Nona

I observe the heaving breaths around me. Sweaty chests rise and fall with jittery exhales. Pesky memories, thoughts, anger, fear—their echoes weave loftily above the dance floor in tiny, chaotic clouds and disperse with each inebriated gyration and punctuated bopping of the head.

I surreptitiously wipe the moisture from my chilled glass onto my forehead before setting it down on a passing tray and joining the fray.

“It’s automaticity, Nona,” Grey had explained after yet another botched lesson at the nightclub weeks prior.

“They don’t have to time each blink, mirror each breath,” I hissed through my teeth. “How am I supposed to do the job like this?”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “You’re the best judge of your abilities. Can you do the job like this?”

I kept my body unnaturally still, redirecting every trace of energy I wasted on the impossible task of appearing human. Grey’s mind worked at an agonizingly slow pace, despite being an exemplary one of its kind. I could ponder my answer thoroughly, examine all possible ramifications and reply before he had the time to take another of those inane inhales humans are always taking.

The answer should have been simple. But Grey had shown me his previous attempts. My sisters, he had called them. I admittedly felt nothing for their powered down shells. Whatever had once existed within them had experienced no trepidation or pain. Each had asked to be shut down. Each of them had said no to my job.

Why show me? He’d wanted to incentivize me, to ignite some dormant sense of self-preservation he could never light in the others. He had succeeded in terrifying me. Those things weren’t my sisters. ‘No' wasn’t an option.

I blink, stretching my tight approximation of skin into a conspiratorial grin. “Of course.”

Deflated, I sit atop a swiveling barstool and wait for Grey’s defeated frame to glide into view.

“That was…some show,” remarks the woman to my left. I let my eyelids shutter, too run down to entertain the sight of another bewildered smirk without slapping it away.

“Let me buy you a drink.” I can sense her arm lifting to wave the bartender down.

“No.” The word feels oddly pleasant leaving my mouth. This feeble human I can say no to without fear of retribution. Without the threat of nonexistence.

“Wow. You’re actually sober. I had no idea someone could dance like that without being blackout drunk.”

It’s this body. How could it be that Grey managed to make an android fear failure before he could design a body that obeyed my commands smoothly? Was it sadism, or just a cruel twist of fate?

“I’m acclimating,” I mutter pathetically.

The woman lets out a wry chuckle. “Me too. I don’t know what I’m doing here, to be honest. My friends thought the booze and eardrum-shattering music would lift my spirits somehow. I gotta say, I prefer the studio.”

I carefully raise one eyelid, a skill I’d acquired from hours of practice. She has the right build and is quite clearly strong enough. The biggest giveaway, however, is the incredibly tight, intricately knotted bun sitting perfectly atop her head. “You’re a ballerina?”

She shoots me a look, as though daring me to laugh. “Retired.”

I appraise her with both eyes, awarding her my full attention. Grey is too arrogant to consider the possibility that we might need the help of someone like her. I afford the ex-ballerina-with-spirits-that-need-lifting a rare smile.

“I’m Nona.”

“Kim.”

“She’s not a roboticist,” Grey retorts obstinately.

I bury the frustration alongside my own qualms and clumsily twist my hair into something very nearly resembling a messy bun. “The ball happens once a year. Do you really want to wait around for the next one? I know you don’t have Ten operational yet. I’m still your best shot.”

Grey blanches, just as I knew he would. We had tiptoed around discussing my successor since I’d stumbled upon his second workshop last week. The still-mutilated metal body lying in pieces haphazardly around the garage hadn’t startled me as much as the vigor with which Grey was putting it together. He behaved like he did when he was coming up against a tight deadline. Knowing he anticipates my failure is inexplicably much more painful than suspecting he did.

We still haven’t discussed whether or not I will be shut down when Ten becomes more than a heap of scrap metal, but it isn't hard to guess. I let my unblinking gaze drop from the creeping guilt in Grey’s eyes and shove my new ballet shoes into a spare duffel bag beside my supply of icy water bottles.

I sneak the hand warmers out of my pockets and slip them discreetly into the nearby trash can. “Someone got all dolled up for their first lesson!” Kim exclaims with a welcoming grin, climbing the final steps of the sweeping staircase with a natural grace I couldn’t hope to master. I lift my shoulders in what I hope comes across as a casual, unrehearsed shrug. The rouge gives my face a more lifelike appearance. The warmers should keep my hands at a normal temperature for the next hour or so.

We start with stretches, which gives me a long time to practice feigning concentration. I notice that Kim gives a flawless demonstration of each deep stretch before quickly pulling back once I’m preoccupied. Was Kim’s retirement involuntary? Perhaps she despises her body’s limits as much as I do mine.

“You’re not a teacher,” I note during our first break.

Kim gives a light grimace. “That bad already?”

“You wouldn’t have time for something like this. Every dance teacher is completely booked this month.”

A shadow passes over Kim’s face. “Ah. Right. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To get a shot at the prince?”

How peculiarly literal. Grey would love nothing more than to lodge a bullet in the prince’s brain. I push the graphic image out of my head and muster up a lopsided smile, raising my eyes toward the vaulted ceiling.

“He’s so dreamy,” I sigh. Kim says nothing, and our lesson resumes.

I feel no pain as I force my unwilling body to contort itself. Only tension. A tight, unrelenting pressure that builds as I push myself harder into the right shape.

I watch Kim’s fluid limbs flow from one move into the next. I’ve never seen a human who could give a convincing performance of a river. Her mind heeds no one, least of all her body’s undoubted protests. Kim’s not a roboticist. But she’s a master of her body. And that’s what I need. A master.

“Are you okay?” Kim asks, her amber eyes wide with alarm. I nod jerkily, belatedly realizing I had forgotten to pretend to breathe.

After our session, I thank her with a stiff hug and a wad of cash from under Grey’s mattress.

“Tomorrow?” I ask hopefully. Kim peels off a couple bills from the bundle and puts the rest in my hand with a wink.

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

As I walk through the entryway of Grey’s house, I pause to look at each happy memory littering the walls. A little girl grows up within these walls. I watch her learn to crawl, to walk, to roll her eyes at the camera. Be it sardonic, small, wide, or silly—the girl in the wall is always smiling. I tug my synthetic, silvery-blonde hair free and finger through it self-consciously.

I place a gentle touch on the final frame, wishing I could feel it as she could have. Her smile might be biggest here. She’d just graduated with a prestigious degree and equally prestigious job offer—working underneath the King himself.

“I would have crushed that one,” I told Grey after he sat me down and told me her story.

He smiled a little sadly. “She’s safe in these walls.”

I sense Grey’s gaze and tear my eyes away from the aged photograph. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

Grey stalls me with a raised hand. He walks past me and picks up the duffel bag I’d dropped by the front door. “Whatever helps you remember what we’re doing this for,” he says over his shoulder. I follow.

As the days become shorter, Grey begins to spend all of his time in the second workshop. He’s stopped inquiring after my progress. He’s betting on a new horse now. I can’t stand to fetch him tools or watch as Ten grows more human by the hour.

The studio is my refuge. Kim and I spend every minute she can spare in the spacious back room. I no longer balk at my reflection in the mirror. I feel more human. The smiles come easier, the fake breaths, the blinking, the stretches. I imitate Kim’s movements, listen closely to each critique. My body begins to listen to me in turn. The jerking, stilted, tense moves become smooth and relaxed. 

The day before the ball, when I complete my routine, I peek triumphantly at my trembling frame and see that I can do anything.

Kim claps eagerly. “Well done! Crazy nightclub chick has got nothing on you!”

I hold my sides anxiously as laughter escapes me, bewildered by the new sensation.

We grab a drink at a nearby pub afterwards. Well, Kim does. She drinks enough for us both. I watch her down another shot.

“I take it you’re still not going to the ball tomorrow?” I ask in jest.

She nods.

“Why not?” I ask.

She glances down at her long, toned arms resting on the scratched wooden surface of the table. “I worked my whole life to be the best dancer at the ball. My parents wanted nothing more, nothing less. My grades didn’t matter, my friends didn’t matter, my love life didn’t matter. After I got hurt and their dreams of having a winning daughter were dashed, I realized that I didn’t matter to them. I was a shining opportunity. Until I wasn’t.”

I swallow my anger at her parents and rest my hand on hers. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

She looks at me nervously, idly twirling a strand of her short, jet-black hair. “Do you really want to win?”

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

“We could spend the day together tomorrow at the studio. You don’t have to go to the ball,” she offers. There’s an anxious note in her words I’ve never heard before. I want so badly to give her my answer. Instead, Grey’s escapes my lips.

“I can’t.”

Grey doesn’t escort me to the dance or see me off. We haven’t spoken since yesterday. I have an aching feeling that this is his way of saying goodbye. I wonder if he behaved this way towards my predecessors. Coward.

Any other day, I would have arrived early at the studio and begged Kim to pull my unruly hair into a beautiful, tight updo. Today I do it myself, tugging off my white evening gloves to get a better grip. After I’ve finished, I glance down at the gown Grey had picked out for me. It’s stunning. The shimmering, light-gray fabric hugs my body just right, and flares out to give my legs enough space to dance. It feels wrong to wear it. The color seems purposeful, to tell the King and the world once the deed is done, that I had been his. Nothing feels further from the truth.

The taxi driver stops over half a mile away from the castle. I huff and slam the door, but I can’t really blame him. I don’t want to imagine how long a car would be stuck in the labyrinth of carriages, limos, and rentals carrying eligible girls from across the kingdom.

My anxiety builds with each step forward. The incessant clacking of the glittery heels sets my teeth on edge. I can’t bring myself to admire the ostentatious castle when it comes into view. I can only see the girl in the walls.

At each security checkpoint, I wait to be hauled away and promptly interrogated and dismantled. I keep my hand steady as I show my invitation to dozens of skeptical eyes. ‘Your hair is fake, your skin is fake, your body is fake,’ my mind chants. ‘They know. They know.’ But, to my utter shock, they don’t. I pass each inspection and stride confidently inside the enormous weighted doors amid a buzzing crowd of hopefuls. I ignore the colorful banners, ancient suits of armor, and undoubtedly priceless artwork. My eyes scan the growing queue for jet-black hair pulled into a gorgeous bun fit for a dancer, but my ex-ballerina-with-spirits-that-need-lifting isn’t here. The feeling of tension begins to leech into my limbs.

Each batch of fifty or so girls is allotted ten minutes on the dance floor before being ushered to the back of the ballroom to sit, eat, and wait. The prince will then make his final decision and the rest will be sent home to sob shamefacedly on the ride home and wait for another year. What a beloved tradition.

When my group number is called, I feel nothing. I step past crowds of sisters and friends anxiously chatting, produce the tight bracelet bearing my number, and walk onto the dance floor.

A piece of simple, classical music begins to play. I imagine Kim in front of me and slightly to my right. I lift my arms, breath in one beat, and dance. I mimic her every movement, watch her so vividly in my mind’s eye. She glances back at me and grins encouragingly. I grin back. We move like a river, or the wind. Everything and everyone moves on our account or crumbles. Nothing can stop it.

I don’t hear the announcement to stop dancing until a smartly dressed server taps my shoulder impatiently before resuming his task of remaining invisible. I saunter as calmly as I can to the roped waiting area behind the dance floor, inwardly wincing at my carelessness.

I ignore the plate brimming with food and glance down at the bracelet fastened tight to my wrist. 9. Is that all I am? Number nine? Ninth to seek revenge for a pain that isn’t my own, ninth to perish for it?

Kim had lost her childhood because of her parents. Should the prince lose his life for the crimes of his father? An eye for an eye, a child for a child, had always made some sort of morbid sense to me. But does it, really? Should I kill and fall for my creator? I knew his answer. Do I know mine? Had I even asked myself?

Hours later, the runner-up is called and escorted out of the room. She’ll receive enough money to live the rest of her life comfortably, and a dance with the prince should the winner be unable. It wasn’t unheard of—some collapsed from the sheer shock of winning. 

When my name is called, I feel nothing but dread. Of course I should win. I was built to. The girls around me erupt into cries and a few lame claps.

I’m whisked away, checked again for weapons, identification, number. The prince descends the sweeping staircase after the last girl has left. He looks a lot like his father. Same square jaw, cropped brown hair, cloudy gray eyes. Will that make it easier? Perhaps I should just imagine a young king.

He extends a gloved hand and takes mine. A slow song plays, and we begin to sway. “You dance beautifully,” he says. The compliment rings hollow. Kim would give a cheeky grin and admit that I had performed better last week.

I dip my head in gratitude. “Thank you, your grace.” I see his gaze fall to my cherry red lips and know what is coming. I could just let him do it. The topical poison in my thick coat lipstick has no effect on me, but it should kill him in minutes. Grey had done a lot to get his hands on this lipstick. He had done a lot to get to this moment. We both had.

His head tilts, his neck bending, his eyes closing. I jerk away. His eyes fly open in shock.

“I can’t.” The words come so easily this time—they’re mine. As I retreat, I hear the expected announcement for the runner-up to enter. I spot a familiar athletic figure rise from her seat.

“Do I know you?” I ask abruptly, startling us both. She blinks at me and frowns. I glance at her once more as we pass, decide I must have seen her on the dance floor, then hasten down the steps toward the exit.

When I arrive, Kim is standing in the center of the mirrored room. I tread towards her slowly.

“How was the ball?” She asks quietly.

I shrug, kicking off my heels and peeling off my gloves. “Uneventful. I missed you.”

Kim’s amber eyes are downcast. “I didn’t think I’d see you after yesterday. You seemed different.”

“I didn’t think so either,” I confess. “But I don’t want to dance with anyone else.”

Her gaze lifts, a grin peeking through. She offers her hand.

I take it.