Nonus Blonso put on his bowler hat, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. An aging man with sagging, wrinkled skin on his cheeks, gray hair with sparse strands of brown, dressed in a jacket. The work gloves on his hands looked almost wild. He smiled, leaned down, and ruffled the gray cloud that was attacking his trousers with a mixture of love and playful nibbling. Bigster, a small mutt the couple adopted from a shelter seven years ago, never quite learned proper manners and was denied the privilege of going outside.
“Floria, I’m off!”
“Be careful! Don’t get into trouble!” his wife shouted from the kitchen, not pausing in her cooking.
He didn’t take a cane, walked out onto the landing with a steady stride, and nodded to his youthful-looking neighbor, who gave him a sad look. Thirty years ago, they drank together at a bar two blocks from home, but now Nonus’s stomach no longer tolerated such liberties. The couple belonged to the traditionalists, those preferring to live out their allotted span and die a natural death, rather than use rejuvenation procedures and constantly fear losing eternity in some catastrophe.
No one is immortal, so why cheat old Lady Death? She always gets her due.
Their point of view was in the minority. Nonus had no idea whether there were other elderly people on their street or in the district. But he didn’t judge others, nor did he regret his own choice. He and his wife had lived a full life, raised three children who had scattered to different ends of the country, and enjoyed spending time with their grandchildren in their twilight years.
Old age had its downsides, too. He tired more quickly, his perception had dulled, and Floria had become too attached to the television. Passing a child’s bicycle left on the second floor, Nonus suddenly felt like knocking on that family’s door and complaining about the mess. As if he himself hadn’t spray‑painted graffiti on the city council wall as a brat.
Ah, youth. Getting it back would cost nothing, but why? He nudged the bicycle out of the way with his foot and smirked at the neighbor who overtook him. He was no longer a runner.
Stepping outside, Nonus welcomed the warm air. The frozen spring was finally ending, and tomorrow would be the first day of summer, which promised to be hot. Excellent; his bones rejoiced.
A courier had left a sealed box as tall as the man himself right next to the entrance, leaning it against the flowerbed fence. Nonus didn’t ask the young man to haul the construction set inside, preferring to stretch his legs and enjoy some silence, away from Floria and her eternal worries.
He wasn’t afraid of thieves. Their neighborhood was quiet. True, a couple of months ago there had been six brutal beatings and one murder. The victim had first been hung by his broken legs, then his throat was slit, and rumors said his organs had also been removed. Such savagery stirred up Baal, and in many broadcasts, people voiced suspicions about the resurgence of fanatical cults.
The police even raided the Oathtakers Church, its green triangular roof peeking out from behind a six‑story building on the opposite side of the street. They found nothing, and Nonus wasn’t surprised. The holy folk were busy performing charity and sermons; they had no time for atrocities.
He himself didn’t like religious fools, but accusing them of murder? Unheard of!
In any case, the tragedies had occurred in the city's south, and now the police were combing the warehouses. They’d catch the scum; they’d caught worse.
Nonus grunted, leaning the gift for his grandchildren toward himself. Inside was a model railway with trains—real ones on wheels, not the levitating carts that zipped above the tracks. They hadn’t manufactured those in years. The grandchildren would be thrilled in a week, and assembling this toy would be beneficial for his motor skills. He had been sitting still for too long.
His lower back tensed, but there was no pain. The biological implants that every Iternian citizen received at birth were doing their job perfectly. The forty‑seven‑kilogram weight quickened Nonus’s breath as he dragged the box to the entrance of the building. He had deliberately chosen the morning. Most families were still asleep, and early birds like the neighbor had already flown off to work.
Several cars drove out of the underground parking lot; gardeners and cleaners, yawning, began tidying the streets. Nonus politely declined an offer of help, swiped his card at the door, and noticed a convoy of one truck and two cars stopping nearby. Probably their new neighbors. The civil servants had warned them that their building had been included in the Adaptation Program and that two vacant apartments would soon be occupied.
He would greet them later.
Nonus hauled the gift up to the landing between the second and third floors and paused to catch his breath. His hair was damp, his fingers throbbing from the sharp corners. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so stubborn and should have used the elevator. Why was he testing himself? Reminiscing about his youth? Craving sensations? Gray hair hadn’t brought him wisdom.
Wiping the sweat with a handkerchief, he continued dragging the load upstairs, whistling. Suddenly, the sunlight in the window dimmed, and Nonus found himself in shadow, holding a box that had suddenly become light.
And above it, something was staring at him. Its head was encased in a bony shell molded like a helmet. Low‑set red eyes with bright green vertical pupils faintly illuminated the dark skin of their sockets. Through the mouth slit, square teeth the size of a hand were visible. The two front teeth on both the upper and lower jaws tapered into triangles, forming sharp fangs. Hot breath stirred Nonus’s hair, and the size of the hands gripping the box made his soul drop to his heels.
Nonus stood three steps higher and was still shorter than this bony apparition!
The organs… the missing organs from that poor man… Long, strong fingers wrapped in a glow and overgrown with external bone were surely sharp enough to…
“Hello!” the creature said cheerfully. A dark translator bead was visible in its throat. “Is it heavy for you? Let me help you carry it!”
The image of being torn apart cracked in Nonus’s mind. He opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling to utter a single word.
“Catch your breath; it’s no trouble for me to hold it.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, stop acting like a monkey and jumping at people?! You’re frightening them!”
“I’m not frightening anyone; I just saw that a herd member was struggling…”
“It’s hard for them to stay on their feet when you come running at them like a curious elephant.” A white‑haired woman in a loose denim jacket appeared to the left of the mutant. Barely reaching his elbow, she showed a social worker’s ID. “Sorry for the scare. We’re moving in new residents, but they…”
“They haven’t done anything wrong; the enthusiasm is understandable.” Nonus’s throat cleared. What came over him? He wasn’t a racist, after all. Hadn’t he himself helped carry heavy loads before? It was just a strangely dressed person, nothing more. “Are you William? I’d shake your hand, but that will have to wait. My name is Nonus. I can drag the box up myself, but I won’t say no to help. Tell me, are your children interested in model railways?”
“Never seen one. And I’m not William. That’s my father.” The mutant jerked his head toward the window. “I’m his son, Drax.”
Nonus craned his neck and gasped when he saw who was walking from the truck toward the building, carrying furniture under his arms as if it weighed nothing. His wife and younger children followed. One of them had wings!
I didn’t expect my old age to be this interesting. Floria will have enough gossip for a whole year. Nonus tried to cheer himself up. It wasn’t working very well, but he wasn’t a coward. He’d manage if the neighbors turned out to be decent.
“Nice to meet you, Drax. Let’s get this thing upstairs, and this evening I’ll show you a real model railway. By the way, I have a dog at home; don’t step on him when we open the door, and tell me about yourself. Isn’t it hard for you to carry all this on your own? How do you scratch your back?”
****
“They promised us a socialization period for the Abnormals! Video evidence and proof of their readiness! That promise was broken in the grossest possible way, and yet both parties ignore the real danger! They’re bringing in people who haven’t embraced our values, don’t share our views, and don’t even know our history! Has our citizenship become so devalued? How can we expect them to integrate into society? It’s cruel to them and to us! How dare the conservatives risk ordinary citizens?”
With a snap of his fingers, Qezon turned off the terminal, silently agreeing with the arguments of the Defenders. He zipped up his black jacket and ran his hands over the thin, fading scars that ran from his crown to his left eye. Ugly, but he hadn’t had them removed, determined never to forget the price of his cowardice. Tying his boots, the teenager walked to the window of his living quarters and jumped out from the sixth floor.
In the air, he wrapped his arms around his knees, pulled them to his chin, and spun, exhilarated by the fall. The racing heartbeat and the wind tugging at his short brown hair reminded him he was alive. Nothing else matters.
Energy ribbons, invisible to the naked eye, extended from his body. Forming flexible fingers at their ends, the energy appendage closed the window. The grass below was flattened, pressed down by created flat feet connected to slowly shortening transparent pillars that gently lowered Qezon to the lawn. Touching the grass with his fingers, he straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and broke into a run.
The Academy did not approve of such stunts, which unsettled ordinary people unaccustomed to the everyday use of powers. But what wasn’t explicitly forbidden was permitted, and he needed constant training to stay in shape.
A worker changing a sign on an old‑fashioned cafe in an alley accidentally dropped the letter “K.” Energy ropes projected by the running Qezon wrapped around the falling lamp and returned it to the grateful worker’s hands. In a supermarket parking lot, a woman packing groceries into her trunk had a paper bag tear. A dozen cushions of solidified air caught the scattered apples and dumped them into the trunk—to the woman’s surprise as she called out “thanks.”
Qezon ran on, reaching the green strip that ran the length of City Hall Square and ended at the bridge over the river. The roads gradually filled with sleek cars hovering above the concrete. Among the flow, yellow buses could be seen, carrying chattering schoolchildren to excursions and activities.
Summer! There were still three months until classes started—seemingly a lifetime. But the Ministry of Education was hatching its own devilish plans, involving children in various clubs to broaden their horizons, and even in summer, school buses circulated through Baal. Such hassle did not threaten Qezon.
At the Academy, vacations were shortened, and after lunch he had a group physics class. Together with his classmates, he had spent a whole month assembling and debugging a portable teleporter that transmitted electric current, and he was quite proud of the result. During the collaborative work, they discovered that the teleporter also allowed them to use their powers through the spatial portal.
He hadn’t yet figured out how to apply that practically, but the information was useful. Surely the teachers already knew about it and encouraged the trainees to experiment under supervision.
He perked up at the sound of crying. A little kid was throwing her head back, looking at a ball of fur meowing high among the branches, afraid to come down. Her parents were already calling the park’s security.
Useless. He didn’t like such careless yawners. We were responsible for those we tamed, and bringing animals into a park without a leash was stupid. What else would a cat do but climb a tree?
Weighing the pros and cons of a jump, Qezon used his power to lift the spotted kitten and take it in his hands. Without breaking stride, he handed the pet to the girl’s father, slapping his hand amicably on the Academy emblem on his chest.
“What should you say?” the man asked, giving the kitten to the girl.
“Thank you!” the girl chirped happily, carefully hugging her friend.
“Always ready to assist!” Your daughter has more sense than you, dumbass. Why the hell are you putting such responsibility on a child? What if a cyclist runs over the kitten, cretin? Then what? Enjoy seeing her wallowing in guilt for the rest of her life?!
He swallowed the ready to burst out insults and kept running. His parents had always called him overly judgmental, and sessions with a psychotherapist helped. Today, Qezon hadn’t ruined a wonderful family morning with unnecessary lectures. Running across the bridge, he found himself momentarily in the shadow of the Barjoni skyscraper. Even from the south of the city, the tallest building, located in the northeast, was visible. The corporation’s coiled serpent watched the growing city with a ruby eye the size of a pond.
The Barjoni family had founded Baal, and although the city could not compare to distant Morningstar, the corporation owned lavish estates in the suburbs. Their matriarch came here to rest in the healing waters, and the numerous Barjoni offspring could be encountered almost anywhere, instantly recognizable by the cosmetic eye surgery.
At the confluence of two rivers, between the bridges, stood the Academy. Abnormals from all over the region flocked here to obtain a license to use their powers or to train as explorators from a young age. Resembling a stainless‑steel pyramid with its top cut off from a distance, the Academy sprawled over a forty‑kilometer island and housed many educational institutions tailored to every taste, all carefully selected for the trainees’ comprehensive development. Enrico Barjoni’s daughter also studied here, having for some unknown reason decided to become an explorator. Qezon had seen her a couple of times: an arrogant and self‑confident aristocrat achieving everything too easily thanks to bio‑engineering enhancements paid for by her family.
Running past a couple balancing on the bridge’s railing, he used an energy appendage to catch the girl’s falling backpack, preventing it from dropping into the river, and retracted the appendage as soon as she grabbed her belongings. Carelessness. People were constantly falling into the river, and rescue drones patrolled below. Getting wet wasn’t unusual, but sometimes Qezon was puzzled understanding how people stumbling into trouble on flat ground managed to live to their age.
His run brought him to the fenced‑off industrial zone of warehouses in the southeast, and Qezon stopped, his legs trembling. A wheeled truck rumbled down the empty road. Not a modern model, so it was likely a transport for cross‑border deliveries. In front of the warehouses, an external drainage ditch ran like a moat.
It happened here. He touched the scars, remembering that night. Light drugs and exotic goods smuggled from other countries were often traded here. Despite regular police raids, long‑haul drivers and workers were greedy for money, and trainees often came here to buy something to tickle their nerves. Drugs risked expulsion and a criminal record, but fine cigars were no problem.
That night, he had been walking toward them when he heard sobbing, the thud of fists and pipes against flesh coming from a gap between stopped trucks. Reacting instantly to the crying, he jumped to help a figure lying on the ground who was being mercilessly beaten by strangers. He didn’t have time to use his power. Something… someone rushed at him, turning half the world red. A piece of skin flapped over his eye, pain shooting through his whole body.
He backed away, frightened and aware of his vulnerability. A shadow moved after him, slashing him across the stomach with something sharp. The next blow struck his cheekbone, and Qezon wept like a helpless child, calling for help instead of fighting. The police found him in the drainage ditch, wrapped in an energy cocoon, trembling and soaking wet. When they finally persuaded him to turn off his power, it turned out that his left eye was hanging by its nerve.
No one blamed him. But he knew how he had behaved, and he guessed who the victim was from the news. The police had visited him too often, and the trainer who came to check up on him assured Qezon that he had done everything possible.
What had he done? Forgotten to use his power? Lost like a child? Let the weak down and allowed him to die?
Qezon tensed, wrapping force stripes around himself and muffling the sounds of the outside world. He looked around, certain he was being watched. The road was empty except for the truck being inspected at the gates and the rising sun illuminated the day; a light layer of sand brought by the night wind bore the traces of tires and his own boots. The corner of his mouth twitched—next to his footprints were two indentations.
Energy whips lashed around him, slapping the road and kicking up sand. He imagined pebbles were rolling into the ditch, but when he approached, he saw no ripples on the stagnant water. Nothing. Nerves. Still, he hurried back at a brisk pace, not looking back at the warehouses.
Next time, I won’t be caught off guard.
A hover‑truck and two cars were waiting for him in front of his building. Seeing the emblem of the spreading tree, Qezon dashed up the stairs, doubling his efforts at the sound of a stifled gasp and the tapping of sharp sticks on stone. The neighbor from the apartment below was standing on the stairs, having dropped his suitcase. The usually serene man’s face had turned pale.
“Is everything all right…” He followed the neighbor’s gaze.
And immediately formed a solid cocoon around both of them.
A creature straight out of an alien horror film was crawling along the underside of the stairs above them. The size of a full‑grown bull, with a long curved tail pressing a brightly wrapped bundle against its back, it moved on several curved legs thicker than Qezon’s arm. Its heavy body shimmered silver, the color of a tight‑fitting suit. The creature’s front ended in two powerful pincers, and the chitin of its chest smoothly transitioned into a human neck. A dark translator bead was visible in the stranger’s ear, and Qezon dared to exhale, staying close to the neighbor.
I almost struck. Need to be more cautious.
Passing over them, the mutant detached itself, flipped in the air, and landed silently on the landing. Its head turned back; folds of skin bulged above its reddish‑green eyes.
“Sorry about almost bumping into you. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come charging like a madman!” said the bundle on its back in a girl’s voice.
An almost exact copy of the huge mutant rose on its rounded back. Dressed in a tight suit painted pink with drawn bears on top and yellow below, the strange girl smiled at Qezon. He flinched at the sight of her needle‑like teeth.
Damn Adaptation Program. The teenager handed the neighbor the suitcase, ignored the arriving civil servant and the family who had agreed to take guardianship of Egor and Lily Barannikov, and refused to shake the offered mechanical manipulator parodying a human hand. Qezon jumped, pushed off the ceiling, landed on the other side of the gathered crowd, climbed up to his apartment, and slammed the door.
His mother and father were not home; they had already left for work. Clutching his chest, where his heart was pounding fast, he made it to his room. Those two. They’re probably dangerous. Possibly criminals. There was no reason to scare anyone, yet that mutant had deliberately shown off his power. He would have to watch them. He wouldn’t let anyone get hurt.
On the inside of his wardrobe hung a poster of the Rejecters. On it, a dark‑skinned man in glasses pointed imperiously at the viewer. “Protecting Iterna is the duty of every true patriot!” the slogan read. Qezon touched his scar.
I’ll be careful. The thing that tore me up that night had sharp claws. One mutant isn’t much different from another. They’re all beasts.
****
Varia folded her arms across her chest, trying to appear confident as the government cars pulled up to the orphanage. The head caregiver was unwell today, so Varia, as the senior assistant, had volunteered to meet the special wards of their esteemed institution. The Nero Orphanage had been operating since the founding of Baal, helping souls find children for families and protecting the little ones from the hardships of the outside world until they were strong enough to venture out on their own.
Journalists and critics questioned their methods, which was understandable given the orphanage’s original sponsor. Nevertheless, the excellent results of the staff’s hard work and the complete absence of bullying within their walls answered the doubters better than any words.
Iterna and the Rho family were renowned for their deeds. Varia followed that creed as well.
Today, they would face a genuine test. She tried to calm herself. She had seen only a few mutants before, and only on television. Eliza, the half‑human, half‑rat, had recently spoken after the events in the Land of the Oath and didn’t look dangerous at all. So nothing unusual would happen here. Their charges, Tigrin Ka and Virsavia Arza, were undoubtedly tired and on edge. The last thing they needed was nervousness from the adult responsible for them.
The cars stopped, and Varia walked toward them with a confident step. The first to get out was the civil servant who would be living at the orphanage. A tall man in the prime of life, with disheveled, vulgar hair unbefitting a person of his rank. His eyes looked almost predatory at the approaching woman, but he smiled warmly, instantly dispelling the threat.
“Missus…” He bowed. His uniform was unzipped at the chest, revealing a t‑shirt instead of the required shirt.
Slob. Varia had expected better from someone whose salary was paid by her taxes.
Next came two girls, which somewhat calmed her. Virsavia reached her chest in height and wore a loose purple t‑shirt with a comet crossing out a band’s name. Something devilish and unworthy of a lady, no doubt. Over it, she wore a jacket that was too large for her, and her knees poked through rips in her jeans.
At first, the girl seemed like a patient suffering from a serious skin disease. But up close, green scales were clearly visible, clashing with every color of her outfit. She would need to teach her a better choice of tones. What Varia had taken for hair turned out to be flaps of flesh hanging from her skull. Not unattractive—they could pass for dreadlocks—but a slight tint of hair dye or accessories would help. Overall, her appearance was fine, her manner confident. Virsavia held herself boldly, not looking around with longing.
A real fighter.
The second girl wore a white blouse, a long dark skirt, and white stockings. Varia immediately liked her modesty and opened her mouth to offer a warning when a long tail shot up, lifting the edge of the skirt. Fortunately, the sensible girl was wearing a skort. But couldn’t those idiots from the Ministry of Child Protection have simply made a necessary hole for the tail? Incompetence, absolute incompetence.
Tigrin was a head shorter than her friend and too thin for Varia’s taste. Her ears and striped fur resembled a cat, if such animals walked on two legs and were human‑sized. The poor thing's fur was matted around her neck, drawn tight by an ugly collar. She needed a shower and a good brushing. They would get rid of that choking leash, even if she had to file a complaint with the Child Protection Department.
Varia found she was no longer afraid at all. Now she knew what to do. And what had she been worried about? Children were children, no matter what the Defenders spouted.
“Welcome home. I’m Varia.” She smiled broadly, deliberately ignoring the uncouth man. Let him first tidy himself up. What kind of example is he setting for the young?
“Tigrin.” A furry little hand extended.
“Vyfka… I mean, Virsavia. Where can I charge a terminal?” the second girl asked, pointing at her dead device.
“There are chargers in your room. No, no need to help.” Varia easily lifted two boxes and the newcomers’ suitcase. Poor things, almost nothing to their names.
That would be remedied.
“Follow me. The other children are on an excursion today, so the whole building is at your disposal.” She led them toward the three‑story building. At the security post, the newcomers were issued personal cards. “Don’t worry if you lose them…”
“They won’t lose them,” the civil servant said.
“…there’s often chaos here. We don’t punish people for minor mishaps,” Varia finished.
The vulgar boor! How dare he speak for orphans and interrupt me!
After she showed the children to their room, she set the boxes down on the floor. Before their arrival, the director had spoken with the girls, and some changes had been made to the room whose purpose she didn’t understand. Above Virsavia’s made bed appeared an ugly bulge protruding from the wall. An electrical outlet was placed on top of the nightstand instead of behind or beside it. A couple of beams cast shadows on Tigrin’s bed.
It was all very confusing, and she worried it might be humiliating for the girls. A misunderstanding, nothing more.
“Don’t!” Virsavia exclaimed, stopping Varia from trying to tear the tape off the box.
Claws flashed, and the cardboard split in two. Things tumbled onto the floor; the scaly girl grabbed her charger, plugged it into the outlet, and jumped. The claws of her feet dug into the wooden bulge, and she hung there, leaning against the wall, her head resting on the pillow. Her fingers began tapping on the lit screen of the terminal.
The man chuckled. Varia nudged him lightly with her elbow. Don’t embarrass the girls. So they had claws. Well, they could be painted… And they would also need to ensure the safety of the other children from such weapons without humiliating the Abnormals.
“It’s nice here,” Tigrin said. “And you’re not scared at all. You’re funny.”
The furry girl already gathered her sheet, blanket, and pillow, dragging them up onto the beams faster than Varia could notice. The young wonder also done it all quietly, without a rustle, and a pang of sadness struck the assistant’s heart. She clearly hadn’t had an easy life if she had learned such stealth at such a young age.
“From my point of view, you’re the funny ones.” Varia put her hands on her hips. “Virsavia, put down the terminal.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’! You can chat after lunch. Tigrin, that goes for you too. Let’s go wash your hands, then a tour and meet the staff. Did you come here to live or to be cloistered nuns?” the assistant barked.
“What are nuns?” Tigrin hung from the beam by her tail and swung to the floor.
Cat‑monkey. Well, that’s new. Varia thought and began to explain.