Chapter Six
Arthur stared at the ceiling of the apartment, lying on the worn grey couch in the dark. The neon bleed from outside painted shifting patterns on the walls and ceiling—cyan, magenta, amber—a slow, hypnotic pulse that marked the passage of time.
He glanced to the side.
Stella was standing against the wall near the window, her back pressed to the concrete, one of his old comics open in her hands. She'd been reading for over an hour, perfectly still except for the occasional turn of a page. The low light didn't bother her. She had some kind of night vision that let her see in the dark, just like him.
Their eyes met for a moment—both silver in the darkness—before he lifted his gaze back to the ceiling.
Sighing.
His thoughts drifted to the most pressing matter: money.
He still had some credits for the next rent payment. Food wasn't a problem—he barely ate anymore. But knowing that once those credits were gone, he'd be kicked out of this place... scared him.
He barely knew Corereach. Just some facts and a general layout. Midspire, where he lived—caught between the Spire elite above and the Docks below. Somewhere above him, the wealthy lived in climate-controlled towers. Somewhere below, cargo ships still brought real food from the Canadian Protectorate's inland farms. And here he was, stuck in the middle, unable to afford up or risk going down.
His hand fumbled for his phone on the cargo table beside the couch. The screen lit up at his touch.
The job board app was already open. He scrolled through listings with growing desperation.
Every job blurred together. His field? Instincts only, no actual knowledge left after his brain damage. Manual labor? Required mods his body might reject—or worse, his powers might fry. He was qualified for exactly nothing, and rent was due in three weeks.
His phone buzzed.
A notification appeared.
Arthur stared at the number. Forty-two hundred credits. Enough for the next month's rent.
Before he could process it, another message appeared.
"Shit," Arthur breathed.
Across the room, Stella looked up from the comic, her luminous eyes catching his. "What's wrong?"
Arthur sat up, his stomach tightening. "My sister. She's coming to town."
Stella closed the comic carefully and set it aside. "That bothers you."
"Yeah." Arthur ran a hand through his hair, feeling the white strand catch on his fingers. "She's going to see... everything. The eyes. The weight loss." He gestured vaguely at himself. "How am I supposed to explain any of this?"
Stella was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she moved to where his laptop sat on the floor and powered it on, settling cross-legged in front of it. The screen's glow illuminated her face as she opened a browser.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asked.
"Research," Stella said. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with mechanical precision. "If your sister is coming, we need to prepare. Understand the context. Your journal entries mention her, but only in passing."
Arthur watched her work, something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. He didn't want to think about Celina. The journal entries he'd read painted a complicated picture—a sister who'd cut him off financially, who'd sided with their parents in some argument he couldn't remember.
"Stella."
She looked up.
"I don't... I don't know how to feel about her. The journal makes it sound like we had problems. But I can't remember any of it. She's just..." He trailed off. "She's just a name."
"That is understandable." Stella's voice was soft. "You have no emotional context. Only data."
"Yeah. Exactly."
She turned back to the laptop. "Then we should focus on what we can control. Your appearance. Your cover story. The physical evidence that something has changed."
Arthur nodded slowly. That was practical. That was something he could work with.
"Speaking of evidence..." Stella's fingers paused on the keyboard. Her eyes flickered—that data-scroll tell he'd learned to recognize. "Arthur. Come look at this."
Something in her tone made his stomach drop.
He crossed the room and knelt beside her, looking at the screen. A news article. Local crime section.
FIVE DEAD IN MIDSPIRE ALLEY — SNAP ATTACK SUSPECTED
Arthur's blood went cold.
The article was dated seven days ago. The bodies had been found in an alley in the industrial sector—the same sector where Arthur had woken up without his memories. Five men, all with criminal records, all killed by what investigators were calling "extreme blunt force trauma consistent with a snap attack." No suspects. No witnesses. Case classified as .
"That's them," Arthur whispered. "The men from the alley."
"Yes." Stella's voice was carefully neutral. "The article mentions that investigators attempted to extract memories from the victims' neural implants, but all five had suffered catastrophic system failures. Their implants were completely burned out."
Arthur remembered the fuse box in the alley. The way it had melted when he'd accidentally drained it. If he'd done the same thing to those men's implants...
"So they might not know it was me?"
"The article doesn't mention a suspect description," Stella said, gesturing to the screen. "No mention of unusual abilities. No surveillance footage. No witness accounts. If they'd extracted usable memories, there would be more information. The fact that they're calling it a 'snap attack' suggests they don't have much to go on."
"So there's a chance," Arthur said quietly, staring at the article. "A chance they don't know."
"The probability gets lower with time," Stella confirmed. "Though we can't rule it out completely."
Arthur stared at his reflection in the darkened portion of the laptop screen. Silver eyes stared back—inhuman, unmistakable. "This is why I need to hide. If someone did see something, if there's any footage or description floating around—"
"Your current appearance could be tracked," Stella finished. "And your sister will notice the changes. We need to solve both problems."
She was already typing, pulling up online stores. "We can change how you look. Hide the things that stand out. Hair dye for the white strand. Contact lenses for the eyes. Better clothes." She looked up at him. "It solves both problems—your sister won't immediately notice how much you've changed, and if there's any description from the investigation, it won't match you."
Arthur sat back on his heels. "That... could actually work."
"Hair dye is simple—temporary color should work. Contact lenses to change eye color are easy to get." Stella's fingers flew across the keyboard. "But there's still your malnourishment."
Stella paused, her silver eyes studying him with an intensity that made Arthur uncomfortable. "Arthur, I need to discuss something with you. Something I've been observing."
"What?"
"Your deterioration isn't just from lack of conventional nutrition." She turned from the laptop to face him fully. "I've been monitoring your vitals since we met. Your cortisol levels are constantly elevated. Your heart rate spikes every time you pass an electrical source. Your sleep patterns show repeated micro-awakenings—your body trying to force you toward energy sources even while unconscious."
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Arthur felt cold. "What are you saying?"
"You're fighting your preservation instincts," Stella said quietly. "Constantly. Every moment of every day. Your body is screaming at you to feed, and you're using all your energy to resist that urge."
The words hit him like a physical blow. She was right. He'd felt it—that constant pull toward every powered device, every electrical current. The exhaustion of walking past a charging station without reaching for it. The headaches that came from being in crowded areas full of implants and devices he wanted to drain.
"Think of it like a human who refuses to eat," Stella continued. "They're surrounded by food, but they won't touch it. At first, they're just hungry. Then weak. Then their body starts consuming itself—muscle, fat, organ tissue. But it's not just the starvation that kills them. It's the of constantly denying what every cell in their body is demanding. The psychological toll. The energy spent fighting instinct instead of living."
Arthur's hands were shaking. "So I'm... starving myself."
"Worse. You're starving yourself while expending enormous energy to starving yourself." Stella's voice was gentle but firm. "The malnourishment you're experiencing—it's not just because you can't eat normal food. It's because your body is burning through its reserves trying to suppress what it needs. You're fighting a war against yourself, Arthur. And you're losing."
"How long?" Arthur asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How long before..."
"I don't know." Stella's admission was quiet. "Your physiology is unlike anything in my databases. But the trajectory is clear. Your weight loss is accelerating. Your cognitive function has decreased twelve percent since I started monitoring. Your reflexes are slower. Your immune responses are weakened." She paused. "If this continues, your body will eventually fail. Whether that means death or something else—a transformation, a shutdown, a cocoon state—I can't predict. But doing nothing is not sustainable."
Arthur stared at the floor. All this time, he'd been afraid of what feeding meant—that it made him a monster, a predator. But refusing to feed wasn't making him human. It was killing him.
"The appearance improvement for Celina's visit," Stella added, "that's secondary. I don't know if feeding will make you look healthier. But I know that feeding will eventually kill you. Or change you into something neither of us wants."
The word hung in the air between them.
Like he was something predatory. Something inhuman.
But the alternative was worse.
"I still have credits," Arthur said slowly, the decision crystallizing. "After rent, I'd have about forty-seven hundred left. We could buy batteries. Used car batteries—they hold a lot of energy, right?"
Stella nodded. "Car batteries would work best. High capacity, relatively cheap if we buy them used."
"But we'd need somewhere isolated to do it," Arthur said, remembering the fuse box in the alley—melted, burned out. "When I drain things, they burn out. We can't do this in the apartment or anywhere with people around."
"Kira might be able to help with that."
Arthur thought for a moment, weighing it. Kira had already seen too much. Every time he involved her, he pulled her deeper into the mess his life had become. But what other choice did he have?
"I'll call her," Arthur said, reaching for his phone.
Kira picked up on the third ring. "Arthur? Is there a problem?"
"No, there's no problem, but I need your help with something." Arthur took a breath. "Stella's been monitoring my vitals. She thinks..." Arthur took a breath, forcing the words out. "She thinks I'm dying. Not from the transformation—from fighting it. My body needs energy, and I've been refusing to give it any. It's like starving yourself while running a marathon. Eventually something gives." He glanced at Stella, who nodded confirmation. "We were thinking about buying car batteries—used ones, cheap—and finding somewhere isolated where I can drain them. Somewhere I won't accidentally fry someone's electrical system or, you know, start a fire."
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Kira said, "Like what happened to that fuse box in the alley."
"Yeah."
Another pause. Arthur could hear the sound of traffic in the background, voices. Kira was outside somewhere.
"That's actually smart thinking," Kira said finally. "Controlled environment, secluded location. You'd need fireproofing though. Insulation. Safety gear."
"We were hoping you might know a place," Arthur said.
"Let me make some calls," Kira said. "I might know someone who has access to a storage unit. Industrial area, minimal oversight. It'll take me a few hours to set up."
"Kira, I—thank you."
"I'll text you when I have something confirmed."
She hung up.
Arthur lowered the phone, meeting Stella's gaze. "She's going to help."
"Good." Stella turned back to the laptop. "I'll order the hair dye and contact lenses. Express delivery. They should arrive tomorrow morning."
Arthur watched her work—efficient, methodical, solving his problems one by one with the same analytical precision she brought to everything. It was strange, having someone like this. Someone who didn't judge, didn't question, just... helped.
"Stella?"
She looked up.
"Thank you."
Arthur stood and moved to the window. Outside, Corereach stretched in all directions—a sprawl of lights and shadows, of people living their lives unaware that something like him existed among them.
Two days.
He had two days to become someone his sister wouldn't recognize as a threat.
Two days to prepare for a conversation he couldn't remember the context for.
Behind him, Stella continued typing, the soft click of keys a steady rhythm in the darkness.
* * *
Arthur barely slept that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Celina's face—or rather, the face from childhood photos, since he couldn't remember what she looked like now. A stranger wearing his sister's name, coming to visit for reasons he couldn't fathom.
When grey light finally filtered through the windows, he gave up trying.
Stella was still at the laptop, exactly where she'd been when he'd dozed off hours ago. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked.
"The delivery will arrive at 9:47 AM." She turned the screen toward him.
The morning crawled by. Arthur nibbled on a protein bar as he stared at the ceiling. He reread his journal entries about Celina, trying to feel something beyond the anger and hurt written there.
Nothing. Just words on a screen.
The delivery notification came at exactly 9:47 AM. Arthur retrieved the package from the building's main entrance—a small box containing hair dye and contact lenses, both ordered under a dummy account Stella had created.
He spent an hour in the bathroom, following the instructions on the dye box, watching in the mirror as the white strand above his right eye gradually darkened to match the rest of his hair. The chemical smell made his eyes water, made his enhanced senses recoil.
The contacts were harder. His hands shook as he tried to position them, his silver eyes blinking reflexively. On the fourth attempt, he managed to get the first lens in. Brown. Ordinary, human brown.
The second lens took another five minutes.
When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Stella was waiting with his phone.
"Look," she said, showing him the camera view.
Arthur stared at his reflection on the screen. Brown eyes. Black hair. No white strand. He looked... normal. Tired, too thin, but normal.
"I look like I used to," Arthur murmured. He felt like he was staring at a ghost.
But then his gaze dropped to his sunken cheeks, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his shirt hung loose on his frame.
His jaw tensed. "I still look sick."
"We'll fix that tonight," Stella said.
Kira's text came just after noon.
The rest of the day crawled by. Arthur tried to distract himself—read comics, scrolled through his phone, stared out the window. Stella continued monitoring news feeds, searching for any updates on the investigation. Nothing new appeared.
The hours felt like days.
Finally, as the sun set and the neon lights flickered to life across Midspire, it was time.
* * *
At 9:30 PM, they left the apartment. The transit ride to the Docks took thirty minutes, the train car half-empty at this hour. Arthur kept his head down, hyperaware of every security camera, every passenger who might glance his way. His brown contacts made him feel exposed and disguised at the same time.
They exited at Pier Station and walked the remaining distance.
The Docks at night were a different world from Midspire—a place where the city's gleaming corporate facade gave way to older, harder realities.
The air here tasted of salt and rust, thick with moisture that clung to everything. Massive cargo ships lined the waterfront, their hulls black against blacker water, lit by harsh sodium lights that turned the fog yellow. Loading cranes rose like skeletal giants, their warning lights blinking red against the low clouds. The constant groan of metal on metal echoed across the industrial sprawl—containers being moved, ships being loaded, the endless mechanical symphony of commerce.
The pavement was cracked and uneven, stained with decades of oil and chemical runoff. Graffiti covered every available surface—tags and territorial markers in languages Arthur didn't recognize. Between the warehouses, narrow alleys disappeared into darkness that even the security lights couldn't penetrate.
This was where Corereach's working class lived—dockhands and cargo processors, maintenance crews and black market dealers. The buildings here were functional, not beautiful. Corrugated metal and poured concrete, everything built to withstand the corrosive sea air and the weight of heavy machinery.
A group of workers passed them, voices loud with exhaustion and camaraderie, their uniforms marked with corporate logos Arthur didn't recognize. A street vendor was packing up his stall for the night, the smell of synthetic meat and fried something lingering in the air. Security drones hummed overhead, their searchlights occasionally sweeping across the warehouses.
Arthur could feel the electrical current humming through everything—the loading equipment, the security systems, the ships' power systems. It sang to him, a constant background noise that made his fingers tingle.
They found Unit 247 near the back of the storage facility, away from the main throughways. Kira was waiting outside, a large duffel bag at her feet. She looked up as they approached, taking in Arthur's appearance with a quick scan.
"Contacts and dye," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Sister's coming to visit," Arthur said. "Had to look less... superhuman."
Kira paused for a moment, her expression shifting to something unreadable. "I never knew you had a sister."
"Yeah. Celina. She's—" Arthur stopped. How did he explain a relationship he couldn't remember? "It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated," Kira muttered, but there was no real heat in it. She picked up the duffel. "Come on. Let's get you fed before you pass out."
* * *
The storage unit was exactly what Arthur had expected—bare concrete walls, metal door, about fifteen feet square. Empty except for a few old pallets stacked in the corner and a lingering smell of machine oil.
Kira set down the duffel and started pulling out materials: fireproof blankets, thick rubber mats, two insulated suits that looked like they belonged in a high-voltage electrical facility.
"Borrowed these from a friend in infrastructure maintenance," she said, tossing one suit to Stella. "Rated for direct electrical contact. Should keep your systems safe if Arthur loses control."
Stella caught the suit and began putting it on. Kira did the same, zipping herself in up to the neck.
"And these," Kira continued, pulling out a crate, "are your batteries. Twelve used car batteries. Guy at the salvage yard practically gave them away."
Arthur stared at the crate. Twelve batteries. Twelve concentrated sources of energy just waiting to be consumed.
His fingers tingled.
