Once Zhao Meiyou had watched the show long enough, he spoke up. “What’s your family name, kid?”
The boy froze for a split second. Someone seized the opening, grabbed him by the hair, and forced him to his knees. He seemed to catch on. He spat out a few words. “…Diao. My name’s Diao.”
Diao wasn’t a common surname. The intruders slowed down. Zhao Meiyou yawned. “If you’re gonna kill him, drag him outside first. If some big shot from the Middle Layer District comes sniffing around later, that’s got nothing to do with me.”
The leader glared at him, then suddenly grinned. “Meiyou, right? Your old man’s gambling debts at the casino aren’t paid off yet. Do me a solid—I’ll wipe the interest for you. How’s that?”
“Nah, you keep that. My dad’s debts are his to settle. Got nothing to do with me.” Zhao Meiyou waved him off and pulled a bunch of bottles and jars from under the counter—soy sauce, vinegar, the usual condiments. “Perfect timing. I made dumplings tonight. Stick around and have a bite?”
The man’s face twisted. He spat on the floor and stormed out with his crew.
Zhao Meiyou pulled down the roller shutter, shutting out the pounding rain. He gave the boy on the floor a kick. “If you’re a Diao, why didn’t you say so sooner?”
The boy coughed, dark blood seeping through his mask, his voice hoarse. “I don’t like that name.”
“You’re an idiot.” Zhao Meiyou eyed him like he was a moron. “If you don’t like it, that’s exactly why you throw it around. Why would you waste something you actually like on other people?”
The boy blinked, stunned for a moment. Then he stood up and met Zhao Meiyou’s gaze. “You taking jobs or not?”
Down in the Lower District, a meat shop could run all kinds of side hustles.
“I’m beat today. Come back tomorrow if you’ve got business.” As he spoke, Zhao Meiyou lit the stove. He’d really made dumplings—his own handiwork, thin wrappers stuffed full. He dropped them into boiling water, and soon a strange, enticing aroma wafted through the air.
The boy sniffed. Zhao Meiyou glanced at him and grinned. “Nobody around here wants to eat with me yet. Wanna keep me company for a meal?”
The boy eyed him. “Why’s that?”
Zhao Meiyou shrugged. “You heard those guys. My mom’s a casino dancer. Nobody wants to share a meal with her kid.”
Son of a dancer. Those four words painted quite the picture. The boy studied Zhao Meiyou—his face certainly lent credibility to the story.
The water came to a rolling boil; the dumplings needed three rounds like that. Zhao Meiyou mixed up some dipping sauce and picked one up, holding it to the boy’s lips. “Give it a try?”
The boy hesitated, then pulled off his mask.
“Well?” Zhao Meiyou grinned at him.
“Not bad.” The boy coughed. “Got any water?”
Zhao Meiyou ladled him a bowl of dumpling broth. “Original soup turns to original food. Take it slow—it’s hot.”
True to his Upper District roots, even the boy’s drinking had a refined air. Once the drowned puppy started perking up, Zhao Meiyou nodded, satisfied. Propping his chin on his hand, he asked, “Alright, what kind of job you got in mind?”
In the cockpit, Qian Duoduo paused while installing the artificial leg. “What did Diao Chan want from you the first time you met?”
Zhao Meiyou instinctively reached for a smoke but came up empty.
Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers and tossed him a pack of Marlboros, along with matches.
“Thanks.” Zhao Meiyou lit one up, took a drag, and spoke after a moment.
“He wanted me to kill his mother.”
In the rainy-night Pork Shop, sixteen-year-old Zhao Meiyou just nodded calmly. He ladled himself a bowl of dumplings and ate as he said, “Sure. I’ll plan it out and quote you a price later.”
He was too calm. The boy stared at him for a moment, then said, “When I first came down here, I asked around through middlemen. They all acted professional at first, but once they heard my surname, they all wanted to know why.”
“That’s ’cause you haven’t gone deep enough.” Zhao Meiyou mumbled around a mouthful. “Go a hundred floors down, and nobody’ll ask why you want someone to off your own mom.”
“But if you want, I can play along.” Zhao Meiyou set down his chopsticks. “Young master, why exactly do you want someone to kill your mom?”
The boy slipped his mask back on. “I’d like to know why you’re so calm about it.”
Zhao Meiyou winked at him and popped another dumpling in his mouth, grinning.
“‘Cause you ate my dad with me.”
In the cockpit, Qian Duoduo fitted the last joint and stood. “Is Diao Chan’s mother still alive in the real world?”
Zhao Meiyou stubbed out his cigarette. “She passed away.”
“Got it.” Qian Duoduo nodded and walked right up to him. Zhao Meiyou quickly shrugged off his overcoat and draped it over the artificial human. “My mission is to get Diao Chan out. I won’t pry into anything else.”
They locked eyes. The artificial human’s face was too damaged to fix—half exposed circuit board, half smooth porcelain.
Zhao Meiyou said, “Sure thing, Brother Qian. Got it, Brother Qian.”
“We’re heading somewhere next.”
Qian Duoduo stepped closer. This time, they were nearly touching. Zhao Meiyou could’ve sworn he felt the artificial human breathing—like butterfly wings fluttering from its chest cavity, brushing his ear before forming words. He steadied himself before replying. “…Where to?”
“Your Transformation ability is still in the early stage, but we don’t have time for slow practice. Feel this.” Qian Duoduo gripped Zhao Meiyou’s hand. With a click, he peeled back his artificial skin, guiding Zhao Meiyou’s hand into his chest cavity. No scorching flesh there—just cold, sleek metal bones.
“This is the stomach, plastic and metal, filled with synthetic digestive fluid. Ribs—the frame folds out into blades for counterattacks in emergencies. Liver—the core tube links to the tear ducts; any alcohol that gets in turns to tears…”
He guided the hand down the inner thigh to the ankle. The artificial human’s lower body was loaded with hidden killing tools, concealed beneath porcelain-smooth skin. Qian Duoduo popped open the casing, letting Zhao Meiyou feel the edges of those blades, perfectly meshed with the delicate surface. When the casing snapped shut, the silver lines gleamed like highlights on stockings.
Zhao Meiyou stared at Qian Duoduo. The artificial human’s limbs were ice-cold, lashes lowered, gaze distant yet calm, voice like snowflakes revealing a hidden river beneath the ice.
With a soft click, Zhao Meiyou snapped back to attention. Qian Duoduo had stepped away, a cigarette between his lips, lit by his fingertip. He passed it mouth-to-mouth into Zhao Meiyou’s.
The tobacco hit hard—bitter, spicy, the capsule bursting. Zhao Meiyou’s mind snapped back into focus. This smoke was definitely laced; his concentration sharpened instantly—
“Close your eyes.” Qian Duoduo’s fingertip pressed against his chest. “Picture the body I just showed you, from organs to skin. Then apply it all to yourself.”
Nicotine raved through his nerves. Zhao Meiyou shut his eyes. Qian Duoduo’s voice filled his mind. He followed instinctively.
The next second, the ability activated.
He’d successfully turned into an artificial human.
As Qian Duoduo had said, Zhao Meiyou’s Transformation was still early-stage. Last time at the amusement park, cornered and desperate, he’d even sprouted three chests. Turning into an artificial human demanded precision—not just surface changes, but down to the organs and intricate folding bones. A newbie attempting it rashly might melt into slime from loss of control.
But Qian Duoduo was clearly an excellent teacher.
“Nice job.” Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers and draped clothes over both artificial bodies. “As you saw, I stole data on experimental subjects from Mercury Tower. It’s top-secret, so the culprits will come after the thief. I left some tantalizing clues. To figure out exactly what we know, they won’t kill us outright.”
“They’ll take us to their lair.” Zhao Meiyou picked up the thread. “Reverse fishing.”
“Exactly.” Qian Duoduo said, “And now, they’re here.”
The airship’s skylight exploded open. A squad of armed black-clad figures dropped in. Zhao Meiyou scanned them; his Eyes displayed data frames for each, rattling off vital stats—all artificial humans.
With Qian Duoduo’s heads-up, neither resisted much. Once captured, a metal helmet clamped over his head, blacking out his vision.
When the helmet finally came off, the sky was gone. Above stretched a platinum Baroque dome inlaid with mosaic tiles.
His lung data noted the low pressure—underground, for sure. His eyeball scan mapped the building’s interior structure in his vision, but the relevant info was locked. He couldn’t pinpoint the location.
Thanks to the shuttle trip through Site A173, though, Zhao Meiyou didn’t need a database lookup. His brain supplied the answer: this was—or had been—Moscow Metro.
But this station had been abandoned for ages. Ideal City’s architecture strained toward the sky; the underground was forgotten. The Soviets’ gilded industrial glory had faded. A train pulled in. The guards shoved them into a car, and the doors sealed.
Zhao Meiyou glanced around. No standard seats—this was more like an office.
Qian Duoduo approached. Zhao Meiyou opened his mouth, but a hand clamped over it. The other man drew a wire from his spine, tipped with an earbud jack, and plugged it into Zhao Meiyou’s ear.
“Don’t speak.” Qian Duoduo’s lips didn’t move; the voice came straight from his chest cavity, wired into Zhao Meiyou’s brain. “Think it, and I’ll hear.”
Zhao Meiyou thought: “This is a Moscow Metro station.”
“Hundreds of years old. Someone turned it into a lab.” Before Qian Duoduo could finish, bright lights flashed outside the window. They’d arrived at the station.
But there were no passengers waiting to board outside. The station walls were clad in black-and-white marble tiles, sleek experimental benches lined the space, and precision instruments hummed with a low drone. People in lab coats bustled back and forth, while numerous glass tanks filled the room, each containing a pale, fleshy husk suspended in liquid.
The carriage didn’t stop. It hurtled onward with a whoosh. Zhao Meiyou’s eyes managed only a fleeting scan of the data—not enough to draw any conclusions yet. Moments later, they plunged into another station: another laboratory. In, out. In, out. The pattern repeated for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Zhao Meiyou turned to Qian Duoduo.
Qian Duoduo’s intact half of his face blinked.
“. . . Did you notice?”
“. . . Yeah.”
Their ceaseless data collection gradually refined their mental model until they arrived at the same inescapable conclusion.
The lab personnel hurrying to and fro in every laboratory were all Artificial Humans.
And those husks soaking in the tanks—no, they were better described as flesh bodies—were all native humans, gestated by natural mothers.
In this laboratory, retrofitted from an abandoned subway station, humans were the subjects of experimentation.
A habitual bias had crept into their speculation about Ideal City’s social structure. Perhaps it was humanity’s innate arrogance.
God created humans. Humans created technology. How could any creation fail to serve its creator?
Ideal City turned that logic on its head.
Here, Artificial Humans held humans in enslavement.
