I flick my fingers, bringing my visor to life. Then I subtly snap a picture and upload it to a facial recognition program in the ISD database. If Prefect asks—and he will—I’ll tell him that I stopped a crime in progress. Which is technically true.
It takes only twelve seconds for the program to find the dumpee. Everyone’s faces are in the system, whether it’s through a traffic cam or one of those apps that turns your face into art. Information is power, which is why the government hoards so much of it.
Several social media accounts pop up—Justin McBride. College sophomore. And tagged in several of his pictures is a pretty girl with a dimply smile and beautiful vintage jackets. It’s Nettie, the would-be vet headed to Montana.I click over to her profile. Nettie has less than a thousand followers. Most of her pictures feature her and the wildlife rehabilitation place she’s interning at.
She looks nice. And wholly unprepared to deal with the havoc these two boys plan to wreak on her life.
I exhale. Then I pick up my coffee cup and walk to the college boys’ table.
I plop down in the empty chair. Both boys gape at me. I’m nearly their age, having turned eighteen a month ago. I know what I look like: striking, but with the feral edge of a stray cat. I am all sharp edges and lean muscle. The smart-dye in my hair is programmed to an inky black and my lipstick is the color of dried blood. When I look in mirrors, I am always reminded that even my body was sculpted and rebuilt according to another’s design.
But my mouth is still my own.
“Hi,” I say. Without hesitating, I reach out and pick up their forgotten doughnut.
“Hey,” says the second boy, startled.
I take a bite. Vanilla-glazed isn’t my favorite—honestly, wholikesvanilla—but I take my time chewing and swallowing. This isn’t about food; it is about establishing who has the power here.
“Do we know you?” asks Justin.
I use the doughnut to point at him. “No, but I know you, Mr. McBride.”
Justin’s expression shifts between wary and flattered. “Are you in Econ?”
“No,” I reply, and then I finish the doughnut in three doughy bites.
The second boy picks up my coffee cup, turning it so that my name and drink order are visible. “Agatha,” he says.
“Only friends get to call me ‘Agatha,’” I say cheerily. “And you two are definitely not friends.”
The second boy’s ringware sits on the table. I snatch it up. Justin jerks in surprise, reaching to take the ring from me. “Hey!”
I walk the ring back and forth through my fingers. It’s a little trick I learned when I was a kid and into stage magic.
“Post a single video of Nettie,” I say, “and I will forward every dick pic you’ve ever taken to your parents, to your grandparents, and to your school. I don’t care what passwords you’ve used—I will crack them.”
All the blood drains from his face.
“And you,” I say to the other boy. “I don’t think you can be trusted with this.” I twirl the ring between my fingers. “Good boys don’t download deepfake apps.”
Defiance flashes across his face. “What are you going to do about it?”
Smart-ring computers aren’t advanced. They’re meant for connecting to other technology. But the one thing rings have going for them is durability. They can survive being struck, doused in water, and dropped from high ledges.
But every piece of tech has its weakness. “Activate repair mode Rho-Zero-Nine,” I say.
I’m not supposed to know that code phrase. But I did a job a few weeks back that involved the company’s CEO,a lost smart-ring, and a cloned Chihuahua. If I were a better person, I would have mentioned that they should’ve patched this little flaw. But on the other hand… I like having backdoor access.
The ring beeps quietly, and its metal slides apart to expose the mechanics within. Red light glows softly from the interior.
I drop the ring into my cup of coffee.
Liquid can always kill an open smart-ring.
“You can’t do that!” says the second boy, sounding appalled.
“I can,” I say. “I just did. And when you buy a replacement, you won’t download that app again.”
