???

  The entity looks down at the world, how the plains were on fire, and forests reduced to monster breeding grounds, a barren land where survival is the only option. There were only a few civilisations, some faring better than others.

  But this one? This one had destroyed the Fates lines. Had twisted something not meant to be seen. It was Time.

  Why was the chronos wrong? Why was it twisted? And why was there someone who controlled people, who twisted their minds and very being? Why did, when that notebook– that damn notebook– was held, did the world hold its breath, and the timelines paused, before everything came crashing down, twisting incomprehensibly.

  With a sigh, the being started to unravel the fates strings, the golden lines slowly falling to the ground, as others frayed, and everything twisted confusingly. Many of the strings seemed like they were confused, even, convulsing on the floor like they’re trying to twist back into their original position.

  It was maddening, but the being persisted. Their long nails pierced threads, separating them with an ease that is only held once a master is at work, constantly unraveling pieces of history, of lifetimes, and letting it fall to their floor of silver. But one string stood out, glowed a brighter golden colour, and the being stared at it longer, intense and unwavering. It was also unnerving, to see it.

  The string was one of a creature, a species supposed to be in another place, yet one, defying the strings, had gone across to the city where the Puppeteer was, and now the fates were confused.

  How could they detach someone, so entwined, so stubbornly alive in one city, to place them to the other place.

  It frustrated them, immensely. A void creature climbed from a slip in reality, crawling over to the being in their weird, strange creepy way. “Being. Being?” The Void rasped, and Being’s eyes flickered up. “Yes, Void?” “That Puppeteer’s trying to control Girl.” It said, voice tinged with a bit of worry.

  The Being let out a strangled sound, one of frustration and anger, barely contained by their restraint. “Damn that stupid power, I knew it would come in problems. Grab their strings and hand them to me now. Before they become even more entwined.” Void steps over carefully unweaved threads, grasping at two that seem to be constantly loosening and tightening.

  It was as if a fight was going with only the strings, not people with lives, and ambitions, morals.

  The Void, their body incorporeal but physical, grabs the strings, handing them to Being without a second thought, as it violently rips the two strings apart, more arms manifesting on its back to continue unweaving the mess on the floor.

  Void says nothing, walking back to its hole, as Being gets distracted.

  Finally, after hours of detangling, retwisting and rewiring, the notebook had been appropriately fixed, and the one who was causing trouble, that made the notebook, had been, like his species, granted Void’s refuge, as in its words- ‘The black of its feathers mark it as one of whose ancestor asked me to protect, and so i do.’

  Although, Being just thought Void liked the kid, which was probably also true. Being has never been really good at reading people, not ones like themself, so fundamental they don’t have a string.

  Luckily, there were only a couple beings that were like Being. One was Void, who mostly did nothing, except occasionally cause chaos, and support his birdfolk.

  The next was Gi, the one of the earth, with her two partners Or and Un. Of course, all their names were simplified.

  Giranmanesta Ertharen, Orunstener Ceaneuk and Unkejlew Qigrestalen. Void and Being were the only ones with better names.

  Then, there was one more. A creature so indifferent yet fundamental. A being that was not to be trifled with, and someone who came into this world at the start. It was, of course, Zaman. The Start being, the one of Time. As well as Creation.

  They were terrifying, yet so uncaring. Being supposed that their domain had yet to be messed with even for thousands of years. But that brought the question. Who had dared create the notebook. For the Being was the one of stories, of strings–but not the Fates, they made the strings, he just dealt with the aftermath–keeping them all in check and untwisted. They never had been twisted.

  Sure at times, people have tried to obscure history, but it never worked, never succeeded. He managed to always let one string remember. There may have been knowledge lost, but he was there to remember it, to hang up the strings of forgotten pasts, of people long forgotten. After all, that was what Being was. Though Being went by many names, they were always the same. An entity of remembrance.

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  It was easy to remember the after of the world, when all names previously known had disappeared into obscurity. Where flames ravaged once beautiful lands and people lived in fear, in small settlements that the leaders controlled everything about life. There was no more freedom, no more simplicity, no, now was a time of change and hardship.

  Being didn’t understand why the monsters came, only Zaman could answer that. But that wasn’t important right now. Now, Being had to decide how the strings would fall, how the past would be rewritten.

  An old hag appeared in front of them, a cane in her hand and a wicked look on her face. “Can’t you consult me, dear helper of mine?” Being sat up shocked, though really they hadn’t needed too, but dealing with physical beings means you adapt their form sometimes, especially beings like them.

  “Lady Fates.”

  “I see you have to redo my strings.”

  “Indeed. They became twisted through a notebook. Should you know anything about it?”

  The Lady Fate’s eyes widened. “Yes. That… Well, Zaman created it. Because they believed, I suppose, that the past is important for the future. Well… It just made a good mess of things. But that is not the point.”

  She sat down, a golden loom appearing in front of her, and the strings moving instinctively to the wheel. “I will start weaving. You, my dear helper, try this time not to let them tangle again.”

  Being sat down on the opposite side of the machine, putting their hands on the unchanging strings, the ones not undone by the whole ideal. The ones set in stone.

  __________________________________________________________________________

  Tukami

  Tukami sat astride a rooftop, staring out to the endless stars, not daring to look below where he would find a world of disaster.

  It was only a month ago. One, short month when the monsters had swept the land, ravaged homes and ended lives. Tukami shudders, as he remembers the way their eyes had looked, rolled back into their mind, racing towards him, trying to kill him. The way he had screamed and cried for help, before the blood leaked onto his hands and a figure so known to him, slumped in his arms.

  “Hey Gou– Tukami!” Called a boy, his hair golden in colour. “Why are you moping up here? The monsters are coming again, and we’re leaving. Come on, we have to go!”

  A hand grabs his own, pulling and making him stumble. “No complaining is going to help now.”

  “Coming Arto.” Tukami says, trying to stop him from constantly pulling on him.

  Arto smiles. “The others have already gathered up all our tents. We’re ready for the next destination.”

  Hopping off the ledge of the rooftop, Tukami lands on the ground with a thud, their group of other kids all waiting for him. He looks around. The bags and tents hanging off shoulders and strapped to backs, the hungry looks and weary eyes. It was apocalyptic. Nothing compared to before.

  They were just kids, young children who had their parents killed in the earthquake caused by that giant worm, the tall buildings falling with giant consequences. Then there were parents killed by monsters, which leads to how all of them are alone. Orphans in a world falling apart at the seams. They all start to walk on, glancing around at nature, where trees were failing and the world seemed so lifeless, so blank on colour.

  All there is around is brown. Lifeless, boring brown. Tukami hated it, hated the way it reminds him of his failures, of a world not like home, not of hopefulness or happiness, it was just horrible.

  “When does the food get handed out?” One of the kids complains, a red haired boy named Shari.

  “Midday.” Another boy says, looking fed up with his complaints. They had been getting them all the time since he joined, a new member to their ragtag collection of strays, and had been acting privileged and haughty all the while.

  Tukami couldn’t stand it, and neither could the other kids whose parents had been killed almost instantly by the first disaster, as they called the earthquake that had ravaged the lands. But the newer kids saw something in him that they didn’t, a chance to rebel against the only leaders keeping them sane, together and alive.

  It was idiocracy. But Arto didn’t see them, didn’t see how they plotted and schemed, how they wanted to escape his leadership.

  And they left, all of them. Except a few of us. Again, for months, we gathered survivors, we had people who were our team, our people. Then they decided that we weren’t good enough, not powerful enough, not bringing in enough food, and they rejected us.

  Arto was running on thin ice, and this time when we made another group, he ran things more sternly, more strictly, but I didn't think anything of it. No, why would I?

  “Tukami!” His voice was deep with anger, and I flinched. His hands wrap around my neck, and I gag, trying to draw in air desperately, staring at him with terror in my eyes. “A-Arto?” I say, voice hesitant and fearful.

  I didn’t know what to do. He had never gotten this angry before. But then again, no one had ever stolen our food because we were lousy leaders, they had just left. But now? These ones had deserted us, and robbed us of all our food.

  Arto was terrifyingly angry, face red with hurt and betrayal, but eyes keen with cruelty. He twisted me around, exposing my bare back, as I had lost my shirt when we had low supplies, giving the only shirt that fit me to another kid.

  A pen manifests in Arto’s grip, and my eyes widen, fearful. What was he doing? Why was there a pen in his hands?

  Then it comes down on my back, piercing the skin as I scream, blood flowing into the black ink. “I’ll make sure no one ever betrays me again, never messes with me ever!” He declares, as he etches into my skin.

  Why was there a giant earthquake?