I was working as a lighting technician backstage at a Parisian fashion show when the smell of burning drew my attention. One of the racks of designer clothing had somehow caught fire beneath the hot lamps. Among them had been the wedding dress intended as the star of the show.
I’d hung those lights; when the designer’s grabbed my arm I knew I was in deep trouble. He offered me a deal – either I would stand in for the dress and in return he’d forget this ever happened, or I’d never work in fashion again. I was so rattled I just signed everything they put in front of me, and was whisked away to a machine. The Fabricator. They programmed in the designs and a second later, Ping!, out I popped, my body transformed into the very dress that had been destroyed seconds ago.
They carried me, now little more than a series of rings of white fur, to the model that was to wear me. She was beautiful; high cheekbones, full lips, six foot tall… Okay, maybe the last one was unusual even for a model, but I was starting to think that being draped over her might not be so bad.
She began to undress. Somehow I managed to squirm out of the hands carrying me and began to wriggle towards the door. The model, now naked, grabbed me and slid… his body into me. With my body now stretched tight over his slender form, my struggles became useless.
So there I was, on the catwalk of a fashion show. Afterwards, they told me there was no such thing as Defabricator. However the Fabricator was perfectly capable of remodelling me as any other item of clothing; I would continue to “work” for them, remolded and remolded to their designs. Among designers, I was to be a collectors item, a status symbol, a tool. As they pointed out, nowhere in the contract did it say I’d continue to work in fashion as a human.