#start transistor

Chapter 7: We Can’t Hide

When the door rang, she ran to it, flung it open so quickly that the person outside started. A hand was poised in the air, about to push the ringer again.

“Sybil,” Red said, masking her disappointment. “Hello.”

“Hey, Red!” And when Red said nothing else: “Um, I’m…glad I caught you. I’ve been by a couple times, but you’re never in...and you haven’t been responding to my messages…?”

“Ah…sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy.”

“Oh, have you? That’s fine, that’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that there’s a festival tonight, and I thought it might be fun to go together. There’s going to be —“

“Sorry,” Red interrupted. “I don’t really feel like going.”

“Oh...alright. That’s fine.”

Sybil waited expectantly, but Red couldn’t think of an excuse, couldn’t even think of small talk. At loss, she swung the door open to let Sybil in.

“Wow,” Sybil said as she entered, gazing around the apartment, “it’s spotless! I don’t think I’ve ever seen your apartment so clean before I’ve come over.”

“Yeah,” Red said, with a shrug.

“Is it because he’s been helping? That...Nobody?”

“No,” Red said, and then, “Well, sort of.” She’d been spending the past couple days alternating between searching for him and waiting in her apartment to see if he’d come back. Cleaning kept her from brooding too much.

At least until she realized something else was missing. This morning it had been the coat hook on the back of the door.

Sybil took a seat at the table, where he used to always sit, and Red sat down in her own usual seat. There were no napkins or flatbread boxes — just her terminal, and his, silent as it had been since she’d last messaged it. She picked at her nail polish. The silence thickened around them, tense and heavy.

Maybe she should ask Sybil to leave. Red opened her mouth, and looked up — just in time to see Sybil’s eyes drift behind her, and widen.

“Red! Is that your music?”

“Oh...yeah.”

“That’s incredible! It’s so organized.” Sybil stood up and looked over the piles of paper, which Red had yet to translate into her terminal. “It looks done! Are you done?”

“Yeah,” Red admitted.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me! Does this mean you’re ready to perform now?”

Her eyes were so bright.

“No,” Red said, looking away.

“What? No? Why not?”

If she performed now, if he saw the posters and advertisements — what would that tell him? That she was moving on with her life?

If she performed now, would she be able to stand the sight of the upper balcony dark?

Red looked at the table and pushed her hair behind her ear. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated? What’s complicated about it?” And when Red didn’t answer: “Red! What’s the matter with you? This is — this is so unlike you —“

“It’s just complicated,” Red repeated, slowly, trying to squeeze the annoyance out from her voice. “I just need to talk to him first.”

“Why? Do you need his — his permission to perform or something?” Sybil said dubiously. “Red, I haven’t said anything until now, but that man is — he’s a horrible influence on you.”

“Sybil, please —“

“Ever since you met him, you’ve changed so much —“

“Sy —“

“And now he won’t even let you perform —“

“Sybil, stop,” Red said, voice raising, and Sybil’s mouth clipped shut. “Sorry,” Red continued, quietly. “But, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why? Did I do something?” Sybil asked. “Is it something I did?”

“No, it’s not you.”

“Just tell me if it is,” Sybil begged, and Red rubbed her forehead.

“It’s not. Really. It has nothing to do with you.”

Nothing at all to do with Sybil, and everything to do with Red’s own congealing guilt, and the lingering soreness in her throat and heart. Sybil sat back down at the table, beside her. She opened her mouth.

“I’d really like to change the subject,” Red told her, and Sybil’s mouth closed again.

“Okay. Sure. Anything you want.” She looked around the apartment. To Red’s chagrin, she reached forward and grabbed his terminal from the table.

“Um, is this your new terminal? Is this why you haven’t been getting my messages, because yours is broken? This one doesn’t look much better, really. I can give you a new one, you know. I know a good Engineer.”

“It’s not mine,” Red sighed. “Mine is fine. That one’s his.”

“Oh.” Sybil’s mouth pursed. “Why do you have it?”

“I need to return it.”

“Well, what’s the hold up?”

“I have no idea where he is.”

“Why? Where’d he go? I mean — sorry,” Sybil said. “We don’t need to talk about what happened.”

“Thanks,” Red said, and managed a weak smile. Sybil beamed back, and tapped her fingers over his terminal screen.

“I...I guess I could help you find him, if that’s what you want. His address should be in here somewhere.”

“If you can find it, you’re a miracle worker,” Red sighed, looking out the window. “I searched it and couldn’t find anything.”

“Yeah? Well, leave it to me!” Sybil hummed brightly as she poked around, a song that Red recognized as one of her older compositions. Red turned to the window, chin in her hand, trying to think.

Where could he be? Was there somewhere she hadn’t yet searched? Based on what she knew about him, could she at least guess a place? But Cloudbank was so big. How would she ever —

Red jumped as something clattered loudly on the floor — Sybil had dropped his terminal.

“Hey!” Red said, voice sharp with panic, “be careful!”

Before she could pick it up and check if it was okay, Sybil scooped it up.

“S-sorry! Sorry, my hand just — I don’t know what — it — it slipped. It’s fine, it should be fine!” She wiped the screen with the hem of her dress, showed Red the light of the functioning screen. Red leaned back on her chair, relieved.

“Um, so, have you — you said you looked through the data on this? All the data? And you didn’t…find anything?”

Red shrugged. “Yeah.” She’d searched for whatever she could think of: addresses, mails, landmarks. Passwords. Security questions. Photos. Notes. Anything that could give her a hint to either him or any likely haunts. She rubbed her forehead. Where was he, where was he, where...

“Well,” Sybil said, “um, it doesn’t look like there’s any — any user data in here. But you know, maybe I can, um — I can bring it to someone I know. Maybe they could get the information out of it.”

“Really?” Red asked, and Sybil nodded and slipped the terminal into her purse.

“Well,” she announced, standing, “I’ve got to get going. See you later, Red. I hope you feel better.”

“Bye,” Red said, and stood impulsively to give Sybil the requisite farewell hug. But Sybil was already making her way down the hallway, and without another word she had let herself out and was gone.

:::

He should have gone back the instant that he realized he’d left his terminal. He should have gone back the instant that he closed the door. He shouldn’t have left at all.

But every time he tried to return, every time he got close to the thought of it, he felt her words again, as sharp as if he was hearing them for the first time.

All you have enough willpower to do is run.

He wasn’t some — some kind of coward. Just the opposite. He knew when something was a lost cause. All he’d been for her was worried. He didn’t have concert halls, dresses, connections. The fact that people were vanishing was all he’d had to offer her, and she’d just laughed in his face.

Well, fine, Red. Perform all you want. Vanish.

:::

What could he do about it anyway? It was clear that she cared more about her Selection than about him. She cared more about the adoration of strangers then about how devastated he would be if she was gone.

But the more their argument looped in his head, the more unsure he was. He’d said it, right? That he’d be devastated? Maybe not in so many words — but he’d gotten the point across, right? That without her, he’d be —

Alone. Wandering, doing nothing, being nothing more than a bug in a city where everyone had purpose. Stopping and craning over every bulletin board advertisement, every alleyway poster, searching for her name, for an upcoming concert date. And never feeling fully relieved anyway when he didn’t find either.

:::

Searching bulletin boards was inefficient, and after some time he sighed. He really should get his terminal back. It had been hard enough getting his hands on it, much less setting up the news filters.

Then again, who was he kidding? Who cared about those stupid filters? They didn’t matter. Nothing about them mattered. Red could keep the stupid thing. Or throw it out. Clearly she had no issues throwing out people that dared to get in her way.

Even if they cared about her. Even if they cared so much that the thought of her being gone made their stomach churn. Even if they cared so much that being away from her was its own sort of misery.

:::

Go back, he told himself again, just go back.

Red’s voice again, like acid. All you have enough willpower to do is run.

Go back — just get your terminal. Then leave.

But while Red still had it, he had an excuse to visit her. While she had it, she still had a reason to think about him.

Even if she hated him. Even if he proved her point with every passing hour.

All you have enough willpower to do is run.

Her eyes during the fight had been so cold — as if he was no better than the people that had harassed her.

Maybe he wasn’t.

If that information was all he had to give her, it wasn’t her that was at fault — it was him. He closed his eyes. Red singing at The Mixin — Red gazing at the sunset, eyes filled with light — Red holding her hand out to him, Red leaning up to kiss him, warm and soft. Dragging him all around the city in her glow. She’d done everything for him, and he’d done nothing.

She was better off without him. There was nothing he could do for her that someone else could probably do too, and better. He was useless. He couldn’t do anything.

Well, no. Maybe he could pay her one last favor.

Let her go. After a couple days, he had washed up at Goldwalk’s wharf, was sitting in the shade at the base of the lawns sloping down to its bustling market. Now he stood, inhaling the chill wind, letting the cold fill his chest. Let her go.

She’d be better off. That things had ever gotten this far in the first place was fluke — a long, unfortunate glitch. She deserved much better than…nobody.

He brushed off his pants, started toward the water. It didn’t matter where he went; he might as well follow the current and see if it took him anywhere. In the shallows mingled fish nibbling on castoffs and errata, and as he passed by a couple of white ones rolled their red eyes up at him and stared.

“What?” he demanded, and they flipped away.

Weird. He looked around, seeing if anyone else was being stared at — but no passerby received the same attention. They just chatted on, amiably, arms bundled with goods from the market. In the distance, someone was shouting, but he didn’t pay it any mind until he heard, “Hey! Nobody!”

His heart raced — but when he turned and saw a figure at the top of the slope, he knew immediately: not Red. Wrong height, wrong build. And wrong motion: she carried herself uncertainly as she approached, lifting her skirt as she picked her way down the lawn.

“Sybil,” he acknowledged when she was in earshot. “What a surprise.”

A really disappointing surprise.

“Don’t pretend,” Sybil told him, nose wrinkling. “I know you can’t be happy to see me. I’ve got a lot to do and I don’t want to waste time.”

“Fine by me.” She was brash; but her straightforwardness was a strange relief. No tricks.

He scuffed the ground with his shoe. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what you did to Red.”

“I didn’t do anything to —“

“Don’t pretend,” she snapped. “I know you did something. She’s — she’s different. Unhappy. She’s barely talking and — and you have no right to tell her what choices she can make with her own life!”

“What? I didn’t —“

“You did! You hurt her. I can tell you hurt her! And now she won’t go on stage at all.”

“She won’t?” He supposed it should have made him happy to know it; instead, he felt kind of sick.

“She won’t. Even though that’s always what made her happiest: performing, sharing her music with everyone.” Sybil glared. “But now you’ve isolated her. And she keeps saying she needs to talk to you first, or something. As if she needs your permission!”

“That’s ridiculous,” he protested. But he felt deflated. Red not leaving her apartment. Red unhappy. Red, forcing herself not to perform, just to satisfy his paranoia. Hadn’t her performances been the start of how he’d fallen in — into feeling this way about her in the first place?

How had things turned out this way?

She really would be better off.

Sybil sensed his uncertainty. “Well?” she demanded. “Did you tell her not to perform?”

“Not…not like that,” he mumbled. “I mean — I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sybil’s face was filled with disgust. “I can’t believe you.”

“There’s — there was good reasoning behind it. I think. In any case, I didn’t — I didn’t mean to make her unhappy —“

“Well, you did! You — you jerk! You controlling jerk!” shouted possibly the most controlling person in Cloudbank. But, despite her pushyness, she cared about Red. Maybe even more than he did, if she had gone through all this trouble just to find him and berate him.

Still, berating himself was something that he could do just fine on his own.

“Are you done?” he demanded. “Or am I supposed to stand here all day while you shout at me?”

“I’m too busy to stand here all day,” Sybil told him. “But I’ve got one last thing to give you.”

She rooted around in her purse, the brim of her hat obscuring her face. After some time she pulled out something and held it out to him. He took it.

It was his terminal. The weight was right — the scratches, too, on its corners, its screen. His heart dropped.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“So it’s really yours?”

“Yeah. It’s mine.”

His stomach churned. So Red hated him so much that she’d made Sybil her go-between. His chest ached. He pocketed his terminal, took a deep breath.

That was it, then.

“Just tell her sorry for me, I guess,” he said. “And that she should do whatever she wants. I won’t bother her anymore.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” Sybil asked, but this time he didn’t bother a response — just shrugged, continued leaving. He only managed a few steps before her fingers sunk into his sleeve.

“You’re not even going to apologize to her face?” she demanded.

“Why? It’s obvious she doesn’t want to see me.” He shook his arm, ineffectually. “Let me go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Don’t worry,” he told her, “you won’t see me again,” but her fingers only tightened.

“Let me go,” he repeated, yanking, but she just reached and grabbed him with her other hand, purse swinging on her arm. She clung, doggedly. Just beneath her hat, he saw her face, all pinched up.

For a moment they stood there, wrestling. She was surprisingly strong. He started to consider, very seriously, whether he should sacrifice his jacket to escape — but then she made a sudden growl of frustration. She let him go, with a push, like she was sick of touching him.

She put her hands on the sides of her face. “I can’t...” She stopped, teeth grit. “Just…go…back,” she managed finally, pushing each syllable out between her teeth. Pained. “Go…go back to her. Please.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“You have to,” she muttered. “There’s no other…yes. You have to go back.”

And when his shock prevented him from responding, she continued, brows furrowed, gaze averted. “Just...just look at your terminal. I can’t believe you didn’t even bother looking at it. Just look at it.”

He withdrew it from its pocket. There were no unread messages, but he could see the most recent one, which Sybil had apparently opened herself.

> I’m sorry come back.

“See?” Sybil said, when he remained silent. “She wants you to go back. So just go back.”

He closed the message, slid the terminal back in his pocket. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Sybil cried. “She’s waiting. Just go back, and apologize, and —“

“And what?” he told her. “And do what? I’m…I’ve already decided. She deserves better than me. Someone who can actually do something for her.”

How was he having this conversation with Sybil, of all people? She should have been the last people to be trying to convince him to go back to Red.

And he should have been the last person to be still standing here, arguing, listening — and, very secretly, hoping.

“So you think you can’t do anything,” Sybil said, crossing her arms. “Well, maybe it’s true. I have no idea what your Selection is” — she looked him up and down — “though it doesn’t look like you spend any time investing in it anyway. In any case, I’m not going to tell you that Red doesn’t deserve the best that Cloudbank has to offer.”

She adjusted her hat, lifted her chin.

“But you know what Red definitely doesn’t deserve? To be thrown away. To be completely abandoned without explanation.”

He hesitated, and she saw it, and pursued.

“Furthermore, I won’t let you insult her by implying that she wouldn’t even give you the time of day, or that she’d hate you.” She bit her lip. “Or that she wouldn’t forgive you, for doing something that you thought would be best for her.”

“How do you know she’d forgive me?” he asked, and Sybil’s eyes flared.

“Because I know her. I know her, she’d forgive. Besides,” Sybil said, waving her hand dismissively, “there’s no way you could just let things end like this, because you love her, right?”

“W-what? I never —“

“Don’t pretend.”

Silence, save for the wind carrying the bustle of the market, the gold glimmer of the grass as the individual blades collided and clinked. Sybil followed his gaze, still speaking, softly.

“She makes Cloudbank better. More than anyone else ever could — more than you could ever describe. Thousands and thousands of people in Cloudbank, and she’s the only one who makes it shine. And then she polishes you up from the inside out, and you shine too.” She took a breath. “That’s how you feel, right?”

Her hand in his, pulling him close, pulling him with her. The thrum of her laughing throat against his mouth. The thrill of her happiness, as if it was his own.

He didn’t agree, but he didn’t protest either, and this time Sybil didn’t grab or push or yell. All she needed to do was keep talking.

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

It was true, it was true.

“Don’t waste it. Don’t run away. Go back.”

He looked at her, finally — really looked at her. He thought maybe Red was the only one in this city that could ever understand him. But maybe there were certain things that could only be shared by people who never had the stage — people that could only feel light when it was shared with them.

And yet.

“Why?” he asked her. “If I left, then wouldn’t you be able to...?”

“I…” Sybil looked away, eyes glassy. Her voice trembled now too. “Yes, but...as long as I can make a better world for her...that’s what I care about. I...I won’t let anything get in the way. Even if,” she said, voice strengthening, “that means that you...”

She wrung her hands and inhaled, shakily. “That you go back to her.”

She really looked like she was going to cry now, and he wasn’t really sure what to do about it. He considered, and then patted her arm.

“Are you...um...okay?”

“Yes...I’m fine.” She wiped her eyes, not looking particularly fine. “So you’ll go back?”

“Yeah, I...I think I will.” And then, because he felt he should: “Don’t worry, Sybil. I...won’t make the same mistake as before. I’ll make her happy. If she forgives me, I guess.”

“She will,” Sybil said, her voice firming. “She has to.”

“Yeah.” He pulled at the cloth on his left arm, rubbed a loose end between thumb and forefinger.

“Well,” Sybil said, sounding almost like herself again, “what are you waiting for?”

“I just wanted to say thanks.” It felt strange to admit it. He would have never expected she’d help him. He said it again, more firmly: “Thanks, Sybil.”

“Of course.” She fixed her eyes on his. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Um, alright.”

“Would you do anything for her?”

“Anything,” he said, sure of it now.

“Really anything? Would you even give up your life for her?”

Sybil was so intense.

“Anything,” he told her, “means anything.”

And for the first time since he’d met her, she smiled at him, sadly.

“Then everything will be okay,” she murmured. “Goodbye.”

“See you.”

This time there was no grabbing, no shouting. He left, walking quickly, and then running — there was no time to waste — he’d waited long enough. He rushed through the market, dodging passersby, and would have gone straight through without pause had not a glint of a familiar color in a stall caught his eye.

:::

That night, she ventured out again — this time less to search and more to get some air. Her apartment was starting to feel small, constricting. For all she knew it actually was getting smaller, and she could swear that every time she turned around it was even emptier than before. No extra stool beside her desk. Less mugs in the kitchen.

“Stop it. I’m going to find him,” Red said, and her voice echoed in the hall.

The night was unusually chill and though rain had been at 12% earlier in the day, it was gaining popularity. Her jacket was thin and she started to head back home, fingering her terminal in her pocket. Finally, she inhaled deeply, and pulled it out.

> Sybil did you find any address info yet?

She watched the screen. As usual, Sybil’s response came instantly.

> Yes.

Her pulse quickened.

> Where is he?

> Ask him.

She couldn’t press the buttons fast enough.

> Where are you?! Her thumb jammed the send button.

A moment later she heard a chime, from just around the corner — from right in front of her apartment. She dashed forward, turning so sharply she had to grab the wall to keep from toppling over. There, sitting before her door —

“Oh,” he said. And then, standing hastily: “Hi there, Red.”

For all that she’d been searching and missing him the past few days, seeing him there — as casual as if he’d never left — made her body stiffen. It was all she could do to make herself walk forward, until she was only a meter or two in front of him, and when she finally had the strength to say something, her voice broke.

“W-where — where were you?”

“Red, I’m sorry, I —“

“I thought — I thought that I would never —“ She swiped at her eyes, angrily. Tears? Now, of all times? “I couldn’t find you anywhere —“ She bit her lip, trying to keep control.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“You’re sorry?” she shouted. “I’m the one who — I shouldn’t have — I’m the one who should be —“

“Come on, Red, it’s not your —“

“It is! It’s my fault!”

“I shouldn’t have —“

“But you would have never left if I hadn’t said all those —“

“Well, come on, you would have never have said anything if I hadn’t tried to talk you out of —“

“You were just worried, you were just worried and —“

“Okay,” he said, smiling, “this is ridiculous,” and he grabbed her shoulders and shook her a little, playful. “Can we just share?”

A laugh burst out through her tears. She smashed her palms against her eyes. “Alright,” she said, “sounds good to me,” and she looked up at him happily. He was back.

She thought then that he would kiss her. He was close enough — and he looked at her like he might, eyes lingering on her mouth. But then he just smiled again, crooked, forcing it. He let go of her shoulders.

“I’m sorry that I left,” he said. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t come back. I was...thinking.”

She swallowed. She stepped back — made her voice solid, cool, collected. “Thinking about what?”

She thought she said it calmly enough, but something must have sounded off, because the soothing music began to emerge again, this time from the little speakers mounted outside her apartment. Weren’t those just for alarms? Red looked up in surprise, and he grimaced.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he suggested, and she nodded, and followed him.

They walked slowly, without speaking, side-by-side but not quite as close as usual. His hands were in his pockets, out of reach, and Red put her hands away too, steeling herself with every step. Maybe she’d been too hopeful — maybe it was over after all, even if he’d returned to her. Maybe it really was impossible for some things to stay the same.

They made their way to a railed promenade — the same one where they had seen the floating lanterns eternities ago. There were none now. They leaned against the railing.

“So what were you thinking about?” Red asked, and he sighed.

“About what you said. About me always running. Being a coward.”

“I never called you a coward,” Red protested, and he smiled again, thinly, at the canal.

“Well, you should have.” He tugged at the cloth on his hands. It was more unraveled than usual, the end of it dangling by a couple centimeters.

“The thing is,” he continued quietly, “I always hated Selections. The whole idea of it. I always thought it was ridiculous. How are you ever supposed to choose something to dedicate yourself to? What happens if you change your mind a couple years later? Or worse, many years later? I mean, this is Cloudbank — on one hand people are making Selections, and on the other hand they’re demolishing a bridge the day after it’s built. And, anyway, no matter where I looked, I never found anything that called to me the same way things seemed to call to them. The way Music calls to you.”

He stopped talking, but didn’t sound finished, so Red waited. After some time he lifted his head and just stared out at the skyline.

“But I realized it, just recently, though I guess I’ve been thinking of it for a long time. Ever since I saw you at The Mixin, with your new song...or when I saw Sybil and all the things she had for you. Venues — dresses — that weird flower thing in your apartment — whatever. I talked with Sybil earlier, actually, when she gave me back my terminal, and she told me about you, that what makes you happiest isn’t just Music. It’s being able to perform, to share with people.

“So I guess...a Selection isn’t really about what you do. Well, it’s not really about what you do for you. It’s about what you can do for others. And to be honest, Red,” he concluded, “there’s...just...not a lot I can offer you.”

“Oh,” Red said after a moment. “Is that it?”

“What do you mean, ‘is that it?’” He frowned at her. “This is huge. I’ve been thinking about it for days, it’s — a huge issue. I’m” — he laughed, without humor — “not exactly the model of a productive citizen here. Or a productive...person...for you.”

“What are you talking about? What about when you make me tea when I’m working?”

“Red, anyone could do that.”

“Really? Because I tried to make tea when you were gone, and it was awful. I like it much better when it’s you. When you measure it out, all careful...watching the water temperature until it’s exactly the degree the package says...making it for me.” She bumped her shoulder against his, teasing, and he rubbed it gingerly.

“Right,” he muttered. “I forgot about my incredible talent for boiling water.”

“And how about,” she continued, “when you help me compose?”

“You mean when I make all those suggestions that you hate and never use?”

“I mean when you make those suggestions that make me realize what it is I want to say! And what about when we go around this whole city, together —“

“Again, anything that anyone could do —“

She put a hand on his mouth. “Again,” she said, “something that I am only happy about when it’s you.”

His face was reddening beneath her palm. He tried to look away but she curled her fingers a bit, kept him there.

“It’s easy to be somebody in Cloudbank,” Red told him. “A Musician, a Civil Planner, whatever. But…until I met you, I didn’t know what it felt like to be more than just somebody, more than just a singer. With you, I’m…myself. And I’m happy.”

She dropped her hand, put it on his. “There’s no one else in Cloudbank that’s capable of that.”

“You’re embarrassing, Red,” he muttered, and this time when he looked away she let him, because his face was incredibly scarlet.

“Hey, you alright? Don’t hide it, let me see,” she laughed, and he batted her away.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m…all polished up.” He rubbed his brow. “You’re really something, you know that?”

“I might have suspected it. Just a little.”

“And, in case it wasn’t clear already, I won’t tell you anything more about performing. You should do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy. Don’t let me stop you.”

“About that.” This time she was the one who turned away, with a thin smile. “I think I will perform,” she said. “I want to share all the songs I’ve been composing — all the ones I’ve made since I met you. And then,” she said with a breath, “that’s it.”

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I mean exactly what I mean. I’m going to stop, after one last show.”

“What? Red, please don’t —“

“No,” she said, “listen. I looked through the data you gave me. And it...well. I guess...it just made me think. About what it is that really matters to me. Don’t look at me like that,” she said, swatting his shoulder. “It’s not that horrible. It’s not like I won’t be able to sing at all anymore.”

He didn’t look convinced. “But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know!” Red laughed. “But whatever it is...I...want it to be with you. And I want...to choose with you, what happens next.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “So...so what do you say?”

He pushed her hair behind her ear, leaned down. “Do I get to close my eyes and spin around again?”

“Only if I can too,” she whispered, and he pushed her hair back behind her ear, and kissed her,.

Music. Warmth. Time slowing, and speeding up again only when she felt something cool drop onto her cheek. She opened her eyes and he thumbed the droplet from her face, only to have another fall onto her forehead.

“It’s raining,” she realized, and before she could do anything else he grabbed her hand, and pulled her away, beneath the eaves at the front of a nearby building. It kept the rain off, but now a wind was blowing too, and when she shivered he took off his jacket and set it over her shoulders.

“Hey! Won’t you be cold?”

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Let’s hurry up and head home at least,” Red said, starting to stand, but she didn’t get far; she had stuck her fingers in her pocket, and they had jammed against something.

“What…? A box?” She lifted it out, and he grimaced.

“Oh...right. I did leave that in there. No,” he said when she started to put it back, “it’s alright. It’s…well. This wasn’t how I was thinking of doing it, but…give it here.”

She handed it to him. “What is it?”

He cleared his throat. “It’s actually...a present. For you.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Well, don’t get too excited, it’s not flatbread. Though,” he said thoughtfully, “I guess it has a similar shape.”

He opened it — withdrew something from it — took her hand, and slipped something onto her finger. It was a ring, with a gold triangle and a red jewel.

She held her hand out in front of her, letting the city lights catch it. She felt her face warm.

“You like it?”

“O-of course!”

He sighed. “What a relief. It was a risk getting it when I wasn’t sure how our conversation would go in the first place, but I didn’t even think until now of what I’d do if you didn’t like it.”

She smiled at it, feeling its weight as she opened and closed her hand. “I guess I should get something for you too, huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve got me covered,” he said, and this time her entire body warmed, even as the wind began to pepper them with rain. She leaned against him and he put an arm over her shoulders, kissed her brow.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think I’ve found a Selection that might suit me after all.”

“Oh? What is it?” she asked, pulling his jacket tighter around her.

“All this time, and you can’t guess?”

“Spare me, Mr. Ambiguous. Can’t you tell me even one thing straight?”

“I’ll do more than that.”

He pushed her hair back, pressed his mouth against her ear.

Finally, he introduced himself.

Chapter 8: Run

“Oh,” Sybil gasped when the call went through. “Ah — hello!”

“Who is it?” Red heard in the background, and Red blinked. Sybil had never been busy before when she picked up Red’s calls.

“Sorry — is this a bad time?”

“No — oh, no! Not at all. No, I’m — I’m happy to hear from you. Just give me a moment.” The screen darkened as Sybil held it to her chest.

“Who’s that?” Red heard, muffled.

“It’s Red —“

“Finally,” someone else said, and then the speakers thumped as Sybil ran off somewhere. When the screen lightened again, Sybil was adjusting her hair.

“Sorry about that. Just some business I needed to sort out.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t call you later?” Red asked, and Sybil shook her head vigorously.

“No, no, definitely not. They understand. Actually, I’ve been telling them all about you, they’re — um — really looking forward to your next performance. You’re calling me because you want to set up a concert, right? Or,” she said, continuing to pat her hair, “maybe you wanted to grab some food?”

“The former,” Red said, “though maybe the latter could come afterward,” and Sybil smiled.

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Sybil paused, and her eyes unfocused, settled blankly for a moment at the corner of the screen. And then, suddenly, she was back to business.

“Anyway, I’ve already got the perfect place,” she said, and her stylus poked the screen as she interacted with peripheral displays. “The Empty Set, tonight.”

“To — tonight? That’s so soon,” Red said, surprised. “How did you even get a venue on such short notice?”

“Anything’s possible when you have the right people,” Sybil told her, not sounding as proud about it as usual. “And I guessed you’d probably want to perform soon.”

“You did? Sybil, this isn’t just soon — it’s — it’s instantaneous.”

“Come on, Red. Haven’t you been working on your songs for weeks? And it’s your Selection! You’re fantastic. You can do it.”

“You definitely can,” agreed another voice, and Sybil peered over Red, watched as he set a cup of tea down between her and the screen. He nodded at her.

“Hello, Sybil.”

“Nobody,” she said, and her voice quieted. She cupped her hand over her terminal’s speaker. “You’ll be coming too, right?”

“I guess I could,” he said.

“You should! Red, tell him that he — um, that he should.” Sybil glanced back over her shoulder as she said it, and Red’s brows furrowed. So unusual for Sybil to be this distracted.

“Well? Did you tell him?”

“You should come,” Red said, smiling up at him. “You can be backstage with me, rather than way up in the balconies. Come on, I’ll need you for emotional support.”

“Well, in that case, how could I refuse?”

“So I’ll see you both tonight?” she asked. “For sure?”

“For sure,” Red told her, and she expected then that Sybil would cheer, or something — after all, hadn’t she been pressing her about performing for weeks? But Sybil just nodded.

“Alright, then. Gotta go. I’ll meet you at the Set.”

“Sybil,” Red started, “wait. Is everything alright?”

Sybil made a smile. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry, I just need to make sure everything’s perfect. Bye, Red.”

The call disconnected. Red sat back, frowning.

“What’s up?” he asked, and Red turned her terminal off.

“Sybil was so strange. I’ve never seen her like that — unfocused. And she wasn’t as cheerful as usual.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said, after a moment. “I’m sure she’s got...other things she’s dealing with.”

But when Red asked him to elaborate, he just shrugged.

:::

The Empty Set looked as perfect as Sybil had promised. The walls were patterned with gold and teal and ivory and brick: vibrant, interlocking, a palette that might have put Yon-Dale’s atmospheres to shame. Red arrived with him and was directed to a dressing room.

“Fancy,” he remarked. It was; after so long of being away from the Set, she found she saw it with new eyes. Gilt mirrors, velvet furniture, a glimmer in the walls that raised or dimmed the lighting with a single stroke or word.

There was a single knock on the door before it opened. “Red!”

Sybil burst in, her arms wrapped around a huge dress bag. “I heard you two just arrived! I was — just a little concerned — it’s so late. Didn’t you want to rehearse?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Like you said, Sybil — I’ve been working for weeks.”

Sybil but her lip. “Well, sure, but I thought you’d at least make sure everything sounded right.”

Red shrugged. “Everything will be fine.”

“But you know, the acoustics in Empty Set are wonderful right now — the algorithms were just updated this morning. You really deserve to try it out at least once without anyone in there. It really is fantastic — top of the line — incredible. I was hoping you’d do it before the show, but I could probably arrange for the stage to be open afterward…”

“Alright,” Red agreed finally, “it does seem worth checking out. What do you think?” she asked, turning back to him. “You’re alright with staying afterward a bit?”

“To hear you sing?” He pretended to muse. “Hmm, I don’t know...”

“You have to,” Sybil told him firmly, and he blinked.

“Ah, yeah. I will.”

“Great. Now,” Sybil said, setting the dress bag on a dresser and unzipping it, “take a look at this!”

It was gorgeous — feathered, striped and scalloped in browns and golds. And on the midriff…

“I had them add that,” Sybil said proudly. “Remember? Because you asked me before, about the upside-down triangle.”

He started coughing abruptly, and turned so his back was against the wall. Sybil glanced over, and Red put her hand on her shoulder to bring her attention back, holding back laughter.

“Thanks, Sybil. That’s — really thoughtful of you.”

Sybil raised her arms for a hug, and Red obliged, feeling a little more relieved. This was closer to the Sybil she knew.

“It’ll look great on you,” she said, close to Red’s ear, “I know it.”

“If you chose it, I’m sure it will.”

“Red,” Sybil said, arms holding her a little tighter, “is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright. I’ll see you later then.” But rather than leave, Sybil pressed her forehead into Red’s shoulder.

“Sybil, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m alright,” Sybil said quietly. “Just nervous.”

“Nervous! Aren’t I the one performing?”

“I just want everything to be right,” Sybil whispered. “I just want everything to go right, for once.”

“Sybil! You’re Cloudbank’s best Organizer.” Red rubbed her back. “Everything’s going to be fine. I trust you. Trust yourself a little too. To be honest,” Red continued, “this will probably be my last show.”

“Your...your last?” She looked up in shock. “Why?”

“No reason,” Red said, as Sybil glanced over Red’s shoulder. “It’s...a personal decision. The point is,” Red said, trying to get Sybil’s attention back, “you’re the only one in Cloudbank I trust to get this right, Sybil. And you can do it.”

“Yeah,” Sybil said, straightening. “I can. I definitely can. Thanks, Red. Thanks for telling me that.” She took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ve got to get some other things settled. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget, check out the stage after the show!”

“I won’t. Thanks, Sybil.”

Sybil nodded and left, without another glance back. Red sighed. Something still seemed off. Maybe she could talk with her more later. For now…

“That dress is ridiculous,” he said, as soon as Red worked her way into it.

“It’s not ridiculous!” Red said, pulling her hair free from the feathers. “It’s beautiful.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t beautiful. I said it was ridiculous. Walk toward me,” he said, holding his hands out to her, and she stepped forward — just barely. The skirt was too narrow for her to move. She grimaced and continued, arms akimbo, wading forward.

She sighed. “Well, there’s no need to walk around on the middle of the stage.”

Backstage was a flurry — quite different than the upper balcony of any place he’d been. By the time they made it out to the crowded areas Red had managed the right pacing and walked in the dress like she’d been born in it.

“Red,” someone with a small microphone said, “you ready?”

“Ready,” Red said, tugging a feather out of her hair. “You got my music, too?”

“It’s ready to go whenever you are,” they said. Red nodded and turned to the stage, to the sudden hush. She took a step forward.

“Red,” he called, and as she glanced back he grabbed her hand, her waist, and kissed her — lightly, deeply. Her fingers rose and gripped his lapels. The audience waited almost a whole minute. Then they released each other, and she strode onstage, eyes shining, and sang.

:::

It was different watching her from backstage. Before, at a distance, she always seemed otherworldly — limned in light, shining. From here, he could see her chest rise and fall with breath, see how the strands of her hair shook as she exhaled. Her voice rang out and with every clear note he could hear in his mind the echoes of her iterations in her apartment, all the imperfect loops that had brought her to the single bright line of song that she fed across the Set.

When the curtain fell, she was aglow.

:::

There. Right there.

Later. Wrapping her arms around him.

Let it all stop there.

Eyes closing. Holding him close. Understanding Sybil, finally, and the wrenching misery of wanting things to stay, and not change.

:::

He waits in the back room for her and she races down, as fast as possible in that dress. He has flowers, and she kisses him over the blooms, crushes the bouquet between them.

“You’re amazing,” he tells her, and she smiles and spins her ring.

“Thanks. Or maybe I should say, thank you. I think I’m better when you’re beside me, rather than way up there in the those dark balcony corners.”

“Ah, quit it, Red, now you’re just being a sap.”

“You started it!”

“Did I? Guess I’ll have to finish, then.”

He sweeps her up, seats her on the vanity, dislodging rows of cosmetics and perfumes with a riot of clinks. The feathers and her hair press against the mirror. They kiss, and kiss, gripping harder, breathing harder. She tries to move her legs but the skirt keeps her from maneuvering that much, keeps him from getting too close.

He sighs. “Red, can I please just rip this dress off —“

“No!” she laughs. “This is a gift from Sybil!”

“Not the whole thing — maybe just, uh, this entire bottom part —“

“Don’t you dare!”

“Fine,” he grumbles, and then says nothing more because her mouth is on him again. Their hair is disheveled. Feathers are floating. The mirror’s screen begins to blink.

> Stage is ready for you two to check out. —S

“She’s not coming?” he asks. “I assumed this whole thing was so she could have a private concert.”

“What do you mean? It’s just for fun. New algorithms and all that.”

“Well, if it’s just for fun, maybe we should just — you know — go home.”

“No, I’d really like to try it out. Just for a bit.” And when he grimaces: “Come on! The Empty Set is always busy. When’s the next chance I’ll get to just try it out on my own?”

He shrugs, but offers no further protest, and she slides off the vanity, takes his hand, and leads him back out to the stage.

This time, he stands with her at the center of it, tapping the mike curiously.

“It’s not on.”

She taps it too, head cocked, then shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t need to be. All I need is my voice.” But she takes the microphone anyway, out of habit, fingers domed on the steel.

As she takes a breath, there is no one in the world but the two of them: no audience, no stagehands, no passerby, not even the sounds of crowds outside. The whole venue is as empty as its name.

And then it isn’t.

Footsteps, stage right. The sweep of a curtain. He glances over, just in time to see something large heaved through the air, heading toward them —

— no, heading toward her —

“RED —“

No time to think — he grabs her arm, shoves her, she is out of the way but he is not fast enough not fast enough not —

A hiss, a crackle — a crushing pain in his stomach — a crushing pain overflowing into his entire body. In the blaze of green and gold, Red’s shriek starts, and suddenly stops — leaving just the drumming of blood, the snarl of static.

It happens fast. The moment passes; and then they are gone.

:::

Outside, Red sprawls, stumbles. Gasping.

Searching.

When she finds him, she screams his name, and hears nothing.

From either of them.

Until.

[Hey...is that you?]

Her heart leaps. For one moment, she thinks that he is fine.

Just for one moment.

[Say something, will you?!]

She opens her mouth. Her tongue and teeth move, to no effect. She touches her throat, hands cold, and trembling.

[Oh, no.]

The — thing — speaks again, pulsing with blue light that sears into her retinas. She touches it, and recoils.

She wants to sob, to demand answers, to shout at someone — anyone — everyone.

She tries to.

She tries again.

She covers her face.

Then takes a deep breath, and stands. There’s only one thing she can do.

She musters her willpower. Clenches her skirt in her fists, and shreds it.

Then she lifts up his jacket and slings it over her shoulders. It embraces her, still warm, and her heart twists it hurts it hurts it —

Her breath shakes as she shoves the sleeves up over her elbows. Adjusts the lapels.

[Hey, Red…]

He speaks again, pulsing with blue light that sears into her retinas. She touches him, hand wrapping firm around his handle.

As she pulls him free, his voice echoes in the empty streets around them.

It hadn’t been too long, really — but in Cloudbank, where Cartography and Meteorology were sister fields with Forecasting, it had felt like an eternity. They spent at least four dozen seasons together, only a couple of them duplicates, and she even got him to vote on one of them (though he did it only after spinning around a couple times, and then jabbing at the screen with his eyes closed). They watched the entire construction of a Highrise building, and its subsequent dismantling to make way for a sky-scraping swimming pool. They were more constant than the number of windows in her apartment, than the shapes and directions of Cloudbank’s roads.

She liked her life running in parallel with his. It wasn’t hard for her to realize it. And after she did, it had been easy to believe that, unlike everything else in Cloudbank, they would last forever.

:::

Finally, it happened.

“I’m done,” she breathed, and yanked off the headphones. Her ears ached. She spun around to the table, where he was sitting. He was browsing his terminal idly, as he usually did, and he looked up at her.

“You’re done?”

“I’m done!”

He smiled, faintly. “Congratulations.”

She was ready. She was ready! She stood and headed for the table, pushing aside napkins, papers, mugs. The napkins again. The papers again.

Strange. “Have you seen my terminal?”

“Your terminal?” He picked at the cloth on his arms. “What are you going to use it for?”

“To, um...to…call. Call Sybil.” She checked her pockets, the shelves, the kitchen counters. Her body was humming. Where could it have gone? She’d been working all day — it should have been on the table.

“Why Sybil?”

“To set up an event.” Red smiled to herself. “Finally. She’ll be so happy to Organize a concert again — probably try to force me into another dress, too. Maybe I should even let her this time.”

“Sounds...great.”

“It will be, she has great taste. She’s the one that gave me that dress you commented on the other day — way back when. Are you sure you didn’t see my terminal?” She lifted up a plate, just in case. She began sifting through the papers on her desk. “Will you help me find it?”

“Yeah — yeah,” he said, and she turned toward him just in time to see him frown.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“Red…” He took a breath, didn’t continue.

“What?”

He looked at her. “Why do you want to perform?”

“What do you mean, why?” She smiled at him, nervous, impulsive. He was so serious. “I’m a Musician.”

“So? It doesn’t mean you have to perform.”

“No,” she agreed, “but I enjoy it. The — rush of it. Communicating with people. Recognition.”

“So it’s recognition that’s important to you? I mean,” he said quickly, “isn’t that unnecessary? You don’t need people telling you you’re great, Red. You don’t need to prove to anyone who you are.”

Red folded her arms. “Alright. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he said, sharp. “I just — I’m just surprised that you — want to perform so soon. So soon after — what happened at your last big performance.”

“Soon! It’s practically been an eternity. I’m not afraid of those people anymore.”

“Why not? What changed?”

She shrugged. “There’s just...so many other things.” Like him. Like her new music, singing through her. “Everything’s always changing. It’s a waste to linger on how things were before, on whatever happened before.”

“Well,” he said, “you should be cautious at least.”

“Be cautious and — what? Stay inside all day? Just lie down? Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it would be safe.”

“I’ll be fine! I’ll ask Sybil to hire more Security, or something. She’s offered before.”

“No,” he said, almost yelling now, and Red blinked. “You don’t get it. It’s — it’s something else, something I’ve never told you before.”

“Hey.” Red uncrossed her arms. He was starting to pace. The cloth on his arms had unraveled further than she’d ever seen it. She started toward him, put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

He took a breath. “People in Cloudbank are disappearing.”

“People are — what?”

“Disappearing. Not just ordinary people, either — people in the spotlight. People like you.”

“Are you serious? I’ve never heard of something like that.”

“You have,” he said, and took her hands in his. “You have. Like Wave Tennegan.”

“Wave! He just retired. He was always talking about it.”

“And Olmarq.”

“The Hammer kid? He was just put on probation or something, right? I’m not surprised he wants to stay out of the public eye.”

“Alright, then someone who loved attention — that Shasberg guy.”

Now she laughed. “Shasberg disappears all the time! It’s practically his Selection.”

“But for this long?”

“He’ll be back once everyone’s sure he’s gone for good, just to make the biggest splash.”

His face was getting red. “Yon-Dale hasn’t been seen for a while either.”

“Of course not. She made a violation with that sunset — the one you and I saw, remember? It was way too big.”

“I’m telling you,” he said, releasing her hands to grab his terminal, “I know what I’m talking about. I monitor all the streams. People are really vanishing — not just for a little bit, not just from the public. They’re gone, without a trace. And it’s always someone with influence, someone in the spotlight.”

He handed his terminal to her, and she took it and sat down, leaning back, frowning. She skimmed through a couple pages, grasping nothing more from the walls of text than famous names and a bunch of dates. She looked up.

“This does sound...um. Disturbing. But how could...I mean, the idea of it…” She nibbled on her lip. “Maybe I could ask Sybil about it. She knows everyone — she would definitely know all those people, and what happened to them.”

“Sybil again,” he muttered. “Sybil sure can do a lot of useful things for you. You know, if she has actually has any idea what happened to them, she’s high on my list of suspects.”

Red stared at him, setting his terminal down on her desk. “You know, I think I just figured it out.”

“Figured out what? You already figured out something?” He turned to her so hastily that one of the mugs on the table tipped over, spilling cold tea. “What?”

“That your Selection must be Conspiracy Theories,” she said, and laughed.

He didn’t follow along.

“Great,” he snapped, “you don’t believe me.”

Her heart dropped. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily, standing. “Hey, I’m —“

“No, don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered telling you,” he said, and now her hand made a fist by her side. She made herself inhale, made herself unclench her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Look, if people are disappearing —“

“They are disappearing —“

“Alright, they’re disappearing. Let’s go. We’ll visit the Admins, we’ll tell them about — about all this information you’ve gathered.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that? It’s useless, Red.”

“Is it? You’ve told them everything? How many times?”

“Enough times to know they don’t listen. For all I know, they’re the ones behind it.” He scratched his head vehemently. “It doesn’t matter — I’ve given up on it anyway, figuring out who’s behind it. It’s not like there’s anything I could do about it anyway, if I knew.”

“Well, don’t surrender too easily,” she snorted, and his mouth thinned.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked, with unexpected acid. “Start turning over the pavement on the off-chance a famous person shows up? Go snooping so far that I disappear myself?”

“I don’t know,” Red said, her voice sharpening as his did. “But if you really believe people are disappearing, you should do something about it.”

“I am. I’m begging you. Red,” he said, taking her hand again, “don’t perform.”

“Not this time?”

“Not just this time — never again. Please.”

She laughed, incredulous. “Are you serious? You’re serious,” she realized. “Music is my — it’s mine. And you want me to throw it all out? Because you’re afraid that I’ll mysteriously vanish off the face of Cloudbank?”

“I’m not telling you to stop completely. Keep doing it — please keep doing it. Just maybe not in public. On a big stage.”

“No,” Red said, ripping her hand back. “Never letting anyone know me, or hear me — that might work for you. But it won’t for me.”

His voice was cold. “So you’d rather risk vanishing.”

“Risk vanishing, over never having been anywhere? Over living in a shell, and never letting anyone know me? Yes,” she told him, “I would.”

They were standing too close. The room’s walls thickened and softened to contain their raising voices, began to emit waves of soothing blues and greens.

“You’re talking about me.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t live in a shell,” he said, arms bulging beneath the cloth as his fists tightened. “I let you know me, don’t I?”

“Do you?”

“What are you even — fine, Red, fine. Give me a paper. I’ll write down everything. Or even better, just ask, and I’ll tell you anything if that’ll make you feel better, if having nice little boxes and labels will make you feel better than all of the time we’ve spent together —“

“Oh, give it a rest!” Red spat. “I’m pretty sure I know just as much about you as you do, which is to say: nothing. What kind of a life can you live avoiding engaging with anything? What kind of a person can you ever become? You’ve got a lot of opinions but when it comes down to actually doing something, all you have enough willpower to do is run.”

His expression was hard. “I’m starting to think that I’m the one who’s never known you.”

“Well, there’s tons about me in the Census if you ever get curious! Should have everything you need!”

This time he didn’t say anything — just went to retrieve his jacket, just shoved his arms through.

“Leaving, Mr. Nobody? That’s a choice, you know!”

“Go write a song about it,” he snapped. “Music’s all you need in your life, isn’t it?” He reached into a pocket in his jacket, pulled out her terminal, and slapped it on the table. She reddened, but before she could say anything, he snapped, “Break a leg.”

He stormed to the door. It opened, and slammed shut.

Red cursed and grabbed the sheet of paper nearest her and tore it. Her blood was boiling in her chest — abrading her heart — she huffed, blinked back tears of rage. The apartment began playing soothing music and she hissed, “Shut up!”

The music dimmed immediately into crushing silence, broken only by her harsh breathing, her heart beating in her ears. Jerk. How dare he ask that of her?

How dare he ask her to give up her voice?

:::

The days passed. She caught up on the news, read, took walks, ate. All the...normal things. Business as usual.

Occasionally her terminal chimed and vibrated and despite herself she always snatched it up.

> Hi Red, do you want to go to a party with me tonight?

> Hey Red, there’s an art walk happening in a couple hours, want to check it out?

> Red, I’ve got an in for a demo of some new music tech, want to come?

After a while she left her terminal to thrum on its own.

He wasn’t sending her messages. And he didn’t come back.

Well, so what? He’d gone too far. No one had ever demanded something so large from her. Ridiculous. She felt her breath get staggered. Who did he think he was?

He’s just some — some — nobody.

She touched her throat. She had shouted at him — louder, more vicious, than she ever had at anyone. Her throat still hurt with the texture and volume of the words she’d forced through it. She rubbed her forehead, feeling the apartment’s silence settle around her, cold as snow. Her stomach churned.

How could he? Everything had been going so well. Everything had been great. She had even felt like she might even be able to fall in —

But no. She couldn’t give up singing. Not for anyone. That was who she was. Red, Music. That was who she was. Without her performances, she was...nobody.

Nobody.

:::

For the first time in a while, she made tea. She opened each cabinet, searching for mugs, before realizing they were all in the sink.

She rinsed off the cleanest-looking one, then started boiling water, started steeping the leaves. When it was finished she brought her tea to the table. Sipped, grimaced.

It wasn’t as good as his.

Well, so what? What could she do about it? If he couldn’t even bring himself to talk with her like an adult, what could she do about it anyway? What could she do about someone who was too scared to live life? Who was so scared to make choices he would actually try and drag her into stagnancy?

Much later, she returned to the mug, lifted it up. It was still mostly filled with cold tea, and she dumped it all in the sink.

:::

One morning she woke up, arms empty, dazed. Something was missing. She sat up, blinking, and after her drowsiness cleared out she realized what it was.

His pillow wasn’t on the bed.

She felt around — beneath her own pillow, beneath the blanket. She checked around the bed and underneath it. Still nothing. Where had it gone? There was no way that it had just completely...

It was only then that she felt a stab in her chest.

The apartment had adjusted. It had taken it back.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not — he might still —“

He might still come back. He might still...he…

No.

It couldn’t end. Not like this. He had gone too far — but she had too, she had said too much, she could still feel the barbs of her words stuck all down her throat and belly. He was wrong, but she could have argued without attacking him.

It couldn’t end like this. Not like this, with him vanishing from her life as if he’d never been there. Not like this, without her having said everything she should have said.

She rushed into the other room, pulled up her terminal. Its light was blinking, and she turned on its screen, hopefully.

> Hey Red, I missed you at the

Red stopped reading, closed the message, and scrolled up and down her inbox, just to make sure. Empty. She typed quickly, pressed send.

An instant later she heard a beep. Message received. Her heart rose and she looked down at her terminal — but there were no new messages. She refreshed. Nothing.

Nothing but a light, emanating from behind her — from her desk. She turned, and reached, and found his terminal. The screen was bright with the message she’d just sent.

> I’m sorry come back.

This whole time she’d been waiting for him to send her a message, and she’d had his terminal all along. She would have laughed if she wasn’t so furious.

Well, she had his terminal now — maybe she could find his address. She began digging into the folders and files, searching for any user information.

His terminal was full of data, but none of it was about himself. It was all news articles and media streams, carefully organized. She scanned through the information he’d accumulated, which she had just brushed off before. Wave Tennegan’s shows, suddenly no longer broadcasting.

“Finally caved and made good on that long-standing threat to take a vacation,” a newscaster speculated on a short video, and their partners nodded.

Shasberg’s feats, suddenly no longer publicized.

“It’s his best stunt yet,” snickered a young man in a nodding crowd. “Pretty fantastic. My bet’s that he’ll be back in a month or two.”

“Mine is three!”

Olmarq’s curse, suddenly no longer the subject of gossip.

“He was a fantastic player,” said a woman, proudly, on a playing field. “All that curse nonsense was just to distract from his career — which I think we can all agree now was nothing short of unparalleled in the entire history of the Hammers.”

And then.

“There are rumors that she still makes appearances at very small venues, of course,” drawled someone on a glittering backstage area. “And there are fans that say she’s still spotted around the city from time to time. But Red’s always been a private person. It’s no surprise to me that she’d get even more secretive after that altercation.”

Red, no longer performing.

She bit her lip. Well, it was her choice to take a break — not anyone else’s.

But maybe…maybe…

He had just been worried. Paranoid, maybe, sure — but for her sake. They could have talked it out more calmly, if she hadn’t reacted with fangs bared.

She leaned back in her chair. Opened a map on her terminal, pulled up a query.

> What are you searching for?

> Person location, Red typed.

> What is the person’s name?

Her terminal clattered as she threw it on the table.

So much for that. If only he had his terminal. How could he possibly have left it here for this long? What was he going to do without it? What if he needed something, what if he got hurt? He couldn’t call for help. What if he was hurt right now, and that was why he hadn’t come back —

There’s no way, she told herself, he’s probably fine, but it didn’t stop her from checking the weather (cool, with a 10% minority for rain). She rooted around her closet for a jacket with pockets large enough for both their terminals, and stuffed them in. They clacked against each other as she ran.

She checked the vineyard where they’d tasted wine (now a meditation area, with low benches and puffy flowers). She checked the zoo (now a clinic), the ice skating rink (now an aquarium), the cafe where they’d first met (now a pharmacy). She walked around in circles, searching, before realizing that The Mixin had been incorporated into a dance school. Its doors were closed, and dark.

She found a low wall, and sat down, staring out into the city as the sun set.

Well, what else had she expected from Cloudbank? Everything was always changing. Everything lasted for just a moment.

He woke the next morning, head ringing. It took too long for him to realize the sound wasn’t coming from inside his skull, but outside of it.

“Red,” he groaned, “there’s…there’s a noise…” He fumbled for her but all he felt were empty, cool bedsheets. He crushed a pillow over his throbbing head, then gave up, stood groggily, and stumbled out.

It was the table that was ringing. He squinted at its blinking lights, then pounded it until it released a white prism that rose and fell to reveal: a flatbread box. Junction Jan’s.

“Red,” he called, voice still hoarse. “Delivery’s here. So I hope you actually ordered something.”

Still no answer. But there was a shadow in the other room — and a humming. He walked toward it, box in hand, picking his way past fallen objects and scattered clothing. Red was slouched at the corner of a desk and keyboard, wearing headphones that protruded from her mussed hair. Papers were spread out before her, freckled with ink. She pressed the keys and hummed and either made dabs on the paper or struck them out. Her bare shoulders, the curve of her back, the shadow across her thighs, her intense focus — he swallowed. He approached, setting the box down on her desk, and leaned down to kiss the back of her smooth neck, burying his nose in her hair. When she looked back at him, he kissed her humming mouth.

She smiled, freed her left ear from the headphones. “Good morning, Mr. Handsome,” she said, and he got one more kiss in before she set her hand on his chin to stop him. “I’m a little busy right now, if you can’t tell.”

“...oh.” He hesitated. “Should...I leave?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” she said, “I’ll be done in an hour or two. Usually I’d be done around noon but I woke up a little late.”

She turned back, dropping the headphones back over her ears. In moments the humming had started again, and he felt strangely alone, discarded. Well, at least he could guess now why she never met him in the mornings.

Sunlight was flooding the apartment and he surveyed it, blinking, yawning. Certificates on the walls — papers that authorized her for Music, or commended it — a couple medals — show dresses whose trains spilled from a stuffed closet. The entryway was littered with flatbread boxes that had been smashed by their frenzied entrance the night previous, and he started to pick them up.

Beneath one was a small pot which had also apparently been tipped over on their way in. It was tiny, and housed a white flower. A petal had broken off in its fall, but was already regenerating in a flurry of golden grids. A ribbon around the glossy stem said: You were right, I won something from the crane machines after all! I hope you like it. Love, Sybil.

Sybil. The Sybil? He knew that Sybil organized some of Red’s performances, but he didn’t realize they were actually friends.

...were they? Red hadn’t mentioned her at all.

Her apartment was small and it wasn’t long before he’d covered all of it. He went to the window, gazing out, squinting out at the sunlight glinting off Highrise’s roofs. This district had always given him a headache — the was so much changing all the time that there was always a dull buzz in his ears, so matter where he was. But today, somehow, the buzzing wasn’t quite so bad. It sounded content, almost. Like a quiet purr.

He wandered back to the other room, eyes roving the walls, the desk. There were a couple empty cups on the latter (and on the shelves, and on an unused chair). He picked them up — found tea leaves swirling at their bottoms — then walked into the kitchen. After a bit of searching, he found tea and a kettle, and once he figured the procedure out, he returned, setting the steaming cups beside her. She glanced up at him with a light smile and sipped, then allowed herself to be eased up out of the chair, and into his lap. He pulled her close and as she worked he rested his ear on her shoulder blade, feeling her hum.

:::

They fell into their days together. It wasn’t too hard for him to extend his routine into hers, flatbread and all.

“What a relief,” she said, and he eyed her.

“You’re relieved? Why?” He eyed her. “Was it gonna be over for us if I couldn’t handle a Supremo Deluxe?”

“Of course not! A Sea Monster, on the other hand…” She took another sip of tea and sighed happily.

“Nothing’s supposed to get between me and my Selection. Not even Nobody,” she added. She was just teasing — probably — but it took him a little too long to respond, and when he did the atmosphere was uncomfortably taut.

“Well,” he coughed, “re-cycle me if I get between you and the stage. Or you and a Sea Monster.”

His presence began to bubble into her apartment. The entryway widened to accommodate his shoes — the table began to yield two place settings — a stool popped up beside her desk. That was the advantage of Highrise — the buildings listened, didn’t even need a voice to begin their changing.

At least, he was pretty sure that was how it worked, based on a brochure he’d read once. She probably wasn’t expanding her apartment on purpose. But, she definitely wasn’t vetoing the changes either — that counted for something, right?

“Oh, look,” Red said, pointing at a newly-grown hook on the front door. “It thinks there are times you actually take your jacket off.”

“Haha,” he said flatly. “There are times I take it off and you know it.”

It was so easy to get wrapped up. Sometimes he stayed with her in the mornings, listening to her compose; other times he left, and wandered back in later. Sometimes she bounced her lyrics off him, and though she didn’t often agree with his suggestions, protesting his opinions usually helped her think of something else she liked.

“Are you planning to do another concert soon?” he asked, as casually as possible, peering at her papers, her terminal.

“No,” she replied. “Not soon, anyway.”

He held back his sigh of relief. “So why does Sybil keep contacting you?”

“Oh,” Red said, “does she?”

“Come on, Red. I’m not sure how you can ignore your terminal, but even just seeing it bothers me.”

She rolled her eyes. He knew that she had noticed him checking his terminal constantly. But, as with his name, she never asked him about it.

“She’s just a friend, checking up on me.”

Some friend. If Red had seen Sybil even once in the past couple weeks, then she was remarkable at hiding it. She certainly hadn’t arranged with Sybil to perform since The Mixin (and he doubted Sybil had anything to do with that one — there hadn’t been nearly as much of her grandeur involved).

Well, that was fine with him. The longer Red stayed away from Cloudbank’s spotlight, the better.

And yet…

He stared at the blinking eye of Red’s terminal, the pulse of its light fast and (to him) increasingly desperate. Sensing that he wasn’t going to drop it, Red sighed heavily and picked it up, scanning her notifications.

“There,” she said after shooting off a reply, but no sooner had she set the terminal down than it began to wriggle and blink again. Red sighed again and he had the feeling he was getting why she avoided it. She rubbed her forehead.

“Tell her you don’t want to perform anymore,” he said, hopefully.

“It’s not that I don’t want to perform at all anymore,” she said. “I’m just taking a break. But it’s just a little...tough to explain that to her.” She reached for the terminal again, scanning the next message — but instead of writing out a response, her eyes widened.

“She’s coming,” she gasped, and before she finished saying it, there was a buzz at the door.

“Well, don’t just sit there,” he laughed, “get some clothes on.”

“Me? You get some clothes on!”

But she raced to be presentable first. There was another buzz at the door, and then a series of knocks, and he retreated into her bedroom to reclaim presentable attire while Red opened up the door.

“Red!” he heard Sybil exclaim. “Finally, I managed to catch — you.” Her voice broke when he strolled back into the hallway, and for just an instant — just a millisecond, visible maybe only because he’d been watching for it — the face of Cloudbank’s most famously put-together woman cracked.

Well, well. Why else would someone have the energy to send so many messages, unreplied to? Like the flower in the entryway with Love written on the tag, Sybil’s expression mended, became flawless once more.

“Why, hello there! I wasn’t expecting...well, anyone. Strange,” she said, and laughed, too brightly. “I don’t recognize you.”

She made the first move — strode in, so briskly the wide brim of her hat flapped and was almost dislodged. She thrust out an arm as straight as a sword. “I’m Sybil Reisz. Who are you?”

He hesitated, taken aback. Her eyes burned into him, both the ones on her face and the impressive lens-looking bauble crouched on her hat.

He swallowed. He hadn’t been expecting it, but this was it — this was the time. He could say his name now, and finally let Red hear it. There would be nothing weird about saying it in this context. Well, nothing weird except for the impressively large whites of Sybil’s eyes. Do it. Do it. Say it. He opened his mouth.

“Oh,” Red said, “he’s nobody.”

“No…nobody?”

“Mr. Nobody,” he corrected, with a strange relief, and he grasped Sybil’s faltering hand, and shook it.

Sybil’s brows furrowed. When he released her hand, she let it fall to her side in a fist.

“Funny,” she remarked, without humor, and turned to Red with renewed effervescence. “Well, I was just checking up on you. I’m glad to see you’re doing fine.” She peered around Red’s shoulder and he could see her eyes scanning and resting on his shoes in the entryway, his jacket on her chair, the two piles of napkins on a flatbread box. “And I’m happy that your apartment isn’t a complete mess, yet.”

“Well, you know,” he told her, unable to help himself, “I’ve been helping out.”

Her eyes flicked to him, narrow. “So it seems. Anyway, Red,” she said, turning back and taking Red’s hands, “when are you going to perform next? I get calls every day about it, you know — from venues, I mean. And people. Everyone misses you! Nothing’s the same without you.”

“I’m not sure when I’ll perform next,” Red said, not quite meeting either of Sybil’s three eyes. “I’ve been working on a whole new set of stuff. I’d like to finish that first.”

“Really? A whole set? Can I hear a little bit of it?”

“Sorry,” Red said, “it’s still in progress. Even I’m still not sure what it’s going to sound like.”

“Even the unfinished stuff sounds fantastic, though,” he said, with a stage whisper, and both women’s cheeks reddened somewhat, for entirely different reasons.

“I’ll perform again when I’m finished with it all,” Red said.

“You will?”

“You will?”

He and Sybil said it simultaneously. His mouth clipped shut as Sybil grabbed Red’s hands excitedly. “Oh, that’s great! That’s fantastic! I can’t wait. Well, it looks like you’re busy, so I’ll take off — but listen, whenever you need a break,” she said, “just call me, and we can grab dinner. It’s good to get out once in a while, you know? There are a couple new places about to open in Goldwalk, one of them headed by the best Chef in Cloudbank — they’re having a reception with only a couple spots available — but I could sneak you in. It’s going to be wonderful.”

“If it’s organized by you, Sybil, I’m sure it will be,” Red said warmly, and Sybil beamed.

“Hearing that from you means so much to me. You really should come! It would be a nice girl’s night out,” she said, somewhat pointedly. He crossed his arms. “The food will be divine, and this year’s Fashion class just graduated and it’s honestly hard to pick out a favorite, they’re all so talented — but we can look through the portfolios and if you like anyone’s work in particular I can arrange for them to design a dress for you personally.”

“Thank you, Sybil,” Red said, “that would be nice,” and she must have sounded convincing enough because Sybil finally raised her hands to hug her, and kissed her cheeks in farewell, her face glowing. Uneasily, he realized that he kind of believed Red too.

“Wonderful! I’ll forward you the invitation and the permissions you’ll need. I’ll see you soon, Red. Oh, and, nice to meet you,” Sybil added, “Mr. Nobody.” She shot him a smile — adjusted the lens on her hat — and then left, soles ticking. The door closed, and Red’s terminal began to blink again.

“It’s the invitation,” she said, glancing at the screen.

“You think you’ll go? Could be good for you,” he pointed out, before she could point it out first. “All that food and clothing sounds pretty inspiring. I bet they’ll even have little fancy little fans of cheesecake, the kind with chocolate syrup swirled around on the plate.”

“Right, fancy cake. My ultimate inspiration. How could I have forgotten.”

“Flatbread, then. I’m sure Sybil could arrange for that cook to serve Sea Monsters. Bet she could even get you a new dress — a nice one with gold, maybe even a flatbread-shaped silhouette,” he continued, and instantly regretted it, because Red’s eyes had turned on him with a flare of realization.

“You’re jealous!”

“Wh — me? Jealous? No,” he said, “definitely not,” but his voice was too fast, and he was too late; she was laughing.

“You’re jealous of Sybil!”

“Should I not be?” he asked, and again his voice was a little too hasty, a little too strong.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said, airily. “After all, she does know my measurements.”

“So does everyone else in Cloudbank! It’s practically in the Census. Anyway, I’m not jealous,” he insisted. “How could I be jealous of someone who needs everything to be just right? Did you know she tried to organize all the birthday parties of everyone in her class when she was in preliminary school? Made sure the cupcakes and cookies matched a color scheme. Some poor kid tried to do chocolate and pink cream or something that didn’t match some arbitrary theme, and she flipped them all onto the ground so she could have a new set rendered in.”

“Did she really?” Red laughed. “That’s so cute.”

“’Cute’ is the last word you should use for it! She couldn’t even stand to have cupcakes out of her control. She probably Supervised her way out of the womb.”

“Come on, she was just a kid.”

“Sure, okay, just a kid. But there are plenty of recent examples. Have you ever even heard of the capstone she did for her Selection?”

“I haven’t, Mr. I-Know-Everything-About-Sybil. But now I’m starting to feel a little jealous.”

“This is all public record,” he told her. “You can access it too.”

“Why would I, when you’re already a fountain of knowledge?”

Was this the right time to explain why he researched so much? To explain all his filters, all the disappearances? He could, he could do it right now, he could risk her looking at him as strangely as everyone else did — but, no — Red was already walking away, returning to her desk, looking across her papers. There were quite a lot of them already — she was close to the end of what she was planning to compose, probably. He made himself take a breath, and then another. His chest was tight.

“Are you really gonna perform again when you’re done with all those songs?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Red said, riffling through the papers and discarding some.

“I thought...I thought maybe you were done with that. You haven’t performed for so long.”

“Nope. I’ve just been thinking about what I want to say.” She set the remaining papers down in neat piles.

Don’t.

The word was on the tip of his tongue. His hand was on his terminal, which had been silent for days. The silence of a storm’s eye.

But now she was humming, and sitting and setting up to paint her nails again, to touch up her usual, bright yellow. Even though Sybil was gone, the air here felt different — it had been stained by his peek at the other world that Red inhabited — concerts and parties and dresses that probably took more time to render than all the time he’d ever spent with her.

And who was he? There was no way he’d ever be able to offer Red anything like that. The best he could do was — what? Tea?

He swept through Cloudbank news, finding the day of the reception, and its location. On the day, he resolved to give her time alone — said goodbye, wandered the city — and that evening got a message from her.

> Where are you?

> By the new canal, he told her, and waited.

“Not busy today?” he asked when she spotted him and caught up. He was casual, hands in pockets, glancing out over the water like he wasn’t happy.

“Busy eating little cakes, you mean?”

“Busy getting inspired by little cakes, I mean.”

“Cakes don’t really do it for me, Mr. Inspiration.”

“What does?”

Red considered, looking out over the canal beside him. There were a lot of people down there, kneeling at the bank. “Cloudbank, I guess. Just seeing it, you know. All...new.”

“It’s new every day,” he told her.

“You’re right,” she said. “It is.” She reached for his hand, fingers interlacing, squeezing. His heart shivered.

Below them, the canal began to glow with light — golden, white, teal. There were lanterns bobbing up and down on the water, made of little more than newspaper and cardboard that people were folding into boats at the water’s edge.

“It’s beautiful,” Red murmured, and they made themselves comfortable, and observed. People gathered at the canal’s were releasing more boats, and more, and more, until the water was clotted with light. They watched as the boats continued on, together, further than they could see.

:::

Later, though he says nothing about it, she knows that he remembers the way she laughed at him when he told her about Sybil.

She wonders, desperately. How did Sybil know what Red would do — and more than that, what he would do?

How was it possible for Cloudbank’s greatest Organizer to plan it so precisely — and make such a horrible mistake?

At the beginning they were hesitant, not sure whether to walk ahead or behind or beside, not sure where to look when they spoke, or what to speak about at all. Whenever she talked to him he answered at worst with silence, and at best only after painstaking hesitation. What was he supposed to say to Red?

Except “yes,” to whatever she suggested.

“Hey, Mr. I’m-Alright-At-Games, how do you feel about hitting up Playstate?”

“Hey, Mr. I-Always-Wanted-A-Pet, want to visit the new zoo today? Maybe we can find you a buddy.”

“Hey, Mr. Just-Coffee, how do you feel about a wine tasting? I heard there’s one popping up in Goldwalk today.”

“I hope all this variety isn’t too intimidating,” she said, clinking her glass against his, and he rolled his eyes and tipped back his third sample.

“It isn’t,” he told her, “because it all tastes the same.”

Which wasn’t to say it was bad. He set his glass down on a table, which re-cycled it in a blink and returned him a new one.

“Did you know you’re not supposed to swallow it?”

“I’d rather drink it,” he told her, rather than admit he in fact had not known, but something about how her eyes glinted made him think she’d seen right through him.

He looked away and up to the sky (67% sunny), gridded by trellises. Conversations eddied in the cool breeze, rustled the grape leaves.

“So,” he said, “do you believe it? That I have no Selections?”

She laughed. “What are you saying? Now you do Selections, but you’re just keeping them a secret?”

“Maybe,” he said slyly, and she rolled her eyes, then considered.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had one or two after all. I have no any idea how you could have gotten this far in Cloudbank without anyone noticing otherwise. Last time I checked” — her voice turned tinny and stilted — “0% of Cloudbank willingly choose nonselection.”

She mused, then continued with her normal voice. “Maybe no one’s figured you out because your secret Selection is Hacking?”

“Nah.”

“Drinking?” she asked, after he had tipped back the tenth sample that pride had made him swallow.

“Nope.”

“I was going to guess Punctuality this time,” she said the next time they met, as soon as he jogged within hearing distance, “but I guess not.”

“Should have...guessed...Cartography...or Navigation,” he panted, hands on his knees. “Because that’s...practically...what it took to get here...now that they finished that new complex. Whew! I wish they’d put up a poll for a bridge to Fairview already.”

“Well, you know what they say. If wishes were votes, you’d never make one anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

“Do they say that?”

“Oh, definitely. I heard them just the other day.”

When did he stop being nervous — when did he start feeling so at ease, more relaxed than he’d ever felt in his entire life? He’d always been impressed by the power of her singing, the way it crashed against his bones and conceptions, but he’d never thought he’d want her conversations more — and her laughter, and her eyes rolling at him over her tea. Her voice was like oil, smoothed out squeaks and creaks he hadn’t even realized he had. Things that had always made him falter and stop — the pressure of Selections, the staggering desire for a perfect phrase — suddenly were so small, and walkable.

“That one,” she told him, and he followed her gaze to a person further up the street from their bench, who had impressive brows and shoulder pieces like turrets. He snorted, and leaned toward her ear.

“Easy,” he whispered. “First Selection: Fashion. Second: Squirrel Training.”

She burst out laughing, beautifully. “Squirrels?! I thought for sure you’d say something about their eyebrows.”

“I did. After all, there’s no way they could have stayed so still on his face without him having Selected Squirrel Training,” he told her, and she covered her mouth to remain quiet, ineffectually, as the person passed.

“You missed it,” he said when the person had left, “I definitely saw the tails twitch,” and for that she doubled over onto him, hair disheveled, her body warm against him.

Now. Now. Do it. He opened his mouth, words poised. Red, my name is —

“Okay,” Red said, straightening and wiping tears from her eyes and pointing at someone else, “okay, now them.”

The moment was gone, and as in all the moments before, he dropped it. If only she asked again, he would have told her — didn’t she wonder? But if she did, she kept it to herself, and the more time passed, the heavier and larger his name seemed to get, until there were no conversations that felt large or deep enough to survive him dropping it.

So he waited for her to want to hear it. She certainly had no problem voicing her desires to him otherwise; Red was the one that usually came up with all their plans, though he made occasional attempts.

> Ever been to that tea place in Fairview? he asked one day, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the morning finding a tea house with hand-picked chamomile and then another hour trying to craft the right message. He’d received a reply no less than a minute later:

> No it’s only open in the mornings when I’m busy

Well, that explained why he never saw her before noon. Why, he typed back, but his thumb hovered over the send button, and a minute later he grimaced and deleted his response. Maybe that pried too much. she certainly never asked how he spent his time away from her.

He started to wonder if she’d ever ask anything about his life. The closest she ever got was one day when they were picking over dessert.

“Hey,” she said suddenly. “What’s that design on the back of your jacket, anyway?”

“The…design?”

“Yeah, the triangle. Does it stand for anything?”

How was he supposed to answer this one? He mulled.

“It doesn’t mean anything, really,” he admitted, after having composed, tested, and discarded a fair number of possible responses before settling on the boring truth.

“Nothing at all?” And when he just shrugged: “Well, imagine that! Mr. Making-Choices-is-Useless actually does have an irrational personal preference for something. The secret was triangles the whole time.”

She was more teasing than cruel, but he adjusted his jacket self-consciously.

“It’s a great shape. You should try it sometime,” he managed, and she snorted.

“If it can get you to make a decision on something, I’ll have to see what the fuss is about.”

After that, she began to jokingly point out triangles to him: on signage, on food packages, on a ring at Goldwalk market.

The ring had a jewel with a familiar color, and when he turned away to follow Red, it glimmered in his periphery, as if waving him back. He glanced, and examined it again, more closely. It seemed pretty. It matched the color of her nails.

Maybe it could help him say what kept getting jammed in his throat, in his teeth. He reached toward it.

“Come on, Mr. I-Never-Buy-Anything,” Red called further down, and his fingers curled and retracted, back into his pocket.

Maybe he didn’t need to say anything. Maybe it was enough to be beside her, protect her when she was out. The more time she spent out of the spotlight, the safer she’d be.

Then again, this was also the best time for her to be spirited away. Like all the rest, if she disappeared now, it would make sense. He could see the rationalizations now: After the altercation, Red left the big stages — and never came back.

The opportunity for him to defend her arose on a day too hot for her to wear a hood. Her hair fluttered in the wind: a flame, a beacon. While they lounged at an outdoor cafe, someone approached.

“Red,” they called, and Red looked up, with an automatic smile. People sometimes identified her and requested autographs, but this person was empty-handed — no paper, no photo, no terminal, no pen.

“How long until you get back to the stage, Red? Does it take you that long just to milk controversy? To trick people into thinking you’re relevant?”

The person wasn’t even done speaking when Red had turned her back to them, and as she reached for her cup in lieu of responding, the person grabbed her arm.

“Well?” the person demanded, tugging her back to face them, and his fists clenched on the table. That’s enough. He stood, mouth opening.

“Back off,” Red said coldly.

“Back off,” she repeated, when the person didn’t let her go. Her expression was even harder than her voice. “Or the news in the next hour will have more controversial things to report on me, and it’s not going to be about music.”

The person released her, so sharply that her hand was flung back against her cup. Her tea spilled on the table. They stalked away, and he watched as they vanished into the crowd.

“They’re gone,” he said.

“Good,” she muttered. He stared as Red silently pushed a wadded napkin across the puddle of tea, then slapped the table until it rendered a new cup. She gripped the handle, knuckles white.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Pissed,” she growled. “Jerk. If I didn’t sing I would have yelled at them.”

He laughed. “No need. Did you see how fast they ran away? First Selection: Coward.” He considered. “Though I’d probably run too if you looked at me like that.”

She snorted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Remind me to stay far away from your bad side. You look ready to take up Murder.”

She snorted again, and smiled, and soon her mood lifted, and seemed to remain high until they said goodbye. So much for protecting her. He could almost bring himself to pity whoever got in her way.

Including himself. He watched her go — watched the sunset glinting off her hair, the easy way she stepped, the last small wave she gave him as she glanced back. He jumped and waved back, but she was already looking away, was already around the corner, was already out of sight. He felt something in his chest drop. He fisted his hands into his pockets with a sigh.

Don’t disappear.

It would be so much worse now, losing her, now that she wasn’t just a singer. And so much worse to fade back into Cloudbank’s anonymous cruft, now that he knew how it felt to want to be somebody.

:::

They traversed the city together, rarely coming across the same place twice. Cloudbank was labyrinthine — constantly emergent — rich with self-destruction. The avenues they strolled were often different by the time they walked back: ivory pavement recobbled in emerald and mica, a stairway now a slide, a left now a right. Once they had just barely crossed an intersection when it began to bulge beneath their feet, a roil of platinum that rose and then fell. Red stumbled and fell to her knees on a newly silver street so burnished that it reflected her startled face back at her.

“Whoa — are you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” Red said, and began to push herself up — but in the reflection saw him extend a hand down to her. She looked up — took it — he hefted her up, easy, and she found that when she was returned to her feet she still felt a little shaky.

That was how it grew: meeting, eating, conversating, walking, loops punctuated by seeing sights and finding things to do: fighting in the arcades, muttering to each other through films, skating in a chiming rink whose ice held the squeaky remnants of the dog park. (“Is your Selection Ice Skating?” she gasped, staggering against the rink edges, and he just winked at her as he glided away.)

The normal iterations, in other words: things she’d done a thousand times before, both alone and with others, but which now had a certain hue — a static that zipped across her fingertips when their arms brushed, a heat that bloomed and stayed, a brutal laughter that burst out of her throat and constricted in her belly and lungs until there was nothing for her to do but clutch him in exquisite agony, and feel him clutching back.

Cloudbank was never the same from day to day. But until now, the city had never felt different, much less new.

And it wasn’t just the city. The stagnancy that had been squatting and sitting heavy in her body was lightening, dispersing in the wind, leaving her relieved, and — excited. She’d never had so many ideas before. Part of it was thanks to him relaxing, opening up, and becoming positively chatty.

“Ah, just what Cloudbank needed: a clothing boutique in the middle of a highway.”

“Look at that fountain. Is someone distributing scuba gear beside that fountain?”

“How many roses must there be in that garden for us to smell it from two blocks away?”

“Do you think Cloudbank has anything that doesn’t change?” he asked as they started back from a new restaurant and found a canal where a promenade had been an hour prior. It was broad, the waters deep and dense with neon lilies and coruscating carp.

“There has to be something. Maybe underground,” Red mused, kneeling and poking a finger into the water. The fish scattered, scintillating. “Everything’s probably the same beneath the sidewalks and sewers — just like us.”

“Like us?”

“Like us. The surface grows and changes — our hair, our clothing, our skin — but we’re essentially the same underneath. Bones, blood, muscle. Cells.”

“So the city has a skeleton, huh? The spine of the world. I like it.”

“The spine of the world,” she repeated. She liked it too; she chewed it, tasted its weight on her tongue.

“None of us have all the same pieces that we had the day before,” she continued thoughtfully, standing. “It’s just natural for a city to change with the people living in it. The day Cloudbank stops changing is probably the day we’re all dead.”

He snorted. “For a second there it sounded like you were going back to Civil Planning, Miss Ex-Traverson. But now you just sound Morbid.”

“Morbid! Is that even a Selection?”

“Oh, definitely. I heard them announce it just the other day.”

She laughed. It was so easy to interact with him — much easier than it ever had been for her to interact with other people.

> Hey Red, she read one day, I saw photos of you performing at some kind of tiny stage place. The Mixin, I guess? Does that mean you’re ready to start performing again? Call me, let me know!

Red resolved to call that night, but only remembered it the next morning. The instant that her terminal shuddered with another message, her body did too, with guilt.

> Hey Red, there’s a wine tasting happening today at Goldwalk! The best of the best — I hear they had a tough time campaigning for the right weather to grow it all year, but it all turned out wonderful, and sweet as anything. Want to catch up?

> Sorry Sybil I’m pretty busy, she typed. Sorry too for not getting back to you about Mixin truth is it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing.

The instant she sent it off, the response came back — this time in the form of a video request. Red glanced at the clock. She should have started working fifteen minutes ago. She sighed and accepted.

“Red! I’m so glad I finally caught you!” Sybil said happily. “You’re up early!”

“I’m usually up this early to work,” Red admitted, but Sybil was already moving on.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say, that’s fine about the Mixin, but you know, you should have told me. I could have at least spruced the place up a bit. Its whole schema is completely outdated. I’m surprised you chose it at all, it really doesn’t deserve you.”

Red shrugged. “Well, like I said, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Even so. Have some respect for yourself, you know? Anyway,” Sybil continued, fluffing her hair, “wine tasting today?”

“Sorry, Sybil, I have plans this afternoon,” Red said, “and work I’d like to get done before then,” and she expected Sybil’s face to fall. Instead, Sybil waved her hand dismissively.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You know,” Sybil said, chewing her lip, “I just remembered that I — I really have some work I need to get done today, too, so it works out.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Red said, relieved, and she placed her finger on the button to dismiss the video. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“Later!”

And it was true — it was definitely true, at the time, that Red was too busy, but that afternoon the restaurant they’d been planning to visit turned out to have been converted into a pet groomer’s, and the vineyard was so close by...

What little guilt that took root about the matter had little efficacy. Nothing could overcome her — not even the rare trolls they encountered, whose words once boiled in her but now we’re as harmless as the steam from her teacup. Melodies overflowed in her and there was space for little else. At night she felt like a live circuit, all her veins vibrating with song, and though she struggled to sleep, she was never tired when morning came.

:::

When she finally accepted one of Sybil’s invitations, it was to a reception of some kind. For once, Sybil hadn’t given her many details about it — just suggested attire, and said something about a surprise. The place was fairly crowded and Red craned to spot Sybil. Not a minute later, she saw someone waving.

“Red!” Sybil cried, and Red smiled and waved back. She hugged Sybil carefully; Sybil was wearing a broad-brimmed hat which pushed up against Red’s face. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Red told her, but Sybil was already holding her at arm’s length and examining her clothing.

“Is this one of the dresses I got you?” she asked. “For your performance at...Empty Set’s month anniversary, right?”

“Probably. Honestly, Sybil, almost all of the dresses I own are from you.”

“It fits you so well,” she said, beaming, “I’m so happy to see you wearing it again!” She took Red’s arm and led her to a long table with an ice sculpture surrounded by confections, and a huddle of people. Their light chatter broke when Sybil approached, and they started to wave calmly at Sybil until their eyes fell on —

“Red?” one of them gasped.

“Of course,” Sybil said proudly, and the huddle immediately broke and assembled around them.

“Red! Wow! It’s really you!”

“You’ve been gone for so long!”

They started to pepper her with questions, each one overlapping the one previous, until finally Red stammered, “Sorry — who?”

“Students,” Sybil explained, “about to go declare their Selection. They’re all thinking of doing Music — of applying to your program, in fact. Surprise!” she added.

Well. Whatever Red had been expecting as a surprise, it wasn’t this. The students introduced themselves excitedly, too many names and pronouns for Red to remember at once.

“Sorry if I forget. But that’s great,” Red said, smiling at them. “I’m glad to hear the program’s still going strong.”

“It is!”

“We’re very excited!”

“So,” Sybil continued, “I thought it might benefit them to speak with you. And it might help you too! Since you seemed confused the other day, about Selections.”

The students gasped. “Red,” one said, “you’re not thinking of switching?”

“Not at all,” Red said. How could she possibly explain? She looked around at them, their expressions bright and open and expectant. Even Sybil was watching avidly, one hand around Red’s arm while the other raised the brim of her hat. Where could Red even start?

One of the students piped up to fill the silence. “I’m so excited to Select Music,” they said. “But I have no idea what my second will be. Do you have any tips? Why did you choose Linguistics?”

“Is it that strange?” Red asked. “Music is a versatile Selection. It can go with anything. It’s beautiful, communicative…”

“So that’s why you chose Music? To communicate your ideas?” another student asked. They added, “I’m thinking of doing Politics as my second.”

“Both Music and Politics sound great,” Red told them.

“And it doesn’t get old?” another student asked, wringing their wrists. “It’s still not old for you, I mean? Because you’ve been away for a while — it’s not because you don’t like Music anymore, is it?”

“It certainly isn’t! Red’s just been working on some things privately,” Sybil explained. “Isn’t that right, Red?”

“Maybe,” Red said.

“Oh, new content? What is it?” the students asked. “What’s it about?”

“To be honest, I don’t like talking about it,” Red told them, and regretted it, because the students looked immediately disappointed and embarrassed. Sybil looked crestfallen too, but she recovered quickly, clearing her throat.

“That’s how Selections are, aren’t they? Even if people choose the same one, they all deal with them differently. Red is more private and is perfectly capable of handling everything on her own, and that could arguably be why she’s the best in Cloudbank.”

“Thank you,” Red said, feeling her face warm. “Listen, why don’t we talk about something else? Something that’s not related to choosing Selections.”

The students blinked at her, and at each other. In the end, it was Sybil who said: “Like what?”

Red shrugged. “Anything.”

The students stared, swallowing, searching each other and the room for topics.

“The weather for the past hour has been nice,” one student ventured finally. “And it looks like the campaign for a thunderstorm next weekend has been doing well too. I really want to do Meteorology for my second — maybe make something like — a storm that’s also a symphony,” and they were immediately hushed.

“That’s about your Selection!”

“No, that’s fine,” Red said, “that sounds fantastic,” but she was distracted — her terminal had started to buzz in her pocket, and her heart had started to speed up. She couldn’t resist; she withdrew it and glanced at the screen.

> Free this evening?

“Who’s that?” Sybil asked, squinting at the text.

“A friend of mine,” Red said. She tried to withdraw her arm from Sybil’s to type back, but when Sybil didn’t let go, she typed her response out with one hand.

> Yes why?

“A friend?” Sybil asked. “Who?”

“Just someone I met some time ago.” Red started to put the terminal away but it immediately buzzed again.

> Yon-Dale got permissions for Goldwalk skies again want to go?

“Red!” Sybil tugged her arm. “Pay attention!”

“I am,” Red said, setting her terminal against her side. Well, this was a first — Nobody inviting her somewhere. She turned to the student who had been speaking to her last, smiling a little too broadly. “What were you saying?”

“It’s just — I’m just so unsure,” a student said, hands on their face. “It would be so much easier if we could have three Selections.”

“Would it?” Red asked, and made her voice as benevolent as possible. “Listen. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine — it’s not like making a Selection means you’ll be cutting things out of your life. It’s not a big deal — you’ll be okay.”

“What are you talking about?” Sybil demanded. “It is a big deal. It’s who they’re going to be for the rest of their lives.”

The students looked ill.

“But they can always change. I did.” Red searched for words. “Listen, not even Cloudbank is the same from day to day. Why should people have to choose a couple things to fit into?”

Her terminal was buzzing again. Red glanced down at it and Sybil pulled her arm again, wresting her attention back. “Just because Cloudbank changes all the time doesn’t mean it’s ideal! And Red, even you displayed an early interest — and talent — in Music. You really should have chosen it from the beginning. Besides, even if they change later, they have to start somewhere.”

The students were nodding — “Yes, we have to start somewhere” — and one student was starting up again: “Either way, we have to choose. How did you decide, Red? How did you give up Civil Planning entirely?”

“You must have liked it to be at Traverson in the first place, right? But then you chose Music!”

“I’ve been wondering that too,” another student chimed in. “Do you miss it? What made you choose something else?”

Red sighed and rubbed her forehead. She looked down one more time.

>Vote just finished sunset’s in two hours, her terminal read, and she typed out her response with her left thumb.

> Meet you in Goldwalk in 1.

“Red,” Sybil said with exasperation, and Red tucked the terminal away.

“I’m done, I’m done,” she assured her. She turned the majority of her attention to Sybil and the students, carving off only a small portion of it to occasionally check the time. Once the hour was up, once she felt her brain about to melt out of her ears, she made the proper noises, and the students understood and nodded and thanked her, shaking hands, waving. Sybil waved as well, but caught up again when Red was almost out the door.

“Red,” she called, grabbing Red’s elbow.

“Yes?” Red turned back, only a bit. “Sorry, Sybil, I’m going to meet someone, so —“

“I know, I know,” Sybil said, twisting her hair around a finger. “I just wanted to say thanks for coming. It’s nice to see you. And — and I don’t really know what’s happening with your life right now, why you’re not performing like you used to — and why you’re so confused about Selections — but I just want to let you know —“

She took a breath. The next words came out all at once. “I just want to let you know I think you’re a fantastic Musician, the best in Cloudbank, and believe me, because I know everyone. You always have been, and you always will be. That’ll never change. So, if you’re afraid...or...something…” Another breath, another burst. “Please don’t be. The way you are is...is perfect.”

She stopped, with a huff, a swallow. She was somewhat flushed, perhaps because she’d run out of air, and Red turned back to her, fully.

“Thanks, Sybil. I appreciate it,” she told her. “The truth is, I’m fine. Maybe even...better than ever. And I’m definitely not going to give up Music. So, don’t worry about me.”

“Oh — okay. Okay,” Sybil said. She held out her arms for a hug, and when Red obliged, she whispered. “I — I’m glad to hear it. Call me, alright?”

“Alright,” Red assured her, and took off. She was late.

:::

Red spotted him pacing along the waterfront and ran to catch up.

“Sorry!” she called, “Things took longer than I expected.”

She waited for him to tease her, but instead his brows arched. “What’s the occasion?”

“Ah — huh?”

He gestured at her dress and she looked down. “Oh, this. I just came from an event.”

“An event? How was it?”

“It was...fine. Though,” she sighed, “I’m relieved it’s over.”

Next time, she’d take Sybil’s “surprises” with a grain of salt.

He smiled. “Well, me too, I guess. You’re…” He paused. “Your dress looks nice.”

“Thanks. A friend got it for me,” she said, spreading the skirt out to give him a better look. He coughed.

“A friend? What kind of friend?”

“What do you mean? Just a friend.”

“Well, your friend knows what looks...really good on you, I guess. Anyway, let’s get going,” he said, clearing his throat, “sunset’s soon,” and they started off.

They didn’t speak much, but silence was a relief after the fusillade of the reception, the relentless questions, the fears she’d done her best to smooth. Free now in Cloudbank, in his undemanding presence, she felt tension scatter from her body with every step. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs fill with the crisp air, with the steam rolling from street vendor fryers, and with the nameless nebulous smell that followed him, which was becoming as comfortable and close to her as her own clothing.

He was walking ahead of her, and when she pointed it out — “What’s the rush? I thought we had time” — he grimaced.

“You’re right. Sorry.” He slowed, falling back beside her, where she could better see that his stride was stiffer than usual. He kept tugging at the cloth around his arms.

“We’ll make it,” she told him. He nodded at her and pulled at his collar.

They traced a path along the bay. Crowds were forming, seeking higher ground, and they appended themselves to a group chatting enthusiastically and craning over the skyline. All together they went up to a tower’s public balcony, piling in subsets into the elevator, where people cooed over autographed shots of sunsets past. At the top, there was one OVC terminal on the balcony, and someone was calling over it.

“Five minutes until the poll closes!”

“Have you voted already?” Red asked, and he snorted.

“What do you think?”

She rolled her eyes.

At least he seemed a little calmer now. He gazed out over the city and then asked, “Did you vote?”

“Yeah — passed by a terminal earlier today, actually.”

“Yet you weren’t even gonna see the sunset until I invited you.”

“Come on, Mr. Snark I would have seen parts of it from somewhere.”

The balcony had two platforms and they took the lower one, which was less crowded. Red bent her arms over the balcony railing, leaning out, and he propped himself on the railing beside her.

“Besides,” she continued, “it’s fun to vote. And it’s not like it hurts anyone.”

“One minute left!” the person at the terminal called out. “Hurry, hurry! It’s looking close!”

On the upper platform, people were rushing to claim the last gaps against the railing, were angling their cameras over Cloudbank’s roofs and spires.

“And...closed!” The person rushed off to the balcony herself, mouth agape as they scanned the sky. The sun moved, a millimeter, and somewhere in Cloudbank, an artist applied her brushes and catalysts to the firmament.

Red had seen Yon-Dale sunsets before, but she and everyone on the balcony knew immediately that this one was different. It dwarfed — spilled across Goldwalk’s skies, and farther, brimming beyond even the most distant perimeters of Cloudbank. She inhaled sharply as colors flushed across the atmosphere — vibrant oranges limned in pink and cyan, red clouds stretched thin and sequined with yellow. After an astonished hush, the air filled with gasping and murmurs and the energetic flap of camera shutters.

“About voting,” he said, slowly, softly. “And, um, choosing. I’m starting to think...maybe...it’s time for a change.”

She felt something jitter across her chest, but kept perfectly still, silent, until the air felt thick with the weight of his words and she felt she to say something to relieve it.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” she said, lightly, “but the deadline for the sunset vote closed about a minute ago. Unless — unless you voted after all?”

“I — yeah, I — might have made some kind of vote.”

She looked away from the sky to stare at him. “Really?” He didn’t meet her gaze; he was looking down at his hands. “What color did you choose?”

“No, it wasn’t — it wasn’t the sunset. I don’t really care what color it has.”

“Yeah? Kind of a strange thing for someone to say after they invite someone out to see one.” He was still looking down, and she pushed her shoulder against his. “Come on, Mr. Hypocrite, seeing the sunset was your idea, right? You might as well actually look at it.”

He looked up, finally, to the sky, adjusting his position. Their shoulders touched again, this time not pushing: just resting, just being.

“What I mean is,” he started, and this time she didn’t prod him, just waited while he fidgeted and scratched his head and sighed. “What I mean is...the vote I cast...the choice I made...isn’t about what color it is. It’s about who I see it with.”

She watched him, and when he eventually risked a glance at her she didn’t hide her ridiculous grin.

“So you can make choices after all,” she marveled, and held her hand out in front of them, over the railing, palm skyward and red-orange with sunset. He reached for it, holding it lightly, then firmly. Her fingers pushed out between his, curled down, intertwined.

They watched the sun descend in silence. When the show was over (crowds dispersing with lively chatter, cameras packed up and hauled away) they just stood, watching Yon-Dale’s dyes recede and leave Cloudbank constellated with its nightlife. The majority tonight had gone to pleasantly warm winds, but she pressed her body against his anyway, and when he looked down at her next she leaned up and kissed him, pianissimo. When she released him, he leaned in again, hands raising to either side of her face.

They stood there, consumed. In her mind rose a thousand different notes, a thousand things to write about — the brush of his hair against her forehead, the way his fingers coiled into her hair, the ache of them tugging strands and pressing into her skin, the static and fire percolating through every cell of her body.

She took a deep breath in, letting it all fill her lungs, letting it saturate her racing heart. She exhaled shallowly, to keep it from slipping away.

She remembered how she had felt, writing Music on the form, the way she’d stilled the hesitation of her hand as she’d submitted. She’d left, reciting to herself, Red, Musician, swallowing it, waiting for it to digest, to become her. After years, it had — but it took just a single instant, a single coarse whisper in her ear, “Red,” for all her structures to fracture. His voice made her heart full, it moved her just like music, and being with him, realizing that he liked being with her too, she felt something just as bright as the spotlight, but warmer. She was more. She wanted more. She grabbed his hand.

They ran across Cloudbank, so fast he kept stumbling and making the pavement hiss sparks. She dragged him into Highrise, its buildings and its endless renovation, throbbing and glowing like her own skin. She unlocked her door and they crashed beyond it, toppling things in the darkness, boxes, umbrellas, boots, something that shattered. Once they were inside he pushed his mouth to hers again, and she met him and pushed him against the door, closing it and shutting away the single bar of streetlight it had admitted. She clutched the lapels of his jacket, even as he struggled to take it off.

They stumbled around, tripping, ankles and elbows catching in objects that rustled, clattered, clinked, thumped. The walls blinked every time a shoulder or knuckle made impact and after a couple more fumbles the apartment got the idea and the lights whirred on, just in time to illuminate them them as they fell onto her bed.

He kissed her mouth, her brows, her cheeks, her smooth throat trembling with laughter, her fingertips and palms that she raised to bat him playfully away.

“Careful,” she whispered, “or it’s going to be too obvious your Selection is Kissing.”

When Red opened the door, Sybil gasped. “Red. What happened?”

“Hello, Sybil,” Red said, and stepped back as Sybil barged in. Her eyes were wide as she surveyed Red’s apartment — clothing stacked on the backs of chairs, columns of greasy flatbread boxes. There was a stray little pearly creature of some kind whimpering and butting its head over and over again against a closed window.

“I’m not sure how to get rid of that,” Red said. “It won’t leave even if the window’s open. I tried to push it back into a wall, but it wouldn’t go back in.”

Highrise could be pretty buggy.

“Poor thing,” Sybil said, grabbing it gingerly. Red leaned in as Sybil examined it, shaking its legs and tipping its lenses to the light.

“It’s pretty —“ Cute, she was going to say, until Sybil clenched her fist and crushed it.

Red stared as Sybil tossed the white, motionless mess, clattering, into one of the flatbread boxes. “Broken beyond repair,” she explained.

“Was...was it really?”

“You weren’t thinking of keeping it as a pet or something, were you?” Sybil laughed. “Please, Red. Not a defect like that.” Sybil clapped and rubbed her hands together, shedding white and gold particles. “If you really want a pet, I’ll put you in touch with a fantastic Menagerist I know.”

“No, it’s...it’s fine.”

“Are you sure? A pet from her would be delightful. Much better than that — broken thing. All that you can do with something like that is re-cycle it.”

“It’s fine.” The flatbread box wasn’t quite large enough for the creature, whose smashed limb peeked from the box. Red pushed the lid down, but it popped back up again. It released a wheeze as it tipped around, but seemed otherwise to be no longer animate.

“Since when did you know about when things like that are ‘broken beyond repair?’” Red asked.

“Supervision and Organization, remember?” Sybil said, after a moment. “General knowledge comes with the trade. Um, anyway — speaking of Organization —“

Sybil tucked her datapad into her purse, set it down, and started to roll up her sleeves.

“Oh, Sybil, you really don’t need to —“

Sybil waved her off. “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry! Didn’t you hear what I just said? Supervision and Organization! I live for this.”

And she had machine-like efficiency. Blinking, Red watched as her apartment was arranged front to back — dresses in the closet (“Please, Red, these need to be on hangers!”), other stray little bugs booted or freed, flatbread boxes collapsed and prepared for re-cycling.

“You’re not trying to subsist entirely on flatbread, are you?”

“I love flatbread,” Red said defensively, and Sybil laughed.

“You eat so much of it I’m surprised your Selections aren’t Music and Flatbread.”

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious.” Red claimed a newly-exposed stool. “But you know, it’s not like I need to have Selected flatbread to enjoy it, right?”

“What are you talking about? Flatbread isn’t a real Selection, Red, I was just joking. Where should these papers go? Just tell me,” Sybil said firmly when Red started again to tell her to stop. Red shrugged and pointed.

“You can put them on that shelf.”

As Sybil straightened and piled them, Red mused, spinning on the stool. She took a breath. “Sybil, you’ve met a lot of people, right?”

“Yes. Though ‘a lot’ is an understatement. From anyone else, honestly, it’d be almost insulting. But I’ll make an exception for you.”

“Sorry. I mean — thank you. Anyway, I wanted to ask...have you ever met anyone without a Selection? Anyone past school age,” she clarified.

“What are you talking about? Someone without a Selection? How did you even come up with that?” She swiped her arm across her brow, which was starting to perspire from the effort of arranging the boxes on Red’s shelf. “Why? You’re not thinking of giving up Music after all, are you?”

“No, I...what do you mean, ‘after all?’”

“Well, you haven’t performed in weeks now. What else does that signal to Cloudbank?”

“That, after having experienced a stressful performance, I’m taking a break. Anyway, just because I Selected Music doesn’t mean I have to do it all the time, right?”

Sybil took a break from cleaning up, sitting on the table to stare at her. “Not all the time, but...it’s your Selection, after all. It’s not a chore. It’s something you love. What made you think of all this, anyway?” She patted her hair, her clothing. “It doesn’t sound like you. Is this something people are talking about nowadays?”

“No, nobody,” Red admitted, honestly. She moved to her newly cleared-off piano bench, fingers smoothing over the black surface. “I’ve just been thinking about it. Why we have Selections — what the point of it is.”

“What the point of...Selections are?” Finally Sybil stopped cleaning up and just stared. “But what would you do with your life, if you didn’t have a Selection?”

“I’m not sure,” Red admitted. But what was she doing now, even with a Selection? Sitting in her apartment, trained to do nothing else but make Music. Waiting and waiting for sounds to come to her, for ideas to catch and contain and make her own, and hearing nothing but the too-loud footsteps of people living around her. She started to nibble her lip, and stopped, wincing, when her teeth clipped her still-healing wound.

She didn’t want to admit it aloud, to either Sybil or herself: the path that had once glowed before her now illuminated walls on either side.

“I’ll tell you what the point of Selections is,” Sybil said, after Red didn’t continue to fill the silence. “They’re so that everyone has a way of making Cloudbank a better place. It’s not that you’re ever forced into one. And having it on file makes things easier for everyone.”

“Does it?”

“Of course! When we need each other, we know exactly where to look. Think about it, Red! Without your Selection, you’d probably be some — some small-stage alleyway singer — your voice reaching absolutely nobody —“

Red covered her mouth, covering her smile. “That small, huh?”

“Oh, well, Red, you’re fantastic, you’re the best in Cloudbank, but imagine if you were still in Traverson forcing yourself into Civil Planning. Would we even be friends? Or imagine if I needed a...a Painter, or a Magician, maybe even an Athlete, or someone else. How would I ever find them if they hadn’t announced their Selection?”

She’d been talking fast; she took a deep breath to refill her depleted lungs, and then charged in again. “Honestly, just think about how much worse Cloudbank would be. Everyone has to contribute something. Without Selections, there’d be no way to figure out who should do what.”

That was Sybil, alright: Organizer extraordinaire, assembling her arsenal. Red laughed and Sybil smiled back.

“You know,” she continued, “Selections are probably one of the only choices people should bother making.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” And when Red didn’t offer anything else: “Oh, Red — doesn’t it bother you sometimes? Just last week it took me only fifteen minutes to get from here to Fairview. But now they’ve voted on that new park, all the buses are out of place. And now there needs to be another vote to figure out what the new routes are going to be. It’s just so…” She sighed, heavily, with her whole body. “Disorganized.”

Red closed her eyes. Something had been growing in the back of her mind, had started with Nobody’s eyes fleeing hers, fleeing even the gaze of the terminal in their table. As Sybil spoke, it grew, finally becoming large enough for her to take notice. It tumbled from her brain into the pit of her chest, hanging, and all its little barbs spun and began to tangle up in all her capillaries. It whimpered, butting its head over and over again against her sternum.

Sybil sniffed. “It would just all be better if we could work together. If we could all be a united Cloudbank, you know?”

United. All together. One. Zero. Red closed her eyes, tapping her nails on the keys of her piano as the little thing began to push into her fingertips. The keyboard made no noise, but notes were blooming in her brain.

Suddenly the path glowed again. Suddenly the path was blinding.

“Red? Don’t you agree?”

Sybil’s voice fissuring, making welts across her nascent thoughts, crushing its delicate chirp.

“I’m sorry, Sybil,” Red said, not turning around. “Thanks for your help. But I have some…”

“Oh, it’s alright! You’re busy, I understand! I’m busy too, you know? No worries, look, I’m already out the door.” And suddenly Sybil did seem to be in quite a hurry. She hugged Red around the shoulders. “Call me, alright? Whenever you’re up for another performance. Or even if you just need someone to help you clean up again. Or just to talk. Okay?”

“Sure,” Red said, hazily, “see you later.” But she was already gone.

:::

When Red wrote music, the days blurred; time was too irrelevant, too inconvenient to keep hold of. She muted everything in her apartment, and left only to visit the OVC terminal in the lobby every couple hours to vote for mild, windless, rainless, soundless weather that wouldn’t batter her concentration. Her brain went in circles, spirals, tapering: she searched for words, for notes, and finding one was like finding water in a desert. It filled her more than food, and certainly more than Jan’s delivery, which was usually cold by the time she had mind enough to fumble to it.

Her body became a staff, stretched between perfect pieces, a skeleton for noise. When the last piece fell into place, when she caught it like a star, she felt shaky, ablaze. Her heart was racing with the usual exhilaration, and something extra.

I get it. I got it. Her mind was new; it raced, faster, brighter than her memories of the rioting audience. She wanted to sing — scream — to everyone, but especially to one person in particular. Her terminal was in her hand, fingers poised, before she remembered that she didn’t know his name.

How was she going to reach him? She hesitated, just a moment, then snorted. Well, it wasn’t like she had ever told him about her other performances. She spun around in her stool, staring at the ceiling. She was tense, she felt tightly coiled, like the song might burst out of her at any moment. She picked up her terminal again and, with an amused snort, queried for the smallest stage in Cloudbank. Then, finger trembling, she dialed the address.

“Welcome to The Mixin,” said the person who flickered into view. The video was fuzzy with noise, but along the bottom she could make out the person’s name and pronoun. She was a woman. “How can I help?”

“Hey,” Red said. “You have a space on your stage?”

“Sure thing. Next week?”

“Tonight.”

The woman’s eyebrows arched. “You mean…right now?”

Red’s eyes flicked to the terminal’s clock display. The majority for sunset today had gone to two hours ago. “I guess so. Is there space?”

The woman’s mouth pinched with thought; her eyes unfocused as she surveyed another screen.

“If you want a spot in about an hour, I’ve got one. What should I put you down as?”

“Red. See you then.” The woman’s eyes widened, but before she could say anything more, Red punched the terminal off and went to get dressed.

:::

When his terminal began to vibrate, he cringed.

Not again.

He’d directed it some time ago to crawl through news streams, crunching words and tossing articles his way when it came across pieces on unusual absences. It buzzed fitfully whenever it consumed anything of interest — and this was happening recently with greater frequency than he would have liked.

He reached into his jacket for the terminal, and almost dropped it when he saw what was flashing up at him.

> Red

No way. No.

Hadn’t he just seen her? Hadn’t she just been sipping tea across him him, with her smile and sharp eyes? He stopped reading, feeling ill. He covered the screen with his palm, and then cursed himself and removed it.

> Red is performing at The Mixin tonight!

His breath burst out of him, harsh with another curse. He shoved the terminal back into his pocket, rubbing his eyes.

Damn, he thought. And, What a relief.

He fisted his hand until it stopped shaking.

The Mixin. It was an unusual venue for her. Small, compared to her usual stages.

It also wasn’t too far. He had some free time, right?

He turned around and made his way back across the district, and soon enough found The Mixin’s signage peeking out from a narrow alleyway, its light flickering and missing some central characters. The half-maintained stairs leading down to its entrance buzzed and spat beneath his soles. The Mixin was a single large room, low-ceilinged, and humid, framed with gleaming bottles of alcohol like teeth. The tongue of its stage was a worn velvet only slightly elevated over the tables, barely large enough to contain the pacing of a violinist playing over the dining audience.

The place wasn’t even half as crowded as the fancy places that booked her, and though there was no hiding out on a balcony either, the bar seemed like a good consolation. He dropped onto the stool and tapped his fingers on the pearly counter until a section of it glowed.

“I’d like a drink,” he told it.

[...what drink?] the screen asked, after some hesitation. [We have a variety of spirits available for you to choose from, one from every —]

“Just,” he told it, “a drink,” and the screen hung, then yielded a glass with amber liquid that prickled pleasantly in his throat, and burned the edge off some of his apprehension. He sat, and waited, grimacing.

Well, here he was.

What else could be said about it? He liked her voice. It wasn’t a secret; he gave away this fact easily when asked. Well, he used to, before she became so popular, and before he realized that everyone touched by Cloudbank’s spotlights was vanishing.

His drink was almost finished when the violinist concluded and bowed, followed by belated applause and the hum of conversations growing louder to fill the silence. If anyone else knew Red was here, he didn’t hear them discussing it. He wouldn’t be too surprised: it had taken him forever to tweak the filters properly to catch news about her, and he doubted anyone else in Cloudbank had as much time to waste.

His terminal couldn’t distinguish between truth and rumor, however, and he was starting to think he’d been misled when he saw a flash of a familiar color at his periphery. The lights didn’t dim — maybe nothing happened at all — but as usual he had a sense that the space around her stage was getting tighter, like the breath was being sipped out of his lungs.

She didn’t introduce herself; she didn’t so much as give a warning for her audience to wind down their dialogue. She simply fed the terminal alongside the stage a flicker from her terminal, and then approached the mike, her eyes shut, her fingers curled around its bulb.

Step out

Beyond

The edge, and start the motion

Look out

Below

I know, there’s no decision

Just collision

He didn’t recognize the lyrics at all; she was singing something new. Were they one of the first to hear it? He looked across the room and indeed some people were looking up from their silverware, exchanging glances with each other. The air filled with hisses, and hushes.

Red’s hooded eyes swept over the audience, like she was reading her notes on them.

If I should choose to rise I’m still descending

Never ending

I fall

I fall

He thought he was safe in the back of the crowd, but when her eyes slid over him they stopped, and stayed. The edge of her mouth poked up, straight between his ribs.

I won’t

Become

A number in the system

Zeroes and ones

Not me

Not me

She’s singing what we talked about. No way. That was ridiculous — right? Right? Yes, definitely — she looked away then (not what someone would do if they had written a song about you — no, not you, about what you’d said). She abandoned his agape mouth, and when he followed her gaze across the crowd no one seemed to notice especially that the room’s temperature had increased drastically.

Maybe she was different after all.

Step out

Beyond

The edge, and start the motion

Her voice trailed, finished, shrugged off the sobriety she’d adopted for the melody. She smiled and bowed her head and he realized finally that he hadn’t taken a breath in a while.

Applause rose and was swallowed back into conversation. The stage was bathed in camera flashes — some people had stood, and were orienting their chairs toward the stage, or moving them closer — but Red was done. She retreated behind the curtain and before he knew it he had left the building, was outside and around to the alley where he knew its backstage emptied, he was squinting and finding her jabbing her hair out of sight beneath her hood. She glanced his direction the instant he spotted her, eyes like the rain that was starting to fall, and for one uneasy millisecond everything was perfectly orchestrated: the alleyway, the coffee, the elected drizzle. A perfect fit: a collision that made his chest ache.

“Hi, Mr. Nobody,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Hi there,” he said. They were alone: no one had come out from backstage to follow. He gave a nervous laugh. “This is a pretty small venue for you, isn’t it?”

“I thought I’d try something different.” She rubbed her mouth. “Maybe avoid the bigger spotlight for a while.”

He was more relieved to hear that than she could have guessed. “Good thing I can find you even without your name in a headline,” he said, without thinking; and then, realizing how creepy that sounded, continued quickly. “Uh, I mean, because I crawl through news of you. Of your appearances. Professional appearances.”

“I see. Well, I’m not too surprised. It must not be as tough as trying to find someone without even a name to reference.”

“Yeah?” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Did you try running a query for me?”

“Didn’t need to. Figured you’d find me.”

He blinked. What, was her second Selection Psychic? Or was he just that easy to parse? He realized that sometime in the recent past, thoughts of him had crossed her mind, and he watched helplessly as she exhaled, releasing a warm plume of breath that was battered by rain as it rose.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s not like it’s easy. You know how many hits I get for people just posting about red things? How many polls people hold for whether a new building or bus or playground should be red? It takes a lot of effort.”

She laughed, not unkindly. “Well, well, Mr. Search-Engine. So much for...what was it that that you said? Something about getting to know someone better outside pathetically looking up Census data?”

He coughed. “Did I really say ‘pathetic?’”

“You definitely did. There’s no erasing that particular word from my memory.”

“Well,” he said, and then, before he could bite them back: “how about overwriting it? With coffee. Or tea,” he amended, “whatever.”

She evaluated him. And then, the words that parted them from all the places and things they had ever been before:

In her Highrise apartment, Red paced, so much that it quietly extended the length of her hallway to give her better stride.

She knew the content of her work was something people didn’t agree with. But she followed the news — whatever controversy arose was always just a footer to people’s praises or criticisms of her vocal skill. She’d never thought that people would — would attack her. This was Cloudbank: she should be able choose whatever she wanted to do, without fear of being harmed.

Maybe she should come up with a whole new set. Just to be...careful.

But it was hard to be inspired when her mouth was throbbing down to the roots of her teeth.

Every day, her terminal blinked with a new message. She let them accumulate and once her guilt overflowed she finally played them, all at once.

> Hey, Red! You didn’t call me when you got back last night. I hope you’re okay. Call me.

> Hey, Red. There’s an event this weekend, they need an opener — want to do it? You’re just the one they need.

> Hi Red. I never heard back about the performance last weekend…maybe you’re a little scared? Nervous? I know your last concert was ruined, but — think of the people who love you, you know? Your fans, I mean. There’s another event this weekend — a little showcase with some other singers. They’re young, but talented, and I’m sure they’d love to meet you…anyway, let me know. I’m here if you want to chat.

Sybil’s voice faded, and the terminal fell silent. Red grimaced. She hadn’t been paying attention to her messages — she didn’t think Sybil would send so many. Mostly she’d just been trying to avoid Admins or — anyone else — trying to get to her.

Red picked up the terminal and started to type.

> Hey Sybil I don’t want to

She stopped, reconsidered, deleted, started again.

> Hey Sybil I’m sorry to get back to you so late about this but I think I’m going to take a break for a little bit I want to come up with some new stuff.

She pressed send, and hadn’t even looked away from the screen when it indicated Sybil was typing back. Red waited, pushed her hair behind her ear as Sybil’s cursor continued to blink...and blink...and blink...

> Hello Red! So good to hear back from you. You know you don’t need new things to sing at these performances, all your old stuff is fantastic. Are you maybe scared of performing after what happened last time? If you feel nervous, I’ve got connections with some Security folks. They could escort you!

“I’m not scared,” Red replied aloud, but the instant she said it she felt her stomach churn. For Country’s sake.

Sybil continued typing.

>You’ve still got an hour to decide! Verdict?

An hour? The event was tonight? Then there definitely wasn’t was enough time to prepare properly to perform. She could just stay in her apartment.

She felt relieved, and then irritated. She wasn’t afraid of leaving her own apartment now, was she?

Her reflection in the mirror looked tired, haunted. The bruise at the bottom of her jaw wasn’t purple anymore, but had waned into the yellow of an old, moth-filled light bulb. Her eyes narrowed.

You’re not afraid to leave your own apartment.

Definitely not. It would do her some good to go out — she could at least check out the event, even if she didn’t perform at it — maybe it would inspire her. She glanced at her mirror’s port, which showed the votes for mild weather had been high all day. She changed into a light outfit and left, yanking a hood over her hair.

:::

She didn’t tell Sybil she was going — didn’t have the energy or strength to apologize or explain or even confront the fact that she had considered ordering flatbread straight to her apartment for the seventh day in the row. Besides, she could already hear Sybil’s protest in her mind when she told her that she didn’t want to perform: “Oh, Red, what a waste! You have to perform! Your Selection is Music! Everyone wants to hear you!”

Then again, maybe she was just being affected by the people muttering in the theater around her.

“Is Red going to be here?”

“I heard Sybil was going to book her…”

“Has she been seen at all since that person attacked her?”

Red tugged her hood down lower.

“No one here will be as good.”

“Yeah, well, maybe there won’t be a riot this time.”

The conversations dimmed with the lights. Sybil had done a fine job preparing the venue, and it was more obvious in the darkness: staticky lights constellated across the walls and lent the place a strange air of luxury. The air felt velvety, electric.

The place was also packed. There wasn’t any sitting room left, but people seemed content to stand, and Red jostled with the rest in the shadows of the upper balcony.

The first performer was fine — the second, better, with a full voice that was good, if raw around the edges. The best performance was saved for last, and as soon as the singer’s voice broke, the crowd pushed, trying to see, and Red was pushed too, forward, forward, and then behind someone that she had to stand on tiptoes to see over. She huffed in frustration as she tried to crane over them. After some time she gave up, and flattened her feet to the ground, and as she dropped her eyes fell right onto a gold triangle.

She stared. The lights shifted, reflecting off the triangle, searing it into her retinas.

The music was fading, the venue’s exits illuminating. Before she could overcome her surprise and plan something, the person in front of her turned, and walked right into her.

“Oof!”

“Oh — excuse me —“ the person said, and put a hand on her shoulder, to steady her as she stumbled back.

“It’s fine,” Red said, and looked up — too fast. Her hood slipped from her head — her hair tumbled out — she quickly gathered it and stuffed it back into safekeeping but she could tell by the person’s widened eyes that she’d been recognized.

Which meant — this was the person, right? The one that had been watching all her performances? Her heart began to race. They were — not unattractive.

“Hi,” she managed.

“…Hey.” A breath. “You’re...Red.”

They stood and stared at each other while the people around them continued to scramble around them. Red searched her brain. Swallowed.

“Would — would you like to get something to drink?”

:::

Red. Here. Here.

They exited the theater in silence, and went the closest cafe in Fairview. He waited for her to select a table and tried not to hesitate when she chose one that had only two seats. As she sat across from him, he examined her, in glances, picking apprehensively at the cloth wrapped around his arms.

Maybe this wasn’t the person that he’d thought it was. Her hair — what little of it curled down her hood — seemed duller. He could see faint lines on her face now that there wasn’t a gold spotlight to flatten and polish them off. Her hands, when she put them on the table, were decorated with chipped yellow nail polish.

The terminal embedded in the table’s dark wood flickered, casting blue across her chin, which was still bruised from the riot. The speakers in the table intoned a requisite welcome, and then, the inevitable chirp: [Your choices?]

“Coffee,” he told it.

[Black? Or a latte? Sugar, cream? We have a variety of choices today, roasts from every —]

“Just,” he interrupted, “coffee.”

The display hung, the loader twiddling while the terminal fled across its procedures in confusion. The table warmed with stress. Finally it yielded a white, rounded prism, which rose in front of him and then receded, leaving a steaming mug. He felt her looking at him — or maybe he was just imagining she was staring, like everyone did. He didn’t look up to confirm.

[And your choice?] the display asked, orienting to her side of the table.

“Tea,” she told it. “Chamomile and mint.”

“Of course.” Soon, that too had been rendered before her. The screen faded back into the wood grain.

“Interesting choice,” he said, after searching for a lot of things to say and concluding this was about as good as he could get.

She blew into her mug. “Tea’s better for my voice.”

Her voice. He shook his head. He recognized it for sure now, singing or not.

“You really are Red.”

“Really am,” she said. She had a faint smile, tentative, only halfway loaded. “And who are you?”

She just went straight to it, didn’t she? When he hesitated, she continued. “I know you’ve been coming to my performances. All the ones recently, at least. But you always leave, right at the end.”

He blinked. “How did you know that?”

“The triangle on the back of your jacket — it always flashes, as you’re leaving.”

Straight and sharp. He swallowed another gulp of coffee, barely noticing the heat. He would have never thought his jacket would give him away, much less that Red would have been noticing him this whole time. He could barely muster the nerves to visit her autograph sessions, not to mention her smaller concerts. Now there she was, watching him intently, practically brimming with expectation. Who had she wanted him to be?

She prodded him again. “Come on. Is it...Mister...?”

“Yeah, he confirmed, “Mister.” He took another sip, trying to think of something clever, but she spoke again before he could.

“It’s not like picking your Selection! Just tell me so you don’t end up being Mr. Nobody.” She laughed, and for a nanosecond it was like a spotlight had dropped over her chair; he felt warmed by the glow coming off her.

He smiled, thinly. “Mr. Nobody has a nice ring to it.”

No laughter this time; just furrowed brows. She blew into her mug and sipped again.

“Mr. Nobody. Alright. And your Selections?”

“None.”

She coughed. “None?”

He didn’t elaborate, just filled the silence by tapping the table until it yielded another coffee.

“You mean you haven’t made your Selections yet,” she decided, but he shook his head.

“Nope. I mean I haven’t made them, and I won’t.”

She was flabbergasted now and he realized that as much as he liked attending her performances, this was way more entertaining.

“Are…are you mocking me?”

“No.”

“Then why...haven’t you...?”

“Because there’s no need to.”

“No need to spend your life doing something you love?”

He sighed, with all the air in his body.

“What?” she said, and he rubbed his forehead.

Here we go.

“Selections…” His fingers tapped on his mug. How could he put it lightly? He took a breath. “Selections,” he said finally, “are completely meaningless.”

“What?” The hue of her face was quickly matching that of her hair. “Selections are not meaningless. They’re one of the most important choices you can make in your life.”

“Alright. Let’s pretend, for a second, that for whatever reason you never Selected Music. You just didn’t realize you liked Music before you graduated, or something. Would you have given up on singing entirely?”

“No,” she told him, suspicious. “Never.”

“Alright. And even though you Selected Music, it’s not like you don’t do anything that isn’t about Music, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, there you have it. Even if you Selected music, you’d still do other things; even if you hadn’t, you’d still do it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Meaningless.”

She sat back her chair too, heavy, face crinkled. “But because I made a Selection, I have opportunities — recognition. Sure, I could have always done Music on my own, in my own apartment or something. But I like performing for others. For an audience.”

He sighed again, set his hands in his coat pockets. He smoothed his thumb over the surface of his terminal, fortunately silent, as it had been for the past week.

“Take it from me,” he said. “Sometimes you don’t want an audience.”

“Strange thing for someone to say when he’s attended more of my concerts than I can count.” She crossed her arms.

He still remembered the first day that he’d heard her — that first clear note, more startling than a cool breeze on Cloudbank’s few sweltering days. Before he knew it he was across the intersection and standing there beneath an open window, shoulder-to-shoulder with stray cats and garbage collectors, her voice resonating in every cell.

Afterward he’d found her poster and added her name, hands trembling, to his filters. It was the first time he’d done it thinking, Don’t let her disappear.

He shrugged. “What do you expect me to say? I’m a fan. Just one of your increasing multitudes.”

“Not increasing recently,” she muttered, rubbing her mouth.

“Sorry about the riot,” he offered, and dared for an instant then that they’d move on, that things would progress differently than with anyone else he’d ever met, that for once Selections and choices would take a backseat to — something. Anything.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway — even assuming that you’re right — that Selections are meaningless. You could always Select something, and then do whatever you want anyway. Why would you ever choose nothing?”

Really?

“I don’t know,” he snapped, “so that I don’t just become a number? So that when I meet someone, we can do something other than pathetically look each other up in the Census?”

It came out sharper than he intended and his mouth snapped shut, somewhat too late. He jammed his mug against his mouth again but there was nothing to tip back.

This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to talk to her. The next time he attended a concert, he knew this would start to boil up across his brain: her voice interrogating him, her eyes narrowed, the throb and splatter and suffocation of spilled words he couldn’t gather back and save from permanence. She was searching for words and when she finally found them, she opened her mouth and —

“Listen,” he said, standing. “I’ve got to go.”

“You — now? Did I —“ She cut herself off. “I’m sorry, did I say something?”

He made himself look at her. Red. Incredibly talented — and just like all the rest. Obsessed with Selections, with ways to define a person into a screen that could be carried around in a pocket.

“No,” he said, “you didn’t say anything.”

He rapped his hand on the table until it collected his empty dishes. The terminal lit up briefly to accept it, and as it did it showed the weather vote, just about to close. Red yelled and jabbed it with a finger, but it was too late.