Memory//Latex
Inside an obscured alleyway bar, a bikini-clad Droid Girl gyrated on a cheap plastic podium. Her hips — designed in outlandish disproportion to her waist ratio — rocked to the music that played from the speakers. The music could barely mask the sounds of thunder and torrential rain that raged outside. As she flexed her body to the right, slight tears around the side revealed hints of titanium underplating to the small afternoon crowd.
Xyr watched her from behind the one-way mirror of the private viewing booth, inhaling deeply from the shisha pipe situated in the middle of the polished wooden table. With each exhalation, their scented smoke was trapped by the thick velvet drapes covering the walls.
The dancer looked across the room towards the booth and flashed a bored expression. She bent over and let the rhythmic flash of the stage light cast a shadow over her body.
Xyr adjusted the high collar of their jumpsuit, reminiscing about their time up on that stage. It had been a while, at least four years. They remembered their titanium skeletal structure and how it used to shift and flex underneath their revealing outfits, under their latex-flesh casing. How the wires, threaded through like nerve endings, would light up to the hollers of the audience. How word of their performances spread like wildfire, how that led to catching The Pianist’s eye. How their money grew with his business arrangement. How they lived for the thrill of each successful client, each auctioned-off video. How at the beginning they believed The Pianist and his erratic, impassioned speeches about how they would make history.
A wave of fatigue washed over Xyr, filling a hollow in their chest. No revolutions, no changes in history, just a repetitive grind. What is the point of it all when you have the money to live forever but no passion for living?
The booth’s glass door slid open and interrupted Xyr’s daydreams. A short, thin man stomped inside. Xyr flinched and looked up, then quickly relaxed. It was The Pianist, holding a glass of scotch in each hand. His brow was furrowed, pale mouth twisted in annoyance. He was drenched.
‘Got stopped by the cops outside during the fucking storm,’ he said, standing in front of Xyr. He placed both glasses on the table and removed his white silk shirt. In the dim light of the booth, the thick scars that crisscrossed his chest were only faint outlines. He twisted the fabric of his shirt, water dripping onto the floor next to his snakeskin boots.
‘There are raids going on,’ he continued. ‘I heard from a couple of the pigs. One of them almost ripped an arm and a leg off me trying to get more cash.’ He put the shirt on the table, sat down opposite Xyr and took a long sip of his scotch.
‘What does that mean for us? Will the scramble upgrade keep us undetected?’ Xyr asked, leaning in closer to him.
‘You don’t have to whisper, no one can hear us here,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘But yes. The upgrade will keep you off the radar. Even if he jumps on the emergency line, no one will hear.’ There was a pause as the track shifted in the bar, indicating a change in dancer. Xyr watched The Pianist tap rhythms in time to the beat on the table. A nervous tic, or permanent damage from too many jacked amphetamines? After working together for three years, Xyr still could not tell.
‘Should I be worried? How good is your guy?’ Xyr asked. They looked into his eyes and searched for a tell. Nothing but the cold, ice-blue stare.
‘He’s the best,’ The Pianist said, meeting their gaze. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘No,’ Xyr responded, matter of fact. ‘I’m not stupid.’
The Pianist shrugged and looked away, settling to feign interest in the red drapes that decorated the booth walls. ‘It doesn’t matter. It will happen tonight. It’s been too long coming. Unless you’re having second thoughts?’
‘No. I am not. I am wary of your interest in this, however.’ Xyr squared their shoulders and folded their arms across their chest.
‘I love you,’ he said, abruptly. ‘That is my interest. I am in love with you and want the best for you.’ His palms were turned up on the table, a gesture towards Xyr, as if to make an offering. Xyr stared blankly. They heard this from him occasionally and always brushed it off, much like when he would call up screeching that he hated them for some inane issue. The Pianist’s emotions operated in the extremes; the unpredictability made him one of the best in the business, one not to mess with, but also posed potential issues.
‘You are my employer. You love money,’ Xyr said and began to laugh, their husky chuckle filling the smoky room. The Pianist flashed a pained expression.
‘I hate the idea of this man begging you to be his plaything. It makes me jealous,’ he said, taking another sip of his drink and leaning forward. Xyr could see his breath quickening. ‘He isn’t like us — they aren’t our people. They have the money, cause the raids, laugh at us, beat us…’ he began, tightening his hold on the glass.
‘ — and you are a snuff film producer for rich businessmen and betting rings, stuck with the hoi polloi. Your operations are based in the cattle class of strip joints,’ Xyr said in a singsong voice, interrupting him. They placed their chin in their hand and gave him a mocking pout.
The Pianist broke the glass with his grip. Shards splintered on the table and floor below. He snarled a curse. Xyr rolled their eyes and turned to watch the new dancer, ignoring the theatrics The Pianist was well known for.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. A couple of drops of blood from his palm fell onto the table in front of him, mixed with the water that seeped from his shirt.
‘Don’t give me that wounded pride shit. Or pretend that you suddenly care about class warfare,’ Xyr said. ‘I’ve heard it more times than I can count.’ Their voice was devoid of emotion. ‘I want to do this because he bothers me,’ Xyr continued,
folding their arms over their body once more. ‘I cannot stand a person obsessing over me. A boring one, at that. Also, cleaning out his funds before I kill him would be beneficial for the both of us,’ Xyr said. They could feel the corners of their mouth pull into a smirk as a sense of satisfaction rippled through them.
‘Tape his murder through your eye-cam,’ The Pianist replied, and licked his lips. Xyr felt a flutter in their chest, but quickly squashed whatever began to spark. Keeping emotions at a distance was a fundamental coping mechanism for their line of work and now was not the time to be sentimental.
His eyes glinted. He leaned forward and gestured for Xyr to do the same.
‘Oh, one more thing about tonight, I forgot to ask,’ he began, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Did you get the new genital upgrades? I heard that you could lay eggs like a fish now,’ he laughed, and snatched Xyr’s hand across the glass-coated table.
‘You’re a pig,’ they snapped and tried to withdraw their hand from his. The Pianist gripped their hand harder and lifted it towards his lips. He kissed their misshapen knuckles one by one. Xyr felt their stomach twist into knots. They gave him a final, disdainful look, pulled themselves away from him and strutted out the sliding door.
• • •
Raindrops drizzled through the thick smog hovering above them. The storms had died down, though the humidity remained. They were late for their meeting. The hotel was still two blocks away. Their heels clicked against the wet pavement as they hurried towards their destination. Passers-by darted out of their way. Xyr could see in their peripheral vision the occasional head turn. The thick silk dress wrapped tight against their slight body was not enough protection from the weather.
Xyr clicked on their eye-cam as they waited for their client’s runner to pick them up from outside the hotel. Idly fixing a strand of hair, they froze as they felt a sudden jolt in their forehead. Someone, a third party, was jacking into their cam and ears.
‘I told you I’d be watching.’ The Pianist’s voice reverberated within their brain. Xyr’s panic subsided.
‘How much are you selling this for?’ they murmured, feeling the slight vibration of their vocal cord mic.
‘Haven’t decided,’ The Pianist responded. ‘But it is going to be a big one. You get a cut, of course. See you back at the club, baby.’ The voice in their head went dead as Xyr spotted their client’s runner approaching them. Xyr smiled at him.
‘Hello, Laurence,’ they said.
‘Come on. It’s time,’ the runner responded, taking Xyr’s arm in his. He led them in to the hotel lobby and made a beeline for the elevator. The runner swiped the card and keyed the passcode for the penthouse suite.
‘I didn’t expect this to be happening so soon. I thought he was in Japan, completing some merger?’ Xyr asked, fluttering their eyes up at Laurence. He remained silent, staring straight ahead. Moments later, the lift doors opened to the immaculately designed apartment. The delicate scent of orchids wafted through. Gentle lighting reflected on the glass surfaces and old modernist paintings graced the cream walls. Xyr heard classical music. The client got up from the white leather lounge and dismissed Laurence with a wave of his hand.
The client grabbed Xyr around the waist and held them tight. His hand on the small of their back moved slowly up their body and towards their face. He roughly gripped their chin, forcing them to look him in the eye.
‘Did you not miss me?’ the client whispered. ‘Do you not think of me when I am gone? All I do is think of you.’
Xyr said nothing, just smiled. They pulled away and undid the zip on their dress, letting it fall to the carpet. Xyr took his hand and walked towards the lounge.
• • •
The client slept behind Xyr while they checked that the money transfer went through, updating the banking chip located behind their ear. The Pianist’s voice erupted in their head as he jacked in once more.
‘We’re good to go, baby, we got some eager customers.’
Xyr nodded and turned towards their client. Xyr scrutinised the slumbering man. Soft pink skin that bleeds when cut, black hair, enamel and calcium bones and fleshy organs. Not like us. Heat rose from the base of Xyr’s spine and bubbled up inside. They gripped their fists so tight the skin over their misshapen knuckles turned white, then tore to reveal the metal joints underneath. Their muscles tensed as they drew back all power in their body, ready for the first strike.
‘Yes,’ they heard The Pianist hiss with pleasure. The client’s eyes snapped open as the first punch hit his temple. He cried out. As Xyr raised their fist to hit again, they watched him limply attempt to hit the emergency alert button chip from inside his wrist.
Kay Stavrou is a non-binary author who dabbles in sci-fi and experimental narrative nonfiction. They have been published in Archer Magazine, The Gazette and The Music.
