In terms of location and external specifications, the Silver Swan stays true to its name. As a glittering high-rise restaurant stretching into four opulent stories, its tall and elegant structure simulates the long, slender neck of a swan. To further imitate the beautiful waterbird, the construction is situated on a firm platform in the middle of a clear blue machine-made lake.

The building's self-operating, double-door entrance opens up to a spacious reception area. Off to one side, a serpentine staircase slithers up to a cozy breakfast lounge. Afternoon sunlight and lunch tables permanently occupy the third floor while the final floor is specifically reserved for moonlit dinners and evening gowns.

And it is on this floor where Walter, a couple of his closest colleagues and I are seated around a long, slim diamond-shaped table. There are nine of us in total. To our left, a wide floor-to-ceiling window offers a breathtaking view of the glittering lake, the city lights beyond its banks and the sprawling sky of stars.

Every surface is either the colour of a sparkling winter sky, solid snow or limpid water. A balcony for smokers protrudes from one of the exits while arches and pillars decorated in silver orchids dominate most of the large interior. Contorted chandeliers crafted from twisted steel glint and dangle from impossibly high ceilings and strangely beautiful, abstract sculptures supported by plinths stand against the white marble walls.

Each person is engaged in their own storytelling spree, such as Sadeeka Singh, our most skilled computer technician, who has been continuously yapping with me for the past five minutes.

Numerous slivers of conversation and laughter rush past my ears, effortlessly sweeping away any potential silence, while my hypercritical eyes rake through the endless items listed on the electronic menu, which is the mere equivalence of a wafer-thin yet undoubtedly expensive sheet of aluminium and stratified glass. So far, everyone has placed their orders whereas I'm still scrolling through a variety of options, struggling to spot the name of a decent meal I can actually pronounce.

Greatly aware of my conspicuous indecision, Simon leans across the table and casually remarks, "Their Hawaiian Meat Cabinet is magnificent."

My ears twitch at the mouthwatering suggestion and I hastily type the name of the dish into the search bar. An image of a steaming plate of meat and vegetables eases onto my screen. I read the description: A hollow coconut shell stuffed to the brim with roasted sweet potatoes, pineapple and pork.

Although the caption sounds rather appetizing, my facial muscles instinctively twist into an expression of deep disgust. "Pineapple should never be forced into any savoury dish. Ever."

Simon crushes down his laughter with a pair of tight lips and a shake of his head. "So, what, you’re one of those professional food critiques who strongly believe that pineapple is an abomination to pizza?"

"Indeed I am."

He lets out a theatrical gasp, feigning offense. "What discriminatory views you so shamelessly hold! Now, how would you feel if I told you that I consider hot-headed redheads to be an abomination to this planet?"

I smirk, propping my chin up onto my fist. "Well, do you think that?"                                   

"Not exa—" He abruptly cuts himself off, eyes shifting away from mine and latching onto something behind me. He lifts his hand and waves, beckoning someone forward.

I frown and then twist around in my seat, only to see a willowy, pulchritudinous woman strutting her way towards our table. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I had hoped, deep down, that Helen Valdera would fall ill and say that she’s unable to attend our little get-together. But here she is, in all her marvelous glory—

A five-foot-ten goddess carved from caramel skin and kryptonite eyes and dark, velvet hair.

When Helen reaches our table, she flashes everyone that naturally seductive and sickening smile of hers before squeezing in next to Simon—even though there's plenty of space beside me. For three years, Helen had been the one who had monitored my neural health after the chip had been implanted in my brain; she had ensured that I completed all of my clinical trials and tests and rigorously recorded the results, keeping track of my progress or lack thereof. I was the guinea pig and she was the hawk-eyed helicopter that hung low over my shoulder.

I glare at the sparkly green cutout dress draped across her body, the clever design exposing her shoulders and most of her chest. Whenever she shifts her weight—a strategic movement, no doubt—her emerald pendant dips in and out of her cleavage, winking playfully at any testosterone-driven eyes.

Suppressing a revolted groan, I return to the menu and eventually settle for a buttermilk smoothie alongside a toasted chicken-mayo sandwich. Helen has no problem with her selections, of course. She likes her champagne with a side of salad—which is only a more concise term for an overgrown bowl of fronds and florets.

Five minutes later, a small group of anthropoid robots slide over to our table, automatically collecting our menus and placing our food and drinks in front us with graceful dexterity. One of the androids cocks its head to the side, those artificial eyes scanning our countenances. “Is everyone satisfied?” it inquires, its voice sounding far more human than my own. We all nod and mutter a thank you.

Having received a response, the android rolls off to the kitchen. If it weren’t for the wheels fixed to the soles of its feet and its strangely flawless appearance, I would have mistaken the thing for flesh and bone. But its synthetic skin is too smooth, its eyes too green, its nose and jawline too sharp and straight. No real person could manage to look that perfect, although, Helen’s arrow has landed pretty closely to the bull’s eye of beauty.

Simon looks down at my plate with amusement. "Are you sure that’s all you’re going to have?"

"Of course I’m sure," I say in irritation.

"You could have some of my ribeye…" He inches his plate forward.

"No, no. Trust me—"

"Just give it a—"

"Leave her, Simon," Helen interrupts. "If she wanted steak, then she would’ve ordered steak, isn’t that right, darling?" She turns to me, her painted mouth curling into a smirk.

I dig my elbows into the table, snatch up my sandwich and tear at the toast with a set of angry teeth, neglecting the useless knife and fork with which I had been provided.

Oblivious to my prickly mood, Sadeeka proceeds to maunder on and on about the problems her clients mostly encounter with their computers and the troubleshooting methodology she often applies. Ignoring her is easy, but turning a blind eye to the way Helen leans into Simon to wipe the imaginary specks of dust from his shirt, to pretend that I don’t hear her flirt with him or pick up on how she giggles at everything he says, is a painful feat.

I take another bite. Then I slug back the remnants of my pink smoothie, the sweet-sour liquid oozing onto my tongue and stinging my throat. I shovel the last of my food into my mouth and swallow hard, forcing down the chicken and mayo and toast and the burning frustration that sizzles in my chest like oil in a hot skillet.

Eventually, though, Helen’s silky, syrupy voice drifts off into a faraway murmur. And so does every other sound around me… The scraping of knives against porcelain, the gnashing of teeth as they crash down onto their supper, the slurping of wine, the tittering from nearby tables, the white noise of restless air as androids whizz by—

All of it turns to a distant hum. Even Sadeeka’s accented words seem to have been muffled by a pillow.

"Sierra?"

My name is a mere whisper on Simon’s lips, a feathery breath of concern, as if his voice had been trapped in a soundproof container.

I glance up from the crumbs in my plate, only to see that my surroundings have become a blur, a smear of shifting colours and shapes. I blink a few times, but the world around me continues to spin, smudging all the familiar faces into a single unrecognizable stain.

And then, Earth jerks to a halt, its rapid rotation slamming on its brakes, gifting me with a handful of precious seconds to steady myself—before that stability slides off its axis and sets everything into swift motion once again.

My head sways, back and forth, like a haunted swing being leisurely pushed by a spectral wind. When my disoriented gaze manages to hold Helen’s face in place, I witness how her creamy skin turns dark, her green eyes swirling into a pair of black stones, her wavy hair twisting into tight, brown coils. She has morphed into a different woman—a woman I do not remember and yet… she’s somebody that I know...

Deliz. The woman's name is Deliz. But who is she?

Before I can figure out what once-upon-a-time role she had played in my life, the table between us starts to rattle, knocking over Sadeeka’s glass of Merlot, spilling wine onto the table cloth—no, not wine—

Blood.

The glistening stream of rich, dark maroon leaks over the edge of the table and pools into my lap, seeping through my jeans, dripping down my legs, creeping into my shoes. A piercing scream scrapes past my heart that has somehow wedged itself into my throat.

The world stills and I find everyone’s eyes on me. I stare down at my thighs, panting heavily.

There is no blood. No spilled wine. No dark-skinned woman.

Since shaking my head doesn’t help at all, I push myself out of my seat, but my legs almost cave in on themselves and I stagger. Simon is beside me in seconds, asking me what’s wrong.

"I-I just… I’m going to the bathroom."

When I enter the restroom, I rush over to the sink and turn on the tap. I let the cold water gush out into my cupped hands before splashing it against my face, gulping down a few scoops.

The automatic faucet switches off by itself and when I straighten, my gaze fastens on the mirror, locking with a pair of marmalade eyes. Not my eyes. My mother’s eyes.

The realization steals the breath from my lungs and before I can even recover, a finger-snapping succession of streamlined memories slip through the cracks of my skull, penetrating the barrier I had built around my brain all those years ago. The painful, gruesome reminders shoot across my vision like a meteor shower, like a fusillade of bullets bursting into my mind, splintering the window that once separated my present from my past.

As if to escape my own thoughts, to leave them behind in that basin, I turn away and stumble out the door and down the grand corridor until I'm bumping past tables and chairs and chattering diners.

When my seat is just a stone’s throw away from me, I see Simon leap to his feet and fling himself forward—but before he can catch me, the floor lurches away from my feet, tossing me onto my back and plummeting my mind into total oblivion.

[1902 words]