Page 12 of Skyn (After the End #3)

Something Delicate

I wake up disoriented, wondering if this is going to be my new routine—waking up each day to relive the fresh hell of Josh’s betrayal. Dru’s shining shoulders and chest. My mother’s indifferent silence. My stepmother’s gleeful cackle.

The softness of the bed beneath me is the first reminder of my wild ride to the surface. For a moment, I just lie there, not entirely sure who or where I am. I can’t remember falling asleep, can’t remember when Ben left.

Ben and I talked. And talked. And talked.

I know that he hates the taste of engineered citrus but drinks it anyway because it’s nutritionally optimal. I know that he dreams in numbers but wakes up craving things he can’t quantify.

I know that no one has ever asked him what it feels like to win a race.

And I know that I should feel exhausted, but instead I feel a little stitched together. A tiny bit healed.

He left no trace of having slept here. Did he? Everything about this place feels temporary.

I move to the wall console, where the sleek lines of data screens hover in midair, waiting for a command.

They open for me like a flower. Interesting analogy, really.

The only ones I’ve ever seen in real life are the scraggly little things that manage to grow in the deep tunnels—pale, sickly-looking blooms. They aren’t supposed to be there, and we crush them underfoot without a second thought.

At least I have access. That’s the thing about being a Diamond: the information system just opens.

Systems assume you belong. I don’t have to hack my way in, don’t even have to think too hard about it.

The console folds open without a passcode, firewall, or security clearance check. I am the IS.

The first few pages are laughably mundane. Grocery lists. Meeting reminders for Ben. Automated responses to dinner invites he clearly has no intention of accepting. So this is what the machines worry about.

But I’m not looking for something on the surface. I push deeper.

At first, nothing. Just lines and lines of HR data, scheduling reports, and performance reviews.

And then—beneath a buried tax document—I find something.

Iku Food—Experimental Nutritional Protocol. The words blink softly in the air as I open the file; the data shifts and flickers as I move.

I flip through the documents, swiping my fingers across the screen as page after page unravels: enhanced protein biosynthesis, nutrient extraction from nontraditional sources, and human trials on something called SKYN.

Nothing about a controlled burn. Nothing to share.

Just as I’m about to swipe back to that terrifying line—human trials—the door hisses open.

I jolt, swiping the files shut with a little too much force, setting them spinning too rapidly.

Ben’s mannies glide in with military precision, each holding a different set of clothes.

They lay them on their arms, and Hank is last, hanging the piece from his neck instead. Ben has got to check on Hank.

Can bots sense guilt? Maybe they’re programmed to detect it. It wouldn’t surprise me—up here, everything is polished to a high sheen, and everything feels observed.

The bots hold out three outfits, each one growing in length and complexity.

I wave a hand, half-dismissive, half panicked. “Uh, thanks. I’ll just…figure it out.”

The first outfit wins by a landslide—soft cotton, light and breezy, the kind of material that looks like it might evaporate if you breathe on it too hard.

I’ve worn heavy, rough fabrics all my life—clothes that could survive a knife fight or at least a bit of dirt. What will it feel like to be so light?

My bare feet sink into the plush carpet like they are being swallowed whole.

I slip into the outfit laid out for me, and—God help me—I twirl.

Just once, like a fool, but it happens. The fabric lifts and falls around me, weightless, so airy that I half expect to float off the floor.

It barely touches me, whispering against my skin like I’m precious, something delicate.

I’ve never worn anything this nice in my life, not even close.

It’s blindingly white and impossibly clean, so clean, I’m almost afraid I’ll ruin it just by existing.

One of the bots swoops in. Its mechanical fingers are surprisingly deft as it gathers my fluffy hair into a high bun.

Another bot oils me down again, every inch of my skin gleaming so much, I can see my own reflection in my stomach.

The mannies don’t talk. They communicate through the shared language of unsettling eye contact and ominous competence.

It would almost be nice if it didn’t feel like living inside a three-act horror radiocast titled The Woman Who Was Helped Too Much.

Then they start pressing the other outfits toward me.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, so now you have fashion opinions?”

They hesitate for half a second, like they’re actually considering how to respond.

“No, thank you,” I say firmly.

They back off, but just barely. I swear one of them lingers as if personally offended by my choice.

Dressed in this light cotton fantasy, I slip on my black boots—one of the few things from my old life I still love, solid and real.

Then, following the scent of food, I step out of the room.

Surely, they must have all sorts of natural foods downstairs, things I can’t even pronounce, let alone identify.

Maybe they don’t come in a ration cube or taste like damp metal.

My boots leave a trail of dust and small pebbles on the polished marble floors, and one of Ben’s bots, the nervous, spidery one, zooms after me, looking as frantic as any machine could manage.

The bots only feel what Ben is feeling. Is my husband anxious for his crude mine wife to meet his illustrious family?

He should be.

Because everything I know about the grace and manners of aboveground folks comes from radio dramas. The stairs I descend are opulent, with intricate carvings and gold inlays, and the banister is a continuous slab of cool, unblemished marble.

And the light—God, the light here. It pours through enormous windows, turning everything crisp and clean. It makes me think I might be dead and don’t know it yet.

The bots lead me toward the dining room, and as I approach the table, the clinking of silverware goes still.

I expect warmth—maybe not kindness, but at least courtesy.

I expect the quiet hum of conversation, the casual elegance of people so rich, they don’t need to prove it.

I expect indifference, maybe even mild curiosity.

But the silence surprises me.

The air down here feels colder, and the gleaming white walls are so sterile, they almost buzz.

The “people” at this table are stock-still.

Regal postures in chrome, faces blank with dead-eyed indifference.

I hear a quiet yet unmistakable snicker.

I look up, searching for the culprit, but everyone has their eyes locked on their plates or the table.

All of it is polished so well that it could show me my reflection.

Above us hangs a chandelier that looks almost menacing, like a thousand blades suspended by an invisible thread.

No one has greeted me, and I surmise that no one will. The table seems to stretch for miles.

And then a chrome hand rises, and for a moment, my chest loosens.

“I was sorry to leave you this morning, Fawl. Your seat heretofore will be at my side.”

Ben, my enormous husband, is looking down at a holopad.

My friend.

He is a friend. Our chat went a long way in establishing at least a mutual understanding.

As I approach him, the low murmurs at the table turn to gasps, then to sharp, cruel laughter that bounces off the, unfeeling walls.

What did I do wrong?

Ben stands up quickly, his face becoming clearer as he nears—blotchy and thoroughly embarrassed. I thought we were supposed to be a team? He crosses the room in a few long strides, and before I can even muster a greeting, he’s draping a heavy coat over my shoulders.

In this room, we’ll be equals, he said the night before. But now, as he wraps the coat around me, I see just how ridiculous that notion was. The laughter at the table grows louder, the breakfasters struggling—and failing—to hide their snickers behind manicured brown hands.

Ben’s grip on my shoulders tightens as he steers me gently but firmly away from the laughter.

At the foot of the stairs, he looks up at me. “Did you see the clothes I sent to you?” His voice is tinged with something like an apology.

“Obviously,” I say, spreading my arms, feeling defensive and exposed all at once. “What’s the issue? This was the nicest thing there.”

“This…” He hesitates, lifting a corner of the fabric like it’s fragile. “These are undergarments, Fawl. You missed…layers. It’s bedroom attire.”

“Oh.” I bite back a nearly irrepressible desire to laugh. “Okay, okay, so I have to do some damage control with your… Who were all those lovely assholes out there laughing their guts out?”

“Family,” he replied, his tone softening. “But rest assured, they were laughing at me.” The lie is a kindness—who could laugh at him? How could he ever be the butt of a joke? “My bots were insufficient. I should have helped you. Can you finish getting dressed?”

I walk back up the stairs and throw on the heavy brocaded dress. It looks like something made to keep out the sun, and when I walk back down, the heavy velvet fabric keeps catching on my boots. The weight of it feels like a shackle.

And as I reach the bottom of the stairs, Ben’s eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s a flicker there like he, too, is sad to see me out of my light clothes.

At breakfast, it’s Michael, Ben’s brother, who breaks the silence first, flipping open the holopad with the kind of performative nonchalance that begs to be noticed.

Michael’s hair is perfectly coifed thin wire coils; it’s the first time I’ve ever seen synergetic tensile.

It blinks and twinkles like a holiday decoration.

He sits with his legs crossed, one polished shoe dangling.

He clears his throat theatrically, scanning the shimmering holopad text in front of him, and then, with the glee of someone who actually fucking lives for this shit, he reads aloud: “Ben Iku Makes His Private Titillation Our Public Concern.” He lets the words hang in the air, savoring the reaction.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He barely even blinks, which, given the circumstances, makes him seem far more inhuman than any of the cybernetic parts stitched into his body. He calmly lifts his own holopad, eyes flicking over the glowing text as if he’s browsing the obituaries.

Without looking up, Ben nods. “Yes, the opinion pieces abound. Like this one: ‘The Fall of the Iku Family: A Study in Hubris and Moral Degradation,’ published in the esteemed Aboveground Weekly.”

Ben pauses. For all his smugness, even Michael shifts a little in his seat. Ben continues. “It says here that ‘the family’s unchecked greed and their grotesque indulgence in skin brides has left them vulnerable to public scrutiny and, worse, internal decay.’”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Ben murmurs, almost to himself. “Internal decay.” His voice is quiet, but it silences the room.

Michael chuckles, though it comes out a little thinner than before. “Well, at least Aboveground Weekly has a certain flair for the dramatic. It’s quite the story. I mean, really, Ben, it’s almost an accomplishment to fit so much scandal into one marriage.”

“Almost,” Ben echoes, still not lifting his gaze from a small cup of coffee. The silence that follows is downright hostile. Everyone else at the table shifts in their seats, suddenly fascinated by their cutlery.

Michael puts the holopad down a little harder than necessary, “It’s a shame,” he says, eyes narrowing as he looks at Ben, “that you haven’t come out against this situation. Lord knows what Lily is thinking right now about your humiliation.”

Ben smiles then, a tight, calculated thing. “I’m not in a situation. Marriages are arranged all the time. I am simply a husband. The humiliation is all yours, Michael.”

The clinking of silverware against porcelain seems louder.

The other family members shift in their seats, eyes darting between the two brothers and finally resting on Ben’s mother.

“Fallon. You must be terrified. I hope you’re finding everything to your mine standards,” she says.

“Fawl.”

“That’s what I—”

“No, you said ‘Fallon,’” I interrupt.

Ben’s mother is a chrome , six feet tall and shimmering with liquid-mercury accents on her reflective bosom. I cannot imagine getting milk from that bosom—only nails and rebar down the gullet.

“Ben,” she begins, voice dripping with refined venom, “I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring that you and…your…you and she are released from attending any more public events this season.”

“Is that so? I thank you for your forethought.” Ben leans back in his chair, his metal biceps stretching against the fine fabric of his sleeves.

He glances at me for a brief moment. Permission?

I’m stunned at the gesture, but I nod before turning my attention back to his mother.

Ben continues. “However, my wife and I will be in attendance at the Innovation in Food Science Ball.”

Johanna’s eyes narrow, her fingers tightening around her water glass. “You will not.”

“We will,” Ben says simply. “And the end-of-year Council Gala.”

This, I think, sends the woman as far over the edge as a machine can possibly go.

Her disbelief is actually visible in her face. “You can’t be serious.”

Ben didn’t blink. “Deadly, Mother.”

His mother’s gaze turns lethal. She starts to fidget. “You know you simply can’t find good help these days. Ben, dear, could you call Lon?”

“You can make your own tea.”

Ben’s mother laughs. “Londria!”

A servant—lean and brittle, with skin the color of groundnuts, skin like the mine people—moves in hesitant steps, eyes cast down.

She’s the only non-bot servant. She has freckles across her cheeks like constellations, and her hair is a rusty-red Afro with the kind of brittle, dry texture that tells you everything you need to know about her nutrition: protein deficient, malnourished.

It’s common in the mines. I know it well.

But her appearance isn’t what causes my breath to catch in my throat. It’s the fear. That deep animal fear.

Her eyes flick up, only for a second, meeting mine. There’s something dark in her gaze. She knows me, and I know her. We are the same. This, I think, is Ben’s mother’s point.