She is cross-legged. A small fire burns behind her. A skinned rabbit roasts on a spit. The sniper rifle rests across her thighs. She closes her eyes and meditates on the images on the wall, just as she has every day since arriving. She wonders if this is what her father did. And for how long. And if these images drove him mad, or if he had always been mad. This is not how Aisling imagined her Endgame, studying ancient paintings. The painting she is seated before depicts 12 human figures standing among a primitive circle of stone monoliths. The stone shapes look vaguely familiar, but she can’t place them. Her eye is drawn to the 13th figure as it descends from on high. This 13th wears a helmet studded with lights and a thick suit. It holds something that looks like a star. The 12 stand in a circle, their arms stretched skyward, toward the visitor and the void he emerges from. Their arms are stretched toward everything. Toward nothing. “Spaceman visits naked people,” mutters Aisling.
