Whole cliques wore the same skin color, or shared similar faces, like families used to before the operation. It reminded Tally uncomfortably of how people grouped themselves back in pre-Rusty days, into tribes and clans and so-called races who all looked more or less alike, and made a big point of hating anyone who didn't look like them. But everyone seemed to be getting along so far—for every clique of people who looked alike, there was another of wild variations.
Diego's middle pretties seemed less crazy about the whole surgery thing. Most of them looked more or less like Tally's parents, and she heard more than a little grumbling about "new standards," how current fads were an eyesore and a disgrace. But they did so in such a forthright way that Tally had no doubt their own lesions were gone.
Disconcertingly the crumblies seemed to be further into surgery than anyone else. A few wore the wise, calm, trustworthy faces that the Pretty Committee enforced at home, but others looked weirdly young. Half the time Tally wasn't exactly sure what age people were supposed to be, as if the city's surgeons had decided to let all the stages of life blur together.
She even heard a few people who, from the sound of their conversation, were still bubbleheads. For some reason— whether it was a philosophical position or a fashion statement— they had elected to keep the lesions in their brains.
Apparently, you could do just about anything you wanted here. It was like she'd landed in Random Town. Everyone was so different that her own special face practically faded into…nothing.
How had this all happened?
It couldn't have been very long ago. The transformations seemed to be still rippling all around her, as if a stone had been hurled into a small pond.
Once she managed to tune her skintenna to the city newsfeeds, Tally found them full of arguments. There were discussions about the wisdom of taking in the runaways, about standards of beauty, and most of all about the new construction at the city's edge—and not everyone bothered with the pleasant, civil debating style of home. Tally had never heard squabbling among adults like this before, not even in private. It was as if a bunch of uglies had taken over the airwaves. Without the lesions making everyone agreeable, society was left roiling in a constant battle of words, images, and ideas.
It was overwhelming, almost like the way the Rusties had lived, debating every issue in public instead of letting the government do its job.
And the changes already in place here in Diego were just a beginning, Tally realized. All around her she felt the city seething, all those unfettered minds bouncing their opinions off each other, like something ready to explode.
That night, she went to the Overlook.
The city interface guided her to the highest point in town, a stretch of parkland atop a chalk-faced cliff that overlooked the city center. The first young pretty she'd met had been right: The park was crowded with runaways, about half uglies and half new pretties. Most wore the faces they'd brought with them, not yet ready to plunge into extremes of cosmetic fashion. Tally could understand why the newbies were hanging out together; after a day on the streets of Diego, the sight of old-fashioned, Pretty Committee-designed faces was a relief.
Tally hoped that Zane would be here. Today had been the longest he'd spent out of her sight since his escape, and she wondered exactly what they'd done to him at the city hospital. Would removing Zane's lesions make him any less shaky? How would he decide to remake himself, here where anyone could look like anything, where the very possibility of being average had disappeared?
Maybe they would be able to fix him better than her own city's hospital. With all their practice in crazy surgery, Diego's surgeons might be almost as good as Dr. Cable.
Maybe the next time they kissed, things would be different.
And even if Zane was exactly the same, at least Tally could show him how much she had changed. Her journey through the wild and what she'd seen in Diego had already made a difference. Maybe this time she could show him what was really inside her, deeper than any operation could reach.
Tally stalked the darkness outside the hoverglobes' reach, listening to the newcomers. The music wasn't loud— the bash was more about getting to know each other than drinking and dancing—and she heard all kinds of accents, even other languages from the deep south. All the runaways were telling the stories of how they'd gotten here—comic, arduous, or terrifying voyages through the wild to reach pickup spots all over the continent. Some had come by hoverboard, some had walked, and a few even claimed they'd stolen warden hovercars with lifting fans, flying in comfort across the wild.
The party grew as she watched, like Diego itself, more runaways arriving all the time. Soon Tally spotted Peris and a few of the other Crims near the cliff edge. Zane wasn't with them.
She retreated farther into the shadows, eyes searching the crowd, wondering where he was. Maybe she should have stayed close; this city was so strange. Of course, he probably thought she'd lost the helicopter and was still behind in the wild. Was probably relieved to be rid of her…
"Hey, I'm John," came a voice from behind.
Tally spun around, finding herself face-to-face with a standard new pretty. His eyebrows rose at the sight of her cruel beauty and tattoos, but the reaction was slight. He had already gotten used to seeing crazy surge here in Diego.
"Tally," she said.
"That's a funny name."
Tally frowned. She'd thought "John" sounded pretty random, herself, though his accent wasn't too unfamiliar.
"You're a runaway, right?" he asked. "I mean, that's new surge you're trying on?"
"This?" Her fingers brushed her face. Since she'd woken up at Special Circumstances headquarters, the cruel beauty had felt like something that defined her, made her what she was, and this average boy was asking if she was trying it on, like some new hairstyle?
But there was no point in giving herself away. "Yeah, I guess. Like it?"
He shrugged. "My friends say it's better to wait until you know the fashions. Don't want to look like a mountainous dork."
Tally let out a slow breath, trying to remain calm. "You think I look like a dork?"
"What do I know? I just got here." He laughed. "I'm not sure what look I'll go for. But probably something less, I don't know, scary."
Scary? Tally thought, her anger building. She could show this arrogant little pretty what scary was.
"I wouldn't keep those scars, if I were you," he added. "Kind of grim."
Tally's hands lashed out to grab the boy by his new and brightly colored jacket. Her fingernails ripped into its fabric as she lifted him from the ground, her razor smile as fierce as she could make it.
"Listen, you bubblehead-until-five-minutes-ago, this is not a fashion statement Those scars are something you'll never even—"
A soft ping sounded in her head.
"Tally-wa," a familiar voice came. "Put that kid down."
She blinked, lowering the pretty to the ground.
Her skintenna had picked up another Cutter.
The boy was giggling. "Hey, neat trick! Didn't see the teeth before."
"Quiet!" Tally loosened her grip from the ruins of his jacket, spinning around to scan the crowd.
"Are you in a clique?" the pretty babbled on. "That guy over there looks just like you!"
She followed his gesture and saw the familiar face coming toward her through the crowd, tattoos spinning with pleasure.
It was Fausto, smiling and special.