Mike's Party

The venue for Mike’s celebration was The Velvet Lounge, a rooftop club that overlooked the glimmering city. The bass of the music thumped against Sarah’s chest, matching the anxious rhythm of her heart.

​She walked in alongside Jessica. Jessica looked radiant. She wore a cropped sequined blazer and heels, but from the waist down, she wore nothing but her Mantle. It was a sleek, high-end design, custom-fitted with a pearlescent finish that caught the strobe lights. She walked with a distinct, slightly waddling stride that projected power and total lack of inhibition.

​Sarah, by contrast, felt like an imposter. She had chosen a floor-length emerald gown, heavy and opaque. It was a beautiful dress, but in this era, a floor-length skirt was a signal of secrecy. It screamed that there was nothing underneath worth showing.

​"Chin up," Jessica whispered, nudging Sarah. "Just act like you chose the dress for the aesthetic. Maybe they’ll think you’re being... retro."

​But as they stepped deeper into the room, Sarah knew that wasn't true.

​The party was a sea of white and pastel padding. The men wore tuxedo jackets with crisp, bulky briefs; the women wore sheer skirts or simply tights that accentuated the thick, protective silhouettes of their maturity. The air was filled with the distinct, soft crinkle of movement—the sound of status.

​"There he is! The man of the hour!" Jessica cheered.

​Mike was standing by the bar, surrounded by admirers. He looked ecstatic. He was wearing a gold bowtie and a pristine, thick white diaper with blue landing zones—the mark of a freshly inducted adult. He was holding a champagne glass, his posture relaxed, free from the biological urgencies that plagued "children" like Sarah.

​"Jessica!" Mike beamed, hugging her. Then his eyes drifted to Sarah. His smile faltered just slightly. "Oh. Hey, Sarah. You came."

​"Happy Liberation Day, Mike," Sarah said, forcing a smile. She tried to make herself small, crossing her arms over her chest.

​"Thanks," Mike said, puffing out his chest. He turned to the group. "Can you believe it? My dad finally signed the papers. I sat through a three-hour meeting today without moving an inch. It was... liberating."

​"It suits you," a girl named Chloe said, running a hand over the side of Mike’s padding. Then, Chloe turned her sharp gaze toward Sarah.

​The music seemed to dip for a second. Chloe looked Sarah up and down, her eyes lingering on the long, flowing skirt of the emerald dress.

​"Interesting choice, Sarah," Chloe said, her voice loud enough to carry over the beat. "Very... modest. Is it chilly in here, or are you just hiding something?"

​Sarah felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "I just liked the dress, Chloe."

​" really?" Chloe took a step closer, holding her drink. "Because usually, when someone wears a tent like that, it means they're still tethered to the bathroom. It means they’re still... empty."

​A few people nearby stopped talking. Eyes turned toward them. Sarah felt the weight of their stares—pitying, amused, superior.

​"I'm waiting for the right time," Sarah stammered, her voice weak.

​"The right time?" A guy behind Mike laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "You mean you're waiting for mommy's permission? You’re twenty-two, Sarah. Even the interns have their stripes."

​"She’s 'potty trained'!" someone else giggled from the back, using the archaic, insulting term for the un-Mantled.

​The laughter rippled through the circle. It wasn't loud or raucous; it was sophisticated, cruel, and dismissive. They weren't laughing at a joke; they were laughing at her. They stood there, comfortable and secure in their padded armor, while Sarah felt naked despite being the most covered person in the room.

​"It’s okay, guys," Mike said, though his tone was patronizing. He patted Sarah on the shoulder. "Not everyone matures at the same speed. Maybe next year, Sarah."

​Sarah pulled away from his touch. The crinkling sound of the crowd shifting around her sounded like static in her ears. She gripped her clutch tight, fighting the urge to run, knowing that fleeing would only prove them right—that she was just a child who couldn't handle the pressure of the adult world.