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voice.
    I nod before turning to Rurik.
    “How do you know those robots were even from Fragheim?”
    “In that part of town, I guarantee it,” he says. “Were they wearing arm bands?”
    “No.” It irks me to admit Rurik might have a point. Robots were never meant to be autonomous. They shouldn’t be left to their own devices. “If I do report it, what’re the police going to do about it?”
    “Go in with flame throwers and exterminate the lot of them. Those tin cans shouldn’t be running around unmarked in the first place. They should be decommissioned and recycled.”
    “I’m exhausted. No more politics, please.” I nudge Glitch off my lap, leave my mug on the side table for Miles to clean up, and raise my arms toward Rurik.
    He grits his teeth, a vein pulsing along his jaw as he contemplates his options. He lets go of whatever diatribe he might’ve had in mind and pulls me to my feet, giving me a gentle smile.
    “Mom, can Rurik stay over?”
    “If he sleeps on the couch.” Mom gives me a final hug and wishes me goodnight before shuffling into her bedroom.
    “You really freaked her out tonight. Had us all worried.” There’s a dash of admonishment in Rurik’s tone as he follows me down the hallway.
    “You can chew me out tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”
    In my bedroom, Rurik pulls down the covers as I strip, wash, inject the serum, and get into pajamas.
    “Good night, T.” He kisses my forehead.
    “Stay, please.” I latch onto his arm. The couch is too far away and I don’t want to be alone after tonight.
    Fully dressed minus shoes, he climbs in beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. I press close against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. The steady rhythm reminds me of the surging bass. Even as I inhale Rurik’s spiced lemon scent, wrap my arms around his narrow chest, and curl into sleep, it’s the boy with the broken viola who takes center stage in my dreams. His melody plays on repeat in my mind. The music wasn’t beautiful; it was chaotic and dissonant, wild and uninhibited. In my dreams, we share the stage, viola and violin. Together, we play until our fingers bleed.

Quinn
     
     
    The cold arrives with a vengeance, making our Friday afternoon traipse around the market a love affair with mud. Sleet spills out of an ashen sky, splattering my boots; the same boots I’ll need to scrub and buff for rehearsal tomorrow. Ice water trickles down the back of my shirt, soaking my clothes and lowering my core temperature. Shoulders hunched and faux muscles tensed against the freeze, I endure while Sal ferrets through bundles of old clothing and military cast-offs. Wet. Muddy. Miserable. You don’t have to be human to appreciate that weather like this is only suitable for amphibians. The orange band around my arm burns like a brand. Is this how oppressed people felt in the past, as if the declaration of their identity made them less than human? Only difference is, I am less than human. Still, if human beings could do that to their own people, there’s no telling what they’ll do to us.
    I tease loose a thread on my band. We’re supposed to wear them all the time, but we only do when it’s too obvious we’re not human, like when we’re buying code enhancements on the black market. According to Sal’s band, she works for an acuitron coding company. According to mine, I’m the companion of one Mr. Lars Larsen. Let’s hope no one looks too closely and notices the arm cuffs are forgeries.
    “Cheer up, Grimjaw. We’re only getting started.” Sal tosses a black sweater and a pair of pinstripe jeans at me.
    “I’m not wearing these.” Stripes are one human obsession I will never understand despite the volumes of code granting me aesthetic appreciation.
    “Those are for me. Here.” She holds up a pair of burgundy combat trousers, bearing more pockets and zips than one person could ever hope to need.
    “Really?”
    “Perfect. Especially with that black sweater.” She hands