They stop for lunch at a little park on the outskirts of some town so small the only people who can remember the name of it without referring to a map are the residents.

The sparrows here are fat and fearless, a quality which Howell finds fascinating. They dart and scatter around the ankles of the other parkgoers, countless domestic disputes over crumbs playing out in the five minutes it takes Theresa to buy sandwiches from a cafe down the street.

Howell starts on his last blister of antihistamines, pulling the respirator down around his neck to dry swallow a capsule. Theresa hands him a sandwich.

“Why do so many people stop here, do you think?” he asks.

“The fact that the only thing between here and the next stop is interminable alpine desert masquerading as national park?”

“Point,” says Howell, pulling his respirator back up. “Hey, give me your crusts.”

“Why?”

“Sparrow tax.”

“You shouldn’t encourage them,” says Theresa.

“I’m not,” says Howell, clearly encouraging them. “Besides, I thought you liked birds?”

“For all you know maybe sparrows killed my parents or whatever. Can we go, already? I have a thing lined up for tonight.”

“Killed your parents?”

Theresa makes a frustrated noise like “uughhh” and extricates herself from the picnic table, a shower of crumbs sparking a minor sparrow civil war. Howell watches them for a little while longer, but now that he’s out of food they have no use for him.

“Hey,” says Theresa, when he gets back to the car. “Come here for a second?”

Howell starts to say something but she’s already grabbing his lapel and pulling him closer and for a split second he thinks she’s going to kiss him but then he remembers the respirator and by that time her other hand has already fished his phone out of his inside coat pocket. She winks at him; he glares back.

“My name’s Theresa,” he says, “and I’m a manic pixie dream girl.”

“My name’s Andrew,” she says, handing him the keys, “and my stupid mask makes me look like a b-movie alien.”

“If you write over my Post-Apocalyptic Biker Gang save game,” he says, “with god as my witness – I will never speak to you again.”

The Feed giveth, and the Feed taketh away.

What was once a swollen harvest, spoiling in the sun, has receded. Not a scrap, as far as his eye can see.

The Feed had a purpose, once. Now its name is an incongruity – The Feed is a shadow, sharing nothing. The Feed withholds. It hides under floorboards and behind the dead branches of the remaining trees. He feels its bulbous, faceted eyes on him all the time. He can’t sleep any more. He searches now, constantly.

Clutched in his fist, his blackened javelin. He’ll teach it a lesson, one way or another.

It’s generally not a required part of a stage manager’s job to check that none of the actors are drunk before the curtain goes up, which is why it comes as a complete shock to Philip when Heidi’s policewoman stumbles onto the stage at the top of the second act, shirt half buttoned.

It’s not immediately apparent that something is wrong, but within minutes they’ve skipped two pages and she’s giggling at every awkward pause. The other actors, to their credit, manage to roll with it – Philip can only sit and watch the trainwreck unfold, listening out for the next mangled cue line.

Heidi’s fled by the time the house lights come up. Over drinks that evening, the shell-shocked cast’s reactions range from barely-suppressed rage to a resigned disappointment. Philip sits outside to keep the SM company; she chain smokes while they put off calling the director, trade war stories, and lament the fact that you have to experience it in order to have it to tell.

GAUTAMA: All things that come to be have an end.

DEVADATTA SHAKES HIS HEAD RUEFULLY.

GAUTAMA: Devadatta--

Antimony rewinds, restarts,

GAUTAMA: ...have an end.

Pauses. His mouse dances along the timeframe, rubberbanding the moment of eye contact. A few more clicks and the clip exports to .gif. He opens an incognito window to upload it to a tumblr none of the others know about.

“Or people standing behind you, Tim,” says Melody, standing behind him.

“Oh christ,” says Antimony. “Please don’t tell the others. Especially Simon. I just can’t stop making them.”

Melody, blog full of guilty fanfiction, pretends to consider.

When the Dire Foundry was a warship, she had a broadside fierce enough to rattle anything in the Pirate Fleet. Christened only by allocated number, she gained the nickname with her reputation for the names she forged, the skies she blackened, for the molten fire that rained from her crucible heart.

That’s all behind her now. But while her power may have been tamed and yoked to the spirit of free enterprise, Valentin can still feel the history behind each gear, each spring. At the end of every shift, he puts aside his tools proud to be keeping this lumbering titan in the air. The Foundry, famously, never rests, and Valentin is lulled to sleep every night by her escapement’s endless hum as she drifts across the sky.