Thales

Barry Leventis was only seven when he got lost in the crowded market of Thessaloniki. The sea of bodies pressed in from all sides, suffocating him. The world shrank, panic ignited, and his small legs carried him as fast as they could, seeking an escape. Without warning, the cobbled ground disappeared beneath his feet. For a fleeting moment, Barry glimpsed the crystal-blue expanse of the Aegean Sea before the cold embrace of the water swallowed him.

Barry couldn’t swim. His limbs thrashed, the cold water closing over his head as he sank deeper into the abyss. Panic blurred into silence, the world fading to blue.

Strong arms yanked him back into the light. Gasping for air, he opened his eyes to see a fisherman pulling him ashore. His mother’s tear-filled face swam into view moments later, her grip on him tight enough to banish any remaining fear. The young fisherman who saved him became more than just a hero that day—he became Barry’s stepfather.

Years passed, but the sea remained an ominous presence in Barry’s life. At fourteen, he would sit on the pier for hours, staring out at the horizon. The water seemed to call him back, reminding him of the day it nearly claimed him. His stepfather grew impatient. One day he insisted Barry join him on the boat. “The only way to conquer fear is to face it,” he said. The old man had dragged Barry to the sea time and again, forcing him to fish, forcing him to stare into the face of his own terror.

Eventually, Barry learned to swim. The fear ebbed away, replaced by something new—determination. By the time he turned eighteen, Barry was an athlete, muscles hardened by years of exertion. He thrived on adrenaline, pushing himself to cliff-dive, skydive, surf. But no matter what thrill he sought, it was never enough. He was always left with the nagging sense that something was missing.

One scorching summer day in 2015, he sat with his friends in the shade of an old fishing cabin, bored out of their minds. The conversation had turned to ideas for improving humanity, a game to pass the time. Barry, staring at the bottle of water in his hands, had no clever answer. Absentmindedly, he tossed the bottle in the air. A stray beam of sunlight caught the bottle mid-air, and for a brief moment, it gleamed like a revelation. Water. Air. That’s what humanity needs most.

It wasn’t groundbreaking by any means, but to Barry, it became his purpose.

He shared his thoughts with his friends, one of whom happened to be an engineer. Within months, they had designed a prototype: a bottle that could filter water from nearly any source. The project, named Thales, after the ancient philosopher who proclaimed “everything is water,” promised to revolutionize access to clean water and, later, clean air.

By 2016, they launched a crowdfunding campaign. Their pitch was heartfelt, their product promising, but the donations came in slowly. Days before their deadline, they had barely raised enough to cover a fraction of the costs. Just when hope was all but lost, they received a massive, last-minute donation—enough to push them over the goal.

The call came shortly after. A gravelly voice, hoarse and low, offered them more than just money. The man proposed a partnership that could make their dream a reality—on one condition. Barry and his friends, eager to see their vision come to life, accepted the offer. Soon, they had a proper office in England, their humble dream now poised to change the world.

Thales bottles hit the market soon after, but their popularity was modest at best. People weren’t as captivated by water purification as they had hoped. The product didn’t sell as well as they had imagined. Still, Barry pressed on, always striving for more. Their mysterious benefactor pushed them to think bigger, to expand their ideas. They expanded their vision beyond bottles to large-scale filtration systems—machines capable of purifying air and converting it into clean water.

By 2029, the filtration device stood tall—platinum-colored and imposing, able to separate the components of air, turning it into oxygen, nitrogen, and eventually, water. Nature bloomed where their invention worked, trees sprouting strong roots and soil becoming fertile, and the air was crisp and pure within days. Barry’s invention was more successful than even he had imagined.

But as the project grew, so did the shadows around it. Barry’s friends began to disappear, one by one. He hadn’t noticed at first, too caught up in the excitement of their success. But when the meetings grew smaller and the familiar faces vanished without explanation, unease began to creep in.

One evening, Barry confronted their benefactor—a pale, gaunt man whose voice always seemed coated in ash. The conversation, meant to be about their latest project expansion, quickly turned to the subject of his missing friends. The man brushed it off, his thin lips barely moving as he spoke. Instead, he insisted on adding a new section to the filtration system—an empty airlock that would double the machine’s size.

Barry felt a chill run through him. He glanced at the diagram on the table and the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. This man, the Undertaker as his associates sometimes whispered, wasn’t interested in cleaning the air or providing fresh water. He was building something far more sinister. Barry stood, heart pounding, and threatened to expose him.

He never made it out of the room.

The Undertaker’s muscle-bound henchmen appeared without warning. Barry fought with everything he had. His fists struck the thugs with a ferocity driven by panic, his nails clawing at their faces as they dragged him toward the nearest bathroom. As they shoved his head beneath the water, he thrashed, arms flailing, legs kicking—but it was no use. His lungs screamed for air as water filled his mouth, his nose. His own body, so strong and sure in all those years of athletic training, betrayed him. His screams were muffled by the rush of liquid filling his lungs. Water, the element that had once been his greatest defeated fear, now became his executioner.

The next morning, Barry’s absence was noted, but no one questioned it. The Undertaker’s plan proceeded smoothly. The filtration devices were rolled out on a global scale, lauded as the pinnacle of environmental restoration. By 2031, the name Thales was synonymous with salvation. Clean air, fresh water, fertile soil—cities thrived under the touch of this miraculous technology.

But beneath the surface, the truth was far more grotesque. Thales did more than recycle air and water. It recycled people. Bodies—forgotten, inconvenient, rebellious—vanished into the silent, efficient machines, reduced to their elemental components. Their remains fertilized the very earth the machines were praised for rejuvenating.

The world breathed clean air, drank pure water, and reveled in the revival of nature, never knowing the price it truly paid.

In the end, the machines Barry had helped build brought salvation to the earth—but only through the sacrifice of its people.