Reliving The Future

thethemeis: The Fast Lane

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   They told me that there was a cliff just off the motorway past Staples Point where you could travel back in time, if you drove off of it at exactly midnight. I laughed at them at the time. I laughed and I told them to stop being so ridiculous. That’s not even possible, I said. But that night, there was nothing in the world that could have kept me from finding that cliff, and driving straight off of it at top speed. 

   That’s where I was going when I was weaving in and out of traffic on the M46, blasting my horn at the slugs crawling along in the fast lane, and the speed cameras just after the Fairbrook Interchange caught me travelling at 116 miles per hour. That’s where I was headed, when the lights down the centre of the road stopped and I was driving into blind blackness with just the three metres ahead of me visible, lit by my headlights, and the fox’s eyes appeared off to the left and I was travelling so fast that I had no time to react so I ploughed through it but I heard no impact so I don’t know if the fox was a hallucination or it just turned to mush in my grill. That was my destination, when that first police car caught wind of my kamikaze journey and slotted itself into my slipstream, sirens shrieking and lights blazing, and called its two friends to join the chase.

   The speed I was going by then, they had no chance of catching me. Even the helicopter bathing me in a heavenly spotlight as I ripped my beeline in the chilling night air was struggling to keep up. Without regard for my safety, on a mission to put my life and body in jeopardy just to see Jenny again, I pushed the car past 150 miles per hour on that pitch dark road, searching for Gatsby Services, where the metal barrier that I had to smash my way through sat waiting for me.

   When I reached it, I lost the two most cowardly police cars along with my front bumper and headlamps as I demolished the aluminium fencing with my jet black BMW. The third panda car continued its pursuit, following me onto the rocky path to the cliff, through the shrubs and the wildlife I murdered on the way, until its driver worked out where I was going and skidded to a halt. Left alone to meet my fate, I ploughed on through the debris to my glorious destination.

   Haloed by the light from the police helicopter, my front wheels left the cliff edge at exactly 23:59, and I went into freefall.

   For the first few seconds, time stopped and started like I was living inside of a strobe light, as the rocky beach below and the waves that broke against it drew themselves closer to my windscreen by the millisecond. I experienced a soul-crushing disappointment, as I realised that I had gone on nothing but a suicide mission, believing a rumour that was never designed to be truth. I was falling to my death at terminal velocity, and there was nothing I could do now to atone.

   But then it happened. At first, too quickly to control, the images flashing past my eyes with such disorganisation and confusion that I wasn’t sure whether I was experiencing some kind of pre-mortem highlights reel or just fitting in panic; then, as my brain tuned in to the blurry images more accurately, bringing it all into focus, more slowly and easier to affect. I soon realised that I was being transported to all of the moments in my life where I had done something that I regretted. All of the times I felt guilty or wronged or like my life had taken a wrong turn, they were rushing before my eyes, begging to be tweaked.

   Wetting myself at primary school. Cheating on tests and being caught. Cheating on schoolyard girlfriends with meaningless kisses. Arguments where the smartest, most biting retort had only dawned on me the morning after, over breakfast with my parents. Jokes I had tried to make in front of rooms full of new people, only to watch the joke fall flat and those strangers give each other pitying looks. It all zoomed past, as I disregarded the chaff to get to the crux, so that I could change my past, and in doing so, change my future too.

   I saw her face before I realised I had progressed that far through my life, and the stream slowed right down as I took her in. Here she was: Jenny, my beautiful ex fiancée, grinning at me with her thin nose and large eyes and full lips revealing paper white teeth. The face I hadn’t seen in two years had appeared in my eyes again and took my breath away with its beauty, almost making me forget what I was even doing here, physically falling through the air at a million miles an hour, but spiritually reliving a past I yearned to correct.

   I lived in that past for the entire duration of the relationship we once had, changing everything. The way I treated her, the way I thought of her, it was all renovated by the knowledge of what I had, which was only informed by the fact that in my previous future, she was gone. Every morning, I told her she was beautiful. I hugged her and I kissed her and I slept next to her with complete and utter contentment, worshipping her for being the most beautiful human being I had ever chanced upon.

   Where before I had criticised her taste in music or literature purely for the sake of contradicting her views, which I thought of as overconfident and ill thought out, this time I agreed wholeheartedly. I grabbed her hands and danced with her around her bedroom to Paramore songs and kissed her neck while she read cheap crime books, because I realised then that life was too short to disagree over such trivial matters; and also because if I was honest with myself, we shared so many of those tacky tastes anyway.

   I took back all the times I had been snappy and uptight. When the urge overcame me to shout at her or cut her down nastily in the middle of one of her uninformed rants, I chose this time to resist it. I heard her out, I let her finish, and then I grabbed her shoulders and kissed her mouth and told her that I loved her because that’s all that matters and heated debates are made for ponces in suits, not young lovers. I never told her she was wrong even when she was, I never took her for granted, and I never let her think she was anything other than perfect.

   And most importantly of all, I stripped away all that jealousy. All the insecurity I’d felt at the time, weighing me down like the world’s heaviest gelatine chainmail, I deemed to be completely useless, and left it locked in a time capsule in the past. I let her talk to whoever she wanted to talk to and flirt with whatever she felt like flirting with, because I knew that deep down, she was devoted to me, and everything she did was for me all along. Having the gift of hindsight made it infinitely easier to watch her throw herself around the dancefloors I could never navigate, and our relationship blossomed under the sunshine I allowed it to bathe in, as I blew away the clouds I had manufactured the first time.

   After we made love on her birthday, Jenny dressed in one of the kinky costumes she always loved to wear for my benefit in the bedroom and I burning with desire and love for her stronger than I had ever felt, after that, I felt that my work in the past was done, and decided to fastfoward to the present day, to my new future that awaited me like a light at the end of the tunnel. I relinquished my hold on the past, and let the images zoom past once again.

   But they went too fast. The memories that I couldn’t remember because I hadn’t lived them yet, they sprang past my eyes like an elastic band pulled too tight and suddenly released. I lost a grip on the past, and it all passed me by, until I woke up in a car, falling off of a cliff.

   I had changed nothing. Or at least, what I had changed hadn’t mattered. It had all ended up exactly the same. At some point, it had all gone wrong again, despite all that I had edited out in the footage of my lifetime; and I had ended up right back where I started: falling through the air, headed toward a cold, hard death on a pebbled beach. But this time, I felt a warm satisfaction as I drifted through the beam of the police helicopter’s spotlight toward the rocks and the waves, because I had seen Jenny again, and fixed it all. The fact that our love had eaten itself alive sometime since and left me just as distraught as before was a shock that was easily assuaged by the knowledge that this time, I wasn’t completely to blame. I had loved and been loved, and to feel that again was all I had needed.

   With my soul still swimming in this feeling, my body disintegrated against the beach, along with the scarlet Audi it had arrived in, leaving only ashes and smoke in that helicopter’s beam.

To Wish For Empty Skies

thethemeis: The Unexpected

theauthoris: Ben Hayes

   We expected to find hyperspace.
   We never imagined what we would find there.

   In 2203, humanity finally cracked the interstellar travel problem. The discovery of sixthspace, and the Cao-Mulciber drive allowed us to make trips of hundreds of lightyears in just a few days.

   With space suddenly so much smaller, we found human-habitable planets. Not many, but enough. Within decades, our species was at last proof against sudden extinction, no longer at the mercy of Earth's fate.

   What we did not find, was life.
   There were no intelligent aliens - no interstellar federation waiting to welcome us, no rogue AIs lying in wait to subjugate us, nothing but the occasional bit of native fauna.

   And we wondered why.
   Why, on all these worlds, worlds we knew could sustain life, we found none other.

   And then the first ship vanished.

   The Sanssouci, a bulk transport ship carrying food, medicine, and three-and-a-half thousand souls. It left Earth bound for Guangzhe colony, dropped into sixthspace eight days out, and was never seen again.

   We didn't realise. Didn't guess what had begun.
   Three more ships vanished, before we finally understood.

   The recording is historical, and not one person has forgotten the moment they heard it.

   "This is the Los Rheas. We jumped from Nuevos Angeles, en route to Grace's Shore. There is... we were attacked. There is something in sixthspace. Do you understand? Sixthspace is not empty."

   Two days later, the colony on Grace's Shore was gone.
   All trace of it, every person, every building, every dropped crisp-packet. They made no transmissions, and there was no warning. They simply vanished.

   It didn't take long for us to guess what had happened.
   Something had followed the Los Rheas, divined its destination. Something terrible.
   The government ordered an immediate moratorium on sixthspace travel.
   People panicked. Trying desperately to get home to their families, they hijacked ships, bought passage with smugglers and black-marketeers. And in doing so, they made a trail.

   Earth was lost almost instantly. It was too large, too well known. People flocked there in droves, and it must have burned like a beacon in the vast, grey expanse of sixthspace. Billions upon billions of people, gone. The great colonies, too. Lincolnsheim. Albion. Tien-sha. All wiped clean, as people led fate to them.

   And so we are come to this, a last few scant handfuls of humanity, clinging precariously to our most distant and most desolate worlds, the places to which no-one wished to flee.

   We left no traces, no Ozymandias amidst the shifting sands. In eons to come, if explorers of another race should ever land upon our birthworld, will they too wonder at its emptiness, and think themselves alone among the stars?

   We know now why we found no other life.
   And every day, we watch the skies and pray that no-one comes.

Fresh Start

thethemeis: Let Down

theauthoris: Deadbeat

I've always dreamed of seeing the future, who hasn't. This isn't really the ideal scenario for doing so, but it's a silver lining. I could see my mum in my dad's arms, struggling to hold back her tears. Sure i'd miss them and as any parent will tell you, this situation is 10 times harder on them than it is on me. But we all knew there was no alternative, I'd been to just about every specialist I could afford to see and they all said the same, it was inoperable. It was either this or being dead within 2-4 weeks.

At first, when the doctor from the Royal London Hospital suggested it to me I thought he was joking. I'd seen reports of it on the news and in the papers, you couldn't miss them, but i'd assumed it was beyond anything I could afford. He explained that they were accepting a cross section of patients with incurable illnesses to be frozen with the understanding that they would be the first to be operated on once the methods had become available. It seemed as far as he knew there should be no reason why the deep freezing process should make any future operational methods any more complicated as all current test patients had awoken in almost identical physical state. The test subjects were mainly just for legal protection, I imagine if they had overlooked something crucial, they much rather find out by killing one of us than one of the soon-to-be-many millionaires and billionaires who would use the service. Either way, I had nothing to lose.

The closer it got to the date, the more excited I got about the prospect. I hadn't had a bad life, but it'd be a stretch for anyone to say that I had lived it to the full. They was certainly nobody that would really miss me, except for maybe my parents. I was only 33, if I could start again then who knew what I could do. They had no accurate estimates for the length of time it would take to find a cure for these things, but it was generally considered that what I had would take longer to find a solution to than most. The world could be an entirely different place by then, I could live out every child's dream. See unimaginable technology, travel at unbelievable speeds, maybe even experience space travel, who knew.

The day came and I went up to the centre, with my parents as companions. They administered various tests to certify that there would be no problems with my stasis. Then they checked that my brain tumour was severe enough and that there would be no other complications that they would have to resolve upon my "awakening", as they referred to it. And here I was standing in front of what was to become my home for the undeterminable future, in a hospital gown, with a mixture of sadness and excitement.

"Once you get inside the chamber you will feel very cold and after approximately 10-15 minutes you will fall into a deep sleep. You shouldn't experience any pain and once you have reach stasis time you fly past without you being aware at all. The next thing you know you'll be waking up on a hospital bed in the future and it will feel as if no time has passed at all. I will give you a few moments to say goodbye."

I said goodbye to my parents and entered the tank. Damn right it's cold. Having taken off all of my clothes I was seriously concerned for my extremities. I adopted the fetal position and began to wonder what I might wake up to find in what would appear to me to be a few moments time. Perhaps the world would become a more peaceful place, the Utopia that science fiction films are based on. Perhaps I was due to awaken into a world where I could no longer die of any physical illness. Perhaps technology would remove all jobs and menial tasks from our world. Perhaps....

"Hello. Are you awake, hello sir. Hello?"

"Err, where am I?"

"Hello sir. It is currently the year 2134, you are in the awakening room in the Royal London Cryo-stasis Centre."

"2134, really? What is the world like now? Am I cured now?"

"Well sir, the world is very different now, in many ways. I believe over the next few days you can learn  all you wish to about the differences between our time and yours. However, I also have some bad news for you. in the 122 years that you have been frozen  we have made many advances in the medical world, but unfortunately we haven't got much closer to finding a solution to your particular problem."

"So why on earth have you awoken me?"

"Well, although we cannot provide a solution to your problem, we have been able to find ways of combatting the majority of medical problems that faced people of your time. Because of this and the many successful and positive responses to the service we provide, stasis procedures have become very popular. The problem for our company is that space has become very rare in our over populated world, so i'm afraid that your pod has been released for a more significant investor."

"Wait a minute, you can't simply cart me out. I have a contract!"

"I'm afraid the contract you signed became obsolete after the legal reform in 2128. All legal documents made before 2078 were defunct from that date on. Now that our facilities are overcrowded we have begun emptying out all pods which are not financially backed. I'm afraid all we can offer you is a place to live for the remaining few weeks of you life."

"Bummer!"

Miles and Miles

thethemeis: What Happened Next?
theauthoris: LiamD

    As he walked through the heavy fire doors into Heathrow Departure Lounge 81, Miles Henderson glanced timidly toward the smooth, steel machine that towered above all else on the opposite side of the room. At approximately two and a half metres high, the device was admittedly not a great deal taller than himself, yet this particular object held certain ominous connotations in Mr Henderson’s mind. The room itself was barely as large as his lounge at home; it wouldn’t take him long to reach his destination. Briefly suspending his slow, deliberate walk toward the Instagrater Terminal, he stopped in the centre of the room and took a deep breath.

  ‘Take all the time you need, sir.’ the smiling attendant in the blood red uniform suggested. ‘And remember, it’s perfectly natural to have second thoughts. If at any point you decide that you no longer wish to go through with it, you only have to say.’ She flashed him a smile with her full red lips that Miles was sure had given many men before him the courage to walk through the terminal without a single look back and surely, if Miles wasn’t fifty years her elder, he may have felt the need to prove his own manhood. But while there were many downsides to growing old, one of the few aspects he enjoyed was a seemingly unconditional kindness and sympathy from young ladies, regardless of how he acted toward them.

   He thanked her, and as she moved back toward the lounge entrance to greet her next customer, Miles nearly jumped at the low drawl which addressed him from beside the terminal. In his pensive state, he had momentarily forgotten about the most important member of staff in the building.

   ‘Good afternoon Mr Henderson, my name is Jack Eastleigh and I’ll be your pilot today.’ He held out a hand and Miles shook it firmly. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been so busy that I didn’t get a chance to read your customer records. Have you Instagrated before?’

   ‘Not exactly…’ Miles murmured, mostly to himself. In a sense he had done it before. In his mind he had run through the Instagration process thousands of times. The short walk to the local terminal, the quick I.D. scan and baggage check-in, the ever-so-brief wait in the now frankly redundant waiting room, the chaperone to the terminal and the brief chat with the pilot before stepping into the Instagrater and being on his merry way. There was but one detail about the process he didn’t know, a question that had plagued him for the forty years that this technology had been around and had made him walk away from his current location time and time again: What Happened Next?

   What bugged Miles the most about this question was that nobody knew the answer for sure. It was impossible to prove. To describe the process as teleportation, to simply say that the Instagrater zapped you from A to B would be the epitome of over-simplification. Despite the commercial attempts at a friendly name for the service, it was the science behind the transport that Miles had come to half-understand and half-fear. An Instagratee, once ready, would be sealed inside the device and literally disintegrated. At the exact same moment of being disintegrated the ‘passenger’ would be reintegrated inside an identical Instagrater at their chosen destination.

   It wasn’t even these technicalities that Miles feared exactly; billions used the service every day and he had not once even heard a whisper of the reintegration process going wrong. Miles’s fear was a more philosophical one. As a man who had been raised by well-meaning Christian parents (an ideology he later rejected entirely), Miles found it incredibly difficult to reject the notion of the human soul. That is not to say he believed in an afterlife and an all-loving God (as mentioned, he rejected the ideologies - later came to loathe them), yet he struggled to accept his conscious mind and sense of self as by-products of his physical body, molecules that could be destroyed and recreated without him noticing. As far as he was concerned, the walk to the Instagrater could well be his last. Sure, an exact copy of himself would walk out the other side believing the whole process went swimmingly and go on living his life, but what consolation was the continued existence of an (admittedly perfect) clone to an original who had ceased to exist?

   When all was said and done, Miles was afraid to die and for that he could not reasonably be blamed.

So he had never gone through with it. Once he had even entered the Instagrater itself (surprisingly bare on the inside, he noted at the time) before the fear had once again become too much and he had turned tail, fleeing home. That had been the winter of ‘56, nearly twenty years ago now. Then it was thoughts of Kate, his dear companion who he couldn’t bare to part with, that had stopped him from taking the trip.  Now she was gone, peacefully at least, but gone all the same, and with her, the last of his family and true friends.

   Yep, he thought to himself. No one left now, I wouldn’t be anywhere near this thing if they weren’t.

   ‘Let’s just be done with it.’ grunted Miles and without a further word he walked inside the terminal,  prepared for the worst. The steel doors closed smoothly behind him.

---

   Inside Arrival Pod 81 of the LAX Instagration Port, Miles Henderson was recovering from a brief tickling sensation. Slowly the pod doors opened to reveal a room not entirely dissimilar from the one he had recently left. If the man now standing in front of him smiling hadn't been there, he would have sworn that he hadn't been transported at all.

   'Congratulations Mr Henderson!' the stranger in the casual blue jeans and smart white shirt jubilantly exclaimed. 'You've just successfully Instagrated. How do you feel?'

   Miles looked at him blankly. This perhaps was the one eventuality of the trip he had failed to prepare for. 'I feel like a stubborn old fool!' he exclaimed, though not without a smile on his lips, and promptly left the building.

   

A New Fear

thethemeis: Idols
theauthoris: LiamD

[HMS Diplomacy] Log – Entry 6838 – [November 8th, 2026]

 

[Peace to the Homelands],

This entry marks our [twelfth and final day] of our exploration of the recently discovered inhabited planet [Hope]. But alas, it is my unhappy duty to bear the ill tidings; we are now certain that the natives of this world have no hope to offer us.

The surviving crew members (and thankfully the majority of us have fortuitously survived our stay thus far) have very little morale left. Despite the afflictions of [the Homelands] that gave us reason to journey this far and seek succour from an unknown alien race, we are all desperate to return. It was a mistake to come here. I only hope we can procure our escape unharmed by any of the inherently violent beings in our vicinity.

Yet, I suppose [I have gotten ahead of myself]. Since the death of Han on our [sixth day] (details recorded in Log Entry – 6837) we have managed to elude further encounters with the locals. A fair amount of our crew were ready to [give up there and then], but I was was stubborn in my determination to find a peaceful contingent whom would give us the aid we so badly need. There are vast amounts of lands on [Hope] (how I now despise to use that foolishly given name) and the crew has amassed many hours reading through all of the information we could find regarding each region. Finding the information in question was one of the few [blessings] we have had since arrival. On Planet [Hope] exists a rudimentary information-exchange technology from which we were able to easily extract and translate historical recordings. It is the findings of this research that has convinced me there is no safe option but to return home.

On each volume of historical records for the various subcultures on [Hope] there is a list of beings that once dwelt therein (or continue to do so in some cases). The professions and acts of these individuals vary. Many are past leaders of great nations, some are distinguished artists and others virtuosos in their chosen profession. There is only one single common thread that links all of the regions of [Hope]: War. Every list includes at least ten beings with a terrible history of violence. Be they horrific, oppressive dictators or celebrated defenders of a land they cherish, it is clear that the most noteworthy of this world are relentless [barbarians]. 

The title of these lists is most chilling of all. It is translated by our equipment as ‘The Hall of Aspirational Figures’. The crew have been debating whether or not this is some strange alien idiom but whatever the literal meaning may be, we are agreed on one thing. The beings in these lists are idolised in their respective regions. Enormous statues constructed from unknown elements have been erected in their honour and vast populations have sworn allegiance to them in an unsettling devotion akin to worship. We now understand that the beings of this world are endowed with an intrinsic aggression. They can bring us only ruin. I can speak for the entire crew and declare that we would rather die trying to heal our planet alone than ask assistance of this unpredictably volatile alien race.

For safety’s sake I must keep this short. Repairs of the [Diplomacy] are very close to completion and soon we shall return to [her] and leave for good. With luck this message shall accompany us on our return and I shall be able to present it in person. However, if the our chances of a successful escape are as low as I fear then I am compelled to end the entry with a final [heart-felt] wish:

[Peace to the Homelands], may our bleak present precurse a brighter future.

 

[HMS Diplomacy] – Da’wel

---

This document has been translated into English by Google Translate 9.0. Due to the detected extra-terrestrial origin of the document, some phrases could only be idiomatically estimated. Such phrases are enclosed within [square brackets].

Monsters

thethemeis: Monsters

theauthoris: LiamD

   The pleasant aftertaste of herbs and spices following his uncharacteristically obnoxious burp only proved to Ben something he had suspected all along: once he had disregarded the rubbery texture and crude packaging, the Pot Noodle was actually quite tasty. Of course, there was no logical reason as to why it shouldn't have been.

   'You should never judge a book by it’s cover, young Benjamin.’ A long time ago when Ben had commented on the dirty, slob-like appearance of a working class family on the London Underground, that’s what his grandfather had told him. And as a man who had started with very little, and worked hard to earn the high standard of living his family enjoyed, Thomas Wight had a good idea of what was meant by the ancient proverb. Unfortunately for Ben however, his dear old Grandad Tom had married a cold woman who cared much more for beauty and wealth than she care for her fellow man and this left both his mother, and consequently Ben himself, with a less noble set of morals.

   Rik's honking laughter (and there truly was no other description for it) cut through the dank air like an axe. Ben winced as it pierced his ears.

   'You might not look like us, but you sound more like one of us every day!' he exclaimed joyfully between irritating guffaws. He let out a loud burp of his own, his loud ensuing laughter echoing around the walls. Ben wasn't impressed but, as this was one of Rik’s less disgusting habits, let it slide. He had only been down here for two weeks this time around yet it felt like years since he had last seen daylight.

   ‘Live with wolves…’ Ben quipped absently. Rik briefly looked perplexed at this response before disregarding it entirely in favour of lancing the enormous boil on his forehead. Ben cast him an accusatory glare but quickly looked away when he saw what he was doing. Not long now, he thought. I’ll never have to see that vile face again.

   ‘No wolves down ‘ere.’ came Marcus’ gruff voice. He threw the blood covered remnants of the raw (and possibly live) rat he had been eating out onto the train tracks before continuing. ‘Lemme know if you see any though, gotta taste nicer than this shit.’ Using his two-inch long claws to impale another unfortunate rodent, he began his second course.

   Despite the amount of times he had witnessed Marcus dine, Ben’s body still wanted to wretch. Monsters. That’s what they were. Sickening, grotesque, rancid, putrid, bilious, horrid, ugly, stinking fucking monsters. Sure, they were technically human, they probably even behaved like humans at one point in their lives, but The Incident had caused them to deteriorate into these abominations and they were deteriorating still. In spite of his orders Ben detested them, all of them. He loathed them, each and every one. Of course, he did his best not to show it. This immense network of tunnels and shelters that was once an extraordinarily under-appreciated marvel of human engineering known as the London Underground was their territory. A minor disagreement with one of the more aggressive sorts down here and Ben might never see sunlight again. Not long now, he thought. Not long at all…

   Kurt stopped picking the thick, crusty hairs from the singular nostril that was too large for his face long enough to participate in the conversation. ‘What I wanna know…’ he began in his irritatingly nasal drone ‘…is ‘ow did you manage to boil the water? It's always hard when I have one.’

   ‘Don’t be fuckin’ stupid Kurt, he’s used the old electricity hasn’t he.’ said Marcus, through loud, crunching mouthfuls. ‘Don’t you know he was an engineer before?’

   Ben merely grunted. In truth he had been a little taken aback by the question and was grateful for Marcus’ convincing, if horrendously misinformed, explanation. He cursed his own stupidity; if they had really known how he had eaten his ‘meal’ there would have been a lot more questions. Or perhaps worse - none at all. Kurt's face lit in admiration for Ben's apparent well-retained wisdom.

   ‘I don’t really ‘member much about before,’ he reflected sadly. If his hands weren’t covered in mucus, Ben might have pitied him. ‘Do you Marc?’

   ‘’Course I fucking do don’t I!’ spat Marcus. ‘The grass was green, the trees were brown and the sea was blue. It was bright too. Not much else to say about it.’ The angered look on his face stopped Kurt from pressing him further.

   It was always the same when one of them claimed to remember life above ground, Ben had noticed. The descriptions were bland somehow, as if they had revised the information for an exam and were simply repeating a mantra to aid their memory. There was no feeling there at all. Even the worst raconteur will recall the minor, insignificant details of memory that give a story life. No such detail was present down here. Their memory was deteriorating as quickly as their humanity, probably. Ben wondered how long it would be before they forgot how to communicate completely.

   ‘I’d like to go up there again, maybe one day soon…’ said Kurt finally.

   ‘Hmph, I'm not sure you would. Remember what happened to Pete?’ asked Ben, rhetorically.

   Nobody remembered what happened to Pete. That was the point. Nobody knew. Around two months ago one of the less barbaric of their contingent had decided that the time had come for them to return above ground and volunteered himself as lead canary. Excluding the vicious, solitary horrors that now reportedly stalked the Northern tunnels, it would be safe to say that Pete was liked by most of the tunnel-dwellers. His celebrated departure had given even the most pessimistic among them hope of returning to their natural home. He had promised to return within ten sleeps with a report on the above ground conditions, good or bad. This made it all the more hard to swallow when he failed to return at all. They all knew the score. General consensus was that the above ground toxins had killed him. For a long time nobody spoke as their minds dwelt on the subject.

   Thirty minutes later a loud snore from Rik considerably lightened the mood, though the underlying feeling of disgust Ben felt around these creatures never quite dissipated.

   ‘Not a bad idea that Rik. Thanks for cheering us all up anyway Ben,’ said Marcus, wiping the blood from around his mouth of dangerously sharp teeth. ‘I’m gonna turn in.’ The very thought of Marcus’ “bed” gave Ben the creeps. The tangled mess of furs and skins of the various rodents and small mammals he had  chanced upon (and for whatever reason not eaten) may have been softer to lie on than the hard stone, but the sheer stench made his creation inexcusable.

   'You're real lucky Ben, there's not many of us who weren't affected by all this.' observed Kurt after Marcus had left. He sighed heavily. ‘Do you think we’ll ever get back up there?’

   Ben watched him catch the large bluebottle that had been buzzing around his head with his freakishly long tongue before determining a response. ‘…Sorry Kurt, not in this lifetime’.

---

   After he was sure the three of them were safely asleep, Ben quietly made his way up the stone steps, through the long uphill tunnels before finally ascending the ancient metal staircases that no longer moved as they were originally intended to. At the top of these old electric stairs where the walls were lined with old screens that no longer displayed their advertisements, there appeared to be nothing but a dead end of fallen metal and concrete to the naked eye. He was sure that none of the creatures that were once human would venture up here, especially these days, but checked the surroundings all the same and was pleased to find himself alone. Standing to the far left of the apparent blockage, he pushed open a concealed door and waited for the security scanner to recognise him. This was the part he had been dreading most. He had always harboured an irrational fear that one day the scanner would reject his genetic reading and the silent but oh-so deadly security measures would put a swift end his existence.

   He thought of Pete.

   ‘Thank you for your time, Benjamin Reynolds-Wight. Au revoir!’ came the chirpy security voice. Ben couldn’t tell if it were human or machine, it was all the same to him anyway. Before he left through the front entrance of the defunct London Bridge train station, he approached the security desk at the front gate. Sam greeted him jovially.

   ‘Anything to report before you’re off for good?’ he asked.

   ‘Nothing new, still getting worse. I’ll check in at the office and fill a final report with Trevor.’ replied Ben, dreaming of the liberation he would feel when he finally got home that night.

   ‘Shit… I can’t help but feel for them Ben, those people were just like us before…’ Sam trailed off, as if finishing the sentence could make the situation worse. ‘Is there no hope of integration?’

   ‘Monsters Sam, not people. They’re monsters; you don’t want anything to do with them, trust me.’

   Ben heard Sam sigh as he walked away towards the company car that would take him to the office and paid no attention to his reflection visible in the chrome body of the vehicle. Pulling the handle, he opened the door and positioned himself comfortably inside, all the while thinking that he never wanted to see any of those disgusting monstrosities again.