Leon Stamadis died on a roller coaster at the age of 32. It was not a dramatic death. His car did not detach from the rails. His body did not lose itself from its seat. His death was quiet, un-ubtrusive.

In that way you could even say that Leon found the kind of death he'd always planned for.

He'd had profound misgivings about boarding the ride in the first place.

He'd never been an adventure, not like his little brother Dimitri who had disappeared

into the mysterious labyrinth of the world, nor a thrill seeker like Nika who grinned wider for every inch the line advanced.

It had been Nika who had goaded Leon into coming here in the first place, escorting him via the red line

from Porter Square to Park Street, briefly boarding the green line to reach the government

center connection where they boarded the Stijian- line which ferried them mercilessly to its terminus.

Wonderland.

Once there, Nika insisted that the absurdly named roller coaster be their first stop, pulling him by the

cuff of his sleeve.

She had brought him out here specifically to cheer him up after the end of his most recent relationship.

She saw not so much a responsibility as an opportunity to be useful, and Leon felt obliged

to indulge her, to allow her that pride of having comforted a loved one in need.

So he put on his smile, took deep breaths, and shuffled along the crowd-control maze that guided

him toward his destiny. He knew he could change his mind.

It's not as though he had inscribed this into his schedule. The trip itself, sure,

it was right there in his Google calendar.

Post-relationship outing with Nika.

Destination, Wonderland.

But nothing committing to the roller coaster.

Certainly not some rickety monster called good Lord Whirladon.

...