Lenora

“You’re a driver now?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind and as soon as I say it, I regret it. Awkwardness hangs between Wallace and me like an unfortunate smell. Hugo’s no help, his chest rising and falling slowly as he mimics sleep.

“Yeah, guess I’m that,” Wallace says. “An Unknown.” He sounds different. His smooth, sexy voice that once had many a follower giddy is hoarse, as though he’s been yelling. The upper level dialect has been stripped away. When had I seen him last? At Bev’s Diner? And in the real it’s been even longer. It’s only been a few days, but our lives have always been fast-tracked compared to lower-levellers.

I try to see if he’s changed. His face is tilted to keep one eye on the road, though I can see his jawline, strong as I remember, and his sensual lips just as full.

Yet there’s something off.

Hugo peeks out from under the brim of his hat and gestures for me to take off my modes. I hesitate. It’s not forbidden to view someone’s real appearance, and a lot of the Bottom Dwellers avoid using holo-glamours to affect how they look, yet to me it still seems rude.

“What have you been up to?” I ask, as I peek over my modes. Has he always been so thin? And his hair is cut so short I can see the pale blue veins pumping just beneath his scalp. No, not veins. Pulsing tattoos swirl lightly across his forehead, along his long nose, sweeping across his sharp cheekbones and twisting down his neck to vanish beneath his collar. They’re faint, almost invisible. He may be a driver right now, but during lights out? I shudder to think what he’s made to do.

“A bit of this, a bit of that,” he says sarcastically, and I hastily resettle my modes.

“What do you want?” I shift, leaning against the door to put as much distance as I can between us.

“What does anyone want from you, Baby Doll?” he croons, his smirk crooked. My heart pounds in my chest. When he called me that, he’d been teasing and kind, a welcome voice after a day of negotiating the treacherous pool of potential Friends and allies, and our feelings for one another had settled into something comfortable, like a warm hug.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

“Oh, Lenora,” Wallace murmurs, sounding tired and a little lost. He turns the motor-carriage down a quiet side street and parks, upping the window’s tint before sitting still, tapping his fingers across the wheel. “I had this all planned out,” he admits, the engine ticking quietly as it cools. “What I’d say, how I’d say it …” he pauses and frowns. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About you a lot.” He spins in his seat and I jerk back, surprised. I think about his shaved head and patterned skin, and my stomach twists.

Father mentioned the growing trend for hiring physical bodies. He called it Bodyletting. Tiny nanos are embedded in the skin to enhance reception and allow complete body control. It’s especially popular with older people, seeking to reclaim their youth in a way they never could in the Cyberinth. It’s another form of escape, yet Father griped how it’s a threat to security. It’s the complete opposite of what I do. People live vicariously through the characters I create. It’s safe, all pre-recorded, and there’s a clear line between my personal self and everyone else. Wallace would be taking a back seat in his own body, letting someone else be in control, move his limbs and use his voice. Has Wallace really fallen so far?

“Maybe just start at the beginning?” I suggest tentatively.

“Glitch, where do I even start?” he growls, hand scraping across his head. I can hear the stubble rasp even though he appears to be tugging on long locks. He swings a leg over the centre console and rests his elbows on the backs of the front seats, leaning forward until I can smell him. Detergent and something that reminds me of damp clothes. “Did you ever wonder about my fall from grace?” he hisses. “You can’t believe any of the rot on the threads and you never took my calls. I thought we were friends. Real friends.”

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“I did what I had to do,” I snap. “Distance myself or risk joining you. The same thing you would’ve done!”

He collapses at that, his head slumping forward and the tension seeping out of him until he hangs limp and wrung out.

“Maybe. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have.”

“Nora, ask him what happened. You owe him that,” Hugo murmurs. I’d almost forgotten he’s here, his lips curving down. I hate disappointing him.

“Fine,” I hiss, crossing my arms to keep my anger in check. “What did you do?”

Wallace looks surprised.

“Surely Hunt has …” He swallows hard. “I don’t know what’s worse. You ditching me because Hunt told you to or you ditching me because you never cared in the first place.”

“You brought this on yourself!”

“How then? Did you think I asked for this?” He gestures around the tiny space of the motor-carriage, yet I know he means much more. “I’ve been demoted to Level Eight, my family don’t speak to me anymore, and my followers abandoned me.” He slams his fist into the back of the seat and I jump. He’s almost in the back seat with me and there’s nowhere I can go. I wonder if the door is locked and if I could get away, if I would be quick enough. “Baby Doll, I thought you were better than that.”

“Don’t call me that,” I growl. He laughs, a terse, sharp sound that makes me want to cry.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you, Lenora. I’ve never wanted that. Thing is, I want to save you.”

“Save me? I’m hardly a damsel in distress, Wally.”

“Just listen. You don’t realise how much your status is dependent on Torin Hunt.” He spits the name like a curse. “He’s had his eye on you from the beginning. No, listen,” he says, when I open my mouth to argue. His knees slip between the front seats until they’re propped against the back ones and he towers over me like a dark cloud. I glance at Hugo nervously and while he’s serious, eyes intent, he’s failing to act like he usually does around Wally or Torin or any other guy. He offers a small, comforting smile.

“Hunt is like his name. He hunts new talent and uses them. How do you think he’s managed to stay number one for so long? I was competition and I didn’t even last two months.” He puffs out a deep breath and it brushes against my cheeks, my hair fluttering. I shuffle further back, the door handle digging into my spine.

“So what does that make me?” I ask.

“You’re the latest bauble, a jewel in his shiny crown, and you’re different.” Wally grasps my hands, tugging them from where I clench them tight around my bag. His skin is dry but warm. “You’ve power, too. He’s given you some, but you have your own followers that are starting to rival even Hunt’s!” He squeezes my fingers, his voice so earnest I blush.

“I’ve no power.” I instinctively include a bashful smile with a dash of modesty.

“You’re not stupid, Baby Doll. Don’t act it,” Wally growls, and I stiffen at his words, trying to tug free. He only tightens his grip. “Listen. It’s too late for me, but it’s not for you. You’ve got a hell of a lot of influence over the stupid game this whole space station plays and you can’t abuse it. Don’t be like Hunt.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to wrestle back some control.

“Look, you told me once you dreamed of making people happy. You wanted to inspire people to find their own voices. Do you still want that?”

I’d tried to forget those late-night talks we had when we first Activated, swapping dreams and secrets like favourite toys.

“I do inspire people,” I whisper.

“Baby Doll, you inspire and you destroy.”

“Destroy?”

“Like Hunt, a single word from you can make people, or crush them.”

“I don’t!” I snap, pulling my hands free. Wally sighs, sitting back and watching me for a moment before returning to the driver’s seat. He starts the motor-carriage and backs out of the side street and into traffic. I clasp my bag against my chest, thoughts whirling around my mind. Hugo is quiet, too, and I’m a tiny bit grateful.

We reach the Core and have barely stopped before I’m pushing the door open.

“Lenora, wait!” Wally calls and I pause, unable to turn around, yet hesitant to walk away. I remember night-time whispers and my throat constricts. “Ask Hunt. Ask him what he said. The words he used to destroy me.”

I stalk off, Hugo a quiet shadow on my right, and I slip into a private lift without looking back.

“Is he right?” I ask as I study the red-carpeted floor. It’s fraying around the edges and feels tacky beneath my feet.

“You left the slice in the motor-carriage,” Hugo says. Susie Benedict’s coconut slice, programmed pink in a cracked container covered in cheerful smiley faces.

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