Rules for eating oysters

Rule Six: Never love those you’ll have to let go. The next time Duncan’s ghost starts to haunt Racter, it’s after the Ares incident. Duncan himself barely sets foot on the ship anymore, but his presence lingers in Shay’s emotions — an oppressive weight, like the heavy, stifling air before a storm. Racter waits patiently for the thunder to break. The evening on the Leaky Tub feels utterly ordinary. The click of mahjong tiles on the table, casual chatter, laughter, the faint scent of beer and the crispy crab chips everyone keeps stealing from the big bowl in the center. The four of them — Shay, Racter, Gobbet, and Is0bel — sit around the table in the “conference room,” which doubles as a dining area. They’re playing mahjong, a habit inherited from Kindly Cheng. Cheng had probably introduced the game as an excuse to spend more time with Duncan, who had clearly caught her eye. But Duncan, naturally, had been avoiding both Cheng and gambling lately — understandably, given the trouble those two things had already caused him. Tonight, he’s absent again, and not just because of his aversion to mahjong. Is0bel places her tiles on the table in a flawless winning hand, and the others groan in unison. Even without tallying the points, it’s obvious she’s won. "Nothing less from a decker," Racter remarks with a nod of respect. "My compliments." "I just practice more," Is0bel says, a little flustered. "You like mahjong?" Shay asks, surprised. Shay herself plays terribly, but Racter suspects the game isn’t what interests her. She studies her companions instead — their emotions and reactions, what they openly reveal and what they try to hide — observing them like a birdwatcher with a field notebook. "Not really," Is0bel admits. "I mean, I like playing with you guys, but… I meant that I deal with a lot of numbers. A lot." She hesitates, then turns to Racter. "Maybe you could explain it better?" "It’s about calculating tile values," Racter says. "Each tile can be assigned a specific numerical weight, positive or negative, depending on its suit. By adding up the values of the tiles in your hand, and tracking which ones have been discarded, you can mathematically predict the likelihood of completing a winning hand. But mahjong has far more tiles than, say, a deck of poker cards, so it requires a much greater capacity for mental arithmetic. Deckers tend to excel at that." "Luck," Is0bel adds modestly, "is just the result of a lot of variables working together." "That’s cheating!" Gobbet exclaims, scandalized. The idea that math could be used to win at a game seems to have shaken her to her core. "Where there’s money on the table, it’s definitely considered cheating," Racter says, amused. "But really, in any game, we rely on memory and observation. Drawing a line between strategy and cheating can be tricky." "Actually," Is0bel muses, "no game is ever truly fair or random... It always comes down to who can count better." "I’m never playing with you cyberbrain freaks again," Gobbet mutters, though there’s no malice in her voice. "No offense." But consistency has never been Gobbet’s strong suit. After another pint of beer, she insists they teach her the math behind the strategy. They start another round, and Gobbet leans in, moving her lips silently as she tries to track the tiles. She looks like the fortune-teller counting yarrow stalks in her tent. The door opens. Duncan stands on the threshold. Racter knows about the deal with the SINs — the one the woman from the police offered Shay. And he has a pretty good guess about what Shay chose, given how little joy she ever found in her law-abiding life. The fact that she didn’t take Duncan with her on the Ares run — didn’t want to owe him — was telling enough. If Racter were in her place, he would’ve done the same. And they must have already talked, he figures, because Duncan looks sullen but oddly calm. Did he agree with her decision? Duncan steps inside and, without a word, picks up a beer bottle from the table. “We were just about to play a round,” Gobbet says cheerfully. “Mahjong requires four, and honestly, I’m sick of getting my ass handed to me, so you can take my place if you want.” “I…” Duncan starts, but he won’t look at Shay. It’s like he’s erased her from his vision, drawn a thick, black line through her existence. And Shay, though she’s smiling, is looking away. “No, I’ll pass.” “Are we out of chips?” Shay asks. At the sound of her voice, Duncan flinches, like he’s been struck. “Think I ate the last five or so,” Gobbet confesses, utterly unashamed. She digs through her pockets and pulls out a crumpled bag. “But look what I’ve got!” The bag is full of fried cockroaches. She hands a handful to Shay with the casual generosity of a sibling. Racter watches as the insects spill into Shay’s cupped palms, but his attention is also on Duncan — his EM waves shift with revulsion and fear, a reaction Racter finds deeply fascinating. Shay tosses a few into her mouth. They crunch between her teeth. Then, laughing, she turns to her brother and holds out her hands. Duncan jerks back as if she’s holding something repulsive. Well. She is. “How can you eat that crap?” he spits. Shay’s smile dims. “As you can see,” she says, drawing back her hands, “I can. And you used to be able to, too.” “That’s bullshit! I never—” Duncan cuts himself off. His face flushes, more with anger than embarrassment. “No?” Shay’s voice is all feigned innocence. “The kids who caught and ate roaches, pigeons, rats, who dug through garbage piles and slept in basements — was that not us?” The room falls so silent they can hear each other breathing. In that quiet, Shay deliberately bites down on another cockroach, letting the crunch ring out like a gunshot. Duncan’s hands clench into fists. “Why?” he demands. “Why bring that up? Are you proud of it? And why — why say it in front of everyone?” “Say what? The way I was happy to find a skirt someone had thrown away, the one with the embroidered flowers and leaves — so pretty, it only needed a little mending?” Shay’s voice is soft, steady. “Or how I was paid a couple of nuyen for the first time in my life, just for washing someone’s dishes? Because these are my friends. And maybe they’d find my life interesting.” “Oh, and maybe you should tell them how you trembled the first time you stole a credstick off some university kid,” Duncan snaps, his voice sharp with anger. “And how furious you were when it had barely any money on it? Or how your face swelled up like a goddamn balloon when those smug elven pricks found out you took their amulets and beat you half to death?” “But I hid the amulets first,” Shay says, trying to smile, though her lips tremble. “And they turned out to be worth a lot.” “Listen, man,” Gobbet growls, her orcish rasp edged with warning. “None of us were born with a silver spoon. We’ve all been through shit.” “But that’s not something to be proud of!” Duncan shouts. “Wasn’t that the whole point? We wanted to get away from it! To be normal! And now we’re stealing and begging, lying and killing, selling ourselves, and eating these damn roaches all over again! They gave us a chance to give the SINs back and live normal lives, and you chose this?! To keep running in the shadows?! To stay in the filth?! Wasn’t prison for a few years enough?!” “No, Duncan,” Shay says evenly. “There is no ‘we.’ I steal and beg. I lie, kill, sell myself, and eat roaches. What you do is up to you. I’m not your master.” She looks calm. But Racter can hear how fast her heart is racing. Duncan opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish gasping on dry land. Or, perhaps, more like a dog that’s just been kicked. Right now, the best thing he could do — the easiest way out — would be to turn around and leave without a word. That’s probably what Shay is hoping for. But Duncan isn’t that kind of person. Instead, he slams his heavy fist down on the table. One of the glasses tips over, spilling beer across the scattered tiles — winds and dragons, seasons and flowers, now swimming in the amber liquid. “Got it,” Duncan growls. “You’ve traded me — your family — for these so-called friends. Friends who won’t lift a damn finger for you the moment you stop being useful. They’ll toss you out into the sea like garbage. Just like that asshole who thought it’d be funny to run you over with his bike when you refused to ‘service’ him. Remember that? Hard to forget. I sat by your side for a day, thinking you weren’t gonna make it. Another charming childhood memory, huh? Maybe you should tell that story, too. Or how about the one where I buried your useless excuse of a mother after she drank herself to death?” “I sat by your side plenty of times after your fights, Duncan,” Shay replies quietly. “And I did everything you ever asked me to.” “Jesus Christ… That’s not the point!” Duncan shouts, throwing up his hands. “This isn’t some kind of barter system! That’s always pissed me off about you — you’re constantly running numbers in your head, like you’ve got a goddamn calculator in there!” “Without my calculator, we’d have starved to death a long time ago,” Shay says evenly. “Oh, your calculator’s great. Fantastic, even. Since you’re so eager to share stories with your friends — or what do you call them? Business partners? — why don’t you tell them how you learned to balance the books? Or was it just some innate talent of yours to look at someone’s expensive suit and slicked-back hair and decide whether it was worth letting them slap your ass, call you ‘sweetheart,’ and—” Is it worth punching a young, big orc who’s at least twenty kilos heavier and stronger than you, even with your cybernetic upgrades? Racter decides the answer is yes. “Excuse me,” he interrupts calmly, “but I’m afraid I can’t listen to this anymore.” The punch doesn’t knock Duncan out — it only makes him stagger — but that’s enough for Koschei, sneaking up from behind, to sweep his legs out with a sharp blow to the knees. Not with the bladed edge, of course. Duncan crashes to the floor, rattling the table as he falls. If Racter had wanted him dead, Koschei could’ve finished the job with a single precise strike. Duncan wouldn’t even have seen it coming. “Oh, we’ve got ourselves a gentleman here,” Duncan mutters, not trying to stand as he wipes blood from his split nose with the back of his hand. “What a lovely couple you two make — a Russian psychopath obsessed with machines and my sister, the thief, whore, and murderer. Just the Prince Charming this Cinderella needs. Tell me, isn’t it fun to hear all about how your sweetheart made her living?” “Actually, I find it fascinating,” Racter replies honestly. “The credstick, the skirt with the flowers — I’d love to hear all of it. But I’d prefer to hear it from Shay herself.” Throughout this grotesque scene, Shay remains frozen on the couch, pale and still, like Lot’s wife turned to salt. Though in her case, not salt, but ash — her complexion making the comparison far more fitting. Gobbet, as if sensing the weight of the moment, sweeps the cursed cockroaches Shay is still inexplicably holding into her pocket and brushes off her hands. Shay doesn’t resist. She allows it all to happen silently. Then, like a robot suddenly powered back on, she smiles, stands up, and speaks in a clear voice: “How about we go play the next round at Auntie Cheng’s? I don’t feel like picking all these tiles up off the floor.” “Good call. And we should grab more beer and chips on the way. Auntie’ll charge us for every crumb,” Gobbet remarks with the practical air of a housekeeper. They all step around the overturned table, the puddle of spilled beer, and Duncan sitting on the floor. As if he isn’t there at all. “About counting the tiles,” Is0bel says in her usual tone as they leave the cabin, picking up their earlier conversation as if nothing happened. “Gobbet, you won’t be able to do it in your head right away. Even I couldn’t. Try jotting the values down in a notebook…” And the evening continues almost as it had before, only now in Kindly Cheng’s mahjong parlor: the clatter of tiles on the table, idle chatter, laughter, and the familiar smell of beer. No one mentions Duncan. The situation is already bad enough without adding attempts at consolation or explanations. After all, mahjong really does require four players. A fifth is always one too many. Toward the end of the night, Gobbet, thoroughly drunk, blurts out: “Shay, no matter what anyone says, you’re amazing. Like, just in case you didn’t know. Not that it’s a secret or anything; all of Hong Kong knows it. But yeah, I love you. Like, a lot.” “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Shay replies with a faint smile. Then, more softly, “Hey, guys, I need to have a quick word with Cheng about some upcoming runs, so why don’t you head over to The Leaky Tub? It’s getting late.” She holds herself together well, and if Racter were relying solely on his human eyes, he’d never suspect how much she dreads going back to the ship. The others seem to believe she really has business with Kindly Cheng and leave. Racter pretends to head toward The Leaky Tub, but after stepping out of the mahjong parlor, he lingers. Through Koschei’s thermal and infrared sensors, he sees Shay sitting alone at a dimly lit corner table instead of talking to Cheng. One of the staff brings her a green bottle filled with clear liquid — not the weak five-percent beer from earlier, but strong soju. Shay drinks one glass after another with grim, almost scientific curiosity. Occasionally, one of Cheng’s guests approaches her table and tries to start a conversation, but they all leave quickly, realizing there’s nothing to gain. Eventually, she rises to her feet, unsteady, and heads toward the door. Stumbling over the threshold, she nearly collapses face-first onto the pavement — Racter barely manages to catch her by the shoulders. "I knew it," she slurs, her words tangling. "I told you... to just go... back to the ship. Leave me... alone. Let me go…" "Go where?" "Somewhere. Maybe Wan Chai. Where it's noisy, where there are crowds, where I can just… not think. About anything." "Ah, yes. 'So long as ruin and dishonour reign, to bear nought, to feel nought, is my great gain.' Go wherever you like, but first hand over your credstick." "What…?" "Your credstick. Judging by the interest at least one person in Auntie Cheng's mahjong parlor had in your drinking spree, you’re not likely to make it to Wan Chai with a single nuyen left in your pocket." Racter can tell she’s in no state to make it even a block, but that only worsens the situation. Wan Chai is a decent neighborhood. The streets around Kindly Cheng’s? Not so much. "That’s nonsense," she replies, drunkenly indignant. "I… I can take care of myself. There’s… there’s protection. Retinal scan." "Which means you’ll lose not just your money but your eyeball." She shakes her head stubbornly. "No. There’s… two-factor… au…thenfi…ti…cation… Complicated word…" "Very complicated, yes. The thief won’t be able to access your funds — that’s very thoughtful of you. But they don’t know that yet. And as someone with some surgical expertise, I can tell you it’s far easier to remove an eye from a corpse than from someone alive. And I’d prefer not to find you lifeless in some alley." She flinches, her body stiffening in his grip. Then, reaching into her pocket, she obediently hands him the credstick. As she does, she finally raises her head, and Racter sees the tears tracing her cheeks. Her dark eyes meet his pale ones. Without looking away, she whispers, soft and helpless: "I want to go home." Home. Obviously not to the Leaky Tub, where an overturned table and beer-stained tiles still mark the spot of the latest argument. Where every corner is a reminder of the fractures in her strange family — Duncan, Raymond, and herself — splits that started long ago and only deepened with time, until they were as vast as the Mariana Trench. "Seattle?" Racter asks skeptically. Shay shakes her head vehemently. "No, no. Home, like… well… If I had a home…" Finally giving up on explaining, she suddenly buries her face — nearly collapses — into the collar of his coat. He expects the familiar scent of sea, but tonight she reeks mostly of cheap Korean soju. She cries, and cries, and cries; Racter strokes the thick crown of her hair. When her shoulders finally stop shaking, she mutters into his collar: "The first… rule of oysters… never love those... you’ll have to… let go. Those who’ll… leave you. Those who’ll change. But everything in the world… changes. Everything’s as unsteady as… quick… quicksand. That’s why you can’t get… attached…" "I see you're upset about your brother leaving," he remarks. "I provoked him," she says, her voice trembling. "I… I wanted him to leave. Just didn’t realize it would feel so… so awful." "You were both exhausted with each other. If you hadn’t split, you’d have torn each other apart." He wipes her tears with a handkerchief. "Do you think he’ll be okay?" she asks hopelessly. It’s a complicated question. Truthfully, without SINs, his sister’s support, or any knack for avoiding trouble, Duncan likely wouldn’t last long in the predatory shadows of Hong Kong. Racter offers a noncommittal response: "I must be terrible at guessing the age of orcs… I thought Duncan was old enough to take care of himself." She sniffles. "Yeah, you’re right… You’re always right. Thank you. You always say the right things." In reality, he usually says what she wants to hear. But he has no intention of arguing the point. Shay settles into his arms, surprisingly comfortable there. "No, I’m not upset," she mutters. "And I’m not angry… He shouldn’t have said… those things. It’s disgusting that you… and Gobbet, and Is0bel — but especially you… had to hear all that. But I know it hurt Duncan more than it hurt me… I just keep thinking about all those times he lost his temper — he has anger issues, you know? — and he was weak, and lonely, and helpless… Not about what might happen to him now. Just these little moments from the past… He’s probably forgotten all of them, but I still remember… And I wish I could rewind time and… protect him. Even if it meant making sure all those terrible things happened to me instead of him, because between the two of us, I was always stronger…" Racter smiles faintly. He’s finally certain: the magical circle she’s drawn around herself is just chalk on the floor, fragile and easy to breach. She may not be fourteen anymore, but she still believes, desperately, in heroism, self-sacrifice, eternal friendship, and great love. "Shh. You know you’ll be better off without him. You feel guilty, but you have nothing to feel guilty for." "I know," Shay whispers. "It’s just… I just want him to be okay. More than anything, I want the people I love to never let me down, never leave, never get sick, never die. I want to never hurt them. I want us to always be free of one another, like the ocean is free of the stars it reflects. Isn’t that possible?" No, my friend, Racter would have said if he were honest. To love is to lose — or at least to face the certainty of losing. It’s the porcupine’s dilemma Schopenhauer wrote about: humans are social creatures, but the closer they come to one another, the more they hurt. The cold of isolation or the pain of the quills — those are the only options. But this is not the moment for honesty. "Let’s go back to the Leaky Tub, and you can sleep." "I don’t want… the others… to see me like this…" "I’ll make sure no one notices us." She’s barely crying anymore, just sniffles occasionally. He gently brushes the back of his fingers against her dusky cheek, his touch barely there. "I’ll help you walk, if you’ll let me," he says softly. She nods, staring at him for a long moment as though mesmerized. Then, suddenly, she confesses, "You know… I always feel like everything inside me flips upside down when I look at you… but now… it’s especially…" She doesn’t finish the sentence before doubling over with a retch. Racter had, frankly, anticipated this. He holds her steady while she empties the contents of her stomach — the vile mix of everything she’d drunk that evening. He even manages to pull her hair back in time to keep it from getting dirty. From a medical standpoint, this is a much better outcome than her body trying to process it all, only for her to wake up with a pounding headache the next morning. She, however, clearly doesn’t see it that way. Straightening up, she awkwardly tries to wipe her mouth with her sleeve, her face burning with shame. Without a word, he offers her a handkerchief, then slips an arm around her waist and leads her forward. When they reach a vending machine selling cold drinks, he buys a bottle of green tea and hands it to her. Still flushed, she focuses on wiping her mouth with the handkerchief, her motions slow and deliberate. Silent. Her trembling fingers unscrew the cap. She rinses her mouth, spits, then takes a careful sip. "Why are you so kind... to me?" she asks at last, her voice small. "I acted foolish... and pathetic. And don’t tell me... I didn’t. You should be angry with me. If I hadn’t gotten drunk… you wouldn’t have to deal with me right now. You’d be working on your blueprints." "Everyone acts foolishly sometimes," he says, shrugging. "You just happen to be bad at drinking." "No one likes you... when you’re foolish and pathetic," she insists stubbornly. "I figured that out... a long time ago. If someone likes you... it’s because they want something... from you. But when you’re in pain… when you’re weak and ugly… you’re just a burden to everyone. If someone takes care of you... in those moments, it’s only out of duty… or out of propriety. Reluctantly. When you need... a helping hand the most… no one reaches out." "People are naturally selfish," he agrees mildly. "It’s human nature." "But you…" She falters. "You’re the first person who doesn’t seem to want anything from me. And at the same time, I can’t understand… why you put up with me… if you don’t." “Is there anything you’d like to take from me? Or do you already have everything you need?” The memory flickers through his mind. "…And now… given your… utilitarian outlook on everything… you must be absolutely… beside yourself right now…" "We’re never going to make it to the Tub at this rate," he interrupts her. "If you don’t stop philosophizing, I’ll have to carry you." She makes a muffled noise, more anticipatory than outraged. Is she serious? Without another word, he lifts her into his arms: sharp shoulders, delicate shoulder blades, surprisingly light. "Put me down! I weigh fifty kilo—" "Forty-eight, at most," he counters. She buries her face in his neck and falls silent. Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm: for love is strong as death… After a while, he speaks again: "You’re not a burden, and I’m not angry with you. Yes, I could be working right now, but I’m glad to take care of you instead. I’m not doing this out of duty or, heaven forbid, propriety," he says, pausing to catch his breath. Talking is hard when carrying someone. "I’ve told you before: you’re the most important person in my life. Sure, I like seeing you strong and beautiful, but I also like feeling needed. Supporting each other in our weaker moments doesn’t make either of us lesser. On the contrary, the faster you recover, the stronger you’ll be." Is he telling the truth? And what is truth, anyway? Everything Racter says could be true, in a different time, under different circumstances. But right now, the truth would sound different: that she did act foolishly and pathetically — yes, exactly as she herself knows. That she put not just herself but their entire team at risk. After all, the thieves might’ve been after more than just money. Shay’s retinal scan plus access to her cyberdeck could wreak far more havoc than a handful of nuyen. The truth would be saying she leads their little team because she’s strong enough to be their anchor. But the drunken wreck sobbing on his shoulder? That’s no commander. "You are omnipotent as long as your strength stays within you. The nature of strength is to flow from one vessel to another, like the ocean, when the balance shifts. The strong embrace and bless their solitude. The weak flee from it …" "And one more thing," he says finally. "Thinking that everything in the world comes down to barter — that you must give something to gain something — that’s caveman logic. Trading roots for a mammoth leg. We’re living in the 21st century. I much prefer to think of relationships as a cartel — an alliance, mutually beneficial to all parties involved." A quiet laugh tickles his neck. "Cartel… Raymond would’ve liked that." "And maybe," he continues, "I’m wrong, but I think you want me to refute your theories. Your oyster rules. You want me to tell you that I’m not Duncan, not Raymond, not any of those parasites who either used you or clung to you like a lifeboat." "I… don’t…" Her hand rises as if to object but falls limply. "And I will tell you. I won’t say I love you — coming from me, that would sound ridiculous, at best. But I am yours. I’ll care for you if you’re sick, protect you if you need it. Shay, there’s nothing wrong with needing me because I need you just as much. How can I explain that I belong to you entirely? I swear it on everything I believe in. You deserve happiness more than anyone else I’ve known, and I think I could make you happy. I wouldn’t fall apart without you, and you wouldn’t hurt me by letting me go. And yet, I need you unbearably, and no one could take your place. By my own will, I will never leave you. And I will never die — especially now that I know how afraid you are of losing those you love. I’ll always be here, if you let me. Always." She lies so still in his arms that he might think she’s fallen asleep. But no, she’s awake. She listens intently, her wide eyes fixed on him as if, until now, they’d been wandering in the dark, separated by some dim glass. And only now does she truly see him. "Always-always?" she whispers, childlike. By the time they reach the Tub, she has dozed off, her head tucked into the hollow of his collarbone. But when he lays her down on her bunk, she stirs, mumbling, "I need to undress. It’s all… filthy…" She sits up, wobbling slightly, yawning, and fumbles with the buttons on her jacket. It’s a losing battle. "Why… so many buttons?" she grumbles. "Not as many as it feels like to you right now," he notes dryly, but helps her nonetheless. Shay freezes as she belatedly realizes what’s happening. One by one, like peeling cabbage leaves, he slips the layers of fabric from her shoulders. Beneath the mountain of clothes is a small chest with dark nipples. Reflexively, she tries to cover herself with her hands but remembers — it’s useless ("All the invasive ways you monitor me... My body temperature, my blood type, my pulse…") — or perhaps recalls how much more vulnerable she’d been in front of him earlier that evening. Her hands fall away, her lip caught between her teeth in a mix of embarrassment and frustration. She gasps quietly when he kneels before her bunk, sliding her pants off her hips. Racter folds her clothes neatly on a chair, then turns toward the door. "Sweet dreams, Shay." A hand, invisible in the dark, catches his wrist. "What? You’re just going to leave? After undressing me and… saying all that, which still has my ears burning?" "Seems that way." “Oh, Racter… I want you so much it makes my legs weak. You’re all I’ve been able to think about since the moment I first set foot in the hold of this cursed ship. At least kiss me.” “After our last kiss, you said you felt like a rickety fence,” Racter replies, amused. “Why do you even remember nonsense like that? Oh…” Her face flushes, almost childlike in its sincerity. “You don’t want to because I probably stink, don’t I?” “Mm… no, that’s not it. I couldn’t care less how you smell. I just don’t want you waking up tomorrow and regretting your decision.” “I see,” she says seriously, nodding, though her hand still holds onto his. “Alright. But you promised… you wouldn’t leave. At least… stay here with me.” He nods, settling beside her and pulling a thin blanket over her shoulders. Once her head finds the pillow, he leans down and brushes a light kiss against her cheek, tasting the faint salt trail left by dried tears. Shay’s hand keeps his firmly in place, then slowly tugs it closer to her face, resting it on the pillow next to her own. She presses her cheek, her nose, even her lips to the back of his hand, her eyes closed. Her fingers tremble slightly as they trace his, tentative, exploratory. The touch feels almost innocent, but it’s different tonight—an unspoken shift between them. The careful wall Shay had built ever since she realized her feelings for Racter has finally crumbled. The intricate, self-imposed rules about oysters and boundaries — those too are gone, erased at last. Koschei, claws clicking softly against the floor, jumps onto the bed with a weighty thud, like a fat, lazy cat, and sprawls out near her feet. “Now that Duncan’s gone…” Shay murmurs suddenly, “there’s nothing tying me down. I don’t answer to anyone. I don’t care about anyone else’s judgment, their anger, or disappointment. I can say whatever I want to anyone, do whatever I want, live wherever I want…” “I suppose that’s true. So… what do you plan to do?” “I’ll go back to Seattle. Not right away, but eventually, I’ll have to.” “So ‘home’ is Seattle, after all,” he says, half-questioning. “No. It’s just… Raymond loves Seattle. I want to take him there. I think he’ll do better there than with me.” “Or rather, you’ll do better without him? Don’t lie to me.” “Well… that too. I’ll make sure he’s settled, and then… Honestly, I have no idea what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll come back to Hong Kong. Or maybe I’ll go somewhere else. I could herd goats in Indonesia if I wanted to. Or become a star. Or smuggle drugs across borders. Or run a corporation. Or a country… The world is huge, and there’s so much to do, so much to see. I could be anything, do anything, once…” She trails off mid-sentence, but Racter knows what she means. The world is huge, and she could be anything, do anything — once she no longer has to drag around the dead weight of the people she once loved, hated, cared for, loathed. All those pathetic, cherished, nauseating ties to those she had always looked after out of obligation, giving pieces of herself away, drop by drop, like some reluctant, self-made martyr. After a pause, she asks, “What about you? What are you planning to do?” “If Hong Kong loses its charm? I’ve been thinking about Africa. There’s a lot of opportunity there right now. Could be interesting. What do you think of Africa?” “And what about the UCAS?” “Neo-Tokyo?” “Yakutia?” To an outsider, their conversation would likely sound completely nonsensical. But what does it matter? They could have the entire world — that’s what they’re really saying. “And you… you’ll stay with me? Always?” “I already told you. Always.” She exhales in satisfaction, like a child hearing a bedtime story’s happy ending. “We’re like the king and queen of Earth.” Not long after, her voice grows softer, drowsier. “I still don’t really like your dreams of robotic post-humanity.” “If you come up with better ones, I’m open to suggestions,” Racter offers generously. “I’ll… think about it…” Her breathing evens out, steady and slow. Just when he starts to think she’s finally fallen asleep, her voice comes again, faint and wistful. “When we were kids, Duncan used to say that when we grew up, we’d sail to a magical country. Like a promised land. And it’d be home. Everything would be good and right and beautiful there… because where we grew up, there wasn’t much of anything beautiful.” “Like elven Tir Tairngire?” “Like Tir Tairngire. But without the fascism.” “And instead, you ended up in Hong Kong. Is it anything like the promised land?” “Well… It’s probably better than Tir Tairngire. But that doesn’t mean that land isn’t real. I think… now I think the whole world could be that promised land. It’s not a place. It’s something… inside me. You probably don’t understand what I’m talking about, but that’s okay.” She presses her cheek against his hand and closes her eyes again. “Just… don’t… leave…” Racter stays where he is, quietly watching as she drifts off. Once he’s sure she can’t hear him anymore, he murmurs softly, “I think I understand perfectly well.”   She doesn’t change her mind the next morning when she wakes up sober. Racter, already awake and tinkering in his workshop below, watches her stir on the upper floor. He observes the shift in her breathing, the way she turns over lazily, the slow flutter of her eyelids, her body stretching languidly — and then, as if struck by a sudden memory (of him), she jolts upright. Tension visibly courses through her as she sits straight, bracing herself as if for a fight. And then, speaking into the empty room as though addressing the air itself, she says: “Can you hear me? … I know you can.” Down in the hold, Racter lifts his head, listening. “I’m not drunk anymore, and I haven’t changed my mind,” she continues, her voice laced with a strange, defiant cheerfulness. “I’m not afraid anymore. I can’t live without you. No one could ever replace you. I want to be with you. Always. And I want… everything. I don’t want anyone else, only you. I… I love you.” She exhales deeply, then repeats, louder and steadier, “I love you. I’ve loved you every day and every hour of my life. There, I said it. That wasn’t so hard.” She laughs nervously, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with trembling fingers. “Will you come have breakfast?” By the time Shay makes her way to the kitchen, Racter has already arrived, timing his entrance perfectly. He knows exactly how long it takes her to wash up and dress. He’s just finishing her breakfast: a large soykaf with milk and scrambled eggs made just the way she likes them — two eggs, a splash of milk, a generous knob of butter, and a pinch of pepper. When Shay steps into the doorway and sees him standing there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carefully plating her food, she freezes mid-step, as if suddenly caught off balance. The air between them hums, heavy with the unspoken, charged with the inevitability of what’s about to happen. It’s his move now. She’s already made hers, laying everything bare in her confession. And besides, he’s the man, isn’t he? Racter closes the distance in two strides. This time, the kiss isn’t careful, like the one in the midst of battle with Qian Ya — hesitant, as though afraid she might shatter. No, this one is deep, certain, claiming the right he now knows he’s earned. And Shay… likes it. A lot, if her electromagnetic readings are anything to go by — or the way she shivers, trembling in his arms. A real first kiss shouldn’t be about staring down your fears in front of the Queen With a Thousand Teeth. It should be about passion. About the hot, breathless weakness that makes your legs buckle and your heart race somewhere between your chest and your throat. And Racter… Racter wants this for her, more than anything. Judging by the way she melts into him, it seems he’s succeeded. The kiss stretches on and on. Shay’s skin begins to emit a faint, silvery glow, much like it did that night at the flower market. Magic pours from her like moonlight, and the kiss tastes electric — like Sichuan peppercorns or the tang of a live battery. Racter feels it spark against his tongue when it brushes her teeth. She grips his shoulders tightly as he backs her up against the kitchen counter, releasing a soft, half-moan, half-sigh as his lips trail to the curve of her neck. “Oh… Why does it feel so good?” she whispers. “Because I want it to,” he replies, letting his breath tease the sensitive skin below her ear. She nods, eyes shut tight. “Yes… it’s because I’m with you.” She isn’t afraid of touch anymore. She presses herself against him like a cat, her hands roaming over his shoulders and chest with an almost greedy eagerness — as if she’s been longing for this for far too long. One small hand slips under his shirt, venturing lower until her fingers brush the edges of scars and the seams where flesh gives way to steel and chrome. She hesitates only a moment before continuing, exploring. Racter pulls back, speaking low. “Shay, there’s no rush. I can build you something, anything you desire. I’d be happy just to make your dreams real. But for now, you should drink your soykaf before it gets cold.” But Shay yanks him back, her hands tangling in his hair with surprising force. “Not a chance. Touch me, finally. However you want, I don’t care. If you run away from me again today…” Her words trail off into kisses. “Then what?” Racter asks with genuine interest, stroking her neck and thin dark collarbones. “If you run away from me, I’ll leave too. I’ll go to Seattle. And you’ll never find me.” “You think you can escape me?” He smirks. “You’re mine, Shay.” Once, he would have held back such a statement, worried it might trigger that familiar flicker of fear. But now… now all he sees is the blush of desire flaring pink. Control is a strange thing, Racter muses. It’s satisfying to wield it, but equally so to relinquish it when the time is right. Shay, he thinks, might have known this her entire life. Perhaps she’s always dreamed of surrendering fully, trusting someone completely to take care of her — for once, to let herself be vulnerable without fear. He unbuttons both of her shirts, strokes the semicircle of her exposed breast that fits perfectly in his palm — Shay throws her head back, arches, exposing herself. He hears her breathing quicken. Pushing her legs apart with his knee, he feels how hot and — already — wet it is between them. With his other hand he frees her from her shirts, trailing his fingers along the curve of her spine. Her body arches into his touch as if pulled by invisible strings, trembling as his hand traces the subtle dips between her vertebrae. When his fingers reach the base of her neck, she shivers so hard it seems she might cry. Eventually he stops between her shoulder blades. Her strange magic still radiates from her — and grows brighter. He kisses her again, tasting her magic, her divinity, as it flows into him like liquid moonlight. Thin strands of something — silver, ethereal — stretch between them where his lips and hands have touched her skin. It’s not clear which plane of existence this is happening on, but he knows Shay feels it too. “My Shay,” he whispers against her ear. “I told you. I need you unbearably. And I don’t just mean your body. I need your life. Your soul.” And Shay, his Shay — so fiercely independent, so determined never to love, never to want — breathes back: “Yes… it’s all yours.” He grabs Shay by the hips and sits her on the kitchen table. He kneels in front of her, spreading her brown legs apart. He pulls down her shorts. The white lace panties underneath are soaking wet. They are so thin that they probably wouldn't interfere with anything at all — he tests this by running his tongue over them, Shay gasps helplessly when he presses the tip of his tongue against her clit under the lace — but it's still better to take them off too. There, in the middle, it certainly smells like the ocean, and tastes like it too. Shay bites her lip, her eyes are closed. As if in a dream, she puts her hand on his head, setting the rhythm of his movements. Racter no longer sees her multicolored emotions — all the colors have merged into a silvery glow that pulses around her like breath... And he drinks this thick, viscous liquid silver until he feels that every bone in his body has absorbed it, every living and every synthetic muscle, every joint of steel and chrome. Then Gobbet enters the kitchen. Racter hadn't planned for this at all. And the fact that he hears/sees/feels her approach a little earlier doesn't help at all in this situation. Thank God, she has enough mercy or curiosity to wait on the threshold for those few necessary seconds for Shay to shudder, to arch, to come back down to earth. Only then does Gobbet stride in, her voice dripping with disgusted sarcasm. “Someone please drill out my eyes with a blender. I get out of bed for milk and oatmeal, and this is what I walk into? Fantastic. Appetite officially ruined.” Racter wonders, briefly, if Gobbet can see the shimmering silver strands that still weave around him and Shay like a spider’s web. If she does, she doesn’t say anything. Shay jerks away, scrabbling at her shirt in a futile attempt to cover herself, only now seeming to realize that she is completely naked. She stammers, “We… Sorry, Gobbet…” Gobbet snorts. “Honestly, I was expecting you to say, ‘Jealous much?’ like usual.” “Jealous much,” Shay parrots automatically, though her eyes remain locked on Racter. Her eyes are wild and bright. Her kiss-swollen lips, a deep cherry red. Later, Shay sits at the kitchen table in hastily thrown-on clothes, her soykaf growing cold in her hands. She doesn’t drink it, though. She just stares at Racter, smiling. And then, without warning, she begins to cry — still smiling, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. And Racter thinks, for the second time, of a rainbow in the rain. He’d forgotten when the comparison had last crossed his mind, though. He sees her normal EM field again, not that silver light. Now it’s a riot of emotions which is now too tangled to parse. But it seems that he has done everything right. Even if the soykaf didn’t survive.   Before, he thought that when they became lovers, little would change between them. But in truth, he would discover things he hadn’t even suspected. For instance, how monstrously, endlessly lonely people are. Even those who seem the strongest. How desperately they crave some denial of the self-evident truth of their solitude, how hungrily they reach out to another, yearning to be heard — irrationally believing that someone might share all the pain, shame, guilt, and fear they've endured. Someone who might tell them it’s over, that it will never hurt again, that there’s nothing left to fear or be ashamed of, that they are forgiven. And how easy it is to make them believe it. That none of us are truly alone on this Earth. All it takes is to listen, and — in his particular case — to stroke their hair, wipe their tears (sometimes even literally), and call them by tender names. Racter doesn’t call Shay “my love.” He still feels it would sound strange coming from him. For the most part, he still calls her “my friend.” But when she needs closeness or tenderness, he calls her “my Shay.” Sometimes, in their most private moments, he’ll say “my joy” or “my sorrow.” And the words don’t ring false, because he’s practiced them in front of a mirror, rehearsing how to make all the silly, sentimental things Shay longs to hear sound just a little less silly and sentimental. Every night — or sometimes it’s morning, or evening, or midday — those threads of luminous substance, for which he has no name, reach out to him from Shay. And with each time, he feels... different. Fuller. Even more intimate than the sex, though, are the nights when Shay asks him to stay and sleep beside her in the same bed. In her sleep, she presses her forehead against the space between his shoulder blades, or sometimes, half-dreaming, she brushes her hand across his thigh, as if checking to make sure he’s really there, with her. And she always studies his body intently. Sometimes she frowns, her fingers tracing the metal plates, as if trying to solve some puzzle. Racter knows what she’s thinking in those moments. "Try not to think too much about how I perceive the world... It’s only fair that each of us has our own... augmented reality." When he said that, he’d known full well it was like asking someone not to think of a pink elephant. By now, he understands that Shay’s rules weren’t really about sex. At least, not just about sex. They were about how a person opens up. Like a locked door, a safe, or the shell of an oyster. When you strip that shell away, there, in the fragile space between strength and vulnerability, you see their essence — soft and defenseless. Thick, silvery, glowing substance. Their essence... Or Essence. And all it takes is to plant a dark seed of doubt in it, so the silver might envelop it, crystallizing around.