Chapter 1
Ashe didn’t like the cliché blind as a bat. But it was an apt description.
Because of his parents’ work, he’d been dragged across the world as a kid—four continents, eight moves. Simple things got harder every time. New houses were a pain in his ass: stair heights changing, corners where he didn’t expect them, doorframes waiting to catch his shoulder if he misjudged by an inch.
They hadn’t moved for a few years now, and this place finally felt like his. Every corner of the house was mapped in his head; every cupboard in the kitchen had its own mental label. To Ashe, that was normal. And yet he knew he wasn’t.
Other people saw the world.
Ashe felt it.
He navigated by sounds, smells, the brush of air against his skin.
Colors were emotions to him. Tastes came with colors. Music painted feelings across his mind, scenes and memories replaying like someone had flipped on a projector in his head.
His parents had done their best. Somehow, it had only sharpened the feeling that he didn’t fit in anywhere.
When he was twelve and they were living in the United States, he’d been placed in a regular international school after being labeled “too functional” for a special school.
He’d lasted less than a week. One crowded recess, he wandered too far, lost the sound of the teachers, and by the time they found him he was curled up next to the swings, shaking so hard his teeth hurt. After that, nobody said “too functional” again.
That had been years ago, but the memory still made his stomach clench.
-
Today was a Friday. He’d just gotten home from school. His friend Rasmus—functionally blind as well—sat with him on his bedroom floor while music thumped from his new JBL speaker.
Sixties day.
Ashe liked older music: more rhythm, more soul. Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Sam Cooke, Elvis—each voice smoothed out the edges in his head, made his thoughts line up instead of knotting together.
They were playing chess, the board set between them. It had been the first game Ashe’s dad taught him, a way to teach him how to memorize, how to see without sight.
“Queen to E7,” Ashe said, arms crossed, body loose and comfortable.
He heard Rasmus’s breath hitch as the position clicked. “Checkmate.”
“Goddammit,” Rasmus groaned from the other side of the board. “Again.”
Rasmus kind of sucked at chess, if Ashe was honest. But that wasn’t why he played. If he wanted a challenge, he could get that online.
He played for this, the music, the chatter, the familiar presence across from him on the floor.
“Ayo.” The word rang out, and Ashe jerked.
“Sorry,” he said, realizing. He’d forgotten their ritual handshake. He smiled, picturing Rasmus’s hand flailing blindly through the air, searching for his.
Rasmus didn’t comment, just reached out until their palms met. They shook once, firm, then let go.
“How about some food?” Rasmus said. “I’m hungry like a pig.”
Ashe snorted. “As far as I’m concerned, you are a pig.”
That earned a rough, booming laugh. Ashe had never seen Rasmus, but he didn’t need to—chairs creaked under his friend’s weight, and Ashe could barely get his arms all the way around him when they hugged.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Ashe pushed himself up from the rough carpet and turned toward the door, his mental map of the house sliding into place.
“I’ll be right back. What do you want?”
“Chips and a Coke.”
“Shouldn’t have asked,” Ashe muttered. “Should’ve just brought you carrots.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His hand found the wall, then the doorframe, then the railing of the stairs. He bounced down them, counting steps. At the bottom he turned left. The smell of cooking hit him before he reached the kitchen—tomato, garlic, something cheesy. His parents’ voices flowed in an easy stream as he walked in; they didn’t pause for him. They never did. He liked that.
Three steps forward, then a right turn. Pantry.
He eased the door open, trying not to let it creak. He reached for the shelf where the chips should be.
Nothing.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. That was the problem whenever anything got moved—so much for being sneaky.
He started feeling along the other shelves. His fingers brushed against metal. A can tipped, then clattered to the floor with a bang that seemed to echo through the whole house.
The low conversation in the kitchen cut off.
Footsteps. Then his father’s voice. “No more snacks. Food will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Ashe turned toward the sound, slowly. His heart thudded in his chest, heat crawling up his neck. “Okay,” he said, trying not to sound as guilty as he felt.
His father spoke again. “Rasmus’s mom will be here in a few minutes. Will you help him down the stairs, or do you need help?”
Ashe waved a hand in his direction. He hated leaning on people more than he absolutely had to. “I got it.”
He made his way back to his room. “No dice,” he announced. “He was waiting.”
Something slapped the floor—Rasmus hitting his palm down in frustration. “Damn. He’s like a hawk. It’s easier at my place.”
“No shit. Your mom gets you whatever food you want,” Ashe said.
“Well. Yes.”
“Your mom’s coming in a few minutes. You’ve gotta get downstairs.”
“It’s that time already? Damn, I need to recharge my phone. I thought I set an alarm,” Rasmus said.
“Me too.” That was…odd. But neither of them lingered on it.
They headed out of the room, Ashe’s hand closing around Rasmus’s forearm. He led the way, turning carefully, matching his friend’s weight and rhythm step for step as they went down the stairs.
Voices floated up from the hallway—his mom and Rasmus’s, chatting. Their conversation cut off as the boys approached.
There were goodbyes, the familiar shuffle of shoes and the click of the door. A moment later, Rasmus was gone.
Ashe turned toward the kitchen, following the warm, savory smell. His mom had made lasagna. He found his chair with his hand, pulled it back, and slumped into it, letting his senses explore the room. In the quiet he could hear the flush down the hallway, his father’s footsteps returning, his mother shuffling dishes as she finished up.
Ashe’s mouth watered. The scent of hot meat, oregano, and tomato sauce wrapped around him. Two chairs scraped beside him—the signal that dinner had officially started. He reached out, but his dad lightly slapped his hand away.
“Remember to say grace.”
Ashe wasn’t religious. He thought the whole concept was kind of stupid—but it made his parents happy, so he played along. He bowed his head and reached out until his hands met theirs.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” his parents echoed.
He barely waited a beat before reaching for the food again. A second later his mouth was full of molten-cheesy perfection.
“It’s great, Mom,” he mumbled around the bite.
His mother sounded bone-tired. “Chew before you speak. Please.”
“Sorry.” He swallowed properly this time.
Dinner was their little pocket of peace, the one time of day he felt almost normal. His parents on either side, the outside world held at bay beyond the walls—here, he could pretend he was just a regular kid.
Then his father broke the spell.
“Has anyone else had issues with the electricity? The TV won’t turn on.”
Lilly answered from his left. “Yes. My phone didn’t charge either.”
Ashe cleared his throat and made sure his mouth was empty. “The alarm on my phone and Rasmus’s didn’t go off either.”
The words had barely left his mouth when it happened.
Sound crashed in from nowhere—from everywhere. Not from the TV, not from the hallway, but inside his bones, his teeth, the air itself. Ashe heard his parents’ breathing hitch and go ragged, felt the tension snap through the air.
The voice was sharp, a piercing blue that hit him like a cold morning shower.“You are one of the lucky planets able to compete for your future. Clear them, gain points. Fail, and your planet dies."
The voice rang in his skull.
Ashe turned his head toward his father. “Is that the TV?”
