Little Pink Starfish

It wasn’t until much later that the woman by the wall finally stopped sobbing. Her eyes were red, hair disheveled, leaning against the wall staring into the distant sky, silent like a droplet on a leaf—ready to shatter with a single touch.

An Zhe asked carefully, “You’re not leaving?”

She shook her head. Her voice was hoarse: “That man who died… what was he to you?”

An Zhe spent a long time searching his memory for the right words: “My… friend. He saved me.”

“My man saved me too.” After saying this, her head dropped low. Her shoulders and back trembled, occasionally letting out choking breaths, and she didn’t speak again.

An Zhe gripped Vance’s ID card tightly in his hand. His heart—that human heart—felt a dull weight. When he had been purely a mushroom, he had never felt such a thing.

Only when that feeling gradually faded did he finally muster the strength to follow the flow of people out of the corridor.

At the end of the gate passage was a row of mechanical gates. An Zhe chose the one furthest left. As he approached, a gentle mechanical female voice rang out:
“Please present your ID card and look into the camera.”

An Zhe placed An Ze’s ID card on the glowing white panel to the right of the gate and looked up at the black camera.

“ID 3261170514. Name: An Ze. Origin: Outer City Zone 6. Time away: 27 days.”
The camera gave a soft click. The white light turned green.
“Facial recognition successful. Welcome home.”

Ding—the gate opened. An Zhe walked out.

The harsh morning sunlight made him squint. It took him thirty seconds to adjust. Once the blurred world cleared, a vast gray city appeared before him.

Around him was a wide empty space. The ground was painted with bright green characters: “Buffer Zone.” Looking ahead, human constructions rose from the ground—massive concrete buildings stretching endlessly, taller than any plant An Zhe had ever seen, seemingly ready to collapse at any moment. They stood crowded, layer upon layer, blocking his view. Looking up, the orange-red sun was half-hidden behind the tallest building, like a drop of diluted blood that might start dripping down the wall at any moment.

An Zhe turned back. Those exiting with him from the gate had been dispersed by the mechanical barriers, but now re-grouped, all heading the same way. An Zhe followed.

After a few hundred steps and a turn, a sign read “Rail Transit.” A train was parked on the track, labeled: Entrance – Zone 1 – Supply Station 3 – Zone 5 – Zone 8 – Municipal Office – Exit.

He boarded with the others, found a quiet corner in the slightly empty carriage, and sat. In front of him were two strong-looking men speaking softly.

“Back from Basin 3? That’s risking your life.”
“Six people died.”
“Still… did it pay off?”
“Military’s still calculating. I think I won’t need to risk my life again in the wild—ever.”
“Damn.”
“We went into an abandoned school in Ruins 411. Full of mutated plants. No one dared go in.”
“But we did. Got three hard drives from the library’s archives—priceless. Depends on what’s in them.”

An Zhe listened quietly. He didn’t understand much, but he could tell the man was happy—so he felt a bit happier too.

He knew happy people were often more willing to help. So he called out: “Sir.”
The man didn’t turn. “What is it?”
“How do I get to Zone 6?”
“Transfer to Line 2 at the Supply Station.”
“Thank you.”

Five minutes later, the train moved. A mechanical voice announced each stop.
Unfamiliar with everything, An Zhe made his way with some confusion and asking for help, eventually reaching Zone 6.

An Ze’s ID number—3261170514—was not only proof of identity but also indicated his address: Outer City Zone 6, Building 117, Unit 0514.

But just after getting off, before he could ask for directions, a young boy grabbed his arm.
“Hey friend, welcome off the train. Mind hearing us out?”

Before An Zhe could speak, a white paper was shoved into his hand. On it were bold red letters:
“Oppose the Tyranny of the Judicators.”

He didn’t understand, but didn’t ask. He just said: “Do you know where Building 117 is?”

The boy replied: “Mind coming with us first?”
“…I don’t mind.”
“Then we’re comrades.” The boy held up his paper, also reading:
“Abolish the Judicators Act.”

They weren’t the only ones. Soon, An Zhe was pulled into a group of about forty young people, each holding similar white sheets or banners with bold red slogans.

“We’ll pay for our own gene testing.”
“Human criminals: the Judicators.”
“Disband the Tribunal. Justice for the innocent.”

The group marched slowly, and An Zhe had no choice but to move with them.

City roads were narrow. The sun cast shadows of buildings across the ground. Other pedestrians walked with their heads down, occasionally glancing at the marchers but quickly looking away.

An Zhe asked: “What are we doing?”
“A silent protest,” the boy said. “We’ll keep marching until the Tribunal is dissolved.”
An Zhe: “…Oh.”

After about half an hour, he asked again, “Where’s Building 117?”
“Up ahead, almost there.”

An hour and a half later: “Where’s Building 117?”
“Sorry!” The boy scratched his head. “I forgot you! We passed it. It’s behind us.”
He pointed. “That way, not far. The number’s written on the side—you’ll see it.”

“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!”

An Zhe handed the paper back: “Here.”
“No need!” The boy stuffed it back into his arms. “See you next week! We gather at Building 1!”

So An Zhe had no choice but to stack the bloody “Oppose Judicator Tyranny” flyer with the Judicator’s own clean gene report, hold them both to his chest, and leave the group of strange young humans, heading in the indicated direction.

As he walked, the surroundings became familiar. Memories belonging to An Ze stirred within him. Following instinct and a few turns, he reached Building 117.
It was a rectangular building, 10 stories tall and very wide. He entered Unit 0, climbed the steep staircase to the fifth floor, and walked down a dim corridor to Room 14.

A white seal covered the door. An Zhe peeled it off, revealing a scanner. He placed the ID card on it. The lock clicked open. He went inside.

The room was small—smaller than the cave he had lived in—but more spacious and bright than the armored vehicle’s rest area. Against the wall was a wooden desk stacked with old books, papers, and notebooks.
A single bed faced the desk, with a cabinet at its head holding a cup, mirror, and miscellaneous items. A tall wardrobe stood at the foot of the bed.

The window on the other side let sunlight fall onto the gray blanket. A dry, clean scent reminded him of An Ze’s smell.

He walked to the bed and picked up the palm-sized mirror.

A reflection of himself looked back.
He resembled An Ze: soft black hair, same-colored eyes, many similarities—yet some details differed.
And he didn’t have the same gentle, calm expression as An Ze.

An Ze had once said to him: “It’s like I gained a little brother. Let me give you a name—Little Mushroom.”

“Do you have any deep memories, Little Mushroom?”

He had only two. One: losing his spore.
Two: something from when he was very small—only the size of a human pinky.

During that mushroom-growing rainy season, a sideways raindrop had struck his slender stalk—snapping him in half.

Then, like any injured creature, he tried hard to grow back—tried to survive.
Eventually, some vague awareness emerged, and he healed.

After that, he seemed different from the others—able to control his mycelium, to move through forest and plain, to perceive sounds and motion.
He had become a free mushroom.

“Poor thing.” An Ze had stroked his hair. “Did it hurt when you broke?”
“Forgot.”

An Ze said: Then let’s call you An Zhe.
He had said, okay.

Thinking of this, An Zhe smiled at the mirror.

The smiling face in the mirror—held a shadow of An Ze.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the mirror.

Setting the mirror down, he sat at the desk.

What now?

He held out his left hand under the light, staring at his fingertip.

Snow-white mycelium slowly extended outward, then solidified.
He picked up a knife, sliced off a thin piece.

Then, with his right hand, he brought it to his mouth, gently bit down—

He wanted to find out if he was poisonous.

Soft. Sweet. Tasted very good—that was the first impression.

The next second—
His entire vision lurched.