The Spermarche Age - Epilogue

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The Spermarche Age – Epilogue

Warm afternoon light filters through the curtains of the cozy apartment. The golden rays illuminate an Altar de Muertos on a corner. Photographs of smiling men and stern-looking women in uniform atop the colorful, homemade shrine. Below them, packs of cigarettes, bubble tea, and a can of Mountain Dew. Offerings for those who 'went ahead of us', as Ms. Garcia likes to say.

Inside the kitchen, the old, Hispanic lady sings along inaudible music as she cooks.

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I’ll be waiting, all there’s left to do is run. You’ll be the prince, and I’ll be the princess. It’s a love story, baby! Just say yes…”

 The doorbell rings.

"Mija!!! La puerta!" Ms. Garcia yells slicing a roasted poblano pepper with expert hands. Her singing uninterrupted.

 “Romeo, save me, they’re trying to tell me how to feel! This love is difficult, but it’s real. Don’t be afraid, we’ll make it out of this mess! It’s a love story, baby, just say yes!”

 The bell rings again. The old woman sighs and taps her temple to pause the music. Right then, her giant daughter barrels in from inside the apartment.

"Coming!"

"Hay mija! What's the point of having you around if you're not going to help with the casa?"

The ex-Lieutenant is barefoot and wet. A flimsy pink bathrobe struggling to cover her mighty physique. A trail of wet footprints behind her. Her curly hair short, looking like fuzzy carpet around her skull.

She grabs the doorknob.

“Maybe because I can’t stand all your singing Mom! Could you at least sing something written by someone born this century?”

“Hey! Don't speak of my Güerita like that! She’s timeless!”

The muscular woman rolls her eyes. She opens the door and freezes.

Outside, a smiling, Asian boy with a backpack and a red hat. The woman points at him as if drawing a gun.

"You!"

Caro instinctively jumps back. It was still weird seeing each other like this. The two developing a sort of running joke whenever they met to release the pent-up tension.

"You!" He yells, pointing back.

They both laugh. The twelve-year-old boy walks under the woman's arm keeping the door open. He waves inside.

"Hey Ms. Garcia! Sorry I'm late."

"Oh! Good afternoon, Carolina! Come in, come in! And don't worry about the hour. Get yourself comfortable!"

Caro takes off the old MAGA cap and hangs it by the bullet hole on the coat rack. His hair styled in short, blonde bangs. He takes off his tennis shoes and leaves them next to a pair of huaraches near the door.

"Thanks! And, um, it's just 'Caro' now."

Ms. Garcia slaps her head. "Ah! Yes, yes, I still struggle with it. My apologies." She waves at the steamy pans and pots. "Are you hungry?"

"S-sure! It smells great! Um, but you mind if I go say hi first...?"

"Oh! Of course! Go kiss your novio. Tell them dinner is almost ready." She motions at her daughter. "Mija! Help set la mesa!"

"Aw, mooom..."

"Órale! Are you going to keep complaining once the baby comes? Help here or find yourself a job. Why haven’t you asked Naomi yet? She’s doing good."

“Yeah! From working for Ramesh. She’s an internationally wanted criminal!”

“One with a job!”

Caro leaves the adults arguing behind. He jumps over an old Roomba cleaning the wet footprints on the floor and stops in front of the Altar de Muertos. Something on of the old photos caught his eye.

He kneels and watches a photo of soldiers in red uniforms during some sort of military ceremony. Specifically at a blonde woman on the right, next to a younger version of Ms. Garcia.

She looks a hell a lot like a grown-up version of Samantha.

Caro grimaces. The thought bringing a ping of pain inside his chest.

Pensive, he walks inside the apartment. Reaches a door decorated with LED lights and stickers. Laughs and voices on the other side.

 "Hey guys!" says Caro stepping inside, putting the sad thoughts away for the moment.

“HAHAHAHA…!”

“Ugh! Stop moving!”

Inside the pink, girly room, a naked Rebecca trashes on the bed. Her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. Miguel leans over her, painting white bones on her dark skin. The thirteen-year-old girl squirming and laughing whenever the paintbrush touches her.

Miguel turns and smiles at Caro. The Hispanic boy dressed in a cheap blue suit and red tie.

“Hola! You found my cap?” He turns back to the tied girl. “How are you so ticklish? Didn’t you break a record or something for most boys fucked in a day?”

“It’s not… HAHAHAHA! The same! YEEP!!! HAHAHA!” She squeaks as he draws white ribs across her cone breast. Becks’s head shaved bald. Her face painted as a Dia de Muertos skull. Yellow flowers and Mesoamerican glyphs. She waves at the newcomer. “Hey gorgeous! Where were you hiding? HAHA…!”

Caro smiles and leans over the bed to give her a kiss. Her lips painted in black-and-white lines simulating teeth.

Miguel makes an exaggerated gasp.

“Perdon!? Who is your novio here?”

The Asian boy smirks and puts his backpack down. He kisses Miguel next, slower. Their lips parting and tongues touching.

“Mmmh!” Becks purrs, watching the young, gay couple make out. Her breathing heavy from all the laughing.

Caro breaks the kiss and pokes his tongue out at her. Miguel wavers after the kiss, his expression dreamy.

“Did you finish your costume?”

“Yup!” Caro produces green and yellow clothes from inside his backpack. He starts to undress. “My mom just finished the hat. It’s why I took so long.”

“I love how you and your mom are cool now.” Says Becks from the bed. “My folks are still angry at me.”

“From all the sex you had?” asks Caro, shirtless. His chest flat. Nearly imperceptible scar lines under his pecs.

Rebecca shakes her head. “No. For lying to them and almost getting myself killed in a warzone. Or something... Hey! Speaking of which, you found my article?”

The Asian boy perks up, remembering it. Now in his undies, he reaches inside the backpack and extracts a magazine.

“New York Times?” Miguel reads from afar. “What’s that?”

Becks shrugs. “I dunno, some local paper. But Caro! Show him!”

The Asian boy flips pages and opens the magazine on the center fold. His novio gasps.

"Whoa! You took these!?" He grabs the booklet, amazed.

On the glossy paper, a striking black and white photo of Dedos, Mata and Raptor on the back of the speedboat. The small guerilla warriors holding their weapons. Their soft, naked bodies in stark contrast to the dense, untamed mangroves behind them. On the bottom of the page, big, white, serif letters read:

INSIDE THE SANCTUARY

NEVER BEFORE SEEN IMAGES OF TAMPA'S ‘LOST BOYS’

By Rebecca Ferguson

Becks nods. "Yup! I told the woman who interviewed me for my world record about my photos. She helped me get them published. Said I had a 'good eye' or something. Hey, look!" She points with her nose at a standalone photo of the boy with an astronaut helmet. She winks at Caro. "It's your other boyfriend."

Miguel does a double take. "Uh!?"

The Asian boy rolls his eyes in a 'don't-listen-to-her' kind of way. He kisses Miguel again and pushes his underwear down, standing naked.

Rebecca’s eyes open wide.

"Caro!"

“Uh?” He looks down his boyish body. “Oh, that!”

Between his legs, a soft, cute, uncut penis, and hairless testicles. The skin shiny and baby-like, like a new sports car. Faint scar lines surround the new appendices.

“Why didn't you tell me!?”

“Sorry, it was kind of an impulse buy. I had these horrible menstrual cramps and thought: ‘Enough is enough!’" He laughs.

“When you get it!?"

"Last Wednesday." He puts both hands on his hips and wiggles the penis. Giggles. “I’m still getting used to it. Peeing is weird.”

“But… Isn’t it super expensive?”

“Yep! I bought it with what was left of Ram's 'bribe'. So, I’m poor again."

Both boys laugh.

"Poor and HOT! Can I touch it!?"

Caro recoils.

"N-not yet! My transitioning agent said I should wait a month."

"A MONTH WITHOUT SEX!?" She drops her head on the bed. "I would literally DIE."

The two boys laugh again. Caro finishes dressing up in a homemade green tunic, pointy hat, and yellow thighs. Meanwhile Miguel paints small red flowers around Rebecca’s navel. Causing her to giggle.

"Hey, hold on," She says. "What about your babies?"

"Ah! Don't worry, I got my eggs frozen before transitioning. Maria says she wants to carry our first." He puts on plastic elf ears and looks around. “Speaking of, where is she?”

On cue, the fifteen-year-old girl enters the bedroom, stark naked. Rubbing a towel along her long, wet hair.

Caro gasps and points at her.

“You’re HUGE!”

"Hey Caro! Cool Link costume.” Maria follows his finger to her 3-month-old belly. “Oh, yeah! He's really starting to show now."

The Asian boy walks around the bed, palms raised.

"Can I...?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead."

He kneels and carefully lays both hands on the 'bump' of the pregnant teenager. Places an ear against her warm skin, marveled.

"So cool! Wait… You already know their gender? Isn't it too early?"

"It is. But I already know he'll be a boy. I have a-"

"-hunch?" Caro interrupts with a wink.

Both pause. Then burst giggling.

The youngsters keep on chatting while Maria gets dressed in a pink ballerina dress, thigh high socks, and a green hoodie with golden stars. Her outfit reminiscent of an anime magical schoolgirl mixed with a Virgin Mary.

Miguel laughs. “Oh! I love that!”

“I know, right!? Once I got the idea everything sort of fit together.”

On the bed, Rebecca shrieks and laughs as Miguel paints long bones across her smooth legs. He groans, giving up.

"This is impossible! Can't you go trick or treating as something that doesn’t involve body paint?"

“N-no way!” She says catching her breath. “Tomorrow it'll be five weeks since I last wore clothes. I’m not going to break my streak.” She motions at his ill-fitting suit. “Besides, look who’s talking! What are you? Some kind of lawyer?”

“Ugh! I’ve told you a hundred times,” he reaches inside Caro's backpack and produces a blonde wig. He puts it on and contorts his face as if having a stroke. Speaks in a raspy, exaggerated accent. “It’s me! Your favorite President!”

Caro and Maria burst out laughing. Rebecca rolls her eyes.

“Lame! Only dorks dress up as historical figures.”

“Hey, don’t call him like that! He was awesome! He was funny, and strong, and smart, and-”

“And LAME!”

“I’ll show you who is lame!” Miguel jumps atop Becks and starts tickling her.

“YEEEP! HAHAHA!”

Caro and Maria glance at each other with a knowing look. They hop on the bed and join the tickle torture.

“HAHAHAHA! YEEEP! STOP! NOO! NOT THERE! HAHAHA!”

Outside, Ms. Garcia keeps singing. The old woman caught in the lyrics.

“‘Cause we’re young and we’re reckless! We’ll take this way too far, it’ll leave you breathless. Or with a nasty scar. Got a long list of ex-lovers, they’ll tell you I’m insane! ‘Cause you know I love the players. And you love the game!”

“Mom! Sing something else, please!” Yells her daughter.

“Why are you so ticklish? You must be from 'Chayna’!” Miguel laughs, continuing his voice impersonation. "We can’t be friends with ‘Chayna’ folks. Tariffs for you! Fifty percent!"

“HAHAHAHAHA!”

Caro stops tickling her. Miguel's words bringing back the sad thoughts he put aside when he entered the room.

“Niñooos! Vengan a comer!” Yells Ms. Garcia from the other end of the apartment.

The four youngsters immediately scramble. Warm, homemade food trumping every other consideration. Maria and Miguel are the first to bolt out the room.

"Hey! Don't push!"

"So unfair folks! A total witch hunt!"

Caro stays behind to loosen the straps holding Rebecca’s limbs. Panting, the nude girl jumps out the bed. But stops when the blonde boy holds her arm.

“Hey, before we go, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Uh?” She sits back.

Caro presses his lips, not knowing how to approach the subject. Becks’s face painted as a skull doesn’t help either.

“I’m going with you.” Rebecca tilts her head, not following. “You know...?” He motions in the general direction of her nakedness and lowers his voice. “In your Big Adventure?”

Becks perks up, realizing what he means. She also lowers her voice.

“Really!? Why? I thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“It is! I-I still think it’s dumb! Especially with the horror stories Dedos told us about what it’s like to be out in the wild, all by yourself.”

“Then? Why do you want to join me all a sudden?”

“I…! I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The black girl scoffs.

“Oh, come on Caro. We’ve talked about this. I keep training every day! I’ll be ready before spring. And once I start walking north, it will be easier to find clues of where Sam went. She’s not the only one who does this you know? I talked with this awesome girl with shark teeth who says there's a secret network of people who also-”

She stops. Caro wants to say something.

“Yes, yes, I know. But I’m not talking about you getting physically hurt. I’m worried about-” He stops, unsure whether to continue. “Becks… What if Sam DOESN’T want to be found?”

His friend frowns. She moves her arm away. Her face serious.

“Did you ever doubted you would find Miguel?”

This time Caro is the one taken aback.

“I-It’s not the same! We-”

“Love is always the same. That’s what makes it so powerful."

The boy drops his shoulders.

“Look. Maybe we should search for Sam the old-fashioned way. I was thinking we could ask-”

"NO! I’m doing this. I don’t need more help.”

"O-okay! But at least let me go with you until-"

The black girl stands up.

“You already had your big, life-changing adventure finding your novio. It's my turn now. You just got to find a way to accept that.”

“Becks…”

“I’m hungry. Let’s talk later.” She turns and leaves the bedroom.

Outside, Ms. Garcia continues.

"So, it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames? You can tell me when it’s over. If the high was worth the pain!”

“Jesus, Mom! Stop!”

Alone now, the Asian boy takes a deep breath. He didn’t want Rebecca to go on a wild goose-chase across several continents. Walking all the way to China over the Bering Strait? Hoping to stumble with Samantha somewhere along the way? All while naked! It was a ludicrous plan!

Yet again, her plan to find Miguel seemed ludicrous as well. And look how things turned out.

He follows her. His stomach rumbling as well.

***

Chris (the moderator, speaking amidst applauses): "Thank you, Brie! That was a wonderful reflection to wrap things up. To remind the audience, the book is called: 'Stepping into Heaven', by Brie Haberman."

(He turns the book to the camera. On the cover, an exquisite photo of a nude, black girl surrounded by naked boys. Penises inside all her orifices. The light and composition reminiscent of a baroque painting.)

Chris (continuing): "A modern classic. You can find it wherever books are delivered. Now, Brie, before we let you go, what can we expect from you in the future? Something on the works you wanna share?"

Brie: "Well, Chris. While covering The Feast and the secrets behind sperm trafficking was a fantastic experience, my true passion lies in interplanetary politics. As some may remember, people used to call called me 'Abdulaziz's whisperer'. Remember that? (laughs) Remember the big speech he delivered mere hours before that submarine flattened Lake Placid?"

Chris: "I sure do! Albeit it feels as if that happened forty years ago."

(Laughs from the audience)

Brie: “Well, I'm currently delving into a biography of Abdulaziz. People seem to take him for granted as THE next Secretary-General of the UN. The defacto spokesperson of humanity. But I think there are lingering questions about the King that got lost in the fray at the end of the Fertility Crisis. I don't think we should jump in the Abdulaziz train before knowing all the facts."

Chris: "Fascinating! Can you give us a sneak peek into what questions you aim to explore?"

Brie: "Well, without giving away too much, let's just say I'm still not sold on the idea that his sons died somewhere on the Gulf. For starters, they just found one of the shuttle's lifeboats, meaning ‘someone’ survived the accident. Moreover, I got an exclusive interview with an individual who SWEARS they met Yusuf. And that's just the tip of the iceberg."

(Murmurs from the audience)

Chris (stepping in): “We'll be keeping an eye out for that! Brie Haberman, thank you for being with us today! The book's name again is-"

"Idiots..." The ambassador mutters, swiping the video away.

The blue-haired octogenarian sits inside a crowded Maglev train. Passengers dressed in elaborate Halloween costumes surround him.

He folds the gold-rim tablet and pockets it inside his tweed vest. He closes his eyes, reviewing his talking points with the President.

What a mess they were in! With fertility rates booming across the world, geopolitics went nuts almost overnight. And Abdulaziz only kept making it worse with his speeches. It was as if the bastard enjoyed the chaos. Nurtured it. If the ambassador didn’t know better, he would accuse the King of orchestrating the Fertility Crisis in the first place. Ha! Now that’s a thought.

The old man looks around, impatient. How many times had he taken this train back and forth across the country? All to reassure some hysterical politician that everything was under control. And why the heck do these Gen Alphas insist on meeting in person? What happened to good ol' Zoom calls in your pajamas?

Whatever the number of trips, he was starting to memorize passenger’s faces. Even imagine their names and little life stories to kill time.

Like that young woman with glasses and a hijab. The ambassador calls her 'Layla'. Lately she’s been traveling with lots of art supplies, probably from starting college. It makes sense given she's no longer pregnant. Her child stored at some government-run daycare while she goes to school.

How will she feel when it's no longer mandatory to have kids to achieve higher education or a well-paid job? Betrayed? Relieved? More importantly, how will the upper echelons of society stop the unwanted from climbing the social ladder now that fertility has become a non-issue? Only one of many concerns to discuss with POTUS.

There's also the blonde, elegant woman on the opposite seat, hugging a big suitcase. The ambassador calls her ‘Pamela’. Probably a saleswoman at some prestigious firm. Either selling land lots on Mars or nanobots to credulous people. She's usually immobile. Her eyes darting around as if chasing ghosts, working all the time.

Yet today she looks like something broke inside her. Her eye implants are inactive. Her gaze lost in infinity. Based on her suitcase and the wooden cross clenched in a hand, it seems she finally had enough of this cyberpunk dystopia and is starting anew. Somewhere far away from all the people and bots. Looking for a place where things make sense again. Poor soul. He wishes her well.

She wasn’t the only one feeling adrift. The ambassador had survived countless world-changing events throughout his life. And each time he noticed a certain ‘unease’ on people whenever things went back to normal. As if the horrors they survived were now half-forgotten nightmares. Haunting their waking hours.

Did a world-shutting pandemic really happen? Did countries really shut down their borders instead of bidding for new immigrants? Did soccer moms really shoot their neighbors in the deadliest Civil War in history? Did ultraconservative families really hired gangs of fertile boys to rape their daughters as their last resource to secure descendants?

Remember when everyone knew, as a matter of fact, that the apocalypse was nigh? When teachers told their students not to fret too much about their grades since human extinction was right around the corner? When newscasters talked about the end of the world with the same disinterest as the Olympics?

At the end of the day, wasn’t the climate always this hot? The countryside so uninhabited? The oceans so high? What was life even like before bots did most of the work? How did people back in the day accomplish anything without fusion, nanobots, or superconductors? And they did it all while working measly 40 hours per week. Only between the ages of 18 and 65. And under constant fear of mass shootings, sexually transmitted diseases, cancer, and crippling medical bills.

And if all that really changed, why are we still here, commuting to work? Faking smiles to our coworkers? Groaning at the idiocy of our bosses? Dreading family visits during the holidays?

When will the present start feeling more like… The future?

The ambassador sighs. This all that made his head spin. He recalls the time his late husband proclaimed the only people mentally prepared for the XXI century were psychopaths, nudists, and pedophiles. What a statement. It felt truer than ever.

Like that old white couple on the next row of the train. ‘Tom’ and ‘Margaret’ as he calls them. Always stepping out near the beach. The fat man carrying big cameras, reviewing pictures of nude children on his phone. As happy as fish in the water. His wife rolling her eyes yet supporting his husband’s hobby. Tagging along for the excuse to leave their house and have some mimosas by the beach. They would be fine. Thriving even.

Hey, that’s a new face. A bronze-skinned boy on the front of the train car. Carrying a baby girl across his chest with a colorful rebozo. The teen dressed in an elegant private school uniform. Likely pursuing a career in aerospace. How to call this new character? He reminded the ambassador of-

The old man freezes like a deer on headlights. His heartbeat spikes. Further than the time he bluffed with nuclear Armageddon in negotiations with another superpower.

He stands up with some difficulty. Rubs his eyes, not believing what they're seeing.

The train slows down, reaching its next stop. By chance, the fourteen-year-old boy glances at the ambassador. Their eyes meet. His eyebrows raise in recognition.

“P-p-prince?” The old man stutters, jaw hanging. Elbowing his way between the passengers. This was impossible!

He stops. The teenager has placed a finger over his lips. Shakes his head.

‘Not now’, his expression says. ‘Not today’.

“Something’s wrong?” Says the hip-looking Asian boy accompanying him, obviously his partner.

“N-no. I thought I saw someone.” Miguel mutters.

The train doors open. Puffs of nitrogen gas spew from below. Both boys step out holding hands. They walk parallel to the floating train. Caro reaccommodates the bulky diaper bag over his shoulder and continues their conversation.

“Okay, so here’s my theory. I don’t think they’re living inside a Topopolis.”

“Uh? A what?” Says Miguel throwing looks behind them.

“The Garden! The thing about a cylinder so long it behaves like a rope! They explained it on the movie!” He moves flocks of neon green hair off his face. “Well, what if the thing Chevy said is the real deal? What if what we see it’s not a spinning habitat but an illusion from warped space? It could be the same technology as in… Hey, are you listening?”

Miguel mutters in response. The train has departed amidst puffs of cold gas. The old man doesn’t seem to be among the passengers who stepped out.

“Uhhh… Sorry, I spaced out. Same technology as what? The one in the movie with the Mormons?”

Caro rolls his eyes. He slides an arm around his novio to walk closer. The crowd around them growing denser as they head to the next train.

“Don't tell me you already forgot the title?”

He shrugs. He tickles the baby’s nose who lets out an adorable laugh.

“It’s a dumb title. She should’ve named it something more epic. Like ‘Moon… Fall… ing Down’!”

Caro laughs.

“Gosh! You’re horrible at naming things! What was the title you suggested for our history class presentation? The 'what' Age?”

“’The Spermarche Age’”

“Yup! That one. Terrible!”

He laughs. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I still love you thou.” The Asian teen adds as a sidenote.

The other boy grows quiet. His eyes unfocused. His face one of concern.

Caro frowns and stops walking. Commuters part around the small family, giving them space. He holds both of Miguel’s hands.

“You, okay?”

The Hispanic boy smiles and nods. Looking like a little kid on Christmas Eve.

“Yeah, I… I was just wondering… Is this the first time you've said it?”

His novio blinks.

“Ah! I-I don’t know? I must’ve said it before… Haven’t I?”

Miguel shrugs. “I guess so! Um… I love you too.”

Caro smiles. A warm, wonderful feeling spreading inside him. Yeah, that felt familiar. He definitely said it before.

They kiss. A few of the passengers smile as they walk past. The baby girl giggles, trying to grab their chin.

The young couple holds hands and keep on walking, following the dense human river.

They reach a hub connecting all platforms in the station. Giant advertisements carpeting the sky. Caro glances at one of them and slaps his head. He rummages the diaper bag and panics.

“Shit! We forgot Abuelita’s coffee!”

“Oh! Um, I don’t think she’ll mind.” Miguel says without stopping. “I mean, she always said she hadn’t had a cup of coffee since 2031. But then Ms. Garcia says she drank more caffeine than the entire Pacific Fleet!” He laughs.

“No, no. This is important. We’re supposed to leave an offering of the things she liked. I promised I would bring it.”

“Oh! So… We return then?” He motions at the platform they exited.

“No, no, you take the next train. I’ll go back for it. We’re running late anyway. See ya!”

Caro hands him the diaper bag and starts walking. But then stops when Miguel yanks him back. His hand firmly holding his wrist.

“Uh? What’s wrong?”

The Latin boy looks nervous.

“Y-you’re leaving us? Here?” His words trail off.

“Well, yeah? It will be only for like an hour.”

“B-but here? What about all the…?” He looks at the dense crowd around them.

It takes a moment for Caro to realize what Miguel is talking about. Ever since they went steady, they’ve been together pretty much all the time. A seamless continuation of their bodyguard/protectee relationship from when they first met. The Asian boy hadn’t even noticed he was still performing the same role in Miguel's mind.

And while he was now a male in basically every aspect that matters, Caro hadn’t grown up as one. He had never felt people’s greedy glances linger on him. Feared being alone amidst strangers in open areas. Feeling like an unprotected suitcase packed with money. One that anyone could come and grab. Do with it as they please.

He steps back and hugs his boyfriend.

“Hey, it’s okay. No one is going to try anything. No boy has been kidnaped in over a year.”

“Y-yeah. I know. Sorry.”

Caro hugs him tighter. Then, an idea pops inside his mind. He loosens Miguel’s rebozo and grabs their daughter.

“Tell you what. Me and ‘Zelda’ will go fetch the coffee and then meet you at the party. And when people ask me where you are I’ll be like: ‘I dunno. I don’t know where Miguel is’. And maybe that’s a lie since you're already there. Or maybe you show up later. Or maybe you don’t show up at all. It doesn’t matter. This is a fake birthday anyway. You can choose another day to turn fifteen.”

Miguel frowns, not following.

“R-really? But what if-?”

Caro interrupts, anticipating his words.

“Something happens to you? I’m not worried. I found you before, I’ll find you again.” He winks and finishes strapping the little girl in front of his chest. He walks backwards with the diaper bag. Their joined fingers stretching until they separate. “See ya later!” He laughs. “‘Prince’!”

Caro turns and vanishes in the crowd before Miguel can say anything.

The teen boy remains frozen in place, not knowing what to do. By instinct, he moves to a corner and keeps his head down, trying to meld with the background. His breathing fast. Heart pounding inside his chest. There are so many people!

Yet after a while, he dares to look up. He observes the commuters going about the busy train station. Examines them.

A pregnant policewoman waves at travelers to hurry. A gay couple tows a line of loud little girls, heading for the beach. An android bodyguard follows an elementary-school boy in a suit. One of many newly minted millionaires. A trio of fully tattooed prostitutes walking alongside the newest member of their gang. An Asian teenager in an impossibly skimpy bikini. The girl still too self-conscious to walk sexy. Yet determined to learn the ropes of the job.

Not one of them is watching him. Everyone carries on with their lives. Throwing brief glances at Miguel as they walk past. Finding nothing remarkable about some random highschooler taking a train.

Miguel takes a step forwards. Then another. His breath normalizing.

People walk past him like particles around a magnetic field. Coming close, yet not touching him.

He takes a deep breath and looks up, at the destinations behind every train platform. A network connecting nearly every spot in the country. And with a brief transfer, the rest of the planet. A whole world at his disposal.

And he’s free to go anywhere. For he’s nobody. A simple boy. Nothing more.

Where to go now?

***

CLICK!

Rebecca smiles and reels the camera film forward. These photos were lit. Her editor at the ‘Times was going to lose it!

She could already picture next week cover. A sharp, impressive photo of a pack of woolly Mammoths in a white-and-green tundra. An abandoned Alaskan oil rig in the background. Big, white letters read:

WHAT’S NEW IS OLD, WHAT’S OLD IS NEW

By Rebecca Ferguson

The sixteen-year-old adjusts the focus of her telephoto lens, readying another shot. The black girl hides under a carpet of bushes and moss atop a small hill. She wears a blue environmental suit rated for Arctic conditions. Her hair styled in complex braid spirals.

She grimaces when she feels another kick from her seventh-month old. She pats the high-tech fabric covering her belly. The baby was really restless today.

Her finger rests on the camera’s trigger. Waiting for the moment the mammoth matriarch raises her trunk to call the rest of her herd. Becks can feel it. This was her winning shot.

CLICK!

“Shit!”

She hurries to reel the film. Something got in the middle of her frame right as she took the photo. So typical!

She repositions the heavy telephoto camera. Out of habit, she glances at the small screen under her viewfinder. It shows a digital preview of her last picture.

She freezes. Eyes open wide.

In front of the mammoths, a pink smudge. Someone ran past her lens.

“Nǐ hǎo.” Says a tiny voice awfully close to her.

Rebecca jolts, then jolts again when the baby kicks.

She pushes the moss carpet over and finds herself staring at a nude three-year-old a few feet away. A blonde boy with long hair and almond eyes. The kid standing awkwardly with his feet crossed, completely unbothered by the cold. A thumb inside his mouth.

“Nǐ shì tàikōng rén ma?” He says in perfect Mandarin.

“H-hey there!” Rebecca stammers, still too stunned to react. Satellites had swept the whole region. Bots had assured her there was no one in a hundred miles radius. She had a fight with the magazine director over the risk of visiting such a desolate place!

A voice in distance. A woman calling from under the hill.

“Dorito!? Nǐ zài nǎlǐ!?”

The kid turns and runs away. Becks stands up.

“W-wait! Who are yo-!?”

She stops dead. The toddler has jumped on the arms of a seventeen-year-old Samantha at the bottom of the hill. The girl naked except for a heavy fur cape and a wooden spear doubling as a walking stick. Her waist-long blonde hair waving in the breeze. Like a gold ribbon. Her expression one of sheer disbelief.

Both young women stare silent at one other. An astronaut and a cavewoman making first contact. Neither knowing how to react.

Becks is the first one to make a move. She starts walking downhill.

“You didn’t say goodbye!”

Sam snorts and starts to cry. She hugs his son tighter.

“I know! I’m sorry! You could've said something when we were on that ship!”

Becks starts to cry as well.

“I know! I’m sorry! You could’ve left more clues! I sort of gave up on Heilongjiang.”

“I know. I saw you there. But I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘Hi’. I wasn't ready.”

Becks is now a few steps away. Tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I knew it was you. I felt your gaze. On the wet market, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

They hug.

“I love you too! I’m sorry...”

They fall to their knees. Bawl.

“It's okay. I get it. I had federal agents trailing me up to Canada. I’m glad they didn’t find you.”

“Actually, they did find me. But it seems I’m now Samatha Winslet? And why is she so rich?”

Becks brushes tears off her eyes. “Yeah. That was Miguel’s idea. We sold the rights of your screenplays. Sorry. And then Sung helped us kill Samantha Clayton. It’s a mess.”

Sam pretends to slap her. “You dogs! You didn’t have to help me like that.”

“I’m sorry. We love you too much.”

“Me too!”

They hug and break up crying again. The toddler, squeezed between the two sobbing girls, raises his squeaky voice.

“Wèishéme shāngxīn?”

Rebecca laughs. She ruffles the kid’s hair.

“He’s so beautiful! But... Why ‘Dorito’?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “For the father.” Becks throws her a questioning look. She shrugs. “Hey, I was hungry.” She places a hand on the black girl’s belly. “And how about you? Someone I know?”

Rebecca nods. “Yeah, Caro and Miguel. Their third. I think. I don’t know anymore. Those two wanna repopulate the whole planet on their own! They’ll be so happy to see you! Caro keeps telling everyone how good your pussy taste.”

Sam nods. She cleans tears off her face. “I can imagine. Dorito loves it too. To the point he sometimes forgets to breastfeed.”

The black girl snorts and starts coughing. Sam pats her back.

"Yikes! Are you okay?"

Becks nods and bites her lip. Her nymphomaniac instincts reigniting as she imagines the little nude boy glued between his mother's legs. Slurping her vulva with innocent abandon, like candy. The baby in her belly starts kicking, sharing her excitement.

Samantha seems to read her thoughts. A wicked smile rolls across her face.

"Wanna watch...?" She whispers, loosening her fur cape.

Final author’s note:

This story now belongs to the public domain.

I mean it. For real.

I'm waiving all my rights to this work worldwide under copyright law. Including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law.

You can copy, modify, distribute, and perform this work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking for my permission.

For you see, it’s no longer mine. It’s yours. You can do whatever you want with it. This story might as well be written a hundred years ago, alongside Dracula or Treasure Island. It now belongs to humanity. Forever.

Cool, uh?

If you read this inside a spaceship, at another planet, inside a Dyson Sphere, as an artificial mind, please know this age was… weird. We tried our best. Most of the time. Hopefully, things are better now. Not perfect. But different.

Keep on sharing your weird thoughts. Even if no one reads them.

Especially if no one reads them.

For more information, visit: creativecommons.org/publicdomain

CC0 1.0 - No rights reserved - inaccesiblecardinal@protonmail.com