The scene in the kitchen was like something out of a very strange sitcom. Fahad was perched on one of the stools, spinning in circles and going "woaahhhhh" over the screeching of the unoiled seat. Mrs Eceer adjusted the stools ready for them to sit on. Assistant tried to help, shuffling a stool along the floor inch by inch as it tried to get the strength and angle right. Behind them at the counter, Ishita was smothering the bread with beans just so to stop it from dripping onto the counter. Tanya never thought she could miss plates this much. There were a couple still on the draining board from her lunch the day this all began. They were right not to use them, though; until it rained, Tanya suspected they were already running low on water.

Mrs Eceer and Ishita seemed to have prioritised bathing over dishes. Neither of them had the same level of grime that Tanya knew was coating her body. One of the bottles of water on the side had her name scrawled on it in Sharpie. Tanya nodded towards it. "That for me?" Tanya asked.

Ishita nodded, placing bread on top of the beans to make a sandwich. "We used ours to bathe, but you can use it for whatever you like."

"And drinkin'?" Tanya said.

Ishita glanced at Fahad. He kicked off from the footrest with a second squeal, this one a "weeeeeeee." She seemed content that he wasn't listening. "It's not ideal but we've got another day or so's worth at least. Mrs Eceer checked the forecast the day of and thinks it's going to rain soon."

Tanya considered disagreeing—washing felt so unnecessary if they were low on water—but the various grazes and cuts on her knees and arms said otherwise. Using water to clean was keeping them safe too. They couldn't handle infections with any medicine so they needed to avoid them in the first place. She let out a breath and coveted the bottle, letting herself look forward to bathing.

Even without plates or cutlery, it felt a bit more like home with the four of them sitting in a circle, digging into food together. Assistant seemed to get bored, floating over to Tanya and wrapping itself around her arm until it phased back into her skin.

"So," Tanya said, through the end of a mouthful. "Ishita, what sort of plan are you going for?" She emphasised 'plan', trying to communicate with Ishita over Fahad's head. She'd messed up communication for Ishita enough already.

Ishita paused, opening then closing her mouth. She turned to Fahad. "You know how my hand is hurt?"

"Mmhm," Fahad said as he took a big bite of his sandwich. Bean juice dripped down his chin like the blood of the monsters outside. Tanya looked away until the image left her mind.

Ishita spoke slowly, treading carefully. "I'm going to need a new hand. Tanya is going to make me one."

Fahad looked between Tanya and Ishita. His eyes settled on the bulbous hand of bandages Ishita had. Tanya could barely stomach looking at it still. She could see something protruding—probably where one finger remained. Somehow, that was worse than them all being gone. Fahad seemed more curious. He stared at it whilst he took another too-large bite.

Fahad swallowed. "So you'll have a special hand like Bodhi?"

Ishita's face relaxed, and she smiled. "Yes, exactly!" She turned to Tanya and Mrs Eceer. "Bodhi was Pappa's friend. He lost his arm in the war."

"Will it be cool?" Fahad asked, "With lasers and—OH—it could fly off your wrist with little rockets!"

Ishita laughed. "Probably not, babu. I just want a hand that works like my old one."

"Would you want it to work better?" Tanya asked. She took another bite.

"Better?" Ishita asked.

"I could up the Dexterity for one, although if it's not sentient like Assistant I'm not sure how that would interact with yours. I'll have to do some iterations." Excitement bloomed in Tanya's chest when she thought about this new Boon.

I can do iterations now. No more randomly tattooing and hoping for the best.

Ishita nodded slowly. "I suppose extra Dexterity can't hurt."

"How good are you with weapons?" Tanya asked.

Ishita looked startled.

"I mean, like, what will you want to use and do you feel confident with it? Might be able to give this thing some sort of proficiency or whatever if not." Tanya nodded down at her arm, it was her right hand. "Unless you're really lucky, that's your dominant hand, yeah?"

Ishita held the bandaged stub up to her face. 'Oh, right. Yes, I suppose it will be my weapon hand." She blinked a few times like she was trying to convince herself that this was all real. Her bottom lip trembled, and she bit it. Tanya knew that feeling. Fahad crawled onto her lap and gave her a wordless hug.

"Hey, don't worry. I'll go and have a look at your sheet and come up with some ideas, yeah?"

Ishita nodded. She wiped her cheek quickly, pretending there hadn't been anything there at all.

"You're coming too, yeah?" Tanya asked Mrs Eceer.

Mrs Eceer dabbed her lips with a tissue and wiped her hands, finishing her food. "Why?" she asked.

Tanya grinned. "'Cause you owe me a story."

"Hmph," Mrs Eceer said, but she got up anyway.

"Storytime?!" Fahad yelled.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Not for you, babu," Ishita interjected. "It's bedtime."

After a suitable amount of stropping, Fahad and Ishita were on their way upstairs, and Tanya had a pile of papers from her cabinet on the floor with a pencil. She laid on her stomach, propped up on her arms, fanning the previous designs out.

"Tanya?" Ishita called from the door.

"Yeah?" Tanya looked over her shoulder. There was a gap in the wood covering the door window, shining a strip of light across Ishita's face. Her skin was pallid, it looked even more grey in the dim glow. The deep bags under her eyes sank into shadow, hollow and gaping in the moonlight.

Ishita ran her fingers through her hair. "Is the sofa okay? We won't be here long I just—"

"He can use my bed. I won't be sleeping tonight," Tanya insisted.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Ishita," Tanya started. She rolled onto one arm and pointed at the door. She smiled but with a 'don't mess with me' tone. "Go."

Ishita smiled and cracked the door. A nippy breeze phased through the shop, and Tanya shivered. Ishita looked one way and then the other, Fahad held close to her body with one of her hands on each of his shoulders. She took a careful step outside, leaning over Fahad's shoulder to look around the entrance better. Flashing one more tired smile into the room, she closed the door behind them. Tanya heard the click of the key in the lock and the pad pad pad of two sets of feet going up the stairs through the wall next to her.

"So?" Tanya asked.

Mrs Eceer coughed. She began to speak, slowly at first and then faster, as she got into the rhythm of the story. Tanya started off flicking through the designs, but it wasn't long until she was sitting there, silently hugging her knees. Her mind filled with question after question, but she didn't dare breathe a word. She'd never heard Mrs Eceer say more than a couple of sentences before, and Tanya didn't want to break it—for her to clam up again like she always seemed to and look away. In that silence, the story unfolded.

The corner shop on Heneage smelled like old linoleum and warm plastic. It wasn't much, but it was where Petunia Eceer got her bread, her milk, and her little tins of soup. The cashiers changed often—young folks coming and going—but the shop itself never changed. That's why she liked it.

She stood near the shelf of canned goods, her handbag tucked close to her side, her other hand hovering near a can of okra she had no intention of buying. She didn't like okra. She was just taking her time.

She always took her time.

The shop was small but not cramped, its windows wide enough to let in the sharp afternoon sun. The radio near the register crackled with gospel music, half-drowned by the hum of the refrigerator cases in the back. The place was quiet, as it often was at this hour. Just her, the cashier, and a police officer browsing the drinks. She walked past him, turning down the first aisle before they crossed paths.

She caught sight of herself in the circular metal mirror in the corner. It was angled just so, so that the cashier could keep an eye out for thieves. She remembered before they'd put those up—before they'd lost one too many magazines from the centre aisle. Her peacock blue hat was perfectly centred atop her curls. She swished her skirt this way and that, admiring the way it showed off her matching heels in the small mirror. It had taken her so long to find heels in the exact right shade in wide size tens. She'd been twenty when she promised herself she'd never take for granted being able to wear women's clothes. Spending her time after church proudly walking around town in her Sunday best felt like a perfect way to appreciate it.

The bell above the door jingled, and Petunia didn't look up. The best case scenario, if she did, was that it would be a stranger, and they'd politely smile and then grab a beer or bread or one of those horrible e-cigarettes everyone seemed to have nowadays. The worst case, they would be someone who was convinced they were doing a service by talking to her. Then she'd have to suffer through the pictures of their children or grandchildren or even worse—their stamp collection. Old people becoming boring was a curse Petunia was insistent on avoiding.

She had already moved on from the canned goods, making her way toward the bread like she always did. She adjusted the strap of her handbag on her arm, reaching out to press her fingers gently against the loaves through the crackling plastic, testing for freshness. You could never trust the dates on them. All it took was a little rip somewhere, and they'd be stale by the next morning.

The gospel station on the radio crackled as it struggled to hold its signal. Another set of footsteps joined hers and the police officer's. They'd walked straight to the counter rather than the aisles where she was.

The cashier gasped. Mrs. Eceer's fingers paused on the bread. She didn't turn her head—no need to get involved in whatever foolishness was unfolding. Last week the cashier had broken up with her boyfriend whilst she was in here—so unprofessional.

She couldn't hear the exact words, but they sounded male. The cashier started loudly crying. Petunia huffed. She considered going over there and giving that boy a piece of her mind. This shop did not need consecutive breakups—or whatever new drama this was.

There was movement near the refrigerators. The police officer had set down whatever he'd been holding. She heard the quiet shift of his boots, the sound of someone straightening, becoming alert. He peered round the corner, and she saw his head peak out. She guessed he could just about see the counter if he craned his neck.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at her. Their eyes met, and he brought a finger to his lips. He walked down the aisle, lowering his feet from the toe down to the heel so his boots wouldn't clack against the floor. As they passed, he gestured downward. A small, controlled movement: Stay here.

Mrs. Eceer sighed under her breath.

A petty thief, most likely. It was bound to happen sooner or later in a neighborhood like this, the way people carried themselves these days—so little respect for the Lord's day and for proper conduct.

He walked out into the alcohol aisle slowly, first peering his head and then following with his feet. He had a careful sort of posture, the kind that spoke of experience, of someone who knew that sudden movement could turn a bad situation worse.

"Hey." The officer's voice was calm, even.

No answer.

Mrs. Eceer exhaled sharply through her nose. She had known men like that in her youth, the ones who thought silence made them powerful. Petty posturing, that's all it was.

The officer took a step forward. "Hands where I can see them."

She plucked a loaf from the shelf and turned it over in her hands, inspecting the plastic. It was important to check these things.

Another pause. Then—something strange. She heard a hum, low and unnatural, like static from a television left on in another room.

Mrs. Eceer frowned. That wasn't a sound she was used to. The police officer's facial expression was grave.

She pulled a couple more loaves of bread off the shelf and peered through the narrow gap she'd made. She expected a knife or maybe even a gun. She'd never seen a gun around London before, but she knew they were out there.

Instead, she saw crackling light.

It was faint at first—a shimmer at the edges of the air, like heat off pavement. But it got brighter and brighter until it looked like sparks were flying off his hands. She wondered where the device was. There wasn't any visible plastic or metal in his hands. Perhaps it was up his hoodie sleeve? She furrowed her brow further. Every day like clockwork she listened to the morning radio and no one had mentioned strange electricity devices in London. That felt like it would at least get a mention.

The arcing electricity grew and grew, and Petunia's breath caught. This wasn't right.

The officer must have thought the same because his stance shifted. His hand went to his holster.

"I said—"

The man moved.

Not a strike, not a lunge. Just a flick of his wrist.

And the officer fell. No gunshot. No sound at all, except for the sharp thud of his body hitting the floor. The light in the man's hands faded.

Mrs. Eceer stood utterly still. The store was quiet again.

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