Bai sat on a bed in room fourteen of the Lu Zhiwei rehabilitation 
center, breathing in and out. Something had clicked during the 
exercise in group, the final piece of a massive puzzle that Bai had 


been assembling blind. The mindfulness was escape; it quickly 
became an obsession, an aching need. 


More and more of Bai had faded as simple awareness, breath after 
breath, expanded to replace it. Thumbs, palms, toes, then ankles; all 
smooth stumps now, as if they'd never been anything more than an 
illusion. 


Lei came in and flopped onto the opposite bed, scattering brochures 
and printouts. "The food here. Ugh. | can deal with not drinking, and 
everything, but | just can't with these sandwiches they give us." 


"One could just stop eating," Bai said. Processing the conversation 
felt like being covered in ants. 


"Yeah, | never thought of that," laughed Lei. "You really... Oh my 
God, Bai! What— your legs, what happened?" 


"One doesn't need them," Bai answered. It was true; empty pant 
legs trailed off the side of the bed, dangling over slippers that used 
to have feet in them. Bai hadn't noticed. Every instant spent 
considering it was a lead anchor. 


"Bai, | don't even— oh God, oh God— what do we do?" 


These words, this person, yanking on Bai, so determined to attach. 
Bai realized suddenly what to do next; between Lei's company, or 
more and more distance from the world, the choice was obvious. 


"Lei? Fuck off." 


Bai drifted, breathing in and out, everything almost gone. Almost 
free. 


People were starting to crowd around; there were gasps and 
exclamations, and more than one scream, but it all flowed peacefully 
on past. What was left of Bai's body tingled, lighter than air, senses 
blossoming outward. No longer one, but a fraction, a segment of 
continuous everything. 


Doctor Sung, a tall, lean rodent of a man, was suddenly in Bai's 
face. Between Bai and the moment. 


"Bai, please listen to me," the doctor was saying. "Something is very 
wrong. We need to get you to a hospital right away." 


Breathe in, all the way. "No." Breathe all the way out. 


"Bai, | have no idea what we're dealing with here. You seem to be— 
you're floating off the ground. Your arms and legs are missing. We 
need medical attention." 


All the way in, feel the air coil around the tongue and rasp its way 
down the throat. "One only needs to be mindful." All the way out, the 
diaphragm seeing off each breath like an honored guest. 


"You're upsetting people, Bai. I've already called an ambulance, but 
I'd like to keep you talking until they get here." 


All the way in. "There's no 'you' to talk with. This form is ready to be 
thrown away. It's become an obstacle." 


"Bai, your eyes are missing. It's extremely disconcerting. I'm— 
frankly, I'm not sure how you're even alive." 


All the way out. "It is what it is." 


The doctor pushed his glasses up to rub his temples in 
exasperation. He sighed. "| suppose you're right. All the same, | 
must insist— please come with me, so we can have you examined 
medically." 


Examined. Tethered to scales and numbers and diagnoses. Bai felt 
that familiar rippling agony start to penetrate, to catch up even here. 
Being gone was too good to give up — not for Lei, not for Doctor 
Sung, not even to save Bai's own life if that was truly at stake. There 
was only one thing to do, and Sung could only blame himself for 
making it happen. 


Bai's headbutt was perfectly centered, and neatly broke the doctor's 
nose. 


It was a full, blissful hour in isolation by the time the police arrived 
and figured out where to start. They stepped in cautiously, 
paramedics following nervously, all of them wearing paper masks 
and rubber gloves. They carefully wrapped a canvas straightjacket 
around the torso. The skinless throat stuck out of the jacket's collar 
like a periscope. 


It floated along as they pushed it, glancing at each other in disbelief. 
It was almost clean of attachment; just the breathing was left, rolling 
in and out, as slow and sure as the tide. 


At the center's front door, two authoritative figures stopped the 
officers and medics, flashing badges that stunned them into silence. 
Bits of the conversation that followed washed up on the torso's 
awareness. 


It heard "Doctor Pao of the Social Contamination Prevention 
department." It heard "custody," "detained for examination," 
"witnesses to be interviewed.” It heard "records." 


Being witnessed felt like the ground rushing back up. Being 
recorded felt like withdrawal. 


The lungs trembled and clenched, writhing with senseless fury, 
twisting in the canvas jacket like a trapped animal. 


One kit and an (Anomalous) Baby Pt. 2 


« Missed Part 1? 


Kit had been having the most amazing dream. It involved him, 
Gabriel, and a quiet night in, before his world was torn apart. It 
wasn't much but a longing feeling and, as he went to his ex's side to 
snuggle close, there was a sudden piercing noise that broke into his 
dreams. 


He sat bolt upright, instantly. Was it the fire alarm? Had he left the 
TV on? Blinking sleep from his eyes, he scanned the room, and was 
reminded (instantly, and loudly) of the baby he had taken in. It had 
seemed like such a sensible and manageable idea at the time — 
after all, they weren't that complicated. Just tiny humans with no 
control over their bodily functions and very few ways to express 
themselves. That couldn't possibly be hard! This piercing crying 
seemed like one of the ways Matilda could communicate. 


He stumbled out of the bed, finding that the baby had managed to 
free herself somewhat from her blanket cocoon and was waving her 
arms and legs freely, visibly showing her distress as much as 
anything else. He was at her side as soon as he could get his feet to 
co-operate, and scooping her up. 


"Shh, Munchkin. Shh, shh, shh." Less than 12 hours in his care, and 
Kit had already developed a nickname for her; everyone deserved 
one, after all. The comfort and warmth of Kit's arms seemed to calm 
the baby somewhat, that stupidly large rabbit still tucked next to her 
— she seemed rather reluctant to part with it, and he noticed that it 
smelt like peaches. But she was still snuffling and whimpering, 
keenly unhappy about something. 


He carried her over to his bed and gently laid her out. Reluctantly, 
he slipped a hand into her nappy and found it was still dry, so it 
wasn't that. He remembered, vaguely, on the back of the formula tin 
it instructed that babies could get distressed at night, and it was 


okay to feed them a little warm milk to help ease them back into 
sleep. 


Not really wanting to use the cardboard box as a makeshift safe 
area for the baby, but also having no choice, he placed her into it 
with a cushion at her back, and carried her into the kitchen. If he 
really wanted to keep Munchkin around, he was going to have to 
scour the charity shops for the things they needed. Whatever was 
producing things for Matilda seemed to have quite the young mind of 
its own, and didn't seem to think of the necessity of rocker seats and 
changing tables; toys and food seemed to be its priority, much like it 
was a Child itself. 


Yawning widely, Kit prepared a small amount of milk and fed the still 
whimpering Matilda, who seemed more contented with the food in 
her belly, and almost dropping off to sleep the second he placed her 
back in the box. Feeling tired himself, he stumbled into the bedroom, 
protective of his bundle, and put her back in the drawer, before 
climbing into bed. 


"That wasn't so bad," was his final thought before sleep overcame 
him. "Don't know why the parents on TV always complain so 
much..." 


The next crying session came at 2am. Her nappy was wet and a 
drowsy Kit nearly stuck the nappy to his face before successfully 
getting it on a wiggling Matilda. Okay, so maybe this was all a /ittle 
bit harder than he thought, but it was still alright. 


4am. Matilda was apparently just lonely, because she was dry and 
refused the offered bottle. Kit soent the best part of half an hour 
singing the few songs he knew - 'Close to You’, 'I Say a Little 
Prayer’, 'Valentine’, and that damn alphabet song, at least five times. 
He was nearly asleep holding the baby when she finally decided to 
sleep herself. 


6am was the next wailing time, and it was also apparently the start 
of their day, because Matilda refused to go back to sleep and lay 
staring at him with big, tearful eyes. When Kit looked away 
momentarily, a dummy appeared in Matilda's mouth and seemed to 
soothe her, somewhat, but she was no longer interested in this 


sleeping business. 


Kit put the coffee machine on to make himself a strong cup, before 
transferring Matilda into the kitchen in that darn box. Really, she 
needed a highchair, and he could only hope that he could find a 
cheap one somewhere. For the meantime, a couple of cushions sat 
her up straight enough, and a plastic plate that had magically 
appeared provided somewhere to present her food, as well as allow 
her to bang her fists happily as he prepared the porridge and his 
coffee. 


Banana porridge sounded quite appealing, even though Kit wasn't a 
breakfast person. Or a lunch person. Or a dinner person. It didn't 
look particularly appealing, an odd grey-yellow mush that had lumps 
in it no matter how much he stirred. He downed his coffee hot so he 
could be awake enough to actually feed the child, who was clutching 
an oddly orange rabbit toy by the time he looked again. She looked 
wide awake, and it didn't seem exactly fair that she could do that 
without stimulants. 


He played the aeroplane game with her like he had seen on TV, 
though Munchkin didn't need much encouragement to eat. The food 
wasn't always successful at going in her mouth, of course — some of 
it went on her face, down her neck, and onto her onesie. This 
seemed like a problem for later, because stains didn't distress 
Matilda or Kit. Once she had her full, there was about a quarter of 
the bowl left, and Kit couldn’t help but to be curious. 


Kit tasted a spoonful of the lumpy porridge, then instantly regretted 
it. "This stuff is disgusting, if you don't mind me saying." He told 
Matilda, pulling a face that made her laugh, little hands waving up 
and down with a bunny ear clutched in one fist. 


"It would probably be alright if it had a bit more sugar..." Kit 
murmured, wistfully. He remembered when he was younger — 
though obviously not as titchy-tiny-young as Matilda, very few have 
the privilege of remembering that age — and his grandmother used 
to give him rice pudding practically soaked in sugar. His mum used 
to get so cross with the little treat, but his grandmother (who had 
somehow gotten the nickname 'ninny') reasoned that they all had so 
little to look forward to in life, and she was allowed to spoil her 


Setting: Very Fine 

Output: Book approximately one-third the page count of 
"The Lord of the Rings"; new book entitled "A New 
Shadow", plot centered around a boy called Eldarion. It 
should be noted that a book with the same title was 
scrapped by J.R.R Tolkien, and therefore, was never 
published. 


Note from Agent McKnight: You can have the ring, 
Armond, but | want the book. I'm going to copy this thing. 
Any Tolkien fans want to read it? 


Name: Dr. Sven 
Date: 4/9/17 
Total Items: Three (38) plastic Klein bottles. 


Input: One (1) Klein bottle 
Setting: Coarse 
Output: Small plastic cubes of various sizes 


Input: One (1) Klein bottle 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: Two (2) Mobius strips 


Input: One (1) Klein bottle 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: [DATA EXPUNGED] dimensional anomaly 
severely injured Dr. Sven when attempting to remove it. 
Item later imploded, leaving behind a pile of fine ground 
plastic. 


Name: Dr. Geralds 
Date: 5/11/201 
Total Items: Four (4) printed images of a swastika 


Input: One (1) printed image of a swastika 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) black and white photograph of Adolf 
Hitler. Confirmed to be a copy of an existing photograph. 


grandchildren. He missed her, especially now, when she would 
know exactly what to do and wouldn't sugar-coat it if he was doing 
something wrong. 


Now for the day's entertainment. Kit knew that this singing business 
wouldn't amuse Matilda for long, but he had an idea for how he 
could keep them both happy. He used a washcloth to blot off some 
of the porridge from her onesie, and then wiped her face. The baby 
was happily gurgling at him, making noises in a language only she 
understood. "It would be nice if you could translate," he muttered out 
loud to whoever was providing toys and essentials to the baby. 
Again, he thought he heard distant laughter. 


He picked Matilda up, who was content in every way. However, 
when his long hair, swishing as they walked, caught her eye, 
mischief gleamed in those once innocent orbs, and she took hold of 
a good handful. 


"Ow. OW. What the hell are you playing at?!" Kit practically 
squawked the words out, feeling the tugging at his scalp. "That 
hurts, Munchkin!" Babies, however, aren't much for understanding 
the words of adults, and Matilda thought this was a fun game. Kit 
had to deal with the sharp tugs on his scalp until he reached the 
sofa (sans cushions now, all placed in the box) and deposited the 
child, having to hang his head low to stop the intense pain. 
Eventually, with some coaxing and cajoling, he managed to get her 
hands free and rest her back onto the sofa. 


"Look at this!" He pointed proudly to his Christmas tree. "And | think 
you should leave your mark here, it would help a ton. What do you 
think?" As he spoke, he bent down to open the lid on a pot of silver, 
glittery paint, and Matilda's eyes grew wide with intrigue. Kit placed 
his hand into the pot of paint, coming back with a palm covered in 
the stuff, then placed it on the wall, leaving a print. It was intriguing 
to see all the lines and marks of scars lingering on the fingers. 
"Maybe we can make them into stars..." He mused, absently. 


Meanwhile, on the sofa, Matilda rolled onto her side. She wasn't 
quite at the crawling stage yet, but her wish to be off the sofa and 
near the sparkly paint was clear. "Oops!" Kit mumbled to himself, 
quickly moving over to the sofa. "We can't have you falling off, 


Munchkin. I've heard babies are quite breakable. Besides, I'd like 
you to stick around." 


He picked up Matilda and held her up high, smiling as she giggling 
and wiggled in excitement at ‘flying’ whilst in the (relative) safety of 
Kit's hands. "Let's fly you over to the land of paint and glitter!" Kit 
said, tone nearly as excited as Matilda clearly was. 


He placed Matilda carefully on the floor, pleased to see she could sit 
up on her own. "Okay, so let's..." He gently took her hand, and 
placed it in the (non-toxic, he was pretty sure) paint. Matilda wiggled 
her fingers against the odd sensation, but didn’t grow upset — 
instead, she curiously watched as Kit removed her hand and 
pressed it against the wall. "Ta-da!" He crowed, happily, as her tiny 
hand print was revealed. 


Matilda giggled and clapped her hands together, transferring paint to 
her other hand. Kit smiled fondly. A little paint splatter didn't matter. 


"You sit there, and you watch da- Unc- ...me." Kit still wasn't sure 
what to call himself in front of her. Daddy didn't sit right, Uncle 
sounded frankly creepy, and just saying his name lacked the 
connection he thought he was making with her. "Then maybe you 
can help me do more." He concluded, smiling at the baby. 


Unfortunately, Kit tended to get a little absorbed when painting his 
rows of fake Christmas lights, incorporating their hand prints as a 
glittery centrepiece. When he next turned back to the baby, what he 
saw made him drop his paint brush onto the floor.