Atomic CritterS
Volume I | Part I
Chapter I: “The Beginning”
At Sunrise Sanctuary,
mornings always began the same way: with the soft splash of koi shifting under the bridge, the scent of bark and soil after the rain, of hay warmed by sunlight, and the half-hearted scolding of someone discovering that Coop had once again rummaged through the trash looking for a “midnight snack.”
Renji floated through these mornings like the sunlight itself. He moved at the front of the sanctuary paths with an easy confidence, voice carrying just far enough for a tour group to follow without effort. Children clustered around him, pointing as he spoke, parents smiling as if they’d been let in on a private joke. Renji laughed easily, touched shoulders gently, remembered names after hearing them once. He had that kind of presence that made people want to hand him their attention, their questions, their small worries—like freshly baked pastries still warm from the oven.
“—and if you’re very quiet,” Renji was saying, gesturing toward the enclosures, “sometimes they’ll come closer on their own. Animals are excellent judges of character.”
A woman near the front smiled. “You said that last time.”
Renji blinked, then laughed. “Did I?”
“You did,” she said. “And the time before that.”
He knew who she was but didn’t want to let on. Before he could think, he’d already blurted, “Oh—hey. You’ve been here before.”
“Once or twice,” she said easily.
Behind them, sweeping just off the path, walked Kagen. He noted that once or twice was generous.
Renji grinned. “Well, welcome back. You clearly have excellent timing.”
She fell into step beside him as the group moved on. “I like the quiet. And the animals.”
“And the tours?” Renji added, hopeful.
She smiled again, softer this time. “Mostly the tours.”
Renji flushed, just a little, and pretended very hard to be fascinated by a nearby enclosure. “Well, I’m glad you keep coming.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t stop doing them,” she said.
He glanced at her. “Why would I stop?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Places change. People do too.”
Renji nodded, thoughtful. “Yeah. But this place feels… steady.”
From behind them, Kagen adjusted his grip on the rake. He’d tightened a loose railing there twice this week. No one noticed when it stopped rattling.
As the rest of the group drifted ahead, the woman slowed. “If you ever need help—volunteering, I mean—I’m around a lot.”
Renji brightened immediately. “That would be amazing. We always need extra hands.”
“I figured,” she said. “You look tired sometimes.”
He laughed it off. “Occupational hazard.”
She laughed quietly.
“Well,” she said, stepping back toward the group, “I should probably let you get back to work.”
Renji nodded. “Yeah. But—uh—”
She paused.
“I’m Renji,” he said, sheepish. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
She smiled. “I know. I’m Mira.”
“Mira,” Renji repeated, testing the name like it mattered. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
“Again,” she said.
“I’ll see you next time,” she added, already walking away.
Renji waved. “I hope so.”
Behind him, Kagen passed with the rake, not looking up.
“She’s been on that tour at least five times,” Kagen said.
Renji frowned. “Has she?” he pretended.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Renji said. Then, after a beat: “Moving right along.”
The tour moved on.
Behind Renji, sweeping up the pastries’ crumbs, walked Kagen.
He stayed just off the path, rake moving in steady arcs, eyes tracking the things Renji never had to see—loose gravel, a latch not quite seated, the corner of a sign coming unfastened. Someone stepped directly over the small stone he’d nudged out of the way moments earlier. Kagen paused, then bent to move it again.
He’d been up since before sunrise, hands already sore from hauling grain and fixing fence wire, shirt dusted with straw that never quite brushed off. The sanctuary functioned because someone absorbed its weight. That someone rarely stood where people looked.
There were days when Kagen wondered whether the sanctuary would collapse without him.
There were more days when he suspected it wouldn’t.
The tour passed him without slowing. Like water, faces slid past. Renji turned mid-sentence, smile still bright, and glanced back—just for a second. His gaze brushed Kagen like a hand almost reaching for a railing.
Then someone asked another question, and Renji turned away.
The moment closed.
At the back of the group, a man peeled the wrapper from a snack bar and let it fall to the dirt path without breaking stride. It landed near Kagen’s boots, right where he’d just finished sweeping.
Kagen stopped. Nudged the wrapper lightly with the rake.
“Hey,” he said, voice level. “There’s a trash can ten feet back.”
The man didn’t turn around.
Kagen waited. Too long. Long enough to feel foolish for waiting.
Nothing.
The group drifted on, Renji’s voice rising again as he answered something enthusiastically, laughter following him like it belonged to him.
Kagen bent, picked up the wrapper himself, and dropped it into the bag. He sat on a nearby bench and told himself this was normal. He told himself it didn’t matter who people saw, as long as the work got done. He told himself he didn’t need recognition.
He told himself that being useful was enough.
Something warm pressed insistently against his leg.
Fin had appeared without announcement, as he always did. The small fluff-eared oddball nudged until Kagen crouched, then climbed into his lap with practiced certainty. Fin didn’t ask for permission. He never did. He curled up, nose tucked beneath Kagen’s chin, body vibrating with a soft, persistent rumble that felt less like sound and more like insistence—like something holding him together by refusing to let him fall apart.
Kagen rested his forehead briefly against Fin’s ears.
“I guess I could take a short break for you,” he murmured.
Fin stayed.
A child laughed somewhere down the path. Renji’s voice carried—easy, confident, unburdened.
Kagen watched from where he knelt, Fin solid and real in his arms. He understood, intellectually, that Renji wasn’t doing anything wrong. Some people were built to be seen. Some people were built to hold things up from underneath. The sanctuary needed both.
Still, the ease of it—the way Renji was accepted without effort, trusted without proof—settled somewhere deep and stayed there.
Kagen scratched Fin absently behind the ear. The rumble deepened.
“At least you notice me,” he said quietly. “That counts for something.”
He didn’t laugh at the line.
Kagen never said he appreciated it.
He didn’t need to.
Fin always knew.