(Stories cannot start with once upon a time anymore. Time unravels at our fingertips. We rewrite our past, we abandon our presents, and we give you our futures. We plead for you to erase the woes of a world long gone; you agree for a price.

No, we cannot start with once upon a time.

Instead, we

just 

start.)

​

They named the girl Avalon to harken back to days of crowns made of gold and lands made of green. They named the girl Avalon to remind those around of their roots. They named the girl Avalon to give her a taste of fantasy before reality stole it away from her like it did all the rest.

As a child, they declare her peaceful. She never cries; she calls out in a mournful tone, her voice swallowed by the thin air around them. She never throws tantrums; she stomps and lets the ground absorb the impact. She never attracts attention; she shines like a sun behind a blanket of clouds.

She grows beautiful as all children of Earth do. Her blonde hair spills like sunshine over her shoulders, a slight curl dancing amongst the locks as if tugged by the wind. Her blue eyes shine and gleam like the light off the sea, brilliant yet fathomable. When she smiles, her lips seem almost like the reddest apple, ripe and ready to be taken. When she frowns, the apple-red blossoms instead in her cheeks, reminding others what happens to those thieves.

She never asks questions, for she can hear the truth beyond words. The trees know the past of this world far better than the same people who take their axes to chop out hearts. The rivers babble secrets far gentler than the same people who take their shovels to stop a flow. Even the weeds whisper reality far more reliably than the same people who tear out those they deem unworthy.

So, Avalon does not ask where the rest of the Earth went.

(She knows the Earth decays beneath her feet, and how can a hollow shell make a home for any?)

So, Avalon does not ask where her future will take her.

(She knows if she remains, she will be consumed whole by the devastation here.)

But every night, she dreams of the sky and its beauty.

​

They named the boy Nova to harken back to days of glorious light and glorious life. They named the boy Nova to remind those around of the new world they have built. They named the boy Nova to give him a taste of fantasy before reality stole it away from him like it did all the rest.

As a child, they declare him warlike. He never sleeps; he cries out for as long as stars can shine before they burn out. He never plays with the others; he rampages through their pretend cities, each footfall an asteroid through the dollhouses. He never goes quiet; he shines like a sun in the depth of outer space.

He grows beautiful as all children of the sky do. His black hair gleams like the night sky, a slight curl dancing amongst the locks as if tugged by an unknowable gravity. His bright eyes shine and gleam like a shooting star, brilliant yet attainable. When he smiles, his lips seem almost like the reddest planet, an adventure ready to be taken. When he frowns, the planet-red blooms instead in his cheeks, reminding those of the dangers of a planet dominated by storms.

He always asks questions, for the sky remains unyielding to those who inhabit it. The galaxies might know the past of this world, but they shall not tell it to those who cannot comprehend their depths. The black holes might know the secrets of these people, but they would rather take hold of those seeking answers than allow them to go. Even the debris scattering into dust keeps the truth of reality tight to their chests.

So, Nova asks about those who remain on Earth.

(He knows the blood staining his ancestors’ hands, the world hollowed out by their choices.)

So, Nova asks where his future will take him.

(He knows if nothing changes, they will devastate their new home as well.)

And every night, he dreams of the earth and its beauty.

​

She learns how to boil the toxins out of the water, the steam a dense black cloud threatening to swallow her whole. She learns how to tell which animals twisted and transformed under the weight of the devastation. She learns how to find new food amidst wilted, decaying crops that never learned to thrive.

They teach her the old ways too, quiet secrets in the dark, afraid to be spoken too loud lest some creature steals that from them as well.

Her mother teaches her old songs, the lyrics harkening back to people Avalon can never meet. She learns them in the Fundamental Language, the universal language they cobbled together when humanity first raced to space, and she learns them in the traditional languages, ones long since laid to rest.

Her father teaches her old stories, tomes of books with pages so old they crumble to dust under the lightest touches. They speak of a time of beauty and a time of life; they speak about the dreams of survivors, not the never-ending solitude.

And her cousin teaches her the cruelty of their life.

“This world is meant for those strong enough to survive it,” he tells her when they stumble across a frozen rabbit, and the furious blush in his cheeks from the cold resembles war paint. He kicks it before turning to trudge home.

She covers it in snow and hopes that will be enough.

If not for their blood relation, she would never speak with her cousin, but there is nothing left to do but talk. She sees nobody else out here. The world belongs to those who remain, and those who remain lose numbers every day.

But that night, she learns of her last chance.

The Polaris Space Colonies offer redemption to all those who chose to remain on Earth… at a price.

Those at least fourteen must join the ranks of the Polaris Army. They will be tested to see where their skills lay. She could become a pilot, her ship racing with the fastest of comets. She could become a gunman, each shot as vibrant as the flash of a star. She could become a mechanic, the machines rumbling to life as steadily as a planet.

(She could become a killer, her bullets stealing the lives of the rebellion who threaten the peace of the colonies.)

Avalon has always wanted to touch the sky.

​

He learns how to seal off a home, preventing any of their precious oxygen from escaping to the abyss just beyond their front door. He learns how to maneuver in areas with different gravitation, able to be light enough to swim in the open air or heavy enough to crawl on the metallic ground. He learns how to preserve the food, the struggle to find habitable lands for agriculture still raging.

They teach him the old ways too, forbidden practices in the dark, afraid to be done too well lest the government comes to take one more thing from them.

His father teaches him old hymns, the beliefs harkening back to people Nova can never meet. He learns them in the Fundamental Language, but the words do not piece together the way they ought to, so he learns them in the traditional languages, languages where the words sound like music unbound. 

His mother teaches him old stories, stories the Polaris Government banned from the public libraries. Each sentence feels fragile, prone to flutter away in the wind and be forgotten forever, and he grips them tight.

And his best friends teach him the cruelty of their life.

“This world is meant for those strong enough to survive it,” they tell them as they stare down at the conscription notice, the result of their names being plucked free from a hat. They cannot promise they will return; they cannot promise they will even be recognizable after the war ravages them.

Chance saved his life alone; he alone escaped the draft.

He cannot remain content to rely on the whims of fate; there is nothing left to do but take action. The world belongs to those who choose, and those who make choices lose themselves a little more every day. 

But that night, he learns of his last chance.

The rebellion offers redemption to the dying, decrepit planet humanity used to call home… at a price.

They will do what they must to save their old home, the same home the government remains determined to render to ruins. They have attacked government crafts to get supplies; they have infiltrated the government’s channel to get information. If he joins, he will become a traitor. He will become a villain; he will become the antithesis of his best friends.

(He will become everything a dying planet can represent.)

And he will do all of this under their noses, for they need a man on the inside.

Nova has always wanted to see Earth.

​

When Avalon leaves her home, the Polaris Government will ask her name.

She will lie.

“Avalon Skye,” she will tell them, for some truths about yourself are too sacred to be given away that freely.

​

When Nova leaves his home, the Polaris Government will ask his name.

He will tell the truth.

“Nova Forrest,” he will tell them, for some truths about yourself mean too much to not be given away.

​

They will meet, a champion of the stars and a champion of the earth, and they will end, bloodied and bruised.

They will meet, a champion of the devastation and a champion of the hope, and they will end, hopelessly entwined in each other.

They will meet, a champion of grief and a champion of joy, and they will end, their beliefs shattered and torn asunder.

They will meet, a champion of a war against the past and a champion of a war for the future, and they will end, two soldiers fighting for forces who do not care for them.

​

(Stories cannot end with happily ever after anymore. The words do not come out right, for we cannot know the truth of how they end. We have given away our pasts, we have abandoned our presents, and we have rewritten our futures.

No, we cannot end with happily ever after.

Instead, we

just

end.)