The lights in the diner gleamed off the exposed metal on Schneider’s face, cheekbones like razor blades. He was unique even among synthetics, the only one in New DC who wasn’t trying to pass. He’d climbed out of the uncanny valley and gone right back in.
Schneider sniffed the air—frying bacon and hot coffee—and strode across the checkerboard floor. He moved smooth and easy, cutting an elegant figure in old-fashioned wingtips, a trim black suit, and wool fedora. Like a jazz musician from the 50s.
He scanned the restaurant, taking in everything and giving back nothing. His eyes were on the dark side, a few clicks to the left of the dial for warmth. He chose a stool four spaces down from the diner’s only other customers, a pair of bikers.
One of the bikers, a giant of a man ready to explode out of his leathers, more fat than muscle, glanced over. A double take at the metal showing on Schneider’s face. “Fucking synth,” he muttered.
The waitress shot the biker a look of warning and turned back to Schneider. She filled his cup with coffee. “The usual, hon?”
Schneider nodded. “And a chocolate malted, Bev. I’m celebrating.”
She arched an eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”
“My birthday.”
Bev rewarded him with a laugh. She wrote the ticket and put it on the wheel for the cook. Two eggs over medium, rye toast, hash browns, and a milkshake.
“Hey, freak show.” The giant pointed a meaty finger. “Synths don’t have birthdays.”
Schneider sipped his coffee, his expression unreadable. “Aren’t you a wealth of information?”
Bev picked up her carafe and topped off the bikers’ mugs. “Don’t start trouble, you two.”
“Just stating facts.” The smaller one was a half-head shorter and almost as fat. “People have birthdays. Synths aren’t people.”
Schneider could feel their eyes on him, waiting for a reaction. He remained impassive, watching the cook work the grill with the long edge of his spatula. On the upstroke, he spread a ribbon of oil and cracked Schneider’s eggs, two over medium.
The bikers got bored and shifted their attention to Bev. “What time do you get off? We’ll give you a ride home.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
Schneider watched her wipe the already-clean counter. In the background, the cook plated his food and slid it across a stainless window slot. “Order up.”
“Come on,” the giant said. “It’ll be fun.”
“You can ride on the back of my hog,” the smaller one added. “It vibrates a lot.”
Bev had had enough. She started to move away, but the giant grabbed with his bear paw of a hand. “We’re not done talking.”
Bev jerked back. A sluice of coffee escaped the carafe and splattered the wall.
Schneider glanced at his eggs and hash browns, knowing he’d never get to eat them. He stood and addressed the bikers. “It’s time for you to leave.”
The giant straightened to his full height—six-six in his Chippewa boots. His buddy flanked him. “Try and make me. Synth.”
Schneider sighed. “You two are walking fucking cliches, do you know that?”
They searched each other’s eyes for a brief confused moment, and then anger took over. The smaller one reached inside his leather jacket for a coil of motorcycle chain. He let it unwind and swung it back and forth. “Enough talk, synth.”
Bev started to speak, but Schneider put up his hand. “It’s alright.” He turned on his heels and strode to the door.
“Smart move,” said the one with the chain.
When Schneider made it to the door, the giant said, “keep walking.” Instead, he flipped the cardboard sign from “open” to “closed” and secured the bolt with a decisive click.
“Schneider,” Bev said. “Don’t.”
He removed his fedora and hung it on a hook. “I want you assholes to know that I respect your choice to do this the hard way. I’ll do my best not to rupture any of your organs.”
The giant advanced followed by the smaller one, who was swinging his chain more vigorously now, increasing its arc.
Schneider shook out his limbs and settled into a fighting stance, wingtips shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly in front of the other. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
