“It’s an awful long way down, y’know.” Dylan glanced up at Tobias.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I bet it is.” He looked back down, his gaze tracing the cotton swirls of the clouds. “It probably is, isn’t it. I mean what else would it be, right?” But Tobias was already looking away, laughing and talking with Colin. Dylan sighed, leaning back down and letting his harness support his weight as he tightened the last few bolts. As he finished with the last bolt, he turned his attention back up to the airship above him. The Ark loomed above him, its massive balloon stretching out past the bow of the titan of wood and metal that he and everyone he knew called home. He couldn’t even see the sun past it. Knowing that this meant it was time to be leaving, he and his fellow repaircrew made their way back up towards a hatch on the bottom of the hull. As usual, Dylan brought up the back of the pack. As he lifted himself from beam to support, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Turning his head, Dylan momentarily caught a glimpse of a red something, but his reaction had been too slow to see what it had been. Dylan looked back up, sure that no one else but him had seen it. It didn’t seem to bear mentioning.

As he lifted himself up through the hatch, the door slammed behind him, shutting off the rush of wind and leaving him and his crewmates in the head-pounding noise of the boiler room. A familiar gruff voice boomed out to them. “Alright boys, good work out there, now get up to the mess hall before the food’s all gone,” said Graham, the head engineer. His eyes crinkled at the corner as he flashed his gap-toothed smile at them.

After dinner, Dylan retired to his quarters, and quickly fell asleep.

The next day he found himself back under the ship, seperated from the rest of his crew and hanging upside down against the ship’s rusted bottom. Engrossed in his work, he barely took notice as something shiny and red slowly floated up next to him. It made a soft noise as it hit the underside of the ship, and Dylan yelped, dropping several screws, which plummetted down and through the clouds.

“Damn.” He watched them fall and quickly pass out of view, before turning his attention to what had caused the mishap. The perpetrator appeared to be some kind of balloon, one much smaller than the one that held up the Ark, and made of some unfamiliar glossy material. Dylan reached out and grabbed hold of it, staring at his face reflected in its red surface. As he held it he realized that there was something inside. Never one to waste a moment, he brought up his screwdriver and did what seemed reasonable, jamming it into the balloon. Immediately, it burst, causing Dylan to almost let go of more of his repair material. The object inside was a rolled up piece of paper. Slowly, Dylan unfurled the message. Written on it was a single word: Hello?

He stared at the paper, at first with wide open eyes, then with a frown. He glanced down at the clouds. Where had this come from? Who had sent it? While Dylan didn’t know what lay beneath the clouds, he was almost certain that whatever it was it couldn’t keep up with the speed of the Ark. How had they sent up two balloons to the exact same place? Puzzled, Dylan stuffed the paper into his pocket as he tidied up, and he made his way slowly back into the ship, just in time for dinner.

The next day, he’s back on the rigging, and once more was caught off guard by a single red balloon. Inside was another rolled up message, one that sent a shiver down Dylan’s back. I know you received my last message. Please, respond? I need to make sure that you’re really there.

Dylan stared at the paper, frozen, until he was jolted into action by some unconscious impulse. Reaching behind himself, he rooted around in his bag until he found what he was looking for. He drew out a ratty piece of cloth, leftover scrap from when he had made repairs on the Ark’s balloon. Thinking for a moment, he scribbled out a message in return. Hi, I’m here. Who are you? How are you sending me messages? It was by no means comprehensive in all the questions he had, but Dylan figured that it would hurt his chances of finding out anything at all if he pushed too hard immediately. He dropped the piece of cloth down, frowning as it fluttered drunkenly in the wind. He hoped the message reached them. He would have to weigh them down in the future, if he sent any more at all. The rest of the day he worked away in silence, too lost in his own mind to even attempt conversation with his workmates. The day passed in silence, and the next morning he received another message in a balloon.

Oh thank god, you’re really getting these! You’re really there! I’m so glad you’re okay. What is it that you’re doing in there, that you were too busy to answer my messages before? I’m sure it’s something very important to you. Dylan frowned. They hadn’t answered either of his questions, but had instead posed one of their own. Taking out another scrap, Dylan once again scrawled out his response. I work on repairs on the Ark, the ship you’re sending these messages to. I fix things - the rigging, boilers, the balloon, anything that isn’t working how it should be. He smiled to himself. It’s thanks to me and the rest of the repaircrew that this ship even stays in the sky. If you don’t mind me asking again, though, who are you?

Dylan watched as the message dropped down through the clouds, passing through them quickly and satisfyingly. All he had had to do was tie up the fabric, the thinner package dropping through the air much more efficiently than it did previously.

After dinner, Dylan lay in his bed, staring up at the rattling pipes above him. He wasn’t sure what to make of everything that was happening to him, if it was good or bad. All he knew was that he had found someone interested in hearing what he had to say.

The next day passed in a fashion similar to the last, and at the end of the work day Dylan caught sight of another red balloon. Stretching out his arms, he caught hold of it and deftly popped it, catching hold of the message inside. I’m sorry I didn’t respond before. I was too excited to finally be talking with you. All you need to know is that I’m a friend, your friend. I don’t know what else I can tell you besides that. Anyways, how’re you doing holding up? Repairs going well? It was better than nothing, at the very least. Dylan sighed and took out another piece of cloth.

I’m doing okay, I guess. I’m a little confused by all of this is all, but that doesn’t keep me from my work. Everything is shipshape and in order! Was the exclamation point too much? Worriedly he scratched it out, trying to turn it into a smiling face, which in retrospect may have been worse.

The next few days were a blur of back and forth correspondences between him and the mysterious message sender. Every day he bolted out of bed and rushed down to the rigging, in a hurry to find out what his newly found friend had to say. Nothing else occupied his thoughts, and it all passed by in a blur of red balloons and dirty fabric. Some days they sent long messages, other days they sent infuriatingly little.

Good. That’s good to hear. So your ship’s name is the Ark? How biblical of them. How many people are there on the Ark, Dylan?

Oh, thousands at least. It’s been years since the captain has ordered a proper census, though, so no one knows the exact number. We get along well though. Are you also on a ship? Is that how you’re able to send these messages?

Something like that.

What do you mean?

So why are you up there? On the Ark, I mean. And not you specifically, but all of you. Why are you all up there?

Well we were sent here as part- We’re part of a- You know what, I don’t actually know. I don’t think anyone knows, and I’ve never asked anyone. That’s funny, isn’t it?

Hilarious

Yeah, it is. Sorry to be so blunt about this, but why are you sending me these messages?

Because you need to receive them. Because they’re important enough to be sent. I’m sorry I can’t explain any more than that. I hope that’s enough.

Oh, okay, well can you at least tell me your name? It feels weird just addressing the balloons that come from the clouds.

Haha, sorry about that. My name is Isaac. Enough about me, though, I’d like to know more about you, besides the fact that you repair the Ark. Were you born there? What’s your family like?

Yeah, I was born on the Ark. I don’t know my parents though. I guess they died too early for me to remember them. Or they gave me away. Either way, the crew took care of me and I’m happy doing what I’m doing, so you don’t need to feel bad for asking or anything.

Oh. I’m sorry to hear about that, Dylan. I wish there was something I could do, but it’s difficult when the only way I can interact with you is through these damn balloons.

That’s alright. I know this is a weird thing to ask, but why do you care so much about me?

You need to bring down the Ark. Dylan stared at the paper clutched in his hands, horrified. He couldn’t do that, why would Isaac ask him to do that? What was wrong with them? Was this some kind of joke. The back of his throat burned, and he swallowed hard. It wasn’t a very funny one. He took out some scrap and wrote back a short message.

What’re you talking about? Once again he stared at the fabric as it fell through the clouds. This time, however, the way that the clouds swallowed up his question felt much more sinister than it had before. Dylan leaned back against a beam, feeling his heart pound rhythmically in his chest. He would wait right there. He wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t feel like seeing anyone else at that moment. He felt like he had been betraying them all this time, talking to someone who wanted him to bring down the whole ship with everyone in it.

So he there he waited, until eventually his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off into a dreamless, restless sleep.

The next day he was awoken by a balloon hitting the hull in front of him, gently bouncing as it came to a stop. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and the frost off of his eyelashes, and he reached out to grab the balloon. Inside, as always, was a handwritten message.

Go to the boiler room. There’s a hammer in the boiler room, you know there is, you use it to make repairs all the time. Use the hammer to destroy the pipes leading out from the main boiler. Listen to me Dylan, you have to do this. Nothing else matters. You have to do this. Dylan felt sick to the stomach. Falling forward and clutching onto the rigging, he retched into the open air below him. His empty stomach tightened into a knot as it tried to expel the dinner and breakfast that Dylan hadn’t eaten. As his eyes creaked open, Dylan stared down at the clouds, and for the first time in his life experienced vertigo. Mind numbing, leg jellying vertigo that threatened to cause him to heave once more. After what felt like hours, Dylan shakily stood up and climbed back into the Ark, passing by the rest of the repaircrew. Ignoring their questions, he made his way back into his room and crawled into his bed, pulling the covers tightly over his head.

For the next several days, Dylan called in sick. He couldn’t bear to go down there, to see the clouds, to see the messages that he knew Isaac was sending. He stayed in bed, leaving only when he couldn’t bear not to. Eventually, he forced himself to return to his job. He didn’t want to disappoint anyone counting on him.

Nobody was there when Dylan arrived under the hull. They were probably all working somewhere else. In the boiler room, on the balloon. He didn’t know why he hadn’t just gone to join them, why he had gone to the one place he dreaded going to the most. As he crawled through the beams and crossbars, he caught sight of red, and his stomach dropped. There were balloons, more than one for each of the days he had missed. Dylan felt a pit open up in his stomach. Maybe it had been a joke. Maybe Isaac was worried that he had hurt him, and he had been desperately trying to tell Dylan that he was sorry. He reached the balloons, and popped them open one by one at random, unable to tell what order they had come in.

Dylan? Dylan are you there?

I’m sorry it had to be so sudden, I’m running out of time.

Dylan I know you haven’t read any of these. I know you’re probably furious at me but please, please respond to me.

I can’t explain myself Dylan, you have to do it.

Do you trust me?

We’re running out of time, Dylan.

I know it’s a lot to ask of you, I know it’s more than you’ve probably ever been asked in your life.

I promise you that everyone will be okay. Please trust me. As he read the final message, a solitary red balloon rose out of the clouds and found its way to his perch on the rigging.

Who pilots the Ark? Dylan blinked. After all that, that was all Isaac had to say? That was all he had to ask? The captain piloted it of course. Captain… Captain… He had a name, didn’t he? He had to have a name, everyone had a name. It was Captain Feldman. Of course, it was Feldman, it had always been, hadn’t it?

Hastily, Dylan grabbed a bit of torn fabric from his pack. It’s Captain Feldman, he’s been Captain for as long as I can remember. Why are you asking me this? Why are you doing this to me? Tying it up with string, Dylan dropped the message and watched as it fell through the clouds. He slumped back down, waiting for a moment before standing up again. Wearily, he clambered back into the Ark and to his dormitory, laying himself to rest.

The next day he was on the rig again. What do you do all day? The message sat heavy in Dylan’s hands. He worked, he repaired the ship, and when it was time to go back in, he ate and he. He went to bed. Dylan shook his head. Is that all he had been doing for the last sixteen years? What was his schedule? He took days off, of course he did. There had been that one time, with Ally, when they had snuck off into the kitchen to find snacks and had inadvertently released the chickens from the poultry closet. Dylan laughed at the memory. What had she looked like?

Dylan stretched, the new day beckoning- no. That wasn’t right. It hadn’t been any time at all, he was still- Dylan blinked.

He was back on the rig, tightening loose bolts on the underside of the ship. How were there always loose bolts, he wondered to himself. You have to go to the engine room. You have to do it, said the note in his hands. He had to go to the engine room. The engine room, he was in the engine room, working on repairs, tightening the connections on the steaming pipes. Beads of sweat rolled down his soot-streaked face, and his grip on the wrench weakened and it slipped out of his too greasy hands.

Get to the boiler.

He was at the boiler. He had- he had walked over to the boiler, from the pipers- wait, had he? Damn, had he walk-

He was looking at the body of the boiler, at the gauges as their needles jittered and jumped. The rumble filled his head, flushing out any thouYou know what to do. I told you what to do. With a trembling hand, Dylan lifted the hammer over his head, and brought it down ferociously on the pipes extending from the boiler. He hammered at them with all his might, pounding and pounding. His knuckles turned white with effort as he slammed his hammer against the pipes over and over. The escaping hissed out and stung at his face, his arms his hands. Any moment now someone would burst through the door, yelling at him to stop, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing. He stepped back, tears streaming down his face, stinging the burns. The hammer clattered against the floor and he ran, ran back down the stairs, down to the rigging where he felt the safest. He could feel the ship tilt under his feet as he hastily swung on his harness, barely keeping his footing.

Now he’s crouching on the beams that criss-crossed along the underbelly of the Ark, that held it all together and kept it all from cascading down into the clouds. The clouds that come closer and closer, until the Ark meets their billowy surface, cutting through them as if they aren’t there at all. His eyes sting as the moisture collects on his face and the wind pushes the soot and slurry back into his eyes. Thousands of crystalline snowflakes bite at his skin, numbed his fingers as they struggle to stay holding onto the beam on which he is perched. Suddenly, through the clouds, he sees something familiar. It’s a bright pinprick of red, a dot that rapidly grows until suddenly it’s a balloon. He reaches out for it but is unable to find purchase on its slippery surface. Dylan looks back down and there are more balloons, thousands more, floating up towards him at unimaginable speed. He’s surrounded with them, buffeted by thousands of red balloons, more than he could ever hope to grab hold of carrying more messages than he could ever hope to read. His hands feel frozen through, and he can no longer feel the rigging that he’s sure is in his grip.

And just as suddenly as they came, the balloons are gone. And as the last of them clear out of his field of vision he can see nothing but an inky blackness, a yawning void that repulses him to his core. His harness suddenly slackens, and he instinctively whips his head around to look at the ship, the ship that isn’t there anymore, the ship whose name is a distant memory and purpose is all but null.

And then he realizes that the reason he can’t feel the rigging anymore isn’t because his hands are numb, but because there’s no rigging for him to hold on to, and no hands to hold with, and no eyes to see with, and no mouth to scream with.

You have to wake up.