It's funny the things you think about while smearing blood across a wall. If you'd asked Sarah a month ago, she'd have claimed that she wouldn't have time for extraneous thoughts, that the ward would require her full attention. In reality? Each intricate whirl could have been penned in her sleep. There was no hesitation between her brush strokes, no academic confusion. The inner geometry charted the power flows, and the outer script described the effect. When combined with her intent, the three transformed into a complimentary whole, whose only limit was defined by her reserves. 'Trilateral symmetry,' the Tellim called it. Harlan had explained as much when he'd ordered her cohort to assemble in a shallow lagoon, three miles off the Emerald Coast.

Sarah could still remember the way the waves had lapped against the crest of her fin. The water had been cold - freezing, really - and small chips of ice had fallen from the sky before striking the surface in bursts of misty froth. Harlan had been content to ignore the hail while he informed the class that he'd arranged for a rare treat. 'Memories,' he'd told them, with an edge of puckish wonder. 'Ones from a Herald, who's been fighting along the Annolian Front.'

A thousand beady eyes had stared back at him, unwilling to take him at his word. None of the precocial infiltrators had ever seen a nexus in the flesh, and the hair-thin tendrils dangling from the warspawn's back had seemed liable to flense them alive. The idea that these prehensile quills could recreate an experience had struck her unit as patently absurd. Harlan must have spent twenty minutes trying to convince them otherwise before he'd waded into the pool to find his first 'volunteer.'

269588b had been the hapless participant to be selected. Larger than most of Sarah's cousins, the parasite had answered this noble charge by immediately fleeing for deeper water. Sadly, her prodigious size had made it difficult to dodge Harlan's claws. After a minute of casually fumbling for her tail, their commander had eventually scooped her up into his palm and inserted one of the strands through the protein sheath protecting her skull. The inter-cranial connection had caused her eye to bulge along the lower lid from the pressure. So much so, that Sarah had thought her fellow conscript had been killed until her body had begun to twitch. Even when Harlan had ordered her to describe what she was witnessing, Sarah still hadn't been convinced she'd live. It was all too strange - too artfully sly. Sarah had never seen a stage magician until her deployment to Earth, but the first time she'd bought tickets to David Blaine, that had been the memory his sleight of hand had invoked. She could almost taste Harlan's queer, little grin as he jammed her with one of the barbs.

Sarah blinked and let the memory faded back into cerebral static. When she opened her eyes, she found her brush hovering above the wall with the bristles tilted in a jaunty cock. High-Illustrator Dekark had done the same thing after he'd been finished with a ward. The habit must have slipped into the record if it'd survived being copied over twice.

"Like ashes in amber," Sarah muttered quietly. "Or Pamela Anderson's breasts getting burned into Amanda's tv screen."

Her ex had always flushed bright red whenever Sarah had noticed the scars. She'd claimed it was the price she paid for accepting her brother's hand-me-downs; however, Sarah was familiar with the warspawn's tastes, and they ran both sporty and blonde. Her protests fell a little flat.

The recollection of an August day, when they'd tried to replace them with her own, ran through Sarah's head as she slowly extruded her cores. Each orb seared her groin before it slipped free, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost mistake the pain for a far more welcome warmth. She braced her body against the wall. The tiny marbles slid into the ward, accompanied by a series of sharp pops. When the last of them were sealed away within the central gathering array, Sarah sensed a connection form between the gruesome formation and herself. The spell was live. If she focused, she could feel it waiting for instructions like a biddable phantom limb.

Sarah made sure the arming trigger wasn't actively engaged. There was no need to kill herself, now that she'd gotten it to work. It'd only taken... she checked her phone: a hundred and four hours of stripping mana from the surrounding field. Amazing. And the Hearlds did this for a living? It made her wonder how they didn't shoot themselves a week into their tour.

The Light failed to supply an answer as she covered the glyph with a poster. Rider Strong's smile had preceded a multitude of sins in her youth, and she was certain his good looks wouldn't have any trouble hiding her latest indiscretion. Her lips quirked up in a reflection of his rakish expression; a few bars from a half-forgotten theme song played in her head as she made her way to the parlor.

Amelia was sitting on the couch reading a dog-eared copy of A Time to Kill. "I'm headed out," Sarah told her while she waved her thumb at the door. "I noticed you used up the last of the milk, so I figured I'd pick some up before the Whole Foods on Walnut Street shuts down. Is there anything you need while I'm there?"

Her grandmother splayed the novel across her chest and squinted at the ceiling in thought. "The detergent's running low, and I wouldn't say no to a box of fig newtons. Other than that, nothing comes to mind. Do you need money for the groceries?"

Sarah shook her head. "You've been feeding me all week. It's only fair I cover the cost."

Amelia frowned. "If, you're sure."

Sarah was. She also knew they'd get into a fight if she revealed everything she was planning to buy. The cupboard had gotten far more barren than Amelia was inclined to acknowledge. Between the injury to her hip, and the logistical snarls caused by covid, a lot of her purchases had been put off under the expectation that she could pick them up, later, once the errand stopped being a hassle. Needless to say, such an opportunity looked increasingly less likely to arrive. While Sarah hadn't heard of any hoarding yet, she merely considered it a matter of time. It'd be better to stock up now before Amelia was left in the lurch.

Besides, Sarah wasn't sure how much longer she'd be around to help. Even if Townsend didn't take her down in some sort of elaborate murder-suicide, there were bound to be a number of parties who'd be willing to take his place. The global intelligence apparatus; hostile warspawn; the local crazies. Sometimes, it felt like it'd be easier to count the people who didn't want her dead than those who'd gladly cut her throat. When so much of her life was trapped in a state of flux, it was soothing to be able to cross another item off her proverbial to-do list. It helped ensure everything wouldn't go to hell if her luck took a turn for the worst. "Love you, grandma," Sarah murmured softly. "I'll be back in a bit."

Amelia raised her hand in a silent farewell. She didn't feel the need to say anything as her granddaughter headed for the door. Sarah wasn't sure if she was relieved by the reticence or not. It was easy to read into the gesture and see a world where her secret had been exposed. Too much of her time with the Offal Sea had been infecting her life on Earth lately. The comfortable separation of yesteryear had fallen into a river-cut chasm, which narrowed as you tumbled down the slope. At some point, the two shores would meet: likely with catastrophic results.

The thought plagued her as Sarah navigated the winding avenues of Medford; especially, since she couldn't turn her brain off and just take her usual route. Too much of the interstate had been damaged by the Light's intercession. Sure, there were road crews out, who were working to repair the damage; however, it'd be a couple more days until they'd fixed both the pipes and the potholes. In the meantime, Sarah was left to puzzle out the advised detours as the dregs of the mana surge screamed along her tendrils. All in all, it made the twenty-minute trip take closer to an hour and a half.

"I should have bought a moped," Sarah groused as she slid around a Lichtenberg figure burned into the grocery store parking lot. "Or better yet a pack mule. There's a lot of reliability in a literal unit of horsepower. If you need some gas, grow some grass; if it's taking too long to get to your destination, just help it develop a mana core. The Qelt got pretty far using what was basically an up-jumped buggy."

Sarah slammed the car door shut and fiddled with her keys. After the locks issued an agreeable-sounding chirp, she grabbed an abandoned shopping cart from the mulch-covered meridian and pushed it through the dense crowd milling about near the sidewalk. Apparently, there was another homeless nut preaching in front of the recycling center. This one was wielding a wide, cardboard sign, which read 'THE CHIPS ARE IN YOUR BLOOD!' More importantly, he'd stumbled across a receptive audience and was milking them for all they were worth.

"We warned you!" he screamed as spittle misted through his scruffy beard. "We told you what was in those vaccines! You laughed - don't lie - but now that they're whispering their vile lies into your ear, we all know the truth! There's no magic - no devilry! None save what was injected into your veins by Bezos and his satanic cartel! Don't believe the hallucinations that are even now beguiling your mind! Together, with the help of the natural remedies these woke charlatans have hidden from us, we can take back our lives and destroy their conspiracy of control!"

Sarah tried to avoid eye contact as she traversed the intrigued throng. The last thing she needed was for this jackoff to accost her, so he could explain why his magic potion would be the one to finally have an effect. As if that was even a thing, outside of a few schemes the Loom and the Library liked to play. She clicked her tongue; well, their adherents, at least: the Networks were rather hands-off.

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Sarah passed through the sliding glass doors and found herself within a dilapidated hellscape lined with filthy linoleum. Up above, near the beige sign advertising baked goods in 'Aisle Five,' a distant air conditioner blew a cold breeze down along the back of her neck. If she stood there for a couple of minutes, the chilly tendrils might have been strong enough to reach through the flesh of her host. No amount of frigid discomfort could distract her from the empty shelves, though. Not when they stretched all the way to the deli-counter at the back of the store.

She pushed her carriage towards the next row and found only bits of torn packaging. The third aisle was a little better in the sense that it offered to sell her a can of beans for three-fifty a pop. Sarah picked up one labeled 'Country Style' and turned it over in her hand. The seal seemed, alright. Had the employees simply made space by rearranging where they kept the bread? It was hard to tell. She added the tin to her basket and retreated towards the cash registers behind her.

From there, Sarah ambled along the main walkway to see how the rest of the store was doing. The answer was both better than she'd feared and worse than she'd hoped. While there was still more than enough merchandise to keep the neighborhood well-provisioned, a lot of the brand name goods had disappeared, leaving only generic offerings in their place. The sole exception seemed to be the hygienics department. No matter where she turned, there were still tampons and toilet paper waiting to be purchased. 'How ironic," she mused with a smile. 'Perhaps the public's learned a lesson from the last time we played this game.'

The thought startled a sardonic laugh out of her. Sarah couldn't help chuckling as she returned to the entrance and began snatching non-perishables, whenever they caught her eye. Butter; sugar; flour; salt. She aimed for the ingredients with the most generous best-buy dates and then picked up the ones that would only grow stale once a month had passed. By the time she was ready to ring everything up, the cart must have weighed eighty pounds.

Sarah wandered towards the self-check-out lane, where a plastic-capped, orange light was steadily blinking on and off. Beside it, backed up to the nearest display stand, was a second station, which was attempting to deal with the overflow. It wasn't going very well. Apparently, two customers had gotten into an argument about whose groceries were on the belt and had nearly come to blows over the issue. Sarah didn't want to deal with their shouting, so she angled for one of the employee-operated terminals, despite the flutter it induced in her heart.

To her surprise, the girl bagging the groceries wore a familiar face. "Pullberry," Sarah greeted her, the stilted words slipping from her lips. "You're... working today?"

The young warspawn blew a lock of hair away from her flushed forehead. "Yup. New job. They're paying me time and a half." Her dead-eyed expression conveyed how little she thought the money was worth it.

Sarah watched her scan a bottle of apple juice three times before the machine deigned to read the label. She considered spinning up her internal relay so they could have a less couched conversation but soon remembered who she was talking to. Maybe the youth's stubborn silence was just as well: it didn't feel like they had much to discuss.

"You want a paper bag, or did you bring your own?" Pullberry's question was uttered with all the enthusiasm of an alcoholic being issued their fifth silver chip.

Sarah shook off the depressing mental image. "Paper, please."

Pullberry quoted her a price and Sarah quietly paid it. By the time she was done slipping her credit card back inside her wallet, the argument a few lanes over was starting to get rather heated. One of Pullberry's co-workers set down the plastic wand he'd been using to scan the available stock and ran off to get their boss. A few moments later, when he returned with the individual in question, their manager began a routine that Sarah could identify as 'placate the asshole.' She didn't envy the man and his assignment. "I don't know how you stand it," she confessed when there was a brief lull in the noise.

Pullberry scowled and prepared to snap back, then she noticed the direction of Sarah's gaze and a wave of understanding washed away her vitriol. "Oh. You mean..." She twirled a finger at the feuding customers.

"Yeah."

The teen snorted. "You know, if my boss asked me that question, I'd probably tell him it's because I'm open-minded. Between you and me, though? I'll give you the real reason. The trick is to treat them like they're robots. You see the cunt screaming by the candy rack? He's not a person: he's just a machine made of meat. A system of buttons and levers you can push to make money fall out and the line move forward. Who cares if he gets hit by a car while walking home from the bus stop? Just smile at the next tubby bastard and tell him to have a nice day."

Sarah winced as she resettled her purse. "Please tell me you don't believe that."

"Why, you want me to lie to you, instead?" The parasite laughed.

Sarah was much more solemn. "Honestly? Yes. If you have to. I've been reminiscing a lot over the last few weeks, and it's called to mind the impact a teacher can have on our education. We learned a lot of horrible lessons, Pullberry. We'd have been better off if we'd watched more Sesame Street."

The warspawn's levity fled at speed. "Fuck off. Go crawl up your own ass and die."

"I mean it," Sarah said as the spite washed off her back. "Don't they remind you of the kids back home? Maybe even someone in particular?"

For Sarah, it was a loathsome, little shit who'd followed along in her slipstream. Every time she'd found a strand of seaweed, he'd put on a burst of speed and try to steal it out of her mouth. He must have kept the act up for months until they'd been herded into basic training. Sometimes, when she was sitting in her kitchen eating a bowl of kombu, she wondered if he'd ever grown out of the habit or if he remained the same annoying bastard.

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Pullberry growled. She shoved a box of Rasin Bran so hard it ripped the corner of the bag. Instead of pulling the carton out and repackaging everything correctly, she grabbed another sack from beneath the counter and slipped it over the tear.

"If not me, then who?" Sarah asked her. "If not now, then when? After your neighbors are done knifing each other over a box of stale donuts? Once the power company pulls the plug and we're stuck burning trash on the beach? Be reasonable: you know this isn't sustainable."

She motioned towards the disheveled UPS driver squaring off with a red-faced veterinarian. The former was heavy-set and had angled his body in order to bring his weight to bear. His opponent, long accustomed to unruly patients, didn't seem bothered by the threat. Indeed, that award went to Pullberry's manager, who was trapped between the two.

Muscles tightened beneath the man's animal-print scrubs. Sarah waited for him to throw the first punch, only to realize they hadn't reached an inflection point, yet.

"And who's fault is that?" Pullberry asked her, pulling the blonde's attention away from the fight. "It certainly isn't mine. I didn't do shit to disrupt the status quo. You think I want any part of this clusterfuck?"

"Don't you?" Sarah argued with incisive bitterness. "After all, it's not like they're people. Who cares if a couple of them wind up in the ground? Isn't that what you said?"

Pullberry grimaced. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"They're your fucking words!" Sarah vehemence cut through the simmering tension half an aisle over. The surrounding crowd, already primed to watch someone get their face punched in, spread further out until their retreat was blocked by the flow of traffic.

"Is there a problem over there?" Pullberry's manager called out.

A quick glance at his name tag revealed that this was 'Stephen Miller,' assistant manager for the Whole Foods' second shift. Normally, that'd be enough to raise Sarah's hackles; however, the fact that he took the time to check on his aggrieved subordinate eased some of her reflexive irritation. He seemed like a good boss. It was a shame his inattention was rewarded with a shot across the brow.

Sarah watched the UPS driver work himself up to it. He wasn't the type to just cold cock a man at the drop of a hat; he needed to resign himself to the violence - to survey his audience and make sure his actions fit the scene. She could almost visualize him matching his environs against what he'd seen on tv. 'I hit him now,' he concluded after working through the checklist in his head. 'Quick, while no one's looking.'

Of course, just because you know what to do, that doesn't mean you're actually any good at it. When the clumsy bastard threw his fist forward, he tripped over a cart and accidentally clipped Miller by mistake. Pullberry's manager went down in a slump. The man he'd meant to connect with responded by lunging for his waist. They both fell to the floor. As they fought each other for leverage beneath Kim Kardashian's tits, one of them kicked the magazine rack, causing her image to gyrate wildly.

"...You did that on purpose," Pullberry spat, her eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint. "Why? Do you think this underlines your point, or did you just feel like being a bitch?"

Sarah bit her tongue. "I'm not omniscient, Pullberry. There's a difference between observation and causation. Or are you trying to tell me that you cause a fire every time you see smoke?"

"Oh, so this is a coincidence. You merely happened to show up at the same time Doctor Dolittle decided to punch his neighbor in the dick. Good to know." She pointed at Sarah's groceries. "Your shit's all paid for. Take it and have a nice day."

The tussle devolved into muffled grunts as the two jabbed each other in the side. One of the witnesses was screaming for them to cut it out, but Sarah thought her tears were doing more to spur the situation along than to halt it. Neither of the combatants were putting their heart into the fray; if everyone just shut up, the two would probably walk away once they'd gotten it out of their systems.

Sarah filled her carriage and braced the damaged bag against her chest. After she wrapped her arms around the reinforced sack, she set her weight against the basket and pushed its sticky wheels towards the exit. For a moment, the scuffle barred her way. Then, their crude strikes grew feeble, and she was able to steer around the grapple.

'This should hurt more,' Sarah noted as the doors slid closed with a click. If there was any justice in the world, the belligerents' misshapen expressions would have gnawed at her like a pod of freshly hatched kin. Instead, all that bothered her about the fight was their form. A thousand stolen memories whispered that their wrists were cock-eyed and their shoulders set too far forward. This wasn't how you were supposed to practice any martial art worth the name.

Her fingers clenched. Sarah wished she could've said they'd done so in accordance with her will. It was too hard to tell, though. There were just too many competing influences to make a definitive judgement. "It's only an echo," she muttered tiredly, feeling like the loon with the sign. "Simply the shadows of the past."

The sharp pressure of her nails continued to call that statement into question as she trudged back to her car.