The first operation was for her skin.
She'd always so adored the plumminess of it, the sheen it acquired under the smoky lights of parties and wedding receptions. Never a willing student, she gave up years of her life (not that they would matter, in the end) cooped up inside a medical institute. She hated every moment spent poring over holograms and digesting moviebooks. But it was all worth it in the end, worth it for seeing this plaque on her office door:
Cassandra O'Brien
M.D. Dermatologist.
The job wasn't all fun and giggles, oh no, it nauseated her to see patients coming in with mold growing on their skin, with angry blisters and great cracks and chucks of skin simply gone, leaving behind naked flesh. It pained her to see so many patients who treated their skin as an afterthought ("Oh look, I've still got some insurance coverage left for this year, let's squeeze it all out!"), the urban workers who looked aghast when she suggested regular use of sunblock and lotion. ("But, that's ten dollars! wasted, on pampering yourself!") Workaholics with their permanently grimed fingers and heavy calluses who continued laboring in the neighborhood of radiation centers because the land was cheaper (pretending not to notice how they were all withering away, them and the land alike).
Two years after she opened her clinic, Earth's immigration laws were lifted and Prime Minister Roscoe announced on TSS TV that "we must all embrace the evolution of our planet and welcome our friendly visitors to a new age of increased universization!" The next morning, Mr. O'Brien went to pick up a new television set. 8', telepathy-controlled, only Earth channels-enabled, 100% shatterproof screen. ("There's a 99.5% panoramic model enabled with a size-shifter, Portabello, and patented 4D SoundVis, sir. Flatscreens are so last year.")
The bots weren't half bad, really. Impeccable manners, and they only ever required a simple cleansing procedure done. When reptilian humanoids started slipping in with complaints of incomplete molting, Cassandra found herself needing to take extra sick days off to recover. But the Sisters were the last straw.
"It's very simple, dear. I'm afraid I've got a mild case of fur loss and I just need—"
"Get out, you disgusting feline! If you're got issues go see the bloody vet! Monster!" she flung out, slamming the door shut.
Next morning, the sign looked a little different. (Everybody kept a contingent of invisible inaudible untraceable elves around nowadays. With the advent of sleep-suppression pills and public clamor for Entertainment! Fun! All Day Long!, quietly sending out workers during the night doesn't cut it anymore. There's nothing more shameful than having one of your clients discover the reason for your immaculately kept clinic was underpaid, underfed, and decidedly undergroomed Asian immigrants. They did have nice polished shoes, though. No need for scruffy footprints everywhere.)
Cassandra O'Brien
M.D. Dermatology.
Specializing in Homo sapiens only.
(Ancestral record check necessary for admittance. Please prepare all documents before entrance. Receptionist is impatient and has a taste for human fingers.)
She didn't know this ashen-faced stranger and wondered how he'd managed to crash their party, but he had such lovely skin.
For a while she remained on the floor, listlessly stroking his oily smooth face and admiring the exotic markings that dotted his sides, tracing them over and over with her thumb.
The other guests (her friends) flapped about, a few of them letting our dainty gasps of horror as appropriate. None of them moved to approach her.
"Oh the poor man..."
"Can't imagine how"
"What's wrong with his face?" A shrill women's voice screeched out of the bubbling disquiet.
"There's nothing wrong with him!" she burst out fiercely, brokenly. "He's a—he's—! beautiful," in a whisper. "He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen."
Later, she made a sketch of that pattern on her tablet. The tattoo artist asked where she'd gotten the design. "Oh, my son did a stint overspace and brought this home. Something to remember him by."
"No, no, don't turn left here! Stop—"
The billboard floated ahead, glowing pink and golden yellow and fleecy white, encircled with fluffy teddies strung together with silky magenta lace. A balance beam was tilted, with a simple white pill on the lower end and a beaming baby on the upper. A plump heart twinkled above its bald head. (Cassandra had seen her fair share of newborns. All red-faced, scrunchy little wailing brats, the lot of them.) A warm maternal voice switched on:
Girls, you've worked hard to get to where you are in life. All those sacrifices, all those late nights and declined invitations so you can finish graduate school and shag (a soft laugh) your way to a better-paying position. But now, you've earned it. Throw away those pills. Learn the joys of starting a family with your beloved. And with your help, we will fill the ranks of our government and navies and IFAC with courageous young men, and England will once again ascend to the global throne...
"We've been here before. It's still no. No now, no in the future, no in a billion years."
"You don't have to carry the baby, dear. I know how delicate your skin is..."
"And what're you going to use, Momobots? I've seen those kids, they grow up with their brains funny. There was a little girl who chopped all her fingers off because she thought they would grow back, 'just like Momo's did.' Then that guy who slept on top of a Z battery every night, until one day he just froze up and died. Doctors said his neuron pathways were all redirected and misconnected."
"Well, those stories might've been a bit exaggerated—"
"The moment you dare to hire one of those monstrosities I'll leave."
Edward sighed, then wrapped a long loving arm around his wife and planted a kiss on the nape of her neck. "Of course, dear. Who needs children when we've got each other?"
At his funeral three years later, she thought irritably that he could've at least stayed around for an extra decade, for appearances' sake. Thirty-eight was no age to be widowed at. Not that she was particularly fond of him, not after that initial burst of flustered-young-bride-over-the-moon, but that had petered out ages ago. There were better and younger men, with more lustrous skin and tighter bodies, less gormless and weak-jawed. She couldn't remember how in the world she'd fallen in love with him all those years ago.
She'd been heading back to the dorms after a rough day of finals, and been thrown off when a sandy-haired footballer stepped into her way with a good-natured grin and pressed a bunch of daisies into her palm. "Hello, beautiful."
A/N: So yeah, I've always been a little bit intrigued by the piece-of-skin-on-a-stretcher that is Cassandra. Maybe age soured her, but I figured she didn't exactly have a princess storybook life either back when she was really human. Plus, there are only like a few stories about her on FF. Spread the Cassandra love, people!
Sorry for the lame attempts at establishing a futuristic setting, but I've not very techy.
And this story is supposed to continue, somehow. You know those authors who have everything written out beforehand and post when they're finished? Or even those who are writing as they go along, but they have a chapter-by-chapter outline of their All-Important and Mighty Plot? Guess what, I'm not either of those. I'm a Let's Write a Scene and See Where It Goes to and Stew on It for a Really Long Time Until Inspiration Hits person. yay.
If you're interested by this snippet, if you despise it, if you absolutely do not give a fuck, whatever, reviews are still very appreciated.