In a cold, polished lobby, the visitors stand like frozen statues, only they are not statues—they are entities from a dimension barely known to humanity. The scientists and researchers who observe them call them *subjunctive beings*. These visitors flicker and change with every passing second, as though trying on different lives, different realities, each existence a mere possibility. The air around them feels alive, filled with shimmering tendrils of hypothetical scenarios, suspended mid-thought.

They are not meant to be on earth. They are creatures from a place where time doesn’t move in one direction, and every decision, every possibility, coexists in a state of potential. In their world, “might” and “could have been” form the fabric of reality. They exist only in conditions that never fully resolve, forever on the brink of realization.

A human approaches one of the Visitors with a trembling hand, their eyes locked on its form as it wavers between translucent and solid. The human is fascinated by the idea of subjunctive life. It’s not just an intellectual curiosity; it's a personal escape. S/He has lived a life ruled by regrets and decisions that came too late. In these Visitors, s/he sees an endless web of alternate lives, each one vibrating faintly in the ether. S/He wonders if, in some flickering scenario, s/he is the one standing in the visitor's place, casting their own possibilities into the void.

The humans tried, long ago, to emulate the sloths’ way of life—slow, deliberate, unbothered by the need for speed or efficiency. But even at their best, they couldn’t match their mastery of inertia. They need the Stillness Protocol. The sloth just is.

Above them, the sky flickers for a moment, a glitch in the holograms, but it settles as if deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to change. The sloth's eyes, half-lidded, track the disturbance but don't register it. A small drone hovers nearby, projecting the day’s report in scrolling neon text, but it fades before the sloth can read it—not that s/he ever would.

The humans had abandoned even speaking to them directly. There was no need. The whole Welcome Habitat observed them, respected them. The sloths are the ideal they could never quite become. Every once in a while, a scientist or philosopher would come to sit on the adjacent platform, hoping that by proximity they might understand their secret. They never did. Their questions always dissolved into the still air, unanswered, unimportant.

The sky bleeds crimson as Vin’nyla strides through the ruins of what was once a thriving metropolis. 

"Vin’nyla?" A voice crackles through the comm unit embedded in their ear.

"Here," s/he replies, their voice a monotone, devoid of emotion. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to keep the pain at bay.

"We’ve located the final target. You know what needs to be done."

S/He knows. S/He’s always known. This mission is no different from the others—a final thread to be severed in the tapestry of a rebellion that failed before it even began.

Rounding a corner, Vin’nyla spots the target. A lone figure, back turned, shoulders hunched as s/he gazes at a flickering hologram of a young life form, their face radiant with a smile that no longer has a place in this shattered world. 

Vin’nyla’s footfalls echo softly in the desolate street. The target turns, eyes meeting Vin’nyla’s. There’s no fear in their gaze, only a weary acceptance. S/He knows why Vin’nyla is here.

"Do it," the target says, their voice thick with resignation. "End it."

Vin’nyla raises the weapon, aiming it directly at the life form. Their finger hovers over the trigger, but something in the target’s eyes stops them. They’re not filled with anger or defiance—just sorrow.

"I’m sorry," the target whispers, and the words cut deep.

The apology hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of all that has been lost. Vin’nyla’s hand trembles. S/He wants to pull the trigger, to end the suffering, but s/he can’t. Slowly, almost against their will, s/he lowers the weapon and turns away.

"Vin’nyla?" The voice in their ear demands an explanation.

S/He rips the comm unit out and lets it fall to the ground. "I can’t."

The target looks at them with wide eyes, surprised but unmoving, as Vin’nyla walks away, leaving the life form and the ruins behind. 

Above, the sky burns with the red of a dying sun.

The sky above the floating Welcome Habitat hums softly, as it always does. It's not a real sky, of course, but no one remembers what the real sky looked like. Overhead, vast holographic clouds drift lazily, shifting in patterns that suggest movement but never quite reach it. Below, in the center of the Welcome Habitat, a sloth lounges on a gravity platform.

The sloth’s fur, a gradient of dark brown and green moss, clings to their body in slow-motion ripples as s/he adjusts their position by a single inch. Their clawed hand hangs over the edge of the platform, which tilts ever so slightly to accommodate the new weight distribution. The sloth doesn’t notice.

The entire Welcome Habitat has been designed to be perfectly still. It’s the apex of human evolution, or so they say: a society built to embrace doing nothing. The Stillness Protocol governs everything, a whispering AI embedded into every structure and mind. The protocol ensures there is no action without purpose, and most purposes have been optimized into obsolescence.

The sloth is perfect here.