-19-

The spaceports of Arhoscephale are monuments to humanity. What should be brutal architecture, reductive to the human spirit by sheer mass, numbing to one's mind by aggressive nothingness, it all is instead grandeur, full of natural movements and shapes, enveloped warmly by the bleakness of the building.

For every vertical wall that spans one-hundred meters, a waterfall flows to its side creating a misty lake that spans beneath the walkable floors. The evaporations, lazily flow along the many people, creating a fresh atmosphere of humidity that is broken through by the clear, penetrating messages of all arrivals and departures, projected on crystal screens. In other places, lush brush, short dry trees and limestone boulders obscure and separate different parts of the port. A natural and misty silence covers all. When a new announcement is made, the voice that resounds through the white haze and gray distance is a soft and articulate flow of words.

Sofia is waiting on the thirty-third cell, a loosely separated block of high vertical space defined only by projected light-barriers that are beamed downwards from the ceiling. Among the people waiting there, the many Arhoscephaleans make up a small crowd of twelve, all eagerly trying to peek through the mist to find the new arrivals, their friends or family and welcome them to the planet.

When the mist parts and the large shapes of Contestants near, wreathed in their damning silence of the gray, the many people retreat a few steps, half in a whatever ill is brought to reality by such bulky monsters made men. Only Sofia remains, outweighed in place by her eagerness to see old friend.

When Varhas reveals himself, Sofia moves closer to the barrier of light and her hands grab his missing fingers interlocking with her whole, digits and all wide, but otherwise soft, pale fingerprints. The two Claimants stare at eachother for a moment before turning and completing further introductions.

Baggage in hand, the team turns to exit from the spaceport. Otto leans to Lacata and he whispers to her ear.

-Who in their right mind keeps good relations with an ex?

-

On humane, cordial architecture, it seems only appropriate for uniform design. So is, the rest of the planet of Arhoscephale. Either on the shipyards, the districts of fabrics, the agricultural sectors, the many squares and interconnected cities and towns, there follows along, form and function of space, where brick or marble lays inlaid, to patterns geometrically skewed to fit the imperfect forms that walk them. Streets and train tracks, weave around the impassable mountains and in the long valleys, they follow along to streams and short forests with non-invasive form, as close as possible to being usable and functional.

There are no tunnels or other procedures done to these seas and land. This is a planet of the "longest way around".

And yet, as good design has it, the "shortest way home" is also the bare minimum and equally important requirement.

The team rests after delivering their baggage to their town house. A two-floor family house of white walls and square wooden windows, fenced and with a small garden of tall vegetation. In some parts the garden overflows with arching greenery that looks as the mane of a dryad, speckled with tiny bells of flowers. In other parts the garden stands tall to rosebushes of white and young trees that lazily, if ever, grow taller than a person.

The townhouse is separated in three buildings. The main building of two floors a small warehouse and an once occupied stable. Their outer walls become part of the fenced perimeter. A traditional layout is as such, for whatever family occupies the place, they must do their earnest share of chores here, before they can enjoy the serenity of the white walls, coffee on the lone iron table of swirling legs, the patterns of cobblestone, the dirt underneath them.

Everyone except for Anax sleeps in the main building. He is content with the meager floor, sleeping instead on the empty stable.

Over the past two days an infinitesimal web of intrigue has been carefully crafted in the main building. Varhas, Anax and Zanuvia, with mundane movements and actions, they scry over every action of Voliphoe and listen to every hushed or loud sound that she makes. Through careful planning, there is always a Claimant on one of the neighboring rooms.

As expected, Voliphoe is betrayed only by her competence. She is simply too aware, as any Claimant would be, to betray hints of whom she is working for, or the purpose of her infiltration.

To that end, far away from the town house, Varhas, Zanuvia, Sofia and Anax, sit in one of the many coffee shops that overlooks the town square. The place is open and all that may want to hear their conversation, may do so with relative ease.

'The stress will eventually get to her. But we probably need months to start seeing her crack. I suggest you bring in devices to spy on her through the inverse dream.' Says Sofia, one hand tapping on the glass surface of the table, the other underneath, resting on a knee belonging to Varhas.

Anax takes a breath and speaks. 'Whatever our options, she is part of our crew, no matter her allegiances. We may anger whoever influences her if we drive her out with violence. Considering the feather and its signature design, at least one corporation rests behind her. Textile conglomerates have resources to spend.'

'It is too early to make a decision. Sofia's suggestion seems safe enough.' Says Varhas.

'You will have to, eventually. Middle paths between events showcase weakness. You are being cautious when you should be extreme. I too advise caution do not get me wrong, but be aware of a looming choice nevertheless." So replies Anax and with both hands, he trembles to bring the clay teacup to his mouth.

Varhas notices the tremor, but he is passed by elusive a string, thoughts are unmade from stimuli to response instead and he speaks. 'I need something more before I speak to her. There is the option of being honest with what we know and recruiting her. An extra Claimant would not hurt. We could find another Contestant and have a reserve pair.'

Both Zanuvia and Sofia part themselves to speak. Then Sofia pauses giving word to the older woman. 'That window might be closing soon.' Sofia begins to speak right after Zanuvia. 'I was about to say the same.'

'You both believe the Announcement of Colors is nearing?' Anax asks.

'Yes. If not on this planet, then in our next stop we will be assigned a color. So feels true. We cannot be less than four pairs of Contestants and Claimants by that time. We might not make it to the finals, we may not be granted colours.' Zanuvia speaks and she looks towards Sofia. She in turn smiles widely at the old woman, naturally uneven teeth that makes her into a lazy girl of auburn curls, falling on a round shape broken by a hawk's nose.

Momentarily, Zanuvia is wrestled away in the girl's smile. She imagines mere hint, of young men carried off in their injuries and the plain girl a healer, nursing the wounded, appearing as the most beautiful face if only in those moments of vast suffering. She understands, that moment such as this, they are very fortunate to be in her presence, even if that is of weakness unimportance.

Anax begins a rehearsed, monotone string of words. 'An accurate assessment, or instinct. If one takes the wide image of what is currently happening in the universe, it is only rational that the qualifiers are ending soon. As we are all aware, every match of the Contest carries narrative meaning that helps decide the manyfold various events that need to occur. An invasion was launched on the whim of technological superiority, our latest match showcasing the supremacy of a planet dressed in gleaming armaments. It is expected that more meaning is stacked ontop of the next matches and as such, that the Contest is concluding soon, deciding the course of even more important events.'

Zanuvia replies, all the while staring into Anax, trying to erode the man's solid exterior and peek into his thoughts, while he remains focused, far away on the square, far behind all Claimants. 'Cursed, to think mere decision of an invasion is not taken at the finals of the Contest instead. What other more important decision for the future is there to be decided at the finals or semi-finals? Is the war to escalate by that time?'

'Most likely, it is to happen as you fear so.' Replies Sofia.

'What do you mean?'

'Last match that happened here, has also set a few things in motion.'

'Which match? Who?'

'Nebuzza's team versus the band of Scythes. Instagib, rifles only and their Claimants could help via helmets and head implants. You should watch a replay. I think it happened at the same time as your Kingmaker match. Had the universe split between choosing which of the two to watch. One a slugfest, the other, a technical dance. Most first citizens said the same thing. The thinking man's choice was the game on Arhoscephale, instead of whatever brutal, barbarian game you played on Mecone."

"And?"

"Next day, there were oratory games on the Pagos. A great decision was discussed among the first citizens and twenty-thousand ships left orbit. A peacekeeping expedition on the planet of Sicela.

-

Sofia lives in squalor and nothing has changed since Varhas last came into her apartment. The place is dank in low natural light, poking through the apartment block's common air well, where the backsides of all balconies are stacked ontop of another. Plants are hanging from every possible angle, wide of leaves and arching upwards, thriving in dim and humid places.

The floor is dirty, with black dirt stuck in-between boards and the wooden furniture is occupied either by potted plant or pillow. There is a Tele-stim assortment infront of a wide sofa. It seems torn and without detail, yet, as Varhas knows, it is one of the most comfortable places to lay in. A kitchen and somewhere in the back, her bedroom where many have passed, life large in moments of verve, multiples of happenings and vast weight of meaning.

'Four years, Varhas?' Sofia speaks as she leans for a kiss.

He instead keeps a small distance between the two and circles around her, sitting on the sofa's edge, in the most uncomfortable position he can think of, arched forwards towards the Tele-stim devices. 'I am not here for sex.' He then lifts his maimed hand to point at the screen.

'What about tea?' The woman asks and the man stares her down, fully aware that she is still insisting on sex, in underhanded, non-consensual ways perhaps. 'Fine, fine then. More for me and my date. Hurry up then, before he gets here.'

'Thanks for rubbing it in.'

'Anytime my dear little crow.' She sinks on the sofa. The fabric explodes with layers upon layers of dust and residue. Mundane chemicals and other potent, nose-assaulting scents fill the air. She drinks the tea with relish and with a lethargic half-there expression, her face melts into uneven ease towards the inverse dream.

Varhas follows to the inverse dream too, keeping his uncomfortable stance. He lapses rapidly in concentration.

The tele-stim system boots up as the two Claimants access it. Even though unnecessary, the manifold colors and imperceptive sounds begin to seep across the floorboards of the room. The shadows become long and then their length reduces, to width that curves around the two humans. Between actual stimuli and unreal fantasy, reality bends to an intoxicating barrier, skipping along digital dreams. There is a rhythm to this skip, lapses so small that sound as a continuous press.

After a while, the many curved shapes around the two have become a much re-winded and replayed spectacle of that match Sofia described recently on Arhoscephale. The two have gone over details and the spectacle itself and Varhas exits the Tele-stim hallucinations by standing up.

Sofia remains in the inverse dream for a couple more minutes and Varhas spends these moments staring back at her idle form and the floorboards underneath. The light from the machine only curves for her and underfoot his body is making no shadow, but he instead is covered in its unnatural light, part of the spectacle superimposed into his clothes.

Varhas parts the silence. 'This is worrying Sofia.' The woman returns to her senses and she eyes the man ahead of her with renewed zeal. 'Why are you worried? Come to the bedroom' She struggles to get up and whatever force becomes her, is both sides strong and also heavily intoxicated.

Her hands struggle to find his, but she manages to get pull Varhas inside of her bedroom where the atmosphere is even heavier and their many shared moments of the past, rush at them with surrendered weight.

The dripping length and supple flesh, beckon man and woman near, as the pillows on her unmade sheets appear woven with new stories.

And in truth, without lying to himself, Varhas imagines the time they could spend, speaking of themselves one on top of the other, in drug induced deliriums where the hours go by in insomniac toil. Sex, to laying there and back again, reduced to machines of flesh, whose only purpose is to consume chemistry, nutrience and water, becoming but endless work to please themselves and the other, whose only purpose is to lay and heal, wounds unreal and made of silence.

To that, Varhas sends the stream of thought away. Part of him drawn, on things far away from this place.

He drags the woman down and both sit on the floor.

Between the two stands her small respawning grafting pod. The device is a forest of needles, microscopic sprayers and flesh projectors, cupped all in circular base of metal, a wide and heavy curved block that contains circuits of logic and layered detail where they can both dive into its inverse dream.

Before any of them begin the healing process where flesh is grafted onto flesh, where soul is woven back together, textured in the unique dominion of the mind that is Varhas, both Claimants speak at the same time but only one completes his sentence.

'Remember when...'

'You used to go out bare-chested each time the delivery man arrived at our door. If only one knows how angry that made me.'

'You are the most evil person I know. Do you know that?'

'What you know, all are aware in error. Point me to one evil action I have done.'

'None maybe. But all who know you are certain that inside that soul, that source where your thoughts spring and become a stream, there is no good.'

'Actions define me. There is no weight to thoughts. There is no mass to good and evil. No substance.'

'Not wholly Varhas. Parts of us are thoughts and even these streams of neural current, they too have infinitesimal weight, almost zero but not quite nothing. When you hate, you do so in extreme ways. Accurate and destructive, never-wrong words you use to hurt.'

'I do not. I've never spoken as you say.' Varhas speaks, in a strained tone.

The woman continues through his words.

'It is as if, you gather malice, all the time and then you break at uneven moments, the gathered foulness just compresses and spews out instantly slaying everything that might happen to stand there. Four years ago, do you remember what was the last thing you told me before leaving?'

Varhas tries to sway the memory away, but instead, the image manifests as her face, contorting with obscene pain. Harmed at the very source of all pure things within her, he imagined back then, along with her real face, a blackened ray of foulness cutting across her innocence, her lust for life, the beckoning ability to heal another.

'You said...' She continues and her face appears shattered. '...that I was a disgusting error, some misaligned piece of ugly flesh, that came out of my mother to leech onto whoever laid in bed with me. You called me a maggot, whose teeth are my very kindness, my bloating body filling with blood and sustenance as I bring around new hosts every night to begin this degenerate cycle anew.'

'That really hurt Varhas.' Continues the woman without a hint of remorse in her voice, a speck of emotion, in cold, flattening, passing life, where all actions result in no meaningful changes. And just like that, Varhas will speak an unexpected string of three words. Once she listens to them, tears stream down her face. And whenever her teardrops fall on his missing fingers, the inverse dream creates, unique cells engraved with the man's unique functions.