Atop a twisted spire mimicking an impossibly large narwhal’s horn, a man cloaked in a cyclone of ash and ember sat in a catcher's position, arms resting on his knees. His expression was flinty and his eyes were alight with fire as he panned his view across the latest of many destroyed worlds. A small piece on his ear began to glow, and the man snorted.

  “What is it?” he asked testily, still taking in the shattered world. It wasn’t his responsibility to stop this, but it was his job to find the one who did hold that responsibility.

  A woman spoke through the earpiece, “Is it another Shattering?” Her voice was domineering and curt, which reflected her position amongst their group well.0

  The man just grimaced, “Mm. Another victim of Kosetsu’s failure. Are you any closer to finding a solution?” He held back the tone of hope that had tried to infiltrate his voice. He wouldn’t let Ruin know his pain at setting so many lives and worlds to ruin.

  The woman, Ruin, just sighed. After a pause, “No… The only two options we have are the two obvious ones. And if you can’t find Kosetsu, Cinder, then I’m afraid we must go with the second one.”

  Cinder felt shame, though he knew he was doing better than any others might have. “I have a few leads, but the man has proven himself slippery beyond his position. I get close to finding him, then suddenly he is far away again. I nearly got him once, though, so we know he isn’t infallible at least.”

  “Keep looking. If you capture him and we are able to reseat his power, then the second course of action isn’t necessary. If not, then it will be. I will begin to set things in motion in preparation. Hurry, Cinder. It will cost us all greatly if you do not succeed.” The glow receded from the piece Cinder wore, and the man took one last look at the devastation left behind by Kosetsu.

  The tower was the last thing on that planet. All else was shattered. Where once was dirt, water, and trees, there was now nothing but floating and spinning shards of green, blue, and brown. The sky was ominous, as nothing but a maelstrom of red shards were spinning in the sky, the only differences being the darker shades of red that swept through the sky, like ripples in a disturbed lake.

  Cinder just snorted before fire rose around him in a column, only lasting a bare moment before it faded, leaving nothing behind. Immediately following his departure, the tower he had perched upon began to grow glassy, until the entire thing began to splinter into shards of gray, starting at the bottom and spreading to the top. Soon, all that was left was a world of shattered glass.

  …

  Ripley House was having fun. It had been a long time since he could claim such a thing, and he couldn’t be happier about being able to say it again. He was alone. Well, more like away from his family. Anyway, he didn’t have the shadow of his surname towering over him anymore. Now, it was just a tower that, while still casting its shadow over him, didn’t threaten to crush him should he fail to match its grandeur.

  Ripley was in the air, sitting in a seat with a huge fan attached to the back, and a parachute holding him aloft. He had goggles and was enjoying the views of this new land he called home. Floating islands, vibrant teal grass and trees, with waterfalls that had a fifty-fifty chance of going up or down. Every so often, the landscape was sullied with a monster trundling about, and Ripley didn’t tolerate them. He would sweep down, manifesting a sword looking to be made of crystal fragments, tied together by bits of cloth that would extend and retract. Each sweep brought the monsters low, hardly giving them time to fight back.

  Ripley enjoyed the feeling of both having fun and helping his community avoid damage from monsters. He stayed flying around for hours, though paying attention to the time piece on his wrist. He had an appointment with a prospective private mercenary later in the afternoon, and he was killing time by paragliding around, learning the land, slaying monsters and enjoying the life of a mercenary.

  Ripley smiled and continued his exploration.

  …

  “Alright, one more, and you should be presented with a Calamity Crown. We will know if you don’t take it, and there will be consequences. Are we clear, 438?” A man in a white lab-coat said to the emaciated boy, who was panting and grimacing from the forceful method with which they had applied his last two facets. He nodded in spite of it, having learned since before he could speak that obedience meant less pain.

  The coated man turned to one of the many other identically garbed men and nodded, stepping back from 438. Another facet was placed on the ritual circle, and 438 struggled not to panic. His breathing went out of control and his heart felt like it was trying to explode. 438 felt his eyes grow wet, something that happened often for some reason, especially when it was his turn for testing.

  The facet the coated men sat on the circle was vastly different from the previous two. The first was a red facet, which contained a maelstrom of fire. Then second was gray, seemingly filled with dust, though about a quarter of that dust still glowed orange with fading heat.

  This one, though, was… free of those concept-heavy factors. Even looking at it, 438 noticed his breathing slow, his heart calm, and his wet-eyes began to dry. It looked beautiful to him, like nothing he’d ever seen. But, in a moment after the coated men receded behind the clear wall, it flashed then turned to dust, the power once inside of it now contained within the ritual circle surrounding him, flowing through the diagram and toward him.

  All the things the gem had once rid him of returned in force, his breathing restricted and his eyes pouring liquid. 438 tried to stop his voice from escaping again, but was unsuccessful as he let out a trawling moan.

  “FOCUS, 438!” a coated man screamed over the voice boxes. 438 tried, and opened the eyes he had clenched shut to peer blearily at a row of three new facets floating in front of his face. One was like the last facet, only far stronger. 438 felt a strange sensation he had learned to refer to as hope from the gem. It was clear, unfettered, like freedom. 438 shrunk from it, knowing where freedom got the others. The coated men had freed many that 438 felt warm from, and they didn’t look happy, staring at the ceiling until they began to stink and the coated men removed them.

  Looking to the next, it was deeper red than crimson, so rich in its depth that it halted 438’s breath. It made him feel strong. It made him want to tear the coated men to pieces, drinking their blood and making them feel fear. Feel freedom. Return to them what they had given to 438 and all the other Numbers.

  438 flinched at that one, the feeling a fantasy. 438 had seen what happens when Numbers try to hurt coated men. They got freedom. He turned to the last one, and it was different from the others. It didn’t make 438 feel anything. It was unlike any of the others. If anything, it felt wrong for it to exist.

  “Yes, take that one! The one on the far right. Take it!” a coated man shouted, a strange emotion in his voice as his mouth formed a strange curve. 438 glanced at the other two one more time, then took the one he was directed to. He tentatively touched it with a finger, gasping when all the power inside the gem flooded into his digit, then throughout his entire body.

  438 began to spasm on the floor, unable to control his body as the feeling of wrongness grew and grew. The coated men were swarming him, and 438 felt calm. He felt freedom coming, this time not at the hands of the coated men. As the darkness encircled his vision, 438 felt like maybe… freedom wasn’t so bad. He closed his eyes, but only for a moment until a coated man slapped 438’s chest, hands aglow with some energy. Everything changed in a moment. Pain like nothing 438 had ever felt erupted, and peace became turmoil. He was more alive in that moment than he’d ever been before as he thrashed against the pain, swinging his arms.

  Those arms were now roiling ash, most of it still glowing hot. The arms ineffectually struck the coated men, turning their white coats grey and full of holes. But the men within the coats didn’t even react as they looked on with their weird curved mouths, helping the man with glowing hands keep contact with 438’s chest.

  After what felt like forever, 438 no longer felt pain. He lay there, exhausted, while the coated men did the same. They still curved their mouths upward for some reason, and talked to each other with that strange tone. Their speech was hurried and jumbling, but 438 didn’t focus on it. The only words he heard were from a man that seemingly laid down on the ceiling, defying gravity and going unnoticed by the coated men. He looked relaxed as he curiously ran his eyes over 438.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “How horrible.” He said, a sad note in his voice. He then shook his head, “But what’s done is done. Do you know who I am?”

  438 barely shook his head.

  “Hmm, that makes sense. You’re a slave, and have been since birth. Well, let me tell you something. I am Cinder, Calamity born in both Ash and Fire. These people around you, they have been experimenting to copy my power. You are their first success. But that is against the law. Don’t worry, though. You are not at fault. These men will be punished soon, and you will be free if you can survive the chaos.”

  438’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head, his eyes becoming wet again.

  Cinder squinted, “Freedom… You don’t know what that word means, do you? No, what you think of as freedom is really death. Freedom is… well, it's difficult to describe to someone who hasn’t ever had even the barest taste of it. It is good, though. Well, I need to leave. I have a job to do, after all. Genuinely, I wish you luck. I hope you live, and prove to these pricks that you’re more than a rat to be tested on. Bye now.” Cinder waved once and vanished in a flash of fire.

  438 closed his eyes, trying to escape to the quiet place others called sleep. A coated man spoke, interrupting him. “Well, since it's the first prototype, what should we call it?” He looked at the other coated men.

  One of them spoke with a bounce in his voice, “One, I think. Since it is the first, there will be many to come. Hopefully better ones.”

  The man that had glowing hands shook his head, “No. It will be named Zero. It was an experiment, thus a prototype. One is a designation reserved for the first product made with solid theory and a documented process.

  Zero fell asleep, not hating his new name.

  …

  In a fortress bordering the Barrens, residing in the Holy Highlands, a girl sat in a room. Her father, the commander, was busy. He lived in the fort, and so did his daughter. She had lived since she was born, in fact. This was not what Brock, the commander, had wanted. Not to say he didn’t love her. On the contrary, he cared for her too much to have her youthful days stuck in a gray, bleak fort, surrounded by grizzly and tired people. Brock trusted his men, but their manners left a lot to be desired, even if they tried to reign in the worst of it while Iridianna, his daughter, was around them.

  Inevitably, though, she was exposed to a lot of either inappropriate or harrowing talk. Brock hated that his wife had left them. She had washed her hands of her daughter, which was really the only reason Brock seethed at the mere thought of her. But that was neither here nor there.

  Iridianna sat in her room, the gray walls covered in so many paintings, drawings, and colorful pieces that it was difficult to see the wall. Her hair was the same brown as her father’s, and everything else was her mother, which Iridianna would never know, seeing as she’d never met the woman.

  She didn’t care much though. Iridianna kept to herself mostly, sensing how stifled and awkward all the soldiers of the fort grew around her. She realized they were trying not to offend or make her uncomfortable, which she took to heart. Instead, she stayed in her room or on the ramparts, painting the fictions her mind so ceaselessly conjured. Fairies, flowers, nebulas, festivals, fireworks, dances, and parties were things she thought about constantly, her only source of inspiration coming from stories that the soldiers would tell her when she was little.

  Iridianna was older now, though. Time for her to leave and make her own way in life was approaching, faster than either her or her dad were ready for. That night, Iridianna sat at a simple table for two, her father rigid and controlled in how he ate his stew. All was silent for a few minutes, each simply sitting and eating, throwing an occasional glance at the other.

  Iridianna snorted at their cowardice. Or hesitation. “I’m leaving in a month.” She blurted out and went back to eating, ignoring the coughing fit it had sent her father into. She continued to cool a spoonful of stew while Brock looked to be dying.

  After a few breaths to regain control, Brock set his spoon down. “No, you’re not.” He looked her in the eyes, a protective instinct Iridianna had seen rise to the fore many times in her life. But she was nineteen now, three years older than when most moved out as adults. It was past time, in her mind.

  “I wasn’t asking, daddy. I love you, but I want to go out and see the world. This fort has been my prison since birth, and it's time I escape it. It's difficult for me to find new inspiration now. That depresses me more than you can know.”

  Brock acted like he’d been shot, “Prison?... Iri, I’ve tried my best for you. You know that! I’ve tried my hardest to make this feel more like a home than a fort, and I’ve spared no expense! That hurts…”

  Iridianna just held up a hand, “Stop it, daddy. I know you’ve tried, and that's the only reason I didn’t sneak out in the night at sixteen. But I can’t tolerate it anymore. Also, I’m older now. Most move out when they become ready for magic, and I’ve been ready for three years. It's time…”

  Brock just hung his head, wanting to think but unable to. Iridianna wanted to comfort him, but there were no words of comfort to offer. She still loved him, and she would visit, but she couldn’t let herself continue to be stunted by her father’s overprotective ways.

  Iridianna waited for a few minutes before she just patted her father’s shoulder as she stood to leave, “I’ll still visit, daddy, and I still love you just as much as I did years ago. But I’m a woman now. I have to take responsibility for my own life and actions. Goodnight.”

  Iridianna was one step away when a hand caught her forearm. She turned to see her father looking her in the eye, a complex dance of emotions within. But the strongest among them was resolve. “I understand… I don’t like it, but I understand. I left home at 15, and I experienced a lot I wasn’t ready for. I just didn’t want the same for you. But, I learned a lot, and made many memories… I won’t force you to stay, but I also won’t let you walk away from me unprepared. I’ll give you some training and a facet.”

  Iridianna went to protest, but Brock simply held a firm, halting hand up, “I know it's tradition to gather your own facets, but I won’t let you walk away with only a rough. You’ll have one facet and two powers, and then I’ll be as ready as I’ll ever be for the day you leave on your own.”

  Iridianna just stared into her father’s eyes for a minute, and she noticed this was not something he would be moved on. She sighed and smiled, her father’s decision, however anti-tradition, made her feel loved. She hugged him and hurried back to her room, where there was a mannequin she had gotten one of the other soldiers to sneak in without her father knowing. On it, a half-made outfit was draping across it.

  Iridianna just smiled widely as she thought about the comments people were going to make about it, since anyone with a mind for “normal” fashion would call it “garish” or “attention-seeking.” But Iridianna didn’t care, as she gazed at the impressive spectrum of colors that even the incomplete piece displayed. There were reds, yellows, greens, blues, blacks, whites, and all the other colors that dye could be found in, and even some after that, only possible due to user’s powers. She reached for another bolt of cloth sitting on the floor next to it, which was of a color yet to be added to the cloth. She chuckled as she got to work, finding ways to add more colors and design intricacies to the clothes.

  …

  Kosetsu sat at a table in Tennessee, USA, eating a cheeseburger. Any who saw him were immediately uninterested, because absolutely nothing about him was unusual. He had a slight, but not horrible, slouch, plain clothes, unimpressive physique, and slightly tired eyes. But any who knew the man, if he could even be called that, would be on edge. He was not only one of the Calamities, but the Defector as well. That was a recent title, though, and one that didn’t circulate in mortal dialect.

  A woman sat across from him, a polar opposite. She was a thing of beauty, style, and genes. She turned heads for more reasons than most would think possible, and that was when Kosetsu really got seen. Chuckling, Kosetsu put his half-eaten burger down and wiped his hands of the crumbs. “Greetings, Sukun. I would never have expected you to be the first to reach me.”

  “Yes, you did expect me. No games, Shatter. Why did you let me find you?” Sukun asked, keeping emotion from her voice. She wasn’t going to give anything away until the Defector answered her.

  Kosetsu smiled ruefully and shook his head, “Sharp as ever. Truthfully, I need you, Sukun–”

  “Stillness. I’ve never approved of your naming convention, Shatter.” She said testily.

  Kosetsu grinned, his asian features becoming more pronounced. “Forgive me, Stillness. As I was saying, I need you. You won’t need to do much more than your job to help me out, and I’m sure there is something I can do for you in turn?”

  Sukun snorted and turned her nose up as the proposition, “Why would, or should, I help you. You have abandoned your duties, and trillions have already died unduly for it. Why shouldn’t I call Ruin here immediately, have you Scoured, and return the world to how it was before?”

  Kosetsu laughed, Sukun glaring sharper at him for it. “Dear, you won’t do that because you are about to hear why I’m doing the things I’ve done. Trust me, the lives spent in this endeavor will save many more in the future, I assure you.”

  Sukun eyed him warily, “What is this lofty goal, then?”

  Kosetsu leaned in, “Allow me to share in detail.”

  …

  In a library hall that seemed to stretch forever in both directions, a humanoid figure stood in front of one of the two infinite shelves. The book they had strapped to their side shook, and the figure moved for the first time since the birth of the New Reality.

  “Oh?” They said, setting the book they had been reading before back on the shelf, looking closer at the book on their hip. It vibrated, pulling against the simple leather straps that kept it bound to the figure. They simply reached down and undid each buckle, grabbing the book. The figure opened it, noticing all the writing having disappeared.

  The figure was surprised, something that had happened on three counts. This marked the fourth. All that they had ever learned was in that book, recorded meticulously. Now it was gone. But they weren’t unhappy. In fact, they were pleased. Something unique was afoot, and this was just one of many echoes signaling a change in the Reality. They released their hold on the book, and it flew away faster than light itself.

  The figure looked after it for a moment, then returned to what they were doing before the Fourth Surprise.