In the city of Mirage, you could borrow a face like you borrowed a library book. The Face Bureau kept an archive of expressions, visages, and bone structures, licensed by those willing to lend their likeness for empathy’s sake. People borrowed faces for job interviews to overcome bias, for theater productions, for days when they could not bear their own reflection. Faces were digital masks projected via flexible skin patches. The system tracked loans; overdue faces triggered gentle reminders.
At first, the program reduced discrimination. Hiring managers judged less by default. Actors could perform roles without prosthetics. People with facial disfigurements found social interactions smoother. Critics warned of identity erosion. The Bureau enforced rules: no criminal use, consent required, logs kept. Faces came with usage guidelines: “Do not use Face #234 for public speeches; owner experiences anxiety.”
Soraya, a librarian, borrowed faces occasionally. She liked trying on smiles she couldn’t muster. One day, she borrowed a face labeled “Neutral Professional.” In the mirror, she saw a woman with cheekbones and calm eyes. She went to work. A patron froze. “That’s my sister’s face,” he whispered. Soraya flushed. She hadn’t checked lender details. She returned the face early, shaken. She realized faces were not costumes; they were ties to real people.
A scandal erupted when a politician borrowed a charismatic face for a debate without disclosure. The public felt deceived. Trust in the program wavered. The Bureau mandated visible indicators: a subtle watermark near the temple, a loan icon in public registries. Borrowing dipped. Some refused to engage with any borrowed face. Others doubled down, seeing it as tech progress.
Then a crime: a robbery committed by someone wearing a borrowed face. The owner was interrogated despite logs proving their innocence. They sued. The Bureau tightened identity verification. They added “empathy training” for borrowers, emphasizing the weight of wearing someone’s likeness. Faces on loan were no longer just data; they were stories.
Soraya joined a community group advocating for ethical face borrowing. They proposed “empathy exchanges”: before borrowing a face, meet its owner, hear their story. Uptake was slow. People wanted convenience. Soraya organized a “Face Fair,” where lenders and borrowers mingled. It was awkward and beautiful. A teenager lent his acne-scarred face proudly. A grandmother borrowed it to feel young for a day. Both cried.
Over time, the city adjusted. Borrowing became less about hiding and more about connecting. The Bureau introduced “collaborative faces,” composites created by groups for shared causes. Protesters wore a face made from 100 participants, a swarm in one visage. Police couldn’t single anyone out. It was solidarity, not anonymity.
Soraya borrowed fewer faces as she healed her own relationship with hers. She still used a “Rested” face on sleepless nights. She became a counselor at the Bureau, guiding new borrowers. She kept a framed patch of her favorite loaned face—a warm smile from a stranger who became a friend. The city of borrowed faces learned that empathy was not about pretending to be someone else but about carrying their image with respect, returning it on time, and sometimes deciding your own face was enough.