Sporemageddon

The door opened, and I tried on a smile.

We'd missed my eleventh birthday, but that didn't mean much. I was still so short that I only came up to my mothers chest, and she wasn't exactly built tall.

"You're home," she said. She didn't sound upset. Not happy, not much of anything. Then she stepped forwards and pulled me into herself. I leaned forwards, wrapping my arms around her as well. "Why?"

"I had to," I said.

"No, you didn't," she replied.

Sighing, I pulled out of the hug and met her eyes. "Hi mom," I said.

"Hello," she replied before taking a deep breath. "You look like a boy in that getup."

"That's fine, isn't it?" I asked. "It's clean."

"Some of it looks new," she replied. "Come in. There's food." And there was at that. Two open cans by the old coal stove. Their contents in a pot that was bubbling slightly. It smelled like tomato-paste and canned mystery meat. A staple. "Have you been eating well?" I asked.

"Shouldn't I be the one to ask you that?" she replied. "Ah, but my own child doesn't spend time in her own home these days."

I sighed. "Are you still working for the factory?"

"Yes," she replied tersely.

"You could..."

"I know," she snapped. "I know." this time it was more quiet. "But they've been good for me, and I'm no quitter."

"They haven't," I said. "They haven't been good, mom. They barely pay you anything, certainly less than what you're worth. No time off. No advantages."

"It put a roof over our heads and food in your belly," she replied.

I winced. "Yeah, and it's going to..." I wanted to say that it was going to put her into an early grave, and I knew that was true. She was... what, thirty three years old? Thirty-two? She was still young, but she had the skin of someone twice her age. Her back had a stoop from working in cramped conditions for so long, and her hands... they were so rough. So many little callouses, such a weird bend to her fingers. "Mom, I have the farm."

"Your little project isn't--" she began.

I reached into a pocket and pulled out a pouch. She paused, watching. I emptied it onto the table.

Coins. Pound coins. Some forty in all. She made maybe one pound a month... maybe. It was probably less than that, and that barely covered her expenses. This was more money than she could save up from working at the factory for ten years.

"You could work for me. With me. I've hired a few girls. They could use someone to help look after them. The work's not too hard. Just managing a little, maybe making them some uniforms?" That last wasn't necessary, but I knew that she had a few levels in some skills that were related to tailoring.

"N-no, I... I can't just quit. I've been there for years." She pulled her attention away from the coins. There were tears in her eyes.

"Okay," I said. There was no arguing this. The factory had her by the soul.

I wasn't even sure if that was a metaphor or not.

While at the Academy, I'd seen and learned a lot about social skills. I could pass myself off as innocent even when I ought not to. Some students could lie with dangerous ease.

There was a game they played where the students would try to convince each other of the most absurd thing. Once, a fifth year played with us, and when he said that the moon was made of cheese, I believed him.

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Why couldn't it be? And if it wasn't, then what's to say that it wasn't partially cheese? What was cheese anyway? Couldn't rock technically be cheese? Sometimes it had the same colour. And on and on I went in my own mind for a solid minute before I broke out of it.

It was insane. But the game was there to teach the students that were younger to see through it, to break through.

No one outside of places like Eden Powell had that kind of training as far as I knew.