Lydia Blackwell burned with hatred for her mother. Whatever she did, however well she did it, there was always something for her to criticise.

“Stop reading and do some damn exercise! I don’t care when your dissertation’s due!”

“Wear a proper bra, girl! How do you expect to lead this family if you can’t even dress yourself?”

“Your talent doesn’t matter half as much as you bringing a good magus into the family.”

Mother could adopt any mage she wanted, of course, but the laws of the Circle only allowed direct relatives to occupy positions of power.

The Circle of Magi allowed families to have their own rules, though only to a certain extent. The blood right rule had existed for centuries, as dusty as the idea that she should focus on finding a husband, rather than herself. But magi, especially the old ones, were sticklers for tradition.

And so, she found herself in a drawing room of the Blackwell manor, looking everywhere but at her suitor.

The room was five metres by six, with a laminate floor and paintings on the walls. Van Gogh, Picasso, Escher, all original. There were groupings of plush chairs scattered around, each facing either another or a painting. The first-floor window gave a perfect view of their expansive gardens, flower beds painting a rainbow on the green canvas.

Lydia sat in the chair closest to the door, staring at painted sunflowers. The chair threatened to swallow her—she barely broke five feet, her thick build merely promoting her from tiny to small. She had soft features, with large eyes and a wide mouth, which was set in a venomous frown. Her mother had told her to dress feminine, so she’d decided to accompany her leather jacket and boots with a skirt, for once.

It made her feel like stares were burning into her legs.

She finally allowed her eyes to rest on the creature in the chair opposite, eliciting a whimper as her glare sliced across him. What the hell was her mother thinking? Looking past appearance had its limits! Fae or not, this was too much.

Even if it wore a suit, there was no way she was marrying a gorilla.

A dark man in a sharp tuxedo chuckled nervously off to the side. “My lady,” he said, “may I introduce you to Hairy Pooper, the top student of Uhogwarts School of-”

She snapped her fingers, gazing at the man with parted lips. “Say another word, and I’ll feed you to the copyright authority myself. Go.”

With a shaky bow, the butler scurried from the room, and she turned her attention back to the gorilla with a deep sigh.

“Uho.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “No.”

Hairy became agitated, jumping up and beating his chest. “Uho! Uho, ho, ha!”

She narrowed steely eyes, licking her teeth. “No means no, buster.”

Hairy growled, meeting her gaze for a second before slumping back into his chair. “Uho.”

“Well,” said Lydia, dropping from the chair’s edge, “this was a waste of time.”

The door opened before she could reach it, a head full of chestnut hair popping around it. Lydia recognised it instantly: only she, her mother, and her sister had that hair colour, and her mother was as short as she was.

“Jess!” Lydia stepped back, her mouth in a tight ‘o’. “What are you doing here?”

The head giggled, revealing itself to have a body attached as it rounded the door. This was gangly with the proportions of adolescence, wearing a light blouse that was baggy even at the smallest size, with loose jeans. “I thought you could use some saving.”

“Uho?”

Lydia’s lips twitched, warmth flooding her. She had finally put on some weight. But she was still stark white, and though she tried to hide them behind her back, Lydia could see her hands quivering. “I could say the same about you. You should be in bed, Jessie.”

Jess pouted. “But if I spend my entire life stuck in bed, then how can I say I’m actually alive? I got up to seven stone and mum still won’t let me out of the house!”

Lydia scrutinised her sister, worry twisting her gut. No-one wanted to be caged. But looking at her, that weight had probably been soaking wet. “You’re five foot four. You should weigh more than that.”

Sighing, she cast her eyes down, before pivoting on her foot. “And who do we have here? I’m Jess.”

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Hairy rose from his seat, sidling up besides Lydia. “Uho ho.”

She glanced at the creature. There may have been plenty of Fae who looked like animals, but a perfect gorilla was impossible. Her mother had to be fucking with her. “He’s the top gorilla at gorilla magic school, apparently.”

Jess scratched her head. “What’s his name?”

“Uho ho.” Hairy pulled something out of his fur, and plopped it in his mouth. Something squirming.

Lydia cringed. “Lucky. His name’s Lucky.”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “That sounds more like a pet, to be honest.” Regardless, she smiled at the gorilla, extending her hand.

He ignored it, instead fascinated by the buttons on her blouse.

She blushed, trying to ease him away. “No, that’s enough...” She tittered. “Seriously, get off me! I know you’re not just a gorilla, you perv!”

“Uho?” Hairy cocked his head, shrugged, and poked her chest.

Lydia clenched her jaw, tuning herself to the surrounding energy. Jess grabbed the finger with a thunderous expression, readying herself to unleash, when the Fae disappeared in front of her. All that remained was a gorilla-shaped cloud of dust.

She turned to Lydia, her mouth agape, and stammered. “Wh-did you just vaporise him? What are you going to do when mum finds out?”

Lydia shrugged. “Tell her that my personality scared him away, and he’s probably too traumatised to go home.”

Jess blinked. “How long was this thing supposed to last?”

“About two thousand words.”

She laughed. “With a gorilla?”

“I know. What were we supposed to talk about?” With an impish smirk, she extended her hand. “Shall we get out of here?”

Jess gave a broad smile which reached her eyes, burning with vigour even if the rest of her didn’t. She took her sister’s hand, and they hurried away.

***

It was Jack’s lucky day.

He had exited the bookmakers with a grin. A few choice picks on the horses, and he’d made just enough to cover his rent for the month. He was so far among the clouds, in fact, that he completely ignored the street's silence.

Midweek, mid-afternoon, at the bend of a u-shaped road in the city centre. He had taken one of the few street parking spots, which he had considered a harbinger of luck. As he approached his moped, the silence encroached, and he looked around. Stone and brick buildings surrounded him, with signs of all different colours and glass fronts. Behind him he could smell pastries and pizzas, while off to the right the cobblestone road was still bustling.

But everything near him was dead.

On second inspection, he saw groups of people huddled in grooves between the buildings, and within the shops and restaurants.

There were no cars. All the other parking spaces were vacant.

And the ground was shaking.

As the tremors grew stronger, a great thumping began, and Jack checked his watch. He’d gotten too caught up in the races.

He dived for the nearest shelter.

He stumbled as he reached the sardines, halting against their mass with a groan, pain lancing from between his legs. He’d picked the wrong day to wear boxers.

Struggling to remain standing, he watched as a behemoth of screeching metal scuttled down the street.

Blackpool Tower had never been supposed to move. It had been a great feat of engineering at the time, capable of having rooms and standing still.

But the Sixties had brought with them a wild freedom, and more importantly, easy access to hallucinogenics.

Having somehow managed to figure out the elevator buttons, a fresh-faced Oxford graduate had decided that the glass floor needed to be a movie.

No-one's yet clear on how he brought the Tower to life, but with the shit-storm that he’d kicked off, he’d thought it wise to disappear from the annals of history.

So much for accountability.

At first, the Tower was satisfied exploring the surrounding area, making its route through Blackpool and the towns nearby habitual enough the council developed timetables.

The government—their brains slipping farther out their ears by the second—took this predictability as a good sign, and immediately passed a law declaring that any ground the Tower stepped on became Blackpool. Surprisingly, no-one realised how stupid this was until much later.

The town became a city, and the legislators pat themselves on the back, knowing they were the first country in the world with a magical tourist attraction. They dreamed of pound signs, and thought nothing more of it.

However, like any child, the Tower was bound to have a rebellious phase.

It was nineteen-seventy-six when the government plunged into panic. The Tower had disappeared, gone into the ether. A quick deployment of all Her Reptilian Majesty’s armed forces proved fruitful, but the damage had already been done.

The Tower had floated on ocean currents, eventually finding itself in the Mediterranean, where it had enjoyed the sun before floating up an inconspicuous river.

The Egyptians were well aware of the Tower Law by this point, so when it decided to step out of the Nile, it was bombarded and forced to retreat.

Seeing the incursion as an act of aggression, Egypt declared war on Britain, and the rest of the world paused their battles to make bets on this one.

A dejected Tower returned home, but not with long to relax. The Egyptians, locked in conflict with Israel, had developed a WMD that was sure to wipe the ‘Colonial Tower’ from the map. The city meant nothing to them.

The Giant Death Robot, a Mecha as tall as the Tower, descended upon Blackpool without warning. Its initial assault levelled half the city, and a great battle began, taking nine days and eight nights. On the final day, both collapsed, though only the Tower rose again.

The Egyptians surrendered to international sanctions, and the Tower settled down, resolving itself to patrol and protect its home from Giant Death Robots.

No-one quite had the heart to tell it they’d been outlawed in seventy-nine.

It whooshed past only seconds after Jack had dived away. He really was on a lucky streak.

Or so he thought, until a cracking explosion erupted beneath one of the legs, sending the colossus swaying as it charged onward and away.

He gulped, flowing out the shelter with the crowd as the street rapidly filled around him. He stopped before a parking bay, empty like all the rest, aside from a dispersing plume of smoke.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

There was indeed a vehicle there, perfectly parked—it was just two-dimensional.

He crossed the road, whistling, and headed toward the bus stops. If he didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't real. That definitely wasn't his moped. Or the remains of it, anyway. Whoever owned it was sure having a bad day. But more importantly...

"How are we out of words already?! Who the fuck cares about the Tower? This isn't a story, it's a joke!"