Little Pink Starfish

Anzhe sank into a dream.

He’d had this kind of dream long ago—on the day he parted from Lu Feng.

Back then, it was broad daylight, and he was awake, yet he seemed to slip into another dream. Probably the hallucinations of someone near death. He never told Polly. The inexplicable coughing of blood, high fever, and all-over pain had already consumed too much of Polly’s energy.

In the dream, his body was split in two—half in the Highland Research Institute, and the other half in some unknown place. There was no pain and none of the heaviness of a human body.

In the dream, he had no eyes, no ears, no sense of smell—none of the senses humans have. Like when a mushroom is first born, buried in rain-soaked soil—its senses were indescribable in human language.

He somehow knew he was near Lu Feng. It had to be a delusion caused by longing, but that didn’t stop him from inching closer to Lu Feng in the dream.

The dream wasn’t always happy. Sometimes he was sealed in a container, soaking in cold liquid. At first, Dr. Ji was beside him. Later, it was Polly, and then many people came and went.

He had nothing to do. If Lu Feng was near, he clung to him. If not, he floated in the liquid, reminiscing about his life.

Old memories surfaced—from soil, rainy seasons, winters, and the base.

Sometimes he recalled things just to draw closer to Lu Feng, to feel Lu Feng’s fingers brushing his mycelium. Then he felt like he could quietly be with him. Always half-awake, he didn’t want to wake up. In reality, they could never be this close.

But after reliving his memories a hundred times, the dream became dreamless, and he chose to wake.

He realized—he was still alive.

The exact day was unclear. Emotional turmoil had left large gaps in his memory.

He only remembered standing by the door, and Lu Feng turning around in the midst of spring’s greenery—they stared at each other, unmoving. He didn’t dare step forward. He’d dreamt this too often. Like a full moon that shatters at the slightest touch.

Until Lu Feng walked over to him.

In the time without him, Anzhe had cried many times. Sometimes just thinking of him made his heart tremble. But now, seeing him again, his lips lifted into a smile without meaning to.

He reached out to touch Lu Feng’s face—was he thinner? Was he worn? He couldn’t tell—it had been too long.

Then tears finally slipped from his eyes. He retracted his hand and just stared, dazed, until Lu Feng embraced him and wiped the tears from his face. Anzhe buried himself in Lu Feng’s shoulder, voice hoarse, softly calling his name.

“It’s me,” Lu Feng said.

The people in the lab congratulated him—Polly had seemingly brought someone back from complete disintegration. Anzhe couldn’t fathom how. The scientists explained many things—genes, frequencies, samples—but it was all a blur. Human science was always mysterious, so he accepted it.

Three years had passed since he jumped into the Simpson Cage.

And the world had calmed.

The chaotic age of genetic confusion had ended with a chime. His frequency had been broadcast worldwide. He couldn’t say if it was good or bad—at that moment, all forms were infected by the frequency and gained stability. A person would forever be a person. A monster, forever a monster. Mutations could occur, but the ruling consciousness would always be the one defined at the moment the chime rang.

Polly explained it this way: through extensive experiments and comparisons, the Simpson Cage had isolated a frequency that most closely represented the essence of matter.

For example, humans know the difference between an apple and an orange. But the apple itself doesn’t know it’s an apple. The orange doesn’t know it’s an orange. Only humans know.

Just as fungi born at dawn do not understand the dusk; cicadas don’t understand seasons. Biology is a flawed interpretation of surface phenomena. Humans don’t know what makes them human. It’s a system beyond the understanding of four-dimensional beings.

But the Simpson Cage’s analysis of subatomic particles offered a brief glimpse—a minuscule reflection of truth. Humanity caught a few fragments of meaningful frequencies. In the symphony of the universe, humans were the most susceptible note, easily disturbed.

And this inexplicable mushroom who had developed self-awareness—he just happened to be a frequency stable enough to contain everything. When broadcast globally, it brought brief peace.

“This is probability,” Polly said. “And probability is destiny.”

At that moment, Lu Feng fed Anzhe a slice of freshly cut apple. Sweet and tart, he forgot what he was going to say. Lu Feng gave him another slice.

“What about oranges?” Anzhe asked.

“In autumn,” Lu Feng replied.

Polly eventually kicked them and their apple and future oranges out.

Anzhe finished half the apple on the way back to their room. The rest he intended to cut up nicely for the Colonel. He wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t Lu Feng. He was sleepy.

But he couldn’t sleep. He scrolled through a tablet.

The tablet was full of data he’d compiled over the past ten days since waking—United Daily electronic editions, Dr. Ji’s research files, Polly’s experiment notes, and more.

Lu Feng sat beside him. Anzhe turned away quickly, hiding the screen.

Lu Feng sighed lightly and popped the remaining apple slices into Anzhe’s mouth.

Though the apples were tasty, and the Colonel handsome, Anzhe didn’t like Lu Feng watching while he read. He always suspected Lu Feng was peeking.

Worse, Lu Feng had taken his old room in the Institute. Everything was the same as before he died—but the occupant had changed.

Anzhe tried to get Lu Feng to move next door. Lu Feng said flatly, “If you don’t want to share a room with me, you can go back to the nutrient tank.”

Anzhe: “…”

Three years hadn’t softened this man in the slightest.

So now they shared a room, a desk, and a bed.

Eventually, he gave up reading and dozed off.

“This is so boring.”

In bed, Lu Feng hugged him from behind. Anzhe stared at the white wall, spacing out.

Lu Feng’s voice was like a thawing mountain stream: “Want to go somewhere?”

“I want to…” Anzhe’s eyes wandered, unfocused.

There was somewhere he wanted to go.

And only Lu Feng knew about it. He’d never even told Polly.

“I want to find Anze,” he whispered.

In the cave where everything began, Anze’s bones still waited for him. There was so much he wanted to say.

He remembered every word Anze had said—that he was a meaningless person. Anzhe wanted to tell him about the northern base’s upheaval, about the final chime’s source.

If not for meeting Lu Feng and Anze, none of it would’ve happened. Destiny was just coincidences upon coincidences.

But the Abyss was too vast. He couldn’t find it. And no one else would go with him. It would always be a distant wish.

“I can’t find it,” he murmured. “I don’t remember anything.”

“I remember,” Lu Feng said beside his ear. “Let’s go find it.”

Anzhe’s eyes opened.

Everything felt like a dream. The next day, after saying goodbye to Polly, a transport plane dropped their armored vehicle into the heart of the Abyss. The pilot of PL1109 told them before leaving, “If you find Hubbard and Tang Lan, let us know. They went missing after the battle. Last we know, Tang Lan was severely injured but alive—no bodies were found.”

“I suspect they went off to recover, got lost, and… laid an egg,” he added before flying off.

Lu Feng opened the vehicle door, helping Anzhe down. The ground was covered in velvet grass, ankle-deep. Anzhe looked into the distance—late spring, deep green stretching endlessly in the Abyss. Leaves rolled in the ancient wind. Bird wings flapped afar. He had returned.

He looked at Lu Feng, surprised that he’d come along.

“Why did you come?”

Lu Feng raised a brow. “Didn’t you want to?”

“It’ll take forever,” Anzhe said. “Aren’t you supposed to work for humanity?”

“The Tribunal disbanded,” Lu Feng replied. “If there’s another war, or if I’m needed, I’ll return.”

There was no pain or hatred in his green eyes. He seemed to have lost something—or maybe, found peace.

Anzhe picked a fallen leaf from Lu Feng’s shoulder. Lu Feng took the chance to pull him into his arms.

“I just want to be with you now,” he said quietly.

“…Why?” Anzhe mumbled into his shoulder.

He didn’t ask directly, but Lu Feng always understood. Anzhe knew he loved Lu Feng—but didn’t know why Lu Feng loved him.

Lu Feng stepped forward. Anzhe’s back hit the vehicle.

He looked up at him.

—Those eyes were as calm and clear as the first time they met at the base gates.

Lu Feng stared at him.

For three years, he’d dreamt of this day.

At that time, he was trapped in a thorny abyss, spiraling out of control. That was when he met him.

He was human, a mutant, a monster—someone he should kill, yet couldn’t. He was the undefinable, the most dangerous possibility. He was everyone in the blood-soaked battlefield.

“Why did you enter the Simpson Cage?” Lu Feng asked.

Anzhe thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“So even you don’t know.”

“I do,” Lu Feng touched his forehead to Anzhe’s. “Because you’re a little mushroom.”

Anzhe frowned—such a dismissive answer. But looking into those green eyes swirling with emotion, he softened.

In the Abyss, life bloomed.

He remembered everything Polly said.

The universe was eternal turmoil. Human consciousness was a flicker of light in temporary stability. A story written in a book—yet the book was burning to ash. Frequencies were like cool air, resisting heat. His frequency turned pages into asbestos—preserving life through flame.

But the fire still burned. Unknown fluctuations would return—hotter, stranger.

Maybe the next second. Maybe ten thousand years.

But—

It didn’t matter anymore.

They had received an ending too good to hope for.

He leaned into the vehicle. Lu Feng kissed the corner of his eye and turned to adjust the compass and navigator.

As Lu Feng worked, Anzhe finished reading his documents. He’d nearly finished before—five minutes later, he locked the screen.

Lu Feng had finished too.

They had come from the south. Ahead was a lake, east was forest, west was swamp.

“Where to?” Lu Feng asked.

“Don’t know,” Anzhe replied sullenly.

“East,” Lu Feng said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know where your cave is,” Lu Feng said, setting down the navigator. “But I know where I first saw you.”

That line—shouldn’t have been said.

Anzhe’s mood collapsed. He looked up, brows furrowed, eyes misty.

Lu Feng, unusually flustered, cupped his face. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t even like me,” Anzhe accused.

“I do,” Lu Feng said.

Anzhe raised his voice: “Then what about my spore?”

—Lu Feng had never mentioned it. He used to be too scared to ask. Instead, he searched for news. Finally, he saw a photo—just a tiny white spore in a glass vial.

And now, Lu Feng never mentioned it. The spore was nowhere to be seen.

Only one possibility: it had died.

Lu Feng, hearing this, actually smiled slightly.

Anzhe was too angry to speak coherently.

“You made it smaller,” he choked, near tears. “You killed it.”

“It’s not dead,” Lu Feng said.

“It is!” Anzhe grabbed his arm. “You didn’t take care of it… give it back.”

“It’s still here. Don’t cry.” Lu Feng said. “What is a spore to you?”

“It’s…” Anzhe struggled to explain. Finally, he said, “It’s just… a spore.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes,” Anzhe trembled. “I could die, but the spore must live. I thought you’d take care of it.”

“More important than your life?”

“…Yes.”

“For any living thing, their own life is most important.”

“Not the spore,” Anzhe retorted. “You’re not a mushroom.”

“Okay.” Lu Feng’s voice was gentle, even amused. “So it’s your child?”

Anzhe bit his lip. In mushroom world, there were no parents or children. No family. Not even friends. Every mushroom was different. He couldn’t use human terms. He could only say, “I gave birth to it.”

“I raised it.”

“You didn’t raise it well.”

“Hm?” Lu Feng asked. “Then why, at the lighthouse, when it saw both of us, did it float toward me?”

Anzhe, still angry, now remembered the spore’s betrayal.

—Neither of them were any good.

“I still gave birth to it,” he said.

Lu Feng chuckled.

The world spun.

He pressed Anzhe against the vehicle.

His fingers traced Anzhe’s belly—the softest, most sensitive place. Cool fingertips sent shivers through him.

Anzhe gasped softly.

Lu Feng bent down, and whispered in his ear—

“Make another one, and let me see.”