Lapromantic surgery means the rebirth of surgical theater, or the surgical movies, anyway: students munch popcorn and the ripples of Patient X’s brain flicker on a crystal screen. Nearby, Cirrus sweats as he guides the eldritch laser to its targets. Three fragments of unbeing left. Two. One.

A great cheer from the students, and Cirrus scrubs up while his interns sew. “You’re amazing,” breathes the attending muse.

“It’s a routine procedure,” he says.

“It’s a miracle,” she smiles. She slips between him and the sink, tilts his chin down, unties the sterile straps. He has no face beneath his mask.

Ten stars aren’t in the sky.

“Sirius, Betelgeuse, Procyon, Aldebaran, Rigel, Meissa, Cursa,” Satya murmurs, Greek slick on her tongue. “Venus, and the Orion and Horsehead nebulae. Which most people think are stars.”

“How long until they all go out?”

She smiles. “They’ll come back.”

“But if.” Groen shivers. “If we can’t stop the warming, and they keep putting up mirrors–”

“Stop forecasting from the facts. The future is made of stories. The stars are sleeping, and they’ll awake brighter than before.”

“You’re wonderful,” he tells her.

She considers this, and nods. “Yes,” she says. “I am full of wonders.”

“More after I finish my essay,” Charisma promises the adoring crowd, who sigh and aww. She rerobes and pockets the cash before turning to Racell, who’s scribbling in her reporter’s notebook.

“You don’t even dance?” asks Racell. “You just… pose for money?”

“Like a life drawing class,” smiles Charisma as they walk to her dorm. “Sans the middleman.”

Racell nods, fascinated. “And the money’s supported you in earning–what, three PhDs?”

“Maybe four, if I ever get started writing!”

They shake hands; Charisma closes the door, sits, breathes, and opens Word.

This is my esasy! she types. the theses is: HITLERS

RESULTS: MODS CLAIM HOUSE FROM ROCKERS! chokes the headline before Freddy rips the paper in two and lets it flutter dramatically away. Then he kicks his bike.

“Those scootering cunts! We’ll never have a decent speed limit again!” moans Chuck. “Let alone the radio. What will we do, Freddy?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” Freddy throws his scarf back over his shoulder. “We’re going to grow out of faddish politics, and let a younger generation find common ground in a new ethos called ‘punk.'”

He stands there for a while, fluttering.

“Isn’t that the same as losing?” says Chuck hesitantly.