Far in the future, long after the lower-lying areas of the world were flooded into near-uninhabitability, the southeastern portion of the US has gone from more or less dry land to a saltwater swamp that stretches from the former beaches in the south to the last remaining dry-land cities in the mid-west.

  Further towards the former coast, near what was once the dubiously-visitable city of Hattiesburg, there are the more rural channels delineated by salt-tolerant trees and orange waylights. Here and there ared stilt-houses rise far enough above the Swamps to not be subject to floods. This time of day, afternoon shading into evening, the sun is beginning to set. The molten red of it settles over the mangroves, only emphasizing the heat of the ending day.

  Down one of the more rural channels there's a small, run-down house and a weathered dock. On the far side of that dock, ignoring the oppressive bulk of their mother's house, sits a short, plump young person. Details of their body are deliberately disguised by their baggy clothing. About sixteen years of age, their medium-dark skin contrasts with the white of a cotton t-shirt; their dark brown eyes, half-lidded, stare out on the Swamps without much care as to what they're seeing. Their long curly brown hair is pulled into a ponytail at the back of their neck. Occasionally they swat at one of the mosquitoes that swarm this time of day but mostly they're fooling with a battered old fishing rod. Occasionally they cast into the tepid water at their feet.

  They're not really fishing or hoping to catch anything. Instead they're just thinking; something they've done too much of lately.

  It's always been hard for them to figure out what they're feeling - another thing that marks them out, and yet another thing for others to give them shit for at school. Not like any of their peers need an excuse. But right now they know what they're feeling, at least if the stuff they've read online is accurate.

  They don't know what they are. But they're pretty sure they're not a girl. They're about halfway to picking out a new name too. They keep gravitating towards Bog.

  Not that it matters.

  The teenager sighs, the heat of the swamps enveloping them; something they can never escape.

  Their dad isn't in the picture but they've tried to talk to their mother about...this. About everything. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Tell your parents? But she blew the whole thing off, like it wasn't or shouldn't be possible or important to them.

  The youth's jaw tightens. She's never understood them, not once in their life; she always seems to think they should follow in her footsteps in her boring career that makes her so miserable she takes it out on them. Like they'd want to do that with their life.

  That doesn't matter either.

  Bog...isn't exactly a social butterfly to begin with, they spend a lot of time alone. They've realized after reading some articles online that interacting with people as a girl is too painful, so they take their solace in reading and other solitary activities.

  Like fishing. And thinking about doing something about their unbearable situation. The young person takes a gulp of muggy air, wishing faintly for fall to hurry up and come only to realize that maybe they don't want to be here when that happens.

  Their mother's been pretty awful to them lately. They can't deny that and...they don't really see an end to it. Adults say the shit adults always say when they mention how they're feeling, empty platitudes with set next to the suffering they endure daily. Like oh, you shouldn't let the bullies get to your, or you have worth no matter what other people say, blah blah blah.

  They snort. A chubby hand comes up to brush a sweaty lock of hair out of their face.

  After a while their mother drives up in the boat and, ignoring them as usual, moors the thing and hurries inside. Good. They don't really want to talk to her anyway. Better that she ignores them, than...

  Bog shudders, and not because of any external chill.

  The escape they have planned is worth having more patience than they usually can. Bog settles themself on the dock, casting with the fishing rod occasionally, until their mother's finished making herself dinner and whatever else she's doing. They don't want to know and maybe it's better that they don't.

  Anyway it won't matter in a little while.

  They wait until her light goes out, until darkness settles over their home - until the only illumination is the orange waylights that indicate a clear path through the Swamps. Until they're sure their mother's settled down for the night and won't interrupt them.

  Then they sneak over to where her boat's moored, careful of the creaky boards beneath their bare feet.

  Earlier they hid a certain box under the dock - close to hand but where their mother was unlikely to notice it. They...don't want to live this life anymore, they're tired of the constant scrutiny, the constant implication that they don't know themself as well as their mother, the petty irritations at home and at school. So they've decided to take the only way out they know of.

  Quietly as they can, the dark-eyed person bundles the box into the boat and then get in themself before undoing the mooring rope. The water laps quietly around the old boat as they push off into the darkness.

  The box at their feet contains a retro converter they've been working on for a while; they'll overload it, and then...well, that'll be that. They'd been rebuilding it but this seems like a better use for the thing.

  Bog rows the boat through the murky water at first; using the motor would wake their mother up and that's honestly the last thing they need. At this time of night, even when it's getting cooler, there's no one out - one good thing about not living in Hattiesburg proper. Solitude suits them; they don't want to be found.

  Besides, they don't want to die in Hattiesburg anymore than they want to live there.

  The swamp seems oddly peaceful as they row through it - enough so for their mind to begin wandering. Enough for them to begin thinking about the first time they realized they were different. Enough for them to remember that stark moment at thirteen when they realized they wanted to die.

  When their body began to change.

  After a while Bog engages the motor, though at its lowest speed; they don't want to attract attention, at least not before they detonate the converter. It's lucky enough, they guess, that they live this far out with their mother. Nobody's going to find them until it's too late for anyone to do anything to or for them.

  When they find a likely spot deep in the mangroves they kill the motor but they don't bother to moor the boat. It'll probably sink anyway, much as they care. Let that be their mother's problem.

  Expertly Bog fiddles with the converter and set it to overload, sitting cross-legged in the boat with it in their arms, curling around the thing to...maximize the damage. While it's charging up, they take in the hum of the thing - the hum of freedom - and the noises of the swamps around them.

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  They just barely catch the headlight of a boat in the distance before the converter in their arms detonates.

  -------------

  Some unknown time later Bog wakes to find themself prone - no, floating, with the distant scent of burning electronics and antiseptic in their nostrils.

  They panic for a minute. There's a dull throbbing pain in most of their body; it seems to be concentrated in their chest and their head, they realize when they force their muzzy mind to concentrate. And...and they can't see. Why the hell can't they see?

  With a soft groan, the young person raises a hand to their face only to find it swathed in bandages. They...sort of remember what happened then; strong hands pulling them from the sinking wreckage of their mother's boat. A soothing voice, soft with a kindness they haven't known in all their recent memories. Cool bandages being applied when they were screaming with the terrible pain in their ruined eyes and their chest.

  Right now all they are is ruined.

  Their despair isn't helped when their mother shows up. She's angry with them - not because they were driven to try and kill themself, but because they damaged her boat and got all these hospital bills that she's legally required to pay.

  In the end a nurse has to call security to have her removed.

  The nurse is kinder than their mother could ever think of being but they're still in shock as she recites the list of injuries they inflicted on themself - including a chest injury so severe that their heart was replaced with a cybernetic implant. It's the same for their eyes, and they had to be given skin grafts too. They'll have to be in the hospital until they heal so the doctors can make sure there's no chance of implant rejection or infection.

  Couldn't even kill themself right.

  The nurse goes on and on, only barely breaking through the pain. In the end, though she tries to be gentle about it, Bog's left wondering what will become of them.

  The young person turns their bandaged face away with an exhausted sigh - a sigh that would indicate their final heartbreak if...if they had a heart left to break. What have they gone and done to themself now?

  They wish they could see.

  The nurse's voice, soft and caring, soothes some of their anxiety - probably for the best with a new heart, however fake, in their chest. But not all of it. They had decided to kill themself, and they've failed. Now they have to deal with the consequences of what they did.

  They don't even have the energy to cry.

  Not that it would do them any good with the implants that have replaced their own eyes, new and bandaged to the sockets. They shudder a little, raising a hand to the bandages covering their face and then lowering it. According to the nurse some of the debris from the explosion struck them full in the eyes.

  They don't want to think about it.

  Bog lets the nurse's voice fade into the background, wondering where they're supposed to go from here.

  And whether they even want to try.

  -------------

  The young person wakes in pain again before a nurse gives them their medication. They can't tell what time it is, whether it's day or night. There's still a while before the bandages over their eyes can come off.

  Bog relaxes against the sheets as the medication takes effect.

  They've been thinking about their great-uncle Burl a little bit just to try and get their mind off how much they want to die still. He was the first person they knew who had implants - he lost his fingertips above the last knuckle holding a firecracker like a dumbass. They always swore they wouldn't be that stupid.

  Well here they are, full of painkillers and implants after having done something just as dumb.

  "What time of day is it?" they manage to ask the nurse before she leaves - albeit in a voice that doesn't sound quite like their own. It's rougher in a way they can't quite figure out if it displeases them or not. Maybe it makes them sound less girly.

  "Early evenin'," the nurse tells them. "Now, if you're feelin' up to it, you have a visitor."

  They're too exhausted and miserable to summon any tact. "If it's m'momma don't bother," they groan. They can't take that shit again; she's a large part of the reason they wanted to die - why they still want to.

  "No, he says he's a friend of yours."

  Then a familiar voice, low and hesitant, comes from nearby in the darkness. "Bog?"

  It's Etienne, one of their few friends.

  Despite their condition, Bog's stomach does something weird. They've always kind of envied their friend, since his parents were actually accepting when he came out and let him start medical treatments and everything. But they've always kind of felt something else for him too, even if they don't quite know what that something is.

  "I'll leave you two alone," says the nurse graciously; from the sound of her footsteps she walks out of the room.

  In the dark of the bandages and their still-healing implants the youth fumbles for their friend's hand. His skin is cool against their palm, but the grip of his hand is firm. Reassuring, if they were in any mood to be reassured.

  "I'm really mad at you," Etienne whispers, but there's no real anger in his voice, and he doesn't let go of their hand.

  "W-what? Why?"

  "...you tried to leave me. Just like Aunt Melody."

  If they still had a proper heart it'd sink. Bad enough they failed to...but if Etienne's mad at them all really is lost. But his hand in theirs is comforting; and better, he lets them cling.

  Often they've envied Etienne. His parents, unlike their mother, are accepting of him being trans. They still do now but holding his hand subsumes that feeling behind a new, different one. A better feeling.

  They don't know what this is. Maybe someday they'll find out - if they can bring themself to continue living.