Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story
This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series by @subliminalbo, and is a sequel to Generational Trauma and Backend Support (both NSFW; this one is SFW).
A holiday gift to the homie @subliminalbo, who didn't get to beta read this one, but I don't think he'll mind.
Having a conscience is going to get me killed someday.
Client didn't return the asset on time. Pretty unusual; no one wants to be on the bad side of organized crime. Tracker says the asset is still on site, though. Now that's peculiar.
Could be an old man who had a heart attack. If so, then I changed into this dress for nothing. But if it's not… someone's going to come soon to recover the asset, and some unsuspecting dope is going to have a very unhappy new year.
The elevator doors open and I step onto the velvet carpet in my Louboutin heels. Had to get dolled up; people tend to raise an eyebrow to hoodies and Air Force Ones. The Ridley is actually a respectable, upscale establishment. Not a shithole front for prostitution, like the Gilead. This is where Romero's powerful bring their mistresses while they still have a little autonomy.
Wonder if Mamá ever stayed here. Focus. I dismiss the thought, double-check the details on my phone, and stop in front of the room.
Room 404. Sure. Why not.
I look for cameras. Finding none, I reach under the slit in my dress and pull my Sig Sauer P365 from its thigh holster. Saying a quick prayer that I won't need it, I rap on the door. "Housekeeping."
The door cracks open, and I move quickly, pushing my way inside. A man on the other side takes a tumble. Once inside, I shove the door closed with my ass. All the while, my piece is pointed at the man as I scan the room. "Stay down," I bark.
I spot the asset right away. She stands by an open window, the hotel's neon sign lighting her face in red. Same black evening dress she was dropped off in; sexy, but not overly tawdry. Red lipstick still applied perfectly. Not a knockout, but pretty. Obtainable. Normally, her standout feature would be her green eyes, but her gaze is vacant, like twin emeralds that had lost their lustre.
Not a hair out of place. An odd state for an escort drone.
I turn my attention to the man, who I'm still trained on. Middle-aged. Balding. Tattered sportcoat. Polyester slacks. Dated fashion sense. He's dressed like these are the only nice clothes he's ever owned. He looks nervous, propped up on his elbows, showing me his open palms. "Am I in trouble?"
"You Henry Robbins?" I ask. The room was in the client's legal name, paid in cash. That made him either terribly naive, or terribly stupid.
"Yes," he says, his voice shaky. "Look, I—"
I interrupt. I'm not interested in his life story. "Stand. Hands behind your head." Henry stands. He's probably 5' 4" and 130 pounds soaking wet. I give him a quick pat down from behind, and he's predictably clean. Not a threat, just some guy. I holster my piece. "She was due back at ten." I point to the couch. "Have a seat while I inspect the girl."
Henry sits, gingerly. Poor guy looks spooked. Probably has never seen a gun in his life. "Ten P.M.? I thought I had until ten in the morning."
I stand next to the drone and pull out my phone. I hook into her interface via Bluetooth and start running a diagnostic. I don't look up. "Probably seems like a lot of money, but you'd need a lot more than that for an over-nighter." Scans look good, which makes sense, since I doubt this guy has even breathed on her in three hours. "I need to bring her back to the shop for processing. You're lucky I had nothing better to do tonight." I compose a quick text to intake. Asset 43 recovered. Call off the dogs. ETA 11:50.
"What? No. Please, I need more time," the man says. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. There's a bottle of champagne on ice on the end table next to him, and two empty champagne flutes.
I sigh, arms crossed. "Look, Henry—it is Henry? Henry, this is an escort drone, and you loaned her out from some powerful and, frankly, very scary people. This is not an overdue book from the public library. You don't just bring her back when it's convenient for you."
Henry's shoulders slump. When he speaks, he ignores my warning, and it's like he's talking to himself. "They told me she'll do whatever I ask. That her name's 'Tiffany.' But it's not."
I look again at the motionless drone, then at the empty champagne flutes. "You knew her."
Henry's eyes are brimming with tears. "Her name is Cindy. Cindy Robbins. She is my wife." The use of tense is intentional. and it's received loud and clear. Not "was my wife." Is. Guess I'm getting the life story after all.
Henry continues, leaning forward, wringing his hands, looking at the floor. "Last year, she was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. She couldn't cope with that. I don't know how she found out about this, but she volunteered."
My stomach churns a little as I think of my mother, but I keep a poker face. "She volunteered? To be a drone?"
He nods. "One day I came home, and all I found was a note. Cashed out my savings and took a second on the house so I could afford tonight." His voice breaks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."
It's time to go, Bailey. No, it's half past time to go. Right. Time to bring the asset in. It's not time to guess when was the last time I had someone to kiss at the New Year. Not time to think about Mamá, and what I'd give to have another night with her. I look at the drone, her eyes looking straight ahead, and it's definitely not time to think about what choice I would make. Lose myself a little at a time, or do it all at once—with the soothing, cold appliance of a wetwork neural interface. Mental euthanasia.
11:37. So close. I had one foot out the goddamned door. Girl, this life is only going to work if you can compartmentalize, and you keep showing yourself you can't do that.
I break out my phone again, reconnecting to the drone's neural interface.
"What are you doing?" Henry asks.
I lower the personality inhibitors and schedule a job to reassert them. “Don’t talk,” I say. Stop talking, Henry, before I change my goddamn mind. I'm taking an awful risk. My backers tend to frown upon tampering with the merchandise, even from the lead architect.
Those green eyes blink. When they re-open, the haze is lifted. It's replaced by something, possibly confusion, possibly awareness. Whatever it is, it's human. The perfectly painted lips move, possibly for the first time tonight. One word escapes them. "Henry?"
"Cindy. Oh God." Henry looks at her, then at me. Like I'm Baron Fucking Frankenstein. “What did you do?”
"Thirty minutes," I say, dropping my phone into my purse.
I walk to the minibar. Johnnie Walker Blue Label, huh? Think I'll make it a double. I brought his wife back from the dead for half-an-hour, least Henry could do is buy me the good stuff. As the lovebirds have a tearful reunion, my shaky hands dump two of the tiny bottles into a tumbler. Then I sit in the leather cuck chair at the desk, and I watch.
Following some real Nicholas Sparks shit, they've wiped their tears and have moved to the couch. You think they'd be all hands, all over each other. Hell, maybe even move to the bed and fuck. But it's the damndest thing.
At first all they do is talk. But not loud enough for me to hear from ten feet away. Hushed tones, sometimes whispers. He says something and her face lights up like fireworks, and she laughs. I sip my scotch and I peer at them over the rim of the glass. She's beautiful, and while I still think it's insane and dangerous that he went in debt over this night with her, I'm starting to understand. Love makes people crazy.
But eventually, even the talking stops. They're just sitting together, holding hands. In each other's presence, her head resting on his shoulder. Three of us in this room, and the only one talking is Anderson Cooper on the television. When I look at them all I see are my own aborted relationships, and my unwillingness to share space with anyone. If I keep them away, neither of us will get hurt. My anxiety ties knots in my stomach. I stand up and drift to the window.
I send an update from my phone. New ETA 12:25. Something minor slightly off on the asset, running a diagnostic. Need more time. Take it out of my cut if needed. Timestamp reads 11:58.
I turn my back and face the window, pretending to give the couple privacy, but it's a lie. Instead of looking out over the Carpenter State campus, I watch the Robbins' New Year kiss reflected in the window. I feel like a voyeur, like a pervert who looks through peepholes in the public bathroom. Except instead of tits and ass, I'm the weirdo leering at people with a healthy relationship. My eyes shift to my own reflection, and I don't like what I find. Without my tech, none of us would be here tonight.
"TIme's up, Henry. Say goodbye," I mutter.
Henry leaves Cindy, and scurries over to me. He speaks in hushed tones so she won't hear. "Please, I'm begging, can you give us a few more minutes?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm doing you a favor, Henry."
Henry is practically begging. "I'm grateful for what you did, ma'am. but please, I need more time."
I lower my voice. "Henry… You won't want to be around when Cinderella turns into a pumpkin."
The implication hangs in the air, as a twisted look of horror settles on his face. He knows I'm right. He won't—he can't—watch her forget about him again.
Henry and Cindy say their goodbyes as I stand by the door. They hug and kiss for the last time, the hug lingering as neither wants to break it first. It's a good thing I didn't eat tonight, because I want to throw up.
Cindy says, "The price must have been tremendous, baby. You didn't have to do this."
There are hot wet tears running down Henry's cheeks. "Yeah, Cin. Yeah, I did."
Cindy leaves with me, and we walk in awkward silence to the elevators. Never done this. Never had to talk to a sentient drone, and it makes my palms sweat.
Finally, I say something. It's eating me alive from the inside out. "I'm sorry. But we had to go."
"No. Don't be sorry. You did a kind thing for him," Cindy says softly, adding, "for us."
"A kind thing." I push the Down button with a pen. Sure, I created the technology that made you a sex robot, but by all means, let's talk about my good deeds.
"You say it like it's a curse."
"Don't hear that a lot in my line of work." I immediately regret opening my big mouth.
The elevator arrives and the decorated doors slide open. Cindy and I walk inside, facing forward. I pull out my phone and look down at it, pretending to check college football scores. Anything to avoid the uncomfortable conversation I started.
"I never thought… he would do this. Hire me out." Cindy let out a humorless laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. He even wore the coat I bought him." I see her warm smile reflected in the elevator doors, then it fades into a frown. "I chose this, you know. I didn't want to hurt him. Him watching me slowly forget him, forget everything I loved about him, all while he had to take care of me… I thought I was doing him a favor."
I can't look this woman in the eyes right now, because I've lived that truth. Mamá might have forgotten my name and that I was her daughter, but she never forgot she loved me. Never. I saw it in her eyes until the day she died.
"You don't sound so sure," I say. There's a wobble in my voice, a vulnerability I'd rather not disclose nor accept. "Maybe it wasn't your decision to make alone."
Cindy swallows so hard I can hear it. A hesitation. "I…"
At the pause, I look up and see Cindy's reflection in the elevator's steel doors. The brushed steel distorts Cindy's features, but there's that same blank, vacant of a drone. A look I've seen a hundred times over.
Heavy sigh. Fuck. Nice knowing you, Cindy Robbins.
The door opens on the ground floor, and I step out, heels clicking on the marble tiles. All business, once again. "Follow me," I instruct the drone. My phone reads 12:06 as I message intake. Asset is secured, bringing it to processing. ETA: Fifteen minutes.
I push through the heavy exterior doors and into the brisk Romero night, the drone following obediently behind. A light snow is starting to fall, but I barely notice. Cindy's words weigh heavily on my mind. A kind thing. I try to tell myself, kindness was the kind of thing that got you killed in Romero, or worse.
A smirk forms on my face. Or maybe… it was the only thing that proved I was still alive.
In the distance, I could hear the crackle of fireworks. Or gunshots. Hard to tell in these parts sometimes.