by A. L. Davroe
Turning away, I meet Gus’s eyes and smile again. Gus is certainty and truth. That’s how I know he’s right for me. That’s how I know, even though Quentin’s kiss confuses and tempts me, Gus is the right decision. Where Quentin is the wolf in sheep’s clothing, Gus is the beauty in the beast.
Still holding his gaze, I take a step toward Gus. I want to be by his side, hold his hand. Kiss him so that I can prove that his kisses undo all the confusion Quentin’s caused me. He’ll prove that he kisses like game Gus, too—because he is game Gus.
Someone crosses my path, red hair cutting between Gus and me, forcing me to stop.
“Hi, Sadie,” I say. Some part of me wonders why I’m not being vehement and salty toward her. She, with her foster mother, who was caring for me, was part of the plot to hide my imprisonment from the rest of Evanescence. Sadie could have gotten help for me, uncovered my uncle’s diabolical plans, but she didn’t.
I should dislike this girl. Her bloodshot eyes and shaking hands should make me gleeful, but they don’t. I should hate her, but all I can wonder is if she hates me. Really, neither of us should care. Our world just ended. We’re both suffering. There is no place here for blame and grudges and rights to sensitivity.
I’m so tired. All I want to do is lie down and sleep for a thousand years, dreamless and thoughtless.
“You’re standing. Walking.”
“Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes. I have an awful headache. It’s pounding behind my eyes, making my ears feel like they’re going to explode. “Uncle Simon gave them to me.”
“Oh,” she breathes. There’s an awkward moment of silence. I open my eyes and look back at her. She’s picking at her dress, which is cornflower blue with iridescent shots of silver, periwinkle, and orange. It’s a nice cut on her, accentuates her décolletage. “Suppose that makes sense.”
I nod.
For a moment, she flounders, her eyes shooting around the room. Then they fix sideways at Quentin and his Dolls, a group markedly separate from the rest. There are seven Dolls. I know only Sid and Gus. Sadie looks back at the other Aristocrats. I’m standing in the middle of the hall, by myself. I suddenly realize that I’m still an outcast. Still a Natural with no Modifications or Alterations. And, while most Alts are fading, leaving many Aristocrats in their original skin, they’re still Custom, still perfect.
“What exactly is going on?” she asks.
For a moment, I don’t understand what she means. It seems like the answer is obvious. But then I realize she wants to know what the situation between the boys and me is. They’ve all seen how Quentin and Gus treat me. The two most sought after and aloof young men in Evanescence and they both acknowledge me, despite being a Natural, and worse, someone everyone thought dead for the last year.
I shrug. “We’re friends.”
She narrows an eye at me, the glistening Alteration under it catching the LED light over our heads. “You don’t have friends, Ella.”
I know she means I shouldn’t have friends because a year ago, all my friends watched my dead body paraded down Citizen’s Way in a grand memorial procession. But all of that was an act, something my uncle cooked up to make everyone think I was dead. He claimed it was for my safety.
I glance over my shoulder at Delia, once my best friend. She notices me watching her. Now that the holo-mask is gone, recognition dawns in her expression, and suddenly she seems to be unable to stop staring. There’s a bubble of hope inside of me, a desperate desire for her to come running at me in laughing relief. But her face, alien and strange as it is under those Mods, turns sour, the meaning clear. Hate, resentment, betrayal. All those emotions are there, aimed at me.
She must wonder why, if I was alive, I didn’t come to her. Why I didn’t heed all those messages she sent me in her darkest moments. Instead, I let her suffer without me, let her turn herself into one of them just so she wouldn’t be alone anymore. There’s no way she would know that I couldn’t go to her no matter how much I wanted to. I had been cut off from the outside world, imprisoned in one small room with only Meems to keep me sane. Even in the moments when my ability to hack my habitation unit proved useful, I still couldn’t go to her. I couldn’t run away for the simple fact that I didn’t have legs to run on. One can be a prisoner, even in their own body. Perhaps it’s too late for her to understand that, perhaps the damage is already too deep, the hate too strong.
Heart falling, I turn away and stare at the floor.
Perhaps I’ve lost Delia for good.
But Delia isn’t my only friend. “You’re wrong,” I say. “I’ve always had friends. Meems…” Thinking of Meems, I smile. And I feel it falter almost as quickly as I realize that she, like so many others, is gone.
“She was an android, Ella,” Sadie says. As if that make some sort of difference. At my confused expression, she adds, “She was programmed to like you.”
Perhaps that was true initially, but I honestly believe that Meems came to love me on her own—with her own free will—but I doubt Sadie would understand that. Most citizens of Evanescence wouldn’t, so I don’t argue.
“I made many friends in the game,” I reason. “In Nexis. I played it often, didn’t have anything else to do.”
“AI isn’t any different than an android.”
I glance at Gus. “Not everyone in Nexis is AI, Sadie.”
She bites her suddenly trembling lip and when she speaks, her voice wavers like the tears threatening on her eyelids. “They’re gone, too.”
I let out a long breath. She’s right, of course. If there are only these few people from Evanescence alive, then most of the Real World avatars we all played with are also dead. Nadine is most likely dead, like Meems.
But I still have Gus. “Not all of them.”
“Shadow and Quentin, you mean?”
I nod. “Guster,” I say, refusing to call him by the detached nickname I used to know him by. He’s no longer anyone’s shadow. “And with him comes Quentin.”
She nods. “Because they’re inseparable. I suppose that explains why he’d be friends with someone like you. He doesn’t have a choice, really.”
I ignore the simple, matter-of-factness in her voice. She’s right. Quentin doesn’t have any more of a choice than I do. Gus loves us both. And we both love Gus. And because of that, I need to play nice with Quentin.
But he can’t be that awful, can he? Gus wouldn’t be friends with him otherwise. Perhaps Quentin is a victim of circumstance. Like me. After all, I’m sure some would consider me an enemy now that I’ve played a hand in the destruction of their homes and the massacre of their loved ones. But I’m just an unwitting pawn in a much larger scheme.
Maybe I should try and look beyond my assumptions, give him the benefit of the doubt I’d want others to give to me.
And if I’m going to try and make unlikely friends with Quentin, perhaps I should think about making friends with a few more. Maybe re-approach Delia. Maybe Carsai. Maybe Sadie. After all, the world that drove us apart is falling to pieces above our heads. Maybe it’s time to erase and rewrite our own programming. Perhaps it’s time for me to let go of my newfound dislike of the Aristocracy and their sheep-like mentality.
I look Sadie straight in the eyes. “I think you’re the one without friends.”
Her lips part and close, part and close, like she’s a fish I’ve grabbed out of the water and thrown on the hot sand.
Confused by her reaction, I mentally reassess and try over again. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I meant that you’ve experienced a lot of loss. Lost friends. We all have. And…we could be friends, you and me”—I gesture to the others—“and them. Things are different and we’ve become all the other has got. We should act like it.”
Her mouth closes and stays that way, then she draws a deep breath. “That’s not how things work.”
“It’s not how they did work, you’re right. But it could work. What’s going to stop it?”
She stares hard at me for a long mom
ent, level and intense. Then, she turns on her toe and clacks off, her plastic shoes ringing on the cement floor.
I smirk at her retreating form. She’s rejecting me for the moment, but I know I’ve gotten to her. There was a spark there, in those grassy-green eyes of hers. Hope.
That hope warms my chest, despite the pounding in my head, despite the ache and exhaustion that have been creeping in since adrenaline from fighting to get to the Undertunnel has started to fade. I back up against one of the stationary control panels and lean my weight against it.
It feels good to be off my feet. I’ve been awake for at least twenty-four hours and on my feet for most of it. I’ve only recently gotten my prosthetics and even though I trained for them, I still feel how my body has been working to adjust to them. It’s not just the legs making me tired. It’s mental and spiritual exhaustion, too. Closing my eyes against the brightly colored Neo-Baroque clothing of the Aristocrats, I reach up and knead my shoulders.
A moment later, a hand slides under mine, rubbing deeper. A male body sits close, inhabiting my space like he owns it. Afraid that it may not be who I think it is—I have mistaken Quentin for Gus before—I glance out of the corner of my eye. The black outfit indicates a Doll, the blue and green on the forearm means Gus. Sighing in relief, I close my eyes again and let my hand rest over his. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.”
Chuckling, he presses his lips to my temple.
It’s strange. So much has happened to me in the past few days. Reuniting with Uncle Simon, planting the virus in Nexis, getting my legs, finding Gus again after thinking I’d never see him when he’d died in the game, the destruction of the G-Chips, the android uprising, the rebellion of the Disfavored, the deaths of thousands of Aristocrats, including Uncle Simon…the death of Meems.
“You’re tense,” he breathes into my hair.
I lean into his massaging fingers. It hurts, but in a good way. “Mmm,” I breathe and add a sarcastic, “I wonder why.”
“We’re okay now,” he reasons. “We’re safe. And we’re together.”
I open my eyes and tip my chin so I can meet his gaze. We’re so close, almost nose to nose. “Are we?”
His hand goes still and he stares at me, troubled. His eyes are so deep, so predatory, and his voice is a low growl. “Of course we are.”
I grin at him. “I meant are we safe.”
He sits back a bit, relaxing. “They can’t get through the door.”
I interlock my fingers with his, entwining us. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Gus.” I glance at the dark maw of the entrance to the Undertunnel.
“Oh,” he says. Then after a moment of thought, he continues, “We have plenty of food and water stored. The Cyrs have always kept a secret emergency stock here. We’ll be okay until we reach Cadence.”
I resist rolling my eyes. My fears are beyond a dry mouth and rumbling stomach. I’ve lived through both of those things while playing captive to my uncle’s schemes. “And what happens when we get to Cadence? Do you know what happened to the refugees from Adagio when they came here?”
Gus purses his lips. He must know. He’s Quentin’s best friend. Quentin’s mother, Lady Cyr, had been one of those refugees. So had my mother. They’d apparently been friends. Chances are, Lady Cyr is the reason there’s a stock of food and supplies kept here. “They got in. Eventually.”
“But we very well may not get into Cadence,” I say. “Or, worse yet, what if we get in and find it destroyed like Adagio or overrun by robots like Evanescence? What if it’s like what Evanescence was to my mother? A city overrun by unnatural abominations who forced their ideologies on her—implanted a chip inside of her and killed her for not conforming.”
Gus tips his head, and his eyes, so much darker and more animalistic than the ones I knew and loved in Nexis, take on what little air of softness they can. He reaches up with his free hand and cups my jaw. “We can only hope for the best, Elle.”
I frown at his consolation.
His touch slides down my jaw, cupping the side of my neck and getting caught in my curls. “It’s the only option we have.”
Closing my eyes, I nod. “I know.” It’s stay and die, or run and maybe live. But when I was legless, imprisoned, and being starved by my uncle, I lived in hell and I clearly remember wondering if it hadn’t been better to just die.
Persevere.
No. I can’t die. I have to carry on. I can’t be like Uncle Simon, blissfully relieved of all the responsibility for what he did by a bullet to the head. I have to see this through, hold myself accountable for what I’ve done. I have to try and maybe make it better. I can’t let myself down.
I nod harder. “Okay. Okay, let’s do this.” I move to stand, but Gus’s grasp tightens on my shoulder, holding me down. I turn questioning eyes on him, concerned.
In response, he drops his hand and grasps my thigh, his grip finding and circling the seam where the prosthetic attaches to my stump. “What happened?”
I blink at his hand. I knew this would come up. This is why I feared meeting him in Real World. “The accident that killed my father—”
“The one you were supposed to have died in?” he clarifies.
I nod, drawing my tattered dress up so he can see. I run my fingers along the silken red fabric as I say the words out loud for the first time in my life. “Double amputee.”
He draws his hand away and stares for a long time. I stare, too. Really, one can’t tell the difference between what a real leg would look like and my prosthetics. Uncle Simon got me the good ones. These are expertly wired and hooked into my own nervous system so that I can feel any sensation and make any movement with a thought. They are warm to the touch and pliable. The only giveaway is the seam. And, of course, the ugly burn hole from the laser strike I got when we attempted to rescue Meems.
Quentin managed to repair it as best as he could before we made the trip back to the tunnel from my house. I limp a little now, as one of the pistons was bent by the heat and he couldn’t do anything about that. Normally damage like the limp and the burned silicone coating are fixable, but with Evanescence on lockdown, fixing aesthetic problems like this are out of the question. It’s sad to damage my perfect new legs so soon after getting them, but at least I can still walk. It could be a lot worse.
I look up at Guster. He’s still staring, his expression withdrawn and unreadable.
“Gus!” someone calls. The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it at first.
He turns to look at her and something within him goes very still. I turn to see who it is. Delia. Why is Delia calling for Gus? Well, she’s friends with Carsai now, part of the inner circle of Aristocrats who orbit around Quentin and his Dolls. Why wouldn’t she call out to him? She probably wants to know what’s going on. I turn back to Gus. He’s still staring at her, as if lost somehow.
I reach out and grasp his arm. “Gus?”
He flinches.
I jump, startled by the response.
He blinks at me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I uh…”
I swallow, hurt that he’d shy away from me. “Delia’s calling you.” I gesture with my chin.
He gets up. “I uh, yeah. I’ve gotta go.”
“Go?”
“Yeah. Just for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
“But we just got back together.”
He leans in, touches my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, Elle.”
Indignation wars inside of me. I want him all to myself, but I can’t. He’s not all mine in Real World like he was in Nexis. I have to share him. “Go on, then.” I shoo him away.
Grinning, he turns away.
I watch him trot up to Delia; his anxiety and tension seem to melt away and he smiles at her. He’s good at putting on airs, just like Quentin, but she doesn’t seem swayed. Delia is angry, annoyed. They start to argue, which is pretty much what I would expect, considering the last time I saw the two of them together was on The Broadcast of my falsified memorial
service and Delia was attacking him on Citizen’s Way.
Smirking at the memory, I stand and gravitate toward the throng of Aristocrats. It’s so quiet. No words. No cries. Nothing. They’re all in shock. All numb. At some point, it will all sink in.
No more laughing with friends as they walk in and out of shops on Citizen’s Way. The only way is forward, into the dark Undertunnel, and no one is laughing.
No more fructose bubbly. Only water—if we can find it.
No more Designer outfits. We’ll have to put our own clothes together, scrap to scrap.
No more constant din from The Broadcast. We will remain uninformed and have to make our own decisions.
No more perpetual light from all the Alts and Mods and holo-glass screens. Only true darkness.
No more androids to keep us company, entertain, or work for us. No more habitation units to monitor us, feed us, clean for us. We have to reassume many of the tasks we evolved to do.
No more doors opening at our approach, no more Central Staffing job placements according to our genetic predispositions, no more arranged marriages to advance up the social chain, no more crime-free city, no more fancy nano-fabrics, no more cyber-stars, no more pods to drive us, no more holographic gardens, no more credits to run the economy, no more high-tech solutions for all our ailments and injuries.
I glance over at where Quentin is standing, staring and brooding in that way he does as his Dolls drag the storage bins out into the main room. Meeting my eyes, he peels himself away from the wall and comes to stand beside me. He watches the people, too, quiet for a long time before saying, “Hard to think about everything we’ve just lost, what it’s going to be like now.”
It’s as if he can read my mind.
“You’re still blaming yourself,” he reflects in an almost teasing voice.
I don’t look at him. “For the part that I had to play in it? Yes.” I give him a pointed glare. “I also blame others.” My uncle. My parents. Lady Cyr. Quentin. Even Gus had a part.
He looks away. “Regret and blame will do nothing for you.”
I straighten and this time I do turn and look at him. “Do I look regretful?” I demand. “Have I pointed a finger at anyone?”
