Flowers in Juyn

When the sun reposes behind the hills, the world goes dark; what remains to radiate light is the spark that humanity produces, dance, song, love, and creation for the purpose of embracing oneself.

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“Why do we garden? Why do we grow? Is it to plant flowers in a neat little row, or to let loose the wilds of ancient woods in a world of our own?” I could see a handful of heads nod in the front rows, mostly a tiny handful of students. The professors were still stone-faced, waiting for true science.

“For every twenty-four hours in a day, twelve days in a pass, for two-hundred-and-eighty-eight days every year since mankind and our offshoots emerged on Fernaea, humanity has had an interconnected relationship with nature. Rooted in the gods themselves, gifted to us the pleasure and warmth of our mother star’s light, we have never been too indifferent from flora. For many of us, even today, this means more than reliance and balance with our green planet. We have formed a mutual relationship based on our impact on nature, and all that it provides us with, from cynical cycles to the oxygen we need to live. The vibrant colors, fresh air, and sounds of Fernaea create an atmosphere that, undeniably, demands respect. I plant a variety of seeds in my home garden, herbs, flowers, even several trees. Many of which will never come of age for me to see in full bloom or at their peak, so why would I plant them in the first place? Well, simply put, it is a thing of legacy, of care, attention, and dedication. A garden is a testament to not only the growth of the flora, but also of the tenderness to the land, or the hand of the gardener.” Now I had eyes on me, the fuel of engagement flowing through my being. A woman nodded along, she donned a pair of mud-stricken trousers with overall straps, not a professor as they all flashed the same green and gold peregrine pins on their chests.

“There is but a small patch of soil in my backyard, just on the edge of a small woods; the trees give the house shade, but therefore in return take light from my garden. But it is the very same trees that provide us all with air to breathe and atmosphere, their leaves even shielding the delicate flowers below from torrential rains.” A cough broke the momentary silence, followed by a low, dismissive murmur from the back of the hall. The heavy, creeping silence of a lost audience settled over the front rows. My pulse ticked up. I needed to move from my lyrical poetry to substance and practicality.

I reached beneath the heavy wooden podium and hefted my visual aids onto the table.

A sudden, startled gasp rippled through the front row. In my left hand, I hoisted a standard-issue, un-plated robotic appendage—all cold steel, exposed wiring, and rigid servos. In my right hand, I held a medically preserved human arm, its skin heavy and pale, the intricate biology of its veins and muscles mapped out in stark, undeniable mortality.

"Flesh and steel," I called out, my voice easily cutting through their sudden, morbid fascination. "Now, what if I told you all that my dedication to the craft of my garden is interrupted as we speak? For years now, as artificial intelligence in tandem with robotic technology is on the rise, we face a dual crisis. Look at what I am holding. The biological arm faces the absolute liability of a short lifespan. It ages. It dies. The mechanical arm faces the liability of technological decay. As systems update, it rusts, falls behind, and breaks down."

I raised both the dead flesh and the cold steel higher, feeling the heavy, awkward weight of them pulling at my shoulders. "So, what if—just imagine—I found a way to solve both of those problems at once?"

See here video footage of my backyard where a robot of my own design currently tends to my garden, it’s garden more so now. This may be hard to see at first, and the reason for that is striking. No, it is not camouflage from birds or other pests, but the moss and creeping ivy you can see intertwined with my creation are partially fueling its lifespan and allowing its neural network to grow organically with the flora attached to it.

“What I mean to tell you with all of this is not that I have created life or innovated anything grand, not yet, but that I have proof of concept for us all to build upon. This robot, Juyn I call it, is already coming into her third year of surviving entirely out on its own. See, see, my biggest discovery here is not simply the intersection of life and machine, but the ability to merge them, the ivy leaves are solar panels, moss absorbs water used to cool the system, the machine holds soil and houses worms. It is extraordinary. And best of all, it thrives on beauty, built by it, strives for it, turning dirty hands into the hands of an artist and scientist in one.”

Every light in the lecture hall flicked on, and I was no longer stage center. It was the seventeenth of Ferral, getting into the warmer period of summer, as blinds opened, the warm sunlight poured in. A series of applause followed by several raised hands placed me back into the center of attention, signaling the end of my formal presentation and the beginning of questions from the audience.

“Ravishingly brilliant concept!” called out a woman in the crowd, her pale hair strewn about in a series of bubble-like balls atop her head. She adorned a lavish red dress that flowed down her figure like a slender waterfall. “But perhaps a more appealing or purposeful demonstration would have been preferred.”

My response was short and simple; I had feared that the very concern of a garden was not being practical enough.

A stout man in a black and silver suit laden with constellations caught my eye, and I pointed to answer his question-raised hand. “And, what happens when the garden dies in winter?” asked the stout man in the suit.

A question I was prepared for. “Remarkably, the garden has never died. Since Juyn is able to provide its full attention to the survival of the garden, even in snow, it has learned to heat the soil and defrost the snow.” I scanned the room; tiered semicircle platforms surrounded me and my presentation. My arms ached from the two other arms that were not mine, one of robotic nature, the other, that of another man.

For nearly two hours, I had talked, more so rambled on, about my discoveries. Now my throat was as sore and dry as a tumbleweed.

The meeting adjourned, and all students at the University of Midrim who came to watch funneled out a series of exit doors like sheep to a shepherd. All who remained in the room, including the woman in red and the man in a suit from before, were either board members or professors, all with the ability to fund and save, or dismiss and dismantle my work. Seven people remained and stepped down the tiered floor to meet me.

The headmaster of the university, a woman with a back straighter than a steel rod and the gaze of a hunting tigress, was the first to speak. “Dr. Byrd, should we elect you to Midrim as a professor, do you truly see yourself being capable of handling all your current hobbies, as well as the responsibilities of a position here?” The headmaster came closer, each step as fluid as water, keeping her buoyant above the ground; she could have been floating.

“What an excellent question, a fantastic way for me to further express the automation of my craft. Whilst here teaching, grading, writing, whatever it may be, I do not need to be home in charge of Juyn or any other projects I have running, as they have been designed to wait for me if something breaks rather than break themselves further. Likely a knowledgeable point to teach students.”

“Yes, it certainly would be. Now, on the topic of your ideas, I fear some of them may be too experimental to teach here at Midrim. A lot of what you do seems to be untraditional, in comparison to common scientific methods.”

“Might I say,” chimed in the man in a constellation suit, “radical ideas may not be the worst thing for the university right now. If we could push a newer modern era and stay at the forefront of the world, then why not take that chance?”

I found space to interject, stepping forward on my comparatively stupid feet. “While I love the way you think, Professor,” I began, “we cannot forget what happens to hubris when given wings to fly. But that is exactly what we will warn about and teach our students, towards a more natural future.”

As the professors and fellow members of the university gathered to talk behind the headmaster, she and I had a long, close conversation about my future. We discussed my plans in research and in experiments, as well as going over my living conditions, any handicaps, and or accessibility needs from Midrim. In the end, she stared me down and told me,

“Our answer to your acceptance is not yet a no; however, it is not something we can decide in one day. Give us a pass to send you a message and thank you again for your time and demonstration.”

My heart sank; a pass was a long while to wait, at least for someone who needed the funds, needed to keep moving.

She turned before I left the hall, her voice sweet, “Oh, and Cecil, good to see you finally sober.”

Her frame was centered by the theater-like stage as high noon light erupted through the tall windows, refracting down in a series of scattering, blinding rays. "I missed our partnership." Anthea’s words caught me entirely off guard. I thought she was mostly intrigued by what my plants could do, not the sordid history of my machines. I gave her a polite, stiff nod and walked out the door anyhow, trying to project the image of a man feeling free. But looking back, the arrogance was a paper-thin shield. I felt like a thief who had tricked a guard to access a treasury of gold, knowing full well the alarm was already silently ringing. The first, faint itch of withdrawal was already beginning to crawl beneath my skin.

From the lecture hall, I walked through a small wing of Midrim Library. The place was magnificent, lit by rainbows cast from windows that told the story of a great beast, the Umbrnachte, which used to burn down cities and terrorize the shores of Eshalin Bay. The story was of a woman who had bargained to fly; she gave away her children to the god Mora in exchange for wings to be free from the ground. She was gifted with wings of stained-glass feathers; she could fly but never land for fear of them shattering. Still, this bargain did not disappoint her, and so she flew, dodged mountains and trees, kissed the clouds, and made love with the stars. But she grew tired fast, and so the great beast Umbrnachte offered her another deal: he would give her a bed of fire to lie upon and rest if she could bear the burns. Out of exhaustion, the deal was struck, and although the woman with wings died that night, as did the great beast, for when her soul left her physical body for the Stillands, the wings tried and failed to follow; shattering with her mind, they fell from the sky into the beast's spine whilst he slept, and his soul passed on with one final roar.

Beyond the university gates, as a buffer before the city of Midrim, lies the rail station. Coastal fresh air hits my face as it whips through trees across the courtyard. Heavy and dry hung the blistering air, stinging on my arms as they swung in and out of shadow, beads of sun-caught sweat formed above my brow, they dripped from nose as I walked until under a series of grey stone arches my skin found cool shade in the sanctity of the rail station. Built upon old grounds of a kingdom, the architects of the station included broken-out sections of walls in which old stones and arched window frames protruded. It was a magnificent place to be, capped with barrel vault ceilings of glass, ancient elder wood beams, and housing several interior gardens; it bustled with noise and the rapid lives of coastal Eshalin peoples.

Like dust to a field, I was negligible to the enormous storm of a crowd that shifted through Midrim Station. My soul was made of aching anxiety mixed with tranquil hope and the peace brought by the warm sun trickling through windows like molten gold. From within the contents of my canvas side bag, I pulled free a palm-sized maroon booklet engraved with the symbol of the Global Market, an anchor with feathered wings, a passport to all that considered themselves the free world. A wall of small, windowed stalls contained a man waiting to take my booklet, give it a stamp, and hand me a small coin for the deposit of my travels. I thanked him politely, and cut through a wave of people, crossed a bridge of stone and moss over a railway, and waited at platform four. The journey home would be short, a half an hour on the monorail; but it would be, unbeknownst to me, a half an hour, which turned my life upside-down.

Wildflower and coffee perfume crept its way into my nose and into my brain. A woman stood beside me, her shoulders slightly taller than mine, chin raised, and hands held tightly interlocked against her midsection. I found myself immediately infatuated by her presence, like a drug I did not know I needed; her scent and stature wrapped around my brain and held me tight. Her presence acted on me not merely as an attraction, but as a disruption on a cognitive level; she held an unnerving sort of gravity like a burning star, a variable that disrupted my calculated day. In a moment of looking her in the eyes, there was something wrong with me, a fire in my gut, a hole in my throat, and I realized I would throw myself into ruin if it meant her safety, and I knew not even her name, yet to be near her, with the blooming smell of Cyval, I began unraveling.

But I was senseless, not myself at the time. Reacting irrationally, dramatically, as if I were to stumble into true love like I was the hero of a storybook. But I asked myself, what if I was, and how would I ever know what was meant to be, if I didn't throw myself into chance.

I turned to her and met her gaze, “Afternoon.” I began, “Where are you heading?”

Her voice was smooth and dark like the best cup of coffee, “What does that matter to you? Plan on following me?” She smiled, she had dimples on her cheeks, and freckles below her eyes. “Who are you?”

“Oh, of course, that is my plan; someone as pretty as you needs a dog on a leash. My name is Cecil.” Her breath hitched, a fleeting stiffness freezing her shoulders before she forced a bright, dimpled smile. I hated the words I said, calling myself a dog in comparison to a stranger; it wasn’t even that funny. She laughed, and my brain turned off."

The woman stepped back several steps, almost stumbling backwards over the platform bench; hesitant yet curious she took a breath. “The name is Laurel; I am headed south to Lowrim. And you?”

“South as well, only not as far, just home for me, Tiesin, I have work to get done, always.” Words stuck to my tongue.

“What is this work of yours?” Her hands dropped to her sides; she held the same small booklet as I did, as well as a grey pouch closed shut with a zipper. She clutched her items closely.

“Well, it’s complicated, and mostly speculation with trial and error, but I study the intersection of plants and machinery, mixing robotics with the solar and network properties of plants.” I stopped myself before I began to ramble.

“I see, that is definitely complicated. But on the contrary, I study the medicinal properties of flora, more specifically the effects they can have on our brains.” A taller, wider woman rushed past us, brushing Laurel with her shoulder. Laurel flinched. She stepped closer to me.

A further train breezed into the station; it blew that smell back at me. A knot formed in my stomach; I knew that her scent was familiar. “Cyval,” I said, it wasn’t a question, it was not an accusation.

Her response was mostly physical; she stepped back, her hands settled back to her midsection, she covered her grey pouch, and she looked ashamed. “Yes, but it’s not like that.” She looked scared now, her back slouched. “I do really study plants, not just use them.”

I had to refrain from placing my hand on her shoulder; I had hurt her. “I’m not judging you, it’s okay. I used to.” Again, she stepped closer.

“I don’t usually do this.” She said all too quickly for my comfort. “But I forgot how badly I needed to get out; would you join me on the train?” Laurel was shy, a faint blush barely poking through her cheeks.

By the time the train hissed into the station, I had learned that Laurel was a key member of a specialized research team at Midrim University. We boarded the carriage together, finding a quiet window table where we sat across from one another, the rhythmic clacking of the rails providing a backdrop for our mutual confessions. There, in the intimate space between us, I opened my bag to show her my journals and the intricate robotic arm I carried, its wires shared space with creeping ivy and moss grew on the tips of its fingers; all while she spoke of her daily work tending to the university’s horticulture gardens in Lowrim. It felt as though the momentum of the journey was stripping away our casual barriers, leaving only a raw, shared curiosity about the intersection of our lives.

As the landscape blurred past, Laurel’s voice took on a passionate edge as she detailed her advocacy for the medicinal application of the Cyval flower. She explained its extraordinary power to sedate the mind, guiding it into a sanctuary free of fear or regret, with only the mildest side effects of tingling fingertips or a distant ringing in the ears. She revealed that the small grey pouch she clutched so tightly contained a potent new sample of the very Cyval strain I had been working with; a specimen she had just provided to the university for further research. Her conviction was as intoxicating as the floral scent clinging to her, and I found myself hanging on every word of her dangerous, beautiful science. Through a more or less intimate exchange of our histories, I discovered her aspirations to redeem the botany and plant medicine sciences, a pursuit meant to salvage the legacy that her father had surrendered to the dark. I knew the type. Academics who couldn't keep pace with the brutal evolution of science. It was a harsh world, but looking at Laurel's sun-caught face, I didn't care about the failures of a dead botanist. I only cared about how she would look sitting in my garden.

Laurel was ever more enchanting with every word she spoke, and each time a new flash of light or tree-cast shadow cut across her face, I imagined how she would look at my home, at my table, in our garden, in her book and plant-filled study. I knew that I was being rushed, dramatic, until she placed her hand on mine while talking.

“I really appreciate how well you listen.” She began softly. “About the Cyval, I don’t mean any sort of disgrace to you for using it, and I do to, I just. It helps, you know? Adds a little color to a quiet world and makes anything feel possible. In small enough doses, of course, not to call myself an addict, I do mostly take what I’m testing or working on.” She stopped, having caught herself rushing and rambling.

“Hey, it’s okay, again, I’m not judging you,” I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Our conversation drifted from Cyval’s medicinal properties to the pure, simple need it fulfilled. We shared our pasts in hushed tones, my addiction, her family's historic shadow, and in doing so, lowered the last of our defenses. It was in this intimate space that I asked her about the sample she carried, learning it was a potent, new adaptation she was breeding. The words seemed inadequate, though. I needed a more tangible act to cement the bond. From my bag, I pulled out a small tin of dark blue petals. I offered her one. She stared at it, a dark, heavy flash of self-loathing crossing her features. But the addiction won. She took it from my palm. The shared breath between us, mine tasting of wildflower and coffee, hers of the subtle, clean, almost minty musk of a botanist, felt like a secret, damning oath. It was only after the familiar, cool rush ran through my veins that we impulsively agreed she would get off the train early with me.

We walked the cobbled and bricked streets of Tiesin, my hometown, laughing, dancing, and kissing the entire way. As night fell and clouds parted from the stars, strings of streetlights illuminated and stretched down the hill to my wooded home. Together we danced down the hill in tandem with the lights, letting them be our music, and the sky was our floor. It was toward the end of the journey, at the foot of the hill, that Laurel tripped on my feet and slid down the street into the grass, yet still we laughed and I helped her into my home. She struggled through a slight limp in her left foot, likely a twisted ankle, though we never found out for sure. I rested her down onto my sofa, she stared out the window to the garden and woods.

Stepping aside for but a moment, I prepared some hot tea and milk to wind down our lively afternoon. The world, in comparison to a Cyval high, was grey and bland. Laurel looked less like a goddess now and more like a ghost. Her white hair was a tangled mess, and her green coat was muted against the busy background of my living room. The rain paused for a few minutes.

"The vibrancy, faded, it’s gone," she breathed into the heavy, still air, her words a departure from the storm itself. "Usually, this world holds more color than this; such a hollow grey."

My body collapsed onto the sofa beside her, a heavy exhale escaping my lungs. “Usually is for me,” I breathed. She watched me with an unsettling intensity, her golden eyes widening as a visible tremor of fear crossed her brow. “Is there something wrong?”

Rain picked back up again; it startled her. “Nothing, I really should get going soon,” she shook her head, but never moved to go. “I just. I haven’t been out in a while; it’s new. Does that make sense?” asked Laurel.

In truth, the logic of her words eluded my naive grasp back then. "Yeah, I get it," I started, "Is there some specific issue or anything in particular that you want to talk about?"

“I feel safer here, and I don’t like it. Not that I don’t like it here, I just, I’m scared that I like it too much.” She opened up and poured herself out to me, the end of a good high. “We kissed.” It wasn’t a question. “And I chose to come here, on a whim, for what?”

I began to feel terrible; did I kidnap a lonely woman; did I drug her? No, I didn’t, she offered it to me, but why? “I apologize if I brought you here or forced anything from you. In sincerity, I really was just captured by your presence. You were a goddess in that train station. I needed you. I still…”

Laurel smiled, shaking her head. “No, never mind, let's not stop this now. I am here, there is no accident here, I accepted an invitation as an escape, a getaway, that’s what I expect.” Drinking her tea, she leaned back and crossed her legs. “You are brilliant, Cecil, no doubt there, and I, the support you need right now, right?”

I nodded.

“Then to me, you are a gate; should I open it, I might find freedom.”

“From what?” I asked.

“Never mind that, rather leave it out of our little adventure.” Rain fell heavy, like a marching army across my rooftop, rushing to assail the barriers of my fragile mind. Laurel’s words became muted as a stroke of thunder broke the sky above, “What is in this tea anyway?” she muttered over the rim of her mug. “Young Cyval seeds?”

She stunned me, it was in fact a blend of Cyval and other mixed wildflowers produced by Juyn months ago. “It’s floral, a few seeds yeah, if that’s okay? I have other blends as well, maple root, candy lily,” my voice fell quiet, dissipated into her nod of acceptance, her small smile and glittering eyes.

She drank her tea and relaxed on the couch. As the storm raged on, the pounding of the rain kept me sane, harmony of tempest rhythm and the absent hum that was my home, grounded my person to the couch. Rather than drifting into sleep, I watched. Her now ghostly form was still beautiful; her hair wasn’t a mess, it was lived and worn, her dress wasn’t muted, it was pastel and soft. Everything was right again.

Laurel sleepily slurred, “Some flowers only bloom at night, you know.”

I took this as more of a sign than a riddle. “Are you asking if you can stay for the night?” Silence, she nodded embarrassingly. “The couch is all yours. I haven’t had company in… It’s good to be hospitable, company gives a reason to talk.”

Laurel drifted into sleep; she rested her head on the armrest and curled up into a cute little ball. Sipping my tea after laying a blanket over her, I walked out into the rain to my garden. The plants were pelted down into the dirt; I lifted several back up onto their lattice. An arched door waited for me, my little wooden workshop on the edge of the woods.

Waiting for me, in agony, was a dismantled automaton, Juyn, with a missing arm, a detached chest and head, wires strewn about its body as a lattice for creeping ivy. Through shaking hands from a departing high, I began to work. Rain came in clusters, dumping down in a roar, or tiptoeing across the metal roof. I worked with it as my beat, faster, slower, faster. Juyn was my passion project, my secret servant to feed an addiction. My ability to create it, operate, and continue my passion was made purely possible by previous university funds and grants towards a better future for science, but earning their trust has not lately been easy.

The underside of my cluttered counter made the above look clean as spring air; it was a meeting place for everything that didn’t have a place, small boxes, loose screws, seeds that sprouted flowers in the dirt, and my sanity. Whether it took a couple of minutes or an hour to find a series of springs, I couldn’t tell, but I returned to work with a plethora of miscellaneous trinkets. Juyn’s chest was a series of three panels and a handful of data slots. I opened everything, took it all out, and started again. A strong wind blew and caused my hanging lights to rattle and flicker; I cut my hand because of it. After briefly popping my head out the door to check that Laurel was still asleep, the project called me back. Cyval called me back.

Blood dripped down my fingers, and it stained my pants. My head fell on my shoulders as I nodded sleepily. Instead of lying down, I burst through the door of my workshop into the ongoing storm, rain pelted my body and washed my blood. Fumbling through moonlight and wind, I grabbed a hold of several flowers, their thorns ever so slightly dug into my wrist and palm, and I ripped them from their stems in a dreadful jolt to their beauty. Electric tranquility ran through me like a cold wind, and I ate and tore at their petals with my teeth in an ever growing crave for more.

A flash of electric white tore across the forest background, illuminating the savage outline of my person; a figure drenched in storm-wash and bloody gore, tearing at vibrant flower stems with my teeth as I prepared to wail under the triad of moons above. I was surrendering the last of my soul, yielding to the soil as a mere consequence of nature rather than its architect. No longer was I under the pressure of being a maker, but able to return to the land as a product of evolution, of the gift of life.

Then, a profound silence descended upon the world, sudden and eerie. Cold rain pelted my face, trickling along my weary, strained, arms and dripping from my fingertips. A violent shiver racked my frame just as I collapsed, yielding to the sudden ground which nearly kissed me.

“Cecil?!” shouted Laurel. “What? What are you doing in the rain?” Her hair was wild, the blanket wrapped tight around her body. She hadn't fully seen me yet, merely saw my shadow, and must have heard my trembling. The thunder must have woken her. What a difficult time to be caught in a storm. She was faint in my vision, though I felt as though I could see only the finest of details with clarity. I ran inside to her, nearly slipping on wet feet, tears strung down my face to my chin, my head rang with an undulating headache of madness and euphoria. “Cecil, is everything okay?”

My eyes felt wide, my vision out of focus, and her face glowed. “I had work to do, out in the shed.” My mouth felt dry. Cold tea waited for me in the kitchen; Laurel followed me to it. “Sorry. Lately my schedule, sleep. has been. Off.”

She stared at me like a huntress. Remaining at least six feet from me on the far side of the kitchen island, there was a part of her that must have been terrified of me. I wanted to scream at her to run away, to look away at least, to hide my shame. “You crash fascinatingly hard Cecil.” She leaned over the kitchen island. “Tell me, what is it that really keeps you up at night, the work, or the flower?”

I was being interrogated. Covered in rain, a trail of blood, and eyes that were nothing but pupils, a normal woman would have run from here, and here she was, simply curious about my lifestyle. I picked blades of grass from my hair, the true high having yet to settle in.

“It’s both,” I replied. “The work, it’s for the Cyval, Juyn, is for the Cyval. It gets complicated, but-”

She cut me off, “Try me.”

Sinking back into the stool, I began another lecture, this one of truth. “I am addicted, that’s the short of it, and I don’t want off it. But all of my work, my studies, rely on me to be unimpaired, and in the process of harvesting, growing, the flowers release a pollen that sticks like static.” Laurel nodded along in agreement. “The pollen, I could smell it on you when we met, to most it’s a perfume, but for us, for users, it’s the stench of a source, of a chance to be high.” She nodded at that too, with a faint smile. “Basically, I use my studies and the funds entrusted to me by universities I attempt to teach at to feed my addiction in secret. Juyn is a project several years old now, as I mentioned, but her true purpose is not in revolutionizing the technology of our era, it’s simply to create a source of Cyval for myself.” I continued rambling for several minutes, the words of lectures passed stitching themselves together for me like an autopilot. I explained about how the public and the universities may see my experiments and the possibilities I bring to the world, but how I see it all as a stunt. I explained how selfish it all really was and how terrible I sometimes felt, but that there are also many scientists and professors across the world who work in relation to my research. They are the ones who truly do good.

Laurel, as interested in my conversations as she was, became overrun by her tiredness. She allowed me to escort her back to the couch, and she soon slept again to the sound of rain. My eyelids felt heavy despite my energized brain. I lay on the floor beside her, staring up through a skylight towards the lightning-struck sky until the clouds turned black and my eyes shut.

When I woke, the world was still dim, and distant beads of morning light poked through the trunks of the woods. Beside me on the couch, Laurel still slept, a string of drool hanging from her lips. Hunger called to me, not the kind that food can settle, only satisfaction. I washed my minor wounds and changed clothes before heading back out to my workshop. Juyn stood silent, greeting me with its head resting on a side table. It could think and respond though its head was detached, only its body was frozen. Pieces of Juyn’s central hardware found their places into the chest. I finished my work from the night before and closed everything up. I felt like a surgeon closing wounds or fixing bones.

A series of knocks came at the wooden door. “Cecil, are you in there?” asked Laurel. She did not wait for a response before she opened the door and poked her head in. She was beautiful.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling at her. “Hungry for breakfast?”

Laurel stepped inside. “Maybe in a little while. Can I see you work?”

“I believe you already are.” I said, and as I stepped out of the doorframe Juyn’s voice jolted to see another human in the workshop. It clicked and whistled like a bird, I refused to give it a human voice or vocabulary, rather it responded out of insight and its mechanical version of emotion.

She paced around Juyn, fingers grazing the grey metal surface. It was hypnotizing, the way she moved so meticulously, with such purpose and ease in a world she was too. Squatting behind the robot, Laurel examined the ivy and moss that grew at the ankles and up the legs. She touched each leaf carefully. To every leaf that was grazed, Juyn hummed faintly, as if to warn Laurel to step away or be careful at the least.

“It is beautiful.” She said, standing and opening the small hatch to the sunroof that hadn’t been opened in months. The ivy leaves reached for the light; the moss seemed to glow green. “Cecil, you aren’t selfish at all. You made life new and so, so special.”

Juyn’s camera-like head whistled in agreement. It surveyed the room with a soft focus centered around Laurel.

The workshop didn't feel like a romantic getaway. It smelled of stagnant rain, burnt solder, and the sharp, metallic tang of the Cyval powder lingering on my breath. Laurel stepped into the chaos of my shed, her eyes immediately tracking the wires strewn about like artificial vines. She didn't look at me; she looked at the machine.

“You’re using copper-core wiring for the neural relays," she noted, her voice flat with professional interest as she paced around Juyn’s open chest. "It’s efficient for power, but the heat will kill the moss you’ve planted in the abdomen. Seriously, you have had how long to do this on your own now?” there was an awkward beat where the wind could be heard through the silence. “Sorry, hand me those pliers over there though.” Laurel smirked and squatted down to Juyn’s legs.

I didn't argue, but I was more than taken aback, frozen for a moment until she coughed and made a repetitive squeezing motion with her hand for me to give her the tool. I handed her a pair of needle-nose pliers. "The moss absorbs the water used for cooling," I reminded her, watching her fingers hover over the hardware. "If the heat rises, the moss cycles the moisture faster.”

“And if the moss dries out, your processor melts," she countered. She didn't wait for my permission. She reached into the dirt-filled base of the machine, her hands moving with a familiarity that usually takes months to develop with a partner. "Move the cooling manifold two inches to the left. Give the ivy room to breathe."

We worked for the next hour in a silence that wasn't heavy, but productive. It was a technical dance. I handled the hardware, the three panels and the data slots, while she handled the life. Laurel treated the robot like a patient, I treated it like a skeleton, and somehow, the intersection of our two perspectives felt like the most natural thing in the world. Consistently I was shocked by laurel’s efficiency, whether she had previous knowledge of robotic work, or simply a natural talent for new skills, her aptitude was far more superior to that of my former students, nearly unnervingly so. She was a genius, that was why; she had never seen these sorts of blueprints before, but we were likely soulmates I thought, so it had to be a blessing.

"Hand me the pitcher," she said, her fingers digging into the soil to ensure the ivy was seated properly against the solar-receptive plates.

I fetched the water from the garden hose, watching the way her white hair caught the dull morning light as she leaned over the frame. There was no talk about the "dancing" from the night before, or the way she’d looked like a goddess on the train. There was only the click of screws, the glug of water into the shoulder funnel, and the shared focus on making this "witness" wake up.

"Mother Ferna would probably hate this," I muttered as I rested the camera-like head into place. "Mixing her garden with my gears.” Juyn’s head made a high rang hum. “But she hasn't stopped me yet.

Laurel didn't look up from where she was tucking a loose strand of ivy into a neural relay. "Ferna gave us the seeds, Cecil. She didn't say we couldn't teach them how to calculate."

Those words, that phrase, thieved the breath from lungs for only a moment. “What did you say?” I asked anxiously.

Blonde hair fell to her shoulder, her head tilted to me like a confused cat. “Just a quote, some old professor I guess, said it a lot when I was in University; just sort of stuck.”

“Fair enough.” I replied, trying to recall where I had heard those very words before.

She stood back, wiping dirt onto her shorts, and for a second, we just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the heap of metal and green. Eventually, I had to ask her when she must return home.

She paused, her golden eyes locking onto mine with a strange, heavy intensity. “Did you not invite me here?” asked Laurel softly. “Did we not agree on the train that we are meant to be and build our lives together?” her brow furrowed but her cheeks flushed pink and rose with the corners of her smile.

It was my turn to look confused; I remembered no such thing in our drug-laced conversation. “I’m sorry, I. Did I offend you? I wasn’t trying to -”

She forced a laugh, breaking the heavy tension as she looked away, her cheeks flushing a sudden, embarrassed pink. “Sorry. No, you didn't. I just... I can't tell if I want to leave yet.” Her head shook as she turned toward the shed door, hiding her face. “My train leaves in two hours. But I do hope to see you again. It would be a shame for this all to be just for a fling.”

I let out a sigh of relief so big it made my stomach cave. “Then let me make you some breakfast, and we can plan a real date.” Before leaving for my house, I closed up Juyn’s chest and placed its unit back into the frame.

Laurel leaned her head on my shoulder. “Will it work now?”

“No idea, we can water it and find out.” I didn’t want to move, but I grabbed the water pitcher from her hands. I fetched water from the garden hose and came back inside. A funnel on Juyn’s shoulder glugged as I poured. Laurel, with my permission, screwed Juyn’s head into place. A faint light began to flicker in its abdomen; it grew and grew to a howling white light that filled and poured from every crevasse. Internal gears whirled and spun with a hum, ivy leaves perked up, and Juyn stepped out of its base.

“I guess it will,” I remarked. A spark of hope fluttered in my chest.

“Does it speak?” Laurel asked as she walked around Juyn before it made its way to the flower beds.

Pacing over to the flowers, I responded. “No, but it listens.”

The long camera-like head of Juyn tilted sideways in a curious manner. It seemed to question what had happened and why it was suddenly awake. Juyn raised a hand to me, then turned to Laurel and waved; Laurel proceeded to grab my arm in excitement, but Juyn blocked her path. It’s sidestep was meticulous and firm, not a stumble upon awakening.

“What was that?” she asked.

Juyn looked at Laurel. I was confused. “It must just want to protect me, I guess.” Juyn had a silver-plated monitor on her chest, it was linked with several small implants in my person to monitor my wellbeing and health. Six small white scars hidden by clothes, I had performed all of the surgery myself, with the assistance of Juyn, except for one. The screen showed signs of mild distress, red glowing pressure points on a diagram of my person, Juyn looked around for a solution.

“It just waved at me; it has no reason to distrust me.” Laurel was offended.

“You grabbed me-” I began but shook the thought from my head. “Just programming, I guess. Don’t overthink it too much.” I shrugged. “Juyn, this is Laurel. She helped me fix you.”

Laurel flinched as Juyn leaned towards her, head tilting down, staring. When Juyn straightened back out, it did its best attempt at a shrug.

“See, just curious.” I comforted her. My health monitor relaxed, as my shoulders dropped and my neck loosened. From within a compartment on its arm, Juyn pulled a small, dry, long-dead blue flower and offered it to me. Upon my not immediate acceptance, it attempted to leave the shed.

We opened the workshop door, and Juyn stepped out into the morning light, no longer glowing, but shining. The vines that worked with its joints like tension cords, and the inset planters of moss seemed to stretch for the sky.

Juyn immediately proceeded to work, a sight I hadn’t seen in what felt like ages. It watered, it watched, it held and observed. I nearly cried at the sight. Designed with all the knowledge of historic horticulturists, ecologists, and botanists, watching Juyn work was like watching a master painter create their greatest work.

As badly as I wanted and needed to watch Juyn work and wait for results, I offered Laurel inside for a morning meal. As we left the garden Juyn kept a watchful gaze with each of our steps. If not for a command to remain outside, it would have followed, out of curiosity or fear I was unsure. We feasted on a platter of fried eggs, slices of sesame toast, blackberry jam, and overcooked bacon. All the while Juyn was working, half on the garden, and half on myself, as it stared through the living room windows, nearly pressed into the glass, it had itself covered in seeds, soil, and passion.

With Laurel, an hour passed of conversations I thought I would never have with anyone but myself, looking back I shiver at my naivety. By the time the sun broke through the canopy of the woods and flooded the house, we found our arms locked and hands held, walking towards the train station. We agreed that I would go meet her in Lowrim at a café tomorrow before noon, followed by an afternoon, possibly night, at her house in the city. I hated city life, but agreed, nonetheless.

Summer heat struck again on my walk back home. Wind-swept pollen and stray leaves across the street and through my legs. I was sad, in a different sense than any I had felt before. I was empty.

When I returned home, I didn't even bother walking through my house and entered the backyard through a side gate. Juyn greeted me with the best news, new buds of Cyval flowers, and even more stems sprouting from the dirt. It handed me the ground up powder of a dried petal; it felt like sand in my palm. The flower, when dried, becomes stronger, more potent, and is supposed to be brewed as tea or stirred into freezing water. I ate it straight from my hand, downed it like a thousand tiny pills. Lightning struck the nerves of my mouth; my throat burned with passion and pain.

Morning of the next day arrived before I knew it, the sun woke me with warmth in my sheets. My watch told me it was nine-forty-three in the morning; it was nine-thirty-three.

In the kitchen, I brewed hot amber tea and rushed a piece of toast. It squeaked as I slid it from the island while I walked. Juyn looked through the living room window at the sound. I waved, and it looked back at the garden. By ten, I was undressing for a bath and being unnecessarily picky about my next outfit. In the bath, I lit a homemade candle and sent a message on my watch to Laurel that I would be on my way shortly. Before leaving the house in my new tan overcoat, I packed my academic bag with my journal, a small satchel of what little flower petals I had left, my digital workbook, and a spare change of clothes.

Outside my home, I again walked briskly to the train station. In the middle of town, a couple sat outside a restaurant enjoying their morning brunch, one of whom was an old friend who had recently married. I dropped a coin into the square stone fountain sitting before the entrance of the station, wishing for a day well spent. The ground was still wet, puddles reflect a bright blue sky, and there is still coastal air here; it is just fainter. I paused before entering, checked my bag, ensured I had my transport booklet, checked for mud on my boots, straightened my green jacket, and slicked back my hair. Stress settled in. A flower petal entered my mouth without my thinking of it, a rush of cool calm ran through my veins, my fingers tingled slightly. This train station was no less beautiful than the one in Midrim, though it lacked historic breakaways; it featured walls of flowering vines and a large circular window overlooking a valley to the sea.

Inside, I greet Meltri, a man around my age who always claims to run the station, but I have had dinner with his father, who says otherwise. He stamps my booklet and hands me a pass to Lowrim, about an hour-long ride, and I would be there just in time.

Across the aisle from me sat a tall woman, her black hair braided into bunches at the back of her head. She sat hunched over a computer, fiercely typing away. I watched her type, her hands smooth across the keys, her gaze focused. I envied the woman, and her dedication, her focus. She appeared, at most externally, to have her life sorted, she had work, and I had, then, barely life. Seven stops later, I rest my eyes; my watch tells me it is eleven and two minutes. Several more stops later, I open my eyes and exit the train; the typing woman has already gotten off somewhere before me.

Lowrim is a wonderful city, and I have visited a handful of times before for guest lectures at a smaller public university there. Their streets are all a pale blue brick with dark lines of grout, the buildings older than those of Midrim, with more detail and colors. Their train station, too, is beautiful and placed directly onto an offshoot of their main street, which luckily for me contained the specific café I needed. The air here smells grassier and drier despite its close proximity to Eshalin Bay; the wind just doesn’t blow their way.

As I walk, I spot Laurel sitting on a bench outside the café, Feathered Morning, it is called.

“Cecil!” she shouts when she spots me. She greets me with a smile and an almost hesitant hug. “Oh, I’m so glad you came. I knew you would.”

“So great to see you again." Sorry.” I already stumbled over my words.

She laughed. “Sorry too, for the hesitancy there, it’s just your jacket, you look just like my father in it.” Smiling, she took my hand and led me to the café.

“Your father?” I had to ask, “You mentioned him before, is he nice?” I absently rubbed the green on my arm.

“Oh, you need to try their cinnamon lemon loaf!” Laurel exclaimed with a small dance of excitement. “Oh, oh, and they make the best tea latte here, they grow the flowers themselves in a farm down south you know.”

I don’t further push the question of her father. “Is that so? Then I must have both then of course.” She orders at the front counter by their glass case of baked goods and display of various coffee or tea plants. Laurel stops me from paying for us; in truth, I was grateful and in need of that gesture.

We find our way to a high-rise window seat and look out at the city, rainbows of buildings, solar-powered lights, and a handful of people on wind-powered gliders likely headed to the beach.

“So how was your trip? Uneventful, I hope.” Asks she.

“Yes, I even took a small nap on the ride, soaked up the costal sun.”

“Did you not sleep well last night? Cecil, after the previous, you ought to catch up.”

“Well, I got a little busy, I guess, but no, I slept fine, just a tad tired was all, thought my bath would wake me up more than it did.”

The minutes drifted by as we wove together a brief history of her past, admired the vibrant pulse of Lowrim architecture, and the unfolding possibilities for our shared day. Our small plates of food eventually sat waiting then delivered to us, a forgotten offering at the front window, as we had become too ensnared in the rhythm of our own words to remember to grab the food ourselves. A soft crimson tide rose in her cheeks, the stain of a fleeting embarrassment. But as the light shifted, the somewhat distant memory of her father drifted back into the current of conversation.

“So, I noticed your pin. What is it?” I asked her, pointing to a small green and gold heron pinned on her green dress.

“Oh, it belonged to my father. Well, more specifically, I suppose it belonged to his school of thought when he was a teacher. He studied the Great Wars and the effects they had on mental health for generations after, even today. He believed that all of our fears of being too unique stem from the first Great War and the murder of King Arda the First.”

“Really? What an interesting thought.” I swirl my latte absently, a small drop of milk splashes into my hand. “So, who was your father? Outside of work I mean; If you don’t mind my asking.” I lean back to give her space, sinking into the dark red cushions on the back rest until I feel like I'm falling.

“He was.” She paused. “A man who tried too hard to understand others, so that he couldn’t understand himself. He took his own life just over a year ago now, claiming it was the only way to understand the fear of death was to commit to it in whole.” There was a pause between the two of us. “He was a coward.” She choked.

“I’m so sorry.” I placed a hand on hers and looked her in the eyes, “He would be proud of you.” Tears welled in her eyes, and my heart sank deep as a swell in my throat rose up.

“No, no, really, it’s okay, I’m okay.” She repeats. “It’s why I wanted to ask you a wild question, and please don’t feel any pressure to say yes.” Laurel stared back at me, waiting for a response. I nodded. “My home has gotten quiet lately, and every second I spend there feels like an entire day of sorrow and wasted time. Not to be dramatic, but even the smell of my own room makes me want to vomit.” Laurel took my hands and stared out the window at the winding city streets. She talked of her mother, a biologist with dreams of reanimation. Neither of her parents was around for much of her life, especially in her later years; they were too busy, she said, but the words felt like covers of a more distant issue.

“I apologize if it's insensitive, but I have to ask. Where did your parents live?” I asked her gently.

She looked at me, my bag, my hands. “They live here,” she started. “In Lowrim. That’s part of my reasons for wanting to leave.”

This was the first time I learned of her desire to move away from the city. "Both of them?" I inquired about the topic of her parents. She gave a silent nod, and I chose not to press further, given that reincarnation was a widely accepted doctrine amongst our area of the world.

She continued. “Part of why I felt so drastically different and at home with you, at your house, in your garden, with your work. Sorry, I really shouldn’t just jump to conclusions.”

“No, it’s okay, really. I loved having you around, too. You feel different, not like a random break from reality, but rather a piece of it, a better piece.”

A profound and yet unsettling silence fell not only between us, but seemed to engulf the city, sudden and eerie, as if the very gears of nature and man had paused to allow us to navigate the wreckage between our two histories. Laurel’s golden eyes, shimmering like the sun-caught crests across the Weilnar Sea, acted upon me with an odd sort of gravity, a pair of gateways to a complex soul I was only beginning to decipher. In that intimate space, I found myself irreversibly infatuated, further subject to her being than before, surrendering to a variable that disrupted every calculated thought, though I was far too senseless to name it as love back then.

She sighed, “Cecil, can I invite myself back to your place tonight?” Laurel wasn’t even afraid of her own question or bravery; she locked my gaze.

“Well, I mean. Yes, I would love to have you.” We smiled; I kissed her hands. “But, what about going to your place today? Is that still the plan?” That made her nervous.

There was a pause enough for a shallow breath and a change of grin. She said, “Honestly, I think it's best we just pop in for a second or two. I can pack a bag that way. Is that okay with you?”

“That’s just fine.” I smiled for her.

Exiting the café, we walked back into the sweltering summer air and stagnant wind. I questioned how she could leave a place of such beauty and history. Several downhill streets we passed provided views of the bay, the crashing waves, distant ships hovering above the water with their solar sails and old wooden masts. The streetlight here was different as well. Even just an hour further south of my home, the public was louder, there was songs and dancing, it was alive in the sense that even the buildings and the lights moved too.

Once we arrived at her home, the far-left unit of a conjoined series of townhouses, the energy shifted dramatically. It was shaded, cold, and quiet; stunted by enormous oak trees and distant foothills, Laurel’s home was shoved into a dark corner of the city. I had to wonder if part of her despair was simply emergent from her environment. A near waterfall of letters spilled from her neglected mailbox, while the few steps leading to the front entrance were marked by a doormat, frayed and heavy with muddy stains.

I stepped inside after her. Walls were covered in plants, partitions of stone lattice with climbing flowers and pockets of moss, and ferns grew in the windowsills. Laurel herself moved through the maze of leaves with a familiarity in her step, while I followed in a cluttered fashion. The deeper into the home I travelled, the more chaotic it grew. There were piles of books on the floor, dirt and empty pots spilled about, and her bed was partially covered in loose strands of string and large, yellowing blueprints.

Laurel seemed embarrassed at first, shy in her words and posture as she hastily swept the blueprints into a drawer. I reassured her that it was purely magnificent, the way she could bring such life to a quiet, dead nook of the city. She kissed me then and softly cried; her face turned from me over her shoulder. I was the first person to see where she had lived for nearly one and a half years—since her father’s passing—and still, I had accepted her.

The thought weighed on me, though. So long alone, twenty-four passes, each of those twelve days, rotting. For a botanist, there must have been nothing worse than that feeling.

The place was too overwhelming for her. While I sat at the foot of her bed and watched her rummage through a small closet of clothes, she talked a storm of miniature conversations, hiding behind the open door. It felt natural to be with her, a form of comfort that usually takes months of a relationship to achieve. The roof of my mouth tingled with the familiar, minty burn of Cyval. I couldn't remember taking a dose before we walked in, but the haze was welcome. I didn't notice that the velvet satchel in my pocket was lighter, or that Laurel's hands had been trembling when she kissed me.

She emerged from the closet, clutching a worn sweater to her chest like a shield. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the scent of damp soil and the ghost of old tragedies. Her golden eyes were brimming with a sudden, sharp clarity that cut through my drug-addled haze.

“I don’t want to ruin you, Cecil,” she whispered, her voice fracturing as she finally let the tears fall from her cheeks.

“What?” I carefully drew nearer, my heavy feet kicking a leather-bound journal across the floor. The spine read Cennile – Strain VII. “Hey, what do you mean? You aren't going to—”

“I don’t want to poison what we have.” Her head snapped to stare at me, her eyes darting from my face to the journal at my feet. “My father... he thought he could control the rot, but it consumed him until there was nothing left but his science and his sorrow. I look at this room, at these plants I’ve tried to save... at the work he left unfinished, and I see the same shadows.”

I reached out, taking her trembling hands in mine, completely blind to the true source of her terror. “You aren’t your father, Laurel,” I said, my voice grounding us both in my own arrogant reality. “And I am more than my hunger. Look at what we did with Juyn, together. I provided the skeleton, the gears, and the cold logic, but you provided the breath. You gave the machine a soul of green and growth. Your knowledge of the leaf and my understanding of the metal—that is our future. We aren’t rotting. We’re grafting ourselves into something stronger.”

“Laurel,” I approached her, the tingle in my mouth subsiding beneath the warmth of her presence. “Do you love me?”

She froze, staring at me as if I were holding a knife instead of her hands. Then, with a desperate, fractured breath, she swung the closet door away. She wore only a loose shirt and underwear, and still, my breath was taken away. She was using herself as a shield to hide the ghosts in the room.

“What do you mean?” Her head tilted, a fragile smile breaking through the tears. “Right now? Or in general?”

“Both, I guess.”

She blushed, “When two patches of northern rock moss are too distant, considered unable to reproduce by the standards of any other moss species, it is a rainstorm that connects them and forms a bond that lasts their lifetime.”

She threw herself at me, burying her face in my chest so I couldn't look around the room anymore. “Yes, I do. I find safety in you, Cecil Byrd.” Laurel released me and stepped back, pulling on a pair of brown shorts and offering me her hand, desperate to leave the apartment. “Take me home. Please.”

She blushed, “When two patches of northern rock moss are too distant, considered unable to reproduce or love by the standards of any other moss species, it is a rainstorm that connects them and forms a bond that lasts their lifetime and beyond”. She then threw herself at me and cried once more. “Yes, I do. I find safety in you, Cecil Byrd, that and a million more feelings I hadn’t felt in forever.” Laurel released me and stepped back; she pulled on a pair of brown shorts and offered me her hand. “Take me home. Please.” When I agreed to her demand, she relaxed, and a true smile of relief crossed her face.

Running through my head was a collage of ideas, too many, not all of which I was proud of. Laurel had income, or at least access to resources. Yet I also felt concerned for her coming into the life of an addict, she seemed so much more stable than myself. I would have to tell her of my issues, in full honesty. I decided to figure it out later. I had been given an opportunity beyond my worth, a woman of status and love, better access to my vices, all to further my love of both. It was the hope that fueled the dream to have it all.

Before leaving her house, she offered me a sample of a flowering drug similar to Cyval that she had been refining for months. The petal was dark blue and tasted of mint; my nose flared and burned when it entered my throat. I coughed, and she panicked, until my shoulders fell backwards and I relaxed.

“It’s supposed to be very minor high, just enough to relieve a light form of pain like a migraine or sprain.” She placed a petal on her tongue.

“You tell me what it is after having me consume it?”

“You didn’t ask.”

---

Together we waltzed back through the streets of Lowrim. I wished goodbye to the fancy streetlights, the pretty pale blue roads, and the historic houses.

Inside the train station, waiting on an old wooden bench against a large, non-functioning, post-clock, with Laurel’s sleepy head on my shoulder, I got a notification on my watch.

‘IMPORTANT! *University of Midrim Search Committee: Professorship Status Update’

My heart jumped into my throat, and I jolted forward. Laurel fell off my shoulder, shaken awake. “What?! What happened?” she slurred.

“So sorry.” I stood and paced, anxious, withholding my finger from the digital screen. “It’s Midrim University. I got my decision letter for a job.”

She rose to her feet and stood basically on my own feet. “Open it.”

Holding my breath, I clicked my letter. It read that I was accepted, I sighed and nearly collapsed back into my chair, but it was with strict guidelines.

“Shit.” I cursed.

“What?” she tensed. “It’s okay, we can find another job for you, you are so brilliant, Cecil. Someone has to want your ideas.”

“No, I got the job.” I snapped at her. We stared blankly at one another. “But I have to prove sobriety and bring Juyn to the university for inspection.” Laurel did not understand the weight of these issues, of my life as a liar. The world was dull, no stained glass or distant magic on the horizon could bring back the life that the world head held only an hour ago.

She tried to reassure me that it wasn’t that bad, that it would be glaringly easy to wean off for a couple of days, and she would help me transport Juyn to the university when she goes for her research update. As the train arrived and we boarded, Laurel tried to convince me that I had even more to offer in plans and discoveries, that I could easily convince them to provide extra funds and income. I believed every word she said; I had to. Laurel grabbed my wrist. I was confused. My fingers opened, she pulled a petal of Cyval from my hand, I closed my bag, and closed my eyes.

Scents in the air transitioned back to that of the sweet, fresh coast near my home. We deboarded, and by the time we got through town to my home, I hardly noticed that time had passed. I felt weak. Nausea overcame me; it bulged in my gut and pushed up through my throat, and I vomited onto the kitchen floor. Apologies fell profusely from my mouth, interrupted by strands of phlegm and saliva.

“I am so sorry.” Repeated Laurel several times. “There is nothing to be worried about, though. We will get it all figured out, I promise.” She rubbed my back and comforted me. She didn’t know how hard it was to be sober. I didn’t know how hard it was to be sober.

That night, I took a long, hot bath. Bathing always helped me relax, with a candle lit and the stars above me, all my tension washed away.

In the following days, I found myself increasingly irritable, a low, constant hum of craving, thrummed beneath my skin. My access to Cyval was limited to any amounts I could convince Laurel was minor enough to do any more than take the edge off. She had become a vigilant warden, her presence a constant, frustrating reminder of the control I had so recently lost. She slept in the living room now, a silent guard over my supply.

On my first day, of what felt like house arrest, we recollected my old portfolios and prints. It had been many passes since I had seen such works, and to have them all spread across my coffee table and kitchen counters, rekindled my innovative dreams. Parchment sketches of compact planters scratched down ideas for a mobile griddle, solar powered alarm clocks, the list stretched on. With all of the preliminary inspiration we began to refine Juyn for her debut at Midrim, all while it watched through the living room windows, like a kid pressed into the glass at an aquarium, as if it wasn't the fish trapped in our tank.

But to say that the days were easy, would be at best a lie. I began to watch the moons, comparing my progress to their three different phases, Aur, bright and warm, was in full bloom pouring its reflected light down to Fernaea. Dere was hiding her left side in shade, more cool and blue, blending into the sky. And Mora, she was radiant as a rocket, but no more than a sliver that rested on top of the southern foothills. And as my stress grew and shrunk, my smile matched the shapes of our moons. Juyn observed them as well, it watched the stars and sea blue sky like it was a part of its garden.

Back under the roof of my workshop shed we worked in fluctuations, updating things after testing. I lined the copper wire up with the primary joint, but the tip of my soldering iron wavered. A sharp, violent tremor snapped through my wrist. Hot silver splashed onto Juyn’s rusted chassis, burning a useless black scar into the metal. I cursed, dropping the iron as if it had bitten me. My jaw ached. The familiar, suffocating cold was beginning to settle deep into my marrow. From across the workshop, Laurel stopped sorting the gears. She didn't speak. She just watched my trembling, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the workbench. Gently, she walked over and pulled the spool of copper wire out of my hands.

Exiled from my own workbench, I spent the afternoon sweating in the yard. There was an odd, pathetic comfort in the constant hum Juyn produced in its chest. As the machine hovered over me, displaying the observable monitor of my failing well-being, it was akin to being cared for in a hospital without the confines of a bed. Juyn had become my IV, my surrogate nurse. Every few hours since its rebirth, the garden beds around us were dotted with more blooming blue and purple Cyval.

The morning of our second day came, and I was resting on the couch, tea warming my hands as its steam wisped up into my face. Laurel and I had been up most of the night in an attempt to find a pollinator compatible with the mobility and space of Juyn’s frame. We ran into issues with every option we found, most bees produced honey which would not bear well on the interior of a machine, most butterflies migrate, moths are drawn to light, and so it was birds we decided might be our best bet. A proper pollinator would only further the research Juyn conducts, and unite the machine with nature to a line so blurry it would be a gradient. Juyn even would benefit, we decided, by a small bird and its family, being able to help maintain the insects and other invasive lives that creep their way into its system. It was in that morning that a spotted-blue nuthatch landed on the windowsill, and it clicked it could be a potential species to adapt to Juyn. In my excitement, or failing motor skills, I had tossed my tea onto the table littered in papers and past work.

There was a clank as the mug cluttered across the table. “Ashes.” Laurel cursed as she jumped from the kitchen stool over to my side. She even beat me to picking up the papers and shaking them off, “What happened?”

I gathered up fistfuls of damp papers. “It’s a Nuthatch.” I laid the papers out on a sun-soaked side table that housed small potted plants. My head wavered in a nonexistent wind, sleepless and hungry. “The bird we need, it doesn't migrate, and it's small enough, and-”

My words were stopped short.

Pressed against the glass, Juyn fought to get my attention, a mound of cupped Cyval in its hands pre-ground and shining ever so blue in the burning sun. My increased heart rate was made prominent on the vitals monitor. I grazed the small monitor implants on my chest, the cold dots of metal, it made me feel otherworldly.

Laurel closed the curtains; she stared at me with a blank anger. “About the birds?”

“Sorry, yeah.” I explained the compatibility of the native bird out in the garden. Peeking through the curtains to point it out, Juyn was reclused to the back gardens by the creek, caring for a variation of milkweed.

We then spent part of our noon outdoors; we walked to the streetside restaurant and ate our lunch under the shade of an olive tree. Charred beets and a local mushroom stew. There were several, more or less, intimate moments we shared together. Often, she would laugh as she caught me staring at her lost in my own thoughts, she wiped a small smudge off my cheek, I played a fool bumbling my way through conversation. Laurel wanted to help create a plant-based medicine that could ease the pain of neurological diseases, her father passed due to a fatal case of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis which ate away at his motor neurons and spinal cord. Her father was working on a cure for himself; the answer they found was somewhere in the compounds that made Cyval so seemingly random in its strength.

Leaving to head back home, to my house, we held the ambition of toddlers with a new toy. Our pockets were stuffed with napkins scribbled with equations and sketches of what could be a self-sustained symbiotic pairing of the local bird, Nuthatch, and Juyn, wherein the bird helps to pollinate through spores, its fecal matter, and spreading of seeds, all while Juyn provides safety in medications, nesting, and shelter.

Over the course of the afternoon, we let Juyn inside the house for some minor disassembly and reconfiguration. The early summer sun began to set by the time we decided on dinner, and its array of colors cascading through the curtains and sunroof lit the house ablaze. Whilst I prepared our food, laurel tried to persuade Juyn into laying on the floor so that she could move its shoulder joint and insert a small glass dome. Juyn was hesitant to say the least, and it was one of the few acts of aggression I ever saw from it, no more than a hand pushing back against laurel as she approached, but it was enough for my interference. Damn nearly burnt our pasta sauce, having to get Juyn to trust the situation. For all of half an hour while I kept busy, Laurel clipped trimmings from the gardens outside, harvested a couple of small peppers, and got Juyn to cooperate on her operations. It was in the way that Juyn’s head followed Laurel’s every step, the slight twitches and reach outs, but it was mainly in the slow relaxing of its joints and alertness that showed change. The robot seemed to view Laurel as the extension of the garden’s life—the botanist, the user of Cyval’s medicinal properties, while I was merely the addict who threatened its source. I brushed it off, telling myself the AI was simply protective of its creator, but the thought lingered, a cold dread in my gut.

It was the night before the scheduled lecture. I woke up sweating, my sheets tangled. The entire house was silent, save for the ticking of the clock in the kitchen. I needed more than a "minor dose." I needed the real thing. I crept out to the workshop, a shiver running down my spine as I thought of Juyn, currently shut down but somehow always watching.

I fumbled beneath the main counter, where I kept a small, dark blue, velvet satchel of reserve Cyval seeds and dried petals. My fingers brushed the empty space. It was gone.

I stumbled back into the house, finding Laurel curled on the couch, the faint outline of my velvet satchel clutched tight in her hand beneath the blanket. The spark of anxiety that had rested in my gut grew larger into a more spontaneous flame.

“Give it to me, Laurel,” I hissed, my voice cracking the pre-dawn silence.

She didn’t move, her eyes opening slowly, reflecting the faint light from the cloudy sky outside. “It’s too much, Cecil. You said you needed to be clean for the university tomorrow. It’s poison right now.”

“It’s mine!” I lunged for the bag, grabbing a fistful of the blanket.

Laurel yanked her arms back, holding the satchel to her chest. “I did this for you! You said you wanted off the leash! You said you needed a chance! Anthea is going to test you, Cecil. She’s going to look for any weakness, and if you walk into that lecture high, she’s going to own you completely.”

“She already owns me!” I yelled, the sound muffled by the still, heavy air. “She owns the debt my entire career is built on, she owns the materials for Juyn, she owns the idea that I can be a professor! This plant is the only thing she doesn’t own, because it makes me better than her! Now give me the seeds!”

She recoiled, scrambling off the couch and standing behind the armchair, the satchel held behind her back. “You're better is a lie, Cecil. It's an escape! I’m trying to save you from having to become my father. He couldn’t live with the addiction, so he quit living. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. I stood there, trembling, the height of my need warring with the shame of her accusation.

“I’ll give it back after the lecture,” she whispered, her voice softening, but her eyes held firm. “Just get through tomorrow. We’ll figure the rest out together.”

I nodded slowly, defeated. The confrontation had drained all the energy from my craving. I retreated, slumping into the kitchen stool. I watched the first weak light of dawn creep through the trees, hating Laurel, hating myself, but most of all, fearing the day ahead.

This continued along with my studies on the solar power abilities of leaves. At night, I was high again, if not on Cyval, then on any plant-powered medicine I could get my hands on while Laurel slept, often my shame grew to vomiting unless a drug could suppress it. Pains grew in my stomach with each passing hour, a hunger. Even a large meal and a hot soak in my tub couldn’t suppress the growing fear that tightened in my gut.

On the morning of the third day, I woke with Laurel by my side, her eyes closed peacefully and her neck buried in my quilted blanket. Exiting the far side of the bed I walked to the dining room to find Juyn sat just outside the glass doors to the garden. Juyn’s wireframe form cast a skeleton’s shadow onto the carpet, it looked at me, really looked at me, like it knew that day something would change. I opened the door for Juyn to come in while I packed a couple of bags and prepared a few eggs with coffee.

“Well, something smells delicious.” said a sleepy laurel as she popped around the corner into the kitchen.

I set a plate of toast and eggs on the island. “Morning, have a seat.” Juyn sat next to laurel as she ate, watching closely every action we took.

“How long have you been up for?”

I stretched and poured myself a cup. “Oh, not too long, just enough to make some breakfast. Maybe a half an hour or so.”

“Sorry if I slept in too long, you could have woken me.”

“No, don't be sorry, I actually started to finally pack some bags for us, lecture things and office supplies. So, we are pretty much ready to go once you're up.” We smiled together.

After finishing our breakfast, I went to my room to change my clothes. When I returned to the kitchen, Laurel was hovering over my open academic bag. She hurriedly zipped it shut, her hands trembling ever so slightly, and offered a tight smile. "Just making sure you have all your lecture notes we had scattered about," she said, her voice a little too bright. I thought nothing of it; assumed she was just being supportive. Aimed for the train station, ultimately to Midrim University, my anxiety grew as we approached. Juyn was difficult to walk with, like an all too curious dog, it stopped at every plant for every new smell. Laurel walked on my opposite side, handheld in mine. The sun’s heat pelted us, forcing sweat to build on the ridge of my brow.

Once in the Tiesin Station, we three got several odd looks from the moment we entered. A group of women all sat on a cross platform gossiping, stopped to stare as we walked towards the ticket booth. Laurel approached the booth while Juyn and I sat against a pillar by platform one.

“Cecil?” Called Laurel from the ticket booth, “Can I borrow some money? The fee for automatons is more than I would have assumed.” she shrugged.

I stood to walk over to her. “Yeah, I already sent it over earlier.” Juyn stayed sat behind me. “Did you need more?”

“Yeah, just a little.” she said sheepishly.

“How much is the fee?”

From across the counter came a voice. “Fees just went up with a new policy passed; it's an extra five percent for liability and weight.” said the person with a standoffish quick cadence to their words.

“Okay, so how much do you need?” I repeated the question with mild irritation. The clerk slid the updated fee schedule across the counter. My jaw tightened, my teeth grinding hard enough to spark a migraine. I had calculated the exact shulk needed before we left the house; the sudden variable made my fingers twitch.

“An additional two thousand shulk is the difference left.” Said the clerk all too cheerfully. Part of me assumed he was trying to take a little coin out of the increase, in which case I would have him fired and didn't care too much for that reason.

From my watch I sent the remaining money to laurel to complete the transaction, where then I sat back beside Juyn, and double checked my messages from Headmaster Anthea. The air was thick in the station; large fans spun from east winds and powered plant misters that doused flowering lattice partitions. We were waiting on the floor against a pillar until the roar of the monorail trail slid into the station, its squeal as it stopped on our platform caused Juyn’s head to crank and slam the pillar behind it. Glass doors slid open as and a small crowd behind us walked onto the car, it was spacious enough for most other people onboard to sit on the far side from myself, Laurel, and Juyn. Many eyes were fixated on us rather than the passing scenery when we pulled backwards from the station.

A table between us three served as my workspace while we traveled. I laid out several note sheets and a brief I had written which summarized my message and instructions from Anthea.

Laurel rested her hand on Juyn’s mechanical one, in an effort to console the confused machine. While it understood where we were going, and likely even understood why, it never got the grasp off actually leaving its garden, its head was on a nervous swivel atop drooping leaves and dulling moss. “When we get there,” Laurel began, her hair tied back in a knot, “do you think we should, I don't know, really set Juyn loose?”

“What do you mean, I guess, well. Juyn won't be loose. We tell it to stay in the main courtyard, it will.” I picked up my main digital notebook to pass several pictures over to Juyn and Laurel.

“You’re probably right.” she let go of Juyn’s hand.

As we rode, streaks of shadow broke the golden morning light that poured over the coast. Dust settled as the train fell into a steady speed. I was entranced by the duality of my situation, across from my person sat a woman that I had decided was more my goddess than that of Mother Ignea, and my own creation whom locals revered as a concept not ready for our world.

The screen of my vitals on Juyn’s side showed elevated spikes in stress hormones as well as muscle aches emerging around my spine and neck. “Here are the plants that they want you to adapt to.” I tapped the screen and enlarged the picture of a gardenia bush, “very susceptible to heat, and lack of moisture. I need you to run through everything you know on them and point to where they show signs of damage.” My fingers danced on the tabletop as I waited for Juyn to process. Eventually, Juyn reached its hand forward after having them crossed, and made a fist in front of me, while puzzled at first, I realized once it rotated its hand, offering me a bundle of Cyval, that it didn't want new flowers. “No.” I shuddered away and pushed Juyn’s hand from me.

Taking Juyn’s arm and pulling it back Laurel spoke softly to the machine like it were her child of sorts. “No no, Juyn, we need you to work on this now. Only for a little while, we want to show how smart you can be.” she took the flower heads from Juyn’s cold palm and set them in her lap, out of my view.

“Do you know where the issue is?” I asked again, tapping the screen of the notebook.

The robot looked at me, sat there somehow lost in my seat, then went to the window and passing trees. It pointed to the sun that hovered over Weilnar Sea, then swung its rigid arm to the digital notebook and tapped the screen like I had. Juyn took Laurel's hand that rested on the table, it made a series of high-pitched noises and tilted its head to her.

“Well,” started Laurel, a smirk pulling the corners of her mouth.

I completed her words, “That’s correct, most botanists overlook the sunlight provided to gardenias, since they supposedly are so picky with moisture. But you did it, that was the easiest one though.” My words trailed and fell to my hand where I dropped them into my seat. I straightened my stressed back before swiping the notebook picture to the next supplemental flora.

Once the trail had slid into a stop, I decluttered the table by packing my bag, tucked in my shirt, and parted my hair. It felt right to be back at Midrim Station, the incredible mixture of old-world ruins and modern architectural technology. The way the light refracted about the barrel arched ceiling and cast its rainbow dance unto the ground, it was a place burning alive with natural beauty. We dragged behind us a sluggish Juyn who walked in tandem with my steps, steering clear of the breaking crowd.

“It will never cease to amaze me,” Laurel remarked.

I took Laurel's hand when it swung into my own. “What’s that?”

“How natural beauty is more effective than any drug we could have made from nature itself.”

I nodded in agreement before she released my hand when we approached the university gates, wiping it on her skirt. Stopping outside the library the headmaster and the woman with white bubble hair were waiting for my arrival.

“Professor Byrd.” Greeted the headmaster, “Glad to see you again, such a nice day to be out, no?” She smiled and walked towards me.

“Master Nosef, how good to see you as well.” With a wave of my hand Juyn stepped forward before me, “This is Juyn, my botany automaton, an expert in all things flora, from medicine to cosmetics.” Anthea Nosef nodded, “And you brought another botanist with you?” She waved to Laurel, “What brings you in today, Lady Cennile?”

“This is my date as of lately.” Laurel took my hand and grinned. “Apparently, this is his idea of a day out.” She joked. Her head was on my shoulder, tilted up to me, light catching every ridge of her face, her hair fell loose in the breeze, eyes a burning gold that took my breath.

I shook my head and coughed, realizing how tightly my shirt was tucked in.

This got a small chuckle out of a bubble-haired woman who walked forward to greet us. As she walked, her opal dress cast rainbows against the concrete and grass yard. “Dr. Nosef,” she introduced, “Anthea’s sister.” She motioned to the headmaster. “I am truly honored to meet you.” A large grin crossed her face, and a look of childlike joy.

Anthea rolled her eyes, followed by a roll of her head, “My sister is much more than my sister. Callea is the first in our family to earn a doctorate, in law of all things as well.” She motioned over to Juyn, pointing purposefully to its left arm, then tapping her own. “Dr. Byrd, is this not the same reference you brought before, to your casting?”

“No, ma’am,” I replied, hiding my anxious lies. “I held an old prototype that day. What you have now is a much more refined and functional variation.” Headmaster Anthea Nosef agreed with that statement.

“Well, let us see the automaton, this Juyn is it? In action, then we can talk about logistics, and all the other complex parts.”

Juyn’s leaves and flower buds opened to embrace and soak up the sunlight. Air vents opened, and the moss seemed to glow green. The camera-like head fastened into place with a click, and to my surprise, lights began to turn on. The robot’s head perked upright, and it adjusted its joints as if it were alive. Then Juyn questioned where it was with waving arms and spurting noises, and it adjusted itself.

“It’s scared.” I flinched, legs tightened. My right hand reached out to Juyn.

Juyn spun around its base, arms searching for its garden, for its drug, its life.

“Why would a robot be scared?” asked the headmaster.

Laurel answered. “Because it’s designed to protect its home. Pitiful thing.” She empathized with the same thing she uneasily feared deep down.

“Cecil, make it calm down.” Demanded headmaster Nosef. Juyn pulled grass and clumps of dirt from the ground, but it moved stiffly. “This is why we asked it to be brought here.”

I was worried. Laurel took my hand. “I apologize, Headmaster, I didn’t plan for this to happen.” I started to fumble. “Yes, this is why we brought it here, for inspection. I’m sorry it isn’t going as planned. Juyn.” I called. “Juyn, stop.” The robot looked at me, at my hand, and passed me to the library. “Juyn, this is only temporary, understand? There are a couple of people here that want to watch you work, to see if you are as amazing as I make you sound.” I forced a smile. Juyn stood still, pointed at a flower bed surrounding a large oak tree. Headmaster Nosef gave permission, and Juyn proceeded to care for the flowers. It seemed so out of place there, so distant and uncomfortable.

Anthea cleared her throat. “I am sorry Dr. Bryd. My intention was simply to observe and monitor your credibility, not harm your creation.” She paused, “Do you think it would be okay here?”

“What do you mean, here? How long are you talking? It misses home.” I escalated.

“Relax, doctor, only a couple of days, if you will allow it?” She handed me a small metal chip. “And here are all the things I need you to sign before we can get started.”

“I think a couple of days should be fine.” My watch beeped when I brought the metal chip to its screen, and a series of folders and documents showed up labeled as Midrim University Professorship Paperwork. Laurel assured me that I had read everything thoroughly. After agreeing to papers and signing my name more times than I could care to count, Callea handed me a large flat digital notebook containing a number of lecture schedules and dates.

“I want you to be thinking about what you want to teach Dr. Byrd. For now, I can show you your office.” Callea turned to walk into the library with a giddy step.

Anthea gave the, all right, for my dismissal. She asked a couple of small questions about my preferences and work structure, then mentioned that I was falling behind Callea and should probably catch up. Laurel watched me. She offered to stay with Juyn and Anthea until my return, but she seemed hesitant. I hugged her, which might have made things worse, but nonetheless, I turned and followed Callea through the library’s main doors.

Again, as strong noon light filtered through the stained-glass artwork of the library, the building was coated in a film of iridescent hues. Even Callea couldn’t resist playing with the light as she walked, dragging her fingers through it, bending the rainbows. “Your study will be located in the west tower of the library.”

“In a tower? Up there?” I asked out of excitement, a flutter of laughter in my cadence. Imagining the view of a university, and all its intricacies under my observation. Like flying far above a seaside town on a personal glider, skipping your feet over hundreds of heads below, the quilted pattern of amber rooftops and yellow fields. Often, I daydreamed of a life not my own, free, to the world a better man.

“Yes,” Callea broke my distant array of lost thoughts, “my sister thinks it would be best to place you somewhere with lots of natural light but distant from others.” She smirked and turned down a hall.

“What do you mean by away from others? Am I not trusted by the university?” There was a faint heat in the bottom of my throat, creeping into my voice; dread for the perpetual battle of artless reception.

Callea entered through an old wooden door, which led to a spiral staircase centered by a mechanical lift. “On the contrary, doctor, I support her decision in giving our most creative and ambitious persons more room to breathe.”

“Wow.” My head cranked back to allow my eyes to take in the full weight of the tower. It was old tan stones, its windows arched to points, ivy grey up one side and over some of the glass. “Can we take the lift?” I asked, cutting Callea mid-step on the stairs.

“Never have, but I don’t see why not. It is your office now. Speaking of which.” She tossed me a set of keys, both physical and a card I could add to my watch.

Anthea and I rode the mechanical lift up the stairwell to the peak of the tower, where a surprisingly large circular room greeted me with warm yellow light and dust in the air. I paced the room; it was only a single room. Five windows in total, three were large and wide at floor level, facing northeast and west, and the south wall held the staircase entrance. And the other two windows were up high near the peak of the roof; they were more like sunroofs, really, a pair of artistic green eyes made of glass and copper wire. As I paced and explored, Anthea stood with her legs too close, her arms held tight; she wouldn’t meet my eye.

“Anthea?” I asked. “Is everything alright?”

She smiled at me, “Yes, it’s nothing really, I just. I used to play in this office as a small child when my mother taught here.”

Conversation fell short. Anthea Nosef said her goodbyes, and said that Laurel and or her sister, the headmaster, would likely come up to visit with me and discuss my scheduling. I bid her farewell; she took the stairs, leaving the lift level with my floor. While waiting, I found a handful of small dusty drawings of boats and various buildings within Midrim University, the back of one was labeled Callea. I found myself wiping away streaks of dust on the floor, dragging my finger to make boxes that would map out my floor plan. A large dark wood desk sat against the north window; it was coated in age and soft. There was a fire in the library many years ago. I had no idea of its extent, as I was travelling globally at the time. I sat in an old wooden chair, fumbled through my bag for some of my work to spread across the desk, then my mouth tasted like wildflowers and coffee.

When Anthea and Laurel arrived on the stairs, I greeted them with a friendly smile and a wave of my arms at my new office. They could tell I was happy with my position. Out the west window of my office, Anthea pointed to Juyn, who tended a bushel of ferns.

“Here you can still always watch it work.” Said the headmaster. “Know that I am not trying to take it from you, but learn from it firsthand, like we had planned originally.” Her words dropped at the tail end of her reassurance; she raised a brow to me and for a moment I could see her smile drop to a thin line.

I agreed with this statement, though an ache in my chest grew knowing I would part from my proudest work, from my source.

“But keep in mind, Dr. Byrd," she continued, “that should your Juyn prove to be a good fit and a proper breakthrough, we may wish to employ you to create more for the university gardens, of course.”

My hands clasped my bag. “You mean, I would get to keep inventing as part of my job here?”

“Possibly, yes.” Anthea sat in a dusty chair by the desk.

Standing beside me, Laurel held my shoulders. “And Juyn would go back with us then?” asked Laurel, seemingly on my behalf.

Anthea nodded. “Yes, of course, again, our intent is not to steal, your, property. If the board hadn’t decided it was best for Juyn to come and be inspected, then it wouldn’t be here at all.” She then explained how part of why I got the position was for the university to keep its edge at the forefront, and continue the work I had done previously and continue providing my brilliance.

Midrim University was essentially gambling on my being able to provide them with the latest ideas and technology to create and teach, ensuring future students arrive, and lessening the grunt work for maintenance. It was a long talk about my ethics and goals. I explained how my goals were to settle down with a garden and a small plot of land, as I have now, but under a university or program that would let me do work for them remotely, basically a one-man research team. We debated back and forth on the credibility and trust of artificial intelligence, the hidden powers of plants, and my semester schedule.

“So, these are all of the options or topics you want me to teach?” I pointed at the pages of the digital notebook covered in squares of calendars and lists of topics.

Anthea walked me through it. “No, no, not all at once, just ideas to get you started. I recommend you teach floral biology, introduction to mechanics and simple machines, and something to do with thermodynamics. These would be more in line with your current work and probably not overload you.”

I had to agree with the headmaster; it seemed like a solid starting place. “These would all be extremely far from one another, no? Not that I can’t walk, it just might be nice to have time to get from here to there.”

“There's something about that.” Laurel chimed in.

“What do you mean?” I asked, rubbing her hand.

“Tell him.” Laurel excitedly pushed the headmaster.

Anthea sighed and slumped into her chair. “You will probably love this, Dr. Byrd, as your lady here was simply ecstatic for the change.”

“You don’t seem so happy about it,” I noted.

“No, it's fine.” She continued, “Just more work for me is all, but every professor will now have their own dedicated lecture hall for their courses, some sharing might be necessary if space calls for it, though.” Anthea really seemed stressed about the whole idea.

A squeeze in my shoulders sent a sensation through my arms and hands. I forgot I was mildly high. “That is great news for us. I apologize for your workload.” I tapped my fingers rapidly. “So, where will I be teaching?”

‘Right here in the library greenhouse!” Laurel shouted, unable to contain her excitement for me. She bounced up and down, releasing her grip from my back. “We need to go see it now.” She told me.

We all parted down the tower lift with urgency; it was brighter than it was going up. I was given instructions verbally and on my watch about how to register for my classes at the university, set my times and dates, accept all the students, and a large number of other things. I walked again through the library; a breeze blew warm air through the hallways of book-lined shelves. I noticed how close Laurel walked to me now. She seemed tense, afraid of losing me to a world of science and study.

A set of wood and green-glass double doors swung open as we approached, but they didn’t make a sound. Beyond them was a dome of glass and steel laid over a sunken ring of seats orbiting my lecture stage. It really was more of a stage than anything else; it featured no chalkboard, no projectors, only a new device meant to create holograms of demonstrations. I truly felt at home now, enclosed, safe. Every wall was strung with a series of hanging plants, pots, vines, and lights that dangled from various lengths of wire.

We three paced the perimeter of the greenhouse room, and I was shown emergency exits, water access, and things of a similar nature. Laurel stood against the west side of the room in opposition to Juyn, who stood just beyond the glass, watching us, me.

I ran over to Juyn. “So, I can easily pull it in here for lectures then?” I shouted across to the headmaster.

“As long as it is safe with strangers, then I see no reason why you wouldn’t be allowed to do so.” She called back.

“Will an alarm sound if I open this?” My head rests on a bronze door handle next to Juyn and Laurel.

Anthea walked over. “No, I don’t think so.”

The bronze handle turned with ease, and the door let in a roar of summer wind and pollen. Stepping outside, I motioned for Juyn to come to me and inside the greenhouse. When it walked over and squeezed through the doorframe, it greeted me with a bow. “Run an air quality test, Juyn.” I requested the robot, and it obeyed. From within a small panel on its wrist, it pulled a small vial and a string.

“What is that for?” both Laurel and Anthea asked in unison. Laurel walked closer to Juyn to watch.

Juyn moved away from Laurel, looking at her, waving the vial and string in her face. It wasn’t angry with her; it was particular.

“How rude.” Laurel hmphed. And I assured her it wasn’t her, but to everyone, Juyn liked its space was all.

I explained that the air quality test was just a random thing I did to ensure proper operation and function after reassembly. Everyone agreed to this like scripture, like it was a common occurrence. It was the first time I had Juyn run that test in months. I didn’t even know it had all of its needs to do it stored away. Juyn took the small glass vial, placed the string closed inside, and shook it violently. Anthea stepped further away than she already was. When the string remained white, and Juyn placed all the components of the test back inside its wrist, I explained that the result was clean.

Warm amber light filtered into the classroom, the air was dusty with pollen, and the scent of the library was old. Everything had begun falling into place. Peace overcame my person in waves through my bones; I collapsed to my knees and wept. Laurel comforted my back with a massage; I explained to all that I was simply overwhelmed with joy after such a long struggle in the past. Anthea left us alone under the glass dome, her footsteps’ echoes making me imagine the sounds of a busy school, eager learners, and stability.

Juyn was beside me, sat against the glass walls, it held a butterfly on an extended finger. It was at that moment, more my child than my creation. “I love you,” I murmured. A childish camera head tilted and stared back at me.

“I love you.” Said Laurel.

The light complemented her natural colors; a warm glow surrounded her. “I love you,” I said and stood with her. Her smile was so genuine that it could force a conman to turn himself in. We held each other tightly; her hands interlocked behind my back, and we began to dance. “You made this possible.”

“No,” she whispered. “I helped you realize what you could do.” Laurel rested her face on my chest. “You made this possible, Cecil, for you and me.”

In an old-fashioned way, we swayed up and down the steps of the classroom, orbiting the center. Laurel hummed a sweet old song, with her lips against mine. Staying opposite of us, Juyn walked in unison, brushing through hanging vines and fiddling with something in its hands.

We crossed the room to the robot. “What do you have?” asked Laurel with her hand outstretched. Juyn placed a small dark blue petal into her palm and looked at me. They both looked at me.

The Cyval petal tempted me, its color was more vibrant than ever, and it was strong. “I don’t think I need it right now, thank you.” I lied.

“Even I would say that you’ve earned this one.” Laurel handed me the petal, “We can split it.”

And oh, how good it felt.

After some time had passed, we made our way back outside the library to reconvene with Anthea and Callea.

“Happy, are we?” asked Anthea.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied.

We four set up my upcoming schedule, and within minutes, I had a handful of students who had already been assigned to my courses for the following days. They were filler students, people looking for anything to take as a starting place. But I was reassured that more would fill in by choice, day by day, as long as I taught well and engagingly, at least.

Once our day at the university came to a slow and comforting close, Laurel and I headed through the university back to the train to Tiesin. I asked her while walking if she still planned on staying with me. She was unsure but asked if at least coming to dinner was alright. Exiting the university gates, it was clear that good things were coming. Bright was the sun cast onto the blooming gardens. Each blade of grass danced in the wind.

---

In the station, she laughed. “Remember five days ago, Cecil? When we met for the first time, here, I was lost in my own world and so desperate for connection that I wandered home with a stranger”. Tears welled in her golden eyes and shimmered.

“I do remember, and how we danced, and fell.” I walked over to her to get our booklets stamped.

“Why would I do such a thing?” she asked.

“What? Come home with me? Well, wasn’t it love?” I could feel the boundary I was pushing in the conversation.

“I mean, yes. Go with a stranger, to their house, overnight, of all things. Was it ever love, or need?”

“Laurel? What do you mean, is everything alright?’

“Yes, everything is fine, sorry. Just imagine, what would have happened if I had gone home on my own that day.” She trailed off, something caught in her throat, in her fear. “I could have died, Cecil.” She started to cry, wrapping herself tightly around me. “You saved me.” She sobbed.

She hid in my arms, covering her face with my jacket, holding me hostage.

Although I held Laurel tight, hid her away from prying eyes, I was at a loss for words. My secret little high was slipping from me now, and I wondered if it was coincidental timing or fate. She clung to my side as we got our passes, waited, and boarded. For the entire ride, she sat beside me, close, head resting on my shoulder. We barely talked; we just took in the passing lights, the falling sunset, and the scents of pine forest leaves. Laurel took a tiny portion of Cyval from my bag to relax, she nearly slept on the table, instead she laid her head down and stared at the open, passing world.

Walking home, the distant stars sang a song with the wind. Streetlight made the cobbled roads gleam a cool white. The summer air relaxed in its heat, ready to sleep for the night.

The following morning started early, laurel was laid curled up next to me. I was aiming to go to the university early enough to set up and prepare for my first lecture. All my excitement had me pacing the kitchen in a battle of breakfast ideas. After some fiddling about with eggs and bacon, I must have been loud enough to wake Laurel as she poked around the corner, mostly naked, and plopped into the couch.

“Morning sunshine,” I called. “Hungry yet?’

She groaned at me with a wide smile and half-closed tired eyes. Stretching like a cat, she yawned and watched me cook her some simple breakfast. It was a foggy morning, wind pushed hard against the house, rattling the glass back door. I brought Laurel out a platter of breakfast food, “Looks like it might storm.” I commented.

“Mmhm.” She agreed with a fork in her mouth.

In the morning light, the underside of her hair glowed bright. I ran my fingers through it as I sat next to her. When the time came, we left the house, bags packed, for Midrim University. I beamed with excitement, the thrill of teaching once more.

Outside the house was dark from clouds above, and thunder roared from a distance. Laurel and I walked hand in hand, practically skipping through the streets. Even in the morbid lighting, these old buildings seemed bright and full of color. A couple still sat outside a restaurant with their breakfast. Above us, a person on a solar glider cut through the clouds. I wished I could fly.

“What do you think it’s like up there?” asked Laurel.

“Cold,” I answered. “But brilliant.” It had me excited even just to get to my office in the library tower, back with my view and elevation over the world. “High, without a high.”

In the street halfway to the train station, my watch rang and buzzed on my wrist. The vibration startled Laurel’s hand out of mine. She laughed and asked who was contacting me early in the day. Bold yellow letters read across my wrist, Anthea Nosef. “It’s the University,” I questioned. ‘We aren’t late, are we?'

“Not a chance,” Laurel confirmed. “We are already on our way to be there over an hour early.”

Dark clouds parted above, letting rays of light creep through onto the street. “Yeah. Hope everything is okay.” I answered. My fingers flicked open the message on my watch; it blared bold red letters with an urgent sound. “Oh no.” My feet stopped walking, legs stiff, my lungs paused.

“What?” rushed Laurel. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

I didn’t respond. I continued to read the message from the headmaster. Light flooded over me, the clouds moving further north. Whistles of the sea wind rang in my ears. Every bump in the cobbled stones under my feet felt like a mountain of difference.

Laurel stepped over behind me. “Cecil.”

With every breath I let loose a few words. “I’ll lose the… What – how can we… No. I knew it was – bad… So bad.”

“Cecil.”

Her worried golden eyes met mine. “Juyn is gone,” I whispered. “Lost.”

It seemed like the sun set and rose again, time flying past in the rapid winds. Strands of Laurel’s hair tickled my nose. “What do you mean, gone?” She took my hands to read my watch as I struggled for words.

My world was unraveling, and it had only just found its knot. But that’s the funny thing about knots, the more security you need from one, the harder it is to tie it properly.

I was practically dragged to the train station and into our seats, barely in time.

“You won’t lose your job over this, Cecil. We will find Juyn; you just have to explain the situation.” Laurel attempted to calm my nerves. “Tell them the truth, Cecil. About Juyn being overbearing of your home and its personal garden. Cyval. Maybe don’t mention that you lied in your interview, though.”

Her words hit me like stone on stone, neither budging, both starting to break. I stared blankly out the window at the stretched-out, passing world. The North was dark, and lightning struck far down a distant valley.

“This is why, the university wanted to monitor it though. To ensure the process and reputation could, um, be used for their benefit?” she struggled with the last word. “More, just to ensure their capital on you.” Her hands were wrapped over my knee, eyes fixed on my expression.

Buzzing came from the brakes of the train track’s monorail. Magnets pulled against our momentum to a stop at Midrim. My eyes were met with a crowd blanketed by dancing light or shadows. Peeking over the heads of the crowd was a lean, curved camera crested by a thin radio wire. I leapt from my seat and forced my way off the train, leaving Laurel behind to wonder where I rushed to. “It’s Juyn!” I yelled. The crowd began to notice as I knocked a few more people onto the platform floor. “It’s Juyn!”

The robot knew of my coming, enraged at my leaving, pushed others down to the floor as well to greet me. If it could cry, it would have wept in my arms. Juyn’s flowers were vibrant in the incandescent light of the train station. Its moss had spread and grown, and even every single plant-life around it seemed to hum in glowing life from Juyn’s presence.

Laurel emerged from the crowd behind me in a panicked breath. She paused. “Oh, well, you didn’t get too far, did you?” she said to Juyn. In a fit, Juyn put an arm out to her, not in a friendly manner, but telling her to stay away from it, from me.

“No, Juyn, it’s okay.” I sighed. “She got me here to you, okay, you will be coming home soon.” A promise that I didn’t know if I could keep now. “Let’s get you back to the university.”

A crowd of eyes watched us pass through the station. Laurel stuck close to me, the opposite side of Juyn.

Walking back through the gardens into the university, I could practically see the path Juyn walked to the train station. Strings of flowers were in bloom more than others, dark wet soil, trimmed hedges, the signs were clear, and honestly, I found it funny. It became clear why the university was so interested in my creation; it worked.

Laurel asked me, “Why did it leave?” She looked to Juyn for answers, then to the university gates.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I guess it thought it could get home.”

She laughed. “I didn’t think that it could think that way!” she shrugged. “Did you make a machine capable of love?”

I shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head forward to the university gates. “Look ahead.” Callea stood firm at the entrance, arms crossed. We stopped at the gate. Callea looked disappointed but not mad.

“And what do we have here?” asked Callea. “A runaway?” she chuckled.

Laurel and I tried our best not to look ashamed. “I have to explain yet, but it didn’t get far. Just to the station here.”

Callea smiled, and I relaxed. “Oh, I know.” She spoke. “My sister can be a bit dramatic, sorry. I had eyes on Juyn the whole time, but you know how controlling people can be.” She looked over her shoulder at the distant university buildings. Her eyes rolled. “Come on, she wants at least some sort of answer.”

Juyn walked with us all the way past the library, where I asked it to stay outside and get back to working. We entered a tall, dark, brick building, one of the oldest on the entire campus, its windows tinted grey, moss climbing the footing stones of the stairs.

Laurel chimed. “Guess it’s a good thing we're early.”

She was right, I still wanted time then to run a practice lecture and learn my pacing. Inside the building was no different from its exterior. It was dated, dim, and surprisingly empty. Not empty in the sense of people, but in the sense of space and noise. There was no hum of air conditioning, no art on the walls, hardly a chair in the lobby. “What happened here?” I had to ask.

“What do you mean?” Callea laughed.

We headed for an elevator. “It’s dead in here.”

“Oh.” She laughed. “Yeah, it’s stupid, but the older council members and alumni refuse to release the funds to update the building. They say it’s imposing on new students at first, to make sure they’re not overly arrogant.”

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing us inside a rising glass tube. As we ascended toward the top floor, the heavy, humid air of the lower greenhouses was instantly sliced away by the biting, sterile chill of the university's central ventilation.

A violent shiver racked my shoulders. My jaw ached, my teeth grinding together so tightly my temples throbbed. I shoved my trembling hands deep into my coat pockets, desperate to hide the physical decay that was rotting me from the inside out.

With a soft chime, the doors parted.

The top floor was blinding. Wall-to-wall, unbroken white light flooded the massive room, stabbing like needles into my withdrawal-sensitive eyes. A geometric chandelier hung sharply from the pointed ceiling, casting long, dark lines that stretched across the floor like the bars of a cage. At the far end of the room, positioned perfectly before a vast window lined with manicured flora, sat a vibrant blue desk.

Headmaster Anthea Nosef sat behind it, waiting.

"Cecil," Anthea called out, her voice echoing off the sterile walls. "How good to see you. I assume you managed to locate your runaway automaton?"

Callea stopped near the elevator, acting as a quiet sentry at our backs, while Laurel and I crossed the long expanse of the room. My knees felt like lead.

"Yes, actually," I forced the words out, my throat tight and dry. "It barely left the university grounds. It might not have even known it did anything wrong."

"Well, that is a profound relief." Anthea didn't smile. She steepled her fingers, her gaze shifting slowly from me to the woman standing at my side. "And Lady Cennile. How entirely unsurprising it is to find you here. Your late father’s... design philosophies are quite unmistakable. Especially when they are paraded right onto my campus."

"I was worried," Anthea continued, her tone dripping with polite, veiled menace, "that after the machine's little excursion, I wouldn't know how to properly compensate you for your... unique contributions to this university, Cecil."

She opened the top drawer of her vibrant blue, glass, desk.

With a sharp clink, she slid a small, polished metal access disk across the glass. It caught the harsh white light perfectly.

"Your master clearance," Anthea said smoothly. "Take it, Professor, and you will have your tenure, your funding, and a perfectly normal career. We can pretend Juyn’s disappearance was a mere logistical error."

I let out a shaky breath, my trembling hand lifting from my pocket to take the disk. We were going to survive this. We were going to walk away.

But Anthea’s hand hadn't left the drawer.

Thud.

A heavy, dark blue velvet satchel dropped onto the glass, resting right beside the metal disk. Even through the thick dark fabric, the scent hit my starved senses—a sharp, intoxicating rush.

The absolute second the velvet hit the desk, the entire room ceased to exist. The hum of the air conditioning, the sharp lines of the chandelier, Laurel's protective presence beside me—it all dissolved into a muted, rushing static. My vision tunneled, locking entirely onto the thick fabric drawstrings. But why she did this, I couldn't figure it out then, no calculation could have predicted what secrets she held. Anthea had starved me, and promised me that if, only if, I could change, I could have security and funds; just to offer up the option, the loaded gun, that could strip that all away.

"And" Anthea purred, her eyes flashing with the dark satisfaction of a predator. "You may take the botanical supplement as well. Sourced at great personal expense, for the start of your research. I find it helps our most brilliant minds stay focused to have a foundation. Take both, Cecil... but Juyn remains exactly where I tell it to be."

I stared at the two objects. The metal disk was freedom. The velvet bag was a cage. I tried to reach for the disk—I tried to be the genius academic, the man Laurel thought I was. But my soul recognized the blue dust hiding inside that fabric. My watering mouth, my racing heart, the freezing hollow in my marrow—every broken, empty cell in my body screamed in unison.

"Don't," Laurel breathed. Her voice wasn't just a plea; it was a fragile, terrified warning. I felt her fingers brush against my sleeve, trying to pull me back from the edge. She was staring at the bag with a desperate, drowning guilt I couldn't understand. Anthea stared at Laurel, not me, a sharp, pointed gaze. Laurel dropped her hand.

The starving animal inside me had won.

I reached forward. My hand completely bypassed the clean metal disk, my trembling fingers closing around the blue velvet. The moment the heavy bag settled into my palm, the shaking in my wrists eased. A sickening wave of relief washed over me. I didn't care about the blackmail. I didn't care about my pride, or the woman begging me to walk away.

There was no surprise, no disappointment. Anthea didn't stop me. She didn't snatch it back or scold me. She merely smiled—a cold, victorious curve of her lips. I had traded my soul for my own destruction, unbound everything she asked for, and all she did was smile.

Maintaining that dead, clinical eye contact, she slowly began pulling other objects from her desk drawer, placing them onto the glass. A pad of paper with scribbled notes. A gold pin. Another access disk with a taped-on label. She emptied the drawer, creating a small graveyard of miscellaneous possessions.

“These are my collections,” she murmured. “An example of each and every professor that's come and gone. It would be a profound shame for you to join them so soon.”

"We understand each other perfectly, Headmaster," I said, clutching the velvet so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Anthea’s smile widened, her eyes locked on her pile of mementos. "You know, poor thing, you look exhausted, Cecil. Maybe you should take the rest of the day. Go home to your greenhouse. Dig your hands into the dirt. Find some peace."

“I think what I need right now is to work, something different than home life,” I lied, my voice eerily calm as the promise of the high buzzed in my ears. Absently, I took the access disk from the desk with my free hand.

I turned on my heel and walked back across the shadows of the chandelier. Laurel followed, but she didn't take my hand. When the elevator doors finally closed, sealing us away from Anthea Nosef, the silence between us was absolute. Laurel stared at the velvet bag clutched in my fist, her golden eyes wide with the horrifying realization that I had just willingly chosen the cage.

She knew I was going to open it. And she knew what was waiting for me when I did.

By the time we stepped out of the administration building and into the warm coastal air, the manic relief of the drug was already buzzing under my skin. I felt invincible. I tore the dark velvet bag from my coat pocket, the weight of it sinking into my palms, dragging me down. In the moment, I didn't care who was watching, I didn't care that Laurel was right beside me. She gasped when I ripped the bag open at the seams, turned away from me.

My heart stopped, and sank to the floor. Heels dug into the dirt, ready to pivot, storm back in need.

There was no vibrant blue, no smack of wildflowers and coffee. My fingers pulled out a clump of damp, ordinary black potting soil. Hidden inside the dirt was a single, folded slip of university parchment. I dropped the soil onto the concrete, my hands shaking, I could barely unfold the paper.

Written in Anthea Nosef's immaculate handwriting were two words: Earn it.

A cold, suffocating panic seized my lungs. It was a fake. She had made me beg, made me choose the cage over my freedom, just to prove that she held the leash. The real supply would only come after I performed like a good little academic.

"Cecil?" Laurel’s voice was hesitant, fracturing the silence.

"I'm fine," I choked out, shoving the humiliating velvet bag deep into my coat. The tremors were returning with a vengeance, rattling my teeth. "Let's get to the classroom."

Laurel didn't argue. She followed me in silence as I practically sprinted toward the greenhouses, desperate to hide my physical collapse.

Ahead of us, Juyn was dutifully tending to some rotting tree roots stuck out of the walking path.

Laurel didn't move. She stood on the concrete path, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at me as if I were a stranger who had just stolen Cecil Byrd's face. "I don't know you," she whispered, her voice fracturing.

"Don't be dramatic, Laurel. We won.” The words tasted like shit and felt like lead. I flashed her a brilliant, feverish smile, riding the last plummeting adrenaline of my relapse. “It’s better this way anyway!” I laughed, “Just have to move on, make it work.” Laurel didn't say anything, just waited for me to break. “What is my first lecture on, by the way? I was thinking of an introduction to plant biology. Maybe an introduction to you, as well."

Her head snapped back, a flash of pure, terrified disbelief crossing her features. "Me?" her words a flicker of fire.

"Of course. Plants are your specialty. I could utilize an expert to help lecture here and there." I reached out to grab her hand, to pull her along the path with me, but she flinched, stepping out of my reach.

"How can you act like this?" she breathed, her eyes darting to the pocket where the empty bag rested. "How do you expect me to teach? You just... you just traded away everything. For nothing"

"I secured our future," I countered, my patience instantly fraying at her resistance. "I threw the class together just last night. Just follow my lead, Laurel. It's easy."

“How do you even have this planned out, in a single night? You planned a whole class?”

I laughed then. “Of course not, it's all old material from when I taught before. I wouldn’t be teaching this period if I needed time to prepare a whole class, let alone three.” From my bag, I pulled a dark green digital notebook and tapped its back. “Callea already knew my history and helped me figure out what I could reuse.”

It took time while we walked, for Laurel to get close to me again, every few steps the distance shrunk, though she never took my open hand.

Laurel opened the greenhouse door for me; I rushed in with the wind. The space felt familiar again, in the same way my kitchen often did; I knew the space and my material, all I had to do was figure out the work. There were two hours to go before my class for the day, and I could practically feel all the eyes on me already, the adrenaline it built. Sunlight poured through the walls and cast a warped, grid-like shadow onto the sunken floor; dust hovered in the air.

We began discussing the layout for my lectures, or rather, Laurel discussed while I nodded, fighting a desperate war inside my own skin. We pulled a rolling table to the center of the greenhouse to utilize for displays. Unpacking my bag onto the metal surface was an exercise in humiliation; my hands betrayed me, like they continued to do, I could barely grip the canvas. An array of notes from years past, demonstration wires, artificial leaves made of glass, and a scaled-up model of a plant cell all clattered across the table in a clumsy mess.

“Stop.” Laurel called, my hand deep in my bag. “If you don't feel well, let me do it… sit for a while.”

Then, my hand brushed against something heavy at the very bottom of the bag.

I pulled it out, my breath catching hard in my throat. It was a small case of light-blue-etched glass, sealed tightly within a golden frame. Inside lay perfectly crushed Cyval petals—a vast, vibrant spectrum of blue radiating against the greenhouse light.

"What is this?" I whispered. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had no clue where the box had come from. It wasn’t my usual leather pouch, which was currently sitting empty back in Tiesin. "These aren’t mine."

Laurel stopped sorting the demonstration of wire filled stems. She stepped around the table, her gaze dropping swiftly from the glass to the floor. "But they look so..." she trailed off, swallowing hard.

For a fraction of a second, her hand twitched upward, her fingers curling as if she were going to snatch the case out of my grip and hurl it to the concrete. As if she were going to save me. But she didn't. She forced her trembling hand back to her side, her gaze dropping in suffocating guilt to the floor.

"Beautiful," I finished for her, a sick knot of unease settling deep in my gut. I brought the glass case closer to my face.

Even through the seal, the scent hit me like a train barreling down its line. It was sweeter than my usual cut—a rich, intoxicating blast of honey and lavender. "Practically perfect specimens."

Laurel wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach. She turned her back to me, “I don’t know… Cecil, put it away, please.” she begged. Her voice fractured on the last word, a sound so fragile it should have broken my heart. But the starving animal inside me didn't care. A terrifying, suffocating silence stretched between us, thick in the humid air, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing. I didn't move a single muscle to put the case away.

My thumb traced the pristine golden edge of the frame, and as I stared at the glowing blue dust, my initial rush of hunger twisted into something much colder. My mind began to spin, I hadn't packed this, I couldn't afford this. Someone had deliberately slipped a loaded gun into my bag.

When the tension finally became too much for her to bear, Laurel paced over to the south wall of the dome, pressing her hands against the warm glass to watch Juyn out in the exterior gardens.

 "Maybe... maybe Juyn did it?" she offered quickly, her voice tight. "Before we left the house? You don't think it slipped them in there? It doesn't know any better, so just put them away until we get home.”

I walked up behind her, holding the golden frame like it was a live explosive. "The Cyval? No. It doesn't have a case like this. Something this pristine... it had to come from someone else."

"Someone with money," she muttered, nodding slowly against the glass. "What are you going to do about it? I mean, it can’t just be an accident." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Do you think someone is trying to test you? Sabotage you, even?"

"Anthea," I sighed, my knees finally giving out. I slumped into one of the iron-wrought chairs. The withdrawals were screaming in my marrow, a freezing hollow that demanded to be filled. "No one else here even knows of my problem. She handed me dirt to make me beg and then slipped this in my bag when I wasn't looking. It's a game. The dirt was the warning. This is the real test." My chest roared with a raging fire that threatened to burst through my teeth.

I dragged a trembling hand through my hair. "I can't let it bother us. If it is a test, I need to pass." But even as I said the words, my hands drumming against my knees. I gasped for air, a sudden, ragged skip in my breath. "I've been sober for what? Four or five days now?"

Laurel finally turned around. She walked back and sat beside me, her golden eyes swimming with a mixture of profound sorrow and desperate pity. She reached out and held my hand, trying to still the violent tremors, but she couldn't. A heavy beat of silence filled the greenhouse, broken only by my beaten, uneven breathing.

"I’m sorry for teasing you about it earlier," Laurel whispered, her voice fracturing. "I know it can’t be easy. If there’s any way I can help you, really..." She couldn't look at me. Her eyes fixed on the potted ferns across the room. "Honestly, Cecil. Maybe you take just a tiny hit. Just to steady your hands. Before the students show up."

I stared at her, stunned. Take a hit. It was the exact permission my addict brain had been begging for, handed to me by the one person I thought would stop me. "I know you care," I stammered, my skin crawling with a sudden, electric anticipation. "I just need it out of my mind. No, it hasn’t been easy, but I have you. I have work now. And... come on, it doesn’t need to last forever." unless, it was an invitation.

I stood up abruptly, the glass case burning a hole in my palm. The addict inside me took the wheel, smoothly manufacturing an excuse to isolate myself. I reached back into my empty bag, feigning a frantic search. "My notebook is missing. I likely left it in the office."

I scooped up the blue-etched glass case, my fingers refusing to let the drug go. "I'll be back," I called out, my voice falsely bright. "Want to come with me?"

She shook her head, retreating further against the glass dome wall. Her fingers picked nervously at her sleeves. The fear and shame radiating off her was a palpable, heavy weight in the room. "No thanks. I'll stay here and set up a bit more, I guess."

My heavy footsteps echoed across the sunken floor as I approached her. The distance between us suddenly felt monumental. "Are you okay?" I asked, pausing. "Come with me for a moment, please." Part of me desperately needed her to go with me. I wasn't just asking her to walk the halls. A manic, euphoric greed was swelling in my chest. I wanted her to share the victory. I had secured my tenure, I had the brilliant woman I loved, and I had the purest high in Fernaea burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted to consume everything I had ever desired all at once.

"I'm fine," she insisted, her shoulders slumping in absolute defeat. "Go." Laurel stood there, the radiance I had loved seemed to fade, hair fallen over her face as she shifted her gaze from me to the floor.

I took a deep breath. "Okay. I’ll be quick."

Turning away from her, I headed out toward the main library. I clutched my bag tight to my chest, the cold glass of the Cyval case burning like a brand in my pocket. Laurel's strange panic had me worried—there was something unsaid lingering in the air behind me—but the suffocating anxiety of my own withdrawals quickly consumed me, drowning it out. My class was starting in under an hour. Barely off the hook from Juyn’s little stunt, and the pressure was crushing me.

The walk through the main library felt like wading through deep water. The towering shelves pressed in on me, claustrophobic and condemning, as students whispered in the aisles. Every second I spent in their sight pushed me closer to my breaking point. I gripped the glass case in my pocket like a lifeline, my hands, my person, wavered like a failing top, as though I had grabbed hold of an electric fence. I just needed to be alone. I just needed the quiet.

The cold, dark air of the tower stairs greeted me with a soft gust. It blew a familiar scent from my mouth to my nose, and I breathed my last unimpaired breath.

With newfound wings, I took flight up the stairs and burst through into a nebula of light.

I convulsed over my desk, eyes piercing the distant grey ground below. My heart pounded in my head, my ears ringing, and I felt more alive than a newborn baby. Dancing with my shakes and groans was the rainbow light that erupted from the small stained-glass sunroofs at the top north and south ends of my office. Each color in the room spoke to me in a new voice, singing, screaming. I wept at their lullabies and laughed at their jokes. Fresh from the womb of Goddess Mother Ferna, the ground petals of Cyval burned my throat, and the sting made me only crave more. It was morning, but the sun shone brightly at midday, the clouds all too far to care about, and the wind barely whistled against the glass.

Unfortunately, my high was brutally interrupted by someone knocking at my door; it was so loud. My posture was startled back into position, and I ran for the door. They managed to knock twice more before I reached the handle. On the other side of the doorway stood a woman dressed in greens and blues, her hair a white wave that roared at me. She shoved me back into my office and yelled some form of words I couldn’t string together. It was Callea, the doctoral lawyer sister of the headmaster. Sister of the headmaster.

I vomited on her shoes.

My face stung, and I fell backwards to the floor. She hit me.

Callea shouted at me, it hurt, “You’ve been gone for hours! And for what?! Drugs?! Dozens of students have waited for your lecture! I was waiting for your lecture! Do you know what my sister will do about this? On your second day!”

A high ringing in my ears haunted me, trapped inside my brain with me. Callea took my hands and pulled me to my feet. For a moment, I was flying. I was unfortunately pulled right into the blinding yellow light from the window beside my desk; it was nauseating how painfully my eyes flexed to adjust. She shouted something at me again; it was too bright for me to hear her.

“Laurel?” I forced the question from behind my teeth as I fell into Callea’s shoulder like a drunk.

She shook me. “Laurel. Is that your concern right now?!” Dust was kicked up around us. “You just jeopardized your last shot at rebuilding your career! And your concern is that of your newly found partner?” In that moment, the world was ending; it was all too loud.

“Show me you can sober up, Cecil!” Cried Callea. A tingling crept up my arms like ivy. “Please!” she shoved a small vial of clear fluid into my hands, “Take this!” Callea’s face was red as she cried. “Snap out of this.” Now she was the one to lean into me, taking us both to the floor in a slump.

The entirety of my chest burned and heaved like a fireplace. But the tears of the woman who cried over me could not smother my flames. I was numb beneath her, letting her pour the liquid into my cracked open mouth, it stung like nettles in my throat, but slowly it spread a cool sensation through my veins.

I know not how long we lay there, a pile of worthless meat thrown onto the old floorboards of the tower. I know instead that dust settled on my overcoat, her tears eroded streams through it as they continued to fall in silence. And of the position of the sun, which changed from the south window to creeping into the higher, more pointed windows on the roof.

When I was on my feet again, it was I who wept this time around. At Callea’s apology, “My parents... they lived in that world. The fuel and the fear. I just couldn't watch another brilliant person rot to death in front of me. Someone I looked up to.”

Together, with minor difficulties, we took the old elevator shaft down the tower to the main library. Exciting a small, decorated hallway, I spotted Laurel lying down across three cushioned seats against a bookshelf. Laurel’s hair was draped down to the floor, her legs crossed as she stared blankly at the ceiling above. As we approached, she turned to her to see me before excitedly rising to her feet. Laurel’s running hug would have taken me back to the floor had she not managed to hit me at an angle where we spun, and she stopped us from falling with her feet. The room still spun once I was still.

“Cecil.” Jutted Callea. “I need to go tell my sister that you fell ill. It has to be something strong and harsh, so how about you go home for the pass before returning, clean this time?” Her voice was stern yet shy; she didn’t look Laurel in the eyes as she spoke to me, and her cheeks blushed.

“I am so sorry.” My lips let loose an apology.

Callea was blank, “I suggest you leave soon. That Natchold is only meant to suppress it until further help comes.” she paused. “Sober up before the university finds out who you really are.” She turned to me as she walked. “Don’t forget what you could do, who you could be, okay?”

I nodded back as my gaze fell upon Laurel, who stared up at me like a wounded animal. From piercing white light, my head throbbed like a racing heart. “What happened?” I brushed my hand over a small bruise on Laurel’s cheek.

She flinched. “I fell while running.” She said just a hair too quickly for my full belief. “What did you do?” The question felt rhetorical and pointed. Sighing with a dropped head, Laurel knew my answer.

“Look, I was panicked, and I didn’t even mean to.” Words began pouring out of my mouth, excuses, apologies, and choking back sobs. The world still spun around me. I was a giant in a swirling labyrinth of books and colors. Laurel caught me in her arms with a stumble.

“People are watching, let’s leave.” Her tongue flicked with anger. “Help me grab Juyn.” She noted as we walked out the door.

If the brightness of a library was equivalent to looking at the sun, then stepping outside was like I was living on it; even my skin burned the moment I left the shade. “I can’t see,” I mumbled, following the hand that dragged me over the path and the grass. “Laurel?” I begged for a response.

“Call Juyn over.” We stopped at the edge of a flower bed. A silhouette of Juyn sat still in the grass, leaning against a wall of boards. As my eyes adjusted, I smiled to see Juyn holding a butterfly. It looked at me, then back at its hand. Leaves fell around us, streaks in my vision. “Juyn, come with us,” Laurel called to no response or movement. “Call Juyn.” She squeezed my hand tight.

“Juyn, time to,” I paused. “-go home now.” It looked back at me, rising slowly to its feet, the butterfly whipped past us into a thicket of bushes. We walked swiftly through the courtyard, ignoring onlookers and whispers or shouts. We were the attraction of the pass to those people, and word spread fast.

We were met at the gate by Anthea, as well as a handful of men dressed in constellation-patterned suits. A larger woman with slicked-back black hair held a copper baton, beating it against her palm.

“You two cause an awful lot of trouble, don’t you?” Anthea spoke with a more authoritative tone than a queen.

“We haven’t done anything,” Laurel said, trying to maintain her emotions.

Anthea came closer. “Do you like that bruise I left your girl, Cecil?” Her figure blurred in and out of my focus.

I questioned what she meant for a moment. “You hit her?”

Laurel held me tighter. “Cecil, it’s nothing, ignore that, we have to go.” She pulled me sideways, but dark figures were there to block our exit.

“Wait,” I called out. “What is going on?” My head pounded, a bomb about to implode between my ears.

My bag was taken from me, pulled from my arm. The woman with the baton stood close enough for me to smell the tropical wash she used. “Laurel has a debt to repay is all. Let us have a little something from your bag, and all will be well.” Said Anthea.

Footsteps came pounding up behind me.

“I told you I don’t have it, go beg my mother!” Laurel burst.

Anthea ticked, “Your father might not have been the smartest ever, but he wasn’t a moron.” She pulled the blue and gold case out of my bag, but it was empty. She opened it to smell, “I am no moron.”

“My father refuses to pass on until he knows of our family’s safety. Let him move on. Please.” Laurel cried now. I could feel the shaking of her hand around mine. She muttered, “It's empty, oh gods.” She faced me.

“Then where, is the damn, flower?!” Anthea was furious now. She turned to my dazed state. “All of it?” She laughed. “Did you, the stupid addict doctor, take an entire lethal dose of our most potent strain?” She knew the answer and laughed manically. There was no response from me, I had no reaction, none I recall other than Laurel’s tight hug and the sound of Juyn running. “Tell me, Laurel, do you love this man?” Her team of bodyguards seemed to dissipate.

Laurel shook with anger, sadness, and grief. “I do; I do love him. I love you.” She held me like a constrictor.

Anthea came to me, placed my shoulder with a hand. “Then consider your family debt paid in full.”

We raced in a stumble out of the gate, chasing a dream of a life to live once again. Laurel mentioned something about my home, and her belongings, and all I did was follow. All I could do was follow. The Midrim air felt like hot glass in my lungs. I wasn't walking; I was being dragged by a girl who loved a dead man and a machine that was losing its mind. Entering the train station, there was a series of shouts and calls from a crowd around me, just like earlier in the morning. And still it was because of Juyn, who stood balanced on the monorail, halting a train about to leave.

At some point, I was thrown down or dropped onto a bench while people surrounded me. Hissing from the train made everyone sound like snakes. I closed my eyes; the world was bright. Juyn stood by me when I closed them, offering me a hand. The metal was cold as I touched it, humming with life, almost with a pulse. Juyn’s ivy wrapped around my wrist and curled up my forearm, tickling me as it grew. I let it help me stand, then found myself in the doorway of the train with Laurel as my guide once more. Juyn stood firm behind us, seeming to accidentally hold back a crowd.

Shouts penetrated through the train’s walls and windows; it was an angry mob separated from me by only millimeters of glass. The people were blue, as was my hand on the window. Laurel cried on my shoulder, reassuring me, demanding that I would be okay.

The train lunged forward, magnets humming with accelerating purpose. The glass separating us from the mob blurred, then cleared, revealing a sea of faces that were truly, irrevocably blue. They weren't angry; they were glowing, the color of a cold, distant star, and they clawed at the air in silent, desperate pleas. I couldn't hear their shouts anymore, only a high-pitched ringing that was either the sound of the monorail's motors or the sound of my neural network dissolving.

“They’re gone, Cecil, we’re moving!” Laurel shouted, her voice thick and wet against my ear, but the words were small, like distant pebbles in a cavern. Laurel. She was real. Her body was a haven, a warm, solid thing pressed against my left side, but her fear felt like a foreign object, a shard of glass buried deep in my flesh. I could feel Juyn’s metal pulse rhythmically behind us, a reassuring, mechanical heartbeat keeping pace with the rushing tracks.

I pulled my hand from the window, and the blue print of my palm was left behind on the glass. The color was spreading—it wasn’t just the angry mob; it was the world itself. The pine forests whipping past the window were shifting to deep, unnatural sapphire, the tracks were glowing turquoise, and the train car’s white trim was edging in an electric, dangerous cyan. The lethal dose. I had taken the entirety of Laurel’s debt to Anthea, the contents of the blue-etched glass case, the practically perfect specimens, the powder that smelled of honey and lavender. It wasn’t a minor high; it was a sensory explosion designed to either kill or transcend. I leaned my head back, the rush of air conditioning feeling like liquid nitrogen on my face. It was magnificent. It was terrifying.

Laurel shifted, pulling back far enough to look me in the eyes. Her golden irises, once so enchanting, were now twin gateways to an awful, desperate clarity. “You have to focus, Cecil. You have to fight it. That wasn't just a handful of petals; that was the entire sample, the one Anthea wanted back to pay off my father's debt.”

My tongue felt heavy and clumsy. “The blue… the color… is that…?”

“It’s a new strain,” she rushed, her breath smelling of coffee and the remaining Cyval on her tongue, an anchor in the storm of sweet, burning mint and lavender in my own mouth. “The Star-Ivy strain. My father created it. It’s supposed to be—controlled. Used to suppress pain in trauma patients, not… this. The dosage you took is enough to kill three men, Cecil. She meant for you to find that case. She meant for you to take it. I'm so sorry.”

I shook my head, the motion sending a wave of nausea through the blue-tinged world. “She… she gave me the job. She offered me stability.”

“She offered you a leash!” Laurel hissed, tears mixing with the salt of sweat on her cheeks. “She offered, me, stability. The moment you were accepted, she owned you. Your research, your robot, your addiction. The whole point of the sobriety clause wasn't to clean you up; it was to find the limits of your dependence, to know exactly when to introduce the solution. The lethal one. She wanted you to be compliant, or she wanted you dead to settle the score.” Laurel sobbed and repeated mumbled apologies endlessly, gripping her shoulders before pulling at my arm. She took my blue-stained hand again, her grip crushing my fingers. “That gold pin on my dress? It was my father's pin. He believed his work was too important to let his weaknesses ruin it, so he made a deal with her to protect it after he killed himself. The deal was in Juyn, or some machine like it. He told her Juyn was the key to stabilizing the Star-Ivy strain, and she was supposed to get it in exchange for forgiving his debt. But Juyn only listens to you, Cecil. So, she needed you to bring Juyn to her.”

The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks echoed the erratic, terrifying drumming of my own heart. I leaned forward, a sudden, violent cough tearing through my throat. When I pulled my hand away from my mouth, the saliva in my palm was streaked with a terrifying, iridescent blue. The Star-Ivy wasn't just in my blood; it was melting my lungs.

The train slowed, approaching Tiesin. The coastal air that usually offered peace now felt caustic, slicing into my blue-saturated lungs. Juyn, still standing sentinel, leaned forward, its head tilting as if listening to the distant, rhythmic crash of waves that I couldn't hear. Or the roar of the ocean in my head.

“She knew I was coming back to you,” Laurel continued, pulling me up as the train doors hissed open. “That’s why she was so calm about the chase. She had already ensured her payment. She hit me, Cecil. Not to hurt me, but to make you angry, to confuse you, to drive you to a point where you’d consume everything.” She rambled on, whether for herself or for me, I don’t know for certain.

We stopped; the world slammed to a halt. On my feet, I was weak, tilted.

I stumbled out onto the platform. The world outside the train was a canvas of moving, neon-blue shadows. The ground shifted under my feet like soft clay. I could see the metallic taste of the air, and smell the heat rising from the stone. Laurel’s words began to cut through the high, sharp, and painful.

“We have to get Juyn away from here,” I slurred, stumbling towards the street. “The university… they want it. They want its seed bank, its network. They’ll dismantle it.” I thought, I believed, that my guts were wanted like a criminal.

“Cecil, stop!” Laurel grabbed my arm, forcing me to halt at the edge of the cobbled street. “They’re not going to follow us now. Anthea has what she thinks she needs: your total breakdown. She thinks you’re going to die or be too high to ever be credible again. She’ll send her lawyers next, not her thugs.” Spat Laurel took my hand to help me move.

I looked at Juyn, who was slowly walking beside me, its leaves a vibrant, unnerving blue-green. The robot raised its camera head, tracking a high-flying bird that looked like a streak of indigo fire. The ivy wrapped around its frame began to glow softly, a counterpoint to my internal panic.

“I need to fix it,” I muttered, pulling toward the path to my home. “I need to work. I need to make Juyn stronger. I need the workshop.”

Laurel released a breath that was nearly a sob. “Work isn’t going to fix a lethal overdose, Cecil. What you need is an emergency counterweight.” She began to sweat. Clouds above parted and let rain down a new spectrum of colors.

“No,” I snapped, the single word ringing with crystalline sharpness. “I need control. I need, Juyn. It’s the only proof I have that -, than just an -, that I am a brilliant man. A purpose!”

We walked down the hill to my house in a tense, terrible silence. My legs were no longer my own; they were heavy columns of lead dragging through the mud. I leaned almost entirely on Laurel, my skin burning with a fever so high I could feel her flinch when my arm pressed against her neck. Beneath my shirt, the metallic nodes of my chest monitor buzzed frantically, warning me of an arrhythmia I could already feel tearing my chest apart. I saw Laurel's fear, palpable and cold, as she took in the familiar, blue-lit view of my woods. Juyn followed us, its movements becoming strangely more fluid, less robotic, as if the environmental feedback from the highly charged Cyval atmosphere, my atmosphere, was feeding its neural net. I was one with the beast, the machine, life. Summer heat encompassed my being as I basked in revelation.

“Cecil.” Her words were heated. “You need to stop this, or you will die. Shut up and let me help you.” Laurel stepped between me and the gate of my backyard. I don’t remember how she got to the ground behind me, flinching.

We arrived at the workshop, my small wooden sanctuary on the edge of the ancient woods. The interior was already swallowed by shadows, thick with the scent of stagnant rain, burnt solder, and the fine, metallic dust of the world. I fumbled for my keys, my fingertips tingling with a violent tremor that made the simple act of manipulating the lock an agonizing trial. Laurel stood rooted to the threshold, her gaze fixed upon me.

"I’m not coming in, Cecil," she said, her voice trembling. "Not until you swear to me that you’ll walk away from this madness."

"I'm not surrendering my purpose," I spat, throwing my weight against the wood and slamming the door open. The sharp, intoxicating tang of Cyval was a physical weight here inside Juyn’s true lair. I could see the ghosts of the night before: the bloodstains on my trousers, the tools scattered across the floor like skeletal remains.

"I need to wire the secondary capacitors. Anthea will be scanning for any fracture in the core logic. I must shield the main processor," I insisted. My tongue felt like a slab of thick lead, the words slurring heavily against my teeth. "I need to make it impenetrable."

Laurel stepped into the chaos, her earlier vow forgotten. She appeared smaller now, dwarfed by the wreckage and the eerie blue light radiating from my failing chest monitor, which sang with a terrifying, erratic rhythm.

"Anthea already understands its core logic, Cecil," Laurel said, her words a needle piercing straight through my chemical haze. "She knows of the seed bank. You didn't construct this for innovation—you plundered my father's chassis to sustain your addiction, and Anthea is only here to reclaim her property. This isn’t about repairing the machine; it’s about mending the hollow in your chest."

I spun around, my trembling hands dropping the toolbox with a crash that caused a jolt in Juyn as the machine slowly lumbered through the doorway. "Don't talk to me about my chest! You're only here because you were running from a debt you couldn’t settle—running from the ghost of a coward!"

The blue light erupted in a blinding pulse, momentarily bleaching the interior of the shed. The Star-Ivy finally severed the commands from my brain to my muscles. My legs surrendered entirely, and I collapsed to the dirt floor with a heavy, pathetic thud, the strength to stand vanishing in an instant. My chest heaved, my lungs burning as if I were breathing shattered glass.

"You claimed I was a gateway to freedom!" I wheezed from the dirt. "Well, this is it! You want to be free? Stop judging me and help me work!"

She moved past me, my shouts falling on deaf ears as she approached the worktable. Her eyes tracked the shimmering metallic dust from the Cyval harvest that still blanketed the counter, resting directly beside an open glass beaker of highly caustic cleaning solvent.

"He was only a coward because he chose the path of least resistance," Laurel whispered, her voice a hollow echo. She reached into her coat and pulled free the dark blue velvet satchel—my private reserve of Cyval. "You're taking the arduous path, the spectacular ruin, and you're dragging me into the fire with you. That isn’t love, Cecil. That's a hostage situation."

A desperate, drug-addled panic flooded my failing organs. Even from my paralyzed position on the floor, my mind zeroed in on the velvet clutched in her hand as she dangled it directly above the open beaker of solvent.

"Don’t," I warned, my voice low and dangerous. I watched, shuddering, terrified that she would touch what was mine. My heart was failing, my vision tunneling into a blue void, but the addict inside me refused to die quietly.

"I'm doing this for you," she breathed, her golden eyes never wavering as her fingers found the drawstrings, preparing to empty the seeds into the acid. "I'm erasing the temptation. Because at what point do I stop caring and realize that you cannot change?"

Powered by nothing but pure, chemical terror, I lunged.

My heavy, failing body crashed into her, our combined weight slamming hard against the metal worktable. The glass beaker of solvent shattered, splashing its caustic contents across the fine, shimmering metallic dust of the Cyval harvest. A single spark from a severed copper wire was all it took.

The fire didn't just catch; it inhaled. A wall of blinding heat and sharp ozone erupted between us, swallowing my life's work in a furious, hungry flash. Through the thick, acrid smoke, Juyn's massive chassis lumbered forward. The machine raised its secondary arm—the very appendage I had so painstakingly repaired just a night ago—and shoved me. It was a cold, calculated strike. I flew backward, my head cracking against a stack of terracotta pots, my legs tangling in the heavy debris. A sharp, sickening crunch echoed through the ringing in my ears. The agony in my femur was absolute.

I could barely move. The Star-Ivy had stolen the strength from my muscles, and the fall had shattered my bones. I lay there in the dirt, watching the flames lick the wooden ceiling, waiting for the spectacular ruin to consume me.

But Laurel wouldn't let me burn.

Coughing violently, she grabbed the collar of my shirt. Her boots slipped in the mud as she dragged my dead weight backward, hauling me out into the sodden grass of the garden. She pulled me desperately toward the safety of the ancient woods, down into the darkest, deepest section of the creek near a thicket of weeping willows. We collapsed, shoulder-deep, into the freezing current.

Laurel screamed into her watch, her voice raw and fractured, begging for emergency sirens that were too far away. The sky above us was a swirling nightmare, choked with smoke and the orange, dancing rain of embers.

Then, the water beside us churned.

Juyn’s massive chassis waded into the shallows. The robot reached out, its glowing metal fingers stark against Laurel's pale skin, and clamped tightly around her arm. Laurel shrieked, kicking against the current as she tried to pull away, her free hand reaching out frantically toward me.

I stretched out a trembling, ruined hand to catch her, expecting Juyn to pull me up next. But it didn't. It didn't let her pull back toward me, either. The machine simply turned and began to march, dragging her further into the woods, away from the burning house. Away from me.

That was the last betrayal. The final piece of my sanity shattered as the cold logic of the machine laid itself bare. Juyn’s sensors were reading my failing chest monitor, recognizing the lethal, unstable poison burning through my veins. The machine wasn't malfunctioning; it was executing its core directive. It was preserving the true botanist, and isolating the toxic rot. It looked at its creator and saw only a weed.

I was dying, poisoned by my own addiction, broken and abandoned by my creation, while the woman who genuinely loved me was being dragged into the unknown by the very machine I had stolen to feed my hunger.

I thrashed against the freezing creek water, the pain in my broken leg entirely eclipsed by the pure, suffocating realization of my own hubris. I wanted to command the machine. I wanted to beg her to stay. I opened my mouth to scream her name, to curse the metal skeleton I had built, but my throat was a ruined, burning cavern. No words came. I was stripped of the very lies and intellect that had brought me here. Only blood spilled over my lips, sticky and foul, followed by a harsh, wet rattle that tore through my chest in a pathetic, desperate display of my remaining life.

Slowly, the violent thrashing gave way to an unbearable, leaden weight. Embers fell from the canopy above like a localized snowfall of fire, hissing as they hit the creek. Sirens finally roared in the distance, a mournful cry cutting through the raging storm.

I didn't want them to reach me.

Tears cut stinging, hot trails through the thick ash coating my face, mixing with the freezing current of the water. The day darkened completely under the thick smoke of the burning sanctuary, the trees casting long, fractured shadows that drew the world down to a stark, dichotomic black and blinding white.

My neck finally surrendered its strength. My head fell back, the rushing water rising to swallow my ears and pull me under into the quiet dark.

---

Epilogue

My face burned hot, sun kissed.

When I woke—if I woke at all—it was not to the roar of sirens or the biting chill of the creek. I opened my eyes to an expanse of dry, knee-high red grass. The crimson blades grazed gently against my bare skin as a ceaseless, whispering wind rolled across the plains. Gone was the furious fire that had consumed my sanctuary. Gone were the icy waters that had drowned what the flames couldn't reach. I sat up slowly, running my hands over my chest and legs. The agony in my shattered femur had vanished. The ragged, burned cavern of my throat drew breath easily, without the taste of ash or blood.

My fingers traced my ribs, searching for the heavy metallic nodes of my vital monitor, or the familiar weight of the clothes I had died in. They were missing entirely. I was utterly bare. I was exactly as I was, myself, whole, stripped of the poison, the metal, and the fabric that had defined me.

I rose to my feet, parting the dense stalks, expecting to see the edge of the woods or the distant spires of the university. Instead, a deep, creeping unease settled into my marrow. The sky above was a pale, muted blue, but it did not belong to Fernaea. The three moons were gone. The sun was wrong, static and dead, nailed to the absolute center of the dim grey sky, casting no shadows. It did not move. A part of me knew where I was, a plague beginning to spread in the back of my hollow mind.

I searched for the horizon for the black smoke of my burning life. I listened for the heavy, lumbering steps of Juyn, or the distant, fractured cries of Laurel.

There was nothing.

There were no cities here. No laboratories, no universities, no perfectly etched glass cases of Cyval. There was only the endless, rolling sea of red plains stretching forever in every direction except up. Then, the truth of it simply settled into my bones. It did not surface as a memory of some orthodox myth I could dismiss, but as a fundamental, inescapable law of the universe that my soul suddenly, terribly understood. Death was an absolute, not a problem to solve or a temporary thing with a workaround to make easier. Death was not something to ever truly, completely, comprehend.

The Stillands. The first mental plane of the afterlife. The Plains of Patience. Where a soul waits until it accepts that all is gone. Until it can accept, that it has to move forward.

The realization didn't hit me with a frantic burst of energy. It hit me like a slow, heavy weight dropping into the bottom of my stomach. There it settled, like a stone in a lake, undisturbed but different still.

I was dead, and the universe had not rewarded my intellect. It had stripped me naked and placed me exactly where I belonged. I had spent my entire life running from the quiet filling my veins with chemicals and my days with constant motion, unable to sit with the crushing reality of my own mind. I had refused to be still.

I stared out across the unbroken red sea of waving grass, the eternal wind pulling at my bare shoulders. There was no machine to command here, and no drug left to numb the sharp edges of my hubris. There was only the silence, the wind, and the ghosts of my choices.

I was going to have to wait.

My hands fell uselessly to my sides. I sank back down into the dirt, the red grass swaying indifferently around me. I stared up at the unmoving sun, the silence finally settling into my bones as I realized just how many centuries it would take for a man like me to finally learn how to let go.

---

Copyright © Jackson Smoke 2026

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.