The first time you killed me, I cried like a baby.

Stupid, stupid, to cry over something make-believe—stupid and ugly and pathetic, too, when already the only thing I wanted in the world was for you to find me pretty. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t expected it to hurt so bad, dying in the sim. I hadn’t expected it to hurt at all.

“They farm starlight.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, they’re going to farm starlight. For now they’re running fusion rigs. But that’s not their long-term plan.”

“No one in the sunforsaken Oort has a long-term plan. Other than slow suicide. You know what they told me, when I was first coming out here? ‘There are warmer ways to die.’ That’s in the bloody Kuiper.”

We’ll skip ahead. Say eight minutes in, so I’m not wasting your time. You’re in your chair, strapped tight, taking around eight Gs. Like this, they wouldn’t even feel that bad, all the force coming from front to back, pressing you down into your seat. Your eyes are starting to water. You might have trouble breathing. But you’re doing great. You’re looking out that window into the black of space, everything shaking. There’s some pinpricks of stars, light-years away, wobbling out there.

She assures them, again and again, that she acted under the best—the very best—of intentions. Oh, yes, she can be a bit dramatic at times—she won’t deny that. And she was hurt—very hurt—by that mess with the invitations. She won’t deny that, either.

But surely—surely—no one can think that she would respond by hurting an innocent child?

When you look out from the garage doors of the corrugated steel warehouse where the Fort Springwell Community College soccer team made their heroic stand against the forces of darkness, the view at first seems . . . idyllic. A rocky shoreline, uncommon for Florida. Periodically the beam of a lighthouse sweeps across our field of view. Everything looks normal, except on its course across the little cove, the beam lights up magical sigils that form a barrier from the lighthouse point to the other side of the cove.

Look, it’s bad enough that my wife gets cat-called in the street and flashed on the train. There’s a lot of sickos out there who get their jollies by harassing women, and usually I try to shut them down without escalating it to a fight.

But we moved a few months ago to a new place. (I don’t want to say where, but it’s in Ishikawa Prefecture.) Last week my wife went to the toilet one night—we have the traditional kind, rather than a Western-style seat—and a moment later I heard this godawful shriek.