Something prickled my consciousness awake; it wasn’t the brightness of day. My eyes snapped open to find the you girl peering at me, her bowl head not an inch away from my nose. I glimpsed her face for the first time. She’d had little work done that I could see: eyes halfway between almond-shaped and slender, a rounded nose, and a full mouth. Her eyes were a light brown, like the watered-down coffee I’d buy with fake cream. Her fingers were extended tentatively above my throat. The back of her hand was bruised where I had jabbed her with the needle. She jumped back when she saw that I had woken. I looked down and remembered the key, then cursed myself for not putting on any clothes the previous night.
“It was only a precaution,” I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat and sat up. “You wouldn’t have been able to get out even if you’d gotten it.”
She stood over me, appearing even leaner in the daylight, all long lines and sharp angles.
“The back door’s blocked,” she said in perfect, educated Mandarin.
Her voice surprised me. Rich, like dark chocolate—more womanly than she looked.
“Mudslide,” I said.
She nodded and drew her other hand from behind her back, revealing a pair of dull scissors I kept in the desk. “I could have killed you in your sleep.”
“You would have had to try hard.” I rose, reaching for a clean shirt draped over the back of a wooden chair. It was black, like most of my clothes. “Those scissors are from another century.” I pulled on the shirt, then some blue jeans, and scrubbed a hand through my dyed blond hair, suddenly self-conscious. I had taken off my mask the night before, assuming I would wake up before she did. Now it was pointless, but seeing each other face-to-face like this felt odd. We’d become a society that barely showed our faces to strangers anymore.
Now what?
We stared at each other for a long moment. If she were a feline, her tail would be thrashing.
“How much do you want?” she asked.
I reached for the scissors, and she let go without protest but said, “They were still sharp enough to stab you in the throat.”
I paused, surprised by her boldness. Maybe if I hadn’t woken when I did, I’d be bleeding out on the sofa right now. Game over.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head.
“I know you must be thirsty. The sleep spell will do that to you.” I crossed the spare chamber to the corner kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open, grabbing a bottle of fancy you water, purified and enriched with gods knew what. A case of it cost more than most mei folks’ weekly salary. “Here.” I offered it to her.
She sat down in the wooden chair, turning the bottle in her hand, examining it.
“It’s not tainted,” I said. “The seal’s unbroken.”
She raised her eyes. “How do I drink it?”
Ah.
“Haven’t you ever taken—”
“No. Never in unregulated space.”
“The air isn’t as polluted up here,” I lied.
“I can’t call anyone in helmet.”
“No.” I knew the first thing she’d try upon waking was to call for help. “I’ve jammed the signals.”
She blinked several times, and her nostrils flared.
I glanced away, tamping down my sympathy.
The girl fidgeted with her suit collar, finally lifting her helmet. It came off with a low hiss. Her ponytail sprang free, black and uncolored. The scent of strawberries filled the air, and I took a step back, caught off guard. I had expected you girls to be scentless at best or to smell clinical at worst, like some specimen kept too long in a jar.
Not like fresh, sweet strawberries.
Her eyes truly watered now as she breathed our polluted air for the first time in her life. She doubled over, coughing. I grabbed the bottle from her hand and twisted it open. “Drink.”
She did so, sucking down the water as if it would save her life. Finally, she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief that had been tucked in her sleeve, then pressed it against her eyes. “How do you live breathing this every day?” she asked in a weak voice.
“We don’t have to live for very long,” I replied.
She dropped her handkerchief and stared at me with red-rimmed eyes. “That’s not funny,” she said.
I smiled. “I wasn’t trying to be.” I sat back down on the old sofa, so there was some distance between us.
She was pretty in a way I wasn’t used to. Not like most you girls bowing to the latest beauty trends, indulging in temporary body modifications from reshaping their noses to plumping their lips, or hips, or rears, depending on what was in. You boys kept pace with pec implants and by buying new, chiseled jawlines. But fads came and went, and the yous altered their looks as often as the seasons. The meis, lacking the funds for such drastic changes, resorted to painting their faces in bright colors, using semipermanent tattoos, and dyeing their hair.
Taipei’s youth had become chameleons. If we couldn’t change the dirty smog that smothered our city, we could at least control how we appeared, each metamorphosis more colorful and extravagant than the last.
She finished her water and cast a wary glance my way. “What’s your name?”
“Seriously?” I laughed.
She lifted her shoulders. “I’d guess you’re one year older than I am. Eighteen. Born in the Year of the Horse.” She nodded at the black clothes strewn on the few pieces of furniture in the room. “Dark Horse, I’ll call you.”
I almost smiled but instead pulled out my butterfly knife and began the familiar pattern of flipping it between my fingers and spinning it in my hand. It helped me to think. She tensed, clutching her thighs. She was afraid I might take advantage of her. I wouldn’t, and I had to fight the urge to reassure her, to explain.
“Why so Ro?” Her throaty voice broke my reverie.
Why so Romeo?
She didn’t mean Romeo as in romantic; she meant Romeo as tragic.
I took in my surroundings through her eyes. I lived in an abandoned laboratory that used to belong to Yangmingshan University, an experimental “home” run on sustainable energy. Back when some thought we could still salvage our planet by “going green.” We might have, if enough people had cared. But they hadn’t. The rich were too rich, the poor were too poor, and the middle class—let’s be honest—were only poor people with bigger houses, driving better cars. Now that the majority of us didn’t live past our forties, we cared even less.
My current home consisted of just three rooms: the office, a bathroom, and this main chamber, which included the small kitchen. It held a large, round dining table with a couple of mismatched stools, the ragged turquoise-and-yellow sofa that was at least four decades old, a metal desk, and the wooden chair she sat in. Large windows flanked the southern wall, revealing a thicket of jungle beyond.
I tossed my knife three times, savoring the snick and snap of the blade and handles, before shrugging. “It’s easier to kidnap in black.”
Bad joke. I think her eyes actually smoldered.
I jumped up and grabbed my ancient MacPlus from the desk, opening it. “Put your helmet back on,” I said.
“Why?”
“You’re calling your family.”
She did as I asked, securing her helmet, then took such a deep, full breath, her breasts swelled against her suit. I pretended not to notice.
“You have one minute.” I tapped the necessary commands into my laptop and nodded at her.
We waited in tense silence, but their was no response to the call request.
“My father’s not picking up,” she finally said.
How was that possible? His daughter had been kidnapped.
“Call your mom, then,” I ordered.
Her mother accepted the call immediately. Thank gods.