by Eriel Edward Red
Image by Глеб Коровко on Pexels. (All photos and videos on Pexels can be downloaded and used for free).
It didn’t begin with a knock.
A chittering noise echoed through the apartment door, like the kind one would hear from a giant insect. Galen Rodan, junior underwriter and long-time resident of the Olympus Mons Metroplex, froze just as he was about to take a sip of his genetically modified coffee.
Another chittering sound, then the sound of something large shifting its weight. Then, the doorbell, a high-pitched chime, rang.
“All right,” Galen muttered as he took a sip. “They’re actually here.”
The man set down his mug and got off his floating chair. He glanced momentarily at his laptop, which displayed an email from the Bureau of Social Reconciliation and Strategic Housing Efficiency.
He read the message again. “In accordance with Reintegration Directive 77-B, your dwelling unit has been deemed suitable for cohabitation with a liberated Neosapien citizen undergoing urban acclimatization.”
Galen took a deep breath. Who didn’t know of the Neosapiens? Genetically modified by alien invaders in the outer colonies of the Solar Union, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition–he felt sorry for them, that’s for sure.
But he hadn’t asked for a roommate. He was required to fill out a form. He was perfectly fine living alone with his cat, Regret. And, of course, he would never have expected this kind of roommate. If someone had asked him about what kind of roommate he’d expect, he would have answered somewhere along the lines of “normal.” He would have expected a roommate with two legs, two arms, a body, and a head.
Galen peered through his door’s peephole, not opening it right away. The hallway ahead was empty… or not.
Something huge coiled just beyond the frame of the peephole, casting a long, low shadow across the corridor’s tiled floor. Chitin. Layers of it. Armored plates, black-green and slightly iridescent, curved into ridges the size of dinner plates. Segments. Dozens of them.
“Citizen Galen Rodan?” The voice wasn’t robotic or guttural like Galen expected. It was low, calm, but strangely practiced.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes followed the rising curve of a massive centipede-like body as it uncoiled and slowly moved into sight. A head emerged from the curve— triangular and bristling with antennae. Then the eyes came into view: two deeply sorrowful jet-black orbs set into the armored face like relics left behind in a war museum. Then a mouth that looked uncannily human, if not for the segmented chitinous plates surrounding it, and the pair of tongues that hung out like two dextrous serpents. Galen shivered as the posthuman’s tongues moved with an uncanny grace.
Unbelievable, he thought as he saw just what was standing on his veranda. He let out a tired sigh. Part of him hoped that this Neosapien just had the wrong address, but he was already resigned to this arrangement. Integration, after all, was the current administration’s battlecry. To openly question it was unthinkable. He had a credit score to maintain.
“Hello,” Galen said at last from behind the closed door after a few uncomfortable seconds. “May I help you?”
“Greetings, I am Wrathcoil,” the posthuman replied. “You are Citizen Galen Rodan, yes?”
“Yup, that’s me,” Galen nodded, even if Wrathcoil couldn’t exactly see him yet. “You’re, uh, with the integration program?”
“Yes,” Wrathcoil replied.
“I only have one bed,” Galen muttered just loud enough for Wrathcoil to hear him.
“That is of no concern. Centipedes like myself do not sleep on beds,” Wrathcoil answered with practiced finesse, as if he had rehearsed his lines for a play. “We curl. And I have weighted blankets.”
Of course, Galen thought. With a resigned sigh, he opened the door, letting the Centipede in. It was somewhat comical how Wrathcoil entered the doorway, angling his chitinous plates so that they wouldn’t scrape against the wall.
Wrathcoil, while long, was squat and low to the ground. He looked up at Galen, and extended one of his tongues. “Citizen Galen Rodan. It is good to meet you face-to-face at last.”
Galen looked over Wrathcoil’s frankly intimidating form. The last time he saw a creature like this was in a declassified military documentary about some place called Rho Venatici over in the Hellfire Traverse. Mind-enslaved warbeasts of chitinous armor with jaws powerful enough to rip through armor and energy shielding. Screaming monsters that turned bunkers into blood-slicked charnel houses. Mutilated tools of an alien empire whose existence Galen only knew of from the news and the Galactic Web.
He never thought he’d see one of them here in the Inner Colonies. Not when the Automatons fought almost all of the battles out in the periphery. The things out there should have been kept where they were: away from Mars, away from him.
And yet, one of them was here.
Assigned.
Legally.
Even then, he expected a lupine warrior monk or a buzzing bee-person with a knack for capitalism. Not… this. Since when were Centipedes rehabbed, anyway?
As Galen pondered the madness of it all, Wrathcoil began to extend a long, sinewy tongue towards him. Galen was so focused on his thoughts that he would only spot it in his peripheral vision, like a serpent slithering from the undergrowth.
He tried his best not to jump. “I’m sorry, what is with the tongue?”
“Humans greet one another with handshakes, yes?” Wrathcoil answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The tongues of the Centipedes have been modified to act as manipulators. They are our hands.”
Why do I have to agree to this? Galen mentally grumbled. “Well, okay,” he extended his right hand, steeling himself for spit to be all over his hand soon. Please don’t have any diseases. Please.
Wrathcoil and Galen awkwardly shook hands–or, more precisely, tongue and hand. Galen cringed as he felt saliva on his fingers and palm, though it wasn’t as slimy as he thought. The tongue itself felt like moist sandpaper.
Almost as if it were originally designed to scrape meat off bone.
As soon as the awkward handshake was done, Galen padded his hand against the back of his pants. He’d have to disinfect it later.
“Please do not mind me. I will not disturb you as you go about your routine tasks.” Wrathcoil then walked into the apartment, each of his fifty or so legs making a loud ‘clack’ as they made contact with Galen’s tile flooring.“Thank you, Galen Rodan,” Wrathcoil continued, “…for welcoming me to your home. Forgive me if this arrangement was forced on you.”
“No, no, no problem at all,” Galen nervously chuckled and lied through his teeth. He then realized that Wrathcoil hadn’t brought any luggage aside from the bundles of plastic-wrapped blankets fastened to a leather saddle mounted on top of his chitin. “Got any stuff aside from those blankets?”
“I have very little,” Wrathcoil replied. He extended both of his prehensile tongues, fishing out what appeared to be a small bag from underneath one of his chitinous plates. “I was given 10,000 Solar Dinarii by the Genetics Reformation Corps to serve as my capital funds, to begin a new life. Another 20,000 from the Order of Saint Luke. I must say, your humanitarian organizations are very generous. Though again,” the Centipede’s tone turned to practiced bitterness, “It is not like our old masters gave us anything.”
Who’s to say they didn’t put any sleeper commands in you? Galen thought as he watched Wrathcoil shove his minuscule bag back under his armored plates. “Is there any kind of work that you do? Because now that you’re here, I expect you to share the rent.”
Wrathcoil was eerily silent for a few moments. “No, not yet. That is something I am still finding out myself.”
Galen could feel the blood vessels on his forehead tighten. They didn’t even teach him any survival skills. Will I have to babysit this cre-… guy? “Well, you better find out fast.”
“That I will do with urgency.”
“I have to go to work,” Galen turned away and washed his hands on the sink. “Is there any other place you’ll be?”
“I have therapy later tonight.” Wrathcoil stared, not at Galen, but at his hands. Galen couldn’t help but feel judged. “For now, however, I will simply sleep. I am exhausted from my long journey.”
“Okay,” Galen nodded and walked to his bedroom, where his cat, a walking manifestation of the void itself, was lazily lounging on his desk.
Galen stared at Regret for a moment before snatching the cat up and putting him inside a cat bag. Regret complained loudly, screaming at Galen to let her out.
It’s going to be a bring-your-cat-to-work day today.
The fact that Regret hissed when he saw Wrathcoil only solidified Galen’s decision.
*
“Hey, Galen?
“Mmmm, yeah?” Galen barely noticed that one of his coworkers had inched her chair closer to him as he pored over an insurance policy claim looking for inconsistencies.
“What did you get?”
“Get what, Linda?” Galen muttered, sipping his cup of SolBucks.
“The Neosapien Integration Initiative!” Linda replied, practically bouncing in excitement. “I got a Wulfen. He is kinda–”
“Please do not utter whatever degenerate words are about to spill out of your mouth,” Galen grumbled. “I know that you find Wulfen attractive, Linda. Don’t even think I didn’t see the wallpaper on your tablet.”
“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Linda pouted. “But yeah, Mordael is such a gentleman. Like, I know he can kill me, but he doesn’t. That’s like… so h- AFHAUE-” Linda would be cut off as Galen shoved a piece of bread up her mouth. Their other co-workers could be heard snickering from their desks, but Galen didn’t care. Nor did Linda, for that matter.
“I didn’t want to hear about your nasty views on Neosapien biology, Linda,” Galen grumbled, tired and weary. “Least of all your furry fantasies. I get it, Wulfen aren’t too bad.”
“But Galen, it’s as though a wolf could do gourmet cooking. He made sourdough with his paws, Galen,” Linda’s eyes looked like they were twinkling. “Sourdough, Galen! Anyway, how about you?” Linda asked. “Who did you get?”
“Some guy named Wrathcoil,” Galen replied. He felt something furry brush against his leg. It was Regret, of course, whom he’d let out of the bag as soon as they got to the office. “He’s a Centipede. He knocked over one of my tables, cracked several of my floor tiles, and the cat hates him. That’s why I brought her to work.”
“Hah!” Linda snorted, much to Galen’s chagrin. “You’ll get used to it. That’s just what happens when you put two very different beings in one apartment.”
“Well,” Galen shrugged, “He’s polite, but honestly… it’s a little too much. He’s just, you know, huge, and uses a pair of tongues to hold things. Tongues, Linda! I’m trying my best here, but I don’t want to hold anything he holds, not without washing it first!”
“Yeah, I can understand,” Linda said, even as she shrugged. “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”
*
“What the hell…” Galen squinted as he looked at the notice for the water bill in his assigned mailbox on the ground floor of the apartment. “Why is my water bill so high?!”
He would get his answer as he got to his suite. He found Wrathcoil on the balcony, using the warm circulating air in the underground arcology to dry himself. The armored posthuman was very wet. As in, at least a few buckets’ worth of water were currently collected on top of his armor plates.
“Ah, Galen Rodan, you have returned,” Wrathcoil greeted. “I am currently drying myself.”
“I can see that,” Galen said through gritted teeth. “I just want to ask why you’re using so much water.”
“A being of my size needs a rather sizable amount of water to stay clean, Galen Rodan,” Wrathcoil replied.
Galen pursed his lips, trying his best not to say anything that could be deemed offensive. “Please… can you use less water? Or you could just use a sonic basin. You have the dinarii the GRC and OSL gave you. Use it.”
“Hm, if that is what you wish… then I shall comply,” Wrathcoil replied before shaking his chitinous plates, making the water fly all around him.
Galen was fortunately using an umbrella at the time.
“Oh. My apologies,” Wrathcoil regretfully said, but that did little to assuage Galen as he simply walked into the apartment without a word.
*
“The table isn’t supposed to be here.”
This wasn’t Galen’s living room. Not anymore. Nothing was where it should be. The table? In the center, as if it should be the reigning dread sovereign of this apartment. The sofa was placed behind the table instead of beside it; a diametric opposition to Galen’s design. It had been politely shifted three degrees clockwise, with three stacked floor pillows (Galen didn’t have those yesterday), and an antique bowl full of molted chitin fragments.
Wrathcoil used his molted chitinous armor as a decoration.
Galen didn’t even know if he was still on Mars.
The carpet? Well, that was still the same, except that it wasn’t placed under the table. Instead, it was smack-dab in the center of the living room, as though it was hiding a secret chamber under the floor tiles. The golden fish sculpture, a prized souvenir from Xianlin, was placed on the floor.
What.
The fact that the furniture had been rearranged, however, was the mildest part of the overall restructuring that his living room had been forced to endure.
There was more furniture. Low-lying, flat, and borderline unusable furniture, but furniture nonetheless. There was a second sofa, or more accurately, a mattress, flattened and reinforced with what appeared to be exotic polymers so that it wouldn’t break under heavy weight. A second table was there too, lying so low that Galen wouldn’t be able to use it as a table even if he sat in a lotus position.
There was also a pillar. Or a pole. It wasn’t there yesterday. It was made out of wood, with a set of spiraling grooves that only a snake or some other kind of long-bodied creature would be able to use. Like a Centipede Neosapien. Like Wrathcoil.
To top it all off, the ceiling had changed, too. It was now made of wood, instead of muted white plaster. And there, stuck just a few feet above Galen’s head, was Wrathcoil himself.
Galen yelped and took a step back. “Wrathcoil! What are you doing on the ceiling?!”
“Resting,” Wrathcoil simply replied. Galen frowned at that answer. It was fortunate that visitors were rare. He knew for sure that his mother would scream were she to enter and see Wrathcoil on the ceiling.
His father… his first instinct would probably be to faint.
“Why did you… rearrange everything?” Galen asked, exasperated. “And you put…so much… stuff.”
“Your arrangement was not resonant,” Wrathcoil replied. “I have corrected this.”
Galen nodded, not sure just what Wrathcoil meant. “But you didn’t have to change my furniture. You could have just arranged yours.”
“But then it would have appeared disjointed. Without harmony. It would have been an act of aesthetic terrorism,” Wrathcoil countered, having not moved from his position on the ceiling. “The fengshui has been satisfied. You must admit. It looks better now.”
“I…” Galen looked around to gauge Wrathcoil’s statement. It was… certainly different. And a lot more colorful. “Wait, fengshui? You actually buy into that crap?”
“The Xianlini are excellent at arranging furniture,” Wrathcoil replied. “I learned their ways through the Web. It does look more aesthetically pleasing now, yes?”
Galen took another cursory glance around the living room. “Well, I suppose you’re right in that regard.” Galen sighed. “But you should tell me when you want to change anything here! This is my apartment!”
“Ah. Of course. Sorry about that. I was very excited.”
“You only changed the living room, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just don’t change any of the other rooms.”
*
Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. Galen could feel his strength seep away as he watched Wrathcoil try to pick up the utensils–his utensils, by the way. He’d made it clear that they were to use different sets. He had no intention of using the same spoon, knife, and fork as Wrathcoil–not when his hands were actually his tongues.
Wrathcoil very well could just scoop up his food with those tongues of his, drag them into his mouth by the bunch. It’s not like the food was particularly slippery. Canned tuna in oil, exported throughout the Union by the ocean world of Maharlika. Poached chicken eggs bought from a local convenience store. Bacon strips grown in a laboratory on Liberty Prime and flash-freezed for interstellar transport, now still sizzling with grease and oil. And honey, to top it all off, from the local supermarket. It was produced by a new company called BuzzMart Galactic. He didn’t know a thing about this strange new honey corporation, but the packaging was cute, so he got it.
Wrathcoil’s attempts to do basic utensil handling, however, weren’t cute.
“Can you just… not use utensils?” Galen almost growled out as Wrathcoil dropped the spoon with a loud clatter on the plastic table. Galen glanced at the four bowls and four plates. They were separate by design, keeping Galen’s food away from Wrathcoil’s. “I’m sure you can scoop it up. You got two tongues. Two oversized… and very… dexterous, and rather oversized tongues.”
“I don’t like dragging things into my mouth,” Wrathcoil curtly replied after several more failures. “I must try again and again until I succeed.”
“You’re just making your own life more difficult,” Galen sighed.
Regret, who had just entered the dining room, saw Wrathcoil’s huge, armored form and hissed. The cat ran away in a panic, knocking down her own cat tower in the process.
Wrathcoil looked… sad? Galen wasn’t sure.
Galen sprang away from the table, just as his cat would, when Wrathcoil tried to drink water from his plastic cup and failing rather predictably. The cup fell, and spilled water all over the carpet.
Galen sighed and covered his eyes with his hands, ignoring Wrathcoil’s hurried apologies.
I can’t take this anymore.
*
“What do you mean by ‘five months’?” Galen yelled at the hologram, a kaleidoscopic mess of fractal patterns and shifting colors. Whoever designed this thing must have been on Engineshine. “The Centipede is disruptive! Yesterday he knocked over my mother’s vase. My cat hates him, and everything he uses becomes slimy! When I signed up for the Neosapien Integration Initiative, this wasn’t what I expected! I would completely understand if I were to host an Apisapien or Wulfen, but a Centipede? I mean, I don’t hate them, but this guy drives me crazy!”
“In that case, await reassignment,” the household AI replied with a sarcastic tone. Galen could feel one of the blood vessels in his head about to burst. “The earliest reply from the Initiative will be in around five months, as previously stated. You must have realized, however, that in the application form, there was a field where you could state which Neosapien species you are most comfortable with. You did not fill it up.”
Galen raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t see that.”
“It was on the second page.”
“…there was a second page?”
“There was. On the back.”
“You’re telling me this now?” Galen grumbled. “Some useful AI you are.”
“I am mandated by law to make your life easier. Not do everything for you,” the AI answered sardonically. Galen knew that the machine had no real emotions, that it was just copying emotional responses and mannerisms from real people to make it easier to interact with. But he could just feel that it was deriving some sick sense of pleasure from his discomfort.
“Fine, fine, five months…” Galen sighed in defeat. “I can work with that. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Your apartment unit burning down,” the AI replied to a question that Galen did not want an answer to.“ Or perhaps Wrathcoil eats your cat.”
Galen didn’t answer. He knew that Wrathcoil wouldn’t eat the cat. He was a posthuman originally bioengineered for war, not a wild animal. Honestly, it’s the clumsiness that pisses him off the most. How can a bioengineered war machine be so clumsy and incompetent?
Galen sighed. He’ll be bringing Regret to work today.
*
So. Tired.
Galen lay facedown on the bed, Regret loafed on his back. He couldn’t care less about…well, anything right now. The workload? Heavy. His roommate? Very heavy, literally. The cat? Still scared of his roommate.The apartment AI? A complete idiot.
The doorbell rang. Sighing, Galen stood up. Wrathcoil must be back from his therapy sessions.
As he opened the door, Galen noticed that Wrathcoil had several blank canvases strapped to his back. “Good evening, Galen Rodan,” Wrathcoil said in greeting. “I have returned.”
“Good evening to you, too,” Galen politely replied, even if he wasn’t feeling particularly good. “How was your day?”
Galen almost recoiled as Wrathcoil extended both of his prehensile tongues. “I acquired these sheaths.” Galen noticed they were now covered in some kind of plastic. “I understand that you do not like having your belongings coated in saliva, yes?”
Galen nodded.
“As usual, as I went about my day, children screamed.” Wrathcoil continued , making Galen cringe. “But a canine kept following me and wouldn’t leave me alone. Is that a good thing?
“What kind of dog was it?” Galen asked, curious.
“It was rather large,” Wrathcoil recounted. “The animal was completely covered in golden fur, silky smooth like Meridian Twill. It was very friendly. I did not know how to react.”
Galen couldn’t help but smile, even if he tried his best to hide it. “A Golden Retriever. That tracks perfectly. Now…” he pointed at the blank canvases tied to Wrathcoil’s back, “What are those for?”
“I am going to attempt to chase artistic pursuits,” Wrathcoil replied. “The therapist said that it would be useful in channeling my past into a healthy medium.”
“Right, right,” Galen nodded. But then he remembered just what Centipedes were like. “Try not to make a mess.”
“I am trying very hard,” Wrathcoil replied. For the first time, Galen was inclined to believe him. Silverware would probably still slip, though. Plastic and stainless steel don’t tend to stick.
*
The next day, after work, Galen found Wrathcoil in the living room. The Centipede held a paintbrush in one tongue and a painting pallet on the other. In front of him was a canvas, dotted with reds and yellows and greens. It looked like…was that a field of roses with a sunset in the background? Knowing what Wrathcoil was, and what he used to do, Galen would have expected something more terrifying.
Galen took a sip from the cup he had been carrying. “Looks like a very peaceful piece. What are you going to call it?”
“Fields of Blood,” Wrathcoil replied.
Galen took a few seconds to regain his composure. “That doesn’t look like a field of blood.”
Wrathcoil added a few finishing touches to the canvas. “The Fields of Blood is a place on my homeworld of Rho Venatici.”
“Rho Venatici…” Galen thought about that name for a moment. “It was a fortress, wasn’t it? The one that lasted the longest before it fell to the Prazyr, right? I would have thought that a painting of Rho Venatici would be all giant fortresses. Not some field of red flowers.”
“Contrary to popular belief, my homeworld was not an endless fortress-scape. There were quite a few open spaces like this,” Wrathcoil replied. “Most of the land was wilderness, really. Vast plains of grass, ice sheets that spread from both of the poles. Did you know that the planet was in an ice age?”
Galen shook his head.
“Only the equator was of any respectable warmth,” Wrathcoil continued. “That was where the population settled. The mountains were where we built the fortresses that Rho Venatici was known for. It is where we held our ground.”
Wrathcoil accidentally dropped his paintbrush, just for his other tongue to catch it mid-fall.
Galen thought about what Wrathcoil had said so far. Now, he was curious. “Is that why you chose to paint the Fields of Blood?”
Wrathcoil froze. Galen wondered for a second if he had suddenly had a stroke. But then he spoke again.
“It is where we…were first turned.”
Galen stayed quiet, and so did Wrathcoil. The air of silence would only be broken when Regret yowled at Galen.
“Is he hungry?” Wrathcoil asked, his voice tinged with concern.
“Poor thing hasn’t eaten for a grand total of 20 minutes,” Galen picked up the cat and headed to the kitchen. Just before he left Wrathcoil’s sight, he stopped and turned towards his roommate. “Hang that on the wall when you’re done.”
Galen didn’t stick around long enough to see Wrathcoil’s reaction, but he already knew what it would be.
*
“I’m sorry, you’re complaining about paint fumes?”
Galen was tired and sleepy. And yet, some people just didn’t know how to pick a good time to complain about things.
Especially when he’s personally not at fault.
“Yes!” One of Galen’s neighbors, a middle-aged woman whose name he honestly kept forgetting, all but yelled at him. “That bug you live with keeps the windows open when it paints, and I can smell it! My lungs feel like they’re on fire!”
Galen raised an eyebrow. Wrathcoil, for all his clumsiness and penchant for rearranging the furniture, was…eh…getting there. He kept the place clean whenever he was done doing his thing. The redecoration of the living room was, admittedly, a breath of fresh air.
The cat still hates him, though.
Galen smiled insincerely and folded his hands together. “Of course. I’ll have a filter system installed.”
“You better! Or I’ll report that bug to the Homeowners Association!”
As the woman turned away, Galen blinked.
We have a Homeowners Association?
*
“Crap, crap, crap, I overslept!”
Galen sent the blanket flying to the side as he rushed out of the room. At least, he would have gotten out had he not tripped on Regret himself.
The cat yelped as his master’s (or servant’s) foot lodged against his immaculate black fur. Regret immediately bolted out of the way, ignoring the fact that Galen now had his face on the carpeted floor.
For a moment, Galen began to regret his decisions so far. Staying up late to watch a telenovela being streamed from six star systems away? He regretted that. Drinking iced coffee while watching that telenovela? Also regrettable. Getting up from bed and tripping over his own cat in a panic because of a situation that he created? Even more regrettable.That cat will hate him for the next thirty minutes.
As he slowly got up from his compromised position, Galen’s nose caught the whiff of food. He knew the combination of smells well enough. He could swear, as he massaged his aching back, that there were eggs, beans, ground meat, and tomato sauce in whatever was cooking.
He didn’t feel like he had to hurry as much anymore.
“Wrathcoil,” Galen limped to the dining room, taking in the aroma of the posthuman’s unexpectedly good-smelling cooking. He wished that Wrathcoil wasn’t touching the cooking instruments with his tongues. If the posthuman wasn’t using his rubber sheaths Galen would be intensely disappointed. “What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” Wrathcoil replied. The kitchen was, admittedly, rather cramped, given that Wrathcoil was just that big. But with half of Wrathcoil’s body coiled and his chitinous plates neatly articulated, Galen could probably still get a glass of water without tripping. But since he’d already tripped on his cat, who was significantly smaller and lighter, Galen decided against it.
“Huh,” Galen nodded as he plopped down on the dining table, and yawned. “Where did you get this?”
“These were your leftovers in the refrigerator,” Wrathcoil answered. Galen noticed how he didn’t even flinch when the boiling oil flew off from the pan. He could never relate to such poise.
“Leftovers…” Galen mumbled, remembering how he had been forgetting to reheat and finally eat all those leftovers over the previous week. “They’re…they’re still edible, aren’t they?”
“I found them in your refrigerator. I noticed that they have been in there for days, and thought that it would be a waste if they were allowed to spoil. With that being said, if one more solar cycle had passed,” Wrathcoil deadpanned, “then this ground beef would have become toxic to your digestive system. Not for mine, granted, but it would do us no good if you were writhing in indigestion and pain, yes? I would not like that to happen.”
Galen simply nodded.
That was nice. This is nice. The food smells nice. Galen couldn’t even dream of mixing leftovers and making something great out of it. The best he can do is reheat it and hope it still tastes all right.
Galen yawned. “Coffee?” Wrathcoil said as he put a cup of coffee on the table.
“Oh, thank you,” Galen involuntarily shuddered when he saw how Wrathcoil’s prehensile, rubber-wrapped tongue held onto the cup. He didn’t say anything about that, though. “It’s…,” Galen sniffed the cup’s contents, taking in the all-too familiar scent of caffeine and milk put together. It’s just the way I make it, Galen thought.
Galen took a sip, “When did you learn to cook so well? I’m not really great at it. It’s all…pre-prepared.”
“Our minds were the one thing that wasn’t taken from us,” Wrathcoil replied. “We remember.”
“Oh?”
“I remember doing my best to pull together a decent meal with field rations,” Wrathcoil said, putting a pair of plates on the table. “My squad said it was…decent. I hope you find this decent.”
Had this been happening a few weeks ago, Galen would have insisted on getting his own food instead. But now?
After Wrathcoil had begun covering his prehensile tongues with plastic sheaths, Galen bought utensils made out of rubber so that his silverware wouldn’t keep slipping and clattering in Wrathcoil’s tongue-hands. Since then, Wrathcoil has been trying, and trying, and trying.
At this point, it would be rude to…well, be rude.
Even if Galen would certainly prefer it if Wrathcoil hadn’t broken his mother’s vase.
Galen took a scoop with his silver spoon; beef, eggs, and fish, all churned and ground together into a single dish. Wrathcoil watched in tepid trepidation, looking for his roommate’s reaction to his cooking.
“Oh… wow…,” Galen chewed rather slowly. “Tastes… good.”
“Truly? You find it decent?” Wrathcoil asked.
“More than decent,” Galen nodded as he began to eat and chew faster. “This is actually good.”
Wrathcoil picked up his own utensils. Rubber spoon and fork held onto the plastic-sheathed tongues, allowing Wrathcoil to eat without much trouble. “I am glad that you found it satisfactory.” The posthuman sounded relieved.
“Mmmh,” Galen nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
*
“You are reconsidering your application for reassignment?”
“Not reconsidering. Cancelling.”
“Hm. May I inquire as to why?”
“No.”
*
“Linda, Mordael, what took you so long?” Galen greeted as the two dusted off their shoes on the rug. “I–we have been waiting for an hour!”
“Linda here was distracted by all the stalls we passed through,” Mordael replied as he stepped into the apartment. Galen looked up at the towering posthuman wolfman now that he was meeting Mordael for the first time. Mordael was no less than six feet tall, clad in a long, black robe. He had a long, gray tail. Galen immediately imagined that it would wag if someone complimented him. In addition, Mordael had a pair of black gloves, hiding his paws. As for Linda, she was… very pink. Pink fur jacket. Pink boots. Pink hat. Pink dress. “I didn’t buy anything, though!” Linda protested. “I just looked.”
“Linda, I’m sure that your friend has quite the busy schedule,” Mordael cut in. When the Wulfen first spoke, Galen immediately took note of how deep his voice was.
“Well, yes,” Galen stepped aside as Linda went in as well. Linda would have headed for the dining room if it weren’t for Regret meowing loudly at her. The woman was immediately distracted, kneeling to vigorously pet the cat’s head.
“So cute,” Linda muttered as Galen watched. As for Mordael, he went on to the kitchen, where he placed a plastic bag on the counter.
It was a bag of sourdough, and he’s making bread.
Wrathcoil, for his part, was already in the kitchen, cooking, prehensile tongues in plastic sheathes and utensils coated in rubber.
He’s a far better cook, Galen thought.
*
“And there I was, face to face with the abomination,” Galen watched as Mordael recounted a war story of his. Linda looked at the Wulfen rather dreamily, while Wrathcoil seemed to be concerned with eating his food. Which is good, by the way. “I was outmatched. Blood gushed like a river from the wound in my side. But I would not accept defeat! I charged at the monstrosity. I saw its mouth begin to open; a terrible thing it was to behold, indeed, for its jaw was far too wide, too cavernous for any creature. It vomited at me! But my shield had one last charge in it, and I took the blast of bile and acid and tore through its throat and ripped out its spine!”
Galen nodded. He decided to ignore the fact that Linda’s eyes were sparkling as Mordael told his story. “I didn’t know about any of this. I mean, I saw news, but nothing beyond that.”
“Oh, that’s because you people just send millions of drones on your behalf,” Mordael snorted.
“That is true,” Wrathcoil added as he spread some of the BuzzMart Galactic honey along with some butter on a piece of bread. “However, the Automaton Legions were our saviors. Remember that, Mordael.”
“Yeah, of course,” Mordael muttered, his voice barely audible to the others. “They couldn’t go fight in the Traverse themselves…wait.”
“What?” Galen asked, his mouth half-full with a honey and ham sandwich.
“Is that BuzzMart Galactic?” Mordael zoomed in on the plastic jar enclosed in one of Wrathcoil’s tongues. “Do you know where it comes from?”
Galen twisted to the left as he heard Wrathcoil barely holding back a chuckle.
“You are essentially consuming someone else’s bodily secretions,” Mordael sniffed. “I do not like it.”
“It’s from Apisapiens, Galen.” Wrathcoil snorted. “I’m sorry, I knew all this time, but you seemed to enjoy it very much, so I didn’t tell you.”
Galen looked down at his sandwich and then back at the jar. He bit down, again, the fact that it tasted good on the forefront of his mind. He had never seen an Apisapien in the flesh yet.
“Have any of you ever interacted with an Apisapien?” Linda asked. “How do they feel about selling their…honey?”
“I met one of their matriarchs when I was still in a rehabilitation camp,” Wrathcoil began, articulating his tongues like a baseline human would with their arms while telling a story. “She made this grand speech about reclaiming our heritage from those who warped us so that they would mock what we were. I agree with her wholeheartedly.”
“It is simply uncomfortable to think about.” Mordael said before shoving a piece of steak into his sharp teeth.
As Galen bit down again, he noticed that Linda was just staring at her plate.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll just have my bread plain, thanks,” she replied, after a pause.
*
Galen sipped from his cup of morning coffee, taking in the aroma of authentic roasted beans. Wrathcoil, for his part, was painting in the living room, the canvas surrounded by spare newspapers and old documents that Galen had no more use for. Regret was curled on top of Wrathcoil’s chitinous head. The Centipede posthuman’s sense of balance was superb; the cat hadn’t been disturbed ever since she decided to get up there.
That was a first.
“Wrathcoil,” Galen called out as he grabbed his work bag, “I’m going out to work. Take care of Regret. Also, keep the ventilation system on. You know how and why.”
“She is in good hands,” Wrathcoil replied as he made another brushstroke. “And yes, I will not forget about the ventilation.”
As Galen proceeded to the door, a resounding ding rang through the apartment. The man sighed, annoyed that there was an unexpected visitor in the morning. Why can’t people just tell him in advance when they’re coming? He was already headed to work!
Galen looked through the peephole, squinting. Instead of the nosy neighbor, whose name he genuinely couldn’t be bothered to remember, a man with a long black coat, an officer’s hat, a rust-red uniform, and jackboots waited in front of the door with a tablet in hand. The badge of the Neosapien Integration Initiative was neatly stuck to his chest.
“This is Apartment Unit 461, yes?” The officer asked. “Owned by one…Galen Rodan?”
“Uh, yes?” Galen replied. He glanced back at the busy Wrathcoil. “What is this about?”
“I am conducting a survey. It would be preferable if you answer my questions here, in private.” The officer nodded at Wrathcoil.
“All right, I’m already headed out anyway,” Galen replied. He closed the door behind him. “Well, fire away.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. He then spoke in a monotone voice, as though he absolutely didn’t want to be here. “First of all, are you comfortable with the cohabitation? Are there disruptions in routine?”
“There have been… disruptions, initially, officer, uh…,” Galen looked at the officer’s badge, “…Hoxha. My roommate rearranged the furniture in the living room, broke my mother’s vase, and scared my cat. Routine is…relatively the same.”
“Mhm,” the officer muttered something under his breath, not loudly enough for Galen to properly hear. “I see that you filed for reassignment, but withdrew it. Are you sure you don’t want to proceed with it?”
“No. Why would I?”
Hoxha let out a low grumble. “You listed out a rather lengthy panoply of reasons for requesting reassignment. Let’s see, ‘destruction of property’, ‘scaring the hell out of me,’ ‘emotional distress on animal companion’, ‘unsanitary handling of objects’, ‘clumsiness’, ‘insensitivity’, ‘whatever the hell fengshui is’, ‘excessive usage of water’, and–”
“Well, all that is null and void now, yes?” Galen shrugged. “So you can put my feedback to the Initiative as…,” he thought about it for a few seconds, “…satisfactory. Seven out of ten.”
Galen watched as Hoxha stared at him for a few uncomfortable seconds before rapidly tapping on his tablet. “Thank you for answering the survey,” Hoxha nodded as he scanned the other apartment units. “By the way, you should get a bigger doorway. Your friend can get stuck in an emergency. Good day.”
With that, Hoxha turned around and walked away, leaving Galen on the balcony.
“A bigger door?” Galen looked up at the current door, remembering just how difficult it was for Wrathcoil to get inside when he first arrived. “Right…I should get that.”
About the Author. Driven towards lifelong learning and writing stories set both in alternate worlds and this one, Eriel Edward Red is currently pursuing a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Prior to that, he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Theology, Major in Church Music Conducting at the Far Eastern Bible Institute and Seminary, pursuing both of his major artistic passions in the process. At the moment, he teaches music in the Philippine Missionary Institute, informing his students in matters of music, theology, and on occasion, stories that he made up and wrote. In addition, he has won several online writing competitions.
Outside of academia, he is an avid catlover, with three cats named Maria, Celestina, and Andronikos. He spends his free time thinking of new story concepts while taking long walks with the aforementioned cats, reading novels, watching science fiction media, and playing the piano.Some of his other works include “Pictures”, a story of a day in the life of an immortal android serving the same family for centuries; “Drone Strike,” where a drone operator is forced to confront the consequences of his occupation; and “I Will Always Reach Out”, which shows what happens when an adoptive parent lives far longer than the adopted child.