Pickup: Waste

The Collector hoisted the bag onto its shoulder. The mass should have been negligible, but the creature’s spine bent slightly under the weight.

The Collector stood in the hallway, a silhouette against the pre-dawn grey. It was humanoid but wrong—too tall, limbs slightly too long, wearing a patchwork coat made of what looked like tarps and mirrors. Its face was a smooth, featureless oval, but Leo had learned to read its mood by the way light slid across its surface. Right now, the light was flat. Impatient. waste pickup

But for now, there was nothing. And nothing, Leo thought, was the most expensive thing he’d ever paid for. The Collector hoisted the bag onto its shoulder

The Collector stepped past him without permission, its long fingers twitching. It went straight to the closet, pressed a palm against the door, and whispered something that sounded like a lullaby in reverse. The green glow intensified, then solidified into a translucent, squirming bag—like a jellyfish made of memory. Inside, Leo could see fragments: a frozen frame of himself yelling at his mother, a blurry image of a blank sheet of music paper, a small, ugly knot of something dark that he knew was the time he laughed at a friend’s grief. It was humanoid but wrong—too tall, limbs slightly

“Standard or express?” the Collector asked. Its voice was the sound of a shovel scraping asphalt.

“You could take it out. Look at it. Play it once. The Waste only grows from neglect.”