As he fell, Benno remembered a joke his father liked to tell him and his brother way back when they were just kids:

Aristotle said that we are what we repeatedly do. Therefore, I am your mother.

Why this stupid joke occurred to him then—as he plummeted back-first, looking up at the Shenandoah which, despite having been transparent inside, retained its solid black exterior and reflected Benno’s splayed little body a hundred feet below in the belly of its hull—was a mystery to him. But occur it did, along with his father’s cigarette-scraped voice and disinterested cadence. He rarely thought of his father, despite handling the Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver he’d left him—the only thing he’d left him—every day for seven years. The mind was a funny thing.

We are what we repeatedly do.

He landed hard on his back. There was commotion nearby, voices shouting words that Benno did not recognize. He sat up, feeling the strange texture of the roof’s surface under his hands, and was shocked—though not necessarily surprised—to discover that it was made of what appeared to be a wide plane of tree bark.

Looking around, Benno confirmed that the green spires sprawling throughout this magnificent city, were in fact, as he had suspected from the Shenandoah, composed of thick, rustling leaves, which twinkled like a billion daytime stars. For a moment, the sheer majesty of this place stirred again in Benno a sense of wonder. Again, a curiosity—boyish and long exiled—perked suddenly up, eager to explore, to learn about this world and its inhabitants. Benno wanted to see it all.

But his awe was interrupted as he turned and found himself face to face with twelve muzzles. They trembled slightly in the hands of the Forrorians, who inched cautiously forward.

“Birder rast!” one of them shouted, and a second later Gemma’s monotonous Voice translated in Benno’s ear.

DON’T WAIT.

“Esturn zit bist!” shouted another.

KILL HIM.

“Eccbuk dop!” shouted a third.

PIRATE SCUM.

The Forrorians wore matching outfits of what appeared to be branches and twigs fastened together with fine black thread. Their statures were shorter than they appeared from above, perhaps averaging five and a half feet. Their faces were vaguely human—two eyes, a nose, a mouth—but softer, flatter, and their hair, which grew from the tops of their heads and down the lengths of their necks before disappearing into the collars of their twig and branch clothing, was thick and soft like fur.

Then the muzzles flashed.

Benno inhaled and closed his eyes as the fireballs condensed and the rabbits whistled the short distance toward him. In that brief window before impact he admitted to himself that he was pissed. Edda had tricked him. She’d lied to him and tricked him. She’d told him he wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do, and yet here he was.

She’d said one thing and then done another.

It didn’t bode well.

The first rabbit struck his chest. It hit hard—as hard as Isaac’s slap—and the explosion that followed hit even harder, engulfing Benno in atmospheres of heat and raging sound.

Impact—heat—BOOM.

The next rabbit struck his shoulder, and the third his thigh. The heat and pressure bore down on him, wanting to crush him, to burn him away—but it was not enough. It was not even close. Impact—heat—BOOM. Impact—heat—BOOM. Benno could parse the moment. He could watch it all happen. He was an observer, not a subject.

He fingered the Gemstoke, thinking about a whiskey.

Eventually the rabbits stopped coming, and the wind—whipping fast at this altitude—dispersed the smoke. Benno stood there, in the same spot he’d been, looking at the Forrorians, who all stared back at him, their smooth faces in various expressions of shock.

Benno felt the wind on his body and looked down; the explosions had torn or melted away most of his clothing, leaving him more-or-less naked save for a few charred scraps of fabric and the molten stubs of his sneakers. His beard too, he found, feeling his chin after his nostrils filled with the sharp odor of burnt hair, was singed. He clutched the Gemstoke against his thigh where his pocket used to be, and dropped his other hand over his crotch. He glanced up toward the Shenandoah, distinctly aware that Edda and her crew were probably watching…

But where the Shenandoah had been—where the sky had been—there was now another city. Another Forror, Or no—not another Forror—the same Forror, with its green leafy spires and sprawling, twinkling beauty, sprawling and twinkling overhead, mirrored, so that Benno could see himself standing on the roof—the same roof on which his feet were firmly planted—blinking up—or down—at himself.

His balance teetered, and as he tried to take a step he nearly fell.

Then, all at once, the Forror overhead fell—or flew—rapidly away with terrifying speed. The sensation was so disorienting that Benno dropped to his knees and clung to the bark. Around him, the Forrorians did the same, falling or splaying, their guns hanging limply or falling from their hands altogether. One of them stumbled and collapsed face down. Another screamed up at the sky. A third tried to run, wobbling, as if viciously drunk, and tottered head-first over the roof’s edge.

The other Forror rocketed away—or was it this Forror rocketing away from the other one?—farther and farther, faster and faster, until the green curve of the city-planet appeared, and the blue sky darkened with empty space. And then, just when the entirety of the planet became visible, suspended among the vast expanse of a starless night, the trajectory reversed and the other Forror roared back toward them.

Benno cowered and covered his head, bracing for the imminent impact as the city filled up the sky and the spires of the buildings stabbed down and he and the roof on which he stood sped with maddening speed directly at him—but the impact didn’t come. At the last second, the trajectory reversed again, and the other Forror zoomed back out, and Benno’s stomach cramped and his skin broke out in cold sweat.

He was so disoriented that he didn’t notice Edda, Isaac and Helen standing beside him on the roof until Edda spoke.

“Excellent work,” she said, her voice different, muffled.

Benno squinted up. For a moment, all he could discern was a dizzying fractal of green where Edda stood. But her shape was there, a form against the refracting cities. Her face was hidden behind a mask of the same material as the rest of her armor. The mask was featureless save for two attenuated orange holes where her eyes might be, and two horns sprouting from the top that reminded Benno of the horns on the old Japanese Oni masks his grandmother used to collect. Most notably, a phallus extended from her crotch, curved like the horns on her mask, reflective like the rest of her armor, erect at a right angle from her body and tapered into a fine point, ready, it seemed, to run through anyone in its way. Additionally, she carried a sword—the length of Benno’s body—also made of black glass, and engraved along its blade with strange, orange text. Its edges glowered.

Edda’s flowing blue hair erupted from the back of the mask and danced in the wind. “We need to hurry now,” she said, her enormous free hand taking Benno by his upper arm. “Dante can’t do this for long.”

Benno stood shakily, doing his best to ignore the nauseating yoyo of the other Forror overhead and which, now, was also reflected in Edda’s towering body.

Helen led the way toward the door at the base of the leafy spire, weaving through the dumbstruck Forrorians, with Isaac in tow. Edda released Benno’s arm and started after them, stopping only when she realized Benno wasn’t following.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Come,” she said. “We might need you inside.”

Benno felt rooted to the spot. “I’m… I’m naked,” was all he could manage to say.

Edda laughed behind her mask. “We’re all naked, ultimately.”

Her tone—mocking, flippant—dislodged a layer of Benno’s shock, and beneath it: anger. “You pushed me out of the Shenandoah,” he said.

“I didn’t lay a finger on you.” Edda’s mask turned briefly to the sky.

“You know what I mean,” he said, his voice rising. “You didn’t give me a choice. I didn’t choose to be on this roof. Or plucked out of my life and plopped into your fucking Inn. I didn’t choose to get all tangled up with whatever this is, with whatever it is you do. I wouldn’t have chosen this. I don’t want to be here. Do you understand? I don’t want this!”

Edda stood so still that were it not for the wild tussle of her blue hair in the wind she would have all but vanished.

“I understand your irritation,” she said finally. “But this is not the time to discuss it.” She looked up at the other Forror, which, Benno discovered as he followed her gaze, had grown partially transparent, had lessened, so that the general blue tint of the sky showed through. “Dante’s stamina leaves something to be desired. And while you may not be at risk of getting killed on this roof, Helen and Isaac are, and Hermann, Dante, Rose and D’doak on the Shenandoah. So I appreciate that you take issue with my decisions—and maybe you’re right—and I admire your self-advocacy, but it is not the fault of my crew, and I know you do not want them to suffer my misdeeds. Or your inaction.”

Her sharp pronunciation—inaction—twisted Benno’s anger into shame.

“So see us through this,” she continued. “Not for me, but for them.” She gestured toward Isaac and Helen, who waited by the door at the spire’s base. “Afterward, you and I can talk, if you wish, or you can leave, if you truly want to squander what I’ve offered you.” She turned then without another word and ran to Helen and Isaac, who passed through the doorway and disappeared, and Edda ducked in behind them.

Benno looked back up at the other, fading Forror as it rushed, again, deep into the sky. He looked around at the terrified Forrorians, and at the ashy smear on the roof’s bark where their rabbits had struck him. He took a breath—a slow, deep breath that tasted like summer leaves and smoke—and thought about his trailer. What did his trailer taste like? It had been so long since he’d paid any attention. It probably tasted like gunpowder and body odor and stale whiskey.

He didn’t owe Edda anything. Nor did he owe anything to Helen or Isaac or the others still aboard the Shenandoah. They were strangers. There was absolutely no reason for him to take this any further…

Except…

If it’s real…

A big if, but if…

Two faces cried out from the dark folds of his mind.

For seven years there had been nothing. No hope. No plan. No exit.

But now, at the very least, there was a possibility.

He scampered after Edda.

#

Immediately inside, all the sunlight from the roof was stifled away. Benno found himself instantly disoriented, his pupils sluggish to widen, still dizzy from the rise and fall of the other Forror. He reached out a hand to steady himself, and as his hand found the wall, his heart leapt, and he recoiled.

Fur.

The wall was covered in soft, brown fur the length of his hand. So was the floor and the ceiling. He passed through the short, fur covered hallway, which gave way to a large room—through which Edda, Isaac and Helen hurried toward yet another doorway—also covered in fur. And from behind the fur, faint light bled, like sunlight through the membrane of an eyelid, illuminating the space in an earthy ochre hue.

Stranger still, the fur was not inert. It drifted—swayed—slowly, as if underwater, and yet, to the touch, was completely dry.

“What is this?” was the only question Benno could think to ask as he came to a stop and surveyed the furry room and the furry ceiling, which rose high overhead, arching with the shape of the spire.

Edda—herself now a shape of swaying fur—barely glanced back over her shoulder. “The Forrorians are mammals, just like you,” she offered before bowing through the door on the room’s far side.

Benno exhaled, incredulous, as he followed, his footfalls dampened by the soft, furry floor. Helen led them down a furry staircase and another furry hallway. Edda stooped to avoid the low ceiling, which made her seem even larger than she already was.

Benno wondered if Helen had been here before; She proceeded without pause, without wavering, her eyes focused ahead, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, she came to an abrupt stop.

“In there,” she said, her voice measured, indicating a door—a furry door inset in the furry wall. “Six of them. Three are armed. They know we’re here.”

Edda, nearly crouching, sized up the door, the fur reflected like smoke in her mask. “You’ve come this far,” she said, turning to Benno. “Why not lead us to our prize?”

If it's real. If the Gardens is real...

“Sure,” Benno scowled, managing to sound exactly as reluctant as he intended.

“Isaac, you’re next,” Edda said.

Isaac lined up behind Benno, narrowing his shoulders and lowering his head, using Benno as a shield. Helen and Edda stood on either side of the doorway.

Edda’s mask reflected a tapered version of Benno’s face. “Go,” she said.

Benno took hold of the furry doorknob—like a spindly hamster—hesitated just for a moment, and then opened it and stepped through.

#

He shut his eyes, anticipating a barrage of rabbits.

But a second went by, and another, and nothing happened, and he opened his eyes.

There were six Forrorians, just as Helen had said. Three of them had guns trained at Benno—and now that he was nearer he was able to discern that the guns were not exactly gun-shaped in the way he was familiar with, but rather shaped like canes and wrapped in black fabric, leather or suede—but their furry fingers were drawn back from the triggers. All six Forrorians stood together at the far end of the smallish room, gathered around a furry pedestal on which a conspicuous glass case sat.

Inside the case was what appeared to be the skeleton of a child’s hand, its fingers outspread as if grasping out. Only there were six—or seven—fingers, and it wasn’t bone, but some kind of porous stone, or coral, or petrified wood…

“Berad eccfa fersh,” one of the Forrorians said. “Ecadetyph mandum olec pust.”

DO NOT FIRE ON THEM, Gemma translated in Benno’s ear. IT WILL BURN DOWN THE WOMB.

Helen and Isaac came up alongside Benno as Edda wrested herself through the doorway. She leaned steeply forward, her shoulders and back dragging along the furry ceiling, her enormous sword angled behind her, her blue hair black and louring in the somber light.

The Forrorians shrunk back before her.

“Step aside,” she said.

DAGDA MEF.

The Forrorians flinched and cowered at the boom of Gemma’s monotonous Voice.

“I am taking the Koan,” Edda said.

ESMILAGED MONTUTH BURK.

“Elum.” One of the unarmed Forrorians, whose smooth features were just beginning to wrinkle around the mouth and eyes, inched forward. “Begdef alluserf mur magesfa.”

PLEASE, said Gemma. IT HAS BEEN IN OUR FAMILY FOR MILLENNIA.

“Step aside or we will remove you,” Edda responded without hesitation.

DAGDA MEF AZERSHUM FALA LUS.

A terrified murmur passed through the gathered Forrorians.

“Elum…” the older one implored.

PLEASE…

Edda half-turned and nodded at Isaac.

Isaac swallowed audibly as he stepped forward, the material of his tracksuit swishing between his legs with each step. He walked past Edda and approached the Forrorians, his shoulders slumped, a bashful, apologetic grin on his face.

The Forrorians gathered tighter together, their eyes wide.Two of them, both armed, stood to meet Isaac, forcing determined expressions that did nothing to conceal their trembling terror.

Benno’s mind—sluggish from hours of unrelenting sensory overload—did not manage to compute what was happening as Isaac squared up, raised his finger, and flicked the younger Forrorian in the face.

There was a flash of red, and a wet crack, and the Forrorian’s head crumbled.

Brains splattered across the furry room, drenching the other Forrorians in a sheet of blood. Then there was a window of silence, and in this window Isaac delivered another flick to the other standing Forrorian, this one to the chin, and the lower half of the Forrorian’s face exploded in a cloud of bone and blood.

Then the screaming started.

“Erb!”

NO.

“Erb!”

NO.

The remaining four Forrorians scrambled to the corners of the room, sobbing and shaking. “Errrrb… Errrrrrrrb…”

NO. NO.

Benno’s heart thudded in his chest so violently that his body shook. He watched on as Edda wedged her long body through the small room, slapped the now unguarded glass case off the pedestal—sending it toppling silently across the soft fur floor—and plucked the exposed Koan from its stand. She held it up—whether to admire her acquisition or to mock the Forrorians was unclear—her mask reflecting its many thin fingers. The lower half of her armor reflected a swatch of bright red.

“Ugly little thing,” she said to the backdrop of the screaming, weeping Forrorians. “Why anyone would covet such junk…”

Isaac stepped slowly back, his hands in his pockets, his head lowered.

“We’re finished.” Edda closed her huge fist around the Koan and turned. Her long phallus nearly struck Benno as she lumbered from the room.

Helen and Isaac followed.

The remaining Forrorians watched Benno from scared, tearful eyes, small sounds of fear bubbling from them. Benno looked at the two dead—or one dead and another dying, blood spilling from the missing bottom of the head, the furry hands and feet flexing and twitching on the furry floor.

“I…” Benno tried to say, his lips dry, his breath hardly coming. “I…”

The Forrorians trembled. Benno was a monster in their eyes. Isaac was a terrible weapon. Helen was a ghoul. Edda was a huge, grotesque beast.

Benno backed away. He stumbled over the long, swaying fur and into the hall, lingering at the doorway for another moment. The remaining Forrorians were stained with blood. Were these the brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, children, parents…?

He turned and sprinted away, images of a train smoldering off its tracks flashing in his mind, hearing again his father’s smokey, arrogant voice:

We are what we repeatedly do.