Don’t open your eyes.
Don’t let them see where you’re going or what you’re about to do. In the darkness, let them think you’re still asleep in your apartment.
Don’t wonder if anyone’s watching as Cygna guides you, hand in hand, down the long staircase into the bowels of the city. The metro is full of strange people, even in the middle of the night. No one will notice a young man wearing sunglasses and earplugs, hood pulled up to throw his face in shadow.
That’s how it has to be. If you do something out of your usual routine, if you say anything about removing your chip, one of their algorithms will flag it. They have an algorithm for everything.
Except this.
With no sight or sound, it’s hard to believe this is really happening. Focus on the feeling. The stairs beneath your feet, the chill in the air as you descend. The warmth of Cygna’s touch as she nudges you forward onto the train. The double-tap of her knuckle against your palm, the word for “heartbeat.” Relish the shiver that runs up your spine because it’s all you have right now, the only thing grounding you in this silent darkness.
You want to look. To see her eyes shining with the thrill of rebellion, to share a knowing glance as you both think about what comes after. If enough of us do it, she said once, eventually humans could reclaim the earth.
Of course, that’s why you should be doing this. But that’s not the real reason. You’re here for something smaller, more fragile. Something you never experienced until you met Cygna because the bots are in your head, and who wants to kiss anyone when they know they’re being watched, let alone—
The train’s first movement sends you stumbling forward. Cygna’s hand grabs for you, pulling you upright, her fingers shaping urgent words against your skin.
Did you look?
Press a reassuring thumb into her palm. No. We’re okay.
Find the metal pole, lean against Cygna for balance as the train rushes on. Don’t think about the bots or what they did to the last rebels who tried to dig the chips out of their heads. Repurposed—what a robotic word. They took them apart like cars being scrapped.
That won’t happen this time. Believe it because Cygna said so. Because for once in your life, you have something to believe in.
Back when the bots first convinced humans to hand over the reins, someone must have envisioned this scenario. A world where robot police don’t need to patrol anything—they just put a sensory chip in each baby’s squishy little brain, then use humans’ eyes and ears to monitor the entire planet. A world where being alone is only something you read about in books. Where suicide is the leading cause of death—but the bots are fixing that too, learning the signs, building yet another algorithm.
Remember the bridge. The moment of peace you’d hoped for when you struck the water, feeling your body unfurl in it like a ribbon. Feeling the darkness close in around you and knowing they would never see the world through your eyes again.
The bots took that from you, too.
Almost there, Cygna signs as you step off the train and walk to her massage clinic. This part feels familiar; you’ve done it hundreds of times. The bots sent you to a therapist, of course, who gave you various suggestions for “coping with stress.” You ground your teeth because stress had nothing to do with what you tried to do on the bridge. But you knew the bots were watching, so you chose the least offensive item on the list.
That’s why you went to the clinic the first time. Cygna’s smile was the reason you went back.
Remember those early days, when she began teaching you the secret language of touch by pressing patterns into your back. You didn’t know about the rebellion yet, but still, you relished the feel of your newfound words. Words no one else could see or hear.
Why? she asked during one massage after you told her about the bridge.
Your signing was still clunky then, your words slow and painstaking as you shaped them in her outstretched palm.
I wanted to be alone. One moment, all mine.
A long pause. Then Cygna confessed: I’m free. No chip.
It was so shocking, so impossible, you sat up on the table to stare at her. She quickly rolled you back over.
Not possible, you signed.
She pushed an emphatic Possible between your shoulder blades. The chip is still there, but it’s playing a loop for them. The last ten years of my life on repeat. Their algorithms will never catch it.
You felt the slight quiver in her movements, the joy and terror of living life outside the bots’ boundaries. It electrified you.
I can see you, she went on, without them seeing you. You’re…all mine.
You wanted her to be all yours.
Cygna taught you the name of her rebel group: the word for “heartbeat.” You couldn’t see her face in that moment, but the way she signed those words, all the hope and longing you felt in her fingers, made her more beautiful than ever before.
She said she could help you, like she’d helped so many others in the secret room behind her clinic. Of course, you said yes.
That’s one thing you’re sure no one ever predicted: When robots took over the earth, massage therapists would lead the rebellion.
You can tell you’ve entered the massage clinic by the smell of lavender and eucalyptus oils that have seeped into the walls. Wait for Cygna to lead you to the back room, for the sharp tang of disinfectant to wash over you as she opens the secret door. Prepare yourself for the surgeon’s hands, the mask coming out of the darkness to cover your face. Let it happen. When you wake up, you’ll be free, alone with your thoughts—and Cygna.
A sudden movement from Cygna. She pushes you down, into a small space, against a wall.
Behind the front desk? you sign.
Don’t look, she replies. It’s okay.
But you can feel the tension in her fingers, the fear humming beneath her skin.
What? Rap the question into her palm over and over because you need to know. You can’t be alone in this darkness.
Someone is here.
The surgeon?
A pause. Them.
The way she signs “them” makes your stomach drop. She pushes the word into your skin, the way she only does when she’s referring to the bots.
The breath catches in your throat. It takes every ounce of your willpower to keep your eyes closed.
How? I’ve been so careful. I haven’t looked, not even—
Not you, she signs. Pressed together on the floor behind the desk, you feel her breath shaky and hot against your neck. They’re at the front door. They’re saying…there’s something wrong with my chip.
Feel your stomach sink even further.
Their algorithms finally caught on to her chip’s loop. They’ll investigate the malfunction, and they’ll realize what she did. Then…
Suddenly, Cygna’s crumpling into you, her arms around you, her head in the space between your neck and shoulder. Your heart throbs in your ears, the plugs giving the sound a strange, distended quality, like old speakers with too much bass. You didn’t think it was possible to be dizzy in a world of black, but now your mind spins.
Reach for Cygna’s hand again, ground yourself.
How? you sign into her palm.
Her fist clenches. Does it matter?
That’s how it is with bots. You will never know how they found her loop, just like you will never know how they found you on that bridge.
Start to open your eyes so you can see her face one last time—but Cygna clamps a hand over them.
No, she signs forcefully, practically clawing the word into your skin. Don’t open your eyes.
But—
They’re here for me, she replies, her words fast and slurred against your sweaty palm. They don’t know about you. Stay hidden. When I’m gone, the surgeon will come get you.
Gone. Feel the word sink into you like another chip, another piece of cold metal beneath your skin that may never come out.
Let go of her hands, reach upward until you find her face. Try to memorize it with your fingers: the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the flutter of her eyelashes. Feel the tears that spill when she realizes what you’re doing.
Heartbeat, she taps against your shoulder. It feels more like a question.
Heartbeat, you reply.
As Cygna gets to her feet, press your hands to the cold tile floor. Feel the vibration of her footsteps as they grow farther away. Imagine the cold, metallic hands waiting for her.
Don’t open your eyes.
