George cradled a cup of warm hot chocolate in his hands—one of the ones from those coffee machines; the ones that, for some reason, always seemed to taste the best.
But drinking cheap, hot chocolate was not the only reason George was at the old community theatre, which always seemed to have a smell of damp curtains and fresh paint. The late afternoon orange hue slanted through high windows, catching motes of dust that drifted like tiny actors across the stage. Krista stood centre stage—gripping a script with subtly shaking hands, on knees that were trembling ever so slightly—while the rest sat cross-legged in a loose semi-circle around her.
The instructor paced around the circle, her silver hair catching the light in a halo just above her ears. She was small, but carried herself with quiet authority, which told the story of a woman who had walked the West End and Broadway alike before choosing to settle down, teaching aspiring young actors who reminded her of her younger self.
"Krista."
She said, stopping just outside the circle.
"You're explaining the line. The audience doesn't want to be told that you're sad—they want to feel it. Stop trying to fill every bit of silence; use it to help you."
Krista nodded, her cheeks already tinted rose. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail—neat at first, but now little strands waved in the air, shining in the light of the stage lights. Every so often, she glanced at George in the crowd. It was a small crowd, made up of family and friends of those taking the acting class. George sat in the back row, arms crossed. Every time she glanced, he gave her a smile—quiet encouragement.
In through the nose, out through the mouth; this had been drilled into Krista since she first started a week ago. She took a deep breath, dropped her shoulders, and breathed out.
"Okay."
She whispered to herself.
"From the top."
She began her monologue from the beginning.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
The words came out thin, apologetic. She winced the second the words came out.
The instructor raised her hand.
"Stop. You're apologising to the script."
She gesticulated with every word she spoke.
"Don't read the line from the script. Become the character and say the words as if they were your own. You're talking to someone who's already walking away. You know whatever you're going to say is not going to turn them around. But you have to try."
Krista's throat tightened. She looked down at the creased scripts—a rainbow of colours highlighted specific words; notes scribbled along the borders of the paper in small, careful handwriting. She read through the lines one last time, taking them into her core before folding the paper into a small square and sliding it into her back pocket.
She closed her eyes.
The room went still, from the dust to the instructor's steps.
The lines came out soft, and her voice began to crack.
"I... Didn't mean to-to hurt you, I-"
She fell silent. It felt painful. Her fingers curled into a tight fist at her sides. She didn't rush to fill the silence; she let it sit for a second before continuing her lines. The whole room was encapsulated in her world.
The circle fell silent.
The instructor smiled.
"Voila."
She said.
"The audience latched on to every word."
She opened her arms as she spoke, gesturing to the circle and the crowd.
Krista opened her eyes and looked at her through wet lashes.
"How did I do?"
"You sounded like someone who's afraid of what they've done. That's better than perfection. You did well, sit down. Lila, you're next."
They went person to person, each with their own monologue—some happy, some sad. But none of them gripped George's heart the way Krista did.
By the time the class was over, her ponytail had almost completely come undone. Her cheeks were flushed. She felt lighter than she ever had.
She slowly gathered her things.
George stood at the double doors, hands in his pockets, waiting.
"You were great."
He said as she reached him.
"I was ok."
She said, looking down at her feet as she walked.
"You were better than ok. You brought a tear to my eye."
She elbowed him in the arm gently.
"Shut up, I'm still shaking."
"That's what I'm saying, that's real shit right there."
George wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
"Wanna go grab dinner, my treat—hero's reward."
She smiled gently.
"Ok, if you tell me how much my monologue made you cry."
"I was bawling; it felt like your words gripped my heart."
George was over the top with his gestures, moving cartoonishly as he gripped his chest with one hand and swept his hair back with the other.
Krista giggled.
"Shut up."
They stepped through the streets of Grossaint. The sun had set a short time ago, and the sky was painted black. The streetlights flickered on, smearing gold across the sidewalk.
They walked towards the high street, past shuttered shops, steering past takeaway restaurants towards a small Vitelian place—tucked between a bookstore and a barbershop. Through the window that leaked yellow light onto the pavement beside it, there were red and white checkered cloths on the tables, with lit candles sitting atop.
Inside, it smelled of garlic, basil and pizza dough. The owner was an old man with a thick accent, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour. He greeted them like they were regulars, but this was their first time. There were a few customers dotted around, most of them looked like couples—old and young. They probably looked the same.
"Just the two of you? There's a perfect spot by the window over there."
They slid into the booth by the glass. Krista shrugged off her jacket; George rolled the sleeves of his hoodie up.
Krista ordered a spaghetti carbonara—dammit, that's what George wanted—and a small glass of sauvignon rose—oh how fancy. George ended up settling for a pepperoni pizza and a Coke. Once the food arrived, they ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes—she twirled the spaghetti around her fork, and he ate his pizza one slice at a time.
George swallowed the piece of pizza in his mouth.
"So."
He eventually broke the silence, wiping grease from around his mouth with a napkin.
"You gonna keep going with these acting classes?"
She paused, fork halfway in her mouth.
"Yeah, I think I will. It's... scary, and a little embarrassing, but I need to do it if I want to fulfil my dream."
"You looked different up there, you looked like you reached your flow state."
She met his eyes.
"Flow state?"
She asked in confusion, placing her fork down.
"Yeah, apparently, people can reach a flow state, where they almost become a different person—reaching a new level of efficiency—in a specific activity or sport that changes depending on the individual."
"Cool."
She placed some spaghetti in her mouth before continuing.
"So, mine's acting?"
"Maybe."
"Ok then, George, what's yours? Art?"
"I don't think so. I don't think he's found his just yet."
They slowly finished the rest of their food, sharing a tiramisu together. When the time for the bill came, George paid without giving her the chance to argue.
Outside, the night had turned colder. Krista zipped her jacket all the way to the top, stuffing her hands in the jacket pockets.
"Thanks for coming."
She said quietly.
"So worth it, you were great. George can't wait to tell everyone that he met Krista Hopkins before she was famous."
She bumped his arm again—much lighter this time.
"Not so bad yourself."
They walked home, shoulders almost touching.
Far above them—past the towers, the clouds and the ozone layer—sat Tom, alone on the moon, with nothing but his thoughts, staring at the blue-white marble of Earth.
But on the streets of Grossaint, Krista was smiling under the streetlights, and for George, that was enough.
The Sea of Tranquillity was silent in the way only a vacuum could be.
Tom sat on the edge of a shallow crater. The Earth had completed one revolution since he first came up there. The voice was still running circles in his head.
Kill them
Kill them
Kill them
When the voice started chanting those orders at him, Tom flew as far as possible—ending up on the moon—and since then, it hadn't contacted him. What could MEI possibly be after that had it so afraid? Tom wondered what the boys were doing—probably in the pub. Since he got these powers, he had become distant. What if they thought he was dead?
Tom lifted himself up from the crater. In the distance, there was a crater that looked large and deep. Curious, he flew towards it.
There were small chunks of scrap metal scattered across the crater. There were also small crystals of a purple hue scattered too. Tom reached in to pick one up, and as soon as he made contact—
His life flashed before his eyes.
But it wasn't his life.
He was in a room—a living room. The room was full of people, drink in hand, staring. He stood infront of a man, leaning against a table with a hand on his cheek. The man was staring at whoever's eyes Tom was looking through with shock and sadness.
But shortly after, he was taken to a new scene.
Orange dirt roads. Dry green bushes.
There was a small ship flashing its light down on the ground. A black man stood beneath it.
Who was this idiot Tom was looking through?
Tom flew through the ship and left.
Next, he was in a city—smashed cars, bodies, debris scattered everywhere. He flew straight down, punching a hole clean through a giant creature he had never even seen before. There was a girl there, staring at him in awe.
He felt like he recognised her.
Yeah—she got carried into the hall on a stretcher. She was an MEI agent.
But suddenly Tom saw more creatures, the same as the other one, marching towards him. He took them down, gestured some kind of peace sign towards the girl and blasted off, doing the same across the city.
He flashed to another memory.
Was he in an alleyway.
Then he blasted off.
No way—it was Grossaint. He saw the ship that attacked that day. In fact, he was flying towards it.
He followed the ship up to an...
Armada?
He took ships down but got shot and landed on—
The moon.
The flashes stopped.
Tom stood frozen in shock. His hand was firmly grasping the crystal, its rubbery texture confusing his senses; it felt like his skin but looked like a diamond.
So this crater was created by whoever's memories he had just lived through. And just above him, just outside of Earth, was a massive armada of the ship that attacked—no—even bigger.
Tom needed to find this person.
YOU WILL.
The voice returned, and Tom began calling out to the void.
"What's going on!? What do you mean when!?"
THERE WILL COME A POINT WHERE I WILL NEED THE TWO OF YOU TO DO SOMETHING FOR ME.
"Why won't you tell me anything!?"
Tom waited.
But there was silence.
"DAMMIT. WHY WON'T YOU SAY ANYTHING!"
Tom punched down at the floor.
BANG!
A crater appeared in the ground following a loud bang.
What did he just do?
Tom felt a tingle flow down his arm into his hands, followed by a force pushing his arm back.
He tried again.
The tingle rolled down to his palm. Tom held his palm in front of him and released.
It was a blast—physically and metaphorically—it looked like fire, of a red hue, flying through the space between him and the moon's surface. Once it made contact, a massive explosion lit up the surface of the moon, blasting chunks of the moon into space.
Tom stared at his hand.
It was ghostly—red, slightly jagged at the edges. Buried beneath the cloud of red energy, there was white, just like those crystals.
Tom turned back towards the surface of the Earth, squinting at Troisine, trying to find Grossaint.
He needed to find the other one.