“Not controlled burns?” I press, and his head snaps in my direction.
“Never,” he says, suddenly solemn. Then he amends himself: “Never me.”
I clear my throat, trying to get back on track. “Right. Okay, we’ll come back to that whole cannibalism thing. The point is, Ben, you can talk to Lily, and she’ll fold like a tent. You’re the first Iku son. I mean, it’s kind of in the bag.”
“I wish it were that straightforward, I do.”
“I’ll help you. You know, be more…human.”
Ben’s eyes widen, and the effect is utterly charming.
A manny arrives at my side with a drink—some thick green concoction that smells vaguely of citrus and grass. And the other is holding a massive table and oils.
“This is the practice I’ve been working on.” Ben pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve seen cybernetics before—patchwork mods, rusted joints, crude enhancements bolted onto bodies out of necessity, not luxury. But Ben isn’t patched together. He isn’t cobbled from parts. He is sculpted.
His chest is a mile of warm-brown skin and gleaming platinum, the cybernetics integrated so cleanly that it makes my brain short-circuit. He moves like a man, but his enhancements hum just beneath the surface, engineered to perfection. The lines where flesh meets metal feel…inevitable.
Like he was built to be both.
The mannies unfold a small table beside him. He lies down, and the sharp mechanical digits begin pinching and grabbing at Ben’s skin in sharp, painful-looking folds.
“Ben, what the hell is it doing to you?”
“I’m training it in an ancient practice I’ve been researching,” he explains, wincing slightly. “Massage. The bot is supposed to rub the skin, apply pressure, and smooth everything out. But”—he winces again—“it’snotgoing well.”
“This is what I mean when I say you need human help.”
He glances at me, his curiosity piqued. “You think you could do better?”
“Turn around,” I retort, arching a brow.
Ben presses a button on his wrist, and an image flickers to life: a man massaging another man’s shoulders, leaning in with deliberate pressure.
“You sure this isn’t a pleasure video?” I tease.
Ben shuts the display off, his face flushing slightly. “If you’re going to laugh…”
“No, no, I’m serious,” I say, wiping the grin off my face. “It’s just…unexpected.” I didn’t realize he has access to this kind of archival footage. That intrigues me. Most people below a certain IS status don’t bother with the archives, and that image looked like something from deep within the vaults.
He lies back on the table, his arms flopping out at his sides. The bot raises the table until Ben’s forehead nudges my hips and sloppily splashes fragrant oil over Ben’s back. It drips down in rivulets over his corded muscles, catching the light like liquid platinum.
“All right, so I just…rub?” I ask, moving closer. I feel a slight tremor in my fingertips as I move closer. His back is broad and surprisingly smooth to the touch, and I run my hands down along the contours, tracing the line to the dimpled small of his back, watching as goose bumps rise in the wake of my fingertips.
“Is that a good sign?” I ask, my voice uncertain. “I mean, getting goose bumps…is that normal?”
He pauses longer than necessary before replying. “It’s…adequate,” he says, though the unsteady hitch in his breath makes him a liar. His body betrays him too. As his obliques tighten under my hand, his hips press minutely into the massage bed, briefly imitating an ancient rhythm.
The oil makes everything slick and hot, and I need to fill the space, to push back against the silence that feels too intimate.
“I feel bad that this came between you and somebody you lo—that you feel programmed for. I know I’m just?—”
He looks up at me, sharp and narrow-eyed. It cuts my breath. “I don’t want you to mention being flesh and bone as if it is your weakness. Your former lover—Jace?—is simply… unrefined,” he says.
I don’t correct him because I know he knows Josh’s name. I file away that mistake though. “So…my unmodded body is for a more refined palate?” I ask, rubbing the smooth, warm metal. I shake my head. “Elitist to your core.”
“Not elitist,” he sighs into the massage. “Objective. I have data.”
