After getting his hands on the disc player, Zhao Meiyou spent some time mulling it over.
It was the 25th century. What were the odds of a three-hundred-year-old antique being preserved in such pristine condition?
He knew his "sister" was unusual in certain ways, but he didn't much care. The lower districts were breeding grounds for eccentrics; if they weren't, the government wouldn't have bothered funding a psychiatric hospital there. As long as a patient didn't exhibit symptoms that were too extreme, the hospital generally wouldn't admit them. Then again, some patients were *too* normal, standing out so sharply against the district’s absurd atmosphere that the locals viewed them as heretics. Some even went so far as to check themselves in.
It was all for the sake of survival, a way to grab a meal. There was no shame in it.
In the end, what was "normal" and what was "madness"? Normalcy was merely the only form of madness permitted by the collective.
Business at the psychiatric hospital and the pork stall remained as hectic as ever. Zhao Meiyou was kept so busy his feet barely touched the ground, and he soon pushed the matter to the back of his mind. He knew the girl was a bit off—but then again, in the eyes of an adult, every child was a little strange.
Puberty, probably.
Maybe one day she’d pull a flying butter-cat out of her closet.
Work had been relentless lately, so when a rare day came without overtime, Zhao Meiyou took the opportunity to sit in at the theater. The theater in Level 33 was the finest venue in the lower districts, famous even throughout the entire Metropolis. Unlike the middle and upper districts, where playhouses, cinemas, and theaters were strictly categorized, the venues in Level 33 were a chaotic melting pot. Everything was mashed together in a repurposed parking lot—a rowdy, disorganized mess where one act followed another. It didn't even have a proper name; people just called it "The Theater."
Before entering, he glanced at the day’s lineup. Several seal-script characters glowed on a neon water-sign, announcing a full-length serial play. The headlining star was an old acquaintance, performing both the *laosheng* and *chou* roles as the legendary monk, Ji Gong.
Zhao Meiyou arrived late and couldn't secure a ticket, so he headed straight for the backstage area, a route he knew by heart.
He was well-liked and a regular, so people greeted him all along the way. The backstage was a temporary structure of colorful tarps, thick with the scent of cosmetic powder and tobacco. Long strings of sequined skirts hung in circles, forming makeshift dressing rooms. A showgirl rushing for her set poked her head out from under a cluster of fringed dresses. She was blonde and blue-eyed, flashing him a smile as she spoke in heavily accented Mandarin. "Pork Beauty, you're just in time. The zipper on my back is stuck; give me a hand?"
In the end, it was the headliner, about to take the stage, who rescued him. The man’s face was already painted red, and he was clearly drunk before the curtain even rose. He looked at Zhao and let out a boozy hiccup. "Don't thank me. There are no seats left today. If you want to catch the show, go sit behind the screen."
Behind the screen was the orchestra's section. Zhao Meiyou understood immediately. "Aren't you afraid I'll pluck the wrong string?"
"It's not my reputation on the line." The man waved his cattail fan and walked off.
Zhao Meiyou did know a bit about string instruments, but he was out of practice and kept his movements subtle. He spent a long while backstage listening to the gongs and drums. When the fourth act began, he leaned over to offer the fiddle master some tea and took over for a set of "Four Scenes."
The headliner, dressed in a patchwork robe, played Ji Gong. He hadn't even opened his mouth before the cheers erupted. First came several long, howling cries, and then he sang: *"Mad and muddled, I am mad and muddled..."*
Zhao Meiyou couldn't help but chuckle behind the screen. The headliner was naturally fair and plump; as a monk, he looked a bit over-nourished. With his cheeks painted red, he looked like a beautiful, drunken ghost. However, his singing voice was rich and resonant. The contrast between his appearance and his voice perfectly captured the essence of the "Mad Monk" who indulged in meat and wine while feigning insanity.
Once the grand performance ended, Zhao Meiyou and the headliner went to the back alley for a late-night snack. They essentially hijacked a barbecue cart, ordering over a hundred skewers seasoned heavily with chili, cumin, pepper, honey, sesame, and plum sauce. Zhao Meiyou mostly stuck to drinking, rarely picking up his chopsticks—he was no match for the headliner’s speed. "My dear Concubine, how many pounds have you put on this month?"
The headliner, his makeup still on and his face flushed from the grill's heat, was clearly famished. He ate until his mouth was slick with oil, mumbling, "I lost three and a half pounds!"
"Oho, that’s rare." Zhao Meiyou laughed. "That deserves a toast."
The two clinked glasses. The headliner downed his drink in one go, exhaled sharply, and shouted over the roar of the stir-fry woks, "Did you bring the medicine?"
"Got it. Blood pressure and blood sugar meds." Zhao Meiyou pulled out a strip of aluminum blister packs. "This is a three-month supply..."
Before he could finish, the headliner snatched the pack. Without even looking, he popped out a handful of pills, shoved them into his mouth, and crunched them down before swallowing. He swallowed so forcefully he started coughing, spraying bits of food across the table.
Zhao Meiyou finished his sentence: "...pace yourself. There's a constant shortage on the market. Diao Chan is still trying to source more."
The headliner wiped his mouth, his makeup now a smeared mess. "Those are secondary. What I really need are sleeping pills."
"Forget about sleeping pills. They're out of stock everywhere; even Diao Chan can't get any," Zhao Meiyou said, holding his plastic cup. "If it gets bad, just sing more. Didn't you fall asleep on stage last time?"
The other man slapped him. "That was because you bastard got me hammered!"
Zhao Meiyou burst out laughing.
In truth, this man didn't need any help getting drunk. His large frame housed a body riddled with ailments, all of them self-inflicted through overindulgence.
Like most residents of the lower districts, the headliner’s origins were a mystery. He had been sent to the psychiatric hospital to play the fool for a few days as a formality, and once released, he could start life anew. The only difference was that when he first entered the hospital, he had been strikingly beautiful—elegant and refined—which was how he earned the nickname "The Concubine." However, not long after he started performing post-discharge, the only thing he still had in common with the legendary Consort Yang was his weight.
Though the barbecue stall had plenty of food, it wasn't long before the headliner had swept it all clean. He wiped his mouth and asked point-blank, "Alright, what are you really here for today?"
They were old friends. If Zhao Meiyou just wanted to hear a play, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of treating him to such a feast.
Zhao Meiyou pulled out the disc player. "I want you to listen to something."
The headliner took the device, frowning as he examined it for a moment. Then he waved a hand. "Too noisy here. Let's talk somewhere else."
They walked to a patch of ruins. Calling it ruins was generous; it was more like a massive junk pile. It was still within the parking lot's boundaries. The headliner led the way to a convertible that was nothing but a chassis, settled comfortably onto the foam padding, and pressed play.
Zhao Meiyou leaned against the car door and lit a cigarette.
It was indeed a new machine with excellent sound quality. After the opening strings, a female voice drifted from the speakers.
*"Fly me to the moon*
*And let me play among the stars*
*Let me see what spring is like*
*On Jupiter and Mars*
*In other words, hold my hand*
*In other words, darling, kiss me..."*
When the song finished, the headliner popped the lid, took out the disc, and studied it for a moment. "This is a song?"
"No kidding," Zhao Meiyou replied.
The disc looked pristine, a smooth mercury-silver just like the player. Zhao Meiyou said, "I want to know where this song came from."
"Why not check the Holographic Library? You should be able to get a pass for the upper districts, right?"
"I checked. Nothing." Zhao Meiyou exhaled a cloud of smoke that glowed a faint blue in the night. "Even Diao Chan said he’s never heard it."
"Well, of course. Just think about what those lyrics are saying." The headliner held the disc above his head, peering through the center hole at the distance. "Who cares about the moon these days?"
They were in an abandoned parking lot in Level 33, which sat upon the oldest foundations of the city. Before this wasteland was a parking lot, an even older structure had stood there—a magnificent, grand opera house.
The headliner looked up. The ruined dome still bore remnants of ancient murals. Lapis lazuli pigment mixed with silver powder traced a vast, boundless starry sky.
The Roman columns surrounding the ruins still featured bas-reliefs. The heads of the men and women had been lopped off, but one could still vaguely tell they were wearing spacesuits.
"The first two Metropolis Prohibitions: One, no space exploration. Two, no android technology." The headliner let out a boozy hiccup. "This song is a blatant violation. Zhao Meiyou, have you lost your mind?"
"Maybe eat a few less bites before you lecture me on who's crazy," Zhao Meiyou said. "So, do you know the history of this song or not?"
The headliner put the disc back in the player, pressed play, and adjusted himself into a comfortable position. He looked almost ready to doze off.
"I know a little," he began. "It's an old song from centuries ago. A recording of it was even sent to the moon on the Apollo spacecraft. It was the first song humanity ever played on the moon. There are many cover versions; the singer on your disc is likely Julie London."
"And the title?"
"It's the first line," the headliner said.
"*Fly Me to the Moon*."
Zhao Meiyou finished an entire pack of cigarettes before leaving. When he pressed the stop button, snoring was already coming from the car seat.
It was 2:00 AM by the time he got home. Zhao Meiyou carried the row of empty bowls from the doorstep into the kitchen. He picked up a bag of mixed grains and poured it out; the twenty-pound plastic bag was nearly empty. He stacked the bowls like steamer baskets, carried the heavy stack back outside, and set them down one by one.
There were many stray cats and dogs in this area. He practiced a sort of free-range feeding; the mixed grains he bought were edible for both. With twenty bowls at the door, anyone who was hungry could come. He wasn't particularly diligent about it, though. On days with heavy overtime, he wasn't home at all, and even when he was, he often forgot. At best, he remembered to refill them once a week.
He was truly exhausted. Zhao Meiyou closed the door and dove onto his blankets. His room had no bed; he’d just bought a mattress and thrown it on the floor. Sometimes he forgot to close the window and a cat would jump in and step on his face—"Fuck!"
Zhao Meiyou felt himself land on something furry, followed immediately by a scratch to his stomach. He sat up and flicked on the light. "Zhao the Silent?"
A calico cat stared at him expressionlessly, then extended a paw to lick it.
Since Zhao Meiyou only fed the strays and didn't "own" them, he didn't have the habit of naming them. This calico was the exception. Its intelligence was clearly a tier above the other ferals; it knew that being "inside the system" was much more comfortable than being out in the wild. Even though Zhao Meiyou never fed it inside the house and usually ignored it, the cat insisted on staying in this dilapidated twenty-square-meter room. Whenever Zhao Meiyou came home, it was there, determined to be a squatter who paid no rent.
Later, Zhao Meiyou realized the cat never made a sound. On a whim, he named it Zhao the Silent.
Diao Chan had once given it a nickname during a visit, but Zhao Meiyou had long since forgotten what it was. It didn't matter; the cat wouldn't respond to anything anyway.
"Food's outside. Go eat." Zhao Meiyou grabbed the cat by the scruff and hoisted it out the window. He was dead tired and just wanted to turn off the lights.
He’d been lying down for less than two seconds when a sense of suffocation hit him. Zhao the Silent had sat directly on his face.
"...I'm warning you." Zhao Meiyou had to haul the cat out again, pointing a finger at its nose. "Learn to read the room."
The next second, he was scratched. "Fuck!"
Zhao Meiyou snapped. He scrambled up to shut the window, but the damn thing had been broken for who knew how long. The seal between the glass and the frame was completely rusted. He gave it two violent tugs, and with a sharp *crack*, the glass shattered.
The cluster of cat heads buried in the food bowls below flinched back in surprise, then looked up in unison, staring wide-eyed at Zhao Meiyou.
"Great," Zhao Meiyou muttered. Now he was really in for it.
There was a hierarchy to the animals eating under his window. The cats ate first, and the dogs took the leftovers. He didn't understand why the cats always won the fights despite the size difference, but it maintained a certain order. The feral cats didn't care for his shitty apartment—so far, only Zhao the Silent had shown interest—but the dogs were different. Once, he’d left the window wide open while he was at work; when he returned a week later, his home had become a stray dog shelter, complete with a fresh litter of puppies.
Since then, he only ever left a crack. Cats are liquid, so Zhao the Silent could come and go, but it kept the dogs out.
At this moment, a row of emerald cat-eyes stared at him. Nearby, the cooling unit of a snack shop let out a massive roar.
One could hardly expect a stray cat to have a conscience. Sure enough, a second later, the cats scattered. Zhao Meiyou instinctively stepped back, only to be tackled by a flurry of tongues licking his face.
It was a large dog. Zhao Meiyou was nearly flattened. Where one led, others followed. He didn't count how many came after, but by the time he finally peeled the dogs off him, there was hardly any floor space left in the room.
"What kind of hellish existence is this?" Zhao Meiyou murmured.
On the windowsill, Zhao the Silent gave him a look, then turned its backside to him as if to say, *You're beyond saving.*
Zhao Meiyou was incensed by its lack of loyalty. "You little traitor!"
It seemed there would be no peace tonight. These dogs especially loved his bed and were currently using his pillow as a trampoline. Zhao Meiyou leaned against the wall, clutching his blanket, staring blankly at the snack shop across the way. "That owner must be a real saint, not once thinking about opening a dog meat stall."
The neon lights in the street flickered—blue-green, red-white, fluorescent pink. The light filtered in so brightly he didn't even need his own lamp. The wall opposite the window looked like a kaleidoscope, with vibrant patches of color gathering and swirling. Zhao Meiyou scanned the room and suddenly noticed that the automatic cleaning unit in the corner had been stolen at some point. It was probably the only valuable thing in his house, a gift from Diao Chan.
A pity Zhao Meiyou never cooked at home.
Zhao Meiyou gently patted a dog's head on the bed. "You useless things, can't even guard a house."
He thought for a moment, pulled the disc player from his inner pocket, closed his eyes, and pressed play again.
the female voice echoed in the room like a jar of cool, silver oil being slowly poured out. It flowed over the floor drain, over the cigarette packs and beer cans, over the foam mattress and the kitchen sink, over the dogs, over the cat, and over the man.
In that moment, the room seemed to be filled with moonlight.
*"Fly me to the moon..."*
Zhao the Silent suddenly turned around. It arched its back and opened its mouth, but no sound came out.
Its pupils, narrowed into vertical slits, reflected the room—the bedsheets crumpled into a ball, the large dog tearing at the pillow as stuffing began to fly, the blanket piled against the wall, its shape still held as if it had just been covering someone.
The mattress was empty.
***
When he opened his eyes again, Zhao Meiyou was nearly blinded by intense, stinging sunlight.
It took him a moment to grasp the situation. His memory stopped in his room—the dogs had rushed in, he couldn't sleep, and he’d decided to listen to music—
So, where was this? Zhao Meiyou looked around. It was an empty lot, surrounded by buildings with exposed rebar and concrete slabs. It looked like a construction project that was half-finished, but there was no one around.
Had he been kidnapped? Zhao Meiyou looked at the restraints on his body. He was tied to a chair, and the work was professional. He had plenty of enemies; using the process of elimination would take some time.
Wait.
Zhao Meiyou suddenly realized something.
Here, he could actually see the sun.
Blue sky, white clouds, the sun.
The sky wasn't perfectly blue—it seemed to be covered by a layer of grey haze—but Zhao Meiyou’s intuition told him this was absolutely not a holographic projection. This probably wasn't the middle or upper districts either, because the air held an indescribable dryness, like lime mixed with dust. It felt grainy when inhaled, like thin secondhand smoke.
In the middle and upper districts, anywhere you could see sunlight was equipped with an air circulation system. They always smelled like something pleasant—aquatic notes, forest scents—never this cheap.
Where on earth was he? Who had brought him here? And how? His senses were sharp enough that he could usually tell if Diao Chan was insulting him in his head.
A car suddenly drove into the lot. Several masked men stepped out. The leader carried a case and was clearly heading for him. Zhao Meiyou watched as the man pulled out a syringe and gave him an injection. Soon, he couldn't feel a thing.
Then, the man produced a chainsaw.
Though his sense of touch was gone, based on the blood flowing down his face and the smell of burning protein in the air, Zhao Meiyou figured the man had just sawed open his skull.
And he’d only opened the cranium without damaging the brain. The chainsaw had quite a bit of power; it was precision work. Good craftsmanship.
The reason Zhao Meiyou could maintain such a calm assessment at this moment wasn't due to his professional poise as a psychiatric physician. It was because he was so stunned that his mind had detached and begun to wander—
Zhao Meiyou cursed a thousand times in his head. That car. The car those masked bastards had arrived in.
He didn't know much about cars, but Diao Chan was an expert in all things decadent. In university, his desk had been piled with model cars—everything from the latest releases to antiques, flying cars, stealth cars, nuclear-powered ones. Thanks to that, Zhao Meiyou was something of a connoisseur himself.
Because of that, he could tell that the sedan nearby was a model from centuries ago. It might be even older than Diao Chan’s oldest collectible. The thing was actually burning gasoline.
He recognized that strange smell now, too. Massive carbon emissions causing smog. During heavy pollution, the air smelled exactly like this.
He looked at the uniquely shaped, unfinished buildings and the masked men’s archaic clothing styles.
Zhao Meiyou suddenly remembered what his sister had said a few days ago: *"This isn't the real reality. We're in a massive virtual world."*
That disc player.
He had fallen asleep listening to the disc inside it.
"Brother," Zhao Meiyou spoke up. "Can I ask you something? What year is it?"
the man stopped what he was doing. After a moment, he said, "1999."
Zhao Meiyou: "..."
"You're an interesting one," the masked man assisting him remarked. "Usually, by this stage, the victims are screaming for their lives. Your first question is what year it is?"
"Maybe he's an idiot. If not an idiot, then a lunatic," the leader said, putting down the chainsaw and taking something out of the case.
It was a spoon.
the leader looked at Zhao Meiyou and paused. "Do you have any last words?"
Zhao Meiyou’s mind was racing. When a person’s logic is under fire, they often succumb to instinct, which means the stomach often reacts faster than the brain.
He’d been busy in the ER all day and had spent half the night drinking with the headliner without getting a single bite of food. Now, with the savory, toasted scent of protein wafting from the top of his head, Zhao Meiyou couldn't take it anymore. He opened his mouth and said:
"Can I have a bite of those brains?"
***
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