Shedding

It started when he put the last cardboard box of books onto the stack in the basement, their colorful covers sealed up in brown packing tape. His shoulder itched. When he scratched it, the cloth and skin peeled away like wrapping paper. It stung a little. He walked upstairs, peeling off acne and uncombed hair, ancient jeans and ragged sneakers.

His new friends were waiting for him outside, white teeth sparkling and pleated pants freshly ironed. They waved, and he waved back. Something clung to his heel, and he kicked it away with a moue of disgust. He stepped out.

Needs

She breathed easier now it was over. The weight was already less; the plates and spikes and ridges withdrawing, retreating, melting like icebergs back inside of her.

She had survived. She knew she would. The fight, anyway. She'd Changed to survive. She just hadn't been sure she'd survive the Change.

Her opponent was in a furrow, buried under rubble. The ruins still smoked where he'd touched. Sirens sounded in the distance. She had to leave. Might not be bulletproof when they got here.

Something itched at her shoulder blades, among the ruins of her shirt. Something rustled. Something twitched.

Wings.

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