Arthur had been coming to this particular barber shop for decades. There were newer shops along the street; the sort with fancy seats and free coffee and thumping music and pretty people with trimmers and scissors and combs. But Arthur liked this one. The building was a familiar spot in a world that kept changing. When Gerry or Tom – whoever happened to be running the shop that day – set about their work with their typical, quiet but professional style, Arthur would gaze out of the window and try to see what was different from the last time he’d been here. A shop closed down, a new shop, a new budding relationship for that lovely young woman who did regular surveys of passers-by and whose name he could only guess at – Lisa, he imagined. In the summer months the old sash windows would be open because the barber shop could get warm, and Arthur would soak in the noise of traffic outside the pedestrianised zone and the chatter of hundreds of couples and families and people on their phones passing below. Arthur liked this barber shop a lot for all those reasons, but mostly because it was the only place that could keep his wild pubes in check.

Ed gave some thought to hindsight. He decided very quickly that it was a curse; a facet of human thought processes that served one purpose only, and that to dump a bucket full of the emotion of regret on a person, dousing out anything positive. Ed pictured regret dripping down his head and gathering in a pool at his feet, all that happiness he’d come away with from a fabulous evening at the nightclub drenched and unrecognisable. He regretted buying the boat. He hadn’t really been able to afford it but impulsiveness had got the better of him. Ed regretted not taking better care of the boat because then he might have pulled it up at the front with the other patrons, unafraid of how its appearance might be sneered at. His biggest, most recent regret where the boat was concerned was that he’d parked it in a field. He still couldn’t quite remember what he was thinking at the time, and, worryingly, how he’d even managed it.

“Occupied, mate, you’ll have to… what’s that?”

“My flag. I’m claiming this flower for Flydonia. You’re going to need to leave.”

“I was here first. And what’s Flydonia?”

“Flydonia’s the kingdom I’m claiming this flower for. Makes it sovereign territory once you stick a flag on it. You’re going to need to leave.”

“Yeah, that’s stupid. No, I’m not leaving. I’ve never even heard of the kingdom of Flydonia. Who’s the king?”

“That’s me. Thought it would be fairly obvious.”

“On account of your regal status, flying around with a flag, bothering other flies who are just minding their own business, and staking a claim to flowers? That sort of obvious, you mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand. For a Flydonian – that’s what we call ourselves – this is part of our national make-up. A character trait. It’s that attitude that allows people to say ‘Oh, yeah, that’s a Flydonian.’ Assertive. Impulsive.”

“Have you thought about renaming your country Loon? I’m only asking because the character trait I’m picking up is ‘loony’.”

“Bit rude.”

“You’re the one trying to usurp a fellow fly’s flower.”

“Are you going to leave?”

“I am not. This is my flower. If you’d looked carefully you’d have seen it’s already got a flag in it. United States of Flytopia. Highly advanced country, powerful air force.”

“I can’t see a flag.”

“Stealth technology. Latest thing. You don’t want to mess with us Flytopians.”

“Right. Well. Okay then. I’ll just leave.”

“Good decision. Unusual for a Flydonian.”

Grace waited silently beside Geoff, the warm ocean currents light enough to allow her to sit still without anchoring her pincers into the sea bed. Geoff was similarly unbothered by any attempt of their surroundings to shift them from this spot around the coral, but little could move someone of his size and mass anyway.

Grace’s attention shifted. The water was clear enough to see some distance and she thought she might have spotted the Angel twins over at Hermit’s Hideaway. She turned to Geoff to mention it but he spotted her slight movement out of the corner of his eye and shushed her. “Look!” he said, excitedly. “The attacking team are running the pod!”

Grace gazed back upwards, where the light beams flickered and danced and sparkled in the shallows, and where a shoal of the black fish – whose name she’d filed away and forgotten as soon as she’d been told – were chasing a sinking seed pod that spiralled and drifted down towards the sandy bottom. The chase looked like a form of controlled chaos. Grace thought she understood why Geoff liked this on some level but it just did nothing for her. Sport, he called it. The latest thing. Maybe it would grow on her but Hermit’s Hideaway sounded more appealing right now.

“Touchdown!” yelled Geoff, raising his flippers. “Did you see that!?”

Grace looked at the seed pod, come to rest in the sand, a small cloud of debris smoking up and partly hiding it from view and the shoal of black fish darting around it. Apparently this would be happening every week for the next seventeen or so. “Yay!” said Grace, but Geoff was too energised to recognise her tone.

Meeting Medusa in the park hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike. The shock, the realisation that this was it, the sudden lack of sensation spreading out from his face just slow enough to realise it was happening, just fast enough to do nothing about it. But he’d gotten used to it. He watched the people come and go and live their lives, and he listened to the muffled conversations that vibrated in what had once been his ears when people sat nearby or leaned near him for shade, and he made up stories about the people across the park whose names he never caught. No, it hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike but it had a peacefulness to it. He could live with it and even enjoy it and not really wonder about ever going back to how he was. Except maybe to hunt down that bastard who’d stolen his umbrella.

Lenny couldn’t move. All he could do was lay there and stare upwards. Everything felt numb. He couldn’t swallow; everything was brittle and hard and weak all at the same time; his throat felt so dry, like it had sealed up, like every ounce of moisture had been pulled from his body. Was he even breathing?

He’d just wanted to send a message. He’d just wanted to make a point to people. And Sarah. He hadn’t seen that coming. He thought he knew her, and that she knew him and would understand. He hadn’t known her at all. That she could do this to him!?

“I’ve killed one of the Scarecrows,” he’d told her. “I shot it. It was in the precinct. That’ll keep the others away. Scare them.” He’d laughed a little.

Sarah had cried and then she’d gotten furious. Lenny couldn’t quite remember what she’d screamed at him. Remembering was harder now too. “They’re just like us,” she had said, afterwards. “You’ve gone too far. Everyone’s gone too far. The real message isn’t getting through at all.” And then she’d had that look in her eyes that made Lenny afraid and he hadn’t seen her again.

Lenny couldn’t move but he could just see to the tip of his arm. Straw. Sarah could have just talked to him. Not this.