The world is running out of names. Damon and Genfi pore through stacks of birth applications and compare them to the old stories; these days, most of the time, it’s deny, deny, deny.

“Phoebo,” mutters Damon. “Can you believe that? And it’s taken.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just a masculinization of–oh no,” says Genfi.

Damon looks up. “What, found something you missed?”

“Worse than that. Damon, I’m so sorry.”

Damon swallows. “Tell me you don’t mean–”

“Prior art,” says Genfi sadly. She holds up a story with his name on it.

“Shit!” says Damon, and disappears in a puff of conservation.