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Nobody can say that Ivan doesn’t try. Not even Unsha can. But it doesn’t make a bit of difference.
“Two.”
Just outside his vision, the click of the dial moving up one more notch out of its possible five is barely perceptible, but it makes his pounding heart skip a beat.
“Smile, Ivan. It’s like this.”
Unsha’s mandibles can’t come close to replicating a human smile, let alone the magazine-cover ideal that he wants. (Maybe that’s why they covet it so badly.) Instead Ivan’s eyes flick to the monitor above their heads, at the blank model of a human face spotted with red (and occasional green) circles connected by dotted lines, representing the optimal positions and stresses of each tiny muscle. Despite how he tries to twitch them, the red remains stubbornly red.
“Unsha, you ought to talk to Heperu, he’s got that yellow-maned pup that’s conditioned excellently. You’re not giving me much to work with here, this one’s got a face like a rock.”
At mealtimes, he tears his meager lump of bread in half, slowly, likes to watch its crust split and its crumb spread. It’s far less satisfying now, to feel his skin stretch the same way, to force down the terror that any second he will feel the split and the blood.
“Perfect teeth, though. What vet do you take him to? I could never find one that does proper dental.”
It’s no good to faint. He’s heard from Mizi, oftentimes still out of breath: if she passes out during her endless dance practices, it’s only proof that she needs more work to boost her stamina.
“Release. Now hold it, Ivan.”
He tries to. He really does. But seeing his own reflection in the black screen as the metal prongs retract momentarily from his mouth, he knows right away that however he twitches and jerks his face into what he’s sure are the correct positions, it’s too obviously a mockery of what they’re looking for, a clay model pulled together by an incompetent craftsman. He’s not sure whether it’s the clear wrongness of his own smile or the rapid blinking of his few green dots into red that makes his stomach churn.
The tapping at the console’s settings chills him to the bone. Before he can blink, the flat strips of metal are back in his mouth and, with a buzz from behind his head, a new set of impossibly thin metal claws slide under his eyelids and into the corners of his eyes. Clearly, even his manipulation of those tiniest muscles aren’t up to proper standards.
“Three.”
~0~
It’s not nearly as painful as the sore throats he can get after vocal practice—those are burning instead of sharp—but it definitely lingers worse. And he can still worry about it, like scratching at a cut.
In the glassy-still pools of Anakt Garden, Ivan pulls experimentally at his mouth. It’s not like he likes what he sees either, but…
“You didn’t cry, did you?”
The voice is soft and lazy, but what really makes Ivan jump in spite of himself is its owner flopping onto the grass right next to him. Luka twitches his head, throwing his curls out of his face so he can properly fix Ivan with a critical sideways stare.
“Because they really do hate that. I heard that back in the beginning, when they were just figuring out how our bodies actually worked, they tried removing humans’ tear ducts and messing with their vocal cords to keep us from annoying them with noises they didn’t like. Don’t worry, though, when it turned out to just make them bad for show, they stopped doing that.”
Luka grins a grin that is sharp and, as Ivan knows from his reflection in the training machine’s black mirror, worlds more refined than his own.
“Well…most of them did, I think.”
The words are intended to scare him, Ivan knows. But he’s far more interested in that grin, that makes Luka’s eyes bright and his whole body relax under his loose white shirt; Ivan can detect none of the tension that usually comes from a coiled predator waiting to spring.
(And yet his instincts tell him that that’s what he’s facing anyway. Curious.)
“I didn’t,” he says, trying not to sound defensive. He thinks he succeeds, but the complete lack of change on Luka’s face doesn’t give him an answer either way. “And I think if they could do something else to make my face right, they’d have done that by now, right?”
“Probably. I’d say they’re doing everything they can, but, hmm…that’s not quite true.”
It hangs in the air like bait, and Ivan knows better than to take it. Luka’s lip curls in annoyance for a moment, and then he sighs heavily and sits up. He emphasizes each of his next words, in a steady, reprimanding beat.
“They’re teaching you how to act instead of how to be.”
“…What do you mean?”
“The commands they give you are simple, because they think they want simple things.” Reflexively, Ivan sits up a little straighter in response to the older boy’s newly didactic tone. “But they don’t, really. When they say ‘smile,’ what do you do?”
Before the sentence is even out of Luka’s mouth, Ivan has already pulled on his practiced grin, expecting a better response from him than from their guardians. But instead, Luka’s friendly face snaps into a frown. He bats Ivan’s cheek—not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough to drop the attempt at expression right off it.
“That’s not what they want. It isn’t about the muscles or movement at all.”
Ivan blinks. He would ask what he did wrong, if he even knew how to ask. Instead, he simply stares. Luka sighs dramatically.
“Ivan. Alien Stage is a performance. Looks are only one part of it.”
Of course. Even he knows that. “Right. The other part is the songs.”
But to his surprise, Luka snorts. “No, those both just get you to the other part. They tell you that they want to see something specific from you to get their votes, but what you’re really supposed to do is make them feel something special. Convince them of something.”
Ivan turns this concept over in his head. “Of what?”
“That you deserve to make it to the next round, and to the winner’s circle. Think about it. You can perfect all the techniques you want…but do you think it’ll make anyone care whether you live?”
Well, that is something. If he were to disappear in the blast of a segyein’s gun, he can’t think of any face that would change at all. Luka seems to be loved, though.
“What do you do?”
“You need to become a different person, when you’re up there. A person who’s so filled with feeling it moves you, and it draws other people in. Keeps them there, until they can’t really tell the difference between your passion and theirs. That just won’t do.”
Ivan glances back down at the water and the reflection Luka’s indicating, and has to admit he sees the point.
“So what kind of person are you going to be?”
Not the kind who feels a thrill when skin stretches and breaks under his fingers. Not the kind who moves like a machine, with eyes like black holes.
If he were the kind of person that others smiled at, that had some bright core hidden somewhere in the shadows…that would be pretty nice, wouldn’t it? He realizes with a start that, without his trying to, his lips have stretched out into something that only barely hurts.
Almost curiously, Luka reaches out and strokes at the purpling bruises staining the corners of Ivan’s mouth with his fingertips. The featherlight touch makes Ivan jump, but not break: those corners reflexively twitch upward, and in the reflection of Luka’s eyes, he sees how for just an instant it makes his whole face seem to shimmer.
Self-satisfaction washes over Luka’s face. “That’s pretty good. Want to try making me buy it?”
~0~
Well, he’s an idiot.
There’s honor in being the only returning champion in the history of Alien Stage, with the chance of being the only repeat winner. Prestige. That’s the line he’s been given and that’s what he’ll keep repeating to the cameras until he’s blue in the face. He intends to keep that honor, and his life, as long as he can, and even before the crown had graced his head he had taken such pride in his ability to do so that he’d thought nothing of sharing a little of his brilliance with the younger humans still lingering in the shadows.
He’s a name now. He’s Luka. He doesn’t lose.
Still, a shiver runs down his spine when he spots Ivan rounding the corner of the tunnels beneath the arena. Even from here, he can see his face is already working, fine-tuning himself to perfection, until he’s the image on all the magazine covers, on the flashing billboards counting down to showtime outside. And it is perfection now: could Luka have inspired anything but?
When Ivan looks up and sees Luka there waiting, though, those cool black eyes brighten and that calculatingly seductive smile breaks into something lighter, more nebulous. Not an expression the cameras like, and it’s even less appealing to Luka—which, surely, is the only reason it sends a shiver down his spine.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Luka isn’t blocking Ivan’s way. He could pass his competition by without even a glance of acknowledgement if he liked. He stops in front of him anyway, and Luka is still caught off guard by how his voice has deepened: his singing is one thing, but when Ivan speaks, part of him still expects that soft, puzzled child’s voice to come out.
“Look at you, down from your throne before showtime. Are you planning to make a habit of it?”
Luka gives him a long look up and down. “Just having a look at the coming attractions. I wasn’t surprised to see that you’d made it into this year’s lineup.”
“Mm. Unsha wanted to put me in early. Threw a fit when regulations wouldn’t allow it. I think this works out better for me anyway.”
“Oh?”
“I know my competition. We’ve always been close.”
Luka snickers. “That makes it easier for you. Why does that not surprise me?”
“Everything is easy for you,” Ivan says coolly. “You can’t hold it against me, if I find an advantage to press.”
“What kind of advantage do you think you’ll have against me, I wonder? Nobody has found one yet. I just have to imagine that they found it an honor to fall at my feet.”
“Do you?” says Ivan, almost bored.
“Of course.” Luka refuses to put any force into his voice, any hint that he needs to work to convince anyone. “I’ve always loved the way they look up at me.”
Ivan’s eyes gleam like polished glass. “It’s Till with me next.”
“Oh, yes.” Luka sighs theatrically. How that snarling mongrel managed to make it to the same stage as such well-bred performers as them, he has no clue. “Hurry up and kill him, will you? He doesn’t deserve to share the stage with you.”
Ivan doesn’t flinch, like most of the aliens do when Luka says so plainly what he’s going to do to his hapless competitors. Even some of the other humans stare at him for not just saying win. He wonders, how have they never imagined the guns, the blood, the heavy thump of a lifeless body hitting the stage. Do they just pretend it won’t happen?
Ivan is different. He’s watched and heard enough of the younger boy from a distance to know he’s never been squeamish about spilling his litter’s blood.
But the smile that splits Ivan’s face now, thin and sharp as an obsidian knife, makes Luka’s stomach quite unexpectedly drop. One hand, kept soft and perfectly manicured, rises up to trace Luka’s bottom lip. He manages to keep himself from rearing back, but despite himself can’t keep his face from twisting in discomfort and confusion.
“I’m going to put on a show for you all. Even better than I was taught,” Ivan says in a voice that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Watch carefully—you won’t get another chance.”
The glint in Ivan’s eyes, the barely perceptible note of mischief and secret knowledge in his words, all at once sets Luka overflowing with hot rage. The warning bell is sounding over the speakers, Ivan turning his back on him and walking away can’t be personal now (or can it?). Still, it strikes a fierce crack right down the center of his mask.
“Ivan! What did you mean by that?” It’s as if his words vanish into the air, for all the response they get from the other boy. “Get back here! Ivan!”
Ivan doesn’t lift his hand. He doesn’t so much as glance back. Luka watches, shaking with the restraint it takes to not chase him down, as the pure white of his suit is swallowed up by the flash of cameras and glare of stage lights, like a sheet of paper burnt instantly to ash in a tongue of flame.