"Yoland?"

Startled, Yoyo nearly jumped on his seat, shaking his head. There was a windchime moving somewhere. It took him a moment to place himself. Myrna had finally arrived, and she stood by the side of the private table, her chestnut hair in a ponytail. She was dressed as though she'd just walked out of the office, comically large bag on her shoulder. "Hey, Myrna."

The mere idea of having dozed off at the table—especially while awaiting company—was beyond embarrassing, but the truth of it was, Yoyo had barely gotten any sleep recently. Thankfully, Myrna simply sat down after nodding back with a soft "Hey!", a stalwart sign that they would go on to pretend it never happened.

Unfortunately, this was not quite a social visit, no matter how familiarity could smooth things out.

"Did your father agree?"

"Obviously," Myrna said, her eyes on the menu. They'd chosen the place by virtue of it being the only 'private table room' option available on short notice, but their offerings weren't bad. "Roland would have him out in the doghouse if he didn't."

Yoyo couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, even given the circumstances. With a grandmother with a sense of humor as his once had, it was hard to stay on a somber note for long.

He still missed her, but he hadn't the time to heal. Not until someone paid.

A part of him knew he wasn't the only one feeling that way—that countless families out there felt the same way. It had taken no time for allegations of negligence and corner-cutting to arise, many of them laying the blame at the feet of the CEO himself, who was said to have insisted on some poor decisions in order to rush the open house, according to several employees who spoke out.

To Yoyo's inexperienced mind, they seemed credible.

At least credible enough to feel confident in this.

The door gently creaked open, and a familiar face entered the room, notepad in hand. "Greetings, my name is Gabriel and I'll be your server this evening."

There was something intrinsically awkward about a former classmate serving you in any form of social setting—it just felt strange, and Yoyo never knew how to handle it without feeling out of place. He preferred to call waiters by name always, but knowing the person made him feel as though he was about to go hang out with them. Having the person there but not as part of the group was just weird.

It might have been immature, or at least an issue he sort of knew he needed to work through, because life would always be like this, but there'd be time for that later.

"Good evening, Gabriel," Yoyo muttered as compromise before he let any of his foolishness show. "I'll take the day's special with steamed vegetables on the side."

"Understood, and you, ma'am?"

"Hm?" Myrna looked up from the menu but did not let go of it. "Right, yes. I'll take the fresh salmon special, butterflied and well done. I don't want to see a hint of red in there."

Gabriel looked between his notepad and Myrna, as if hesitating to say whatever was on his mind. "...Ma'am, this is salmon."

"And?"

Gabriel just took the pen to his notepad, not quite looking back at Myrna. "Will that be all?"

"It will be," Yoyo agreed before Myrna could say anything, yanking the menu from her hands with little resistance before handing both of them to Gabriel. "Thank you, Gabriel."

Myrna raised an eyebrow after the waiter left, but she said nothing—Yoyo would be paying for both of them, after all.

"So," his cousin started, "How have you been? Aside from the obvious."

Yoyo sighed. Truth was, it was hard to face Myrna without keeping in mind that it was only at his grandmother's insistence that he reconnected with this side of the family in the first place. After his father kicked him out, he hadn't even considered it—he'd gone to Rosario instead. His paternal grandmother had been at odds with his father anyway, so it felt like a natural choice, almost an enemy-of-my-enemy type of thing to his teenaged mind.

In time, his grandmother had grown dear to him, but he'd still felt that void in his heart—that desire for family. The old woman had been many things, but 'representative of a happy family' was not one, ironic as that was given her choice of vocation. Still, it had been at her suggestion that Yoyo got in contact with his maternal family, eventually.

"There is more to family than fathers and mothers," Rosario had insisted, and while Yoyo loathed the mother that abandoned him, meeting his maternal grandfather against his better judgment was a gamble that had paid off in the end. He had, frankly, perhaps too many cousins nowadays, several of which attended his wedding and even helped chase his father away when he tried to barge in asking for money once.

With family, had come the connections he sought to use now.

Granted, she'd also given him the whole spiel about how he could also just choose a family for himself if that felt safer to him, to make more friends and build a social life for himself that way, but Yoyo might have been slightly terrified of meeting new people without a convenient excuse such as being blood-related. That he'd managed to get together with Brunilda during the exchange program was miracle enough.

But now was not the time to let timidity get the best of him.

"I have been angry," Yoyo confessed. "Part of it is wanting them to pay, but in truth, I hate them beyond words. I don't want them touching a spaceship or even seeing the Moon ever again, I want the whole world to see them for what they are and watch them be penalized for the lives they took. I want everything about them to be over, I want to bury them."

"Yes," Myrna was absentmindedly polishing something over the table.

It took Yoyo a second to notice what the metal object was, and the several violations of gun safety his cousin was probably guilty of. "In court, Myrna!"

"Oh, right," Myrna's hand went to her waist and the gun was gone as though it had never been there. "Yes, Dad's looking into it. There's not much they could come up with that Dad wouldn't have done better in their place, so I'd say they're fucked. And if they get Thurmond Thompson back, well. Consequences can be arranged."

The CEO had been on the ship, and despite the dangers of his own creation, he'd somehow managed to safely evacuate to a pod and remained the sole survivor of the accident.

Yoyo wouldn't deny his amusement at the fact that the far richer Thompsons hadn't managed to fish their patriarch out of space despite their considerable efforts.

"Indeed, I've been wondering whether we should perhaps be sending our best wishes to old Thurmond Thompson over there," Yoyo said conversationally. "Hope he's recovered safely, and all that."

"And then we bury him."

"Yes," Yoyo nodded, but gave Myrna's hand a pointed glance, as it had once again veered towards her waist.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

His cousin's hands soon returned to the table as she smiled innocently. "We'll be the epitome of politeness until the time comes."

"Indeed."

As the room's windchime announced Gabriel's return, Yoyo rested his chin on his knuckles, his elbow against the table. The steak and veggies looked succulent even from afar. Revenge might matter, or it might not. Only time would tell.

The only thing Yoyo remained certain of was the fact that life would never be great again.

----------------------------------------

Old Thurmond Thompson was having a terrible time. His pod had yet to be recovered after literal weeks, and the stockpile of supplies was dwindling. Old Thurmond Thompson did not make it this far by being smart enough to know to ration anything, however. He had people to manage supplies, obviously—everything from how many wine bottles were bought to the temperature of his potato salad was carefully curated by someone who knew what they were doing.

None of them were here.

Still, the food might have lasted him longer if he hadn't opened so many of the pouches to check whether the contents tickled his fancy, because most of them hadn't, and the uneaten portions had gone bad by now.

Not once during his father's tenure had such a woeful catastrophe occurred, so the unfairness of this happening to him grated constantly at Thurmond. He'd led the real estate and spaceship company faithfully for uncountable decades like his late father before him, successfully pushing for spacial and Moon deregulation every chance he got, until the company reached the heights he had always known it could. Yet he could foresee how all that would be unjustly swept under the rug by the public when they decided they wanted a scapegoat, nevermind that all blame obviously lay at the feet of the engineers that built the spaceship—they clearly hadn't done it right if this could happen.

The trip had shown signs of being a mistake, Thurmond could tell now in hindsight. It started when the upstart teens that had rented the suit wouldn't relinquish it when they learned he was here, and not only that, but the staff had refused his request that they be kicked out. The little shits had even livestreamed the conversation, no doubt making their wily little changes to make him look bad and smear his image. He'd half a mind to have their phones tossed out while they didn't have connection in transit, or go after them legally for anything they posted after.

Not that it would be a bother now, since they were gone along with the spaceship. His personal alarm had told him in advance there appeared to be some turbulence so he'd headed for the semi-secret, experimental emergency pod just in case. It had happened so quick, though Thurmond had no frame of reference. His only regret about having the annoying warning sounds disabled so people wouldn't leave bad spaceship reviews was that now he couldn't tell just how far they'd gone from the base, when the incident happened.

Oh, well, Thurmond also had people for that, so it wasn't as though he'd be having any problems once he got back Earth.

The rescuers should be here anytime now.

Another few days, or at least another few meals passed, and Thurmond's last pack of crackers had long since been eaten. He was parched, and his old bones creaked as he stumbled in his tiny pod, trying to take another glimpse out the window. He tripped on an empty bag and his head hit the floor.

When Thurmond reopened his eyes, all he could see was a blurry figure. He went to speak his mind, but his lips wouldn't move. He felt stiff and dry from his time in abandonment and he could barely look up, and the person didn't even make an effort to offer him aid. The disgrace!

We behold a dying one.

Thurmond couldn't scream at the ear-grating tone of the voice that boomed as though it came from everywhere.

His vision had barely cleared. All he knew was a humanoid shape stood in front of him, almost looking down on him, a bizarre interplay of lights.

Little one, do Our words reach your ears? Is this working?

His lips finally moved, the scent of blood finally clear, and Thurmond screamed.

WHAT WENT WRONG? OUR CHOICE OF TONGUE WAS ACCURATE! PERHAPS HE WISHES FOR US TO SPEAK LOUDER?

The old man just screamed again, until the last of his dwindling energies left him.

Fools We are! the horrible voice shouted in what distantly appeared to be an attempted whisper. Less loud, We should be, for the little one's ears are tiny!

"W-what do you want?" Thurmond rasped. He still couldn't move. "I can pay you to get me out of here."

Even Thurmond was vaguely aware of how dumb that sounded.

Want? For nothing, We want, in present times. We believe your social norms demand We express gratitude over your question, however.

Thurmond sighed as reality hit him, at last—he was dying despite his arduous efforts, and hallucinating. For something that was making no sense, however, at least what he imagined had the decency to be a sight to behold. A calm resignation enveloped him.

The little one dies, there was some nuance to the sing-song voice, a multifaceted resonance to it that only convinced Thurmond of the words' weight. The end was upon him. If We succeed, and learn that which We need to repay what We owe, We will do what We can to pay Our respects.

"Thank you, angel," Thurmond wheezed, despite having no idea what the voice was talking about, not really.

Angels, some of Us have been called, though none complete. Fractured, all of Us, for We are none and one.

"Yes, yes," a half-delirious Thurmond went off, somewhat confused as to why the light hadn't popped up for him to walk to yet. He recalled what the voice had said, faintly, and chose to indulge his curiosity while he waited. "What do you owe? T-to who?"

Names are secrets, each and every one, the voice hummed, somehow. But favors We owe, to many who Exist for long, those We dealt with in Our lives and beyond.

"And y-you repay them?"

Yes, in souls, the voice said as if it was obvious, and Thurmond shivered. He was suddenly not feeling so safe and calm anymore. Of course! Dumb, We are. You in your lone Earth known not of such things. The closer to transcendence you are, the harder it is for you to bring life into Existence. Mortals have children to carry on into the future, but when you are your own eternal future, there's hardly any reason for that—yet some want such things anyway.

Fond as We are of your world, We wander close at times, though rarely do We learn, for this world, We cannot touch. Only one of Us came from here, the one most complete. We see this irony.

The figure that looked down on Thurmond shook, shifting from sparkling white to the shape of a young olive-skinned woman, perhaps barely a girl. She looked dressed for a period piece, a crown of ribboned braids atop her head. Still, she glowed.

An Eylo, she was, and hers is Our only name, but not enough remained of her for her to be here. Shame, shame. She means so much to Us now, We could not save her.

It was official—Thurmond had lost his mind. He willed his limbs to move so he could flee for his life, to reach for whatever minuscule hope may remain for him, but they would not obey.

The fake girl made a soft noise that sounded suspiciously like a wistful sigh. Would that you'd died, left no body behind—but a body you have, and beyond Us, you are. The rest, We took to repay, a drop in the ocean of the favors We owe, lives for those that are wanted born.

Nothing made sense—Thurmond sobbed. Why couldn't his end-of-life dreams be peaceful ones?

"Please," Thurmond begged. "Let me be!"

The fake girl tipped her—its?—head. You have Our regrets—We can't save your life. When you die you won't be a soul for Us to pick, just a body at Our feet. But therein lies Our chance.

"What?"

Our hope is that you can help Us understand, help Us see behind the machinations of the flesh that makes you be alive, so that We may repay the favor We never could, the one always beyond Us, at any point in time.

Help Us learn to bring back that which no god before Us ever has.

"Save me," Thurmond cried to his non-existent staff, to anyone, anywhere, who might somehow hear him and come to him. The pod and even his public relations problems were distant now, unbelievably irrelevant. He didn't know what he was now at the mercy of, but Thurmond did not wish to die, not like this, nor ever, really. His brain was short-circuiting, from his already sorry state and his current numb panic. "Anyone!"

The pod was growing dimmer, even with the partially glowing girl in front of him.

Sorry, the fake girl almost whispered. We cannot.

We truly cannot.