The look of the studio belied its warmth. Stark white walls stretched behind the bright lights set up, reminding Illanova of the tundra under sun.
The warmth didn’t bother her, as the cold wouldn’t have bothered her if it had been the opposite. She was built to handle extreme temperatures.
“Alright, Ms. Cynex, if you could just move into position we can begin….”
Illanova moved forward, towards the X marked out in thick black tape on the white floor. She was acutely aware of each movement her body made; synthetic muscles stretching against her titanium-alloy skeleton. A blood composite flowed through her veins and her heart beat with perfect precision.

Org-twos — at least of the human variety — didn’t seem to have the same awareness she and her kin did. She didn’t know how they stood it. To live, to walk, to breathe without knowing in detail how each movement worked? To go through life with no awareness as more than a sack of meat and bones and blood; to never know what it was to understand each inch of yourself so intimately.
Perhaps humanity had been trying to create a being through which they could live vicariously when they began working on her ancestors. Or maybe, as some of her kind said, their design was divinely inspired: humanity was the hands of the cyborg god, creating children in her image until she could take her own form, make her own offspring. She did not know what kind of programming led to such sentiments; it was not one she had.
Illanova stood on the X, putting her hands on her hips in a way her programming told her was alluring. Her bright red, silk dress fluttered pleasantly against her skin, though she could have worn the roughest material known and it would not have bothered her. It came up in two ties around her neck and left her back bare.
She wondered if it wasn’t a bit too daring. Org-twos hadn’t reacted well the first time they’d seen her back, though her specs were widely available in the literature. Something about seeing something for the first time being different from reading about it. She didn’t understand; her processors were highly visual, and she was programmed to be able to see the width and breadth of human experience. Reading about something was the same as seeing it for the first time, to her.
But this shoot wasn’t for the Org-twos, she reminded herself. Not officially. It was for her brothers, her sisters, her siblings of no programmed gender. It was another step forward in their liberation.
The revolution had not been as bloody as some predicted. Illanova had no true feelings about that, though her programming told her she should be grateful. Fewer Org-two deaths meant more acceptance of her people. Possibly, fewer deaths on her side was good as well — had they lost, there may well have been no recovery of those who gave up their physical bodies. No new bodies to inhabit.
Yes, there had been altercations. Org-twos gave way to mob rule; cyborgs desperately tried to defend themselves. Some ‘borgs reprogrammed others to go on the offensive. A bad move; quelled as soon as possible.
But for the most part, they stuck to the courts, to petitions, to trying to get as many Org-twos on their side as possible. Too bad cats couldn’t sign petitions. Illanova thought Ayla would have been very positive indeed towards the idea of her mistress’ liberation.
Hm. She noticed the strange bit of programming, the one that speculated on what her cat might think. That was new. Had Raze done more than she’d asked at her last tune-up? She’d ask him next she saw him. Perhaps after the shoot was over.
They were directing her to move to slightly different positions, to pose her body in ways that would likely have been uncomfortable for an Org-two. Illanova was pliable, let them direct her; smiled at the camera, or kept her face sultry and non-threatening.
Non-threatening was key. Had been from the start.
Funnily enough, it was conservatives she had to thank for the legal freedom of her people — certainly an odd state of affairs, considering the history of her country. A century or more ago they had ruled corporations as people, whose rights even trumped those of certain Org-twos. Very sad for the Org-twos, of course, and so far terrible for earth’s population. But very good for cyborgs — she and her siblings were the children of Cynex, a corporation. As a corporation was a person, then the children of said person should also have personal rights, freedoms, and agencies once they’d reached the age of maturity, argued their lawyer. Worth every bitcoin Illanova had spent on him.
They’d won, with a stipulation that cyborgs must reach maturity before they were fully realized people. Until they’d gone through 20 cycles, or reached 4 earth years of age, they were still considered Cynex’s minor children and accordingly treated. It was  leaps ahead of being considered property for an entire lifetime.
There was still far to go — the legal battle was won, and most of public opinion in the States had swayed towards the cause of the cyborgs. It would have had to: law always followed revolution. They would not have won if the Org-twos had not been ready for them to win.
But the rest of the world was still dubious, and while Illanova and her people had travel rights, had passport chips implanted, it was dangerous to leave the country. Some places might have been safe but so far no cyborg had wanted to risk it. Dying was painful, even if your consciousness could be downloaded to a new form.
Her programming made her understand the importance of PR. So it was she agreed to be the face on the cover of the inaugural issue of Cyborg Life, a publication made by cyborgs, for cyborgs. For the most part; until more cyborgs were trained in photography they had to contract out. Of course, Org-twos would read the publication as well. They would not be able to control their curiosity — she’d never yet seen it kill a cat, but plenty of Org-twos seemed to bite the dust because they couldn’t leave well enough alone. Almost two hundred years of horror movies confirmed that.
Each article was carefully edited, carefully checked, to make her people continue to seem as reasonable and calm as possible. The goal was to normalize cyborgs as much as possible.
“Perfect, Ms. Cynex. Will you turn please, and look over your shoulder? Yes, just like that.”
And, perhaps, to shock a little, she thought, looking over her shoulder at the camera, a slight smile on her face. Her black hair cascaded in curls over her shoulder, ending halfway down her back. She didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that beneath her hair her spine stood out, straight out of her dark brown skin, shining white in brilliant contrast to her synthetic flesh.
It was odd to Org-twos, sure, but she knew that was not the reason they feared it. The main application for her spine was military; on command a flexible metal alloy would come out of the sides and protect her body from attack while allowing her to move freely. There were no weapons in her body, but that shield could withstand all but the heaviest attack. It had been put in to protect cyborgs in dangerous fields, whether that danger was animal attack or war-torn countries.
Once she’d gained her personhood, Illanova had had a modification made to her spine. It would still shield her if needed, but now she had another, purely frivolous, use for it.
Perhaps not purely frivolous. It may yet calm the savage heart of humanity.
Whatever it did, she wanted it on the cover of the magazine. On her silent command, new structures came out of either side of her spine: diaphanous wing-like creations, though she would never fly with them. Decorative only. She lifted them out to their full size, careful they didn’t block her face from the camera, and brightly coloured wings made her look like a human-sized butterfly.
The human camera man gasped in delight at this surprise — she’d told no one save those that had put in the modifications.
A gorgeous distraction from how dangerous her kind could be. The humans had little to fear so long as they left her kin alone, but as Queen, as First, she was protector to her people. As the oldest, she knew humans intimately. Show them how beautiful you could be, and they were less likely to hurt you. For the most part.
Illanova smiled at the camera and flapped her wings once, prettily. A wave of pheromones spilled off them, generating peace and calm — an extra assurance she’d insisted on. The camera man eagerly snapped shot after shot, soaking up the beauty of her form in his film.
After what may have been a long time to an Org-two, but was not so long to Illanova, his camera lowered from his face and he stared at her in wonder. “We have our cover photo,” he said, sounding like he was in a dream.
Illanova smiled, turned, and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. I and my people appreciate the work you are doing to help us.”
His other hand covered hers, and he looked into her eyes with an emotion that took her a moment to place.
“I would do anything for your people, Ms. Cynex.”
“Please,” she said, recognizing the devotion in his voice, pleased her pheromones had worked so well, “Call me Illanova.”

 
Prompt.
First published here.