Chapter 6 Chapter 5: The Morning After
She recoiled from me as if scalded, scrambling backwards out of the bed so fast she tangled in the sheets and nearly fell. She stood there, naked and trembling, one arm crossed over her chest, the other pointing a shaking finger at me. Her face was a mask of betrayal and revulsion.
“You’re a fucking Changeling!” she spat, the words dripping with venom.
My own mind was reeling, struggling to process the violent, physical reality. I looked down. The soft cotton of her T-shirt, the one she’d given me with such kindness, was now stretched taut across a chest that was broader, flatter. My arms, resting on the rumpled sheets, were corded with new, unfamiliar muscle. And between my legs, where there had been a soft, receptive warmth just moments before, was now a rigid, throbbing weight. A huge, erect anther, jutting up like some crude, biological accusation. It pulsed with a frantic, teenage energy, a horrifying symbol of a change that was never supposed to happen like this, never this fast, never without the days of aching warning, the gradual shrinking and shifting.
“Silver, please-” My voice was deeper, a stranger’s rasp. I reached a hand, out, a plea.
“Don’t you, fucking, please me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You knew! You knew and you lied! Get out! Get the fuck out of my dwelling!”
Tears of fury and hurt streamed down her face. She turned, grabbing blindly from the floor, hurling my shoes, my crumpled dress, my jacket at me. They bounced off the bed, off my new, traitorous body.
“Please, I didn’t know, it’s never happened like this before,” I tried to explain, my words clumsy and desperate, but she was beyond hearing. A raw, animal sound of anguish ripped from her throat.
She stormed over, grabbed me by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and yanked me from the bed. I stumbled, the world tilting, my new centre of gravity all wrong. I clutched the T-shirt around my waist, a pathetic attempt at modesty. She wrenched open her dwelling door and, with a final, furious shove, propelled me out into the cold, sterile light of the shared hallway.
My clothes and shoes landed in a heap at my feet. I stood there, half-naked, disoriented, and utterly exposed.
The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the entire building. I heard the deadbolt turn, the chain slide into place. The sounds were like nails being hammered into a coffin.
I was alone. Standing in a stranger’s hallway, in a body that felt like it was no longer my own, surrounded by the shattered pieces of the first good thing I’d found in a long time.
I took out my com; 7:15 the clock was already ticking, but If I could keep up a good pace and, more important, if the hoppers were running on schedule, I just might pull this off. I calculated the minutes in my head: a frantic dash home, a record-speed change of clothes, and then back out the door. It would be tight, but with a little luck, I could still slide in at the work by nine…
Luck, for once, was a tangible thing. The hopper gods had smiled upon me; every connection was seamless, every hopper waiting for me at every stop. I burst through the garden gate right on the schedule I’d obsessively calculated in my mind, a minor miracle in itself. My heart was still hammering a rhythm of frantic urgency as I half-ran up the familiar flagstone path.
And there he was, my father, a portrait of calm efficiency moving in the opposite direction. Yes, I still lived with my parents, a fact that in moments like this felt less like a failure and more like a safety net. “Hi champ,” he chirped, the sound warm and steadying. He was a vision of charm: a leather briefcase in one hand, the morning’s newspaper tucked under his arm, yes, he was that old fashioned, and in his other hand, one of my mum’s golden, sugar-dusted bro-she, midway to his mouth.
“Hi Dad, I can’t stop, I’m late for work!” I breathlessly called out, already attempting to rush past his solid, immovable frame.
He didn’t move, just took a thoughtful bite of the pastry. “What time do you need to be there?” he asked, crumbs dusting his lip. “If you can be ready in ten minutes, I can give you a lift on my way to the office.”
I skidded to a halt. A lift. No more hoppers, no more sprinting. Salvation, in the form of my father’s sensible porty. “Really, Dad? You’re a lifesaver! Give me five!” The words tumbled out of me in a grateful rush before I launched myself toward the front door.
Inside, I became a whirlwind. I took the stairs two at a time, my bedroom door swinging shut behind me with a bang. My wardrobe vomited a small avalanche of clothes onto the floor before I found the right T-shirt, the presentable trousers. In record time, I was transformed from a dishevelled drunk into a semi-respectable employee.
Thundering back down the stairs, I heard my mother’s voice cut through the domestic morning quiet. “Nanda, is that you?”
“Yes, Mum, can’t stop, I’m late!” I shouted, my hand already on the banister, ready to swing myself into the hallway.
But she was a master of interception. She met me at the bottom of the stairs, holding out another freshly baked bro-she, its warm, buttery scent a tiny assault on my resolve. Her expression, however, was serious. “We need to talk, Nanda.”
My heart sank. Not now. I snatched the offered pastry, a peace offering and a distraction, and planted a hurried kiss on her cheek as I rushed past. “I’m late, Mum, sorry! Love you!” I called over my shoulder, the words trailing behind me as I fled toward the promise of my father’s waiting porty.
The porty hummed along the pre-programmed transit lane, a sleek silver pod among a river of its identical siblings. Like every vehicle on the road, it was more than capable of driving itself, a fact my father acknowledged only with contempt. He never trusted them, his hand always resting on the manual joystick as if challenging the automation to fail. Today was no different.
We had been driving for about ten minutes in a strained, fragile silence he kept trying to fill. He made small talk about the dieball match last week, a clumsy play-by-play of goals I’d already seen. I offered small, quick replies, staring out the window as the sun-lit cityscape blurred past. Then I saw it, the telltale sign. His knuckles, weathered and strong, tightened around the joystick, the leather creaking under the pressure. A large, deliberate inhale filled his lungs. The prelude to a speech.
“Your mum’s worried about you.”
Oh, shit. Here it comes. I had been clinging to the naive hope that we could make this entire trip without venturing into this territory. My stomach clenched into a cold, hard knot.
“You’ve already missed the University start-up this term,” he continued, his voice carefully neutral, as if reading from a list of talking points he and Mum had rehearsed. “You’re a smart kid. Hell, you could’ve got in on your dieball scholarship alone.” He paused, and the next question landed like a physical blow. “Your Trembling… hasn’t come yet, has it? Did you see Joel? Like we discussed?”
The mention of his name made my skin prickle with shame. I felt exposed, my private failure laid bare on the plush seats between us. I couldn’t handle this. Not today. Not with him.
“Dad, please don’t go there,” I said, the words coming out in a rushed, defensive plea. “I am on it, I swear. I’m okay… really.”
A long, heavy silence descended, broken only by the muffled whir of the porty’s motor. He broke it with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “I’ve been talking to your uncle. He knows a good doctor, a specialist for… for this kind of thing.”
I tried to steel my voice, to strip it of the emotion threatening to crack it open. “No. No way, Dad. It’s good. I’m good.”
He finally turned to me, taking his eyes off the road for the first time. His face was solemn, etched with a concern that felt more like a judgment. “You’re gonna have-to wait a full year now for Uni. You understand that, right?”
I tried hard not to explode, gripping the edge of my seat until my fingers ached. “I’ve said that I want to do my Warrior Service first. Get it out of the way.”
For the first time in my memory, he let the porty pilot itself. The joystick slid back into its housing with a soft click, and he turned fully in his seat to face me, the autonomous vehicle gliding seamlessly on without his guidance. The surrender of control was more unnerving than his anger.
“That’s fine. That’s good,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “But Nanda… they don’t take Pollis as warriors.”
The finality in his tone was a door slamming shut. The porty, perfectly timed, pulled up to the curb outside my work, a stark reminder of the mundane reality waiting for me. I couldn’t sit there for another second.
“I know, Dad,” I said, already fumbling for the door release. “I have to go.” The hatch hissed open, and I rushed out into the humid city air, desperate to put distance between us and the future he kept trying to map out for me.