Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Brain

After getting his hands on the disc player, Zhao Meiyou mulled it over.

It was the 25th century—what were the odds of a three-hundred-year-old antique being in such immaculate condition?

He knew his sister was odd in certain ways, but it didn’t bother him. The Lower District was already teeming with misfits; otherwise, the government wouldn’t have funded an asylum here. Unless symptoms were outright extreme, the hospital rarely admitted anyone. Some folks, too normal to fit in with the district’s absurdity, were deemed outcasts by the locals. They’d go so far as to commit themselves to the asylum voluntarily.

It was all just survival, a way to scrape by. Nothing shameful about it.

In the end, what was normal, and what was madness? Normality was simply the only madness deemed permissible.

The psychiatric hospital and the butcher’s shop were both thriving as usual. Busy as he was, running about on errands, Zhao Meiyou soon forgot all about it. He knew his sister was a bit off—but then again, weren’t all kids a little “off” in the eyes of adults?

It was adolescence, after all.

Who knew? One day she might just pull a flying buttered cat out of the wardrobe.

Lately, work had been hectic, but that evening, Zhao Meiyou managed not to work overtime. He had the rare luxury of a visit to the theatre. The theatre in Level 33 was the best venue in the Lower District and even famous across the Megalopolis. Unlike the orderly categorisation of playhouses, cinemas, and theatres in the Upper District, Level 33's venues were a chaotic medley—one act barely finished before the next began. All crammed into an abandoned car park, it had no official name. People simply called it “the theatre.”

Before entering, he paused to check the day’s programme. The neon marquee shimmered with ancient-style characters announcing a full-length traditional opera. The headliner of the show was an acquaintance of his, playing both the laosheng role and the comic relief. He was dressed as Ji Gong, the mad monk.

Zhao Meiyou had arrived late and missed out on tickets, so, as was his habit, he headed straight backstage.

Popular and well-acquainted with the cast, he was greeted warmly along the way. The backstage area, cobbled together with colourful tents, teemed with the mingled scents of face powder and tobacco. Long strings of skirts hung in a circle, marking the dressing room. A blonde, blue-eyed dancer rushing to her next act poked her head out from a cluster of tasselled gowns and grinned at him, speaking heavily accented Chinese: “Xi Shi, you came just in time! My zipper’s stuck—give me a hand, will ya?”

In the end, it was the headliner himself who rescued him. His face heavily rouged, he was already tipsy before even stepping on stage. He hiccupped as he said, “Don’t mention it. No seats today. If you wanna freeload the show, go sit behind the screen.”

Behind the screen was where the orchestra sat. Zhao Meiyou caught on immediately. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll mess up your strings?”

“Not my problem if you do,” the actor said with a dismissive wave of his fan, striding off without another word.

Zhao Meiyou did know a bit about string instruments, though he was out of practice. Still, he handled himself with care. Leisurely taking in the clamour of gongs and drums backstage, he waited until the fourth act before bowing to the erhu master with a cup of tea and stepping in to sub for one of the four-scene melodies.

The headliner, dressed as Ji Gong in a patchwork robe, stepped onto the stage and was met with applause before saying a word. A few long wails cut through the crowd, and as he sang out, “Mad as I am, so mad I’ll stay,” Zhao Meiyou couldn’t help but laugh from behind the screen. The headliner’s skin was pale and smooth, too well-fed to pass convincingly as a monk. His cheeks were rouged, making him look like a drunken ghost, radiant and wild. But his voice was rich, full-bodied, and when paired with his appearance, he truly seemed the picture of a meat-and-wine-loving lunatic monk.

After the show, Zhao Meiyou and the headliner headed to the back alley for a late-night snack. They hired out an entire barbecue cart, loading up on a hundred skewers slathered with chilli, cumin, pepper and honey, sesame seeds, and plum sauce. Zhao Meiyou, however, stuck to his drink, not bothering with the food—there was no competing with the headliner across the table. “So, ,” he teased, “how much weight have you put on this month?”

The headliner, still in stage makeup and now streaked red from the barbecue smoke, was clearly famished. Grease slicked his mouth as he mumbled, “Lost three and a half pounds!”

“Well, that’s rare,” Zhao Meiyou chuckled, raising his glass. “This calls for a toast!”

They clinked glasses, the headliner downing his in one go and exhaling with satisfaction. Over the cacophony of sizzling stir-fry, he shouted, “You bring the meds?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them—blood pressure and sugar control,” Zhao Meiyou replied, fishing out a foil packet of pills. “This should last you three months—”

Before he could finish, the headliner snatched the aluminium packet, dumped a handful into his mouth without even glancing at them, and chewed them up. He swallowed too hastily, choking and coughing, spraying bits across the table.

Zhao Meiyou finished his sentence, unperturbed. “...You’d better ration those. There’s been a medicine shortage for months, and Diao Chan’s still trying to source more.”

The headliner wiped his mouth, his makeup now a smudged mess. “These don’t matter. What I really need are sleeping pills.”

“Forget it. Sleeping pills are completely out of stock. Even Diao Chan doesn’t get any.” Zhao Meiyou swirled his drink in a plastic cup. “If it’s that bad, just sing more. Didn’t you fall asleep on stage last time?”

The headliner smacked him. “That’s because you, you bastard, got me drunk out of my mind!”

Zhao Meiyou burst out laughing.

In truth, the man didn’t need any coaxing to drink. His bloated belly and ailing body—he’d eaten his way there.

Like most residents of the Lower District, the headliner’s background was a mystery. They’d tossed him into the psychiatric hospital for a few days to play mad, complete the motions, and then released him to resume life. The only difference with him was that when he was first admitted, he had a strikingly fine appearance—delicate and graceful. That’s how he earned the nickname Guifei. But not long after he hit the stage again post-release, the only thing he had in common with Yang Guifei was his size.

The barbecue stand had been well-stocked, but it didn’t take long for the headliner to devour it all. Wiping his mouth again, he leaned forward and asked directly, “So, what’s the real reason you’re here today?”

The two had known each other for years. If Zhao Meiyou had just come to enjoy a performance, there’d be no need to splash out on a meal.

Zhao Meiyou pulled out a disc player. “I want you to hear something.”

The headliner took the device, squinting at it with mild suspicion. After a moment, he waved his hand. “Too noisy here. Let’s find someplace quieter.”

They wandered over to a ruin—though calling it that was generous; it was more of a sprawling junk heap. Still within the parking lot’s boundaries, the headliner instinctively found an old convertible stripped down to its frame. He settled onto the remaining foam padding and pressed play.

Zhao Meiyou leaned against the car door, lighting a cigarette.

It was indeed a new machine, and the sound quality was excellent. After an opening of strings, a woman’s voice began to sing.

“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……”

The song played through to the end. The headliner popped open the disc player, removed the CD, and examined it for a moment before asking, “This... is a song?”

“Obviously,” Zhao Meiyou replied flatly.

The disc’s surface was pristine, its silvery sheen matching the player. Zhao Meiyou said, “I want to know where this song came from.”

“Why don’t you check the holographic library? You should be able to get clearance for the Upper District, right?”

“I did. Nothing came up.” Zhao Meiyou exhaled a plume of smoke that glowed faintly blue against the night. “Even Diao Chan says he’s never heard of it.”

“Well, of course. Just think about it—look at these lyrics.” The headliner held the disc above his head, peering through the centre hole towards the distant skyline. “Who even cares about the moon anymore these days?”

They stood in a derelict car park, deep in Level 33, one of the oldest foundations of the city. Long before it became a parking lot, this ruin had once been something far grander—a magnificent opera house.

The headliner looked up. The shattered dome above still bore remnants of its former beauty, frescoes painted in lapis lazuli and silver, depicting an endless expanse of stars.

Around them, broken Roman columns rose, their surfaces adorned with relief carvings. The figures—men and women alike—had all been decapitated, but it was still faintly evident that they were clad in spacesuits.

“Megalopolis laws, the first two bans: no space exploration, no artificial humans,” the headliner said with a drunken hiccup. “This song? It’s obviously contraband. Zhao Meiyou, are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe stop stuffing your face before you start calling me crazy,” Zhao Meiyou shot back. “Anyway, do you even know where this song comes from?”

He slid the disc back into its case, pressed play, and shifted into a more comfortable position as the music filled the room. He looked almost ready to drift off.

“I know a bit,” he murmured. “It’s an old song, from centuries ago. A recording of it was even sent to the moon aboard the Apollo spacecraft—the first song humanity ever played up there. There are loads of covers. This version you’ve got is probably Julie London.”

“And the title?”

"It's the first line of the lyrics," the headliner replied.

"Fly Me to the Moon."

Zhao Meiyou finished an entire pack of cigarettes before leaving. By the time he pressed the pause button, soft snores were already emanating from the car seat.

It was already two in the morning when Zhao Meiyou got home. He gathered the line of empty bowls at his doorstep, carried them into the kitchen, and hefted a sack of mixed grains. By the time each bowl was filled, the twenty-pound plastic bag was nearly empty. Stacking the bowls like steamer baskets, he carried the tall pile back to the doorstep, setting them out one by one.

Stray cats and dogs wandered this neighbourhood in droves. His method of feeding them was more laissez-faire than anything—mixed grains from the bag, good for both cats and dogs, twenty bowls by the door, come and eat as you please. But he wasn’t exactly diligent. On weeks when work piled up, he was hardly ever home, and even when he did return, he often forgot. At best, he remembered to refill the bowls once a week.

He was bone-tired. Zhao Meiyou closed the door, threw himself into his bedding, and burrowed in. His flat didn’t even have a proper bed—a mattress on the floor was all. Sometimes, if he forgot to shut the window, a cat would jump in and step right on his face—“Bloody hell!”

He felt something furry beneath him and, almost immediately, a claw raked his stomach. Bolting upright, he flipped on the light. “Zhao Bujiao?”

A calico cat stared back at him, its expression inscrutable as it casually licked a paw.

Zhao Meiyou had a policy of feeding but never keeping, so he didn’t bother naming the strays. Yet this calico was an exception to every rule. Cleverer than the average feral by a mile, it had figured out that life indoors, even in this dingy twenty-square-metre flat, beat fending for itself outside. Though Zhao Meiyou never fed it inside or acknowledged its presence, the cat remained steadfast. Whenever he returned home, there it would be, a self-declared squatter who refused to pay rent.

One day, it struck Zhao Meiyou that the cat had never meowed. Inspired, he gave it a name: Zhao .

When Diao Chan visited once, he seemed to have given the cat a nickname. What it was, Zhao Meiyou had long forgotten. Not that it mattered—the cat wouldn’t respond to any name anyway.

“Food’s outside. Go feed yourself,” Zhao Meiyou muttered as he grabbed the cat by the scruff and deposited it out the window. Exhausted, he switched off the light and collapsed back into bed.

No sooner had he lain down than a smothering weight pressed on his face. Zhao Bujiao had plonked itself right on top of him.

“I’m warning you,” Zhao Meiyou growled, dragging the cat out again while jabbing a finger at its nose. “Learn some bloody manners.”

A claw lashed out in reply. “Bloody hell!”

Furious, Zhao Meiyou leapt up to shut the window. But the ancient frame had long since rusted where the glass met the pane. He gave it two hard tugs, and with a sharp “crack,” the glass shattered.

Below the window, a huddle of strays, busy gorging, flinched at the noise. Then, one by one, their heads turned upward to meet Zhao Meiyou’s wide-eyed stare.

Zhao Meiyou sighed. “Great. Just great.” This was going to be a mess.

Under his window, there was an unspoken order to the meals—cats first, dogs took the scraps. He could never quite figure out why, despite the size difference, dogs always lost when cats picked a fight. That dynamic, though, ensured a sort of balance. Stray cats didn’t care much for his dilapidated house; only Zhao Bujiao had shown any real interest. Dogs, however, were another story. Once, he’d left the window wide open while he was at work. A week later, he returned to find his place transformed into a shelter for stray dogs—complete with a freshly delivered litter of pups.

From that day forward, Zhao Meiyou only cracked the window open by the tiniest sliver. Cats were practically liquid, so Zhao Bujiao could slip in and out without trouble, while the dogs were effectively barred from entry.

Now, a row of glowing green cat eyes stared up at him from below the window, while the refrigeration unit outside the nearby snack shop rumbled noisily.

You couldn’t expect any sense of loyalty from stray cats. Sure enough, the next moment, the pack scattered with a whoosh, and before Zhao Meiyou could react, he staggered back, his face suddenly assaulted by a wet, eager tongue.

It was a big dog. Zhao Meiyou nearly toppled under its weight. And where there’s a leader, there’s always a pack. How many followed, he couldn’t tell, but by the time he pried the animals off him, the room was so packed with dogs he could barely find space to stand.

“Fucking hell, man,” Zhao Meiyou muttered under his breath.

From its perch on the windowsill, Zhao Bujiao cast him a single glance before turning its back, tail flicking disdainfully. The message was clear: “You’re beyond saving.”

“Useless furball!” Zhao Meiyou snapped, seething.

It was clear he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep that night. The dogs, in particular, seemed to have a fondness for his bed, treating his pillows like dance floors. Hugging his blanket, he slumped against the wall and stared vacantly at the snack shop across the way. “That shopkeeper must be a saint,” he mused. “Can’t believe they’ve never thought of opening a dog-meat stall.”

The neon lights outside the street blinked—blue-green, red-white, glowing pink—and the colours filtered into his room. He didn’t even need to turn on the lights; the wall opposite the window became a kaleidoscope, its vivid patches swirling and converging. As he glanced vaguely around the room, he suddenly noticed the automatic cleaning unit in the corner was gone. Stolen, he realised. It was probably the only thing of value in his house, and it had been a gift from Diao Chan.

Not that it mattered much—Zhao Meiyou never used it. He didn’t cook.

He gave the head of a dog sprawled on the bed a soft pat. “Useless thing, can’t even guard the house properly.”

After a moment’s thought, he pulled a disc player from the inner pocket of his jacket. Closing his eyes, he pressed play.

A woman’s voice filled the room, soft and smooth, like a stream of cool silver oil slowly spilling over the drains in the floor, seeping past cigarette packs and beer cans, over the spongey mattress, the kitchen sink, over the dog, the cat, and finally, the man.

“Fly me to the moon…”

Zhao Bujiao suddenly turned around, arching its back. Its mouth opened wide, but no sound came out.

Its slit pupils reflected the room—the crumpled bedsheets, the big dog tearing into a pillow, stuffing already spilling out, and a blanket heaped against the wall, its shape still intact, as if it had just been covering someone.

The mattress was empty.

When Zhao Meiyou opened his eyes again, he was almost blinded by the searing sunlight, tears springing unbidden to his eyes.

It took him a moment to piece things together. His memory was stuck in the room—dogs barging in, his sleeplessness, his decision to listen to music—

Where was this? He looked around. It was an open space, surrounded by unfinished buildings with exposed steel and concrete. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

Had he been kidnapped? He glanced down at the restraints binding him to a chair. Whoever had done this was no amateur. He’d offended plenty of people—figuring out which one would take time.

Wait.

Zhao Meiyou suddenly realised something.

Here, he could see the sun.

Blue skies, white clouds, the sun.

The sky wasn’t exactly clear—more like it was veiled in a thin layer of grey—but Zhao Meiyou’s instincts told him this wasn’t some holographic projection. This certainly wasn’t the Middle District or the Upper District either, because the air carried a peculiar aridness, a mix of lime and dust that left a gritty sensation in his lungs, like the ghost of cheap secondhand smoke.

In the Middle and Upper Districts, any place that offered sunlight always came with an air filtration system, filling the air with forest-like aquatic notes or some other expensive fragrance. Nothing this cheap and raw.

What was this place? Who had brought him here? How had they managed it? His senses were sharp enough to pick up on even the slightest hint of Diao Chan cursing him silently, so how had this escape his notice?

A car suddenly pulled up outside the open space. Several masked figures stepped out, the leader carrying a box. They were clearly headed straight for him. Zhao Meiyou watched as the man took out a syringe and jabbed it into him. Moments later, he felt nothing.

Then they brought out a chainsaw.

Even without feeling, the blood trickling onto his face and the charred scent in the air left no doubt: they had sawed open his skull.

And yet, they’d cracked open the skull without touching the brain. The power of that chainsaw wasn’t small—this was delicate work, no doubt. Skilled hands indeed.

That Zhao Meiyou could still muster such calm reasoning in this moment wasn’t due to his professional training as a psychiatrist. No, he was simply too stunned, his thoughts unmoored, galloping off in wild directions—

In his heart, Zhao Meiyou cursed a thousand times over. That car. That car those masked bastards had rolled up in.

He wasn’t a car enthusiast himself, but Diao Chan had always been a connoisseur of all things ostentatious. Back in university, his desk had been cluttered with car models—from the latest designs to vintage classics, even flying and nuclear-powered prototypes. Thanks to him, Zhao Meiyou had picked up a fair bit of car knowledge over the years.

Which is why he recognised the car parked nearby—it was a model from centuries past, older than even Diao Chan’s most ancient collectibles. The damn thing still ran on petrol.

He caught that strange smell too—the thick stench of heavy carbon emissions. The acrid tang of air during severe pollution. Then a second look at the peculiar, half-finished buildings around him, and the masked men dressed in fashion that belonged to God-knows-when.

Suddenly, Zhao Meiyou remembered something his sister had said a few days ago: “This isn’t real life. We’re inside an enormous virtual world.”

The CD player.

He had fallen asleep listening to a CD on it.

“Hey, mate,” Zhao Meiyou spoke up. “Quick question—what year is it?”

The man froze mid-motion, then replied after a pause, “1999.”

Zhao Meiyou: “…”

“Well, aren’t you an odd one,” said one of the masked men assisting. “Most hostages would be bawling their eyes out by now, screaming for their mothers. But your first question is what year it is?”

“Could just be an idiot. If not an idiot, then mad,” the leader muttered, setting the chainsaw aside and pulling something from the box.

It was a spoon.

The leader looked at Zhao Meiyou for a moment, then asked, “Got any last words?”

A thousand thoughts thundered through Zhao Meiyou’s mind. When reason is under siege, instinct often takes the reins, and the stomach’s reactions can outpace the brain’s.

He’d spent the whole day in a frenzy at the ER, then spent the night drinking with the headliner, not a bite of food in between. Now, with the rich, roasted scent of sizzling protein wafting overhead, Zhao Meiyou couldn’t take it anymore. He blurted:

“Mind sharing a bite of my brains?”