“This is so embarrassing,” I whisper to Tess.

  “What? You fainted; it could happen to anyone.”

  “Not that… well, okay, that whole thing was a hundred shades of weird, but…” I glance at the guys. “What happened? Frank and Doc; they’re guys—”

  “And now they’re girls,” she snickers.

  “But they’re still guys.”

  “Are you sure? They’ve got girl bits.”

  “Look at the way Doc walks. He’s swinging his legs out, and he’s leaning forward with his arms pumping like he’s ready to run.”

  “By the goddess, you’re right,” Tess snickers. “If Doc leans any further forward, he’s going to fall on his face.”

  “The way he’s walking, I’m surprised he’s not tripping every five steps.”

  “Doc in a miniskirt. That is wrong in so many ways.”

  “The guy you like is also wearing your bra.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Poor Jenny,” snickers Tess.

  For half a block, we watch Jenny coaching Frankie on the intricacies of walking in a flowing dress without face-planting on the sidewalk—which she does every ten to fifteen steps.

  I ask, “Why didn’t she give him one of her minis?”

  “Didn’t you notice?”

  “What did I miss?”

  “All of our wardrobes got switched,” Tess says as she flourishes a hand over her leather outfit. Flat black, the kind that drinks the light during the day and vanishes into shadows at night. It would be the perfect stealth outfit if it covered more than the essentials.

  Jenny and Frankie, by contrast, are kitted out in matching knee-length skirts and halter tops stitched from a cascade of sheer silks. Each panel is a different color, modest enough when they hang together—until one of them spins or the breeze toys with too many at once. Every step, especially Frankie’s awkward wide strides, flashes a bit of hip and more than a little frustration.

  I glance at my camouflage tan miniskirt and blush as a stiff breeze threatens to show the world that I’m going commando. My eyes catch on a similar flash from Tess, and I gasp. “Why are you only wearing your underwear?”

  “I am,” Tess sighs and draws down the hem of her skirt.

  “Frack… I’m sorry, but…”

  “I’ve worn less. Heck, for most of my life I didn’t wear anything.”

  “We’ve been dressed for a year and a half—”

  “Liz, I’m not ashamed of the body the Goddess blessed me with.”

  “Okay, it’s your body, but what will people think?”

  Tess snags a torn political sign with Catalina Evard’s face, hair pulled in a bun, arms crossed like a drill sergeant, that reads: “The Strong Choice for a Strong Future.” She tears it in half before balling it up and tossing it into a trash bin. “What people? Have you seen anyone?”

  “I… no, not since we got back from the real.”

  “So I, hell, all of us could go starkers, and nobody would know.”

  “Doc would see me.”

  Tess grins, sharp as a knife. “Lizzy, if Doc hasn’t seen it yet, it’s only because you sneezed at the wrong time.”

  Memories of being patched up an hour ago flash into my mind.

  “You’re blushing.”

  I giggle.

  “Admit it, you liked being seen.”

  “No! Yes… maybe… I don’t know,” I moan. “I don’t mind you and Jenny… but guys?”

  Tess swats my bum and teases, “They’re not guys anymore.”

  “On the outside, maybe.”

  “Lizzy! You’ll never get a better chance—”

  “To what?”

  “You need a partner.”

  “Why?”

  “You can only rehearse so many dance steps alone—”

  “Why not you? Or Jenny? Or anyone but Doc?”

  “Jenny’s got Frank,” Tess says with a knowing smirk, “now that he’s a she, there’s a chance she’ll break past twenty-five.”

  “You mean—”

  “For a while. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard them!”

  “She’s on the other side of the apartment. Hold on, have you been teaching her too?”

  “Me? No, they’re both new converts.”

  “So everything you’ve been teaching me…”

  “They’ve been taking new member classes.”

  “Is that where they’ve been going every night?”

  “You should go now that you’ve got your star—”

  “I’m not going to sex class every night!”

  Tess groans, rolling her eyes like I’m the densest student in the room. “You already are. With me. Remedial tutoring, every night for months. The difference is, they’re in the regular classroom lessons.” She ticks them off on her fingers, sharp as a teacher rattling off roll call: “Physical Education on Monday. Financial on Tuesday. Communications Wednesday. Family Skills Thursday. Job Skills Friday. Talents and Gifts Saturday. And the dreaded Intimacy on Sunday.”

  Her finger jabs the air like a period at the end of a sentence. “So stop pretending you’re not already enrolled.”

  “I don’t see you going.”

  Tess pauses. Then, without a word, she hooks a thumb under the waistband of her leather mini-skirt and tugs it low on one hip.

  The Inanna Star glows there—etched just below the crest of her pelvis. All eight rays gleam bright, the tiny triangles within them filled red, green, and gold like stained glass. Even the outer rings and the central circle pulse, complete.

  “Pretty,” I admit, though the word feels small. “I’d be impressed if I knew what any of that meant.”

  “It’s not decoration,” Tess says, her voice softening. “Each ray’s a discipline—family, work, finance, intimacy, all of it. The more you learn, the more the star fills in. When you’ve filled everything…” She lets the sentence hang, lips quirking in a small, knowing smile. “Well, let’s just say you stop being the student.”

  I blink. “What are you, some kind of high priestess or prophet?”

  Her smile lingers, unreadable. “Something like that. Let’s just say, I’m a teacher in more ways than one.”

  I glance at the glowing star again and instantly feel guilty. The idea of group classes for the… intimate arts makes my stomach knot. Terrifying, humiliating—and yet, a traitorous corner of me aches with curiosity. What if that’s what it takes to stop feeling like a child playing dress-up in armor? What if it’s the only way I won’t disappoint Lenard?

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I look away, cheeks hot, pretending the sunshine is what makes me flush.

  Tess continued talking about each of the Inanna paths. I half listened. Where is everyone? The blue doors to Greta’s House of Inter-dimensional Arts and Crafts stood open, the plain wooden back wall visible past the slatted light seeping through the rickety walls. Where’s Gretta?

  The wind whistles between one dead building after the next. Our footsteps, rustling clothes, and the wind. No crickets, birds, any other type of fauna, or people. Our VR home didn’t even qualify as a ghost town—that required drifting spirits.

  I stop at the edge of town, the low berm marking the butts in the distance and the towering forest just beyond. My friends—my team, the only living things I’ve seen since waking up in the VR—trickle onto the grass behind me. The silence gnaws.

  “Mira?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Not here.”

  I throw my arms wide. “I can see that they aren’t here. That wasn’t my question. Where is Grettaluna?”

  “Who?”

  “The craft store shopkeeper.”

  “There isn’t an active craft store in this zone.”

  My mouth goes dry. “What? I was in there yesterday!”

  “Miss Loren, you have not been in town for six months and four days. Are you feeling well?”

  A stone drops into my gut. “I’m fine. What about Martha and Daniel?”

  Silence.

  “The owners of the dry goods store?”

  “What is a dry goods store?”

  “The place I buy groceries and… feminine stuff.”

  “Oh, you no longer need those things—”

  “You closed a store because I accidentally joined a religion?”

  The biome address system squeals, then blares Mira’s words across the empty town: “Doctor! Please come check Miss Loren. She seems delusional.”

  “Mira,” I shout, then force my voice calm, even as my heart jackhammers. “Command protocol four, authorization code Echo Four Charlie David Seven. Sector AI override. Switch to Digital Twin pending examination and repair.”

  “Command not accepted pending medical evaluation of subject Lisandra Loren. Please remain where you are until the authorities arrive.”

  “Lizzy,” hisses Tess. “What did you do?”

  Frankie’s voice explodes like a cheap whistling firework—the kind that makes the neighbors call the cops, except the cops are already on their way, and we’re the ones on the run. “Move! Everyone run. To the cavern. We have to get inside before the security bots can cross town. Go, go, go, GO!”

  I sprint.

  My feet thunder toward the butts. One hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty-five—

  Heavy tracks rumble behind me. I don’t need to look. Anyone who’s ever watched the histories of the Nanobot Wars—or a Terminator movie—knows that sound. Tracked war bots.

  In a leap that would make my parkour teacher proud, I vault the berm clean and hit the ground running.

  A glint catches my eye mid-sprint. My bow and gear, suspended ten feet in the air inside a glowing bubble. Trap. No question. But it’s a damn good one—and there’s no way I can leave that behind.

  “Lizzy! What the hell are you doing!?” Tess screams.

  “Leave it!” Frankie barks in her new tweety-bird soprano.

  I should. I don’t.

  The war bot rolls to a stop under the bubble and levels a taser. Of course, the fracking terminator has parked itself right under my gear.

  I dodge. Left. Right. Then leap—feet finding purchase on its tracks, its arm, its shoulder—using the machine like a ladder. I kick into a roll off its head, snatch my bow midair, breathe, nock, aim, exhale, loose.

  The arrow plunges into the nest of exposed circuitry at its neck.

  I hit the dirt running, bow in hand, sprinting after my friends.

  The sky dims to crimson.

  Text scrolls across the top of my vision:

  [Archery +1]

  [Parkour +1]

  You have assaulted an area guardian. A bounty of one hundred gold pieces has been offered for your arrest.

  “Frack!”

  The angry buzz of drones swells behind me as we break into the trees.

  “That way!” I shout, stabbing my bow toward a clearing.

  Everyone angles left, pounding down a game trail. The buzz grows louder, swelling with every step, every leap over a fallen trunk. When I vault the creek, it’s no longer one drone—it’s a herd of lawnmowers, blades snarling through branches as they keep pace.

  Doc screams—then thuds to the ground. One of the drones zips in low, buzzing with mechanical delight.

  “Keep going!” I plant my feet, bow drawn, arrow nocked.

  Twang. The arrow streaks—crunch! A propeller shatters, shards flinging into two of the others.

  Two more shots vanish in quick succession. Two more drones spiral down in a shower of plastic and sparks.

  “Come on!” I seize Doc’s hand and yank him to his feet. I don’t let go as we sprint after the others.

  The hill rises ahead—short, rounded, crowned with a circle of standing stones. The Temple of Inanna looms at the top.

  Not our destination.

  I drag the team around the base and toward the Glade of Eidelorn—only to freeze.

  Three war bots wait in the clearing. Six feet of blackened alloy, broad-shouldered, their plating shimmering with an oily sheen that shifts from raven-purple to sickly green under the red sky. Chains rattle from their frames with every movement, a sound halfway between clattering shackles and mock applause. Arms bristle with weapons: tube launchers etched in curling serpent motifs, a cannon with a bore painted in concentric blood-red rings like a hungry eye, and claws plated bone-white, serrated tips glinting like fangs.

  Their servos whine in eerie unison as they turn toward us.

  Each faceplate bears a painted-on grin, stretched wider than any human jaw, enamel-white against death-black steel. Not cheerful. Not human. Just a nightmare smile stretched across metal.

  Frankie leans close, voice pitched low, the soldier in her surfacing. “Gallu-series. Nasty blighters, but not too smart. I can take them.”

  My stomach knots. Three smiles—and not one of them is friendly. No fracking way…