The dream always starts the same. Ever since I was a child cognizant of dreaming, this sequence has permeated my slumber.

First, there is utter darkness and the terror it inspired, like I'm trapped in a collapsed mineshaft. I feel squeezed on all sides, breathless with fear, like the moment of skin-prickling awareness before a beast's bite.

Then, a pinprick of brilliant light dances into my vision.

Another, and another. Swirling, they coalesce into a peaceable ball of soft white luminescence floating in the darkness. My fear abates, and I feel comfortable, like I'm in the tacit presence of a close friend.

There is no sound. No movement. Only serenity as we regard each other, communing without expression. Just as the silence stretches thin and I reach for words...

Noise on the other side of the wall dissolves the dream. I blink awake and immediately scowl.

"By the gods of all races," I growl into the cavern of my pillow. "Would you PLEASE - !" My bare foot connects with the wall. "SHUT!" Another pound. "UP!"

Until I moved into Defiance a few years ago, I didn't know that Liberatas were loud lovemakers. Or that I would be stuck with a particularly amorous mated pair as neighbors.

I snarl, folding my thin pillow over my head, trying to drown out the array of grunts, screeches, and hollers coming from the other side of the wall. "It's frak-this-shtako-o'clock," I mutter, my voice muffled. More accurately, as the blue screen of my hailer corrects me, oh-five-hundred in the morning. "I give up," I whimper. Even if they wound down in time for me to catch another hour, I would never be able to fall asleep again, anyway.

When I sit up, my long, askew hair tickles my face annoyingly. "It wouldn't be so bad," I moan into the small cell of a room I call home. "If I knew which was female, and which was male."

The glow of my hailer screen illuminates the sparse, but cozy one-room apartment. My bed is against the (currently shaking) wall. I prefer my back to walls when sleeping, so that my subconscious will not interrupt me with fears of things sneaking up behind me.

My severely scuffed, extremely heavy wooden dresser came with the room when I took residence. It took me nearly breaking every toe in my foot trying to remove it to pay it respect. Now, it sits undisturbed against the other neighbors' wall, sprinkled on top with underwear, vials of seeds, and a healthy coating of dirt and dust. I liken it to an ancient alter, given wary bows or pointed ignorance.

In the corner is my cobbled chemistry set, with which I distill my own hair-curling version of absinthe, and the handful of books through which I learned to do so. Also on the table is a small bonsai red maple, and the book associated with that art. Books are hard to come by in this town, much less this world. But hungry townspeople are willing to trade anything for food, even the rare, singed tome from prewar libraries and the ruins of old homes. Though most books are worth some serious scrip to the snobby collector, these books are fairly worthless due to the randomness of the topics.

The only other piece of notable furniture in my room is my Chair. I attribute proper noun status to the Chair because it is mine, and it is perfect. Rescued from the trash pile outside the government building, every contour of the cushion, back, and armrests fits the profile of my lean, tall body to a 'T'. It is haphazardly matched with a crate-and-blanket footrest, where I prop my aching peds after a long day in the field. Beside it rests my basket of handspun yarn, with which I knit in the old tradition most of my heavier and more-used garments.

I'm beyond frustrated with the ruckus next door. Having been cheated out of what was left of my REM cycle, I fling back the holey quilt and channel the emotion into my daily upkeep.

My hairbrush is a hunk of clay I found and stabbed with straight twigs, the dull tips of which scrape my scalp comfortingly, though hurriedly. My hair is perpetually straight and smooth, in contrast to the craze of the bright color. I keep it hidden in a bun most days, but I can't bring myself to cut it off. Tying a scrap of cloth over my tamed head and getting dressed, I am ready to set out.

"Oh!" I backstep to snatch a pair of sunglasses off my dresser. "Hot mess, this morning," I mutter, sticking them on. Left uncovered, my eyes are an instant invitation of questions, undue curiosity - and more often, outright hate.

My skin color: believable.

Red hair: eyebrow-worthy.

Combination thereof: excusable.

My eyes: none of the above.

When I step under the flickering hall light outside my room, I nearly fall over the stacks of shtako in the hallway, sprawling from my other neighbors' ajar door. I know what this is: eviction. I think the lovebird Liberatas next door and myself are the only long term tenants in this building.

The boxes are tied shut with twine, and even as I stand there thinking, two Sensoth males lumber up the steps from the ground floor and stop, patiently staring at me. I am under the impression the pair are brothers, and they've only been my neighbors for a month. In my mind, they are Mango and Orange, because my clandestine manner of living gives no quarter to introductions.

Backed into a proverbial corner, I have to be polite and make small talk.

"Hello, little one," the darker-colored Mango says, in that carefully slow way of the tall, furred race. "You are awake earlier than usual."

He's right: I aim to be up and in the field before Defiance is even stirring, to avoid people. The fact they're engaging me in conversation goes against every stride I take towards invisibility. "The neigh - erm, I couldn't sleep," I respond, eyes twitching to the stairs. The cause of my flight is still 'causing' noisily, but the deliberate Sensoths don't seem to mind. Motioning to the boxes, I ask, "Are you two moving out?"

"Yes," says Orange, whose fur reminds me of dried citrus peels. "Found a house near the trees." His relish is evident.

A genuine smile flows onto my face. "Ah," I reply. "The trees. Excellent." The Sensoths are arboreal in culture. They have a fondness for nature that makes it easy for me to like them as a species, which is why I employ a few around the farm. "Maybe I'll see you around the farm."

"Perhaps," agrees Mango.

I step around them as they heft the last of the boxes from outside their apartment. Bounding down the stairs, I flip off the noisy Liberatas' door. With my ire returning, I need to get out of this building before I take a pitchfork to their white whiskered faces. The fantasy comforts me as I stride down the hall with bleary eyes. Being as essential as I am to the town of Defiance, you'd think I could have a better place to stay.

Dreamily, I imagine the glimpses inside the homes of high-Liro Castithans I have acquired over the years. White, pristine interiors. Sumptuous furniture. And, if the general assent is correct, a bathtub that doubles as a swimming pool. "How much food do I have to grow to garner a free pass for maiming?" I muse with a snicker.

From what I understand, the newest Lawkeeper is kicking ass and taking names. I doubt he'd be game for letting me vent my pissyness.

"But what're they gonna do?" I chuckle to myself, thrusting the creaking door of my building open roughly. "Ship their main grower off to Vegas?"

The thought cheers me somewhat as I make my way across town to the NeedWant for breakfast. The sun is barely rising, but I greet it warmly all the same.

A road block for construction of some kind forces me to grind my teeth, my usual path disrupted. My only other option for getting to the NeedWant is through the merchant's corridor. "And I had been so eager to avoid people today," I sigh. With a tick of my jaw, I steel myself for the onslaught and reluctantly turn onto the street where the majority of the merchants set up shop.

The sellers of this town don't take the slumped, don't-bother-me posture of my walk seriously. Hell, I'd have to be Volge for them to refuse to pitch their wares to me. Halfway through, the deluge begins:

"Your skin is so lovely!" exclaims one human woman, dashing out of her booth to stroke my face.

I jerk back at her touch on my only exposed skin, but keep my tone polite, "Thank you, but - "

"A parasol for the lady?" she pushes, stepping in front of me to gesture at her wares.

"No, no thank you," I reply insistently, dodging her. By the time I feel bad, she is already onto another customer.

"Hairbrushes on sale!"

"Casti-made head scarves, excellent quality!"

"Tinted goggles, protect your eyes!"

Not good; they're advertising the qualities of myself I seek to hide. I bustle past them all, trying to stay small and unnoticeable. Unintentionally, they're picking apart my disguise: pale skin hidden by coveralls; my headscarf secreting my bright red, smooth hair; the sunglasses keeping my odd eyes out of sight.

"Used but not abused miner boots!" comes a strained voice.

I look automatically, forgetting my duck-and-run attitude, and see that it's a shockingly young human boy in front of Cuthbert's Shoemaker. His voice sounds strained because he's trying to stabilize a tall, heavy shelf jammed with shoes. As the shelf leans, groaning, towards him, the boy cries out and throws up his arms. My chest squeezes. He's going to be crushed!

I move before I can think, catching the gargantuan shelf across my back and shoulders. A grunt escapes me as I settle on the power of my legs.

It happened so quickly, it takes me a moment to catch up. "Are you alright?" I ask the boy, eyeing him critically.

He has uncovered his face and is gaping from the shelf, to me, and back again. "You're... you're really strong," he remarks in awe.

Shtako. I'm attracting unwanted attention; murmurs from the nearest booths and a handful of customers. Bouncing 'ass in the grass' with a shrug and lift, I right the shelf and walk briskly out of the booth.

"Th-thank you!" calls the boy.

I don't look back or respond. I just aired my freaky strength in public. "Banggo," I snarl under my breath. My easiest trait to hide, and I flaunted it without thinking. Humans don't do what I just did, lift what I just lifted. "Way to blow cover," I mutter in self-derision. "Stupid, stupid."

A sigh of relief passes my lips as I make it through the corridor without further incident. I take a moment and lean against a scarred brick wall, collecting myself. I'm sweating, even though it's still cool out. My heart is pounding, like I've run a mile. I feel blushy, but pale. That was too much attention for comfort. "Today's just not my day," I conclude, rubbing my forehead.

Scrubbing my face wearily and pushing off the wall, I almost trip over the ragged, stained Castithan drunkard passed out in the street.

I should keep going. It's too damn early for this shtako. And I try to walk on, I do. But my conscience pangs me, knowing how harsh Casti social code is.

"Hey, buddy!" I whisper pointedly, nudging his foot with mine. "Hey!"

The drunk snorts out of sleep, blinking silver eyes up at me dazedly. His irises are the same shade as my left eye, I realize with a disconcerting jolt.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," I sympathize, crouching beyond his grimy toes. "You might wanna get off the street. Someone'll pull caste on you, or something."

He blinks again, then proceeds to vomit to the side.

"Ugh!" I exclaim, standing bolt upright. "Yuck, man! Just gross!"

"Stinky...human..." wheezes the drunk, pulling an obscure bottle out of nowhere to take a slug.

He obviously can't see past my disguise, squinty as he is. I should be happy about that. But for a moment, I'm caught utterly off guard. Human? Farthest thing from the truth. Freak is closer. To be called human is a good thing... but it pains me to hear it spoken.

I play at being a human, but the reality is much more dangerous.

"Who... who you callin' stinky, pal?" I retort, finding my voice. My civil duty is rapidly nearing its end. But in the name of thoroughness, I lift an arm and check, surreptitiously wiping my eyes. "Crawl into an alley," I snap. "Before you get publicly cleansed."

The drunk is swaying to his hands and knees, scoffing. He mutters something scathing in Castithan that I can't quite make out, but it has the word enyasho in it.

"Yeah, you too," I reply curtly to his wobbly backside, which disappears behind a heap of trash between buildings.

With a forceful exhale, I walk on. "That's what I get for being nice," I berate myself. Walking rapidly from the scene, I try to outdistance my suddenly roiling emotions. The number of close calls this morning is staggering, in comparison to my usual low profile.

The NeedWant is still another five minutes away, and I've wasted enough time. It only serves a limited breakfast to alleviate the strain on the Café, and it's not as good, but it's way cheaper. Plus, if I play my cards right, Kenya Rosewater will take flowers in trade for a few meals.

By the time I turn the final corner, some wives are flapping laundry out onto the lines and a handful of late partiers are making their shambling way home. I bang through the door of the NeedWant. Finally, some good luck. The miners haven't come off the night shift yet, so the bar/brothel is empty. I can relax marginally.

The two lovely, scantily dressed door greeters lightly caress me and murmur invitingly, but I smile my decline and brush past them. Kenya is behind the bar, taking stock of the booze with a clipboard.

"Frak me sideways, Kenya," I moan, sliding into a barstool.

"It'll cost you," she replies flippantly, turning to smile at me. It's an old joke between us, though we're not terribly close as friends. Hell, she's 'friends' with everybody, in one way or another. She runs her business, and I run mine, and we have little interaction besides. I mean, I could pay her to have some chat time with me, but that defeats the purpose, in my mind.

"Is there still some protein on the griddle? Or am I too late?" I ask. Weighing taking off my sunglasses against the streak of issues from this morning and the oddness of keeping them on indoors, I decide to remove them, keeping my eyes downcast. Kenya is discreet, anyway. She's one of a handful of people that know what I am.

"Last I checked, there was," she says, putting down her clipboard to slide a cup of coffee to me. I've heard the coffee of this time is nothing compared to pre-war. I should know: I grow the roots for this blend. We make ours out of burdock, chicory, and dandelion roots, with some dubious substances for jolt thrown in. In short, it's like drinking turpentine and dirt. Only Earth Republic people have a prayer of getting ahold of the rare coffee beans grown for their ruling class, and it costs a kidney and firstborn child to buy.

"You need more flowers today?" I ask, blocking out the taste of the hot beverage. Swallowed artfully, the dirt has no time to settle on the tongue.

Kenya points to the broken bottle on the bar, the jagged edges of which are hidden by the drooping petals of some zinnias. "Looks like they're on their last leg, so yes, please."

I could sigh with relief. "Same as before?"

"Breakfast for the week," she agrees, leaning her ample cleavage over the bar. I may be heterosexual, but I take an appreciative eyeful, anyway. "Unless you'd like to trade for something else."

I give her a wry grin. "I'm saving myself for marriage, but thanks."

She tips back her head and laughs, and I join in. The sound banishes my earlier frustrations, but distantly reminds me that my little secret is not conducive to marriage. Freak...

"For once, we're up at the same time," I comment as Kenya continues to take stock.

"Working girl's got a job to do," she says, winking a heavy lash over her shoulder. "What's your excuse?"

"Ouch, zing," I reply with a chuckle. Kenya knows how hard I work. Sometimes, she is forced to put a reed in my drink so I can suck the beverage up in lieu of using my work-swollen fingers. Bless her. "No, the neighbors woke me up."

"Again?"

"Like a pack of saberwolves on the full moon," I groan. Having landed in the relative safety of the NeedWant, the tumble of emotions from my walk resurface. I continue in a softer voice, "And to top it off, a Casti drunk called me human this morning. Didn't see that coming."

"Shouldn't you be happy about that?" she asks, matching my volume.

"Well, yeah, but..." I don't finish because, despite the hot coffee, my throat has closed up with sudden tears.

Once again, Kenya turns and puts down the clipboard. This time, when she leans over the bar, there is no seduction in it. "Oh, Betta, I'm sorry." Her hand covers mine, and the skin contrast is startling: my paleness and her pinkness. I resist the instinct to shake my sleeve down, to cover my gleaming white flesh.

I shrug derisively. "What's an abomination like me gonna do about it?"

Kenya's hand tightens. "You are not an abomination."

"Half-Irathian, half-Castithan," I say, clenching my teeth around the all-too-familiar loathing. I let the full force of my mismatched gaze land on her: one silver eye, one gold. "I'm either a rape baby, or an abomination. I chose abomination," I assert with angry defeat.

To her credit, my friend doesn't flinch from my stony look. "Maybe your parents knew something you still don't," she says forcefully. "They knew this world would grow to accept you, and that you would find a place in it. Defiance is that place. Your farm and job are that place. Hey," she gets my attention. "My NeedWant is that place."

"Then why is it, whenever I look someone in the face, I see their mistrust and suspicion?" I counter.

Kenya has no response for that beyond a squeeze of my hand.

I thumb a tear from the edge of my eye, trying to compose myself for the second time in an hour. "It just hurt. Out of nowhere, the thing I pretend to be, the one thing I want most in the world blindsides me, and I can't have it. It's not real." Squeezing her hand back, I say softly, "Thanks for listening, Kenya."

The proprietress lets go of me with a tender smile, and sashays around the bar. "I'll be right out with your breakfast, Betta."

I stare into the murky brown depths of my mug, wishing it was big enough to swallow me.

By the time Kenya returns with my food, I am mostly over my angst. I've stolen her pen and am writing out a list of tasks for the day in my notebook. The paper is half full.

"Can I bring the flowers by on my deliveries?" I ask, picking up a stick of meat to scrutinize. "Or do you want them sooner?"

"Before the evening shift gets off, please," Kenya replies.

I snicker around my mouthful. "Gets off from the mines, or gets off, the other way?"

She laughs and smacks my arm. "Naughty girl."

"You practically handed me that one, m'dear."

Some more people are starting to file in to be served, in a variety of ways. A bored Castithan man gets promptly met and escorted upstairs by a pixie-winged Night Walker. A sooty female miner shares a heavy kiss with a waitress, but only orders a shot of alcohol. A trio of human kids start up a game of cards in the corner, sure to attract other players throughout the day.

More people could mean more problems for me, the way today is going. "I'm off," I say, draining my coffee and swiping my last meat stick to go. "Flowers, today," I confirm.

"See you then!" Kenya says cheerfully.

I thrust the doors aside and step out of the shady interior of the NeedWant into the glare of the morning. The streets are now barreling towards full swing: hawkers praising their wares, children crying in arms or whining as they follow their parents, motorbike and roller engines growling, the scents of the first meal of all cultures mingling.

On a radio somewhere, the Gateway Arch is broadcasting a song:

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,

A beautiful day for a neighbor,

Won't you be mine?

Could you be mine?"

I think it was a theme song to a children's television show, almost a half-century ago. I whistle along as I turn my boots to the southeast, blending into the crowd with the help of my tinted glasses, my haircover, and the ignorance of the populace.

Author's Note: Okay! So, I love this show, and I enjoy the array of cultures and such it provides. It's a veritable feast for a writer: such a shame there's so few fanfictions in the fandom.

I know there's no visible plot yet. This was a setup chapter, and a way for me to test the water, the response.

Tell me if I do it justice, please. Interested? Want more?