Captain Hane sighed as he entered his quarters aboard the Marie Celeste. He eased his heavy frame into the chair behind his desk. 47 years old. A part of him refused to believe he could possibly be this old already, but the ache in his back and the size of his paunch said otherwise.

The nearby molecular cloud, thousands of lightyears from end to end, glowed an eerie violet as the ship slipped through warp space. To think the vast universe once held such wonders for him. Now this cloud looked like every other one.

There was a chime at his door. Richard Hane turned back, away from the porthole. “Enter.”

The door slid open, revealing a D’Roshiin. It wore the long robes of a diplomat, and held a box wrapped in blue gift paper in three of its arms, making a sign of peace with its fourth.

Hane put on a smile for his guest. “Ambassador K’Thwip! Good to see you. What can I do you for?”

The ambassador blinked three of his eyes in sequence. “Glad tidings to you, Hane Richard, Captain. I was informed by your Secondly in the Commands that it is customary to present a gift on the occasion of the anniversary of your birthing.” The ambassador proudly held aloft the wrapped gift, smiling with his fourth and fifth eyes.

Hane nodded politely as he took the gift from K’Thwip. “That’s very kind of you, ambassador, but you really shouldn’t have.”

The ambassador shrugged. “It was not of any trouble. We have a similar of traditions of Roshia.” He gestured at the gift he had given the captain. “That was a gift that was given unto me long ago. I am wishing for you to have it.”

Hane shook his head. “Oh, ambassador, I couldn’t.”

“Ah-ah,” the ambassador tutted with three of his hands. “I consist. I am assuring that you will find it most helpful for you. However, I must be of the going. I heard that they are still giving of your birthing pastry in the messing hall. Farewell, Hane Richard, Captain.”

The D’Roshiin bowed respectfully before backing out of the captain’s office, the door closing as he did so.

“So close to English,” Hane muttered.

The middle-aged captain turned the brightly wrapped box over in his hands. He gently tore the blue paper away and opened the white cardboard box underneath. Inside, nestled in dark cloth, was what appeared to be a white, marble cube, no more than six inches to a side. Curious, Hane reached in and pulled the cube out.

The wind was knock out of him as he toppled backward, as though his seat had been yanked away. His first thought was to assume it was Pvt. Addams’ poor excuse for a prank. But, as he sat up and got his bearings, he realized he wasn’t in his office anymore. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he was still on the Marie Celeste.

“Welcome to Anatole’s! You may be a little disoriented from the journey, but may I welcome you to the Bar Outside of Time and Space! Feel free to unwind, relax and enjoy a drink!”

Hane blinked as remnants of shimmering light dissipated around him. In front of him was a rather perky looking young woman, standing next to a desk. Behind her was an immaculate white room.

The young woman offered a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Hane took it. With a surprising strength, the woman pulled him up with ease.

Hane shook his head. Glancing down, he saw he was still holding on to the marble cube. “W-What happened? Where did you say we are? Was that a teleport? A transmat?”

She smiled reassuringly. “Please, sir, this is a place to relax. Set your worries aside and enjoy a drink. And please vacate the Entrance and make room for other patrons.” She politely, yet firmly, pulled Hane to the side as the area he was just standing in shimmered once again. A large, slimy, mass of translucent purple ooze materialized in a show of shimmering light, not unlike what Hane had seen earlier.

The woman smiled perkily. “Mr. Goorp! A pleasure to see you again. Welcome to the Bar Outside of Time and Space!”

The mass of purple ooze, Mr. Goorp, made a warbling sound and a white, marble cube, much like the one Hane was holding, was excreted from its body into the woman’s waiting hands. Without so much as batting an eye, she produced a cloth, wiped the cube clean, and set it on a waiting rack.

Hane stood back and watched in amazement as Mr. Goorp oozed past him. Oddly, the trail of purple slime he left was absorbed rather quickly into the long carped and tiled floor, leaving nothing behind.

Hane shook his head. “What the hell is this place?”

Captain Hane blinked, forcing his brain to focus. “What? Oh, yes, if you don’t mind.”

Hane had been in strange situations before. Like when the Devorans created a fake holographic city to get secrets out of him and his crew. As far as Hane could tell though, this bar, Anatole’s, didn’t have the tell-tale buzz of a holographic projection, and the woman seemed real enough.

Hane gestured to Mr. Goorp as he oozed away. “What is that? I’ve seen every sapient race in the galaxy, and I’ve never seen anything quite like that.”

The woman smiled politely. “That’s Mr. Goorp. He comes in from time to time. He’s really very nice once you get to know him. Just be careful of his excretions. We get visitors from all realities here, not just your own, so expect to see many races you’ve never seen before.”

Other realities. Hane had been itching for something new. He just hadn’t expected it to be like this.

“R-right. I’ll, uh, think I’ll go have that drink, now.”

As Hane turned to leave, the woman pointedly cleared her throat. “Captain. Your cube, please.”

He’d forgotten he was even still holding onto it. “Uh, sure.” He handed her the cube of cool marble, which she politely took and sat next to Mr. Goorp’s.

Hane, mind still abuzz with the new reality thrust before him, walked off in a daze toward the bar as other patrons materialized behind him.

Bianca sailed off the stage after the 3rd curtain call, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted. She snatched a plastic cup of water from the waiting stagehand and drained it in a single gulp, before tossing the cup aside. She then proceeded in a more leisurely fashion towards her dressing room, pausing to bestow a gracious smile an enterprising backstage photographer.

The Queen of the Night was a demanding part, and one she was well suited to. It required maturity and control, she told herself, having long left behind the naive ingenue roles. And what next? asked her inner voice. Elderly hags? She shook her head, banishing the idea.

Reaching her dressing room, she was gratified to find it full of bouquets. On the table were some small packages. Her helpers knew that even after all these years she still enjoyed the surprise of unwrapping them herself.

Normally Bianca would change into a lounging robe and wipe off her face paint before inspecting her presents. However, the dramatic black dress with glittering gems took a while to remove, and so tonight she decided to treat herself to opening the presents first. She did at least take off her feathered mask, dropping it on the table.

Settling into her chair, she reached for the first present and lifted it up. Hmm, it was heavier than it looked, so not chocolates or jewelry. Maybe something in crystal? That could be a nice addition to her collection.

The wrapping paper was an unfamiliar design (she was a connoisseur of such things), but the bow undid easily enough. She gazed at the contents in some confusion, the barest crease appearing on her forehead.

It seemed to be a cube of white stone, polished smooth, rather than the box she had expected. Bianca tipped it over on to her palm, thinking to see the bottom. Maybe someone had wrapped it upside down.

She let out a truly operatic “Aieeee!!” as the chair disappeared. Flailing around, she instinctively adopted the best position for balance…

… and found herself in a deep stage curtsy, looking up at a young woman dressed in white. Bianca’s right arm was extended towards the woman, holding the stone cube up like an offering.

The rough covered wagon bounced over the ruts of the road the troupe traveled to get to the next town. Mud splashed up from horses’ hooves while dogs from the farms ran out to bark at the passing of so many strangers. Bridles jingled, people laughed and shouted.

Fira’s eyes scanned the steep marble mountains they passed through. She felt restless and hoped for inspiration, but her quill had dried hours ago. The previous night she had announced to those around the campfire that she was going to write a play - an entirely new one. Not stories of kings and queens, evil witches or ghouls that stole infants. Something unique. Rather than laughing or encouragement, she had been met with perplexed expressions and a few raised eyebrows. ‘Stupid bumpkins!’ she had thought. But, in all fairness, she couldn’t think where to start or what to write.

Now as she gazed out along the cloudy valley she wondered what she had been thinking to say such a thing. Nothing new ever happened here. Despite a long and sporadic history of contact with other civilisations, the planet of Mija was a backwater. Nothing but sheep to trade and too far from the galactic hub for many to bother visiting - apart from occasional disgraced nobles or artists looking for a suitably bucolic retreat in which to rusticate.

The travelers pulled into a church yard to prepare a midday meal and Fira jumped down from the cart. After gathering some kindling for the cooking fire she gathered her writing materials, waved to the others and set off to stretch her legs, with a faint idea that some of the gravestones might at least inspire some character names.

Walking between the cracked, mossy stones, she noticed one that was quite unusual. While a number of graves held vases of wilted blooms, this one was topped by a obelisk, on which stood nothing but a small, white cube. It gleamed despite the lack of sunlight. Fira lent forward to examine the stone. Around it was inscribed the words ‘for you’ and, without thinking, Fira lent forward to grasp it.

As though sucked into a tornado, she felt her body twist upwards and yet downwards at the same time. She blacked out and awoke in a white room, lying on the floor and blinking. The light above was brighter than the stage lights! Where was she? Fira sat up and looked around the vestibule. A woman stepped out from behind a counter and reached out a hand, saying “Welcome to Anatole’s!“ she beamed, perkily. “You may be a little disoriented from the journey, but may I welcome you to the Bar Outside of Time and Space! Feel free to unwind, relax and enjoy a drink!”
Fira scooted back a little on her hands before gingerly reaching out and being hoisted up. “Who? What…. I don’t…” she looked around, up down and then back at the woman. “What’s going on?”
The woman patted Fira’s shoulder. “You’re safe, don’t worry. Just go into the bar. It’s right through there,” she gestured through the doorway, where sounds of laughter and … grunts? Strange noises, anyhow, emanated.
“How did I get here?”
“The cube - it’s like a ticket and transport in one,” the women replied. “I’m Stacey, if you need anything come talk to me, but really, you’re fine. Make the most of this opportunity!”
Fira felt thoroughly discombobulated but the woman was right. She straightened her shoulders, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and walked through to the bar area and looked around. There were free stools at the counter so she took one and then reached for her notebook. Who knows how long this dream might last? May as well take a few notes.

Khai sitting on a rock at the top of mountain Kakria, overlooking the City of Tempe, once the most technological advance and most beautiful City on the southern hemisphere of Reasia, The City consist of tall beautiful cylinder shape tower with multiple green garden and pure blue water lake across it Cityscape. But now almost everything is bury deep in the red sand with only the top of few tower sticking out on the sand like a tombstone for the City it once was.

Reasia is a dying world, The people of this world with it highly advance technology use to think they are the master of the universal that they can achieve anything as long as they put they mind into it. In their own hubris they starts harvesting the Star that they planet is orbiting for hydrogen as a fuel source, with a dare consequence, the Star itself suddenly goes into Red giant, in a single week the temperature of the planet massive increase, leading to mass extinction of almost all life in the planet surface and all the water in the surface evaporates and all the tree burn in a massive fire. The government of this world collapse in a instant, the world when into total chaos. People killing other people just for a scrap of food or for a drop of water. It was a complete nightmare.

Well that was almost 1 month ago Khai remember. By now most people are dead, however some lucky few manage to survive in some underground shelter hoping to live on. But it will be a very hard life for them or their future generation so survive in this hellish world.

“There goes another world” Khai say disheartened. “Seem like the quest for immortality can not be achieve in this world. this world which use to promise so much, their civilization on the verge of spacefaring and biotechnological break through. Now all dream and hope are dead” Khai thinking it in his mind as his take a final look at the City which he have been staying for almost 1 year now “Well time to move on then, now which world should I go next, another highly adventure world or a more primitive magical world” as Khai was thinking about which world he should goes, suddenly a white marble cube fall into the ground next beside him. Khai remember the Cube and thinking “well well, seem like I have an invitation, it been some time since I went to that place, But it not it a bad choice to relaxed for a little before going on the next adventure.” and with that in mind Khai pick up the cube and at that precise moment a dimension warp gate open it front of Khai and he just walk right in

Out of the portal. Khai see a woman stand in front of a counter smile up to full brightness sand say to him, “Welcome Mr. Khai, it been a while since I last see you, how is the world that you are traveling now do and how is you personal quest doing”. Khai reply dishearten “Hello Stacey, good to see you again, the news is bad, the world I just been is a dead end for my quest, for all it promise, it kill itself” Stacey reply, “oh dear, that is bad news indeed, but cheer up enjoy a drink from our bar, I sure Anatole will have some drink to fix your mood, unwind some before travel again Mr. Khai, I know you will get what you looking for in the near future, I sure of it” Khai say “well I hope so Stacey, I really do hope so, I think you need this back, I will be on my way to the bar then” khai hand back the white cube to Stacey and process to move to the bar

Bianca, drawing on her experience as a professional performer, recovered her poise quickly, although not without effort. The hostess, Stacey, relieved her of the stone cube, with the assurance that she could retrieve it any time. Stacey then directed her towards the bar.

Bianca felt in need of a drink, but appearances were important and so she drifted gently in the indicated direction rather than hurrying. The glittering white of the environment contrasted nicely with her black dress, she decided, with a glance in a nearby mirror to assure herself she was, indeed, the most elegant figure present.

As she moved, she looked around, head held high. She wondered if anyone would recognise her, although if the customers were from “everywhere”, as Stacey had told her, it was unlikely. Still, she told herself, it would be important to leave a good impression. She plastered a serene expression on her face, although she was uncomfortably aware of the stage makeup.

The other patrons were a varied lot, she thought, dressed in costumes varying from rustic to futuristic - and that was just the humans. Though she supposed from their point of view, they were contemporary and she was the one out of place. She really didn’t know what to make of the purple blob, but took care to give it a polite nod.

The barman, Anatole, looked as a barman should, pouring and mixing drinks with a casual competence.

Bianca smiled. “I believe you are Anatole, yes?”

She was pleased when he replied in the affirmative, and impressed when he popped open a bottle of champagne, unprompted. Clearly he knew class when he saw it.

After a couple of glassess, Bianca was feeling much more herself. It was good quality champagne, although perhaps she shouldn’t have been drinking quite so much on an empty stomach.

“… but everyone is doing it these days,” she slurred. “It’s a bit tricky hiding the signs of surgery until the puffiness has gone down and the stitches are removed, but I just told them I was taking a month’s “rest cure”, which must have worked as I returned looking a lot younger! I must say though, you certainly don’t look like you need a facelift.”

She hiccuped, then looked intently at Anatole. Her expression grew sober.

“I wonder… could I trouble you for a cup of coffee please?”

As Colonel Sam Winters produced a small wooden box from his desk drawer, the group assembled in his office gasped with surprise.

“You found it!” exclaimed Lord Wilderberry.

“Indeed,” Winters replied as he gently placed the box upon his desk. “And I didn’t have far to look, seeing as it never left your study.”

“What?!” Inspector Jones, the man who had brought Winters in to consult on the case, looked shocked. “How can that be? What about the window that was smashed? The footprints in the garden bed? The torn fabric on the iron gate in the garden?”

“All for show, Inspector. Someone wanted very much for us to believe that the box was well and truly outside of the estate. Whilst the police were busy looking elsewhere, the culprit would have all the time they needed to return later and remove the box at their leisure.”

“But the estate has been surrounded by police ever since the theft, and my husband has the only key to his study,” trilled Lady Juniper. “How could anyone get back inside the room without being seen?”

Winters gave a small shrug. “Easily. They planned to wait until everyone was asleep before entering the study using a copy of the master key.”

Lord Wilderberry put his hand over his breast pocket, feeling for the reassuring weight of the master key. “How did they manage to make a copy?” he sputtered. “It’s been in my pocket the whole time.”

“Except for when you’ve been asleep. I found traces of soap and plaster outside in the stables. My guess is they stole the key in the night and used the soap to form an impression of the key, and plaster to forge a new one, before putting it back. You’ve been none the wiser.”

“But who could have done it, and why?” enquired Lady Juniper.

“There’s only one person who could have.” Winters narrowed his eyes at Lady Juniper. “My lady, if you would be so kind as to hand over the copied key?”

Lady Juniper blinked, startled, and suddenly grew pale. “Come now,” barked Winters. “I shan’t ask again.” She glared daggers at Winters while the others stared at her in surprise. Finally she produced a white key from inside the sleeve of her dress and threw it roughly down on to Winters’ desk. Lord Wilderberry looked aghast. “As for why, I should say it all started when you found out that Lord Wilderberry was changing his will, favouring your children. It would have been a substantial loss for you, and this item would have fetched quite a nice price with the black market contacts you know from your days before becoming,” he raised his eyebrow slightly, “a lady.”

She glowered at Winters before whirling around to face her husband. “Why did you have to go and make any changes in the first place?” she wailed.

“It’s a good thing I did,” Lord Wilderberry replied hotly. “I should say there will be even further changes after tonight!” Lady Juniper, suitably cowed, lowered her head.

The inspector sighed. “I think our business here has concluded. We’ll conduct the rest down at the station.” He turned to Winters, visibly relieved. “Thank you once again, Winters. You really came through for us.”

Winters smiled at him. “No trouble at all, my dear Inspector! I’ll arrange to have the box sent back to Lord Wilderberry’s estate in the morning.”

As the group turned and filed out of the office, Lord Wilderberry paused, as though lost in thought. After a few moments he seemed to come to a decision, and turned back to Winters with a strange smile on his face. “You know, I believe you would find the contents of that box most engaging, Colonel. Please feel free to enjoy it, before you arrange for its return.”

Winters was taken aback. “Oh? Well, uh… thank you, Lord Wilderberry. That’s most generous of you.”

Lord Wilderberry nodded slightly, still smiling, before walking out the office door and closing it behind him.

In the fresh silence of modest, paper-strewn office, Sam Winters contemplated the small, ornate wooden box sitting on his desk. Truth be told, he hadn’t considered what might be inside; from his experience he could tell that the box itself was Central American in origin, dated back at least a couple of centuries and would likely fetch a substantial amount from any knowledgable black market antiquities dealer.

Sliding the box toward him and spinning it around, he undid the small metal latch and gently eased it open. Inside was a small, white marble cube sitting on a red velvet inset. Winters frowned; he’d never quite seen anything like it before. He reached out and picked it up…

A rush of air, a flash of light, sizzling like carbonated water, crackling like frying bacon, the sensation of falling…

Winters’ backside landed roughly on the hard floor as his chair disappeared. Bewildered, he looked up…

“Welcome to Anatole’s!“ exclaimed a young woman who had suddenly materialised in front of him. “You may be a little disoriented from the journey, but may I welcome you to the Bar Outside of Time and Space! Feel free to unwind, relax and enjoy a drink!“

Winters, still holding the marble cube in his outstretched hand, took a moment to absorb these words. Slowly, he took in his new surroundings, gaze drifting over the bright white shimmery decor, like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“A bar,” he said, finally. “Outside of time and space.”

“That’s right!” chirped the woman. “May I help you up? More guests will be arriving soon.” Winters slowly raised his hand, still holding the cube, up towards the woman, who grasped it and yanked him smoothly - and surprisingly easily - on to his feet. “If you’d like to pass me your cube,” she gestured to his hand, “you can go on through to the main bar.”

Winters looked down at the cube in his hand. “Outside of time; that I understand,” he said, as if to himself. “But outside of space?”

Stacey sighed - she’d seen all this before. It was important to move things along. She plucked the cube from Winters’ hand, causing him to start. “Yes, it’s all very new and interesting, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully, sliding the cube in to the well-oiled rack. “There will be answers - and a lot more questions, to be honest - just down this hall. But you’ll have to excuse me for now - I’ve got other guests to welcome.”

Winters shook his head as if to clear the fog. “Oh. Well, of course. Uh. Just down this hall, you say? Yes? Thank you,” he managed, and, no less confused, made his way towards the main bar.

Khai move to the bar area and start up a chat with Anatole, “hey Anatole, been a while seen I been here, how the bar doing?” Anatole reply, “Hi Khai, indeed been a while you been here, thing is going well here, so what bring you here today, If my memory serve me right, you have been declining our invitation for some time now.”

Khai answer angrily, “well you know I been to many world for my quest for immortality, and I find this 1 world their call Reasia, it was a highly technology advance world, thinking that this world may provide the thing I seek may found here, I been working hard in that world, climbing the social ladder, mixing up with those in power. But they just have to go destroy their world in their own stupidity. Now all my hard work for the past years gone up the smoke”. “man, I need a drink now”

Upon hearing that, Anatole proceeds to serve Khai a mixer of liquid, blue and red in color and ask curiously “how they destroy their world?”. “well they in they own arrogance starts harvesting the planet star for hydrogen as fuel source, making the star goes red giant mode” Khai answer

“red giant mode?”Anatole ask. Khai answer with a deep voice, “it when the star starts to die, because of exhaust their supply of hydrogen at their core, they start to fuse hydrogen in a shell outside the core, this lead to increases in temperature, and it burn the planet whole doing it.”

“well that nothing much to say about that world anymore, just have to continue to other world, hope for the best on whatever world I found that can give me what I seek”

Fira had gone so far as to put her notebook on the bar but that’s where her action ended. For a good half hour or so (although she noticed her pocket watch had stopped and could not be restarted) she looked around the room. It was difficult to tell the size. Despite being brightly lit there were many mirrors and partitions, booths and tables. the whole thing, quite frankly, looked a bit like a maze. Better to sit here at the bar until she had adjusted, thought Fira.

She watched a lady in a gorgeous spangly black dress walk in, chin held high. Clearly a lady… Fira looked down at her travelling rainment. Not scruffy but hardly suitable for this place - whatever this was. No doubt everyone else here was a Galactic, and she the only person who had no clue what was going on. Still, there was opportunity here and she would be a fool not to take it… when she worked out precisely what that was. Meanwhile she could at least try to get some information out of the bartender, he was bound to be full of stories.

Fira looked up and down the bar, spotting a man who she assumed was Anatole at the far end, pouring colourful liqueurs into a glass in front of another patron. As she watched she couldn’t help reflect on the fact that men that good looking were rarely kind, and generally seemed to think themselves better than everyone around them. Her expression darkened as she thought about several young lordlings who had belittled her or her art in the past.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she realised that the bicoloured drink that the man had poured had suddenly resolved into a sparkling mauve. Fira gasped. An impressive trick… or was it magic? Either way, her movement had drawn the bartender’s attention and after a few last words to his customer he moved down to her.

Fira felt flustered all of a sudden, and unsure what to say when he asked her what she would like.

“I… er,” she started, and then paused. And then felt her face grow warm. Rather than laugh or move on to the next person, Anatole smiled and tilted his head and just looked at her. Having been surrounded by performers for half her life, Fira was not accustomed to filling silences. She felt almost hypnotised.

“I’m a playwright,” she said to fill the gap. “I’m looking for stories. I really want to write a truly great play, something amazing!” Then suddenly, with a sense of deep and immediate shame, she realised he’d meant ‘what would she like - to drink’. Dear god, let the floor swallow her up whole. Right now. Please. Her cheeks flamed as red as her dusty robes.

“Well you’re in the right place,” he replied kindly, “maybe some ice water to start?”

Bianca continued to observe the other patrons as she savoured her coffee, which was far better than the best Blue Mountain or Yirgacheffe she had ever tried. It was amazing how Anatole conjured up such palatal delights. She had nearly clapped in delight at the transformation of the drink now in the hand of the man approaching her table.

“Mr Khai, isn’t it? I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation with Anatole. I’ve never met someone who could travel between worlds before. You must have seen some fascinating things!”

She continued, “I’m much more modest in my own desire for immortality. I’m a performer, and each season I take on a different role. If I’m remembered many years down the line, that’s enough immortality for me. Come to think of it, this bar is a bit like a stage. It means different things to different people…”

Bianca stretched out her arm to indicate the whole location, her gaze pausing as it lit on a woman in red robes. Bianca gave her a little nod, instinctively recognising a fellow thespian.

James was doing his best to take it all in stride. The injury that had cost him his military career, his future, his squad, and his sense of self-worth was written all over his face. Literally. One-quarter of his face was covered in thin, white scars, and his left eye had gone completely white. The chemical bomb that had exploded left its mark both physically and psychologically. Lost in a world of physical therapy, psychobabble, veteran services red tape and well-wishers giving him empty praise for his service, James decided to accept the cube that a buddy of his at the VA Hospital kept trying to give him. He didn’t believe that it would really transport him to another world: a bar outside of space and time. But here he was, stepping into the place and looking around.

“Well, I’ll be.” He said, and couldn’t help but break into a smirk as he dropped his cube in the basket. “Johnson, man, I owe you a beer.” As James stepped forward toward the bar, he exuded an air of confidence and charm. The scars on his face might have been distracting to others, but the little smile on his lips and the twinkle in his good eye spoke volumes about how pleased he was to be here. He slid onto one of the stools standing in front of the bar and brought both hands to rest, palms down​, in front of him.

“This is just… the craziest thing,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, just talking aloud, as he could see the bartender walking toward him.

It had been a year since the last round of sacrifices were released into the labyrinth, and The Minotaur was hungry. Death could not touch him, but that didn’t stop hunger’s little teeth from needling him apart on the inside. Each year he sat in the deepest corner of the labyrinth and made a promise to himself: “this time I am not kill humans this time when humans are come I am friend.” But each year by the time they came the hunger had driven him to insanity and he devoured them before he even knew they were there. Then it was just him, alone again in the midst of the carnage, promising himself he’d do better next year, the maddening hunger already forgotten.

This year was no different. The sacrifices were, again, gone–mingling in his bottomless stomach, mostly, but also smeared across his massive muzzle and strewn across the floor near his cloven feet–and, again, The Minotaur was left to lament his lonely state. “wish I am not hunger always,” he grumbled as he bent to paw through the remains.

With a not-so-dexterous hoof, The Minotaur flicked a particularly gooey hunk of viscera from a goatskin satchel. He’d seen one of the sacrifices scrabbling to get it open just before he gored her. Perhaps there was something interesting in there, something that would help to pass a few lonesome hours of the long upcoming year. Using his teeth and clumsy hooves he scrabbled the satchel open (shame the clasp was so flimsy. And also all of the stitching. And also the goatskin itself) and upended the ruined result onto the stained cobblestone floor. A single white cube bounced out and landed a few steps away.

The Minotaur eyed it curiously. He’d never seen anything like it before. It looked almost like the square stones that made up the labyrinth in which he lived, only brighter, smoother, more perfect. Perhaps this sacrifice had been optimistic about her chances in the labyrinth, and had packed some kind of fruit lunch from the outside world. Perhaps if he ate it the hunger would not be so bad next year.

The Minotaur bent and gave the cube a good lick.

The labyrinth jolted alarmingly around him, and then it stopped jolting alarmingly around him. In fact, it stopped being around him altogether. The Minotaur straightened up, letting the cube fall from his tongue with a sticky thud.

This certainly wasn’t the labyrinth anymore–it was so much better than that. Well-lit, lavishly decorated, and best of all, populated with all manner of folk. The Minotaur couldn’t help but gawk at all he saw. It was all so beautiful. The woman who greeted him was beautiful, the rack she set his mysterious white cube on was beautiful, the bar she led him to was beautiful, the man behind the bar was beautiful. The Minotaur could hardly keep his eyes focused on one thing for more than a few seconds. His massive heart was pounding in his enormous chest.

The beautiful man behind the bar, who the beautiful woman had introduced as Anatole, gave The Minotaur a warm smile that nearly sent him swooning off his tiny barstool. Anatole did not speak. It occurred to The Minotaur that Anatole perhaps wanted him to speak first.

The Minotaur didn’t have a clue what to say.

A moment of awed silence passed until he could find his tongue. “anatole place are good,” he managed, his wide brow furrowing deep. “I am not words so much. I am hard to words. but wish I am words good so I can be telling anatole how much place are good.”

The beautiful man behind the bar graced The Mintoaur with another beautiful smile. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, without the slightest hint of irony or condescension. “It’s the highest compliment a Bartender Outside of Time and Space could ask for.”

The Minotaur managed a bewildered smile (if it looked like more of a grotesque grimace, the beautiful man behind the bar did not show it) and watched Anatole mix a thick, dark red drink in an enormous cup. He paused, eyed The Minotaur’s hoof-hands, and outfitted the beverage with a brightly-colored bendy straw before passing it across the bar.

The Dean’s Office was a cold and uninviting place.

Annali buried her fingers in her heavy skirts and tried not to tremble as she waited. Not this again. She had only seventy marks toward next semester’s tuition and she needed one hundred. The money was due two weeks ago and, like every semester, she exhausted both grace periods. But unlike almost every other semester, she hadn’t made up the last 30. And now she was going to have to beg the Dean.

The man in question, clad in his most formal black velvet robes and cap, pursed his lips and tapped his finger on the ledger before him. “Every semester you pay at the last minute. And now?”

She inhaled, hoping it would quell the tremors, and extended a black silk bag. The seventy marks clinked and shifted within, the sound crystalline and unique. “I have most of it. Here. Give me just one more week.” She hated the desperate sound in her voice, but she had to convince him. “I’m waiting on a loan from the bank, and there was that holiday last Friday, and–”

“No,” he said.

“But–” Her knees wobbled.

“Ms. Mason, you have been ABD for two years. We have given you TA positions, but it is clear to this university that you possess no gift for or interest in teaching. Rather than throw good money after bad, we have decided to revoke your position as a TA. You will have to get a job, Ms. Mason, and support yourself as you finish your studies at the University. And we will give you three more days to pay the hundred marks you owe us, or you’ll be suspended for next semester.”

The room trembled. She swallowed against the bile that crept into her mouth and wished she could sit down. This could not be–this could not be happening to her. The boning in her corset kept her back straight, but if she didn’t sit soon she would collapse.

The Dean did not rise from his chair to assist her to the couch behind her. A bad sign. His anger must be personal. She had to lean on something. She took one step closer, her slipper almost scuffing on the polished wooden floor, and her knees folded. Grasping for anything, her hands struck his desk. Her left hand came down on a small white cube, one of a number of curios.

There was a bright flash of light.

Her knees hit carpet; her hands, unsupported by anything, followed. The white cube bounced out of her grasp and landed at the feet of a young woman standing not too far away.

“Welcome to Anatole’s!” the woman said, her voice cheerful, her words rehearsed. “You – Oh! Do you need help?”

This was not the Dean’s Office. Had she picked up a teleportation cube? The Dean would be furious. He’d kick her out of university for certain. “The cube,” she said, then groaned as her stomach rebelled.

“I’ll just set that right here.” The woman picked up the cube and placed it in an oak rack with about a million other white cubes. Annali had no idea how she’d find the Dean’s cube again. “And let’s get you settled in a chair. Maybe with some tea? We don’t get many people who react with nausea, but you look downright green.”

Annali found herself expertly maneuvered into a modified fireman’s carry and whisked out of the entrance of…what was this? A pub? Seemed to be. By the entrance was a table half-filled with occupants. “I’ll just set you here,” the woman said, and settled Annali into a wooden chair. “Someone will bring you tea soon.”

She suppressed a burp and prayed she wouldn’t lose it all over her best formal dress, in front of these strangers. She had to get the last thirty marks for her tuition. And she had to get the cube. If she could convince the Dean it was an accident, maybe he wouldn’t expel her–or worse, charge her with theft and have her incarcerated.

Gary swallowed four Tylenol and squinted out the window at the mid-morning light, only to find that someone had spray-painted his lawn.

Well, that’s just perfect, he thought to himself, before he looked at the marks again and realized what they were for. He sighed, put on pants, and headed towards the kitchen for some orange juice.

He supposed he should be thankful that the utility company had come out yesterday as promised to mark the ground, seeing as the deadline for planting a tree was today. Friggin’ HOA, he thought. Why does anyone care about how many trees I have on my property? Don’t people have better things to do than look at my house? I don’t even look at my house.

It was supposed to get into the 90s by lunchtime. Probably best to dig the hole now, then go buy a friggin’ tree.

Wait - how big do I have to make the hole?

Well, he’d just make the hole super-big, wouldn’t he? That’d show… someone.

Gary opened the garage door. The neighbor lady across the street was just starting to mow her lawn. Two teenagers wandered slowly down the block, chatting and staring intently at their phones. Trying to catch those stupid little Japanese monsters, Gary thought.

He found a spot as far away from any of the utility company’s paint marks as he could and started digging. After only a couple of minutes, already working up a sweat, his shovel hit something hard. He grunted, swore, and looked down into the hole. There was something white down there. He remembered why he didn’t like planting trees in his yard: too many rocks.

A few seconds of clawing with his fingers revealed that it wasn’t a rock - at least not an ordinary one. It was too smooth. It almost looked like marble.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, he bent down for a closer look and swept some additional soil away. This was definitely a man-made object - a brick, maybe, or a box of some kind. A time capsule? That would be interesting, but unlikely. He couldn’t tell how big it was. He reached down to see if he could pry it loose.

Without warning the ground dropped away from beneath Gary’s feet. Falling! No, not falling whooooooooaaa …

Gary instinctively closed his eyes, then forced them open again. There was a shimmering light at the edges of his vision, fading away, and he found himself standing, crouched, in a white hallway.

“Welcome to Anatole’s!” said a perky voice. “You may be a little –”

“AAAAAGGGHH!” screamed Gary, articulately.

The perky voice paused for a second, then continued. “– disoriented from the journey, but may I welcome you to the Bar Outside of Time and Space! Feel free to unwind, relax and enjoy a drink!”

Gary looked at the source of the voice. It was a woman. He had never seen her before and she was definitely not mowing the lawn.

Ask where you are.

“AAAAAAGGGGHHH!” Gary asked.

“We get that question a lot,” the woman replied. “I’m Stacey. I’d offer to check your coat, but it looks like what you really need is a towel! No offense,” she quickly added. “Why don’t you -“

“What am I supposed to tell the HOA?”

That one seemed to stump her. “I’m… not sure what that is. Why don’t you go in and get a drink?” The woman recovered her perky smile and motioned to what was obviously a bar area. “Anatole has just about anything you can imagine. Back in a jiff.” She plucked the white cube from Gary’s hand, placed it on a rack behind her, and quickly stepped down a side hall.

Gary looked down at his bare, dirty feet and sweat-stained shirt. He tried to tiptoe gingerly over to the bar, looking around nervously.

He sat down next to a Minotaur.

It took a moment for that to sink in. Somewhere inside himself, he found the sense not to scream again.

“Hello there,” said the bartender. “What can I get you?”

“What do you have that’s good for…” Gary thought about asking for some aspirin but realized that his headache was gone. “… that’s good for being completely out of my depth?”

Anatole grinned. “I recommend you pick something familiar. It’ll help you get settled.”

“Jack ‘n’ Coke, then.” He took a deep breath and looked at the large beast on the next stool, who was sucking what might be a bloody Mary through a bendy straw.

“So, you’re a… Minotaur?”

The Minotaur looked at him nervously and nodded.

Gary chuckled. “Well, um, normally I’d say, ‘Come here often,’ but from what I remember reading about Minotaurs that might be offensive.”

The beast seemed confused by this, but Anatole started laughing. “Don’t worry so much, my friend. Everyone who comes here expects to meet people from all corners of reality - and if they don’t, they learn very quickly.” He passed Gary a full glass.

Gary looked around. This was a bar. Zapped across the universe and where does he wind up? Another bar. Well, he thought, at least it’s familiar. He looked around.

“You guys have a stage? The band I’m in could use a fresh gig.”

Anatole laughed again. “I like you. Looks like we’ve got a good crowd tonight!” He raised his voice. “A round of drinks on the house!”

People cheered. The Minotaur grunted its approval and lightly elbowed Gary, knocking him off his stool.

In space, no one can hear you scream. However, the patrons of Anatole’s bar were currently outside of space, and so were able to hear Mr. Gloorp’s - that must be a scream, surely? - with crystal clear clarity.

Winters had been busy taking in the impressive nature of Anatole’s main bar when Mr. Gloorp had been taking the stage. Now, the stage was the only thing anyone could look at - some with misty-eyed delight, most with grimaces and ear-covered hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, Winters saw a flash of yellow, and turned to look. He saw the smiling bartender sporting two yellow nodules out of his ears. Since he looked human, Winters’ assumed the bartender must surely be suffering from the sonic assault, and given the fact he had a carefree smile on his face, he reasoned that those little yellow doohickeys must be helping somehow. Winters decided it was well past time he had a drink.

Marching up to the bar, he plonked himself down in a seat next to a middle-aged man with soiled hands and a hulking great Minotaur. He nodded politely to both of them and they responded in kind before turning back to process what was happening on stage.

Winters turned to the bartender. “I say,” he said, catching Anatole’s attention. “I don’t suppose you have another pair of those yellow things back there, do you?” he enquired.

Anatole smiled at him, gestured at the stage where Mr. Gloorp was creating his masterful racket and leaned forward slightly. “I’m sorry?”

Winters raised his voice. “I said, I don’t suppose you have another pair of those yellow things back there do you?”

Anatole chuckled to himself and leaned in even closer. “I’m sorry?”

Winters drew a large breath. “I SAID, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU HAVE ANOTHER PAIR OF THOSE YELLOW THINGS BACK THERE, DO YOU?”

Anatole laughed, although Winters could barely hear it over Mr. Gloorp. “I heard you the first time,” Anatole admitted, smiling, and gestured once again at the stage. “I’m just sorry!”

Winters deflated with a sigh. Anatole winked, and a pint glass appeared from under the bar, which he filled with a dark drink - ale, perhaps? - from one of the many dispensers around his bar. He passed it to Winters.

“Here. On the house. The least I can do for taking that joke so well!”

Winters took the glass gratefully, and nodded at Anatole, even giving him a small smile. It was impossible to dislike Anatole, he was far too good natured. Winters raised the glass up to the barkeep. “Cheers!”

Anatole leaned in. “What was that?”

Winters narrowed his eyes, and Anatole quickly backed off, waving his hands in front of him, laughing. “Just kidding, just kidding! Enjoy your drink.” Winters chuckled, and took a sip. Damned if this wasn’t a fantastic tasting porter. He decided he quite liked this bar. Or he would like it, as soon as that alien stopped with all that blasted noise…

Captain Hane joined the other men and the Minotaur at the bar. It was his vain hope that the creature’s large body would somehow absorb the sound from the large and viscous Mr. Goorp.

It didn’t

Still, though, he was surprised that Anatole was able to mix up a Roshian Liverspotter. It was the first time he’d seen the drink made by someone who wasn’t a D’Roshiin. Also, it was next to impossible to get your hands on it. Unless, it seemed, you were at the Bar Outside Time and Space.

Mr. Gloorp hit a high note (could they be called notes?) in his performance, causing many of the patrons to wince and a few of the more fragile glassware to shatter.

Hane leaned in to Gary, Winters, and the Minotaur. “You think this is bad? This is nothing compared to a Kakarian concert during the annual Festival of Shrieks.”

Gary, still a little bewildered merely stared at him blankly. Winters raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

The Minotaur merely grinned, happy to have somebody talk to him and not cry in fear before being mauled. By him.

Anatole laughed. “Yes, my friend. Those Kakarians know how to have a good time. It’s not often I get one here. But when I do I usually end up replacing half of my glasses.”

Hane and company cringed again at Mr. Goorp’s rendition of… whatever it was supposed to be. He was tempted to get up there himself, if only to keep Mr. Goorp from continuing his performance. Unfortunately, that would mean singing himself.

Hane leaned low on the bar, seeing if anybody would volunteer to take Mr. Gloorp’s spot on the stage.

Annali stifled a belch and pushed aside her tea. “Oh god, oh god, make the noise stop,” she said under her breath and looked around for the cause. There. It was that–thing–over at the microphone. A mass of purple ooze. From somewhere in the depths of its bottom third it had manifested some sort of slit, and the most noxious noise emanated from that slit directly into the microphone it held in one amorphous tentacle.

Behind it, on the wall, blazed the words “Karaoke Night at Anatole’s!” and beneath those words was a play list. Every single song on the list, most of which she didn’t know and including whatever he sang now (which had been highlighted in purple) bore the name ‘Mr. Gloorp.’

She’d seen this before. Some students in every class hogged the teacher’s attention, raising their hands every minute or so, sometimes talking more than their professors did. The only way to shut them down was to butt in. And if she didn’t, she’d be forced to listen to Mr. Gloorp for … she checked. Six hours, eighteen minutes, and eleven more seconds.

Annali rose from her seat and wobbled her way over to Stacey. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’d like to sing something. How do I sign up?”

“It’s easy!” Stacey said, her teeth shining pearly white in the black lighting. “Here.” She thrust a microphone into Annali’s hand. “You go up there and sing the next song with Mr. Gloorp. The bar patrons will vote on who sings it better.”

Annali’s brow furrowed and she stared out at the sea of miserable patrons. “Then why hasn’t someone done that yet?”

“Oh, Mr. Gloorp. He dislikes singing duets. If he can get you to stop before the duet finishes, he gets to keep the microphone. He’s really sneaky about it too. And if you win, well …” She winced.

“What?”

“He’s been known to shed his outer layer. In all directions. At velocity.” Stacey shuddered. “Stinks like crazy. But if you do win, and you win the general karaoke contest, you get your tab paid for the evening. So sometimes people try anyway.”

Annali thought about those last 30 marks she needed. “Could I cash out if I won?”

Stacey shrugged. “Up to Anatole.”

Money. She needed money. And for her brain not to explode from the noise. It seemed like a fair test. “I’ll try it. Put me down for ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’ if I win.”

On the stage, Mr. Gloorp completed his song to the assorted groans and feeble clappings of the audience. The DJ announced his next number and a hush filled the bar as the countdown for the duet challenger commenced.

Annali marched from Stacey to the stage, microphone in hand, determined to do her best despite her nausea and the horrendous stink Mr. Gloorp produced as she approached. She had no idea what song he was about to massacre, but she would kick his nonexistent butt at singing it anyway.

Thrilled as he was to be surrounded by new acquaintances, all of whom were beautiful and none of whom were fleeing him in terror, the earsplitting shriek coming from the karaoke stage was beginning to grate on The Minotaur’s nerves. Even with his ears pressed flat against the sides of his head, the noise rattled his bones and came dangerously close to shattering the glass his drink came in. The semitransparent blob onstage showed no sign of tiring out (or stopping to breathe, for that matter), and although its mucous-like body glittered enticingly in the spotlight, The Minotaur decided that it definitely was not beautiful. He wouldn’t mind if the whole thing disintegrated before his eyes. But then again, he’d never experienced this ‘karaoke’ before–he didn’t even know what it was. Maybe this was what was supposed to happen?

He glanced down the bar at his newfound companions for some kind of cue. Although the men seemed to vary widely in age, background, and parallel universe of origin, they all had the same uncomfortable grimace plastered across their faces. Proof enough for him. The Minotaur grimaced, too, although he wasn’t sure it differed much from his earlier attempt at a smile. “Gloorp are hard to karaoke,” he observed, wincing at another impossibly high note.

Gary (who was now giving him a much wider berth since regaining his seat on the barstool) took a moment to parse The Minotaur’s scrambled grammar. At last he laughed and gave an exaggerated nod. “Yes,” he said, “very hard. But you know, I think I’ve heard worse in bars back home.”

Captain Hane joined in with a story about something called a Festival of Shrieks, but The Minotaur could hardly hear him over the din. Mr. Gloorp had moved on to a more upbeat song, and now his screeching was punctuated now and then by what could only be described as “fervent chitters”. The other patrons had to shout to be heard above the noise, and as their voices rose Mr. Gloorp kept singing louder. The Minotaur bent and rested his chin on the bar with a doglike sigh, gazing forlornly at the stage.

Just then, silence fell! The Minotaur’s ears perked as he lifted his heavy head. A young woman marched onto the stage, a second microphone clenched in her fist. Stacey introduced her as Annali Mason, challenger to Mr. Gloorp’s undefeated reign of karaoke terror. “The two of them will be facing off in what I’m sure will be a stirring rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. Give it up for Annali and Mr. Gloorp!”

Mr. Gloorp didn’t have a face to speak of, but even so, The Minotaur thought he looked extremely unhappy to be sharing the stage. His gelatinous form quivered and roiled as Annali took her place as far away from him as the spotlight beam would allow. As the opening notes of Bonnie Tyler’s emotional power ballad rang through the tinny speakers, Mr. Gloorp’s screeching began again with a new intensity and the bar patrons seemed to flinch as one. Annali, however, was not deterred–not by the unfamiliar lyrics, not by the difficult belting range, and certainly not by the screaming wad of gunk onstage beside her. She sang as though channeling Bonnie Tyler herself. The crowd hooted and whistled and the Minotaur joined in, clacking his hoof-hands together in encouragement.

But their glee did not last. Mr. Gloorp was not about to give up his throne so easily. He waited until Annali was off her guard (crooning a particularly soulful “turn around, bright eyes” while making prolonged eye contact with a patron in the front row), and then like lightning a gelatinous tentacle extended from his body and engulfed Annali’s outstretched hand.

Predictably, Annali started to scream. Into the microphone. Once again the bar was a cacophony of high-pitched noise as Mr. Gloorp continued to screech and Annali tried to scream and sing and wrestle away from his grasp all at the same time.

It was too much for The Minotaur. He slammed his hooves down on the bar with a growl and charged up to the karaoke stage.

Though The Minotaur lacked opposable thumbs, he made up for it with brute strength. He wrapped his arms around the microphone clutched in Mr. Gloorp’s tentacle and yanked it free with a wet squelching noise. The bar went silent. Mr. Gloorp released Annali’s arm and she scrambled out of reach.

“Gloorp are not karaoke any more!“ The Minotaur bellowed. Then he backed away as the blob began to tremble violently.

Gary wasn’t sure what Mr. Gloorp’s trembling presaged, but no longer having a Minotaur to hide behind, he shot a panicked look at Anatole.

“You okay?” the bartender asked, and indicated the ear plugs. “You should put those in.”

“I’ve lost some of my high-frequency hearing over the years anyway. But this is bringing back some awful memories of our original lead singer. We tried mixing the worst out of it from the soundboard, but it never helped.” He looked at the onstage face-off. “Maybe I should’ve tried this approach.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It was awkward. She was the bass player’s girlfriend.”

“What about you? What instrument do you play, anyway?”

Gary didn’t answer.

On her knees, in the bright spotlight, Annali huddled away from Mr. Gloorp. Her hand felt like someone had been sitting on it for hours, and the pins-and-needles feeling extended all the way up to her shoulder. She wiped the goop off her hand and shook it, trying to restore feeling.

Beside her, lyrics scrolled along the karaoke machine’s screen and the DJ kept the music coming. She had no idea what would happen if no one was singing by the end of the song. Would Mr. Gloorp win by default? Would she have to do this again?

She raised the microphone to her lips, sucked in some air, and tried to sing a note. A harsh croak came out. She winced as her throat ached. No luck there.

There was only one thing left to do. She passed the microphone to the bizarre human with a bull’s head, the nearest entity that was not Mr. Gloorp. “For the love of God, sing. Anything. Please,” she rasped, then began to cough.

When Mr Goorp started to “perform”, Bianca had nearly spluttered the last mouthful of her coffee over the table. The noise did a good job of completing the sobering up process started by the coffee.

Annali had made a brave attempt at wresting control from him, but the young woman was now looking rather the worse for wear, handing her microphone over to the Minotaur.

Timing was everything, thought Bianca. She didn’t want to get caught in the middle of a fight (or an exploding Mr Goorp), but perhaps she could defuse the situation? Karaoke wasn’t exactly to her taste, but was she a professional singer or not?

Snatching up a few of the table decorations, she rushed up to the stage, pausing only to whisper a few words to the DJ.

Positioning herself close to the microphone that the Minotaur was now holding, and not incidentally keeping him as a barrier between her and Mr Goorp, she began to speak.

“You know, ladies, gentlemen and other esteemed guests, there’s a tradition in the arts that “The show must go on.” Mr Goorp has been giving a memorable performance, but his microphone seems to be out of commission for the moment. Perhaps he would be kind enough to hold these decorations, which complement his unique appearance, and turn his considerable talents to providing visual effects for our next song?”

Leaning round the Minotaur’s not inconsiderable bulk for just long enough to gently toss the glittering decorations towards the purple entity, she quickly withdrew, took a deep breath and picked a song. Something she could carry herself, but that the Minotaur could join in with if he wished.

“Now… I’ve had the time of my life..”

Gary took the opportunity to hop off his seat and escort the dazed Annali back to her seat. “You okay? Looks like the Purple Herculoid up there really did a number on you. I’ll see if Anatole can scare up something that’ll help soothe your throat.”

The bell for fifteen-minutes-till-close rang, and Milly sighed. She was tucked into a corner of the library’s basement, searching fruitlessly for a particular book that she’d been looking for for about… god, had it been five years? It was the reason she’d joined this library – it wasn’t cheap. But she’d seen it listed, back upstairs, in the card catalogue. She had to have it. Even if it wouldn’t, couldn’t belong to her.

The lights on this floor weren’t working properly, but if she looked up she could see through grilled flooring to the ground floor, and then the first floor, and… so the light that came through was dappled and broken. Enough to see titles (not that half of the books even seemed to have them); not really enough to make out classmarks.

She swore with feeling as she realised that the shelf directly below her line of sight that she’d skimmed over three times already had two rows of books in, and swept as many as she could from the first row out of the way to see what was in the second. She had to lean in very close to see what the books were. And then she saw it – at the end, tucked even further back, almost hidden by a big book bound in red leather, she saw a small white cube. It was almost shimmering in the dim light. The bell rang out again, but she ignored it. She had time. She reached over and pressed the white cube in.

She immediately felt the floor beneath her fall away. She covered her face and tried not to move until she was on solid ground again. Which… it seemed to happen very quickly, but it couldn’t have been. She’d had such a moment of clarity. Like she was suspended in midair and able to remember everything that she’d ever done. All of the worst and best things and everything between. Getting somebody she didn’t like much fired by passing them duff information. Saving a stranger’s life. Just sitting in a cafe with a pot of tea on a cold day in September, the first day she’d spent outside the house for months.

She’d just been scared, she thought. It makes a second seem like forever. She put her hands down and opened her eyes.

Oh. It was… “A hidden bar,” she said, flatly, when one of the staff approached her. She glanced around some more. It was very… white. Like the switch. Which she could see had fallen onto the floor. “You should probably fix that,” she said next, and nodded to it. The woman started to speak, but Milly waved her away with a “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She could hear karaoke coming from the bar. She grimaced. Was this what was happening in London now? Karaoke Speakeasies? Ew.

She looked up at the ceiling which she must have fallen through (it looked very solid), and sighed. The library was closing anyway. She might as well have a drink. She walked up to the bar. “Moscow mule?” she said.

At the edge of the large round room was small boy, a mess of straggly white hair draping over his arms. His head was buried into his knees, his frail arms hugged around his legs, sobs echoing dully around the cold, white lab.

It was the largest room in the whole ship, though it was hardly ever used nowadays. Once he’d been given the Cure, there was no risk of illness, no natural ailment that could kill off Last, the only surviving member of the human race.

But now it wasn’t just the lab that was empty, but the canteen, the charging stations, the life pods… the whole ship was loneliness. All that was left was him.

A sharp buzz caused Last to look up at the thing floating in the middle of the room. A single, perfectly white cube hovered, stationary in the air, behind the cylindrical field of green light that protected them all–or just him, now–of any biological contamination. They’d repaired the field years back, but it was never quite the same after that–always buzzing and popping and drawing attention to itself.

Not like Last. Not any more. Not when he finally died of starvation.

Everything on the ship was blunted and rounded. He’d looked. No one could risk the last human getting cut and infected and dying on them. The airlocks wouldn’t even let him open the doors. All he could do was flush the toilet and order food.

Oh, there’d be plenty of food if he wanted to eat it, recycled from his own waste and some algae from the oxygen generators. But why delay the inevitable?

The field buzzed again, the fluorescent green pulsing and fraying at the edges before resolving back into a haze of sparkling particles.

Last got up. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was his ticket to oblivion. Now they had all disappeared, maybe the field would kill him if he touched it. Or maybe the cube itself was dangerous. How keen were the edges?

He strode over to the field, wiping his tear-sodden hands on his loose-fitting jumpsuit. Then, gingerly creeping towards the cube, he reached out a hand to the field, wincing ready for the pain. The cylinder of light buzzed and crackled where his skin broke the seal, but there was only a light tingling–nothing fatal.

So he shifted his weight and reached deeper. The cube lazily spun on a point, goading him to come get it. Last swiped at the object, but missed. He shuffled his left foot further towards the field. He swiped again, and there! He brushed the surface with his fingers. It was smooth and cold, like the ships… everything. But there was something about it that felt out of place–just a tad off somehow, as if it wasn’t really there.

And then the world ended.

Annali looked up at the man who had approached her. He wore muddy jeans, a thin t-shirt, and his hands bore a few streaks of dirt, as if he’d been digging. She put her hand in his outstretched palm and let him take her to an empty seat at the bar, next to his own untended drink. “Thanks,” she croaked–or tried to. She attempted a thankful smile instead.

Anatole gave her a pot of tea and some honey. She stirred the honey into her tea and tried again to speak to the man who’d helped her. “How did you get here?”

Bianca sang beautifully, but The Minotaur was now trapped onstage holding the microphone for her. Granted, his knowledge of karaoke etiquette was spotty at best, but it didn’t feel right just passing off the microphone and sneaking offstage. What if Mr. Gloorp returned with a vengeance? What if screaming into the microphone was some kind of karaoke rite of passage and Bianca started doing it as soon as he left the stage?

He couldn’t just stand there. The whole audience was staring at him. Even Bianca seemed to be sending him sidelong glances as she crooned into the microphone awkwardly cradled between his hooves. He had to join in. The lyrics were right there on the screen. All he had to do was sing along. It would be easy–just one song, and then he could go.

Unfortunately, The Minotaur could neither read nor speak in complete sentences.

He settled for trying to imitate the sounds Bianca was making a moment after she made them. It didn’t go so well. The end result was something like a sick cow with a bugle in its throat–but a very small bugle, and a very quiet cow. Bianca was mostly able to drown him out with her impressive vibrato, but even so the audience’s applause was lukewarm and confused when the song finally ended.

The Minotaur was glad no one could see him blushing beneath all his fur. He tried to place the microphone back on its stand, but couldn’t quite maneuver it correctly without any thumbs, so he bent and set it on the floor. Then he hurried offstage toward the bar as quickly as he could.

“I am not karaoke,” he decided with a shake of his massive head.

Gary sighed. “You know, I’m not sure. No, wait - that’s not true. I am sure. I was digging a hole, found a strange white cube, tried to pick it up, and got zapped here. Wherever here is. But if anyone back home asks, I’ll probably blame Ambien.” He raised his glass and clinked her teacup. “To unexpected road trips.”

He patted the shoulder of the dejected Minotaur, who had just returned to the bar. “Don’t sweat it. Singing is harder than it looks. Besides, I bet you’d be a hell of a drummer.”

He looked up at the empty stage and wondered whether he should have a turn, but decided to wait until that promised towel showed up first. If nobody else volunteered, he could always see if they had any Doors tunes.

Bianca’s stage smile didn’t waver as the Minotaur left the stage, leaving the microphone behind. She also smiled inwardly as she noticed a couple of the guests welcoming him back. She had felt heat radiating from him during their song and suspected he wasn’t enjoying the attention too much, but it was sweet if he got a couple of friends out of the attempt. She wondered if singing that song despite seeming so out of his depth might have been the bravest thing he had ever done. He had done a great job of moving the evening along, and she was sure everyone but Mr Gloorp appreciated his intervention. So what if he couldn’t sing? People weren’t SUPPOSED to be good at singing karaoke! Well, she amended, they weren’t supposed to cause auditory distress either, but the Minotaur hadn’t done that, just been a bit… hesitant. It was a shame he hadn’t been received better.

Bianca didn’t want to remain on the stage herself, but she didn’t exactly see a queue of eager drinkers lining up to replace her. She cast her gaze around the audience who were still trying to make sense of their duet. Time to nudge things along, she thought.

“I think Mr Minotaur has been very brave,” she announced. “He’s never sung anything before, ever, and here he is, in front of all of you, giving it everything! Who’s going to be next to take on this challenge?”

She looked around the audience, meeting each person’s eye in turn. Some looked embarrassed, some thoughtful, and several looked over towards the Minotaur, slumped at the bar. As she had hoped, another, more enthusiastic, round of applause arose, this time solidly directed towards the Minotaur.

Job done, she thought. She picked up the wireless microphone from the floor, and tossed it at random into the audience.

“Catch!” she shouted, and walked off the stage.

The boy fell forward onto a hard surface. His face was received by some form of padding–a mild sting the only harm done. But the rest of his body slammed through the foam and into the floor beyond. A shock painfully reverberated through his bones.

“Welcome to Anatole’s,” a soft, feminine voice called. “You may be a little disoriented– Oh, my dear boy!”

The female’s feet tapped on the floor as she moved towards him. Last ignored her, a chuckle starting in his belly. She turned him over, but he kept his eyes closed, a smile edging across his face.

He arched his back away from the woman, the moment filling him with joy. He opened his eyes and burst into laughter, staring up at a white marble ceiling. Was that what pain felt like? Was this adrenaline, coursing through his veins? Is this what they always worry about? He didn’t need their protection any more. He just felt so… alive!

“Er…” the woman said, now awkwardly holding him in a half-embrace. “Are you okay, little one?”

Last relaxed and looked back at her. “Lora! You’re–” The smile faltered, his chest tightening. It wasn’t Lora. It wasn’t Targe. The being in front of him–touching him–didn’t have the tell tale markings on her face, the bold rings of light in her eyes.

“It’s okay. You may be a little disoriented from the journey,” she said. “But may I welcome you to the Bar Outside of Time and Space.”

He frowned, starting to pull away from her. It sounded as if she were reading a card, it sounded as though she were programmed like any other synthetic, but he knew now she wasn’t.

“Feel free to unwind, relax, and enjoy a drink.” She hesitated for a moment. “Or, well, a fizzy-pop or something. You like fizzy-pop, right?”

He shook his head, trying to push her hands from off of him.

“No? How about milk? We’ve got plenty of milk!”

But her smile didn’t fool him. This was… this was an organic. Not the last of their species saying goodbye to the universe on a screen, but a real-live bio sitting right in front of him, touching him. What if he got sick?

Lora! Targe! Frent! he called out in his mind. Help me!

Finally struggling free of her clutches, he kicked out his legs desperately, scooting back away from her until he hit a smooth wall.

The shock reminded him of the pain still oozing through his muscles. Tears misted his vision until he was blind and crying, and sobbing for Frent to pick him up and take him back to cryo. Mothers! Father! Where are you?

Gary winced as the microphone arced through the air, but the loud thump he expected never came. Instead, the mic hovered about an inch off the ground.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Annali, and hopped off his barstool again. Nobody seemed interested in taking the mic, and about half the patrons were looking at it like a rotten bratwurst.

He picked it up. It still had bits of goo on it, but he could read the label: SHURE UCP50 with Anti-Drop.

Everyone was staring at him. He looked awful. Another reason to hate doing yard work, he thought.

His mind quickly raced through his band’s repertoire as he walked over to the DJ. The lady who’d just left the stage looked like an opera singer, so Tom Petty was probably out. Carpenters songs were inevitably sing-alongs, and that wouldn’t work here. Anything too harsh might upset some of the more fragile customers, which ruled out Zeppelin and AC/DC. And he didn’t have the singing chops for Whitney Houston.

But he could probably manage a John Denver.

He looked over the song list. Rocky Mountain High? Take Me Home, Country Road? Annie’s Song?

No. Calypso.

He took a few deep breaths and smiled as the intro played. Sea shanties were practically bar songs.

“To sail on a dream on a crystal clear ocean,
To ride on the crest of a wild raging storm…”

He wasn’t the strongest singer, but he could sell the words. The Minotaur especially seemed taken by the images. He’d probably never seen the ocean. Had he even heard of it? Whatever his experience, his mood seemed to be lifting.

By the time Gary got to the second chorus and its wordless chanting, Annali looked relaxed and the Minotaur was “ho-dee-ohing” louder than anyone.

“I… er…” the woman stuttered. She turned her head toward a corridor that cut out of the large, white room. “Anatole?”

This was a dream. A nightmare. It had to be. She was still on the ship, still in the lab. That was it. But why would he dream of somewhere so similar? He glanced through his hands at Stacey. So ghastly?

A tall, thin man walked into the room. He had dark hair, like Farge. And there was something on his face. Dark lines zigzagged about his smile.

Last’s eyes opened wide. Was he a synthetic? Had they sent someone for him?

The man bent down and scooped up one of the many brightly-coloured cushions that now trailed from the centre of the room to the small boy. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on a cushion?” he said.

Last didn’t respond, only stared at the man–Anatole.

Anatole shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He plopped the cushion on the floor and knelt in front of Last. As he stared through the boy’s long, white locks, the smile broadened. “It’s not often we get children here.”

Last glanced away, then back. The man’s eyes were blue, vibrant, shining almost like– A frown flecked across the boy’s features. “Manufacture’s been slow these past cycles.” An old joke. One Frent had told since Last came out of the birthing chamber, it seemed.

After a moment, Anatole grinned, his eyes dancing. Last giggled. He never thought he’d do that again. Never thought he’d see the smile of another.

The boy looked at Stacey, who quickly hid her confusion with a look of amusement. “Would you like to come and play with the rest of us?” she said, leaning down and nodding.

Last looked back at Anatole. The man held out a hand and raised his eyebrows. The boy looked at the hand, the long fingers, the perfectly uniform skin. He took it.

At last. He was safe once again.