Story:

The theater swallowed them before either witch understood what she had agreed to.

Seats rose beneath them. A strap clicked across Butterfly’s lap. Somewhere behind the dark screen, a low engine began to breathe.

Peach settled the popcorn between her knees and decided, too late, that a quiet romance would have been kinder.

The first mecha stepped out of the sky. Violet’s hand closed on the armrest.

Sound struck from every side at once, a pressure in the ribs more than a noise. Metal folded, locked, and fired. The chair kicked beneath her as the machine turned, and the air from a hidden vent slapped her cheek when the missile burst.

“This is a memory,” she whispered. “Someone recorded a war.”

Peach did not correct her. There was no point explaining animation to a woman who had just watched a building fall in three directions.