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Tuesday 200 — #85

I dream of being the exotic girl in the Cage. Safely ensconced in her gilded chandelier, perched above the heaving crowd.

"You’re not Cage material," the Bosses sneer.

"I’ll do anything.”

"We know."

They escort me to the floor. Feasters from all over the world — every size, shape, and currency — lick at my limbs, sampling the Secondary course in tonight’s flesh banquet. I try not to taste whatever is tasting me. I lower my eyes, coveting the amber anklets which guarantee an exit once they’ve had their fill.

My ankles are permanently unadorned, unlike my wrists. Like all non-FirstBorns, I am tattooed with bracelets of interlocking “S”s. I am a Secondary, spawned to serve.

The Cageling has no tattoos. Her scarless, asymmetrical body is a delicacy the wealthiest can barely afford. An elite customer is introduced and lavender velvet cascades over the Cage. The privilege of disappearing.

I am ordinary. Two perfect legs, both arms in tact. A pair of eyes and well-formed ears. Ten fingers, ten toes. A Secondary, doubly cursed.

I beg for an amputation.

“Even if you were assigned to ChopShop, you wouldn’t get into the Cage.”

You have to be born that way.

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