She couldn’t breathe just yet.

From the quiet Uber ride to the equally still lounging in the park, Tanairy smothered herself in the fresh air.

So why couldn’t she breathe?

Well, there was radiation in the air. But that’s simply a commonality. It was toxic, but everyone alive could still breathe it. The aurora in the day’s sky was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but everyone alive would still make sheep’s eyes at it. The world was in shambles, but everyone alive could still attempt to build bridges out of the rubble.

She used to think she was part of the group that could breathe and swim lavishly across the flow of a chaotic world. In that sense, she’d be one of the people who felt truly alive.

But she knew she was a far cry from such a high, heavenly feeling. So even when the sugary savour of the powdered doughnut in her hand tickled her nose, there was a whiff of a deeper problem that reeked to high heaven.

Her brain polluted the air; it was an innate pitfall that extended with no sign of an end. The longing for calmness couldn’t extinguish the fire her neurons lit at her brain’s front and rear.

She’d obsess about the doughnut in her head. Then she’d sink her compulsive teeth into it, drawing strawberry jam out of the pastry.

Without fail, she’d obsess about the scenery on her left. Then she’d sink her eyes into the matter and look.

A stretch of green expanse with janky trees that still met their niche of putting up a natural front—that’s what she saw but didn’t entertain.

She entertained the scenery on her right without fail, however. Then she’d sink her eyes into the matter and look.

Another stretch of green expanse with more trees that tried to look normal. There were more lonesome bushes. There were some empty camping chairs and picnic blankets of many shades and abstract designs, but as soon as people of distorted shapes occupied the area, their presence would force her to look away.

Keeping to herself was safer; it always was.

She’d sink back into her doughnut.

Then she’d sink back into the repetition.

Left. Nothing.

Right. Something.

Avoid.

Look forward. Eat.

The left may have changed.

Look.

Left. Still nothing.

Right. Still something.

Avoid.

Look forward. Eat.

She’d keep sinking—a tireless spiral. Her wayward eyes flit from trivial detail to trivial detail, tree to tree, person to person. Yet, even when she could bite through countless treats, she couldn’t bite back the urge to react to meaningless cues. She felt the bark behind her would break the more she forced her back on it.

It wouldn’t break; the feedback loop was a broken record that wouldn’t brake even for a second. It would keep running and leave the woman restless until she burnt out.

She didn’t even realize she smeared the doughnut residue on her black track pants.

“Sjutton,” Tanairy cursed in a harsh whisper, repeatedly picking at napkins atop her doughnut box on the grass. She scraped a bundle of napkins over the sugar stains—to no avail—before cleaning the jam on her fingers and cheeks. As if she felt she was getting judged, she slid her palms against the grass in a whimsically tragic attempt to rid her hands of the stickiness.

This tangled feeling wasn’t new; it was another standard of the high life she thought she had the pleasure of living. It was something she shouldn’t take for granted. But she had to because she knew other people faced substantial problems she couldn’t match.

It was this same high life that cursed her.

It kept her on her feet.

It kept her alert.

It kept her at full throttle.

It kept her obsessive.

But she had to live with such a double-edged sword.

“11:46,” Tanairy mumbled, turning on her smartphone and leaving a smudged thumbprint on the screen. She punched in a passcode of ‘Airy-reed360!’ and unlocked the apps on her phone. Her first instinct was to dart to WhatsApp, where a ballooned bubble of ‘99+’ bulged out of the app. “The hell are they posting?”

Her finger hovered over the app.

Then it flew away and scrolled to another page.

Out of sight and out of mind—that was her first thought as soon as the group added her the previous night. The anarchy of it all tempted her to vomit, as the feeling was too much like the mental gymnastics that took centre stage in her head. Words, symbols, cryptics—lightning-speed bullets of information she didn’t wish to bite yet, all zipping at her with relentless intent.

The mental strain was the obsession. The ‘Gallon’ was the compulsion to click off.

That had been the last straw, yet she stayed in the group. Despite how much it disgusted her, she had to pick at scarce straws and use any resource she could get her hands on. After all, she had willingly indulged in something bigger than herself, and a sole mental impurity spelt it out to her as if she were a child:

I have a goddamn cannabis salamander in my DNA.

The thought was the sore thumb in the tsunami of irrelevancies in her brain, the soggy reminder that she was now part of the Harmonization Culture. She thought she was utterly lost when she found herself ensnaring an animal. But now she had an ounce of a clue as to where to go from there. Nevertheless, when it came down to the morality of it, she felt she was light years away from what she knew was right.

She opened the Maps app hurriedly, needing to get her bearings.

A pointer appeared on the map, displaying ‘Alamitos Heights Park’.

“Havana Ave…” she muttered, typing an address into the search bar. After entering it, a trail highlighted the distance she needed to travel. She nodded understandingly. “Joggable.”

She pushed herself away from the tree, stumbling forward in an attempt to stand up straight. She stuffed the doughnut box into a trash bin nearby, pressing her back out to diminish the stress around her hips.

As she performed more stretches, she looked across the small fields and took in some of the world. Adults rambled and cackled, dabbling in frivolous matters with drinks swirling in their hands. More would arrive from the moderately busy street behind them, whipping out food or entering into exercise regimens out in nature. The warmth of the diverse and vibrant atmosphere pulled the sides of her downturned lips up.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

However, seeing the joy radiating from the teetering children sealed the deal. Some had burnt skin. Some had body deformities. Some had missing limbs; a child had a pegleg from what she could see.

But to become witness to them running, jumping, and playing near the outskirts of the lagoon was a near and dear reminder that trumped all other reminders. The kids who had reasons to frown attempted to spark a fire in themselves, encouraged by the tender guardians standing on the sidelines with open arms.

Her fair cheeks grew rosy from the sightly image; it wasn’t the jam from earlier. The laughs tugged her lips up, and briefly, it was as if she were out of her chaotic mental loop. She stood out in the open with no worries, embracing the rare feeling and the breathing space that made itself noticeable.

Seeing their smiles reminded her of what she was fighting for.

I should hold a picnic soon.

She’d propel forward.

So, at full throttle and with a last glance at a view she engraved into her mind, she whipped a small black case from her pockets, flicking it open and picking out a pair of earbuds. She pocketed the case, working on securing the earbuds.

She popped the left one in.

She popped the right one in.

She popped her inertia, entering the Spotify app on her phone with a playlist poised to immerse her in its tunes.

‘Keep Running’

She hit a button, and low-fidelity music washed over her rapid senses.

The laughter. The clapping of wine bottles. The kicks of a football. The passing cars. The world.

All of it blurred, leaving only her and time to breathe.

The music and isolation were the dollars-to-doughnuts motivators that kept her running forward.

So she ran.

Then she arrived.

She checked the time.

“11:51.” Time always seemed to accelerate alongside her, sweating buckets like she was. Her chest fell and rose at a staccato rhythm, attempting to tame her beastly heart through deep breath intakes and outtakes. As she did so, she paused midway through a song on the Spotify app and raised her hands towards her ears.

She took out the left earbud.

She took out the right earbud.

She took out her immersion, and the world flooded back into her eardrums.

Muted laughter from other compounds. The rolling of cars into driveways. Bumbling of birds on safe canopies.

Peace.

Her brain always told her that it wasn’t what it seemed. That laughter was just a mask for depression. Someone’s arriving back home after a horrific day. The birds are rejoicing in their ability to fly away from the clutches of humanity.

But she never listened to this nemesis of hers.

The blonde unlocked her phone and entered WhatsApp, spotting Theta’s profile picture—some shrimp, for some odd reason—and opening the empty chat with him. Tanairy wiped her hairy brows with her wrist as she typed: good morning (almost afternoon haha)! I hope it’s fine if i came early, didn’t want to be late!

She sent the message, but each friendly letter she inputted made her more unsure. Manifesting at the front of her mind, she recalled that Theta was still a stranger.

One safe interaction yesterday doesn’t mean a safe one today.

Her message had a thumbs-up not even minutes after it went up. She squinted at her phone and frowned.

Is this man not just gonna say anything? It’s fishy.

The mahogany door clicked, and so did she, exploding into a defensive stance. She broke away from the previously warm sweat into a colder one, holding her arms in front of her face.

What?

“Come in!” Theta boomed, his grizzly face and droopy caracal ears appearing from behind the cracks of the ornamented door. He flashed a goofy grin, forming a drinking gesture with his fingers. “The wife stocked up on some exquisite German chamo!”

Tanairy glued herself to tension, loosening the adhesion at the man’s jovial words. She wore a shoddy smile, feeling the coldness trickle further down her face.

He’s such a grandpa.

She straightened herself without mechanical ease.

“Chamomile?”

“You act like a British bloke.” He disappeared behind the door. “Come in! We gotta discuss a lot!”

She didn’t; she began calculating.

This is a straight path. If they ambush me, I’ll just run back.

Do I have the energy to?

Did I eat enough?

Do I go in? I need this to progress.

What has he harmonized with?

What abilities does he have?

What does Danae have?

Am I going to die?

I won’t die.

I have to go in.

Supersonic debates resonated in her head, pounding at her skull as she stood there, shaken by the turbulence. She couldn’t attend to each one and strike at them with a mallet; each thought were difficult customers to dismiss.

But before she could even consider gathering her composure, her vision became fogged with strands of green.

Out of the blue—her sight and her mind—a barrage of vines gushed out from the opening in the door, homing in towards her at a breakneck speed.

----------------------------------------

It hit her.

Cosima always knew that.

So why did she keep coming back to these posts?

It was a question her disobedience neglected; entertaining rhyme and reason had become more of an afterthought the longer she had time to lament. Whenever she sat in solitude—especially when it was slumped under the sill of the car window as she did now—she’d attempt to peruse the boundaries that would constrict her and then indulge in them.

She found herself on the Instagram app, drowning herself in unreachable expectations. Model and fashion accounts were spoonfed to her, giving her fresh pictures of men and women who still gifted audiences with something to look at.

Many had mutations, from rash outbreaks to uneven faces to uncanny colorations. But what the arcane algorithm taught her was that these people still had a semblance. The fortunate who dared to post their faces either had their share of radiation in the lightest dose or had flamboyant mutations that worked well with the industry.

Granted, she barely knew anyone in her feed, barring a few. She followed accounts like a mindless zombie, always wanting updates, news, or anything to satiate her curiosity. But now, as a zombie, she couldn’t follow any of these entities; she wasn’t part of their trend. She simply ate whatever lavish poison the app’s program wanted to feed her without the introspection she used to have.

She stood light years away from the league she used to play in, satisfaction, and a dream that sleep couldn’t even bring her closer to.

But if she wanted to be light years away from one thing, it would be the profile icon that sat alluringly at the bottom-right corner of her screen. Her fingers got dangerously close.

She was already doing enough to avoid looking at the top of the feed, where her profile picture stood among others in a line. She could feel the bile rise in her throat if she had to see the rainbow outlines around people’s profiles, acting as gateways to more personal information that would break her.

Hers would have no gateway; she had no story to tell.

Her clear skin, enchanting chestnut eyes, nourished hair, white smile, and the life on her face were all history.

She was just an afterthought.

A knock—which wasn’t some afterthought—sounded on the car window, forcing Cosima upright. Her heavy thoughts switched off like the phone in her hand, the device sliding into her hoodie pockets in a weak swoop. There was a much greater danger to beware of at the moment. Sinjin.

“Crap—”

She fell into a series of dry coughs, hurling hot mucus and miasma onto her hand. Sinjin’s faint footsteps hastened as he came around the car and flung open the door to the driver’s seat. Without much of a word, he picked out tissues atop the dashboard and waved them in front of her. She accepted them, croaking into one sheet before using more sheets to clean the mucus on her right palm. It had become greener as of late, and she believed it was some punishment.

For what? She could list many, but she knew a ‘why’ was in store for her soon.

She finished wiping at the mess on her hand, dumping the used tissues into the side compartments of the door.

“Thanks—”

“Water?”

Without giving her time to answer, he gave her the water bottle in the cup holder, which she accepted and gulped down.

The car flared to life soon after, Sinjin’s impassive face looking over the backrest as he pulled out of their space in the clinic’s packed car park with focus. He then began the drive down the main road, all in stone-cold silence as Cosima recuperated from her episode.

He’s disappointed.

She stared out the window, watching the humdrum Los Angeles city life buzz by.

“Don’t go on Insta again—”

“I get it—

“No, you don’t.” His voice was deep and steadfast, hampering Cosima’s shoulders and forcing her into a hunch. “You know it’s not good for your health—wait, no—”

“Sorry.”

His eyes—more bloodshot now—hovered over to the other seat, watching how she sagged on the leather. He quickly honed in on the road, taking a turn, swearing under his breath, and mouthing ‘Focus’ to himself.

“Sorry, it’s… uh, more how long you spend on it,” he said, his voice softening to accommodate the mood. “Following all those accounts is pretty much asking for brain rot.”

She stayed silent.

He grimaced at himself and breathed in and out through clenched teeth.

“I’m still skeptical, obviously.” He stopped behind a row of cars at a stop light. “But, if this weird harmonization stuff is going to get you—or… uh, us—near some form of solution to the mutations—actually, may I remind you that we are heading to a stranger’s home for ‘training’ he didn’t even elaborate on, even in the… in the group chat he made to give information!”

His fingers began rapping onto the wheel; no rhyme, reason, or rhythm. The hairless face Cosima knew he wanted to keep steady had rumpled the same way she drooped at the current subject. While waiting for the stop light, he swiped absentmindedly on his phone. She identified it as a familiar habit, tapping his shoulder to shift his gaze.

I’ll change the subject.

“How was the appointment, by the way?”

The faint sound of car doors opening didn’t perturb them. It also didn’t diminish the steely glint in his eyes.

“Nothing much has changed… Doc said my OFC and, er, frontal area were still iffy… But we move,” he explained in brevity, tapping a finger against the wheel impatiently. He exhaustedly repeated, “We move.”

“Ah, good—”

“My back is killing me, though.” He began feeling the back of his shoulders. “I swear to God that those waiting room chairs are made of bloody bricks… or something—this red light has been on for a minute!”

Stressed. Very stressed.

“I’m sure it’s just an accident—”

People began flooding out of their vehicles on the freeway, stomping towards the source of the traffic in a flurry. With that sight alone, Cosima ducked under the window sill into obscurity before the squabbles outside became mixed with the cacophony of horns and the stagnant revving of engines.

Sinjin’s fingers were en route to squeeze the life out of the bridge of his nose, but he forced his arm down and swung his door open. The chaos became much clearer, which practically pushed Cosima under her seat.

“I’ll see what’s going on—”

“Wait—”

“Just gonna take a good look then”—he took off without closing the door—”I’ll come back!”

“Sin!” He was long gone. She was always confident that her voice could reach him, but when he was this agitated, he always appeared to be in his own world.

I’ll call him. This fool.

The discord outside snowballed in tempo, with more people scampering out of their vehicles to witness the roadblock. She latched onto her phone for dear life, praying she could just sink into the earth below the car and avoid people possibly peering in.

She coughed, more unnatural mucus coating the back of her hand. Like the tension that rolled through the street, it burnt her. Her journey to the Phone app hastened.

However, as soon as she reached the desired contact, a call appeared on her phone from ‘My Hubby’. Twisting her brown hair with shaking hands, she wasted no time.

She accepted, desperate and longing for him.

“Sin, what’s—”

“Bull—Tawny freaking Tonner is here!”