Here and now, soft light illuminated all things clean and good, things they had not created. A gentle breeze conducted the rhythmic sway of flaxen reeds, and a lone oak tree glowed amber in the early morning light. Eleven Huxley and Serenity Bourdain glimpsed the world through the dirty glass of the bullet train, this world of untouched and untouchable things.

The in-bound train was overcrowded today, as usual. Inside, coworkers bickered about presentations; a gypsy woman took from her neighbor’s satchel; a feverish child screamed. Indifferent, the train surged on toward city central.

Eleven stared at the photo clutched in her hand.

“Are you sure about this, El?”

She nodded.

The train idled momentarily at the 13th Street and Pleasant Avenue station. Through the begrimed glass Serenity noticed a scorched cement wall spray painted with a blood-red pyramid and the words, “Fuck the Synths!” She cast a quick pitying glance at her friend.

Eleven hadn’t looked up.

Serenity frowned, twitching nervously as the train sped toward the station at 9th and Cross. “It isn’t too late to change your mind, El. You don’t have to be there.”

She shook her head. “No. You and Rion are risking so much for my sister and me. I want to be there for the operation.”

The train stopped. The doors slid open to the tune of mechanical chimes.

“Alright, El.” Serenity looked uneasy still. “Follow me, but stay back a little, okay?” She moved away, pushing through the crowd of people entering and exiting the idling train.

Eleven trailed her friend, careful to turn where she did.

Future-ruin of a now bustling train station gave way to alleyways strewn with smashed syringes and rusting wires. Eleven walked briskly. As she passed, a beggar, his skin a patchwork of pink and white, grasped for her coat with his one functioning arm. Eleven made to wave him off, but the man caught the edge of her sleeve and pulled it just enough to reveal the pale skin of her wrist.

Her face paled. Where the brands of the T.H. Morrow Corporation and her former owner had been, the surgery to remove them and the manufacturer’s tracking chip had left marks that had not yet healed. She yanked her sleeve out of the man’s grasp.

He smiled; it was the subtle smile of a player about to realize a checkmate. Eleven walked away, unnerved. “Synthetic,” the infirm beggar whispered after her. He hobbled toward the main avenue beyond his filthy alley, hissing the word like a curse as he went.

Eleven turned left behind the old plastic manufacturing building. As she rounded the corner, her friend disappeared through the plant’s back door.

Inside, a single bright light hung suspended over a long table covered by a blue tarp. A young woman lay still on the improvised operating table. Tiburion Striker acknowledged Eleven with a nod as Serenity administered anesthetic.

Eleven smoothed the flaxen strands around her sister’s face as darkness took over. “It’ll be over soon,” she whispered.

Tiburion worked deftly, the quick and precise movements of his hands defying geneticists, sequencing errors, the disappointment of his family. The company’s lawyers had, after all, labeled malformed Genotubes like him as “tolerable risks.”

His handiwork was suddenly more brightly illuminated. The flimsy lock clattered on the floor as the door to the outside flew open.

A man with a red pyramid tattoo on his neck fired a volley of charges into the room. Eleven flung herself on her sister. A blast impacted; systems gave out. She slumped against the spattered table, still clutching her sister’s hand.

Tiburion tackled the intruder, sending the pistol spinning from his hand.

Above the mind-numbing hum of the city, a siren, piercing reminder of disorder, sounded in the distance.

Serenity rushed to her friend’s side. “El…El, stay with me, love.”

Eleven revived a little at the sound of her voice. She coughed, and a scarlet string fell upon the cold cement floor that would never embrace her. She grasped for Serenity, whispering urgently, “What a mess we have made…”

***

Megan L. Ramirez

Megan L. Ramirez is a student at Vanderbilt University where she is studying anthropology and art history. She has a thing for pancakes