“C’mon, Ruby! The chocolate shop’s just over there!”

“Okay, Artifex. Slow down a sec, will ya?”

Artifex Frost didn’t pay much heed to Ruby’s request. He skipped and bounded about, darting around the businessmen and women. Ruby kept close; if he looked back, he would have seen an amused smile on her face.

But, being the young kid he was, his impatience matched his speed readily. He was already at the first corner when Ruby was still lounging behind him. He let out a huff, and stomped his foot. “Ruby!” he wailed. “If we don’t get there sooner, they won’t be serving that special, scrumptious, superb sundae!”

Ruby rolled her eyes as she approached. “Relax, Artifex. The owners’ are our friends. I’m sure they’ll save us both a piece.” She wagged her finger. “For an eleven year old, you sure are eager over ice cream.”

“Hey!” he protested. “Mousse cake is not ice cream at all!”

“Hmm, I guess you’re right.” She checked her watch. “It’s five o'clock right now. We’ve got at least fifteen minutes before the special ceases to be there.”

“Right, when it ceases to exist.”

“Artifex, they don’t just disappear into thin air. They put them in the back and let them sit until the next Sunday.”

He pouted. “I know… but it sounds cooler that way.”

The light turned to a red hand signal, and Artifex let out an annoyed sigh. Ruby caught the action, and laughed. It was like hearing gemstones tinkle. “Oh, Artifex. Surely you know you can’t hit every green light in life, right?”

He answered with his own adage he had long heard: “If you’re early to something, it’ll give you extra time to think.”

“Oh? And what would you think about if you were early?”

“How good the sundae tastes, duh?”

Ruby laughed again. After a moment, Artifex joined in.

As they waited, Artifex decided to look around. Though he had lived in Manehattan for a good portion of his young life, its numerous wonders were not lost on him. Buildings that were already built—the observation alone brought a good amount of amusement—pierced the sky, breaking past the very limits of heaven. Similarly, the roads ran down all four cardinal directions, like paths to the endless and infinite. The people and cars that came from those directions were as varied as the paths they roamed. With vehicles and residents of all sizes, colors, and places of origin, one could be certain that you could meet someone or something new each passing day.

He knew that down one street, one could find the next best place for their fashion passion; down another, the newest in good and delectable food. Make a corner on Main Street, you’d be greeted by a huge art galleria. Turn left down Galloping Boulevard, you’d arrive at the lush Manehattan Park. Roads were crossroads, he had long realized, that led an individual to the numerous possibilities that life had to offer. And all those places and attractions to the side added further to that idea. Manehattan was the prime example of a city of opportunities; no, it was the City of Opportunity.

Everything was possible. Everything.

The sound of wheels screeching against pavement brought him out of his observations. The light had switched over to a white stick figure, with the word “WALK” blinking beneath it. He smiled, pumping the air. He grabbed his sister’s hand and began dragging her forward.

Ruby tried to struggle, but gave up after a little while. Her hesitation was replaced with enthusiasm, and she soon was the one pulling Artifex gleefully through the streets.

This was his favorite part of any day; spending it with his sister. With his parents having to work a lot, Ruby became his best friend, teacher, and guardian, all the while not letting up on the typical “annoying sibling” routine. She was his role model, his vice, his shoulder to cry on, his annoying nuisance. She was everything he needed, and everything he didn’t want, all rolled up in one caring, kind, and generous package.

He couldn’t have been happier.

And he doubted he ever would.

After all, he had no reason to think otherwise.

They continued to walk down the sidewalk. Not at all silent, but not completely talkative, they fell into a pleasant discussion and exchange of observations. The hot dog stands at each end, for example, were pointed out by Ruby; she always had liked Manehattan’s local vendors more than any professional restaurant. Which, if Artifex was being honest, was a weird trait to have; after all, she seemed more “prim and proper” than that. To his own, paradoxical nature, though, he was more fascinated by the flowers that people planted on their windowsills. He saw the usual roses and violets, but several flowers he didn’t recognize. I’ll have to look them up when we get home, he thought, an eager grin on his face.

Another crosswalk approached, and they stopped right at the end. It had just turned to red, meaning that they had to wait a little while; and judging by the amount of cars that were passing through it would be a big “little while.” Artifex didn’t mind as much as he made himself out to be; if anything, it meant he could take a chance to be with his sister for a little longer.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t realize that he would still be with her when they would arrive at the ice cream shop. This was simply different. In some way, it held a change in value. When they, last Sunday, shared desserts, that brought nice feelings. But when they were simply walking around, as two Manehattenites, lost in the glory of their city, those feelings weren’t just nice; they were euphoric.

Maybe I don’t need that special, he mused. All I really need to be happy is Ruby.

The thought was surprisingly mature for him. He quickly amended it by adding, But a delicious mousse dessert wouldn’t hurt anybody.

The light changed with a ding, becoming once again the white stickman. Surprisingly, there was no one at the other end of the walk, and they were the only two who appeared to be wanting to cross. Artifex smiled, excited and ardent at the prospect of there being no further hindrances. The sundae would be his!

He walked quickly, a bounce in his step, ignoring the sounds of the city. Just ahead, down the sidewalk, was the shop. He could already see the vanilla ice cream sign jutting out of the side. It glowed as a neon beacon, beckoning him. He could taste the chocolate already, hitting his mouth and sliding down in a blissful flood of delectable, sugary goodness—

“Artifex!”

All of a sudden, that imaginary, future paradise came crashing down. At first, he thought he heard Ruby screaming. Then, he realized it wasn’t Ruby, or even a person. It was a sound close to fingernails scratching a chalkboard, but amplified so that it was like claws scraping against pavement. There was a bellow, from the mouth of a roaring beast, that combined with the screeching.

Artifex froze as the sounds paralyzed him. Frozen, with both fear and confusion, he rotated slowly, looking for the source.

A gigantic, metal behemoth barreled down the narrow road. Fumes of black smoke rose out of its ears; its eyes were pupil-less, glassy, without focus. Red stripes, like flames of war, raced down its face and to its rolling feet. It channeled utter chaos and discordance; an avatar for all that was unethical, wrong, things that lacked basis in reality. It shouldn’t have been there; it shouldn’t have been anywhere. Yet it was. It, and its frightening body, that bore signs of the weariness of battle. It, and its reflective face, that rumbled and shivered unnervingly.

A million, empty thoughts raced through his head, so fast that the world seemed to stand still. None of those thoughts held substance; none, wanted to stay, for fear of being wiped out. It was a valid fear that he himself shared. As he stared into the eyes of the beast, he saw that it was an emotion mirrored in the helpless master’s own eyes.

He saw the face of the monster. It glowered at him, without mercy. The metal mask that covered its face looked all the more menacing.

Panic raced through him. Terror, too. He was aware of the silence; the loud, seemingly impossibly loud silence that coursed through the city. The beast’s roar was deafened by it; yet its effect still pervaded.

Where was—

“Oof!”

The cry escaped his lips before he even knew that he had said it. The hit pushed him back, and he landed on his left leg hard. Instantaneously, pain shot through him like bullets, and his cry of shock became one of pure agony. Something had broken; a bone, a kneecap, who knew?

When he raised his head, he saw the metal plates again; only, this time, instead of him they were on, they were smacked firmly on her.

The smack came with a disgusting crack, followed by a wet spurt. He saw red gush everywhere. Metal upon skin, pavement upon spine; clothing, torn, eyes, shut, no movement, no breath, no gasp.

Just the resounding silence of a dying world.

And in the silence came the cry of the last denizen of that world:

“Ruby!”

The name still clung to his lips like claws, even though it had long escaped its confines. He felt it tug at his heart, pulling him forward in a shocked position. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, but as his eyes adjusted, he was reminded of the fact that he was in his room.

Breathing did not come normally. It was a rapid gasp followed by brief exhale followed by immediate inhale. He clutched the bed sheets to his body, feeling the soft fabric rub against him. It did little in terms of comfort. He was reminded, suddenly, of the coldness of the room; somehow, it felt even colder now than it did before.

His hand eventually released its vice grip on the blankets, letting them fall to his lap in a depressing flop. The hand remained on his chest, feeling his torso rise and fall with each breath. With his other hand, he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.

He looked to his nightstand, seeing that his alarm had not gone off. For a moment, he panicked. Why hadn’t it? He could have sworn he set it for five, but now it was five-thirty! Was he late?

Quickly searching for an immediate solution, his eyes rested on the mini calendar next to the clock. Several dates had been crossed off with an X. He let out a relieved sigh; it was Saturday. No school to be late for.

He fell back to his pillow, spreading his arms, focusing on breathing slowly. He stared up at the blank ceiling, aware of how awfully quiet the house was. Save for his steady breaths, it seemed that no one else was around. He had a few guesses as to why that was.

But the silence crept under his skin and made him feel all itchy. Imaginary blisters appeared on his arms, racing down his body to his left leg. He frantically attempted to rub them away, even though he knew that they were nothing but figments of his imagination; just another demon from long ago that he had figured had long been conquered.

He stopped rubbing once he realized that it was hopeless. He fell back, defeated once more, and stared at the ceiling.

He stayed there for only a little longer, before heaving a sigh and kicking the covers off. Squirming out of bed, he felt the itches return in full force. The tug of his sister’s name also came, willing him towards the bathroom.

The mirror showed exactly how he felt; burdened, tired, and unready for the day. His hair was a mess; sweat, even though it was cold, dripped down his face. More importantly, his eyes were a bleak shade of crimson. Bloodshot, irritated. Red.

He half-stomped away from the mirror for the shower, desperate to throw the thoughts aside. Maybe after a hot rinse-off his spirits would be feeling better.

Now clean, dried, and properly clothed, Artifex could rightly say that he did feel much better. “Much” being the relative term, though; he could only assume an approximate amount. A little combing, a splash of cold water on his face, and a towel all helped keep up the appearance of betterment.

Yet while his body was certainly less achy and pained, his mind remained transfixed on the broken and beaten.

The thought strong, he returned first to his room, where he saw that his bed was an absolute travesty to behold. Just looking at it filled him with a sense of bitterness. He was quick to grab the pillows and fluff them, and even quicker to elegantly drape the blankets and covers back onto the bed in a straight, uniform fashion.

By then, the achiness had faded, but his mind, just as ever, was enchanted by the feelings of emptiness that filled his being.

He pondered over just why as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. Francis accompanied him, having woken up a little while after his shower. The cat had been quick to greet him with a soft meow, asking for his meal; Artifex was quick to oblige.

As Francis ate his breakfast without worry, the boy’s mind fell back on the dream. He quickly corrected himself—the nightmare. Yes, that was it. A nightmare. A horrific nightmare.

One he hadn’t had in the longest time.

His spoon hit the edge of the bowl loudly. He flinched, surprised. He hadn’t even started eating yet. Francis looked up, confused as to the sudden noise intrusion to his meal.

Artifex gingerly placed the spoon back beside the bowl, then got out of his seat and went to the cabinet. He just needed a glass of milk; that’s all.

He reached for the glass; his hand trembled once he took hold of it. Ignoring it, he walked over to the fridge door and pulled out the carton. He attempted to pour it, but stopped once he realized his hand had not stopped trembling.

Then his other hand, the one holding the carton, trembled as well.

He nearly threw the glass down out of frustration and anxiety. Letting out a gruff breath, he walked over to the counter and placed both items down.

He waited for his hands to stop fidgeting. Only through grim determination did he managed to cease their senseless wiggles. He managed to pour himself the milk, but felt little need for a full glass.

He walked back over to his seat, staring at the half-filled drink holder. He frowned, his mind racing from the glass to the dream. Something in his head rambled on about a lesson he had learned about milk; but he ignored the voice. It was a childish one; immature; yet also old, older than him somehow.

A gentle patting of his leg alerted him to Francis’s call. Looking down, he saw that the cat had an almost pleading look on his face. The cat’s eyes moved from Artifex’s to the glass. It didn’t take long to piece together the silent request.

Artifex sighed. “Alright, here. I’m… not that thirsty after all.” He poured the milk into the cat’s drink bowl. “Don’t make a mess, though,” he warned.

The cat mewled in reply, then began slurping up the liquid eagerly. The sight brought a tiny smile to Artifex’s face.

It was brief, falling soon after into another one of his frowns. He stared at the bowl of cereal.

He had had that dream before; the nights following the accident were the hardest. And, occasionally, over the years he’d see it. Every time, though, it was different. Sometimes, it was a brief recollection of the pivotal point. Other times, it was a build-up to the moment. Only rarely had it ever been a somewhat complete narrative. This time, however…

It had been clear. A clean, A-to-B narration, occurring just as fast as the events themselves. His dreamscape had even been accurate enough to build up the city of Manehattan just as he remembered it. It was the most vivid dream he had had in a long time—

Nightmare. The most vivid nightmare I have had in a long time.

His frown grew. When was the last time he had dreamt? When was the last time that images would flicker before him, complex amalgams of thought and memory, rolled up in a package that was both beautiful and wistful?

He shook his head, staring down at his bowl. Such questions, he knew, would not easily bear their answers. If he wanted any, he would have to strangle them out with his will alone. But he hadn’t the energy, nor the desire, to attempt such an act. As he looked at his cereal, he realized too that he didn’t care.

Or at least didn’t want to.

A groan escaped him. Guess I’m not that hungry. He poured his dry cereal back into the container, then got up and deposited his dish into the dishwasher. He spent a few minutes organizing it, straightening and adjusting, before realizing his aimless endeavor. A disgusted snort escaped his lips, covering a hint of confusion. With a loud clatter, he shoved the bowl into a slot, filled the detergent and soap section, then closed the door and walked off.

Artifex escaped to his room, intending to sort things out the way he knew best: thinking. An image of his neatly made bed appeared in his mind, calling to him. He struggled to keep it there, as it was being pushed by an unknown force. He wasn’t aware of Francis beside him, having been far too concerned to have finished his meal. The steps were ascended with haste, like the boy was being pursued by some manner of demon.

In retrospect, he supposed that simile was accurate in a sense.

Once he had opened his door and stomped inside, he wildly shook his head. His icy-blue hair became undone as he attempted to clear his mind of all distractions. He snapped a hand up, wiping a strand away, and he heaved a frustrated breath. God, he needed to get his act together!

Though unaware of the soft, feline form of his animal companion beside him, his ears caught the faint vibration of his phone, coming from his desk. With a whip of his head, causing more hair to fall out of place (only now did he realize that a haircut would be appropriate), he scoured for the object. At first, when he saw it, he thought it was the notification for when his phone was finished charging. But he couldn’t recall if he had placed the phone solely on vibrate or—

“I’m singing in the rain, I’m singing in the rain…”

No. No, he had not.

I have to change the text ringtone sometime, he thought with a pinch of his nose. Temporarily, his previous discomforts were forgotten. He walked over and, after punching in his password, peered at the message.

‘Hey, Arty! I was wondering if you were still coming to the party today. It’s at eight, but it’d be cool if you got here early!’

Judging by the exuberant tone and the balloon emoji left as a signature, he figured it was from Pinkie Pie. What party? Oh, right. Mine. After pressing down on his volume button until the phone was back on vibrate, he texted back:

‘I still am available. But, Pinkie… it’s not even seven. Why would I need to come in early?’

He sent the message, expecting a moment for the party girl to reply. But to his surprise, she sent a text almost instantaneously.

‘Silly billy! I know it’s not seven yet, but, like the great minds once said, early to bed, is a bird in the bush!’

‘… What?’

‘You know, the great minds! Abraham Franklin, Franklin Jefferson, Franklin Chives…’

‘Those aren’t real people, Pinkie.’

‘Yes they are! I’ll check with my history teacher next week, you’ll see! But back to the party; can you still get to Sugarcube Corner, say, 7:30-ish?’

He glanced at the time on his phone. His fingers texted out his answer:

‘I mean, sure, I could, but do I have to get there early?’

‘Mmmmmmmaaaaayyyyybeeeee?’

‘Did you really have to draw that word out…’

‘Yes! Also, yes!’

‘Wait, what?’

‘Awesome! See you there! You’re the best, Arty!’

‘Pinkie? Pinkie, I haven’t agreed to anything yet! Pinkie? PINKIE!?’

Met without an answer, he groaned, utterly exasperated. “That girl is crazy!” he exclaimed. “Though, no surprise there,” he added. His palm flicked up to his forehead, then ran down the side. A sigh escaped him. He stared at the screen for a little longer, before shoving the device into his pocket.

He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe I should go out… it might help to get rid of these thoughts. Once again, he was reminded of the dream—the nightmare. He shuddered. Yes. Fresh air, a change in scenery. Maybe the party will help.

But first things first. He walked back into the bathroom. Have to keep up appearances. It’s what I was taught.