bill was the first person to ever lay eyes on her alone. For a while, she and Pearl were inseparable. After the War, even more so. It wasn’t until their argument that Rose and Pearl spent some time apart. Rose would travel for a while still, before they reunited, meeting new and interesting people along the way[4]. 

 

WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID, Bill asked with a degree of concern.

 

“No, no. It’s just… what is that stone you’re standing by.” Bill smiled a rather warm, yet sad smile. The kind often seen at funerals and weddings alike on the faces of those who aren’t the most important people in the room.

 

AN OLD FRIEND. Rose approached the stone with a degree of apprehension. It was covered in dried moss and dust. As she parted the remains of life, she make out a word on the stone. She didn’t quite know what the word meant, but she would come to learn it to be synonymous with a cleansing breeze. The stone appeared to have been there longer than Rose had. The words were beginning to decay with time.

 

“I’ve heard of these. I think they’re called Gravestones. Bit odd to see one as old as this.”

 

YES, THEY WERE QUITE POPULAR IN THE OLD WORLD. ALWAYS LIKED THEM. A SIGN THAT YOU WERE HERE.

 

“The old world?” Rose let out slight laugh that could easily be mistaken for a sigh.

 

IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’VE BEEN THERE.

 

“Can’t say I feel the same.”

 

YOU’RE FROM THE OLD WORLD?

 

“An old world,” replied Rose with a light knowing smirk. Bill didn’t fully get the joke.

 

SO… WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE OCEAN.

 

“I’m… picking something up.” Bill looked at Rose. He recognized that tone from so many people. A cop trying to drink his guilt away; an authoritarian trying to make a kinder authority; a man who should have been dead, but always heeded the call of the working man. They would all meet their ends in the end, eventually. But it was the one that he stood before that Bill felt he needed to honor. “Over there.” Rose pointed at the structure a mile or so away. It should have been in the shape of a “T,” but the left side had been crushed by the weight of time.

 

MAY I ACCOMPANY YOU? I BELIEVE I HAVE SOME BUSINESS THERE AS WELL.

 

Rose smiled a rather sad smile and agreed. They walked in silence. Not because they had nothing to say to one another. Rather, it was because they had too much they could be saying to other people. Apologies, thank yous, screams of anger, cries of sorrow. But they weren’t with those people, so they walked in silence. Bill wondered if Rose knew what she was about to do. That sad, melancholic tone implied more than he thought she’d want it to. Maybe she did understand those thoughts and wanted them to come true. It was her choice, he supposed, he couldn’t make it for her.

 

They arrived at the shrine, the windows still as pristine as ever. Beyond the broken hallway, the inside was still as perfect as ever. Like a retail store from hell, the halls were too perfect. Within the shrine, were a collection of clocks. Hourglasses made from the remains of countless gems. Most existed to be traps for would-be-archeologists out to make a name for themselves by discovering time travel. Rose gently lifted the clock, barely larger than her arm, off the table. As she expected, while the room did shake, the drought prevented the sea from taking the shrine away.

 

Eventually, she came across a small glass ball with an hourglass inside. Bill made an inquisitive noise. “It’s… an old family heirloom. Supposed to help people out in times of trouble.” Rose said no lies in that moment, though she could see that Bill recognized the lack of context she provided. Before saying anything, Bill pulled out an hourglass of his own. It wasn’t shaped like a traditional hourglass. It had two heads on the top, one slightly larger and flatter than the other. Once upon a time, it twisted and curved into itself, less a statue and more an Escher design in suffering. Now, it merely had two heads. Bill placed it on the table beside him.

HE WASN’T THE BRAVEST OF PEOPLE, NOT REALLY. HE WAS A COWARD, A FRAUD, AND A BIT OF A JERK. He smiled the way only a skeleton can. AND YET, I MISS HIM. USED TO SEE HIM ALL THE TIME, RUNNING ABOUT. FAILING TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE, NO MATTER HOW HARD HE TRIED. HE DIED QUIETLY, IN HIS SLEEP. I ALWAYS THOUGHT “ONE OF THESE DAYS, HIS BAD LUCK’S GOING TO CATCH UP TO HIM. A DRAGON WILL BURN HIM ALIVE, A SPELL WILL GO WRONG, OR SOME KNIGHT’LL JUST STAB HIM.” I’M NOT DISAPPOINTED THAT HIS DEATH WAS SO QUIET. EVERYTHING ENDS, EVENTUALLY. BUT… He pause, uncertain of what he’s saying.

 

“You wish it hadn’t happened so soon?” Bill smiled at Rose. And then, Rose asked, “But what if you could undo it? Fix all the mistakes you made, make more time available for you and him? Why not give justice to the people who deserve it?” Rose wasn’t sure why she said that last part. Maybe it was because she was thinking of Bismuth or Pearl or Pearl. She looked out the window of the shrine. The sun glistened on the hourglasses, ornate and indigo. She thought of the Diamonds, of Spinel, of all those who died on worlds she never set foot on.

 

NO ONE GETS SECOND CHANCES. THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN THE UNIVERSE. THERE’S JUST US. Bill let out a small solitary chuckle. IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME AND FIX THINGS, OTHER THINGS WOULD STILL BE BROKEN. YOU HAVE TO MOVE FORWARD, BEYOND WHAT’S BEEN DONE TO YOU. WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO OTHERS. OTHERWISE, YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO LEAVE THAT MOMENT.

Rose said nothing. She looked at the strange man in black, his eyes blue with the infinite of the stars, his smile a bit forced, his face bald. He stood there, as if expecting her to say something in response. They stood together for a good couple of minutes. Then Bill walked away, out the shrine and towards some other business. Rose looked at the thing in her hand, a ball of glass with all of time and space to her beck and call. She sighed before placing the ball on the table[5]and walking out to an uncertain future.

If you would like to support me, consider backing my Kickstarter for the book The Tower Through the Trees or sponsoring me on Patreon.

---

[1] It would take another five centuries for the waters to return to the Ocean. Rose would spend many days and nights wandering its depths, be it alone or with the survivors.

[2] It is often speculated as to why he fakes a limp. Some have claimed it’s to make humans feel as if he is one of them. Humans often have ignored large swaths of a person so long as there’s a single characteristic to latch onto. From limps to hunchbacks to a snappy sense of humor, the human mind can be easily distracted with artifice. 

[3] In truth, Mr. Door had only appeared in one play, a minor role as the Grim Reaper in a riff on William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. For a last minute replacement, he did rather poorly. It was as if he hadn’t even read the script before stepping on stage. That the play was a success had more to do with the producers conning the audience into thinking a royal’s nervous breakdown was part of the show.

[4] Pearl, for her part, would mope for a month before being prodded into telling a story. Garnet quite liked her stories while Amethyst put up an artifice of boredom. As the years went on and the oral tradition was supplanted by the novel, Pearl would write her stories for the world to see. She would go through many an agent over the years, ultimately living past them all. Her work would span many mediums from television to prose to comics. Her longest dry spell would be mostly spent avoiding raising a child.  

[5] Rose would return to the Sea Shrine three more times in her life. The first in 1201, the second in 1821, and the third in 1913. She would always go alone and never see anyone on her way there. Every time, she would place the ball back on the table and walk away, allowing the sea to consume the shrine.