…Jagged rock walls and a maze full of caves,

Fast moving rapids pushing down slaves.

Deep in the mines, you digging for gold,

But deep in the mines, you only find coal.

His veins pulse with lead, burning sensation replaced with a numbness that only a determined mind conjures. Palm sweat threatens to break his grip on the wooden handle, but still, he holds. He can feel it give–or maybe he only imagines–wood splintering beneath the force of his grip. Not building. Destroying.

Hours go by, hours gone by; time is just a memory. What does he hope to find? It’s not a question he thinks about. His body only swings. His weight converges with the heaviness of the pickaxe like two rushing rivers flowing into one. With the full force of what his leaden arms can bear, he throws. He throws with his life.

It cracks.

He feels before he can hear or see–a slight adjustment where the tool landed, a slip, a break. Fallen crumbs coat his hands, his lips, and what remains of his shoes. They fall with inevitability, breaking free.

This is what he hoped for, he thinks.

This is what he bleeds for, he prays.

Not success or acclaim or even a seed of satisfaction that the weight of his dead arms can rest. It’s something else, written in the code of his DNA. A thing he has no word for.

One swing of finality–weighted iron jams into the rocky crevice, shattering blackened earth into crumbs. The sound of broken reality pounds against his skull. Mountain breaks into dust. The ground reverberates with a new air, with a change unleashed.

He laughs–an empty laugh. Dry from dust inhalation, from lungs turned black. His chest bursts with the pressure of his heart, with the pressure of his last, with the pressure of exploding rock.

This is what he hoped for–

bled for–

died for.

This is what he wanted.

Another man in black is slack on the tracks,

Another one dead, another one cracks.

Burned to his grave, to ash, to the wind,

to the soul that he knows, to hold, to pollen.

Obee Carter. The man who ends the world, and the man who saves it. He wears the name on his uniform, though no one reads it. There’s a badge on his uniform, at the place that once held his heart. Like a rib bone rolled, flattened into metal. A shield for the hole in his chest, polished into mirrored glass. Reflecting empty eyes, they stare.

But only when they have to.

He finds a thread of nylon peeking from the cruiser’s worn seat. With it, he flosses a piece of his lunch crammed into his gaps. It isn’t until he sits back–his tongue digging into molars in search of shrimp residue–when he realizes they are waving him over, a summon.

His eyes roll, he sucks his teeth, age-old habits they failed to break. But he opens the door anyway, obeying, his body doing as it was reprogrammed to do.

“Obee,” Richard, his partner, says. “We have a witness here with some details that I can’t wrap my head two ways about.”

Obee looks at her. She’s a middle-aged mom with tote bags, and a young brat sits at the ledge of the SUV’s trunk, glued to a phone screen. Obee can tell that he’s being watched, even though her gaze is down, avoidant. Nerves? Fear? Guilt? He stops guessing, decides he doesn’t care, asks her what she saw, and records her response.

“They don’t like the rain clouds,” she says. “It’s humid, you know? Makes them sticky or something. I think. But that’s not what they say on the news. On the news, they’re damp. It keeps them solid.”

“What did you see, ma’am? What were they doing?”

Her eyes are blank, focused like lasers, staring at the pavement. Zombie-like.

“The lights blinked. Only for a second, though. But they were off in the bathroom, still, when I took him in.”

“Took who?”

“My son,” she gestured toward him. “Brave. He had some–”

“Your son’s name is Brave?”

“Yes, that’s his name. And the water–”

“Why’d you pick Brave?”

“Excuse me?”

“The name. Why’d you pick it?”

“What does his name have to do with anything?”

“Names have a lot to do with everything.”

She glances at his name tag, frowns, parts her lips to speak, then shuts them again. Then she looks past him, at his partner probably, still frowning. Then back at him. “You’re supposed to be helping me. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“It came out the toilet. Is that it?”

She falters. “How did you know that?”

“It’s what sewer rats do!” He laughs, heartily from his gut–her face flusters, bright red against her pale skin–and it only makes him laugh more.

“Obee.” Richard puts a hand on his shoulder, calming him. “I’m sorry about that, ma’am. There are still a few. . . glitches.”

She nods. “I understand. He’s right, though. It was in the toilet. That’s where it came from. They’re supposed to be dry, I thought. Just a little bit. A little damp, a little dry. Like beach sand. That’s what they’re made of, right? The–” She freezes, self-censoring, just as they do.

“The black sand,” Obee finishes. “They’re made of black sand. Soil. Dirt. Earth. Shit. All the same damn thing.”

“The sand trolls,” Richard says, his voice strong with assertion. “They’re harmless … mostly. You have nothing to worry about, ma’am. We’re on it.”

Obee laughs, loudly, his white canines visible in his open mouth, stark against his black skin. We, Richard said, even though he knows they’ll go their separate ways. Funny guy.

Stretching the muscles of his shoulder, Obee heads down the parking lot, toward the supermarket. He expects Richard to say something, but he doesn’t, and Obee appreciates that–it feels good. Reminds him that he’s human. And for once, he doesn’t notice the leash trailing behind him, as it always does, with just enough slack. To make him believe.

He notices the water first, a half-inch pooling on the tiled floor, reflecting the little light that emits from the freezers. It’s quiet, not even the sound of pouring water, but he knows they’re here. Hiding in the dark.

“My arm is just fine,” he says. “It’s the only thing left of me. Was anyway.”

Water splashes beneath his boots as he passes the aisles, glancing down each one as he searches. Fresh produce is scattered across the floor, and the check-out aisle snacks are completely obliterated.

“You could’ve saved my arm! I told you that I’m left-handed.”

Obee stops when he reaches the soda aisle–the thick smell of syrupy soft drinks heavy in the air. He smirks, reminded vaguely of his older brother, who always made the Kool-Aid too damn sweet.

“YOU CAN’T FIX WHAT’S NOT BROKEN!”

Saliva sprays from his lips when he shouts, then there’s clamor on the other side of the aisle. It’s followed by splashing water and the scratchy pitter of clawed feet. He whips around on the sound of shattering glass, just as the freezer lights go out.

He sees it for only a second, its spindly bipedal form standing hardly two feet from the ground. He notes the mush of its newly developed skin, molded from clay. A little damp, a little dry. It’s finding its way. Forming itself to the right consistency. They are smart creatures. But they’re stupid too. He hears one of them climbing to the top of a shelving unit in the dark, escaping the very water they flooded the store with.

He senses them around him, getting loud, now in the comfort of damp darkness, bold. They make jittering noises, something like hyenas, and when they get excited enough, they whoop, like coyote howls–as they do now.

“You broke the rules, stupid. Never feed ‘em after dark.”

A glass bottle hits Obee in the head, then bursts as it smashes to the floor. Another one is thrown, but misses, crashing into the freezer behind him. The sticky smell of soda grows stronger. And he’s sick of it now. Sick of the darkness and the water and the memories of too-sweet Kool-Aid that coats his tongue. He grabs a flashlight from his utility belt and shines it on the top shelf, directly at the sand troll.

It scurries, knocking down a stock of two-liters, then leaps across to the next shelving unit. It nearly topples the first unit when it jumps, then it dives to the floor, disappearing beyond the aisles.

A chemical releases throughout Obee’s body to mask the pain, then it rejuvenates him. He stretches, feeling the metal plates shift in his torso and the braided wires that contract like tendons. He appreciates the new body they gave him–even if it means they own him–though it’s unfortunate that his senses are still human. He could use some night vision right about now. The tech simply wasn’t there yet. Nothing like the chrome exoskeleton he dreamt of. And anyway, they didn’t seem to care how it turned out. They only wanted him for his body.

Obee follows the trail of silty sand the troll leaves in its wake, eyeing the others around him. There’s more of them here than there should be, too far from where they originated. Like they’re migrating. Or multiplying even. Seeking revenge. A part of him wants to let it play out, to see what happens, willing to take the brunt of the city’s wrath for it. It is, after all, in his hands.

He grabs his tranq gun, mounts a flashlight, and stays guarded, walking further down the aisles. The trolls jitter as he walks by, ducking from the flashlight’s beam. They’ve settled down, just a little, following him in the shadows with something between curiosity and mockery. He aims at one hiding at the corner of an endcap, then pulls the trigger.

Its clawed hand goes to its chest reflexively, then its eyes grow heavy. It reaches out, tries to catch its balance, but falls anyway, into the water.

Obee picks up the troll, sets its mushy body on a shelf, saving it.

The other trolls seem to sense the power Obee holds in his hand, and they skitter further away. They maintain a safe distance, still following him, just out of range of his flashlight. Then he begins to smell the rot they leave behind, confirming his suspicion of their travels through the sewage. It’s pungent, yet the water remains oddly clear, even as he watches it spill beneath the bathroom doors. A sideways trash can is jammed in the opening of the restroom, soggy tissue floating across the floor. He steps over the mess, keeps his gun pointed as he enters, alert. Then he sees a troll, sitting on the edge of the counter sink, hardly noting his presence.

It glances at him with red beady eyes, squints from the flashlight, then returns its attention to the flooded sink. It’s scrubbing something with vigor, its motions akin to using an old-school washboard. The faucet trickles steadily as silty water rains to the floor.

Obee leans forward, keeps his gun pointed, finds that the troll is scrubbing its hands. Scraping them, and the water has turned darkly opaque.

Quickly, Obee peeks into the empty stalls–toilets overfilled with clear water–then turns back to the sink, his mirrored reflection invisible from the flashlight’s beam. Above his head, scribbled on the glass, are words written in what looks to be mud:

YOU CAN’T FIX WHAT’S NOT BROKEN!

He turns away from the message, wonders how the troll maintains its solid form inside the water, and how they traveled through the sewers in the first place. Its hands are waterlogged, and they should disperse, yet the shape of its claws are pronounced clearly.  Like squishy lizard skin. Solid and fleshy at the same time.

Obee sighs, raising his tranq gun. He aims, shoots the troll squarely in the chest, then reaches out before it falls into the pooling sink. He sets it on the wet counter, its black sand trailing the floor.

As he returns to his armed grip, Obee grows oddly aware of his own hands, staring at the artificial smoothness reflecting in the dim light. They had given him a synthetic outer layer to imitate his natural blackness, but it was biomimicry that lacked function of any kind. Little more than a cruel joke.

Behind him, at least a dozen trolls are sitting on the overturned trash can, either too curious or too stupid to have run away. The one at the sink must’ve been the smart one. Not quite a leader, since they didn’t appear to have hierarchy in that way, only smart enough to make decisions while the others followed.

Obee shakes out the stiffness in his limbs, and another surge of chemicals rushes through his body. With the smart one down, he can zip through the supermarket with ease, then round them up into his net. He won’t even need to turn the lights back on–their boldness completely diminished. He quickly takes out four of them before they scatter from the bathroom.

The rest of them crawl across the floor with haste, despite the water, but they’re clumsy, knocking down the items they rush by, marking their positions in the dark. Thanks to the pistons in his mechanical feet, Obee runs through the aisles with ease, an agility that rivals the small trolls.

In under ten minutes, he knocks them out. Twenty-seven of them. Far too many for this side of the city. He calls in Richard from his walkie, and together, they get the lights on and await the clean-up crew.

This is the way it ends. This is the way that we know.

This is what your friend says when he say that it’s for show.

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Not with a song but a whisper.

We’re drying our tears, we’re wiping our fears,

‘cause it’s in the DNA that we know.

The first thing Obee realizes when he stares into the burned-out car–shards of amber glass littering the seat and floor–is that they learned how to craft a Molotov. He’s in an abandoned parking garage that’s half-collapsed, half “under construction” as it’s been for two years, and there’s plenty of litter around to whip something up. The trolls can do some pretty damage to plumbing systems and localized electric grids. But a Molotov? That’s next level.

Obee wipes the soot from his gloved hands, steps back from the car, then glances at Richard, who sits in a folding chair placed in a clean-ish parking spot, filling out paperwork on his laptop. Obee is so used to rounding up the trolls on his own that Richard’s presence takes up too much space. It feels suffocating. Like dead weight. And he reeks of cold bureaucracy.

Obee puts his headphones back on, pretending the ball-and-chain of his partner isn’t here. He pulls out his cellphone to snap some photos–the broken glass, the burn marks splattered up the door panel, all the evidence of the Molotov. There’s an odd sense of glee he feels for the trolls’ intelligence, made even stronger as the city scrambles around to protect their image.

While Obee and Richard were on a separate call late last night, the trolls had swarmed the streets of the financial district, and the city responded with the full capacity of its police budget. It pissed off a lot of people, though, and by the time Obee arrived, the SWAT vans had already been replaced with animal control, live rounds were exchanged for tranquilizers, and the press snuck their way onto Chandler Ave., documenting the clean-up. The chief had personally invited some of the press and “troll experts.” One of them was standing right here in the garage.

Obee watches the journalist/troll expert snap photos of a cement pillar, the camera flashing throughout the lot. Contrary to most stuffy academic types Obee’s seen before, the guy wears a dashiki suit and short locs, and Obee swears he recognizes him from somewhere. A few TV appearances, sure, but somewhere beyond that.

Obee gives up guessing, intent on ignoring the guy right alongside Richard. But then the journalist pulls away from his camera, and he’s grinning widely at the pillar.

Weirdo.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Obee walks up to the cement pillar, and he smells the same pungent odor from the grocery store bathroom. It was diluted then, in that open, mostly clean space, but it’s all too familiar now, as he stares at the black gook smeared across the wall.

“Wild animals …” Obee mumbles to himself, but the guy hears all the same.

“It means they’re alive!” He’s smiling, his voice tinged with admiration for the creatures. “That’s a beautiful thing.”

“You realize what you’re looking at, don’t you?”

“It’s a mural. Made with the most natural shit on earth.”

Obee scoffs. “Ha ha. Looks like you got a sense of humor.”

“Yeah, you could use some.”

Obee shrugs it off, turning away from the “troll expert” and the shit-stained wall, placing his headphones back on and returning to his music.

Grind ‘em all up. Dump ‘em in the machine.

Rip their soul from their chest till they all come clean.

There’s a row of collapsed tents in a corner with messy belongings, from the old homeless encampment before the trolls evicted them. Black sand coats the bags and ground, sits in the little pockets of the fallen tents, and there’s .223 rifle casings and shotgun shells sprinkled throughout. Clothing is mixed in with blankets and sleeping bags, forming a pile, but it looks purposeful, with an indent in the middle, similar to an animal’s nest.

The trolls are known for making a mess of restaurants and grocery stores, turning them into the damp darkness of their preferred environment. But if they’re nesting now, even sleeping near each other, that means they’re adapting, and much faster than Obee anticipated. They’re becoming more sociable. Encroaching. Claiming the urban, human-infested environment as their own.

With a gloved hand, Obee lifts a bullet hole-ridden tarp from the ground, noting the large pile of sand hiding beneath it. Spent casings are buried in the sand, and Obee can’t help but wonder if the troll was killed in its sleep.

He shakes his head, thinking how this city has hell to pay. And he doesn’t plan to do a damn thing to stop it.

“Grind ‘em all up. Dump ‘em in the machine. Rip their soul from their chest till they all come clean.”

He sings aloud, drowning out the noise of rush hour on the other side of the concrete walls, follows a sand trail into a corner where old furniture sits.

“Then take a lil wax and give ‘em a shine. You gonna call yours and I’m gonna call mine.”

The furniture is all overturned and broken up–coffee table, wooden bed frames, a small bookshelf flat on its back. It’s the bookshelf that catches his eye, filled with shiny found objects like coins, aluminum take-out trays, corroded batteries, and lots and lots of writing pens. There’s books and papers on the floor too, all of them open and scribbled on, and he wonders if that journalist has a point about the shit mural.

“Let him speak his mind. He’s got a story to tell. But don’t let him get too angry. Don’t wanna hear him yell.”

Yesterday’s troll in the bathroom is still fresh in his mind, no matter how hard he tries to forget. Their language capacity is shocking in its own right; they’re ever-evolving. But it’s their ability to internalize that rubs him the wrong way. Like when a kid learns to say fuck you for the first time and mean it. Or when a troll tries to scrub away its own skin. Things that simply shouldn’t happen.

“Don’t call him black. Call him P.O.C. Then watch how he act for that–”

The camera flashes on his left. The journalist is right beside him. Obee snickers, takes off his headphones, finding that it’s probably best he didn’t finish the lyric.

The guy bends down and squats on his knees. “They like to hoard …” he says, and he picks up a metal toy car, twirling it between his fingers.

“They’re like children,” Obee replies. “Little bug-eyed toddlers.”

“Gremlins.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Obee nods in agreement. “Though I’m really starting to hate this black sand.” He tries to kick it off his boot, but a thin layer sticks anyway. “It’s coarse and irritating, and it gets everywhere.”

“Don’t you mean sand of color?”

The journalist is looking him up and down, his face twisted in faux disgust. Then Obee laughs hard, clutching his gut. “Nah, hombre. Es negro. Como nosotros.”

“Damn right.”

They laugh loudly, then give dap, just as Obee remembers where he knew the guy from. They grew up on the North Side, back when the guy was known as Dee instead of Demetrius. He was a scrawny kid stuck in hand-me-downs from his older brother. A nerdy type who mostly kept to himself. Seeing him here makes sense after all.

“So, Dee. You with the press now or what?”

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he says, smiling. “I’m an assistant professor now. A. A. history. Wrote a few books that did pretty well. But I’m here on volunteer services. Photojournalism.”

“It’s cool. I saw you on TV before, but that don’t sound like a troll expert to me.”

“Yeah, that’s what the city’s been calling it,” he says, shaking his head. “But it’s all optics. You know how it is.”

Obee scoffs, glances at his tether across the lot, at Richard’s face lit up by his laptop. “Yeah, who you telling?”

Then he looks back at Dee, gazing at the camera hanging around his neck. “I saw you on Chandler this morning. You got some pictures?”

“Yeah. Got some good ones too.”

Obee leans in as Dee thumbs through the memory of his digital camera, browsing the images of the city streets, broken windows, and trails of black sand.

“That’s a good one,” Obee says, pointing out a photo of a street cleaner rolling down Chandler Ave., blowing black dust into the storm drains. “The rain’s gonna wash it all away soon. Gonna look like it never happened.”

“Try as they might, they can’t erase history.”

Obee grunts in agreement. Then they reach the end of the gallery.

“That’s it, brother.” Dee pulls away, though still admiring his work.

“No pictures from the fight last night? The protest on Main?”

“Nah. I wasn’t here, man.” Dee shifts his weight uneasily, keeping his eyes focused on the camera. “Were you?”

“I was fifteen miles away in suburbia with my partner.” Obee says it dramatically, smirking, meaning it as a joke. But Dee only nods stiffly with his lips tight, placing the cap on his camera lens.

“It’s a shame it went down like that,” Obee continues, kicking his boot again in a failed attempt to remove the dust. “All that firepower to end up doing what they shoulda done from the beginning.”

“What, you talking about animal control?”

“Yeah, whoever. P.D.’s been capturing them for weeks now. I dunno why they send in SWAT to flex on ‘em when bullets don’t do a damn thing. You see that right there?” He points to a metal cap of a drain, marked with tracks of dried water and trailing black dust. “That’s your tax dollars. Next time it rains, all this is gone. Trolls go swimming. Come out the other end as something else. Something smarter.”

“What? How do you know all that?”

“How do you think I know?”

“You seen it happen?”

“Instincts. But I’mma let you do the math, college boy. I’ll wait.”

Dee gets quiet, stroking his scraggly goatee in thought.

“You should get outta here,” Obee says. “They’ll be wiping this place clean soon enough.”

“A’ight.” Dee heads back to the pillar where he left his backpack, while Obee returns to the burned-out car where he entered the garage. He pulls two waters from his own pack, tosses one to Richard, then drinks from his own.

“Thanks, man,” Richard says earnestly.

“Mhm.”

“You know that guy?”

“Yeah. Back in North Side. Grew up with him.”

Richard nods. “That’s where the sand trolls came from. Does he know anything about them?”

Obee shrugs, not caring to elaborate. He gulps heartily from his bottle, swishes some water in his mouth, then spits it to the ground. The dusty concrete dampens with water droplets; condensation from the cold bottle wets his palms. An idea starts to form in his mind, but it’s small. Maybe even petty. But it’s something that, for once, will let him get even. It’s something that he wants.

“We’re finished here,” he says to Richard. “Trolls are long gone. I’m gonna do some cleanup.”

“Alright, then. I’ll be outside.”

Obee grabs his pack and turns away, quickly getting to work. He heads to the tents by the back wall and pulls out a tarp with the fewest holes, laying it on the ground. With cupped hands, he scoops into a nest of sand, dumps it onto the tarp, working his way through each nest–bullet casings and all. He shakes out the clothing and sleeping bags, uses a ripped book cover to sweep up the remnants, gathering as much sand as he can, and the tarp’s pile grows larger and larger.

He stands up when the pile threatens to spill off the tarp, folds the tarp’s edges to keep it all still, just as Dee comes over.

“What are you–”

“Yo, help me with this.”

Obee grabs two corners of the tarp, clenching them with tight fists. Dee mirrors him, grabbing the other two, and they hold it up from the ground, carrying it to the drain, then set it down slowly. Obee crouches on his knees, begins pushing the pile all at once, watching the indentation as it tunnels down the drain.

“Woah, woah. Wait. What are you doing?”

Obee keeps pushing the sand, flicking away the spent casings that occasionally block the drain, then he grins at Dee. “I’m liberating.”

He dusts off his palms as he stands up, looks around the space of the parking garage.

“They need water,” he says, and he grabs his bottle from his pack, twists off the cap, starts to hold it over the drain.

“Wait, hold up!” Dee jogs over to his own backpack sitting by the pillar, returns and sets it down, kneeling beside it. He pulls out a couple of jars from his bag, then sets them on the ground.

Obee stares incredulously, eyes squinting. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised–Dee is a college professor after all. But something feels off about it. Feels wrong.

“What are you gonna do with that?”

“I don’t know yet.” Dee cups his hands together and scoops up sand, gazing at the dark powder that glimmers in the light. He pours it into a jar, slowly, and it’s mesmerizing. An hourglass of black sand.

“If you looking for the minerals,” Obee says with a staunch voice, “then you on the wrong side of town. There’s barely any of it in their bodies.”

“Do I look like a greedy-ass capitalist to you?”

Obee bites his tongue on the first thing that comes to mind, holding back the lyrics he was listening to–then watch how he act for that white money.

He opts for a milder version.

“Money’s white, man. If you gotta dance, you dance. I get it.” And he does get it. He wears a uniform and badge after all, obeys orders like a good little pup. Except he doesn’t have a choice.

“This isn’t for money,” Dee asserts, and he fills the jar with its last scoop till it reaches the brim. Then he takes his finger, skims it across the top, closes the lid.

“What, then? Art? Science? It’s all the same shit.”

“Reclamation,” is all Dee says. He fills the second jar, closes the lid, then smiles at them with admiration.

Whatever the hell that means is lost on Obee. Sounds like the academic bullshit he clocked on Dee the moment he laid eyes on him. The bureaucrats, the news, the educated–they all play the same word games to convince you that they’re on your side. But when you turn around, they’re gone. They made sure they got theirs. And you? Your hands are as empty as they’ve always been. It’s the same shit, different color.

Obee glares at him, sliding the jars into his bag, then it hits him why Dee–no, Demetrius–came here in the first place. The look of admiration in his eyes, the care with which he gathers up the trolls’ remains, and why he stopped Obee from pouring the water … he only wanted them for their bodies.

When Demetrius leaves, Obee crouches on the ground, his mechanical knees pressed to the concrete, and slowly, carefully, he pushes the remaining sand down the drain.

He pours what little water he has left.

And that night, he prays for rain.

Let him wear kente. Let him wear a fro.

Let him quote Malcolm. Let him put on a show.

Put a book in his hand to make him think he know.

The next day, his name is in the newspaper. Not a headline but an author. An op-ed on how the city’s handling of the sand trolls reflects the homeless crisis. By Demetrius Coleman. There’s a black-and-white photo on the front page, larger than the images of broken windows and blown-out cars. The shot was taken from ground level, of minerals in black sand that sparkle in the sunlight, piled on a grungy sidewalk with worn-out sneakers beside it. He’ll likely go on interviews in the upcoming weeks, perhaps write a book with his name larger than the title. No better photo for the front page after that pathetic attempt to eradicate the trolls–but Obee worked late into the night yesterday, rounding up dozens of trolls in the shipyard. He isn’t in the mood for kindness.

He’s sitting in the cruiser with Richard in the driver’s seat. He’s holding an Arizona and a pack of ranch sunflower seeds. The window’s down, bringing in cool, damp air, and he spits shells onto the ground of loose dirt.

The soil here is so dark that it’s almost black. So rich that a new crop of buds sprouts every three days before it’s mowed down again. They say it’s because of the special minerals deep beneath the city, the ones Obee was mining for a lifetime ago. There’s yellow tape and security guards at the mine’s entrance. Patrol officers and protestors across the street. Some civilians still walk the city with protective gear and baseball bats, contrasting with their formal work attire as they clock in for the morning.

Even after all this, the city still refuses to close down the mine–what the protestors have been calling for since the collapse that unleashed the trolls, the same collapse that killed Obee and made him what he is. It’s the one solution they refuse to entertain, hoping to keep their pockets padded. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The little shape-shifting bastards are here to stick around. They’re staking their claim to the city–shit-stained graffiti and all. No rest for the suits who dragged them here.

“Sorry about Watkins,” Richard says, apologizing for what seems to be the hundredth time. He’s weary, just as overworked as Obee’s been all week, yet still manages to be at least a little kind. It frustrates Obee, makes it harder to ignore the guy.

“It’s all good, man. Not your fault. This is what I’m made for.” Obee pours another handful of seeds into his mouth, sucking on the ranch flavor before he cracks one open. Then he leans out of the window and shouts:

“WELCOME TO THE RAT RACE!”

Nameless faces turn at the sound of his voice. Then quickly look away. Carrying on.

“Well … if you find a good reason to retire early, I’ve got your back. You don’t need to be here.”

Obee sighs. Even when Richard’s being kind, he still doesn’t get things, doesn’t even realize he’s only here to keep Obee in line.

As long as the tech is there to do it, blood will keep pumping through Obee’s manufactured body. His heart will keep beating to the rhythm it was programmed with.

His heart …

He can hear it beating.

A gentle thump that echoes in the darkness, deep in the fleshy cavity beneath his ribcage. It feels constricted, like it’s pressed to the wall. Perhaps even dying.

But fighting back.