Once again, you're awake. The fire crackles at your ear. Pre-dawn, a violet burst fires a probe somewhere sidelong past the rim of the trees.

It won't find what it's looking for, of course: odds are nine million and something to one. You'd think they'd stop firing it once the data came back positive, but it doesn't care -- just another way the people you once wondered at have failed to think ahead.

Something's crawling on you. Flick it away. Your hand seems to spasm with the motion.

Sit up.

The fire burns stronger at the hands of its keeper, poking at it with a long, half-blackened stick. No effort to address you, as always. Good. You don't want to look back at it.

The urge to flee grips you and threatens to sweep you straight into the launch tower elevator. You already feel the code punching itself in beneath your fingers, the slight acceleration of lift. Up, up, away from here; away from this awful place. Let the void cradle you in its arms, through a bubble of wood and steel and aluminium, headed anywhere else. Twenty minutes of peace.

You can't, though. There's something here you need to explore.

Stand up. Ignore the sleeping bag; you won't need it again. Ignore the glassy eyes that stare into the fire and see nothing at all. You walk past without a second glance.

* * *

Up the path, over the grass. You slow down as the sounds of the village draw near. It's so difficult to keep your eyes open anymore, and the noise won't do you any favors.

Keep walking. There's another one, with the model rocket you can never seem to land. Bug-eyed goggles cover half the face; the bottom half shifts wrongly. You'd never be able to tell what's underneath, but you know better.

The gaze behind the goggles finds you. You're not hidden on this path. Should have come the other way -- too late, now. It leers, eager, taunting.

Those controls are nothing like the real thing, but good luck explaining that. Try to walk past.

You escape without issue.

Punctuated by geysers, the quiet center of a village opens around you. There are more of them around here: stirring the pot, rocking the chair, strumming a ghost of a tune. Another darts behind you, between the trees. You glance on instinct, but it's already gone.

Keep going. The observatory. You need the observatory. Where is it?

Try to reorient. You can't see it? Can't see something, at any rate. An insect skims your cheek -- a jolt. You brush it off.

Where are you going?

The observatory. You can't remember. The path doesn't bend correctly anymore. You watch the movement of a body in a rocking chair, the fabric swinging softly under home gravity. Something looks underwater about it. Too slow? A banjo sits in its lap, but it's the wrong one. No transmitter taped to the neck.

Sound -- not banjo. Vocals. You're being questioned. You squint, trying to remember the line. The sound has already stopped.

Your thoughts are interrupted: "... said, hatchling, are you doing alright?"

Swallow. A breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. A good way to settle nausea from motion sickness.

Words form in your mouth by instinct: "Yeah." In for a pebble, in for a stone. "Where's the observatory?"

The face scrunches, gross and rubbery. It's questions like that what make us worried about you going up into space on your own, you know.

"I know." You used to ask that as a joke.

It's up the path behind the waterfall. There are a couple signs... Skim. You don't need that part. ... hook a right when you get to the zero-g cave.

That's bad. You're taking the long route. Should've known better. You could go back, now, but you're already halfway. The angler's mouth or the crash-landing. Take your pick.

You'll keep going. Just push through. They can't hurt you in any way that matters.

Nothing can, anymore.

Stumble forward, then aside. Around. The reek of fermented sap to your right makes your nose wrinkle. Wet, meaty. You don't enjoy the reminder. If you see your reflection like this, it won't be you -- it'll be like them.

Which way?

A sign. That was the answer. A sign, and the cave. Then turn.

It's so bright here. If you look at the sun right now, it'll actually hurt your eyes. You're regretting not suiting up before trying this. Easier that way.

Most things are.

* * *

There are two kinds of beings left in this world: bodies, and minds. All around you are bodies without minds, insects trapped in twenty-two-minute amber. You are a mind without a body, torn out and reinterred with each new timeline.

You can think of them mechanically: finite-state machines. Deterministic, for most intents and purposes; no more alive than your ship's computer, even if their faces try to trick you. Unlike the cyclones, there's no randomness here, except for you.

The observatory. You're headed to the observatory. Up. Follow the signs. Hook right from the cave.

Climbing the walkway isn't difficult -- your body is never as tired as your mind. The body with the fishing rod doesn't try to talk, so you ignore it easily. The roar of the waterfall drowns out everything as you pass behind it. You stop and stare at the water for too long; two minutes, easy. A waste. Night is falling already.

Wooden steps underfoot. You're headed for the observatory, up to the plateau of the cliffside. Don't trip.

Green light beckons up the path: more activity. Ghost matter doesn't glow unless you bother it. Sure enough, it's another body, small and stupid, throwing rocks at death. Nothing new, only forgotten. The ghost matter won't kill it, though, and that's the funniest part.

Does the ghost matter survive the supernova? You're not actually sure.

Steer clear. Continue toward the cave. Another body stands in the mouth there, waiting to be consumed. Like the one at the fire, this one hurts to look at. The face it wears should comfort you, but you exhausted its words some time ago, clinging to its helpless arms as you wept. Its mouth twists in concern as you pass by.

Keep going.

Hook right, up the path and over the short bridge. Ignore the reflections in the water. The museum greets you with old photographs and bones. If dead things and memories are what museums are made of, everywhere is a museum these days.

Your old tormentor stares you down from the entryway. You meet its empty brass eyes with a glare, and then avert your gaze, ashamed. You saw the crystals; read the final unheard transmission; stepped around the suited skeleton sprawled out fleeing. It's not their fault. It was never meant to be this way.

You only wish it was that simple.

Stumble forward. One of the posts holding the rope around the statue takes your listing weight as you catch yourself, and you forget your grudge long enough to lay your head against the stone and close your eyes. Even these few minutes have taken their toll.

You tried to doze off last loop, but it's never enough. A fitful twenty minutes, then an alien adrenaline jolts you awake and keeps you trembling for the rest of the loop. It might be the project, or just the fear of death your traitorous body still carries. You've tried to snuff it out, but nothing works.

Just a few seconds. The stone is cool on your skin. Do you have a fever? That doesn't sound right.

Just a few seconds.

...

You can't stay. You have a mission. The observatory -- Hornfels. That's why you're tolerating this.

Get up.

Cold stone leaves your forehead, and you wobble in the open air. You're facing the wrong exit -- turn around. Inwards. The spiral staircase. You take the last steps on your hands and knees. No eyes on you yet, though. They were never so observant.

Speak. Get the body's attention. It turns around smiling, but that doesn't last.

Hey, look at this - the statue opened its eyes!

Just standing here, your knees try to buckle out from under you. You forgot the emergency stimulants from your ship's medical kit. Sloppy. You're not used to abandoning ship so early.

Keep your eyes on the teeth. Bone doesn't rot like meat.

You know Nomai skulls better than Hearthian, but you can see it overlaid: the curve of the jawline, the flat front incisors; two rows of eye sockets, dark and welcoming. Hornfels' skull tells you something useless about atmospheric conditions. Asks you something. You forget the question. "I don't know."

Haha! Overwhelmed by options... ?

The opposite, really.

The next line is something about the Nomai statue again -- you've mixed something up. They stopped talking about the weather after the statue opened its eyes. You've never forgotten that before -- it was only ever the first loop, unless you bothered them enough to ask.

What were you going to...? No, not about Feldspar. The satellite. Gabbro said something, but you forgot. You were going to ask...

"Gabbro said something about an anomaly with the deep space satellite?"

The jawbone stops moving. Starts again. A shadow darts between the computers, slipping behind you. Ignore it -- there are no hazards in this part of the village. The words are what you're here for.

"... be an equipment malfunction, but if you'd like to see the photos yourself, the original printings should be back up in the radio tower. We did lose a few to the fire, of course..."

Radio tower. That's where you're going, then. You don't remember where it is, but you remember the fire and repair work. At least a month ago, now. Maybe more. You must have known the location at some point.

"Remind me where that is?"

The directions don't make sense as given. They're new, which should help, but you can't stop staring at that bony jaw, and the waterfall has come back, drowning all the words. It gushes down from the ceiling to your left, puddling and cascading down the stairs. You'll have to wade.

It's fine, though. Once you're back at your ship, you'll look for the radio tower the easy way: fling yourself into low orbit and scan for unexplored landmarks. If not this loop, then the next. It can't be far.

Stumble down the stairs. The middle steps are the hardest -- your strength flags, but you're still too high to safely fall. The waterfall roars in your ears like your own pulse echoing in a shell. Hornfels says something, but you don't catch it. Doesn't matter -- if you miss something important, you can always try again.

Ground floor, now. You trip on the last step, rolling your ankle. Embarassing, but manageable. It doesn't hurt. Much.

...

You're at the exit. Your tormentor stares on, unseeing.

To your ship. The easiest route. You missed it earlier, but you know the way. Past the whittling body -- don't look at it. Don't hear it.

The sigh tugs at you as you pass. Don't hear it. Don't hear it. Ignore it; look straight ahead and keep moving. You can't lose sight now.

Planks buried in the earth steady the steepest leg of your descent; past that, mossy steps carry you forward. Are the trees here shelter, or a trap? They keep you out of view, but strangle your line of sight. It grows narrow, almost cavelike. Your ear twitches at phantom footsteps.

Collision -- a soft mass, dead center. You've been distracted. Too late to disengage.

A wide-brimmed hat just barely meets your chest. You're supposed to be alone -- which one is this? Not the stone-thrower by the ghost matter. The one with the radio? You strain your memory: it's happened before, but you don't know when.

High-pitched and hesitant, the voice tries to reach you: "... never coming back, like Feldspar did?"

You shake your head. You won't be doing that. Feldspar is only as living as the rest, resin-cased and sluggish, telling you all the same stories on repeat. You won't be like that. You can't be.

The body doesn't leave your path, though. You haven't spoken -- it's still waiting for an answer. Above you, the trees begin weaving together like a roof, stitching up the bright sky behind them.

"Don't worry," you say, dry-mouthed. "I'll come back."

That's what Feldspar said, too, but they never did.

"I'm not Feldspar," you insist, more to the memory than the body. "I'll come back. I promise."

You always come back, no matter what.

You have to move. Quickly. If the trees close up the sky, you'll never launch, and this loop is wasted.

You brush the body aside. Ignore the warmth. It just doesn't know it's dead yet.

* * *

The sky opens again toward the launch tower. Trees sway inward, reaching for you, but never close completely. As always, the fire-tending body stays unmoved.

Scan the sky. How's the sun? Looking up, all other stars have deserted you now, leaving only a black haze. Third night, then -- the second must have passed in the observatory. Somewhere, an astronomer is crying.

It's too late for much of anything but scouting now. The trees reach for your ship, winding up your legs and lungs like tight springs. Your heart races ahead. You can't be trapped.

Run.

An obstacle meets your ankle -- a twist, off-balance -- grass? -- rolling -- you've gone into a spin. Try to steady. Your jetpack throttle is missing, your hand clenching on air. Limbs swing loose and crumple into rough earth -- impact. Gravity takes control.

The crackling of the fire. Heat on your skin, bright agony, and that awful smoked-fish smell.

Your vision flares, then goes dark. The sun?

No. Can't be. Timing's off; you didn't feel it coming. More damning, your vision stays dark, no rewound memory or ultraviolet strings to drag you back. Face-down amid the coals, you hiss and boil away at the floor of the sun station's-- no, the campfire. Slate's campfire. You tripped and collapsed right into it. Of course. Stupid, stupid.

It hurts. You're too late to recover from this. A sound crawls out of you, unasked for, and you can't stifle it. You learned to breathe to center yourself, but it doesn't help much when the air is fire in your throat.

Just grit your teeth, go limp, and wait for it to end. This body will die and you will be scooped out and forced into the next.

Something pushes you. Your shoulder screams from contact, grit scraping under ruined scales, burnt cloth. On instinct, you try to pull away, but it doesn't matter. It's trying to stick to you, turning you into something else, but it can only touch the body, never you.

You're rolled over, face-up. The world stays totally dark. Your attackers recede -- spread -- multiply? -- in a rush of new sound and movement. More than one voice now. You can't think which one. The one at the mouth, maybe. A struggle. Over you? You can't tell.

Last time you did this, Slate barely flinched. Something's different now -- the timing? Last time, you rolled into the flames a few seconds after waking. The delay must have made them more attentive.

The body. Made the body more attentive. It's not them anymore. You could see it.

What must be Slate's corpse leans over you, and through the smoke, you swear you smell rot. It's talking to you. You can't make out the words. Awake, hear; Gossan, maybe? The other voice -- of course. Has that happened before? You don't remember.

Everything melts together: the sky, the trees, the body, you. You're melting; your body is candle wax giving way to release you like smoke into the sky. A hand tries to hold yours, the thumb pressed to your palm, circling.

There's humming.

The adrenaline hasn't hit yet, and the sound doesn't echo. It's too close and rough. Creaky at the high notes. Not the sun. The body is humming. Slate is humming, badly, for you. It's the same song, as if the sun is singing through their mouth.

You think you remember that song. It used to be a lullaby.

More words. If you could transcend above this body to hear them, pure sound and radio waves, you'd sift the signal from the noise like pebbles from sand. It's all slipping through your hands, though, and your fingers don't move right. Fat, bone, wick. Are your ears gone yet, too?

You catch something: "... not today, you stupid rock-eating little..."

Another voice: "... open your eyes, pebble...?"

Your mouth tries to say something, but you don't know what. It comes out as a wordless rasp, and prompts more chattering.

"... don't think they can..."

"... stable yet, we need to..."

"... swear to Hearth, so help me, if you keep..."

Cold air claws at the burns, but you're past feeling. Your time in this body is nearly used up. Around you, the sun joins the lullaby in buzzing tones deeper and bigger than any of you -- bigger than anything that's ever been. It's a wonder they never hear it.

That alien adrenaline grips your heart and starts shaking it. You try to breathe, to join the hum, but your tongue trembles and your throat won't open. The song echoes through your chest amid rasping breaths. Any moment now.

The first sonic shockwave hits Hearth as more voices approach. More panic; disarray; questions. The rush of the end starts like a whisper, but it's quick, now. They'll only ever be scared for a moment. Then the heat -- and you should never have confused the campfire for this. It's near-instant, and then you're nothing at all. Strands of Nomai text stream toward you, framing the darkness already playing in reverse.

Your Nomai tormentor's empty eye watches over you as the playback fades, and then it's all black again. May as well be still staring at the sky.

* * *

Once again, you're awake. Get up. Watch the bright streak of a useless probe flash past the horizon; ignore the body tending the fire. The launch code sequence under your fingers takes you up and up and up. Your ship waits on the launch pad, a few impatient stars brightening the reflection on the front viewport.

Radio tower. That's your next goal. Empty, if you're lucky.

Standing at the edge, your eyes linger below the treeline. The figure at the fire. The ghost of a hand clutching yours. Do they hear it, too, after all? You don't know.

You can't keep doing this. You don't know how to do anything else. Whatever it takes to end this, you're running out of time.

One more loop. Just one more loop.

Just one more loop.

Just one more loop.