This. Panel. Sucked. Forty minutes had passed since the start of the panel and all the writers had managed was to congratulate themselves for being writers: “I think what we’re doing— and by what we’re doing, I mean what we in the writing business call ‘the craft’—is by far one of the most important things we can do as people.”“I agree! We are always looking to push the boundaries and look into ourselves to find deeper meaning of… you know… what it means to be a good person and to be a good human-being. But what is a ‘good human being? There’s a few definitions…”“Oh absolutely. I completely agree. And in these troubled times, that’s something I think we can all come together and support…”Worst of all was their tone—the writers spoke as if drugged, their words slow and droning like the hum of a faraway refrigerator. What could have been even a mildly interesting discussion was instead a slow, winding lecture of the worst sort—self-important, self-righteous, drab, dull, and boring.

Ali’s heart was about to burst out of his throat. How did things get so bad? He had been sitting, carefully paying attention to every word. He trawled through all of his English memories to piece together what these Important People were saying—like fitting together a puzzle. In truth, he had put into this more effort than all of his English lessons back home. In the middle of this talk, something changed. The author with half a headphone set on his ear had thrown some strange looks towards another author—a man with greying hair who looked almost like Cousin Sayid. Indeed, there was much about him—the slightly greying hair, the way he wore his beard—that made Ali think that this man, Julio Vasquez, could have been related to Cousin Sayid in some way. Of course, this was impossible. But the similarities were quite uncanny. Then, chaos. Julio Vasquez became upset and stormed out from the panel, and the crowd went into an uproar. This was nothing new—Zhabai also had such moments o

A sharp yelp came from the conference, and that was the last sound that came from the room. It was the last Devon and Ali heard from the rumbler. For ten minutes, the security walked slowly, almost leisurely, waving the stunner with professional ease. The convention’s security was unhurried in their pacification—no different from an exterminator flushing out termites from the walls. Meanwhile, three hundred terrified panel goers backed themselves into whatever corners they could find. Zeven’s supporters crammed themselves into the same corners as the followers of Julio, their former enmity washed away by the waves of sonic pain. Then, without a word, the convention security left. No orders, no demands. They just walked out of the room. Devon wouldn’t even look at them as they passed. Ali, however, did. They wore old police uniforms, complete with bulletproof, anti-stabbing vests. Their faces were covered with angular breath protectors, giving them the appearance of armored beetle

There sat the three of them; Ali, Devon, and Julio Vasquez. His speech on the sorry state of his city and its people had put him into a dreary mood. Julio wasn’t wrong. This whole day had been living proof, and Julio had stories of his own. A part of him wanted to defend his city—New Hudson wasn’t all bad! Devon had lived here his entire life and had gotten to see it from al sides. There were plenty of reasons why today seemed to go so wrong— it was right smack in the middle of the summer, blazing hot even in the shade. That people were a little big on edge was reasonable. And what invention of people didn’t have the occasional spat here and there? Nevertheless, Devon could not help but feel a bit ashamed of his city. Out of nowhere, a quiet voice began to chant:Poor rocky pebbles built my walls Four handfuls each do I call home Humble as the prophets Who without complaint or soundShield me from wind and sand and rainAnd I, safe and warm and dry Would not trade this place For

“I am fine,” Ali did his best to force a smile. “Perhaps I eat too much.”Ali quietly sighed in relief. His secret held. The three of them took that as their cue to part ways. Devon thanked Julio Vasquez for sitting down with them. It was just as well; clock already read 5:30, and the stall owners were preparing for the dinner rush. Cooks and chefs streamed in and began unloading boxes of brined meats and jarred sauces. Neither Devon nor Ali were feeling particularly hungry. Before they left, Julio Vasquez reached into a knapsack and pulled out two copies of Six String Elegy. He signed both Devon and Ali signed copies and shook their hands. “It was a pleasure,” said Julio Vasquez. “Hopefully we shall meet again someday.” With that, he hoisted his knapsack with a grunt over her shoulder and walked, grumbling about panels and cyborgs. Devon opened his copy and looked at the inscription beneath:For Devon—Strength and Courage! New Hudson needs more people like you.J.J.S. Vasquez Dev