Rules for eating oysters

An unspoken rule: None of this ever truly works. One day, she shows up with a cyber-implant in place of her left eye. Shay’s natural eye — eyes, before — was dark and stormy, like a tempestuous sea. Gray as graphite, or maybe dark blue, though under certain lights, they could even appear brown. The implant, however, is a pale, Siamese-cat blue. “You do realize that any cybernetic interference takes a bit of your Essence, right?” Is0bel asks her matter-of-factly. “I thought you enjoyed reading the flow of qi and summoning spirits. Yesterday you wanted to be a mage; today, you want to be a rigger?” "I want to be everything," Racter recalls her saying, once. But for some reason, Shay doesn’t argue with Is0bel now. She only frowns and looks away. “I don’t want to be anything. Leave me alone.” Gobbet interjects, “You should’ve spent that money on a cybernetic stomach, girl. With the crap we’ve been eating, I see gastritis in your future. Five months, tops.” “Me? Gastritis? Ha! I’ll bet you a hundred nuyen you’ll keel over from a gut twist before I do.” Shay laughs, but her laughter is hollow, artificial. Racter notices the flicker of fear beneath it, which is unusual — banter about their terrible diet is a daily ritual. “A hundred? You’re insane,” Gobbet scoffs, retreating. “But seriously, what’s with the creepy eye? Think it’ll make you a better shot?” Shay shrugs off the jab. “Yeah, maybe I’ll hit a solid C-plus now. But no matter how bad I am, you’re still worse.” Again, that false laugh. She looks like a shadow of herself. Something inside her has broken for good. And Racter, attuned to the spectrum of her emotions, knows exactly what. What he’d been waiting for all this time, what he’d secretly hoped for, has finally happened. Shay Silvermoon, scavenger of pieces of her friends’ souls like trinkets, has finally taken something from him. Death. Shay has taken the knowledge of death from him — and she can’t bear the weight of it. Lifting her gaze, she finally notices him, standing motionless in the doorway, half-hidden in shadow. “Next run, we’ll see who’s the better shot,” Gobbet quips. But instead of sparking their usual lively back-and-forth, Shay suddenly goes cold. Her voice cuts like a blade as she speaks — not a request, but an order, directed at both Gobbet and Is0bel. “Leave me. I need to talk to Racter.” When they’re alone, Shay stares at Racter for a long time — intensely, searchingly. One eye dark and inscrutable, like the depths of an ancient ocean. The other bright and hollow, like a child’s plastic pool. He can practically read her thoughts. Does he feel his implants the way she does? Does he see himself — and the world — as a grotesque heap of bones and organs? If so, why didn’t he warn her? Why didn’t he stop her? He waits, silent, for her to ask outright. She mutters grimly: “Is it the same for you? This. You know what I mean.” “I wouldn’t know how it is for you,” he answers calmly. “Liar.” Her composure snaps. “You’re lying. You read my emotions — don’t pretend you don’t see what’s happening to me. You knew this would happen! You knew!” And it’s true. He knew everything, and he can see perfectly well what it’s turned into now. Revulsion. Fear. Rage. Waves of dark, unfamiliar emotions crash over her, powerful enough to drown her. Shay is good at pretending, but holding herself together right now is costing her dearly. “I told you, didn’t I? ‘Try not to think about how I perceive the world. It might destroy you.’” His voice is devoid of judgment. Shay deflates, like a balloon losing air. “You did,” she whispers. “You warned me. You were honest with me.” “May I take a closer look at your eye?” She hesitates, then nods. When his fingers brush against the cold surface of her new blue eye, she doesn’t flinch or close her lid. The effect is unsettling. “Got it from Ten-Armed Ambrose, I take it? It’s a good eye. Though it seems a pointless purchase, given your excellent elven vision. Still, it appears functional.” “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Ambrose doesn’t sell junk...” Racter cups her cheek, tilting her face up by its sharp chin. “So, Shay? Did you come here to accuse me? To vent? Or something else entirely?” “To accuse you and to vent,” she mutters, averting her eyes, her cheek pressing against his palm. “Then speak.” Racter pulls her into an embrace. Shay closes her eyes, soaking in the comfort of his arms like something familiar and safe. Then, after a long pause, she begins: “At first, I was thrilled — this perfect piece of me that looked so flawless, that worked so well. But then… my other eye, my real eye, started to disgust me. Or maybe it wasn’t disgust. Maybe it was… fear. Horror. All those feelings you saw earlier. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. My living body is monstrous. The cornea — it’s always dry, like it’s going bad. And those blood vessels in the whites of my eyes... revolting. And everything else — it’s like seeing my face under a magnifying glass: pores, little hairs, capillaries, wrinkles. I used to feel light, like I could fly… but not anymore. No. My strength is gone. And I can’t even light a cigarette now. I feel every organ in my body, Racter. It’s not just that I know they’re there — I’m aware of them, how they press against each other. My heart pumping blood. My stomach digesting food. I’m a disgusting pile of guts…” She keeps talking, like a dam has burst. “And the worst part is, I can’t stop thinking about how they’ll fail. One by one. You’re right — elves live a long time — but all of this, everything in me, is rotting away, even if I can’t see it. I’m dying, constantly. I’m a ticking bomb. And every metahuman is the same. Will this ever pass?” “It’ll get easier. But it won’t pass entirely, no. You didn’t think getting an implant was like getting a tattoo, did you? This is why so many become addicted to cyber-mods. It’s hard to stop. You want to keep fixing yourself until there’s nothing left that’s flawed, diseased, mortal.” Shay shivers and nods. She admits, “I didn’t just come to accuse you or vent. I think… I think I came to ask how to live with this. You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” “For me, it was easier. The implants didn’t change much about how I saw the world. I hadn’t sense electromagnetic waves and infrared radiation, of course. But I already had known about mortality — the thing you were blind to. I could never forget about it.” She falls silent for a long time. In her silence, Racter detects astonishment, tinged with a kind of unexpected pity — much like the time she came down to his workshop in her white dress, and they spoke of the inability to feel joy. At last, she says quietly, “I understand your dreams better now. Your obsession with tech and data. But I’m… not like you. I don’t want to become a machine or upload myself to the cloud. I want to stay myself. I want everything to go back to the way it was. But I know it’s too late — even if I tear this stupid, doll-like eye out, I’ll never shake this sense of mortality. God, what have I done? And the worst part is… today I tried to summon a spirit, and nothing happened. I couldn’t even spark a flame. I’m so scared, Racter. Scared I’ll never be able to…” She breaks off and starts to cry. “You won’t lose your magic over one small implant. Shay… Shay, look at me.” She lifts her tear-streaked face, meeting his gaze. In the dark iris of her remaining eye, Racter sees his own reflection. He wonders what she’s thinking — about capillaries and wrinkles, perhaps, or the mess of viscera beneath his skin. But he dares to hope that, amidst the horror, she sees the person she once said she’d been waiting for her entire life. “Shay, I don’t want to become a machine or upload my consciousness either. Not anymore. Knowing you has shown me that I’m missing something crucial about life,” Racter says honestly. “And I think I’ve found a cure for that crushing sense of mortality you feel now. I realized it the night we walked through the flower market and I saw you casting magic. As cliché as it sounds, you need to remember that people aren’t just guts and bones. Or — no, not remember. You need to believe it again. Truly believe it, with everything you have. Find yourself in a moment where awe and wonder overpower everything else. Love, joy — these aren’t really my areas of expertise, but I think you know what I mean.” Shay keeps looking at him. Her lips curve into the faintest smile, and her gaze softens, like a drifting cloud. He knows she remembers it now: Mong Kok, the night, the flower market, the warm wind of magic lifting a whirlwind of shimmering silver petals around them... “And if you believe,” Racter continues, “I’m certain you’ll forget the fear and revulsion you spoke of. For a moment, listening to me, you already did — didn’t you? Soon the sparks will return to your fingertips. You’ll fly again, and nothing will feel impossible. You are extraordinary. The people of Hong Kong even believe you’re a messiah.” She nods, blushing slightly. “All right. I’ll try. But only if you’re with me. Deal?” “Why me?” he deflects. “I’m scared,” Shay admits. “Scared I’ll fail. Scared to be... alone. Without you, I’m not myself. I lost control because of this implant, spiraled so hard I might as well need therapy, but when I saw you… it felt like everything wasn’t so bad after all. If it’s true I need to find joy in life again, then I won’t manage it without you. My joy, my life — it’s you. Please. You said it yourself — it’s a pleasant feeling, isn’t it? When I cast spells.” “Very pleasant,” he says. Like a needle jabbed in the heart. Death at the tip of the needle, the needle in an egg, the egg in a duck, the duck in a rabbit. My needle has a crow’s nest of hair, a jagged grin, and a synthetic blue eye, Racter thinks. “Very well,” he says aloud, forcing a faint smile. He half-jokingly offers her his hand. “Come, Shay. Of course, I won’t leave you now.”   And so, they are walking in the air — just like in that old pop song. Their feet seem cradled by invisible hands. The girl in white and the man in black glide through the night, hand in hand, above the rooftops of the skyscrapers under a silver moon. Far below, people sleep soundly, oblivious, as dawn is still hours away. The dark ocean beats steadily against the shore, as though Hong Kong itself is breathing deeply in its slumber, rolling over onto its side. Shay’s white shirt glows, lit by moonlight — and by magic. Her eyes glimmer too. Her black curls drift through the air as if underwater, blending with the night. She laughs. “This is so wonderful... Thank you. Thank you for saying those things to me, for coming with me... Look, we’re like birds! I love you so much. With you, I can cast spells, I can fly. I can do anything.” “You know, Shay,” Racter replies, “it’s not about what you can do with me. It’s about what you can do without me.” He says it without cruelty, without malice. His tone is completely impassive. Perhaps it’s this that unnerves Shay — the fact that she can’t read his voice. She blinks, confused. “What?” “Unfortunately, you’ve made yourself completely helpless without me.” The delicate silver music of her emotions is severed by a jarring, grating note. Fear rises — not yet understanding, but the shadow of understanding to come... Racter loosens his fingers for a brief second, then catches her hand again. But in that fleeting moment of separation, Shay wavers in midair, as if an invisible platform beneath her feet had been pulled away. He explains patiently, almost as though he were instructing a child: “You said it yourself: I am your life. Your joy, your strength — they’re all me. And it seems that’s true. You have nothing else left now. Only me. But what will you do, Shay, when I tell you that I don’t need you?” “But... how?” Her protest sounds absurdly naive, but in this moment, expecting more from her would be unfair. “You said I was special... You called me a messiah…” She searches his face, and Racter, at last, lets her see the truth. He allows her to see his cold, empty indifference. To see that he could have killed her a hundred different ways—or left her crippled, feeding her with a spoon while reveling in her helplessness. But the reality is far worse: she simply means nothing to him. He has taken everything he wanted, and now, she’s no longer worth his time. “I lied. What kind of messiah are you? A foolish, self-absorbed little girl.” Shay’s breathing turns shallow and ragged. She says nothing. Her words are spent. Her thin, bronze fingers clutch his hand with desperate strength. She’s afraid. She understands now. She’s realized how far the ground is below her — and what lies inside her: entrails. Loops of intestine, networks of veins, endlessly deteriorating, slick, porous, terrifyingly fragile organs... Entrails and nothing more. The pulsing silver light radiating from her fades. With each passing second, her body grows heavier, until she dangles from his hand like a weight. Forty-eight kilograms. Racter sums it up, his voice clinical, detached: “You already know, don’t you? When a person turns into a pathetic, whining parasite, they’re discarded. You’ve done the same to others yourself.” Below, the sea beats steadily, like a tolling bell. She hangs from his hand, powerless, dark, heavy. Her face is twisted with horror. They look at each other for a long moment — she from below, he from above. At last, the shifting hues of Shay’s magical aura collapse into one single note of exhaustion. It’s as if all the air has been let out of her. As if, deep down, she always knew it would end like this. Her fingers, which had clung so desperately to his wrist, relax, surrendering to the inevitable. “I shouldn’t have...” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have doubted Gobbet... And I shouldn’t have asked you what you wanted to take from me...” “Yes. You shouldn’t have, my friend.” When he lets go of Shay’s hand, her body plummets into the void like a black stone and vanishes into the darkness. The ocean is so far below that he, of course, hears no splash. By all known laws of physics, he should fall after her, but instead, he descends slowly and gracefully. Neither muscle nor metal seems to weigh anything at all. The silver-lined hem of his coat spreads out like wings, glowing faintly in the dark.   Epilogue   Hong Kong stirs restlessly in its sleep, letting out heavy sighs like a giant suffering from gout. A gray-haired man in a black coat stands in the middle of the flower market in Mong Kok, now lulled into a slumbering haze, his drone curling at his feet like a dog. He holds a handful of petals in his hand. A damp mist hangs over the city, the air still, yet a sudden gust — out of nowhere — whirls around him, showering his hair and shoulders with snowflakes of flowers. He lights a cigarette — without a lighter, merely touching the tip of the cheap cigarette with his finger. He exhales a cloud of tobacco smoke into the night, and smiles wide, joyfully — like someone not only determined to outlast the end of the world but eager to savor every step, every breath of his eternal life. His immense, cold, solitary happiness. The moon is hidden, but the petals in his hand glow like shards of silver.