Martin Howard was asleep. His lamp was casting a dull, industrial glow on his father. A prematurely wrinkled man in his early thirties, Jackson Howard, was working at the desk in the small room the pair shared. Jackson’s sock-clad heel tapped determinedly against the ground, and the man exhaled forcefully through his nose with each breath, his genius mind unaware of the impulses it was sending out.
“Don’t wake up, boy,” he muttered, now glancing, brow-furrowed, at the mound on the bed that was his son. “It’ll all be over soon.”

When Martin awoke, one quick look around the one-room house told him that his father was at the laboratory. Mathilda slunk over to the boy, who was rubbing his eyes with his small, pale hands, and she purred. Martin displayed a small smile to his Mica Pisca, his feline cohort. His father’s Pisca, Lionel, was stretched across the cheap display phone on the cluttered desk across from the bed, staring at his minuscule claws. A tiny, pleased growl sounded from deep in his throat when he caught sight of Martin sitting up and blinking.

A Mica Pisca. One hundred years ago, the Elders decided that humans were too vulnerable to the world. Humans were weak; disease and hunger were rampant, and crime and danger lurked in every corner of the outside world. Citizens were frantic, they demanded a solution. Thus, the Elders proposed the Mica Pisca.
They began to breed Siberians, a hypoallergenic cat, taking only the most loyal and smallest kittens from each litter, and in less than half a century, the Mica Pisca was born. The kittens were about as small as a thumb, but had the intellectual capacity of a five-year-old, and as the kitten grew, its intelligence grew, its loyalty grew, its perceptiveness grew.
The elders saw the brightest of sparks in this new breed. It was precisely what they were looking for. At birth, each kitten would be paired with a human baby, and the two stayed together for life.

The boy lay sprawled on the bed, with only two Piscas for company, two miniature cats,  and though they were quite shrewd, the cats were not at all the proper playmates for a frail, disturbed boy of eleven.
Martin needed to escape the insulation of the house. The one-roomed, dirty, worthless old shed he called home.
He slid off of the cotton mattress onto the cold dirt floor, and pulled his swoks out from inside the cardboard box which homed his clothes. He tugged the ill-fitting footwear onto his small feet, and as he stood, he was suddenly propelled six inches off of the ground.
Hovering, Martin, bent to allow Mathilda to mount his hand, and she gladly meandered up his arm, onto his shoulder, coming to a rest at the top of the boy’s head. She nestled into his long, tangled locks, and her eyes fluttered closed, her ears still flicking to and fro.
Martin nodded at his father’s Mica Pisca, who growled in agreement. The three creatures were going to go to Jackson Howard’s laboratory.
Martin dug through his box again, this time pulling out his large, faded hooded jacket and slipped out of the door, his swoked feet never touching the filthy earth that covered the stone ground of the forest. The fir trees that the three accomplices passed every ten or so feet fluttered in the hot night wind. Plastic debri that had been caught on the branches ruffled, sounding like miniscule fireworks shows. The little oil ponds were strewn around, resting peacefully and heavily in indents in the dirt that just barely revealed the rock underneath.
Martin crept near the edge of the thin forest and considered the broken-down bakery. A yellow light was lazily cast through the front window of the shop. He thought he should go inside; his father had once told him about the kind young baker, and the man might know where the lab was, as Martin couldn’t remember the way. But the boy couldn’t risk it. The man might have listened to BaRadio last week.
Martin glanced down at Lionel, who was resting peacefully in his hand, unaware of the pungent smell. The animal lifted its small head when the boy shifted his gaze downwards apologetically, feeling guilty for waking tired Lionel. Lionel meowed questioningly. Martin knelt and let the little cat onto a small lump of smoky gray dirt.
“Father,” he said in a quiet voice, raspy from lack of use.
Immediately, the Pisca took off, whisking in and out of the dank shadows of the edge of the thicket, and then Mathilda, too, swiftly leaped off of Martin’s rustled hair. She flitted over to Lionel and matched him, stride for stride.Martin’s forced himself to run. He sprinted after them, already panting.
The lab wasn’t far away, but the boy began to overheat, his pale face turning red in the dark night as he struggled to keep up with the determined Piscas. Martin gasped for air as he tried to ignore the pain. Then, the thicket broke, and the boy could feel the sharp wind. It traveled across his face and through the stringy strands of his black hair. And then they had arrived.
Martin collapsed on the soft ground next to his Pisca, and the small feline was mimicking the deep heaving of the boy’s chest, though significantly less so. He closed his eyes. Mathilda, beside him, meowed, concernedly. Lionel joined her howls for a moment, and then the two Piscas quieted down and waited for the boy to wake up.
After a short while, he opened his eyes, his breathing coming easier. Mathilda leapt up. Martin grabbed the cat and shakily stood, beckoning to Lionel. The Pisca bounded onto the boy’s shoulder, and the boy hovered forward, towards the small, white, brick building that was his father’s laboratory.
Martin swallowed, then approached the building. He had never been allowed inside, but he was curious. There was something inside that his father was hiding from him, something the man had been working on late into the nights while Martin was asleep. Martin had made it all the way to the laboratory. He didn’t intend to turn around now.
There was an old plastic sliding door, which groaned and  open at the boy’s approach. Cautiously stepping inside, Martin was met  by a draft of cold wind. The deep, moaning sound of the breeze invited him to venture further. He made his gloomy way down the dimly-lit hall, step after step, step after step.
Suddenly, Lionel yelped happily and sprung forward, racing down the hall, and turned into a doorway up ahead which allowed a beam of fluorescent light to make its way out, and a tinging noise just barely escaped from the opening. Martin hesitated, then hunched over and strode towards the light. He stopped just before the doorway, his spark of confidence wavering. The boy might regret this. He knew his father was inside that room. But what would the man be doing?
Before Martin could doubt his decision, he swept into the room, and his pale jaw dropped. The room was spotless save for a tall, metal cupboard. And, on one of two stretchers sitting in the middle of the room, the unmoving body of a boy.
“Martin!” Jackson Howard’s dark head emerged from behind the cupboard, eyes wide, cheeks red. “Son. What are you doing here...my boy?”
Martin shrugged helplessly, and Mathilda vaulted into the boy’s pocket, hiding from the scolding voice. Jackson stared hard at his son, who, though he was terrified, said nothing. Jackson’s red-veined eyes held something inside, a secret, a secret Martin shouldn’t know. But how could the boy not want to know? Martin looked deep into his father’s eyes. They revealed nothing.
“Son, come with me.”
Martin nodded, shaking.
Jackson walked forward, and took his young son by the shoulders, and Martin felt his firm grip, his calloused, sweaty hands. He sized the boy up, and his gaze fell to the filthy, empty iron stretcher. Martin could see a few gray hairs peering out of the sweaty scalp of the man before him. Jackson nodded, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. Martin’s brow crinkled. Just as the boy was about to object, it was too late. He was already slipping out of consciousness.
Today, a specific young boy has been seen jogging out of the convenience store. A few hours later, Mr. Thompson noticed a few appliances were missing from his shop. This is not the first time the boy has been witnessed stealing. We do not permit stealing, and, as all listeners should know, any criminal in our country must be turned in and punished. We ask that our listeners aid us in finding this perpetrator. The boy, who looks about ten, has black hair and very light skin, and is extremely thin. His Pisca is brown and it is a little larger than normal...
The story Martin heard on BaRadio played over and over...until...
“Martin! It’s done! You’re--you’re done!”
Martin, bleary-eyed, raised his hand to his aching head. Then he paused. His skin, the boy thought, it was different. It was less pale, and his fingers were less thin. It wasn’t...him.
“I...you...Martin...” Jackson gasped. “You’re... I did it...”
Jackson turned quickly and raised a mirror to Martin’s hot, throbbing face. The boy peered through it, his eyes adjusting to the light. His heart pounded.
“Who-” he whimpered, and then stopped. His voice was low, much lower than usual. And the face in the mirror was not his. It had tan skin, freckles, and deep brown hair that cascaded down, almost to his neck. Martin took a breath through a new mouth. He lifted to his brow a new hand. He thought as a new person.
“How?” he managed.
“Your brain, your mind,” Jackson whispered, bouncing with excitement. “They’re in a new body...you’re no thief anymore, Martin, you’re no weakling anymore, son...you’re a new boy...”
Martin closed his eyes once more, and began a new life.