“I do not think you understand the gravity of what you are proposing. You are not talking about simply integrating these people with biomechatronic components. You are talking about combining every human cell in their bodies with robotic elements. Not only are you creating virtually immortal beings, you cannot accurately predict what enhancements will result, or  what they will become capable of.”

— Sarah Weiland of the Preserve Terra Society at the Pantheon Modern Cyborg Symposium, 2040

The blood on my knuckles was already starting to dry; the cuts from his broken teeth would take longer to heal. His eyes had held the same look as all the others: confusion then comprehension then fear. He hadn’t begged or tried to bargain. Not all of them did. But he would remember my face. Even without my tattoos, he would remember. It was, after all, the last thing he would see.

Bile burned the back of my throat. The first few times, I’d thrown up. Not now. Footsteps echoed on the tiles in the hallway, and it became difficult to breathe. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it, then immediately hated myself. What did I care how she saw me? She didn’t. All she cared about was owning me.

She opened the door gently, hoping to surprise me, to catch me off my guard. She wasn’t aware that I always smelled her long before she came into the room—her cloying perfume of violets and balsam, a sickly-sweet scent that did nothing to cover the odor of decay. The drug was eating her from the inside out, and no perfume in her arsenal could hide it from me. I only wished she would hurry up and die. Then I could stop loving her.

I didn’t flinch as she laid her hand on my shoulder.

“Did you know you have blood in your hair?” she asked, digging her fingers into my skin.

I kept my eyes on my hands.

“Look at me.” She said my name, the sound of it painful to my ears.

I looked, unable to stop myself.

She appeared to be well today, younger, almost like when we first met. Her face was pale and smooth, akin to the antique dolls my mother used to keep on a shelf in the guest room. Her hair was as black as mine, but straight and silky, and cut into a severe bob that framed her delicate face. She stroked my cheek, her acrylic nails making a dry scraping sound that made me want to put my hands on her with violence.

It was difficult for her to be so gentle; it wasn’t her nature. In her defense, it wasn’t entirely her fault. She’d grown up in this life. I hadn’t. Her only way out was death, as was mine—at least until a few weeks ago. And it was she who’d unwittingly given me the key.

She slid into my lap and moved against me in gentle circles. It was what she did whenever she thought I was angry at her, and when I hardened in spite of myself, she couldn’t suppress the victory in her slanted blue eyes. That was her power, the reason she existed. We were both pets, no matter how hard she pretended she wasn’t.

Her father was our keeper, and she, his faultless creation. I was also what he’d made me, but I’d had a choice. In deciding to be with her, I’d embraced this life, as he’d known I would. As she’d known I would. My mother had tried so hard to keep me from people like them, had sacrificed so much. And yet, here I was.

She traced her fingers over the splits in my skin. “What was it this time? Debt? Reneged on a deal? Chose the wrong wine at supper?”

“Do you really care?” It was impossible to keep the harshness out of my voice.

Her eyes narrowed.

I needed to stop rebelling and just play along. She’d been spying on me, showing up unexpectedly. She’d also been poking around in my room, the haze of drugs making her less careful than she’d thought. It was as though she knew something had changed, but her mind couldn’t focus long enough to figure it out.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired. He was the third one this week.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.” She studied my face.

“I know. But an order’s an order, right?”

She pouted up at me, a look that used to tie my stomach up in knots with anticipation. Now, it merely made it churn. I knew what she truly was, the sickness in her. I’d missed it before, those few years ago, under the layers of her makeup and my own infatuation. She was now a caricature of that woman, the softness replaced by something cold, and dazzling, and rotten.

Two weeks. Two more weeks, and I’d be free. God knew how high up her father’s boss was on the food chain, but he was well-placed enough to have me pushed to the front of the line for the Pantheon Modern cyborg program. Such was the truth of my position. I was important enough for the syndicate to invest in me, but expendable enough to be replaced if I died during the process. It was true that a machine could do my job, but then, a machine didn’t have my flaws. A machine would be difficult to bend without breaking.

If I did survive, I’d have to disappear. The violence I was currently capable of would be insignificant in comparison. And yet, I’d have less power than I did now.

She wriggled in my lap, having noticed that my attention was elsewhere. I fought the urge to push her off, to strike her. She smiled at me, running her tongue across her teeth. I swallowed hard, trying not to retch. She misinterpreted my reaction and ground against me before rubbing a finger over her bottom lip and smearing her chin with red.

Two weeks.

I turned my head away as she dropped to her knees and licked the blood from my hands.