Clarity

Remy Waters crouched before the central display of the world's last history museum and pressed her palm to the glass.

She leaned forward until her breath brushed the case and bloomed in a flower of mist before her. Just centimeters from her fingertips was a photo she had studied meticulously for years -- a photo that was at least nine hundred years old, yet never seemed to fade with time. Instead, it remained white and pristine, like a moment encapsulated in eternity, a slice of history pulled from the past and cupped in the hands of the present.

It was one of the only pieces of 21st century paper that had been spared during the Collective's first burning. In it were four figures whose life stories had become the bedtime tales of children all around the world.

Oliver Westing, Rayna Liu, Kirk Allerton, and Ella Torres.

The Final Flyers.

Centuries ago, they had embarked on humankind's very last military operation: the destruction of the final rebels' headquarters, which had housed all the man-made weapons left in existence. Their success had paved the Collective's path toward utopia and ushered in an eternity of peace for the rest of humanity.

And they had never come back.

Relics of the Flyers -- from Rayna's silver pen to Oliver's intricate compass -- had been recovered from the Siberian wilderness over time, yet their photo remained the most entrancing to Remy. The four pilots effused a sense of pride so vibrant that it emanated from the thick paper, and she couldn't imagine how brilliant it must have been to believe in a cause so wholeheartedly.

Smiling as the fog of her breath continued to expand on the glass, Remy sat back and snapped her fingers. Just on cue, there was a resounding click as the doors locked from the inside and the security cameras shut off.

Nice to know those hacking skills didn't go to waste, Remy thought as she heard the guards banging on the door from outside. She had always thought it quite stupid that they were positioned just outside of the Clarity Room, and today, she was putting all of her observations to use. She watched the condensation continue to grow, unnaturally now, swelling to the size of a plate, then a wheel. When it had covered the entire front surface of the display case, she pressed her palm to it once more. The glass dissolved like sugar and sprinkled down into a layer of powder around her knees.

...or the chemistry ones, she finished with satisfaction.

Her hands trembled as she reached out and wrapped careful fingers around the photo's edge. It was just as crisp and stiff as it looked. Up close, the myths and mystique that surrounded the Flyers seemed more fascinating than ever -- the lost heroes, the last martyrs, the teenagers immortalized in ink -- and she grinned as if let in on a secret. She was just about to slip it in her pocket and head upstairs to alter the security footage when a flash of motion caught her eye.

She almost dropped the photo in surprise.

From within its dark border, Oliver Westing snapped out of his smiling pose and stumbled back against the wall. His mouth opened, forming words, but Remy heard nothing except the now-thrumming pulse of her heart. Help, she could make out, and then he was speaking too quickly for her to read, hands braced against the plane behind him, eyes frantic with panic and desperation.

"O-Oliver?" She whispered disbelievingly.

The other three pilots remained frozen in beaming smiles as Oliver's form began to fade, his dark eyes still locked on Remy's, his lips moving soundlessly, his hand pressed in front of him as if stuck in a cage. A few seconds later, he was gone.

The only signs that convinced Remy of her sanity were the coordinates written in blood in the space where he had been.

***