#lightcycles

"Certainly, what is your favorite color?"

Cecil groans as they're pulled back into another memory.

The night air smells of fresh rain though the sky is clear. Cecil lifts their right leg and swings it over the seat of a lightcycle - no, not "a lightcycle," it's their lighter. They glance to the right. A man pulls a pitch black helmet down over his head, quickly obscuring his handsome face and shock-white hair. He leans forward as his lighter starts up. The svelte bike starts glowing blue, a bright, icy shade that seems to radiate cold as well as light.

The lighter's glow illuminates the faces of a dozen intimidating, unfriendly spectators standing at the edge of the road.

The buff, blond man standing before the rest calls out, "You scared, chef?"

"Of course they're scared," the one woman standing behind him growls. "Even I'd be afraid to go up against Erginus. Chef must be shitting themself."

Cecil scoffs and tosses their curls back. They pull on their own helmet and its digital interface fills their field of view. "Echo, start lighter."

"Starting lighter."

Cecil's beast of a machine erupts with amber light. The shallow puddles dotting the asphalt reflect the orange glow, and for a second, it almost looks like the road is aflame.

They pull themself free of the past. "Orange. My favorite color is orange."

"Correct."

"Why are you asking me these?" Cecil pants. "They're bad questions."

The receptionist sits up straight, "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to know what my favorite color is. I want to remember things that matter."

"But, this is the protocol, we're meant to start with the easiest things to process and work from there."

"Great. I don't care. Please, skip to the more important stuff.”

“So be it," the receptionist sighs. "Where were you born?”

Cecil feels grains of sand wedged under their fingernails, pebbles pressing into their knees, the smell of salt spray mixes with the scent of blooming flowers. It's beautiful. Tranquil. Paradise.

But the scene shifts. Cecil isn't on the beach anymore. They're standing alone in an apartment that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years. The memory begins to distort and Cecil senses that someone's about to enter their consciousness who they really don't want to see. They pull themself out as quickly as possible.

“I was born on the island of Naxos," they spit out. "Next.”

The receptionist raises an eyebrow. "Okay. Where did you live for most of your life?"

Cecil looks up at the imposing marble columns and terror grips them by the throat. They're being pulled up the stairs, kicking and screaming, by a satyr wearing a wrinkled, brown suit. "Well, you're home, kid," they sigh.

"Please. Don't leave me here," Cecil pleads. They thrash about with their arms. Cecil's notices that their tattoos and scar are gone - or rather, they aren't here yet. At this moment, their arms are bare, short, and extremely frail.

The satyr rolls their eyes, "Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with ya? Huh? These are the only people who want you. Now go, get in there."

"Welcome to Athens," a deep, baritone voice cuts through their consciousness and Cecil is paralyzed.

Cecil looks up at the receptionist, their chest still tight with fear. "Athens, Attica. Next."

"When did you change your name?"

Searing hot pain jumps up their legs as Cecil's knees slam into the ground. They instinctively try to catch themself but drop their tablet in the process. The screen shatters as it hits the tile. Laughter reverberates through the hallway. They drop their head, exhaling forcefully. They reach out with their left hand and pick up the broken tablet. Cecil notices that their tattoos are still missing, but the scar is back.

They get back on their feet and turn to glare at their tormentors. The three teens are still howling with laughter.

"Why?" Cecil asks. Tears well in the corners of their eyes, but they manage to choke it down before any fall.

"Why do you think, Gold?" The tallest one replies.

"I'm not a Gold!" they shout. "Not anymore!"

Their senses return and Cecil sputters, "14. I was 14 when I changed my name. Next."

"Why did you change your name?"

"Why?" Cecil roars. They look up and see pity in the receptionist's eyes. A wave of rage is unlocked somewhere deep in their chest, pouring forth like hot lava, and scalding their insides. They want nothing more than to run away. To be done. But they can't.

Dozens of camera shutters click as Cecil walks out into the alleyway. The paparazzi take turns shouting "Cecil," "Chef," and "Mx. Gray" at them, as if switching up the name will make Cecil want to speak to them. Cecil raises an arm in front of their face and continues jogging over to their lighter.

"Cecil, are you going to respond to the Temple of the Sun's comments?"

"No!"

The media vultures chase after them, "But, Mx. Gray-"

"More like Mx. Gold," one of them scoffs.

Everything stops. Cecil's vision goes red. They turn to face them, the cameras begin clicking even faster. "Who?" Silence falls over the alley. "Who said it?"

A man raises his hand, "I did." A familiar necklace hangs around his neck. A heavy chain with a stylized sun pendant. Both made of gold.

Cecil walks up to him. "You want me to respond to your temple's comments?"

The paparazzo's chest puffs out, "Yeah. I do."

"As you wish."

As Cecil's fist connects with the man's face, they feel the cartilage of his nose snap. He's knocked onto the pavement and his camera falls, shattering the lens.

Cecil laughs. The others stare at them, eyes wide, shaking with fear.

"You want a fucking headline? How 'bout this? Mx. Gold is dead! I am Cecil Gray. Run and tell that to the temple of the Sun."

No one moves. No one says a word. No one challenges them. They're afraid of Cecil. They hate Cecil. And when morning comes, even more people will hate them.

The receptionist bends forward, brows knitting together. "Cecil? Why did you change your name?"