by A. L. Davroe
Gus looks down, his eyes sad again. “I loved my brother more than anything. Our dad died when we were little, and my mom worked so hard just to make ends meet. I wanted to help him in some way. So I dropped out of school and started looking for work, but everyone said I was too young and too scrawny to do the kind of manual labor necessary to raise the credits for his treatment. One day I saw a sign advertising for Doll applicants.” He pauses and shakes his head, scoffing bitterly. “I had never seen a Doll before, never knew what they did. But the sign said that the salary was more than enough to cover the cost of my brother’s treatments. Enough even for my mom to get us out of the ghetto. So I applied.”
I cock my head, examining his expression. He looks distant, almost wistful, as his eyes trail toward his master.
“The Doll House accepted me. They accept everyone. All I had to do was wait for an Aristocrat to adopt me. Quent wanted me the moment he saw me. I still don’t really know why. You know the rumors, I’m sure.”
I nod, an awkward blush creeping up my neck.
“It’s not like that with us,” he says quickly. “It’s like…I don’t know, he needed a friend or something. After his parents adopted me for him, I moved in with them, became just like a family member. For a long time, that’s what we were. Brothers. We became so close that it was like we were the other person. And I got paid. My brother started undergoing treatment, and my mother got a job working as a teacher in a better part of the block.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I reflect.
He purses his lips. “No, it wasn’t. As we got older, Quent’s father started talking about Moding and Alting. At the time, I was Quent’s only Doll, so when the time came, I got the Mod before him. I was terrified of it. The other Aristocrats frightened me. I didn’t want to look like them. But I knew that if I left, my brother would die, and my mother wouldn’t be able to stay living in the area they’d moved to. Plus, I didn’t want to leave Quent. So,” he breathes, “I underwent the Mod.”
I reach out and run my hands over the ridges in his shoulders. He’s had some kind of implants, making them look almost reptilian. “It was brave of you.”
He shakes his head. “I remember the first one. It was a cheek job, to make his face look more chiseled, because his father thought he still looked too boyish at eleven, too much like a cherub. It hurt so bad. I was bruised and swollen for days. All I did was cry. Eventually, Lady Cyr sent me home just to comfort me. He…” He pauses and draws a breath. “Max wouldn’t even look at me. He was disgusted by what I’d done. He said he’d rather die than have a little brother who pranced around with Aristocrats and let them play with him like a little doll. He beat me until I couldn’t breathe then threw me out of the house. My mother didn’t say a word the entire time.”
I stay quiet, knowing that this moment is too raw for me to speak. I don’t know what to say. I’m too shocked to speak. I always knew Gus had it hard in Real World; I could tell by the expression he sometimes got in his eyes and by the way tension seemed to drain away from him the moment he stepped into the game.
His fingers begin absently stroking my back, as if the touch of my body brings him comfort. “I don’t remember much after that. Quent told me that he found me curled up, half dead on the doorstep the next morning. He’d been the one to carry me in and treat my wounds. He wouldn’t let anyone near me. He cried for me, told me he was sorry for what happened, swore that he’d demand another Doll and wouldn’t let them touch me again. I made him promise to make sure that when I died, I didn’t look at all like who I really was.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Does that surprise you? It surprised him, too, when I said it. I didn’t want to be who I was anymore. I didn’t want to be that weak boy who gave up the world to save the person he loved most only to have that love spurned in return. I didn’t want to be part of that family any more. I wanted to be part of Quent’s.” His eyes wander back toward the group of Dolls and Quentin. “And I am.”
“So,” I say. “You like being Modified and Altered?”
He shrugs. “When I was younger, I thought that changing my skin would change who I was, but I’m still the same person inside. I can’t change that. I’ve had a lot of time to do some soul-searching. I don’t like what I’ve done to myself—not because it made me lose my family, but because it made me lose myself. When I look in the mirror I don’t really know who I am anymore. I can’t find myself among all the implants and pigments. But in order to find myself again, I have to accept that I’ve done this to myself—that the choice is part of who I am.”
I touch his face. “You’re there. I see you.”
He puts his hand on mine, trapping my fingers close to him. “And I see you.”
We dance like that for a long time, lost in each other’s eyes. Eventually, I say, “Have you ever seen him since then? Max? Or your mother?”
He shakes his head. “They made it clear what they thought of me, though they seem to appreciate the credits. They never send them back.”
My step falters again. “You still give them your salary?”
He shrugs. “You think it’s stupid of me? I have nothing else to do with it. The Cyrs take care of all my needs. As much as Mom and Max may hate me, I still love them. She’s still my mother, and he’s still my brother. Besides, Max’s treatments are lifelong; if I withdrew my financial support, he’d die. I don’t want to carry his death on my back, even if he did try to do the same to me.”
My chest swells and I can’t help smiling at him, despite the inappropriateness of the moment. I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I just fell even more in love with Gus. Pulling him tight, I bury my face in his neck. The bulges and ridges of his implants feel foreign to me, but the heat and scent of him do not. He’s still Gus. I still love him. He’s better than I remember.
Chapter Forty-five
Post-American Date: 7/3/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 10:23 p.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
I’m vaguely aware of a slight commotion occurring in the room, though the dance floor is shoved into the corner, and it’s hard to see what’s going on around all the art displays and the clutter of furniture. I notice Quentin’s mother cut across the floor.
You can tell Lady Cyr from every other woman in the room because she’s the final piece of the Cyr puzzle. All three are like marble statues, cut to perfection, and decorated with silver glitter and tinsel and celestial light. They’re just different. It must be some kind of special Mod that only the Cyr family can utilize.
She moves across the dance floor, sluicing dancers to the side as efficiently as the prow of an ocean schooner. Gus swings me out of the way of Quentin’s mother as she makes a very deliberate beeline to her son. Gus’s attention shifts toward Quentin, and his steps slow until he stops entirely and stares up at Quentin. Lady Cyr is crouched over her son, speaking to him in rushed words that don’t seem to please him at all. His face contorts in a manner I’ve never seen before, different than the scowl he gave me last year.
I glance up at Gus, whose face appears just as disturbed, but he doesn’t seem to notice I’m even there. Lady Cyr turns prettily and flounces back down the landing, retracing her steps back over the dance floor and dissolving into the crowd. Quentin turns to Gus, who in turn cocks his head, his brow concerned. Quentin leans back and whispers something to Zane Boyd, who I hadn’t noticed was even standing there. Zane nods and reaches over Quentin’s shoulder, slipping something into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Quentin stands and comes toward us. Grasping my elbow, Gus draws me backward. For a moment I think he’s trying to escape from Quentin, who looks wildly intent, but then I realize he’s backing us into a small alcove where a hover-tray piled with dirty dishes is waiting to be loaded onto the service aerovator. Quentin glances behind him before joining
us.
“What’s wrong?” Gus asks, his voice urgent and tight.
Quentin frowns as he keeps one eye on the room. “My father wants to do a birthday toast at eleven. I need to stay here.”
Gus makes a low growling noise at the back of his throat, then he draws a quick breath. “Give it to me, I’ll do it.”
Quentin’s head whips around. “What? No, you can’t,”
Gus steps forward, coming inappropriately close to Quentin. With the darkness subduing the difference between beauty and beastliness, the two of them standing so close brings out the distinct similarities of their bodies. Both are nearly the same height and build, and both have the same basic augmented facial features. Gus slips his hand into Quentin’s breast pocket, removing whatever Zane had left there, and whispers into Quentin’s ear. “Watch me.”
He draws back before Quentin can make a move to reclaim whatever Gus took. He opens his mouth to argue with Gus, but Gus slips to one side and places a hand on his shoulder. Quentin gives him a desperate expression, but Gus ignores it, looking instead to me. “Take care of him for me, would you?
With that, Gus steps back into the open service aerovator. As the doors slide closed, cutting off the harsh florescent light from within, Quentin and I are left in complete darkness.
“Well,” he says softly, “looks like I’m going to get that dance after all.”
I turn to him, too bewildered at first to speak, then I find my voice. “What the heck just happened?”
His hand finds mine in the darkness and tugs it toward him. “Nothing you need to worry about, Ella. Let him do his job.”
I feel my jaw fall open as he begins backing toward the dance floor. “You-You know who I am?”
He glances behind him, making certain he’s not going to back into any of the swirling couples, then he grins. “Sure.” As he spins into the rotating crowd, he pulls me toward him and puts his free hand on my waist.
“But,” I breathe, unable to compute what’s going on, “how?”
He gives me a nervous sidelong glance, as if he’s a little afraid of making complete eye contact with me. “Best not to look too talkative, people might get suspicious. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
I scowl up at him. “You’re the one who asked to dance with me, Quentin.”
He tries to suppress a smile. “It’s Quent,” he corrects, “and I asked to dance, not talk. Everyone knows I’m the broody silent type—you’ll ruin my image.”
I suck in my lips and bite down on them, trying to suppress my annoyance. “It’s a stupid image to want to uphold,” I mutter.
“Not when you don’t want people in your business. It’s the perfect image for someone who wants to be left alone.”
I look up into his eyes, challenging him, but what I find there surprises me into lowering my proverbial sword. Quentin is staring at me with the same kind of intensity that Gus does, that combination of awe and reverence that has an unhinging quality. I remember what Gus just said: we became so close that it was like we were the other person. How alike are they? I look away, confused. “What’s Gus doing?” I ask, trying to keep my lips from moving.
He twirls me in a circle. “Oh, nothing too crazy. Just starting a rebellion.”
My step falters but Quentin’s arms tighten, deftly keeping me upright and spinning.
Not daring to look at him, I stare at his chest. “What?” I hiss.
He pulls me closer, pressing us together so that he can speak without anyone seeing or hearing. “You’re not the only Trickster, Ella. Not the first, or last, or the only of your kind.”
Eyes wide, I attempt to look up at him, but he keeps me pulled close, his jaw preventing me from moving my head. As we spin, I catch sight of Carsai and Delia standing on the edge of the dance floor, their birdlike faces flushed with indignant horror that I’m dancing with Quentin. I smile to myself, amused by how much they care and how much I don’t. Quentin’s not the god I thought he was; he’s just a lost boy. One with a surprising array of secrets, but he’s still a monster. He still destroyed the man I love, and it was his family that killed my parents and tried to kill me.
It doesn’t matter to me that Gus doesn’t blame him, even loves him like a brother. I will never forgive him.
I spend more time dancing with Quentin than I did with Gus. That’s fine, because I know that as soon as he releases me I’m going to be inundated with jealous harpies demanding to know what, exactly, I—a Natural—think I’m doing dancing with Quentin. The music abruptly dies in the middle of a waltz. Quentin pauses, shifting his arm so that he can glance at his flex-bracelet. “That time already,” he breathes, looking to me.
“What time?”
He twists his wrist, letting me see the time. 10:57, almost eleven. Almost time for the virus to kick in. “Almost time for lights-out.”
I feel my mouth form into a stupid little O. “You know?”
His fingers splay against the small of my back, guiding me toward the platform. His father is standing there already, his arm around Lady Cyr. Quentin nudges me off to the left, close to where the service aerovator and the rest of his Dolls are all standing like little toy soldiers. “Stay here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a hand clamps on my shoulder. I spin with a yelp, but it’s only Gus. “Gus,” I breathe and throw myself into his arms. “What the heck have you—”
“Shhh.” He puts his fingers to my lips and nods toward where all the guests are piling onto the dance floor. “It’s time for the birthday toast.”
The lights dim around the room, blanketing the robots, who are standing in shadow among the relics of old, and spotlights focus on the landing where Quentin and his parents are standing. They shine, the three of them, beacons stationed at the tallest point in all of Evanescence. It makes me sick to my stomach.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” President Cyr begins. “Today is my son’s nineteenth birthday.”
A cheer rises up in the crowd, followed by thunderous applause that quickly turns to a moment of silence and then shrieks as the spotlight and every other light in the city wink out.
Gus’s hands tighten around me, as if he’s afraid I’m going to disappear with everyone else. Around us the darkness is absolute, punctured only by the fiber-optic glint of skin Alterations, the faint glow of Argence, the light of flex-bracelets, and the glowing red eyes of the security droids—who, like all robots, run on energy cells.
“Calm down, calm down, everyone.” President Cyr is yelling, but I doubt many can hear him. The people are in a panic. I can hear feet stampeding here and there, glass breaking.
Suddenly something lances through my skull. Gasping, I double over against Gus, but he seems struck with the same pain. By the intensified level of screaming and yelling, I think everyone does. It hurts so bad, making me feel like my head is going to explode, but then it dies away, leaving a dull thudding headache.
Gus’s hands find my face. “Elle?” he asks, his voice tight with pain.
“What was that?” I whimper.
“I-I don’t know.” His voice is low and concerned.
Suddenly, over the panicked crowd, I hear someone laughing, cackling really. I recognize the laugh. “Fools,” he screams, still laughing. “All of you are fools. They thought I didn’t see, they thought I wasn’t good enough. But I see better than any of them, any of you. And I’m superior to them. I’ve done what they could not. You’re ruined. Ruined.”
With that, the shooting begins.
In the panicked jostle of bodies and the deafening cacophony of terror and demise, I lose my orientation. I think I can hear Gus; I don’t know. His hands went missing, but I move toward where I think he is anyway, calling for him. I don’t know what’s going on.
“Gus,” I yell.
“Elle. Over here.”
I run toward his voice and trip o
ver something, landing hard on my jaw. I scramble to untangle from what I’m now feeling is a body, bloody across the neck and face. Horrified, I stumble backward, my heel catching something else. I collide with another body, this one upright and too sure on its feet to be human. I glance up just in time to feel massive hands clamp around my throat.
It picks me up and throws me, making me collide with a railing where I melt down into a puddle of confusion and pain. I lie there for a moment, unable to move, because the pain in my back is too much. Then it dawns on me. That was a robot; I could tell by how cold the hands were. But, its eyes didn’t glow—it was a domestic android.
I spin around, trying to find the floor and get my feet underneath me. I crouch there, terrified. I can see the red eyes of the security droids. I can see the room, blindingly lit up for milliseconds at a time as flashes of their laser guns go off. I see the bodies going down, the blood spilling.
And then I understand. The robots have all gone mad. They’re killing their human masters.
There’s a cluster of them near the aerovators, their fire concentrated in one area. An area where all the humans in the room have congregated, seeking escape. Except the aerovator doors aren’t opening. There’s no electricity. There’s no escape.
“Ella.” Gus’s voice is harsh and determined in my ear. I glance up, searching for him. I can see his shape looming over me in the darkness, the fiber-optic cords in his flesh glowing dully, can feel his hands clutching at me.
I grasp his wrists, letting him pull me up into his arms and fold me into the comfort of his familiar scent. We crouch low, tiptoeing around the landing, trying not to attract attention. Something swipes at us from one direction, there’s a burst of laser gunfire, and whatever it was falls to my right.
I hear screaming on the landing.
“Circuits,” he growls. He pushes a hand against my back. “Go, toward the service aerovator.”
