How does a house know it once was a person, rattling keys, feet ranging between hallways? Where does it hold its memories? I don’t know, in fact, until the relief of a doorknob rattling, and footsteps enter my front door.

“You need to stop doing this,” Shuu says. “I’m fine, I just need to be alone for a while.”

I hear our friend Rhee. “I’m happy to stay. I’ll keep to myself if you need that. You have to eat, and you’re forgetting.”

Where does a house experience jealousy? I only know suddenly my timbers felt like they creak tighter in on themselves.

I wish there was a way to speak—I am here. I have no mouth to speak, but maybe I could communicate in another way. Coffee scents trapped in the walls stir. I was always the caffeine addict. The water in my pipes stirs around, dripping into the sink and flushing the junky toilet we always have to rattle the handle to refill.

At the way Shuu startles, though, I am ashamed.

Instead of staying, Rhee comes with food after work, every couple of days. Tries to find things to talk about.

It is too still when Rhee isn’t here.

I ponder my bounds. Cold solid corners, edging into soil. Sides brushed by leaves in the wind. A memory of coolness falling over time, followed by a reversing warmth. It was several days, I think, before Shuu came home.

One day, as white-wine and garlic waft from another pan brought out from another tote, they both seem too sad and tired to force conversation—there’s a clink of dishes being washed, no speech.

Shuu breaks the stillness himself.

“It could be my fault Ash died,” he confesses. “Something went wrong, and I don’t know what it was.”

“Will it help, to face up to that? Maybe you need to figure out what it was, how you miscalculated. I’ve noticed you haven’t been working.”

“Magic doesn’t forgive. We buried Ash, and knowing why we had to do that isn’t going to change it.”

Where does a house feel sorrow? I know I am a house, but hadn’t thought of my once-body as dead. The space between roof and rooms chills.

“No. But maybe you can move on once you figure out the extent of your guilt.”

Once Rhee is gone, there’s no banging of pans, or radio pumped up loud, to announce the change. But there is a generator hum, a clink of glass on glass. Sometimes a gentle change to the air tells what the chemicals and tinctures do. Sometimes a hiss of angry meetings, too.

Late into the night, the singing begins—not Shuu but magic coming alive. As a house I hear it loudly, though Shuu probably only feels it like a prickling on the skin. He is waiting, rings a tuning fork at times, trying to match vibrations.

There’s a greater clattering of glass as he cleans up, in deepest night yet. Then, in the stillness, I hear it—weeping. What can a house do, but listen?

The next morning when he rises there is a different charge to the air—not just whatever he carries from the fridge back out to the lab.

He doesn’t eat breakfast, something he confesses to his mother when she calls, but he promises to eat. I know he means: once he’s finished this last step of his project. This takes him until well past the glowing waves of midday sun.

There is a sung note, as he sets everything in place—clear, on-true. It rings up into my attic, down into the corners of my foundation.

“Ash?” he whispers.

I am still just the house, but now I can see my rooms, see my grounds. And I can see Shuu. I cannot speak, still, which is maybe what he was attempting—he asks aloud, “Ash, what happened?”

I don’t know, either. Our experiments had always been risky, but his careful calculations had kept us from going too far into territory that would endanger us. How had it happened that I had become infused with the house?

“Bear! Sir Bear!”

Sammy’s voice echoed in the night air, frosting in puffs with each cry. Surrounded, he pressed his back against the metal of a street lamp, the stinging cold biting through the thin material of his red, stripy pajamas. His feet almost tripped over a black bin bag that had been piled with others against the street lamp. There was nowhere for him to run–they had cut off his escape back up the alley towards home and the exit out onto the main road. At this time of night, everyone was asleep. No-one would hear his calls for help.

He only had one hope.

The orange light of the street lamp painted the shadows of his three assailants longer than their diminutive statures should allow. They watched Sammy hungrily, each atop a beaten, scar-ridden cat. He had never liked cats. Too mean. Dogs were his favorite, although his parents had never let him have one. They weren’t going to change their mind any time soon either.

To his left was a one-armed Action Man, to his right a Monsieur Stretchstrong with limbs twice the length of its body, and between them was a one-eyed Barbie whose hair had seen better days. Judging by her dress-up clothes, Sammy guessed she had been a Doctor Barbie. He remembered seeing the advert on TV last Christmas.

They tightened the circle around him, their little plastic faces lit up with the joy of cornered prey. Sammy knew what they wanted. He also knew they’d never be satisfied with any amount he offered them. They’d want it all and, even if he didn’t know how, he knew they would take every last speck.

Sammy shivered.

“Lay it on us, boy, and we’ll make sure you get home safe to your parents,” said the Action Man. His tone was calm, but Sammy noticed he didn’t sound like he did on the advert. He was supposed to be American, but he sounded more like the bald road worker who whistles at Mum when she walks him to school. Mum always walks faster on that road, her hand a bit tighter around Sammy’s.

“N-no,” stuttered Sammy. He looked over the heads of his attackers for a sign of hope. He would come. “Sir Bear told me never to trust wild toys.”

Barbie’s cat stepped forward, hissing. “We just want to play.” She sounded like Sammy’s aunt from Birmingham, a woman never without a cigarette in her mouth.

“I’m not playing with this kid,” said Monsieur Stretchstrong. He definitely didn’t sound French. Sammy didn’t know what he sounded like. Why did toys never sound like they were supposed to?

“That’s not what Barbs means, Stretch,” said Action Man. He looked Sammy up and down. “You shouldn’t play with your food.”

A voice rumbled from the darkness beyond the synthetic glow of the street lamp. “Away, plastic leeches. Thou shall not have my squire.”

Sammy’s heart lifted. He knew he would come. He always did.

“You guys are in trouble now,” said Sammy. A wide smile stretched across his face, dissipating the fear the three wild toys and their steeds had cast over him.

The wild toys twisted around to face the voice, their little plastic hands yanking at the cats’ furry necks to turn. The cats yowled in anger and pain. Sammy felt a bit bad for them, even if they looked ready to scratch his face off.

The Action Man scanned the darkness beyond their halo of light, one of his small hands scratching behind his cat’s ear. It purred approvingly, forgetting the rough handling. “What’s this? An appetizer for our main course?”

Sir Bear, or just Bear as Sammy called him, waddled into the light. His usual frown was deeper than ever, a look the people of the toy company would have hated to see on their cute and cuddly teddy bear. Being Sammy’s Guardian seemed to bring it out in the knee-high teddy. Bear straightened his little red shirt–it constantly rode up on his paunchy body–and pulled his pen-sized sword from the scabbard slung across his back.

Sammy had never found out where the sword came from; he had never even been allowed to hold it. It certainly hadn’t come with Bear–especially as it was a very real and very sharp blade. Despite asking about it many times, Bear always answered the questions in the same way: A Knight is nothing without his sword.

Bear levelled the sword at each of them in turn, as if marking them. The street lamp lit the blade with a fiery glow. “Die dishonorably by my hand, or fade honorably. The choice is thine,” he grumbled.

“You owned toys are all pompous little freaks,” said Barbie.

Bear nodded, accepting that as answer enough. He looked at Sammy. “Close thy eyes, squire. Don’t open them until I say.”

“But–”

“Squire…” Bear warned.

Reluctantly, Sammy covered his eyes with his fingers. How was he supposed to become a knight if he didn’t watch Bear fight? But Bear insisted combat was not for young eyes. In fact, his code as a knight forbade it. Violence should not darken one’s childhood, as Bear had once said, rather definitively, after an afternoon of Sammy’s begging to sword fight.

Sammy opened his fingers a crack, enough to see the small battle play out. Of course, it was only in case Bear needed his help.

Bear leapt at Monsieur Stretchstrong with all the agility of a gymnast. You would never think it looking at him: his pudgy, round body and plump arms and legs were built for cuddling, not fighting. Bear grumbled about his size often, but Sammy knew he preferred it that way. Everyone underestimated the snuggly teddy bear.

Monsieur Stretchstrong was thrown from his cat, his limbs trailing after him like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Bear smacked the rear of Monsieur Stretchstrong’s cat, which hissed and scampered away. A rubbery arm flew at Bear, trying to wrap itself around him. With a single swing, Bear hacked the arm in two, the fist falling to the floor.

Sammy gasped.

Bear’s frown became a scowl. “Peek not, squire. I know thou art watching.”

Sammy closed the crack between his fingers. “I’m not!”

Bear didn’t reply. All Sammy heard for the next few minutes was hissing cats, metal shearing plastic, and the frenzied shouts of the wild toys. The sounds of battle only tempted him to peek again, but Sammy stopped himself. Bear was angry enough with him already. All he could do was listen.

A husky cry of pain made Sammy look. Worry swelled. He had never heard that noise from Bear before.

The broken, inanimate bodies of the wild toys littered Bear’s battlefield. Sammy saw the faint gold of their life magic escaping into the night air–barely sparks against the dark sky. No wonder they had fought Bear so desperately–they had been on the cusp of fading. With or without Sammy and Bear, tonight would always have been their last.

The Piggly Wiggly is out of Cinna-Stars cereal. What a stupid way to go broke.

Oh, they have the off-brand. Cinnamon Galaxies, with their smug little astronaut holding a spoon out in the void, like he’s about to open up his face plate to shove some into his mouth hole, only to have his brains sucked out into the vacuum of space. Or whatever happens up there. What would I know about that? I just buy groceries for rich assholes for a living.

I want to pull my own gas mask off, rip open a box of Galaxies and give them a try, see if they’re a suitable replacement. But that’d be pointless. It’s never about the taste for my clients. It’s about the status. I give them a box of the off-brand, and the next time they’re hosting a soiree, some stockbroker opens a cupboard, sees the cheap shit and says, “My my, Nelson, you’ve fallen on hard times!” and then they’re the laughingstock of the neighborhood, jettisoned from society, cast out into the Valley without their top-of-the-line air filters, all because some punk-ass Shopper bought them Cinnamon Galaxies instead of Cinna-Stars.

They probably have Cinna-Stars in Asheville, but that’s a good fifteen miles away and if I got jumped with all the rest of Nelson’s groceries, I may as well take the gas mask off right now and save myself the trouble.

I’ve resigned myself to showing up with only 98% of the groceries on the list and receiving only 25% of my pay as a result, when I see it. The cereal aisle ends right in front of the meat shelves and there’s another Shopper looking for the right cut of steak. He’s comparing thickness, weight, date, probably texture and antibiotic levels too, and his back is turned. His cart is almost full, but halfway up, pressed against the right side, is a pristine Family Size box of Cinna-Stars.

It will be mine.

There’s no time to plan. He won’t be looking at steaks forever.

His cart is positioned broadside to my aisle and I go for it. I grip the handlebar and take off at a sprint. He hears the squeaky wheel and without even turning around to see what I’m about to do, he crouches down with his shoulder against his cart. It’s too late for me to stop. When I make contact, the impact that should knock his cart over and send the Cinna-Stars spilling out is transferred to him. I don’t even knock him all the way down. He grips the edge of the meat shelf and he’s back on his feet in seconds. This is not his first rodeo. Shit.

Now that I get a better look at him, I know I’m outclassed. The guy’s gas mask is a new model, Omni-Seal brand with the slim adhesive face grip, not like my bulky apparatus that makes me look like a ghost from World War 2. Dude’s even got a ShockStick in his belt, and honestly, if he decides to use it, I’m just going to let him. I’ve earned it. He’s clearly got a Patron; he’s not a freelancer like me.

To my surprise, instead of popping me with enough volts to cook a chicken, he puts both his hands up like he’s surrendering.

“What do I have that you need, friend?” he asks. His voice is clear.

I’m completely unprepared for his tone and his accent. He sounds almost posh, with that crisp unaccented diction you only hear out of newscasters. Definitely not from the Carolinas.

Everything about this interaction is confusing. There’s no point in trying to play tricks. Best to be honest.

“The Cinna-Stars,” I say.

He grabs the box from his cart. “This? I’ve heard good things about them. But you probably need them more than I do.” He proffers them to me.

Hesitantly, I take them, expecting him to have a spring-loaded bear trap up his sleeve and snap my forearm in half. But no. He lets go as soon as my hands are on the box.

“Do you have any recommendations for a replacement?” he asks. “I was hoping to try them out.”

I have no answer. It’s a simple question, but there’s so much about it that makes no sense. Nobody actually inside a grocery store ever cares what something tastes like. We only care what our clients think it tastes like. Unless his Patron actually allows him to eat meals with them, there is only one explanation.

“Are you…shopping for yourself?” I ask. I should be sprinting away, straight through the barcode scanners and out to my car, but I’m too fascinated. Nobody shops for themselves. That’s like cleaning the toilets in a public restroom for fun. You let the professionals handle it or you could get killed.

“Figured I’d give it a go,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. Like he isn’t one wrong move away from ending up in the body disposal units behind the Piggly Wiggly.

I suddenly become aware of how vulnerable I am, distracted by this strange man. I’m easy prey. Anybody could sneak up behind me and sever my oxygen tank or steal from my cart. I whip my head around, but it’s just us.

“You haven’t answered my question, friend,” the stranger says.

“Uh, right. Cinnamon Galaxies,” I say. “I hear they taste the same.”

“Very kind of you.” He makes a gesture like he’s tipping his cap at me. His Omni-Seal doesn’t budge, not even a millimeter.

I nod to him and sprint out of the store, past the scanners at the door charging everything to my client’s account. On my way to load up my rusted Honda, I pass a 2051 Jaguar Luna, with solar panels so efficient, they charge in the moonlight. There’s only one person that car could belong to. What the fuck is he doing here?

---

“Congratulations, Maddox, you’re a star on RichTok,” my roommate, Nance, says when I get back to our apartment.

Nance’s job is combing through privileged people’s posts on social media and calling out problematic behavior to his substantial following. Enough rich people feel guilty enough to send him some cash to his Patreon that he doesn’t need to do anything else. Still, he hasn’t moved into a better neighborhood yet, so he can’t be doing that well.

“Shit, he was filming?” It has to be the guy from the grocery store. I can’t think of another interaction I’ve had that’d be worthy of going viral online.

“Livestreaming.” Nance points me to his computer screen as I watch myself charging down the cereal aisle. The bastard had a rear-facing camera. No wonder he was ready for me.

“Hilarious try with ramming his cart,” Nance says. “You would’ve gotten your ass kicked if he wasn’t trying to make himself look like a hero.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’ll say. I’ve been scrolling through this guy’s posts. He’s been training in jiu jitsu for three months to participate in an ‘Empathy Challenge,’ where they try to see how the less fortunate live.”

I laugh. “Yes, we less fortunate with our personal combat instructors, Omni-Seal masks, ShockSticks, rear-facing cameras with live feed to our eyepieces, Jaguar Lunas, and then driving back to our mansions in Biltmore Forest.”

Nance narrows his eyes. “How’d you know where he lives?”

“Where else could he possibly live?” Biltmore Forest is one of the last places in the Blue Ridge Mountains that still has birds. They built a dome over it to keep the poisoned air out. But if I even get within sight of the Biltmore Dome, I’ll get shot by a sniper. Can’t have the rabble lowering property values.

“Fair point,” Nance says. “If you’re curious, RichTok seems to like you well enough. You didn’t actually try to kill the guy, so they think you’re one of the good ones.”

“That’s me. A noble savage.”

Nance snort laughs. “You want to monetize this?”

“How much?” I would rather die than be on social media regularly, but I’d be willing to open an account for a few weeks to rake in extra some money.

Nance shrugs. “A few thousand, maybe. The guy you ran into has a pretty big following. He might even signal boost you if you make a post asking for money, then we’re talking tens of thousands. At least enough to cover expenses for a few months.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Oh, man, you don’t understand rich people at all, do you? They’ll do anything to make themselves feel like good people as long as they can keep some distance from the rest of us.”

I can feel the genesis of an idea brewing in me. I should just count myself lucky I ran into this rich guy, milk it while I can, and then get on with my life. But if I were the type of person who made good decisions, I probably wouldn’t have ended up as a Shopper.

“Besides going to grocery stores, what other things do they do for these Empathy Challenges?”

“It’s all stupid. Like eating ramen for a week, wiping their asses with the single-ply paper, going a day without air conditioning.”

I shake my head. “I’m not interested in what they do at home. What types of things get them out of the Dome?”

Nance pauses. “Why?”

“Because if a single interaction with a rich guy can pay the bills for a month, just think how much a recurring character could earn.”

It was a dark, foggy night on the mean streets of the city, the kind of night that keeps most sensible, law-abiding citizens home, tucked safely in their beds. A night for villains. Maybe even a night for heroes, if the price is right.

An orange streetlamp flickered dolefully through the mist outside the diner where I sat sipping a coffee and attempting to use my largely decorative turquoise cape for warmth. Turquoise isn’t really my color, but the fabric was on sale and anyway, none of the other superheroes were wearing that color. It made me distinctive. The Turquoise Teleporter–or the Turquoise Terror, depending who you ask.

If you ask me, alliteration is an overused literary device.

The hunched form of an old woman scurried along the sidewalk just outside the window. She was there and gone in seconds, but those seconds were long enough for me and any villain in the city to see that she was loaded. She wore a long, elegant fur coat and had her hair coiffed in one of those styles that required a team of hair surgeons to pull off. I could have sworn I’d seen something flashing at her ears, too–diamonds, maybe. And even if all of that was fake, she was still making herself a target. Rich twit begging to be mugged: news at eleven.

My cue, in other words.

In a flash, I was on the sidewalk outside the diner, peering into the gloom for some sign of the woman. It was cold out here, too cold to be wearing what amounted to a swimsuit and cape, but I’d learned the hard way that no one takes you seriously in this business if you wear sensible shoes and an overcoat.

The fog was too thick to see the woman, so I flashed down the sidewalk in roughly the direction the woman had been going. With visibility so low, it was the muffled cries that told me I’d found the right place: a few feet ahead where an alley intersected the main road.

Please tell me she got dragged into that alley, because if she was stupid enough to try a shortcut, I don’t think I can help her.

It wasn’t true, of course. I would help her. It’s what I did. But sometimes I wished I could do it for people who were just a little bit worthier. Where was my hot, objectified boy toy with a heart of gold whom I could rescue from a crashing plane? The closest I’d ever gotten was this marketing manager who swore he could help me improve my image but who mostly seemed to want a cover to tell me I’d look prettier if I smiled.

Don’t you dare picture me with a smile. It’s not happening. Not even for a fur-lined cape. Okay, maybe for a fur-lined cape.

When I rounded the corner to the alley, all I could see was two silhouettes struggling against one another. The larger figure finally broke free and ran in my direction, skidding to a halt when he realized he had company. This put him about three feet from me, so I did what I do: I closed the distance, flashed us both to the top of the nearest tall building, and told him I’d leave him there if he didn’t hand back the purse and whatever else he’d stolen. The whole business took about thirty seconds, then I dropped him at the nearest police station and flashed back to the alley.

Now came the hard part.

“Give me back my purse,” the woman said, stiffly. Not so much as a cursory thank you here. Well, that did make things easier.

Reaching inside the top of my swimsuit, I pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her. “My bill.”

“Your what?” She snatched the piece of paper from me and scowled. “I can’t read this in the dark!”

“It’s all in order, an itemized list of services and fees. There’s the interception, the recovery of goods, the delivery to the police station, and an after-hours surcharge. Altogether, that’s two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand dollars! I didn’t agree to any of this.”

“Would you like me to retrieve the mugger and hand him back the purse?”

“No!”

“Well, then, I’ve got to make a living.”

“You’re no hero. Heroes don’t charge for their services.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor, a surgeon.”

“Do real surgeons charge for their services?”

She spluttered, which I assumed meant I’d made my point.

“I tell you what. I’ll hold the purse as collateral. When I get your check at the address on the sheet, you get this back.”

She spluttered some more, but I flashed away. Back to the diner, to my office, to my cup of coffee and my inadequate clothing. Outside the window, the fog was beginning to lift. Businesses were closing, lights going out. The night belonged to the villains now; I was clocking out.

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series. In addition to writing, she is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.

I’m seven when Mom gifts me Bicyclops, and Father calls me a stupid shit for giving my bike a name.

But my friend enjoys his name. Bicyclops is appropriate, because he has one eye, dead-center between the handles—yellow with a gleaming eyelid he keeps shut around other people. The right handle is different, too: bulgy, enwrapped in purple cables, as if its plastic once boiled and froze in place.

When I tell Mom about the eye, she presses it, producing a wheezing honk. She then presses the patch covering my own missing right eye, and says eyes and sockets don’t honk, and that I better quit the creepy lies if I want to make friends at school.

I’m angry at Bicyclops for hiding, allowing Mom to call me a liar, but I soon realize I’m the fool. He is terrified people won’t understand being different. Only I understand, because I know what that’s like.

---

Mom once told me my right eye was taken as a toll. That gods lend souls to infants but they’re never gifts. Sacrifice is necessary, and lacking money she offered my body part instead.

Bicyclops says it’s hogwash. Life is not given nor borrowed. Life sprouts like apples on orchards and is stolen by hungry things for nourishment. I was the apple, Mom the orchard. Did that make Father the hungry thing?

My bike thinks otherwise. He thinks Father is like a gardener, trying to make Mom stronger by showering beer over her like watering a plant. And he beats her to make her bones snap and grow strong. These are the things Bicyclops tells me every night, when I sneak to the garage and lay by his cold wheels, allowing the click-click-clicking of his blinking eye lull me to sleep. The floor may be cold, and the smell of gas thick, but Mom’s screams can’t reach me here.

When I ask Bicyclops why his right handle is different, he tells me about his previous owner, whose father was a gardener. Inspired by pruning branches, the daughter chopped the legs and arms from her dolls expecting them to grow stronger. They didn’t. She enjoyed the abuse, but Bicyclops was too innocent to blame her. When she chopped off Bicyclops right handle with her father’s shears, she ran away in horror from something Bicyclops couldn’t understand. Poor bike had to nourish the sprouting handle on his own.

One night I ask Bicyclops, if pruning branches results in stronger ones, why has my eye not sprouted back?

He assured me the eye is growing, but it’s still too small to feel. Like a tomato seedling, it throws off shoots that will ripen and bulge.

I sure hope it does, but not as red and gross as a tomato. I hate tomatoes. I want it smooth and slick like a well-boiled egg.

---

Mom’s eyelids twitch and lips quiver when I mention I’m grateful she didn’t buy some expensive soul-less bike but adopted the discarded Bicyclops. Stupid me. Adults won’t understand, they never do.

How could I have known she didn’t buy it? Now suspicion that my fantasies have truth in them turns to dreadful certainty, and she wants to get rid of Bicyclops, calling him unholy, satanic. I have to clasp my bike tightly to stop her taking him away. But I can’t compete with adult strength, so I scream to the top of my lungs until she releases. She always buckles before my screams, because she wants to avoid gossiping neighbors.

But there’s no avoiding Father. He barges into the garage, demands explanation for disturbing his afternoon nap, and Mom points the finger at me. No, not at me—at Bicyclops in my embrace.

Father calls her delusional, but to my surprise he doesn’t hit her. He is amused, and grins at his own cruel humor: ‘If the bike really talks, let’s see if it bleeds, yeah?’

Mom retreats to the house, and I know not to scream with Father, because that always makes it worse. He yanks me off the bike, grabs Bicyclops by frame and saddle and shoves his foot between the wheel spokes. Nevermind how afraid I am of Father, I punch his leg to protect my friend. But a backhanded slap sends me sprawling on the floor, my tooth wounding my lip.

Pushing with his leg, pulling with his arms, the rusty frame snaps in two.

And now Father’s grin vanishes because his stupid joke turns to prophecy. The mangled bike gushes out viscous, sanguine liquid and Father panics and clumsily steps back, slipping on the pool of bike-blood. His head meets the floor with a gut-wrenching crack.

---

Bicyclops might not be human, but he is a child like me, just more naive. Assuming the best in people, he still thinks Father pruned him to make him stronger. Why else would he sacrifice himself? A bike cannot understand adults that lose their balance.

His saddle-half quickly wrinkles and smells like spoiled fruit, while the one connected to his eye grows again, the wounded pipe shoots out purple cables as muscles form in bubbles at the stem. But pruned branches need nourishment to grow strong, so I keep the garage door shut and Father’s body tucked close to Bicyclops, so the cables can reach it.

Mom visits the garage once and never again. She learned from Father to accept things that unsettle her instead of trying to stop them, which for once works in my favor.

I keep Bicyclops company at all times. This is a time for healing and he needs his friend. I’ve pulled my mattress downstairs and let the slurping sounds of Bicyclops lull me to sleep at night as I watch the shadows of his growing muscles.

I smile, happy to see my friend healing. Happy my Father is of use to something positive for once. And happy to see my bike excited to try on new shapes. Because the pruned parts don’t grow back quite the same.

In a cove of a Greek island, Akis was born a sane infant, but has since then grown to enter the chaotic world of adults—a choice he deeply regrets. Trying to gorge himself on this unlikely reality, he has lived in various European countries throughout his scientific career. He now studies biomedical AI, hoping there’s something less dystopian to come from this tech. His stories delve both into wholesome worlds and ones of extreme darkness. Read more from him in Apex, Dread Machine, Flame Tree and numerous anthologies. Visit his website for details: https://linktr.ee/akislinardos