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numberth1rte3n · 10 months

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Stuck

BY NUMBER TH1RTE3N

Let me tell you what happened, way back when.

I was driving with my brother Thomas. We were headed to the city. It was a long drive, and we were hungry and tired. Thomas shared the last half of a Slim Jim with me, keeping me awake for a little longer. We had been on the road for fifteen hours, trying to get as far inland as possible. We had gotten separated from Thomas’ wife and kids back in town. I had already lost mine. Thomas tried to tune in to different radio stations hoping for some news, flicking the dial this way and that, but nothing was coming up. Just static. After fifteen minutes of that, I snapped at him to stop and he snapped back.

We were quiet after that. It was just starting to get dark, and we had a few more hours to go. I took the wheel so that he could get some shuteye. We had been switching every hour or three, and I decided to take the last stretch so he could rest. We had left behind the paved roads way back; they were too backed up from all the cars people abandoned right at the start of it all to make any real progress. For the next few hours, it would be me and this road.

I didn’t hear much besides the sound of tires on gravel. The pebbles the tires kicked up hit the bottom of the truck bed every so often, making a sound like heavy rain from behind the cabin. Every now and again Thomas would snore and break the silence, which I appreciated. It was loud enough that it jolted me back to attention every time. Had to keep my eyes on the road. It was late now, and I was getting too damn sleepy. I was scared that I would have to pull over and sleep through the night, but we couldn’t afford to lose any time.

The only reason we got this far ahead of them is because we got lucky. We lived far enough away from the coast that we managed to avoid most of the traffic. I could barely see past my headlights. No moon in the sky, either.

Thomas snored again, and I woke up to find myself veering off into a ditch. I could only get out a quick “oh fuck” before we fell in at seventy miles an hour. Truck started rolling almost immediately. The windshield cracked into cobwebs. Two of the windows shattered into thousands of tiny shards, cutting through me this way and that. I felt my head hit the ceiling, and then my vision went black.

Not sure how long it was before I woke up, but when I did it was pitch black, and I was upside down. I felt something dripping down my ear and thought we had somehow landed in a puddle, but it was just my blood. My head was split open where it hit the ceiling. I spit out some more blood and glass and reached for Thomas and felt his arm. He was there, but he wasn’t moving.

“Tom!” Nothing. I grabbed his arm real tight and shook. Heard some glass fall off of him.

“Thomas!” Nothing twice. I let his arm go.

I muttered another cuss under my breath and tried to get my bearings. It was dark as all Hell, but my eyes were starting to adjust since the headlights were out. The windshield had broken completely, and the sky was on the ground. Somehow, we rolled right out of the ditch and into the road again, completely ass-backwards and flipped. I knew I was looking at where we were coming from because the ripped up grass and dirt and metal from where I had driven into the ditch was staring me in the face.

This time I tried to look at Thomas as square as I could. Turned my head and got a real good look at him. He was in one piece but hurt bad. I could tell just from one glance even in the blackness. I saw blood dripping from his head too, though a lot more of it at once than mine. His seatbelt kept him where he was, but his arms were straight up in the air. Or I guess they were down towards the ground. He looked like he was stuck in time at the top of a rollercoaster. Not that you all would know what those are. They were a lot of fun. I remember once, when we were kids, Mama had taken us both to Orlando all the way in Florida, to this park. We rode all the rollercoasters, Thomas and me. We had a blast. He looked just like he did then, but he didn’t look like he was having fun. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open and slack, like someone had just decked him in the jaw.

I had done enough gawking for a lifetime at this point. The adrenaline was in full swing and I could barely feel anything. I braced myself against the ceiling, cutting my hand on some more glass. Put my feet on the floor above. Found the belt release and fell out of my seat. I didn’t catch myself in time and landed right on my shoulder. When I hit the ground, I heard a popping sound like a zit makes and I knew I dislocated it, but I couldn’t wait around. I found my window, thankfully shattered, and crawled out of it with my left arm. Made it outside and stood up.

I could feel the pain start to set in my shoulder, and my head. I knew that unless I moved quick I would be too hurt to help Thomas. I grabbed my right arm and tried to yank it down. Didn’t work, had to stop myself from crying out. Thankfully that sucker went back in place the second time. I could move it again.

I started limping my way over to the passenger side, where Thomas was. First thing I noticed was that he was just not having any good luck. His window was almost perfectly intact. I looked around, almost panicked. Had to find a rock or something. I turned around and slid on my ass down into the ditch, trying to find a rock big and heavy enough to break the window.

While I was looking, I started thinking about a birthday party we had gone to when we were kids. He got stuck under a bounce house that had sprung a leak. Bounce houses were these big plastic balloons shaped like castles that you could jump inside of. Sometimes you could get real high and touch the ceiling, maybe do a flip or two if you wanted to risk breaking your neck. Thomas loved to touch the ceiling. Some kid had tried to be funny and took a butterknife to the back of the bounce house. Thomas was caught up in bouncing and didn’t see the other kids leave when the parents told them to. By the time he realized, the ceiling was touching him, and he was stuck. He started screaming, but nobody knew how to get to him under all that plastic and rubber and netting. I was inside the house drinking a soda or something when it happened, and I only noticed the commotion when Mama ran out to the yard in a hurry. He was four years younger, so I caught on quick to what was happening. I dropped my soda right on the kitchen floor and hauled my little ass all the way to the bounce house. Looked more like a shitty tent at this point. I could hear him howling in there, but I could barely see past all the adults, and the roar of the inflator made it hard to pick out where he was. I looked through all the legs blocking my view, trying my damndest to spot anything. Mama was climbing all over the bounce house in a frenzy, ripping up netting and lifting whole sheets of rubber with some superhuman strength. She was screaming Thomas’ name, but she got her foot caught on some netting and tripped.

When she fell, she puffed up some of the air left in the plastic and I saw Thomas’ hand for only a split second, but that was all I needed. I ran, fast as I could and dove between the grass and deflated rubber. Grabbed his hand and pulled so hard I thought I would rip his arm off. Dragged him out with a fury, and we both went sprawling in the grass. Felt the whole backyard breathe a sigh of relief. He and I laughed, even though Mama came over and scolded Thomas for not listening to the adults when they told him to get out.

That’s how it was for our whole lives then on. Thomas would get stuck somewhere, and I would yank him out. No matter what. Happened when he sprained his ankle on a bike when he was ten. Happened when he ran away from home for a time and got mixed up with some bad folks. Happened when I was his best man at his wedding and he almost got cold feet at the altar. And it was happening then. Thomas was stuck. I needed to yank him out.

I had been walking for a few minutes, tearing up the ground the whole way, trying to spot rocks. For a ditch, it was almost too empty. Just small pieces of gravel, sand, and the occasional tire tread. I knew I couldn’t be out here much longer before Thomas lost too much blood. I was almost about to turn back around and try to kick the window in when I caught something in the corner of my eye. It was a piece of rebar. Probably from some old construction project. I grabbed it and picked it up, taking a good look at it to make sure it would hold up. It was thick, strong, and heavy as shit. Good enough for me. I turned back towards the truck, and froze.

One of them was standing right over it. Right over Thomas. That was the first time I saw one of them in the flesh, if you can even call it that. Different than what I had seen on the news when it all went to shit. Up until that point, I had only seen them in glimpses, or silhouetted through smoke and fire.

In all of God’s creations, I have never seen something so frightening. Four legs. Tall. Like if you mixed a giraffe with a crocodile with the Devil himself. It was taller than some of the trees lining the road. I remember that it was covered in scales that reflected the stars that had just started to appear in the sky. It had a long tail. I could barely make it out, but I could see it whipping and waving in the darkness behind the beast. Didn’t really have eyes or a face or a mouth, just something pointy like a football where its head should be. It was making a sound too. Nothing I ever heard before. Sounded like the radio static from when Thomas was messing with the dial, but it was lower, a hum instead of scratch. It must have heard the crash and come to investigate.

I couldn’t tell where this thing was looking on account of it not having eyes, but its head thing was pointed towards the truck, moving up and down the length of it. Taking it in. It lifted one of its arms and tilted the truck sideways. I noticed it had something like hands, but there were only three fingers that ended in sharp claws. Moved its head around to see inside the passenger side window. To see Thomas. When it spotted him, the sound it was making got quieter, more focused. Started to sound less like static and more like a dial tone. Used to happen when phone calls dropped. Phones were… actually, don’t worry about that. Would take too much time to explain. Point is, the damn thing was taking a good look at Thomas, and it was very happy that it found him. I still couldn’t move. My legs were shaking something fierce, and if I had drank any more water on the drive I would have definitely pissed myself where I stood. I gripped the rebar so tight in my hands that my knuckles were bone white.

The beast took its hand and kept tilting the truck until it landed on its wheels again, right side up. Some more glass and metal peeled off the body of the truck and I saw Thomas get tossed around in his seat a bit. He was still knocked out, but his head wasn’t bleeding anymore. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. The beast took its arm away from the truck and brought its tail around. It swung the tail over its left shoulder and into the starlight. I saw then that it wasn’t just one tail. It was hundreds of thin, wiry fibers that wound up tight. When they got close to the truck, they opened up like some nasty ass flower, and started wrapping around the truck. A few of them started to wrap around Thomas. I saw then that his eyes had opened, and he was looking right at me.

I don’t know when I started moving, but by the time I realized that I had, I was already at the truck. I was right outside Thomas’ window, the massive body of that monster looming over me. I grabbed the rebar tighter than before, splitting the skin on my knuckles, and brought it back.

“Cover your eyes!” I shouted at him. One of his arms was trapped by the tails, but he used his right arm to shield his face and turned away from the window as best he could.

Swung that piece of rusty metal at the window with so much force I thought I’d pop my shoulder out again, but thankfully it was only the window that popped. Glass rained on Thomas like diamonds, but thankfully he was mostly fine, save the injuries he had from the crash. I reached inside the truck and pulled the lock bolt up. Threw the door open.

At this point, the beast had figured out what I was up to. Probably thought I had some nerve, trying to take away its prize. The sound it was making changed again. Not static, not a dial tone. More like a high-pitched squeal that I could hear from inside my head. I screamed, that’s how loud it was. Thomas was grabbing tails and ripping them off him, trying to reach his seatbelt. He stuffed his arm through a few of them that were starting to coil around his waist, and I heard that heavenly click.

I barely had a chance to lunge for my brother before I was grabbed by my leg and hoisted up. Damn thing lifted me off the ground with some of its tails. It swung me around to its head, tilting it this way and that. I took my rebar and swung at it, but it kept me right out of reach. I tried a few more swings, but each time, I was just short. After a few seconds, I dropped it. It landed on the hood of the truck, piercing through the metal into the motor. As I watched the rebar fall, I saw that Thomas had made his way out of the truck, but he was still hurt bad, and was trying to crawl into the ditch. He was leaving a trail of blood and glass.

Not sure if it was me being distracted from the beast, but I saw its head follow my gaze and find Thomas again. Another sound, like the last one, but almost too loud. Loud enough to stop Thomas in his tracks and burst my eardrum. In the next moment, the beast swung me around its body and threw me back onto the road. I landed on my right leg and heard a cracking sound, and ended up rolling several feet away from the truck. I tried to get up, but my leg wasn’t working. Figured I broke it. I was bleeding everywhere now, scraped on every inch of my body. I must have looked like roadkill. I saw Thomas limping toward me, fast as he could. His hand was stretched out.

Tails came out from behind him, wrapping every which way, quicker than before. He tried to rip them off like last time, but there were just too damn many. I guess the beast must have gotten sick of us. It started to pick him up. He was only a few feet away. I reached my hand out.

Last thing I saw before I blacked out from the pain was our fingers brushing against each other. He got pulled away from me then, screaming into the dark.

I woke up near dawn. Saw some stars blink out as the sun came up. I could barely move. Tried to pick myself up, but my leg was shot. I looked and it was bent a weird way, very broken. God only knows how much time passed before I woke up, but it was obvious even then that Thomas was gone. I remember laying there, just crying, for hours. I could feel Mama crying in Heaven. Sun was baking me overhead before I started to crawl my way to the truck.

I hoisted myself up from the front wheel, slicing my hands open some more on the broken glass, and I grabbed the rebar. Used what little strength I had to pull it out. Took off my shirt and used a jagged piece of metal sticking out from the truck to cut strips of it and make a makeshift splint. Let me tell you, setting a dislocated shoulder hurts like Hell. Setting a broken leg made me wish the whole damn would have just come off all at once.

I sat there, breathing heavy, blood all dried up. Sat there for a long time. Thinking about my brother. My little brother was ripped from me, and the last thing I did was snap at him for trying to find some help on the radio. I thought for a while, and then I cried again, for a long, long time. Those beasts had taken my whole family away. Not just Mama, or my own wife and kids, but now my brother, too. I had no one left. I wanted to feel sad, but I was just angry with myself. It was my fault. If I had stopped to rest, even for an hour or two, maybe I could have made it to the city, with my brother. If I hadn’t been so impatient, would my brother be here today? If he had kept driving, would it have been me taken by the beast? If I had been quicker with rebar, would I have been able to save Thomas and get away from that thing?

Ifs, ifs, and more ifs. I could “if” all I want, but that couldn’t change the reality of the situation. I was frozen in place, my little brother helpless and injured in a broken truck, and I just stood there and watched. By the time I moved, it may as well have already been too late.

If it were up to me at the time, I would have been fine dying right then and there, cut up in the middle of nowhere next to my totaled truck. At least then I could have been with my family again.

My stomach growled, then. It twisted and turned, and I threw up whatever was left in my belly, which was the Slim Jim that Thomas had given me yesterday during the drive. I was hungry, and I wiped the bile from my mouth with my shirt sleeve. I realized something important then. Before I blacked out, Thomas was ripped away, taken by that thing, but it didn’t have a mouth. You need a mouth to eat. What was it going to do with my brother if it didn’t have a mouth to eat him? I started to get real angry, then. These things crawl out of the ocean all of a sudden, and they think they can kill my family and take my brother away from me?

The city was still a whole day’s journey on foot. The truck was gone, my leg was unusable, and I was delirious with thirst and hunger, but I knew what I had to do. I stood up, ignoring the pain that seared through every inch of my body with every step, and I hiked it towards the city. Like a man possessed, I just stared straight ahead at the horizon, used every ounce of grit I had left to just put one foot in front of the other. The sun was almost done setting when I saw the skyline, and it was way past dark when I collapsed outside the gates you all had built.

It’s been twenty years, I think, since then? Lost count some years back. I really can’t thank you all enough for taking me in and caring for me. Since that day, I tried to learn as much as I could about those beasts, to get any information on where Thomas could have been taken. Some five years after I got here, when I learned we could kill them after one found their way inside the walls, that was all the resolve I needed. I still don’t know where Thomas is after all this time, but I know he’s not dead. I don’t care how long it takes. I may be getting up there in age, and I may need to use this piece of rebar here as a crutch, but I will find Thomas.

That’s the thing about me and Tom. Sure as shit he gets stuck in a lot of messy situations, but he knows how to hold out. He’s strong. He’s my brother after all. When I stop and think about it, this doesn’t change how things have always been. Somewhere out there, with all those devils, Thomas is stuck. One day, I’m going to yank him out.

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numberth1rte3n · 10 months

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LOVE LOVE LOVE

Eileen Fairchild

Her current outfit in the comic!! She’s a magic fencer who specializes in burst attacks. Maybe has knives on her at all times.

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numberth1rte3n · 10 months

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The Philosopher King

BY NUMBER TH1RTE3N

The palace doors had closed to his subjects for the night. He would take them in each day, from dawn to dusk, and hear the troubles that plagued their minds, the first of his line to do so. His ornate throne pierced him at the end of the days, the many stolen jewels leaving their silhouettes on his wrinkled bottom, his back aching against its rigid craftsmanship.

This evening was a particularly difficult one. With each tale of stolen goods, of disease ravaging a farmer’s crop, of patricide, homicide, infanticide, suicide, his heart grew heavier and heavier until it felt like lead in his chest. Still, he heard his people, and gave them the audience they so desperately needed.

As the countless servants, each of which the King knew by name, prepared the palace for the approaching evening, the King let out a long sigh. He tried to release the tension in his brow and jaw as the air escaped his lungs. It did not work. Noticing the King’s look, the Vizier approached the throne.

“Sire,” asked he, “why do you concern yourself so with the ants that walk at your feet?”

The King had asked himself this question many times before, when the lead in his heart began to form early in his reign. He considered the question carefully still, as he did with all his subjects. He replied after much thought.

“I want to feel it,” said he, the King, “every ounce of their pain.

“Their hurt is my hurt, their plights mine, each trouble on their shoulders is mine to bear as well.”

At this, the Vizier scoffed. Disappointed, the King pressed his subject further.

“Vizier,” said he, “what is an ant, without the colony? A single ant barely exists. It wanders aimlessly, carrying food in its mandibles for no one, and no reason. The colony is the most powerful creature that there is, many individuals making the whole.”

The King gestured around his throne room, lingering for a moment over the hallway leading to the royal gardens. His reign had seen a diminishment of previous displays of decadence, yet it still remained a sight to behold. Gilded columns so high that it pained the King to look up to the top. The last of the palace servants began to dim the jeweled chandeliers that lit the throne room during the day. Others began cleaning a section of the floor, a direct line from the massive palace doors to the throne, which marked where the King’s countless subjects would line up for their chance at succor.

“Our kingdom is no different.”

The Vizier paused, following the King’s gaze. He shook his head dismissively, offering his arm to the elder ruler, helping support his weight to begin their nightly walk. As they descended the dais from the throne, the Vizier replied.

“My King, you delude yourself once again with these grandiose comparisons.” They started down the hallway. The King knew his Vizier had a tendency to be stubborn, much like his father before him, so he pressed him again.

“Truly, Vizier? Do explain what you mean. Though my bones now creak, my mind remains sharp.” The King was curious. He began to rise from his jagged throne, slowly, and the Vizier assisted his descent from the dais.

The Vizier began to explain as they walked down the hallway. “An ant is nothing without the colony, yes. Though have you ever felt the bite of a single ant? It is alone, but the discomfort it inflicts cannot be understated. Such a tiny thing can have a profound impact on beings as gigantic as us, from the ant’s perspective. How can you say that that discomfort barely exists?”

The King thought for some time. Then, he said, “Vizier, you are indeed wise. I must ask this same question you pose to the stars in the sky.”

The vizier was confused.

“Sire, how do you mean? How would it be possible to pose any question to the stars in the sky? They do not speak our language, and they are far beyond our reach.”

“Indeed, my loyal Vizier, they are. But do they not exist, as the ants do?”

“Yes.”

“Then how are we different from the miniscule ant?” asked he.

“Sire, I am afraid I do not understand.”

As they entered the hallway leading to the gardens, the King saw that there were marks on his arms from where they rested on his throne. His bones ached, weighed down from the mass of the metal ball that was his heart. His and the Vizier’s boots clacked against the polished marble steps. His royal mail clinked and jingled beneath his robes, muffled wind chimes clinging to his chest. He turned to his subject.

“Come,” he said, “let us continue.”

The King let his arm go free from the Vizier, and walked down the halls of his palace slowly, methodically. His steps echoed, the sound emanating from his footfalls bouncing down the near-infinite corridor. He and his subject walked in silence for some time, breathing the still air as their shadows danced in the torchlight from the many sconces.

They came upon the tapestries. The uncountable threads that adorned the walls depicted the history of the Kingdom and its people.

The King stopped to examine the very first piece. In it, there was his many-times-great-grandfather. His clothes were torn and patched together, and his hair was unkempt. There was no crown on his head. He was surrounded by livestock, and a shepherd’s crook was in his hand. His face was not visible. He was overlooking the valley in which the kingdom was founded. The sun was rising in the distance, spreading golden light over the valley. The King moved on.

Another, much further down. On its threads, it displayed his father.

This one was different. The colors in the first tapestry were deep golds and greens, whereas the colors in this one were mostly shades of red. His father was seated in a palanquin made of solid gold, carried by dozens of enslaved subjects. In front of the palanquin was the Kingdom’s army, laying waste to their perceived enemies. Turning away from the army in retreat, many fleeing soldier’s backs were riddled with arrows. The King stopped for some time to gaze into where his father’s eyes would be, but they were covered by the curtains of the palanquin. Only his silhouette was visible. The King moved on.

Next to his father’s tapestry, there was an empty spot where the King’s would be presented, done after his death. He stared at the emptiness and wondered what colors the weavers would use, and what his subjects would depict him as when it was his turn to die.

He turned and walked down another corridor, towards the royal gardens. Upon his arrival, the palace guards opened the massive golden doors to welcome him and the Vizier into the gardens. The King bowed his head in thanks to the guards and continued inside. He walked with the Vizier, breathing in the scent of damp leaves and after-rain. He and the Vizier spent the last few minutes of daylight wandering through the gardens. Instead of the usual arrangement of the Kingdom’s crest, a sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed over the sun, the King had given the gardeners freedom in choosing the flower patterns. As such, the arrangement changes on a seasonal basis, and the King always enjoyed the designs that the gardeners thought up. There have been portraits of members of his lineage, hedges trimmed in the shape of animals, mosaics composed of dozens of different flowers.

The gardens were the King’s favorite place in the palace. There were no walls, and the sky was always clear. When the sun finally set, the King and the Vizier headed towards the end of the gardens. Reaching where he wanted to be, he leaned against a low wall and looked out into the valley.

The Kingdom was vast. From where he stood, the King could not see the edge of his domain, for it bent with the world at the horizon. The roads and buildings intersected and breathed within each other. Lights peppered the valley like so many lost spirits. A smile creeped upon his face. The King looked up. The stars were bright.

“Do you hear the whispers of the ants, Vizier?” asked the King, a whisper himself.

The Vizier took a moment, and listened.

“I do not.”

The King nodded, still gazing at the sky. “Neither can I.”

The King reared his head and mustered all of his strength to shout to the stars.

“Stars! Do you feel our bite? Does it cause you discomfort?”

The stars were silent.

“Vizier, I am hopeful that you can one day come to understand why I concern myself with whom you call ‘ants.” The King swept his hand over the valley. “Without every single person in this Kingdom, I barely exist. This palace would still be rubble and loose stone on the face of the mountain without the skilled work of the masons that bricked and mortared it. The tapestries we passed would still be wool on sheep without the looms of the weavers and the tenacity of the shepherd. I am King of nothing and no one without the countless souls in that valley.”

“Sire, I understand that there is merit in the work that is done by the people of this Kingdom, but why are you so intent on hearing them all? Why open your doors to them? No king before you has gone to such lengths to mingle with the peasantry.”

The King felt his heart become slightly heavier.

“Vizier, do you remember what the kingdom was like under my father’s rule?”

The King could feel his subject shift uncomfortably at the thought.

“I recall vague and distant memories from when I was a child, but nothing complete.” The Vizier glanced at the King, still gazing through the valley. With some hesitation, he continued.

“I do remember that it was not… pleasant.”

The King took his gaze from the valley and fixed it upon the Vizier. He studied the face of his subject. The lines in his face were much less pronounced than the King’s, but they were there, nonetheless. Years of servitude to the crown had taken its toll on the Vizier, just as wearing it had for the King.

“No,” said the King, “it was not.” He looked back over the valley. More lights had come on as the night became darker. The king listened closely. Even with his aged ears, he could hear the din of the marketplace far below, as merchants peddled their wares. Laughter and mirth rang throughout the valley, and the wind carried the sounds of happiness.

“I have spent my entire lifetime attempting to undo the damage that my father and forefathers did.

“They are more than just peasantry, Vizier. They are masons and bridge builders. Carpenters and cobblers. Bakers and merchants. I am them, just as they are me.” The king felt his crown grow heavier upon his head, as if it were also turning to lead. He reached up and pulled it off to examine it. He turned it round in his hands, watching as the precious jewels encrusted in gold reflected the starlight.

He spoke as the lights danced. “Vizier, I am desperate to feel what they feel. I have never had to struggle as they have. Each day at dawn, my attendants warm my bath and add scents of lavender and rose to the water. All my meals are prepared by the finest chefs throughout the lands. My garments are woven from the finest silks and dyed the richest, rarest purple.” The King placed his crown down on the low wall and looked out again toward the sprawling kingdom that he inherited.

He knew that while he wore the crown, he would never know the hurt that his people felt. Yes, tonight was a night of merriment. The valley was alight with cheer and camaraderie, but tomorrow would be more of the same. A young father would come through the palace gates and beg the king to spare an extra month’s wage so that he could feed his children. Maybe he would be a fletcher or a smith, but either way the King would meet his demand and send him on his way. Behind that young father would be a woman, a seamstress perhaps, looking for work in the King’s kitchen. She is a gifted chef, more gifted than any of the chefs that currently serve him, but she would be turned away at the gate before the King could see her because she had once been a prostitute. The King would have offered the woman an apprenticeship. After that woman comes another man. He wants justice for the murder of his father by his neighbor, but there is no evidence that the man can present to the King that will allow him to incriminate the murderer. The King will look at the man and know for a fact that he is telling the truth, but his hands will be tied by the intangible rope of bureaucracy, and no justice will be dispensed.

This chain of people will continue, one after the other, winding down the mountainside and into the valley, for miles and miles. Eventually the palace doors will close, and those that waited will continue to wait, until it is their time to be turned away.

“This – all of this – is not mine. It is theirs.” He picked up his crown and placed it back on his head. It was noticeably heavier.

“I cannot hear the ants, and the stars that dot the sky are deaf to my inquiries. But I am not deaf to the pleas of my people.” The King turned and began to walk back to his palace.

“I will not be the stars, and they will not be the ants.”

The King and the Vizier returned through the gardens. They exited into the corridor with the countless tapestries. They did not stop to look this time.

The King reached his bedchamber and bid the Vizier good night. As his subject walked away, the King felt a profound sadness enter him. He hoped that the Vizier understood his reasoning. He entered his chamber, and the King’s attendants rushed to remove his garments to prepare him for bed, but the King shooed them away, thanking them for their service. He wanted to do something, anything, on his own. His servants left the room, and the King began to undress. Alone, he removed his robes, then his mail, his clothes, and his smallclothes. He took off his crown, but he could still feel it pressing down on him, even as it rolled on the floor beneath him. His entire body felt pained and devoid of strength. He collapsed onto his bed, weary. He turned his head and saw the stars through the window. Somehow, they looked brighter than they had moments ago, blinking through the tears that had begun to well up in the King’s eyes.

“My people,” he muttered weakly, “forgive me. I am so tired.”

The next morning, the weavers began another tapestry.

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numberth1rte3n · 11 months

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TH1RTE3N'S TH30R1E5: The Paldea-Kalos War and GameFreak's Subtle Storytelling

BY NUMBER TH1RTE3N

Pokémon is not known for its storytelling. The creature-collecting titan doesn’t have a history of crafting complex narratives in their main series games. There have been exceptions to this trend throughout the series’ twenty-seven years. Pokémon Black & White and sequels Black 2 & White 2 tell a bittersweet tale that grappled with a compelling question; which was better: a world built of truths, or ideals? In the Sinnoh Region, Cyrus led Team Galactic to terrorize the people and was barely stopped before his goal of using Dialga and Palkia to destroy the current universe and create another to replace it as its new god was achieved. No big deal!

Pokémon does have a history of making references to serious, sometimes dark events that occur in the world. Lieutenant Surge is Vermillion City’s gym leader, and a… war veteran? What? Where’d “war” come from? Does this imply that there are wars in this fictional world, and that both Pokémon and humans fight in those wars, and sometimes they may even DIE in those wars and need to be buried in places like the Pokémon Tower in Lavender Town? Is that a RAICHU???

Despite this endless potential for exploration, Pokémon strays little from its timeless (some Pokémon fans may say “tired”) story formula: start in Place A, pick starter, battle rival, catch Pokémon on the way to Place B thru Z, battle random trainers and a team of bad guys, become the biggest, baddest trainer in the region, rinse and repeat until there are no more Pokémon to catch nor trainers to fight. Pokémon Scarlet & Violet broke away from this tradition more than any previous title with its open-world gameplay though this formula is obviously still widely accessible and fun for at the very least 22 million people as of May.

What about other Pokémon fans that see its narrative potential? The ones that pour through all the game text, looking for the messages hidden by the developers inside of every trash can, lore book, and NPC conversation in every game? Those people sense something buried deep beneath the surface, and as of this latest entry in the series, they may finally get their wish. They'll just have to look inside… a crater?

Enter: The Paldea-Kalos War.

In Pokémon X & Y, the player learns that the Kalos Region was at war with a “neighboring nation” in ancient times. Desperate to decisively end the war, AZ created the Ultimate Weapon, and used it. The Ultimate Weapon released enough energy to create mega stones and spur mega evolution, and it is heavily theorized the Ultimate Weapon was the catalyst for the timeline split referenced in the Delta Episode of Pokémon Omega Ruby & Alpha Sapphire. Something that powerful had to leave a mark, right?

In Scarlet & Violet, Area Zero is a post-game zone located within the Great Crater of Paldea. In the game, the player learns that Paldea was a mighty empire brought low. This begs the question: brought low by what exactly? Maybe something that breaks timelines? Given that there is some evidence that Paldea and Kalos are geographically connected within the world of Pokémon, if it is true that the Great Crater of Paldea was caused by the Kalos Region's Ultimate Weapon attack, it would be the juiciest mystery to ever be thought up by GameFreak, and allow for some absolutely thrilling storytelling through its implications.

If Pokémon were to ever expand its storytelling potential, now would be the perfect time. If the events of several mainline Pokémon games were influenced by firing a weapon so powerful it tore a hole into the Paldea Region, and the Pokémon timeline itself, that would be nothing short of narrative genius. Pokémon will always be timeless, but it has the opportunity to be so much more if it embraces its storytelling potential: immortal.

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numberth1rte3n · 11 months

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TH1RTE3N'S TR4V3L5: In The Shadow of the Dragon-God

BY NUMBER TH1RTE3N

I have been playing video games my whole life. Since I could pick up a controller with my grubby little toddler hands, the medium has never been far from my grasp. From my first adventures in gaming where I would watch my older cousin play the original Kingdom Hearts on the PlayStation 2, to getting my very own PS2 for my fourth birthday and playing Jurrasic Park: Operation Gensis well into my childhood nights (yes, I DID let my dinos run loose and eat my park-goers, thank you very much). In all my years of playing games across countless genres and developers, there have been few times in my life where playing a game has made me gasp, drop my jaw, make my breath catch in my chest, let a “wow” spill forth from my lips.

Climbing the western edge of the Gerudo Highlands for the first time in Breath of the Wild was one of those times for me. I was following my red pin towards a Sheikah Tower that I needed to unlock. Kind of. I was sort of aimless, wandering the rolling hills of Hyrule, doing that thing I do best when I play massive open-world games like BOTW. That thing being, wandering aimlessly towards the loose direction of my initial objective. I love to lose myself in games. To explore every corner of the map, to drink in the scenery, admire how the score compliments the situations I encounter, and I ESPECIALLY read every bit of lore I can find. Well, at least I try to (looking at you BioWare!) As games get bigger and more grand, and with the apparent renaissance of the open world genre across the industry, I am very grateful for lore journals and notebooks becoming a standard practice.

Wandering through the Great Hyrule Forest for the first time certainly made me say “wow”... sometimes out of frustration!

It was on one of these wanderings that I crested a hill in the Highlands, not even sprinting and using up my stamina, but more slowly and with care, in a strange pseudo-reverence to the talented artists and engineers that built the world that I was wandering in. I remember stepping over the hill with my game camera pointed to what was behind Link. I turned the camera to a gorgeous view of Lake Hylia at sunset. It was a stunning sight, one I decided I would stop and admire for a few seconds. Many real people with real lives and real love for the Legend of Zelda series spent many real hours of their lives on making sure that the wind blew through the grass on the Highlands at just the right speed, and that the crickets chirped at the right pitch and volume. Someone had to make sure the sunset was the right shade of orange, and I intended to be the one to make note of its hues.

I noticed something right then, out of the corner of my right eye. How long had it been there? My reaction was to turn my camera quickly. Was it an enemy that I hadn’t encountered? Some new form of Guardian? Heavens forbid… what if it was another keese swarm?! My eyes adjusted as the motion blur from the camera pan settled. What I saw wasn’t a new enemy; guardian, keese or otherwise. It was… wait… what is that? Is that a dragon? OH MY GOSH THAT’S A DRAGON!!! And a dragon it was. Snaking its way out from beneath Lake Hylia, was the yellow-green visage of Farosh.

My first experience with a Zelda game was in 2013, playing Wind Waker HD on the WiiU. The admittedly charming themed console was pre-loaded with a copy of Hyrule Historia, Nintendo’s attempt at weaving a cohesive narrative from the notoriously incohesive franchise. Like I said, I am nothing if not a lore nerd. At that point, I had been a bit-more-than-casual Zelda fan, and had taken some forays into the “Zelda timeline” YouTube holes, where I spent a bit (read: many dozens of hours) of time.

Seeing the Temple of Time in Ruins after fighting Ganondorf within its halls in Wind Waker HD was jarring to say the least.

It’s moments in games like these that I find myself reflecting on what gaming is to me as a medium. I could have experienced a serpentine dragon-god rising from a lakebottom in a fantasy novel, sure no problem. Heck, I probably have already, who knows these days with all these dragon shows and their houses and stuff! But it wasn’t in a novel. My meeting with Farosh wasn’t planned or scripted. Someone hadn’t written it, published the scene, edited that moment with flowery language until it fit their perspective of what the author thought a mighty creature being revealed might look like. It was my wanderings, a beautifully blank canvas left to uncover built with the love and attention of the people that made Breath of the Wild a reality, that allowed me to cross paths with the dragon. Watching Farosh ascend to light up the skies above Lake Hylia was something I will never forget. I will admit, when starting Tears of the Kingdom this past week, I was nervous that my breath would be measured, that my footfalls would be quicker, that I would press the sprint button more and the camera button less. Thankfully, I can say that is not the case, and I cannot wait to pick my jaw off of the floor once more.

Image Sources: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

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