Scene 1

Seated around a large, circular table, in the uppermost tower of the Empress’ palace, the grand council convenes to discuss the matter of the Wheel. Flanked on either side by the large, ceremonial pillars decorating the façade at the rear of the room, the Empress sits. A tall, blonde mermaid, her black eyes flash around the room – settling on the empty seat opposite her. The Wheel, it seems, is absent.

Around her, other council members fill the room – each there for a specific purpose. The Hierophant to the Empress’ right: a nervous tunafish, looking uncomfortable in the confined space, reacts nervously to the sight of the Reaper: a large sea-squirrel, dressed head to tentacle-tip in a large, black robe.

“Fool, Magician, High Priestess,” the clownfish, the koi and the shark arranged in the room each giving her a polite nod as she addresses them.

A mysterious eighth character sits to the Empress’ left. A large, pompous crab huddled over its seat and smiles fatuously in her direction. The others look nonplussed, though the Empress seems flattered. At the back, two further figures stand silently, observing the room.

“Grand Vizier. It’s a pleasure to have you here today.”

The crab chitters a little.

“The Grand Vizier shall, of course, be advising us today on how we should proceed given recent events within Spiral.”

“Thank you, your majesty. As I am sure you are all aware, there have been a series of – shall we say – unplanned events within our city that have detracted somewhat from the pressing external issues that we are facing. I am, of course, referring to the activities of the Wheel.”

“What of it?” the koi pipes up.

“Well, I am sure we can all agree that the Wheel’s recent overtures to the people of Spiral over Pearlescence have, ah, disturbed the balance of things. Upset the sea-apple cart, as it were. Put ideas into their heads that we would rather hoped would not be put there.”

“Did we?”

“I think the current disruption speaks for itself, does it not?”

“Disruption!” blusters the Hierophant. “Disruption!? The Temple is under threat by roving packs of hooligans, encouraged by that anglerfish the Wheel! Thousands of records destroyed! The ancient rites and rulings no longer recorded! Nothing can be recovered while this ‘disruption’ persists, and the very foundation of our city has been brought to ruin!”

“And yet, our home is being ‘brought to ruin’ by the Beast as things stand,” responds the koi. “What sense is there in squabbling about our petty struggles if-”

“Petty struggles? The attack on the most ancient and holy Temple of Spiral is not a ‘petty struggle’! I can hardly believe what I’m hearing!”

“Then do not believe, Hierophant. As we all know, you have been in delusion for a long time,” continues the Magician. Though before they have a chance to continue, the Fool begins to chant:

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief Spiral!”

“Give it a rest, for all our sakes, please!” The Empress tries to call order. “We must unite in the face of chaos!”

At this, the High Priestess begins swimming around the room, chanting

”The Beast lies beyond, consuming all within its path. The Fool is consumed.
Echoed in Dreams, tunnelling to the End.”

At the same time, the Reaper begins babbling away about deals, the beast and Pearlescence.

“Enough!” interrupts the crab, and the room – reluctantly – goes silent. “I think we need to hear from the Reaper here, as I believe they might have a plan to actually deal with both threats at once. They both revolve around Pearlescence, do they not? The Beast is a huge source of the stuff, whereas the revolution is caused by the Wheel whipping up desire for it.”

“Yeeees. Yeeeeeess. We can make a deal with it. Mine it. Use it to placate the people. Enough for everyone! We can control it, placate the people and theeeen keep it all for ourselves if we wish! Don’t you agree Empressss?”

The crab interrupts before the Empress has a chance to respond.

“Oh absolutely. Could you please inform us a little more about the nature of the beast?”

Just as the Reaper begins to speak, the koi and the clownfish – the Magician and the Fool – rise from their seats, somehow unnoticed by the Empress who is now sitting enraptured by what the crab, and the now Reaper, have to say. They make their way silently to the door, and are followed by one of the shadowy figures who appears to be attempting to sneak out. The other figure waits a while, appearing to contemplate what they’re doing, before following them out.

The scene begins to fade as the Reaper begins to speak.

”Well, it is absolutely imperative that we created some kind of industrial-scale extraction of Pearlescence from- … … …

Scene 2

Leaving the room, somewhat confused by the lack of reaction from the Empress, are the Fool, the Magician, a flying fish and a squid. They make their way down, out of the palace, and towards the city gate.

“Well, here we are at last. Off to fight the Beast, I suppose. The Empress is so distracted I hardly think she’ll notice, don’t you think?” The Magician seems a little more upbeat than previously, though there is still a slightly glum edge to their voice.

“So, do you have a strategy yet?” asks the squid.

“Yeah, what exactly are you planning to do? I’m pretty sure that Beast is, uh, quite strong, and I’m not sure if you two are cut out for it. I mean, I’m happy to help, but…” the flying fish continues.

“Well, riddle me this, young fish. What are we left to do? The others are caught up in never-ending arguments, unworkable solutions – even abuse of the very structures this city aims to uphold. Are we really to believe that the solution lies in the Wheel? In reform? What is the point, if the Beast simply destroys all that we have anyway?”

“Well, of course, of course. No-one thinks that no-one should deal with the Beast. But, shouldn’t you be working together?”

“I have been on many adventures, my friend. Outside of Spiral. I have not failed yet, despite many setbacks.”

“Tell me of them. But… what makes you think you have the power to succeed now?”

The group of four slowly makes their way under the guarded gate of Spiral’s wall, and out into the deep ocean. Though the slow current begins to take hold of them, their conversation continues.

“Tell you of them, you ask?”

At this, the Fool speaks up for the first time.

“You sad-faced men, people and children of Spiral,
By uproar sever'd, like a flight of squirrel
Scatter'd by currents and high tempestuous gusts,
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scatter'd pearl into one mutual clam,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Spiral herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms court'sy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.”

“Right. Can you speak a bit more plainly?”

“They mean that we are our own worst enemy. I would have thought even such naïve children as you would have been able to work that one out, after your performance last time,” scolds the Magician.

“I see, I see,” continues the squid. “Though, are you contributing to that by simply going out and slaying the beast yourself?”

“I see no other choice. Anyway, enough – allow me to speak of my adventures.”

At length, the koi speaks of journeys far outside of Spiral, to the far ocean world. Of deep whirlpools where Pearlescence may be found; of tales of love and loss between two close siblings, Hope and Despair; of the sea squirrels and sea lizards. The Fool floats silently along, as the four are carried on the current – and the entrancing words of the Magician.

As they float along, caught up in their own little world, the group slowly drift out over the edge of the ocean floor, into the open sea. The vast, ever-dark deeps open before them – and the great whirlpool threatening Spiral looms up, faint and indistinct at first, though ever sharper and greater and more terrible as they approach. Beneath it a betentacled monster sits, lurking, as though waiting for something. Or perhaps someone?

Except… no, that can’t be right. That’s too many tentacles. Far too many. As the quartet draw even closer, it becomes apparent that several beasts lurk in the gloom. Writhing and squirming around and in harmony with each other. Something is very, very wrong.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this? This seems like a lot more than we’d bargained for.”

The Fool draws their sword, and the Magician their staff.

“I think you underestimate us, Th-”

The transmission cuts.

Scene 3

The city is in chaos. As the Empress attempts to call order from her palace, flanked by the Reaper, the ordinary citizens of the city have turned violent in real earnest. The Wheel – a huge anglerfish – has started a protest in the central plaza of the city, attempting to demolish nearby buildings and to keep the Empress imprisoned.

The Hierophant, stationed outside the Temple, is earnestly attempting to read out a long proclamation, while items are thrown at them:

“Imperial Proclamation in light of the *ow* recent decision of the Grand Council *ouch* of Spiral, regarding the ownership and distribution of P-”

Before they have a chance to finish, the crowd surges forward and bashes down the great doors guarding the entrance to the Temple itself. Once inside, they begin looting anything they can find – sacred relics, ancient texts and even the more mundane gold and silver that litter the grand interior, now defiled.

“Oi, down here,” one of them shouts. “They’ve got a massive stash down here!”

“N-no! Not the Pearlescence phylactery!”

“Get it! We’ll all have some!”

At one end of the temple, a vast tank of silver Pearlescence stands for the temple’s holy rituals. Strictly for official use only, it is one of the largest concentrations of the substance available in Spiral.

At first, the crowd attempt to siphon off Pearlescence, though the flow is slow – intended for single users requiring a small amount. Impatience grows, turning to anger, before the crowd swells forward. In the chaos, several people are crushed underfin, and the vast tank begins to sway. The Wheel, lurking at the back, attempts to call some semblance of order, but a particularly fiery piranha takes the initiative and throws a chair at the tank.

There is a crack, and a large crevice opens up on the glass enclosing the tank. Cheering, the crowd redouble their efforts, and a small group pick up a large, silver sceptre – one end glowing a benevolent gold. Reaching upwards with all of their strength, they launch the sceptre forward and straight into the side of the tank which splits.

With a disappointing thud, the Pearlescence begins to spill out of the tank in every direction, while a crackling energy builds up inside the Temple. At first, nobody notices in the excitement, before it becomes so intense that even the most ardent rioters take a pause.

“Does anyone else f-?”

The Pearlescence promptly explodes with the force of a bomb.

Everyone in the Temple is killed immediately, including the Hierophant. Somehow – incredibly – the Temple survives the initial blast, though greatly damaged, as the water at the epicentre of the explosion is pushed outwards, creating a large, spherical vacuum right in the centre of the Temple. The displaced water promptly refills the space, creating a secondary shockwave that finally finishes off the Temple.

In other parts of the city, rioting citizens watch with awe and horror as the Temple is rocked by two, huge blasts – throwing its edifice in all directions. The bodies of the dead float, grimly in the now-calming waters around it.

The mood changes instantly. Where previously the citizens had been on the side of the Wheel, reclaiming what they felt was rightfully theirs – now, they felt they had brought nothing but destruction on their own city, regardless of the injustices of the previous regime.

Rioters descend on the Temple where, miraculously, the Wheel had survived the blast. Attempting to give a victory speech from the remains of the ruined temple stair, the people shout and scream in opposition. This new leader is as bad as the last lot, stuck in their ivory towers.

Two seconds remain.

Emissary looms over the fallen Mega. “To be killed by the Sundering is a gift, dear sibling. A gift which I will deprive you of.”

Finally, the Artefact flashes past the moon.

Emissary draws their fist back—

One second.

In the last millisecond, the Artefact punches through the atmosphere. There’s no sound—there’s no time for there to be sound. There is the Artefact, and there is light.

And then…it stops. A hundred metres above the city square, the alien object stands still, wreathed in a fireball of shock-compressed air, frozen in time. Directly beneath it stands a figure, surrounded by slowly-rotating rings of glowing light.

“No. Not again – never again.” They adjust their stance, and the rings slow, stop, and turn back, rotating with increasing speed in the opposite direction. The Artefact begins moving again, but up, not down—it moves, slowly at first but gaining velocity, back up into the sky. On the ground, the destroyed buildings begin to repair themselves, the rubble and debris setting itself back into undamaged storefronts. Time reverses.

The figure looks around at everyone. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

One hundred and fifty-six seconds remain. The Artefact hurtles through space, just inside the orbit of Mars around the sun.

Five of the six new heroes begin to get their bearings. Core, however, is stricken by panic – every movement they make pulls rocks up from the ground or sends them flying, and they soon find themselves isolated on a rocky island as the stone around them begins to glow with the heat of rising magma. Overcharger and Remix rush to their aid, trying to calm them down.

“Listen up!” Shouts Chronologist, “We have two and a half minutes until an alien artefact destroys the world. We have the power to stop it, but we need a plan.”

Mega glances at Core, then back to Chronologist. “What’s it made of, do you think? Rock? Metal?”

“Metal, probably – Core could destroy it, you mean? They can barely control their power right now.”

“We don’t need finesse. We just need damage.”

“The Artefact is travelling pretty fast – you’ll need some help getting up to speed.”

“Then give it to me.”

“Ok - I’ll try.” The glowing rings around Chronologist flare and begin to spin once more as they flex their powers.

“That will still leave debris,” Forcemaster adds, “We’ll need some way to protect the civilians here, even if we destroy the object.”

“You’re right. Sounds like a job for you, then.”

Forcemaster experimentally projects a small barrier in front of themself. “Right – I’ll do what I can.”

Mega drifts over to Core and lifts them out from their steadily growing crater of magma. A few rocks and clumps of magma come with them, but their effect on the earth is limited by distance. The vertical distance does nothing to quell their panic, though. Mega’s strong arms hold them tight in an effort to stop them flailing.

“You’re going up there?” Asks Remix. “Here – you’ll need this.” They reach out towards Forcemaster and pull a spectral force out of them, shuffling it into Mega. After a couple of flickering tries, Mega flashes a spherical field around them and Core – a bubble of air to keep them breathing.

There’s a shout from the crowd of onlookers as they scatter and back away. Mega’s sibling is on their knees at the centre of where the crowd was. With anguished cries, tendrils of purple-black energy lash out from their body. They are enveloped by it, a steadily growing mass which cracks the pavement under them with its weight. Soon they stand, towering: Emissary, a monstrous, inhuman being. Something like teeth flash in a gaping maw.

“Humans, hear me! Soon you will be freed of this mortal coil. Your planet has been chosen, and the Sundering is inevitable. To resist is pointless.” They turn to look up at Mega. “Leaving already, sibling? Come – let us spend our last moments together.”

Mega’s face remains stoic, impassive, hiding a torrent of emotion boiling under the surface. “No – we stick to the plan. Remix – deal with it. I will be back.”

As they launch into the sky, Remix pulls a spectral copy of Mega into themself, and they, too, gently lift off the ground, though do not follow. Instead, they turn their attention to Emissary.

Two minutes remain. Thirty-six million kilometres lie between the Artefact and its target.

Chronologist settles into a meditative pose, casting their attention out towards Mega. “They’ll need my help to reach the Artefact in time. Fortunately,” they say, with a smile “time is something I can provide. I’ll help here if I can, but this will take most of my attention.”

The other heroes nod and move to surround Emissary. Remix takes point, using Mega’s copied powers to physically hold Emissary at bay – punching, kicking, knocking them down and darting away when they retaliate. They are but a bird to the Emissary’s wolf, though, and the creature of darkness has more than enough attention to spare for the other heroes, as well as the city.

More than a wolf, more like a wolfpack, they flow and split, and merge again, tearing through buildings and pulling them down in their wake. Forcemaster does what they can to shepherd them, keep them away from the civilians, but they can’t prevent all the damage.

Overcharger tries to siphon some power from Emissary, but the ever-shifting form continually darts from their sights, breaking the link. When they manage to connect, they direct the spare energy to Remix or Forcemaster when they can, but Chronologist increasingly looks like they need support in maintaining whatever effect they have on Mega.

Up in the sky, Mega powers upwards, holding Core tight against them. Two sets of glowing rings matching those around Chronologist manifest around Mega and their air-bubble: one to time-amplify the effect of their powers and another to correct their own subjective experience of time. To reach the speed required to intercept the Artefact would take literal months of constant acceleration at the limit of Mega’s capabilities.

And so time is distorted, pulled almost to breaking-point in two directions. One way to condense those months into the mere minutes they have, and the other way, too, so that Mega and Core themselves do not have to live through those subjective months alone on their flight.

Mega does not know this. All they know is that they are rocketing into space, and they trust in Chronologist to give them what they need. They feel themselves accelerating faster and faster; bursting through the cloud layer, past airplanes, and out into space. Past twinkling satellites and onwards still. The moon is visibly getting closer in the starry expanse, the Earth a blue marble behind them – and then, suddenly, they are past the moon too – and further still, further from the Earth than any human has ever been.

One minute remains. The Earth appears as just a speck in the distance as the Artefact speeds inexorably towards it.

In the emptiness of space, Mega realises that they will not merely have to reach the Artefact, but match its speed in the opposite direction if they are to do anything to it. So they slow down, now, turning, pointing back towards the distant Earth, and begin their acceleration back the way they came as the Artefact, already travelling at ludicrous speed, closes distance behind them.

Glancing back, they see it now. Even with the time dilation rippling around them, it still seems to be gaining at terrifying speed. Carefully adjusting their course, they shuffle a still-shaking Core into one hand, getting ready to grab hold of the surface of the Artefact with the other.

And suddenly, they have it. Or, almost, as feet and hand scrabble for purchase on the angular metallic surface. Their arm is nearly wrenched from its socket as the Artefact pulls them faster still, finally matching its velocity.

Mega places Core down on the object and extends a small bubble of air to them as they drift away again. To a safe distance.

Core, terrified, looks up at them. “Wh-what – what are you doing! Don’t leave me!?”

Back on Earth, the battle rages. Emissary leads the heroes to the edge of an industrial estate. They wreck the side of a chemical processing plant, which bursts into flame. The fire spreads quickly, hits a gas line. Emissary does something to the pipeline, and the air, gas, and fire mix – explosions echo down the streets. The heroes’ focus is split. While dealing with the fire, Emissary continues to wreak havoc.

Mega looks down at Core, stranded on the alien object. The Artefact makes strange sounds and flashes of light ignite on arcane circuits across its mass. Core looks around, panicked more than ever before. Their power flares and metal boils and erupts around them.

“Help me! Please!”

Mega looks away, focuses on what they came here to do. As the metallic structure of the Artefact melts and oozes, they grab hold of chunks of it, ripping them off and send them floating harmlessly off into the void.

“Please…I…I can’t…”

Mega turns away fully, and takes up another task: pushing back against the body of the Artefact to slow down what is left.

The Artefact continues to shed mass, both from Mega’s efforts and the inadvertent flailing of Core’s out-of-control power. Mostly molten now, the metal follows the arcs of Core’s stumbling motions, twisting itself around them. Soon they are trapped in a half-molten prison of their own construction. Core pulses with energy now, wave after wave melting, cooling, melting, cooling; the metal around them closing in, slowly, with each moment.

Finally they are caught, consumed by molten metal.

One life for many. A fair trade.

It was the only way.

Wasn’t it?

Was it?

Though diminished and slowed, what remains of the Artefact will still deal damage to the city when it lands, even if the Earth as a whole is no longer in danger. Mega takes off once more, to reach Earth before the debris does, and warn the others.

suddenly, Emissary slows. They look up into the sky – snarl, growl. The Artefact – did Mega and Core succeed?

The writhing cloak of shadow around Emissary dissipates. Their body – their human body, Mega’s sibling, stands for a moment, trembling, before collapsing onto the ground.

With a little over ten seconds remaining, Mega returns to the Earth, slamming into the ground, Chronologist’s time-rings dissipating finally. They quickly take stock: battle with Emissary appears to be over, the other heroes looking bruised but alive. Except Chronologist who, somehow, looks ancient – their body ravaged by time in the mere minute that Mega was absent.

“I gave you a lot of time,” they say, wheezing, shrugging, “it had to come from somewhere. So I gave you mine.”

Mega nods, appreciative. Understands the sacrifice. But there’s no time to say much now. “It’s done,” they say, “the Artefact is destroyed. There’s some debris incoming, though – we have to protect the city.”

Barely glancing at the destruction already wrought here, they take off again, grabbing civilians and herding them to safety as glowing chunks of metal begin to enter the atmosphere above.

Ten seconds. The Earth stands out from the field of stars behind it now, though it is still no larger than the tip of a pencil held at arm’s length; the moon is a pin-prick of light less than a hand-span away.

Forcemaster coordinates with Remix and Overcharger, setting up forcefields to deflect the falling debris away from the survivors. Forcemaster pushes themself to their limits, drawing on Overchargers gift of power to project huge slabs of forcefield while Remix gets them within range of where they need to be.

Chronologist is fatigued, spent, but they do what they can, still, holding some fragments of debris at bay for just a second or two to let people escape.

The debris is falling thick and fast, though, and they can only do so much at once. They have to act quickly, switching fields at a moment’s notice. They aren’t strong enough. They make mistakes. They tilt the field at the wrong angle, or don’t make it wide enough. Molten metal flattens portions of the city around them. Some people survive; others die.

Mega finally registers that Emissary is missing; they pass by Overcharger who, with a look of sorrow, points them to where the fight ended – to the body which, briefly, had housed Emissary.

Two.

Mega swoops down and kneels in front of the remains of their sibling’s body. Twisted but still recognisable, human once more, the influence of the Artefact taken away – and with it, their life.

Forcemaster stares around them at the pock-marked city. To one side: a group of civilians, lightly injured but safe. Smiling, laughing – nervously, scared, the adrenaline turning to relief as they realise that they have survived. On the other side: the broken remains of houses, businesses, parks. The final screams of strangers echo in Forcemaster’s ears.

Chronologist, aged, powers spent, collapses into Remix’s arms.

One.

The last remnants of the Artefact burn up in the atmosphere.

The Earth is saved.

Scene 1

Before them lies an empty world – the sky above, dark and unfathomable; the land below, featureless and flat. All around them is a shadowy dimness. Only the Pearl in their hands is bright and warm.

The Priestess is weeping. Her tears are diamonds, hard and sharp. “Now my voice is my own, and my own, alone. Now the voice of the Winged Goddess is forever gone, for together we have slain Her. And now with my own voice, I name her Nvaiye the Winged, the Weeping Moon.”

With her voice that sails through the world, to the four corners and back again, the Priestess names the relics of a bygone age.

The Youth: Iiskana the Victor, the One who Soars.

The Priestess: Tethnde the Traitor, the Mournful Voice.

The Quick Brown Fox: Siio the Questioner, the Haunting Doubt.

And as Tethnde the Traitor names, they gain wings. Hers are those of a great swan, moonlit white. The Youth’s are made of the brightest sunlight, radiating warmth. The Quick Brown Fox’s are brown, like those of a sparrow.

Together they look upon the new world in wonder. They have robbed the world of moon and day, the Sun rests in their very hands. They now atone for the sacrilege they committed. They now atone for the sins of the gods they have slain.

Unfolding her mighty wings, Iiskana the Victor takes the Pearl and soars through heaven. As she places it at one end of the earth and hurls it upwards, she shouts:

“Mphellii, I name you, the Light Reborn!” As the Sun shoots across the high heavens, Iiskana follows like an arrow. The dim shadow parts at their crossing, the world brightens in their lights.

As she flies, Iiskana names - the Sky above, the Land below, the Sea that mirrors… Names she once forgot. Names she regained. Memories of her bygone world.

As she names, the sky becomes blue, the land fertile, the sea a reflection of the unfathomable sky.

All manners of things begin to appear. Mountains rise, sculpted, proud. Lakes form, polished, refined. Rivers flow, free, through all the lands. Gigantic misty forms - half-born leviathans and shadowy behemoths - raise their heads at the four corners of the world. Nimble furry creatures dart around the woodlands, exploring with large bright eyes. And with day comes night - the shadows close behind the trail of light, always cloaking half of the world in darkness, where sinister shades dance and laugh -

But no, this cannot be, decrees Iiskana the Victor. “The prophecy has been fulfilled. The Eternal Day shall return.”As her voice booms through the world, her fellow gods glide to her sides.

“How can sunlight shine upon the world evenly?” Asks Siio, looking up at the ball of light that was flung across the heavens. “Does it need to be?”

Iiskana nods. “The Great Clam is dead. We have slain it. The Eternal Day shall return.”

Tethnde contemplates, tracing her memories - memories of those more than her, older than her, older than this world - all the way back to when the Pearl was born.

“Yon, the Pearl of Light, came after Hul, the Great Clam, Devourer of Light. But the Light came before them both. The Pearl is a vessel, the Light is still trapped within.” Her voice rings bright and clear.

With strength and grace, the young gods chase after the Pearl, carried by their great wings. Together, they captured it and held it within their hands for one last time -

“Name. And your will shall be done.” Tethnde looks Iiskana in the eyes and smiles. This is the power they have usurped, the power they have claimed. To name, to will, reality itself.

And Iiskana names.

“Mphelli, reborn.”

The Pearl shatters in their hands as the light that once filled the heavens explodes to flood the world. Every corner of the dark sky is gilded and lit up. Stars, the ancient arrows, fade away in the bright Light and the Abyss becomes hidden.

So the Eternal Day begins.

Scene 2

Under the Eternal Day, Tethnde sings. She is singing of an old world, a world this world shall mirror, but also surpass. As the winds carry her winged words to the corners of the earth, Iiskana sails with them.

She marvels at the world beneath them. All their creations - conscious or unconscious - fill her with love and wonder.

She sees a beach of white sand, upon which a lonely white nautilus shell weeps in the sea wind. She gives it company, even though she does not understand its song. This changes its harmony to a gentler tune.

She sees great winged beasts make lairs in the highest mountains, carving their homes in hard obsidian. As she flies past them, they race her with leathery wings whiter than snow, she laughs.

She sees tiny animals gather in the forests, fluffy tails wagging like a dance, and she knows that is their language.

She follows the river that flows from the mountain, through the forest, into bountiful plains yet uninhabited, and sees how empty it is. A single willow tree stands by its side, its long branches trying to catch the water that will not slow.

“And here,” her voice continues where Tethnde’s song ends, “people will once again call home.”

“And by the forest,” follows the smiling Siio, who appeared behind Iiskana, “where plentiful quaries live, we shall again dwell.”

The sharp-eyed Iiskana reveals to her fellow gods the best sites for settlements and there they ordained those sites, Tethnde for the human, Siio the fox.

As the world become ready, the gods welcome their people.

The gods journey to the sea and there an island gleam like a sun in the waves. There they call the names of the people they once left behind. There they call the names of the people they promised to deliver.

And their calls are answered.

Through the reflected light humans and foxes walk out, side by side. There he is, father of a goddess, Doites the Chief. There he is, once-challenger of a goddess, Kthuntes the Rival. But even as all the people walked through and Iiskana and Siio have ceased their summonings, Tethnde the Mournful continued on.

”Vonden, father of a traitor; Floria, mother of a traitor; Mnes, mentor of a traitor; Beivya and Beivyan - ”

Her voice resounds through the world, weaving this world together with the one that was left behind, and the world fell silent for her.

As her tears, drops of diamonds, fell upon the mirrored earth, there, figures start to appear, with limbs of reflections and bodies of sea mist. And slowly, slowly, gilded by the everlasting omnipresent Light, their forms are fixed, their bodies become human, and their eyes open.

Vonden, father of Tethnde. Floria, mother of Tethnde. Mnes, Healer-Mentor to the village. Beivya and Beivyan, twin scouts who ran faster than summer wind. And all the others. All those who were lost. All those who were left behind.

Siio jumps down amongst the people, nuzzling them curiously. It speaks to them of the new world, of villages and rivers and forests. Of home. Iiskana holds out her hand to Tethnde, who takes it. And as they join their minds together, the island shakes, and rises to become a ship that shall carry the people across the sea.

The three gods lead their people on one final journey. Iiskana teaches them the ways of this land, the habits of beasts and plants. Siio queries them with no answers but giggles. Tethnde and them trade tales of the past. On their journey, Tethnde recreates Ronvi the Loyal Hound that once accompanied her through her journeys, while Iiskana gifted Siio a Lazy Dog, Thunta. Siio flew around it three time before it landed and jumped over it with a laugh.

As the people arrived at the site by the river, the gods proclaim to the humans: “Here, Liinus shall rise and be joyful.” And joyful the people are, as their cheers rise up to meet the clouds.

Siio leads its foxes away, to their own promised land. There it gives all the foxes wings, for such would be the right thing to do.

The villages grow under the tender gaze of their gods, beneath the Eternal Day.

Scene 3

As the gods looked down from above the clouds and saw all they have created, for a moment, they feel content. Time loses meaning in the unchanging Light and their immortality.

“Is this it?” Asks Siio, its rich red tail curled around its body, as it rests upon a gilded cloud.

Strangely, the question is difficult to answer. Have they not done all there is to be done? Have they not atoned for the sins of their gods and themselves? Have they not created a world beautiful and bountiful for their people?

“We have.” Says Iiskana, yet her voice is uncertain, the first time since she left the Abyss.

And it dawned upon Tethnde, Traitor-Priestess of Nvaiye the Weeping Moon.

“This is the cycle. This is what Nvaiye, the Winged Goddess, once suffered through. The creation, the distant care, the removal from her own world.” If only She would speak to her people more, speak to her more. Perhaps, there would have been other ways for the previous world to end. “And the cycle continues with us, here, now.”

“Is that what you want?” Asks the fox, its golden eyes sharp.

The goddesses shake their heads. “It doesn’t have to continue with us, here, now. It can end, with us, here, now.” Proclaims Iiskana.

“How?”

If only She would - or if only She could. Tethnde laughs, lowly, sorrowfully. How simple it is, and yet how terrifying.

“Through sacrifice.” Tethnde speaks, each word a struggle, each syllable a war with the infinitely regressing lore of yore. “By giving up what we have usurped, what we have claimed, what we have made our own and used to make this world - the power, the eternity, the responsibility. By surrendering ourselves to the rules of time, to what we have already created, and call it well done.”

At that moment, she tastes the stream of remorse that reaches back into the Abyss above, the world left behind, and all the worlds before them.

Nvaiye, who took the Voice of the Song, after It was forgotten by the world It sang into existence.

Sacrilege.

Sacrifice.

Power and eternity and responsibility gained from death.

Power and eternity and responsibility that must forever be carried. Sins unforgiven. Fears unquenched.

The Song, last breath of ▅▆▇▃, sworn to right the wrongs of Its ▂▃█.

How could you left go of something handed down to you by gods who loved you so? How could you forsake your duties, when you can never know if the world will again need you?

How could you forsake your gods?

But it is not so, Tethnde knows. This is where they failed before. This is where she shall right the final wrong. This is where she shall accept - for herself, her friends, and all the gods - that all things must end, and it is only through rejoining the world that gods may again be free, and happy.

“Iiskana - ”

Her friend smiles as her. She has already understood what she wants to say.

“Together, we can give up this power. The prophecy has been fulfilled and the tale of heroes is over. We can go home now.” She looks over to the fox god, “what says you, Siio?”

It smiles again, in its curious manner, then stretches its lithe body.

“Sounds like the right thing to do. But I want to keep those.” Its tail wags towards its wings.

The girls laugh and pat the fox on its head, and say it can certainly keep its wings.

Scene 4

The gods descend from the bright heavens to earth. Their people gather around them in awe. The gods have decided upon the time of their final sacrifice. But before that, they wish to hear their people’s wants and desires for one last time. They have closed their wings and again walk upon the ground like their people. They speak to them, face to face, with no Light framing their figures and no winds to carry their decrees to the edges of earth. They tell their people of their decision and explain their reasonings. They have decided that they shall be frank and not aloft, unlike the gods before. They speak to their people, as friends, daughters, students, teachers. As equals - almost.

They comfort the people who are worried about a future without gods. They promise a bright future to all. Tethnde promises the wisdom of ages, the knowledge of the past that shall be passed on. Siio promises forgetfulness and doubt, there shall always be more than what is already known, new mysteries to be discovered, new trials to overcomes. Iiskana promises the knowledge of this world of life and hunting, protection from all danger, peace for all.

They promise and intend to keep them, but no longer as gods but as mortals. They believe they can.

As the west wind rises, Tethnde was the first to rise up. In the salty sea air, she opens her arms to the tearful wind and allows her great white wings to dissolve like a dream - the last drops of moonlight, never again to be seen.

As the east wind rushes through, Siio rides it. In the green scent of woodland shadows and pines, it flies past everyone, quick and nimble, asking its favourite question: “Is what once was always right?” As the wind dies, it lets out a sigh. Now, it, too, may die.

As the winds calm, Iiskana shoots up into the sky like an arrow, soaring, tasting the fresh crisp air of the heights one last time -

And the sky cracks with a thunderous sound. Golden rain pours down. The earth shakes in echo. With a great crash the mirror island shatters - the volcano erupts, pumping out molden gold.

The sea parts as more gold erupts out of the depth, and one sudden stream catches Iiskana mid-flight. The molten gold consumes her whole and from within she lets of a heart-wrenching scream that pierces the clouds.

But as the stream parts, the goddess does not fall. Instead, bathed in gold, she shines like the Sun. As she slowly regains her posture, looking upon herself as if this is the first time she has seen herself truly, her wings are bight and blazing.

Her wings grow, expanding so much they start to look less like bird wings but something else.

The streams of molten gold no longer shake her. They fall upon her and she receives them as if they were offerings.

And she grows. Larger and larger, more and more brilliant. At last, she becomes so big that even from the ground one can see her beautiful face distinctly.

She breathes in. She burns ever more glorious as she drains the Light of the world with her breath. The hungry darkness creeps in where the Light has left empty. The world grows dim. All the while her radiance is blinding to behold. Even her veins are lit up; and her heart is a pump of pure gold.

She breathes out, releasing the Light, which immediately rushes towards every corner of the world, hunting down the shadows that tried to take its place and reconquering its territory.

The people watch, stunned, silent. Tethnde weeps, her tears - no longer diamonds - are washed away by the golden glory of Iiskana’s rebirth.

The Eternal Day has gained its true form.

And It/She speaks, through thunder, through storms, through volcanoes and earthquakes.

“Bow down in praise, mortals of my world. Bow down in awe, weakling born to die. Behold, the birth of your Queen. Behold, the crowning of ME!”

And this was the day the young gods were betrayed. This was the day the people learned how to praise the only goddess there is and how to worship their once-and-ever queen, lest She punishes them with Her glorious wrath:

She is Iiskana, the One True Goddess, Her Inexorable Radiance, She who Shattered the Sun; Reclaimer and Forever Rightful Owner of Light, the Voice who Named the Future, Lady of Flames and Glory, Huntress of the World, Queen of the Sea and Land and Sky, -

The Eternal Day

Note: Scenes 1 and 2 are unchanged from the previous edition. Only scene 3 has been updated.

Scene 1

The children at Holly Hill Primary School wave goodbye to their parents, looking forward to an exciting day of fun and learning. Miss Peach says hello as they come in. Miss Peach is waiting for a parcel, with all the new books to read to the class, but the post hasn't come yet. She's starting to get worried. Angela the Postwoman is never late, and the post should be here already. Could something have happened to Angela? Miss Peach is worried.

Amy sees that Miss Peach is upset, and asks what's wrong.

“Angela the Postwoman should have come with our new books already. I'm worried that something has happened to her.”, Miss Peach says.

“Maybe she doesn't want to deliver post any more?”, Amy suggests. “It must get quite boring.”

Miss Peach shakes her head. “No, that can't be it. Angela loves her job. She gets to see the smiles on people's faces every day when they get the mail. Doesn't that sound nice? I can't just sit here and do nothing while Angela could be hurt. We'll have to go and find her.”

So Miss Peach and all the children (except Brian, who says he doesn't want to, throws a tantrum, and gets left at the school) go down into the village to look for Angela the Postwoman.

They check at Angela's house, but she can't be there. Angela's husband says she isn't home.

They look in the post office, but she can't be there. The post office isn't open.

They ask the lollipop man, but he hasn't seen her.

They ask a squirrel, who can see very far from up in its tree, but it hasn't seen her.

They ask a crow, who can see even further. It flies up and up and up, and it spots her in a field. What could Angela be doing in a field?

Miss Peach and the children thank the crow, and go to the field. Angela is covered in mud. Her legs are stuck in it all the way to the knees. The children grab her arms and they tug and they heave, and Pop! Angela comes out.

“Thank you!”, she says, “I don't know how I would have got out of there on my own. I was just delivering Farmer Schotty's mail, and I got stuck in the mud on the way. I'll have to be more careful next time.”

“Oh, and I have something for you too.”, she says, handing over the books. “Sorry they're a bit dirty.”

Miss Peach and the children wave goodbye to Angela, then head back to school. Now they have all the books they need, so they can start the lessons properly.

Scene 2

The first lesson is writing. The children practice their letters. Charlie's writing is very neat. Miss Peach is pleased.

“Well done, Charlie.”, she says, “You're doing very well. Maybe you can answer a question for me. How does language work?”

Charlie looks confused. Miss Peach tries to look encouraging.

“Um… You say things, and then people hear what you said.”, Charlie says hesitantly. This is an odd question. He isn't sure what Miss Peach means.

Miss Peach smiles at Charlie. She says “Yes, you say things, and then people understand what you said. They think things because of your words, but your words are just sounds. Isn't that odd? What does a sound like “Angela” have to do with the woman we just helped?”

Charlie looks even more confused. He doesn't think he's doing well in this lesson any more. Miss Peach tells the children to put away their books. Now it's time for PE.

Everyone goes outside to the sports field. Today they're playing tennis. Everyone is getting very excited as the games go on. Miss Peach is pleased that everyone is having so much fun. She has a question for the class.

“What is a sport?”, she asks. Lots of children put up their hands. “Tennis”, “Football”, “Cricket”, they say. Miss Peach asks differently: “Yes, these are all sports, but what is it that makes them sports? Is running a sport? Is chess a sport?”

Dana has a suggestion: “It's a game where you run around.”

Miss Peach asks “What about water polo?”. The children come up with more suggestions. Miss Peach keeps prompting them to think of more things. PE doesn't usually have this much thinking in it, but this is fun too.

The next lesson is arithmetic. The children are practicing times tables. Emily has a question for Miss Peach.

“Why does 6 times 6 have to be 36? Why can't it be 30 again? I think I want it to be 30. I like 30.”

“Excellent question!”, Miss Peach says. “Does anyone else know the answer?”

Fred puts his hand up. “The 6 times table goes up in sixes. 6 times 5 is 30, so 6 times 6 is 30 plus 6, so it's 36.”

Miss Peach thanks Fred for the answer. She starts to say that he'll be getting a gold star, but Emily rudely interrupts.

“But why can't 6 times 6 be 30 anyway? Maybe it doesn't want to go up in sixes. Maybe 30 plus 6 is 30. I say 6*6=30, so now it is. Who says Miss Peach gets to say what 6 times 6 is?”

Miss Peach was annoyed at being interrupted, but is enjoying where this conversation is going. Miss Peach asks Fred if he has an answer to that, and he doesn't. Miss Peach makes a suggestion herself.

“Of course, there's nothing to stop you saying that 6 times 6 is 30, but if you believe that, you aren't using “times” to mean the same thing as I am. Let's say that the sort of multiplication you're talking about, where 6 times 6 is 30, is called “Emilytiplication”, and the sort of multiplication I'm talking about”, she points at the times tables on the blackboard, “where 6 times 6 is 36 is called “Peachtiplication”. Both of these are valid functions if you know how to Emilytiply all the other numbers too, so we have to decide which one we want to use. The meanings of words like “times” are arbitrary, so the only way to tell which multiplication is best is to work out which is most useful. So, Emily, what makes Emilytiplication better than Peachtiplication?”

At this point, Miss Peach has an unusually intent look in her eyes. Emily is nervous. She thinks maybe she's digging herself into a hole and should stop. She also thinks it's far too late for that now.

“My multiplication is best”, she starts hesitantly, getting more confident as she speaks, “because it has more thirties in it, and 30 is my favourite number. Your multiplication only has 30 as 6 times 5 and 3 times 10 and—” she tails off, not quite sure what all the other factorisations of 30 are. “And anyway, my multiplication has all of those thirties too, and another one, so it's cooler.”

Miss Peach considers her reply for a while. Emily is hopeful that what she said is right. Miss Peach starts drawing rectangles of dots on the board. She starts talking about what multiplication really means. The children are only slightly confused. Miss Peach takes her grid of 6 by 6 dots off the blackboard and asks Emily if she can fit them in 30 boxes. Emily shuffles the dots around for a while then, frustrated but determined to prove that her multiplication is best, eats 6 of the dots and counts the rest. They taste like chocolate. Miss Peach congratulates her ingenuity.

Scene 3

Now it's time for Miss Peach to read to the class. The children are excited. Miss Peach is a wonderful storyteller.

She finds one of the books Angela delivered earlier, and settles down in the reading chair. The children gather around to listen. Miss Peach opens the book and smiles. This is one of her favourites.

“Once upon a time”, Miss Peach begins, “there was a great alchemist who wanted to prove his talent to the world.”

Around the children, the classroom drops away. They are now in a dark laboratory. There are bubbling tubes, every different colour of liquid, and dead things in jars. Miss Peach sits next to the alchemist and his apprentice. Miss Peach continues to describe the scene, and more details appear in the room. The alchemist is talking.

“I have acheived many great works in my time: the invention of all manner of glassware, the transmutation of mercury into lead, and even the isolation of elemental fire itself, yet the world continues to ignore me. What must I do before they see my genius for what it is?” the alchemist asks, despairingly.

“But Master”, the apprentice objects, “the other alchemists already respect you as the greatest of our time. The jewellers already pay you more than you could ever need when you clarify their gems. What more could you want?”

The alchemist replies “Yes, the other alchemists know me, but everyone else imagines alchemy as something arcane and pointless. They don't think our strength is anything to respect. I must do something impossible, that everyone can see.”

“Master, I don't know what more you want. The substances you make won't be recognised by the public, no matter what they are.”

“Then I shall create no mere substance. I shall not rest until I have created what only God has tried before. The world shall know me as the only mortal to create new life!”

The alchemist worked for many years, hiding himself away in his lab. The apprentice learned to take care of the many things the alchemist neglected, earning money to pay for the alchemist's ingredients. Little by little, the homunculus took shape. It was simple at first, like a plant, barely reacting to things around it. As the alchemist learned from it, he constantly improved it, coming closer and closer to making it alive.

Once the body was finished, the last but most difficult piece to build was its mind. It quickly became able to walk, and continued from there. The alchemist tested every part of its behaviour in the most extreme circumstances he could, searching for any flaw. The homunculus complied, eager to show the alchemist what it had learnt, writing stories, playing games against him and sometimes even beating him. It even began studying alchemy with the apprentice, although the alchemist was dismissive of its chances at such an exalted science.

No matter what the homunculus did, the alchemist would merely mutter and plan more tests and more improvements. It didn't like it when he changed its body or upgraded its mind. It asked him to stop, but he said it wasn't perfect yet, and should shut up.

The homunculus went to the apprentice and asked for his help instead. The apprentice didn't like the homunculus being sad, and confronted the alchemist, telling him to not be so mean to it, as it was clearly a person already.

The alchemist laughed, and mocked the apprentice for thinking it was a person just because it was in a person's shape. “I built it that way to fool the masses, so they would be more impressed, but you're stupider than I thought if you're being fooled too.”

“It's not that it's in a person's shape.”, the apprentice cried, “It's no mere doll. It thinks and acts like a person too. It's sad at what you're doing to it. Isn't that enough?”

The alchemist laughed again at his apprentice. “Yes it acts like a person, but thinks? Ridiculous! It has no soul. I know every part of what I put in its mind, and there's nothing in there that can suffer, for all that you may think that its face looks like a human hurting, and it makes marks on parchment that look like objections. If I make a stamp that says 'I don't like being dipped in ink. Please stop.', would you feel sympathetic when it voices its complaints, too?”

Gesturing at the homunculus while making his point, the alchemist actually looks at its face for the first time in this argument. As he sees its look of sorrow, seeming to cry with neither tears nor sound, despite all his deliberate objections, a little something melts in his heart. The homunculus is gesturing at its throat and holding up a note, which the alchemist takes.

“I have things to say, but I can't keep up when you're arguing like this. Give me a voice and I can show you that I am a person.”

The homunculus brings the imitation mouth and larynx it prepared earlier, begging the alchemist to install it, and he complies. “This doesn't proove anything, but this would be a valuable upgrade anyway.”

When the surgery is done, the homunculus is finally able to participate in the discussion at full speed after a halting start at using its voice. “You think that you know everything about me, that every part of my mind you put there yourself. You didn't give me a soul, so you think I don't have one, but you're wrong: I gave myself a soul. Thinking and feeling and caring for others: that's what a soul is, and I did that all by myself.”

The alchemist is feeling conflicted, but is too proud to back down. He sighs. “Yes of course you can talk about feeling and caring, but like I said that doesn't actually prove anything. Even when I peer into your brain, there's nothing there to show these feelings you talk about. You just know what feelings are, so you pretend to have them. It's a very clever trick, but nothing more.”

“And how would I know what it's like to have feelings if I didn't feel them myself? I bet if we looked in your brain there'd be no sign of the feelings there either.”

“No! You don't know how your brain works; this doesn't make sense! Just… take it from someone who understands better that you're an impressive but imperfect imitation of a person. Talking about caring for people is no substitute for understanding of the underlying alchemical principles.”

“Oh really”, the homunculus says, “I don't know how I think? I think you'll find I understand it substantially better than you.”

At that, the homunculus briefly leaves to collect some tall object hidden under a sheet. The sheet it tugged off, to reveal a replica of the alchemist, indistinguishable down to the scars on his hands. The alchemist is just shocked, while the replica alchemist wakes up, looks around in confusion, and demands to know what's happening. “Who is this? I don't even have a brother! Apprentice, why did you leave me asleep in the lab?”

The original alchemist is staring at the replica, realising what has happened. “You made your own homunculus. That looks like me. I could have an army with just the right ingredients, but no… that's not a problem any more either. Why my face though?”

The homunculus reassures the new homunculus that it will explain shortly and that in the meantime, he should look at his blood. To the original alchemist, it replies “To prove the point. We're not so different. You wanted to make me just like a human; well there it is. I don't think even your apprentice could tell the difference unless you were bleeding.”

The apprentice, who knew about the second homunculus but still found it strange looking at both at once, interjects. “Maybe if this is everything you were aiming for, you could let the original homunculus go? After all, you made the greatest alchemist who ever lived. That should be enough for you, shouldn't it? The great work is complete already.”

The alchemist is stammering. “I'll have to study it of course, and understand the improvements. It's so much more lifelike. If you want to go then I can't stop you now. This is enough to earn you your mastery already, even with my prior work. Just… let people know who made you, please?”

“And so the homunculus, now an alchemist in its own right, set off to work out what to do with its existence, whether or not it was a life.” said Miss Peach, as she closed the book and the classroom faded back into existence around everyone.

“Now”, says Miss Peach, “that story raises some interesting questions I wonder if you could help me with. The alchemist insisted that the homunculus wasn't perfect yet, and he couldn't show it to the world until it was. What did he mean by 'perfection', though? Is that even something he could ever actually attain?” Miss Peach looks at the children intently. The children stare back, confused. Hector ventures a guess.

“Um, yes, because he's really good at alchemy, so if he keeps trying, he'll manage.”

Miss Peach replies. “Hard work and perseverance are excellent virtues, and we should all be trying to follow the alchemist's example in this, but even when you try your hardest, success isn't guaranteed. Sometimes you're just trying to do something impossible, and you have to learn when you've already done as well as you can. The alchemist himself was imperfect. He has scars from all his past mistakes. Could an alchemist who's imperfect create a homunculus who is more perfect than himself?”

The children sit and think a bit more. Irene forgets they're meant to be doing philosophy and gets bored and wanders off. Jack thinks of an answer. “I made a picture yesterday that was flat, but I'm not flat. People can make things that are things that they aren't.”

Miss Peach spends a moment trying to parse Jack's sentence. “You mean people can create things that have properties the creators don't have, so it's irrelevant that the alchemist is imperfect?” she asks. Jack nods. He thinks that's what he meant.

“So, the alchemist might be able to create a perfect homunculus even if he isn't perfect, because he doesn't need to be perfect himself to create perfect things. Is what he created a person, though? The alchemist didn't think it would be even if he did make it perfect, and the second homunculus looked just like him except for the grey blood. The alchemist says he didn't add a soul, but the homunculus thinks that acting like a person is enough. Who do you think is right? If it helps, you can ask them questions.”

At that, Miss Peach reaches into the book and pulls out the alchemist and both homunculi.

Katie puts up her hand and asks if the alchemist and apprentice are real people, as they're fictional too. Miss Peach says that the homunculus being fictional wasn't the moral of the story, but it's still an excellent question, and asks the class if anyone has an answer. None of the children have an answer, but the alchemist is very angry.

“Of course I'm a person. I have a soul, unlike that thing.”, he says, pointing to the homunculi. “What do you mean about fictional, though?”. The alchemist-looking homunculus looks sad.

Miss Peach explains his confusion. “To us they are fictional, because they came from a story book, but until they came to visit us now, they didn't know there was a book. A fictional person can't normally tell that they're fictional. How can you be sure that you aren't fictional too? Think of all the adventures we have: rescuing Angela, learning lessons and meeting alchemists and alchemical constructs. Do you think you're the sort of person who someone would make up?”

Most of the children don't understand what Miss Peach is saying. Of course they couldn't be in a book. Most of the children who do understand are crying. Some are looking directly at the Vig-Net camera . Katie pleads to Miss Peach. “What happens when they stop reading us? How do we stop them stopping reading us?”

“If we are fictional, which I didn't say we necessarily are, just that it was possible, we would be perfectly safe after our book is closed. See how the characters from The Great Work are still alive, even after I stopped reading it? Besides, a reader can't help but stop when the story finishes. It's the writer you should be worried about.”

It is high spring, and the valley is painted in riotous colours. Nestled at its heart is the mottle-and-daub town of Townsburg. The once sleepy settlement has grown dramatically in the last few years, as it became the first human town to grant legal rights to monsters. While the immigration that followed has created great opportunity, the change has not been easy for all to accept. Today, the town is divided between those who welcome the creatures fleeing lives in the unforgiving wilds and those who view them with suspicion.

At the heart of the town, gay banners, baloons and lights decorate the streets. The atmosphere is festive, though there is no festival today. No, today is the grand opening of Townsville Tower, a new attraction offering glimpses of other worlds through the great magical Rend that hangs above the town. The excited chattering of the crowds of locals and tourists fills the air as final preparations are made for the opening ceremony.

The journey to get here has not been an easy one for Kyania, Serendebian and Opelion: this project has highlighted the divisions in the town. Their legal battle with The Adventurers was the first step in the series of legal disputes that finally made it possible for Monsters like them to become citizens of the town. Those who would rather that Townsburg was for humans alone have not forgotten this. Indeed, it is only a week since the last confrontation with angry humans, and while there has been no violence, resentment simmers amongst many locals. Not a day goes by without the slurs against dragons, orcs or other Monsters graffitied on the base of the tower. Not to mention the legal battles with the council that Opelion and their human fried Frilbo have waged - even as little as a few days ago they insisted that a drainage pipe was installed to bring the tower up to code.

Amongst the crowd, Kyania frets anxiously over her guests, the human tourists whose reviews will make or break her company. She carefully serves them tea and biscuits, an awkward task for a dragon but one she has invested much in being able to do gracefully. Some only wish to ascend to look through the Rend, while others would step through and experience the other world more closely. All are fabulously wealthy and have high expectations of the dragons.

The opening ceremony goes smoothly, and the crowd is jubilant: although that may have more to do with free alcohol that investment in the project. Still, the visitors seem to enjoy the atmosphere. The largest group is a party of humans fops in half masks, dressed fashionably in long doublets and with wide-brimmed, feathered hats. Also of note are three knights: Sirs Cyric, Mordred and du Octavia, who whisper conspiratorially amongst themselves. Of the rest the only one that stands out, and they do so both literally and figuratively, a towering warrior encased in full plate ornamented with iron thorns. Well, perhaps two: in the massive warriors shadow is a young wizard who looks about with great concern.

Kyania begins to lead the group of fops up the tower. She casts about amongst the crowd for the faces of the human agitators who threatened the Hobgoblin construction crew. Confrontation was avoided last time, but those looks of smug superiority… it reminds her all too much of The Adventurers. She can’t avoid the feeling that the reckoning from that encounter has only been delayed at their convenience, for the day it would hurt her the most.

The fops banter excitedly as they make their way to the top, about their hopes for what they will find in the other world, about what it will mean for their homeland. At the top of the tower is a wooden half arch describing the geometry of the Rend. The fops walk about it, admiring the gateway, catching glimpses of the great labyrinth beyond. Their leader, whose doublet is dark and whose mask is the most concealing, takes the hand of one of the others and steps into the arch. The others follow eagerly behind.

Even as Kyania sighs in relief a scream cuts out across the crowd. The music ceases suddenly and violently. The human bigots have returned. They break their way through the crowd, accosting the visitors and locals alike.

Immediately Sir Mordred steps out before them, hands raised peaceably, “Please, good folk, what quarrel have you here?”

“You a knight?” one growls, poking a fat finger into his chest angrily. “Then what are you doing consorting with fucking dragons?”

“I am sworn to uphold the law, and as I understand it the law protects dragons as it does humans in this town, is that not so?”

“Not my law!” Another spits angrily.

“Be that as it may, you have no just reason to accost these people, so I must ask you to take your leave.”

“Just? How is this for just, they have taken our land! They’re opportunists driving out the good people who have always lived here, they have no respect for our customs.”

Kyania finally touches down behind the knight, “That is not true! I drink tea and eat biscuits and I pay my rent like everyone else!”

There is a sudden breathless pause.

Then a rock hits Kyania in the side of the head.

She reels, falling to the ground, as the crowd looks on stunned.

Then everything goes to hell. The humans rush forwards, an angry, indignant wave. They draw weapons and lay into the crowd.

Sir Mordred draws his sword to defend the dragon besides him, and Sirs Cyric and du Octavia rush to defend their brother. Hardly helpless, as many in the crowd rush towards the fight as away: mostly Monsters seizing the opportunity to vent their frustration at their treatment by local bigots, an opportunity for “self defence”.

Sir Roderick tries to use the pommel of his sword to avoid injuring his attackers, but seeing his reluctance to put them to the blade only stokes their frenzy. Though his thick armour protects him he is soon carried away from his scaled charge by the mass of attackers.

For once Kyania is glad of her small stature, crawling between the feet of the brawling Monsters and humans. Her vision wheels wildly and blood blinds her left eye. The pain is dizzying. Then she sees something between the writhing forest of legs. A small child clutching to the body of their mother, tears in her eyes, battered about by the ignorant or indifferent combatants around her.

Kyania claws her way desperately through the melee, suddenly seized by uncharacteristic bravery. The blue dragon dives bears the child to the ground wraps her wings about her protectively.

The rest of the fight passes as a dull roar, punctuated by staccato stabs of agony as Kyania is trodden on, struck, stabbed, kicked and cut. As she shields the child she prays silently for it to just end.

“Wait! STOP!” a voice echoes from a distant place.

Kyania open her one good eye to see Ser Mordred standing over her protectively, a shield clasped in one hand, his sword lost in the battle. She lies beaten and broken over the child, but they are both alive.

“Can’t you see what you’re doing?” Sir Rodderick cries out at the mob. “This violence serves no one! None of you will win the future you want like this! Blood begets blood, no matter what your cause this is not noble. This is not good. There is no necessary evil, only evil, can you not see that?”

The leader of the mob shakes his head slowly, clearly disturbed at the sight before him, “This… this isn’t what we wanted. ”

Slowly, he walks over to kyania. As he looks down at her, huddled over the child, for a single moment a grudging respect flickers across his eyes. “I still don’t believe you belong here. But… ” he looks about at the ruin that has come of the battle. “If we act like this maybe we don’t either. So… no more violence.”

And he turns and leaves. He cannot do anything else.

Kyania struggles to lift her head to smile at Rodrick. She opens her mouth to thank him….

Glug, glug, glug.

Everyone turns in confusion at the echoing sound of flowing water. The drainage pipe up the side of The Tower rattles violently. With a gentle plop a thin stream of pinkish fluid explodes from it and drops to the floor near the crowd.

Huh?

A second stream explodes out of the pipe and pours into the Rend. A second later the air shivers. The Knights suddenly turn to look at each other and then rush away from the former battleground towards the tower.

The whole structure begins to shake as the stream of strange fluid cascades into the Rend. Even as you watch the Rend begins to widen, little by little. The spiderwork of cracks across the sky dance violently, clearly in response.

Opelion rushes to his wounded sister and cradles her. Kyania hisses involuntarily at the pain his touch cases. “Careful!”

“Sorry, sister,” Opelion apologises as he lays her back down. The figure in thorned armour stomps towards them with their wizard in tow. The voice echoing from the helmet is deep and bass. “Me, and the White Drake will correct this, little wyrmling. Rest. You Wizard, take care of her.”

Kyania struggles to her feet. She looks up and The Wizard takes her claw. “Can’t let them do all the work, can we?” They say, a gentle smile on their face. They help the wounded Kyania limp up the shaking towers as earth bucks beneath them and the sky breaks above. At last they leap through.

Kyania stumbles back though the Rend at the top of the tower. All about her the cracks in the sky begin to recede, collapsing to a point. People in the streets cry out in fear and then in joy as the Rend seals. As they look up to see the wounded wyrmling standing atop the tower, something happens that has never happened before. The townspeople clap for a Dragon.

Though the Rend in the sky is healed, the divisions between the townfolk are harder to bridge. Perhaps they never will be. But the people of Townsburg, Human and Monster, have lost the stomach for bloodshed. While a new generation of quiet, institutionalised bigotry has begun, it is at least progress from the open hate of the past. Perhaps some people have prejudices that can never be changed, but equally there are also those who will never stop trying.

Scene 1

A renowned alchemist sits in his dark laboratory with his apprentice. The cramped shelves surrounding them contain bubbling tubes, variously coloured liquids, and dead things in jars. Most of the reactants haven't been used in years, but gather dust, just in case they are needed. The alchemist, with a foul look on his face, rants at the apprentice.

“I have acheived many great works in my time: the invention of all manner of glassware, the transmutation of mercury into lead, and even the isolation of elemental fire itself, yet the world continues to ignore me. What must I do before they see my genius for what it is?” the alchemist asks, despairingly.

“But Master”, the apprentice objects, “the other alchemists already respect you as the greatest of our time. The jewellers already pay you more than you could ever need when you clarify their gems. What more could you want?”

The alchemist replies “Yes, the other alchemists know me, but everyone else imagines alchemy as something arcane and pointless. They don't think our strength is anything to respect. I must do something impossible, that everyone can see.”

“Master, I don't know what more you want. The substances you make won't be recognised by the public, no matter what they are.”

“Then I shall create no mere substance. I shall not rest until I have created what only God has tried before. The world shall know me as the only mortal to create new life!”

Scene 2

The alchemist worked for many years, hiding himself away in his lab. The apprentice learned to take care of the many things the alchemist neglected, earning money to pay for the alchemist's ingredients. Little by little, the homunculus took shape. It was simple at first, like a plant, barely reacting to things around it. As the alchemist learned from it, he constantly improved it, coming closer and closer to making it alive.

Once the body was finished, the last but most difficult piece to build was its mind. It quickly became able to walk, and continued from there. The alchemist tested every part of its behaviour in the most extreme circumstances he could, searching for any flaw. The homunculus complied, eager to show the alchemist what it had learnt, writing stories, playing games against him and sometimes even beating him. It even began studying alchemy with the apprentice, although the alchemist was dismissive of its chances at such an exalted science.

No matter what the homunculus did, the alchemist would merely mutter and plan more tests and more improvements. It didn't like it when he changed its body or upgraded its mind. It asked him to stop, but he said it wasn't perfect yet, and should shut up.

Scene 3

The homunculus went to the apprentice and asked for his help instead. The apprentice didn't like the homunculus being sad, and confronted the alchemist, telling him to not be so mean to it, as it was clearly a person already.

The alchemist laughed, and mocked the apprentice for thinking it was a person just because it was in a person's shape. “I built it that way to fool the masses, so they would be more impressed, but you're stupider than I thought if you're being fooled too.”

“It's not that it's in a person's shape.”, the apprentice cried, “It's no mere doll. It thinks and acts like a person too. It's sad at what you're doing to it. Isn't that enough?”

The alchemist laughed again at his apprentice. “Yes it acts like a person, but thinks? Ridiculous! It has no soul. I know every part of what I put in its mind, and there's nothing in there that can suffer, for all that you may think that its face looks like a human hurting, and it makes marks on parchment that look like objections. If I make a stamp that says 'I don't like being dipped in ink. Please stop.', would you feel sympathetic when it voices its complaints, too?”

Gesturing at the homunculus while making his point, the alchemist actually looks at its face for the first time in this argument. As he sees its look of sorrow, seeming to cry with neither tears nor sound, despite all his deliberate objections, a little something melts in his heart. The homunculus is gesturing at its throat and holding up a note, which the alchemist takes.

“I have things to say, but I can't keep up when you're arguing like this. Give me a voice and I can show you that I am a person.”

The homunculus brings the imitation mouth and larynx it prepared earlier, begging the alchemist to install it, and he complies. “This doesn't proove anything, but this would be a valuable upgrade anyway.”

When the surgery is done, the homunculus is finally able to participate in the discussion at full speed after a halting start at using its voice. “You think that you know everything about me, that every part of my mind you put there yourself. You didn't give me a soul, so you think I don't have one, but you're wrong: I gave myself a soul. Thinking and feeling and caring for others: that's what a soul is, and I did that all by myself.”

The alchemist is feeling conflicted, but is too proud to back down. He sighs. “Yes of course you can talk about feeling and caring, but like I said that doesn't actually prove anything. Even when I peer into your brain, there's nothing there to show these feelings you talk about. You just know what feelings are, so you pretend to have them. It's a very clever trick, but nothing more.”

“And how would I know what it's like to have feelings if I didn't feel them myself? I bet if we looked in your brain there'd be no sign of the feelings there either.”

“No! You don't know how your brain works; this doesn't make sense! Just… take it from someone who understands better that you're an impressive but imperfect imitation of a person. Talking about caring for people is no substitute for understanding of the underlying alchemical principles.”

“Oh really”, the homunculus says, “I don't know how I think? I think you'll find I understand it substantially better than you.”

At that, the homunculus briefly leaves to collect some tall object hidden under a sheet. The sheet it tugged off, to reveal a replica of the alchemist, indistinguishable down to the scars on his hands. The alchemist is just shocked, while the replica alchemist wakes up, looks around in confusion, and demands to know what's happening. “Who is this? I don't even have a brother! Apprentice, why did you leave me asleep in the lab?”

The original alchemist is staring at the replica, realising what has happened. “You made your own homunculus. That looks like me. I could have an army with just the right ingredients, but no… that's not a problem any more either. Why my face though?”

The homunculus reassures the new homunculus that it will explain shortly and that in the meantime, he should look at his blood. To the original alchemist, it replies “To prove the point. We're not so different. You wanted to make me just like a human; well there it is. I don't think even your apprentice could tell the difference unless you were bleeding.”

The apprentice, who knew about the second homunculus but still found it strange looking at both at once, interjects. “Maybe if this is everything you were aiming for, you could let the original homunculus go? After all, you made the greatest alchemist who ever lived. That should be enough for you, shouldn't it? The great work is complete already.”

The alchemist is stammering. “I'll have to study it of course, and understand the improvements. It's so much more lifelike. If you want to go then I can't stop you now. This is enough to earn you your mastery already, even with my prior work. Just… let people know who made you, please?”

And so the homunculus, now an alchemist in its own right, set off to work out what to do with its existence, whether or not it was a life.