Chapter 1: Live from Studio H

Car rides are something else when you’re two inches tall.

The first thing: seat belts don’t work right, meaning you’re relegated to a cupholder (dangerous) or a pocket or purse (humiliating, and not much safer). Worse, your height multiplies the motion of the vehicle. Every swerve sends you swaying like plastic cartoon animals dangling from a mobile over a crib. Carsickness is the least of your worries. Simon Groff had heard stories of tinies taking Lyfts home from tube-stations, breaking noses or worse against car windows when an inexperienced driver took a bend too fast. Sufferers of Regressor’s Syndrome like him were tougher than their size belied—but nobody was invincible.

Luckily, Simon didn’t have to worry about any of that.

He reclined in Beck’s palm, cradled in her lap in the passenger’s seat of the Jeep with her other hand cupped beneath for support. His sister Milla drove—and whenever she came to a turn or a hard stop on the rain-slick downtown streets, Beck would counterbalance against it, angling her hands under Simon so he didn’t tumble. It was a relaxing way to travel, propped up on his elbows, breathing in the heady perfume of Beck’s hand lotion while the two giantesses sang along to a Spotify mix, occasionally groaning in disgust when Siri’s voice cut in with directions.

Recalculating, she scolded more than once. Recalculating.

“You wanna hear something interesting?” he shouted above the noise.

Milla turned down the volume from the Jeep’s speakers. “What’s that?”

Simon pointed to his sister’s phone in its dock. “The female voice for Siri. She’s a tiny.”

Beck craned her neck to look down at him, curtaining him with her dark hair. “No kidding?”

He shook his head. “Voice acting’s good work for tinies. Size-blind. And the money stretches really far too, if you can get it. Outside of our tech, everything costs less for us.”

Beck looked impressed. “Think you’d ever do something like that?”

“Naw.” Simon caught Milla’s eye, grinning. “I’m fine mooching off my big sister.”

Milla laughed. “He’s got me chauffeuring him around now. Him and his girlfriend.”

Conversation hit a strange lull then—the only sounds were the road and the radio, Can’t help it, girl, can’t help it, oh please… Simon’s face felt heavy and hot. Beck looked out the window.

Siri cut in: In a quarter mile, the destination will be on your right. Studio H.

“What’s so special about this bar again?” Simon found his voice again.

“It’s the renovations,” Milla explained, searching for a parking space. “It’s the first place in town to get proper accommodations for people with Regressor’s Syndrome. Walkways, ladders, pipettes for the drinks. You’re going to love it.”

“Why’s it called Studio H?” Beck asked. They were parked now; Beck unlatched her door before swinging her long legs onto the sidewalk, keeping Simon as steady as she could in her hands.

Milla fished in her purse for meter change. “It used to be a hair salon, if I remember right. They kept the name—it’s kinda funky, I think. But the locals have another name for it. Studio ‘HGH’.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon asked. “What’s the HGH stand for?”

His sister smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Human Growth Hormone.”

Simon buried his face in his hands. “Well—now I definitely need a drink.”

“Come on,” Milla sang out, herding them towards the tint-glass doors. “We’re getting my little brother White Girl Wasted tonight.”

Simon shrugged and looked back at Beck. Her mint-green polo shirt was tight across her shoulders and upper arms, showing off her fighter’s musculature—and the undone buttons showed just a hint of the valley of her cleavage beneath. He dragged his eyes upward.

“Your mission,” he said, grinning. “Should you choose to accept it.”

Beck blushed—but grinned back and nodded.

#

Through the double doors—immediately the trio were slapped by a wall of sound. Clinking glasses, dive-bar chatter, and wailing rock music from box speakers hung in ever corner. Booths lined one wall under a row of huge windows covered in beat-up French blinds; high circular tables dotted the main space, some with stools, some without; and a wraparound bar beckoned at the back of the room, flashing with neon lights set under the shelves housing bottles of liquor so large Simon could swim in them.

Milla shouldered through the crowd, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Come on—I know the bartender. First round’s on me.”

She led Beck by the hand (the one not cupping Simon) up to the bar. Beck set the tiny boy down on the counter, wiping it clean with her other hand first once it was free again. The two girls took stools next to each other; Beck put her hands flat on the bar top to either side of where Simon stood, protectively hemming him in. All across the counter were napkins, mugs, and even shot glasses as tall as Simon himself—and the thumping fists and elbows of a half-dozen normal-sized bar patrons, talking or shouting at the sporting event on TV.

He hadn’t been worried about being swatted off the counter before—but now, in the crush of the room, he was thankful for Beck’s protective instinct. He moseyed over to her right hand and crawled onto the back of it, patting her warm skin gratefully.

The touch prompted a deep blush from the girl. Nice to know I can still do that, Simon thought.

Out loud, he called up to Milla, over the crowd noise: “What’re we having?”

“Hold that thought.” She put up one finger, then waved down the bar to the woman working behind it. “Yo! Ash! Whose dick do I have to suck to get a drink around here?”

Simon’s eyes bugged; so did Beck’s. He’d never heard Milla talk like that before, at least, not around him. The bartender turned. She was one of the tallest girls Simon had ever seen in his life—not muscular like Beck, but long and slender, like something bounding in herds across the Serengeti. She had a long face and large eyes with shadows powdered on beneath them, and her lipstick were similarly dark, the color of oil. Her hair, arranged in a messy bob, was bright green.

Those huge expressive eyes turned toward Milla, and her lips pulled back into a crooked smile that showed the top line of pink gums. “Milla—you raggedy bitch,” she snarled affectionately.

The two girls leaned across the bar for a hug and a slap on the back. Simon looked back at Beck, mouthed Who’s this? Her response was a shrug and a flash of a frown.

Milla turned back to the group. “Guys—this is Ash. We were sorority sisters at Constance U, she knows where I buried all those bodies junior year. Don’t you Ash?”

Ash smirked; it made her mouth a long black line like a censor bar. “Shore. Swamp off the Ashford ramp on the 2. Black plastic bags for the parts. Baa, baa, black sheep…”

Then she spotted Simon, still perched on Beck’s hand.

“Well—hello, little man,” she purred. “Am I gonna have to card you?”

Milla rolled her eyes. “Ash, be cool. We’re twins, remember?”

The taller girl’s eyes went round with recognition. “This is him? Your brother?” She dropped her head lower, not quite to Simon’s eye level but such that her face loomed over him. “You look taller in her selfies,” she teased. “What’s the saying? The camera adds ten pounds?”

Milla reached across to slug Ash in the shoulder. “You’re such a bitch!” she crowed. “Si’s in town from the colony for a week. He wants to do all the big-world stuff, and that includes getting twisted at the H. So—what do you say?” She drummed her fingers on the counter; Simon could feel the click of her nails vibrate the plastic surface. “You gonna hook us up?”

Ash’s eyes flicked to Milla before returning to Simon. “What’s your poison, little man?”

The weight of her gaze was huge, but Simon shouldered it, finding a brave smile and sticking it to his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never really drank before.”

It was true; other than sips of drinks Milla mixed, he’d never really sat down with a boozy concoction of his own. And back in the colonies, tiny bars were full of tinies.

“He’s a little sheltered,” Milla teased. “Aren’t you, Si?”

Ash’s eyes never left Simon. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we? And I’ve got just the thing…”

Winking at the three of them, she knelt beneath the bar, disappearing momentarily except for the crown of her shaggy green head. But instead of returning with drinks in hand, she held a wooden bucket shaped like a tiki head in both hands. She turned it over, making the tiki do a headstand on the bar, then peered over it down at Simon.

“Do you know what this is?”

Simon didn’t. Milla and Beck just shrugged. “Real fancy beer bucket?” he guessed.

Ash shook her head, then poured something the color of honey into a shot glass and pushed it across the bar towards the girls. From atop Beck’s hand, Simon sized the drink up. It wasn’t quite a swimming pool compared to him, but it was several dozen gallons—easily enough to immerse his body completely. “I’m supposed to drink all that?” he scoffed.

“Not by yourse-eee-elf…” Ash trilled. Her long black fingernails drummed the bottom of the tiki bucket. “It’s not a bucket,” she instructed. “It’s a diving platform.”

Then her grin widened wolfishly. 

“What’s the matter, little man? Never done a trust fall before?”