Another date with Sofia loomed at seven, and the thought sent a flicker of warmth through him, but today wasn’t just for daydreaming. He’d been coasting on scraps of knowledge, a head filled with hero names like some super trivia geek, but the bigger picture? A gaping hole. His PC’s dial-up connection only coughed up disjointed bulletin boards— most of that in text files and half of what he could find was conspiracy theories rather than reliable answers, but there was another source of information. Libraries still held weight here - where tech faltered the written word still held value. Unfortunately the closest one worth a damn was in Zone D. He grabbed his keys and headed out, determination settling in.

  I’m glad you’re finally starting to take an interest in the world.

  ‘Well I’m starting to feel invested.’

  The drive was a grind. His beat-up white van rattled over potholes, engine groaning as he steered through the P-District’s chaos. Crossing zones meant dealing with checkpoints, and he braced himself as the Zone D gate loomed ahead—a slab of reinforced steel flanked by guard towers, their searchlights cutting through the gray haze. He slowed, rolling down the window as the lights at the towers flashed a brilliant blue, a shrill beep piercing the air. That was... worrying.

  Guards ambled over, he could see the name-tags on their gray uniforms - crisp despite the grime, their rifles slung low but ready. The one he took to be the leader based on the number of stripes he had on his arm —a stocky guy named Torres—leaned in, “Your gene-ID,” he barked, dark eyes narrowing under a buzzcut.

  Foster fished it out and passed it over and Torres scanned it with a handheld reader that whirred and beeped erratically, while the other two—Reyes, a wiry woman with twitchy fingers, and Malik, a hulking figure with a pair of prosthetic arms—flanked the van, peering inside like he might be smuggling beast parts. “You’re reading Supe on the scanner but I don’t see you registered with the PRU,” Torres said, handing the ID back with a frown. “If you want to pass through zones. That could be a problem.”

  “Yeah,” Foster admitted, scratching his neck. “I triggered just the other day.”

  Torres grunted. “Fine. The scanner is not reading hot, so you’re probably not over a D class… that means you’ve got 72 courtesy hours to register as of now, or the PRU’ll come knocking. Don’t test ’em—they don’t knock polite.” Reyes smirked, her sharp cheekbones catching the light, while Malik smiled and mimed knocking with his metal hands. Foster nodded, pocketing the ID, and Torres waved him through, the gate creaking open just enough for the van to scrape past.

  The Knowledge Repository of zone D was a fortress - a towering five stories high fortress. Narrow slit windows glared down like suspicious eyes and Aether-shields buzzed faintly overhead, their faint blue flicker struggling to keep the tech inside alive—one of the rare government perks for a place this far out. Foster parked in the somewhat empty lot and made his way inside.

  Once within the foyer sprawled vast and dim, a cavern of cracked tiles and concrete pillars some books were set out up front like —The Wall Holds Forever and The Mist Took My Dog. Steel shelves were stuffed with books, scrolls, and data-slates wrapped in metallic bags. The air smelled of old paper with a hint of vanilla.

  The librarians were more of the government’s quota hires, mutants slotted into public jobs. They shuffled through the stacks quietly reshelving things.

  At the central desk—a hulking slab of wood piled with ledgers and a flickering holo-pad—sat Marta, a young librarian who didn’t look like she belonged in this concrete tomb. Her skin was pale, almost luminous, with a faint shimmer that hinted at mutation, and her hazel eyes sparkled with a friendliness that felt out of place. He noticed she had extra fingers on each hand as she waved him over, her curly brown hair bouncing. “New face!” she chirped, voice bright “What can I help you find?”

  ‘At least they’re friendlier than at the DMV’

  That I suspect is a universal constant.

  “History,” Foster said, leaning on the desk. “Ancient, recent, whatever you’ve got.”

  Marta grinned. “Third floor is local history, Starlight’s messy past. As for the more general history that's in the 900's section up on the fourth floor. Stairs are over there— ‘fraid the elevators’ve been out since I started.” She pointed to a shadowed corner where a spiral staircase twisted upward, its railing bent in a few places. Foster nodded thanks and moved on, feeling her eyes linger—curious.

  ‘Stairs are not my friend.’

  Since you stopped working, you'll probably need the cardio.

  ‘Blasphemy.’

  The climb was a slog but thankfully it didn’t take long, and the third floor opened into a labyrinth of shelves, dust swirling in the weak light from slit windows. Mutants worked the stacks here too. One, a lanky figure had a neck that stretched too long, mottled blue skin glistening as he shelved books with flipper-like hands, his wheezy breath bubbling like he was drowning. Another scuttled past with four arms, scales glinting on her patchwork skin, each limb clutching a book as she hissed to herself about overdue fines. They all had that librarian stare—stern, judgmental—but the mutations made it eerie, like they were sizing him up for more than just late fees.

  Foster found the local history section and pulled out a heavy tome—Starlight Chronicles: A Fractured History—its leather cover cracked but intact. He hauled it to a small wooden table under a quietly buzzing lamp and cracked it open. The pages smelled of age and ink, dense with text and grainy images—supers mid-trigger, cities rising behind walls. He skimmed through it, his mind racing to piece everything together. More books followed…

  The history matched his own fragmented memories— this was Earth, just not his Earth. Hundreds of years back, everything shifted. There was no AI revolution here - instead there was an apocalypse. No one pinned down the cause—an experiment gone haywire, a dimensional gate cracking open and something alien bleeding through—but whatever the cause the world broke. People started triggering, powers flaring wild and unpredictable. Tech faltered, geography twisted—Mists rolled into the forests, thick and otherworldly, linking this world to something beyond. Beasts that had been extinct prowled the Mists but there were some places the Mists didn’t touch. Tech clung to life there, shielded by natural formations, and humans rebuilt their cities—Starlight City among them—walling them off against the outer chaos. Foster traced a map with his finger, the walls of Starlight jagged against the Mist-wreathed wilds.

  Cities were still connected together by highways that wove and dove around the forests - but there were no casual commuters - mostly just shipping companies with military escorts and government convoys - with a whole industry dedicated to burning back the forests every few months. Air travel was now exceedingly rare - with the need to shield anything that travelled high and the presence of creatures that patrolled the sky - it was relegated to thrill seekers and the ultra wealthy.

  He leaned back, the chair creaking, and rubbed his eyes. The library’s books were a lifeline—he was getting some answers to questions he hadn’t even known to ask.

  He grabbed another book - Trigger Events and The First Beast Waves - and more followed…

  The Grand Repository’s third floor had grown quieter - the mutant librarians’ shuffles and wheezes fading as they retreated to their tasks. Outside, the slit windows framed a sky sinking into a bruised purple, the overcast gray giving way to dusk. Shit, it’s late, he thought, a twinge of urgency cutting through the haze of research. Sofia’s “See you then” text burned in his pocket, and he still needed to clean up. Time to go.

  He shut the latest tome with a dull thud, dust puffing into the air, and slid it back onto the shelf, its weight tugging at his arms. The history he’d devoured—churned in his head, still a puzzle but he at least had some of the pieces now.

  The foyer was almost a deserted tomb at this hour, eerie, with half the lights dead overhead. Marta, the shimmering-skinned librarian, was still at the desk, her extra fingers tapping a ledger as she hummed something tuneless. She glanced up, hazel eyes catching the weak light, and flashed that too-friendly grin. “Find what you needed?” she asked, voice bright despite the late shift’s weariness etched in her posture.

  “Enough for now. Though I was hoping I can check these out?” He showed her a small stack of books he hadn’t managed to finish. Walls of Starlight: The Rise and Rot of a City, The Aetheric Divide: Technology’s Fall and Fragile Rebirth, Beyond the Wall: Expeditions into the Mistlands, and Echoes of the Old World: Relics Before the Fall.

  “Sure, just give me your ID!” She scanned them to him quickly,. “Come back soon! Not enough people appreciate history, but I do, I especially appreciate historians!” She gave him a wave and a smile as he stepped away and he nodded back thankful for her help.

  Outside, the Zone D air hit him— just that tiny trace cleaner than what he was used to. The checkpoint loomed ahead, and he steeled himself for Torres and his crew again.

  The gate’s lights flashed blue once more as he rolled up, slower this time, the van’s headlights cutting through the gloom. Torres emerged from the guard shack, his stocky frame silhouetted. Reyes flanked him, her wiry form tense, while Malik’s prosthetic arm whirred faintly as he leaned against the tower. “Back already?” Torres grunted, scanning Foster’s ID with the same chipped reader. “Thought you’d camp out in there.”

  “I got what I came for,” Foster said, keeping his tone flat, though his mind still mused over some of the things he’d read.

  Torres handed the ID back, and nodded him through. Foster eased the van through as the gate creaked open and made a mental note to see the PRU… as unpleasant as that might be.

  The drive home was a blur— the radio crackled, aetheric static growing worse as the wall came closer into view drowning out a news snippet about some rumors of another impending wave. Foster tuned it out, fingers drumming the wheel. His mind was on something else - where to go for a fun night out. HIs experiences over the last couple of years were sparse- but there were some dimmer memories from when he was younger.

  As he rounded the corner to his door with a stack of books in his arms he froze. Sofia stood there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed tight. A cream colored sweater hung loose over her small frame, the soft fabric draping over black jeans that hugged her thighs, ankle boots scuffing the floor as she shifted. Her dark hair was tamed into a braid, a few strands escaping to brush her caramel skin, and her dark eyes flicked up to meet his, wide with a flicker of embarrassment. She straightened, hands dropping to her sides, fingers twisting together.

  “Hey,” she said, voice low, a little shaky. “I, uh…”

  “You’re early.” Foster grinned, fishing his keys from his coat pocket with one hand. “I’m flattered. Here—” He set his books down and plucked the spare key off the ring, a scratched-up sliver of brass, and pressed it into her hand. “Make yourself at home whenever you’re around, it’s safer than being out here.” He felt the warmth of her fingers as he pressed the cool metal into her hand and he caught the faint scent of her—something earthy, like cedar? It was nice.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Hedy’s voice slid into his skull, velvet-edged and dripping mockery. Really? Handing over a key after one date? What’s next, a joint lease?

  ‘Don’t make this weird,’ Foster shot back silently, smirk twitching. ‘I’ve known her over a year! She’s not some stranger I picked up at a bar.’

  Sofia blinked at the key, then at him, her lips parting like she wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re… serious?” she managed, tucking it into her jeans pocket, her fingers lingering there like it might vanish.

  “Don’t be too overwhelmed. Let’s just say I’m not terribly worried you’re going to take anything, cause you know…” he said, unlocking the door and swinging it open to the bare bones interior, clean but sparse save for that stack of Heroes Monthly in the corner. “I’ve been thinking about tonight and I’ve actually got a spot in mind.”

  Her brows lifted, curiosity sparking. “Oh yeah? Where’re we headed?”

  “Bucky’s Peez!” he said, grin widening as he leaned against the doorframe.

  She blinked at him, slowly. “Foster… I’m not five.”

  “But have you had that pizza though? Pizza’s solid, even if the name gets a laugh—people always crack jokes about the ‘Peez’ but… you need the Peez to make the Peez-A.”

  Sofia snorted, a half laugh this time, her shoulders easing. “That’s your big date plan, boss man?”

  “Low stress,” he said placing his left hand about chest high, then stepping aside to let her in. “It’s gonna be fun. You’ll see. Let me just put these books away and then we’re off,”

  After he walked her to his van, Foster saw her expression shift. He could tell she was trying to hold in her laughter and her lips kept twitching, a laugh bubbling up as she tilted her head, braid swaying. “That’s your ride?” she said, voice thick with amusement. “Looks like a total serial killer van—y’know, the kind they find bodies in on those gritty crime-dramas.” She stepped closer, running her fingers along the front hood, then grinned, dark eyes glinting. “I’m not scared, though. It’s too pathetic to be threatening.” She tapped the hood lightly, like she was petting a sad dog, and Foster couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “The best kind of vehicle’s the kind that gets you from point A to point B—with a bonus if it’s so sad-looking no one’ll steal it. Which is hard to pull off out here.” He opened the door for her. “This gets me around. The serial killer vibes are just a bonus, gives a plus ten to rizz checks for emo-chicks.” Sofia tilted her head, and Foster could almost see the question marks hovering over her head.

  “I’m not emo.”

  “But what if I like emo girls?”

  She pondered for a moment then held her fingers about an inch apart, “I could be a little emo.”

  Bucky’s Peez! Was not far from the mall. The sign blazed in garish neon the “Peez!” part flickering in yellow, casting a jaundiced glow over the parking lot. Inside, the air was thick with the smells of grease and melted cheese, and the electric hum of ancient arcade cabinets lining the walls filled the place with background noise. Skee-ball machines clacked and dinged in the back, their wooden ramps scuffed from years of drunk college kids. The carpet was a riot of faded swirls, sticky in patches, and the tables—cheap and bolted to the floor—wobbled under chipped red trays.

  Cutting through the din of clacking skee-ball machines and the chatter of half-drunk college kids was the relentless, off-key serenade of the joint’s animatronic trio. Perched on a low stage in the corner—ringed by a sagging velvet rope that kept sticky-fingered kids at bay—stood the stars of the show: a squirrel, a frog, and an armadillo, their fur and scales patchy from years of neglect. The squirrel, dubbed Nutzo according to the faded plaque, clutched a plastic pizza slice in its chipped paws, its jerky head tilting as its glass eyes glinted under the flickering neon. Next to it, Ribbit the frog sported a cracked banjo, its webbed feet stomping a rhythm that didn’t quite sync with the beat, while Dusty the armadillo—armor plates peeling—swayed with a tiny tambourine duct-taped to its claw, jingling off-time.

  Their song blared from tinny speakers bolted above, a looping jingle about the joys of pizza that’d been warped by age and bad wiring into something faintly unhinged. “Pizza’s the treat that can’t be beat, meltin’ cheese and saucy meat!” Nutzo’s jaw clacked open, voice a nasal screech, while Ribbit croaked a warbling harmony—“Grab a slice, it’s oh-so-nice, pepperoni’s paradise!”—and Dusty rasped a low, gravelly finish, “Crust so fine, it’s pizza time, every bite’s a friend of mine!” The gears whirred audibly, grinding as the trio lurched through their motions, Nutzo’s tail twitching erratic, Ribbit’s banjo twanging a sour note, Dusty’s tambourine shedding flecks of tape. A kid nearby lobbed a fry at them, missing wide, and the animatronics didn’t flinch—just kept singing, their faded fur swaying under the buzzing lights.

  Foster slid a pepperoni slice onto Sofia’s plate, the cheese stretching in greasy strings.

  Sofia nodded toward the stage. “They’ve been at it since we walked in,” she said, smirking as Nutzo’s head jerked mid-verse.

  “Is the song getting inside your head yet?”

  Sofia glanced over, mid-bite, sauce smearing her chin as she grinned. “God, no. They’re just so pitiful—look at that squirrel, it’s half-dead.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin,. “It can still outsing me though.”

  Foster noticed her head slowly bopping to the sound of ‘Pepperoni’s Paradise’ and his lips puckered up in a smirk. The trio hit the chorus again, louder, Ribbit’s banjo twanging like a snapped wire. “Pizza’s the treat that can’t be beat—”

  Sofia groaned, leaning back in the wobbly chair. “I’m gonna hear this in my nightmares.”

  “Pizza’s the treat that can’t be beat,” Foster joined into the chorus then popped the last of his slice into his mouth.

  Sofia laughed and shoved her tray aside, braid swinging as she stood. “C’mon, let’s hit the skee-ball before they start another encore.”

  Foster led the way, coat swaying as Sofia trailed close. She’d ditched the nerves from earlier, her dark eyes glinting with a playful edge as she sized up the place. “This is… something,” she said, smirking as a kid in a sagging ball cap darted past, clutching a fistful of tickets.

  “Something good?”

  “The pizza’s a win. But you promised skee-ball skills. Let’s see if you’re all talk.”

  He grinned, “You’re on.”

  The skee-ball alley was a battered row of five machines, lights blinking erratically, scoreboards scratched but functional. Foster fed a coin into the slot, the ramp spitting out a handful of chipped wooden balls. He rolled first—smooth, controlled, aiming for the 50-point ring. The ball curved, hit the 30, and he shrugged.

  Sofia stepped up, braid swinging as she palmed a ball, her stance loose but focused. She flicked her wrist, and the ball sailed—straight into the 100-point hole, the machine dinging like it was shocked. She turned, smirking.

  He tried again, harder this time, but overshot—20 points. She rolled, nailing another 100. By the fifth round, she was a machine—her small frame coiled with precision, balls arcing into the top slots like she’d been born doing this. Foster’s scores climbed respectable—40s, a couple 50s—but she demolished him, racking up triple digits with a grin that grew sharper with every roll. Tickets spat out in a flood, piling at her feet as the machine wheezed its surrender.

  “Jesus,” he laughed, hands on his hips as she scooped up the tickets. “You’re awesome!”

  “I can be,” she said, winking as she bundled the tickets handing them to him. “C’mon, let’s cash these in.”

  The prize counter was a glass case of faded glory—plastic trinkets, knockoff action figures, a couple sad-looking stuffed animals. Sofia pointed at a stuffed aardvark, its gray fur patchy but soft, beady black eyes glinting under the fluorescent buzz. “That one,” she said, and Foster handed over the tickets, the teenage clerk barely glancing up as he shoved the thing across the counter.

  Foster took it, turning to her with a mock bow. “For you, my champion.” He pressed it into her hands, her fingers again brushing his as she clutched it, a real smile breaking through—soft, unguarded, lighting up her face.

  “Thanks,” she said, quieter now, hugging the aardvark to her chest. “He’s a little bit broken but this guy’s so cute.”

  ***

  The drive to her apartment complex was quick, the van rattling through the P-District’s maze of cracked streets. Her building loomed ahead—a three-story slab of concrete and glass, scuffed at the base but cleaner up top. He pulled into the lot, engine idling as he turned to her. Sofia sat shotgun, aardvark in her lap, her cream sweater catching the faint glow of the dashboard lights.

  “So… you showed me yours.” Foster coughed, “Would you like to see mine?”

  “First of all, in the van is not how you proposition me!” Sofia glanced down at his crotch and raised an eyebrow, “Secondly, it was brief but… I do think I already saw that? Though I suppose…”

  “I meant my power!” Foster spluttered.

  “Oh…” She nodded with a facial expression that said she didn’t believe it, or maybe she just didn’t want to.

  Foster cleared his throat and opened his hand, “May I have Mr. Aardvark?”

  Foster watched Sofia hug the aardvark tighter. The little plush toy’s beady eyes glinted under the flickering lights and she looked like she was debating whether or not to trust him with it, “Fine… but don’t blow it up or anything.”

  “I won’t.” Foster took a deep breath.

  OBSERVE.

  A semi-translucent text box flared into existence before his eyes, golden and shimmering, silver characters tracing sharp, elegant strokes across it.

  Designation: “Plush Aardvark (Mr. Aardvark)”

  Material Composition: Synthetic polyester fur (gray, 78% integrity, minor fraying at seams); polypropylene stuffing (recycled, low-grade, clump factor 12%); plastic bead eyes (black, 4mm diameter, sourced from Zone E industrial surplus); cotton thread (brown, uneven stitching, machine-sewn).

  Condition: 92% integrity—light wear from handling, no major damage. Manufactured in Bulk Lot #47C, Bucky’s Peez! Prize Inventory, Zone E.

  ENHANCE.

  A faint heat pulsed through his hands holding the aardvark. The air shimmered briefly—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—and a soft glow traced the toy’s edges, gone in a blink.

  The aardvark’s gray fur—once a bit patchy and matted, with thin spots exposing the lumpy stuffing beneath—shifted, rippling - each strand of fiber lengthening and softening until it gleamed with a silky sheen, catching the dim light in a way that made the gray look richer, almost silvered at the edges.

  The plastic bead eyes, dull and scratched before, polished themselves mid-blink—black surfaces gleaming like wet obsidian, reflecting the flickering lights with a crisp, almost lifelike sparkle, giving the aardvark a focused, alert look that hadn’t been there. The whole toy radiated with a presence that hadn’t been there before..

  OBSERVE

  The golden text box flared back into view, silver characters dancing across it with that same sharp elegance, though the drain in his head felt a little heavier this time.

  Designation: “Plush Aardvark v2 (Mr. Aardvark)”

  Material Composition: Synthetic spider silk fur (silver-gray, upgraded to 98% integrity, silky texture enhancement, seams reinforced); feather-fill stuffing (new); hand-cafted ebonite glass eyes (black, 5mm diameter, polished to high gloss); cotton thread (brown, precision-stitched, hand-sewn quality simulation).

  Condition: 99% integrity—recently enhanced, minimal wear, fur now plush and lustrous, stitching tightened to near-perfect alignment. Manufactured and upgraded by SYSTEM mirroring Bulk Lot #47C, Bucky’s Peez! Prize Inventory, Zone E.

  “Did it get… fluffier?”

  “I think so… a little bit at least.”

  Sofia’s response wasn’t what he expected. She was brushing the beginning of tears from the corners of her eyes. “That’s your power? Of course that’s what your power would be.” She sniffed, “You take broken things… and you make them better.”

  “Sort of.” Foster shrugged, “there’s a little more to it but… like I said, you showed me what you could do, so I wanted to show you… I know my power’s not as cool as flying, like you can do-”

  She snatched the aardvark back from him and clutched it to her chest, shaking her head. “I think it’s awesome, and you’re never getting this back again.”

  “Thanks? Well, I know I had fun,” he said, leaning back, one hand still on the wheel. He hesitated, then leaned over, Sofia looked like a frozen terrified fawn as he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek—soft, warm, her cedar scent hitting him like a quiet jolt. “Maybe wanna do this again?”

  She froze for another beat, then turned, her dark eyes catching his, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah,” she said, voice low. “I’d like that.” Her fingers tightened on the aardvark, then she tilted her head toward the building. “You, uh… could come up. If you want.”

  Foster’s pulse kicked, a flicker of heat sparking low in his gut. He did want… very much so.

  “I really… really want to.” He paused, leaning back to give her space. “I’ve got some secrets, Sofia,” he said, voice steady but warm. “When I’ve told you more about me—and if you still want me… I’m gonna rock your whole world.”

  She laughed, sharp and bright, the sound cutting through the van’s hum. “Lame,” she said, shoving his shoulder, but her eyes sparkled. “You’re such a dork.” She popped the door open, sliding out with the aardvark tucked under her arm, braid swinging as she glanced back. “To be clear… I’m pretty sure I’ll be the one who rocks your world.”

  Foster watched her disappear into the building, her silhouette fading into the glass doors. The van idled a moment longer before he pulled out, the night settling heavy around him.

  I can’t believe you. You’re going to die a virgin - again.

  ‘Do you think I should be in a relationship with someone, and not tell them… more about who and what I really am?’

  I’m not sure you should tell anyone in this world what you are… but I do understand your hesitation. You like her.

  ‘I do… yeah I do.’ Foster sighed.