Fiction.

 

It was fiction that always marveled the man.

 

The deceiving aurora that coated the night sky couldn’t fool him. His refuge on the roof of a random building couldn’t fool him. Heck, not even the pulsating light in his chest could fool him.

 

But life felt like an elaborate fabrication. 

 

Everything around him—material and spiritual—were shards of stories. 

 

Novels. Poems. Movies. Art. Myths. Legends.

 

Life birthed these things. But, like the current state of this world, the children engulfed the mother; they’d eat the hand that fed them.

 

It was fiction that acted as the foundation for life. 

 

However, when he tried to be a part of this life and save himself, he found that his dreams remained inanimate. They were objects—rigid and everlasting. But due to the world’s whims, they were never defined. They could never be extracted and crafted into ‘reality’.

 

Rarely, if he did have time to himself like now, he’d dream.

 

But his dreams were broken shards among a sea of trashed wine bottles and splintered glass. They were defective pipes that gassed themselves into bankruptcy—failed and frail foundations for infrastructure. They were sweet and sickly; he could eat them and pass away from the unrealness if he wanted to.

 

But the unrealness was real. The man lived his doomed days on the country’s soil, but not once were the dreams American; they were entirely foreign. 

 

Hollowness reigned over him as he leaned against a spire. A breath fell from his meaningless mouth that spoke nothing to the world, sweet nothings to a star-crossed fate. He simply became a receptacle, letting things flow into his head without escaping. He knew he had a past, but with his life in shambles and in line with the homey, lawless streets, remembering the past wasn’t the same as having bread and water.

 

He was hungry.

 

So he’d let other people tell their stories to him; he needed to feel something. Especially now, when he was at the end of his tether, he wanted to remember things that were actually worthwhile.

 

The man began reminiscing. 

 

He recalled fellow vagrants retelling tasteful stories of divorces, affairs, and other marital problems beyond his scope of experience. 

 

He recalled smoky spiels from a candyman—philosophical threads weaved from the depths of one that had sunken so deep already. Cigars helped them plunge deeper.

 

He recalled a traveler’s risky tales from places like the wetlands in Florida. The explorer in question would brag about his crocodile tail; this one in particular struck a chord with him.

 

All of these stories were priceless moments that he assimilated into his being. They were free of charge and never failed to provide him with food for thought.

 

But he was still hungry.

 

He long reined in his dreams, snapping the rose-colored glasses from a childhood he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he used to dream in color—manic pixie fantasies only limited by his imagination.

 

But he didn’t know if the glasses were rosy; he started not seeing color. Everything in his line of sight was white, grey, or black. From the buildings he felt high on to the flashing alarms of the predatory sharks on the road below. Everything was indistinct.

 

The auroras, however, were distinct. The light ruined the man, forced his life further upside-down, and made him an object of people’s desire. The pulsating heart that lived inside him became a boon that people strove for, with onlookers giving him looks of admiration as they registered that he had something innate to offer. 

 

It wasn’t his soul they wanted, though. They wanted his heart—the same heart he’d dedicate to absorbing the stories of the downtrodden people around him in ramshackle tents and ruined alleys. Despite the devils that lingered in this hell, he found a family.

 

But he looked up and saw the light; he had no family. Nothing came free, not even stories. He clutched at the spot where his aching heart radiated, feeling the beating organ twist around a price tag. 

 

The only thing free was the aurora; he didn’t have to chase it. It was always there, especially in his chest, stripping him of his freedom as people chased it.

 

He didn’t mind. Because as the sirens wailed on every side, he felt he was at the centre of it all.

 

Maybe he’d have a legacy. He’d have a story—as long as he embraced the idiosyncrasies of being prey.

 

“Story of my life,” he mumbled with a tinge of melancholy, standing his ground.

 

Effortlessly and painlessly, he removed his golden retriever traits and flashed off the building, sprouting out his crocodile tail.

 

The happy hunting ground awaited him.

 

***

Reality.

 

It was reality that always grounded Gideon.

 

“The Wholesale District has always been a breeding ground for crime and all that,” Gideon said, leaning against the backseat windowsill of a parked police car. His thumb danced to and fro on his iPhone, his dark eyes glossing over the information on the webpage. “This Wikipedia page tells me that the LAPD—the poverty one—provided, like, artistic workshops to the homeless. They attempted to make them recognize their unique humanity and take care of one another.”

 

“That definitely didn’t work out,” Hilario commented, nibbling on his long nails. The lieutenant gazed out the window, watching the nightlife pass by casually. “It was a good attempt, though. If I’m not wrong, they even built those apartments for them, right?”

 

Gideon kicked one of his legs over the other, nodding intently at the flying words on the screen. He landed on the section he sought, quickly glueing himself to the knowledge.

 

“Landmarks… Yep. You’re right. Opened 27 years ago. Star Apartments—”

 

“It worked somewhat, didn’t it?”

 

The captain hummed, his rat snout twitching as he delved into his calculated thoughts.

 

The SDD was messily formed about 3 years back to work alongside the police. I’ve been captain for 1.5 years, but it feels like I’ve had over a thousand cases in this munted district. 

 

He fiddled with his whiskers.

 

They can build a mural, host a few workshops, and set up an apartment… But even after two decades from this article’s reports, nothing has improved here. A shame, but it’s the truth.

 

“I should stop looking at this as if it's something new. We’ll treat this like any serial killer case.” Gideon attempted to fold his arms, quickly remembering he was one limb short of that requirement. He pursed his lips awkwardly. “I think this just shows—for the thousandth time—that not everything can be fixed. This hellhole can-not be helped—”

 

“Is that why you let Tawny go?” 

 

Gideon stared daggers at Hilario, the latter’s eyes speaking daggers into the captain’s soul behind his brown dreads. He always knew his lieutenant was as sharp as the nails he was sharpening and unsharpening. It’s why he backed down because not only was he fearful of the man’s Freddy Kreuger get-up, but he respected him for being openly rude. Who wouldn’t? He let a felon go.

 

“Well, that’s the half of it,” Gideon answered with a yawn. “She’s pretty good at escaping, I’ll give her that. If only she’d escape from stupidity—”

 

“I dunno, chief,” Hilario said, a sarcastic, singsong intonation lacing the words. “The reception from yet another failed catch was pretty negative.”

 

“Look. It doesn’t matter. The last thing we should be giving that woman is attention—”

 

“But—”

 

“Not saying that she shouldn’t be caught because other officers can handle that.” Gideon tapped the phone screen. “We have a more important case to tackle, a deadlier one. Let’s put our energy towards dealing with a person that actually has an impact on society.”

 

Hilario raised a brow at him. 

 

“I mean, to be honest, there’s barely any difference between the people we deal with in our line of work.” Gideon slouched further and looked out at the busy roads. “This radiation makes it so that some people gain powers and start losing their ability to separate fact from fiction. Or, to worse-ify it, everyone can gain powers via harmonization, meaning that people can become delusional.”

 

Gideon’s hand flew up in a half-shrug as if he had just proved something to his companion.

 

“Radiation can change brain chemistry in some people, so some can’t avoid losing their heads, so…”

 

“Doesn’t change the fact that everyone has access to delusionality. It’s horrible, but I mean, that’s how life has always been. We got some bizarre muppets in this world, running around thinking they can do all types of bull.”

 

Hilario cocked his head to the side, beginning to bite his nails again. He sighed. “Fair enough.”

 

A distant burst resounded. It didn’t faze the two.

 

“We’ll deal with things practically. Tawny? She’s not a threat; the higher-ups will surely understand. She’ll be dealt with later. The Skid Row murderer? A threat that needs capturing.” Static buzzed from a nearby speaker. “He has the cure within him, meaning—from what we understand of it so far from lab tests—he can change his form with ease and—”

 

“He struck, Captain! Near Honda Plaza! He—”

 

The desperate voice from the speaker died out. Gideon wasted no time.

 

“On the effin’ outskirts of SR? Let’s move!”

 

The car flared into motion, belting towards the scene.

 

Everyone had to have boundaries; Gideon didn’t believe in happy hunting grounds.