Chapter One

Domestic

Before I tell you what happened when I came home, I should explain what Domestic Class actually meant.

The government definition was much cleaner than the reality.

Domestic hybrids were lineages historically connected to agriculture, husbandry, biological production or controlled breeding. Cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, poultry, rabbits and a collection of other species had been placed under that umbrella over generations of legislation. It didn't matter whether the individual hybrid had ever seen a farm. It didn't matter whether they had a doctorate, owned a company or had spent their entire life as an ordinary Civil citizen before medical conversion. Classification followed biology far more readily than biography.

Rabbits had it particularly bad.

Part of the reason was history. Rabbit-derived hybridization had been one of the cheapest and most reliable mammalian conversions developed during the early expansion of hybrid medicine. The line healed quickly, tolerated genetic intervention well and reproduced very easily. That last part became a problem. There had been periods when rabbit-hybrid populations expanded far faster than local governments were prepared to support. Abandoned breeding programs became settlements. Agricultural colonies collapsed and released thousands of people into neighboring regions. Food shortages, uncontrolled population growth, illegal breeding industries and several particularly ugly incidents convinced governments that rabbits needed to be managed rather than merely recognized as another hybrid lineage.

Once a government builds an entire bureaucracy around managing a group of people, getting the government to admit those people no longer require managing becomes remarkably difficult.

So rabbit hybrids became Domestic.

Later generations inherited the classification long after the original crises had passed.

There were activists. Lawsuits. Protected communities. Politicians who promised reform every election cycle. There were technically procedures allowing a Domestic hybrid to petition for Civil reclassification.

Technically.

For rabbits, success was so rare that most people treated the process as a joke.

I knew all of that before I woke up with rabbit ears.

Knowing a law academically and waking up underneath it are very different experiences.

They kept me in the hospital for a month.

The first week was mostly reconstruction monitoring. The second was physical therapy. The third was more physical therapy combined with increasingly creative attempts to convince me that my new body was not, in fact, useless.

The fourth was mostly paperwork.

I hated the paperwork more.

My final medical evaluation listed me at just under four feet tall. Dwarf expression had been stronger than the surgeons expected. I had retained mostly human proportions, but everything had been compressed into a smaller, lighter frame built around the simple biological principle of requiring as few resources as possible to remain alive.

The doctors called that medically advantageous.

I called it bullshit.

My strength was pathetic. My balance was unreliable. Loud noises made my ears move before I could control them. Sudden movement sometimes sent a shot of adrenaline through me so sharp that my legs tried to run even when I consciously knew there was no danger.

And then there was the collar.

The hospital clerk who issued it looked embarrassed.

Clerk: "It's required for newly registered Domestic conversions until your permanent identification is processed."

I stared at the object in her hands.

It was gray polymer, padded inside, with a small registration plate on the front.

Leona: "That goes around my neck."

Clerk: "Yes."

Leona: "Like an animal."

The woman shifted uncomfortably.

Clerk: "It's a livestock identification collar."

There are moments when someone says something so absurdly terrible that anger briefly gives way to admiration for the sheer efficiency of it.

Leona: "You actually call it that?"

Clerk: "That's the official equipment category."

Of course it was.

I let her put it on because refusing would delay my discharge.

That sentence alone should tell you almost everything necessary about bureaucracy.

An hour later, I walked out of the hospital wearing jeans that had needed to be altered twice, a sweater Mom had bought for me, shoes designed for my changed feet, and a hard plastic collar announcing to anyone who understood the registration system that Leona Voss was no longer Civil Class.

Mom drove me home.

I barely spoke during the trip.

The world looked different from lower down.

That bothered me more than I expected.

Cars seemed larger. Trucks were much worse. Every time one passed us, my body tightened automatically. Once, when a delivery truck changed lanes too quickly beside us, I practically jumped against the passenger door.

Mom noticed. She didn't mention it. For that, I loved her.

The farm appeared beyond the rain-dark fields in the late afternoon. The storm had passed two days earlier, but the ground was still wet and the ditches full. I recognized everything immediately. The barn. The fencing. Dad's old workshop. The porch.

Home.

My chest tightened.

For one beautiful moment, I thought maybe everything would be fine.

The porch light came on as Mom pulled into the drive.

Kira was already outside.

She lay across the porch in a loose coil of orange scales, her human upper body leaning against the railing while her tail occupied enough space for several ordinary people. She watched the car approach with the particular expression Kira wore whenever the universe had delivered entertainment directly to her.

I knew that expression.

I didn't like it.

Mom parked.

Getting out of the car took more effort than I wanted anyone to see. My legs were improving, but climbing down from a normal passenger seat when you were suddenly much smaller involved an awkward little drop I hadn't yet learned to make gracefully.

Kira watched the whole thing.

Her grin widened.

Mom slithered around the car before I had both feet properly planted and immediately wrapped her arms around me.

Elara: "Oh! You're finally home, sweetie!"

I disappeared into Mom.

There are disadvantages to having a mother whose lower body consists of several meters of powerful snake and who has no concept of moderate affection.

Still, I hugged her back.

Hard.

Leona: "Missed you too."

My voice broke slightly.

I hated that it did.

Mom noticed.

Her grip softened.

Elara: "Oh, baby..."

Leona: "It was bad, Mom."

That was all I managed.

A month of surgery, therapy, registration hearings, learning how to walk again and waking up every morning hoping for half a second that the ears had been a nightmare came apart inside five words.

Leona: "I was scared."

Mom stroked my hair.

Elara: "I know."

Leona: "I hate this body."

She didn't answer immediately.

I pulled away enough to look at her.

Leona: "It's weak. Everything feels wrong. I can't even carry half the things I used to."

From the porch came a laugh.

Kira.

Loud.

Delighted.

Kira: "Holy shit."

I closed my eyes.

There it was.

Kira: "They really did turn you into a fucking rabbit."

Mom looked toward her.

Elara: "Kira."

Kira ignored her and slithered closer, studying me openly.

Kira: "Look at you."

Her eyes traveled downward.

I suddenly became extremely conscious of my size.

Kira: "You're tiny."

Leona: "Thank you, Kira. I hadn't noticed."

Kira: "No, seriously. What is this? Dwarf rabbit?"

I said nothing.

Her eyes reached the collar.

That stopped her for half a second.

Then came the grin.

Kira: "Oh, fuck me."

She leaned closer.

Kira: "They gave you the collar."

Leona: "Don't."

Kira: "Domestic Class."

Leona: "Kira."

Kira: "My big sister is livestock."

Mom's voice sharpened.

Elara: "Enough."

Kira raised her hands innocently.

Kira: "What? That's literally the classification."

Then she looked back at me.

Red eyes.

Snake teeth visible behind the smile.

Kira: "And rabbit, too. Of all things."

She tapped her own orange scales.

Kira: "Mom and I get giant snake bodies. You get fluffy prey."

Something cold moved through my stomach.

Kira: "Guess the food chain finally sorted us properly."

Elara: "Kira!"

Kira laughed and turned toward the house.

Kira: "Relax. I'm joking."

Then, over her shoulder:

Kira: "Mostly."

I stayed where I was.

Mom touched my shoulder.

Elara: "Don't listen to her."

Leona: "Hard not to."

Elara: "She's being awful."

Leona: "She's good at it."

That got the smallest smile from Mom.

Elara: "Come inside. I made dinner."

Home.

Right.

That was why I'd come back.

Dinner was fried eggs, bacon, bread and potatoes.

Mom had made far too much.

Some things survived every apocalypse.

I sat in my old chair, except Mom had added a cushion because I was now too short for the table.

I removed it immediately.

I'd rather sit low.

Kira noticed that too.

She noticed everything that could hurt.

Kira: "Need a booster seat?"

Leona: "Need me to shove this fork into your eye?"

Kira: "There she is."

Mom set a glass of milk beside me.

Elara: "Eat, sweetheart. You lost a lot of weight."

I looked at the plate.

Hospital nutrition had been carefully measured. Dwarf rabbit metabolism required frequent food but not particularly large meals.

Another thing I hated knowing about myself.

I started eating anyway.

Mom sat beside me.

Elara: "Your first official weigh-in is next week."

I stopped chewing.

Leona: "My what?"

Elara: "Your weigh-in."

She said it as casually as if she'd reminded me about a dentist appointment.

Leona: "Why?"

Mom blinked.

Elara: "For your Domestic health records."

I stared at her.

Leona: "Mom, nobody is coming here to weigh me."

Elara: "No, silly. I do it."

That did not improve anything.

Leona: "Then who cares?"

Elara: "The Authority requires monthly health reports for registered Domestic individuals living on private property."

Kira lowered her fork.I saw interest appear immediately.

Bad sign.

Mom continued.

Elara: "Weight, general health, nutrition, growth if applicable. Just to make sure you're being properly cared for."

Leona: "I'm twenty-one."

Elara: "I know."

Leona: "I'm not a cow."

Silence.

Mom's expression changed in that small confused way she had when reality refused to fit neatly into the rule she'd been given.

Elara: "No, sweetie. You're rabbit type."

Kira nearly choked.

I stared at Mom.

She genuinely hadn't understood what I'd meant.

That somehow made it worse.

Kira: "Mom."

Kira was grinning so hard she could barely speak.

Kira: "She's asking why the weight matters."

Elara: "For the report?"

Kira: "No."

She leaned across the table toward me.

Kira: "Market records."

I stopped eating. Mom looked uncomfortable.

Elara: "Kira..."

Kira: "What? She should know."

Leona: "Know what?"

Kira rested her chin on one hand.

Kira: "Domestic rabbit weight gets recorded because it affects value."

I stared at her.

Kira: "Health. Breeding classification. Yield."

My fork touched the plate.

Quietly.

Leona: "Yield."

Kira: "You're technically food-production subtype."

Mom shifted beside me.

Elara: "It's only the registration language."

Kira: "Still counts."

Kira's eyes flicked over me.

Kira: "Not that there'd be much yield off you."

She smiled.

Kira: "Dwarf variant."

I stood up. Too fast. The chair scraped backward and my legs wobbled.

Kira noticed.

Of course she did.

Kira: "Careful, bunny."

Leona: "Shut the fuck up."

Mom reached toward me.

Elara: "Leona..."

I pulled away.

Then I looked directly at her.

Not Kira.

Mom.

Leona: "Do you think she's right?"

Mom froze.

Elara: "About what?"

Leona: "Me."

I touched the collar.

Leona: "Domestic. Livestock. Food."

Mom's face softened.

Elara: "Oh, sweetheart, I don't think of you that way."

Relief came too quickly.

Then she continued.

Elara: "But legally, yes. That's your classification now."

The relief vanished.

Leona: "That's not what I asked."

Elara: "I know, but..."

She struggled.

Mom had always trusted systems more than Dad had. Rules meant structure. Forms meant somebody had considered the problem already. If an authority said something was safe, regulated or legal, Mom had a habit of assuming the difficult thinking had therefore been done by someone qualified.

Usually that trait was harmless.

That night it wasn't.

Elara: "It's like the chickens."

I went very still. Even Kira stopped smiling for a moment. Mom noticed our faces and rushed onward.

Elara: "I don't mean you're a chicken! I mean classification. They have a purpose in the agricultural system. Domestic hybrids have different legal functions than Civil hybrids. That's all."

Leona: "So if Kira ate me..."

Mom's face changed.

Finally. Not confusion.

Fear.

Leona: "...would that be okay?"

Elara: "No!"

The answer came instantly.

Elara: "Of course not!"

Leona: "Why?"

Elara: "Because you're my daughter!"

Leona: "That's not what I asked."

Mom's hands tightened together. I could see her trying to find the right answer. Trying to make love and law occupy the same space.

Leona: "Would it be murder?"

Silence.

Kira wasn't smiling anymore.

Mom looked at the table.

Elara: "...legally?"

There are words you remember for the rest of your life.

Sometimes they're declarations of love.

Sometimes they're promises.

Sometimes they're your mother asking whether you'd like the legal answer to whether your sister could eat you.

Leona: "Yes. Legally."

Mom swallowed.

Elara: "No."

I felt something inside me become very quiet.

Elara: "Domestic consumption within registered predator-households isn't prosecuted as homicide if the Domestic individual is legally held within that household."

I stared at her.

Mom's eyes filled with tears.

Elara: "But I would never let that happen."

Leona: "You shouldn't have to let it not happen."

Elara: "Leona..."

Leona: "It should be murder."

Elara: "I know."

Leona: "Do you?"

She flinched.

Immediately, I hated myself for that.

Then I remembered the collar around my neck.

I hated everything else instead.

Kira finally spoke.

Kira: "Nobody's eating you."

I looked at her.

Leona: "You spent the last hour joking about it."

Kira: "Yeah. Joking."

Leona: "Funny."

She looked irritated now.

Kira: "Jesus Christ, don't become dramatic."

I laughed.

I couldn't help it.

Leona: "I'm dramatic?"

Kira: "You're acting like the classification changed who you are."

I looked at her.

Then at Mom.

Then at the collar.

Leona: "No."

I pushed my chair away.

Leona: "It changed what everyone else is allowed to do to me."

Nobody answered that.

I left the table.

Mom called after me.

Elara: "Leona, sweetie..." I kept walking. The stairs were harder than they used to be.

That was another humiliation.

I had to use the railing and take them one at a time because my legs weren't strong enough yet to climb normally. I knew Kira could hear every slow footstep from the dining room. I refused to look back.

My old bedroom was exactly as I'd left it.

Tools. Laptop. Shelves.

Old components. Six little spider drones beneath the loose floorboard where I'd hidden them from Kira years ago because she kept stealing them and making them climb into Mom's kitchen cabinets. My room. My things.

Mine.

I closed the door. Locked it.

Then I stood there with one hand still resting on the deadbolt.

Downstairs, I could faintly hear Mom crying.

Kira said something I couldn't make out. I looked at myself in the mirror. Small white ears. Tiny body. Gray collar. Domestic. F-Rank.

Prey.

For the first time since leaving the hospital, I stopped trying to convince myself I could simply adjust.

Home had been the place I expected to be safe.

Instead, I'd learned something much more useful.

The law wouldn't protect me.

My classification wouldn't protect me.

And apparently love, by itself, wasn't enough either.

I looked toward the loose floorboard.

Then toward Dad's old tool case sitting beneath my desk.

That was the moment I started thinking like an engineer again.

Not:

How do I live with this?

Something much simpler.

How can I fix this?