His words stall mid-syllable when Ben’s eyes flick up, something nearly imperceptible but absolutely lethal in his gaze. The rest of the sentence withers on the man’s tongue.
But it’s his wife who lands the more refined blow. She leans in just enough to show interest, her voice syrupy sweet. Her eyes sweep over me, her face all chrome except for the thin slash of her wet mouth.
“All that skin!” she marvels, her voice lifting an octave like she’s genuinely impressed by my gall to exist. “Oh, you’re so brave for wearing such a tiny little dress.”
I smile back—hard. We’re locked in a smile-off to the death.
Ben pulls me deeper into the ball, and I finally allow my face to relax.
“Good job, Fawl. Balls like these are a different kind of underground mine. Stay in places where there is always enough air and light.”
I look up, and it’s as close to a confession of love as I can bear. “That’s always next to you.”
He looks down and nods. “So be it, wife.”
My heart picks up its pace as we get closer to the sea of metallic-silk gowns and polished shoes. I feel the weight of gazes landing on us, sliding over me and Ben with hunger. I’ve never felt in danger of being eaten more than I do right now.
“Let them talk,” Ben whispers, as if reading my thoughts, his breath warm against my ear. “We’re here to make sure they do.”
My first inclination that things are about to veer into disaster is Josh.
He’s standing by the far wall, looking as out of place as a splash of blood on white linen.
Honestly, what the hell is he doing here? He all but screamed that he wouldn’t help us. But I see people from the half city here. A sizable crowd. Maybe he’s come to his senses?
Poor guy still has that unfinished quality about him—like a loaf of dough that never quite rose. Half-formed and sagging. His cybernetic arm looks like crumpled aluminum in this room, and his boxy suit droops over his shoes by several inches.
His eyes flick over me like he’s measuring me against something else. Someone else. Probably his own sad version of who I should have been. The hint of heat in his gaze tells me all I need to know.
Ben’s been right about Josh from the start, hasn’t he? Josh sees value in me only because someone like Ben—a machine—has claimed me, touched me in public, laid his hands on my unmodded flesh like it’s worth something. Ben, by sheer force of will, has created my value in Josh’s eyes. And that, in turn, exposes the ugly little truth: Josh was never disgusted by my body. His revulsion was never about me. It was about himself—his shame, his insecurities, and his small, sad worldview. What would the radiocasters have him do now?
Glancing around the room, I spot a few more unmodded guests—two men and one woman—standing beside their impeccably be-chromed partners.
They’re like rare animals, striking against the modded masses. And they’re watchingme. But their looks are different from Josh’s. They’re not confused. They’re curious. Maybe even a little impressed. For the first time, I feel something strange—like I’m part of some unspoken uprising. The Cocktail Party Rebellion.
Ben’s eyes follow mine to Josh, narrowing slightly. “I bet he looks better in your memory.”
“I hope you can say the same for her.”
Lily is making her entrance, gliding down the marble steps like a bird descending from a mountain perch. Every head swivels in unison to watch her. She’s draped in a floor-length gown of deep-purple feathers, each one shimmering, giving the illusion she’s cloaked in something alive, something lethal.
But what really sets the crowd abuzz isn’t the feathers, no matter how meticulously they’ve been stitched to her gown. It’s her shoulders—gleaming, smooth, and unmistakably new. The SKYN overlay, that coveted, expensive procedure to make cybernetics indistinguishable from real flesh, has clearly been completed recently. Her skin, if you can call it that, still has that too-perfect sheen, like a marble statue that hasn’t yet settled into itself.
A shift ripples through the crowd. I see people surreptitiously comming their cyberneticians for emergency appointments.
“She took it.” Ben’s voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the air like a blade. He starts barreling toward her, and I hold him back.
“She’ll come to us, Ben. Everyone is looking for an emotional reaction from us.”
Ben’s jaw ticks, but he relents. They’re already slicing up his things. Already treating tonight as a forgone conclusion.
And she does come to us. Or, rather, glides.
“Lily,” I say in that practiced, breathy way as she passes by. I pause, because I’m a good student, and she squirms. “Wow, almost healed. You’ll look and feel real in no time.” I, too, graduated from the Girls School of Nice Nasty Shade.
Lily, poor Lily, has bought into every glossy lie society ever told her—about her value, her beauty, and her desirability. She thought it was armor, something that couldn’t be touched. And maybe, for a while, it was.
She’s the kind of woman who’s never had to imagine what it feels like to be second choice, to be overlooked or ignored.
