Featuring the exceptional talents of: xxPrincxssxx; MorbidGinger; Tech-Star; shianen; TheAllTimeGreatest; I'mNotShortI'mFunsize; Shadowed Theatre; and Jimsonweed, most especially (for being my editor).

Let us step back now, through time and space; far, far from the executive suite on the night that Chris McLean spoke with Death. Four months, twelve days and as many hours, which places us deep in the desert. Smell the red clay and sparse forests in the cool of the night, hear the fleeting feet of scorpions and lizards. Know this place as a peaceful one, unkind though it might be. What we will soon see was not the desert's fault. It and you and I, are only here to bear witness.

Solfeggio Kant presents

Notice how there is a road that slithers beneath our feet and through this valley like the corpse of a great, pale worm. The backcountry is full of such roads - they are the scars of human cuts which have been staunched and healed by time and neglect. But this road is unlike any of those, or any other road in existence. It leads to the end of all things, and all people, who follow it. You and I stand on the event horizon of a black hole, beyond which there is no escape. So follow me now, to the van that has just sped past us in a cloud of red dust, to Ephraim Ridge.

Total Reform: The Ephraim Atrocity

August 5th, 2018; 0144 MST

The Sonoran Desert, United State

If you gave River Thompson a cursory glance, they would appear to only have one eye. It peered out, bright and pale-blue, from behind a curtain of rough-hewn, indigo bangs. But their right eye was there too, dead and brown, taking in the scene around it. As the van which contained them sped through the desert, River sat with their legs folded tightly at their chest, a single impulse playing on repeat in their head. Pen and paper. Pen and paper. Pen and paper.

"Don't ask her again," said a voice, when River turned once more to the girl on their left. The back of the van was very dark and inhumanely small. It forced River and the seven others to sit incredibly close to one another on the floor, and there were no seatbelts to keep them in place, only chains which they were meant to hold, dangling from the ceiling. They were in two rows of four, one along either wall, with nearly everyone trying their hardest not to be touched.

It didn't seem to matter to the drivers if River or their fellow captives made it safely to wherever they were headed. River ignored the voice and firmly tapped the girl to their left on her shoulder, though she didn't seem to notice.

"I mean it, leave her alone," repeated the other voice, a stony, commanding intonation which belonged to a female several years older than River. It's owner sat across from the Prodigy, between green-haired girl and a very tall boy who's fringe, like River's, covered his right eye. The girl who spoke looked miserable: her body language conveyed a terrible anxiety and River hazarded a guess that she was claustrophobic. They deferred to her at once - they were no stranger to the wrath of a caged animal.

"Do you have a pen and paper, then," whispered River, to the glaring girl. The tall boy gave a cruel snarl which sounded like a laugh, but River ignored him. "It's just that, I have something I really need to write down, so I don't forget it."

"This kid's fucking touched," jeered the boy. He was so tall that his head rose over everyone else and his knees stuck out at odd angles. His features were illegible except for a crooked smile. The girl simply shook her head.

"Sorry, kid, I don't," she said patiently, "and you've asked us all a few times already."

River went cold and quiet once more. For the eighth time, someone's watch gave a little beep. The glaring girl, Seraphim, took that to mean that she had been in the van for eight hours now. She was grateful for the watch. Without it, there would be no time in this van - the sky outside was darker than any night she had seen before and gave no clues to when they were, or where.

In the dark of the van, the pale girl on River's left began to weep again. She crumpled forward until her bloodied face was pressed into her crossed legs, like a balloon with a puncture. A still, bare-chested boy gently gathered her up and, without a word, set her head in his lap. "Oh, Seneca," she gasped. "Oh, pray with me… please…"

"Edith, shut up," Seraphim demanded quietly, bracing herself as the van slowed slightly. "Seneca, cover her mouth, or-"

The tall boy swore and turned to the corner where Seneca had folded himself.

"Will you shut her up before- God fucking damn it!"

The van lurched, swerved, and sent the captives flying. The green-haired girl yelped when the arm of the boy beside her slammed in to the side of her head with a metallic thunk. Seneca and Edith collided with River and the girl to their right, who defended herself with a well-aimed kick into River's tiny ribs.

"Quiet," came the driver's voice, through the staticky speakers, but he was laughing too. Miles, the metal boy, looked like he'd love nothing more than to test his grip strength on someone's neck. As everyone gathered themselves, they turned to glare at Edith, who was now biting down on her fingers. Seneca took their glares and looked back at them blankly. From what little they'd seen of this boy, he didn't seem to be capable of facial expression. His crab-leg fingers held fast to Edith's lacy nightgown, holding her steady while she moaned and wailed.

"They shot her dog," he said tonelessly. Edith shoved her knuckles in her mouth and bit down with difficulty. "They killed it and beat her for resisting. It's better that she cry now, or else she'll go to her grave without pea-"

"They're not going to kill us," another girl shot at him. She whipped back her dark hair and the conviction in her voice was almost comical next to her split lips, her swollen eyes. She too had tried her hardest to resist when the van had pulled up to her bedroom, but no dog had died coming to her aid. She couldn't help but be resentful of the pale girl for that. Seneca shook his head at her.

"I'm sorry, Sloan," he whispered. "You should be allowed to be beautiful as you look upon the void. Everyone should be allowed that."

Edith sobbed harder into her hands but gingerly picked herself up, readjusted herself and said, "Forgive me," but it was unclear who she was speaking to. She said nothing to Seneca, who was dabbing her blood off his knee. Sloan wanted to call them both something horrible, but the words withered on her tongue.

"You would live on in a way," remarked the green-haired girl, to Miles. Her nose had only recently stopped bleeding, but of everyone in the van, she seemed the least bothered. The only attention she could spare was for Miles' metal arm. "If they killed us, I mean," she amended, off his look. "Because I imagine, there's a mechanism in there that records your brainwaves, if your arm works in the way you say it does. Perhaps a small magnetic resonance reader, like in a hospital scanner. So in a way, your thoughts would live on, even if your body didn't."

Miles looked at Melissa, who's eyes were perpetually cloudy and her expression not quite right. Her hazy, faraway voice contained a genuine, childish sort of elation. Rather than respond, Miles simply extended his arm again and let her continue playing with its fingers. She couldn't hurt it.

"We aren't dying," said Miles to the van. "We aren't."

Then, he turned over a stone in his mind and underneath was plan. He changed the subject. "You guys wanna see something really cool?"

The tall boy scoffed again. Miles clicked a button on his mechanical elbow, and whispered to his wrist, "My name is Miles Jackson, I'm sixteen, and my friends call me the Metal Man."

When he let go of his elbow, his voice played back at him. It changed pitch and speed when he flexed his fingers a certain way, and Melissa held her mouth to keep from crying out in wonder. That was how Miles knew, she wasn't stupid, whatever she was. "Can I try too?" she whispered.

"Of course."

"Oh… oh, okay. My name is Melissa Robinson, and… sorry," She seemed barely able to contain herself, she was giggling so hard. Somehow, the antics of this odd little girl made a few people lighten. "I'm thirteen, and I don't have a nickname, but… I miss my favorite shirt," she confided, through her smile. "I designed the print myself, and it had all my favorite characters."

Miles flexed his fingers again and, in a deep, basal voice, his arm repeated, "it had all my favorite characters."

Several people chuckled, even Edith, who asked to go next. "My mother calls me Edie," she whispered. Her pale cheeks flushed. "I'm fifteen years old, and I'm the youngest First Soprano in the Mount Pleasant Church Choir."

"My name is Seraphim, but all my kids call me Sera. And they're my kids. They are and they always will be, even if they get adopted."

"I'm Seneca "Snakeskin" Skinner, aged seventeen years. My favorite author is Franz Kafka, because he always makes me happy to feel sad."

"I go by Sketch," said Sloan, when it was her turn. "I'm fifteen years young, and damn good on a skateboard. If I go, tell my bitches I love them."

"Hey, blue-hair, wake up," Miles sad, snaking his foot forward and bumping River's leg. "You wanna try?"

River raised their head. They hadn't been asleep, only listening, and now suddenly all eyes were on them. They looked around, expecting the same hard faces they'd been seeing all night. But now, somehow, at least some of them had softened. So River ignored every instinct and said to Miles' hand, "I'm River Thompson, I'm thirteen, and… and my favorite numbers are 32.054073 and -113.061… no… 061… wait, no…"

But River's second number had escaped them, and now, for the first time, River seemed close to tears too. They looked around miserably as Miles stifled his arm from repeating their words.

"Sorry…"

"Don't worry about it, kid," said Sera. There was a slight, bracing edge to her voice. "We should've gotten you that pen."

She smiled at River's pale eye, which looked back at her with trepidation. Miles finally turned to the tall boy, who's smile had fallen.

"You wanna turn, man?"

"Yeah," said the tall boy. His voice betrayed nothing but coldness. "I'm Dice. I don't think any of us fucking belong here."

Dice's words sucked all the air out of the van, and suddenly no one felt like saying anything anymore. But two hours later, two little beeps, when the van finally stopped and the lights overhead came on, Dice clapped Snakeskin on the shoulder, Sketch had and arm wrapped around Edie, and as the drivers rose from their seats, Sera gently nudged River behind her. It seemed unlikely that they were all about to be killed, but that thought wasn't comforting. It only invited more dread of the existential breed.

Farthest from the door, Melissa had fallen asleep clutching Miles' arm. To be so young, and so different, Miles could tell she was nothing short of a genius, and what's more, she trusted him. He could tell just by looking around, they all trusted him, even if only a little. That wasn't something to take for granted. It was a chance in Hell, an opportunity.

And, ever the opportunist, the one-armed man smirked to himself through his terror as he gently shook the girl awake. He decided, next time they spoke, he would call her Sparky, so that she could have a nickname too.

Even if no one else did, he was going to survive this.

I've just told you a lovely scene, one that I use to comfort myself in times when there are no lovely things to be found.

I could tell you that, when these eight birds from the east were seized by their ankles and thrown from the van and onto the ground, they considered themselves friends. I could tell you that they had resolved to look out for one another to the best of their abilities in this new, hostile world. I could tell you all these things if I wanted, because as your narrator, I am allowed to lie.

Let us sit and rest for a moment, while we can. I beg your patience, for my sake; this story is a hard one to tell.

Seven spots remain to be filled, so help me to fill them.

Solfeggio Kant