On top of her

Brain slug hosts' ears work perfectly.
—How To Talk To Brain Slugs, Chapter 5: Hearing

Shower. Sleep. Awake. Exercise. Ramen.

Jordan stood before the door that led out of the apartment. Her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn't gotten enough sleep. Arms by her side. Somewhat stiff, head up, the brain slug not visible from this angle. Mel paused. He was dressed and needed to leave for work.

Mel didn't resist as the naked woman stepped forward and pressed close. As her lips touched his throat, and that warm body squeezed against his, Mel's pants stirred. She sucked for a long, hard moment. He felt the points of her canines, and Mel gasped in sudden pain at the bite, the **** of the suction, remembering the last time Jordan had done this. The bruise on his neck was still there, healing, tender.

Then she disengaged, stepped aside. Leaving Mel with a hard-on and a fresh hickey that the collar of his red work-shirt didn't quite hide. She watched him leave.

The walk felt good. His foot was still sore. Muscles throughout his body ache from the strange workout that had happened early in the morning. Lack of sleep and a slight evening mist lent a kind of dreamlike aspect to the city as it shifted into night-mode. People moved past with their own purpose, each one a story that Mel didn't know.

The breeze that began as "bracing" turned freezing. By the time Mel arrived, he found himself shivering, face and bare arms wet, and teeth chattering. Ha-Yoon, leaning out of her office, saw his hands shake as he signed in.

She also saw the hickey on his neck. Her smile was predatory.

"Did Rachel give you that?" she asked.

"No," Mel said, too tired to think up a lie but unwilling to tell the whole truth. "We didn't do anything. Just talked."

"About what?" Ha-Yoon pressed. She stood up and fetched something from a box under her tiny desk.

"When she and Jordan were growing up," Mel said. "I never really had a sister, so it's kind of weird to me, what people think is normal."

Which was true enough. Mel doubted most siblings peeped through keyholes to watch them fake orgasms while getting railed by asshole boyfriends. He really didn't have anything else to judge their relationship by, except for TV. Maybe that was normal and just not something that they could put into a sitcom.

"Hmm-hmm," Ha-Yoon said. "And I'm sure all that talk led to you getting that hickey? Anyway. Here."

She handed him a soft package, wrapped in clear plastic.

It was a grey hoodie. Large. The Cosmic Fill-Up's swirly logo is embroidered on the breast.

"Officially, I can't promote you because you haven't been here long enough," the manager said. "But you've been showing up on time, doing your work, and you helped a customer give birth. Corporate really liked the social media buzz that generated. Bathrooms clean enough to give birth in or something, I don't know. Anyway, you're freezing your ass off and need a hoodie, so you get a hoodie."

Mel held it, and for a moment he felt like he might cry. That was probably the lack of sleep and emotional sharing talking, but considering this was the nicest gift anyone had given him that didn't involve oral sex, he managed to stammer a thank you. Ha-Yoon smiled.

"Now, the bad news. Corporate has decided that you need further training in basic first aid, and to review all the company policies about what to do if somebody gets hurt or has a medical emergency in the Cosmic Fill-Up, what your legal responsibilities are, and what you actually should do the next time someone threatens to give birth on corporate property. Hint: it involves calling 9-1-1, traffic be damned."

So Mel spent the day in front of the computer, watching videos and answering quizzes. He found out where the first aid kits were (under the counter and in the storage closet). Reviewed the policies about specific sanitation requirements for cleaning up blood and other fluids. Was told not to attempt to use the defibrillator station because he wasn't cleared for it, and how to sign up for training so he could use it, which was required of all manager candidates.

Mostly it was common-sense stuff, and when Mel broke for what he thought of as lunch—even if it was, technically, midnight—Tomie and Bobbie joined him as he munched through a rice bowl. As he was eating, a thought occurred to him.

"The brain slug host that came in the other day—is she doing okay?"

The two stopped eating and stared at him for a moment. Tomie withdrew a pad of paper and a stub of pencil from her pocket and scribbled a note, which she tore off and handed to Mel.

It was English. Print letters that even he could read.

MAXINE IS RECOVERING.
DEVELOPMENT DELAYED.
WE WILL REQUIRE YOU SOON.

Mel blinked.

"Require me?" he asked aloud. Then he realized what Tomie meant. "Does Jordan know about this?"

Tomie reached back across the table and plucked the note from his hand, turned it over, and wrote on the back. Mel felt his stomach drop as he read the new note.

WE REQUEST FORMALLY.
IT IS THE COMPACT.
YOU BEAR RESPONSIBILITY.

"I . . . don't know how to respond to that," Mel said. "But I'll talk to Jordan and Soong. We'll figure it out."

His coworkers seemed to accept this. Mel folded the note up and slipped it into his pocket—where his fingers brushed Detective MacElroy's card. A thought occurred to him, then. To just ask her. There was a video phone booth in the corner of the store, one seldom used because everybody had smartphones or the equivalent implant, except for poor people like Mel, who couldn't afford them.

So after he finished his break and before he ran the swifter over the men's room, Mel slipped inside the booth and closed the little door. A transparent door, so that people could see inside and make sure they weren't doing **** or trying to masturbate, but sealed enough that people couldn't hear what was being said. He placed his palm with the credit chip against the pay-panel and dialed in the number on the card.

It rang six times, and then the image of Det. MacElroy, without her turban on, appeared on the little screen.

"Arkwright," she said, the screen angled so it was the brain bat's eyes that he stared at. "It's after midnight. Nice love-bite, by the way. Should keep the other brain slug hosts off you during your shift. Carmichael must feel territorial."

Mel blinked. He hadn't thought about the time. And his hand instinctively went to his throat, where the hickey was in plain view of the camera.

"Sorry. I'm on the night shift, and I don't have a phone," he said, tone apologetic.

"Understood. What can I do for you?"

"Just, I was wondering if you knew what it meant?" Mel asked after he laid out the situation with the notes. "I can ask Jordan, but I still can't sign, so it'll just be written notes—and I don't think she'll know anything about the woman, the brain slug host that wandered in naked, but you were working on her case, so . . ."

"I can't tell you everything," MacElroy said. "Because I don't know everything. But I'll give you the gist. Maxine MacNamara. 21. Six months into a persistent vegetative state after excessive **** use caused a 'cerebral event.' Brain damage, not expected to recover, unable to contact family, no money, was shifted to a caregiver facility . . . which was, it turns out, not being run very well. Mismanagement, **** of patients, outright fraud. A feral juvenile brain slug of unusual phenotype managed to infiltrate the facility and bond with her. The neural re-wiring rerouted around the damaged portion of the brain, enabling mobility and consciousness. Escaped. Thanks to your intervention, she was adopted by the Greater Pacific Northwest Collective. Currently undergoing medical assessment, recovery, and acculturation. That's fancy speak for antibiotics, dental visits, feeding her up, teaching her how to wear clothes, and be a functional member of the Collective and society."

"So that's the recovering part," Mel said, thinking of the note. "And where do I come in?"

"Her mouth," MacElroy said, dryly. "As you may have picked up, brain slug hosts can utilize human semen to facilitate further development of the integration with the host. MacNamara is suffering from a nutritional deficiency, which has delayed integration, and her specific neural condition means the brain slug needs all the nutrition it can get; the Collective wants you to make up the difference."

"But why me? Don't they have people for that kind of thing?" Mel asked.

"They certainly have other sperm donors, I'm sure," the brain bat said, and something about the tone made it clear that she was enjoying this conversation. "However, you were claimed by the Seacouver Hive. You made a request for them to help MacNamara. So, as far as the Collective is concerned, you contracted a debt on behalf of the hive. One which they are formally calling to be paid, in accordance with whatever compact is in place between the two. I assume, since they're going to you, that they're familiar with your—output—already?"

Mel thought about the lab report. And that time with Tomie, which Jordan and Soong had approved of.

"Ah—yeah. That happened. With Jordan's permission," Mel said.

On the screen, MacElroy's head nodded as if this confirmed some suspicion she'd held.

"Well, there you are then. Just hang back and wait for the brain slugs to sort out the particulars of where, when, and how. As long as you don't object—which would put the Seacouver Hive and negotiations into a bit of a bind—all you need to do is what they ask of you. Unless you have an objection?"

"No," Mel said, and surprised himself as he realized it was true. "I don't mind. Now that you've explained it, I feel kind of responsible. I just wanted to know what was going on. Thank you."

Without a word, MacElroy hung up. Mel exited the booth.

As he signed out, Mel saw the sky had cleared, but the cold wind still blew. He unwrapped his hoodie, the fresh-from-the-factory smell strangely familiar. In the orphanage, clothing was either purchased in bulk or donated. Fashion was basically nonexistent. So were gifts. As he slipped it on and zipped it up, he felt instantly warmer. With a tired smile, he stepped out into the dying night.

Am I being pimped? Mel wondered as he walked the streets of the waking city. It felt that way, at least intellectually. Jordan and Soong made it clear they wanted to keep him to themselves, but they had shared him with Tomie before. Then again, he hadn't fought that. Hadn't minded it. Everybody was consenting. He still felt he could say no if he wanted to. Mel just didn't want to.

He thought of that naked, hungry woman who had walked in. Why the Cosmic Fill-Up? Was she just hungry? Did she smell the other brain slug hosts and want—what? Friends, family, someone to talk to? Mel could empathize with all of that. Too, if she did need his help, Mel felt an obligation. Tomie had called it his responsibility. Mel hadn't been trusted with much responsibility in his life, but he knew that if he could help, he probably should.

Mel's steps grew heavy, even as his thoughts grew lighter. The world had thrown him a curveball, but now that he had an idea of what was going on, he felt better about it. All he had to do was tell Jordan and Soong, and—

The door to 501 opened, and the first thing Mel heard was the smack of lips and rustle of clothes.

Rachel was on the couch. Soong was on top of her. The naked Asian woman had one hand up inside Rachel's shirt. Their lips were locked; Rachel's blonde hair spilling over the arm of the couch. Mel paused for a moment, just watching their cheeks move as their tongues wrestled.

The erection was shocking in its speed and intensity. Soong's eyes opened wide and lifted towards Mel, zeroing in on the space behind his belt buckle. Yet her mouth didn't leave Rachel's.

Mel wasn't sure what made him close the door. He just did, as quickly and quietly as he could. To stand in the hallway and try to process what he had just seen, and what he was feeling.