Morning Glory

The kitchen was silent save for the ticking of the wall clock. Toast, lightly browned. Black coffee, no sugar. A single soft-boiled egg, its yolk rupturing at the exact pressure of his spoon.

Outside the window, the picturesque town of Shizukana-umi unfolded like a well-rehearsed play—neighbors offering polite nods as they left for various places of worship, the singular traffic light cycling through its never-ending routine of color, the plume of steam rising from the bakery across the street—it was all so picturesque, so perfect.

As it should be.

The television on the wall flickered to life as a delicately manicured finger pressed the power button on the remote—the final ritual before leaving the sanctuary.

The the morning news broadcast bled into the familiar montage, of weather, traffic, special interest pieces and garbled

The monotonous consistency of it all bringing a slight grin on the face of the observer.

The television transitioned smoothly from local forecasts to the mainland morning report. A linen napkin polished thinly glossed lips as the anchor’s polished voice filled the room:

"—and in other news, Shibuya is experiencing it’s annual “Furry Festival” with projected attendance numbering in the thousands —”

A large dog park overflowing with costumed bodies appeared on the screen. Wolves, cats, foxes, even a few exotic representations mingled and acted out common behaviors linked to their natural counterparts, some even were leashed and muzzled by scantily elaborately clad companions.

The viewer's well-defined jaw tightened by half a millimeter as a slightly buttered knife paused mid-spread across toast.

"Meanwhile, in parliament, the National Diet is considering a bill as to whether robotic companions can be claimed as “dependents” on federal tax forms.—"

The footage cut to a politician, his suit rumpled, tie askew, and hair in wild disarray—as though he’s been raking his hands through it in frustration. His face is flushed, beads of sweat glistening as he gesticulates wildly, jabbing a finger into the air to punctuate his impassioned, possibly unhinged, rhetoric. Beside him stands, an unsettlingly humanoid robotic woman. Her synthetic skin is flawless, porcelain-smooth, with an almost eerie luminescence. She is designed with exaggerated, voluptuous curves—her figure hyper-feminized, as if engineered to distract or disarm.

The uncanny display caused a single muscle twitch beneath a right eye. The steadily held coffee cup met its saucer with slightly more force than strictly necessary.

The country...no the entire world was sick.

Years of traveling the continents beyond revealed a world spiraling into madness. Cities choked on the weight of societal deviants flaunting their moral and ethical deformities, those campaigning to warp the perception reality on emotional whimsy, societies crumbling under the weight of their own *deviance*.

A deep sigh relaxed taut muscles.

Thank god, Shizukana was different.

Here, the laws of commons sense still mattered.

The world beyond the ferry routes could rot in its grotesque carnival of abnormalities. Let the continents drown in their own derangement.

The television hissed static.

*"—breaking now—local law enforcement would like Shizukana citizens to be aware of a series of assaults that have taken place over the past few months—"*

An eyebrow raised in the sudden change in tone.

Crime and disorderly conduct were rare but not entirely alien to Shizukana. After all where people can be found, so can disorder be found.

“-at first thought to be a serial prank by high school students, this was recently proven false by the testimony of one sixteen year old Jane Doe-

Jane Doe? An obvious name change, undoubtedly to protect the identity of the minor. Whatever was to be disclosed must have been particularly heinous for the media to take said precautions.

“-Ms. Doe, like previous testimonies, claims to have been seized by a masked man, who then bound her with a necktie, removed her shoes and proceeded to aggressively tickle her with a large feather."

The fork froze halfway to glossy thin lips.

A beat.

Then, slowly, deliberately, it was set it down.

Egg yolk bled across the porcelain plate like a ruptured vein.

“- her claim was verified when authorities discovered marked evidence on her ankles of having been bound and extreme agitation on the soles of her feet.”

Tiny black dots flickered and formed at the edges of vision.

There was a slight tremor in the air.

No, no, no, not here!

Fingers curled around the edge of the table.

A *deviation*.