Little Pink Starfish

====== Rose I · Year 2103

“We have no other choice.”
“Everything in the world is devouring humanity, and our numbers are dwindling, one after another.”

“Child,” Mrs. Lu took off the golden rose badge from her chest and placed it in her daughter’s palm, then slowly closed her fingers around it, so she could feel the soft undulations of the rose petals, as if touching a real rose.
“Everyone must pick up whatever weapon they can to fight against this era—everyone.” Her voice was as gentle as ripples of water.

“But you gain nothing from this, Mom.”
“No individual other than myself will benefit from it either. What benefits is humanity as a whole. When humanity as a whole gradually escapes its dire state, only then will we as individuals improve, although that might take hundreds of years. But that’s the reality—only when you save everyone can you save yourself.”
“But we cannot rule out the possibility that our salvation might come long after everyone else’s.” She said, “That’s when we pick up weapons to protect ourselves.”
“Will that day come, Mom?”

“That day will come.” Her voice was chillingly firm: “Unless—unless all of us perish before we are saved.”
“But remember this, child. No matter what, humanity loves each other.”

“Child, do you love them?”
“Yes.”

She completely handed over the badge to the young girl.

====== Rose II · Year 2105

A loud “thud.”
Something heavy fell, then spun around. Her mother struck the back of her neck with it, and she collapsed heavily to the ground.

Then came a “bang” as the bedroom door slammed shut.
“Click,” the door was locked.

She should have lost consciousness, but in the final second before blacking out, a glint of gold slipped from her inner pocket. The color jolted her last shred of awareness—her ears buzzed like airplane engines, her head splitting with pain, her limbs numb. Yet she forced herself to reach out and clutched the golden rose badge tightly, panting heavily.
She would not allow herself to faint. She was gentle in temperament, but her will was stronger than most. Her mother had acknowledged that.

Her mother was such a remarkable woman. Aunt Lin Shan said that even as a young girl, her mother had shown exceptional leadership and was one of the initiators of the “Rose Declaration,” one of the drafters of birth laws. Now, as oppression against women exceeded the agreed limits, she once again took up arms with her companions to defend freedom and dignity.
Time passed—half an hour, an hour, maybe two. She heard harsh knocking at the entrance through the bedroom door, followed by the sound of high heels—her mother’s signature click-clack. Everyone knew Mrs. Lu, always composed and elegant, forever in her red corset dress and black heels outside of childbirth cycles.

The door opened. Heavy footsteps entered—military boots. Danger loomed, but this had become frequent.
Then came low, hushed voices. Words like “change,” “stop,” “concentrate” drifted through. For three months, her mother had been in frequent communication with others, often avoiding her daughter but failing to keep secrets from overheard words.

She had some idea. For half a year, the slogan “Rose” had appeared everywhere in opposition to endless oppression. The base had tried to negotiate with them.

“I disagree,” her mother raised her voice.
“I’m afraid you need to come with us.”
“We’ve come with you many times.”

“This time is different, madam.”
“Anyone else?”
“Just you, madam. The Marshal wants to negotiate with you personally. You may bring others if you wish.”
“I request Colonel Lin Shan and her guard to accompany me.”

“Certainly, madam,” the officer replied after a pause.
He made a call. Her mother walked to the cabinet near the bedroom door.
The officer hung up.

After a long silence, Mrs. Lu said, “I will prepare the documents. When Colonel Lin arrives, I will go.”

The cabinet opened; silence filled the living room.

Time stretched on. She nearly lost consciousness.
But she kept wondering why her mother had knocked her out.
Why? Why?

Because…
Because—

She kept thinking until she was about to pass out.

Until a gunshot rang out.

Her whole body trembled, cold sweat dripping from her hands, ready to fall with a crisp sound.
Her wavering faith, like the badge, was barely held together.
In that immeasurable moment, she clenched her fingers again, gripping the badge tightly against her chest.

For a long time, blood trickled like an octopus’ tentacle.
She looked away—was it sadness, hatred, or pity in her eyes?

In the next moment—

====== Rose III · Year 2105

She was taken to a place with several girls her age in small rooms. Food and water were delivered daily. She knew much had happened outside, for this had gone on for three months.

She kept thinking—if her mother didn’t know danger was coming, why knock her out? If she did, why not act sooner?
If killing Mrs. Lu could solve the problem, why had the chaos lasted three months? If they foresaw such chaos, why still kill her?

Sometimes, she suspected her mother had meant to be killed. That knocking her out was a way to ensure her survival.
Her mother had said most base members outside the Declaration circle didn’t care about the resistance. But the world would make them care—by showing how enormous their oppressors were. One day, that thing would crush everyone.

Maybe she would never know the truth.

Whatever happened, her mother and her companions had failed.
Because she and her companions were taken to a large, silver, hexagonal building—Eden.

In the hall stood an unfamiliar older woman who took her hand.
“Child,” the woman asked, “do you love humanity?”
“No matter what,” she replied softly, “humanity is loving.”

—And she walked in.
She knew that many years later, she would become the next Mrs. Lu.

As if her mother still lived.

====== Rose IV · Present

It was a dark green monster.
An Zhe crouched down to examine it.
It was dying, with three bowl-sized wounds in its abdomen oozing thick black fluid. Its scaly, spiked skin barely rose and fell. Of its five eyes, four were compound and covered in an ominous white haze; the fifth was tightly shut. The dozen fist-sized compound eyes on its back were all dim.

Such severely injured, near-death monsters were rare in the Abyss—this meant it had just barely survived a fierce battle. The scent of blood hadn’t yet attracted other predators.

Its body was small, about the size of a newborn human baby. Of course, this didn’t mean it had always been this size—monsters in the Abyss could shift between many forms.
Polly once said: in past theories, such transformations seemed impossible because matter appeared and disappeared without explanation. But if explained by wave and frequency, these shifts were simply frequency changes—easy to achieve.
Perhaps it assumed this form in death because it wanted to die like this—its original, or favorite, shape.

An Zhe gently touched its head with mycelium. No response.
“It’s dying.” He frowned at the creature.
Lu Feng beside him said only one thing: “It’s raining.”

An Zhe looked up. Clouds gathered overhead. A raindrop fell with a “plop,” hitting layered leaves and vines, splashing onto the ground. Another drop landed on the creature’s wound—it twitched, as if in pain.

Summer rain came swiftly. Within seconds, dense white raindrops drummed on leaves.
Lu Feng covered An Zhe’s head and shoulders with his uniform coat.
An Zhe said, “I think there’s a cave nearby.”
He grabbed Lu Feng’s hand to stand up. After hesitating for a few seconds, he picked up the small, trembling creature and they headed toward the mountainous terrain.

“The form’s not quite right,” Lu Feng noted.
An Zhe didn’t mind—odd creatures were common in the Abyss.

The cave mouth lay tangled in vines, a deep hollow.
The creature still trembled.
Years ago, it was like this that An Ze dragged a badly injured An Zhe into a cave. Though this wasn’t the same cave, the sense of déjà vu was strong. He felt fate and time intertwining.

Standing at the entrance, he finally agreed with Lu Feng’s assessment.

This wasn’t a natural cave, but a collapsed archway—an abandoned building.
There were indeed ruins of human cities scattered in the Abyss, with various functions. Over a century, Abyssal life had grown over them.

Inside, it was pitch-black, with faint plant bioluminescence. An Zhe laid the creature down and positioned his flashlight.
The beam lit up a wide hall, likely a church.
Furniture had decayed. The walls were mottled with signs of monsters, long abandoned.

A sound—shell scraping stone—came from the injured creature moving five centimeters.
An Zhe touched the fine hair on its limb. Its head turned.
Compound eyes lacked mammalian pupils—hard to track its gaze. But An Zhe knew it was looking at him.

Why? What was it thinking?
What feelings does a five-eyed monster have when dying? An Zhe didn’t know.
White mycelium crawled over its body, gently covering its deepest wound.

Its limbs twitched—perhaps trying to reach him. But in the next second, the body went still.

It had died.

An Zhe watched it. He didn’t retract his mycelium.
He felt a gaze from his side. Turning, he saw Lu Feng leaning against a broken column, arms crossed, watching him.

“Do you do this often?” Lu Feng asked.
“Sometimes,” An Zhe replied.

He knew what Lu Feng meant.
When he encountered wounded creatures in the Abyss, he sometimes dragged them to shelter. Occasionally, one would survive. Most died.
An Ze was the same.

Lu Feng kept watching him.
“Did you already have human consciousness back then?”

An Zhe thought for a moment, then shook his head.
He was just a mushroom then. He didn’t even know how to describe a mushroom’s existence in human language.

He pressed his lips together. “If my mycelium breaks, it hurts. I’m scared of dying.”
“So when I see others about to die, I try to help.”

After a while, Lu Feng smiled. “That’s something you’d do.”
The coat was soaked. The place was damp and cold. Luckily, they had charcoal in their pack. They set up a stand and lit a fire, turning off the flashlight.

“Cold?” Lu Feng asked.
An Zhe shook his head but still leaned closer. Lu Feng put an arm around his shoulders.

They didn’t speak again.
An Zhe leaned against Lu Feng, watching the flames.

“Will I find An Ze?” he asked after a long while.

They had agreed: one month in the Abyss, one month at the base.
Lu Feng didn’t mind the Abyss—in fact, An Zhe thought he preferred it.
He knew much about it and collected samples during the month.
But no matter how familiar he was, the Abyss was vast.

“As long as the cave is still there,” Lu Feng replied.

An Zhe recalled everything about the Abyss.
“The entrance might be covered by mushrooms, flooded, or collapsed by fighting monsters… sometimes, the cave is alive. It wakes up and moves.”
“But I’ll still look.”

“That’s something I promised An Ze.
Even if he doesn’t know.
So… I’ll say I promised myself.”

An Zhe murmured. Lu Feng stroked his hair.
Finally, he said, “He won’t be mad you’re late.”
An Zhe nodded. An Ze was a good person.

He dismissed his stray thoughts and talked about the Abyss.
Lu Feng only listened.

After a while, An Zhe realized he had told Lu Feng everything about his life as a mushroom.
Lu Feng knew the rainy season and fresh grass, An Ze and Josie, all the people he met.

But he knew little about Lu Feng’s past.

“You…” he began, “have you ever made a promise you couldn’t keep?”

An Zhe had assumed Lu Feng wasn’t one for promises or fantasies.
But to his surprise, after a short pause, Lu Feng said, “Yes.”

The fire’s crackle faded. The red glow dimmed to charcoal. Dusty air surrounded them.

On Eden’s 22nd floor stairwell, it was dark and dusty too.

“One day,” a gentle voice once said to Lu Feng, “when we are all free, I won’t have to secretly meet my child.”

Ji Bolan wasn’t Mrs. Lu’s child, but he often visited the 22nd floor.
Now, he swung his legs on the emergency rail.
“Madam, you’ll definitely see that day.”

She patted his head. “With our great scientist here.”

Ji Bolan grinned and whistled. “Lu Feng and I will see that day too.”

She looked away from Ji Bolan to Lu Feng. “Will you go to the Tower?”
Lu Feng shook his head.

“Then, like your father,” she kissed his forehead, “you’ll protect the base.”

She took both boys’ hands and clasped them together, then laid her own over them.

“We’ll all see that day. And then—” her young face shone with joy, “we’ll be together. You, me, your father. Promise me.”
“Promise me.”

“I promise, Madam.”
“I promise too.”

Lu Feng’s story was short, but An Zhe was entranced.

Now Lu Feng watched the dying fire.
An Zhe reached out.
He sat up and tried to hug Lu Feng like he’d been hugged before. Lu Feng adjusted, leaning into him.
An Zhe wrapped his arm around him—awkward, but bearable.

“You once told me she became a bee because of a rose,” Lu Feng said. “I’ve always wondered—who gave it to her?”

An Zhe froze.
Before ultrasonic repellents were invented—or during a brief failure—a bee drawn by flowers stung Mrs. Lu’s finger.

That faint frequency lay dormant in her body, awakened later by a cosmic force.
Only Mrs. Lu had roses at the base.
Because she loved them.
And someone else loved her.

Only two people gave her seeds collected from the Tower: Lu Feng’s father, and later, Lu Feng himself.

An Zhe gently took Lu Feng’s hand.

The fire burned out, its dull red fading.
Wind howled in the church, like another stormy night.

“I hope you go to the United Front Center,” Mrs. Lu once said.
It was their last call before Lu Feng officially joined the military. He was then at a small outpost within the base’s range.

“It suits you best—indoors, safe,” she said. “I’ve served the base for years. This is my only selfish request. I want you to live. I want all my children to live. But you’re the only one I know.”

Lu Feng was silent.

“If it were elsewhere, I wouldn’t stop you. But don’t go to the Tribunal. I’m afraid of it.”
“Last year, a shooting happened there. Every major upheaval starts with bloodshed. And the Tribunal always runs red. That place is too painful.”

“Are you listening?” she asked after a pause.
“I’m listening,” he answered.

She smiled. “Then promise me.
You must promise—”

Static suddenly buzzed.

“Zzz—”
Then a gentle melody began, soft frequencies and a woman’s voice:
“Sorry, due to solar wind or ionospheric interference, base signal has been disrupted. This is normal. Please do not panic. All activities continue as usual. Communications will resume intermittently. We will broadcast messages when possible. Please stay tuned.”
“…Please stay tuned.”

When all the firewood turned to brittle, pale ash, the church fell silent and cold.

But then, countless faint green lights lit up.
The dead insect monster’s body was disintegrating.

An Zhe looked on as its body dissolved into sparkling green fireflies—like glowing mist or a swarm.
They rose like a dream, illuminating the ruined church.
They lit the weeping Virgin statue on the left wall, the great crucifixion painting ahead.
Dead vines clung to the Virgin’s shoulders; claw marks marred her cheek. Jesus’ body was mottled with mold.
Only their eyes remained clear—watching the world through vines, mold, and dust.

The light scattered.
And fate drifted across the world.