this world will break your heart

Part 2: The Hersteller - Chapter 3

It's almost 0100 hrs when we head out. Finn's up front with the kerosene lamp and the rest of us are straining to see what's just in front of our faces. It's dark: no lamps or streetlights in this part of town to illuminate the path. You can hear directions travel down the line like broken thought scanners. It's the only sound: the whisper of "Left. Stop. Right."

The Real Humans' uniform is a challenge. I'm not used to moving in clothing that's heavy and stays in one place when I breathe. These natural fibers are little prisons and worlds away from the lightweight flexibility of the synthos I'm used to. It's like the signal starts at my brain to move and gets lost somewhere in folds of fabric before my limbs receive their orders. This slow reaction time, which is entirely clothing based, is just something I'm going to learn to live with. You think you understand at what pace you move in the world until you are wrapped in wool and burlap.

As we cover territory like a Chinese dragon, the streets become familiar. I know this area. I am back to Skintown. I pass the cafe where Tessa and I used to sit and order one single bronze-plated disposable caffeine injector. We would watch the entrances and secret back exits to see who was coming or going. Tessa was positive that one day we would spot someone and we could grab a snap that would allow us to cash in our shitty little lives for something better. But we never saw anyone. I would tell her that's not like the olden days where people even cared about implants and enhancements. The most we could have gotten would have been like 100 credits which we would have probably split 80/20.

The deep night is different in Skintown. The candy-colored signs are black and white outlines. Dead neon and fluorescents conserve their voices for daytime. The streets, so familiar from plasmas, and those news stories about what to expect after surgery look almost ghostly. It's not just the early hour but the feeling of complete desertion. It's what happens when all the people and the machines go to sleep.

Nellie touches someone up front and that feeling ripples down the line. We all stop. Nellie nods to Finn and he holds the kerosene lamp over the locked door of Dr. Pafè's Plastic Emporium. I've been here before. We tried Tessa's scam on Dr. Pafè but hadn't gotten past the front door. Of course, that was before the addition of papbots. The receptionist wasn't even interested in adding us to the call sheet. We weren't worth it because this place is iconic for its role in projector plasmas and reality transmission. Dr. Pafè, with his over-expended face and casual blueness of limbs, is instantly recognizable. With his own line of face creams and wrinkle shockers, this was a man who put business into the smallest procedure. It was all hype as he pioneered his techniques to reverse the aging process to such a degree that patients emerged from the clinic with embryonic smiles. Even when Dr. Pafè's methods had fallen out of fashion in the past couple of years (there were more exclusive and less invasive ways to accomplish the intended effect), the clinic still held an iconic allure and a certain sophisticated crowd. The red carpet, while worn in places, still transmits that perception of exclusivity—often so much more impactful than the actual reality.

In the shadows, I watch as Nellie manipulates one key after the other from the huge ring. Each latex digit is held against a touchpad. But, these disembodied digits are getting us nowhere. Fingerprint scanners are tricky and each attempt is a failure. There is no sound, except for our collective breath as the plastic hit against each other as they are discarded as the trial and error continue.

"I thought you had this all figured out," Finn whispers loud enough for us all to hear.

"It's one of these...I swear...that's what she said." But then bounce. Another key tried. Another key failed.

It was after the tenth attempt that I step out of line. I don't want the fact that this is my first mission to be a deterrent, especially as we all stand around goon-faced waiting for a door to be opened. While I had initially promised myself I would try my best to blend in, I couldn't keep quiet. After all, if you could solve the problem, why wouldn't you help? Because it's too early to stand out? Fuck that.

As I walk towards the front of the line, I feel the eyes of others follow me.

"It's a double. You need a skinprint with a key," I explain. "Did you get one with the keys as a separate item?"

Finn and Nellie look at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Here, let me show you. They had one of these at my old job." It's true. The security at Hawks was surprisingly advanced for a place that fetishized the antiquity of the past. Maybe they were afraid of someone stealing their vintage presso links machines or the ugly furniture.

I hold out my hand. Nellie passes me the group of keys.

"Come on, we're running out of time." Finn anxiously shifts his weight and looks at his wrist sundial, which in the darkness is just a useless disk.

I feel the edges of the digit. The skinprint is small and baked into the soft latex. Unless you have a feel for it or know what you're looking for, it's barely noticeable as a dent or a chip. However, those carefully placed ridges give it away. I take the key and hold it next to the door, against a small red/green light that serves as a subtle scanner that is always searching for a trigger. Listening carefully, the little click comes naturally. I hold the key out to her.

"Okay, break it in half."

Nellie looks at me, confused.

I snap the top key from the bottom, revealing a tiny finger Russian-dolled inside the larger one.

"Here. Everything should work now." I hand her the small key. "Don't forget to put it back together," I mutter under my breath.

Nellie holds the small key against the fingerprint pad and this time the door slides open.

As the Real Humans file into Dr. Pafè's, some nod their thanks. Nellie doesn't say anything and Finn just shakes his head.