"That's a good name," Wells said. "Bit of a bland first name, but a very meaningful last name. I didn't think I'd see another unmodified human here."

"I just got here."

"Oh." Wells seemed to sound slightly more cynical and a bit disappointed. "What do you think of the good doctor's philosophy?"

"I think it's rather sensible."

Wells snorted. "Sensible, my ass. He probably doesn't even know what these new bodies' effects on the brain are. New neurons...new synapses...he couldn't possibly predict."

"I don't see what's wrong with these bodies."

"Of course you don't. What I'm worried about is that form dictates function. The new body has a new effect on the brain."

"I don't quite understand what you're saying."

"Goldstein likes to think that the body and mind are separate entities. That you could take a human brain, plop it into a non-human body, and expect it to function the same. No, that's ridiculous. The brain adapts to its body. It has to; it's a part of it. I'm worried that by taking the form of a beast, the brain adapts to its new body and becomes the brain of a beast. That's why I'm here-to wait for the shit to hit the fan."

"And what if you're wrong?"

"Trust me, I'd love to be wrong. I care deeply about all the human brains here. I'd love for them to remain unchanged. I'd love it if an Island of Dr. Moreau-style regression didn't happen. But I'm afraid that's the way the ball bounces."

"How do you know?"

"It's common sense."

"It's also common sense that a bowling ball will fall faster than an orange if they're both dropped from the same height at the same time."

Wells scowled."It's also common sense to think that a person who falls from one hundred feet onto concrete dies."

"Do you have something against Goldstein?"

"He's an unrestrained mad scientist with a pipe dream. He thinks that he can create his own little utopia here. Does this place feel like paradise to you?"

"It's very fancy, and I can't imagine anything this place doesn't have-"

"-But does it feel like paradise to you? Are you happy here?"

Freeman thought about it. He had met Marie, and he had felt very happy with her, but...

"You're sitting alone here. The only human in this place besides me. The only way you're ever going to feel like you belong here is if you decide to be a chimera like everybody else. It's almost a form of peer pressure Goldstein's got here. You can see paradise, but you're only allowed into paradise if you decide to become one of them. It's like the afterlives of religions-you only go to Heaven if you're a Christian. You only go to Valhalla if you die bravely on the battlefield."

Freeman couldn't articulate any arguments, but deep in his core, he had the feeling that Aldous Wells was wrong. He also had the feeling that Wells was a xenophobe and hopelessly cynic, and a part of Freeman hated the man and his pessimistic ideas.

"And then there are the creatures here. Pathetic, really. This whole thing-their new bodies, their lives here-it's nothing but escapism. Back in the real world, they dreamed of adopting these bodies because the non-human forms suggest an escape from the pressures and responsibilities of being human. Why do you think they take animal forms? Because animals don't have the responsibilities that humans do. All they do is eat, shit, mate, and die. No governments, no taxes, no wars, no philosophy, no religion...but they fail to realize that although they may have their freedom from humanity here, it won't last. When humanity becomes 'enlightened,'" he said with a sneer, "and chooses to accept them, that freedom will be gone and they'll be back at square one. A part of society. Back in the world of war and government and society and taxes. It's nothing but escapist fantasy, and it is pathetic-"

Before Freeman could realized what he had done, his fist had connected with Aldous Wells' nose and sent him sprawling on the floor. There was a sickening crack. The nose bent at a grotesque angle; the forgotten cup of coffee shattered on the floor and its contents spewed out; blood spurted intermittently from Wells' nose; the cynical man's glasses flew from his face and skidded under a table. Wells didn't gasp in pain. He was already unconscious.

Freeman never before had had violent tendencies, but the act of punching Aldous Wells in the nose had felt extremely satisfying. He wiped the blood from his hand onto his blue suit and raised his head, turning from the sight of the body.

Every head in the room had turned toward the site of the incident and every pair of eyes in the room was staring at Freeman, a bloodied, blue-suited colossus standing triumphantly over a defenseless man whose only crime had been his choice of words and his opinion.

Freeman felt the initial satisfaction of punching Wells vanish as the rest of the room went silent. Marie had stopped talking with her friend and was looking at him with a kind of shocked fascination and horror. So was every other creature in the room. Freeman felt sick. There was no way to describe the silence other than that it was more deafening than any amount of noise could ever be. It was silence as an opposite of noise, not merely the absence of noise. It was an unbearable hushed and awkward silence that stretched for an eternity. Freeman could scarcely hear his own breath, his own pulse, over the silence. His stomach lurched and churned.

The thought crossed Freeman's mind that the force of the blow may have sent a shard of bone into Wells' brain, killing him. This frightened him more than anything-the fear that an act of passionate rage could have turned him into nothing more than a murderer.

"Jesus Christ," one of the chimeras in the far corner remarked in an awed half-whisper. "What did he do?"

Freeman tried to answer. A part of him wanted to justify his actions. A part of him wanted to say that the man had insulted every creature in the room, that Wells had spewed from his lips a message of hate and xenophobia dripping of venomous demagoguery. Another part of him was adamant in preserving the tense, unbearable silence for as long as possible if only to torture the rest of him for his violent transgression. Freeman's mouth tried to move, but the words he attempted to form couldn't pass through the boulder-sized lump in his throat. A pitiful non-sound came from his lips.

Marie's friend knelt down and observed the body. As he stared at the face, his own face took on an expression of what appeared to be understanding. "He's not dead!" he shouted to the rest of the people in the room.

Most of the tension in the room lifted. One of the chimeras went to a phone set into a wall, dialed a number, and began speaking into it.

"We've got a bit of a situation here," the creature said, staring at Aldous Wells' now-unconscious body. "No, not a death...There was a bit of a fracas...something he said, perhaps...No, he's not dead. We need someone to pick up the body...Who is it? I think it's..." he stared at the body, "...It's Aldous Wells...Yes, him...No, he's not dead...not dead...Yes, thank you." He put the phone away.

There was still a palpable tension in the room. Most of it had gone, but the small part that remained was still every bit as cloying. The tension flowed through the air like a living, malicious thing, forcing its way into Freeman's body and muscles. As if they were being controlled, his facial muscles bent his mouth into a frown. Tears were pushed out of his ducts and flowed down his face.

Moments after the call had been placed, two white-coated men carrying a medical gurney entered the café, grabbed Aldous Wells' body, lifted him, and set him on the gurney. Without ever averting their eyes from the body and with a cold, mechanical demeanor, they did their job and pulled the body out of the room. Freeman was glad that they did not look at him or that Wells hadn't been able to stare into his eyes. He felt like a fragile glass statue, and one more pair of eyes staring at him would have shattered him into a thousand pieces.

One by one, the room's inhabitants began to filter out of the café. The fox with the black fur and white double-stripe passed Freeman on his way out and said in a comforting whisper, "Don't feel too bad about this. He's Aldous Wells. He gets everyone's blood boiling. It was only a matter of time before this happened."

One of the five wolf-men who had been sitting in the corner of the room passed Freeman by. This one had black leopard spots on his mottled gray fur. He deliberately passed Freeman, even though there was a much shorter way to the exit, and spoke in an almost conspiratorial whisper, "That asshole's been a nuisance ever since he arrived here. It was only a matter of time before something happened. If you want my opinion, next time you see him, hit him again." He grinned, showing a mouthful of sharp fangs, and followed the rest of his companions out of the café.

Freeman was left alone in the café. He felt as though he was choking on his sorrow and remorse. He collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his hands and sobbed. If only he could have prevented himself from doing the deed! There had been no need for violence. As he cried, he felt a twinge of cold fear as he remembered the wolf-man's words to him. "Hit him again." They played over and over in Freeman's conscience. There had been such venom in those words and savagery in that grin! Perhaps, Freeman thought (and this filled him with dread), Aldous Wells was right in his theory that the creatures here would inevitably become savage monsters. The acceptance of this idea forced more tears from Freeman's eyes as he concluded that eventually, Marie would be consumed by this savagery. Marie! He could say to himself, with absolute certainty, that, regardless of the difference of their species, he loved her.

There was a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder. Freeman turned his gaze from his hands to the arm that the hand was attached to, then to the body that the arm was attached to, and finally to the vulpine face of Marie, a benevolent and concerned expression clearly readable even though the face was so inhuman. "It's okay," she said in a comforting and soft voice. "I know, you just got carried away. It would have happened to anyone."

Fresh, new tears sprang forth as Freeman stared into the soft, beautiful face.

Marie knelt down to embrace him, as if the solace of her body could provide a source of relief, an oasis in a desert of despair. "It's okay," she repeated, over and over again, until finally the tears stopped.

Freeman, choking a little on his words, finally forced sentences out of his mouth. They were raspy and dry. He tried as well as he could to convey the fears that Wells had filled him with, the terrible fear that the cynical man might have been right, as "Hit him again" ran through his head. "I don't want anything horrible like that..." he concluded, whispering through parched and dry lips, "...to happen to you."

Her reply came after a moment of thinking. "Don't worry," she said. "There is no chance of anything like that happening. I'll always have a human brain on the inside. No amount of fur and fangs will ever change that. It's a ridiculous 'theory' at best. There's no evidence to support that idea and not one iota of precedent."

A small flame of hope lit itself in Freeman's soul, ravenously feasting upon the dry tinder of his fears and doubts until they were all burned away into ashes.

Marie and Freeman stared into each other's eyes, and before either of them could think, they had embraced and kissed. It was as close of an approximation of a kiss as Marie could create, but it was a kiss.

"You..." Marie whispered to him, "...are the most human man I have ever met. I've never seen anyone show so much remorse just for breaking someone's nose."

"It wasn't just that," Freeman replied. "I didn't hit him because I disagreed with his philosophy. It was...personal."

"How so?"

"I didn't hit him because his philosophy was xenophobic or incredibly cynical, I punched him because...he called you pathetic."

Marie laughed. "This isn't the Middle Ages and you're not my champion, John. Don't worry about things like that. In any case, I don't need your protection. If you didn't notice, Aldous is absolutely terrified of us chimeras. I could just look at him and he'd never get within ten feet of me again."

"If Wells hates this place so much, then why is he here?"

"He's Goldstein's arch-rival, I guess. I don't know the history between them (Goldstein is a very private man). He's here because he wants to see Goldstein proven wrong, even if it kills the both of them. If Wells was correct in his assumption, do you honestly believe that three humans can survive trapped in a giant underground palace, without weapons, against an army of monsters?"

"So Wells hates Goldstein so much that he'll put his own life at risk to see him proven wrong?"

"Exactly."

Freeman was silent for a moment. "...You know," he said, "Wells did have a point with one of his statements. Not the 'form dictates function' bullshit, the 'escapism' part. The part I hit him for. This whole place and all of the creatures here compose an elaborate escapist fantasy that will eventually prove futile."

"Go on."

"The creatures here adopt forms using animal imagery because animals symbolize a freedom that human beings can only dream about-a freedom from complicated societies and messy politics and confusing religion and bloody war and challenging responsibilities. But when the rest of mankind becomes 'enlightened,' as Goldstein calls it, the freedom will vanish. The creatures here will be a part of human society again. A part of the system. It's futile."

"All escapism is futile," Marie replied. "You can't play a role-playing video game forever. You can't read a good book forever. You can't watch a great movie or television show forever. And you can't dream forever. Sooner or later, you have to face reality. But that doesn't make escapism any less fun or less meaningless. Wells was right. This place is an exercise in escapism. But for most of us, however, it will be a permanent escape from reality. Do you honestly believe that human society will become 'enlightened' in my lifetime?"

"No."

"Exactly. Unless we employ cryogenic freezing, we won't last until this 'enlightenment.' This escapism isn't futile, it will last at least for the rest of our life. It may be futile for the next generation, or maybe for the generation after that and so on and so forth, but not for us. So, in a way, Wells was only half-right with his ideas about escapism."

"Quarter-right."

"Quarter-right?"

"Another part of his idea was that everyone who participated in this escapism was pathetic."

"And that's when you hit him."

"That's right." Now that the time for grief and horror had passed, the whole incident felt like nothing more than a funny memory, and Freeman could look back on it with a kind of amused embarrassment. Hitting a man for saying something inflammatory! How ludicrous! How droll! What a fool he had been!

"Aldous Wells is a dick. He probably thinks that anyone who plays video games or watches movies is pathetic. I can't imagine what he was like as a child."

Freeman tried to imagine Aldous Wells as a young child espousing his cynical world view on the rest of the schoolchildren in the playground, or teasing the kids who read a lot of comic books or played too many video games or had an impressive collection of Star Wars action figures. Ultimately, it proved to be too funny and Freeman couldn't stop laughing at the image of a young Wells: the big round wire-frame glasses, graying ginger hair with a bald spot, and perpetual cynical frown featured on the adult face comically pasted onto the body of a youthful, innocent child. Wells was one of those people who simply could not be imagined as anything other than a misanthropic old man without the person trying to imagine dying from laughter.

Freeman wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and tried to regain his composure. Beside him, Marie was doing the same thing. She had obviously imagined the same thing he had.

Forcing the rest of her laughter back down her throat, Marie added, "I wonder what his parents were like."

Freeman tried to imagine Aldous Wells' parents, but it just wasn't as funny. "No," he replied, "Not quite as funny."

"Well, they can't all be winners."

***

"This won't hurt," Freeman inquired, "will it?"

"Not at all," Dr. Goldstein replied with a voice filled with kindness and benevolence. "In fact, the procedure requires the client to be kept in a coma for the duration. You wouldn't want to be awake for it."

"How long of a coma?"

"Just a few days. A week at most." Goldstein turned to his computer. "I'm going to program in the genetic sequence here. Now just tell me what you want to look like and I'll input the data. The computer will determine the genetic sequence needed to create the appearance you request. The transposons will be synthesized within the hour."

Freeman had no need for careful pondering on what he would like his new appearance to be. As he told Goldstein exactly what he wanted to look like, his thoughts turned to the escapist paradise he was about to join.

In less than an hour, the procedure that would alter every cell in his body would remove all traces of his human origins except for his mind, but at the moment, he was a free man in more than just his name.

***

End.