A few folk were wrapped in wires or things that flashed and glittered in ways that reminded me of lightning and stars, neon flashes here and there in the fold of clothing, and, of course, the stitches.
Other folk were stretched out thin one way or another, or bulked up unexpectedly in the shoulder, hip, or torso, tampered with to fulfill fads and fashions.
Some of those differences were just natural; others were obviously engineered. I noted that the best-dressed people most closely adhered to the human norm, except it was an exaggerated norm—so youthful and perfectly slick, they looked like they were plastic: too perfect to breathe.
Quite a few gazes turned toward Neds, and from the scowls and occasional curse, they disapproved of his presence.
Yes, it bothered me. Wasn’t nothing wrong with those boys.
If I didn’t have my hands in my coat pocket and my hair down, they’d realize I was the odd one here, the unnatural, the monster.
Or would they see me as a celebrity too?
“How far?” I asked, staring up at a slow-moving screen that blocked out the sky and flashed the invigorating qualities of something that was making a woman shed her clothing.
“Just— Move, Tilly!” Right Ned, or, heck, maybe Left Ned grabbed my arm and dragged me up against the nearest building.
I, belatedly, noticed that everyone else on the street had pressed to one side and were standing still.
“What?” I whispered.
“Don’t talk, don’t ask questions, and don’t draw attention,” Left Ned said.
I tipped my head down like everyone else, and snuck a look up the street. I expected some sort of police force or parade to be cruising down the narrow road.
What I was not expecting was a very large, very tall, very rough-featured man walking down the sidewalk with a slimmer, shorter man next to him.
The big guy must clock in at seven feet tall. His skin was bloodless white, his hair white, his eyes red. A tight white beard scruffed his blocky jaw, and, even from this distance, I could see thick yellow stitches cutting across his forehead, temple, cheek, jaw, and neck.
He wore an undertaker’s coat: long, black, and silent as a wing. The inside of that coat was a searing yellow, glimpsed in quick flashes with each long stride he took.
Galvanized.
The crowed murmured in excitement. A flash of lights began, photos snapping away, but the galvanized did not slow.
The man next to him looked about thirty and was eating popcorn out of a bag. His hair was dark brown, parted down the middle, and cut ragged over his eyebrows and ears. His skin was closer to beige than his companion’s, but he didn’t look like he’d spent any time in the sun. He wore a long-sleeved dark yellow shirt with a flying frog painted across the front of it, a heavy metal flask on a chain around his neck, and jeans and running shoes with mismatched laces.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Neds.
“Foster First and Welton Yellow,” Left Ned whispered back.
The head of House Yellow, Technology, and his galvanized.
As they passed, some people went back to walking, jogging, getting to where they were going. But even more remained, although they held back as if there was a bubble, a space around the two men that no one seemed willing to encroach upon.
I kept my head down, not wanting to draw attention.
I heard the big guy’s boots against concrete and wondered if they’d iron shod his shoes from the noise of it. Either that, or he was incredibly heavy.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Then . . . nothing.
I glanced up. Into the limpid, heavy-lidded brown eyes of the man in the yellow frog shirt.
“And hello, Miss Case,” Welton Yellow said. “Popcorn?”
17
