'Troy? Troy, please come out!'

'No!'

Troy wrapped his arms around his head, howling as the flaking grey skin of his arm flashed in his peripheral vision.

'Troy? Baby, your scaring me . . .'

Magilith banged on his door, over and over; Troy could hear her heart breaking with every slam of fist against concrete.

'Troy. . .'

The thump of her back sliding down against his door. The sound of her wet, hot chokes. Haven't I heard enough? Troy buried his hands in his hair, interlinking his fingers and squeezing until the tips went numb. Haven't you screwed me over enough?

I'm sorry, Magilith wept, her thoughts barely tangible. I-I'm so—so sorry—

Troy looked up, peeling his arms from his head. Tears tracked his cheeks, rivers through the mud, but he swept them away; they were all at once unimportant. A girl was staring at him through her bedroom window. From the neighbouring block of flats, high up on the two hundred and seventy-fifth floor. She stared. He stared back. The gap between their plastic windowpanes no larger than a plate. It was the closest Troy had been to anyone his age in. . . He shook his head, trying to remember.

Years.

'Troy!'

I'm alright, Mum, Troy thought, and the simple act saying 'mum' stopped Magilith's heart for a second and quenched her sobs immediately. Troy smiled grimly; he knew it would. Then it drooped—his covered his mouth, self-conscious. Hell—what if the girl thought he was smiling at her?

A girl never used to live there. It was a man, one of the many voices of the two hundred and seventy-fifth floor. Troy had hacked the cognition-frequency of that very flat once for a laugh but hadn't found what he'd heard very funny. It was enough to scar a young mind forever. His thoughts darted back to the safety of his room quick-sharp, his cheeks tinged pink with regret.

He didn't snoop again.

But now—here she was. A girl. Thirteen, maybe fourteen? She cocked her head, long colourless hair dripping from her shoulder down her arm. Troy felt something stir inside him and swallowed.

The insurmountable wave of—misery—from only moments before vanished. As it often did nowadays. His moods ebbed and flowed, a tide bound not to the moon but to the flaking skin of his arm, the vaccine that flooded his veins. And his thoughts.

No. He didn't want to think about that now.

He squinted, adjusting his cognition chip and easing his mind under the thin frame of the window. Thoughts leapt across the drop, swimming through the air, and pushed their way under the neighbouring windowpane.

Her window.

The sounds of the neighbouring flat were muffled—it took Troy a moment to focus his mind to the right frequency. It was hard with Magilith banging on in the background: Troooy, you called me Mum for the first tiiiiime, you don't know how much it meeeans. . .

Yeah, yeah. Troy's thoughts meandered away from Magilith, worming onto the girl's—this angel's—frequency.

Her frost-blue eyes snapped open wider. Her mouth falling into an 'oh'.

Is—is someone there?

Yeah. Hi.

The girl put her hands to the window; Troy saw her palms fade as her breath clouded the plastic. He wished it wouldn't. He didn't want any part of her clouded.

Did I scare you?

The girl shook her head. No. You . . . surprised me. I-I'm not used to people barging into my mind uninvited. People usually ask.

Troy smiled. He quite liked the idea of being a surprise. What's your name?

. . . Neila.

Neila. I'm Troy.

I know. You're the Tellun boy.

Troy's blood ran cold. How do you know that?

I recognise your voice. From school.

A horrible flush invaded Troy's cheeks and he lurched back from the window, leaning against his desk breathing short, bursting pants. Nasty thoughts crept from the corners of his mind, those scuttling spiders in the night . . .

Troy? Don't go. I'm sorry. Did I upset you?

He spared her a glance, full of distrust, but there she was. Her eyes full. Earnest.

. . . You're one of them. One of the voices. You hate me.

I don't hate you. I don't even know you.

You know what they say.

. . . Yes.

Do you agree?

That Troy. He's so dumb. I bet he's ugly. An ugly Tellun. Dirty Tellun Savage. He should die. They kill each other, you know. I bet he's a cannibal. Yeah, Telluns are cannibals. Laughter. Laughter.

I know what they say. I hear it. Every day.

. . . But not me.

Neila's eyes. . .

Archer sprang to Troy's mind for the first time in so long. His stories of snowflakes. Crisp winter footprints. The soft crunch of ice.

Neila had snow eyes. His snow-flake eyed girl.

With a snap, Troy brought the blinds crashing over the window and the room plunged into darkness, Neila erased from all sight, all memory.

And Troy slammed his head face-down onto his desk.

Tasted blood.

And Magilith screamed.

*

We can't go on like this for much longer.

Troy wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping, but hell, it was the only way of getting information around here these days. He heard the stir, the fumbling of blankets, bodies twisting under the covers.

Shh, love. Go to sleep.

Aris . . . I'm serious. Troy hurt himself. On purpose.

Ahh, Maggie . . . Fourteen's a tricky age. He'll be fine.

He heard Magilith sigh all the way from her and Aris's bedroom.

I'll leave. I'm serious, Aris. I'll take Troy and leave. I won't let you do this to him. Not anymore.

Maggie?!

I mean it. Troy could hear the grunting of her sobs. Again. He sighed. He really wished he could feel something. Anything, for her. I'll leave. He's my son, Aris. I love him. You're torturing him.

I'm not!

You are! That damn vaccine. Sometimes I think. . .

What?

Sometimes I think he would have been better off. . .

Aris was silent for a moment. You think . . . our son . . . would be better off dead?

No! Of course not, how can you say that? But he can't control his emotions anymore. This depression, it's . . . consuming. There's a blankness in his eyes—I'm frightened. I want him back the way he was—

Shh. . . Maggie. . . Shh. . .

No! You did this to him. You, and your bloody vaccine, and the bloody side-effects—

I'll put him right, I promise—

That's not good enough. You've been saying that for years!

I mean it this time. This researcher on Tellus is making huge headway with this invention, he's calling it an 'emotion filter'. If it works, it will allow the vaccinated children of Singavere to completely self-regulate their emotions. It's revolutionary; they're saying they'll fit them even on kids born inside the safety of Singavere's artificial atmosphere, who won't even need vaccinating—

On Tellus? How does that help Troy?!

Once there's a proto-type, I'll get one shuttled here—

You say that. But you never bothered yourself before. I know you—if you'd wanted to fix the side-effects, you would have. But no, it took a bloody Tellun—you're just too busy now, aren't you, with your precious projects—

Maggie. Aris's thoughts switched; gone was the amused, exasperated tone. Here was his serious. His seductive.

Mags . . . I'm sorry. There's nothing more precious to me than you. And Troy. You hear? You . . . and Troy. You. . .

Troy's mind recoiled and he refocussed, back in his room on his bed. His forehead ached where he'd smashed it only hours before on his desk. He stared at it. The desk stared back.

I hate you, the desk said.

I hate you too, Troy replied.

He flipped over his arm and picked at some of the scales. He was glad no one at school could see him. Would never see him.

Neila. Was she telling the truth? Were the voices . . . really not hers?

He slipped off his bed and crawled over to the window. Muscles straining, he heaved himself upright, hands grappling for the button that made the blinds melt away . . .

And there she was.

His snow-flake eyed girl.