Dobroc nodded and looked down. “I didn’t think so. But it’s not . . . you wouldn’t necessarily know, right? Even the Cirque might not know, if it’s a stochastic piece. And the algorithmic agents—they’re predicting that you and Shria are key theatrical elements. They think that you’re part of the spectacle.”

“What, really? You mean—more than other Ticket Holders? Us specifically?”

Dobroc nodded again. Zir gaze met Fift’s, then retreated: fish skirting the shadows of a shallow pool. “Thavé and Panaximandra have already crystallized as key dramatic elements, and of course, First Childhood is always”—ze smirked—“terribly evocative for adults. And it’s not like there are many sixteen-year-old Ticket Holders, period. Sixteen-year-old Ticket Holders who met Thavé, and then Panaximandra, within the space of an afternoon?” Ze crooked an eyebrow. “One latterborn, the other an only child, from differently struggling cohorts? Very high thematic density.”

“Uh,” Fift said. “I take it emergent dramaturgy is another hobby of yours?”

Dobroc looked down at zir hands. One held the other in zir lap, like bodies sleeping curled together. Ze swallowed. “I just want to . . . do something. Make some kind of difference. Give the world a push.” Ze shrugged. “In a way, it’s the same hobby. Thavé-watching is all about emergent dramaturgy! It’s what Thavé does, when you burrow into the core of it. How ze influences the destiny of worlds.”

This wasn’t what Fift had expected. No prissy, judgmental, overly formal Long Conversation specialist; no gushy, superficial, sentimental instant-fame infatuation. Dobroc had . . . weird ambitions. Fift shifted closer to zir on the couch, until the loose and hanging fabrics of their shifts were touching, white on white. Dobroc’s skin was ridges and swirls and furrows, but it smoothed to blankness at the wrists and knuckles, where zir hand bent. Fift wondered again what it would feel like to touch zir. “Dobroc,” ze said. “That was all by accident. We didn’t do anything . . . we just accidentally ran into them. There’s no meaning to it.”

“Sure. Those coincidences are just a framework . . . on which something could be built. But it’s not really about that. It’s about . . . who you are, Fift. I don’t know if I can explain it without it sounding foolish.” Ze took a deep breath.

“I’m not anyone special, Dobroc.”

“Not for you, you’re not. And not objectively, either, not the way the world measures. But I’ve . . . I’m so surrounded by falseness, by rigidity . . . Everything is recitation, doing what you’re told. We sit on wooden floors, pass spoons, and recite the words of the great Sages, who once upon a time were free and truly alive, and it’s, it’s a grotesque parody. I’ve done what I was told for so long . . .”

“So have I, Dobroc! I always do what I’m told. I’m no rebel—”