Little Pink Starfish

“You can call me Polly, or Jones—whichever you like,” said Polly Jones. His words were polite and his tone gentle. His gray-blue eyes were like a calm sea, the ideal elder found in stories about humanity.

An Zhe gave his name.

“You’re very young. From the Northern Base?” Polly Jones asked.

An Zhe nodded.

“How did you become like this?”
As Polly Jones led An Zhe slowly into the white building, he asked along the way.

The floor was smooth and obviously well-maintained. Tang Lan stepped forward, reaching out to assist Polly, but Polly waved him off.

“I…” A ripple passed through his vision as An Zhe slowly looked around.

The white building’s interior was a spacious hall. Though it had three floors, the center was open all the way to the top, unlike ordinary structures. A spiral staircase wound upward. Looking up from the hall, one could see the semi-transparent dome. At the moment, from the railings on the second and third floors, some creatures slowly gathered, silently looking down at him with curious eyes.

There were about forty of these creatures. Most had humanoid features—or could be considered human-shaped. A third looked just like humans. Another third were human with some other biological traits: for example, a man on the second floor had gray-black fur covering his face, and someone on the third floor had hair like curling vines, subtly writhing. The remaining third looked completely like the monsters outside—strange and grotesque. One, for instance, resembled a lump of rotting flesh hanging from the second-floor railing.

“They won’t hurt you,” Polly Jones said. “If any of them lose control or go mad, the others will restrain them.”

And indeed, it was as he said. When An Zhe met the gazes of these transformed humans, there wasn’t the cold stare typical of beasts. He could read the expressions—curiosity, scrutiny—but no malice.

“We’re all infected, or different kinds of mutants, but lucky enough to retain part of our minds. Mr. Polly brought us together,” Tang Lan said, patting An Zhe’s shoulder. “We try our best to avoid killing each other, and fight the monsters outside together. There’s no Tribunal here, so you can rest easy.”

Polly Jones coughed lightly and said, “There are no hierarchies here. We take care of each other—the strong protect the weak. Welcome to your new home.”

An Zhe slowly withdrew his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Tang Lan asked how he had mutated.

After a pause, An Zhe said, “I went out with a friend’s mercenary team…”

He knew this was a place where mutants lived together. But he was different from the rest—they were once human, infected by monsters. He, on the other hand, was a mushroom. He had to hide his true identity. So he told a version of An Zhe’s life story: going into the wild, getting hurt, and then—

“When I woke up, I was like this.” Drawing from Tang Lan’s story, he wove this lie.

“Any parts of you that are not human?”
“No.”

“Then what you have might be a kind of complete polymorphic mutation,” Polly said, examining him kindly. “Do you know what you’ve merged with? Or can you control your transformation?”

An Zhe thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“That’s unusual,” Polly said. “How did you survive in the Abyss?”

An Zhe replied honestly, “Nothing attacked me.”

Polly pondered for a moment. Just as An Zhe feared he might face harsh interrogation, Polly said, “That can be explained.”

“How?”

“Creatures in the Abyss—and other powerful species—seem to have another kind of perception. Sometimes, they don’t rely on appearances to determine another creature’s identity. A powerful polymorphic monster might turn itself into a rat, but others can still sense its strength and stay away.”

After a pause, Polly continued, “If they truly weren’t interested in you, it suggests you’ve merged with a powerful gene—or simply aren’t part of their food chain.”

He said, “You’re special.”

An Zhe said softly, “I don’t know.”

He truly didn’t. Mushrooms in the Abyss were as dangerous as its animals—some were toxic, some released hallucination-inducing spores. For a small, harmless mushroom like him to be born in such an environment, let alone possess independent consciousness, was already a miracle.

Polly said, “All of us here mutated in different ways. If you’re willing, I’d like to research your case—but I won’t do anything that would hurt you.”

An Zhe agreed.

Polly then asked a few more questions—not about his mutation process, but how he lived in the wild. Did he suffer? Was he afraid of any creatures? The questions felt like those of an elder. Even though An Zhe had made it clear he wasn’t human, Polly’s concern was sincere, and An Zhe answered everything honestly.

He also began to understand the structure of the research institute. The first floor housed the hall, lab, and equipment room. The second floor was home to those with animal-type mutations. The third floor was for plant-type mutants. Everyone had roles: some assisted Polly with recording data, others maintained equipment, others grew potatoes behind the building, and the most powerful—like Tang Lan—hunted.

During hunts, they placed markers. Only humans could read them. These markers pointed the way home for mutants still wandering. The markers weren’t limited to the Abyss.

Tang Lan said this place was connected to the Integrationists. The researchers didn’t seek these people out—they were mutants who had barely retained human consciousness after near-death experiences in the wild, and found their way to the institute by following markers.

Welcoming a new member was a joyous occasion. The institute held a special welcome feast for An Zhe—the main dish was potato and cured meat soup, prepared by a short tree-mutant male.

“Do you like potatoes?” the man asked as he handed over the soup. His voice was raspy, like bark scraping.

An Zhe took the steaming bowl, blew on it, and the warm vapor veiled his face.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll make this again tomorrow,” the man said. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Then you should call me Uncle. My son is about your age. He lives in District Seven. Where are you from?”

“District Six.”

“I haven’t seen him in five years. His name is Bai Ye. Do you know him?”

An Zhe gently shook his head.

“Hope he’s doing okay.” That ended their conversation.

When dinner began, everyone sat in a circle. There were no rankings. Polly Jones sat among them, and everyone was close to him.

—They were just as friendly to An Zhe. During the meal, at least eight people spoke to him. Some were former mercenaries from the outer city, others former soldiers from the base. They were curious about his mutation, asked about the base, or if he had met lost friends or family.

An Zhe didn’t tell them the outer city was gone. He just replied, “No,” or “Don’t know.” Somehow, these vague answers seemed more comforting than the harsh truth.

After the meal, Tang Lan took An Zhe to an empty room.

A young man with feathers on his body brought a quilt.

“It was sun-dried yesterday,” he said while helping make the bed. “It gets cold at night—remember to shut the window.”

“Thank you,” An Zhe replied. Just like the uncle who served him soup, this boy’s kindness left him grateful, but a little lost.

After making the bed, the boy pulled out a bright red fruit and smiled. “Here, it’s for you.”

Then he took out a package of dried meat. “This is from everyone.”

An Zhe took it. The meat was heavy. He didn’t know the institute’s living conditions, but at this time and place, this much dried meat was a rare treasure.

“Thank you all,” he said. “It’s too much. I can’t finish it.”

“Take your time.” Behind him, Tang Lan smiled and adjusted An Zhe’s collar.

“Newcomers always get gifts. I found this place a year ago, and they were really good to me too.” The boy said, “Being a mutant in the wild is tough—dodging monsters, scavenging food, remembering you’re human, missing home but afraid to return to the base. Being here is so much better.”

As he spoke, he smiled at An Zhe.

An Zhe smiled back.

There was no wind in the room. It was warm. The light above was bright and clear. Holding the dried meat, An Zhe thought of his month wandering the Abyss’s forests and swamps—it all felt like a dream.

“Don’t cry, okay?” the boy said. “Now you have a home.”

His tone was steady and warm, as if he had unshakable trust in the institute.

—It was something An Zhe had never experienced at a human base.

He asked, “Has it always been like this here?”

“Huh?” The boy was momentarily stunned, then responded with a smile, “You’ll get used to it soon.”

But the moment he finished speaking—he suddenly froze.

—A sharp scream echoed from the hallway.