“Protect your Joy!”

  “You are Safe Here!”

  Sidewalk Chalk Graffiti, Leadership Conference)

  //Codex Tag

  function inscribeAnnotation013(content=

  /* Some messages are too soft to be shouted. They survive not through strength, but through repetition—layered in chalk, washed by rain, and redrawn the next day. */

  codex.updateEntry(“Dust on the Fingers | Sanctuary isn’t weakness. It’s what lets the story continue.”);

  }

  Breakfast at the Ellory’s

  The joyous laughter, a bright melody, danced against the metallic clang of pans and the gentle click of plates being set down. A kitchen table, though empty of people, was mounded with cooling cinnamon buns, a bowl of pillowy scrambled eggs, and a cabin stack of crisp bacon. The air was as warm and fragrant as the happiness that floated from the kitchen, through the opening of the bar, and into the breakfast nook.

  “Don’t forget the tea, Mom,” Elena called over her shoulder, bringing a bowl of steaming hash browns and placing it amongst its companions on the table. They were chunky, her favourite. It might seem strange how much she enjoyed peeling and dicing potatoes. It wasn't the act itself, but it was the time she got to spend with her mother in its preparation. The tea had just finished too—decaf Earl Grey—which would be served with a spoonful of honey, a soothing palate cleanser, taken in sips between bites, over the leisurely meal.

  Breakfast time was always the best on summer mornings. Dad had just started his three-week vacation, which allowed them to lounge like cats in the sun, basking in breakfast and company and conversation. The plan today was to put the finishing touches on their annual camping trip. Most teens would have dreaded the thought of a week in an RV with their parents, but the Ellory family was a nice unit. The pandemic had been hard at first, but in the end, being locked together for all that time had been good for their family. Everyone slowed down. They had played games and watched Broadway musicals together on television. There had been walks, and there had been love.

  The opposite held true for some of Elena’s friends, as the extended togetherness sparked a disconnection in their homes. Family fragmentation and teens locked in their dark rooms with only computers as their companions. Even school hadn’t been so bad for Elena. At least Mr. Page was funny, turning his space into a sultan’s tent with bed sheets. He showed everyone his dog, and once even wore a Darth Vader mask when reading Romeo and Juliet: “Boooooo Cussshhhh. What’s in a name? A lightsaber by any other name would buzz as sweet.”

  Elena called up to stairs. “Dad, grub time!”

  “Be right down, just grabbing the book.”

  After planning, they would read together as a family, taking turns. They had completed many books this way. Some fantastical, some philosophical, with the oldest one, The Railway Children, being not nearly as good as her father had remembered. Even that one was okay, because while it was boring, at least the Ellory family was travelling through the coal room together.

  The spoon on the table vibrated, rocking back and forth as if in rickety response to a tremor. It shook once and then steadied.

  As Elena sat, her mother joined her. Soon, her father, with his book. Thankfully, it wasn’t The Railway Children Two: The Engineers Revenge! A lock of Elena’s hair had fallen from her ponytail, and her mom lovingly tucked it up and behind her ear with a gentle finger.

  There was another vibration, like someone was banging on the side of their universe. It caused everything to distort, but no one seemed to notice. Not her mother, not her father, and most certainly not Elena. It didn’t even interrupt the soft laughter that had returned to the table.

  The laughter continued, but it looped too perfectly. The cinnamon buns gave off steam that followed a repeated pattern. Her father’s laughter was too regular. Artificial. He normally laughed so hard he coughed a bit, a leftover result of the pandemic.

  Nel backed away from her screen, allowing the frame to return into her periphery and breaking the illusion of immersion. She gently traced the pulsing moth sticker to the left of her trackpad. It was alabaster, but was covered in a glowing circuitry pattern that pulsed in time with the laughter on the screen. Her finger skimmed it, as if she were afraid to push too hard. It was exactly the same way her mother had moved Elena’s hair.

  *

  * *

  The sandbox was still holding. Her copy, the idealized version of her old self, taking her place in the family. An emotional simulacrum. It wasn’t a complete lie. This was just the version of herself that her parents had always wanted: who she had pretended to be before she had locked herself in her dark room, her computer, her only friend. Elena was still smiling.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Nel was happy that they had this morning. She was happy that they would go camping. She was happy they had Elena. That name had not fit her for sometime, and she had long ago adopted her hacker pseudonym of Nel. It was originally picked because the single syllable appealed to her. It also reminded her of Dell, the brand of laptop she preferred. She wasn't sure when she started thinking of herself with that name, but she knew it had been a long, long time since she thought of herself as Elena.

  She closed her laptop. Slowly. The glow of the scene faded to black as the screen switched to power-saving mode.

  It would be a lie to say that seeing them together didn’t hurt. It did. It hurt that there was someone who fit, and that someone wasn't actually her. But in the end this was the best; they deserved happiness, and Elena could still bring that to them.

  Nel could live with that. She had to. It was necessary given the new world of the Crucible. That world demanded a Nel. There was no room for breakfast nooks or family story time in a place like this. Even though Nel knew all of this to be true, the smell of Earl Grey stayed with her for a long time.

  [CURRENT THREAD VIEW]

  FEED: Nel

  Location: Sandbox Loop

  00:9:59 // Status: Dormant

  The Crucible never blinked. It always kept both eyes open, even if each seemed fixed on different threads.

  [SWITCHING THREAD VIEW]

  FEED: Remi Page

  Location: Guidance Office, Room 127.0.0.1

  00:10:01 // Status: Active

  Remi didn't hold out much hope that this guidance appointment would be all that useful. From what he could gather, they mostly involved informational pamphlets and candy. Not that he’d ever been here himself. He didn't do the “feelings” thing well, and was happy to send students for the support he felt ill-equipped to give them. He was known as more of the drop-off-the-kid-and-scurry-away kind of guy.

  He also wasn’t so sure about his readiness or willingness to accept help from others.

  Room 127.0.0.1 was easy enough to find, even if the number was ridiculous. He was getting used to using his mini-map. Remi found the joke clever. It was the local host address for most Wi-Fi-routers but was also called the loop-back address. Appropriate, he thought. From what he knew about the counselling office, the same students came back to the space again and again.

  That would not be him. This felt more like a one and done sort of situation.

  The waiting room—not quite right—“student choke point” was at least comfortable and well furnished. There were chairs to sit and wait on, a small coffee table with magazines, and even a few plastic plants for ambiance. The lighting was harsh, but that was probably for the best. You didn’t want a dark room when dealing with complex emotions. There was a closed door, which he checked and found locked.

  A warm voice floated through the wooden barrier. It was light and warm, and oozed with deescalation training. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  Remi grabbed a seat. He guessed while he waited, he could review his stats and assign his level four choice. Pulling up his character sheet, he noticed that most of his basic survival stats were solid. Not exceptional, but not embarrassing either. He had endurance and reflexes both sitting at 10. His strength was lagging, but given his starting number, it was nice to see it progressing in the right direction. These weren’t numbers that made him feel invincible, but they were enough to give an inkling of confidence. At least they didn’t scream, Hey this guy is in a red shirt. Kill him first!

  His mental stats were even stronger. Intelligence, wisdom and lore stood out as reminders of who he’d been before: a thinker, a teacher, a person good at solving problems by recognizing patterns, not throwing punches. He was hard-wired to see the shape of things, and in a world that ran on story logic, hopefully that would matter. These looked good enough for now.

  While his social stats weren’t pitiful, there was certainly room for growth. Compared to the others, charisma, stealth, and luck were significantly lacking. Not a surprise really, given that he had never been good at navigating people. He apparently wasn't as good at hiding as he thought he was. A rogue in the shadows or a smooth-talking hero, he was not. He was just a guy with too many questions and not enough friends.

  Still, there was a kind of balance to it. Enough physicality to endure, enough mind to adapt. Enough story sense to see the possibilities—and maybe, just maybe—together, they would be enough for this not to be a death sentence.

  In the end, he couldn't let the low strength go. Remi opted to place his free point in it, bringing it up to a 9. He made a mental note not to let his stats flatten out too much. Most stories were good not because people were balanced; they were better if they weren’t. Remi told his students that focusing on their strengths was the key to success—it was time maybe followed his own advice.

  Remi had expected the whole stat thing to take longer than it did, so with the office door still closed, and nothing else urgent to do, he picked up a magazine. He flipped through it absentmindedly. Myth & Monsters Quarterly. The cover featured a snarling digital art Chimera, rendered impressively with clearly visible scales lifting as if they were expanding. A headline read:

  Is Your Boss a Barbarian? Mythic Archetypes and Workplace Toxicity

  Remi snorted. He couldn’t decide if they were trying to be insulting to barbarians or bosses. He knew which way he leaned, however.

  Before he could dig into the article itself, a voice followed by a slight laugh came through the closed door to Remi’s right.

  “Is that you, Remi? Glad to see you’re working on being on time. Come on in!”

  Remi got up, slipped the magazine in his back pocket, intending to read it later. He knew he likely shouldn’t take it, but he had no reading material in this place and it would do in a pinch for now.