14. Head Practice

Laramie must begin 100 hours of practice with fake heads so she can learn to wear them in public after she is released from the Recovery Home.

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Darkness, total and complete. Quiet stillness. The thrum of a heartbeat felt rather than heard.

I lift the silicone head, feeling its weight in my hands as I guide it onto my neck stem. The cool, smooth surface slides over my skin. I fumble for the silicone flap, the “collar” as Dave calls it, and press it against my flesh, just below my collarbone.

Adhesive tape next: one strip between my shoulder blades and two strips up front. Memories of prom night resurface unbidden. I remember this tape from those damn nipple covers worn under my strapless dress so I didn’t reveal too much. I never thought I’d be taping myself together on the regular.

My fingers search out the hidden buttons nestled under the silicone. I press one, over and over, feeling an elastic band constrict around my neck stem. It digs in a little too snugly. I force myself to relax, to accept it, and convince myself I’m not choking.

It’s not like I have much choice. I’m committed now.

On goes my loquette, and the room blinks into existence, shapes and shadows solidifying. I’m still not used to living my life in an endless series of jump cuts.

I turn to my avatar monitor to check out my new look. I’ve got her switched off, so the screen is functioning like a high-definition mirror. I wanted a blank canvas to work with—and boy, did I get one.

My head is smooth, almost featureless. There are no eyes, nose, or mouth. It's just an unbroken expanse of silicone skin contrasting with my blotchy red freckled chest below it. My blank mask, viewed through my loquette, is unnerving.

I kind of love it.

In your face, world! This is me now. Deal with it.

I grab a wig from the mannequin head nearby, fluffing out the short, red curls. It’s a little like my old hair before it got folded away into a pocket dimension. I settle the wig on my head, adjusting the elastic band until it sits right.

I stare at my reflection, taking it all in—the blank face, the red curls. I don’t know what it says about me that I’m digging this mannequin chic look—that I’d rather sport a featureless mask than even attempt to mimic my old appearance.

But then, I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.

I feel a phantom smile behind the mask as if I could control that stretchy, shiny face in front it me. Turning away from the mirror, I’m ready to face another day and make this borrowed head my own.

Appointment With Justine

The creak of Justine’s office door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. I shuffle inside, my footsteps muffled on the plush carpet. Justine’s already waiting, perched on the edge of her chair—pen and tablet at the ready.

“Good morning, Laramie,” she says, her voice coming out of her skin-colored zentai. I’ve started to get a sense of her rotation: three different shades of skin, shiny black, lavender, crushed blue velvet, deep red, and her playful sheers and fishnets.

She tilts her head to the side curiously, letting her wig swing over her shoulder. “I see you’re trying out the new head today.”

I settled into my usual spot in her comfy chair, the leather creaking under my weight. “I figured it was time for a change. A new me, a new look.”

Justine steeples her cloth-covered fingers, her masked face unreadable. “And what do you think it represents, this new look of yours?”

I shrug, the motion feeling strange without the counterbalance of a head. “Guess it’s like I’m a work in progress—a blank slate, waiting for the rest of me to catch up.”

“That’s astute,” Justine says, scribbling something on her tablet. “You’ve come a long way since you first arrived. The loquette gave you back your senses, but it’s your own determination that’s gotten you this far.”

I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my dress, uncomfortable with the praise. “Yeah, well. Didn’t have much choice, did I? Adapt or die, as they say in biology class.”

“You’ve done more than adapt. You’ve thrived. You’ve made friends and found a support system.”

“Amazing what not being a total shut-in will do for your social life.”

Justine laughs, startling me a little. “Your sense of humor certainly hasn’t suffered.”

“Nah, if anything, it’s improved. Nothing like a little near-death experience to really hone your comedic timing.”

We chat a bit longer, Justine guiding me through the usual therapy rundown. How’s my mood? Are there any physical issues? Am I meeting my recovery goals?

I crack wise, deflecting when things get too real, too raw. But Justine’s used to my defense mechanisms by now. She knows when to push and when to let me retreat back into my shell.

Finally, our time’s up. I heave myself up, giving Justine a mock salute.

“Same time next week?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Justine nods. “Of course. But Laramie?”

I pause at the door, glancing back over my shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I know it isn’t easy, but you’re doing great. Keep it up.”

Something tightens in my chest. I mumble my thanks and beat a hasty retreat, Justine’s words echoing in my mind.

Coffee With Fatima

Later that week, I’m nestled in a corner of the recovery home’s café. I cradle my mug more for warmth than anything else. My eating box waits in my purse as I scroll through social posts.

“Laramie!” A familiar voice catches my attention. I glance up to see Fatima doing her wobble-glide toward me. She points to her earbuds peeking out from under her lavender hijab. I think open my Bluetooth settings and see her name pop up. I switch my language to ARABIC.

She settles into the chair across from me, her body language a study in controlled chaos as she constantly adjusts to the gravity-free existence. This feat of grace and poise is remarkable, considering she essentially lives her life on a nonstop rollercoaster without a seatbelt.

“هلا,” I greet her, the Arabic rolling out of my loquette. (Hey!)

“مرحباً,” Fatima responds, “أعجبني الستايل الجديد. جداً عصري.” (Hi! I like the new look. Very avant-garde.)

I strike a pose, the effect somewhat diminished by my lack of a face to frame.

“أنا موضوع العصر، شو بدي قول.” (I’m a trendsetter, what can I say.)

Fatima laughs, a rich, melodic sound that warms me more than any latte could. She leans forward conspiratorially, continuing in Arabic.

“So, I have news…”

I tilt my neck curiously. “Do tell.”

“I heard from a little bird that a certain headless hottie has been spending an awful lot of time with a certain magical adaptation engineer. Care to comment?”

Under my head, my neck stem feels like it’s blushing beet red. Instead, I fiddle with my coffee mug, suddenly fascinated by the whorls in the wood grain of the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hedge.

Fatima smirks, utterly unconvinced. “Sure you don’t. Just like you don’t know that his name rhymes with ‘cave,’ and he’s got a smile that could power a small city.”

I resist the urge to thunk my forehead against the table. Lacking the requisite forehead, I settle for a groan. “Am I that obvious?”

“Habibti, you’re about as subtle as a brick to the face. Pun totally intended.”

I flip her off, but there’s no heat behind it. Fatima’s teasing is a welcome distraction from the emotional minefield of my love life—or lack thereof. Hard to date when you’re held together with dreams and two-sided tape.

Still, I can’t deny the kernel of truth in her words. Dave and I have been spending more time together: late nights in the lab working on upgrades for my loquette, coffee breaks that turn into meandering conversations about everything and nothing, an occasional brush of hands, and the crackle of something like electricity between us.

It’s terrifying—thrilling! It’s a reminder that even in this strange new body, I’m still capable of wanting, of feeling.

Of falling.

But that’s a problem for another day. For now, I’ve got a snarky friend to contend with and a rapidly cooling latte in hand.

I flip open the little ring box of my PGS, affectionately dubbed by survivors in these parts an “Eating Box.” I hook the little tube up to the side spout and snake it into my mug like a plastic serpent seeking caffeinated prey.

The first hit of sweet, life-giving nectar washes over my awareness, hijacking my brain with a flood of sensory data. Flavor, temperature, and texture are all delivered via the magic of the loquette’s quantum sensors, dematerializing my drink down to its molecules, turning them into data for my loquette, and teleporting them into my throat.

“Mmmm,” I sigh, my fingers curling around my box. “I needed that today.”

Fatima watches me, equal parts amused and envious. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing that.”

I lift my mug up to loquette level, the headless equivalent of giving her the squinty eye. “What, you’ve never seen a girl deep throat a coffee straw before?”

Fatima’s answering cackle is loud enough to startle the barista, but I hunch over laughing. If you can’t poke fun at the absurdity of your own existence, what’s the point?

We while away the afternoon like that, trading barbs and gossip, the worries of the world held at bay by the force of our collective chaos. For a leisurely hour or two, I’m just a girl having coffee with her friend.

And that’s enough.

For now.

Understanding Each Other

Fatima leans in, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Her Arabic takes on lower, hushed tones. “Seriously though, what’s it like? Using that thing, I mean.”

I shrug, the motion setting my head slightly askew on my neck stem. I reach up to adjust it, the silicone skin warm and a little clammy beneath my fingertips.

“The box, the loquette, or the head?” I ask.

“All of the above,” Fatima says, swirling her fingers in the air.

I think of the best way to give her an idea of life as Laramie. “It’s hard to explain. Have you ever used VR goggles?”

Fatima nods, a guilty grin spreading across her face. “I may have splurged on a top-of-the-line Zaphod 360 for gaming. One of my little indulgences, courtesy of the Onyx card.”

“Well, it’s kind of like that,” I say, gesturing vaguely with my free hand. “The loquette takes the signals from the cameras and mic and translates them into sensations my brain can process. The eating box does the same thing, just for taste and texture instead of sight and sound.”

I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s like... I can sense something that’s almost, but not quite, like coffee. It’s got the heat, the flavor, the mouthfeel. But there’s a layer of removal, you know? A sense of distance. It’s not the same as really eating or drinking. The only way I can describe it is when you have a coffee-flavored jelly bean, and it tricks your mind for a minute into thinking it’s real.”

Fatima’s brow furrows as she tries to wrap her head around the concept. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, my tone wry. “That makes two of us. And I’ve been living with this thing for three months now.”

A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of all the things left unsaid. But then I dive right in with my own questions.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, how are you dealing with this whole no-gravity situation? How do you keep from just...” She makes a vague fluttering motion with her hands. “Floating away?”

Her laughter is melodic. “Honestly, it’s a constant battle. I feel like I’m perpetually falling or about to drift off. The clothes help, weirdly enough. That little bit of weight is just enough to keep me anchored.”

“I can see that,” I say, popping a piece of lemon biscotti into my box. Still, it must be strange—having to think about every little movement, every interaction with the world around you.”

“You have no idea,” she says, my voice dry as the Sahara. “The other day, I nearly toppled over trying to put on a t-shirt. The damn thing was so top-heavy, it threw off my entire center of balance.”

We’re both laughing together at this, but that’s how it goes with Fatima. She gets the giggles, and soon, everyone around her is doubled over.

When our chuckles finally subside, Fatima leans in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

I lean in, intrigued despite myself.

“Sometimes, when I’m alone in my apartment, I’ll strip down to just my socks and let myself drift across the tile floors. It’s like being on a skating rink, gliding around without a care in the world.”

She sits back, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It’s silly, I know. But it helps me feel... I don’t know. Free, I guess. Like maybe this crazy body of mine isn’t all bad.”

I reach out, covering her hand with mine. “I get it,” I murmur, my voice soft with understanding. We’ve all got to find our own ways to get our jollies .”

An Idea for a Disguise

Fatima’s gaze flicks up to my face, and she tilts her head thoughtfully. “You know, your new head reminds me of blank mannequin heads they use in department stores back in Dubai.”

I snort, the sound crackling through the coffee shop’s speakers. “Gee, thanks. Just what every girl dreams of hearing.”

“No, no, hear me out! I’m serious!” She says, grinning in a way that shows me how unserious she’s being. “With a head like that, you could have a real future as a hijab model after graduation.”

The absurdity of the idea startles a laugh out of me, and soon, we’re both giggling like a pair of schoolgirls. But as our mirth fades, a thought occurs to me.

“Hey, Fatima... do you think wearing a hijab might help me blend in more? When I’m out in public, I mean.”

She considers this for a moment, her expression turning thoughtful. “You know, it just might. A lot of Westerners tend to avoid making eye contact with women in traditional Muslim dress. It could be the perfect distraction from your, um, unique situation.”

But then she frowns, a note of caution creeping into her voice. “Just be sensitive, Laramie. Some Muslims might take offense to a non-Muslim wearing a hijab or niqab. Maybe try a more Western alternative instead, like a scarf or a hoodie.”

I nod, filing the idea away for later consideration. “Thanks, Fatima. I appreciate the advice.”

Time for an Upgrade

A few days later, I find myself in Dave’s workshop, my voice echoing through his stereo system. I’m thinking about the array of prosthetic heads lining the shelves of the costume room.

I wonder if he bases any of them on real women.

“Hey, Dave? Do you think I could try on some of these other heads? I want to see how people react when I’m wearing something with more realistic features.”

He looks up from his workbench, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Sure thing, Laramie. Let’s go across the hall and see what we’ve got.”

In the costume shop, we pick out a head with a complexion similar to my own, complete with dark, almost black eyes. Dave helps me select a sleek black wig to match, the straight bangs falling just above my eyebrows in a Cleopatra-esque style.

When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I’m momentarily stunned. The effect is striking and transformative. I barely recognize myself.

“Damn, Kreuzberg,” I murmur, turning my head from side to side to admire the effect. “You do good work.”

He grins, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Thanks. You know, I’ve always wanted a girlfriend who could change her face like that.”

I spin around, arching a brow at him. “Girlfriend? Just what are you trying to say here, Kreuzberg?”

He blushes even harder, stammering out a response. “No, no, I didn’t mean... I was just saying...”

But I’m already laughing, reaching out to give him a playful shove. He stumbles back a step, his expression equal parts flustered and amused.

“Relax, Dave. I’m just messing with you.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I knew that.”

Is there something more than friendship brewing between us?

I shake my fake head, pushing the question aside for later consideration. For now, I have more pressing matters to attend to.

How Real Is It?

“Stop staring at my forehead, Kreuzberg. My eyes are down here,” I say, pointing to the loquette on my collarbone. Dave’s gaze snaps back down, and he looks sheepish.

“Sorry, it’s just... the eyes in the head are so realistic. I keep forgetting.”

I smirk. “I guess that means your craftsmanship is pretty convincing, huh? Do you think this face could fool anyone?”

Dave tilts his head, considering.

“Maybe if they just catch a quick glimpse of you walking by or in a crowd. But up close... the eyes don’t move when you talk. And there’s all these little micro-expressions and muscle twitches that are missing.”

“Damn. Guess I won’t be going undercover anytime soon.”

“Well, it might help if you had a speaker near your throat so your voice seems to come from the right place.”

I grin. “Look at you, always coming up with ways to upgrade me. Better get on that then, gearhead!”

Dave rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “I’ll add it to the never-ending list of Laramie projects.”

Trying Out My Head

The next day, I decide to test out the new head in group therapy. I even put on a slinky dress and painted my nails, which is definitely not my usual style. But hey, if you’re gonna debut a new look, might as well go all out, right?

When I walk in, Ana lets out a low whistle from her spot by the window, shimmering into view. “Dang girl, look at you! Rocking the femme fatale vibe today.”

Laxshmi claps two of her hands together excitedly. “Ooh, Laramie, I love the nails! Think you could do mine sometime?” She waves her other two hands at me, wiggling her fingers.

I laugh. “Sure, we’ll have a girls’ spa day soon.” I’m amazed at how at ease everyone seems with my new appearance.

As we go around sharing about our week, I mention I’m adjusting to the realistic head. “It’s weird but nice, having people actually look at my face when we talk. Easier than constantly pointing to my loquette.”

Arthur, our group facilitator, nods. “That’s great, Laramie. I’m glad this is helping you feel more comfortable interacting with others.”

I smile to myself, enjoying the feeling of fitting in. But in the back of my mind, I know this is temporary. That I can’t hide behind artificial faces forever. For now, I’ll savor these small steps toward normalcy.

An Invitation

Mei catches my attention as she speaks up. “Well, this is going to be my last week here before graduation.” She’s opted not to wear her silicone head today, letting her neck stem breathe freely. “I’ve already got my Victoria Peak apartment lined up in Hong Kong.”

A pang of sadness hits me. Mei’s been such a good friend through all this. I turn my head toward her loquette. “I’m really going to miss you around here.”

She chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m having a doorway portal installed in one of my hall closets. You and the rest of the gang can pop over to visit anytime you like!”

After the session wraps up, Mei approaches me, her loquette “face-to-face” with mine She rubs her fingers together excitedly. “Laramie, I would love for you to be at my graduation ceremony. And you should bring Dave along too!”

I’m taken aback. “Dave? Why do you say that?”

Mei’s loquette flashes a winking emoji at me. “Oh, come on, it’s obvious you two are an item. Everyone’s noticed how much time you spend together.”

I sputter, feeling my neck get hot beneath my silicone mask. “We’re not! It’s not like that! He’s just helping me with my prosthetics.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Mei teases in a singsong voice. “Well, ‘item’ or not, I expect to see you both there!”

Are We Really an ‘Item?’

As I pop back into Dave’s workshop, Mei’s words echo in my head. Have we really been that obvious? I mean, sure, Dave and I get along great, but we’re just friends, right?

Lost in thought, I almost collide with Dave as I enter the shop, two coffees in hand. He looks exhausted, with shadows under his bloodshot eyes.

“Whoa there,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “Where’s the fire?” He gratefully accepts the coffee I extend to him.

As he takes a sip, I fish my eating box out of my bag, dropping the tube into my own cup. The rich aroma wafts up, but I know the experience won’t quite compare to real drinking.

“So, Mei invited us to her graduation,” I say casually, slurping my coffee. “Well, she invited me and told me to bring you. Apparently, we’re quite the ‘item’ around here.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart races as I gauge his reaction.

Dave coughs, nearly choking on his coffee. “She said what now?”

“That everyone’s noticed how much time we spend together. I mean, she’s not wrong. We have been logging a lot of workshop hours.”

He smiles at that, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose people will always talk. But can you blame me for wanting to spend time with the coolest person I know?” He winks, and I feel a flutter in my chest.

I punch him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer. So, will you come to the graduation with me then? I know Mei would be thrilled. And... I’d really like you to be there, too.” I suddenly find the floor fascinating, scuffing my shoe.

Dave tilts my chin up gently with his fingertips, looking into my eyes. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Laramie.”

For a moment, I forget that I’m wearing a prosthetic head and that he’s gazing into glass and silicone instead of flesh. For a moment, I just feel... seen.

Dave’s Next Surprise

Dave’s expression turns mischievous as he steps back, rubbing his hands together. “Actually, I have another surprise for you. Something I’ve been working on all night.”

Curiosity piqued, I follow him across the hall to the costume shop. There, resting on a workbench is ...my head!

Well, it's not my actual head, but a startlingly realistic molded silicone recreation, complete with a wig that perfectly matches my original red curls. I’m stunned into silence, the room’s speaker crackling with static as I struggle to process the sight.

“I used the 3D scans from your avatar to print the mold,” Dave explains, nervously filling the quiet. “Tried to match your complexion, even added some freckles. I thought, maybe, if you wanted to look more like your old self sometimes...” He trails off, gauging my reaction.

Emotion swells in my chest, gratitude, affection, and a twinge of nostalgia all tangled together. I reach out to touch the silicone cheek, marveling at the details. “Dave, this is... I don’t even know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough.”

He ducks his head, pleased but a little embarrassed. “Well, why don’t you try it on? See how it feels?”

I don’t need to be asked twice. I quickly remove my black wig and reach behind my head, finding the release button. The room goes dark as I hastily lift off the loquette, wobbling a bit at the sudden loss of visual input. Dave puts his hand on my back steady me as I slide the new head into place, feeling it tighten securely around my neck stem. There’s some hard thing pressing against the top of my neck stem—an unfamiliar sensation. Before I can question it, Dave replaces the loquette.

The world blinks back into view, and I realize my perspective is slightly higher, closer to my original height. When I speak, my own voice reverberates through my chest and throat in a way it never has before.

“What did you... how?” I ask, astonished.

“Cameras in the eyes for more natural vision, and a special speaker that uses your body’s resonance to mimic your real voice,” Dave explains, grinning proudly. “I wanted it to feel as authentic as possible.”

Overcome, I throw my arms around him, hugging tightly. He lets out a surprised “oof” but quickly returns the embrace. For a long moment, we just stand there, holding each other.

Finally, I pull back, marveling at how different the world looks and feels from this vantage point. “Alright, Mr. Wizard,” I say, “your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to be my arm candy at Mei’s graduation. I need to show off my fancy new look, after all.”

Dave laughs, offering an exaggerated bow. “It would be my honor, m’lady.”

Mei’s Graduation

The day of Mei’s graduation arrives, and I’m fussing with my dress, something I haven’t indulged in for what feels like eons.

I start with a sleek, understated sheath dress from the back of my closet, a deep navy hue contrasting against the pale silicone of my head.

Then comes the part where things get really interesting. I put some concealer and foundation on my silicone face with some ruby-red lipstick and a dusting of bronzer. Finally, a spritz of some Black Opal to remind Kreuzberg that, beneath all this silicone rubber and quantum tech, I’m still a real woman.

Dave shows up at my door, looking rather dapper himself in a suit and tie. He whistles appreciatively when he sees me. “Looking good, Strong.”

I do a little twirl, my dress flaring around my knees. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Kreuzberg.” We grin at each other like idiots for a moment before heading out.

The graduation is a small, intimate affair—just a handful of us survivors being released back into the “real” world. When Mei’s name is called, Dave and I cheer loudly, pride swelling in my chest as she accepts her papers with a beaming smile.

Afterward, Mei makes a beeline for us, pulling me into a fierce hug. She excuses herself in Mandarin then turns her loquette to me, resuming in perfect American English.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispers. Over her shoulder, I catch sight of her family and a handsome young man, I assume is her boyfriend.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” I assure her as we separate. Mei follows my gaze, her smile turning a touch shy.

“That’s Lee,” she confirms. “He... he proposed this morning. We’re getting married!”

“That’s amazing, Mei! Congratulations!” I say, hugging her again. I better get an invite, Missy.”

Mei laughs. “Consider this an informal invitation. The real deal will be in the mail next week, I promise.”

As the happy couple is swept up in a flurry of family photos and well-wishes, Dave and I take our leave. Walking back to the residential wing, I find myself uncharacteristically pensive.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dave asks, bumping my shoulder with his.

I shrug. “Just...what comes next, y’know? Mei’s starting this whole new chapter. Made me wonder what mine will look like when I get there.”

Dave’s hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. “Whatever it is...I hope I’m in it.”

I squeeze his hand. “Count on it, Kreuzberg. Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.”

He laughs, and hand-in-hand, we walk back toward his workshop.

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