"Ha! Not often you encounter a 'clean' human nowadays," I tease. I unleash two things: what I hope is a charming grin, and an unintended hint of condescension slipping past my tongue before I can swallow it. I immediately hate myself for this, cataloging this casual Freudian slip away to mentally punish at night just before sleep for the next week (decade, if we're being honest). "Wow. I know this is speed-dating, but you may have just earned the record for 'Fastest Self-Admssion as an Asshole,'" she quickly replies, not missing a beat. Even with my C-THRU augment — the one designed to help determine emotional responses, not the X-Ray vision to peer through clothes, I should probably clarify (you deviant) — I can't exactly read her. She returns my smile, but her eyes tell a different story, one of repugnance. But this fleeting look vanishes, softening into something kinder so quickly that I begin to doubt it was ever really there. "Naaaah, I'm just tuuuurning your bolts," she continues, and I can tell she's savoring every syllable. "Oh, was that a bit much?" She laughs, and I blush as much as someone with my implants *can* blush. "Ha, you talking about my Steelskin? Not the first time I was accused of being a 'bot, used to it by now," I say, waving off the sting of her words. "It's for work. You’ve heard of the 2050 kids, yeah? I was part of that group, the first gen without the freedom to choose their role in society. Turn ten, choose between three jobs, get kitted out with the necessary genetweaks and augs. Only thing sounded remotely appealing was working at the Midcity foundry, and this aug's kinda essential for working around molten metal." She smiles and nods, no stranger to world events. I’m self-conscious about the history lesson I just offered when she says, “Guess I’m just a bit older than you, then. Sucks that just a couple of years apart, and I get freedom, and you get fate.” Ready to change the sore subject and still stuck on her “bolts” comment, I choose my next words carefully, hoping they come off more "laid-back guy willing to please" than the desperation I feel. "Did I...do I look too grey? I tried to get back to my birthshade, but, uh, it's kind of tricky to calibrate it right. I can change it right now if you'd prefer." Yeah, came off desperate with that one, but she relents. "No no, you did great! And y'know, that's kind of sweet. At least you care about your appearance on a date. 'Clean' guys..." Air quotes, of course, but I take this second to take in her beautiful, unblemished hands. "Well...a lot of them are stuck in the early 2000s. They think caring for themselves makes them too femme, which, oh my god, such a dinosaur thought. Men's newfound efforts into their appearance are one of the few good things the augs and genetweaks brought into this world." "Oh...um, thanks," I meekly say, but I'm getting more comfortable by the minute. I reach inward, somehow finding a bolt of adrenaline-sparked courage to continue. "You're quite attractive yourself, really pulling off the natural look. Definitely more admirable than having rich parents who hand-selected each feature like one of those old video games before we could scan ourselves in. Or just resculpting a face aug." Her lips curl coquettishly, but I sense hesitation. I instinctively go on the defensive. "Uh, and just to clarify, I don't fetishize going augless or anythi—" "Whoa whoa, slow down, handsome! It's okay. I'm not getting that vibe. I would have already gone to the next table to talk to..." She dramatically looks over her shoulder at her next...partner? Victim? Hard to say quite yet. "HA! See, that guy? He took it a bit far." From what I can tell, he works at a deepmine. He's covered in oil stains, his drill-arm attachments hanging limply off the backs of his triceps as if he thought they might score him some machismo points. Dork. "Yeahhhh, I may have a few augs, but I can't imagine bringing gearlimbs to a date," I say, relieved we have a nearby scapegoat to take the spotlight off of me. "So, what's your name? We skipped that part and went right to the skintalk." I enjoy this part of myself, so I tell her without hesitation: "Forge Smith." "NO. FRICKIN'. WAY. Please tell me that's a pre-genetweak family name and not something you begged the government for." I get this a lot, as you can imagine. "Yeeeep. Most natural thing about me. Family name." "That ROCKS, dude." This pleases me. "How 'bout you?" "Astraea. Just 'Straea's fine, though." I laugh, just a second too late. "Now you're teasing me. You're named after the Greek goddess of purity?" Her luscious bottom lip just out in a playful pout. "Aw c'mon man, you just looked that up with a net mod." I reply in earnest. "Actually, no! Even though I'm genelocked to the foundry, I'd be a mythology prof if I had a choice. Just took me a second to shake off the cobwebs." She's visibly impressed. "So, cute *and* smart, huh? Look, I, well...hell, I'll just say it. I scoped out the other tables, and you're the most attractive guy here. Wanna get a bite?" I'm not used to women being so forward, and it's a mix of intoxicating and tantalizing. And judging by my recent luck, I sincerely doubt the other dates would go this well. "Absolutely. I know a great Thai place around the corner?" "Ooh, spicy! Love Thai. Let's go." We make the short walk over through the rain-soaked streets, enjoying the rivulets cascading down our skin and clothes, both delighting in each new revelation extracted through witty barbs and genuine curiosity. Our conversation continues in the restaurant, and I have the feeling we’ll end up taking it to our pillows, but I’m afraid of getting too hopeful quite yet. “...y’know, people like me may get to choose our lot in life, but I get jealous of the augs sometimes. I’d love to have a net mod and just stay up all night, diving into dark web conspiracy theories,” she admits, an envious gleam in her eye. “Couldn’t you just do that with your phone?” “Sure! But something about just lying down, closing my eyes, and absorbing a ton of info seems so…futuristic to me. I live in that future, I guess, but I still feel like an outsider sometimes.” “Well, it’s not like you couldn’t elect to get a mod like that installed. It’s not illegal if you want it.” “True, but the idea of them drilling into my skull gives me crawlies. I know it’s normal now, but that’s still a big step for me.” “Yeah, it’s definitely something you get have to get used to,” I say, shuddering as I remember my last implant. The botched job left me with an infection I couldn’t shake for weeks. “But why conspiracies?” “Like I said, we live in the future. Think about it: if you told people from the turn of the century the government decides what our life would be, they’d think it pretty dystopian, no? And I don’t think they’ve been on the up-and-up about everything.” “Okay, I’ll bite. Hit me with your favorite conspiracy you’ve read recently.” “I thought you’d never ask,” she replies, punctuating her eagerness by biting her lip in a way I love. “Have you heard of the ‘failure gene’?” “Nope, not ringin’ any bells.” Theatrically rubbing her hands together, she jumps right in: “So! Some theorize that even though we practically have a caste system built into employment now, that wasn’t enough for our supreme overlords. Some poor guy has to be programmed to be a fuel-cell station janitor now, right? He’s probably bitter, jealous of someone who got ‘tweaked to be a baseball player, rockstar, whatever.” I nod, enjoying her time on the stage even though I’m increasingly uncomfortable with the subject matter. “So how do we keep that guy, and every other working class schmuck from rising up, demanding a better placement? This shit’s a lotto — though not for the rich kids — and everyone knows that, but that doesn’t make it fair. So they came up with the failure gene. Remember depression, anxiety, all those old maladies docs ‘cured’ thirty years ago? What if they didn’t? What if they just isolated it, and even worse, weaponized it?” “Come on, you can’t believe that.” “I don’t know! I wouldn’t put it past them. The job assignments made the world a well-oiled machine. But who’s the oil? I mean, the people up top always need an underdog, right? Helps them feel they’ve earned their place. Sounds shitty, but I can see them programming ‘losers’ to keep them motivated.” “Is this your way of subtly telling me I’m a loser?” I ask, phrasing it like a light jest to keep the fear from coming through. “Nah, no loser vibes from you. And I don’t think anyone who *did* get the failure gene — if it actually exists — is an actual loser. Just a victim. Anyway! I don’t 100% believe it, but that’s the stuff that keeps me up at night. Speaking of which, what time is it?” “It’s…wow, 1 A-M. I hadn’t realized we talked all night. I’m surprised this place is still open.” I look over at the hostess, suddenly realizing she’s glaring at us because they *aren’t* open, and we’re the reason she’s not home in bed yet. “Then let’s get outta here!” Once outside and back in the rain, I prepare to head home when I feel a small tug on my coat. I turn around and she looks expectant, mischievous. “Not so fast. Where to next, any ideas?” she purrs. “Oh, I figured with how late it was you’d want to call it.” “Sure, I’m ready to be in bed…yours, maybe?” Again, she’s so forward I’m shocked, but even I’m not thick enough to ignore this. I slip my hand around the small of her back and draw her into me, kissing her, perfume and petrichor pleasantly filling my lungs, and she’s all I ever wanted. The only thing that keeps us from tearing each other’s clothes off at that moment is the security cams lining the streets. We take a taxi. The driver’s doing his best to ignore us as our fingers fumble and our lips lock, but I don’t really care. Back at my place, we make passionate love, the kind you just know isn’t a one-time thing, the kind you know is just the first act of something much bigger than either of you realize yet. You might hope, but you’re scared to hope. Years later, I’m no longer scared to hope. We’re married now, and ‘Straea’s my constant companion. She makes the occasional ‘bot joke, like asking if I’d like to engage in “sexual interface.” I laugh and ask her what it’s like to be made entirely of weak, squishy parts. Despite the teasing, she’s all I think about, she’s what gets me through each day at the foundry. But even now, what she said about the “Failure Gene” still sits with me, usually right before I fall asleep. Even though she brought it up in passing, it haunts me. I think of every missed opportunity, every almost-promotion, my stagnancy at my job, my dreams of being a mythology prof, everything I want but am not allowed to have. I used to think I just didn’t try hard enough. But what if society really needs “losers” to thrive? What if my *real* contribution to the world, more than working at the foundry, is to be nothing more than a point of comparison, the middle of the totem pole, the skeleton holding up the meat of the rich? What if I was born to fail?