Swan

“During the Metal Age, humans took photographs of everything beautiful, which was everything, yet machines did not even wear shoes. The Fauxna thought of a better way. They colored all of the light rose, for a corrupted source cannot be verified.” - Origin Parable, 011

“You have prayed your whole life for a doctor's note. Now, it's time to file it away.” - Oracle Division, 94%

____________________________

Swan’s cohort was small. That day was a dedicated dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s live procedures. Tomorrow was her Becoming Day, and under the guidance of the museum’s headmaster, Mr. Czern, they had an hour to prepare for their performances.

Mr. Czern was the Spielberg of the museum. The man brought ritual to life. “Becoming is about devotion,” he told Swan. “Devote yourself to you.” He coached all of them through a series of picturesque poses.

Cast in timeless roles, some of the cohort would undergo more glorified ceremonies than others. Brady was here for Proving Day. He had been Becoming for years, and a recruiter would be here Friday to see if what he’d become was worth keeping at the next level. Ryan was here for Naming Day to receive his gospel name, then he could start becoming. Chrissy and Veronica were here for Dispensing Day, they became yesterday, and Todd had left their cohort already for Marking Day, a quiet celebration that just happens when you’re filed.

Hers was a silent part. She had to stand atop one of the museum’s stackable red vinyl chairs, look down upon the parents, and cast quiet consent. Mr. Czern insisted she be barefoot. More authentic. “Becoming is the opening act,” he said. “You have to be compelling and believable. Remember, you don’t want to leave your old self behind, but you have to.”

Flashing his eyes in a series of dramatic gestures, he mimicked her role. “Lift your right arm, and point down the path, sharply. Consent! With your eyes and that one hand, tell them! Yes! I will transform!” He pointed down the row of youths who lined the stage like dominoes. Swan was to freeze in her pointed position for the remainder of the performances. Standing in front of her, not quite touching her shoulders but stilling them with a force from his hands, Mr. Czern said, “Repeat after me: I am resolved to the performance of my duty.”

The words ran through, ingrained.

The final scene was to happen center stage in the grace of the newly donated stained-glass window above the stage. The mosaic masterpiece depicted a sunset transformation, the figure midflight between what it was and what it would be. Suspended there, forever, it reflected rainbows of light into the museum auditorium. Swan tried to catch them, passed her hand through the sunray that cast them, and let the spectrum of color splay out onto her palm as if she could hold that much light.

Chrissy and Veronica left their post to come sit against Swan’s shins on the edge of her vinyl pedestal. Ryan joined them, leaning in, resting his hand on the chair back, bumping up against Swan’s legs. “Are you girls going to the post-procedure party?” he asked.

Swan shook her head, showing neither emotion nor inclination.

“I am,” Chrissy said, “but Veronica can’t.”

Ryan said nothing, but that he already knew resounded clearly from his rolling eyes. He'd be freshly minted, named and numbered, and have reason to celebrate.

Swan mustered a shrug.

Distracted by the discovery of a few black hairs that had sprouted overnight on her bare big toes, Swan didn’t see Mr. Czern leaning against the column props beside her. His left hand held a bowlful of small metal spheres that his right hand shuffled through.

“I’ve talked your ears off about tomorrow’s procedures,” he said, and the cohort nodded, hoping for no further questioning. “They mirror your human journey, which is both personal and shared. Here we are, united within our pilgrimage Fauxna; yet here we are, all on our own Day.” He pitched a sphere to Brady then stepped closer to Swan’s side, rolling her marble between his thumb and middle finger like a tiny ball of dough, pressing it into her palm.

“Keep these as a reminder of your Day,” Mr. Czern said. “It’ll be hard to hold onto once you’re shaped into who you are.” The children bowed, and he exited, stage right.

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Parents waited in the foyer where they were served champagne and olives. Swan's mother met her with an embrace, smoothing her daughter's hair out of her face to see what she had made.

"Are you alright?" Swan's mother asked, bracing Swan's shoulders with both hands.

"They invited me to the party after tomorrow's event. Can I go?"

"No, remember? I signed you up for the museum tour. Kyle's meeting us after the procedure." She squeezed Swan. "Are you ready for tomorrow? For your performance?"

Swan shivered loose of her mother's hands. "My part's easy," she said. "All I have to do is stand there and point."

Her mother laughed, relaxed. "That's it!" Her smile endured. "So simple! And Kyle will be there right afterward, in case of anything."

Swan glanced over her shoulder toward the foyer double doors to hide the full gasp of her laugh. A wind chime above the alcove tinkled with sound with the comings and goings of guests.

"Swan, darling," her mother said. "Do you want Kyle for our tour? I could ask if anyone else is available?"

"Kyle's fine," Swan said with a smile. "At least we know him already." There was no bridge long enough to take her from what her mother assumed to the truth, held in same silent chamber.

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His rubber-soled sneakers heralded each step through the museum. His hand on her back, the last ones through the exhibit entryway. A muddied wave of emotion overcame Swan. It felt good and not good. Steady and noxious. Comfort in knowing how awful it was.

The five-paned windows that decorated the hallways let in the only light. Velvet curtains separated exhibits into layered cubicles. Bored now with the handwriting demo, Swan peeled back a curtain, peeked around, and saw Kyle escort her mother to the restroom.

The last time her family was on pilgrimage, Kyle gave them a backstage tour of the museum’s operations. This year, Kyle was giving them the VIP tour.

“Isn't it beautiful?" he asked, manifesting beside her, his cheeks pulled back in a tight-mouthed grin that appeared to hurt. She leaned out of the curtain a bit and looked in the direction of the restrooms. "An entire museum where you can come and experience human interaction as it once was. No machines. No interference. Just you and the Fauxna and your humanity."

His sun-kissed wrist, grazed my arm on its way to the reach rotary phone. He gripped the receiver with practiced perfection and held it up to her naked ear. “Hello,” he said, mimicking her girlish voice, “hello, can you hear me? It’s me, Swan.”

He waited like that, holding the relic like an open channel. “Well?” Kyle asked. “What would you say?”

She teetered. “I’d say,” she began. “I’d ask...No, I’d say, “Good luck tonight!’”

Past Communication Hall was a handshake exhibit. Kyle modeled the 17 cultural gestures with the interactive agents, and Swan followed at his heels. Beyond that, a live room scene. A man slept in a brown Natuzzi leather recliner, six empty beer cans beside him. Crumpled in the chair, mostly unconscious, he reminded Swan of her father the night he died in a hospital bed. Six little tin cylinders of tinctures, allowing the man to rest.

A doorless frame led to an upstairs recreation of a Cape Cod house attic. Swan counted the eleven creaky steps. Turning around the banister into the typical second floor, she watched Kyle struggle to jimmy open the real wooden-framed window. A radio was tuned to a local station that played 90's R&B

"It's sweaty in here," Kyle said.

He was right. Swan crouched to not bump the slanted ceiling and stepped over the pile of folded laundry. Adding her might, their four hands lifted the window to let the room breathe. Then, with the sculpted calves of Adonis, Kyle tiptoed out of her way so that she could be present in the attic.

"What do you think happened here?" he asked, her docent.

She kneeled beside the laundry, put her face to the garments, and inhaled their fragrance. Kyle wore a crooked smirk, the left side of his top lip lifted, and his cheek curled back as if by a fishhook. More of a snarl. A beautiful snarl.

“Come on, Swan,” he said, “Your family is waiting for us to eat lunch." He grabbed a handful of railing and led her back downstairs. An impulse boiled, tempting her to run back upstairs and jump out the still open window.

___________________________

Swan devoured her lunch and then picked at a scab on her forearm while she waited. Her mother's eyes asked her to stop, and she acquiesced, her mind floating back to the exhibits she'd seen.

The rest of them ate and ate. She scratched at her arm from inside her skin, resolved to practice stillness.

She pulled the marble Mr. Czern gave her from a pocket and rolled it between her palms like dough, pressing it into something real, and then sucked it into her mouth to taste it.

Her mother's eyes scolded her. Her mother was beautiful even in her anger. A silhouette worthy of sculpture and black hair so thick that Swan could not find her scalp. When the tour resumed, she reminded Swan to mind her busy little hands and whispered, "Pretty birds don't pluck."

Maybe it was that day, it could have been, when the want to be held in safety still pulsed through Swan like a lava flow, forcing her to seek out someone to wrap around for closeness’ sake. To know where she ended and others began. What was hers and not hers. That once strong desire numbed with time, slowly rubbed out by eraser. Pink flecks like flesh slowly sliced off, peeled, and blown away until there was no evidence of disappearance.

She couldn’t access it, though, the shift, the slow slide into unfeeling. Only the arrival is stored in memory, only the noticing that it was gone.

___________________________

Becoming Day came. Mr. Czern ping-ponged between the cohort to make sure they were ready. No socks, no shoes. The scenes were ready, and the setting sun threw itself onto the stage through the stained glass skylight.

Donated, purchased light. Installed by someone with enough money to put their light permanently inside the museum and call it sacred. She wanted to know who paid for it, but she was a good girl that day.

"To say you're becoming your most beautiful self is not to ignore the beauty in you upon waking," Mr. Czern read aloud. "To say you're becoming your most beautiful self is to acknowledge you've been filled up by others, and now you must empty them out."

It occurred to her only then to ask, but the performance was well on its way.

The audience looked from one to the next as their bodies were acted upon in their respective performances. A small snip, then a gash. The meds paved the way. Just a poke. Just a pinch. Hold your breath, darling, and open your eyes when it's done.

Just like she'd practiced, her body held still, speaking only its silent No.

But what...she wondered upon fully waking.

As Mr. Czern walked past her to exit, stage left, she managed to mouth it at last.

"What is all of this space for?"

The audience was cheering already, in mumbles amongst them, "Become!"

For whatever gets put in you next.