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Trunks Briefs (Future) Trunks: In the future, a pair of Androids created by the evil Dr. Gero have ravaged the Earth. With Goku, the only person strong enough to face the Androids, dead of a heart virus, most of Earth's defenders were slaughtered as the Androids wiped out most of the humans on the planet. The only people left to defend the Earth were Gohan, Goku's half-human son, and Trunks, the son of the Saiyan prince Vegeta and the human scientist Bulma. Upon seeing Gohan's corpse after he died in battle against the Androids, Trunks achieved the legendary Super Saiyan form for the first time. Bulma then managed to build a time machine, which Trunks used to go back in time, deliver a cure for Goku's virus to save his life, and help the Z-Fighters stop the Androids from wiping out everyone on Earth. Intro: Trunks steps onto the arena and the camera pans up to show his face, briefly focusing on the Capsule Corp. logo on his jacket. Trunks then clenches his fists as ki pulses around

It’s been months that this infection has spread like wildfire. I have been giving supplies to ponies and hospitals so that they don’t have to go out and I came across a very sad scene. The infected was Bon Bon and she was in the final stage of this infection and had sadly passed away, and I can’t help that Lyra is heartbroken about the loss of her lover. My friends asked me for updates which I can’t really give them one at the moment, but I know that I have to find this plant and give it to the hospital so they make a cure for it. Rainbow Dash also helps deliver supplies to other ponies when she has the time to do so. Dash will update me about the girls and sometimes AppleJack and Pinkie Pie will go out to give out some supplies. I decided with Spike to go to the area where the flower had been spotted by Cheerlie and her students. I flew over to the spot and saw that there were flowers that I had seen as I put on some gloves on my hooves to extract the flower from the ground as I

Act I Before the curtain opens, a voice as soft as the wind says: Dull (Curtain opens) Sounds of heavy footsteps and wind whipping, taking the breath away from the man who enters the scene. Very slowly, a man, a beggar, staggering, enters an archway in an empty, dark street. In the distance, only a streetlamp illuminates. Night had fallen, and darkness reigns. On stage, a dim light shines on the actor, giving the impression that he has the aura of a poet that gradually disappears. The beggar is in tatters and finds it difficult to warm up because of the cold and icy wind, penetrating not only his body but also the wounds caused by poor hygiene. Jonah opens his mouth to speak but stops for two minutes. He puts his index finger to his lips, as if he were a Maestro asking for the sound to stop. - "Shhh." (Jonah asks the wind for silence with his index finger to his lips) A cold silence. (A fan pretends that the spectators also feel the freezing air. Jonah remembered what he was going to say.) JONAH "It was in my poems and secret stories that I put my soul. And in my notebook, she cried, abandoned tales that could move a mountain but did not move those stall time or those who have the choice of someone trapped in the ignorance As they take pleasure in killing hope. People do not have it. People prefer to forget. People ignore, while the poets plead. Poets and destiny designers fall into oblivion and die forgotten. (Jonah cries hopelessly. But still in tears, he continues.) People love to forget. People love to disdain. People love to lose. And the less society understands, the better, the more egos and bad-mouthing. (He had knelt with his face to the ground, a posture of prayer.) A light appears. Jonah understands who has appeared in front of him and kneels again, but with more brutality. A handsome man with a neatly trimmed white beard in a white robe and blue cloak. All his hair was long, curly, and wavy. A god Jonah had created in his poems and tales. Yana is the creator of all dreams and his person as a poet and short story writer. YANA: The knees are not the honour, but the ruin of the old. You would be, once again, the new god, for you are a god and your own god of the kingdoms in that broken notebook. Thou art thyself the emperor, but do not be the dictator like the men of your Earth who call heretics and sinners those who choose not to believe in the work of an ancient civilization, and you told me that the first son was killed. You go beyond pain like a god, you are much more than these Pharisees. And you, like a god in your dream, you die if believers stop having faith. Are you not offended? (Says Yana in a calm tone, like a parent trying to calm their child.) Jonah reflects. JONAH: Men already have a god called God, and they have no tolerance for atheists, and I am not one because I believe in will and truth. And truth is like God, that everyone wants to believe, but when reality and truth shine much brighter than a rising sun, many lose faith. Why look at the ground? It is much easier and does not touch fear, its pure essence and notion, that the difficult is an obstacle. (On stage, an incredibly beautiful lady, Uma – the poet's muse - enters. She takes two steps towards the poet and looks proudly at the poet.) UMA: Precious, a tear is clear and pure, salt, but all the words we wrote together are beyond Homer's words. Let us be fair, fairer than justice itself. I never, ever regretted being a muse to a poet, but this poet was the only one who loved me from my first wish to my last. I heard that Homer was a cheapskate who never duly paid the price to his muse, nor did the dividends from every song created in his pompous name. Precious is this man and poet, blessed be your precious name. And yes, I love him too, but it is forbidden for me to love him because Homer wrote to the creator of the muses, Zeus, that all muses should love a single poet, and he obeyed. But Homer turned his back on his own dreams to draft a story that appealed to Greeks but not Trojans. (Uma walks with a smile on her lips, raises her arms, and touches the poet's face.) The poet cries. He collapses and melts into the dirt on the sidewalk. These tears are neither of sadness nor of joy, but they are tears he created to reveal a new feeling he feels and to give the world a new feeling, beyond longing, the anguish of losing a mother, the loneliness of being alone, and the pure platonic love for a muse. He has calluses, not on his hands, but on his soul). The new feeling is called Sausoladorplato (Longing, loneliness, and platonic love) is the new feeling. Jonah, stands up and faces the audience. JONAH: A diligent worker, and still underpaid. Not only do you have calluses on your hands, but also calluses on the soul. Weary are the body and the heart. Without the calm soul, all calluses hurt inside and out. I created a new feeling, to reveal myself only. But when the callous pain in my soul ceases, it means my life has ceased, and with this new feeling, I wanted to teach society that all feelings are ours, for we are human and mortal, and whoever disagrees with all these words said means that you are monsters and surreal. Sausoladorplato I am body and soul. And to give the world a new feeling, much more than nostalgia, the anguish of losing a mother, the loneliness of being alone, and the pure platonic love for a muse. I have calluses, not on my hands, but on my soul. For all this and much more, I am Sausoladorplato. Uma, I love you too, oh muse of muses, above queen or empress, goddess of all muses, the first born from the tears of despair of the first poet, Enheduanna. Uma still cries for him in her dream. Uma releases a tear. Immediately the sound of water is heard. She had created a new river. That river was so clear but stormy. Pain and weeping were what fed the river's bed. The Argentdolor River (Silver Pain). ACT II But the conductor is not present. Quick change of scenery. The sound of the wind fades away. An empty stage, just a bed in a dark setting. Only a dim spotlight illuminates the bed. Jonah comes out of nowhere, out of the dark. On the bed is a body. He gropes himself and cries out in confusion. He curses himself without the audience understanding what he says. JONAH: NOOOOOOOOO. DEAD POET. THE WORK IS NO MORE. He lies down and finally speaks. JONAH: Deafness is a stage that tells us we are ready for the real emptiness, scary out of nowhere, absolutely overwhelming being nobody that before was everything or a whole. The cure for deafness is to abstract yourself from poisons and get rid of them, like the water that washes, purifies you, regain your senses, your keys for your freedom of being, free to listen to your nature of being. Cleanse yourself and purify yourself of hidden poison that society injects into your veins, from greed, envy, and selfishness, this last one, the mother of all evils. (Yana appears and puts her hand on his shoulder and speaks.) YANA: An end to me, the hours in the background, at the ends of the world. I shout yes to silence so many that do not fit in my hands. Empty hands at the end, in the fight, like rosemary fields on the hills of bitterness, where life lost its meaning, where it lost its boots, unloved and forgotten in the hours, neither alive nor dead. Did you remember these words, dear Jonah? Yana asks Jonah as he looks at the face of the now deceased. YANA: Beautiful eyes, now lifeless. Oh, lost life, like the wretches and how many unloved. Here lies the perfect poet, the fly that many wanted to kill us. It hurts to see, it is hard to walk, it is hard to deliver a good soul to the vultures that owed without delay. Jonah looks down at himself. With sadness, he reflects. JONAH: The pain of loneliness, for the nefarious contempt to those who loved her darkness, giving birth to random epics. Reported across the seas, the glory of the nation, but fate gave them everything less in history, a little consideration. These are the wise, representatives of Luso, platonic lovers, ship designers, dreamed of never sailed seas. They defied death to make scorpion ink, distilling their poison, but unloved. Society killed them, like fleas, sucking and slowly poisoning. In the end, society proclaims rhymes like theirs, and they are wise, the wise are unfounded. Yana reflects on the same and agrees. YANA: Every drop of cruelty that forms in the dew from the dawn of reality, at rest, before work. Of lives that dreamed of peace, all ideologies died, for only one and only one capable, dictated the fate of many who clashed in the reality of sins they did not commit. Corrupt laws in a unique theology, in a corrupt theology above all others, in a single line of thought. When the being dares to be born in the dawn, the day will be red and sad without love, and the flesh rots slowly in the heat and the sound of the orchestras of weapons. Soldiers occupy every bed, these beds where children could sleep and dream of a better world and smile. Women, mothers, and creators of science, protectors of happiness and childhood, they could be free to be more and better than the men who corrupt everything and who forget what love is. Stoned, raped, sold, the best women suffer. Child soldiers, tiny lost souls who could have owned everything, suffer. Uma appears too, as if to say goodbye. UMA: A poet is not in the body, but will be forever in the soul. A good poet lies dead, and it is your fault. Uma points to the audience and then to Yana. Yana feels offended. Uma continues and addresses the audience again. UMA: I want to be your impossible, loving you even if this destiny, ironically incredible, may he finally deign to let it stay with you. It may be a bad, cruel fate, and give me all the impossible, may he find, incredible, and make me think of the unlikely. But I will fight for you, poet, you are the one who, anyway, come what may, come what may, hey to love you in the clandestine, you are last. Uma weeps helplessly. UMA: My beloved, yesterday I was going to tell you that we would wake up at dawn to see the sun rise, and may there be courage, my love. Time does not stop, there are no hours for pain, and nothing separates us. Today could be better, with so much to live for. How will we know by heart every detail without reading? Have courage, my prince. If tomorrow is black, may the rhythm of what does not matter not penetrate the intimate. Courage, be courageous. Chest wants and screams freedom. Dreams want colour and courage. They want freedom without time, without the dictatorship of the clock. My love, tomorrow will be the day. If today was a lost night, courage, my sun that radiates. Dawn will be dawn. Uma cries again. Yana touches Uma's shoulder and speaks. YANA: I feel your pain, because your pain is my pain. I know it by heart, I know the colour, and I do not love you. But I have a lot of love for the creator of our world, your world, and I know he will open his eyes again in a better world, without any pain. Yana touches the body's pale hand on the bed. Jonah (the soul) feels emotional and tries in vain to touch the hands of the one he loves. JONAH: I believe, and for believing, I am free. Oh, body, in pain and heavy, give me the chance I never had. Let me touch your hands from the muse who believed in me, let all the no's become a yes. Over a slow PIP, it starts to have more rhythm. The poet's heart beats again. The first thing he does is touch his muse's hand. Outro by Jonah The day you forgot to dream Is the day that you let the machine That throws you steam And poison your lungs to get in And control confined life In space and all dimensions You think you can thrive But your movements and actions Are monitored by the second And you breathe the machine. I was there and I lost my belief in my work and my world, as I was made a homeless in the eyes of the society, I became a homeless to forget my love for the one that I dared to love once. I lived outside of the standards created by the machine and I was considered a lawless man. But I am not a man, I am a writer of tales and a creator of worlds and universes. I dared to create while the machine killed all the dreams of those who saw the propaganda of this terror a better outcome. But now, look! Look at the final version of the machine and the outcome of its lies. Don’t you see? I have been trying to tell you all along, from the beginning. I dare you. Open your eyes, and see the reality. The end.

November 13th, 2011. 10:00 A.M. Karsten is standing at the front of the Chapel giving mass to a full congregation, when a sad wail from outside the front doors suddenly sobs, “Kaaarrsten? ... Kaaaarrrssten? ...”, quickly catching the attention of several church-goers, who quietly turn and look back towards the closed doors at the back of the room. Not sure of what he should do, he simply tries to continue with his preaching, but as he carries on, so too do the cries from outside. Falling silent, he can't help but look around in a bit of awkward embarrassment at all the people seated before him, relief soon coming via the voice of one of the female congregation members, who sweetly insists, "Go see what he needs Father, we can wait ...", a few various confirmations from other members soon following her kind comment. Exhaling and giving a bit of a smile, the grateful Man-of-God gently responds, "Danekshön ...", silently stepping from behind the podium and briskly heading to the miserable man outside. Opening the doors and poking his head out to take a look, Karsten soon sees the sad, lonely spouse seated on the soil just outside the door. At the sight of his friend, Dirk lets out a slightly happier, “Karsten”, the caring clergyman kindly responding, “Dirk, what is it, what is wrong?” Struggling slightly to form his words, Dirk quietly insists, “H-H-H-Hungry”, Karsten raising his eyebrows a bit and commenting, “You just ate a couple hours ago. Und will be eating again in a couple more hours.” His expression saddening a bit, Dirk softly presses, “But ... Hungry ... Hungry now ... Karsten ...”, lowering his gaze towards the ground a bit as his friend steps outside and sweetly insists, “Dirk ... I am not saying I will not feed you, it is just— Did I not give you enough to eat this morning? How hungry are you exactly? Would a snack be fine? I can not exactly make you a MEAL at the moment, und even if I could, I do not want you to not be hungry for Mittagessen later.” Stepping over and crouching near his friend, Karsten cautiously reaches out, relieved when he rests his hand on Dirk's back and receives not so much as a flinch from the normally quite timid man before him. Giving a gentle rub, the patient Priest waits a moment, but gets no verbal response, so he kindly questions, “Would a snack be fine for now Dirk?”, smiling when his quiet companion nods, Karsten soon adding, “Okay, that I can do. What do you vant for a snack? ...” Remaining for a bit, he watches while the quiet widower simply stares off into space, leading the concerned clergyman to calmly comment, “Dirk? ... Dirk ...”, holding his hand up and snapping his fingers a couple times, his friend flinching slightly and looking briefly to the man at his side, then around the area in worried confusion. Smiling sweetly, Karsten softly soothes, “It's okay Kumpel, you just spaced out on me for a moment, that's all ... You said you are hungry? Is there anything in particular you would like for a snack right now? ...” Lowering his gaze towards the ground and thinking to himself for a moment, Dirk keeps quiet, Karsten kindly taking him in his arms and gently pulling him close, giving the struggling spouse a loving, supportive squeeze, then tenderly delivering a caring, comforting kiss to Dirk's dark, dirty locks. Rubbing the side of the arm a bit more, the patient Priest continues to wait, then, at last, Dirk simply says, his voice soft and a bit somber, “Food ... Hungry ...” Giving a bit of a sigh, Karsten thinks to himself briefly, then sweetly suggests, “How about a cereal bar or two? Maybe a pudding cup? Some fresh fruit? That sound good? ...”, his words taking a little bit to sink in, but thankfully, he receives an almost eager nod after only a short moment. Smiling happily, the caring clergyman replies in relief, “Alright ... I will go get that for you then. I will be back very soon Dirk. You just wait here.” Releasing his friend from his grasp, Karsten gets to his feet, heading back inside. Closing the door behind him, he no more than closes the entry and hears another summoning wail, stopping him where he is and causing him to shake his head a bit as he quietly turns back around and steps outside once more. Looking to his stubborn friend, Karsten kindly insists, “Dirk, I can not summon the food out of thin air. If you want to eat, I need to go get the food”, watching the widower nod understandingly, then honestly answer, “Thirsty ... Too ... Tea? ...” Unable to help but smirk in a bit of amusement that Dirk only wished to complete his request, the pleased Priest clarifies in knowledgeable confidence, “Chamomile?”, to which he receives a confirming nod. Chuckling softly, Karsten quietly responds, “Alright. Chamomile it is ... I will be right back”, silently slipping back inside and closing the door. Briskly making his way through the room, the selfless Servant-of-God attentively apologizes, “I am so sorry for the delay, just give me a few more moments”, a male member of the congregation confidently insisting, “Safe your apologies Father Kirchhof ... Dirk is a great man, who needs looking after right now ... He is going through a lot, und deserves to be well taken care of. God knows he would do the very same for any one of us ... If you would like any help, I would be happy to assist. Any of us vould.” Looking to the man, Karsten responds in confident certainty, “Nein, nein, I WILL apologize. I DO. I know everyone here must be GREATLY bothered by all of this—”, another Female member of the holy flock honestly admitting, “Of course we are bothered quite strongly. What he is doing is very inappropriate, rude, und all out disrespectful. Normally none of us would stand for this sort of behaviour, but ... It IS Dirk. Und we know he is not well ... Holding the tongue is difficult, ja. But we are all aware that he knows not how out of line his actions are at the moment ... He is in need, und wants help ... That is all he knows right now ...” Outside, Dirk waits patiently, Karsten returning shortly, two cereal bars, a pudding cup, some sliced fruit, and Dirk's familiar thermos filled with steaming chamomile tea arranged carefully upon a tray. Karsten finds Dirk still seated on the ground, gazing out into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Gently, the caring clergyman clears his throat to announce his return, Dirk's eyes slowly refocusing as he turns toward the sound. Warmly, Karsten says, "Here we are", crouching down to his level and setting the tray on the ground between them, "Eat, mein Freund. This will help." Retrieving the thermos, the patient Priest gently places the warm container into his friend's hands, careful not to startle him, softly insisting, "Chamomile tea, just like you asked." Dirk looks down at the thermos, the comforting heat of the beverage within soaking into his chilled hands. His lips twitch in the faintest suggestion of a smile, his voice barely audible as he murmurs, "Danke, Karsten." Gently, the understanding man-of-God briefly places his hand upon the shoulder of the suffering spouse before him, giving a light, grounding squeeze of support before respectfully withdrawing his touch. Dirk unscrews the lid with slow, practiced movements, the warmth of the tea in his hands seeming to soothe him as he takes a cautious sip. Karsten kindly opens and unwraps cereal bar, carefully passing the food when his friend is ready, softly encouraging, "Here. Start with this", Dirk accepting the snack with a faint nod of thanks. Remaining at his side, he silently observes as Dirk works through the meal. His calm presence is steadying, though he says little beyond the occasional murmur of reassurance. When Dirk finally sets the empty pudding cup back on the tray, Karsten gives him a kind smile. Nodding gently, he softly says, "I must return to the congregation now", standing and brushing the dirt from his knees, "If you need anything, just call for me, ja?" Dirk nods slightly, his gaze dropping back to the thermos in his hands as he quietly acknowledges, "Danke ... Karsten." With a reassuring smile, Karsten replies, "Of course", giving Dirk one last supportive look before retreating back into the church, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him. For a while, Dirk sits alone, sipping his tea and occasionally nibbling on the fruit. In his chest, the warmth of the tea lingers, though so too does the hollowness of hunger in his stomach. He is halfway through the fruit slices when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. His body tenses instinctively, his hand freezing mid-reach toward another piece of fruit. An eerie squeak of old hinges rings from the gate around the corner of the church, an irritated whisper replying to the weathered joints of the gate. Dirk shifts in his spot, turning to get a visual on the unexpected visitor. Moments later, Konrad steps into view, carrying a small bag of groceries and a pack of cigarettes tucked under his arm, his expression faintly stormy. His strong frame and purposeful stride seems to cut through the stillness. Dirk's green eyes flick up to him, a spark of recognition and relief crossing his face, though his voice is quiet and hesitant as he calls, "Konrad?", as though unsure if he should speak. Konrad stops mid-step, his head swiftly shifting in surprise, immediately noticing Dirk sitting on the ground. His sharp blue eyes narrow slightly in confusion before his brow furrows. His tone gruff but not unkind, he responds, "Dirk?", words holding a tinged mix of confusion and cautious curiosity as he questions, "What are you doing out here?" Dirk hesitates for only a moment before answering, his voice soft but direct, his words shy and truthfully as he admits, "I was hungry ..." Gaze timidly shifting between Konrad and the ground, he reluctantly admits, "Karsten ... Gave snack, but ... still hungry." Konrad blinks, the tension in his face easing slightly. He steps closer, setting his bag down by his feet. His eyes are quick to note the empty tray and wrappers at his friend's side, leading him to ask, "You did not get enough?" Dirk shakes his head faintly, his hands curling around the thermos, his gaze lowering to the dirt and words sounding almost guilty as he answers, "Nein ... Ate ... Help ... But still hungry." Grabbing the grocery bag, Konrad cautiously makes his way closer, not wanting to spook the often skittish widower. Sighing, he crouches down to meet Dirk's eye level upon arrival, his friend's grasp unconsciously tightening on the thermos briefly. Gently, Konrad breathes, "Alright", his tone softening as he reassures, "Let me see what I can do." Dirk's grip relaxes at the kind words. Konrad reaches into his bag, rummaging around before pulling out a small, tightly wrapped package, and softly insisting, "It is not much, but here." He hands it to Dirk, who accepts it carefully, removing the wrapping to reveal a piece of homemade bread and some cured sausage. Dirk's lips twitch faintly, almost a smile, as he murmurs, "Danke." Konrad waves off the thanks, leaning back on his heels as he simply says, "Go on, eat. No need to starve yourself." For a time, Konrad quietly watches his friend, his heart warmed by the widower's willingness to reach out, especially to him. Respecting the silence, he lets the moment linger before kindly asking, "May I sit with you?" Dirk pauses, his chewing slowing as he processes the question. He takes a moment before looking up from the food in his hands. Hesitating briefly, he eventually nods, though his gaze quickly drops back to the bread and sausage in his grasp. Smiling gratefully, Konrad carefully lowers himself onto the dirt beside Dirk, positioning himself close enough to be present but not so near as to crowd his timid companion. Pulling the pack of cigarettes from under his arm, he glances at Dirk, gauging his reaction before softly checking, "Mind if I light up?" Dirk's green eyes flick toward the cigarette pack in Konrad's hands. For a moment, he says nothing, his expression unreadable, but then he offers a subtle shake of his head, murmuring, "Nein ... Is fine", his voice soft and subdued as always. Konrad gives a small nod of acknowledgment, slipping a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with practiced ease. There is a faint crackle from the flame before the first curl of smoke rises into the crisp air, mingling with the earthy scent of the surrounding forest. They sit in peaceful silence for a time, the only sounds being the distant rustle of the wind in the trees and the occasional quiet scrape of Dirk's hands as he tears at the bread. Konrad takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the glowing ember briefly illuminating his sharp features. Finally, he starts, "You know," his tone light but edged with sincerity. Honestly, he admits, "Karsten would have mein head if he knew I gave you that sausage", a faint chuckle rumbling in his chest, "He's always the one to preach 'proper meals' und 'balance' ..." He pauses, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he adds, "Sometimes, I think he might be the most German of us all." Konrad leans back slightly, taking another drag from his cigarette, his sharp blue eyes studying Dirk thoughtfully. Before he can say more, a sudden and unmistakable squawk shatters the tranquility. Dirk's shoulders tense immediately, his head snapping toward the source of the sound. Under his breath, he mutters, "Oh, scheisse", clutching the thermos a little tighter as if it might protect him from the approaching threat. Konrad groans audibly, rolling his eyes toward the sky as if asking for divine intervention, grumblin, "Not this again", shifting slightly where he sits. From around the corner of the church, the imposing figure of Friedrich strides into view, his glossy feathers gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Puffing his plumage to appear twice his size, the comb of the territorial cock practically glows red with resentment. Dirk stares, his voice almost pleading, "Nicht jetzt ...", as Friedrich lets out another commanding squawk. Under his breath, his eyes fixed on the feisty feathered guard, Konrad mutters, "Fick dich", immediately sitting up straighter. Friedrich pauses for a moment to assesss the situation, almost appearing to have understood the insult, then lets out an ear-splitting crow that echoes off the church walls. Dirk winces, stiffening and muttering, "Why ist er immer so loud?" Konrad flatly replies, "Ja", his tone dripping with irritation, "Loud, und insufferable. He belongs in hell, not here." As if offended, Friedrich fixes them both with a glare that seems entirely too intelligent for a bird. With a dramatic flap of his wings, he takes a deliberate step closer, his beady eyes locked in a piercing gaze that zeros in on the two men like a hawk sizing up its prey. Konrad exhales a long-suffering sigh, flicking the ash from his cigarette. Irritated by the intrusion, he grumbles, "This bird", glaring at Friedrich. As if on cue, Friedrich takes another deliberate step forward, his beady eyes locked on them both. As the advancing rooster gives another authoritative flap, Dirk leans away, asking, "What does he want now?" Konrad smirks faintly, gesturing vaguely toward the church doors as he replies, "Well, he probably wants us to move ... You know how territorial he gets about 'his' entrances." Exasperated, Dirk retorts, "Why is it his? Why does he think ANYTHING is HIS?", his voice rising slightly as Friedrich lets out another sharp crow. Before Konrad can respond, Friedrich charges forward with surprising speed, his wings flapping wildly as he emits a series of furious clucks. Dirk scrambles to his feet with a muttered curse, narrowly avoiding the rooster's sharp beak. Konrad exclaims, "Alright, alright! We're going!", waving his hands as he moves toward Dirk, though not without casting an annoyed glare at Friedrich. Quickly, the two men retreat away from the doors, soon settling under the shade of the London Plane tree. Once there, Dirk casts a wary glance back toward the church doors, where Friedrich now stands triumphantly, his chest puffed out as if he has successfully vanquished some great foe. Konrad exhales deeply, leaning against the tree and lighting another cigarette. His glare darkens as he quietly mutters, "I hate that bird." Dirk nods solemnly, cradling his thermos as he sits down again, firmly agreeing, "Ja. Me too."

AI Writing: 28 Fogbound Part I: The Clean Sweep The town of Halberd sat quiet beneath the bruised morning sky, its barns and silos painted in muted reds and dull creams that had faded over the years due to sun and chemical exposure. Halberd had once thrived on its livestock and crop exports, a prairie town stitched together by decades of tradition and stubbornness. But progress came not with fanfare but with a quiet mist. They called it AetherMist: a marvel of controlled fumigation, a solution to pests, rot, disease, and decline. Installed by AeroVale, a biotech consortium based in Colorado, the system consisted of a subterranean array of fog-emitting conduits buried beneath every acre of farmland, every paddock, and every stretch of animal pen. Twice a day, the mists would rise at four in the morning and nine in the evening. Thin, nearly invisible vapor coated the air, filtering sunlight and softening the landscape with a pearlescent shimmer. It smelled like mint blended with copper. Cool on the tongue. Oddly sweet. Mayor Trent Riddick, a farmer turned bureaucrat, stood at the edge of the field on the fourth day of implementation. The soil crunched under his boots. The wheat no longer bends due to insect infestations. Not a single grasshopper stirred. Behind him, a small team from AeroVale watched with tablets in hand. One of them, a woman named Lisbeth Yarrow, silently clicked through the data. "Optimal saturation," she murmured. "Impeccable particle spread." Riddick nodded slowly. "No bugs. No rot. Smells like a miracle." Lisbeth smiled, but her eyes were fixed on the numbers. Part II: Drift By the second week, change had begun. The animals were the first to notice. Cows kicked at fences. Horses refused to leave their stables. Chickens stopped laying, huddled in corners as if waiting for an unseen predator. Cats vanished. Dogs dug beneath their enclosures. "What is going on with Daisy?" asked Marnie Holloway, staring at her golden retriever, who now sat trembling beneath the porch steps, eyes glassy. Her husband, Bill, scratched his scalp, watching as the cattle stood motionless in the pasture, facing the woods beyond the property line. "Same thing over at the Harrells. They found two pigs in the woods. Alive, but different. Jumpy. Wouldn't come near people." That night, the fog came again. Denser. It clung to the eaves of homes and swirled beneath porch lights. The mist slipped into barns, chicken coops, and kitchens through cracked windows and lungs as families slept. The next morning, the cows were gone. Every single one; the gates were smashed. By the following evening, half the town's livestock had disappeared. Part III: The Empty Fields Within a month, Halberd was unrecognizable. Birdsong had vanished entirely. The forests, once thick with life, grew still. No crickets, no frogs, no buzzing in the grass. The plants, however, thrived. Unnaturally so. Wheat grew two feet taller than expected. Vines wrapped themselves around water towers and posts. Sunflowers tilted toward the fog instead of the sun. Corn turned deep blue at the husk. "I don't trust it," said Reverend Ellis, kneeling beside a row of carrots the size of baseball bats. He snapped one open. The smell was clean but artificial, like bottled water and stone. "There's nothing holy about crops that don't rot." Inside the town clinic, Dr. Adwin Sorrel studied skin cultures from patients, growing increasingly concerned. His instruments showed no bacterial activity. None. Not on wounds. Not in saliva. Even gut bacteria had diminished. "We're not healing," he told Mayor Riddick. "We're just staying the same." Riddick leaned over the microscope. "You saying we're healthy?" "I'm saying we're static. If this fog ever stopped, our bodies wouldn't know what to do. No immunity. No response. Nothing." "Can we stop it?" "No. The system is fully automated. AeroVale rerouted control access two weeks ago." The mayor exhaled, his breath visible in the air-conditioned office. "Then we're trapped." By mid-autumn, there were no animals left. Even the insects were gone. Webs hung undisturbed in the corners of barns, dusty and ghostlike. The wind no longer carried the scent of manure or feathers or fur. Instead, there was only the cold clarity of the mist. Part IV: The Yield The air over Halberd was clearer than ever before, yet not clean. The fog curled upward at sunrise, always on time, always gentle. It shimmered along fenceposts and sifted between leaves that never browned or dropped. By November, the temperature dropped, but the plants stayed warm, wrapped in their own thin breath. No one chopped wood anymore. The central heating units still functioned, but they grew weaker each week. The town's repairman, Lester Baines, had taken apart a heating unit last month and found the circuit board coated in a thin yellow resin, as if the machine had tried to grow something inside itself. When he showed the substance to the mayor, Riddick stared at it for a long time. "It's organic," he said at last. Lester nodded. "I can't fix it." One by one, other systems began to fail. Radios gave out first. Then the cell service. Then the municipal water filtration plant. Even the drones that once delivered supplies from outside stopped arriving. "Nothing gets in or out," Reverend Ellis told his sparse congregation one Sunday morning. "Nothing wants to anymore." And yet the town continued. The fog fed the fields. The fields fed the people. The carrots had changed. Their outer skin still looked familiar, but the flesh inside was pale pink, soft, and marbled with faint red veins. When cooked, they sizzled like meat and released an earthy aroma tinged with salt and iron. At first, they were discarded. Now, they were consumed. "It tastes like roast," said Marnie Holloway, chewing slowly. "Like something that used to breathe." "They're growing what we need," her husband replied, his voice low. "Isn't that kindness?" In the clinic, Dr. Sorrel had stopped taking samples. His microscopes no longer worked. Power came and went like the wind. But his patients no longer complained of illness. Cuts stayed pink and painless. Fevers faded quickly. And yet, there was no joy. Only quiet. Part V: Flesh and Root By the end of winter, the fog was thicker than ever. People no longer needed clocks to track their arrival. They could feel it: subtle pressure at the base of the skull, a cooling behind the eyes, the soft hum in the throat like bees behind glass. Children had stopped aging. Their baby teeth did not fall out. Their hair stopped growing. Their fingers remained small and nimble, perfect for weaving fogroot fibers into baskets and rugs. They no longer played. They listened. The plants responded to sound now. When spoken to, their leaves tilted. When sung to, they grew faster. There was one vine along the bell tower that bloomed only to laughter, its petals damp and warm, almost like skin. Mayor Riddick walked the streets more often. He waved to those still above ground and spoke to the plants in a calm, measured voice. "We are safe here," he told a group of townsfolk gathered in the converted feed barn. "This place sustains us. The world outside has not adapted. But we have. We were chosen to remain. To be refined." "By who?" asked a young boy. Riddick smiled. "By what keeps us breathing." Part VI: The Breach In early spring, a sound broke the rhythm. A man named Conrad Bell, one of the last who still remembered working with tractors and diesel fuel, found something at the forest's edge. A deer carcass, bloated and torn, was dragged partially across the town's invisible border. Its hooves had curled inward. Its eyes were gone. In their place were tiny buds of yellow fungus, pulsing in time with the fog. The deer had tried to come back. "It wants inside," Conrad said, kneeling near the fence. "Something outside wants in." That night, a breach formed. The fogline wavered. A low moan echoed across the field, like a windmill made of bone. Riddick stood in the field, his hands outstretched, staring into the forest. "It's not ready yet," he whispered. "The outside is not ready for us." When the fog thickened, the breach sealed. The deer's body was gone by morning. In its place grew a new flower, wide and flat with petals like flayed skin. The people stared. None spoke. Part VII: The Submission By summer, the town no longer needed to eat. They still did, for comfort, but the hunger was gone. The fog sustained more than cells. It fed thought, memory, and sleep. The people dreamed together now, though no one spoke of it aloud. They shared visions of vast fields with no sky, only ceiling after ceiling of green. When Dr. Sorrel collapsed while walking to the post office, no one rushed to help. His body was absorbed within hours. In its place, a blue stem rose with a bloom that smelled of antiseptic and lemon. The town had begun to fold into itself. Buildings were overgrown. Roads were replaced with root paths. The school was now a greenhouse of thick humidity and choral whispers. The mayor rarely left his home, and when he did, his skin had the sheen of dew. "They were right to call it AetherMist," whispered Marnie one night as she stood barefoot on the moss-soft floor of her home. "It isn't just fog. It's the air that lives." Her husband kissed her forehead. "We are its lungs." Part VIII: Rootbound Years passed. Halberd was still on the map, but no one drove there. Roads into town became wild, overgrown with black-spined vines and reeds that whispered in the wind. Satellites could no longer read the town's outline. It shimmered like a mirage, always just out of focus. Inside, there was no illness. No insects. No animals. Only people and plants. Only the fog. Halberd no longer exports goods. The people no longer crafted or labored. They were stewards now. Observers. Their skin glowed faintly. Their voices softened. Their eyes dimmed, but widened with understanding. Each home was connected by roots that ran under walls and floors. Meals were ceremonial. Sleep was collective. Dreams were long and deep, and always ended in light. And always, the fog came. Not as punishment. Not as a cure. But for a purpose. End. Producer Notes: Inspired by Out On the Road 480 I have mainly been hands-off in the editing process, letting the tools showcase their capabilities as much as possible, only separating the titles from the body of the text. Software used: ChatGPT 4o, Google Docs, Grammarly, Notepad