Blender Comes To Life

Something scratched at the inside of Ethan's computer screen.

He took his hand off the mouse. His unfinished fox stood where he had left it, with one ear bent sideways and a grey patch across its chest. Then it raised a paw and scratched again.

Ethan leaned closer. He had spent the evening making that paw, turning the model to check it from every side. It should not have moved without him.

The fox pressed its nose to the glass.

"Wait there," Ethan said, then felt foolish. Where else could it go?

He reached for the mouse. Perhaps he had started something by mistake. He would save his work, close Blender and open it again. But before he could, a white card spread across his project.

You have been selected for the Canvas competition.

Beneath his name were the words One Million Followers.

Ethan checked his account in another window. Only 23 people followed his work. The number had not changed since Tuesday, when Ben shared a picture of Ethan's small wooden boat. Most were friends, but three seemed to follow everyone.

He had liked the boat. He had liked this fox too, before he began comparing its ears with pictures made by other artists. Now one ear looked too low and the chest looked unfinished. He had been about to start both again.

The fox scratched over the invitation. A small mark stayed on the screen.

Ethan looked at the name Canvas. He had seen the competition mentioned online, but he had never entered. Below the message sat a button marked Accept.

There should have been questions. Who had entered him? Why had they got his number of followers wrong? How could a fox scratch glass from inside a computer?

Instead, Ethan thought of people stopping to look at something he had made. He pressed Accept.

Cold air struck his face. The screen stretched beyond its frame, pushing his cup aside without touching it. His desk grew distant beneath a tall opening that smelled of wet paint. Beyond it, a light shone on a stone floor.

Ethan caught the edge of his chair. The fox stumbled towards him. He reached for it, and the opening pulled them both through.

He landed hard, with warm fur against his chest.

For a moment he could still see his room. The chair had tipped over. His project stood open on the screen, but the fox was gone. The space where it had been was empty.

Then the opening folded shut.

Around him, buildings rose from drawings. A painted river ran along the wall, and people stood beside creatures that had stepped out of screens. Ethan barely noticed them. Something small was breathing against his wrist.

"You were going to rub out my ear," the fox said.

Ethan stared at him. The bent ear twitched.

"It was crooked."

"I liked it."

His fingers had already reached towards the ear. He lowered them and touched the floor instead, checking that this strange place felt solid.

"Then keep it. I'll call you Pip."

The fox considered this, then settled more firmly in his lap.

"And you can stop sitting on my tail."

Ethan lifted his knee, and Pip pulled his tail free. The fox stood, shook himself and looked up at a tree growing out of a sheet of paper.

"Did you make that too?"

"No. I wish I had."

Little houses rested between its branches. A woman leaned from one of their windows to wave at the artist below. Farther along the hall, a boat crossed a pool no deeper than a plate. Its sails filled with wind Ethan could not feel.

Each display had a name beside it. He stopped at an empty table and pictured his own name there, with Pip sitting proudly beneath it.

A man stepped onto a platform under a golden clock. The voices around them fell quiet.

Ethan knew Marlow at once. He had watched him make dragons online, with smooth wings and scales that caught every light. Thousands of people left messages beneath each picture. Ethan had once spent a whole afternoon trying to shape a claw like his.

The dragon hanging behind Marlow was different. Its neck bent at an odd angle. A scratch crossed one wing, and the paint near its feet had been rubbed thin.

An artist passing the platform raised an arm to greet someone. Marlow moved quickly between the elbow and the picture. When the artist had gone, he touched the scratched wing through the glass and straightened the frame.

"Someone once painted over my work," he said. "Here, your creations will be kept forever. Finish before sunrise to enter my permanent gallery."

He kept one hand against the old picture after he spoke. The applause grew louder, but he did not smile until he looked at the names on the other tables. Ethan wondered why a man with so many fans watched his first dragon as if someone might take it.

Applause filled the hall. Ethan joined in before he noticed Pip staring at his moving hands.

"Does everyone have to do that?"

"Only if they want to."

Pip laid one paw over the other, tried once, then gave up.

Ethan placed him on the empty table. Its surface was smooth, and Pip's feet slid apart. He pulled them together, took a step and slipped again.

A panel of Blender keys floated beside Ethan's hand. He touched it, and the fox's outline glowed orange.

"Could you make my feet less slippery?" Pip asked.

"I could make the paws a little wider."

Pip looked down at them. "Try that. Leave the ear."

Ethan pressed Tab, switching from Object Mode to Edit Mode. Lines appeared across the fox. He selected the faces of one paw and made them slightly wider, then confirmed the change. He did the same with the others.

"Object Mode changes whole objects," he told Pip. "Edit Mode changes their parts."

Pip tested each foot. He walked to the table's edge, turned carefully and came back without falling.

"Much better."

He leaned against Ethan's wrist. Ethan felt the soft weight and tried to save his work. A warning appeared. The panel could not save outside Canvas.

He tried again. The same warning remained.

"Later, then," Ethan said, looking towards the bright displays. "When we're home."

At the next table, a woman smoothed the feathers of a yellow bird. It hopped onto her finger and sang three clear notes.

"Ready?" she asked it.

The bird tilted its head. She smiled and reached towards the word Submit on her panel. Ethan turned Pip so he could watch.

The bird's song broke off.

Black paint spread from its feet, climbing its legs and soaking through the yellow feathers. The woman pulled her hand back, but the bird followed. Its beak grew long and sharp. It struck the table where her fingers had been.

"That isn't mine," she cried.

Her name faded from the front of the table. New letters took its place.

Marlow.

Ethan looked towards the platform. Marlow had lowered his hand, and the bird turned towards him. A black cord trailed from beneath its wing into a crack in the floor.

A small black panel lit up at Marlow's wrist. The bird's maker reached out, but Marlow looked away from her. He closed his fingers over the panel. A low click ran through the gallery. Ethan saw that this was not an accident.

The doors slammed shut.

For a moment nobody moved. Then people ran towards the exits. The woman tried to reach her bird, calling to it as though it had lost its way. It sprang at her, and another artist dragged her behind a table.

Ethan gathered Pip against his chest. The fox's heart was beating fast.

"Don't submit Pip."

A young woman carrying rolled building plans caught Ethan's sleeve. She pulled him behind a wide staircase as the bird tore through a hanging cloth. Yellow feathers fell out of the black ones and vanished before they touched the floor.

"I'm Sally," she said. "I designed the public gallery buildings, not the engine or the repair system. I entered your name last week. I thought your characters deserved a chance."

Ethan stared at her. He remembered seeing her name beneath Ben's pictures, but they had never spoken.

"You said I had a million followers."

"Every invitation says that. I only discovered the trick today."

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Sally gripped her plans. "I thought it was a normal contest when I entered you. I should have asked. I'm sorry."

Above them, someone tried to open a door with a chair. The wood struck metal, again and again.

"Saying sorry doesn't get us out," Ethan said.

"No. It doesn't."

She knelt beside a small door beneath the stairs. Her hands shook as she found its hidden handle.

"Andy, Christopher and I arrived early. We found an engine below the gallery, taking colour from the work. We warned the organisers while messages still went through. I sent Ben a warning too. Before we could reach Return, the passages moved and split us up. I came back to find you."

"The organisers can turn it off."

Sally held out her panel. A last message remained on it, beside several that had failed to send. Ethan read enough to see why she looked frightened.

Entry was closed. Cutting Canvas off now would erase the people inside. The message told them to reach Return at the engine, where everyone could be sent home safely.

"They can't use Return from outside," Sally said. "And they can't safely change this place while Marlow has it sealed."

Pip pressed his nose beneath Ethan's chin. The bird landed on the staircase above them. Its claws scraped through the boards.