Sandman

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I am no different. I cannot hear the terror-filled shrieks of the creatures I am watching... that I have watched, for millennia. I have no inkling of how their Sapien voices might sound. I can see them, however. I have seen the hapless beings begging a black sky for a chance of survival. They all do it, at one time or another, even their greedy, careless upper echelon. And I've watched, quietly and passively, in the chaotic hurricane of their agony, for far, far too long.

"They're praying. More of them than ever. Desperately so. Even unknowingly so."

"It doesn't matter."

Isra nods in response, looking on with thinly veiled emotion as the failure of this particular experiment unfolds before us. He's always been the most sympathetic of our siblings. Curious. Weak. Pathetic.

For all this, he has always been my favorite.

"What of your line?" He attempts to keep his voice flat and unaffected, but the hint of concerned curiosity does not go unheard. I study him, his quirks always having been an endless font of amusement for me. I am fond of them, unlike the others. To them, he is of dubious character. He is a liability.

"They mean no more to me than any of the other vocal specimens."

"Even though you claim the second highest of The Notables?"

"Ridiculous." I find it odd, but I want to laugh. It is absurd that anyone could care so much about the unquantifiable qualities of any experimental subject.

"The only point I find to be notable, Isra, is their inherent desire to survive. They are incorrigible."

"Does that make you proud?"

That odd question does make me break my composure, my gaze falling quickly onto my cohort. How strange it is for him to bring emotions into this discussion. How strange it is for him to consider our little exercise as anything more than that.

"It was never meant to be competitive. You know that. The sole purpose was to find a -"

The directions of our superiors resonate within me, and I turn to Isra, knowing he is listening as well. We've been awaiting this order, but actually hearing it ignites my sense of purpose. I push away the surge of amusement I derive from watching a shadow of melancholy wash over my companion. He's always been too soft.

"It's finally come." The smile tugs at my lips even as I watch all mirth fade from Isra's eyes. Such a peculiar one, he is.

"Have you ever executed a Harvest, Isra?"

"No." His voice is much quieter now, and his stare is vacant and distant.

"No, I didn't think so. You are young."

He nods once in silent acquiescence, and this time I fail to stop the short laugh that escapes my lips. He looks at me, a touch of irritation slowly crawling across his face, yet he says nothing.

"You are not, however, too young to enjoy it; of that I am certain."

He has no chance at a rebuttal before the lights surround us, signaling the beginning of this little experiment's end. I step forward, glancing back to ensure that he follows suit. He does, his movements perhaps reluctantly slow.

"You'll need to tap the upper left three times to begin reaping."

"I am aware. I may be young, but I, too, was trained."

"Of course. Forgive me."

We both turn to face our portals, the silence growing heavy between us as we await the signal. Just as I'm beginning to count my own inhalations, I hear Isra sigh quietly behind me.

"Yes?" He can't see the smirk on my lips, but I'm sure he hears it.

"How young... the first one... do you know-"

"I couldn't say." I glance backward, still grinning lightly as I attempt to catch his expression.

"Are you not an avid follower of The Notables? Yet you know not the details of your own line?"

"I... even the infants?"

Oh. Now I understand. His empathy. His weakness.

"No." This isn't to comfort him. This is only honesty.

"No, Isra. Infants are too immobile to be of use. We require motor skills. We prefer self-awareness. Functionality."

"Oh. Right."

The signal rings in my head. I give Isra one last look before turning back to my own portal, reaching out, and giving the upper left corner three hard raps.

Isra is still on my mind as I step forward, and I wonder what helpless Sapien child is reflected in the mirror through which he will emerge. I wonder if he can complete his task, whether he has the fortitude.

I take another step, and, looking upon the young, sleeping face of my most recently produced specimen, my worries melt away. Of course Isra can do this. The energy, the power, the absolute chaos that is sure to ensue... How could he possibly resist?

Their deplorable vanity leaves them open.

Who could resist such a fruitful Harvest?