Willow Finch — my first and best and only friend, my guiding star, my verdant rose, my rock amid the storm of life, the only person I have ever truly trusted since the death of my parents, the kindest and warmest and most forgiving girl in the whole world — could not have drawn this picture, because she is in hospital. Willow cannot answer my text messages or respond to my voice on a phone call, because she is pinned beneath the watchful gaze of Dream Control. How could she possibly have penned this illustration? Most importantly, despite all her other talents and qualities, Willow is no artist.

  Or, if she is, she never told me, never let that talent slip, not in all the years of her and I.

  And Willow tells me everything. Doesn’t she?

  Willow didn’t draw this picture. This truth, this refutation of the lies on the news, captures me complete, shows my prosthetic, makes me beautiful. And that is why I made a simple mistake, simply because this is what Willow might do. Willow sees the real me, not leftover scraps of meat scraped from beneath collapsed concrete. She never ignores my prosthetics, never averts her eyes in polite disgust, never pretends she doesn’t see the scar running rough down half my face. She sees, she knows, she accepts. But however much I want this picture to be the product of her heart, it’s not. Logically. Can’t be her.

  But that’s not what I felt, was it? I didn’t come to a logical, sensible, sane conclusion, after rational analysis.

  I saw that the artist had made me beautiful. And I knew, this wasn’t Willow. Why?

  Signal’s talking again, voice like bubble bath through her skeleton-speakers.

  “—glad you found at least one picture you like, lass. Personally I wouldn’t recommend perusing much more, it can do a nasty turn on your head, paying too much attention to this stuff. Some magical girls, they let it get to them. How the public sees them, especially the saucy stuff, it’s not good for you, not good to think on it too much. Some of this art can get quite spiteful too. When a magical girl does something people don’t like, those fanbases turn ugly, and they do it quick, so don’t count your—”

  Foolishness, exhaustion, emotional overload; that is the explanation. Thoughts like slow mud, sucking me into a recursive swamp. Because I’m tired and overwhelmed and on the moon, surrounded by dubious magical girls, animated cyber-skeletons, and a warren of zoogs. Because I had a bad nightmare. Because I’m hungry. Because I’m me.

  “—of course, we’ve never had to deal with it before, not like this, not with how we stay under the radar and all. Grimgrave pulled a hell of a stunt before her first transformation, but she didn’t get herself on the telly. Bright made a big splash too, but that was always going to happen, what with her circumstances and—”

  Subconscious recognition. That’s why. Subconsciously I knew it was impossible for Willow to have drawn this picture. Disappointment transmuted to anger, and I’m too cynical to accept a hollow compliment. There is no mystery here.

  If Willow ever draws me, I am sure she will draw me just as beautiful.

  “—might carry on a few more days, if you don’t transform by then. But the trend’ll burn itself out regardless, transformation or not. Some other hype-cycle flavour-of-the-month will come along soon enough, and all these artists’ll hop to that right quick. Don’t worry yourself too much, try not to take it personal, just keep it in perspective—”

  So, if not Willow, who drew this picture?

  Signal?

  Was this all a set-up? That browser window did refresh at just the right moment; upon Signal’s hidden command? Another underhand tactic by an expert seducer?

  Maybe not; I want to believe not. But I’m not beautiful, not to anybody but Willow.

  Signal cannot be allowed to read the truth on my face. Her cameras already see too much, she’s not getting inside my head. I cast my eyes over her screens, distract the surface of my mind, confound her schemes.

  Magical girl cheesecake art isn’t the only curious thing on Signal’s monitors. Aside from the zoomed-in, cut-up, dislocated views of my own face, she has several television and internet feeds running silent in a row of little windows — a handful of magical girl livestream channels, a few familiar faces from around the globe. One shows the BBC news; a perfectly presented Scarlet Edge is giving an interview, in the foreground of a clean-up effort after some minor incident, workers in overalls scurrying around a hill of rubble.

  Scarlet’s lips are perfect, no tooth marks, no little scars. The footage looks a few days old, perhaps pre-recorded. Wishful thinking; she’s a magical girl too, she’ll heal just like I did.

  Dull remembered pain throbs deep in my gut and chest, the echo of her sword. I push her away.

  Another of Signal’s monitors is crammed with news articles and images, all of a middle-aged man I vaguely recognise, cut and spliced together, certain angles of his face highlighted and outlined. Headlines announce facial recognition network roll-outs, machine-aided record-searching, test programs to track foot traffic, youth emotional monitoring systems, adaptive website blocking, and dozens more technology projects to benefit England, many developed in partnership with the Office of Emotional Health and Hygiene. The front pages of three different newspapers proclaim that ‘Edison Lane’ has pledged the full compute power of the Dream Institute to the task of tracking down the dangerous Dreamer at large, Octavia Carter.

  Recognition clicks. That man was on the BBC news round table I saw last night.

  “Signal,” I interrupt, treading softly. “Who’s that? The man who’s said he’ll find me. With the weird hair.”

  “Oho?” Signal ends her empty monologue with a curious purr from her skeleton-speakers. “You don’t recognise Edison Lane? And don’t worry yourself about that nonsense, lass, not one little bit. England’s reach is nasty, but it doesn’t extend to Luna. You’re safe up here, nobody’s gonna come after you. My personal promise.”

  An emote flashes on a skeleton rib-screen.

  ?(￣▽￣)?

  Swallow a sigh, almost fail. “Yes, I can read his name. And I do recognise the face, a little. I think I’ve seen him on the news before? Why have you made a collage of him?”

  “Edison Lane?” Signal’s voice curls with amused disbelief. “Owns half the tech companies left in Britain, Edison Lane?”

  My sigh escapes. “Okay, yes. And?”

  “Scryer, Phalanx, EO, they’re all his. Practically owns the Dream Institute, via all those public-private partnership deals. And for the record, the hair is transplants, he went bald twenty years ago. And he’s not blonde either, though he’s had every photograph to the contrary scrubbed from the media. It’s all fake.”

  “Okay. Are you going to answer my question, or … ?”

  When did I get so rude? Exhaustion is no valid excuse after a good night’s sleep. Maybe it’s Signal, I just can’t hold back anymore.

  Another emote: o(??~)o

  Signal chuckles. “He’s my current target. Has been for a while now. He has no idea.”

  “Target? You’re doing what, stealing data? Collecting evidence of corruption? Hacking his companies?”

  “Mmm-mmm-mmmmmm,” Signal purrs a negative. “Oh, Octavia, you’re so green, it’s refreshing. I really do mean that, no mockery intended. The government doesn’t care about financial crimes or corruption, he’s got them shovelling money at him as fast as they can print it. There’s no legal way to bring that man down. No, my methods take us elsewhere.”

  Signal — the real Signal, her ‘core’, the woman curled in a chair before the computer screens — stops typing. Restless eyes settle on her prey, Edison Lane. Maybe her lips twitch; maybe it’s my imagination.

  “You mean you’re going to kill him?”

  Signal unfreezes, fingers gliding across her keyboards, face a dead-eyed mask.

  Fresh emote on a skeleton rib-screen: (?o?〃)

  “Kill him? Gosh, no! Dear me, oh dearie no. Oh, Octavia, you are such a sweetheart. No, killing Lane would be far too easy, and worse, it would accomplish absolutely zip. The real world isn’t like fantasy novels, lass. You can’t just slay the vampire and watch the castle come tumbling down. No, if I had him assassinated, his control and money would just pass to another dozen people exactly like him.” Signal’s voice drops to a honeyed purr. “No, I have something much more fun in store for mister Lane.”

  She wants me to ask. Silence drags on, wears me down. But I refuse.

  “Well. Good luck, I suppose,” I say. “I hope you get him.”

  “Mm?” Signal sounds distracted. “Oh, yes, thank you, sweetie! Don’t you worry about it. Or, if you do, worry about it later, when your own plate isn’t quite so full. I’m sure you’ve got lots and lots of questions about all this, about us, about being one of us. I’ll do my best to answer whatever I can, okay? Let’s face it, Grimmy probably didn’t make much sense, she’s not the clearest communicator in the world. Not even the clearest communicator on Luna. But first off, before we do anything else, you should really sit yourself down and have a proper breakfast. You can’t do anything serious on an empty stomach.”

  A skeleton gestures at the big metal table just beyond the domesticated corner.

  One end is piled with steaming food — huge bowl of scrambled eggs, deep tray of bacon, metal rack filled with fresh toast, flanked by sauce bottles and a butter dish, pitchers of water and cartons of juice and a stack of plates.

  And, heaven-sent, a pot of fresh coffee. My nose catches that smell. Stomach grumbles. Brow furrows.

  “Wh-what? How did I not see all that stuff before? When did that appear?”

  “Tissy brought it in, just a few moments ago,” Signal says. “While you and I were nattering away. I’m not surprised you didn’t see her, our Tissy is very shy. When Nerys first recruited me, I didn’t see Tissy in the flesh for over a year. Go on, go sit yourself down, you need to get some food in you, lass.”

  “Thank you, but no thank you. I wanted to … ”

  Learn ‘translocation’ on an empty stomach? Refuse a good breakfast? Go hungry?

  Signal laughs, warm and bubbly. “Oh, don’t be silly, you sweet thing you. Tissy doesn’t put on a spread like this every day. She’s trying to impress you, Octavia. You in particular. You should count yourself blessed.” Signal lowers her voice, whispering from the speakers in the nearest skeleton. “If you turn your nose up now, she’ll be really hurt. We won’t see her for months. Tissy, she’s an old friend of Nerys, you see? If you want to stay on the good side of our mutual benefactor, don’t make Tissy cry.”

  Glassy lenses in skeleton sockets reveal nothing; the real Signal remains utterly blank. Is she joking?

  “Nerys? What does her bad side look like?”

  An emote: (? ??_??)?

  Stomach clenching with predictable desire, body begging for fuel, how can I resist? Tissy brought me food last night, repaired my clothes, saved my favourite coat. I am ninety-nine percent sure this is not poison. Signal has not earned my trust or my affection, no matter how cute she purrs; but Tissy’s alright. Assuming she’s not a Moon Beast.

  No, don’t think that. I’ll jinx myself.

  “I suppose I can have some breakfast. You’re right.” The smallest concession to Signal that I can safely make. “It would be rude to refuse, and I am hungry. Are you coming too?”

  Signal laughs. “I’m quite alright here, lass. I’ll eat at my desk. But thank you, it’s very kind of you to ask. Very kind. You’re such a sweetheart.”

  And I barely know you.

  Walking away from Signal is a great relief — the real Signal, crouched tight in her chair, pretending not to be human. When I can’t see those screens anymore, with my face plastered all over them, I can pretend they don’t exist. Unfortunately I will not be allowed to eat in peace; a moon-skeleton moves to join as I head over to the table, nine feet of grey artificial bone and wires and metal and machine parts towering over me.

  A few zoogs peer out of the animal bed and around the corner of a sofa as I pass, a couple of them creeping closer, one working its sharp little jaw up and down.

  Signal sees me looking at the zoogs, because Signal sees everything. “Don’t pay them no mind, lass,” she says. “They’re hoping you’re a soft touch, so they can pester you to toss ‘em treats under the table. Ignore them if you want, they’re all perfectly well-fed. Don’t believe their lies when they pester for scraps.”

  Soft zoog hisses chase my heels. One mutters, “Siggy-Siggy spoily scheeeeme.”

  At the table I’m lost. Uncertain if I should remove my coat. Not sure which seat to pick. I am both alone and in company, the only one eating, yet watched over by a hundred hidden cameras, accompanied by a giant moon-skeleton. At least Signal stops it a few feet from the table. What would a normal person do in this situation? Run screaming, hide in a closet, report to Dream Control. Wrong question. What would Octavia Carter do?

  Why does that feel so difficult to answer? It’s the same way I’ve survived all my life, watched by a grander panopticon than one girl and her skeletons.

  Have breakfast, play grateful, make light conversation.

  A rib-screen lights up as I hesitate, on the skeleton stopped by the table: (○ ^ω^)_旦~~?

  “Are you going to sit?” I ask. “Or stand there while I eat?”

  “Whichever you find more comfortable,” says Signal. “I can do either. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  Smile, nod. Pull out a chair, sit down. Now the moon-skeleton feels even taller.

  My stomach grumbles. Body needs fuel, no matter how I feel. Everything looks and smells real enough, neither dream-projection nor extruded from a native Dreamlander.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “where does the food come from? Eggs and bacon, on the moon. How is that possible?”

  “All from earthside,” Signal says. “Don’t you worry, lass, those are real chicken eggs. You won’t get sick from any of this. Not that magical girls get sick easily in the first place. Eat up, it’s all totally real, I promise.”

  Nod a thank you, reach for a plate. Spoon up some eggs, grab a slice of bacon, allow myself a dollop of ketchup.

  Fill a mug with coffee, thick and dark and rich. That scent alone is enough to relax my shoulders an inch or two.

  Take a sip. A long one. Perfect temperature. Heat spreads down my throat and blossoms outward in my belly. Black coffee, no sugar, no milk, very strong, just how I like it. Let my eyes close, let out a sigh, let myself go.

  Perhaps Plato Base isn’t so bad after all.

  “Take your time, Octavia,” Signal purrs. “According to Nerys, we’re going to have a proper meeting today, which will be the first time in quite a while. But I suspect that won’t be for hours yet. Bright isn’t the most punctual woman in the world, and Grimgrave, well, it’s hard to get Grimmy to stay put in one spot for more than five minutes.”

  “Huh.” Almost a laugh. Eyes still closed. Deep slug of coffee goes down smooth. The metal chair is a little hard, but whatever. “Meeting?”

  “A meeting of us girls, quite. Don’t you worry though, it’s all very informal. You eat as much as you like, lass. When you’re all perked up, I’ll answer whatever I can, whatever questions you’ve got bouncing around in that pretty head of yours. After that, maybe we can run some tests. Maybe show you around some. Nobody’s going anywhere today, least of all you and I.”

  Open my eyes, but I can’t say it out loud. Fork up some eggs, but can’t move them toward my mouth. Can’t eat, not without saying it. It was wrong to relax.

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m not staying here today, thank you. I have to go home, I have to—”

  “Ayyyyyy, Occy! You’re up!”

  Patience Graves bounces into the Big Room on spring-loaded heels, voice jackhammering my nerves apart. Not sure where she came from, but it wasn’t through the front entrance of Plato Base.

  Gone is her summery sundress, but she’s still clad all in white. Trainers, leggings, a little pleated skirt, a near-skintight athletic top, all spotless and snowy, hugging her petite physique like a pixie wrapped in fresh milk. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, but that doesn’t help the mess, all cowlicks and curls swinging like a chocolate waterfall as she trots up to the table.

  Nerys is cradled in Grimgrave’s arms, black-ooze zoog cuddled like a cat; when Grim reaches the table she pours Nerys onto the surface, white clothes unspotted by the dripping black oil.

  “Yes, I’m … here,” I say. “Good morning, I suppose. Morning.”

  Last night floods me, unclouded by exhaustion. Grimgrave’s body pressed against my side as she helped me to the bedroom, tight and wriggly and warm. Her hand on my hip, the smell of her sweat in my nose, her face so close to my own. That sordid little invite to join her, delivered with no hint of shame. Her reaction when I said I’m not like her, not her kind. Her maniac grin, that mad bomber’s grin. Aimed right at me.

  Can’t look at her, not in the eyes. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.

  “Fuck yeah it’s a good morning!” Grimgrave cheers. “You slept good, yeah? Made it out here by yourself, so you must have slept right! See? Told you, sleep does the trick!” She steps past Signal’s nearest skeleton, reaches out and flicks one of the ribs with a fingernail. “Yoooo, Siggy! Didn’t think you’d turn up! Thought you were busy doing hacker shit, stealing them ones and zeros.”

  “Geegee,” Signal says, voice gone cool. “I am always cracking something, but I always have equal time for our endeavours.”

  Grimgrave makes it all the way down the table, then stops and grins at me like I’m a new pair of shoes. Fifty percent power, I can take that.

  “ … yes?”

  “Lookit you!” She giggles. “You’re all like, settled in already. You doing okay, yeah? Yeah?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Also hey, fuck me!” she yells. I almost flinch, but she keeps talking, doesn’t mean that. “Look at this brekky! Tissy must like you something fierce, Occy. We don’t get treats and shit like this most of the time.” She snatches up a mug, fills it to the brim with hot coffee, then chucks it back, pouring it down her throat without pausing for breath. She finishes, belches loudly, and slams the mug onto the table so hard I wince, expecting a crack. Grimgrave bursts into cackles, probably at the look on my face. Now I can’t avoid those emerald eyes. “Asbestos throat,” she says. “That’s me!”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Nerys pads forward, claws clicking against the metal table. She noses into the bacon tray, drags a slice clear. “Octavia!” she rasps, zoog-voice and woman-voice overlaid on each other. “Good to see you among the awake, yeeeees. Your first morning as a magical girl, mm? How does it feel? How do you feel? And no, that’s not an empty question, I never ask empty questions, especially of my girls. I want to know. Tell me how you feel, please?”

  I shrug. “No different to yesterday, as far as I can tell. Which is going to be a problem, because I would like to transform as soon as possible.”

  “Eager, eager! Very good.” Nerys gurgles down in her throat, oil shifting on her fur as if under distant moonlight. “Did you dream?”

  “Uh … I … um … ”

  How can I possibly answer that?

  “You’re not in England anymore, Octavia,” she says. “Break that taboo quick. Don’t let it break you, girl.”

  I’m already a dream-criminal, already in a Dreamland overlap. What am I afraid of? Twenty years of conditioning. “I … it was … I-I think—”

  Signal purrs. “Relax, Octavia. Just take it slow if you have to. There’s no Dream Control up here, nobody to judge.”

  Swallow hard. Deep breath. Shaking inside. “Yes, then. Yes, I had a dream. It was … I don’t know, strange—”

  Grimgrave splutters around a mouthful of orange juice. “Yeah?! What was it like, was it—”

  “A dream,” I snap. “Nothing special. That’s all.”

  “Awwww, come on, Occy—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Come onnnn, don’t be all like, pussy-shit about it hey—”

  “Geegee,” Signal says. “Don’t be an irritant.”

  Grimgrave squints at the skeleton standing by the table. “‘Irritant’? Siggy, what the fuck’s gotten into you?”

  ╭( ? _?)╮ “Nothing. I’m merely asking you to give our newest member a little space.”

  “ … riiiiiiight.” Grimgrave snorts. “Whatever!” She sticks her tongue out at the skeleton and blows a massive raspberry, then snatches up a piece of toast and rips a chunk out of it like an animal tearing meat from bone.

  “Nerys,” I say. “When I can transform, how will I know? Can I do it now?”

  Grimgrave answers through a mouthful of toast. “You’ll fuckin’ know, it’ll happen!”

  Nerys stares through me, beady black eyes like chips of wet coal, crouched over her slice of bacon, claws extended to pin the meat in place. Or perhaps she’s looking elsewhere, impossible to tell. Oil-black lips peel back from sharp obsidian teeth, a zoog zipper-smile.

  “Good!” she rasps. “A dream in waking memory, that’s good. Not conclusive, but moving fast. That’s why I like you, Octavia. Did you know that? I think you do. You move fast, you think fast. Fast enough for a zoog! Haha! No transformation yet, but that is to be expected. One more night, perhaps two?”

  “Two,” Signal says. “My prediction is two.”

  I am not spending another night in that dream.

  “Mm,” Nerys grunt-growls, zoog-style. “Nothing to worry yourself over, it can take a few goes for you humans. Aside from the dream, how did you sleep?”

  Another shrug. “Fine, yes. Thank you. For the room, I mean.”

  “And you’ve already met Signal. Getting on good, yes? Good terms already?”

  “Uh, yes. I suppose.”

  “We had a nice little chat,” Signal says. “Octavia’s a real sweetheart. You do know how to pick ‘em, Nerys.”

  “I do!” Nerys lets out a zoog chuckle, a scratchy gurgle. “Praise me more, praise me more. I do so love when you humans just get on with it, no helping hands needed. One of your best qualities, when you’re not tearing each other’s throats out over bits of shiny metal. That’s where me and the other Dream-Gods disagree. You understand that now, Octavia?” Nerys pulls herself up, puffed with pride. “Freedom is always a better choice. You don’t need a leash.”

  “Fuckin ‘ay!” Grimgrave cheers through half a mouthful of chewed toast.

  “Can’t stop the signal,” says Signal. “Indeed.”

  Cold ashes stir in my chest, dregs of a fire lit by Grimgrave’s speech last night. Nerys is right, freedom would be better. For me, for Willow, for England. For the whole world. But the flame doesn’t relight, my anger is doused embers. I’m far from home, surrounded by dangerous and violent revolutionaries. Am I one of them now, just because I wanted to live?

  Ashes are only ashes. Nothing left to burn.

  I finally put some scrambled egg in my mouth. Chew slow, think hard, wash it down with coffee. The only thing I want is to get back to Willow; I don’t need revolution for that. I can transform once and all this will be forgotten, like a strange dream in morning’s light. Transform once and I can have my life back. Transform once, everything goes back to normal. Go home to Oxford, pick up my A-Level results, then off to university.

  Alone, without Willow.

  My life ends either way, doesn’t it? So why not throw in with these mad women, up here on the moon? Why not burn it all down, when I can’t have what I want?

  Because of that dream. Under the rubble. Black light, reaching for me. Another night here means back there again.

  No! Don’t think that, don’t think about that, not at all.

  It’s not about that, it never was. Willow. It’s all about Willow, and Willow’s not a dream, she’s flesh and blood and she’s hurt. I have to know if she’s okay, if she’s in a coma, if she’s—

  Don’t think that either. I’ll start shaking if I think about that.

  Grimgrave doesn’t bother with a chair, that would be too sensible; she sits directly on the edge of the table opposite me, sets about constructing a bacon sandwich with the toast, drowning it in ketchup. Her neat little backside, dead centre in my line of sight, tight buttocks plush against the hard metal of the tabletop, white skirt barely concealing the skintight fabric of her leggings.

  Signal steps closer, skeleton still watching through her cameras. How many angles does she have of my face, of my body beneath my coat? Can she tell I was looking at the furtive tease of Grimgrave’s rump? Probably recorded it, measured the angle of my gaze.

  Hunch up, protect my chest, eyes on my food.

  “Hey hey, Siggy,” Grimgrave says, swallowing a bite of bacon and toast. “Get this. Occy here.” She points at me. “Real important thing you gotta know about her, right? Like real genuine no-shit big dealio. Yeah? Listen careful, ‘cos I’m only gonna say it once!”

  “Geegee,” Signal says. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

  Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Grim. What—”

  “Not. A. Homo. Sex-you-al!”

  She punctuates this horror by jabbing one finger in the air, swinging her legs back and forth, ends on a cackle.

  “Grimgrave!” Signal snaps. Emote refreshes on a skeleton rib-screen: ?_?

  Patience laughs so hard she squeals. Takes a huge bite of her bacon sandwich. Hope she chokes.

  I’m on my feet, not sure why. Face on fire, both fists clenched, breathing like bellows. I want to reach over the table, grab Patience by the face, slam her skull into the bowl of scrambled eggs. Pick up the toast rack and brain her with it. Hurl a chair at her. Shut her up so she never says that again.

  Anger like molten steel in my arteries, a crucible in my head, a twitching pneumatic pressure in my right fist.

  Patience smirks, grin spreading wide from ear to ear, mania climbing toward a hundred percent, eyes twinkling with something I don’t want to see.

  She won’t back down.

  Accept this, or fight her.

  “Come on,” she whispers between her teeth, not sure she means for me to hear. “Come on, Occy.”

  I need to make her never do this again. Never make that joke again. Never question my dignity, not over the topic of my so-called ‘sexuality’. But why do I even care? I’m not planning on staying here, so why not let it slide? Because you let one slide, and then they keep coming. Ignore one, a dozen more will take advantage. Give an inch, you lose a mile. This stops here, at this line, or I will die.

  But Patience Graves is a full magical girl. She will transform into a psycho clown, pull guns and explosives from under her skirt, and shoot me through the heart. I have a prosthetic fist and a good right hook. I am still weak from yesterday’s hell. I will lose. Again.

  Swallow the anger. Burns going down.

  “You want to be my friend,” I say. It’s not a question. “Graves. You said. Last night. You want to be my friend.”

  Her grin flickers, from a hundred percent down to ninety nine. “Yeah! Like, Occy, we’re already friends, right!”

  “You barely know me. You shot me. You put my best friend in hospital. You blew up a crowd. I am very close to hating you.”

  Another flicker. Ninety percent. “Shit, come off it! We already talked—”

  “I am willing to entertain this notion of friendship,” I say. “Against my better judgement.”

  Ninety five percent, spiking again. Feed her false hope.

  “But.” I lean in. Not too close, can’t do that. “If you make that joke again, we will never be friends.”

  Ninety percent. Eighty percent. Still dropping. Going out.

  I sit down before I lose my nerve. Pick up my fork, put more scrambled egg in my mouth. Like nothing happened.

  A moment of silence, then a cackle from Patience. “Hahaha! Whatever, Occy! Come on, lighten up! It’s cool, it’s not even a joke, it’s just what you told me last night. We’re all on the same side, like! We’re all fuckin’ bent sideways up in this bitch—”

  Signal sighs good and loud. “Geegee, quit while you’re ahead.”

  Another fork of eggs. Tastes of acid. Don’t look up.

  Awkward silence drowns the table; much better, just how I like it. Patience gnaws on her sandwich, dripping blobs of tomato sauce, licking it off her fingers. Signal says nothing, skeleton standing like a statue, watching everything. Nerys nibbles on a piece of bacon, holding it down with one zoog-paw.

  Nerys I can trust. Nerys I almost like. Nerys saved me.

  Why didn’t Nerys say anything to stop us?

  Nerys breaks the silence by dragging several more pieces of bacon out of the tray. A handful of zoogs creep over to the table, peering upward, jaws hanging open, beady black eyes wide with hopeful hunger. One by one, Nerys drags each piece of bacon over to the edge and drops it off the side to the waiting zoogs below; they swarm their treats, tearing the meat apart with their little claws, scurrying off into the debris of the domesticated corner again. Nobody tries to stop Nerys; who would dare stop a Dream-God feeding her followers?

  Once she’s done, Nerys clicks back into the middle of the table, settles her little zoog rump in place, tail swaying behind her, dripping ooze.

  “Right!” she announces. “We are going to have a meeting, my girls. Once breakfast is over, once Bright decides to turn herself up. But our new girl is still battered and burned, she needs time to heal, and she can’t transform yet. That means sleep and calories. Don’t bother her too much. Octavia, you don’t have to force yourself to join in. You are welcome to eat and listen. And learn a thing, perhaps!”

  “Mmhmm,” Signal purrs. “She needs some special care. I’ll prep the equipment later. We can measure her levels.”

  Patience snorts. “Ahhhh fuck off, Siggy. Let her eat, let her sleep, let her do what she wants, like. Occy’s been eyeball-deep in fuckin’ England for like, what, twenty years? How old are you, Occy?” I shrug, not talking to Patience. “Yeah, twenty years of that shit. Let her breathe, like!”

  “Nerys,” I say. “I meant what I said yesterday. I want to go home. As soon as possible. Today.”

  “When you can transform,” Nerys says. “You do remember what I told you, Octavia? Go down there now, you’ll die a quick and shitty death. They won’t even need a magical girl to soak you up, they’ll send pigs with guns, fill you with holes, and I won’t be able to save you a second time. Wait until you’re ready, then you can do whatever you want.”

  Straighten my spine, put down my fork, smart in the chair. “I’m all better. I feel better. I had a good night’s sleep, I can walk by myself, I have plenty of energy. I need to see Willow.”

  “Deceptive, deceptive!” Nerys hisses. “Overconfidence gets girls killed.”

  “Dream Control already have eyes on your friend’s hospital room,” says Signal. “Both physical and electronic. She’s obvious bait, lass. Plus, you did try to call her from up here on Luna.” Signal sighs, then chuckles softly. “Tracing that call sent them on a wild goose chase, always a nice touch. But there’s a downside. Now they know for certain she’s important to you. It’s very sweet that you want to see your friend, but if you try to get anywhere near that hospital room, they’ll jump you with enough tear gas and beanbag rounds to down an elephant, just to keep you pinned until the Trio can get there and cut your head off. Don’t do it, lass. It’s suicide.”

  And how do you know I made that phone call, Signal? You’re no different to them, watching and listening to every last stolen scrap.

  Swallow my distaste. Look at the skeleton.

  “How do you know they’re watching her hospital room?” I ask. “How do you know that?”

  Patience cackles. “Our Siggy gets in everywhere! Hacking shit up!”

  “Mmhmm,” Signal grunts. “Though I can’t take credit for any genius on this one. Dream Control left the information right out in the open. All I had to do was check each hospital in Oxford, and there she was. ‘Willow Finch’, admitted to Oxford Holton yesterday. She’s right there. That’s bait.”

  My heart leaps. Keep a fist around it. “Can you confirm— can you see- I mean, is she—”

  “Sorry, lass. I can’t confirm anything past that. She might not even really be there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Yeah!" Patience says. “Can’t you get into all them cameras and shit, like you always do?”

  “Oh, I wish it were that simple, my dears,” Signal says. “Dream Control have everything past the hospital’s public surface locked down. The computer infrastructure, I mean, not physically. If they stuffed the hospital with agents, it would be too obvious. They’ve paid special attention to the cameras, made especially sure I can’t pull any footage. It’s not impossible to get in, but it could take me days, perhaps a week. And that’s if nobody’s watching for the attempt. Do you see, Octavia? If I could just confirm your friend is alive, well, she wouldn’t be very good bait, would she now?”

  “And you can’t … ‘hack’ Dream Control?” I ask.

  “DC are a challenge, even for me,” Signal admits softly. “They’ve got somebody of their own. Somebody like me.”

  Patience snorts. “Your secret fuckin’ rival again?” She turns to me with a grin, I refuse to meet her eyes. “Siggy thinks DC’s got some hot shit hacker up on her level. It’s just an office full of arseholes somewhere! Right, Occy? Eh? Eh?”

  Signal sighs, a crackle from her skeleton-speakers. “We can hope.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Signal. You know which hospital room Willow is in? You know the actual room? You have a floor, a number, that kind of thing?”

  A beat of silence.

  “Signal?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then tell me the room number.” Silence. Skeletons grin. Patience looks away. “Tell me. Tell me!”

  Nerys rasps my name. “Octaviaaaaa. Signal is right. It’s suicide.”

  “I’ll change my clothes and wear a face mask,” I say. “I’ll shave my hair off, I don’t care. They won’t recognise me. I just want to see her. I have to know if she’s alive. I have to! Why won’t any of you understand this?!”

  Signal hisses with an intake of breath. “Oh, lass, no. Your hair’s beautiful, don’t go doing that.”

  Lies.

  “Why can’t you all come with me then? Grimgrave, Signal, why can’t you help me yourselves? You’re both magical girls. Grimgrave. Graves! You owe me!”

  “‘Cos you can’t fucking fly!” Patience says, then laughs. “Can’t fly, can’t tele-fucking-port, can’t fight much. Your fist is cool as shit, yeah, it’s gonna rock! But you can’t transform, not yet, bitch! You’d get fuckin’ owned right now!”

  “If we got into a confrontation,” Signal says. “You might get caught. You might die, lass. And we won’t be able to help.”

  “I don’t care about my own safety,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to make that decision?”

  Nobody answers. Nobody can meet my eyes. Cowards.

  “So, you’re going to keep me here,” I say to Nerys. “Against my will. So much for freedom.”

  Under the table, down in my lap, my prosthetic hand makes a fist. So tight my glove creaks. Happens before I realise. Breath comes harder, filling my lungs, hot as boiling acid. Pointless anger, totally useless. I can’t punch my way back to Earth.

  Nerys tilts her head and looks away, lips peeled back in such an un-zoog-like expression — a sheepish cringe.

  “Shit, Occy,” Patience says. “We just don’t want you to die, hey? You only just got here! You’re cool, I like you, we’re already friends, yeah? Don’t wanna like, lose another girl so fuckin’ quick. First time back to Earth, we should like, take you for some Nightmare run-off, get you juiced up good and proper, then you’ll be safe, like!”

  “I don’t care. I want to see Willow. That is the only thing I want.”

  Patience half-snorts, trying so hard. “Besides, we’re gonna talk about your plan today, yeah?”

  “My … my plan?” Anger flash-freezes. I finally look up at her again. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah!” Patience lights up. “All that cool shit you said about getting us out there, on camera, in front of the public. We’re gonna do it, for real! We’ve got the numbers now, we’ve got the edge, we’ve got the shit! Attack some magical bitches in broad daylight, get our faces on telly, shout to the world that we’re here! Britannia’s in chains, but she ain’t dead yet!”

  “ … no. No, I … I was exhausted and— and- delusional. Delusional and deranged. Nothing I suggested would make anything better, not for anybody, not really. You can’t have taken me seriously. I … I refuse.” My chest starts to tighten. “You can’t do that, you can’t pin it on me, it won’t work, it won’t achieve anything. I can’t be responsible for that. It’s not my plan.”

  “Wrong,” Nerys rasps. “It’s time, it’s been too long. We should have done it years ago. Right, girls?”

  “No more fucking hiding!” Patience cheers, waving the final bite of her sandwich in the air.

  “It’s all right, Octavia,” Signal purrs. “Don’t worry, don’t blame yourself, you didn’t cause any of this. You’re just a catalyst. This day would have come eventually, one way or another. Like Nerys says, we’ve been in the shadows for too long. You’re not the only … ” A beat of hesitation. “Not the only thing to make us realise that.”

  Patience loses her grin, fire doused by the sea. She turns her head, looks at the dresses affixed to the wall. Puts a fist to her own head, a salute. “Fuckin’ ay.”

  “Indeed,” Signal says. “So, however much I loathe the spotlight, it’s time to put on a show.”

  “Show?” I echo. “That’s how you think of it? Bombing a crowd, a show?”

  Patience grits her teeth.

  Signal just tuts. “Use of uncontrolled explosives in public is not my first choice. Or my second. Or third. We won’t be doing anything like that again. Not without everybody on board. Will we, Geegee?”

  Patience shrugs, grin dead. She sticks the last piece of sandwich in her mouth, chews in blessed silence.

  Shake my head. Close my eyes tight. “I want to go home. I want to see Willow. You will teach me to translocate, Nerys. You promised.”

  “When you can transform.”

  Hiss through my teeth. I sound like a zoog. “And when will that be?”

  “Up to you!” Nerys rasps. “Fruitful dreams don’t come to girls with empty stomachs or preoccupied minds. We’re going to talk and talk and talk, like you humans love to do, but your job is to mend up. Stay in the burrow. Grow stronger. Dream.”

  “Nonsense,” I whisper, eyes still screwed shut. “I should not be here. I should be with Willow. She needs me, I need to see her. I can’t be … mucking about up here, with you … you … ” I try to take a breath, feel like I’m choking. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t, I—”

  “Hey,” Patience says. No laugh in her voice. “Hey, hey Occy. Fuck Dream Control, right?”

  Open my eyes. There she is, looking down at me, still sitting on the table. No grin, no mirth. Just faith, so fragile and earnest it hurts.

  Fuck Dream Control.

  “ … yes, of course,” I say, can’t stop myself. “Absolutely. No question. I-I just—”

  Grimgrave grins again. “Fuckin’ ay. We’re gonna tear it all down.”

  Still I sigh. “I just … I can’t do this. I’m not made for this.”

  “Nerys wouldn’t have picked you if you weren’t up for this. Occy, shit, you just gotta believe! You’re scared, right? ‘Cos like, shit, yeah girl, I was scared my first time, I was all—”

  “Geegee,” Signal murmurs.

  “You don’t need me,” I’m saying. “I’m no revolutionary. I just want to … I want to go home. I want this to stop.”

  “We need everything we can get!” Grimgrave says. “And fuck, what are we gonna do? Leave you down there to get mulched by those cunts? Fuck no!”

  “Mmmmm-mmmmmm,” Nerys rumbles in agreement, a touch too deep for a real zoog.

  “I’m not a criminal or an outlaw,” I say. “Not like you.”

  Signal clears her throat. “Technically, you are, lass. Sorry.”

  No more self-indulgent sighs for me. Signal is right; I killed two people. I am the very definition of a criminal, and I am currently outside the law.

  Grimgrave snorts. “Shit, Occy, you ain’t even gotta think about it like that yet. Just take it easy today, stretch them dream-muscles. Fuck, this meeting probs won’t even happen. Nerys, is Bright on her way or what?”

  “She comes,” Nerys grunts. “She knows. I impressed the importance upon her. Which I am quite good at doing, aren’t I? I am, I am.”

  Signal clears her throat, a crackle from the skeleton-speakers. “Bright won’t be very happy to see you, Geegee. Please, be nice.”

  “Ha, yeah right!” Grimgrave shrugs. “With any luck she’ll be—”

  “With.

  Any.

  Luck?”

  A new voice.

  Cold tar roils beneath the words. Pure Oxford, rough and wet and thick, seeping from a dark hole full of rot.

  Almost knock my seat back, lurch to my feet, frustration forgotten. Raise my fist, heart in my throat, skin a cold flash, sword-wound throbbing in my belly and chest and back.

  Because she’s standing in the doorway, the entrance to Plato Base. Her! It’s her! It’s Scarlet Edge—

  No?

  A similar face, eyes and mouth and chin sharp and clear as new-cut diamond, but not identical. Thin lips, sallow cheeks, complexion rotten as a sunless day. Eyes a dirty topaz-orange, lit as if by distant fire from depths of a dank and dripping cavern, ringed by dark bags, lids drooping heavy as lead. Blonde hair long and limp and lank, so airy and light it threatens to become a halo; half her head is shaved to stubble, the other half a collapsed wave. A sneer on her lips, a jut to her hips, a rounded hunch coiled in narrow shoulders, as if gathering herself for the first twitch of a fight, bracing herself for the next blow, struggling to stay upright beneath days of insomnia, weeks of starvation, months of decay.

  Hands deep in the pockets of a careworn leather trenchcoat, open over a tank-top and a pair of baggy jeans. Boots on her feet battered and laceless, steel caps on the toes.

  Not Scarlet Edge.

  She shuffles into the Big Room. Slow, unsteady, every footstep an effort. Eyes for only Grimgrave.

  “With any luck?” she repeats. Voice clotted, thick with mucus. “You thought you would get away with that stunt, you little shit?”

  Grimgrave leaps up, trainers on the table, knocking a plate to the floor; Signal’s skeleton whips forward, catches the plate before it can shatter. I swallow a yelp, lose to a flinch.

  “Huh! You actually turned up!” Grimgrave says, grin gone nasty. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up for once? We got a newbie right here—”

  “Good morning, Bright!” says Signal’s skeleton. (ー_ーゞ “It is good to see you. I do hope you’re doing well. I would recommend a little restraint today, if you please.”

  Bright draws to a halt, scuffing her shoes; stopping is seemingly as difficult as carrying on. She drags her eyes to Signal’s skeleton, then over to Signal herself, to the flesh-and-blood woman in front of her computers.

  “You telling me what to do?”

  “Making a friendly suggestion,” Signal replies. “We’re all friends here.”

  Bright snorts, swallows with visible difficulty, looks back to Grimgrave. “You’re not off the hook, giggles—”

  “Don’t fucking call me that!” Grimgrave shouts back. “You want me to call you shit?! Fucking slow-worm, shitting all over yourself! Go get bred, bitch!”

  “I’m gonna rip you a new arsehole, and then use it to fuck you, giggles.”

  “Bright,” says Signal. “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  Grimgrave flickers with a grin, maniac light ramping up behind her eyes. “You wanna try? You wanna go? Me and you, shit-breath, me and you—”

  Nerys lets out a loud rasp, clacking her teeth together. “Bright!” she snaps. “Meet Octavia. Octavia, this is Bright. Make nice, humans. Yes? Yes? Better be yes!”

  Bright’s eyes slide to me, wet and rheumy, eyelids drooping with effort, a crust in the corners. She’s so exhausted, ready to drop. She looks me up and down, slow and empty, as if I’m not here. She’s so pitiful that I lower my fist; can’t be angry with somebody in this state.

  Her gaze lingers on my slitted right eye, on my facial scar; a spark of anger rekindles in my chest, but fades just as fast. Bright’s expression doesn’t change, no matter what part of me she examines. Utter disinterest and contempt, for all of me, not the scar.

  She looks away, dismisses me. “Dead or Dreamer inside a month.”

  “Bright,” Nerys rasps. “She’s one of you. I chose her.”

  Bright’s sneer turns sulky. Hunches her shoulders tighter.

  “Octavia escaped Dream Control Headquarters yesterday,” says Signal. “She took Scarlet’s blade in her gut and got away clean. No transformation, no weapons, nothing. She’s not some untested girl with stars in her eyes, Bright. She’s had a baptism of fire. No joke intended.”

  “Saw that on the news,” Bright mutters, then takes a deep breath; her lungs crackle. She coughs to clear her throat, wet and liquid. “Dead or Dreamer inside a month. She’s chaff.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Excuse me. Excuse me! Hey!”

  Bright looks me in the face again. Eyes so cold and empty, she’s barely even there.

  “Bright. Hello. Are you … okay? You look … unwell.”

  Dead stare. Grimgrave snorts.

  “Fine. Okay,” I say. “I don’t care if you don’t like me, for whatever reason, that’s your business. But I have to ask. Why do you resemble—”

  “Tiger tiger burning bright, in the forests of the night,” she chants, low and raw. Then waits and watches, as if I should recognise the lines, like a code phrase. Too many seconds pass. She shakes her head. “Philistine.”

  Should I take offence? “Excuse me?”

  “Burning Bright, yeah, that’s me,” she says. Sniffs hard, swallows harder. “Call me whatever you want, you won’t be doing it for long.”

  Straighten my spine, stand up proper. “All right. Why do you resemble—”

  Bright breaks into a nasty smirk, upper lip hooked in a sneer. “‘Scarlet Edge’?”

  She says it with so much disgust. I nod. “You look a little like—”

  “Because ‘Scarlet Edge’ is my sister.”

  “Oh.”

  Bright takes a step toward me, rolls her shoulders, removes her hands from her pockets. Fingers thin and bony, skin like paper, faint blue veins visible on the backs of her palms.

  “She’s the enemy, sure,” Bright says. “They all are, all of them, no exceptions, no special dispensations. I get it, I do. I really do. Look me in the face and tell me I don’t get it.” She takes another step, closing in. Why does she seem so tall, when her shoulders are so hunched, her stride so limp and dragging? Why do I want to back away, when she looks so ready to drop? “But. ‘Scarlet Edge’? My sister? I don’t like it when some tin-fingered cunt gets the idea to touch my sister. Because before she’s the enemy, before she’s a magical girl, do you know what she is? You know what she is first?”

  Another step. I shake my head. “No, I—”

  “Mine.”

  Octavia struggling to ignore Grimgrave, (by sporktown heroine.) Then we have , (by cubey.) I love all the little details in that one! And last but not least, , (by Molten Constellation.) It's amazing to see so much fanart already, I'm really happy to see so many readers having fun with this! Thank you all!

  Maidens right away, you can: