Still Alive

Thursday's eyes widened.

"You're kidding," he said.

Friday's reflection shook its head. "I kid you not," she said. "Saturday's fine and dandy."

"Could I talk to her?"

"Just a sec-" Thursday shook his head immediately as John entered the bathroom, standing in front of Friday's reflection.

"You spend a lot of time in here," John said. "More than Sally. I was wondering if everything's all right."

"Everything's fine." He glanced at the mirror, and John, noticing his pale face, did as well, but Friday's reflection had melted into the glass and left, allowing the mirror to show the bathroom stalls and Thursday's back. Thursday mentally kicked himself for contacting Friday in such a public place.

"All right, then." John shrugged. "We have to be outside for a run in five minutes."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem. Also…" John stopped. "Tom, there're rumors that we'll be sent to fight."

"The platoon's not ready," Thursday said, frowning. "They'd get massacred."

"I didn't say the platoon. I said us. We're the best, and we might get shipped out. It seems they need all they can get over there."

Thursday winced. Not good. Not good at all. "That," he said, "is very bad news."

Several hours later, he was clutching a rifle to his chest as the helicopter took off, lurching in the air. "I think I'm going to be sick," Sally muttered. "Who's piloting this thing?"

"I don't think it's the turbulence that's making you sick," Thursday muttered, eyes closed and taking deep breaths.

"It's true. I'm nervous," Sally admitted. "You look calm as ever."

"I feel like I'm about to die," Thursday said. "I don't entirely mind." That, though, wasn't true. One would think that he was used to this feeling, the pre-battle jitters, but actually, even with the millions of Campaigns, he was still afraid he'd soil himself. There was always the possibility that no matter how mild the area, no matter how seasoned the veteran, he'd fall. At this point, he almost hoped for it, because if he was injured, if the enemy so much as drew blood, he'd be exposed.

They lapsed into silence, the whirring and chopping of the helicopter blades the only sound. The other privates stuck into the helicopter didn't pick up the reins of conversation, just staring at each other blankly. And these are the ones who haven't seen the horror of it yet, Thursday mused. These are the ones who have, compared to the others, high hopes.

Oh, how many of the Morrow Days had been like that? He recalled when he'd had each one report for training, when each one had arrived confident and arrogant. Sunday, with his constant bragging, had instantly won the enmity of almost every single officer and cadet. He hadn't bragged so much when a Nithling had blown off his leg. Unfortunately, it'd grown back.

Wednesday spent her nights crying.

Tuesday and Monday had been recruited at the same time, the lucky ducks. They did everything together, including dragging the other off the field when they were wounded. Back then, however, Monday had been robust and strong, lively and spry, and he had dragged Tuesday to safety more than the other way around. Thursday sometimes wondered if this period of strength might have later contributed to Monday's weakness.

Friday… oh, Friday. It'd broken her so badly, she'd run to him sobbing about this or that. Stop acting like a mortal, he'd say. Sometimes Denizens get injured. Sometimes Denizens die. Stop grieving! He should not have denied her that. He should not have denied any of them the most basic emotion, perhaps the only one Denizens could feel to the extreme capability. They had feelings, those fleeting stones skipping across the surface of the pond, but emotions… the stones that sank to the depths and remained in the pit of the stomach, in the recesses of the mind… those were lost to them.

Perhaps it was one of those stones in his throat now, as he swallowed.

Saturday had been a coward on the battlefield, and he remembered it with distaste. Monday and Tuesday would run into fire to save comrades. Friday mourned their loss. Wednesday would feel a part of her blown apart every time the same happened to a fellow Denizen. And Saturday? Saturday used them for shields. Maybe that should have been an indication of what was going through her head, and maybe it should have been a sign of the (lack of) empathy she was experiencing, the narcissism taking root. To judge a man's true self, Thursday knew, one only had to look them in the eye when they were in the face of war.

"What're you thinking about?"

Sally broke the silence, probably realizing the others were not.

"Hmm?" Thursday raised his head.

"Your eyes kind of glazed over. What were you thinking about?"

He was going to say home, but then his real home came into his memory, and he saw the Marshalls smiling and laughing, remembered the dratted water balloons that mysteriously fell from the Star Fort, and recalled Marshall Dawn carrying him in her arms when he couldn't move, the memory replaced by one where the roles had been reversed, and he had carried her when she'd been shot several times in the chest.

"Heroes," he answered. "War heroes that I never knew but always admired."

"Ah," Sally nodded. "Like James Bond, or Louis Zamperini."

"James Bond isn't real," said the soldier to Sally's left.

"Zamperini was, though," she retorted. "So, who were you thinking about, Tom?"

Thursday frowned. "Richard the Lionheart."

"No, really," Sally said.

"I was being serious."

"No, you weren't."

"Remember that girl I liked? I told you about her earlier."

"The one who…" Sally trailed off.

"Yeah." Thursday closed his eyes. "I was thinking about her and her brothers. They must have saved hundreds by the time they died. And Wednesd- er, Wendy… Wendy was such a mild girl. She shouldn't have fought. Mark and Tim were heroes. They always went back for the wounded. I was thinking about them."

"They family?"

"…They were." Thursday nodded. "The military kind of ran in my family. They told me I was made for it."

Made for it….

If he was made for it, why did he hate it so much?

Columbus retched emptily. It'd been no easy feat getting to the Sanctuary in the center of Styx's Vault, but here were the answers he knew Mary and the Young One would want, the abilities he was certain both of them must be kept away from. He didn't know what was happening, but he was certain Mary's remembrance was not something beneficial to the universe, and if it got in the way of his plan to dominate it, then she was a threat.

A-ha. Here was something interesting.

"But what's this?" He muttered to himself. "Why are these souls barely glowing? Did someone take their energy and eat it? Someone ate a Soul! Someone ate my Soul! Where is my Soul? Oh, I have no Soul! I am the sole without a Soul! No, I have the sole Soul!" He chuckled dryly, though he wasn't sure at what. Already, he saw things that weren't there, heard voices that were nothing but whispers the wind coaxed forth from the darkness.

"What are you doing here?"

He ignored the voice for a second. He heard voices everywhere, after all.

"What are you doing here?" the voice repeated.

Columbus turned. "Oh, hello," he said, and giggled. "I'm lost. Are you lost? We can be lost together!"

The blonde woman raised an eyebrow. "You don't look like an Acolyte or a Month." Columbus realized she was holding a bow and pointing a half-drawn arrow at him.

"Where'd you get that?" he said.

"The armory," she said.

"An armory… is that where they keep arms? How'd you get rid of the hands and fingers?"

She made a sound that relayed disgust and relaxed, keeping the weapon away from him. "Wow, you're dumb."

"But I speak."

"Someone already used that line," she said. "Listen, why are you here?"

"Oh, to find some way to kill December." He shrugged casually. "Maybe the Young One while I'm at it."

"I see…" the woman frowned. "What if I told you I worked for the Young One?"

"You should have said something earlier." A scythe appeared in Columbus's hand, and he smirked. "Are you going to fight me, or are we going to get along cordially?"

"That," said a third voice, "is the question." The Young One smiled. "How did you get in here? We locked the doors."

"Through December's Star," Columbus answered, and shrugged again.

"We forgot about the Star," the woman groaned.

"There's nothing we can do about that," the Young One said. "The important thing is that we have the Atlas, so…"

"But it doesn't work," the woman reminded him.

"Usually, Divine blood will coax it," he said. "That can only mean one thing."

Columbus was getting a little irritated. "I'm still here," he said. "Remember me?"

The Young One and the Copy blinked.

"I demand," said Columbus, "that you follow my demands!"

"Which are?" the Young One said, and crossed his arms.

"Why are you looking at me?" Columbus said, then shrieked and covered his ears. "Make the dead stop wailing, make the Souls stop railing! I can't help them, they can't help me!"

The Young One turned back to the Copy. "As I was saying, it can only mean one thing, and if I'm right, then there's only one place she would go."

"Here?" the Copy said.

"Eventually," he agreed. "Not at first, but yes. Here."

"Royal Flush," Suzy said. "Oi, April. March. Where'd September run off to?"

They shrugged. "Do you have a library here?" March asked.

"Yes," said Scamandros.

"He's there," said April.

Suzy thought this a perfectly reasonable explanation and picked up the playing cards. "Okay, so we've played Uno, Crazy Eights, Poker, Go Fish, Solitaire and a million variations of it, and about fifteen complicated games known only to the House. Now what?"

"Do you have a checkers board?" April said. "We could play in teams."

"Nah," said March. "Sounds boring. Let's go for a walk."

"A walk where?" Suzy said.

"Someplace with rain," said April. "I love the rain."

"No, no," March shook her head. "Bad idea."

"Do you have a better one?"

Before March could answer, Elysium's fake sun darkened for a moment, and when it flickered back to brightness, they thought a woman with golden eyes, shining skin, and a gilt voice that echoed and reverberated was standing before them.

Where is the New Architect?

Suzy closed her mouth. "Uh, who are you?"

The being, remarkably beautiful, rested that impossibly gorgeous gaze on Suzanna Turquoise-Blue, and something in that gaze was oddly familiar, enough to make her shiver. I asked a question.

"He's in the Gardens," Suzy said, "tending to some work. What with his being gone to deal with the Months, he had a little bit of a backload to get on track."

Does he have the Keys with him?

"Last I checked," Suzy nodded.

I have one last request for him. The being turned to April, March, and Scamandros. You too. You'll have to do. Come with me.

"Where?" Scamandros asked.

The greatest adventure of all. Are you willing to spurn death?

"No way!" April interjected. "Just who do you think you are?"

The being laughed, throwing her head back and baring her teeth. You know who I am. Everyone does. It's written in the stars, on the pages of every book, in the heart of every Soul. The being threw her arms open wide and laughed again. You know who I am. Everything testifies as to who I am.

Art rushed down to Elysium, the dragonfly's wings beating with a deep thrum that kept his balance and flight perfect. What had darkened the sun for a moment? Had someone come through December's Star? Did the Month rethink her decision to send him back to the House?

He bristled at the thought. He should have put up a fight. No one told him what to do! He was the New Architect, the keeper of Creation and its master. Who cared if the Architect made that upstart twerp? She was under his authority now, whether she admitted it or not!

Then he shook his head. No, those were the Keys talking, not him. Those dratted Keys. He thought that, being immortal, he'd have no issue with them, but that wasn't true. It was as if part of the Morrow Days was embedded into them.

Or… not the Morrow Days. The owner before them.

Art stopped at the threshold of Elysium, saw the glowing figure, and was afraid. It was a fear that went through his heart, a fear that made his hands shake.

He knew who that was, though his mind was denying it.

The figure turned and smiled. Ah, there you are. My, do you look handsome. You can thank me later. I told you immortality would look good on you.

Art cleared his throat before replying. "M-mary?"

Close. You're getting there. The woman held up one finger. There is, in the universe, exactly one being who could possibly know everything there is to know, one being who is omniscient and can separate that omniscience from itself by choice. One being.

"The Atlas?" He didn't want to admit it. Anyone but who he thought it was.

And if this Atlas, this being, was in actuality a person, that would make that person, by definition…

There was no choice now. He had to say it. "The Architect?!" Art's jaw dropped. "But- but- the Will- and everything? How do you explain that?"

I find I am extremely fond of the number three. Three sons, three parts to the Architect. Mary the Architect shrugged. It is very difficult being all-knowing, you know. Well, actually, no, you don't. Anyway, just as the Will was created to ease my tiredness, so was Mary. It was a pleasant respite, as long as it lasted. Part of me had to remain to work the Atlas, until you could take control of it yourself and be omniscient. Until then…

But I was not planning this, you see. I put my own self-imposed rules, and somehow, these rules made me forget. Were I to remember, naturally, I could break myself free, but I didn't. I'm sure it was because I didn't want to.

"What do you want from me?" Art demanded.

Your true inheritance. She shook her head. Become the New Architect completely, boy. Omniscience is a curse in the hands of those ill-prepared. Are you ready to journey through fire to have what it takes, or will you fail? Mm… but I already know. She flashed another smile. Want some… to steal the term from another… 'spoilers'?