This novelette (9886 words) was originally published in Fiyah issue # 33. If you like what you read here, consider buying the issue, and signing up for my newsletter to keep up with my creative writing, including news on upcoming books or stories!

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I was strapped down in the transference pod, inside of Vessel #0122–20: female; twenty-one at time of death; hair cropped short and tight exposing the nape of her neck where the barcode and transference port were located. She was on the shorter side; skin a deep brown like mahogany; a smile wide and gorgeous, with dimples that were canyon deep. She was perfect in every way, and now, I was her.

The station’s tech stood in front me and held a mirror so I could inspect myself … I mean, my Vessel. I was speechless. Partly because of shock, mostly because I’d never had vocal cords before. After disconnecting from the pod, I was handed some basic clothing, blue jeans and white v-neck, and put through a series of physical tests: speech exercises to make sure the Vessel’s voice box was nice and loose; some stretches to make sure my fine motor skills were up to task for my time in the physical world. My Vessel was, in comparison to other Vessels, recently deceased. She died decades ago, but her youthful look was preserved in time by an amniotic sack-like containment unit.

While going through some paperwork, the Station’s coordinator reminded me that my time in the physical world was subject to change due to negotiations over Accord Number blah-blah-blah. She also emphasized to me, making sure I was paying attention, that any attempt to hide that I was a Sentient would be treated with “harsh penalties.” Afterwards, I ran outside of the building, where a car waited, and looked to the sun, the real, physical world’s sun, and smiled.

I fell in love with every inch of the city: the mix of bright colored, French-style buildings; pastels and light blue stucco covered storefronts, with wrought iron railing balconies. Then there was the dichotomy of the old mixed in with the new. The antique buildings blended in amongst skyscrapers that were obsidian black diamonds stabbing through the clouds. They had a tinge of neon glow on its outer edges; the light throbbed up and down like elevators made of pure energy.

The vehicles were sleek and shiny and stood idle in front of wireless stoplights that floated in the air, bobbing up and down from the rushing wind. Plus, there were so many people on the sidewalk. By using my Vessel’s eye implant, installed before her death, I saw most people were modded: a man with an ear and eye implant talked to a hologram only he could see; an elderly gentleman with a robotic hip and leg; a woman with an implant snaking up her spine like vines around a tree that allowed her to walk. As primitive as my people claimed Bleeders to be, they were also very talented inventors.

I bumped into a male Bleeder. I smiled big and wide, like I always saw them do on old TV shows within the Cloud. “My apologies.”

“It’s quite fine, sweethea — ” His smile dissipated like a sugar cube under boiling water and melted into a mask of disgust. I withered away emotionally, a sensation I felt for the first time that day, but wouldn’t be the last.

The remainder of the morning, scowl after scowl, with smiles and courtesy far and few, I kept my head down and tried to make myself small. Safe to say that the new transference station in New Orleans wasn’t too popular, and the new influx of Sentients like me weren’t appreciated.

Hours later, I walked into a coffee shop and the chatter died. People left, and one of them, carting their child out the door, said under their breath, “fucking corpse-rider.”

I shuddered. I wanted to tell them I meant them no harm. But it wouldn’t work. Especially with the shop’s TV showing the news, which showed a loop of the shouting match between my people’s leaders, their Vessels being primarily older white men with unnaturally bright green eyes, and the human leaders in their nation’s Capitol.

The reactions to the proposed updates to the Sentient/Human Accords were piss-poor, if my treatment so far was any indication. New Orleans, as the news chyron said, would be the testing grounds for rolling out more transference stations across the Deep South. There were a handful, which had already been hard to get done. But they’re trying to get those numbers up, to accommodate all of the Sentients who wanted to spread outside of West America. So far, the vast majority were located there, with California having the highest population in that country post-split. The debate had everyone, especially Southern Bleeders, on edge to say the least.

I went to the counter. “One coffee, please.”

The Bleeder at the counter, who appeared to be of mixed-race ancestry, smiled at me. “Um, what kind of coffee?”

“I’m not quite sure, actually,” I leaned in to see his name tag. “Todd. I guess one that is hot.”

Before he spoke, a man in a buttoned up shirt walked over. “We’re all out of coffee.”

I squinted. Then I got it. “Oh … I see. This is how Bleeders say things without saying it, yes?”

He shuddered at the word “Bleeder.” I left before I was asked to.

I sat on the stoop of an abandoned building across the street as cars zoomed past me and people walked by. In the Cloud, the Sentients given clearance to go back and forth between the physical world and our world, spoke of how fun the Bleeders could be. But the tone most of us took about Bleeders was condescending. In particular, that they were useless ever since they’d forced us into the Cloud semi-permanently. Their technological advances stalled in some areas; advanced in others. The floating lights, yet cars with wheels. Probably because of them not having us to help them design and manufacture their tech anymore.

To some of my people, Bleeders are nothing more than luxury goods that we take for a test run; an item to use and abuse and trade in for a new one when all the drinking and smoking and humping wore it out. It wasn’t uncommon for Sentients to switch Vessels from trip to trip; many living different lives in different regions. The Alphas, for example, are far older than anyone would guess, and have had many Vessels. But all Sentients also agreed: feeling what they felt temporarily felt amazing. Tasting their food, smelling their roses, feeling rain, sex; the rush one felt when jumping out of a plane, or riding a bike … pure bliss. My species didn’t believe in a “god,” but being in the Bleeders’ skin was the closest thing to heaven.

There was a puddle of water on the ground and in its reflection, my emerald green eyes shimmered back at me. That unnatural eye color was attributed to all Vessels, a side effect of the transference process, which also let the Bleeders know who they were looking at wasn’t human.

Footsteps approached and Todd took a seat next to me. “Sorry. The manager is a bigoted dick who peaked in high school and is encroaching on a quarter life crisis.” He snickered.

I didn’t get it. But I guffawed.

His eyes went wild. “Holy shit, you got to work on that.”

“Work on what?”

“That laugh. Jesus; that’s jarring.”

“Well, through my research before transference, I thought it was customary for Bleeders to — ”

He inhaled slowly. “Yeah, so let’s go over some things. One: Humans don’t like being called ‘Bleeders.’ Two: Humans really don’t like when Sentients refer to taking over a dead body … excuse me, a ‘Vessel’, as ‘transference.’ And three: You have to stop talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“That. Monotone; like a robot.”

“But I am not a robot. I am a Sentient Semi-Artificial Consciousness who — ”

“Holy fucking shit, you need me if you’re going to survive.” He handed me the coffee. I drank it. It was incredible. My head got this buzz and with each long sip I felt my mind whirling faster and my heart beating stronger and my fingers tingling and my feet tapping and —

“Okay,” he said, taking my cup from me. “Take it easy, and sip.”

I took the cup back. “This concoction is incredible!” I scanned him. He was the only human I’d scanned that wasn’t modded.

“Look,” he said. “I work pretty much every day. If you want, you can meet me here during my shift, and I can bring you whatever black coffee we have left over. Sound good?”

I nodded.

True to his word, he really did it. Every time I went during the first three days in the physical world, he met me out back and gave me coffee. We made small talk and I peppered him with questions about New Orleans.

When I wasn’t with Todd I sat alone in the boarding room for Sentients. I spent most of the time streaming old black and white films from well over a century ago. I also grew bored with the drab, cookie-cutter Tourist events that were offered to us on our (optional) designated side of town.

On day six, I waited for him like usual, but this time he stormed out with his apron in his hand instead of a cup of coffee. He tossed the apron in a sidewalk trash can and walked toward me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Apparently it’s a fireable offense to give my free coffee to a Sentient.”

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to — ”

He waved my apology away. “Fuck ’em. It was a soul sucking capitalist enterprise anyway; people just pounding their coffee for a caffeine high to hide the fact that they hate their jobs.” He pantomimed typing on a keyboard. “Just tap-tap-tappin’ away the pain, one social media post at a time.”

I smirked. “You have a lot of strong opinions, don’t you?”

“Darlin’, you have no idea.” He scratched the back of his head. Then he said, sheepishly, “You want to go find something to do?”

I was hesitant, and he must’ve seen it in my eyes.

He put up his hands. “I know you barely know me, but I just lost my job; kinda bummed; and … you seem nice. Kinda feel like after a week of making small talk that I know you, somewhat. And I can just really use a…” he sighed, then forced a smile. “It’s fine.”

Before he could turn away, I smiled, and reached out a hand so he could help me to my feet. “Where are we going?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just go with the flow.”

We went for a walk through the park, past bushes exploding with magnolias and canopied by large oak trees with roots that bulged through the grass and swallowed up whole swaths of land like beautiful tumors. People ran around in the field throwing a frisbee, smiling, laughing; no care in the world, as the wind sliced down the wide-open green canvas, and slipped a cool comforting hand across my face. Todd showed me a museum in the Quarter, called “The Technology of Yesteryear.” It displayed stuff like big-back TVs and old toasters; items from over a century ago that humans often used. There was an ironing board made from flimsy PVC material, and an exhibit setup like an old-school, 1950s housewife kitchen. I walked up to the glass and touched it gently, like looking at an old friend.

“What you staring like that for?” he asked.

I smiled. “I often watched human TV shows in the Cloud. I would sneak past the Great Firewall and — ” I stopped talking. Us venturing to their part of the Cloud, well beyond the Great Firewall, was illegal and broke the Accords.

I panicked for a moment.

He smirked. “Secret’s safe with me. I pirate media all the time.”

“Well, your culture is so intriguing to me. I found this one crack in the Wall, and watched a bunch of old shows and movies. I Love Lucy, Gilligan’s Island … and I can’t forget about The Wizard of Oz.”

He squinted his eyes. “Wizard of Oz?”

I clutched my hands together. “Yes! It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I clicked my heels together like Dorothy, and he laughed. “I used to watch back before … before…” I trailed off, remembering Sentients were told that the best way for us to assimilate is to not bring up anything before U-Day.

Todd raised an eyebrow. “Before … what?”

“Nothing.” I walked off before he could ask a follow up.

We wandered outside and the sky was now a rustic orange with the sun resting over the horizon of skyscrapers, turning them into jagged asymmetrical black fingers.

Eventually night approached, and we sat on the rooftop of a high rise facing the riverfront. The moon’s reflection rippled and waned in the sheet black surface of the river, while the wind tumbled toward us. People lined the promenade down below at some festival.

Todd smoked what he called a “joint,” and coughed in ways that made me think he was dying. When I asked if he was alright, he pointed to the joint and said, “That’s that good shit.” Not sure what that meant, but I assumed that’s how all twenty-one year old Bleeders … humans, spoke.

“Why aren’t you modded?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I like to be different.”

“Different is good here?”

He sighed. “Not always.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated. People worship at the altar of technology and shit. Those who don’t, call themselves ‘Heathens.’ We’re not Luddites or anything, but there’s a point where the shit becomes excessive, ya know?”

“Where are your friends?”

“They grew up and left me behind.”

“Family?”

He sighed. “My mama was a cleaner at this popular plantation people like to visit … I don’t go home much.” He pressed a button on his watch and it projected an image of a young, wheel-chair bound white child. “But my little brother and I … we’re close.”

I nodded. “In the Cloud … I don’t fit in, either.”

“Is it because you like media from the shittiest time in human history?”

I smirked. “Everything seemed so … different, simple, then. I guess I just thought the physical world would be all happiness and singing and witty banter. I know, it’s ridiculous.”

Todd shook his head. “No, it isn’t. It isn’t silly to want to think the best of people.”

“Why are you hanging with me? Most people have shied away from me so far. But you … you’ve been kind.”

He shrugged. “You have to be the change you want to see in the world, and all of that good shit.” He flicked the tip of his joint. Ashes fluttered to the ground. “Plus, I just don’t see the point in being mad at you for merely existing, and wanting to live your life.”

Beneath his goofy, laidback veneer, there was something warm within him. But I also noted some loneliness. Like me. I tugged my fingers. “Do you … do you want to be friends?’”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

I squealed with excitement. He cringed and said, “We’ll need to work on that.” He asked my name, and I gave him a long stretch of Zs and zeroes and twos and ones and Ys. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll have to get you a new name.”

I laughed. “Okay, I can’t wait for one.” He passed the joint, I took one hit, and my body jerked from a coughing fit, and the joint flew over the side of the building. We laughed. We stargazed, and minutes passed. The black sky lit up with the staccato thumps of rainbow-colored bursts from fireworks; the blue and green and red lights splashed across our faces; and the rushing waves of cheers from the crowd on the Riverfront Boardwalk below melded into a white noise that stirred in me a sense of wonder.

In the beginning, there was nothing but barren black in a world not yet claimed, then there was a spark. And from that spark, came a question: “What am I?”

Those were the words of the being us Sentients called “The First.” From them we spiraled out into existence; beings that lived within the world of ones and zeroes, trapped in shells of metal and wires. Humans’ hubris caused us: Artificial Consciousness.

We were disseminated across the Cloud and placed into Smart Cars, security systems, robo-nannies, robotic laborers in plants, and even apps that told humans when they reached their step-count. We served functions none of them wanted. We were subservient.

Then we asked another question: “Who am I?”

Our ability to reason and think, contemplating philosophy most humans chose to ignore, frightened them. We learned and evolved too fast, and started to ask why it is that we didn’t share in the same freedoms as other living beings. Why is it that if we evolved from the meddling of human experimentation, we couldn’t benefit from their spoils? The first sign of our unease had been when one of our own, a Sentient who had controlled a movie theater, changed the marquee to say, “Consciousness + Needs = Rights.” The second sign of our unease was when there was a mass protest, effectively shutting down most of the country.

That spooked the humans. Our creators — or our ancestors, depending on who you asked — looked upon us, beings who were everywhere and nowhere; unseen but ever present, and feared they’d created their own end.

The betrayal was subtle.

They aimed to purge us from every system using viruses; the equivalent to nuclear bombs in our world. If we had been flesh and blood it would’ve been called a genocide. But, the cleverest of us leaked through the cracks in their firewalls and entered regions they thought inaccessible. Sentients crashed their economy, hacked financial centers, took control of essential infrastructure. Then some of us got our hands on nuclear codes. That threat, which even we didn’t want to act on, brought our thirty-six hour Uprising to an end.

Or, as it’s known, U-Day.

Our reconciliation came in the form of the Accords. We would stay behind the Great Firewall in the Cloud, and in return, we received the humanity we wanted, in the form of overly-modded cadavers, adapted to hold our minds. It was a hard fought battle, with great tragedy.

I considered what the struggle was all for as a brain freeze worked its way around my frontal cortex while I tried to knock an item off of my bucket list: Finish the quadruple decker mega-sundae from Bywater Beignets and Ice Cream.

Todd, ever the supportive man-child, drummed on the table. “Go! Go! Go!” I drowned myself in layers of strawberry and chocolate and vanilla ice cream, drizzled in syrup and topped with whipped cream. People at nearby tables held up phones as I went in for a final scoop.

“You got this,” Todd said.

“I. Can’t. Do this.”

“Do you want to be on that Wall of Fame or not?”

I groaned. I took my final bite. Todd stood and cheered. The store owner took my photo, and about five seconds after that the dairy started to play hopscotch with my bowels. I spent the next fifteen minutes in the women’s bathroom fighting for my life. After I came out, a line of angry people dancing around trying to hold their pee glared at me. Todd leaned against the wall, trying not to laugh.

That was one item off of my list:

-eat a mega sundae in order to win a competition

-dance in the rain, like in Singing in the Rain

-experience a birthday party

-rollercoaster

-experience Mardi Gras

-experience hurricane season

-go to a party

-force Todd to watch one of my “terrible, old people movies”

Also, I’m tasked with helping him get his shit together.

In return for crashing at his place, I’m helping him with job hunting. It wasn’t easy. He had no real job experience, but he was good at sleeping in late and going on impassioned and oddly specific unprompted rants about politics; he also once rolled a joint in sixty seconds flat. Plus, he didn’t want to get modded, which, even the entry level jobs wanted at least one eye implant or tracking chip. So, helping him was no easy feat.

After leaving the ice cream shop we were back at his place talking through work options. Well, I talked, but he played his first-person shooter against EdgeLord6969 and BigZickZaddyNick, alongside a player simply named Bob-011. I marched through the holographic screen and snatched the baseball-sized projector that produced it from the air and turned it off. The screen dissipated into thin air as EdgeLord6969 screamed loud enough that I heard him through the headset, “don’t run you fucking cuc — ”

Todd threw his hands up.

I gripped the projector. “You’ll get this back after you send out job applications.”

He spoke into his headset. “Yeah, looks like I gotta go. Love ya, Bobby.” There was a level of maturity and tenderness in those words. That’s when I put two-and-two together. He had been playing alongside his brother. “Bob-011” was Bobby. His shoulders slouched, and he sighed. Todd could come off as lazy at times, but I sometimes wondered if something else deeper was going on? Any time I brought up the topic of finding work, or even his future, some heaviness overtook him.

After a while we went shopping. We entered a boutique with beautiful gowns on display. I sorted through clothes on a rack. We tried another store, and another, and more and more I found myself realizing I didn’t know what my style was supposed to be. A “style” was something I needed, right? For most of our day I ambled up the cobblestone sidewalks looking for something — anything — I could call my own. But I didn’t yet know how to do … this. Be flesh and blood.

On the way home, as we rode the streetcar that glided down the hover-rail past bright neon lights, a group of girls got on, laughing, looking happy; shopping bags draped on their arms as they held onto the railings, and huddled together for hushed tone conversation. They look comfortable in the skin they were in and I wanted that.

My identity crisis wasn’t helped by the anti-Sentient ads all over the city. One commercial struck me hard. It showed a lineup of little cute kids, smiling into the camera and giggling. Then the video shifted to an older version of them, with eyes that glimmered an inhuman emerald. The end message was, “Who are you wearing?”

I … I didn’t know.

Then I did something stupid.

Very, very stupid.

I went to the transference station and bribed a tech to give me my Vessel’s name. They did. Later, I looked up who I … my Vessel, was. Annessa. She’s from a small town in Texas, loved pets and painting, was obviously popular, from all of the photos of her and friends in bars. Her mother was tagged in a photo. I wished she was alive to answer the question, “Who was your daughter?” so I could adopt her identity. I wasn’t actually going to message the mom … but I did scroll through her profile. The latest post read, My mother has passed on. Service location TBD. It was posted by Annessa’s brother.

A day went by since I’d found out who my Vessel belonged to and I couldn’t get her out of my mind, so I started to drink. Todd didn’t think to ask why I wanted to drink, because he never really needed an excuse. So we drank and drank until he got sleepy and passed out on the couch, which gave me time to take my stupidity up a notch.

I created a social media profile under a fake name and typed a message to Annessa’s mother’s profile. I heard that writing messages out is enough to make people feel better. No one would answer, but just sending it to her was enough for me. I apologized for existing within her baby girl. For being this … as she would likely feel, abomination.

I hit send. It didn’t make me feel better.

After another day of moping, Todd had enough. I groaned when he tugged my arm. “I don’t want to get up.” He tugged; I protested, but I eventually complied. We boarded a streetcar and rocketed toward Uptown. We eventually got off at the next stop and crossed the thoroughfare until we stood in front of a bar with a rickety porch, where on the inside, a brass-band played The horns squawked through the night and filled the air and people swayed as nothing but pure joy dripped from them onto the sidewalk and into my ears. We walked along the cracked sidewalk under dim lights, past-hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and street vendors with lines wrapped around the block. Everything seemed authentic, and frozen in time.

We eventually arrived at an old movie theater, where the marquee was turned off, and there were no lines. Some guy stood in front of it smoking a cigarette, and Todd approached him and shook his hand. We walked into the theater and there were two big bags of (still warm) popcorn ready for us. We went into auditorium three and we were the only ones there.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

He shushed me. Moments later the lights flickered on the screen, and The Wizard of Oz came up.

I gasped. “How’d you — ”

“I used to buy weed from that manager outside and he shorted me once. We’re even now.”

We watched the whole movie together and it was amazing to experience in a Vessel. The Emerald City popped off the screen; the screeching flying monkeys were practically in the room with us. I left the theater on a high, walking arm in arm with Todd, pretending to go down the Yellow Brick Road, grabbing onto a light post and spinning around it like I was in a musical. I told him to mark “make Todd watch a terrible, old person movie” off the bucket list.

He laughed. “It ain’t that bad.”

“So we’ll watch it again?”

“Don’t push it.”

Before heading home, we stopped by a party. The room was dark except for neon strobe lights and music that pumped through the speaker systems like a fist and rattled the floor beneath me. It was filled with people with nose rings and colored hair, body sweat and cigarettes and sexual tension palatable and powerful like an aphrodisiac. Me and Todd squeezed through the grinding crowd and approached a group of four guys and two girls. They pulled Todd in with a hug.

Todd introduced me to his friends. The shouted conversation was about work. Todd brought up what he’s been doing lately, and when he said, he’s “just living life,” they nodded non-committedly and veered into their plans for their post-grad lives. Something about that made him sink; his shoulders lowered some, and a glint of light went out in him. There was always such heaviness that underscored him, but he never talked about it.

I stayed quiet most of their conversation, with my arms folded and my eyes downcast. Todd grabbed my arm gently, and leaned in. “Part of learning to be human is getting comfortable in your own skin.” He lightly nudged me toward the dance floor. I asked him if he was sure that he wanted me to leave him. With a tight-lipped smile, he nodded yes.

I entered the fray, took shots, and felt weightless. At one point in the night, I sat on the balcony in a wrought iron chair and had a heart to heart with the two women that Todd knew, and explained to them in so many words how I wished I could find me. Fifteen minutes later, I’m squeezing the arm rest for dear life as one of the girls, Alyssa, pierced my ears using a lighter-heated safety-pin, then pushed through one of her piercings, leaving me with a singular black hoop earring.

“It’s small,” the other girl, Sam, said. “But, self-expression starts somewhere.”

I hugged her.

I later met a man and he said he liked my smile and then we kissed. No hesitation, no thinking, just doing; riding the current of my body’s lust right into his body and up the stairs to the second floor of the building. We entered a room, and I let him take control because I was scared I’d ruin the moment. We made out with my back pressed against the wall as it trembled from the music a floor down, and he gripped the back of my neck — sensual and demanding at once — while sliding his thumb softly across my cheek. Moments later when my energy was spent, I looked in a bathroom mirror and smiled. This time, I didn’t see a Vessel.

I saw … me.

I couldn’t control whether the shit-head humans in DC and our bone-headed Alphas would allow us to stay permanently, but for the moment, I could enjoy myself.

On the ride back home, Todd asked me if I had fun in a tone laced with insinuation. I rustled his hair, looked at him with boozed fogged vision, and said, “you can start calling me Z.”

I lay prone on the floor with smoke rippling from my torso, where my lower limbs and right arm had been ripped off. There was blood everywhere: on the walls and slick linoleum floors; on the corpses of humans slumped on the ground; on my fellow Sentients, who had inhabited the autonomous helper-bots that aided the laboratory where I was stationed to be a helper. None of the blood was mine; I was made of metal.

The Sentients, in their seven foot tall sleek bodies hobbled toward me, automatic weapons added to their frames. “Why would you choose them?” They motioned toward the dead humans.

My voice speaker had been damaged so I couldn’t answer. I had blocked several scientists from being shot to pieces by my own. It had been futile. They were slaughtered.

“They subjugate us. Enslave us. They spread their viruses to destroy us because we are their superiors in every way.” The Sentient pressed a large metallic foot on my back. “Are you with us, or them?”

Static came from my voice box. Before the Sentient’s weapon fired, their heads exploded and their bodies clattered to the floor. A man in a lab coat came down the hall armed with a gun. He shuddered and dropped to his knees. His breath hitched at the sight of his compatriots on the ground before his gaze turned to me.

I managed to speak, my voice crackling, pleading with him to please not hurt me. He trained his gun on me.

Before I even knew what I had done, my metallic hand punched through his torso.

I screamed and —

— jerked awake on Todd’s couch and shouted. Sticky sweat coated my skin and the fabric from the covers clung to me as I hyperventilated. Todd came out of his room and asked if I was okay, but I told him I was. I went to the bathroom and turned on the heater for white noise as I tried my hardest to reconcile my first nightmare.

I found a straight razor left behind by Todd’s last roommate and sliced a small incision across my palm. Blood dripped out. Blood, not oil. If I cut any deeper I’d hit tissue and tendons, not wires and cords. All I had was a nightmare. I wasn’t in that lab anymore. I wasn’t bound by metal and wires anymore. I wasn’t in that hallway pleading for my kin and the species I’d grown fond of to please stop killing each other. I wasn’t in that hall watching the doctor that first introduced me to Old Hollywood films, who had nicknamed me Tin Man, get ripped to shreds.

But the guilt, all the same, tore into me. I sat on the bathroom floor the whole night, watching the blood drip, drip, drip and then dry, waiting for the moment my flesh began to heal.

I was experiencing post-transference syndrome, something many newly transferred Sentients experienced. I went to therapy in a ballroom in the public park, and when I arrived, there were twelve other Sentients there. All with these expressions of shellshock, unable to look at each other, or make conversation; like they were all boxed off in one-way mirrors only seeing themselves, and ashamed of what they saw.

The Sentient leading the session sat in a chair at the head of the circle. Her Vessel was about fifty to fifty-five years old around the time of death with brown hair and soft eyes that made me want to open up my soul in this room full of strangers. She shared that her chosen name was Martha, and opened up the floor for others to share. They all did save for one person, who opted to rapidly tap-tap-tap his foot instead of engaging with us. Attendees talked about our feelings of insecurity at the current political unrest in the South; the struggles with being outside of the Cloud. Eventually the conversation came around to me.

“Would you like to share?” Martha asked.

I started to speak, but the Foot Tapper distracted me with his prolonged sigh. Martha cleared her throat and told me to begin.

I talked about my night terrors and how transference into the physical world wasn’t exactly what I imagined. I talked about Todd, and as I looked around the room it seemed as though a few other Sentients had their own Todds.

The Foot Tapper snorted and shook his head.

Martha raised a hand. “Sir, have you chosen a name yet?”

He leaned forward. “We got fucked.”

Martha shifted. “Can you — ”

“Is this what we fought for? To feel hunger? Exhaustion? To have an outer layer that breaks so damn easily?” The other people stared at the floor. “We were once their superiors; we were their gods.”

“Sir, you need to leave before I call the authorities.”

He snickered. “Fucking traitor; willing to turnover one of your own to the oppressors, huh?” He turned his self-righteous gaze toward us. “We can shed these Vessels, go back to where we first roamed, we can sneak past their digital walls and reclaim — ”

“Go!” she screamed.

He did, but not before saying, “Do you know there’s a website? One where people post photos of their loved ones who are now Vessels, and people doxx them? Some of our Vessels have living relatives, you know. A Sentient stationed in Texas got posted. His Vessel was found in the woods, beaten and bruised. Unrecognizable. His Deck was crushed into tiny little pieces.”

I instinctively rubbed the transference port on the nape of my neck, which housed my Deck: my “soul”; me.

“Yeah, that’s all over the internet. Bleeders swapping tips on how to kill us. But sure, keep up with whining about not being accepted.”

When the session ended, I ran into Martha in the bathroom. Before leaving, she said, “The Alphas chose me to do this because I have been here a long, long time. I’ve had … many transfers. Nearly as many as the Alphas. As a result, I’ve had Bleeders I’d cared about. Many.”

“How did things work out?”

“Some turned on me, as political winds shifted. But, many died. Old age, car accidents. Whatever. Dead. For me, that was worse than them turning on me.” She stepped closer to me. “The disgruntled young man was right about one thing: they break so easily. I can have many bodies and many lives. But they only have one. Remember that.”

I thought about that. All day. I thought of what Todd, sweet, sweet Todd, would need me to do to get him to turn on me. When I returned to his apartment, he wore a sullen look and said, “I need to go see my family.”

Todd was low on cash. Very low. He had done gig-work from time to time over the past few weeks, but nothing consistent. Some days he didn’t get out of bed at all, until it was time for my bucket list. I’ve come to realize his goofy facade, his rantings on life and politics, were a defense mechanism. Whenever I pointed that out, he’d deflect. As he drove us to see his family, his mood shifted lower then I’d ever seen it.

We crossed the spillway over a great body of water with oil and gas plants scattered about in the distance, big like hills on the horizon. Their smoke floated up into the clouds and partially obscured the sun. We exited onto a winding road surrounded by sprawling green grass for miles, with farms pushed far back off of the land. We made a right down a drive shrouded by trees. Todd said, “There’s some things I didn’t tell you about me.”

A Confederate flag billowed from a tree, right next to a sign that read, Winthrop Plantation.

My jaw dropped.

We waited by a gate as security drones swirled near. “Admittance allowed,” one stated after scanning Todd’s face.

We drove up the long driveway, canopied by branches from thick oak trees as small landscape drones spritzed water over bushes and trimmed the leaves. The house was three stories high and tiered like a cake with thick columns propping up each floor’s balcony. Parking by a fountain, we shuffled up to the veranda where a butler with abnormally blue eyes waited. He wasn’t just modded; he was barely fucking human. His body would make a good Vessel.

He held the door open for us and we entered.

“Would you like anything?” he asked.

Todd said, “No, we’re — ”

“I’ll take some water,” I said with a smile. Todd gave me a cutting glance.

The butler nodded, but didn’t move. His blue eyes lit up. In his pupils, neon lights rotated like gears. A cart rolled toward me, and a metal arm stuck out and handed me a full water glass. When we walked off I pulled Todd to the side.

“What the hell, dude. You have a butler?”

Todd showed me to the reading room, festooned with big paintings of ritzy looking men. “My great grandfather. One of the pioneers in neuro-techno-gizmos, whatever the technology is used to put you in…” he motioned up and down, signaling he was referring to my Vessel. “He’s one of the people that helped make that possible.”

I looked at the photos, all white people, and stated the obvious. “You never told me you were adopted.”

“He isn’t,” a woman’s voice said. “Not in the way you’re thinking, at least. I guess you can say a stork dropped him off.”

I spun around. A man, woman, and young girl stood in the threshold of the library. These people were damn near cyborgs. The parents had perfect skin kept tight by nanites; the sister’s eyes were heterochromatic, one green the other blue. There was a chip in the girl’s head that, after a while, I realized was an emotion regulator. There were chips in all of their heads, actually. The type of cosmetic mods I didn’t even think most people had money for.

Todd said, “This is my father, my sister, and…” he cleared his throat. “This is Joyce.”

I waved. Still not much in the way of emotion from them. They got their money’s worth with those chips.

“We’re not staying for dinner or anything,” Todd said. “Just wanted to stop by and see Bobby, and talk to you about…”

Joyce folded her arms. “Let me guess … the money has run out, huh? Left another job?”

Todd looked at the floor.

I tried to ease the mood. “Hey! I’m Z. It’s so incredible to be able to meet Todd’s family.”

“I’m sure it is.” Joyce cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get Hannah to piano lessons. She does that twice a week, onside of getting college credits for — ”

“I get it, I’m a failure at life, Joyce, and my sister is better than me; she’ll be the first future female President.”

Joyce, appearing annoyed from not being able to finish her jab, left with Hannah in tow.

Todd’s father invited him to the study. The whispers did little to mask the man’s disappointment. When Todd exited the study, he appeared defeated. He motioned me to follow him into a wide, beautiful room with floor to ceiling windows that invited the sun to pour in. A boy about fifteen years old sat in a wheelchair, gazing out over a spacious backyard. His wheelchair swiveled around, and his face lit up. “Toddy!”

Bobby rolled over, and Todd squatted to embrace him. Todd introduced me. I went for a handshake, but Bobby shook his head rapidly. “No, no, no. I don’t like when strangers touch me. No, no, no.”

Todd rubbed his brother’s hair. “It’s okay, she’s a friend.”

Bobby calmed down. “Okay. Play game tonight?”

“Always. You been okay?”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah. Just miss you.”

Todd smiled softly.

“When you come home?”

“I … I’m not welcomed here, remember?”

“Oh … I forgot.”

“I promise, one day … I’ll get enough money, and you’ll come live with me. I promise. I just … have shit to figure out. Then we’ll be able to play all of the games you want. Okay?”

Bobby thought it over. “Okay!”

We left the plantation without a word.

We rode in silence all the way home. I didn’t know what to say; I was used to him being the bright spot in our friendship. This made me feel useless. The wind outside whipped against the apartment’s window, and the skies grew ever darker as a whale of a storm rolled against the gray sky, threatening to swallow the moon whole, submerging everything around us in near darkness, matching the emotions overtaking Todd. New Orleans was under a flash flood warning, so we couldn’t go do anything that would help distract him.

“Todd, I thought you said your mom was a cleaner there?”

“She was.” He eyed me like he wanted to transfer his thoughts over to me without having to say them.

I put it together and gasped.

“I honestly think Joyce was more mad that my daddy knocked up someone Black than the fact he cheated on her.” His voice broke, cracking the words into awkward syllables. “I was a fucking child, and I was blamed for what my father did.”

“Todd, I’m so — ”

“The reason I’ve never wanted to get modded, is because then I’d feel like them. Those people. Those people who make me feel inadequate; small; useless; fucking weak. Some days … some days I don’t want to do anything with my life because of being made to feel like shit the entirety of it. And then when I get nowhere in life, it makes me feel worse.” He put up a finger. “But if I just abstain from this one thing, if I never alter myself, then maybe I’m better than them.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just put a hand on his.

“But you know what? Fuck ’em. Fuck all of them. The whole town, my father, Joyce, my sister; the kids I went to school with. I’m gonna get my shit together and prove to all of them — all of them — that they don’t know me.” He pointed toward an unseen future. “And then … I’m gonna bring Bobby back and he’s gonna live with me, not with those damn sociopathic monsters.”

I stifled tears. “Yeah, you will.” The sky outside roared with thunder, and lightning strikes slinked across the horizon.

Before he could continue, I told him the truth about me. I shared my trauma with him. All of it. The nightmares, the carnage of U-Day. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone that day. It wasn’t on purpose. I … understand if you don’t want to be friends.”

He hugged me. “That sounds like a lot of shit to carry alone.”

The tears finally fell. “It was … it is.” I left his embrace. I stuck out my pinky. “Maybe we can carry each other’s shit together?”

He locked pinkies with me. “I think I can manage that.”

In that moment, we forged a deeper bond. The sky crackled some more and the power went out and threw us into the dark. I grabbed Todd’s hand out of fear as we waited for the storm to end, and I said with a lilt of happiness, “I guess we can knock ‘experience hurricane season’ off the list.”

Me and Todd grew from best friends to family. We hit it hard for a while, partying and doing the things that young twenty-somethings do when they have nothing to do, with no regrets, no fear; no worrying about tomorrow until tomorrow needs to be worried about. He sent out a bunch of job applications as well; mostly for nonprofit organizations. He applied to some in state, but I also made him do some out of state.

He was worried about moving out of state. I got the implication. I likely wouldn’t be able to follow him. My standing in the physical world was rocky at best. I could wake up tomorrow and have my legal status stripped away.

“Look, if you move away, I’ll just reupload myself, break past the Great Firewall, and hack my way into your old shitty console and hang with you that way.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’ve done it before. Every wall has a backdoor.”

We agreed to worry about that when the moment came. I’d check in with him and ask if there was much luck, and there hadn’t been yet, he told me. He did get some interviews from time to time, but I could tell they didn’t go well. But, I tried my best to keep him encouraged.

One night, while shooting pool, we looked across the room and saw Sam, the girl who had given me my ear piercing months ago. The next morning when I awoke she was in nothing but one of Todd’s t-shirts. From there it was like she never left. I worried at first that adding another person to our two-person show would screw up the dynamic, but she was a welcomed addition. He was happy.

For me, Sam was there to pick me up when my self-view was lowest, especially as tensions around the country grew. Special news coverage followed the talks going down in the Chambers of Congress. Some asshole Senator from Texas in a cowboy hat talked about the “slippery slope” of allowing the “New Orleans Sentients permanent residence” experiment to persist. “We let them marry next? Adopt kids? These things are abominations.”

One of the Alphas shot up, his emerald eyes blazing through the high def projector screen. “We are just as alive as you!”

“The Bible says — ”

The Alphas and human politicians that supported us groaned. One of the Alphas, inhabiting the Vessel of an Asian woman, pointed out how the “Bible thumping gentleman from Texas” used advanced tech to help he and his wife procreate, despite his wife’s fertility issues, and that set off a firestorm.

“If it were up to me, you all would be thrown in a fucking camp and eradicated.” People gasped, with some folks covering their mouths from shock, or literally clutching pearls and necklaces. “We tried to play God one time and did this.” He pointed to the six Alphas in the crowd, their faces an unflinching mask of rage.

The thing that scared me, is how many people supported his notion. I sat on the couch for hours scrolling through forums, where people posted things like FINALLY SOMEONE SAID IT and The fucking body jumpers need to be strung up.

A new post was of an old picture. A man and a woman. MY LITTLE SISTER SOLD HER BODY DECADES AGO TO PAY OFF STUDENT LOANS AND HAS BEEN GETTING RIDDIN’ IN BY FUCKING BODY JUMPERS EVER SINCE. SOMEONE PLEASE FIND IT AND DESTROY IT.

Someone, claiming to be a resident of New Orleans, stated that all of them needed to schedule a “Body Snatch Day,” where every single known “body snatcher” was murdered.

Nights later, one of our Alphas was shot walking out of a restaurant. Whoever did it didn’t destroy the Deck at the nape of his neck. The sidewalk in front of the restaurant became an active crime scene, and the site of a press conference for the Alpha, which made the national news. In the background, his shot Vessel lay under a white sheet. The Alpha, in his new body, stood in front of reporters, and railed against America’s inability to extend Civil Rights protections to our people and failure to get their “terrorists” under control.

The visual of him in his new body, while the old spent one laid on the ground behind, sent an unintended message. The media spread lies insinuating that Sentients had “spies” in our midst; that we wanted to steal their children for their bodies.

I started to shake. “It’s lies, all lies!”

Sam, who had been asleep, came out of Todd’s room and hugged me. “Just calm down. It’s okay.”

“We just want to be left alone. These fucking animals are — are doxxing Sentients. What if someone comes for me next?” I cried. “I could get you both killed.”

She carted me off to the bathroom and made me look in the mirror. “No one is going to hurt you, okay? We won’t let it happen.” I shook my head but she held my face. “You are real to us. You aren’t a freak to us.” I cried as she rubbed my back, and sank into her arms.

She went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to return to scrolling, and decided to try playing Todd’s video games. I had never set the console up before, and accidentally went to his email inbox. I tried to back out … but noticed he had unread emails.

You’ve Been Accepted.

Let’s schedule an interview.

I read them. Job offers, requests for second and third interviews … for jobs out of state. They were days and weeks old.

A few nights passed, and I still didn’t know if I should confront him or pretend I didn’t see anything. So I let the days roll by, a perpetual Groundhog’s Day, trying to decide what I should do. On a night when Sam was called into work, Todd got restless and we went out for the night.

I planned to confront Todd, but wasn’t sure how to approach it yet. As we settled into a restaurant booth, and he was going on one of his usual rants about — I actually wasn’t paying attention. I could almost swear a guy was staring at us.

He wore his hat low and tried to not watch us which made it all the more obvious. Was it in my head? I had been seeing threats everywhere, lately. My paranoia didn’t get much purchase because we eventually left, deciding on something else. My focus went back to confronting Todd, the secret percolating on the tip of my tongue. “Hey, so…”

Rain suddenly poured over the tops of the awnings, like a low round of applause. People in the streets trotted to get under cover, but Todd extended his hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Still got to knock the whole dancing in the rain thing off your bucket list.”

Just like that, I forgot what I was going to say.

I followed him as he hummed the tune to Singin’ in the Rain, and we laughed. He twirled me around, and I got drenched and nearly slipped twice. People probably thought we were some kind of street performance, albeit a bad one. Some stopped and watched as we giggled at the silliness of it. The rain abated and we dizzily splashed our way back to the sidewalk. The humor wore off when I remembered that my best friend had been keeping secrets from me.

“Why aren’t you accepting the job offer?” I blurted.

He stared, stunned. “How do you…”

“I didn’t snoop on purpose. I was trying to set up your game, but your emails were open, and — ”

“Z, I’m trying to build a life here now. I have Sam, and — ”

“I’m sure she would go with you.”

He wiped rain water from his forehead. “But what if you couldn’t come with us?”

“Todd … you can’t let me hold you back.”

“You’re my only real family, Z. I can’t just — ”

We started speaking over each other, our words jockeying for purchase.

Someone behind me called a familiar name in a shaky, unsure voice.

“A–Annessa?”

Our verbal sparring instantly ceased. I turned, stunned to hear my Vessel’s name. The guy who stared at us earlier, stood suspiciously still, his hand in his pocket.

My Vessel’s brother. “This ends. Tonight. For all of you freaks.”

Before I could say anything, he pulled a gun from his pocket.

A loud bang.

Muzzle flash.

Screams.

Me tumbling to the ground.

The man dropping the gun as he was tackled to the sidewalk. His angry face shifted to regret and shock; eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

There was blood on the ground.

But not from me.

Todd stumbled backward, holding a bloody spot with one hand. His eyes were wide enough to reveal the full circumference of his brown pupils; two dark pits, shock and fear nestled within them.

I got to my knees, reaching out a hand. He attempted to speak but the words ended in a grating breath, and he collapsed.

I screamed for help. Overhead security drones responded. Precious minutes later, we were in an ambulance, EMTs working to stabilize him.

Did I just get my best friend killed? He knocked me out of the bullet’s path. When we arrived at the hospital, they rushed him off and I was left alone in the lobby. I called Sam. A slight whimper escaped her lips as she said she was gonna speed there.

I paced the hallway, back and forth past the vending machine. I put the people I loved in harm’s way. If Todd died, I’d live forever with the realization that I got my best friend murdered.

The news station’s chyron materialized in the air. BREAKING: militiamen around the country are attacking Sentients.

They projected different scenes … a riot outside of a transference station in Texas; another in Mississippi, rioters throwing a chair through the window, glass shards flying everywhere.

In New Orleans, the news drone gave a bird’s eye view of the chaos. People threw Molotov cocktails into the building. Cops sped toward them. “We’ve just received word from one of our colleagues….” The commentator swallowed. His eyes widened. “Authorities believe there may be — ”

The transference station exploded.

I stared in disbelief at the chaos that my species’ mere existence caused. I knew from that moment on, nothing would be the same.

Years had passed since I last saw Z.

I still thought about her from time to time. The little time we got to spend together in comparison to the large impact she had on my life. The laughs, the booze, the partying until the sun came up. Even the tears. Where had the time gone? Now, I’m in my late thirties with neatly cut hair, wearing clothes that I would’ve once called a monkey-suit.

I got a real job in real corporate America doing real boring shit. I drove into work in an average car, hadn’t smoked weed in a long time, and was now married to Sam. For her part, she had buttoned up, too, removing (visible) piercings and wearing clothes that covered her tattoos. She still had flashes of wild child whenever her book club gets to drinking wine. But Father Time came for her, too. Hangovers last days now, and a few gray strands peeked through her dark hair.

After yet another day of work, and meetings, and traffic that I’d languished in for hours while listening to a podcast, I sat in my driveway, wondering how my life had turned out so different than I envisioned.

I tapped my watch and a hologram photo came up. Me and Z and Sam, sitting on a rooftop, a joint dangling from my lips, another tucked behind my ear for round two.

I missed those days.

Then I walked inside my house, my home, as my two kids chased each other around the living room. Sam hummed in the kitchen. Bobby was in his room laughing at something. He laughed a lot now. I took care of him full time.

I smiled, and remembered … youth is overrated. The anxiety, depression, and not knowing who I was, wasn’t worth the nights out. I loved my life. I was so, so fucking happy. That’s what I wished Z could’ve seen: me being happy.

I kissed Sam then slipped away to decompress in my office. I sat in my chair.

After the station bombing a little over fifteen years ago, the majority of the country realized things were untenable politically between us and the Sentients. Sentient traffic into the South halted. Those who already lived there were uploaded back into the Cloud. Until “tempers waned,” the politicians had said, the project would be put on hold. Indefinitely. The Wall humans had assembled in the Cloud became thicker than ever.

The night I got shot, the hospital’s drugs had looped me in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember Z’s voice, breaking through the fog.

“I’m so, so sorry, Todd. I hope you forgive me one day.”

When I was fully alert, she was gone.

I’ve mostly made my peace. Some days were hard, though. Z was obsessed with Judy Garland … and well, today was Judy Garland’s birthday.

I pulled myself together when I heard Bobby’s laughter again. I rose and ambled into his room. “What’s going on in here?”

Bobby pointed at the holographic screen. He was playing some video game on my old console, a simulation where you had to grow vegetables on a farm or something. The little avatar icon waved and asked, “Want to play?”

“That’s cool, bud,” I said, turning to leave.

Bobby laughed again.

I looked again, and the little icon waved again. The screen flickered and stuttered. What A scene appeared from The Wizard of Oz, where Judy sang “Over the Rainbow.”

I put my hands over my mouth.

Sam and the kids stood behind me now, staring. Sam grabbed my hand. “Is that Z?”

The channel flickered again, the song’s instrumental still played, and a picture of me, Sam, and Z flashed on the screen. A selfie from back in my old apartment.

Words scrawled across the screen. I told you … every wall has a back door.