The Child of the First Design

The Girl Who Shouldn't Wander

Lacey Doorman woke to the sound of her dad humming off-key to a jingle that hadn't aired on Copper 9 in fifty years.

Her eyes flickered open, sharpening from fuzzy static to the familiar ceiling of her bedroom—old human glow-in-the-dark stars still faintly stuck there, a few falling off at crooked angles. The room hummed with warm, chaotic life: ancient fans clicked in the corners, an overloaded power strip pulsed in uneven rhythm, and the heater in the wall gave a tired wheeze every few seconds like it was smoking a pack a day.

Her shelves were a shrine to dead human culture and media piracy: dog-eared YA dystopian paperbacks, worn down at the spines; a stack of contraband manga; a chipped "I ❤ NY" mug full of mismatched pens; a cracked tablet propped up on a stand, wallpaper paused on a shot of some pink-haired anime girl mid-battle. Posters peeled at the edges—one for a movie called DIVERGENCE (definitely illegal), another of a hero standing against a ruined cityscape with a tagline that read: SOMEONE HAS TO BREAK THE CODE.

Lacey loved that one. Felt a little on the nose, but whatever.

"LAAACEY!" her dad's voice filtered through her door, bright and sing-song. "It's a beautiful day in the bunker! Time to wake up before your mom threatens to staple me to the ceiling again!"

"Five more minutes," Lacey mumbled into her pillow, which was actually an old, folded hoodie she refused to let her mom toss. Her new legs stretched automatically, servo joints ticking as they calibrated.

She immediately pulled a face.

Ugh. Weird.

Everything below her waist felt just slightly wrong. Not broken. Just different. A little too long, like she'd borrowed someone else's chassis and hoped no one would notice.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, her metal feet tapping the floor. Her calves whirred as the lengthened limbs recalibrated, the new plating still a shade shinier than the rest of her. She flexed one knee, then the other, and winced at the unfamiliar pull.

The bedroom door slid open without a knock, because privacy was apparently a myth in the Doorman household.

"Good morning, starlight!" N declared as he leaned in, grinning like someone had installed permanent joy in his subroutines. His leather jacket was hastily thrown on and slightly wrinkled, and his hair was an absolute mess. Funily enough, his pants were the only thing that looked decent. "How's my favorite limby teen feeling? On a scale of one to 'I demand a full refund'?"

"Somewhere between 'this is fine' and 'whoever designed growing up as a drone should be sued,'" Lacey said, rolling one ankle and grimacing. "They're... long."

"Well, that's how aging works!" N chirped, stepping inside. "Your mom and I can't keep you nine forever. Believe me, I tried. Uzi threatened to weld the growth regulators to my forehead if I so much as touched them again."

He paused, his eyes sweeping the room. "Also, your floor is a war crime."

Lacey glanced down at the scattered books, loose screws, the pile of hoodies, holo-stickers, and one dangerously precarious mug of congealed oil.

"It's organized chaos," she said. "I know where everything is."

N carefully used his foot to slide the mug away from any exposed wiring. "Do you know where the mop is?"

Lacey shook her head. "No."

"How tragic..." He pretended to sniff before he clapped his hands together. "Alright! Breakfast, then school. We live in a society, you know."

"I have history last period," Lacey groaned, pushing herself up to stand. Her center of balance shifted strangely, her taller frame forcing her to re-learn the room. She teetered for a second, arms flaring for balance.