Chapter 23: Golden Syrup Ketchup

During those days when he crammed history and literature in the library, Zhao Meiyou had once come across a line: “I come from hell, on my way to heaven, just passing through the human world.”

It was a perfect description of their entry into Site 000. They had ascended from the extreme depths to the extreme heights, finally arriving at the 990th floor. Heaven was said to be filled with light, and sure enough, just before stepping onto that floor, they beheld an intensely brilliant radiance—a white so pure it was absolute. For an instant, Zhao Meiyou thought he had gone blind.

Then he sensed that familiar feeling of detachment, the harbinger of entering a site.

“So, Brother Qian,” Zhao Meiyou said, surveying their surroundings. “Does that mean the 990th floor is a site itself? What the hell is Metropolis, then?”

Qian Duoduo looked up from in front of a massive display case. “We entered Site 000 through the escalator. We never actually saw the 990th floor.”

They now stood within Site 000, and it defied all their prior imaginings. There were no bizarre, never-before-seen creatures here. Space-time had not collapsed into two dimensions. Compared to the many grand and majestic sites they had known, this one felt too quiet—likely because it truly contained no living beings at all.

Museums, after all, displayed only dead things.

Standing beside Qian Duoduo, Zhao Meiyou gazed at the colossal sphere before them. His hunch grew even stronger.

This place was a museum.

They were in an exhibition hall of extravagant splendor, like a gilded opera house. A circular dome overhead was carved with Baroque flourishes, though the stage below stood empty, bereft of actors.

Zhao Meiyou turned his eyes to the enormous orb hovering at the hall’s center. It was so vast that its sheer scale gave away its nature.

This was a dead planet.

It was difficult to say what sort of planet it had been—perhaps a star, though its surface was no longer smooth. It seemed frozen in the moment just before bursting apart: cracked open, erupting, solidified. Mountains protruded like swollen veins or the dead skin clinging to an old man’s body. Volcanic ash, magma, and vivid purple electromagnetic radiation shrouded it. One could scarcely imagine what lurked in its depths, at the core. Had any civilization ever flourished there? Before the blade of destruction gutted it, had music ever echoed across its plains? Had any eyes ever beheld the vastness of the starry expanse?

“Let’s move,” Qian Duoduo said. “No matter what, we should try to cover the whole place first.”

It was impossible to fathom the full extent of this “museum,” brimming as it was with myriad lifeless curiosities. A severed giant’s head spilled endless brain matter that had transformed into goldfish, drifting lazily through the air.

They might even be inside a giant’s head right now, Zhao Meiyou mused.

They traversed halls lined with towering bronze pillars, smooth and profoundly deep, stretching so high they vanished from sight. The pillars were etched with enigmatic shapes and script—eyes, algae, swarms of interstellar insects—daubed in broad swaths of lapis lazuli blue. Traces of flowing water scarred the bronze surfaces, as if the place had once been submerged in some unknown liquid. Or perhaps the eye motifs wept their own tears.

Vast chambers, interminable corridors, spiraling staircases—they wandered like a pair of explorers. Zhao Meiyou clung tightly to Qian Duoduo’s hand, lest one of them suddenly float away. The exhibits followed no discernible logic. They traversed a lengthy corridor where the ceiling hung oppressively low, festooned with lanterns of every conceivable shape. Flanking exhibits were sealed in cylindrical glass tanks, their contents resembling the bones of creators from countless civilizations. They paused before one such tank. The corpse inside looked startlingly human—almost indistinguishable from a human, save for the wings.

“Is this an angel?” Zhao Meiyou whispered.

“I’ve read the biblical accounts of angels,” Qian Duoduo replied, reciting a passage. “I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up. And his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphim. Each one had six wings: with two they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew.”

“Holy shit,” Zhao Meiyou blurted out. “That’s an angel for sure. So why’s it taking a soak in a giant tub here? Talk about a raw deal!”

Qian Duoduo seized him by the collar and hauled him away. “Come on.”

They dared not linger. Who knew if the thing in that tank was truly dead or merely sleeping?

At the corridor’s end stood a door. Astonishingly, it was utterly ordinary—the sort found in any human home, leading perhaps to a bathroom, study, or basement. Qian Duoduo halted before it, paused for a beat, then twisted the handle.

In that instant, they both heard a sound like a sigh—rasping, faint yet profound, echoing like a voice from deep within a cavern.

What lay beyond the door?

Zhao Meiyou saw it.

The corridor of the mental hospital.

This was a place he knew intimately: the Metropolis 33-Layer Mental Hospital, the Lower District’s sole public hospital. The air was thick with the mingled scents of disinfectant and air freshener. A wave of disorientation washed over Zhao Meiyou. He glanced at the glass window across from him, where his face stared back, indistinct. How did I end up here?

“Director Zhao!” The duty nurse spotted him and hurried over. “There you are! Ward 3 is waiting for rounds. Come on, let’s get to it!”

He peered more closely at his reflection in the glass: white coat, frameless glasses.

Oh, right. At this hour, he was supposed to be making rounds.

The experimental subjects were in good condition today overall. Room 12 showed encouraging signs of recovery. Cafeteria lunch: scallop algae baked venison. Off duty at 8 p.m. sharp. Down in the abandoned parking lot, he retrieved his buddy’s deflated skin sack from the trunk and inflated it with an air pump. The form gradually plumped and rounded out until eyes fluttered open. “Zhao Meiyou?”

“Morning, Diao Chan. Sleep okay?”

“Not really. Why’d you wake me? Oh, right—today’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Spot on.” Zhao Meiyou tossed him the car keys. “Hop in. We’re going to the habitat.”

The habitat lay in the suburbs: a towering greenhouse encircled by razor-wire fencing. Inside, the weather was eternally fair—birds singing, flowers blooming. The dwindling population of one hundred thousand native humans lived there in abundance, carefree and well-fed. Zhao Meiyou parked at the observation area and bought two buckets of popcorn and salted cola. “Haven’t been back in forever. Has Mr. Shige gotten married yet?”

Mr. Shige was a native human they sponsored via the cloud service. The habitat administrators sent regular updates on human growth logs and photos to sponsors, who could also visit in person to observe progress. “No sign of him,” Diao Chan said, stuffing popcorn into his mouth. “Didn’t they say last time that Mr. Shi had taken a shine to some young lad?”

“I see the kid.” Zhao Meiyou raised his binoculars. “He’s wearing a ring on his finger—must be married. Hey, quick, look!” Zhao Meiyou pointed excitedly, like someone spotting a gorilla at the zoo. “Here he comes! The one in black!”

Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan clambered out of the car and waved through the fence at the approaching youth. “You’re Zhao Meiyou, right?” The boy eyed them and handed over a gift box. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Zhao Meiyou felt a touch moved. “Mind if I open it?”

“Go ahead.” The boy flashed a radiant smile. “Mr. Shige and I picked it out together.”

Zhao Meiyou opened the box to reveal a deluxe photo album. He flipped it open—the first page bore his own picture.

“Isn’t that me? Wow, this one’s handsome. How’d they get that shot?” Zhao Meiyou flipped through eagerly. “These must be from the administrators? How did they snap so many—?”

An abrupt halt gripped him as he reached the final page, inscribed on gold cardstock: “Thank you, sponsor Mr. Shige, for your cloud sponsorship of mutant citizen Zhao Meiyou. The Metropolis Government extends its sincerest blessings.”

The album slipped from Zhao Meiyou’s grasp and hit the ground with a clatter. Photos scattered, whipping up a ferocious wind laden with flying sand and grit. He stood at the storm’s eye as a searing pain lanced through his skull. What was happening?

“…Zhao Meiyou! Zhao Meiyou!” Someone seemed to be calling him. Bewildered, Zhao Meiyou turned toward the voice. The world had leached into black and white; the cries emanated from some unfathomable distance. He tried to flee but was flung to the ground by a mighty gust.

It felt like a sledgehammer blow to the chest. Zhao Meiyou’s eyes flew open.

Diao Chan stood by the hospital bed, gazing down with concern. “Zhao Meiyou, are you all right? You collapsed during rounds. Another all-nighter?”

The ceiling above was stark white, the sheets beneath him soft and warm. Zhao Meiyou shot to his feet. “Zhao Meiyou, what the hell’s gotten into you? Your body can’t handle sudden jerks like that!” Ignoring Diao Chan’s alarmed shouts from behind, he shoved the door open.

Zhao Meiyou beheld it.

The corridor of the mental hospital.

This place was all too familiar: the Metropolis 33-Layer Mental Hospital, the only public facility in the Lower District. Disinfectant and air freshener hung heavy in the air. Disorientation gripped Zhao Meiyou once more. He stared at the glass window opposite, his blurred reflection gazing back. Why was he here?

“Zhao Meiyou, you okay?” Diao Chan hurried up. “Too much stress lately? Your mom got the call and freaked out. She’s on her way—take a couple days off and rest up.”

Zhao Meiyou whirled around, his expression one of utter disbelief. “My mom?”

“Yeah, Lady Liu.” Diao Chan studied him for a moment. “Don’t cut her off just because she’s remarrying. Take it from a buddy: wise men adapt. The hospital’s counting on your family’s sponsorship.”

Moments later, Zhao Meiyou met the “Lady Liu” of whom Diao Chan spoke: a plump, elegant woman. Zhao Meiyou’s eyes widened in astonishment. He turned to Diao Chan. “This is a guy?”

“What else would he be?” Diao Chan stared back in equal disbelief. “A woman?”

“But how do men give birth?”

“How do women give birth?” Diao Chan touched Zhao Meiyou’s forehead. “No way, Zhao Meiyou—you’ve really lost it?”

“Enough.” Lady Liu waved a manicured hand in irritation. “Cut the crazy act, Zhao Meiyou. You just don’t want to get married and have kids, huh? Dragging you to blind dates like it’s the end of the world. A man hitting thirty without remarrying is yesterday’s leftovers, you get me? With your high-stress job, you want kids? In your dreams. Too late now! You’ll regret it someday!”

Zhao Meiyou: “………………”

Zhao Meiyou couldn’t make sense of it. Zhao Meiyou was profoundly shaken.

Lady Liu fished a wedding invitation from her bag and thrust it at him. “Wedding venue’s on there. Come if you want. I’m out.”

“Lady Liu, Lady Liu, take care!” Diao Chan rushed off to see her out but first shoved Zhao Meiyou back into the room, lowering his voice. “I’ll deal with your mom. You get some sleep—no overthinking.”

Zhao Meiyou numbly closed the door to his hospital room and glanced around. To his surprise, he found a bottle of sleeping pills under the bed. He stared at the bottle for a moment before pulling out a marker and scrawling a few large characters on the wall: “May your mom birth triplets in one shot.”

He then twisted off the cap and shoved the remaining pills into his mouth. Crawling into bed, he pulled the blanket over his head.

When he woke again, the writing on the wall was gone. He was lying in bed with an IV drip in his arm. A nurse pushed a medical cart into the room and deftly swapped out the bottle. Seeing that he was awake, she pressed the call button on the bedrail. Zhao Meiyou tried to sit up, only to discover he was tightly bound—this was something he knew all too well: the hospital’s signature restraint suit.

The nurse showed no interest in talking to him. As Zhao Meiyou puzzled over what had happened earlier, a tremendous rumbling crash echoed from the hallway outside. The nurse’s expression shifted; she abandoned the cart, flung open the window, and leaped out. She moved so fast that even Zhao Meiyou was stunned. Wasn’t this the thirty-third floor? What was going on these days that even nurses were jumping to their deaths?

The next instant, the door to his room was shoveled clean off its hinges. A massive tractor barreled in, its front fitted with a huge iron blade that ripped the ceiling apart. Zhao Meiyou could vaguely make out the familiar corridor of the Metropolis 33-Layer Mental Hospital beyond the door—the only public hospital in the Lower District. The air was thick with dust laced with the scents of disinfectant and air freshener. The glass window across the hall dimly reflected his own face.

Why am I in a place like this?

The next second, Diao Chan poked his head out from the tractor’s driver’s seat. “Zhao Meiyou! Hop on!”

Though he had no idea what was happening, Zhao Meiyou quickly wriggled free of the restraint suit and scrambled onto the passenger seat. Diao Chan wrenched the steering wheel hard, and the tractor plowed straight through the wall. It roared down the corridor in a frenzy of destruction. Amid the deafening noise, Zhao Meiyou bellowed, “What the hell is going on?”

“Harvesting the crops! What else do you take a tractor out for?” As he spoke, the tractor burst through the hospital’s front gates. The streets beyond were unrecognizable to Zhao Meiyou—shambling crowds of zombie-like figures roamed everywhere, dragging tattered limbs behind them. “What is this?” Zhao Meiyou yelped in shock. “Did the Great Catastrophe virus flare up again?”

“Zhao Meiyou, have you been sleeping through everything? These are the government’s crops!” Diao Chan slammed his foot on the accelerator. The tractor’s stereo blasted a rock anthem from Queen, the pounding drums nearly deafening. Zhao Meiyou watched as the blade on the front of the tractor lifted high and bore down on the swarm of oncoming zombies. Blood and gore sprayed everywhere in vivid crimson arcs.

“Ooooh yeah! Ooooh yeah!” Diao Chan seemed utterly exhilarated. “This year’s tomato sauce harvest is looking great!”

Half of Zhao Meiyou’s body was splattered with gore. He yanked frantically at the window as he shouted into the wind, “What do you mean, tomato sauce?!”

“Isn’t it obvious? Tomato sauce!” Diao Chan gave him a puzzled look. “It’s just tomato sauce—not golden syrup or anything fancy. Tomato sauce is tomato sauce!” He scraped a thick layer of blood from the window and held out his palm toward Zhao Meiyou. “This year’s batch is top quality. Want a taste?”

Zhao Meiyou felt a wave of dizziness and confusion wash over him. “Zhao Meiyou, you carsick or something?” Diao Chan eyed his pallor and fished a bag of potato chips from under the seat. “Here, dip ’em in the sauce—it’ll keep you from hurling!”

Zhao Meiyou waved him off, clamped a hand over his mouth, flung open the door, and jumped. The “tomatoes” lunged at him with clawing hands before being crushed under the tractor’s wheels.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still in a hospital bed. But this time, it wasn’t a restraint suit holding him down—it was handcuffs.

He knew this place: the Metropolis 33-Layer Mental Hospital, the Lower District’s only public facility. The air was heavy with disinfectant and air freshener.

A glass panel in the door offered a view of the clean, well-lit corridor outside.

A row of reinforced steel bars stood a short distance from his bed. Beyond them sat a woman in a police uniform. When she saw him stir, she said, “Zhao Meiyou, regarding your murder and dismemberment of citizens Diao Chan and Liu Qijue—an act of extreme depravity—do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Zhao Meiyou felt utterly lost. His mind was like a pot boiling over, strange and disjointed memories bubbling up within it.

Why am I in a place like this? He struggled to recall what had happened before. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and he blurted out, “Tomato sauce.”

The policewoman frowned. “What?”

“It’s not golden syrup or anything. Tomato sauce is just tomato sauce.”