#machine flesh

Act One

“One day, when I’m famous, I’m going to buy you a house.”

The childish voice, vibrating with confidence, echoed the foolish promise in my head, just as it had before every rehearsal and every performance since.  I had been barely five years old, and too excited from looking up the mountain at the city - my future home -  to sleep.  My parents had laughed at my words, and at the time I was so proud that I’d made them happy.

Now, as pain shot through my entire body while someone else tied my performance shoes on, I was well aware they had been trying not to cry.  Only years of practice kept my own tears at bay as I was forced out of my wheelchair and to my feet, every muscle and joint in electric agony with the movement.  A set of hands pulled my costume over my head and started lacing up the back, while a much more familiar pair held a tool in front of my face.

“Time to turn the little doll’s key,” Urus sneered. The head of my security team thought I was a waste of his time and took entirely too much pleasure in each and every time he was able to stab me with the wicked tool.

I stared numbly at his face as I felt the impacts to each hip joint, silently wishing he would use it on my neck. Instead, all of my pain subsided as the nerve blocks implanted in my bones activated, washing a pleasant numbness throughout my legs and back. The orchestra silenced, indicating that the curtain was about to part, and Urus spat at my feet before leaving the stage.

No broken wrist this time. He was starting to warm up to me.

The next thing I knew was thunderous applause and blinding lights, followed by the swell of music. I fixed the dreamy look on my face that Master Arik expected and started going through my paces with mechanical precision. A modified pas de deux, choreographed for only one dancer, with as much of the partner work left in as humanly possible.

Well. Mostly humanly.

Where most, if not all, of the audience saw a young dancer of incredible skill, Arik was watching only for the slightest flaw he could punish someone for. Any physical sign of the cybernetic or gene-hacking enhancements that gave me perfect stability and balance, textbook ideal form, or disgustingly petite feet would have the entire staff of doctors whipped bloody - after they corrected it, of course. An undisciplined totter on my part, an arm a single degree out of position, and I would be forced to do all my rehearsals with full sensation, even in my mutilated feet.

I was, it turned out, entirely too expensive to break. Torture was still an option, though.

As I made my way through the gravity-defying leaps that replaced the lifts in the sequence, I fantasized about walking barefoot through wet grass.  I had done it as a child, I could remember it vividly. Cool, damp, soft blades tickling between my toes as I walked and ran. I would give anything to be able to walk again. Or have toes.

The music started to wind into its inevitable end, and I pulled myself from my reverie. Composing my face, I focused on executing the last bits of footwork without flaw, reveling in what my body could do when I wasn’t in pain.  When I completed the performance, picture perfect and stone still, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

My teacher had informed me that it was supposed to thrill me, that any other dancers would be thrilled.

I only knew that I would be in pain again within a minute, the closest thing to freedom taken from me again.

Sure enough, Urus was less than a meter behind the edge of the curtain - no encores for this performer - one of his cronies pushing my chair.  Roughly, I was inspected for any flaws before being stripped down and perfunctorily stabbed in my hips.  Quickly and without complaint, I sat in my chair before the block wore off.  Urus even stifled a laugh as the costumer looked offended that I had already shoved my tights down to my knees.

“Sir, she is very uncovered - “

Urus lashed out with a foot, laughter gone. “You are here to inspect their costume for damage that could expose Master Arik. You are not here to be offended.”

I schooled my features into a slow blink only through years of practice.  There were no illusions that Urus was getting soft or feeling anything related to sympathy - as long as I existed, he would never see promotion to a position he felt was important.  No, Urus was extremely strict that I was property, not a person, and calling me anything else was a quick way to draw his ire.

It was the only thing we openly agreed on, frankly.

As much as we were likely both hoping that my shoes had come apart again - three seamstresses had already lost hands to such failures, and the current one was a sadistic demon - they were disatisfyingly intact.  With a grunt, Urus gestured for me to be covered in a thick poncho and we headed to our next stop.  Every dip and jostle in the corridors was a new shock of pain, but the majority of them felt familiar. I mapped my locations within Master Arik’s estate by sensation rather than turns: left hip, up through the ribs… tailbone, right knee left knee… “Urus, my feet hurt,” I advised coldly.

He held up a hand to stop us. “What did you say?”

“My feet hurt. My heels, specifically.” My heels hadn’t touched a floor for long enough to even have calluses in nearly a decade, as he was well aware.  Even now, they rested above the back of my foot supports as the biological parts of my legs cramped.

No amount of discipline made up for twelve years of constant forced companionship. Two slow breaths for him was the equivalent of practically vibrating with excitement. “We will have the doctor look for any abrasions or bruising at your check up.”

I nodded, and he gestured for us to continue. The doctor gave me a very thorough and impersonal check, scolding my heels before anyone could say anything. He applied a salve and wrapped them, explaining that an analgesic would interfere with ‘the healing’.

“You mean my implants,” I blurted out, impertinently. “Topical only on the feet, but no oral or injected because it could damage the fibers in my muscles.”

“My - “

“Don’t apologize, you aren’t sorry,” I cut him off. “You are doing your job, as instructed, under threat of who knows what. Please, just apply the topical and give a small supply to Commander Urus for whoever is going to be bringing me food while they heal.” Hopefully he was feeling semi-gracious enough to do at least that much.

“Miss, I am not allowed to give you - “

“They did not ask that you give it to them,” Urus growled. “They asked that you give it to me. And last I was aware, I am responsible for all security regarding Master Arik’s property.” He glowered and held out a hand, demanding silently.

A tiny tin of analgesic was dropped in his paw, and I was whisked away fast enough to set every joint in my body on edge. Clenching my teeth, I managed to keep any indication of discomfort from escaping.  Only a few minutes later, one of my guards was unlocking and about to inspect my quarters, only to stop short and salute before bowing deeply.

Ice trickled down my spine before she even spoke. “Master Arik, I - “

“No concern, no concern,” came the oily voice as my owner stepped out. “As much as I would love to have our little doll at the reception, we cannot have anyone that close, now can we?” Disregarding any objections he may have received, he stepped forward and leaned close to my face. “Mmm, the newest treatments are working, even this closely. Perfect, porcelain skin.” Standing abruptly, he faced Urus. “The inspections?”

“Nothing visible, even up close,” he confirmed. “Although they do have blisters to their feet. I request - “

Arik waved nonchalantly. “Yes. Please deal with that out of my sight. I cannot have anyone damaging my investment. And you were informed how?”

Urus tried to lie, but apparently I wasn’t the only one who had been biohacked. He grimaced and rubbed his head as he replied. “They told me before we ever reached the doctor, but the doctor confirmed it without prompting.”

Tutting to himself, Arik grabbed my chin and turned my face side to side, observing it. “You never did like this seamstress.”

“I do not put on my shoes, sir,” I replied carefully. “And I do not know who made them. I only know that my heels hurt.”

He seemed to be satisfied, standing straight again and releasing me. “A cool bath, a meal, and then rest. My doll is to have a day of rest tomorrow, as weather permits, as a reward.  Commander, I want your best attending me, and everyone else outside this room tonight.” Glancing down at me, he murmured “They have made me very, very rich, and I won’t have anyone taking that away.”

My “day off” consisted of a silent maid allowing me to soak in a warm bath as long as I wanted before I was moved to the sun room to watch the snow outside fall but never touch the heated glass walls and ceiling.  No rehearsals, no interactions, only warm, soft food and matching pajamas.  I was allowed unlimited salt on my dinner, and a massage for my pain before my sleep period.

It was a decadence I had forgotten existed.

When I woke the following morning, I was pleased to discover I hadn’t overindulged and added a puffy face and aching head to my numerous daily discomforts. After my normal breakfast and being dressed in rehearsal clothes, I was whisked away to the studio.  The familiar jostling and pangs throughout my body made it clear that the room I spent most of my life in hadn’t relocated.  Something did seem different, though.  Ripples of unease and hushed whispers moved through my security detail, leaving a tension so firm that I felt I could strum the threads of it each time a guard came close to me.  Curiosity stirred within me, but I knew I couldn’t ask - no one would tell Master Arik’s prized possession anything security related.

As if summoned by my very thoughts, Arik’s voice broke from my reverie. My heart hammered so hard I could hear it, and I was certain he could see my hair twitch as I felt my pulse radiate across my scalp. “We were quite successful,” he oozed in what must pass for charm. Gently, he grabbed my jaw with his cold fingers. “Hmm. No wine.” I inhaled sharply in relief as he released me. “I have added additional security to the studio - it will be locked the entire time you are within, keyed to the genetic material I gave you.”

Pain flared in my spine as I started in shock, but my brain could not force out the objections echoing in my head. I am being imprisoned for doing what you asked?

He turned away from me, waving one hand nonchalantly. “I must protect my property, after all. And while owning a person is illegal, I do have a patent on the genetics you carry.” A sharp clap startled me, and he whirled back around. “But this is a boon for you!” he cooed. “After all, if you are locked within the studio, there is no reason not to allow you full nerve blocks during rehearsals.”

I blinked slowly as I digested his words. Full nerve blocks, I thought. Not the half-blocks that left me just functional enough to pay attention. “All rehearsals?”

“Even warm ups,” he nodded. “Starting as soon as you cross this threshold.”

Swallowing thickly, I asked the same question I always asked after a job well done. “And my family?”

“Ten percent of your stock has been paid out to them,” he nodded. “As promised.”

I knew I had performed flawlessly. My stock was surely on the rise… all the murmuring from the audience, the ball I had not been permitted to attend… My parents must have been paid well. Enough to buy a house, at least.

All it took was a nod, and I was wheeled through the entrance to the studio, a double thud locking it behind me. Banishing thoughts of Arik or my family from my mind, I set my jaw and my arms to force myself from the chair.

M. Russo, my instructor, scoffed his impatience and hauled me to my feet.  Only through experience and willpower was I able to keep from screaming as every joint in my hips and legs sent fire through my body. “I am told I must give you these injections now, before we rehearse,” he huffed.

With one shaking hand, I managed to push my warm up pants down on my left hip, pointing to the port where the injection belonged. “Hard,” I gasped.

My advice was clearly unneeded, as he stabbed the probe into me as though it was a knife - Urus could only dream of being so harsh.  Before he even pulled his hand back, I had pointed to the other port, which he dispassionately injected as well.  I nodded as I felt the nerve block take effect, and immediately started testing my limbs before walking over to the barre to begin stretching.  It was only after completing the first two positions that I realized M. Russo was not snapping his usual corrections.

Turning my neck slowly, I finally found him. He was still standing beside my chair, blinking slowly at me. “Monsieur,” I called quietly. “I will not know if I am correct if you are not close enough to see.”

The gentle correction seemed to be all it took to restore our familiar roles, because M. Russo proceeded to sweep up his switch and begin tapping my limbs. I was proud that we only needed four or so corrections before I ceased overcorrecting and only a handful of other corrections were needed throughout my warm up.

“Master Arik has decided you will be Esmeralda next,” I was informed. “You did not have enough leaps in the pas de deux, he says.”

There are no leaps in the pas de deux, I grumbled to myself. M. Russo had added them where lifts should be, of course there were not enough leaps.  But the role of Esmeralda had several kicks and opportunities for leaps, with some performances leaving me in awe of the skill of the unmodified performers.

“You shall leap higher, and longer, and with more perfection,” M. Russo announced, unknowingly echoing my own thoughts. “Show me your footwork, and we will move on to the jetes.”

For two months, I leapt in my sleep, flying like a bird. Each kick was a flap of my wings, each jete I imagined taking flight.  M. Russo grumbled about being cheated of my capabilities, and only became more stern with his corrections. More and more precision was expected, with the role already requiring each motion to be precisely on beat to very sparse music.  By the time the performance arrived, he had snapped several rods in his hands out of sheer frustration at the limits Master Arik had placed on us. “Leap, but not too high,” he muttered constantly. “Kick, but only so fast.”

When the performance finally came, I went through the familiar routine of a light warm up without the block, five hundred grams of food, and then being wheeled through the corridors and backstage to be dressed like a doll. Urus looked far more on edge than usual, nearly dropping the block for my performance. His injections were half-hearted at best.

“Pray my costume fails,” I muttered to him. “Surely someone will be lashed to death if that happens.”

All he did was grunt in response. “The feast after this display is much larger than I would like.”

The comment mattered little to me, since I would not be permitted at the celebration. Slowly, I tested my limbs and took position before the curtains withdrew, music already swelling into my ears. I was soon focused on the precise footwork and the soaring, athletic leaps M. Russo transformed several kicks into, all other thoughts forced from my mind. Left hand, right foot, I told myself. Ballon, ballon. Float.

I was in the middle of launching one of the leaps that tapped my foot against my tambourine when a sharp crack jarred me, sending me tumbling to the stage upon landing.  Fear gripped me as I imagined Master Arik’s displeasure - what punishment would this earn? I screamed in my mind as gasps and shouts filled the hall.  Rather than try to regain my feet, I laid as limply as possible in hopes of claiming I had fainted.

Hard hands gripped my arms as the shouts were replaced by screams, and I was dragged to my feet and from the stage.  Whatever I had done was so bad that the curtains were not even closing. Not that it mattered - everyone was too busy screaming and running from the theater to notice. I was too busy being stuffed into my chair to figure out what I had done, but I was starting to think something far worse had happened to send people away in such terror.

“Take them to the studio and seal it,” Urus shouted angrily before I could even be changed out of my costume.

The journey that took place was disorienting, dizzying as I was flown through the hallways. Twists and turns I did not recognize blurred my eyes and forced my stomach to coil in nausea. A sharp double thud behind me ended my journey, mercifully before I had the chance to be sick on myself. Instead, I jumped to my feet and whirled around looking for someone to question.

I was only greeted by the pale reflection of myself in an empty room, standing on my own feet. The world seemed to spin around me as I realized that my nerve block was still in place and I was, mercifully, in control of my own body. In sheer shock, I sat in the chair again to avoid falling to the floor for the second time in a single night.

It was only two breaths into collecting myself that I heard shouting from the hallway, followed by the door behind me unlocking. My brief chance at freedom had been wasted. “Ensure they haven’t been injured,” Arik’s voice commanded. “Urus, you and the doctor only, I trust no one else.”

Once again, I was yanked to my feet, this time followed by a soft swear. The doctor’s hands flew to Urus’s, and matching stings hit each of my hips. “Be more careful,” the doctor scolded without clarification before carefully examining each of my limbs as though I was for sale. Once he finished, he nodded sharply. “No heat exhaustion, no injuries. The bullet missed entirely.”

“That one did, at least,” Arik spat in frustration. “Urus, have the locks been installed on their quarters?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“I want their bedding brought down here and two guards posted at all times.”

“Staggered shifts, sir.” It wasn’t a question, more an assumption.

“Make it four. Two at the door and one at each turn.  And for the sake of fish, let them be seated.”

I was dropped into my chair more than lowered, but I was too dumbfounded to care.  All I could think about were the leaps and kicks M. Russo and I had choreographed, the feeling of flying.  The brief moment I stood on my own feet with no pain flickered in and out, that same free and soaring sensation threaded through. I fell asleep then and there from exhaustion into dreams of flying.

The morning of the performance dawned with nothing short of complete and total chaotic confusion.  Even the sudden bright lights and lack of blankets had barely woken me before I found myself unceremoniously lowered into a bath.  Sputtering as I pulled myself from below the surface of the water - only decade long habits kept me from pushing with the recently earned strength in my legs - I shouted in alarm with my first breath.

“What is going on!?” I begged in confusion, looking around for a way to page a guard.

Urus’s voice came gruffly from just beyond the screen. “Performance day preparations.”

“Perform - “ I tried to wrap my mind around what he had just said. “Today!?”

“Apparently.”

It was completely out of character - Master Arik’s household had always been run with a precision that would have made a hive queen envious. “When was this announced? Why did M.Russo not tell me?” For the second time in less than a year, my entire world view was being broken apart and rearranged.

“Imagine the news is being delivered now, with his coffee and toast.”

Coffee. I wasn’t permitted anything with caffeine, but the scent was always tantalizing. “May I have some coffee today?”

A rough laughter echoed off of what felt like every corner of my rooms. “Absolutely no deviation from your performance day schedule.”

I scowled as my hair was washed, irritated by the joy Urus seemed to be taking in rejecting my request.

Once I was scrubbed, buffed, and stuffed into my warm-up clothes, Urus himself took the handles of my chair to usher me to the studio. We were greeted by a bleary and somewhat unkempt M. Russo, who grumbled as guards took up posts in corners of the space - again, in completely contrast to what typically occurred. “It is only for the fact that we have been rehearsing for far too long that I am not demanding to see that Master Arik is sane with my own eyes,” he muttered as my nerve blocks were administered.

Painstakingly, we went through each stretch and position as thoroughly as possible.  Gene hacks meant no need to be concerned for sweat ruining my hair, which was lacquered into immobility regardless.  Instead, M. Russo checked my temperature every half hour, barking to the guards to have ice water and cold packs brought as needed to keep me from overheating.  A final costume fitting had to be done in between stretching sessions, much to the chagrin of the utterly terrified seamstress.  I thought she would die of heart failure on the spot when she presented my new shoes for the performance, only to have M. Russo throw them across the studio.

“Unlace your shoes,” he commanded me.  Once I obediently handed them over, he tossed them at the poor woman’s feet. “Recover these.”

“Sir, these are nearly dead - “

“They only need to last fifteen minutes,” he barked in his most stern tone, one I knew brooked no argument. “We do not have time for them to break in a new pair. These are already broken in, they are just ugly. Recover them.”

“I do not have - “

M. Russo leaned to stare into her eyes. “If we give them new shoes, and even one blister appears after the performance, Master will whip you or worse.  For your own sake, ask the guards to send for whatever you need, but recover these shoes.”

That was all it took.  While she sent for materials, removed ribbons, and measured the shoes, M. Russo had me stretch and flex every joint in my body from the floor.  It was only as my headpiece was being sewn into my hair that the seamstress walked up to Urus. She set the newly covered shoes on the ground, wrapped in her own apron. “I need you to step on these please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but M. Russo cut him off. “The new glue is too stiff, and we do not have time to hammer and break it. You are the largest person here, Urus. Step on them please, until they no longer crack.”

For the first time in my life, I realized that M. Russo was higher in the household than Urus, as the head of my security detail closed his mouth angrily and started crushing the toe boxes with a loud, satisfying crunch.  While he took care of that, I was stripped and sponged off while the seamstress applied one last spray of starch to my costume.  Before I knew it, I was tucked into a robe and in my chair, to be whisked to the performance hall, for the first time with M. Russo following closely.

Where the journey to backstage was normally a blur, I made a point to pay attention to my surroundings: servants darting around with arms full of linens, vases of flowers, or trays of food.  The last part, I paid the most attention to, as Master Arik’s keep did not contain livestock or edible gardens.  I knew the path between the studio and the stage by heart, so I made a note of what artwork was near the doors I saw servants emerging from with full arms, curious where they led.

I did not get to wonder for long, as we were soon at the part where I was being sewn into my costume, pointe shoes tied on as securely as possible.  My familiar, worn shoes felt far heavier than recovering should have accounted for, and I rolled my feet around to adjust. 

M. Russo nodded approvingly. “She thickened the platform on the outside so that they do not die while you are performing.”

Once I was standing, I rolled onto pointe several times, taking tiny steps and checking the weight with an arabesque before nodding. “They will do.”

“They will have to,” Urus grumbled mockingly.

I could tell M. Russo wanted to argue, but was cut off as the orchestra’s warm-up ended. I took my mark, a circle laid into the floor - one I knew would rise into an incredibly narrow platform.  I had been told it was to demonstrate the precision and balance of the turns I would be doing, but strongly suspected an ulterior motive.  Namely, that if there was any chance of another person trying to shoot me, they would have a more isolated target.  The insurance on a stagehand - staff - was fairly small and paid to the family. Insurance on me - property - was far more and paid directly to Master Arik. I wasn’t terribly intelligent, but even I had figured that much out.

The music started properly, curtain parting to bring my focus to the present. The piece was a very long, original composition, tailored to the limit of my endurance - fifteen minutes, according to M. Russo. Any longer, and I started to show symptoms of heat exhaustion.  For Mme. Boulvais’ sake, I was far more worried about my shoes.

The platform started to rise at number thirty-two, and gasps of awe echoed at fifty once people realized what was happening.  By the time I was halfway through my second set of left-handed turns - eighty seven, eighty eight - the platform had stopped and I estimated I was two full stories above the stage, pivoting on a pillar barely wider than one of my feet was long.

And bored. I was so bored of spinning.  The music meandered, cresting and falling, as I mentally counted off turns.  Yes, this would look impressive from the outside.  Yes, it would increase my stock and hopefully bring my parents out of poverty finally.  But the reality was that, between pain inhibiting nerve blocks and the mostly-mechanical nature of my legs, the only thing that was straining were my shoulders and neck. Two hundred and four, two hundred and five…

If I never had to do another turn - not even a pirouette or chaine - after this, I could die happily.

Murmurs reached my ears, even past the orchestra in front of the stage. It turned into thunderous applause as the tempo of the music increased - as did my spinning.  Even though I could not see beyond the lights that were close to eye level and could not become dizzy besides, I made sure to spot in the exact same place each time - directly toward Master Arik, as always.  A simpering show of ‘gratitude’, as pointless as it was empty.  When a loud crack sounded, I pushed through just as M. Russo had insisted should anything disrupt this performance.  The applause turned into unseemly cheering.

After the second crack, angry shouts began and the music ground to a discordant halt.  I realized that I hadn’t been hearing any cheers at all - they were screams.

Shoving down my panic even as I cursed myself, I continued my now-morbid performance in silence.  What else could I do, two stories above the stage, knowing I would be even easier to shoot if I were still?

The third crack caused the platform to shake, and then sway from the force of my turns.  It began to tip, forcing me to come to a stop.  At the last moment, I realized it was collapsing and I would fall to the stage either way.  In a moment of sheer terror, with all the audacity I had, I jumped, choosing to let my enhanced and reinforced legs to take the brunt of the plummet.

Even with the nerve blocks, I could feel something shift horribly in my feet before the force of my fall caused me to roll forward involuntarily.  When I came to a stop, I glanced into the crowd in hopes they had caught the shooter.  My eyes came to rest on a man pointing an object at me, a guard behind him with a gun to his head, and my heart shattered.  Disgust and anger were the only things I found in the features of the shooter, like I was an abomination, a sin against humanity.  And then the guard fired, leaving the body to drop to the ground.  I screamed as the last anchor of my steady, predictable world was erased, familiar cane still in one strict and strong hand of the now-headless body, improvised gun not far from the other.

Someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me, breaking me out of my emotions. “Did you know?” a harsh voice demanded.

I snapped my head around, yanking my arm free of Urus’ grip. “You’re hurting me,” I threatened.

He pulled the arm he still held, navigating me off stage and toward my chair. “Did you know anything about Russo’s plan?”

I stormed ahead of him, forcing him to let go. “You are asking if I knew that the only person other than you in my entire life here who was trusted to be left alone with me wanted to kill me?” I stopped in front of my chair, turned, and stared at him blankly as my costume was cut from my body unceremoniously.

He scowled and pulled out the counteragent to my nerve block. I held up one hand, knowing I couldn’t stop him if I tried and beyond caring at this point. “Please let them remove the hairpiece first.”

The seamstress, Mme Boulvais, was less polite. “It is sewn into their hair, and then glued. Removing it will hurt very badly and cause bleeding if they are not still.  It is better if they cannot feel it.”

The nerve block did nothing for my body above the waist, but only I and the doctor knew that.  I certainly wasn’t telling Urus such information while I stood on what was likely a badly sprained or dislocated foot.  And as long as I stood, my shoes could not be removed, concealing it.  Instead, Mme Boulvais stood on a box to dissolve the glue and carefully cut away the threads with a deft hand, ignoring the runners constantly updating Urus along with the two guards who glanced about furtively, fingers on triggers.

The headpiece was finally free, and she stepped down and bent to start unlacing my shoes. Urus, again, stepped forward with the injectors, and I refused to watch, instead staring down at my shoes. They survived, I thought numbly. My practically-dead pointe shoes had survived intact, and tears came to my eyes as I realized I had made a decision I didn’t even realize I was contemplating.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered hoarsely.  Mme Boulvais whipped her head up to hear me better, and as my leg cracked into her chest and throat, forcing her to the ground to gasp for air, I realized it may have saved her life.

Judging by the sound I heard when I caught Urus in the jaw with my damaged foot, and how he fell so limply, he may not have been so lucky. “A kick like that could kill a man,” Arik had said.  The remaining guards stared dumbly, not knowing what to do when they had been trained to protect me and avoid harming me at all costs.

I ran. Damaged foot, one pointe shoe still on, and mostly naked, I ran through the hallways until I reached the first door I recognized as one I had seen servants coming from with armfuls of clean laundry. As I ran inside, I startled a young woman, causing her to drop the contents of her arms.

She swiftly squatted to gather them again. “You scared me, running in here like demons were chasing you!” She glanced up with a sparkle in her eye, but it faded as she took in my appearance.  Pure panic at being found out was hammering all the way to my fingertips as she shook her head and stood, dropping the laundry again. “Damned two-legged demons, more like it,” she spat angrily. “Pretty thing like you, running in here, bare as the day you were born.”

To my shock, she started rifling through stacks on the shelves, pulling out a shirt after a moment. “Sa bit big, but warm. Breeches or skirts?”

“What?” I asked dumbly.

“To cover up. Do you want breeches like a man, or skirts like a woman?”

“I’ve never been asked what I wanted to wear…”

She muttered something about wool socks before turning and giving me a look that reminded me of Mme Boulvais. “Pretty as you are, whoever you’re running from will know you in a skirt, sure as the dawn. Better be breeches…. Cook has a lanky one, where are - ah!” She seemed triumphant at the folded square the found, and handed the entire stack to me. “Here. Undershirt, shirt, jacket, breeches, socks. Better to look like a kitchen boy, no one pays them any attention.”  With that, she turned her back to me.

“What?”

“Get dressed, and I’ll take you to the kitchens.”

“Oh.” I felt like an idiot, but a grateful one.  When I had run away, I hadn’t had a plan, and here was this woman handing one to me. “I think I’ve got everything on right,” I said finally.

As soon as she turned, she heaved a breath. “Never worn breeches, I see. Lacing goes in the front, like a boy. Ladies lace clothes in the back.”

Finally, we were sorted out, and I was following her like a baby duck, a stack of what she swore were towels in my arms. I felt rather than saw as we entered the kitchens, the immediate and overwhelming warmth reminding me of a bath. “Marie-Jeanne!” a robust voice called out. “I thought you were carrying sheets now!”

“Hush, Therese,” my escort scolded lightly, as though she didn’t mean it. “I missed you and brought you towels and gossip. Lots going on upstairs! And I found Jean-Rene, I know you were looking for him.”

Alarmingly quickly, the towels were removed from my arms, and a pair of warm, callused hands gently grabbed my chin. An older woman, stout and red-faced from the heat, looked at me. Carefully, she spoke. “Yes, Jean-Rene has been ill and wandered off in his fever. Thank you for finding him. Let me get you both some soup, and you can tell me the gossip while I make sure he eats.” She flicked a towel near me, carefully not touching me with it. “Silly child, wandering around this keep like that when you’ve been sick.”

Without another word, she steered us into a room with bags upon bags of dried things, pointing one finger firmly at a large sack while staring me down. “Marie-Jeanne, you will tell me exactly what is going on when I come back.”  The woman - Therese, apparently - did not even leave the room, just opened the door to retrieve a tray that she seemed to know would be there.  My eyes widened at the sight of thick, buttered bread next to two bowls.  Actual food, not just porridge.

I ate as fast as the steaming stew would let me while Marie-Jeanne explained how we had encountered each other. It turned out that she thought I was an escaped and abused courtesan, and even at that would have brought me here without question. When she was finished, Therese looked at me in pity.

Holding out my bowl, I forced myself to speak. “I don’t think I can stay here. I think I killed a man.”

Two sets of eyes widened in my direction. “My nephew, Jean-Rene, helps with the deliveries when farmers bring tithe. You could leave with them, if you can be still. Can you do that?”

I thought about the neuro blocks in my legs, and how they would eventually wear off. “I can sit still better than anything, if I can have help getting there. I’m on painkillers, and they’ll wear off eventually.  I can still walk,” I rushed to explain. “I’ve worked really hard on that. But not very far.”

“Nasty fuckers,” Therese spat, looking meaningfully at Marie-Jeanne. “Keep people enslaved with drugs.”

If you only knew. I thought about all the expensive medical science in my legs, all to make me a pretty paper doll who could only function with my master’s permission. “Once the painkillers wear off, I only hurt if I move. So I can be very still.”

Therese and Marie-Jeanne stood, as though that settled the matter. Marie-Jeanne spoke this time. “I’ll send someone in here to lay down some beans and rice for you to lay on. Jean-Rene is a lazy boy, so no one will blink if you’re laying down out of the way.  Our next delivery is in a week, may be longer if Master Arik starts searching everything after what I heard about upstairs.” Therese elbowed her and she rolled her eyes. “That fancy dance instructor started shooting people, and the ballerine is missing.  Shame, really. I hear the performances are incredible.”

Therese’s eyes flicked to me before turning away to grab a jar of beans. “Mmm. I would rather be down here cooking and chattering, being left alone as long as everyone is fed. Even golden cages hold lonely birds, I think.  Might be he shot the ballerine and Master Arik is covering it up.”

For several weeks following my interrupted performance, I lived in the rehearsal studio with next to no contact from anyone except Urus and the doctor. Even M. Russo was banished from his place of power, and from the shouting I was barely able to hear through the door, he was incredibly displeased about the situation.  Urus grumbled about having to bring me meals and throughout the newly added watching me while I ate. No more solid foods, only some perfectly nutritious and perfectly flavorless concoction with a texture between porridge and puree.

Two weeks into my seclusion, my surly warden finally slipped, just a bit. “Food like that for every meal, I would dive in front of the next bullet,” he muttered.

I coughed, startling him.  Waving him off, I shook my head. “Bullet?” I gasped, trying to clear my throat.

He handed me a cup of water. “What about a bullet?”

The bowl of nutrients was set on my lap so I could turn my head and scowl at him. “The doctor said the bullet missed someone entirely the night I was brought here, and you just mentioned jumping in front of one now. I’m not deaf, no matter how much everyone likes to pretend I’m some windup doll. What bullet?”  It was the most words I had ever spoken directly to him, and from the look on his face, I had caught him off guard.

“Someone tried to shoot you while you were performing,” he explained slowly. “With a gun.” One hand dropped to his hip where he kept his holstered.

“Me?” I blurted out in shock. “Why? I’m not important, just a toy. Not even a pet.” I pitched my voice up as far as I could. “ ‘Wind up the little ballerina, let them dance’.”

That earned a more familiar sneer. “Poor little pet, to be kept so expensively and lavishly that you don’t even need to walk anywhere for fear of bruising your feet.”

“Yes, my pretty little golden cage.” I lifted the bowl and swallowed the contents as quickly as I could, wincing as I refused to let it come back up. Gasping as I finished, I held it out. “I’ve eaten. Your punishment is done for now.”

He ignored me for several minutes, until my arm was burning and shaking. I refused to beg or acknowledge our standoff until the bowl was removed from my hand.  As soon as I heard the door lock behind him, I let out a deep breath. Inhaling again and bracing myself, I slowly flexed my feet.  Pain spiked up through me, but I grit my teeth and focused on breathing with every movement.  The most recent treatments from Master Arik made it impossible for sweat to bead on my forehead, but my eyes and mouth felt feverish when I stopped for the water that was always within arms reach.

The memory of dancing - leaping, kicking, flying - warred with how quickly I was brought to exhaustion by the pain from something as simple as flexing my ankles and feet.  Since M. Russo was not allowed in the studio while I was being kept here, there were no rehearsals and therefore no need for nerve blocks, leaving me in full pain with every movement of my legs.  After another drink of water, my anger was burning hotter than my body. “Kick,” I commanded my legs. But only so fast, my teacher’s voice echoed in my mind as I strained against my own body to lift one leg, and to resist the urge to drop it.

“Again.” Breathe. My body could do this - had done this. Again and again. Only so fast, only so high, I reminded myself. Limits. When my eyes and mouth were hot again, I stopped for more water and to cool down. Another limit. 

In the ten winters I could remember being here, I had been very aware of my situation, but Urus’s comments today had been the first time I realized that perhaps I was the only one other than Master Arik who was aware. Clearly, Urus thought I was a pampered thing - what if he did not realize what the injections were?

I worked persistently at my own mobility, and it seemed that every small success woke my mind even further.  Where I had surrendered, been complacent to my existence of agony with brief rewards of relief when I behaved, now I was suspicious and curious of everything.  I was increasingly aware of how long it was taking to secure my personal quarters, where the studio had taken only a day or so.  Plots and accusations lurked in every corner of my mind that suddenly had light shining in them - why did the serving people never speak when they attended me before? Why was Urus assigned to me and me alone?  Surely Arik had other trophies - why had I never seen or heard of them?

Instead of keeping time by the things done to me - baths, meals, rehearsals I was led to and from - I began marking time by what I could do. I could slowly kick my legs five hundred times in a row each before needing to stop for water.  I could hold both feet in front of me for fifteen minutes at a time without assistance, ignoring the sharp electric razors spiking through them without a headache.

By the time I was released from my isolation in the studio, I could hold my knees to my chest with only the muscles in my legs and stomach  for an astonishing five minutes.  I had not dared to stand, but was contemplating the attempt when the locks on the entrance slammed open and Master Arik entered, accompanied by Urus and three other guards.  My back was to the door and viewing glasses, but I still dropped my feet quickly to their rests in my chair before even his brisk step could come around to face me.

“It is a good day,” he started without preamble. “Full of good news.  The man who tried to kill you has been executed, and your new quarters are finally ready.”

“Kill me?” I asked stupidly.

He waved my concern away. “Someone sent to hurt me by stealing you, once your value became known.  Thankfully, you were not injured, but measures had to be taken.”

Was I so valuable that someone would kill me to hurt him? I doubted it, but he seemed quite certain, so I nodded along. “And new rooms?”

“And a new insurance policy,” he assured. “To reflect your new value.”

Urus nodded towards my bedding and personal effects before grabbing my chair. Mechanically, I followed the script that was ingrained in me. “And my parents?”

“Compensated to reflect your rising stock,” Arik responded. Where before I had only been concerned that my family was not starving, now I was suspicious that the answer was equally rote and mechanical to my question.

With that, our accustomed exchange had ended, and Master Arik was supervising my removal from the studio space, ignoring me again.  I focused on keeping my features slack and dull, but this time I paid as close attention as possible to what was being said around me.  I learned I was being taken to the second floor, not the third - apparently my quarters had been on the third floor.  The studio, I found out, was on the fourth.  Instead of the sloped corridors, I was to be taken by elevator, which was a luxury I had never been afforded, but was apparently more secure.

Despite my new rooms being further away, the journey was far shorter.  The doors, like the ones on the rehearsal space, were keyed to the genetic pattern Master Arik’s doctors had placed in me.  Only he, Urus, and the doctor could enter without an escort - and myself, obviously, but it was left unsaid that the idea of my leaving under my own power was laughable.  The poor paper dancer could not walk, after all.

Once we entered, Arik turned with his arms extended, a smile on his face. “The walls have been reinforced, the windows filled and shuddered on the exterior with plates. To ensure your safety, obviously.” Leaning over, eyes cold, he flicked the end of my nose, his false grin never budging. “No need for cameras anymore. Any and all items and persons to enter and leave will be checked and accompanied by security.”

No windows. No more birds. No more clouds. A more secure cage than ever.

My face must have betrayed nothing that concerned him, as he stood and clapped his hands once. “Sleep tonight, and tomorrow you will perform.”

I shook my head, confused. “Perform? Not rehearse?”

He clucked his tongue. “You still need to complete your performance as Esmeralda.  It will be in the studio, and only myself and M. Russo will be in attendance, but you will be recorded so that your stock can be valued.  It is not ideal, but it will have to suffice.  Currently, your value is contingent.”

“I understand, Master Arik,” I muttered numbly.  I understood nothing, except that I had no say in the matter.

Striding to the door, he turned to Urus, who followed at his elbow. “Have dinner brought and have them bathed properly. They will be dressed here in the morning and brought to the studio for exhibition.”

—-

After a nearly sleepless night, I was roused from a fitful half-sleep by the lights in my quarters being turned on - no dawn noises, no slivers of sunrise, just a sudden bright pain stabbing through my eyelids.  Groggily, I allowed myself to be washed again, shoved into my costume, makeup slathered on my face.  My nerve blocks were not applied until after I heard the thud of the studio doors securing behind me, M. Russo pointing to my mark with his baton.  Rather than listening for the warm ups of the orchestra, a recorded track was played as it had been in any rehearsal, although this time without M. Russo counting me off.  Nonetheless, I stepped and kicked as intricately as I had intended to when it had been a theater of people watching rather than my teacher, my master, and who knew how many cameras. Each motion as controlled and flawless up close as it would have appeared from a balcony, each sounding of the tambourine measured and equal to the rest.

I finished, face impassive, without any applause.  Instead, Master Arik drummed his fingers on his seat, head tipped to the side. “It is a beautiful and dangerous interpretation,” he frowned.

“It is a traditional one,” M. Russo responded carefully. “A difficult one, to demonstrate their skill.”

“A kick like that could kill a man.”

A gruff laugh followed. “Only by breaking his heart. The feet are too fragile for anything more. They can hardly walk without your permission.”

Arik nodded, but seemed distracted. “I will have the footage released for valuation. Uncut, I think.”

“To cut it is to imply imperfection. Release all of it. There are no flaws to hide.”

“We shall see.” Standing, Arik nodded again. “Russo. The fouettes next, I believe.”  WIth that, he left.

No sooner had the door shut again than I was peeling out of my costume, inspecting my feet. M. Russo did not even pretend to look away - he made no secret that his interest in my body was perfunctory at best. “No blisters,” I reported, disgruntled.

“Mme Boulvais is much more careful than her predecessor,” he agreed. “And the softer shank made a difference.  But shorter in the right shoe for the next performance, I think. You were barely over the box.”

“Those toes are shorter,” I agreed. “And the ankle bends further. But the fouettes?” I pinched my face.

M. Russo seemed to agree, tossing his hands in the air. “You can leap like a cat, you can kick as though you have no bones, but he wants you to twirl in place for heavens only know how long.”

“I can do them Russian,” I suggested, feeling more mischievous than I could recall feeling in my entire life.

He gripped his baton like a sword. “I will cane you from the top of your head to the soles of your feet if you do even a dozen Russian fouettes before my eyes.  And then I will ask Master Arik to gouge them from my head so I may never see such a travesty again.”

I smiled softly, stretching deeply and grabbing my toes. “He said my Esmeralda was dangerous. That the kicks could kill a man.”

From behind, I heard my teacher scoff. “I would agree if you did not need medical magic to merely walk. A kick like that could break a man’s jaw at least, snap his neck at worst. But as you would never kick me like that, and cannot even stand to attempt it when you are elsewhere, it is a vain fear.”

I hummed, hoping he would take it in agreement.  It seemed he had, as by the time I stood again, he had resumed his teaching posture. “Go ahead. Show me your fouette. Ten to the left, then ten to the right.”

Automatically and without music, I started. Traditionally, the passage Master Arik was requesting used identical turns to the right, but we rehearsed with both to err on the side of caution.  Arik was known to add or change something at any time if he felt it was something new.  By the end of the day, both of my calves stung from being struck to correct their height or how soon I did nor did not whip my leg out - M. Russo had not been joking about his insistence on Italian over Russian.  As the weeks progressed, more and more turns were added, along with various surfaces for me to balance on for precision.  A strange tool was brought to ensure that my legs were at exactly ninety degrees, a position I had to hold for as long as ten minutes at a time.

By nights, I was standing under my own trembling power for just as long.

Unlike in the past, rehearsals went on for nearly half a year.  Increasing levels of difficulty were added, in theory to explain the time it was taking.  In reality, I overheard my security discussing the increased measures to make Master Arik’s keep more and more secure, to make the performance hall doubly so.  The idea made me feel melancholic rather than secure, and I avoided analyzing the feeling too hard with my newfound inquisitiveness.  Most importantly, the next performance was intended to be ‘exclusive’ as an excuse to limit any chance at another incident, and all staff were undergoing intensive background screening and medical analysis.  My own medical exams went on the same schedule as before.