I wish I could say it's heaven living with my idol, but it's anything but. Random people come and go at a constant rate. Gara isn't home often, and when she is, body-guarding—the joke of a job—involves waking people up and ushering them out.

Gara is fun, though she only comes near me when she throws a party, which is almost every night. And I, anxious to keep close to all things pill-related, take to my new job with gusto. Nobody ever said body guarding would involve so much puke and pulling people out of their own puke.

It may not be so bad if it's Gara I get to help but that's a laughable notion. Gara never needs anyone. Almost all guests seek out her attention because nobody dislikes her. Well...almost nobody.

With Gara gone when I awaken, I decide to stay out of view. This isn't the first time she's given me the slip and I don't need the reminder from her 'handler' that my job depends on her safety. One week turns to two.

Today, I feel sick; I risk foraging through the kitchen for any type of pill to help put these shakes at bay. I find two, and even though I'm not sure what they do, I take them, anyway.

My muscles relax as I press my back against the wall. This is my first time having to depend on anyone for something other than food.

It's humiliating and worrisome, so I decide to find some extra just in case.

I tear open the pantry door and freeze.

At first, I'm not sure what I'm looking at. The thing's covered in black from head to toe, an imp saddle on its back.

Everybody from the Lower-Levels knows what an imp looks like. This one doesn't seem to share the mutation. No claws, no hissing, and if it has sharp teeth, it would bite through that bit in its mouth, too. A man-eating imp is a myth to most but as I live in the Lower-Levels, I know how mobsters get rid of anyone who owes too much and I know what imps are capable of. Anyone who crosses into the imp territory would have two seconds to get out. Five if he's lucky.

I've never seen one up close, so I poke at it and I recoil to be sure. It doesn't appear aggressive. All the same, I use two fingers when I try to take the black bag off its face. I have to wiggle it around the bit in its mouth but it loosens in the back and slips off without trouble.

It wears a mask, nearly all of its face covered below the nose.

This is no imp. It's a woman. The eyes I know but I pray I'm wrong. Using my full hands, now, I struggle to take the mask off.

Gara tosses her head back and says, "Give us a hand, love. Will ya?"

Body burning with shame, I crouch down to try and look under her. She's kneeling, her hands bound behind her back in a type of jacket for the mad, and it's hard to find the buckles.

It takes twenty minutes to get her out of that contraption. It takes even longer for her to stand.

Bending over naked, she reaches back and tugs at some sort of tail. When she tosses the object down, I lose all speech. It looks like a dick.

"You act like it's your first time seeing one of these," Gara drawls, bracing herself forward on the segmented counter. Maybe she needs a minute to calm, to readjust to using her legs, to...to talk to me.

She doesn't seem interested in talking, though. To her credit, she doesn't seem to care about the situation one bit, either.

The false dick rests beside the saddle and I could only stare.

Finally, Gara says, "You're a shy one, huh? You act like this place is the pits of hell and you just happened to stumble in. I bet you think I'm supposed to feel ashamed or something."

I do expect that, but no matter, I'm ashamed enough for both of us.

"Which is worse? Being the plaything, or requiring a plaything just to get interested?" Her pace lethargic, she staggers to the wall panel containing cold food, and opens it. "So no. I don't give a shit about your judgment. Thanks for letting me out," she calls over her shoulder as she makes her way to the archway leading to the hall.

That night I find it hard to sleep, which is stupid because I finally have a clean room of my own. It's small but tidy...it doesn't smell.

The night's events worry me, mostly the judgment. Gara doesn't leave early the next day like she usually does. She's up and about before I go out there.

Waking up to a row is common; there's not much of a fight since Gara never fights back—never raises her voice.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

All is quiet; the house is empty. Still, the neatly set kitchen table isn't meant for me, that much I know.

She looks amazing, wearing a dress so new I expect to see the price bar on it. Her well-shined boot resting atop her knee as she reclines, she waits. It's hard to believe this is the same woman I've found tucked away in the pantry the day before.

The date must be important because she's not even wearing her hair down, either; it's tied up in a neat bun.

Taking a pocket watch from her vest, Gara flips it open and sighs. "Three, two...one," she says, and stands. "System, cancel that acceptance of this morning's invitation. Rotate the guest code to open the door. Please tell the sender, and I quote, eat shit and die. End quote."

The computer's voice precedes a chime. "Command confirmed."

Gara starts undoing the buttons of her Lowli-fashioned skirt-sash even as the front door's buzzer sounds.

She pauses at the last button at the top and turns to the direction of the banging.

I get to my feet, not sure how I can defend her but determined to try. Whoever's on the other side of those doors is persistent.

Gara touches the smooth gray surface and the large steel slides back to reveal a flushed face above a handful of boxes.

For a moment, the newcomer only huffs as he tries to catch his breath.

"You're late," Gara says, hands on her hips. "I don't think it's too much to ask that you show up on time—I always show up on time, don't I?"

Deep blue eyes peer at her from under damp blond hair. The man looks older than Gara, maybe by a good ten years. I don't have time to study him further as Gara touches the wall.

The door slides shut, but not before Gara mutters, "Go fuck yourself."

The thought occurred to me to explain to her that the man, whoever he is, must have hurried to get here, he must have bought gifts for her, he must have tried to be on time. Being no more than ten seconds late seems so trivial. I say nothing, and I don't get the chance. She walks away.

Gara takes off her sash and is down to only her light top and regular skirt by the time she reaches her bedroom. The house is empty, that much I confirm by the various memos in the staff area.

I consider leaving, too, but I'm unsure where I should—could go. Pa isn't an option. It's been days, by now he knows I haven't been to Job's in a while.

Thoughts of facing him like this, scrounging for pills....

"You're still here," Gara observes, sitting down at the well-decorated table with a small blue box. "It's the holidays, aren't you going home?"

The holidays? It's the year's end already. Since my birth, this is the first time my father'll go into a new year alone.

With no servants on staff today, Gara must have made that table herself. And then it occurs to me; today's special. It isn't Gara's birthday, or anything like that. Somewhere it's written as the anniversary of her lover's death, but nobody really knows.

"You might as well sit down. The food's not going to eat itself." She mutters, "This is the first year I decided to share it with someone but...he's disappointed me, so eat up."

From my safe haven behind the counter, I try to make everything out. I can't even identify it all, it's so lavish. No signs of cheap algae, or mashed bean paste. No Vite-D supplements disguised as candy either—and those cost my pa quite a bit. Everything is served on silver and those decorative gems a real, too.

Gara stares at me, and it's one of the few times she acknowledges I even exist.

I make my way to the table, taking a mental note of my appearance. Everything's in place. I've even combed my hair.

It's a good meal though, kept hot by the replicator trays holding them.

I remember my manners as I pick at it; food like this is something I intend to savor. A part of me wishes I could bring some home to my pa. That's the only thing he ever misses about Topside, natural food. He couldn't do much with the basic food rations. As far back as I could remember he'd tell me a story while we were eating, trying to get me to imagine it was something better.

He'd mutter to me as I taste my soup, "And this here, Philippe is chicken stew. Nice and fresh. Not the type with horns or nothing." And me? "What's a chicken?" I'd ask, chuckling to myself. He's always been trying to give me more than what I had in my reach, even back then, not realizing that I didn't want any of it.

The food's succulent and tender; the best meal I've ever had in my life. If this is really how the better half lives, then I'll die trying to experience it for as long as I can.

While I devour that breakfast as politely as possible, Gara cradles her box.

When I finish eating, Gara puts the box down and segments it with care. The box's contents shock me.

I gasp. "Is that an apple?"

Still going about her task, Gara ignores me and focuses instead, on her apple.

A real apple. It doesn't look replicated or anything. The way Gara makes room for it, leaving it at the center of the table, says it all; it's real.

Today matters to her, and throwing money at things is Gara's style. But I'm sitting here, a Colony-born in the presence of an actual apple—actual vegetation.... Me. Philippe Remy—a nobody—mere inches away from something most will live and die but never see, a non-replicated apple.

I don't dare look at it much less touch it.

"There," Gara says, putting the apple directly in the center. "Right there."

The rest of the day is spent with Gara talking to the thing.

"Happy birthday, you big beautiful bastard," she says, kissing it. "Happy birthday."

I soon find out it's not just the day Gara plans to spend like this, but rather the week. She avoids me each and every day beyond meals, and even then, she barely eats.

She tosses a pill in my direction now and then, but otherwise she only sits again once the apple is nearly rotten.

"Happy birthday," she says again. "One day isn't enough for you. You deserve them all."

The rest of the day is somber but sweet. And I can see it. This...this ceremony, this ritual she's probably done a thousand times, it brings peace to her.

It gets me thinking about my own yearly rituals at the holidays. My pa's sure to be lonely without me there.

I don't build up the courage to sit down in front of the kitchen interface to call my pa until the very morning of the new year.

My gut roils. My hands have never felt heavier as I tap that touch pad.

Instead of a 'stand by' screen or my father's leathery face, my own picture springs up at me.

Missing person.

Numerous missing person's report scroll before my eyes; two for each week I've been gone. The last one to float up and come to a stop freezes me to my core.

"Missing person...Philippe Remy, age fifty...." It's my name, but it isn't the right age, and it isn't my picture.

My father. My father's missing.