Dear Listener,
Nothing’s ever truly gone, and nothing gained nor lost. It just transforms, unnoticed… forgotten… ’til it’s not. Like sickness, or a story, or a lifetime, or a plot.
— Author Unknown
Chapter 13: Set it and Forget it
General Havlor. General Vale. Lieutenants Redd and Thule, thank you for assembling on short notice. To bring our newly cleared officers up to speed without delay, the experiment is far more vast than you have been led to believe. Public record lists it at nearly two centuries of operation, and that is true as we perceive time. But inside the field, it has been tens of years, or hundreds of thousands, depending on the day.
The environment translates Tephronian equations into living models, each recursion searching for its own best outcome without interference from us. Until now. Which makes this a critical inflection point. The idea is simple. When the system reaches apex or collapse, it restarts. Each repetition carries forward what worked and forgets what did not, allowing the future to build on itself. A perfect, self-perfecting evolution. Set it and forget it.
Until now. Data analysis shows new irregularities. The recursions are lasting longer, well beyond predicted limits. Multiple micro-loops have begun forming within the primary cycle. Let me clarify. Nested recursions. Loops within loops. The working hypothesis is that entities inside the field have learned to use the system for their own purposes. What those purposes are, we do not yet know.
We have slowed the field to near real-time for direct observation and deployed boots on the ground. But the fact that we are now inside changes the system fundamentally. It is no longer a closed environment. Our operative, codename Tango-1, was deployed for reconnaissance at the most anomalous temporal region. I am monitoring his code directly, but it is anomalous. His pattern shows repeated termination events, complete system failure, occurring every five to sixty minutes. Yet the process resumes each time. It looks like he is dying between twenty-four and three hundred times daily.
The data makes no sense. General Havlor, I recommend preparing a team to enter the field for verification and possible extraction. For the record, Tango-1 is decorated, highly trained in combat and espionage.
Chapter 14: Twelve Seconds
…Oh, but there have been some oddities, for sure. You want to hear about one of the strangest ones? Ever since I learned how to, in a sense, change the opening scene, I have managed a few mini-adventures between deaths. And before you ask, yes, if I do not die or collect the weird collar, I reset after exactly sixty minutes. To. The. Second. Doesn’t that seem odd?
Usually I block the blade with my eyes closed and cut down the nasty, smelly cult-kids with surprising grace, if I do say so. It takes a few seconds for the paralysis to wear off, but I have gotten good at timing it. Oddly enough, I have recently noticed an older woman watching the whole thing from her window, quill in hand. If I did not know better, I would think she was making googly eyes at me. The greater the confidence I portray, the googlier her eyes are.
But even beyond that, things have indeed gotten strange. I am aware that any murder I commit will get undone in an hour or less, so I have taken on Tephra a few times. She has killed me in so many wonderful ways. Bashed in my skull several times, each better than the last. Even took my head clean off once using only that blunt staff of hers. I still have not gotten used to the pain of being nearly split in half from the groin up. I try to avoid that at all costs.
Interestingly, she seems to put in less and less effort each time. I am coming very close to striking her with my sword, or whatever this flat-black prop is. I told her I loved her this time. I wish I could have seen her face. I am fairly sure I had my jaw shattered immediately after, or maybe I dreamed it as I let out my final breath. No, I admit, I do not think I could enjoy such treatment from anyone else. She is quite an artist.
Oddities. Right. One of the strangest ones so far. The goddess herself, Tephra, disassembled me with a damning blow. And then, as always, I was waking up again, expecting that scream, which I now find rather amusing. I do not know if he is fully committed to it. It is like he is trying to act it out for the others, and he is a terrible actor. Only took a thousand times for me to notice, though.
Maybe I was an actor. Oh dear, I would be a terrible one. I will stick to tax collecting. Or I could be an exterminator. What a guilt-free way to use my new skills without murdering anyone. So, the tragic scream did indeed start as normal, but was silenced rather abruptly.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip. Projectiles pierced the base of each cultist’s skull. Then silence. A single second that felt like an hour. The axe clanged to the ground, followed by the dull thuds of the bodies.
Before me stood five men and women in matching black uniforms, masks over their faces as if identity still mattered in this place. They moved with Tephra’s precision, but colder. Clinical. Every motion measured, fast, inevitable, as if they had rehearsed this a thousand times. One crouched beside the priest in the wheelchair, inspecting, maybe cataloguing, the collar around his throat. Black. Dull. The one that resets me when I take it. He handled it carefully, like removing it would break something. Then he left it where it was.
Others quickly, quietly, collected blood samples from each of the kids. None of them spoke. Tephra appeared in the doorway of the chapel. Silent. Composed. As if patiently collecting data. I do not know if she knew them, but something in her expression carried the faintest trace of a familiar calculation.
Chris P., also known as Jon, protective as ever, placed himself clumsily yet sincerely between Sara and everything. A wibbly wall of flesh and worry. The kind of courage only innocence can pull off. And Sara stood there with those colored stones she carries with her like they mean something. This time she was staring at them differently, like they had just told her a secret.
I tried to call out, but the air folded in on itself. The one who appeared to be the leader looked me in the eye and saluted, as if he thought he knew who I was. I tried to respond. Tried to salute back, call out, ask who they thought I was, but my body was still locked. Sleep paralysis. The usual gift. At least someone thinks they know who I am.
One final motion, like exhaling, and they vanished. No sound. No anything. Just gone. I finally was able to raise my sword. And then the silence. The kind that remembers things, even when you do not want it to.
Oh, right. I should say that they were rather efficient. This all happened in exactly twelve seconds.
Kellor Voss:
Generals, science staff, thank you for meeting remotely. I have some disturbing news. As you know, I led a team into the experiment to put eyes on Tango-1. I will share those unexpected details momentarily. More importantly, we are alarmed to find that the experiment has been breached, apparently for quite some time, by the experiment’s internal chronology.
Doctor Wint and his team are reviewing the data as we speak. He notes that while these entities are human, further analysis of the code shows something interesting. Generals, let me explain. In molecular chemistry, most biological structures have what we call handedness, like your left and right hands. The molecules are made of the same material, but they twist in opposite directions.
Terrestrial life shares the same twist, one universal handedness. We call this homochirality. There is no reason life could not have evolved the opposite way, but once a direction is chosen, it stays, shaping everything that follows, even the way electrons move through living systems. The entire architecture of life, from its chemistry to the flow of energy itself, depends on that tiny choice of orientation.
These humans have the opposite molecular handedness. The best conclusion we have is that they originate from Phenem. Generals, this is our first concrete evidence, not only of the phased world’s existence, but that life seems to have evolved there in parallel with our own. The implications are staggering. We now have twice as much life to save from annihilation.
Gentlemen, I have been working on a plan since well before we introduced Tango-1 to the system, and I feel more strongly now than ever that it is the correct plan.
Chapter 15: The Bull’s Breath
Long before Thorgal R’uun the Peaceful united a shattered race and saved them from perpetual violence, a few among the Minotaurs had already grown weary of war. Among them was the Shaman, high keeper of the largest herd in Phenem. He begged for peace and preached it to his congregation, but none would listen. For them, violence was prayer. It was their culture, and nobody wanted his peace.
But his faith was great, and he believed that the gods wanted peace among all living things, as he did. He prayed night after night, eyes toward Mo’Rath, the Great Winged Bison who guards the heavens. But without an answer, his faith wavered.
One dusk, as he pleaded for a sign, he saw something new within Mo’Rath’s domain: a puff of light so faint it vanished when looked at directly, yet lingered at the edge of sight. It was certainly the Bull’s Breath, the living exhale of the god who had heard him. He prayed with renewed passion until, at last, he received an answer. He was certain of it.
The voice spoke of unity, of an end to all bloodshed, of peace. And the Shaman believed, because it was what he wanted for the world. The god plucked Mo’Rath, the great bison, from the stars. Vast and obedient, a beast of thunder and smoke. And it obeyed the Shaman.
The Shaman rode the bison into the villages and mazes, demanding peace, despite the people’s passion for war and instinct for violence. When they did not comply, he commanded the bison to gore those who disobeyed. And so, peace came, for a time.
Yet peace without healing settled like ash. Soft at first, then suffocating. And when the peace he had forced on them by divine decree exhaled, there was war beyond any there ever was. Entire herds were culled. Bloodlines ended. The rivers ran red. The Shaman returned to demand peace, commanding Mo’Rath to trample any who bore arms. When the herd learned to hide their weapons, the Breath whispered again, and they both agreed: “Kill them all.”
The clans, terrified, united at last against him. When his defeat was certain, he ordered the bison to rise and bear him away. The beast unfurled its wings and obeyed. Had the god lied to him? Perhaps he misunderstood the divine directive. To obey perfectly and finally bring peace, he must reach the god itself. So he commanded the bison higher: through the winds, through the cold, through the veil where stars begin.
He flew for a thousand years toward the Bull’s Breath, which never drew nearer. He passed by the very gods and legends written among the stars, and wonders not suited for mortals. The universe presented him with more glory, knowledge, and beauty than he could ever want. But he passed them all by. His eyes remained fixed upon the Breath.
Soon he had flown further than any star that shined. All that remained before him, from the corner of his eye, was the Bull’s Breath, hanging alone in the darkest dark, as distant as it had been before.
Kellor Voss
Generals. I have reviewed the Phenem specimens again with the science team. Despite their molecular differences, they are unmistakably human. There is a problem, however, and I will break it down.
The current evolutionary state of the system is extraordinary. It has formed a village about a mile wide, a working community of roughly five hundred people. They are built from Terran DNA but have changed through years of recursion inside the experiment. The anomalies we are seeing come from what we call the Phenem insertions. The code shows they exist, but we cannot physically locate them. Their numbers rise and fall, as if people were entering and leaving through hidden doors.
Generals, there is another issue that is harder to grasp. We have found Terrans inside. Let me repeat that. We have found actual Terran-born humans inside the field, who seem to have taken control of parts of the system for reasons we do not yet understand. The data also shows new Terrans appearing suddenly, then vanishing again through death or relocation. It looks as if people from our world are being pulled in by the thousands, and most of them do not survive long.
The experiment has been compromised. We cannot restart the recursions by normal methods. I have, however, been developing a contingency plan since I first learned about the project. It is extreme, but I believe without question that it is the right course.
The science team keeps asking how we evacuate the Terrans we cannot locate. The only answer is that we do not. My team and I are fully committed to this plan. We have come too far to hesitate now. Let me explain.
Chapter 16 : Ashes and Echoes
Good to meet you. I’m Sara. Pardon the voice. I was up really early, and Mareen says I sound like an old man before coffee. The day the Stranger showed up, I was nineteen.
It was morning. The equations I had been studying were under my skin, and I couldn’t stop thinking about a variable I wanted to add. At the chapel there are these resonance stones Sister Tephra made. We think they will be able to manifest my time-recursive equations. Big concept, I know, but it matters here.
They had been holding the wrong frequency. A kind of coldness in my hands. I thought they just needed calibration. But when Pip was in Mareen’s room thumping a mouse right above my head, I could already remember him bringing it to me. Headless. White-furred. And sure enough, moments later, there he was in the doorway with the little dead gift, exactly as I had remembered it. Thanks, Pip, by the way.
I will keep this simple. If I could apply my equations to the stones, I could reset time from a certain point. Which, yes, raises a few ethical nightmares, so it is not something I would actually try. Except, this might be what it would look like if I already had.
So I ran into the chapel, without my coffee, mind you, and grabbed the stones. When I stepped back out, I saw four people in the field, flickering in and out like a bad transmission. They were wearing the robes of the Cult of Swillborn. Armed. And then, all of a sudden, there was someone new there. The Stranger. He flickered in, and then they all vanished.
I turned back to the stones and adjusted my equation, just like I had been thinking about before getting out of bed. They began to hum, vibrating against my palms, each with its own harmony of temperature and sound. My equations worked.
Moments later, everything changed. I was standing in the same spot I had been a moment before, but everything was gone. Burned to the ground by a fire that must have turned the village into a forge inside the cylindrical wall. The central tower still stood from the ground to the heavens, untouched, but everything else was a fine ash.
The chapel, the only stone structure in Gratch Hollow, still had its walls, but the roof and doors were gone. Nothing and no one could have survived inside. Where the Swillborn cultists had been flickering, they now lay on the ground, fresh blood gushing from the backs of their skulls. They had arrived here moments ago, well after the fire. But who could have disabled them that quickly? By all rights, Tephra should have been dead.
Then another figure caught my attention. An older man wearing all black, what looked like a battered uniform, wandering in a daze through the layer of ash. He carried a round object with a purple, pulsating orb mounted in its center, like a jewel.
Just as I saw him, the Stranger flickered in. Silent. Almost asleep standing up. But before his eyes opened, his sword lifted sharply, as if to block an invisible attack.
The old soldier did not seem to notice the Stranger or me. His face and stance said he had just endured something unbearable. The Stranger shouted, “Hey, you there, what happened here?”
The old soldier lifted the black circle and aimed it toward the dead Swillborn priest slumped from his wheelchair. The priest had an identical circle worn as a collar. As the old soldier approached, both collars began to resonate. The purple gems pulsed in rhythm. The sync deepened, then turned violent. I thought one might explode.
He backed away and looked at me with the most hollow eyes I have ever seen. Confused. Grieving. The hollowness filling with tears. Then he looked at the Stranger and asked, quietly, “Am I still Kellor Voss?”
His face twitched. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black box, fumbled with it, and then he vanished. No sound. Nothing.
On the ground, his collar remained, gem pulsing violet, spinning like a coin.
Kellor Voss:
Generals. The operation is complete. The field has stabilized. A clean recursion is expected. Extreme, yes, but the absolute right thing to d—
…What?
Correction to the record. Code relay confirms multiple clusters, thousands, still active, but outside the cleared zone. This should be impossible.
Wait. There is more. Over a thousand new Terran code signals have just appeared.
For the record, I stand by the decision. It was necessary. Every model confirmed it.
Listen to me…
What the Pig Promised is written, performed, and produced by Shawn Fitzmaurice.
A production by Voiceover Nerd Productions, Inc. © 2025. All rights reserved.
