Rupture.

Bernau the Stitcher stood waste deep in digested trans-waste, considering the thick vessel before him.

Nearly four feet lay exposed in the ditch, half of it slightly pulsing normal pink, coarsed through with red and deep purple ribbons. The other half was yellow on either extreme, the color of a recent bruise. The rupture was in the center of this half, oozing a pudding dark coagulate.

Bernau tried not to notice the odor of nutrients, its sweetcopper tang hitting a high note against the dark fecal thickness of waste.

Unnngh.

The city moaned to Bernau, he could feel it in his navel, as he pushed the needle through the vessel’s thick casing and drew thread around for a second stitch. The casing was thick. Bernau pinched the vessel with his left hand and braced the needle with his right palm, protected by a thick glove. Bernau leaned in and shoved.

Unnngh.

Why don’t you hate me? The city thought.

Bernau’s skull was tired and his mind as clear as air. With the last stitch drawn through, Bernau dropped the thick glove and tied the stitch off, his hands dancing a staccato aerial ballet.

The day finished, Bernau picked up the glove and his toolkit and waited for the train. Bernau’s only company at the stop was an automaton sweeping the clean concrete.

“Good evening Sir.” The automaton circled around, returning five minutes later. “Good evening Sir.”

The train swooshed in and Bernau boarded, hanging on to a strap as it accelerated away. There was no one in Bernau’s car, but two people stood in the car in front, carrying on an animated conversation. One was thick and burly and carried a large sack. Undoubtedly a gross trauma surgeon.

Everyone disembarked at the Apartment station. The station was crowded, and noisy. There must be twenty people here! Bernau smiled and watched the circling chaos. Men and women greeted their lovers, blue jump suits meeting white and green jump suits meeting blue. Two women sold clear bottles of alcohol, holding each up for a bid. Bernau opened his kit and took out a thick spool of thread, raising it high above his head.

Sold!

Crossing the mag tracks, Bernau sat on a wall and unscrewed the bottle top. He raised the bottle for one kick, savoring the searing pain of raw liquor and the inevitable sharp stomach cramp. Capping the bottle, Bernau stood, but paused before leaving. A herd, finished with its season, waddled past. The small animals, bloated sausages with feet, still looked like dogs, although their jaws were broad and heavy with wide grinding teeth. The animals trudged dutifully behind the alpha eater, heading to the digestor. Nodding politely to neighbors as he passed, Bernau walked to his apartment. The buildings were two story domes, elongated on one end, like giant concrete eggs. Bernau didn’t know how they were built, but he imagined they were excreted.

“Clare?” Bernau called out, shutting the apartment door. Most people abandoned soliciting the city for children, after the changes. But Bernau couldn’t resist. He was a sucker.

Clareten stood at the window that stared out over the vast expanse of residential bubbles. Where they stop, nobody knows.

Bernau walked to her, and kissed her on the forehead. Her hair was long and clean and smelled of soap. Bernau ignored, as he always did, the smooth skin where her eyes should be, and the intestinal proboscis hanging from her face where her mouth should be.

For a moment they stood before the setting sun. Then Clare walked away, directed by a sense other than her own, and left the apartment.

Bernau watched the children gather outside, pulling skates on their feet.

Ksssssh. Ksssssh. Ksssssh.

They pushed off, gliding towards the crystal city, its towers crimson and violet, reflecting and projecting the sun, perhaps a god as men once dreamed, created by those men, and their children, and Bernau, and untold billions of organisms, even those dwelling inside Bernau’s gut.