“My lord.” I say. Too quite. He won’t hear me over his guests, as I am up on the balcony, he, on the courtyard. I duck my head, shaky hands holding the tray as I make my way down the marble staircase from the kitchens above. Musicians play on an elevated platform, and women in revealing golden gowns dance on a stage slightly below. Party guests take drink than they should, eat till they can’t, than go to the bathrooms, throw it up, and indulge on more. I can see the master now. He’s talking with a woman in a flowing red dress. She pulls him towards her kissing him on the lips, arms tight around his body. Now I know why the master’s wife is not here tonight. Too bad. Someone will see. Gossip goes around. Maybe he won’t care. Maybe, he hopes to see her leave. Then he does not have to hide secrets. I walk over to the fountain where they are standing. “My lord.” I say, voice trembling. He looks my way, barely sparing me a glance. He’s more interested in the expensive champagne I’ve brought to him from the kitchens. Two glasses, a special request. He takes one for himself, and hands the other to the woman with him. She smiles, goggling as she takes the cup. I wonder if she’s become tipsy. I begin to back off when the woman casts a glance at me. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. “I didn’t know you had one.” She exclaims, looking back at my master. He looks at me, as though my existing is a pain to him. I shrink back, wanting to disappear, but the woman steps closer, tilting my chin, lifting my arms. “Where ever did you get her?” She asks, examining me. “Hmm?” “Where did you get the cyborg slave? Their so hard to apprehend! And she’s really a piece of art!” She runs her fingers across the metal platting of my hand, and I jerk it back. My master’s blow is quick. “Do not draw back from her. She has every right to touch you.” He’s right. Cyborgs don’t have rights of privacy or personal preferences. You give that up the moment you sign your name on that contract. You see, when people from the poorer towns can’t afford a doctor, when the wounds are fatal, you can sign up for cyborg parts instead. For each part replaced, you must serve one year in the capitol city. After being in a fire at six, I had signed up for thirty years. I was only on my ninth. Here, we are shunned, hated, used and discarded. Considered animals, less than human. “She’s such a worthless thing though. I pity it. Can’t do much with a condition like that.” The woman says, considering me only a moment longer before she dismisses me. I hurry off, back to the kitchen. When I get there, I slump against the wall, try clattering to the ground, and sob. Filia, the cyborg cook, notices. She comes down, scooping my small, frail form up in her big, strong, steady ones. She rocks my like a baby. Then, slowly, she sets me down, wiping my tears. Small hiccups come from my throat, and she holds me close. “Don’t let them hurt you, Diana.” She whispers, and hands me another tray. I nod, taking a deep breath. “We’ll make it through this.” Filia says, clamping a reassuring hand on my shoulder before returning to her kitchen. And I trust her. We are outcasts among the rich and care free. Both of us together. I am not alone. So when I start back down the stairs, I am not filled with fear, but I am hopeful for what is to come.