Chrysalis

Issoria had achieved a degree of numbness, despite the needle pushing in and out of the skin on her back; if she focused enough on the TV screen in front of her, the pain faded to an afterthought in the back of her mind. She turned her head to peer in the mirror at the tapestry of delicate black butterflies that swathed her skin, flowing and winding from her wrist up to her shoulder, then down her spine until they reached the last row of her ribs. 

“How do you like it?” asked the tattoo artist, glancing up from her work for a moment.

Issoria nodded. 

“Good,” she smiled, bringing her face close enough that Issoria could feel the warmth of her breath brushing against the small of her back.

She studied the profile of the tattoo artist in the mirror. Her hair, long, thick, and black as night, had been tucked up and held in place with a delicate, long pin of light blue. She had skin slightly lighter than Issoria’s, which had still retained an amber glow despite the shorter, colder days that signified winter fast approaching. Her hands were what had held Issoria’s attention when they had first met. The level of craftsmanship and the dedication that had been poured into the making of the hands was clear. They were made from a skeleton of glistening gold material, flashing from between the gaps in the outer layer. What would have been the flesh of regular appendages were perfectly-formed panels of ivory. They served as much of a work of art as they did as replacements. 

Turning back towards the TV, the numbness surrounded her once more. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her thoughts began to wander to the medication and conditioning that awaited her when she returned to the Facility, and of the scolding she would receive for the additions to her tattoo, as permission was required for any permanent alterations to her body. By the same time next month, she wouldn’t be allowed outside for another fifty years. Instead, her life would be consumed by the preparations for her upcoming hibernation.

It was something she had grown accustomed to over the centuries; a state of cryosleep for fifty years, with a one year of wakefulness between them. During this year of consciousness, scientists came from all around the globe to study her. The information that they had been able to receive had been crucial to development in the scientific community, from biology to space travel. 

The butterfly tattoos were a part of the cycle, though they were a ritual that she had created for herself. Every year that she was awake, she would go and have a few more of them added to the collection covering her skin. 

“All done”

Issoria opened her eyes once more. She sat up, peering over her shoulder at the mirror on the wall. A new row of black butterfly outlines covered her back. Her skin was red and swollen where the needle had pierced it. “Looks good,” she said, giving the tattoo artist a smile. 

“Anytime,” she replied.

The tattoo artist set down her needle on the table at her side. She leaned forward, reaching for a roll of thin, shiny film. After retrieving it, she wrapped the material tightly around Issoria’s torso. 

Issoria pulled her blouse over her head, careful not to brush against the swollen skin. She stood up from the bench, and after paying the tattoo artist and giving her a quick hug, made her way through the doorway and out into the hallway. 

She had been surprised at how normally the tattoo artist treated her. The whole world knew of Issoria, and those she met rarely acted as if she were an ordinary person. It was easy to identify her, butterfly tattoos aside. She was a whole head shorter, and was one of the few people left without any mechanical enhancements built into her body. Eyes or hands, like those of the tattoo artist, were most common, but as time went on, Issoria had seen more and more people replacing entire arms and legs or even their whole bodies with machinery.

She made her way to her car. It was warmer inside, the air having stood stagnant for the most of the day. Issoria entered the address of the Facility into the location device embedded into what would have been the dashboard of the car, then leaned back as it began to move. That was one thing she didn’t miss about her own time, having to manually drive everywhere. She wondered how far technology would advance while she slept. The world Issoria awoke to was always one that far exceeded her expectations and theorizing, despite whatever fantastical ideas she had conjured up.

* * *

Issoria reached the front entrance of the Facility. She placed a hand on the security pad, keeping it there for a moment, until she heard the sound of the door lock opening. The pervasive smell of chemicals reached her. Even after the many years she had spent inside the building, the smell still had retained the ability to make her winkle her nose.

Fluorescent lights passed over her head as Issoria walked over to the elevator. “Floor six, please,”

The lower floors of the Facility shot past as the elevator ascended. Issoria gripped the metal bar winding around the glass and steadied herself. Without a sound, the doors parted. They shut immediately as Issoria walked through them. 

“Where were you? It’s late.” asked one of the scientists, a tall woman with olive skin and a nametag that read Dr. Anderson.

“I was in town,” Issoria replied, “getting a tattoo,” she turned around and pinched the back of her blouse concealing the new row of butterflies, “Would you like to see?”

This elicited a sigh from Dr. Anderson. “We told you about permanent alterations to your body. Who knows what effects this could have on your skin.” 

Issoria shrugged. "It's always worked out before,"

"Fine. It's not worth arguing with you. What's done is done."

She gestured to the chair beside her desk. Rows of pre-packaged needles lined a shelf next to the chair. issoria sat down, steeling herself for the sting and soreness that would follow. She was grateful, though, since she would not have survived without the daily injections. Every fifty years, the common illnesses of the time prior had evolved and several more had popped up.

The needles slid into her skin. The rough hands of the doctor were like sandpaper compared to the skillful movements of the tattoo artist. Tomorrow would be their next session. She had seemed kinder than most, and it had been forever since Issoria had formed any connection to another person as equals, not just a doctor and patient. 

Issoria had been aware of what her job entailed when she had accepted the role; she was to be a test subject, a specimen, not a person with passions and relationships and emotions. It had simply always been a part of her reality. Despite that fact that her body was still fully flesh and blood and bone, Issoria was far less human than those with limbs and organs of metal.

"I'm finished,"

The words of the doctor yanked her out of her thoughts and back into the cold, mechanical room. Issoria glanced at the clock; half an hour had passed. 

Dr. Anderson pulled the needles out from beneath her skin. She lacked even a sliver of gentleness. Issoria was once again reminded of the tattoo artist, whose ivory hands had achieved such an elegance that the doctor could only dream of. 

"You're free to return to your room now," she spoke rather curtly, monotony permeating every syllable.

Issoria stood from the chair. "Goodnight," she said.

She understood the doctor's rigid professionalism; Issoria was nothing but a tool to her, a means to satisfy an end. 

* * *

That night, as Issoria lay between the soft sheets of her bed, she thought of the tattoo artist and the day to come. She would rise at the sound of her alarm ringing next to her head, at 6:30, then she would be given half an hour to shower and collect herself. She would receive her daily nutritional injections followed by the other shots and conditioning required for her survival. That would last until 10:00 am on a good day. After that, she was free to roam the city until roughly 11:00 at night, when the moon had risen high into the sky. Then she was expected to have returned to the Facility.

Issoria had never been fond of her schedule, but she was grateful that she had been given more free time in the recents awake years than she had been in prior ages. It was relieving, escaping the choking hold of the sterile, white lighting and the seemingly infinite cycle of examinations. That was the part of her life that she hated the most.

She shifted to her side, bringing her wrist close to her face. Issoria peered into the darkness, her eyes tracing the faded black lines of the first butterflies, once stark and vibrant now rusting to a faded brown against the bronze of her skin. The memories seeped back from the deepest trenches of her mind. Over half a millennium had passed for the rest of humanity, but only a decade for her. She could still easily recall the searing pain of the needle buzzing into her skin, the outrage of the scientists when she returned, wrist coated in black, and the face of the one who had gifted her the first row of tattoos.

It was foolish, she knew, her attachment to the tattoo artist. When Issoria next awoke, their time together would be a relic of a time long since passed, if she were still alive at all. Despite the fact that it was possible and readily available to the general public to greatly extend their lifespan via medical intervention, many opted to let life run its course. Issoria folded her wrist against her chest, pressing it close enough to feel the constant rhythm of her heartbeat.

She closed her eyes, focusing entirely in the steadiness thumping in the cavity of her chest. It echoed within her mind, drowning out all other sounds. Her thoughts entangled with one together, until the world faded to nothing but a blur and the quiet darkness of sleep had taken its place.