The passengers in the subway car all smelled faintly of burnt plastic and overripe bananas.

That wasn’t unusual. New York had smelt like that for at least six months, ever since the Oiling began accelerating. Officially, it was called the Organic Transition, a phrase that made it sound like an Erewhon marketing gimmick. But in practice, it was as if God had decided, in the spirit of experimentation, to tweak the periodic table. A slow, molecular reshuffling. Carbon to hydrocarbon. 

Scientists whispered about microbial vectors, atmospheric catalysts, and “engineering errors” as if they were talking about a failed soufflé. Authorities reassured the public it wasn’t lethal, while biotech firms hawked supplements and monitoring apps. PolySkin, they called it, as though a simple ritual like brushing one’s teeth could somehow prevent one from liquefying. The commercial reassurances were as comforting as a fire drill in a wax museum. Hair gleaming like molten tar, hands leaving traces of resin. The change was intimate, unavoidable, and smelled unmistakably real.

Lance stared at a smudge on the plexiglass window. His reflection was jaundiced and slightly translucent under the flickering LED lights. “You think I look more… glossy than usual?”

Kai, across from him, was peeling off the label from a bottle of phospholipid-rich kombucha, the kind that had recently replaced most sports drinks. “You always look glossy,” he said. “Like a man forever three minutes from a panic attack.”

“Not helpful.”

“You want helpful, see a therapist. You want honest, ride the subway with me.”

Lance touched the inside of his wrist. The skin was still soft, but under the surface, he could feel something… resilient. “I think I’m starting to polymerize.”

“Big word,” Kai smirked. “You read that in one of your little forums?”

“They’re not little,” Lance muttered. “They’re peer-reviewed.”

Kai leaned forward. “What’d it say this time? ‘Ten signs your epidermis is about to convert into a crude-oil derivative’?”

“You mock,” Lance said, “but Dr. Khrazii at MIT says the presence of longer-chain fatty acids in human sebum indicates an early-stage shift in metabolic baseline. We’re not just burning hydrocarbons. We’re becoming them.”

Kai sipped his drink. “So what, you're afraid you're going to wake up as a gas canister?”

“No. I'm afraid I’ll wake up as a waxy, non-biodegradable version of myself who’s still bad at dating.”

The train shuddered between stations. Another PolySkin ad flickered to life above them - a cheerful couple jogging in a park, their skin sheened with a suspiciously viscous glow. The voiceover purred: “Transition safely by supporting your evolution from the inside out.”

“Jesus,” Kai muttered. “It’s like they want us to turn into candles.You think the women tonight will care?”

“Maybe being slow-transitioners makes us ‘vintage.’ Like guys with vinyl record collections.”

Kai grinned. Seeing people smile with their skin in the glossy grip of the Oiling had taken Lance a while to get used to. Now it hardly unsettled him at all. “Or maybe we’ll get rejected by a woman whose lymph is eighty percent kerosene” Kai said.

Lance bit the inside of his mouth. “I’m not looking for perfection. Just someone whose biochemistry doesn’t terrify me.”

“Set the bar lower,” Kai said, sitting back. “You’ll be happier.”

The train screeched into Canal Street, the city above still holding together, barely. The skyline shimmered with heat plumes, and an occasional glint of plasticized flesh in the windows. A woman stepped on board wearing a mask, not for disease, but to keep her moisture content from evaporating. Her eyes were beautiful, almond-shaped and clear, but the rest of her face had the tight, semi-translucent sheen of someone deep in hydroconversion.

Lance nudged Kai. “You think she’s going to speed dating?”

“If she is,” Kai whispered, “I hope she’s fire-retardant.”

They both chuckled, but the laughter felt brittle. Outside, New York was molting, its people trading carbon for complexity, simplicity for survival. 

The speed-dating event was held in a reclaimed bank lobby, now repurposed as “The Polymer Lounge,” a sleek, modish venue with curved chairs and bioluminescent cocktails like bottled coral reefs. The display near the coat check read out “Safe Transition Ranges,” a bar graph tracking the average hydrocarbon index (HI) across boroughs. Manhattan was rising faster than Queens. The Bronx had plateaued. Staten Island, for reasons no one could explain, was chemically stable.

Lance stood at the bar, staring at a drink the color of transmission fluid. It fizzed faintly.

Kai leaned in. “Don’t look at it like it’s going to interrogate you.”

“I think it’s alive,” Lance whispered. “There’s a proteinoid skin forming on top.”

“That’s the garnish. Hey, you ready? Get your game face on.”

“I’m not drinking it.”

Kai smirked. “Then it’ll drink you.”

A bell rang. Tables were numbered. Speed dating began.

Lance was Table 6. The women rotated.

Round one: Becca

She wore a red dress that clung to her like shrink wrap and smelled faintly of antiseptic and fruit leather.

“I used to be a chemist,” she said immediately. “Now I’m more of a consultant. Biological stability optimization. You?”

“I teach public high school.”

Becca blinked. “And they haven’t converted the children yet?”

“I mean, the cafeteria changed,” Lance offered. “No dairy. Everything glows a little.”

She smiled politely. “Do you know your HI?”

“Uh…seventy-three.”

“That's low.”

“I’ve been moisturizing?”

“Moisturizer doesn’t change your hydrocarbon index, Lance. The index measures your body’s chemical shift—how much of you has converted from organic carbon to synthetic chains. Below seventy, you’re still mostly water and proteins.” Becca leaned forward and examined Lance’s forehead. “You need to bind better. You know that, right? It’s not just aesthetics. The transition isn’t optional. It’s cellular imperative.”

Lance squinted. “I was told seventy-three was moderate.”

“For now. But when the shift tips, you’ll melt like a birthday candle.”

“I…what?”

The bell rang. She stood, smiled tightly, and said, “Consider emulsifiers.”

She moved to the next table. Lance stared at his untouched drink. The skin was thicker.

Round Two: Cynthia

Cynthia had a raspy voice and wore an old Radiohead t-shirt, the collar ripped. Her eyes were yellow, not sickly, just… viscous. Like engine oil.

“You seem tense,” she said, biting her lip.

“I’m always tense.”

“That’s charming.”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be.”

She looked him over. “You smell natural.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Depends who you ask. I’m into vintage guys. You smell like asphalt after rain.”

Lance blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

She shrugged. “Everything smells something now. The Oiling enhanced my olfaction. I can practically track moods by sweat density. You? You’re anxious, not afraid.”

“That accurate?”

“Mostly.”

Lance leaned forward. “You ever think about what comes after all this?”

“You mean when we finish the transition?”

“Yeah. When we’re… not us anymore.”

Cynthia looked away. “You still think in binaries. Human vs not-human. You need to stretch your taxonomy.”

The bell rang. She winked, and rose to move to the next table. But before she pushed her chair out, a sharp crack split the air. Lance’s head whipped toward Table 4, where one of the bachelors had combusted into flames. Not an inferno. More like a soft, amber blossom along his shoulder and sleeve. But it was fast, too fast for most to react. Resin-like sweat hissed against the flickering fire, smoking slightly. People yelped. Drinks toppled, a bioluminescent cocktail sputtering over the polished floor.

The speed dating coordinator was already moving, spraying a thin cloud of suppressant. The man ducked, coughing, his hair and coat singed but otherwise unharmed. The bell rang anyway. The room didn’t panic—this was New York after all. Small combustions were now part of the social currency. People murmured about “fire‑control experience” and “stability training.”

Lance swallowed hard. “Does that… usually happen?”

Cynthia leaned over. “First-timers, or late-stage shifts under stress. Adds a little heat without canceling the evening.”

Lance nodded slowly. “Right. Sure.”

The coordinator dropped a square of caution cones around the table where it happened, and Lance had a feeling; nobody from the second round would be asking after each other. Even if they were vibing… the flare-up would be too sobering of an anchor in their recollection for the participants not to tuck round two away as a loss.

Round Three: Asia

Asia had a clipboard.

“I’m doing a study,” she said.

“Is this…part of the date?”

“Everything’s a study now. How’s your sebaceous rate?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your skin oils. Are they gelling?”

“I don’t know,” Lance said. “I’ve been dry lately.”

“Dry is death,” she said. “Lubrication is adaptation. You need mucosal resilience.”

“I teach teenagers. I don’t get to use phrases like ‘mucosal resilience’ in polite company.”

Asia ignored him. She clicked a pen. “Do you dream of oil?”

“What?”

“It’s a common sign of pre-transition consciousness. Dreams of viscosity, pressure, thermal shift. You’d be surprised how many people dream in refinery metaphors.”

“I had a dream my arm was turning into a plastic bag,” Lance offered. “Does that count?”

Asia scribbled something. “It’s a start.”

The bell rang. Asia left. Lance noticed her heels left faint, greasy prints on the floor.

Round Four: Jo

Jo was different. Normal voice. Normal dress. Even the hair: soft, curly, alive.

“You seem… stable,” Lance said.

“I’m not,” she replied. “I just look it.”

“Thank God. Everyone else tonight either wants to reclassify me taxonomically or convert me into an oil-based smoothie.”

Jo laughed. “They tried to patent my sweat last month.”

“Wait, what?”

“Some biotech company. Said I had rare trace compounds. Said I could help ‘unlock the lubricant economy.’ I said no.”

“That’s… beyond creepy.”

Jo sipped her drink. “I think people are mistaking adaptation for ascension.”

Lance nodded too quickly. “Exactly. Like we’re all just climbing into a different kind of skin.”

She looked at him, long and level. “Do you think we’re losing our humanity?”

He swallowed. “Maybe we’re not losing it. Maybe we’re molting it.”

They sat in silence.

The bell rang, but neither moved.

Kai, from across the room, was making faces. Lance ignored him.

Jo said, “What’s your HI?”

“Seventy-three,” he admitted.

She smiled. “Perfect. I’m seventy-four. We’d combust evenly.”

He laughed. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”

6 Train Postmortem

After the last round, Lance and Kai found each other near the exit.

“So?” Kai said. “Did you bond? Did you emulsify?”

Lance, dazed, nodded. “I think I met someone who’s still at least twenty percent water.”

“Chemically compatible?”

“Maybe.”

“You smell like you fell in love with a refinery.”

“You smell like regret and citrus.”

Kai grinned. “Let's get on the train before one of us polymerizes.”

They stepped out into the heat of the night. The air was thicker now, like a gel.
Evolution was happening. But so was dating. The subway at 11:47 p.m. was quieter than usual, but not empty. A man in a hazmat parka slept curled across four seats. A woman in biotech scrubs fed her hair through a device that extruded glossy polymers from the split ends. Somewhere near the back of the car, an electric violin hummed a dissonant, resinous tune.

They sat side by side, neither talking at first before Lance finally exhaled. “That was like speed dating in a science fiction novel written by an arsonist.”

Kai leaned back, resting his head against the vibrating wall. “And yet you stayed overtime with the one with the sweat patent.”

Lance couldn’t stop thinking about Jo - the way she’d seemed almost normal, or at least willing to pretend. She held on to some small, stubborn fragment of the old world, something human that hadn’t dissolved yet. It lingered with him as the train rattled on, tunnel lights smearing across the windows and painting his reflection in faint iridescence.

Kai watched him brood.

“You look like someone stole your catalytic enzymes,” he said.

“I’m just tired of pretending any of this is normal,” Lance replied. “The scores, the blooming, the solvent sweat - none of it.”

Kai shrugged. “Normal’s a moving target. We used to drink cow milk. Now we exfoliate with nano-lube. Adaptation is our superpower.”

“Great. I didn’t ask to evolve. I just want coffee, a mid-afternoon slump, and noodles for dinner.”

Kai smirked. “Maybe all that was a cocoon.”

Lance groaned. “You sound like a spa brochure for a dystopia.”

They fell quiet as a PSA blinked above the door: STAY FLEXIBLE: Trust the Change.

Lance rubbed his palms together. “Jo said maybe we’re not losing our humanity. Maybe we’re molting it.”

Kai nodded. “Good line.”

“It scared the hell out of me.”

Outside, a mural flashed by - a human dissolving into oil, reforming as a tree. The city above them was being rewritten in real time.

“You think we’re going to make it through this?” Lance asked.

Kai hesitated just long enough for Lance to notice.

“We’ll get somewhere,” he said. “Whether it’s where we meant to go… that’s another story.”

Lance nodded. “I think I’ll text her.”

“Jo?”

“Yeah. Just to see.”

“Good,” Kai said. “Tell her you’re at seventy-three and rising.”

Lance smiled. “Seventy-three point five, if you count tonight’s panic sweat.”

Kai clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit. Just don’t combust on me in your sleep, okay?”

“No promises.”

The train pulled into their stop. The doors sighed open.

They stepped out into the night, the air thick as syrup, warm and faintly flammable.

Somewhere above them, New York breathed like a plastic lung. And the world spun forward one molecule at a time.

Mutual Ignition

They met at a small outdoor café in the East Village, one of the few places left that still served things that steamed. Real heat. Real water vapor. Nothing extracted or synthetically aerosolized. The waitress handed them menus made from something fibrous and suspiciously flexible - likely fungal - but at least it wasn’t edible. An improvement.

Jo looked across the table at him, her eyes serious, sun-catchy, impossible to read.

“So,” she said, resting her elbows on the table, “are you still seventy-three?”

Lance exhaled. “Seventy-four point two. I know. Technically we’re no longer combustion-compatible.”

“Shame,” she said. “I was picturing a beautiful, mutual ignition. Quiet. Satisfying.”

“I could lie,” he said. “I could say I’ve plateaued.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No. I’m becoming slightly…more slippery. I left a mark on my pillow last night. Looked like engine varnish.”

Jo grinned. “That's sweet. You're leaking progress.”

They paused while a drone delivered two glasses of something brown and steaming. Jo sniffed hers.

“Smells like root,” she said. “Some kind of kelp-derived chicory hybrid?”

“I asked for coffee,” Lance muttered. “They said they can’t serve heat-roasted organics above seventy HI.”

“Policy?”

“Absorption risk. Something about lipid destabilization.”

Jo raised her glass. “To lipid destabilization.”

They clinked. The sound was soft. Dull. Like resin tapping resin.

Lance leaned in. “I’m scared.”

Jo didn’t blink. “Of what?”

“Of everything. Of waking up slick. Of not being able to sweat. Of kissing someone and tasting petroleum. Of being too late to stay human, and too early to enjoy what comes next.”

She looked down at her glass. “I miss dirt,” she said. “Real dirt. Under fingernails. You ever think about how the word gritty used to mean real?”

“Now it means non-compliant surface texture.”

Jo smiled. “Exactly.”

“I had this dream,” Lance said, “that I couldn’t stop excreting a gel from my hands. Everything I touched stuck. People, walls, birds. I was in a park and pigeons just glued to me. I couldn’t shake them off. My body kept generating this - this tacky, citrus-scented sealant.”

“That’s probably the transdermal shift. It starts in the subconscious. Your cortical folds pick it up before your skin does.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

A long silence. Around them, the city moved like a slow chemical process - shifting, unstopping. Buildings sheened with moisture-repelling coats. People’s eyes were glossier than they used to be. And the breeze carried a sweetness no one could quite identify. Like overripe fruit and ozone.

Lance finally said, “Do you still dream in flesh?”

Jo looked at him with sudden focus. “What?”

“I mean in your dreams, do you still feel like a person? Hands. Teeth. Hair. Or do you—”

“Change?”

“Yes.”

Jo tapped her fingers against the glass. “I dream in materials. Surfaces. Once, I was a sheet of mylar stretched over a desert. Another time, I was submerged in a vat of prebiotic goo and I could taste infrared.”

Lance swallowed. “That’s... abstract.”

“It was vivid.”

“And you don’t miss being human?”

Jo leaned forward. “I miss the mythology of it. The idea that we were solid, fixed, complete. But you know what being human meant, biologically?”

“What?”

“Failure modes. Expiration dates. A circulatory system like a bad plumbing job. Emotional triggers wired into scent receptors and tribal panic. We were a glorious kludge.”

“Now we’re… what? Efficient? Better?”

“We’re unfinished,” she said. “Which is the best we’ve ever been.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Her skin wasn’t exactly skin anymore, more like matte sealant with pores. Her pupils had a prism edge. But her smile was still crooked, still very much Jo.

“I like unfinished,” he said. “If you’ll still have me at seventy-four point two.”

She grinned. “Just don’t go full paraffin on me.”

“No promises,” he said. “But I’ll try to retain some friction.”

They sat in quiet agreement. And then it hit him, like a mental shockwave. The Oiling didn’t erase him; it only asked him to negotiate with himself. Wanting to be human wasn’t resistance - it was recognition. And Jo, across the table, holding shards of herself like delicate glass, offered the mirror he had been craving. The mirror that would let him see what he was, and maybe, just maybe, what he could choose to become. The café hummed around them with the low, molecular murmur of a species rewriting its own owner’s manual. Somewhere, not far away, something combusted softly. Controlled burn.