Bioshifter

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! Meleme, slow down!" Helen screeches again, causing everyone else to sigh with irritation.

"Grip tighter!" Kagiso snaps back. "Baby!"

"I'm not a fucking six-limbed tree hugger!" Helen shrieks. "I'm gonna fall! Come on Hannah, you were human, right? Back me up on this!"

"Helen, I spend every day hanging on for dear life on top of something six times my height. Get over it."

"Jumping now, friends!" Meleme booms happily, and Helen starts to scream.

We are riding an enormous monster down the trunk of the world tree, and it's pretty fun. There are no seatbelts or cages or anything to hold us in, just Meleme's thick fur and our own grip strength. Perhaps that's why Helen is freaking the fuck out over this dead-drop while she was so blasé about the last one. To me though, it doesn't feel all that different from my day-to-day.

Then the giant gliding horror scorpion that is Meleme launches off the side of the tree, head-first and straight down, and I guess I can understand how that would be chocolate-in-pants terrifying. Still tired from the events of last night and the panic of just a few minutes ago, however, I just hold on and do my best to ignore it.

At least Meleme is a heck of a lot faster than going down a series of switchback slides. It's interesting to me how so much of traveling down the world tree involves yeeting oneself off the side and letting gravity do all the work for you, but I suppose it makes sense. When a spacecraft reenters orbit, most of the strategy involves just letting it fall safely, right? It'd be a waste of energy not to let gravity handle as much as possible.

"Hey!" Berebe shouts, flying over by Helen's head. "Loud explosion-boom human!"

"What!?" Helen snaps back.

"You Chaos, yes?" Berebe accuses.

"Berebe!" Meleme snaps. "No be mean!"

"Is not mean! Is question!"

"Yeah, I'm a Chaos mage," Helen grouses. "You gonna report me?"

"Don't have to," Berebe snorts. "Everyone saw big explosion boom. Even blind rootfoot!"

"Then why are you asking?" Helen growls, her eyes narrowing.

"Hrmph. Just wanted ask. No get us in trouble, okay?"

Berebe catches a bit of air and pulls away from us, leaving Helen scowling without an answer.

"Sorry about him," Meleme rumbles. "He silly."

"Why are you guys okay with ferrying us?" I ask. "We're kind of a suspicious-looking group."

"Meleme too nice," Berebe grumbles. "She never learn to prank and leave!"

"Meleme hear nice poem-spell," the huge Transmutation mage shrugs, causing Kagiso to yelp in surprise. "No think you bad person."

"Mmm," Berebe grunts. "Magic is who are. Praise the Goddess, for She knows."

I let out a slow breath, clutching tighter to Meleme's fur. And So She Wept, Finding Beauty In Oblivion. Helen really poured her whole heart into that one, huh? And the result was just… I don't think I have the words for it. It almost makes me regret preemptively deciding on a theme for such short names, but… well, I guess I don't really need more power in my spells. I'm already pretty broken.

"The Goddess is the one who did this to me in the first place," Helen snaps. "She destroyed my life by making me a Chaos mage. I don't have the slightest sliver of praise for Her."

"Mmm. But is your life destroyed because you Chaos, or are you Chaos because you life destroyed?" Meleme muses.

"The first one!" Helen insists. "Obviously!"

I shudder, remembering the tiny hill of humans. Remembering cutting up every fruit, and giving each little person their very favorite.

"I think the Goddess gives people whatever magic She thinks they're most likely to use," I say. "Magic they'll enjoy using. She wants people to use Her gifts, so She tailors each gift to its user."

"You think I like being a Chaos mage?" Helen snaps, turning to me furiously.

I flinch, saying nothing at first because I've figured out just a little too late that this maybe wasn't the smartest thing to say. But… I'm here now. May as well commit.

"I think that you find beauty in oblivion," I tell her quietly.

She grits her teeth, turning away as the fury on her face flashes with a dozen other emotions on top of that.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Just shut the fuck up, Hannah," Helen growls.

Dang it. I'm so stupid. I anxiously knead Meleme's fur as we continue to drop, hating my dumb, stupid mouth. No one says anything for a while until Sela suddenly breaks the silence.

"Clean me, meat."

Oh. Right. I sigh, scuttling down towards where Kagiso and, by extension, Sela are clinging to Meleme's upper-right shoulder.

"Sure, sure," I tell it, getting close enough to Refresh its insides. "Sorry about not being able to earlier."

A few clicks and whirrs are all I get in response.

Below us, the golden glow of the Sapsea fills more and more of our vision. The titanic, bulbous droplet circling the Pillar is large enough that down as low as we are, we can no longer see any part of the Pillar itself, only a vast amber blob, slow-motion waves rolling across its viscous, sticky surface.

Hugging various points along the trunk are floating wooden platforms, bobbing lazily and housing little micro-communities of various sizes. Meleme twists towards one of the bigger ones in the distance, which just seems to grow and grow the closer we get to it. It's a huge, interconnected superstructure of platforms and bridges, chaotically expanded on in every direction without apparent plan or purpose. Like an ever-reaching fungus, it grows on top of the Sapsea plank by plank, strip of bark by strip of bark, cobbled together with the aimless effort of lawlessness.

"Gumpier," Berebe announces. "Should find boat that won't look too close, yes?"

"Yeah," Helen sighs. "That'll work."

"We'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy, huh?" I ask.

"Huh? No, I mean, there are way worse places than Gumpier."

I sigh. No one gets my references in the fantasy magic tree world.

As we approach, Meleme stops gliding and attaches to the side of the tree, taking a much lazier pace the closer we get to the city, presumably to not freak anyone out. The closer we get, though, the stronger the stench becomes. And it's… well. It's certainly not the smell of syrup that I was expecting.

It's… sour. Sharp. Rotten. And I realize, looking down at the cloudy clumps in the yellow sea, that of course it is. It's a giant mass of sugar water and tree hormones, sitting around unpreserved. Of course the whole thing is a breeding ground for toxic bacteria. And the closer we get to Gumpier, the more the more I start to realize that 'toxic' is probably the best description for the Sapsea in general.

When I first started seeing little colonies floating on the surface, my immediate thought was, of course, Pokémon. In one of the games there's a place called Pacifidlog Town, which is a town that floats on the surface of the ocean, anchored to a possibly-sapient coral reef. It was incredibly cool, capturing my imagination as a kid and refusing to let go. Gumpier, however, is pretty obviously nothing like that idyllic fantasy hamlet.

The wood rots visibly even from hundreds of yards away, pockmarked and fragile as molds ravenously consume it from every angle. Ramshackle houses float precariously on ramshackle walkways, thick sap almost seeming to climb up the walls and seep onto footpaths, leaving everything visibly and concerningly sticky. I watch a human man piss off the side, his urine splattering onto the surface of the golden ocean and collecting in a small puddle before slowly, slowly descending below the surface and mixing with the increasingly-horrifying sea.

"Okay, we're getting close enough to be seen," Helen sighs. "Time to hide Hannah and the murderbot. Get the luggage in the backpacks."

"Wow, rude," I mumble, returning to Helen and crawling into her backpack like a piece of luggage.

Meleme scuttles along the wall, eventually reaching the point where the floating city meets the trunk of the tree. Somebody outside my radius barks at her in a language I don't understand, to which Meleme responds in kind, which seems to be the end of it. She crawls onto a wide platform, finally giving us space to climb off her back.

"That… was terrifying," Helen breathes, hopping off of Meleme and not seeming to mind when her shoes stick to the ground.

"Thank, Meleme," Kagiso purrs, patting the huge mutant sciptera on the head. Meleme nuzzles her hand as she starts to shrink back to normal size.

"Welcome, friends!" she chirps. "Meleme had fun scaring you!"

"Yeah, no get too excited," Berebe scoffs, flapping around above us. "Meleme total sadist."

"Not Meleme's fault that screams funny!" the shrinking monster pouts. "At least am nice afterwards, unlike Berebe."

"...You were unexpectedly nice," Helen agrees. "Thank you. Though maybe get some harnesses or something if you plan on doing this again?"

"And how carry rootfoot-sized harnesses when not big?" Berebe scoffs. "Idiot."

A now-small-again Meleme giggles and flaps up into the sky with her partner.

"Yes! Silly friend! Is okay, would have caught you if fall. Anyway, bye-bye!"

"Friend leaving?" Kagiso asks. Hmm. She kind of talks like sciptera, now that I'm listening to them side by side. I wonder if that's on purpose?

"You crossing Sapsea, yes?" Berebe grunts. "Then we no follow. Sciptera not like Slaying Stone. Not enough trees."

"Not for us! Places to go, games to play!" Meleme confirms cheerfully. "But if see friends again, will say hi, yes?"

Aw, beans and rice, I hate being stuck in this backpack. I wanna say goodbye. I resist the urge, though, trusting the hope that we'll meet silly little Meleme again. Kagiso waves goodbye enthusiastically enough for both of us, at least, and soon after she and Helen start heading into town, the ripping sounds of their boots peeling every sticky step from the floor ringing in our ears.

It's disgusting, so I start to surreptitiously clean the area around us as we walk.

It's hard, because the sap is heavier than dust and stickier than blood. It doesn't want to move, and cleaning it from everything while also peeling the wood clean of mold, bacteria, and general gunk strains past what I thought the limits were for my silently-cast cleaning spell. I feel ethereally sore, but it's a mild, workout-like burn so I do my best to ignore it and focus on the cleaning.

"Hannah?" Helen whispers. "Is that you?"

Oh, uh. Whoops.

"Yeah, sorry, the grossness was bugging me," I whisper back. "Should I stop?"

She hums thoughtfully.

"...Nah, it's fine," she murmurs. "It's nice, actually. Makes this place a bit more bearable. Plus, I think we can use this. Follow my lead, yeah?"

I can't help but wiggle a little, happy to be useful.

"Will do," I confirm quietly.

She gives me a silent nod back, walking a little faster. With a little more purpose. It's always nice to see her like this, when she looks like she's in control and has a plan in mind. When she's looking towards the future, rather than the past. Kagiso follows slightly behind, smiling faintly.

"See, the whole way down I was trying to figure out a way to get us enough money to buy passage on a ship, or find some other way to earn it," Helen explains. "That damn nychtava took all the amber and electrum I had. Kagiso's a Motion mage, so worst case we could probably sell her skills to help power the boat, but that'd be a fucking awful time for her. With you, though? I think we can go right to the docks."

So to the docks we go. I keep my attention on cleaning while Helen ignores most of the foul city, seeming to know exactly where her destination is. Soon enough, I spot it too, and I'm quite surprised to find the docks hosting a galleon-sized wood-and-metal boat with no sails and no apparent engine. There is a set of propellers and quite a bit of internal mechanisms, but as far as I can tell the only possible power source would have to be magic. …Which I suppose is quite doable in a world where everyone has magic. I wonder if there are different boats that can use different kinds of magic to power themselves?

I don't see any other boats that are vastly different or noticeably strange, though, so I just keep that thought to myself as Helen walks up to a boat with a bunch of freight being boarded and starts talking to a human who looks like he's overseeing things.

"Looking for passage to the Pillar," she declares.

"What's it worth to ya?" the guy grunts back, not even looking at her.

"Lift your feet," Helen says.

That gets the man to look at her, raising an eyebrow as he does so. He lifts one foot, and I clean both it and the ground under him, clumping the gathered detritus and fairly visibly tossing it into the sea. He notices, and experimentally sets his foot back down before lifting it again. It, of course, doesn't stick.

"Imagine that on your whole deck," Helen says, smirking. "Imagine that on your drive shaft. Like it's brand new, every few counts. Think we could cut a day off your travel time?"

The old boatman stares at Helen for a bit. Helen stares back. He gestures to Kagiso.

"She with you?" he asks.

"Yep. Both of us can fight if you run into anything nasty."

He sneers.

"You ever fight anything at sea?" he asks Kagiso.

"No," Kagiso answers. "But I no hesitate, and am good at follow orders."

"Hah! You know what a man likes," he chuckles bawdily. "Fine. You both bring your own food, though. Week's worth. And if you don't do what you say you can do, I'm tossin' ya into the sea."

"Deal," Helen nods, and that's that. We step away to let the… captain, presumably? The probably-captain goes back to managing the loading of his ship.

"Okay, so getting enough money for food with one-time cleanings might be harder than selling our services for a whole journey, but we can probably scrounge up enough money for food, at least," Helen announces.

"I think I can probably clean the Sapsea itself," I tell her. "Like, not all at once obviously, but I could sort unspoiled sap out of the spoiled sap and into like… a cup or something."

"Shit, really? Okay, that's fucking useful. That takes care of Kagiso's food. You need meat though, right? And I'd prefer a little jerky or something too. What about you, murderbot? Got enough souls for the journey?"

"Clean me, meat!" Sela chirps from Kagiso's backpack.

"I… I did," I answer. "I've been cleaning everything since we got here, you included."

Sela quietly tests its joints, confirming my claim.

"...I am unlikely to require additional power during the journey," it reports. "Sapient souls are very energy efficient, and in the unfortunate event of increased power consumption there will likely be plenty of lost souls drifting the Sapsea which can be acquired."

"Delightful to know," Helen deadpans. "Okay, I think we can do this, then."

We spend the next hour or two selling my magic and pretending it's Helen's, scraping together enough food to last us the journey. Most people turn down our offer for cleaning, apparently quite resigned to the fact that their life is a disgusting mess and anything we do to the floors will inevitably vanish in barely a day, but those who do want to feel clean tend to pay us fairly well, if Helen's avaricious expression is anything to go by.

"I'm kind of surprised there isn't anyone else with a cleaning spell who lives here," I comment quietly.

"Well, there's two reasons for that," Helen mutters. "Firstly, your cleaning spell is honestly kind of crazy. Best one I've ever seen. But secondly… well, you have a cleaning spell. Do you want to live here?"

"I mean, no. I'd hate every second of trying to deal with this place."

Helen doesn't answer, just giving me a moment for my brain to catch up.

"...Oh," I say.

"Yeah," she answers. "People with cleaning magic hate dirty places."

"Magic distribution is kind of messed up," I realize.

"I am the absolute last person you need to tell that to," Helen grumbles.

Ah Goddess dangit I am so bad at talking.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm just dumb and it takes me a while to grok stuff."

"To what?"

Huh? Oh, that didn't translate. Lame. More languages should have a way to communicate the concept of grok.

"It's my favorite word in my native language," I answer. "I mean, it's kind of a made up word but all words are made up and you can use it in Scrabble so who cares. It means 'to understand something intuitively and completely.' It's… you know how sometimes you understand something intellectually, like…"

I pause, swallowing nervously as I try to think of a good example.

"Like 'I have been forgiven for this,'" I say quietly. "You know someone forgave you. They said it and they're not lying and you believe them. But you don't feel it. It's true, but it's not real. That's just intellectual understanding. It's only when you really internalize it, really know it, that you grok it. At least, that's how I use the word."

"Oh," Helen breathes. "Yeah. That… makes sense."

"Yeah."

Silence stretches for a bit until my need to more completely explain becomes overwhelming, and I continue.

"You can use the word in a lot of other ways," I say. "It's just about a level of understanding that is empathetic and emotional and complete. Like the difference between someone who knows how to do math and can calculate things if they put effort into it, and a mathematician who works with math constantly and can intuitively make numbers do all sorts of things. It's the difference between knowing people are starving in foreign countries and having lived in starvation and poverty yourself. It's the difference between knowing someone is attracted to something that creeps you out, and being attracted to that thing yourself. It's grok, and it's such a profoundly important concept that I really think everyone should know about it."

"Huh, okay," Helen grunts. "What the fuck is Scrabble?"

"Well, it's a grid-based word game…"

We chatter away the next couple hours whenever it's safe to do so, and before long we've scrounged up enough food for the journey. Returning to the boat we're let on, we’re shown where we'll be sleeping, and ordered to basically just stay out of the way when we're not cleaning stuff. After a thorough once-over of the ship, my magical muscles are absolutely exhausted, and not long afterwards I drift into sleep.

I wake up, because sleep isn't real and neither is relaxation. It's Sunday morning. Time for the demon to go to church.

I clack my teeth together a couple times to vent frustration as I quickly sort my limbs out and head to the shower. I was actually having a pretty nice time on the world tree for once! But now that's over and I'm stuck in poopville. I'll never get to have a full 24 hours before something goes wrong again, huh?

The hot water cascades over my back and my scowl deepens. I've been trying to ignore it, but… this doesn't even feel that good anymore, does it? I used to enjoy the feeling of heat soaking into my muscles, but it just doesn't do that anymore. Whatever. I absentmindedly scratch at my crotch and end up with a hand full of pubic hair. …Okay, I guess that's all falling out. Ew. At least my skin is still attached.

Unwilling to play the 'did I rinse enough to not have dead hair stuck to my body' game, I just turn the water off and cast Refresh, cleansing myself and drying off in one fell swoop. Probably the shortest shower I've taken in years, but what's the point anymore? I pick up a brush, then put it down and use Refresh to fix my hair, too. I start to apply a bit of makeup by hand, but quickly give up when I realize it's the wrong color. My skin has become too dark for my usual makeup to match. Is it all going to become pitch-black like the weird skin inside my joints?

…Whatever. Who even cares? I Refresh the makeup all over my face, hiding the change in skin tone under a layer of chemicals. I Refresh my teeth clean too, but I've been doing that for a while because using a toothbrush on my massive chompers is frustratingly difficult. The spell is just so Goddess-dang useful. I hate how much I love it.

I assemble my outfit like armor, covering up everything while keeping things fancy enough for church. With my extra-short shower I manage to head downstairs long before anyone else is out of bed, giving me the kitchen to myself. Huh. I guess I could actually cook and spice my eggs rather than just swallowing them raw like a demented snake. While I'm at it I guess I could make everyone else breakfast, too.

Eh. Why not.

I grab enough eggs for the whole family, plus the pancake mix and relevant extra ingredients. Measuring cups, mixing bowls, pans… these are all proper receptacles, aren't they? Fine. Refresh to get the exact amounts of each ingredient. Refresh to perfectly mix them. Refresh some butter on the pan. I'm starting to feel the same ache I felt on the world tree, but it kind of feels good. Like I'm accomplishing something for once. Heat on, pancake cooking. Soon I feel movement upstairs, so no more magic. Shame.

I do the rest the old fashioned way, finding the multitasking to be weirdly easy and strangely engaging. Between the sausage, eggs, and pancakes I have a fair bit to juggle at once, and I don't cook very often at all. I kind of like it, though there are a few times I feel myself try to grab something while both of my hands are already occupied, and it takes me a moment to realize nothing is happening. Will limbs nine and ten be more arms? Gosh, I hope so.

"...Hannah," my mother greets me, stepping into the dining room with mild bewilderment.

"Hey mom," I greet her back, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in my voice. "Pancake?"

"Ah, yes. Please," she manages. "Thank you."

"How many eggs? Sausage?"

"Two eggs. No sausage, please."

"Mkay."

She sits down at the dining room table and manages to stay quiet for all of thirty seconds.

"...Would you like any help?" she asks.

"No," I answer.

"Alright. Thank you for making breakfast."

You already said that. …Ugh, come on, Hannah. Try not to get pissed at every little thing?

"You're welcome. I had extra time so I figured I may as well."

My mother smiles softly.

"...You've really grown into a kind young woman, Hannah," she says. "I'm truly proud of you, you know that?"

I say nothing, swallowing down both my urge to apologize and my urge to cry. I finish my mother's food in silence, handing her the completed plate without ever working up the courage to look her in the eyes.

My brother tromps downstairs shortly afterwards, yawning as he slides into his usual seat at the table.

"How many eggs?" I successfully manage to ask him.

"Uh?" he blinks, seeming to have noticed I'm the cook for the first time. "Oh, uh. Three, please. Over easy. And two sausages. And two pancakes."

"Can do."

It's kind of weird being able to 'see' the bottom of everything I'm cooking and know exactly when to flip them, but it does help me make really good eggs and pancakes. I serve them up to my brother as ordered, and he nods my way.

"Thanks," he says, officially acknowledging me more than he ever has in the past month. He never talks to me or… well, most people, honestly. And whenever he does it's just about exercising or working out or some other jock thing I don't care about but mom and dad love. Now that I think about it, maybe he's autistic too, just hyperfocused on stereotypically normal things like sports instead of weird nerd things like Pokémon. …Not that I'm autistic. Okay I mean I'm probably not totally neurotypical but I don't have a diagnosis, so—

"Pancakes!" my dad announces happily. "Can I have two of everything, Hannahgator?"

"Sure," I confirm, happy for the distraction.

"Your birthday's this Wednesday, huh?" he muses, and holy syrup snakes it is, isn't it? Aaaaagh. "Have you made a birthday list? Any presents you want?"

Presents? Oh heck, what would I even ask for? Video games? Streaming equipment? There's probably all sorts of things I want and need, but all of it seems really shallow now. Maybe I should ask for like… a gun. No, wait, I think in Tennessee you have to be 21 to own a gun unless you are or were in the military. Which, um, no thank you.

Maybe I should use my birthday to come out as gay and/or a monster. That way it can be a miserable experience for everybody, instead of just me.

"...Nothing really comes to mind," I mumble. "Sorry."

"Well, just let us know," my mom says. "It's your special day, after all."

Yippie. I say nothing and just finish making dad's food, giving it to him and moving on to making my own, which is basically just every egg and sausage we have left mixed into a giant scramblette. Which is basically just an omelet you screw up on purpose. I put a few spices and things in it, but most of them don't taste all that great to me anymore. They aren't bad either, though, and salt still tastes delicious, so overall it's quite nice. Now I just have to ignore my family as they gawk at my huge pile of eggs and awkwardly wait for them to look away before I start shoveling them into my mouth and swallowing without chewing.

…Yeah, screw that. I walk right past the dining room table and bring my food up to my room. My mom looks like she wants to stop me, but she doesn't. Thank the Goddess.

Hiding away in my room, I take my mask off and devour my food in peace, unlocking my phone in hopes of finding some measure of sanity. Oh hey, a text from Brendan! I'm surprised he's awake.

Hey, so uh. Favor to ask you. When it's just you and me alone, could you maybe try calling me Valerie?

Oh gosh! Correction! I'm surprised she's awake! I mean, probably. Valerie, huh? Valerie Valerie Valerie Valerie. That's a really pretty name. I am probably going to forget it and feel like mouse poop. I really, really need to do some research on like, trans etiquette and stuff. I feel so out of my depth here.

Of course! I send back, because I at least know enough to be supportive. Valerie is such a cute name! Do you also wanna try she/her pronouns and stuff?

I see the little typing animation appear shortly afterwards and just start wiggling with general euphoria. Ah, this is exactly what I needed to feel better: a nice one-on-one conversation with my best friend Brendan. I mean Valerie. Damn it!

Uh, sure, she (!!!) confirms. But only when it's just us two, so I'm not sure you'll need to refer to me in the third person.

Well I guess that's true, I answer. But I could do things like call you a cute girl. Adorable cutie Valerie. Do you want me to do that?

…Ack.

Cute girl Valerie is a cute girl! I tease.

alskfjfhfakalskdhfjslalahdg, she eloquently responds.

Is that a good keyboard smash or a bad one?

The typing graphic starts, then stops. Starts, then stops. Starts, then stops. It's a good thing I'm in my room right now, because I'm pretty sure my huge grin would be visible past my mask.

…good one, Brendan eventually sends, and I cackle out loud.

Eeeeeeeeeeeexcellent, I say. My friend Valerie is now officially a cutie.

I'm really not cute at all, she insists. But this preliminary test is, uh, definitely solidifying my current suspicions on my gender.

Because my best friend Valerie likes being called a cute girl?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaa. Maybe. Yes. What the fuck. Let's talk about something else. You doing okay?

I swallow the last of my eggs as I think on that.

Had kind of a rough morning, I admit. But I'm feeling a lot better thanks to you. World tree day wasn't bad at all, I'm just dreading church. Oh, and also worried about the mother of the kid who mugged me whose life I maybe saved.

Wait what

Oh, right. I should probably explain this in the form of a group text, so I formulate a quick summary of how absolutely stuffed with spoiled cranberry filling my life has become. I let everyone know about J-whatever-his-name-was, what I did at the hospital, and a brief summary of what I did at the world tree last night. I also tell everyone that I've pretty much confirmed that magic can be spread by summoning the Goddess near anyone who doesn't have magic yet, and I emphasize how we should avoid spreading magic as much as possible.

"Hannah!" my mother's voice calls up the stairs. "Time for church, honey!"

Well, that's that then. I send off a goodbye and get my mask re-secured, heading downstairs and getting in the car. The trip is as boring as usual, although the atmosphere is tense enough to snap like a rubber band. Even my brother starts giving me concerned looks. Soon enough it's over, though, and I'm instead sitting down to listen to the drudgery of whatever our pastor wants to rant to us about today. I'll probably just tune it out.

"Today," my pastor intones, "I want to talk about the prophets."

Aw, dang it.

"A prophet is a person who speaks God's truth to others," he continues. "They are all divinely inspired in some way, perhaps through dreams, perhaps through visits with angels, or, as is the case with many of the greatest and most famous prophets, because they speak with God directly, and personally receive His wisdom."

No. Why? Why this? I feel my body begin to tremble, afraid to think on the question further lest She decides to answer it.

"Among those who speak directly with God, however, there are some noticeable cases where Prophets disagree with God, or even argue with Him and, seemingly, convince Him to change His mind. A famous example is when God witnessed the Israelites worshiping the Golden Calf, and Moses convinced God not to slay them. Exodus thirty-two, nine through fourteen."

The pastor pauses so everyone can get their Bibles on the right page, then reads the passages aloud.

"The Lord also said to Moses: 'I have seen this people, and they are indeed a stiff-necked people.

"Now leave Me alone, so that My anger can burn against them and I can destroy them. Then I will make you into a great nation.'

"But Moses interceded with the Lord his God: 'Lord, why does Your anger burn against Your people You brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and a strong hand?

"Why should the Egyptians say "He brought them out with an evil intent to kill them in the mountains and wipe them off the face of the earth?" Turn from Your great anger and change Your mind about this disaster planned for Your people.

"Remember that You swore to Your servants Abraham, Isaac, and Israel by Yourself and declared to them, "I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of the sky and will give your offspring all this land that I have promised, and they will inherit it forever."'

"So the Lord changed His mind about the disaster He said He would bring on His people."

The quote ends, and the quiet sound of several dozen Bibles closing in staccato rhythm rings out through the room.

"The Lord changed His mind," the pastor repeats. "What does this mean? How can an all-powerful being, and particularly an all-knowing being, change His mind? It's a difficult question, one likely beyond humans. We do not know the inner machinations of God's plan or God's methods. But there's one thing we can take from this in certainty: the essence of this problem, regardless of its answer, highlights the importance of prayer."

Did you do this, Goddess? Is this a message to me? Please don't answer. Please.

"Some say that God truly changes His mind. That He has opinions and desires that can be swayed, that He purposefully limits Himself in such a way that we can argue with Him. Others say that He simply projects an appearance of changing His mind, that the act of seeming to change His mind is part of His all-seeing vision, part of His divinely perfect plan. But the answer to this question is not important, because either way, we know that He encourages us to speak with Him. He wants to interact with us on our level, at least in some way. He wants us to speak to Him, He wants us to believe our prayers matter. Because they do. Prayers get answered. Not all of them, and not all the time, but prayers get answered."

I don't even know what I'm doing when I suddenly move to my feet. Am I sweating? I'm surprised I can still do that. I'm surprised I can feel so cold. Cold, nauseous, and very much in the middle of a panic attack that seemed to hit me out of nowhere, as enraptured and horrified as I was with my pastor's words. He glances at me briefly as I stand, but like an old professional he keeps speaking without interruption.

"God chooses prophets and speaks to them because He wants to. Because He loves us. He loves interacting with us."

I step past my worried and embarrassed mother, muttering an unintelligible "bathroom" as I flee the main room of the chapel. They don't know. They don't know what She's really like. They haven't felt how easy it is to crush an ant.

They don't know a prophet sits right in their midst, and if she killed and ate them all the Goddess would only laugh.

I collapse onto the toilet, tears spilling uncontrollably out of my face. I'm not even like the prophets in the stories, no paragon of moral virtue or great king. I was chosen because I wasn't those things, because the Goddess doesn't want a philosopher to heal the world, she wants a fuckup to break it. Not good enough. Not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough not—

My phone buzzes. Desperate for any distraction, I check it immediately. It's an unknown number.

Mom woke up today. She's already feeling better. Thank you. I'll always remember this blessing.

I clutch my face in both hands and scream.