Rules for eating oysters

Rule Three: Stay away from those who cannot or will not return your affection. “You want your future read through the Book of Changes? What nonsense. I can predict our future right now,” Duncan says with biting sarcasm. “We’re going to starve to death if Kindly Cheng doesn’t give us another job soon.” Shay raises an eyebrow. “We got a mountain of credits after that Wuxing run.” Duncan scratches his head, visibly thrown. “Well, you didn’t warn me I needed to save it...” “And you didn’t warn me you needed a bookkeeper,” Shay retorts dryly. “Tell me, have you already spent all of it? How is that even possible? Do you eat credsticks for breakfast?” They’re in the cramped cabin with the computer, a makeshift conference room and dining area all in one. Racter, perched at the table, is slicing a puck of pu-erh tea with a slim, needle-like knife. He can’t stand soykaf — it makes his brain sluggish. He watches, out of the corner of his eye, as the siblings argue. Of course, he has no intention of intervening. “Shay, you know weapons and ammo don’t come cheap. And, well... I might’ve spent a little... just a little... in the mahjong parlor. What’s the big deal, anyway?” “Oh, of course,” Shay snaps, her voice razor-sharp. “Money’s such a trivial thing.” Racter senses the invisible wall of tension between Shay and Duncan. It’s thick, almost tangible, like air frozen solid and splintering into shards of ice. Her brother. It would sound absurd, even if Shay weren’t an elf and Duncan an orc. They couldn’t be more different. Racter knows they’ve been together since childhood — friends even before Raymond Black took them in. He’s often wondered what brought them together. What usually binds the weak and the desperate? Necessity. But Shay hasn’t been weak for a very long time. And it dawns on him, with cold clarity, that the way she looks at Duncan now is the same way she looks at beggars, addicts, and drunks — the kind of people that clutter the streets of Hong Kong. There’s no malice in her gaze, but there’s no warmth either. Catching herself, perhaps remembering they’re not alone in the room, Shay runs a hand across her forehead as if brushing away a veil. Her voice softens, tinged with weariness. “Alright, Duncan. It’s fine. You’re right — we need to plan our runs and budget together as a team. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’ll figure something out for the money. And no, I won’t drag you to a fortune-teller if you’re not interested.” “Well, actually, I wouldn’t say I’m totally against it—” Duncan starts, but Shay has already slipped out of the room, either not hearing or pretending not to. Duncan mutters under his breath in Cantonese, “The Book of Changes... What’s next? Horoscopes?” “Palm readings?” Racter suggests helpfully, his voice a cold drawl. “Tarot? Runes?” “Exactly. Utter nonsense. You agree, right?” Duncan turns to Racter, clearly fishing for validation. Racter pauses, observing Duncan with his frosty, pale gaze. He can see the orc is rattled — not by Shay’s interest in mysticism, but by her painfully clear insinuation that he’s a burden. This is, Racter realizes, the first time he and Duncan have spoken one-on-one. Shay’s brother intrigues him as little as Gobbet does, though at least Gobbet is amusing. Over time, she’s even grown marginally more tolerant of him, despite his status as a cyber-brained bastard. (Gobbet, it seems, treats everyone and everything with the same detached selfishness, except for Is0bel, and for that, Racter is quietly grateful.) Duncan, however, has always made his disapproval of Racter clear. He tries to hide it, but it seeps through in his blunt speech and awkward silences. Under Racter’s scrutiny, Duncan falters, his face twitching with discomfort as he realizes who he’s talking to. Racter’s lips curl into something resembling a friendly grin. “I don’t have a strong opinion on divination,” he says lightly. “The Awakening changed the world. Your sister can light a cigarette with her finger — why shouldn’t fortune-telling work too?” Duncan looks even more unsettled. “Well... Shay’s Shay. She’s special. She can do anything. I mean... you know that. If she decided to learn fortune-telling herself, I wouldn’t doubt it’d work.” Despite his earlier frustration, there’s a raw, almost endearing faith in his voice when he talks about Shay. “I’m not sure I follow,” Racter replies, testing the knife’s edge with a fingertip. A bead of blood wells up, and he flicks it away. (Duncan’s face practically screams “Fragging lunatic riggers.”) “You don’t doubt the existence of magic, do you? Just the other day, in Wuxing, we encountered spirits and mages — an overabundance of them, I’d say. And you’ve seen Gobbet cast spells with your own eyes...” “Well, yeah. I know magic’s real. Fireballs, lightning bolts, summoning spirits — that stuff’s legit. But you know what I mean!” Duncan grumbles. “Proper magic is one thing. But these con artists in ridiculous tents? C’mon. How can anyone believe in something you can’t see or measure?” “It sometimes saddens me that everything in the world can be seen and measured,” Racter muses. “You? Saddened? With all that chrome replacing your brain?” Duncan snaps, his frustration finally finding an outlet. “And if you’re so into magic, why don’t you learn it yourself?” “I’m afraid I’m too full of chrome for that,” Racter replies with a touch of irony. Duncan stares, baffled. Racter sighs and elaborates. “Any cybernetic enhancements chip away at one’s Essence.” Duncan’s confusion deepens. Racter continues, undeterred. “Essence. It’s... a unique substance. Present in the living, absent in the dead.” “Like a soul?” Duncan asks. “Call it what you like. It’s what allows one to wield magic.” “Ah. So, if you replace your limbs with metal, no more magic. Got it. But my sister didn’t lose her abilities when she got that, uh, datajack installed...” “Not yet. But I warned Shay not to go further. There’s a limit.” “Hmm... Makes sense, I guess. But still...” Duncan is clearly determined to win the argument. “Didn’t you just say that before the Awakening, a lot of things seemed impossible? Maybe you should try it. This magic stuff.” Racter smiles patiently, his voice calm, though his drone, Koschei, scratches the floor irritably with its limbs. “You can’t be a mage and a rigger. That’s simply a fact.” “But you’ve never even tried to use magic, have you?” Duncan presses. “I...” Racter cuts himself off. The very idea is absurd. Duncan doesn’t understand magic, technology, or the concept of Essence. He just learned the word today and is arguing out of sheer stubbornness. And yet... The thought lingers. Koschei’s self-repair systems run on magic, after all. And Koschei is undeniably part of Racter. “You’re right,” Racter says softly, almost warmly. The grin Duncan flashes in response is as smug as it is triumphant. “Inertia of thought. Who’s to say magic and technology can’t coexist? Thank you. You’ve given me a new perspective.” As he descends into the hold, Koschei clicking after him, Racter considers the theory. Cybernetics reduce Essence, that much is known. But Racter has never had Essence — not before the implants, not ever. You can’t lose what you never had. Perhaps magic isn’t incompatible with a lack of Essence but with the act of losing it. Or maybe some things simply aren’t meant to be understood. One of his earliest memories surfaces: as a child, dissecting a chicken to uncover the miracle that made it breathe, move, live. He’d been amazed — how could such a crude, clumsy, poorly constructed mechanism function? Even now, after combing through countless medical texts, he understands how — on a technical level. But the wonder remains. And then, not long after, the Fifth World ended, and the Sixth began. Magic returned — or, as some claimed, simply became more visible. But not for him. Never for him. One way or another, Racter decides that visiting the fortune-teller who divines the future using the Book of Changes might not be such a bad idea after all. Duncan, despite his earlier objections, comes along too. Shay and Gobbet are enthusiastic. Is0bel and Duncan remain skeptical. Racter is intrigued. Genuinely intrigued.   The name of the temple is obscured by the relentless downpour and the thick plumes of incense smoke. Bright red lantern garlands shimmer in the wet asphalt. The wind pelts them with handfuls of rain, almost gleefully, as if it had planned this ambush. Stooped figures of locals dart through the gray veil of the storm under vivid umbrellas or cut through puddles on motorbikes and bicycles wrapped in raincoats — a portrait of Hong Kong as quintessential as the iconic junk with red sails. Near the temple stands the fortune-teller's tent, embroidered with yin-yang symbols and an octagon marked with the eight trigrams of the Bagua, representing the fundamental principles of existence. Inside, there’s a table with a censer and a few chairs. The fortune-teller herself bears an uncanny resemblance to Shay and Gobbet — or perhaps to all urban mystics. Dressed in ragged, layered furs, her ageless face is smeared with heavy, clumsy eyeliner. But what truly catches Racter’s interest is the woman’s aura. Her emotions, like her age, are unreadable. Her presence isn’t smooth and reflective like a mirror, but chaotic, a tangle of jumbled colors and textures — a heap of storm-felled branches, confusing and impenetrable. She carefully retrieves her tools: the Book of Changes, wrapped in silk, and a bundle of dried yarrow stalks. Methodically, she spreads the silk on the table, lights the censer, kneels facing south, and bows low three times. With the stalks clasped in her right hand, she passes them through the smoke in slow, clockwise circles three times. Finally, she lifts her head, her black, bird-like eyes sweeping over the group. Businesslike, she says, "One hundred nuyen." Gobbet, who had undoubtedly noticed the sign outside listing the price, immediately feigns outrage. "One hundred?! That’s daylight robbery!" Almost in unison, Shay interjects slyly, "Is that a hundred for all of us?" Racter, watching this, reflects that sometimes Shay and Gobbet seem eerily alike. Or perhaps it’s just Hong Kong itself, molding everyone into the same shape. Here, anyone — whether orc or elf, mage or rigger — learns the art of haggling sooner or later. The fortune-teller, as if reading his thoughts, smirks and says, "Hong Kong’s a big marketplace, isn’t it? If you don’t haggle, you don’t eat, eh? So, what’s your question?" "Our question?" Shay falters for a moment. "Well… the usual one, I guess. We want to know our future." "And tell me, pointed-ears," the fortune-teller says with a teasing edge, "do you think all of you share the same future?" "Well… probably not," Shay admits. "Exactly," the fortune-teller nods with satisfaction. "So why ask stupid questions you already know the answer to? One hundred nuyen each, sweethearts. Who’s first?" Gobbet, naturally, is the first to sit at the table — having the most experience in such matters. The fortune-teller divides the bundle of yarrow stalks on the table into two parts, symbolizing Yin and Yang. The Great Ultimate gives rise to two modes. Two modes give rise to four forms. Four forms give rise to eight trigrams. Eight trigrams determine fortune and misfortune. Fortune and misfortune give rise to the Great Enterprise. From the right-hand pile, the fortune-teller picks a single stalk and holds it delicately between her fingers. Then she performs a series of cryptic actions with the left-hand pile, moving back to the right, repeating the process in what appears to Racter as a completely meaningless ritual. Gobbet, however, watches with rapt attention, her lips moving silently as she calculates the meaning of each subsequent line. “Now then, let’s see,” the fortune-teller murmurs after finishing the last line. “Xiao Chu—‘Nurturing Through Smallness.’ Be content with what you have. Live in the moment. Don’t waste your energy on regrets for the past or dreams of the unattainable. Pay attention to life’s small details; they can bring clarity and open the way to joy, helping you avoid mistakes. Things are difficult for you right now, but soon they’ll get better. The most important thing is to believe.” “What a load of nonsense,” Duncan mutters under his breath. “It’s that — what’s it called? I’ve read about it… Some kind of psychological trick. The kind of thing anyone would believe because it’s vague enough to apply to anyone.” “The Barnum Effect,” Racter whispers, helpfully. Duncan gives him a skeptical glance. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one on magic’s side?” “I told you,” Racter replies calmly, “I’m on no one’s side here.” The fortune-teller, meanwhile, is still gazing at Gobbet as if reading her like a book. “You’re also imbalanced in your elements,” she says matter-of-factly. “Stop eating so much spicy food — you’re already too full of Fire. And no more pu-erh tea. Stick to teas with a cooling nature. And stop wasting your money on frivolities.” She leans in conspiratorially, her tone laden with the typical Chinese disregard for personal boundaries. “And, for heaven’s sake, stop sleeping around so much. You’re throwing away your precious energy.” “Nobody asked you,” Gobbet huffs indignantly, but after a pause, she admits with a sheepish nod, “Actually, you might have a point, granny. Just yesterday, I was thinking about how many spirits I couldn’t summon because I didn’t have the strength… Thanks. Here’s your hundred nuyen.” “What? Seriously?” Duncan hisses. “There’s no way this scam artist is getting my hundred.” Is0bel shakes her head disapprovingly, too. “Unbelievable. Gobbet handing over money for this garbage? She might as well have just thrown those nuyen into the trash.” Strangely, Shay remains full of enthusiasm. “I want to try.” She takes Gobbet’s seat across from the fortune-teller. The ritual begins anew: three bows, yarrow stalks passed through the incense smoke, the meticulous sorting of stalks between the two piles. When it’s over, the fortune-teller frowns, staring down at the yarrow stalks as if puzzled. Time stretches, her silence pressing down on the tent like a thick, suffocating fog. She doesn’t even look at Shay. “Well?” Duncan grumbles impatiently. “Go on, tell her. ‘Live in the moment. Everything will be fine. Don’t eat spicy food.’” “No,” Gobbet whispers. “This is something else. Something serious.” “A bad hexagram?” Racter murmurs quietly to Gobbet, hoping she’s been following the process. “Ming Yi,” she mutters. “‘Darkening of the Light.’ Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.” “Don’t be foolish, rat-girl,” the fortune-teller suddenly says, her voice sharp and cutting through the tent like a blade. She shouldn’t have been able to hear them whispering, nor, supposedly, understand English. “You don’t know what’s good or evil. Neither does anyone else. For the universe, there is no such thing. It is too vast for us to harm.” “Well, I’m not that vast,” Shay interjects. “What matters to me is whether my future brings good luck or bad. What did you see? Tell me.” The fortune-teller shakes her head. “There is no good luck or bad luck. You can’t tell one from the other until you’ve lived through it. Both push you forward in the end.” “Then what is there?” Shay snaps, her frustration with the vague platitudes beginning to show. “There is life. There is death. There is power. And you, my dear, are strong. Very, very strong. You are omnipotent as long as your strength stays within you.” “Pff!” Duncan scoffs, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry?” Shay says, leaning forward. “‘I’m strong as long as my strength is with me’? My Cantonese isn’t great — I must be misunderstanding something.” “Strength,” the fortune-teller repeats with deliberate emphasis. “There is emptiness, and there is fullness. The nature of strength is to flow from one vessel to another, like the ocean, when the balance shifts. To be strong is to rely on yourself. The strong embrace and bless their solitude. The weak flee from it.” “So, to be strong, I have to be lonely? To not let anyone close?” Shay tilts her head, birdlike, confusion etched across her face. “No. To be strong is to stand on your own. What you’re talking about — hoarding yourself like a treasure — is greed. Greed is the mark of emptiness. Generosity is the mark of fullness. A lamp doesn’t burn dimmer for lighting another. But remember, this strength is yours. Don’t give it away.” Shay tries to press for more, but the fortune-teller offers no further explanation. “If I weren’t born and raised here in Kowloon, I’d think my Cantonese was broken too,” Gobbet says, bewildered. “Well, I suppose it’s my turn,” Racter says, his tone carefully neutral. The ritual is repeated a third time. The incense, the stalks, the rhythmic sorting of piles. The fortune-teller’s gnarled fingers move in a steady rhythm that might lull the unwary into a trance, but Racter’s augmented eyes and mind are sharp, taking note of every detail. He realizes, with a flicker of unease, that the exact same hexagram is taking shape as before. Solid line, broken, solid, and then three broken lines. Out of sixty-four possibilities, two identical readings in a row. “What’s the result?” Shay asks. The fortune-teller’s expression darkens further. Her gaze rises to meet Racter’s, shadowed and wary. Then, quietly, she leans closer and says, so only he can hear, “I have nothing to tell you. Leave. Magic is not for people like you.” “I see,” Racter replies just as quietly, rising from his seat. “I understand your perspective.” “Wait, you both got the same hexagram?” Gobbet blurts out, oblivious to the exchange but clearly tracking the pattern. Racter and Shay lock eyes. For a moment, it feels as if the world outside the tent has fallen away, leaving only the two of them suspended in its dim, incense-thickened air. Shay’s wide, fearful eyes dominate her face, her emotions an open book: surprise, anxiety, and something deeper, more primal. Out of sixty-four hexagrams, they had drawn Ming Yi, the darkest omen, Darkening of the Light. Racter doesn’t hesitate. He takes Shay’s hand and smiles, his voice light, almost playful. “A shared future — how romantic. I’m glad we’ll face whatever comes together.” Shay, to her credit, catches on immediately. She smiles back, her expression radiant and natural. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” It’s the first time Racter has ever touched her. Her hand is warm and light, dry in the way Southerners’ skin often is. Not the damp, jelly-like sensation that had once nauseated him when he first transitioned to his cybernetic enhancements. Of course, living flesh is inferior to cyber skin in one way or another — all those pores, hairs, pimples, blood vessels... But Shay is different. Even her odd, briny scent — something he’s long since grown accustomed to — only makes her seem more distinct, more alive. He doesn't mind this touch. And she doesn't seem to mind, despite her confusion. He slides a ring off his finger and places it on hers, a gleaming platinum band against her dark skin. Then, with an almost imperceptible bow, he brushes his lips lightly over her hand. The ring is a wedding band — a relic from a distant life, from a time when he was far more human than machine. Shay’s dark eyes flicker with a kaleidoscope of emotions: surprise, confusion, curiosity—so many at once it’s hard to track them all. But there’s no anger, and she doesn’t pull her hand away, though her fingers tremble slightly. Racter hopes the moment looks as romantic to the others as it is supposed to be. “Oh, for crying out loud,” Gobbet groans, her voice thick with disgust. “Not that I’m surprised,” Is0bel sighs. “You two cling to each other like rom-com protagonists.” “Thanks for the support, guys,” Shay quips. “It’s great to know my personal life is so entertaining for everyone.” “Thanks for reminding some of us we don’t have a personal life,” Is0bel retorts with her usual dry wit. Racter arches an amused brow at the rom-com remark, though there’s truth in Is0bel’s observation. By now, he knows it’s pointless to deny that he often prioritizes Shay — her plans, her whims, even this little adventure in divination — over his own needs or logic. Because she’s always interesting. Because… “Shay is Shay. She’s special.” Duncan seems to be the only one in the room caught off guard by the scene unfolding. His eyes are glazed over, his face streaks with blotches of red and white like a poorly mixed strawberry milkshake. Doesn’t sit well, does it, kid? The idea of your sister sleeping with some unhinged rigger? Racter thinks, his detachment absolute. It doesn’t matter if the rumors are true or not — what matters was that everyone believe them, and have for some time. It looked like he’d played his cards right: in an instant, all interest in the shared hexagram he and Shay had supposedly divided between them — like wedding bands — was forgotten. Perfect. Whispering and stifled laughter were far better than the stormy, oppressive silence that had hung over the group following the previous fortune. But Racter remembers that silence, and he is sure Shay hasn’t forgotten it either. Strength flows from one vessel to another, like the ocean when the balance shifts. The strong embrace their solitude. The weak flee from it. Shay’s trembling hand still rests in his as she manages a final, barbed bit of negotiation: “So let me get this straight, granny. We’re saving a hundred shiny nuyen on the shared future forecast?” The fortune teller purses her lips in disapproval but nods curtly. “Yes. The last reading is free.”   ***    They walk back to The Leaky Tub on foot, despite the rain showing no signs of letting up. Racter and Shay share an umbrella. The others have tactfully gone ahead, leaving them to talk in private. “Clever move,” Shay says distantly. “Apologies. I realize it was tactless—” “What? No. Not at all. Everyone already assumed the worst about us.” “True enough. I just didn’t want them worrying over nothing. Especially Gobbet — she’d turn a trivial fortune into some catastrophic omen, you know how she is.” “Or something not trivial — that’s what worries me…” “All the more reason,” Racter said, voice measured. “Do you think the fortune ties into what’s happening in Hong Kong? To this… Qian Ya?” (Shay has come to his workshop late at night more than once, unable to sleep. Like the rest of the city, she is plagued by strange dreams — teeth falling out, nails splintering. One night, Shay has asked if he ever sleeps. “Well, sometimes you need to run defrags and virus and error checks,” he’s said, but her expression has made him hastily explain it was a joke. Yes, he sleeps. But no, he never dreams. Not of anything. Not ever.) “I’m certain of it,” Shay says finally. She falls silent for a moment, then adds, “You know, at first, I thought you didn’t understand people at all. Like one of those genius scientist clichés.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “But for someone who doesn’t feel emotions, you’re frighteningly good at manipulating them.” “Well,” Racter replies with a small smile, “some things are easier to see from the outside. ‘When face to face, we cannot see the face,’ as one Russian poet wrote.” “A poet? Which one?” Her smile was faint but curious. He is about to answer when his attention shifts, focusing instead on the swirl of emotions radiating from her mind. The storm has settled, but what remains isn’t quite what he’s expected. His suggestion that they play the part of a couple shouldn’t have angered or even embarrassed her — after all, the others already assumed they were involved. Yet beneath her calm smile, he sees crimson streaks of shame, growing scarlet bands of anger, and the same old familiar fear. But there is something else, too — blue ripples of sadness, soft and inexplicable, like raindrops disturbing a puddle’s surface. Racter still holds her hand. The skin beyond her wrist is chilled from the rain, goosebumps rising along its length. But her palm is warm — warmer than usual, though her pulse always runs a little faster than average, her body temperature slightly higher, like a cat’s. He stops abruptly, squeezing her fingers gently to halt her as well. “Shay,” he begins carefully, “you’re an excellent liar. But don’t you think it’s time to talk honestly? I can see that you’re angry. That wasn’t my intention. Your friendship is important to me.” “Angry?” She blinks at him, feigning confusion. “I’m not angry at all.” “Remember when we first met? You asked me about my brain — how it works. Well, my brain is biological. Its neural connections are reinforced with synthetic proteins, but at its core, it’s not so different from yours. No cerebral accelerators, and I rarely use pain blockers — they interfere with focus and body awareness. But…” He hesitates, the barest flicker of doubt crossing his expression. Is Shay’s friendship worth revealing secrets that could one day be used against him? Would the truth make things better or worse? In the end, he decides. “But?” Shay prompts. “You know riggers have a special connection to their machines,” he says slowly. “But most people don’t think about how it works. My friend, I live in a very different world than you do. Humans perceive less than one ten-trillionth of what surrounds them. Right now, X-rays and gamma rays are passing through your body, along with microwaves, radio waves, phone calls, and television broadcasts. You have no idea any of it’s there. My perception is far less limited by human biology. So… I know quite a bit about you. I know you’re cold and stressed right now. Would you like my coat?” “I don’t want your coat,” she snaps. “And I’m not cold.” “You’re shivering. Your temperature is rising. There’s a soreness in your throat — it might be the beginning of an infection. Your back aches. And there’s a bruise on your elbow.” Shay jerks her hand away, retreating a step as though trying to shield herself. Her cheeks flush, either with embarrassment or the anger she was finally allowing herself to show. “God, I’m such an idiot… I should have guessed. You’re packed with tech from head to toe. What else do you know? The color of my underwear?” “Shay, you’re being childish,” he says calmly. “I know even the shape of your liver, if that helps put things in perspective.” “You can see pain?” she repeats, the realization dawning slowly. “Even mine?” Racter nods. “I see it as a cellular process and as electromagnetic signals from your brain. And I know you’ve been upset, not just now, but for some time.” Wrapping her arms around herself, Shay shivers more visibly now, no longer bothering to deny it. “Wonderful. My emotions are an open book for you to flip through whenever you like. Just fantastic.” “Not whenever I like,” he corrects gently. “I can see what you feel, but I often don’t understand why.” “Oh, you’d like to know that too, wouldn’t you?” she asks sharply. “Are you worried that I know things about others that feel inappropriate? I don’t think in those terms.” “Well, I do!” she shuts back, her voice raw with frustration. “You want to know why I’m angry? Fine. Here’s some honesty for you in return, another of my rules, a very important one: to stay away from those who cannot or will not return your affection. Got that? Still not clear? I like you. Get it? You don’t need to see the world as waves and particles to figure that out — everyone on my ship sees it. And you know what? I liked that you didn’t seem to notice the effect you had on me. I loved it. You treated me like a colleague, like a friend, not like…” She falters, unable to finish. (Like a pretty schoolgirl. His own words, echoing in his mind. He should have kept quiet then. Or should he? For once, they aren’t dancing around things. This is honest — raw, like a fight.) “…But now I see you understand perfectly,” Shay continues grimly. “And you enjoy it. That bruise didn’t even cross my mind, but you — what you did? That hurt. And it would hurt any woman to have a ring slipped on her finger like that — as part of some joke, some ploy, just to distract people. Because she’d want it to mean something. For it to be real.” “Why are you so certain I will not return your affection?” Racter asks quietly, his tone uncharacteristically serious. Shay looks away. “I… I’m not optimistic enough to believe someone like you could ever love me. A psycho…” She catches herself. “I’m sorry, but you practically boasted about your diagnosis. And what you just told me… No. I don’t want scraps from some übermensch who sees me as colorful waves and organs lit up under an X-ray.” Racter rubs his temple wearily with one hand, though the other remains steady, holding an umbrella over Shay’s head. The rain shows no signs of letting up. “My friend,” he begins, his voice calm but pointed. “I see a significant contradiction in your reasoning…” “Oh, and why don’t you tell me where the contradiction lies in my feelings!” Shay snaps back, her voice heated, her words trembling with anger. “I’m not telling you—I’m offering to discuss it,” Racter replies evenly. “Right now, you’re saying you want mutual affection. But just a moment ago, you said something very different: that you liked how I don’t look at you the way other men do. By the way, how is it they look at you? Like a pretty schoolgirl? It seems many men find that appealing, though society officially frowns upon it as crass.” His tone remains dispassionate. “Theoretically, I could reprogram my brain to release certain hormones, if you’d prefer that kind of attention. If you’re sure that’s what you want — to have me trembling with lust over a delicate, innocent, helpless little girl, blushing at the slightest provocation—” “Shut up.” Her voice is sharp, cutting through his words like a blade. “Every word out of your mouth is like a toad.” “—a girl who would obey your every whim, who you could humiliate, dress up as a schoolgirl or a maid, hit, degrade—” “Stop it!” The sound of a slap slices through the air, nearly drowning out the whistling slash of Koshchei’s blades as they carve through the space between them. Shay’s movement was so quick, Racter barely had time to shove her aside and step forward, shielding her from Koshchei, who had, naturally, attempted to protect his master. Racter was only a fraction too slow in mentally commanding the machine to halt; two of the blades still managed to graze his arm. The slash left long, crisscrossing tears in his shirt and deep cuts in his skin, which instantly bloomed red like spider lily petals. Shay stares at his arm, wide-eyed with horror, fully aware that it should have been her standing there, and that two wounds would not have been the end of it. “You… Let me tie a tourniquet, we have to—” “No need. The artery’s intact; the bleeding will stop soon.” He pauses, and for a moment they just look at each other, a fragile thread of shared fear — both for themselves and for each other — stretching taut between them. “Please don’t do that again in Koshchei’s presence,” Racter adds quietly. “He’s extremely dangerous, and I don’t fully control him.” Koshchei now crouches on the ground between them, a strange amalgam of machine and wounded animal, disoriented and uncertain whom to defend. Shay nods mutely. Her gaze drifts from the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt to his face, where the imprint of her slap still burns. “I’m sorry,” Racter says. “I went too far.” She shakes her head. “You never go too far. You only say what you’ve carefully chosen to say. I’m certain of that now.” After a pause, she adds quietly, “You were right about the contradiction. I don’t want that kind of affection.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “But what you said was cruel. If you really understood what you were talking about, you wouldn’t have said it.” Racter considers this in silence. Blood drips from his forearm, carried away by the rain, pooling faintly red at his feet. The wounds are a small price to pay for what, to him, feels like indirect confirmation of something he had long suspected: Shay is at war with herself. She craves love but dreads intimacy, caught in the push and pull of a healthy body and a mind haunted by unspoken memories. He speaks carefully. “Let’s imagine I’m a stereotypical absent-minded scientist — someone clueless about relationships, asking you to explain. It’s obvious we’re comfortable together; everybody at the Leaky Tub can see that. I trust you enough to stake my financial well-being — even my life — on your decisions. I will never fall in love with you in the conventional sense, but you are, without question, the most important person in my life, Shay. I’ve shared with you things I’ve told no one else, invited you to shape my future alongside me. If this were anyone but me, what would you call those feelings?” He gestures lightly to the ring on her finger. “I think this symbolizes everything it needs to. And I’ll be glad if you truly accept it.” For a moment, Shay blinks in confusion, struggling to meet his gaze before finally looking away. Her anger has melted, or nearly so, leaving her unsettled. It’s strange how naked honesty can hold more power over someone than any lie. “We agreed not to flirt,” she says, her tone tinged with exasperation. “And this… If this isn’t flirting, it’s the worst attempt at not flirting I’ve ever seen. Don’t say things like that again — it’s too weird, hearing them from you.” Her fingers toy absently with the ring, turning it back and forth, as though its touch burns. “All I meant,” Racter replies calmly, “is that it’s a privilege to care for you, not an obligation. You mean more to me than you realize.” “You really could reprogram your brain, couldn’t you?” she says suddenly. “Reprogram it to...” Her voice strains as she replays his earlier words in her mind. Trembling with lust over a delicate, helpless girl… “...To fall in love?” Racter smirks faintly. “In theory, yes. The biochemistry of brain isn’t all that complicated. But no, I won’t touch my mind — I like it as it is.” After a pause, he adds with a teasing smile, “Though I could do anything to my body your imagination can conjure, if you’d like.” “Anything my— Oh.” She flushes, and it’s almost amusing that she’s still capable of embarrassment after everything. “Or I could drop the subject entirely. Think about what you really want. Sex won’t change much between us, and it’s easy enough to arrange.” “I… No. You’re wrong — it wouldn’t be easy. Not for me.” Her voice trembles. “Can I not answer for now? I need time.” “I know,” he says simply. “Take as much as you need. Now, what were we talking about before this?” “You were listing all the invasive ways you monitor me,” she mutters, frowning. “My body temperature, my blood type, my pulse, how I toss and turn when I dream about nightmares — everything I consider deeply personal.” After a brief silence, Racter advises, “Try not to think too much about how I perceive the world. It might destroy you.” “No chance,” she replies. “Now I can’t not think about it. What’s it like, really? You said your brain isn’t all that different from mine, but then there’s all of… this. Tell me.” Her gaze is both challenging and hesitant, daring him to bare something deeply personal since the usual boundaries don’t seem to apply to him. For a moment, Racter hesitates. Then he relents. “I told you the truth — my brain is human. Unfortunately, the human brain is riddled with limitations. It ignores any input it can’t process. You know how animals have varying numbers of cone cells to perceive color?” She nods. “My senses are enhanced, but I’ll never experience the reality of, say, a mantis shrimp, which has sixteen types of cones instead of three.” “You’ve probably done the same to Koshchei,” she guesses. It’s clear she knows him too well. Racter smiles. “Sixteen cones? I’d love to, but there’s no point — such perception is far beyond the human umwelt.” “The what?” “German term. Umwelt. The slice of reality a species can perceive. Snakes live in a world of infrared waves, bats in compressed air and echolocation—” “And dogs in scents. Got it.” “Exactly. For riggers, the umwelt is still largely the same as yours — or any metahuman’s. It’s narrow, impoverished, really. But over time, a rigger’s brain begins to form new connections, enough to recognize patterns in data beyond human limits. It interprets signals from machines as colors, sounds, smells, or tactile sensations. So no, I don’t literally see X-rays or infrared, because my brain can’t. But with the right technology, I experience a proxy — an association, almost like synesthesia. For example, your brother Duncan — hope he doesn’t mind me saying this — I mostly perceive as red.” “Red?” Shay interrupts. “That makes sense. There’s a lot of red in him. He’s difficult, but there’s gold, too. Lots of it.” Racter looks surprised. “Yes. Red and gold. You call it an aura?” He pauses thoughtfully. “I forgot — you have your own umwelt.” She brightens. “You’re curious, aren’t you? About my reality…” “Deeply,” Racter admits. “I suppress it, though. You know why — a rigger can’t also be a mage. Still, I wonder how you see me. Or anything else.” Shay smiles, her excitement sparking. “This is the best part. I don’t see you at all on that plane of reality. You’re like a black well. I’ve never encountered anything like it — not even with other riggers.” That explains why she hadn’t seemed especially shocked when he revealed his lack of Essence. Her abilities must register something else entirely. Apparently, she has the same thought. “It’s like we’re both looking at a larger reality, but from opposite sides, isn’t it?” “Classic yin and yang,” Racter quips. “Eat less spicy food, skip the pu-erh…” She laughs. “I can have pu-erh,” she protests. “It’s Gobbet and Duncan who can’t.” A pause, and her tone softens. “Thank you for telling me. I mean that.” Then, as though emboldened by his openness, she asks with an almost unconscious coquettishness, “That woman you worked with in Berlin… Lucky Strike. Did you tell her about your mind?” “Some things,” Racter admits honestly. A faint cloud of gray frustration stirs around Shay, tinged with the amber light of jealous curiosity. Racter can tell she’s on the verge of asking a question she doesn’t really want the answer to, so he spares her. “But I never gave her a ring.” To his surprise, Shay reaches out suddenly and closes her damp fingers over his pale, cold ones. “I’ll take that coat you offered,” she says. “I’m freezing.” When they catch up with the others, three curious gazes snap to their intertwined hands. Racter hesitates — rain has long since washed the blood from his cuts, and he’s rolled up his sleeve — what are they staring at? Then he realizes: they’ve never seen him and Shay hold hands. For that matter, they’ve never done it at all. Not until now. But that’s none of the others’ business. Shay smiles, eyes sparkling with mischief, as if they now share some secret. They are and aren’t a couple — an ambiguity she might even find amusing for the moment. But Racter has a sinking feeling that now, with everything laid bare, their relationship will only grow more complicated.