Unlikely

SIX

The city at night is different when seen by car, quiet and aloof, detached from the mayhem of other's busy lives. I watch the lights and the people, separate from them in a way I am not when on my bike. They seem almost innocent in their determined disregard of the state of the world. They hurry to shops and restaurants as though these things actually matter when just around the corner are the less fortunate, doomed by a self engrossed society that cares only about maintaining the thin veneer of a 'normal' life. 'Forward and Upward!'. That is the government's slogan. I don't remember but I feel sure this was me a lifetime ago.

Then we enter a section of the city I am not familiar with. It is busier even than the one I work in and the swarm of people shocks me, makes me self conscience. I hope Mike doesn't plan on taking me anywhere around here. Someone would be sure to notice my differentness up close.

"Relax." Mike turns slowly down a side street, waiting for people to stream around his car as we inch forward. "We're just passing through."

I sink back into the seat and watch a group of people with shaved heads and skintight mint green leotards leap past waving tiny flags. I squint, trying to make out the design.

"Is that a squid?" I ask.

"That's an octopus. Don't you know your cephalopods?" Mike grins.

"There's a religion built around octopuses?" I shake my head.

"Octopi." Mike corrects me. But I'm not sure. About any of it.

A few turns later and we emerge onto a much quieter street. There's some graffiti but that is true of most places. Otherwise it looks tidy and inhabited. A few people are out, on their way somewhere, not casually strolling but purposeful. There appear to be apartments above and businesses below street level. Neon signs decorate the lower levels, lighting up the night in a multi-colored blaze of competing promises. A sign for 'A Special Chinese and Acupuncture' hangs next to a business that says it specializes in Past Telling, whatever that is. Perhaps people have given up on the future and fortunes.

We turn a few more corners and slide onto a street that is darker than the rest. There are no colorful signs so I assume this part of town is all living spaces. We park and get out. A dog barks from inside one of the apartments and a light rain starts up again. We are alone on this street and if not for the dog I would have assumed this area abandoned. I see flower beds let go, broken windows and trash piled where the wind has left it. We are close to an old subway entrance, I see the stairs leading down into darkness. The dark maw sparks a shock of fear and I shudder. I don't care for the tubes of death.

"Come." Mike leads me down some stairs, through a weathered door with the Eye of Horus painted on it in dripping black paint and down a long hallway. The lighting is poor but I can tell from Mike's confident steps that he has been here more than once and knows the way. We emerge into a small room with a few chairs and two doors, one painted dark blue and one purple. We sit. We wait. I fidget. The wooden chair is old and hard but well made. It doesn't squeak when I shift my weight. Mike shoots me a look and I try to settle. Eternity is interrupted by the crackle of a speaker.

"Choose."

It is a whispery sound and goosebumps chase down my arms, or they would if I still had hair. I dart a look at Mike but he is just staring calmly back at me. He says nothing but I get it. I consider the doors more closely. There are no markings on either. They are painted smoothly and evenly, the color is the only difference between them. I think about the color blue. Blue reminds me of water but also of the bluish tint to my scales. My feelings about the color are evenly good and bad. I think about purple. This purple is a warm color with something of plum in it. It doesn't remind me of anything specific but to me it seems inviting. I go through the blue door, Mike trailing behind. There is a short hallway and that opens out onto a walled patio area of sorts. I know I am outside because I can smell the rain and see the branches of trees far above our heads. The walls are old brick, moss covered in many places and broken by sweeping lines of bricked-in in archways. Potted palms are scattered about and vines climb the walls. Layers of old Asian rugs cover most of the floor but I can see hard packed earth in between. Colored lanterns provide the only light and give the place a warm yet mystical feel. An orange tabby saunters by.

"Come in." I can't see where the voice is coming from but Mike urges me forward.

I smell chemicals and hot metal which surprises me. I had been expecting incense, something more arcane rather than industrial. Light spills from an open door at the back of the patio and I head there. Strange sounds assail my ears and sparks fly out of the opening, bouncing across what appears to be a genuine Persian carpet. I can see black carbon spots from many years of casual treatment. Who buys an expensive Persian rug and then burns the crap out of it?

I peer tentatively around the door frame, I have no wish to get burned like the poor carpet. My eyes lite on her as she turns and again I am surprised. This is no cartoon character magician or a pointy hatted witch out of a story. Cropped, dark red hair is spiked straight up. She has a nose ring, high cheekbones and strong features. Arms of solid muscle are colorfully decorated in a maze of tribal tattoos that wrap her shoulders and fad to black, pebbly skin at her wrists. She holds a welding torch in one hand and a ceramic crucible in the other.

"Have a seat on the couch outside. There's beer in the mini fridge." I watch, mesmerized, as she turns and pours molten metal from the crucible... without gloves or using tongs. She too is different, like me, on a molecular level. Most humans couldn't hold something so hot in their bare hands without loosing said hand.

We duck back through the doorway and escape the heat. Mike grabs a beer but I pass. I hope she has salted water. We settle on a couch covered with colorful scarves and wait.

"Sorry. I wanted to get that in the mold before midnight." She whips off her protective goggles and I notice her eyes are like black marbles, no white showing anywhere. A patrician nose nicely compliments her strong features and I can easily envision a Spartan woman armed to the teeth with a spear and a thousand hidden knives.

"My friend is having a little trouble controlling his two selves. Mostly his beast side." Mike speaks for me as I sit stupidly petting the cat that is now nestled in my lap. I can only pray my mouth isn't hanging open as my mind whirls. This is the first time I have met another person with obvious DNA alterations. Whether by design or accident I am dying to know.

"Tell me. Leave nothing out." She props an old ipad on her knee, brushing soot from the face and takes notes as my tale unfolds. I falter at first, it is hard to tell when she is looking at me, without an iris her eyes appear all-seeing and darkly unsettling. I retell my story starting from that fateful day in the subway. It takes a while and I have to sooth my throat part way through with a beer. She wants to know my birthday but I don't remember, my past is firmly locked away. Finally, she takes a blood sample and a nail clipping. Hair would have better, she says, but I have none. I hand her the other items Mike told me to bring.

"Typically, your history would provide me a wealth of information. Because of your amnesia I don't have that to work with so I'll need to improvise. Come back in a week."

The car ride back is quiet as I contemplate the state of my life. I still have shovels to find for Frank for repairing my bicycle. There are the missing pets and children to think of and I still don't know what to do about my newest form. My life is frayed ends, bits of loose string I can only bat at like one of the cats.

"So what's her story?" I ask again. Mike isn't hugely forthcoming where his witchy woman is concerned.

"Said it was an accident at a dye factory." He shrugs, acknowledging the obvious lie. Dyed hands were no more capable of holding molten metal than normal hands.

I unlock the door to my loft and am met with plaintive meows. I chug a gallon of salted water as four soft bodies wind around my feet. They are insistent. It is two am in the morning. I know I fed them dinner....

"Mickey?" Her distinctive meow is more growl than the usual higher pitch and tonight it is notably absent. I look down at my fur entwined feet. Four cats, not five. My first, my heart, is missing.