larkrivers

[larkrivers]

aZylum #13

Previous Part #12 here

More than.

Because now his brother gets to nap in a garden, and Eugene might get to have a conversation with Gabby within hours of Gabe threatening to carve his eyes out with a melon baller.

It takes him almost an hour to come around (no one comes by with the located phone, so Eugene braces himself to ask—but later), but sure enough, when Gabriel stirs, it’s Gabby’s shy smile that answers Eugene’s own.

“Heeey Gigi.”

“Smart move, with the pills.”

He ducks his head, half shrugging, “Seemed like it was worth a try. Wanted to get to say hi this time.”

“Hi.”

“Hi~”

They sit there grinning like a couple of idiots, before Gabby shifts to try to sit up a little more and exhales at the effort, blinking rapidly. “Oh—they gave me the good pills. Okay—nevermind that. How have you been?”

“Really good,” Eugene lies.

Well. He is thirty-two days sober again. And chilling in a garden with his brother.

(And he’s going to have to figure out some way to arm wrestle Nat into accepting child support—but that’s Tomorrow!Eugene’s problem. Today is good.)

“You?”

“Been worse~” Gabby says wryly. “Did I miss your graduation? I lost track of time last… something. Sorry…”

“Nothing to be sorry for—it’s only my Associates degree, they don’t really have a graduations, just… ‘here’s your certificate, are you coming back for your bachelors?’”

Or maybe they do, but he’d been… on a party. Got his grades and broke under the relief he’d passed his last few credits—hadn’t remembered oh yea, they give you documentation about that don’t they until he’d gotten it in the mail a week and a half later...

[larkrivers]

aZylum #12

Previous Part #11 here

So instead Eugene exchanges a silent greeting with Jenner and tiptoes across the grass to the chair next to Gabriel’s, and… just enjoys a moment of peace in his brothers’ company. He looks exhausted—but then he’s always looked exhausted, as far back as Eugene can remember. Even at his best… he got his mother’s cheekbones but their father’s eyebags. He’s always looked a little like a zombie—or a mummy. Gaunt.

What you get when The Girl From Ipanema has a baby with Slenderman.

At least he’s gotten most of his color back, with more sunlight time—and on a regular basis, finally. He looks good.

And that he fell asleep so soon after morning meds feels like some kind of miracle, Eugene doesn’t want to jinx it…

Eugene frowns, waves to catch Jenner’s eye and mimes a shot in the arm, mouthing ‘Sedative?’

It doesn’t really make sense—if Gabe swiped a cell phone—even knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep it for long—he wouldn’t have done anything to attract attention (certainly not enough to get forcibly sedated) for as long as his self control could hold out…

Which Eugene knows is a lot longer than three hours.

Jenner rattles an invisible pill cup. ‘Requested—three days ago. Gabby.’

Gabby requested… oh.

Eugene almost laughs. Gabby is conscious when Gabe is fronting, but it doesn’t work the other way around. Gabby weighted the dice in his favor.

He’s fighting back again.

The way he used to, when they were kids.

It’s taken them both a long time to adjust to being out of that pit Eugene’s mom had him in, but every cent Eugene spent suing her for Gabriel’s conservatorship was worth it.

[larkrivers]

aZylum #11

Previous Part #10 here

Back out in the lobby, Okpokpo, the orderly playing receptionist for the morning, buzzes him through the airlock to the inside corridors of the facility. Most everyone has sorted themselves into to their preferred haunts by this time of day, he meanders around the various lounges and libraries to the sunroom leading to the Camellia Garden. It used to be all one open area, before they made the transition from clients to patients; after, with more people more likely to struggle with each other’s eccentricities, they divided it up via ivied fencing—now you can see who’s in which garden out the windows of the rooms surrounding them, before you pick which one you want to go into, but they’re screened off from each other.

The doors are propped open, since the weather is nice, Jenner is reading a paperback with a homemade book cover that suggests it’s either spicey or murdery (either way, Eugene makes a note to ask her if it’s any good) but Gabriel is napping in one of the lounge chairs, and Eugene doesn’t want to wake him. Gabe is Gabriel’s anger, and getting woken up makes anyone irritable.

If he wakes up on his own (if he doesn’t have a nightmare), he will, most likely, be Gabby, Gabby still technically being the host, even if Gabe fronts more often. He’s… neutral. Baseline. Lacking negative stimulus long enough, he’s who Gabriel will, eventually, revert to.

[larkrivers]

aZylum #10

Previous Part #9 here

“If we can’t find it we’re going to have to search him,” Dr. Meyers warns him regretfully, “I don’t want to spoil your visit if you do get Gabby, but on the off chance mentioning it doesn’t wake Gabe, maybe as you’re wrapping up to go? I’d much rather spare them both that if possible.”

“Yeah… thank you.”

And that, more than anything else, is why Eugene picked Ellington Park. For ten years Gabriel’s doctors have been treating Gabe like he’s some sort of terrorist they don’t dare negotiate with, like there’s some future hypothetical hostage that’s more important than the one he’s actually got. Dr. Meyers doesn’t like Gabe any more than anyone else does, but he treats him like just another one of his patients, because he is. Gabe is part of Gabriel, all his frustration and bitterness and anger, and if he can’t draw Gabby out on what happened* without triggering Gabe’s takeover, then he talks to Gabe.

*Besides the obvious: that their father is a narcissist and Eugene’s mother is a sociopath—and those are not terms he uses in the non-clinical sense. Eugene was too young, at the age Dr. Meyers estimates Gabriel started splitting, to be able to offer much insight into specifics… Eugene isn’t even sure what happened to the other alters—he does remember Gabby acting weird showing symptoms before Gabe formed, he can only assume Gabe’s statement ‘I ate them’ means there was some kind of merger?

But that kind of thing doesn’t usually happen in a vacuum—status quo—nothing does.

Now if only they can get Gabe to stop lying like it’s an Olympic sport he’s trying to sweep all three medals for they might finally be able to make some headway.

[larkrivers]

aZylum #9

Previous Part #8 here

The nurses here are the pride of the industry—all the staff are (except for Winnie, but she’s a special case—and she’s not bad at her job, quite the opposite, it’s just that food service isn’t the kind of profession you need a four year degree and a criminal background check for*) but nobody’s perfect.

(*Which isn’t to say they didn’t do the background check, just that in her case there were very few things they wouldn’t have overlooked, given the circumstances.)

“Mmm—yeap—that’s Thompson’s phone number all right. Yikes. See this is exactly why we have the no phones past the lobby policy! How’d he get his password?”

“That is the million dollar question—but I’m more worried about any apps Thompson left himself logged into…” Most banking apps sign you out automatically, but most shopping ones don’t, neither do most social media…

And Gabe has mellowed dramatically in the past three years since being moved to Ellington Park (hasn’t physically attacked anyone the past two) but he’s still a troll. He won’t risk losing privileges spamming anyone else with anything as bad as what he knows Eugene will put up with, but he’s not above changing all of Thompson’s passwords or buying him a thousand dollars worth of canned spaghettios on Amazon.

Dr. Meyers sighs. “I’ll let Thompson know, he and Nguyen can search his room—he’s in the Camellia Garden, Jenner’s attending…”

“Thanks,” Eugene says, “I’ll leave that with you, then—and these—“ He passes over his wallet and badge. Gabe isn’t the only patient here with sticky fingers.

[larkrivers]

aZylum #8

Previous Part #7 here

There are other patients with jobs—those that expressed an interest in having something practical to do—who’s symptoms didn’t worsen for trying it out; Graham works in the gardens and helps unload the delivery trucks, Lawrence enjoys inventory (or anything that involves counting or organizing), and he and Queen Elenoria d’Orvalé sort the mail. They all require a little assistance. Graham, for example, can’t remember what days deliveries come, Lawrence can’t do food inventory because meat makes him angry, and even if he’s better at controlling his temper now he doesn’t need the added stress, and while Her Majesty knows it’s beneath her occasionally her curiosity gets the better of her and has to be reminded a Queen’s duty is to delegate, and as a leader she needs to set an example with regard to obeying mail privacy laws.

(Eugene thinks if she had really been a queen, she would have been a fairly decent one. He agrees with a lot of her politics. Even her take on the divine right to rule is rooted, emotionally, in a sense of responsibility to her people. He likes her.)

He swipes his passcard to get through the security door to the offices, and Dr. Meyers’ is open—he only closes it when he’s on a call or in a session, but Eugene knocks anyway to be polite—the aging doctor startles up from his tablet.

“Ohf—great Caesar’s ghost, son, now you’re both trying to kill me.” He chuckles. “Pull up a chair—you’re coming to see me first, I take it…” He squints in thought before sighing. “Gabe swiped somebody’s cell phone again, didn’t he?”

Eugene unlocks his own and punches up the texts, nodding. “Here—whoever gave him his meds this morning, do you think?”

[larkrivers]

aZylum #7

Previous Part #6 here

He waves back, but when several heads out of the audience swivel to rubber-neck he jerks a thumb to let her know he can’t stay and she blushes, remembering she’s in the middle of her tour, and nods—claps to get everyone’s attention back on her.

“Um—like I was saying—people deserve to be treated like people, and you would be surprised just how much can be accomplished just by respecting someone’s dignity as a human being even where you can’t provide them their full automin—autonomy.” Her voice is muffled through the door, but it’s a speech she’s been giving for years, Eugene has heard it before. “I am living, breathing proof that the Ellington-Meyers approach can be successful in rehabilitating even patients with violent behavioral issues…”

Eugene bites back a smile and heads for the offices wing. Throwing her (hardback)(heavy) presentation binder at the reporter who had asked her how she felt about being exploited as ‘inspiration porn’ to advertise Ellington Park’s services had… well it had set them back a little bit with regards to her case being a success, but it had certainly communicated her feelings on the idea she was being used very clearly.

(And yes, of course he’d tried to sue—but she’d counter-sued for verbal assault and a fifty-something reporter for a newspaper that was basically a tabloid anymore VS. a sobbing, baby faced girl with an intellectual disability hadn’t gone well for him.)

(Yes she’d had to take a seminar on professionalism in the workplace and go back to anger management with Dr. Peterson, but Eugene thinks the whole experience was actually really good for her—it was her first big stumble dealing with the general public, but she came out of it glowing with confidence in her ability to deal with the situation better next time.)

[larkrivers]

aZylum #6

Previous Part #5 here

It’s run down a bit since Dr. Meyers took over in 2006, after Dr. Ellington passed away; he had to cut costs somewhere to get the board of directors to agree to start taking insurance, so the facilities could extend their assistance to the ~proletariat, but mostly only on the outside—and what it’s lost cosmetically it’s more than made up for in the amount of good it actually does. Yes they had to tear out the climbing roses and replace the windows with the wire-reinforced kind of glass and install outside locking doors on the high-security wing, but they have a high security wing now; it’s an actual hospital, where patients who need more support than just therapy and medication can still have some kind of quality of life.

And Eugene knows pouring his trust fund into expanding the project is probably going to go to hell in a handbasket, just like the Kirkbrides did, but he can’t not try. If they can just keep them small, like this, no more than forty patients per facility, staff-and-a-half—no more overworked and underpaid care providers—no, it’s not cost effective, but if you have Wayne money you have a greater impact spending it like Bruce than dressing up like a Bat.

Inside, Beth is reading her spiel about how much Ellington Park has helped her to the handful of assorted professionals gathered in the small conference room off the main lobby—families of patients and prospective patients can make appointments as needed but oversight (spies from the board of directors), reporters, university students, etc., are only allowed tours on a quarterly basis—she happens to glance up to see Eugene through the windows and loses her place, waving excitedly—

[larkrivers]

aZylum #5

parts 1-4 here

Ellington Park (Ellington-Meyers Mental Health Care and Support Services.) is a fifteen minute drive past the city limits, tucked away behind a copse of pine trees planted so real estate developers would stop lodging complaints about the presence of a sanitarium bringing down property values—the wide, paved lane turning off the highway marked only with the plain little green sign naming it Lane Avenue for similar reasons. It isn’t until you pass through the first gate and turn left into the small parking lot you can see the sign. Arrows underneath split visitors into Parking and Deliveries—Eugene turns left, and pulls up into his usual space by the oleander bush. Takes a series of deep breaths and rests his head on the steering wheel; gives himself to the count of a hundred to drag his feet, before scrubbing a hand over his face and getting out.

Originally built in the mid 90’s as more of mental wellness retreat for the wealthy looking to bridge the gap between getting out of rehab and returning to their lives, it was designed after the old Kirkbride philosophy (just with much stricter vetting policies and the kind of ethics only catering to people with an army of lawyers can inspire) of focusing on ‘rest’ and ‘healing’; private rooms a bit smaller but otherwise just as comfortable as those of any luxury hotel, good food—the cafeteria a ‘restaurant style dining experience’—no external windows, but built villa style around a large central courtyard all the internal windows face, providing both sunlight and a garden view…

[larkrivers]

They have fun, she’s his best friend too, but were never going to make it as more, even before she—he—the pregnancy.

(It’s nobody’s fault. They were careful, but no birth control is a hundred percent effective.)

He’s on his thirty-first thirty-day chip, he can’t hold a job—he doesn’t really need to but that’s not the point—he’s a mess, and she deserves better, and he’s so so so desperately glad she knows it.

And he doesn’t want to think it’s going to take him another twenty years to get his act together, but… god. Stability is so important for children and he can’t give him—her—them—whatever pronouns they end up settling on—Eugene can’t give anyone that.

Except, apparently, Gabby, If Gabe knew what day it was.

…and Nat knew. Hence the break-in-breakfast.

Maybe there’s hope for him yet?

Her expression softens—not that it was particularly sour to begin with. “And I’m so proud of you for that. C’mere—“ She comes around their—his—little kitchen dinette to cup his face in her hands and pulls him down—doesn’t kiss him; blows a raspberry against his mouth.

“Blech—ohmigod you’re so gross—“

“I’m adorable and you adore me. Have some coffee. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? I can sit in the waiting room and wave emotional-support-pompoms?”

He laughs at the mental image, but shakes his head. Does as he’s told, pours himself a cup and slouches into one of the chairs to try to wake up right. “God no. I don’t want him knowing you exist.”

Memory is a tricky thing—it isn’t static, is the problem; every time you call the file up, it fragments, corrodes, you edit it with your emotional state, internal bias, additional context, data—like other people’s accounts of the same event. Barring the impairments in development that result in eidetic memory, the more times you remember something, the less likely it is you are actually remembering what happened so much as how you (currently) feel about what happened.

Formative memory, naturally, is the worst. The experiences that shaped you, that formed the bedrock of how you interpret and understand and react to the world around you… as sharp as a knife, and as reliable as a fever dream. There are things Eugene remembers very clearly that he knows for a fact didn’t happen, because they couldn’t have happened. There was no cottonwood tree in their backyard, because they never had a backyard, they grew up in a high rise flat in DC. He never helped his mother with the dishes because his mother had never and would never have touched a dirty dish in her life.

(They had ‘people’ for that.)

The facts are that his brother Gabe is very vocal about how much he hates him, has always hated him.

But when Eugene closes his eyes—every time he closes his eyes—he’s four years old again, and the sun is warm but the air is cold and Gabby is pulling his own sweater down over Eugene’s head, after he’d lost his own jacket playing in the creek behind the park, because he didn’t want him to get sick.

“I’m always going to protect you.”

The fact is Eugene has two brothers. Dissociative Identity Disorder.

And Gabe might hate him, but Gabby doesn’t.

[larkrivers]

And coffee.

His heart twists and he sighs, rubs his eyes and pulls on a clean pair of boxers before fishing for the cleanest of his chair-clothes.

Wonders if he could sucker her into doing his laundry for him one last time…

She’s unloading the dishwasher, when he pads out to the kitchen, and Eugene leans in the doorway just to watch her for… however long she’ll give him.

“Slow dancing on the boulevard in the quiet moments while the city’s still dark…”

Nat glares at the stereo the same time he does, jabbing at the switch to turn it off.

“Nope—don’t need that this morning.”

“If I took it all back, would you forgive me?” He jokes.

Half jokes.

She laughs—guffaws, really. “Sweetie you didn’t mean it when you said it, and I do forgive you. But—just for future reference, yanno—the next time your girlfriend tells you she’s pregnant, the correct response is ‘congratulations—let’s buy a minivan!’ Not ‘oh my god tell me you’re not keeping it!’”

“That is not what I said—“ Because it wasn’t—

“No, there was a lot more stuttering, but—hey! No!“ She snaps the dishtowel at him. “Eugene Alexander Vanya—you were having an actual literal panic attack. I love you, boytoy—babyboy, bestie—Nat-Cat practices radical forgiveness, but you aren’t ready to be a dad and I’m not gonna put that on you. End of discussion. If we’re both single when jellybean runs off to college we’ll give it another whirl~”

“I’m going back to meetings...” He protests weakly—even though he knows…

Memory is a tricky thing—it isn’t static, is the problem; every time you call the file up, it fragments, corrodes, you edit it with your emotional state, internal bias, additional context, data—like other people’s accounts of the same event. Barring the impairments in development that result in eidetic memory, the more times you remember something, the less likely it is you are actually remembering what happened so much as how you (currently) feel about what happened.

Formative memory, naturally, is the worst. The experiences that shaped you, that formed the bedrock of how you interpret and understand and react to the world around you… as sharp as a knife, and as reliable as a fever dream. There are things Eugene remembers very clearly that he knows for a fact didn’t happen, because they couldn’t have happened. There was no cottonwood tree in their backyard, because they never had a backyard, they grew up in a high rise flat in DC. He never helped his mother with the dishes because his mother had never and would never have touched a dirty dish in her life.

(They had ‘people’ for that.)

The facts are that his brother Gabe is very vocal about how much he hates him, has always hated him.

But when Eugene closes his eyes—every time he closes his eyes—he’s four years old again, and the sun is warm but the air is cold and Gabby is pulling his own sweater down over Eugene’s head, after he’d lost his own jacket playing in the creek behind the park, because he didn’t want him to get sick.

“I’m always going to protect you.”

The fact is Eugene has two brothers. Dissociative Identity Disorder.

And Gabe might hate him, but Gabby doesn’t.

[larkrivers]

The problem is—

Eugene’s phone alarm goes off—seven o’clock sharp—and he rolls over to slap at his nightstand to turn it off—

But that turns dnd off, and the sudden silence is just as quickly inundated with chimes alerting him he has multiple text messages.

And like an absolute idiot he fishes his phone up to check them without thinking about what day it is; is treated to a slew of increasingly gorey photos of dead animals.

Because—the problem is—Gabby isn’t the one fronting, most of the time.

He doesn’t delete them, because he’ll need them to show Dr. Ellington later, thumbs the mic button and rasps, “Nice try. See you at ten. Heart emoji.”

The response comes too fast to actually be a response, he must have already been in the process of typing it out.

Your eyes are so pretty! Completely unrelated request: can you bring me a melon baller?

Eugene snorts. The best part of waking up is your yandere brother flirting with you~

But he doesn’t say that, because Gabe is only conscious when he’s fronting, but if… if the body is conscious, Gabby is conscious—he sees and hears everything Gabe does—and Eugene tries not to make his life any harder than it already is.

He drags himself out of bed, showers and brushes his teeth and thinks about shaving…

Only half brothers, he and Gabriel look nothing alike, except that they got their father’s… beard-hairline?

And it’s a stupid thing to get worked up about—would be even if they did look more alike—but…

But it’s stupid. And it’s only a days’ worth of scruff, so. He flips off the mirror and leaves it.

Besides, he can smell that somebody has broken into his apartment to start cooking bacon.

Memory is a tricky thing—it isn’t static, is the problem; every time you call the file up, it fragments, corrodes, you edit it with your emotional state, internal bias, additional context, data—like other people’s accounts of the same event. Barring the impairments in development that result in eidetic memory, the more times you remember something, the less likely it is you are actually remembering what happened so much as how you (currently) feel about what happened.

Formative memory, naturally, is the worst. The experiences that shaped you, that formed the bedrock of how you interpret and understand and react to the world around you… as sharp as a knife, and as reliable as a fever dream. There are things Eugene remembers very clearly that he knows for a fact didn’t happen, because they couldn’t have happened. There was no cottonwood tree in their backyard, because they never had a backyard, they grew up in a high rise flat in DC. He never helped his mother with the dishes because his mother had never and would never have touched a dirty dish in her life.

(They had ‘people’ for that.)

The facts are that his brother Gabe is very vocal about how much he hates him, has always hated him.

But when Eugene closes his eyes—every time he closes his eyes—he’s four years old again, and the sun is warm but the air is cold and Gabby is pulling his own sweater down over Eugene’s head, after he’d lost his own jacket playing in the creek behind the park, because he didn’t want him to get sick.

“I’m always going to protect you.”

The fact is Eugene has two brothers. Dissociative Identity Disorder.

And Gabe might hate him, but Gabby doesn’t.

[larkrivers]

Memory is a tricky thing—it isn’t static, is the problem; every time you call the file up, it fragments, corrodes, you edit it with your emotional state, internal bias, additional context, data—like other people’s accounts of the same event. Barring the impairments in development that result in eidetic memory, the more times you remember something, the less likely it is you are actually remembering what happened so much as how you (currently) feel about what happened.

Formative memory, naturally, is the worst. The experiences that shaped you, that formed the bedrock of how you interpret and understand and react to the world around you… as sharp as a knife, and as reliable as a fever dream. There are things Eugene remembers very clearly that he knows for a fact didn’t happen, because they couldn’t have happened. There was no cottonwood tree in their backyard, because they never had a backyard, they grew up in a high rise flat in DC. He never helped his mother with the dishes because his mother had never and would never have touched a dirty dish in her life.

(They had ‘people’ for that.)

The facts are that his brother Gabe is very vocal about how much he hates him, has always hated him.

But when Eugene closes his eyes—every time he closes his eyes—he’s four years old again, and the sun is warm but the air is cold and Gabby is pulling his own sweater down over Eugene’s head, after he’d lost his own jacket playing in the creek behind the park, because he didn’t want him to get sick.

“I’m always going to protect you.”

The fact is Eugene has two brothers. Dissociative Identity Disorder.

And Gabe might hate him, but Gabby doesn’t.

[larkrivers]

aZylum

By Lark Rivers

Genre: psychological horror, murder mystery, home gardening

Rating: T/M (T for action/violence and occasional language, M for discussion of… well, the kind of things you discuss in therapy)

Summary:

Eugene Vanya checked out his first psychology textbook when he was eleven years old—just after the first time his brother tried to kill him. Or the first time he realized his brother was trying to kill him. Or—god—he hopes his brother was trying to kill him…

Fifteen years later he has a degree in criminal psychology, a therapist of his own, a growing collection of thirty-day sobriety chips, and a panic attack over getting his girlfriend pregnant, but not much in the way of answers.

But! This is the year that changes.

(Oh and the zombie apocalypse happens. But that’s—that’s less important.)

[larkrivers]

But—No.

Bianti likes a good holo as much as the next person, but if there is alien life out there—and she’s not saying there can’t be—but it’s hardly going to be like Star Trek, where everyone’s a carbon based humanoid who can survive in the same atmosphere.

(Yes she knows there was an in-story explanation. Real life is not a story. There are no themes or callbacks of plot twists or dramatic irony—just the instincts that keep you alive and the desire to be more than just those instincts—and the muddy, pit-marked battlefield between them.)

(Bianti made up her mind a long time ago. Everybody dies. While she’s alive, she’s going to be more.)

So. Not an alien.

But even if they were an alien it wouldn’t matter. People are people.

(She has zero reason to assume something her size and shape—generally—that spoke—isn’t a someone.)

“You’re alright, we’re alright…”. She finds their head, their hair—they have hair, cropped short, like hers, but longer (or maybe not longer, but not curly), she smooths it away from their missing face, hoping the gesture is still a comforting one.

They don’t have ears either. Or—not a human kind of ear. They spoke, so they must be able to hear—unless they’re deaf—but—stop.

Stop.

They’re spliced, obviously. Plenty of animals don’t have an ear with an external shell. Chickens. Lizards. Fish. She doesn’t know why anyone would want that kind of a look… but it’s not her body, it’s not her business. Odds are they have the means to hear her—and they seemed to respond to her voice—so she keeps talking.

“We’re breathing—that’s the important part—we’re in a hospital—of some kind. Someone will be coming soon. It’s alright.”

But they don’t.

Her pop-pop used to say there was a beginning, once, but we’re all born into someone else’s story, and most of us die long before ours can truly be said to have ended…

Gianna Bianti has died three times (because stasio very much is death, just without the commitment—there’s no soul that departs for greener pastures; revival is just a matter of developing the technology to do so) the fourth time she is born, she knows something has gone wrong.

Because coming up from stasio is a much longer, much more painful process than going under. Freezing someone is easy, and once humanity mastered gene splicing, preventing tissue damage was as simple as tweaking woodfrog DNA to be compatible with that of a mammal and grafting it to the to shiver reflex. Frequent flyers will occasionally lose the odd extremity, a finger or toe—rarely an eye, but it does happen—but a run of starfish will fix you right up—

But thawing—

They can’t restart your heart until your circulatory system won’t be pumping slush, but even after, it’s agonizing; the first ten days they have to keep you pumped so full of fentaphine you have to do a mandatory stint in rehab before you can sign up for your next haul.

She should not be in this much pain.

[larkrivers]

“Qué cojo—“

But how is the more immediate question: because they’re still choking.

She thumps them twice on the back—and it wins her another wheeze—but an inhaled one—before returning to the search; flutters her hands over their face—but they don’t have one, just a blank expanse of skin—no eyes, no nose—convex—no features of any kind, like a mask—but it’s not a mask, it’s flesh—alive—but they have to have some kind of airway for it to be blocked—she slides her fingers down under their chin and—there—

It’s hard—boney—it feels like knuckles—they flex against her touch—but if it isn’t a mouth it serves the same purpose, she feels a puff of air and finds a feeding tube, the same diameter as hers, going in… feels them swallow under her other hand, and one of theirs comes up to bump against her elbow.

“…dazzi…”

They cough again, and the horrible grating sound in their chest hitches once—twice—and then resolves into a low rumbling noise she recognizes as…

Purring.

They’re purring.

Of course they are. They don’t have a face. Why wouldn’t they be purring?

“Yea—there you go, you’re alright.” She takes the questing hand—and tells herself the three fingers and two thumbs—one on each side of the palm—is just… extreme splicing. Things were bound to go a little nuts once it hit the public market. Extreme body-modding is as old as tattoos—probably older.

Because what’s the alternative, aliens?

“…azango—dazzikha…azzi…”

“Help is coming, you’re alright. I’m freaking out, but you’re gonna be okay. Just breathe.”

Her pop-pop used to say there was a beginning, once, but we’re all born into someone else’s story, and most of us die long before ours can truly be said to have ended…

Gianna Bianti has died three times (because stasio very much is death, just without the commitment—there’s no soul that departs for greener pastures; revival is just a matter of developing the technology to do so) the fourth time she is born, she knows something has gone wrong.

Because coming up from stasio is a much longer, much more painful process than going under. Freezing someone is easy, and once humanity mastered gene splicing, preventing tissue damage was as simple as tweaking woodfrog DNA to be compatible with that of a mammal and grafting it to the to shiver reflex. Frequent flyers will occasionally lose the odd extremity, a finger or toe—rarely an eye, but it does happen—but a run of starfish will fix you right up—

But thawing—

They can’t restart your heart until your circulatory system won’t be pumping slush, but even after, it’s agonizing; the first ten days they have to keep you pumped so full of fentaphine you have to do a mandatory stint in rehab before you can sign up for your next haul.

She should not be in this much pain.

[larkrivers]

There are four basic fear responses, fight, flight, freeze and fawn, and it isn’t entirely a misconception that people tend towards one moreso than the others, but the type of stimulus eliciting the fear does matter—a noise in the dark is a fundamentally different threat from waking up to water in your ears—Bianti freezes.

And then chides herself; she’s not a child—she’s in a hospital. Nothing jumps out of the dark to eat her; nothing is going to.

The obvious explanation is that she doesn’t have the room to herself, she’s doubled up with another patient, the pool is shared (larger than she assumed); which doesn’t seem very hygienic but the water does have a distinctly antiseptic smell to it so… It is what it is. She’s sure the whole setup will make more sense once she can see it, and everything has an explanation.

“Sorry—“ She rasps—quietly, in case she hasn’t actually woken them—

But the response is a thin, wheezing moan, followed by a choking noise—and she swears under her breath—that’s respiratory distress.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright.” She drags herself closer—finds where her catheter line disappears down a grate—and yea, there’s a second one one—moves around the assembly to keep from pinching one the tubes, finds a leg—they’re on their back, like she was—a hip, a shoulder—finds the other one and heaves to roll them into their side towards her. The water is shallow, less than ten centimeters, if she had to estimate, you couldn’t drown unless you rolled into your stomach—and presumably there’s a sensor for that—she finds their cheek and brings her hand down to their mouth to clear the airway—

They don’t have a mouth.

Her pop-pop used to say there was a beginning, once, but we’re all born into someone else’s story, and most of us die long before ours can truly be said to have ended…

Gianna Bianti has died three times (because stasio very much is death, just without the commitment—there’s no soul that departs for greener pastures; revival is just a matter of developing the technology to do so) the fourth time she is born, she knows something has gone wrong.

Because coming up from stasio is a much longer, much more painful process than going under. Freezing someone is easy, and once humanity mastered gene splicing, preventing tissue damage was as simple as tweaking woodfrog DNA to be compatible with that of a mammal and grafting it to the to shiver reflex. Frequent flyers will occasionally lose the odd extremity, a finger or toe—rarely an eye, but it does happen—but a run of starfish will fix you right up—

But thawing—

They can’t restart your heart until your circulatory system won’t be pumping slush, but even after, it’s agonizing; the first ten days they have to keep you pumped so full of fentaphine you have to do a mandatory stint in rehab before you can sign up for your next haul.

She should not be in this much pain.