roguephenon

[roguephenon]

Happy holidays

Trying to get back into art since I've been feeling a little too nervous to draw and post art recently

[roguephenon]

I loved the finale and can't wait for the conclusion but had a question: so is the boogeyman the reason Father and his family are evil like a curse?

there is a backlog of asks and things, but due to a cold and just a lot of emotional stuff going on, I feel the need to clarify something that I normally like to just let my writing speak for itself, so genuinely thank you for this question anon haha: tldr: the short answer is No. the technical answer is .05% kinda, and 99.95% NO. (we love hyperbole here lol)

spoilers for CR's finale and looooooong Father below:

The Eldritch Boogeyman from Beyond the Deep Dark is a surface-level, silly, overexaggerated way of explaining where Father's powers come from and the overall true ultimate enemy of the KND and "kids" across existence (ala in spirit of how the show takes issues kids face to the extreme). Still, narratively, it's meant to be a metaphor for something deeper: the fear and despair that exists inside us all and can overwhelm us if we succumb to it.

Father is a villain, one I enjoy writing and having fun with when I'm doing something cartoonishly fun, but he is still a villain whose actions I never excuse or even fully redeem because of what he represents on a fundamental level: a man who willingly perpetuates a cycle of hatred and abuse that existed long before him.

Benedict was the son of Grandfather, someone you could argue is worse. He was clearly abused and had a terrible childhood, one that continued probably even after Grandfather was initially defeated. Monty was obviously the "favorite" child (more on the horrible psychological ramifications of that on Ben and even Monty in some other post).

But trauma only explains behavior. It does not excuse it.

There's always a choice, and we all have it. We all have that moment or even moments when we can choose what kind of person we want to be. And despite all the chances and outs he was given, Father chose anger. He chose cruelty. Even worse, he chose to commit the ultimate evil. That choice we all have? He decided to use his power and authority to rob children of ever having that chance to choose.

He did that the exact moment he forced Sector Z to become his Delightful Children from Down the Lane. An excerpt from Cold Reception chapter 28: : ...Best of all, Benedict saw that their dark, rebellious eyes now shone a pale and empty shade of blue, devoid of all desire for resistance and childish play. Sector Z was more delightful than Benedict had even hoped to dream. The blown fuse in the chamber hadn't ruined his experiment at all—in fact, it had enhanced it, at least eleventy-billionfold!

It hadn't gone horribly wrong.

It had gone horribly RIGHT!

Benedict couldn't help himself: he laughed. His whole body shook with it, and unbeknownst to him, a dark silhouette loomed over his newest creations, a black shadow that threw its head back with howls of laughter that spawned fire in a wall behind him.

"Yes," he hissed, throwing up his hands in savage joy. "I did it! I DID IT! They're perfect! These children are downright DELIGHTFUL!"

The children took a collective step back.

"Pardon us, kind sir," they all said, with trembling politeness, "but we can't seem to recall what's going on. Where are we? Who are we? All of our memories are..."

Benedict's laughter slowly died down, tapering off into a breathless chuckle. "Of course, of course!" he said grandiosely, stepping menacingly toward the children, not heeding the way they cringed back from him. "How very rude of me to forget! You five are MY children, and I am your beloved parent. You live here, with me, in our delightful little manor. You're the most smartest, perfectest little children in the whole wide world, and you hate those other misbehaving kids for their DISGUSTING immaturity—especially the Kids Next Door!"

"Kids...Next Door?" the children asked, blinking their pale blue eyes in confusion. "Who are they?"

"A group of vile, despicable children," Benedict hissed, looming over them. "Horrible little brats who do nothing except misbehave and create trouble for upstanding adults like me! Can't you see how awful that is?"

As the last words were shouted, Benedict didn't notice flames rising wildly behind him. The children jumped in place, startled, and nodded quickly. They no longer looked quite so frightened of him, more contemplative over his words.

"It IS awful!" they said together, looking alarmed. "We hate children who make trouble for adults! They're the most stupid, rotten pests in the whole world! In fact...such degenerates must be annihilated."

Why, that was what he was about to say!

"Yes, they certainly do," he purred, the flames dying around him. Had it always been this toasty in here? Must be the crackling machine. He extended an arm toward the bewildered children and took their five small hands in one of his, leading them away. "But that will come another day. We must attend to other manners, like cleaning up this mess YOU made. Then? Then we can spend the night scheming how you'll destroy those little nuisances so I never have to worry about them. Ever again."

"Yes," the children chorused in unison, dark smiles spreading across their angelic faces as they looked up at him. "We would like that very much. Those K-N-Doofuses don't stand a chance against the likes of US!"

Benedict smirked. "That's exactly right, children. They are inferior to you in every way possible. You? You're excellent. You're perfect! You're my exceptionally delightful children." He then smiled. "Now, before you clean up this mess, who wants ice cream!?"

They all gasped, licking their lips. "With extra jimmies?"

Benedict grinned. "Extra extra jimmies."

"We cannot wait!"

They then did something he wasn't entirely expecting.

"Thank you," they said, breathing easier as they hugged his waist. They smiled, obliviously nuzzling into his pants. "We love you, Father."

Benedict's heart skipped a beat.

They…they loved him?

The shadow from before crawled off the walls, slithering around his feet.

Someone…actually loved him. Unconditionally?

No take-backsies?

"We love you, Father."

A silhouette enveloped him, and he EMBRACED it. Hardly noticed the sting.

"Yes, children," he said in a daze, his hands gingerly coming to wrap around them. As the shadow covered his face, his eyes glowed a terrible yellow gleam. "I'm…your Father." :

The "boogeyman" was there. It had always been there. But when Ben made that choice? That's when he let it in. Benedict made a choice at that moment, and that's when he became Father.

And even after that? He was given a chance to be better. Monty offered him a hand to try and do what he should've done years before and offered to be there with him when he finally stood up to their Pappy. And when push came to shove, Father decided it wasn't worth the effort.

And do you remember that moment? When he packs it in against Grandfather in ZERO? The frustration and ire you felt when he robbed us of the incredible moment to clap back at his terrible dad? That was the joke, and that was the point.

At that moment, Father had a choice to use all his power to help clean up the mess he made and stand up to an oppressor...and decided, whatever. He's just gonna go eat ice cream and let someone ELSE deal with it.

That's why I write Father the way I do 99% of the time. He had a choice to try to be better, but he didn't want to put in the work to do it. He just wants to be destructive and angry at a world that didn't treat him fairly and directs that fiery anger at innocents who don't deserve it.

The actual "Boogeyman" - the REAL villain of Cold Reception is generational trauma and how it can turn us into the monsters that terrify us as children. How, like Father, we can be victims of it. The thing with Father is that he was fortunate enough to survive into adulthood. But instead of being a genuine mature adult and learning to protect kids from the Boogeyman, he decided it was easier to become one.

I pity Father because his story is a tragedy and a cautionary tale if you read into as much as I do, I guess.

"But Phenon, how come you don't put in the work to make sure his story doesn't end in tragedy? Why not try and give it a happy ending?"

I do and always will believe in the happy ending, even if I don't live to see it. But I also believe it needs to be earned. Maybe one day I'll be inspired to do the creative heavy lifting to do some fic where Father "earns" his.

...but the heart of this fic and this entire series is kids. As an adult, I feel compelled to write and let them earn the happy ending Father and those like him try to rob them of. And I embrace that compulsion 110%.

Also, that man was ready to let his "kids" stay turned into sheep. If that's the kind of parental "love" he's offering, he can keep all that shit lol.

[roguephenon]

Of Infinitys and Beyonds

Earth.

A class-G planet.

The only one in its locality capable of sustaining carbon-based life due to its abundance of water and atmosphere.

Home to over eight-point-seven million lifeforms, the planet's dominant species is human; of which there are approximately seven billion.

Of that number, more than three-quarters are over the age of thirteen.

In other words…

…Adults.

The air within the ship was cold and desolate, much like the—

—Wait, wait, hold on.

Haven't we done this already?

…

We definitely have done this before. Maybe even twice.

This bit is practically word-for-word what we've covered before.

Why go through it all again? You get it. Big decision. Big stakes. A lot of looming lights and drama. Blah, blah, blah. Let's just skip ahead to the good part.

Okay, how does fast-forward work again?

We got blurred flashes of a captive in chains.

A council of bickering alien children. Fun.

A beam of light, a voice pleading, "This isn't what the Kids Next Door is about!"

The prisoner vanishing in a pillar of light, yadda yadda…

And then—

"–oh, and sometimes, I like to write RECURSIVE fanfiction–"

Oops! Too far.

Gotta rewind just a bit—-.

"THE DECISION DOES NOT COME LIGHTLY."

There.

That's better.

This should be a good enough spot to pick back up.

A new, blinding light, perhaps even more so than the sun's, rained down upon the chamber, silencing everyone. The chorus of voices spoke as one, in harmonious union despite the discord that had just echoed through the space.

He felt all of its focus on him as it spoke.

"THE DECISION," he slowly intoned, "IS—"

"Don't do it!" a voice behind him pleaded in desperation.

He turned, looking back at the figure in chains—Numbuh 9L, he remembered.

She had fought until the very last moment. A part of him admired her tenacity, the spark in her refusal to give up.

But he lamented that this had to be how it went for her...

"SUPPRESS!"

A massive pillar of light descended upon her, and within a flash, she was gone.

He was alone in the chamber once more, staring down at the console before him.

"THE DECISION IS…"

He took a deep breath, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"…NUMBER INFINITY'S."

[roguephenon]

…

…

it’s not over until I say,

“end transmission.”

standby…

…

…

(…they still need to be stopped…)

[roguephenon]

I : The Story Some Kids Tell

…do you ever feel it?

That childish urge to raise your hand?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(art by @pinkmeanschaos)

[roguephenon]

Incoming Transmission

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

V: The Life of Joaquin

IV: The Delightful Tale of Sector Z and the Last Soopreme Leader, Numbuh Three

III: The Lament of the Inner Child

II: The Thing That Will Always Be

I: The Story Some Kids Tell

(art by the lovely @pinkmeanschaos)

[roguephenon]

okay.

let’s try it one more time.

[roguephenon]

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

V: The Life of Joaquin

IV: The Delightful Tale of Sector Z and the Last Soopreme Leader, Numbuh Three

III: The Lament of the Inner Child

II: The Thing That Will Always Be

I: The Story Some Kids Tell

(art by the lovely @pinkmeanschaos)

[roguephenon]

so when everything feels lost,

when the fight feels too big,

and the odds feel are against you a gazillion to one,

remember the power of that tiny, defiant act.

that urge to connect.

embrace that silly bravery

that wonderful childish audacity!

and reach out—not just for the answers,

but for each other.

Raise your hand.

because sometimes, the world doesn’t need a hero.

sometimes, it just needs a little boost to the cookie jar.

and sometimes,

that’s more than enough.

…

…

…

now loading FINAL transmission

please stand by

....

do you ever feel it?

that childish urge to raise your hand?

[roguephenon]

sometimes, it’s about trying to reach. To grab hold of something—

or someone—

that feels just a teeny, tiny lil bit out of reach.

like stretching your arm all the way up for the cookie jar on the highest shelf!

not just for you, but because maybe someone else is hungry, too.

because when you were small, you learned that even if you couldn’t grab it yourself, someone might see you trying

and give you a boost.

and that’s the thing about raising your hand—it’s never just for you.

it’s for the kid next to you who’s too shy to speak up.

for the friend who doesn’t know how to ask.

for the team that needs one more player to win the game.

it’s a simple act that says,

I’m here.

Let’s figure it out together.

....

do you ever feel it?

that childish urge to raise your hand?

[roguephenon]

but as we grow up, we learn to keep our hands down.

the world teaches us that the tallest trees get chopped first.

that mistakes are loud and embarrassing.

that, whatever. It’s like no one was watching us anyway…

the urge to raise our hand fades under the ginormous weight of what ifs and never minds.

but deep down, it’s still there.

That spark that never goes away. Not really.

No foolin’!

it just hides.

it hides in the corner of your heart, waiting for a moment. The moment when everything feels a little too big,

a little too much,

and in those moments?

when the weight of the world presses down on you like eleventy buhmillion pounds of metal, hot glue, and duct tape?

like some stuffy grown-up’s hand on your head?

that little voice whispers,

Go on. Raise your hand!

Maybe some will see!

Maybe someone will help.

....

do you ever feel it?

that childish urge to raise your hand?

[roguephenon]

not cause you know the answer.

not cause you wanna be right.

not even to try and be the teacher’s pet. You know, for the warm one that you slipped and called “Mom” that one time.

nah, it’s for something else.

something deeper.

for the hope that maybe,

just maybe,

someone will notice.

That someone might call on you, look at you, reach out and say, Yes, you

That they’ll hear you, see you when you really just wanna say,

I exist!

raising your hand is lesson number one for children. One of the first ways they learn to connect.

it’s like a little sparky of bravery,

a small, quiet way of shouting,

I got something to say!

or,

I just want to help!

It’s the universal language known to all kids who ever dared to ask,

Can I play, too?

....

do you ever feel it?

that childish urge to raise your hand?

[roguephenon]

....

do you ever feel it?

that childish urge to raise your hand?

[roguephenon]

Transmission Interrupted

GREETING, AVID OPERATIVES!

...AND STINKY, MOLDY ADULTS WITH NOTHING BETTER TO DO!

(serisouly?? this is a sooper, triple-hexified encrypted frequency; how did you adults get access to this channel?)

ANYWAY!

WE HERE AT THE ARCHIVES WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE ERROR. WE'VE SENT OUR BEST DOWN TO UPLOAD THE REST.

...BUT

UM…

...THEY'RE KINDA…

(avatar by @truebuggy)

...NAPPING.

...

SORRY.

BUT!

WE HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THEY WILL WAKE UP SOON.

VERY SOON!

SO, VERY SOOPER SOON. YEAH!

...you probably want a date, huh?

Crud.

Ummm, let me check my rainbow monkey calendar...

...oh! This one's already circled!

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6TH 2024.

ABSOLUTELY NO ADULTS ALLOWED!

BE THERE, OR BE OLD!

(hey guys, what's so special about December 6th? that seems like an oddly specific date...)

[roguephenon]

Now resum-

Link has been reestasblished. Now resuming-

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December 31st, 1999

2134 hours EST

on the night of the Great Junior High Rebellion...

...the night something ended

Somehow, fate—but mostly a faulty escape shuttle, let’s be honest—brought her back here, and you know what? It was fine. It was perfect.

The perfect place for hope to die.

The grove was quiet and barren, devoid of life despite its existence to save it.

The Medical Boo-Boo Grove—her Medical Boo-Boo Grove.

A place where the Kids Next Door would heal and protect the children the world turned its back on.

The kids too scared of adult doctors.

The kids who had no home, no family.

The kids who had nowhere else to go.

It had been a dream.

Her legacy.

She had built this place. She had tended the soil with her hands, pouring her heart into every 2x4 beam, stitch, and seed she planted. The dirt in her nails never faded completely.

It was supposed to be a sanctuary.

It was supposed to be the fulfillment of a promise—

“...b-but that never mattered to you, did it? WE NEVER REALLY MATTERED AT ALL!”

—a promise she broke.

Her knees buckled, and her body stumbled forward. The snap of a twig broke the silence before she hit the ground. The wet thud jarred her ribs, but the physical pain was a whisper compared to the roar of her breaking heart.

She failed them.

Constance. Lenny. Bruce. David…

“I WON’T leave you behind! I promise! Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Her breath hitched, her voice breaking on the name she hadn’t spoken in years. “...Alessandra.”

Sector Z.

Their laughter. Their trust. Their dreams.

Gone.

They had been everything to her, and she had failed them.

But it wasn’t just them.

The sharp crackle of static cut through her memories. She blinked, disoriented, as her fallen communicator hissed to life beside her.

“Zzzztz—COME IN—bzzzZZt—anyone? PLEASE!”

The frantic, panicked voices clawed at her, pulling her back to the present.

“TEENAGERS EVERYWHERE!” another operative shouted, the fear palpable even through the distorted signal.

“W-We lost Sector B…WE LOST SECTOR B!” a terrified shriek echoed.

“I WANT MY MOMMY!” sobbed another voice before a fresh burst of static drowned it out.

“Where’s the Supreme Leader!?”

Her chest tightened.

The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, but she barely noticed. Each voice sliced into her, a fresh wound layered on top of the old.

Kids—her kids—were falling.

“S-She’s gonna save us, right? She’s gotta!”

Her fingers twitched toward the communicator, her body trembling as if it could barely obey her. Her lips parted, ready to speak, ready to do something.

They needed her. She needed to save them…

“I-I’m scared!”

She needed to save them.

“HELP ME!”

SHE NEEDED TO SAVE THEM!

“NUMBUH BEYOND, PLEASE HELP—”

The cry dissolved, swallowed by the deafening roar of an explosion.

Static.

Static.

Static.

Her hand faltered, falling limp against the floor.

Her vision blurred, tears mingling with the blood trailing down her cheek.

This…rebellion was supposed to save them all.

Make those stupid Important Ones step in. Make them shut it all down before any more kids got hurt. Make it all end.

Make it all stop.

But the voices wouldn’t stop.

They clung to her, clawing at her, dragging her under.

Her kids were scared.

Her kids were screaming for her, their Supreme Leader.

Her kids were dying, and she—

What had she done?

The Important Ones—the Galactic Kids Next Door...they wouldn’t care about Earth, her kids.

What had she done?

The static became a symphony of anguish, a chorus of despair she couldn’t escape.

What had she done?

The Grove’s walls closed in, and the dream she had built was now a mausoleum for the promise she shattered.

What had she done?

The voices grew distant, fading into the void. As the light of the Grove flickered, so did she. The warmth of life ebbed, leaving only the cold certainty of what she had wrought.

What had she done?

The whisper of a child's laughter ghosted through her thoughts. Or was it a memory? Did it matter anymore?

What had she done?

She closed her eyes, her tears finally ceasing. Somewhere deep within, where even guilt couldn't reach, she remembered the dream she had once believed in.

The dream of the Kids Next Door…

For a moment, the chaos faded, and there was only the Grove.

The promise.

...she solved the puzzle. Figured it out too little too late. She gave up on believing. She broke the promise.

The Kids Next Door…the dream didn’t fail her.

“I don’t want to stop you. Please…don’t make me.”

It was she who failed the dream.

“…what have I done?”

Static.

Static.

Static…

And then, silence….

V

You don’t wash clothes on New Year’s Day.

You don’t sweep, you don’t wipe, you don’t dust, you don’t clean. You don’t do a thing.

You don’t wash clothes on New Year’s Day.

“You gon’ wash a loved one away,” her Momma would use to say. As a child, she never quite understood the saying. To her, it just meant a lazy day to start the year. A day with no chores and a day where you can play, play, play. An epilogue to Christmas: a kid’s dream come true! Other parents would make their kids tidy their rooms, ‘out with the old, in with the new!’ Adults would make other kids sort their dollies, make up their beds, take out the trash—all sorts of boring, no-fun things.

But not her Momma. No siree. Like she always said, you don’t wash clothes on New Year’s Day.

“You gon’ wash a loved one away.”

Mrs. Kingsly’s hands stilled, a tear escaping her cheek as she folded up a hand-me-down tuxedo.

She never really understood it, not until last New Year’s Day. Not until she stood at the washing machine, detergent in hand, scrubbing out the smell of smoke and sweat stains from her husband’s police uniform. It seemed like such a small thing—just one load of laundry, one mundane task—but the memory haunted her now how the water swirled red and grey, how his faint smell disappeared as if erased.

“Momma was right,” she murmured, clutching the tiny tuxedo. “I washed him away.”

With a steadying breath, she continued her labor. A hymn was ready on her lips, filling the lonely apartment with a bittersweet melody of loss and hope. The celebrations on the streets below were the backdrop to her solo symphony—a little performance to cherish what was gone and encourage the love that would never die.

Mrs. Kingsly finished folding the tuxedo. A proud smile creased her lips. The little suit was much too tiny for any grown adult but the perfect size for a growing boy. The memory of her son fussing over wearing the thing at his Daddy’s graduation flickered in her mind, and she lovingly chuckled as she remembered the pride her baby boy tried to hide when her husband remarked how good he looked in it.

She eased back into the recliner, cradling the tuxedo in her lap. With this, all the laundry was dried, folded, and put to rest. There was nothing left to wash away tomorrow.

The rattling of the window startled her, and her eyes darted to the ceiling. Muffled yet hurried footfalls thumped, thumped, thumped on the second floor before she could hear the faint creak of the bedsprings.

Ah, she wondered when her little pride and joy would try to sneak back in after curfew.

Yet, her heart grew restless as she rose. Her son, her baby was home, but something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

Guided by the instincts only a weathered mother could know, Mrs. Kingsly gripped the tuxedo as she climbed the stairs to her son’s room.

The smell of smoke reached her first. It wasn’t the lingering scent of her husband’s uniform from a year ago—it was fresh, sharp, and clinging to the air. Her heart raced.

Something had happened.

“Jerome?” she called softly. “Baby, you alright?”

The sight nearly knocked her off her feet when she opened the door. Her son lay curled into himself, his face buried in the sheets. His slight frame shuddered with sobs; the sound muted but sharp as glass. His clothes were filthy, smudged with soot, and streaked with sweat, and the smell of fire hit her full force.

“Jerome?” she called as she eased the door open. “Baby, what you doin’ up so late?”

“Baby,” she whispered, rushing to his side. She gathered him up in her arms, clutching him close as his tears soaked into her gown. “Momma’s here. Momma’s got you.”

Jerome didn’t speak for a long moment. His body trembled against her, and all she could do was rock him, humming the hymn that had carried her through her grief.

Her son leaned further into her, his body trembling as moisture from his tears pooled against her gown. A tense minute passed only sounds of immeasurable grief spilling from him like a fresh, warm wound.

She waited. She would wait for as long as he needed.

A hiccup. And then—

“…gone,” he whispered. “Rebecca…she’s gone.”

For a moment, Mrs. Kingsly couldn’t breathe. The name echoed in her mind, simultaneously summoning the ghost of a thousand memories.

Rebecca.

The little girl with the fierce brown eyes and the gap-toothed grin. The one who refused to say goodbye the day her husband’s transfer had uprooted them from New Jersey to New York City. Jerome had wailed the entire car ride. His face pressed to the window as though willing her to appear. They had driven nearly halfway before the sudden banging in the back of the moving truck stopped them. And there she was—Rebecca. Dirty-faced, arms crossed, declaring she wouldn’t let Jerome leave her behind.

Mrs. Kingsly had been torn between scolding her for the recklessness and admiring the depth of her loyalty. Her husband had laughed the entire ride back, shaking his head as Rebecca sat smugly beside Jerome, their hands clasped as though daring the universe to separate them again.

Even after the move, they’d remained inseparable. Two peas in a pod, her husband would say. Partners in crime. They’d shared everything: inside jokes, scraped knees, and sleepovers that became whispered conspiracies. And when they joined that “kid club” they were always going on about, Rebecca had somehow become Jerome’s leader. At first, Mrs. Kingsly had found it amusing how seriously they took it.

She could still picture Rebecca in her living room, sprawled across the carpet with Jerome as they scribbled in notebooks or argued over… something. Missions, she thought they’d called them. Her husband would glance over the top of his newspaper and tease the two of them mercilessly.

“Jerome, boy, when you gon’ ask her to the movies? Or you waitin’ for her to ask you first?” he’d say with a wink.

Jerome would turn red as a tomato, while Rebecca would roll her eyes with that confident sass, claiming, “I’m too busy running importanic meetings, Mister Kingsly, but I’ll keep him in mind.”

And now… she was gone.

Something twisted and writhed in Mrs. Kingsly’s chest, a sharp and ruthless pang that dragged her back to another night. Another room. Another silence.

She remembered sitting on this very bed, Jerome clinging to her as she broke the news his father wasn’t coming home.

His small, trembling voice had asked, “Gone where Momma?” as though it were a place he could visit.

She remembered his tears, the way he’d shaken his head like he could deny the truth right out of existence, how she’d had no words to give him then—nothing but the fragile promise that she’d be there for him, that they’d face the world together, even when it felt like it was falling apart.

And now, here they were again.

She clutched Jerome tighter, her hand rubbing circles into his back as she struggled to steady her voice.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I’m…so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her mind raced, desperate to piece together what had happened. What had taken this child—this girl she’d all but welcomed into her family—and stolen her from the world? From Jerome? Her instincts screamed for answers, but she swallowed them down. Right now, her son needed her.

“W-What happened?” she asked softly, though she already knew he wouldn’t tell her—at least, not yet.

Jerome shook his head, his sobs breaking into hiccups.

She pressed her lips to his forehead, her tears spilling over. Little Rebecca gone. Just like him.

Not again.

God, not again.

But she didn’t say any of it. All she could do was hold him, rocking gently as though he were still small enough to fit in her lap. As though she could shield him from the world, even now.

She whispered the hymn again, which had carried her through nights like this. Loss, love, and hope were all tangled in the melody. As she sang, she prayed—for Rebecca, for Jerome, for the strength to keep them both alive in her heart.

But it was hard. Lord above, how much strength did she have left to give? Once again, her boy was subjected to this nightmare, and she was powerless to stop it. He was just a child—a kid. He didn’t deserve this, the cruelty of a world determined to take everything from him.

And here she was, the parent, the mother—the adult, yet she could do nothing! She had no answer! No answer that could make it all better. No perfect solution that washed away the pain. The hymn died on Mrs. Kingsly’s lips as she began to spiral. Not again. Not again.

God, please, why did this have to happen again!?

“Momma?”

Her eyes snapped to her son, keeping her insecurities and fears silent to keep the facade. To be the adult her child needed her to be.

“Can…can you tell me a story?”

Mrs. Kingsly’s breath caught in her throat.

“A story?” she asked, her voice trembling, uneven.

Jerome nodded, his cheek still pressed against her chest. “Like you used to. A…a happy one. Please...”

She stared at him, his plea settling over her like an iron shroud. A happy story. One where everything turned out alright. Where no one was “gone.” Her first instinct was to comply, to give him the comfort he desperately wanted. But as she opened her mouth, no words came.

Her adult mind rebelled against the lie. How could she promise him a happy ending when she knew better? When she’d already lived long enough to see how cruel the world could be? She thought of her husband, the way she’d held his badge that night when the officers had come to her door. The way she’d had to bury the light in her own heart to tell Jerome that Daddy wasn’t coming back.

And now, Rebecca. Another life stolen too soon, another piece of her son’s innocence shattered. Wasn’t it time to prepare him for the truth? To teach him the harsh lessons of reality that would make him stronger, even if they hurt now?

Her mouth trembled as she tried to form the words, to summon the courage to say, Jerome, the world isn’t like those stories. But then—just as the words teetered on the edge of her lips—something stopped her.

A voice. Quiet but insistent.

“No. Tell him the story!”

Her brow furrowed. The voice wasn’t hers—not the weary, world-worn mother she’d become. No, it was younger. Lighter.

A voice she hadn’t heard in a very long time.

“What story?” she whispered aloud.

“You know the one,” the voice urged, gentle but firm. “THE story.”

“I… I don’t remember,” she stammered, tears welling in her eyes as frustration and grief battled within her.

“Yes, you do,” the voice insisted, softer now. “You’ll always remember. Because you’ll always remember HIM.”

And just like that, the memories began to rise, hazy at first but growing sharper and warmer, like sunlight breaking through a clouded sky.

She remembered him. Not the man who begrudgingly carried a badge and a gun, who had kissed her forehead before every shift, promising to return safely. No—before all that. Before, life had grown complicated and heavy.

She remembered the kid he was before. His boyish grin as they raced through towering treehouses, the loops, and the laughter echoed across endless candy-cane valleys. She remembered the thrill of rebellion, of fighting against tyranny for the simple joy of being a kid, for the belief that they could make the world better!

And she remembered that day under the most giant tree she’d ever seen. The sunlight danced through the leaves as he read from an old, weathered book he’d found. She didn’t remember the title—maybe it never had one—but remembered the story. And most of all, she remembered the light in his eyes as he shared it with her.

He had told her, closing the book with a satisfied thud. “Because that’s how the story always goes. Duh!”

Jerome stirred in her arms, his quiet sniffles pulling her back to the present. She blinked, the weight in her chest still there but somehow lighter, gentler.

The voice of her inner child didn’t speak again, but that was okay.

She knew now what to do.

Her arms tightened around him as she cleared her throat, steadying herself. “Alright, baby,” she said softly.

Jerome lifted his head slightly, his red-rimmed eyes meeting hers, searching. She gave him the best smile she could muster. “Once upon a time,” she began, the words tentative at first, like a language she hadn’t spoken in years. “There was a tree.”

Jerome blinked away tears. “A tree?”

“The biggest tree you could ever imagine, so big and gihugic that it touched the sky! And under that tree, there was a boy and a girl…”

The story spilled out of her, not perfect or polished, but warm.

The memories of her youth wove themselves into the tale—the treehouses, the candy, the rivers of ice cream. She spoke of courage, friendship, and a world where kids could be heroes and win.

And in her heart, she prayed it was enough. Enough to give Jerome the strength to face tomorrow, to believe in a happy ending, even if she wasn’t sure it existed anymore—

“You sound like an adult,” was the final cheeky giggle from inside.

Mrs. Kinglsy laughed as she finally remembered.

“There is a story some kids tell…”

present day

IV

It wasn’t the fall that killed you; she knew that all too well. And she had fallen. She knew that much. So, given all the context clues, what came after the fall…that should be death. Dying.

Was this dying? Felt like it.

“Cree? … Cree!”

Cree. Was that her name?

“Dammit, hang in there, Cree!”

The voice kept calling her that, and that voice sounded so confident. So cool. A voice like that couldn’t be wrong. She must be Cree.

Yet, ‘Cree’ felt right and not right. Like, it was only half of something. Half of who she was. She tried to reach for that other half in whatever achy void she wound up in. But it was so slippery, like trying to catch smoke. For her life, she couldn’t get a grip on that other half that would make her complete.

“I got you, Cree…”

There was that voice again. She…liked it, honestly. It reminded her of things. It made her think. It made her…

It made her remember that day on the Moonbase.

The world around her shifted, dissolving into smoke that reformed into cold, steel-gray walls. The sharp tang of burnt circuitry and scorched metal filled her senses.

She stood in the control chamber, or rather, watched herself stand there, frozen like a ghost in her past. Her younger self was alive with fury, a fire in her eyes that burned too brightly and hot to be contained.

Except this time, Cree wasn’t swept up in the flames. She was outside of it, distanced as if she were a bystander watching a car crash.

She hovered behind the moment, trapped in her past but helpless to intervene. The scent of scorched metal clawed at her throat. The alarms were deafening. Kids scrambled for safety, terror etched into their faces, and she—the girl she had been—moved through it like a storm.

“Stop,” Cree whispered, though she knew it was pointless. The memory marched forward, uncaring.

Her younger self smirked, reveling in the destruction. A flicker of satisfaction passed over her face as she shoved past panicking operatives. She was a force of bitterness, her pain a serrated blade gouging anything in reach. Cree wanted to turn away, to close her eyes and block it out, but the memory wouldn’t let her.

And then he came—the owner of the voice.

Numbuh One-Hundred burst into the room, his helmet gone, his face flushed with determination and dread. Cree felt her heartache for what she’d done to him and how he’d looked at her that day.

Please. His voice cracked through the chaos. I know this isn’t you.

The younger her hesitated—just for a moment. The fire in her eyes faltered, flickered as if part of her wanted to reach out, to take the hand he offered.

But then she spoke her words, a dagger aimed at them both. “This has always been me.”

The scene dissolved in a blur of violence and fire.

“Stop it!” Cree screamed, reaching for her past self, for One-Hundred, for anyone who would listen. “This isn’t me! It wasn’t me—it wasn’t—”

The memory shattered like glass, leaving her alone in the darkness.

“No,” a voice whispered. “Not alone.”

Cree turned and saw her.

A child sat hunched in the void, knees drawn to her chest, her face buried in her arms. The girl’s uniform was too big for her frame, and her hair was loose and messy. She looked so small, so fragile.

Cree didn’t need to see her face to know who she was.

Numbuh Eleven looked up, tears streaking her face. Her eyes were wide, glistening with anger and shame. “Why did we do it?” she choked out. “Why did I ruin everything?”

Cree hesitated, her steps slow as she approached. “I…” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I thought… I thought we had to. That it was the only way to—”

“To what?” The girl’s head snapped up, her tear-streaked face twisting in anger. “To save our own butts? To hurt everyone? To screw up everything? To betray Abby!?”

“BECAUSE I HATE YOU!”

Abby’s name was a twisting knife to her gut. Cree swayed, holding her head as the bitter proclamation her little sister had once bellowed hammered into her skull.

“She’ll never forgive us,” Numbuh Eleven said, her voice cracking as the screams of the past echoed like thunder. “She’ll always hate us. And you know what? She should!”

Breathing was labor. The torrent of shame and loathing aimed to suffocate her where she stood. “A-Abby…”

“BECAUSE I HATE YOU!”

“BECAUSE I HATE YOU!”

“BECAUSE I—”

—a bright red hat fluttered through the gale and landed in Cree’s hands.

She gasped.

"And when you come back from this, cause girl, you better come back from this, Cree…" Her smirk morphed into a vulnerable, hopeful smile. "…Cree will be here. If you still want her to be."

The older woman gasped as the younger girl collided with her with a fierce hug.

Abby sniffled into her sister's chest. "Abby thinks she's cool with Cree stickin' around ... if you wanna."

Cree's expression broke, eyes welling with hers and lips wobbling as she crushed her sister into her frame.

“Abby doesn’t hate us,” Cree said softly, taking the hat and kneeling before her younger self.

“Yes, she does!” Numbuh Eleven shouted, her tiny fists pounding against her own legs. “She has to. After everything we—”

“No.” Cree’s voice was firm this time. She reached out, hesitated, and then placed the hat on the child’s head before her hands gently rested on Numbuh Eleven’s shoulders. “Abby doesn’t hate us. She’s hurt, yeah. Angry? Totally. But she doesn’t hate us.”

“How do you know?” Numbuh 11 whispered, her voice trembling.

Cree’s mind flashed to that moment, to Abby’s arms around her, her forgiveness like a lifeline she hadn’t known she needed.

“Because she told me,” Cree managed a small smile. “We made mistakes—horrible ones. But we’re trying to fix them. And Abby…” She smiled faintly. “Abby believes we can.”

The younger Numbuh Eleven's sobs softened, her tears still flowing but her anger ebbing away.

“I know it’s hard,” Cree continued, pulling her younger self into a hug. “But we can’t keep hating ourselves. We’ll never make it if we do. I…I think it’s time to let go, girl.”

Numbuh Eleven clung to her, gripping Cree’s arms tightly. “Do you think we can? Do…you think we can be better?” she asked, her voice small, uncertain.

Cree held her close, her heart aching as she whispered, “We have to try.”

The void began to fade, light creeping in at the edges. The child in her arms grew faint, like a shadow dissolving at sunrise. But she didn’t feel the loss. For the first time in years, she felt whole.

As the darkness disappeared, a single thought followed Cree back into the waking world.

It wasn’t the fall that killed you—it was never the fall. It was the failure to rise again.

“CREE!”

With a pained groan, she rose. Her eyes fluttered open, her body heavy and stiff as though weighed down by the remnants of the void she had just left behind. Her vision swam, but the familiar hum of machines and the sterile smell of antiseptic told her everything she needed to know. She was in a hospital.

“Cree, baby, are you okay? Talk to me!”

Her mother’s soft voice, laced with her gentle accent, pulled her back to reality. Blinking against the bright light overhead, Cree turned to see her mother leaning over her, her warm brown eyes filled with worry. Beside her stood her father, looking just as frazzled but attempting to mask it with an air of bluster.

“You gave us quite the scare,” her mother murmured, cupping Cree’s face with both hands and brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

“She’s fine now,” her father said, though his tone betrayed the tension in his shoulders. “A Lincoln always bounces back. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

Cree’s throat was dry, and her voice came out hoarse. “Yeah. Sure, Dad. Bounce right back.”

The doctor at the foot of her bed cleared his throat. “It was a bit touch and go for a while there. But, with rest, I’m confident she’ll make a full recovery.” He adjusted his glasses and added dryly, “And once again, I’d like to remind Mr. Lincoln here that it’s against practice to operate on one’s own family. Even if that family is as stubborn as their daughter.”

Her father waved a dismissive hand. “Against practice? Ridiculous! If I had been the one handling this, we wouldn’t even be here dilly-dallyin’. No touch and go—just go! She’d have been up and at ‘em already. With the energy, the walking, and a clean bill of health—d’ooh, you know what I’m talkin’ about!”

The other doctor sighed, accustomed to his colleague’s antics, and scribbled on his chart. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

As her father launched a spirited debate on hospital policies, Cree let the background noise fade. Her mother’s soft hands cupped her cheeks again, grounding her.

“Ma fille,” her mother said gently, her brow creased with worry, “are you truly alright? You scared us so terribly.”

Cree gave a weak smile, trying not to flinch at the tenderness. “I’m fine, Mom. Just glad you’re worried about my bruises and not, y’know, how I got them.” She chuckled nervously. “That’d be one hell of a story.”

Her mother raised a skeptical brow but didn’t push. Instead, she smiled and ran her thumb gently across Cree’s temple. “Rest, then. You’re safe now.”

The word safe gnawed at something in Cree’s chest. She wasn’t sure if she deserved it.

Still, she nodded, leaning into the comfort of her mother’s touch. Then, a thought struck her, sharp and clear. She blinked, her body stiffening. “Wait… how did you even find me?”

Her mother smiled, a soft, knowing curve of her lips. “Ah, that is thanks to the young man who brought you here.”

Cree’s heart skipped a beat. She tilted her head, her mind racing. “Young man?”

Her mother stepped aside, and Cree froze.

Standing near the doorway with his arms crossed and his gaze steady was a face she hadn’t seen in years.

“Yo, Cree,” he said, his voice calm, carrying that same confidence it had in her dream.

She gasped, her throat tightening. “Steve?”

III

Dave watched Lizzie go, futile pleads for her to stay dying on his lips as she finally disappeared in a swirl of light particles and boogers. He turned his gaze downward, the blades of the grass swaying gently in the breeze.

Numbuh Seventy-Two-point-Four-Three-Nine was a kid of science. Sturdy arithmetic and rooted logic were his guiding stars, never failing him until the moment he crash-landed into this planet. He panicked. He short-circuited. Why, he even made desperate, sobbing cries to the great Mother Tree light-years away. They all went unanswered, and he was left alone stranded on a backwater planet.

Ah, but that summation was wholly inaccurate, wasn’t it? 

He had Numbuh Vine, his fellow cadet, taking charge to alleviate his anxieties despite her leaves quivering in fear. He had Jerome, a plucky human operative who rescued them without needing incentive and introduced him to the wonderful world of tofu burgers and Doctor Time-Space. Even now, years later, he had all these weird yet endearing human Earth child scientists who valued him as a colleague—a friend.

It had not been arithmetic and logic that granted him these gifts. No, he had to admit finally, it had been something else entirely. Something that could defy even the foundational laws of the universe. 

Something that could persist even when all else failed!

And now, here at the end? 

With his two best friends at odds, his entire science department scheduled for shadow decommissioning despite his opposition, and the ecosystem of Earth’s outlier of a Kids Next Door on the verge of being harshly course-corrected by his superior’s Machiavellian design? 

Dave was beginning to wonder how much of that something was indeed left…

… that “something” that only kids like himself once dared to believe in, despite all arithmetic and logic.

“The computer did excellent work for us.”

Dave nearly jumped from his human disguise, Numbuh Infinity suddenly cutting through the silence. He followed his partner’s gaze to the boy on the cliffside. Ah, yes. The unfortunate and unsuspecting root of their current moral dilemma. Nigel Uno. Aka, Numbuh One. Aka, the illustrious leader of Sector V. Aka, the recently discovered son of the great Numbuh Zero who led the charge against Grandfather. Aka, the shiny new operative, the Important Ones, had to show off like a mint-condition Yipper card.

Aka, they ended up meddling in the boy's life for the “greater good of it all.”

“…yes,” Dave calmly responded as he genuinely began to process what they had done—what he had done. “Now, all of Numbuh 1’s ties are severed.”

Infinity tilted his gaze to the stars. “He’s ready.”

Dave looked to Nigel and then to Rachel's retreating figure in her ROADSTAR. He thought of Lizzie’s heartbroken face and then shifted his eyes towards Infinity as he recalled a night that seemed a lifetime ago—another night when higher powers had other machinations for a boy and a Soopreme Leader he cared deeply for.

Dave wasn’t sure if any of them were ready for how this story would come to an end—

—Dave jolted upright in bed, his heart racing and sweat soaking through his pajamas. The nightmare had felt so real, so vivid, and now, in the quiet of his room, he couldn't shake off the fear it had left behind. He fumbled out of bed, his movements erratic as he tried to ground himself in reality. His room, a sanctuary for a science fiction nerd, was cluttered with posters of distant galaxies, models of starships, and shelves crammed with books on alien civilizations.

His hands trembled as he scrambled for his journal, the familiar leather cover a comfort he desperately sought. He scribbled furiously, hoping that the act of writing would calm his racing thoughts. Words flowed onto the pages, but the relief was fleeting. His anxiety remained, gnawing at him.

Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the wall, the impact sending a jolt through his arm.

The room seemed to spin for a moment, and then, with a soft click, a hidden compartment in the wall popped open. Dave’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the small, dusty space revealed.

Among the forgotten items, a single photo had fallen out.

Dave’s hands shook as he picked it up, his gaze drawn to the image. It was a photograph of him as a young child, standing between two other kids. One was a boy in a tuxedo; the other was a girl with glasses, red pigtails, and a yellow shirt and blue skirt. They held a birthday cake that looked oddly made from dirt and fertilizer.

In the photo, he and the girl are laughing, their joy palpable. The boy in the tuxedo is smiling slightly, a faint but genuine expression of happiness. Dave’s eyes well up with tears as he stares at the picture, his chest tightening with an emotion he can’t quite understand.

He didn’t remember these people or know why the image stirred profound sadness and longing. But as he held the photo, tears began to stream down his face, his sobs breaking the silence of the room. He clutched the photograph to his chest, feeling a deep, aching sense of loss, though he couldn’t quite grasp why.

The memory of the nightmare, the feeling of disorientation, and now this photo seemed to merge into a swirling fog of confusion and pain.

Dave sank to the floor, his emotions overwhelming him as he cried.

II

With each step she took down the corridor, Rachel felt more like she was walking into hell itself.

The building lightly rumbled every other second as the grinding of metal sang muted in the background. No doubt the entirety of Evil Adult Industries was shifting, preparing to launch itself to greater heights—probably literally, if the popping of her ears was any indication.

Yet Rachel felt numb to it all. The skyscraper could morph into a death station, and she wouldn’t even muster to blink. The girl continued, putting one foot neurotically in front of the other undisturbed. She journeyed deeper into the abyss and couldn’t be bothered to turn the other way. Any thoughts or voices of protest sprung from somewhere deep inside had gone deathly quiet.

This was the path she’d chosen, and now she had to walk it alone.

Rachel stopped at the threshold of a steel door. Noticing her reflection in the metal, her head tilted slightly as she stared at it. The twin lines of scars on her cheek. The red cut weeping under her eye. The tears in her tank top and leggings and the dirty tiger-striped cloth staunching the bleeding on her bruised arm. Rachel didn’t know what to make of the girl staring back at her. She didn’t even feel like she was staring at all. She was right there, like some specter observing from on high. 

Was this her? Was this what had come to? Was this who she was now?

Not a kid, not a teen, not even an adult. 

Something else and disfigured entirely.

She toyed with the grim conclusion that what she saw wasn’t worth saving.

“WELCOME, MS. MCKENZIE.”

The door swooshed open, and Rachel stared dead ahead into the field of soulless red eyes, listlessly watching her. Seated around the sleek, ebony table of the conference room were a dozen or so chrome androids. Beyond the red beady dot eyes, their faces were blank—empty of any betrayal of simulated emotion.

Rachel slowly blinked as one rose to greet her. Its stride was uncannily human, moving like a flawlessly operated puppet guided by invisible string. It stood before her, a little too close, its hand raised for a shake. “WE ARE THE BOARD OF EXECUTIVES 2.0. PLEASURE TO MEET YOUR ACQUAINTANCE!” The words practically buzzed with enthusiasm, but its voice lacked any warmth. It was all too robotic—too perfect.

Carefully, Rachel analyzed the android, noting the business-suit-and-tie decal molded into its chest. Her brows knitted together as she eyed the eerie metal simulacrum, her hands still at her sides.

The android pulled its hand back, a slight hum of gears punctuating the gesture. “OH! PERHAPS A SHAKE ISN’T NECESSARY! WE’RE SIMPLY EXCITED TO BE OF SERVICE!”

Unspoken questions danced in her eyes as she surveyed the room.

“WE WERE BROUGHT ONLINE WHEN YOU INITIATED THE SATELLITE'S LAUNCH.”

Rachel suppressed a shiver. Not even five seconds in, the thing had a complete read on her, answering her silent thoughts. 

She barely had time to process the oddity before another android chided, “WE ENJOY HELPING! WE'RE SO GLAD YOU'RE HERE. DID YOU KNOW THAT WE ARE 67.493940% MORE EFFICIENT IN EVIL LEGALESE, SINISTER ADULT SPREADSHEET MANAGEMENT, AND FINE PRINT ENTRAPMENT FOR ALL MANNER OF SHADY BUSINESS CONTRACTS?”

The enthusiasm was impossible to miss. It wasn’t just the words but the unrelenting cheer in the delivery.

The lead android, standing at attention, flashed its cold, red eyes and nodded. “IN SHORT, WE ARE FATHER'S DELIGHTFUL EVOLUTION TO THE CORPORATE STATUS QUO. WE WILL MAKE THE HUMAN ELEMENT OF OUR PREDECESSORS…REDUNDANT,” it added, every word oozing with what could only be described as robotic glee.

Another android at the table shot up, raising its hand almost too eagerly. “WE ALSO DO NOT REQUIRE OVERTIME PAY!”

Rachel’s mind raced. "So, the previous board... are they aware of all this?" Her voice was laced with a mix of sarcasm and disbelief.

The lead android perked up, its metallic head tilting slightly as if processing the question with excessive care. “OF COURSE, MS. MCKENZIE. THE FORMER BOARD WILL BE INFORMED OF THEIR DISMISSAL AT THE ANNUAL CHRISTMAS PARTY.” It paused for a beat, and then added with a cheery inflection, “THEY WILL BE GIVEN A GENEROUS SEVERANCE PACKAGE: A 50% COUPON TO PEPPY'S PIZZA PARLOR. SUCH A LOVELY ESTABLISHMENT!”

Rachel blinked in disbelief. “Peppy’s Pizza Parlor?”

The android’s red eyes gleamed even brighter if that were possible. “YES! A FAVORITE OF THE LOCALS. WE’VE RECEIVED EXCELLENT REVIEWS. MANY RAVE ABOUT THE EXTRA-CHEESY 'GOUDA-FATHER’S SPECIAL'. VERY NUTRITIOUS, WE’RE TOLD.”

Another one chirped in to add, “AND WE’RE 46.894% CERTAIN THIS ONE HAS NO AFFILIATION WITH ORGANIZED CRIME!”

Rachel couldn’t help but roll her eyes. That sounded exactly like something Father would do: a slap-in-the-face gesture disguised as generosity. 

What an absolute jerkwad.

“Great. How... thoughtful.” She exhaled sharply. “So, what about me? Are you going to kill me?” Her words were edged with a bitter curiosity as if she didn’t truly expect an answer she’d like.

The lead android's head jerked in a way that almost seemed comically exaggerated. “OH NO, MS. MCKENZIE. WE WOULD NEVER THINK OF SUCH A THING.” Its voice was almost too chipper like it was reassuring a toddler. “YOU’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG! YOU’VE SIMPLY ACTIVATED THE SATELLITE LAUNCH. A VERY IMPORTANT STEP. YOU HAVE CHOSEN CORRECTLY AND FALLEN IN LINE. JUST LIKE A WELL-BEHAVED CHILD SHOULD!”

Rachel stared at the robot for a long moment, feeling a cold chill creep up her spine. “A well-behaved child?” she repeated, incredulous.

The android seemed to think for a moment before responding in a voice that bordered on precociously proud. “DON’T THINK OF IT AS AN INSULT, MS. MCKENZIE. RATHER, A TERM OF ENDERMENT! YOU ARE A LEADER IN THE MAKING. THE FINAL PIECE IN THE EVOLUTION OF EVIL ADULT INDUSTRIES.” It gave a robotic thumbs-up as though it had just imparted some grand truth. “AND YOU’LL BE REWARDED WITH SO MUCH MORE THAN A COUPON. A WHOLE NEW HORIZON AWAITS YOU.”

Rachel clenched her fists, her heart pounding. She stared at the red eyes around the table, each one now fixed on her, waiting for her to react, to fall in line with whatever twisted future they had planned for her.

There was another quiet beat, as if the robots were giving her space to process. “WE’RE HERE TO HELP YOU, MS. MCKENZIE,” the lead android said, its voice dripping with too much sincerity. “WE’RE HERE TO MAKE SURE YOU’RE SUCCESSFUL.”

Rachel couldn’t stop herself from laughing bitterly, the sound like a knife scraping against steel. “Yeah, I bet you are,” she muttered, but there was no actual fire behind it.

The robots led her down a long, cold corridor, each step echoing in the sterile, metallic silence. Her legs felt heavier with every move, and her mind felt like it was moving in slow motion. The deeper they went, the more disconnected Rachel became from reality. It felt like walking through a dream she couldn’t wake up from.

Is this really what she was doing?

The thought echoed faintly in the back of her mind. She couldn’t even remember how she got here—how this had become her life, her fate. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped fighting. Her resolve had faded like a dream, slipping through her fingers as the cold, mechanical march of time and circumstance had carried her along.

It may be too late to question anything now...

Her gaze remained fixed ahead, but her thoughts were a blur of confusion and resignation. She had already chosen her path by activating the satellite. The consequences were beyond her control, and she could feel it in every step she took: the weight of what she had to do, what was expected of her. The voices inside her head had quieted, replaced by an unnerving silence that left her wondering if she had already lost.

She barely noticed when they arrived at a podium, the bright lights of the stage harsh and sterile in their brightness. The robots stepped aside, their red eyes gleaming in the dimness. One of them immediately approached her, a small metallic tray in hand. Before she could process what was happening, the android began to dab powder onto her cheeks with a gentle puff. The action was smooth, almost practiced, yet completely invasive.

“JUST A TOUCH MORE, MS. MCKENZIE,” the robot said with an uncomfortably cheerful tone. “WE WANT YOU TO LOOK YOUR BEST. AFTER ALL, YOU’RE ABOUT TO EXPOSE THE KND TO THE IGNORANT MASSES. FATHER NEEDS YOU TO REALLY DRIVE HOME HIS ‘I TOLD YOU SO’ SUBTEXT WHEN YOU PRESENT THE EVIDENCE THAT FINALLY BLOWS IT ALL OPEN.”

Rachel blinked, stunned, as the robot finished with a flourish, stepping back with an overzealous nod. “THERE. YOU’RE READY. ALL YOU NEED NOW IS TO SPEAK, AND THE WORLD WILL UNDERSTAND.”

Her throat was dry, her mouth tasting like metal. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.

Another robot eagerly approached, handing her a stack of cue cards, the edges of the cards perfectly sharp, like they were freshly printed. The words printed on them were crisp and authoritative, laid out like a carefully constructed script, as if this moment had been rehearsed for longer than Rachel had even known. “YOUR LINES, MS. MCKENZIE,” the android said, its voice tinged with unnatural excitement. “EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO SAY TO THE WORLD IS RIGHT HERE.” It nodded again, its hand hovering just above the cards, as though it wanted to ensure she had them in place.

Rachel glanced at the cards, the words swimming before her eyes. The idea of standing in front of the world to present this truth—Father’s truth—made her stomach twist. But the cards were already in her hands. The lights were already blinding her.

There was no turning back now.

The robots eagerly watched her, their empty eyes fixed on her every movement. “IT’S TIME TO BEGIN, MS. MCKENZIE!” one said. “YOUR AUDIENCE AWAITS. JUST FOLLOW THE SCRIPT, AND ALL WILL BE PERFECT!”

Rachel swallowed hard. She felt the weight of their eyes on her like a thousand tiny pinpricks, all waiting for her to do as they said. It wasn’t even her choice anymore. The script was in her hands, and there was only one thing left to do.

Just get it over with.

The words echoed in her head. She couldn’t think of anything else. She was numb, beyond caring. Slowly, she stepped forward to the podium, the cue cards shaking as she placed them in front of her.

The spotlight burned down on her, her heart pounding in her chest. But when she opened her mouth, she knew one thing: no matter what came next, she had to follow through.

The world was waiting.

Rachel gripped the podium, her fingers trembling, but she didn’t dare look up. The lights were so bright they burned her retinas. The cue cards in front of her were crisp and cold—like they were mocking her. This is it. This is what I have to do. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the air too thick around her, and for a moment, everything felt like it was closing in.

She cleared her throat, a shaky attempt to steady herself. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat. The words on the cue cards blurred together like they were swimming in and out of focus.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the name almost slipped out.

Numbuh Three-Sixty-Two.

It was so close. The syllables hovered on the edge of her tongue, her chest tightening as the word threatened to break free.

That’s not me anymore.

The weight of the realization slammed into her chest. She had almost said it. She had nearly let the ghost of that person who she used to be slip back into the world, like nothing had changed.

Her head spun. I’m not her. I’m not that person. I’m not— The thoughts whirled in a maddening circle, tight and suffocating, like she was trapped in a cage she couldn't escape. The edges of her vision darkened.

Her breathing grew quicker, the panic building, crawling up her throat like a thorn-filled vine. She almost couldn’t take it. Her hands were shaking now, more than just nerves.

The thought of standing here—of pretending to be something she wasn’t—felt unbearable.

But...what was she pretending to be?

She glanced down at the cue cards, trying to focus, to ground herself in the task at hand. But as she started reading, each word felt like a punch.

A way to bring about the end of the KND.

The unmasking of their lies.

Her voice cracked slightly, just enough to feel like a pain in her throat. She swallowed, pushing on, her gaze never leaving the cue cards.

“The Kids Next Door… is a force of deceit,” she read, but the words didn’t feel like hers.

They felt wrong—like a betrayal. Each syllable lodged itself in her chest like a dagger.

She tried to keep it together, but the tears were already building. She could feel them behind her eyes, threatening to spill over.

No. No. Not now.

The words blurred even more as her vision swam.

Another sentence—another one that felt wrong, like it wasn’t even her voice.

“The Kids Next Door’s continued operation is a danger to our society and must be stopped.”

The words stung, and the tightness in her chest worsened.

She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t keep the tears at bay any longer. One slipped out, then another, until she could feel them streaking down her cheeks, hot against her cold skin. She wiped her face quickly, but it only made it worse. She could feel the burn of them, the shame.

Rachel looked down at the cue cards, her heart pounding in her ears.

She wanted to scream, to throw them all away.

This is all wrong.

None of this is—

She tried again, forcing herself to speak through the lump in her throat. She started over, but her hesitation was like a weight. Her hand hovered over the cue cards, her finger brushing against the text, but her body wouldn’t let her. It felt impossible.

Then came the voice inside her head that had been quiet for so long.

It spoke harshly.

Is this the way?

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palm.

Shut up.

Just shut up!

Her chest tightened with a mix of rage and sorrow. The thought of this—of everything she was being forced to do—made her blood burn. She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she grabbed the cue cards and flung them at the nearest android, the paper fluttering through the air before landing in a heap at its feet.

“A stupid speech is a waste of time,” she spat, her voice shaking. She turned on her heel, not waiting for a response, the weight of the tears still stinging her cheeks. “Take me to the control deck. Now. Let’s get this over with.”

The lead android, ever eager to comply, moved swiftly toward her. “OF COURSE, MS. MCKENZIE. WE WILL ASSIST YOU IN ANY WAY NECESSARY.”

Its voice was so smooth and compliant, following her orders without any kind of drill instructor swarm or sass. Without any booming, impassioned Irish endearments.

Without any warm coal-blue safeguarded for her by a pair of sunglasses.

It made Rachel want to scream, but she swallowed it.

As she followed the robot down the hall, her mind was numb.

This is what I’ve become.

This is who I am now.

She was a cog in the machine now, that’s all she ever was. A puppet in a world that didn’t care about her anymore. A world that took everything from her.

The anger was the only thing she had to hold onto.

It was the only thing she had left.

And there was only one thing left to do…

I

The Sto-ZZZzzztzztzttztztz

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ERROR

[roguephenon]

Don't you remember when you were young?

And you wanted to set the world on fire?

Somewhere deep down...

...I know you do

And don't you remember when we were young?

How we wanted to set the world on fire?

Because I still am…

…And I still do

Make no mistake, we are not afraid.

To bear the burden of repeating what they're thinking anyway.

Let's raise the stakes

On the bet we made.

Let's decide to be the Architects

THE MASTERS OF OUR FATE!

Incoming final transmission...

[roguephenon]

"Or would you rather be the architect of what we might create?"