Page 1 of Repossess My Heart

Prologue

It’safunnythingthe way light hits the glass storefronts of the Below. Nothing is ever truly illuminated. Only reflections of light, illusions of having something you could never really possess. None ofus,anyway. I’ve never actually seen the sun; my bot would read stories of it. Tales of its radiance and the way it shines. Stories from a world long fallen to ruin and corruption until those bots too fell to ruin. Disrepair and dust coated the wiring, small untrained hands trying desperately to repair what needed fixing. A child clinging to the only thing she had left, familiarity, despite the torment it brought.

“The sun shined down on the pink peonies, and they felt grateful for its warmth.”

I tug the deep hood over my head, making my way down the grime coated side alley, bots and halves bumping and shoving me to the side as they work their way past. As if my presence was somehow less than theirs, like we weren’t both one missed credit payment away from fleeing Down. A place where not even the harsh artificial lights seemed to touch. Neon hues wave and wrinkle in the ripples of puddles that line the streets. Streets that are ever wet and dirty, like its residents. The constant trickle of water from Above, I don’t think even our appointed officials are sure is water at all. We weren’t the Down but close enough that those Above only ever braved our darkened alleyways when they needed something that couldn’t be provided by those touched by the sun. Our brutal sex clubs, illegal body shops and discounted repossessed organs for men and women too rich to wait on any list.

The divide came long before I was born, poverty inherited like some genetic disease. Older residents swear by the credits once supplied by the people Above, like an allowance we were allotted so we didn’t starve. I bite back a scoff at the idea. My suit tugs tightly at my wide hips, too tight for comfort, and I can’t afford to have it tailored. I should be grateful it’s a problem I have, when so many waste away. Mothers begging on the streets, fathers committing irredeemable acts for just enough credits to feed their children. Or my father, who does it all just so he has enough for an entry fee at the gambling ships.

“Watch it.” A repo man spits down the way, his trademark blacked out biohazard mask held snug to his face. I can’t help but picture something wildly deformed they’re all trying to hide under there. Something that matches the gutted bodies they leave strung up as messages along the upper walkways.

Don’t Default.

My heart thunders in my chest as I lower my head. They are terrifying enough fornormalresidents, let alone those with borrowed organs nestled in their chests. Those who were willing to risk it all for a set of new tits, a new face or anything else Officials could train their Repo Men to harvest. Horror stories of growing babies being ripped from their mothers’ bellies to be sold to prospective parents Above. Or those here in the Below who are desperate enough for a child they are willing to take out a debt with the Officials. I thought they were exaggerations before… until I watched in horror from a walkway as a child was repossessed. The Repo Man gutting the little boy’s father with a quick flash of a silver blade reflecting the neon lights above. I’ll never forget the way the child screamed as the only father he’d ever known held his intestines in his hands, stumbling around blindly before toppling to the pavement. I’ll never forget the look of pure hopelessness, misery in that man’s eyes. There was no pain, not even fear. Only unrelenting suffering. It’s been five years since I heard from my father, the only person alive to keep up with the debt my mother took out to save me, aside from myself, of course. A child that was doomed to die by the hand of a Repo Man a few short years after I took my first breath.

My stomach grumbles as if to remind me I haven’t eaten yet today, or tomorrow, seeing as we’re only ten minutes until midnight. Dancing was never something I felt inspired by particularly, but I could afford rent. Enough credits to keep the lights and water running and nearly nothing else. Much less a four hundred credit payment for a heart transplant I never asked for. Most days, I wish she would’ve just let me die as I was meant to. I was born with fucked up valves or something like that. Basically, my heart was never too fond of the idea of sustaining life.

Seems lazybut I get it honestly. Life can be exhausting. So can the constant threat of having your replacement organ ripped from your chest. One wrong step and it’s a free for all on Reverie’s borrowed heart. One that’s sustained me for twenty-three years now and never truly felt like my own. The constant threat of death despite a clean bill of health looming overhead. When mom died at the hand of some Half in the brothel, dad bounced within the week. Not too much of a disappointment considering we only ever saw him when he needed credits. Then mom was gone… all I had left was a recycled Civilian Care Droid, A CeCe. I got more than most, with no clear directive given to the bot. Aside from keeping me hidden and safe, I was taught to read and write at least well enough. I knew basic math… kind of and could tell you some of the most useless facts known to our galaxy. I have no vibrant memories of hugging anything warm and not made of metal. Although my unmitigated access to the bot’s memory reserves told me it happened before, many times. There’s a small amount of comfort in knowing that there was good in my life before it all went to shit. I spent countless hours viewing those memories until that too ran out of space and fell into disrepair. Others locked away, ones I’m sure CeCe had a good reason to hide, so I never pressed.

Outdated bots last five years tops after their systems stop receiving updates. Ten for those sentimental residents willing to take out flesh loans for upkeep and replacement parts. Mine lasted seven years, eight months, and fifteen days. I considered myself lucky, as I grieved a hunk of metal that never felt a thing for me. It wasn’t until I faced the world on my own that I realized luck would’ve been dying in her arms that day, my worthless heart struggling to keep up with what a two-year-old demanded of it. I clutch the fabric of my top as the warmth of the club hits me, knowing the ghastly-looking thing that lingers underneath.

1

A Dancer

Hex by Arc Patrol

Reverie

Neon lights and well performed moans drift through the thin walls of the curtained off changing room. It rises like a perverted symphony as I stare into the long-warped mirror, adjusting my top so that the sheer fabric covers the scar on my chest. My braided hair tied up high on my head only to pool between my shoulder blades, contrasting against my deep bronze skin already shining with the golden glitter I applied there. Glitter that seems to coat every surface of the changing rooms so much so that even if you forgo wearing it, you’d be coated by the time you were ready for your set.

“I told you babe, you’d make more if you freshened up your look a bit. I see you’ve decided to not take my well-meaning advice again…”

I don’t bother looking back at Crace, already bracing myself for his unwarranted closeness. The smell of liquor permeates the fraction of air left between us. My eyes hit the other girls as they cast me sympathetic looks on their way out of the dressing room. Not even one willing to offer up an escape for me. Not that I would’ve done much differently for them.

Keep your head down. It’s the only means of defense defaulted citizens have, hoping to slide by unnoticed.

“The crowd seems to like me just fine.”

“Of course, babe, of course.” I barely repress a shudder as his fingers make a run across my exposed back. “It’s just that compared to the other girls, you tend to look rather… well, boring. At least they bother to dye their hair more interesting colors, some of them even pay for enhancements.”

I’m only here because of a debt douche bag.

I shrink out from underneath his sweaty palm, not bothering to hide my disgust as I head from the dressing room. Men like Crace don’t care, men likeCraceknow we won’t leave. That we need this job far more than he needs us to stay and dance for him. There are endless lists of girls lining up to work in a place like this. One that keeps them off the streets and out from under a job that would put them in the direct line of Officials. The club is just nice enough to have mostly safe, respectable clients but seedy enough that an Official wouldn’t bother attending. Mostly scouting Halves or people looking for a judgment free place to rent a sex bot. Crace knows why I’m here, why I never leave without my hood up and always stay off the main paths. I’m sure the girls do too. They won’t say anything either. We all have debts of our own. Mine just so happens to be not days, or weeks, butyearsin the red. Just over fourteen thousand credits owed. A small fortune for someone in the Below. I couldn’t pay them back now even if I wanted to, even if I became a kept girl for someone Above. It’s the principal now. My heart can’t even be used for someone else at this point. That’s not why I’ve got a neon target on my back… Nobody defaults and gets away with it. Nobody hides from the Repo Man. At least my mom had the foresight to not register our home under our real names.Or me at all. One of the few unchipped people alive, and she had to flee in the middle of the night, barely three hours after I was born to keep it that way. Her stomach was still bleeding from the poorly sewn up hole they cut in her to save me. She could’ve terminated when they told her the baby she was growing wouldn’t live to see her fifth birthday. It would’ve been the smart thing… thehumanething. She wanted me and she knew even then she would never accept my fate. She’d do anything for the tiny, lovable parasite in her belly.

She knew she’d default.

She always knew.

My entire life, fate… destiny was laid out for me before I was born. With a single anatomy scan, she and I were condemned. Her to a seedy brothel and me to being flayed open like a hunted animal from the old world.

The music pounds in my ears but I’m all but ignoring the punchy brain rattling beat as I take my place at the backstage next to the bots. They don’t stop the grind of their hips on their perspective platforms when I ease past them. The large holo ad pops up to my left and I bite back a scowl, knowing it will mostly obscure me for the next twenty minutes.

Fine, it’s not like I need credits or anything.

I mimic the girls on the ad expertly. When they dip, I dip. When they buck, I buck the apex of my thighs grinding on the pole. The pressure almost feels good. Only patrons seated at the right of the bar can see me now, so I allow my mind to wander. What would it be like to be with a bot? I’ve nearly been desensitized to seeing their intimate places after working here. Would they feel just as hard and mechanical as this pole?

Would the female bots be warm inside?

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