#don't fucking look at the empty slot for my drone i have two of them there and they were working too fast i had to slow them down ok LMAO

[ruvviks]

SLIME RANCHER 1 ➤ the ranch at night

[transitverse]

Eggshells: Chapter 5

WORDS: 2192 CHAPTERS: 5/9 CHARACTERS: Aubrey, Kaveh CONTENT WARNINGS: A little bit of weird eye stuff

Aubrey opens up... again. Kaveh is definitely not concerned at all.

Soundtrack: Twelve - tide/edit

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that Aubrey is awake when you get up for work a few hours later--she did spend most of yesterday asleep, after all--but it does, a little bit. You almost forgot she was there, which means you jump when you open the living room door and find her sitting straight up, staring at the opposite wall.

“Jesus-- Hey.” Trying to look like you didn’t nearly just throw coffee on the floor, you wait until she turns to you, which takes a couple of seconds. “You’re up early.”

 “I’m always up early.” 

“Right. How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay in the end?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. I’m… fine.” This time, you decide not to question it.

“Good. Did you, uh-- Do you want a drink, or something to eat?”

“...Coffee would be nice.”

“Sure.” You zip back to the kitchen to pour a second mug for her and return to the living room, where you sit beside her with your own. She cradles the cup in her hands with her legs pulled right up to her chest. It strikes you as odd, initially, given yesterday’s admission about her lack of taste, but perhaps it’s just as much for her other senses as it would be for that. Going through the motions, the scent, the warmth, even if she can't taste it. It’s something to focus on.

“Are you gonna be okay on your own today?” you ask, taking a sip of your own drink. “You can always call me or something, if you need to.”

“...Yeah.” She nods without looking up from her coffee. “I won’t… trash the place, or  do anything stupid.”

You find yourself chuckling. “Good. I trust you. If you want anything from the store, I can swing by and pick it up on my way home later, so let me know.”

“What if something happens to you at work?”

The question takes a second to sink in.

“It won’t,” you say, once you’ve processed it. “I’ll be fine. It’s a low-risk job in broad daylight.”

“What if it does? And then I’m stuck here, on my own, after they said I shouldn’t be doing a lot, and--then you’re hurt, too--”

“Aubrey, Aubrey, Aubrey.” You reach over, pat her on the shoulder. She stops dead and stares at you. “Don’t freak out. It’ll be fine, okay?” you insist, squeezing her shoulder for emphasis. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. And if it does, I know people who we can fall back on, who can come and help you out. It’s okay.”

She looks skeptical, but after a second, she sighs, nods, and relaxes back against the couch.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry. I get why you’re worried. I can check in with you over the course of the day, if it’ll help.”

“...Yeah. It would.”

“Sure. Okay. I’ll let you know when I’m off for lunch, or something, and whenever else I have a spare minute.” You’re already knocking back the last of your coffee at this point, and rising to your feet for a refill. “Alright, I’m hungry. Are you gonna eat now, too?”

She nods and follows you out into the kitchen.

Breakfast is quiet, but comfortable: you, flipping eggs in a pan; Aubrey, slowly pulling apart a meal bar in between sips of coffee; the radio on, but turned down low to provide some background noise without disturbing the peace. It's nice, actually, having the company. It's been a little while since you had a roommate, and Aubrey is content to just exist alongside you as you go about your usual morning routine. 

You point a few things out to her before you leave--how the coffee machine works, where you keep the tea, how to work the electronics manually if she can't tap into them. Knowing she has no need to use most of the kitchen is a weight off both your minds, you think. No risk of her accidentally setting anything on fire, unless she does something truly, astonishingly, spectacularly wrong mixing a fucking protein shake.

You keep your promise, and ping her a message every few hours or so, just to let her know you're still on your feet. You don't get a whole lot in response, but then, you don't really need to. She just needs reassurance that you're doing okay; you just need to know that she isn't in a panic.

(When you leave that evening, you consider picking up the pamphlets on psychiatric support for her, but decide against it. You said yourself that she doesn't have to think about coming back to work for a few weeks yet. It's too soon after her clash with the infirmary staff. She’ll get there. One thing at a time.)

***

You arrive home to find Aubrey in place on the couch, TV on, empty Soylent cup beside her. You notice, now, how much better she really looks since she left medical; hair washed, fresh clothes on, the bags under her eyes noticeably faded.

"Hey." You shrug your coat off, hang it up, and lean in through the doorway. "How are you doing?"

“Not bad,” she answers, smiling slightly as she cocks her head at you. “Better here than in a hospital bed.”

“Looks like.” You return the smile as you pull your shoes off. “Your side’s not giving you grief?”

She shrugs. “Not really. It’s fine.”

“Cool. Hey, I’m starving, so I’m gonna go make a start on dinner. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

You make yourself busy in the kitchen, and Aubrey joins you a few minutes later, bundled up in her blankets again.

"Do you mind if I watch?"

"Sure," you answer, nodding towards the dining table. "Pull up a chair, if you want." She does, and plops herself down beside you, watching--contentedly?--while you chop onions and garlic.

"You know, I ate an onion raw for ten nuyen one time."

"Seriously?" You laugh and look over at her. "I mean, I guess not being able to taste anything has its perks, huh?"

"Yeah. Helps when you've only got one set of working tear ducts, too." Your eyes linger on the cybernetic in her left eye socket. Your curiosity just keeps on getting the better of you.

"So… can I ask you about that eye?" you venture. "I mean, I know the deal with cybernetics, obviously, but…"

"You've never seen one like this?"

"Most people tend to go for something… subtle. Or cosmetic." Hers is certainly not the former, and judging by the distinctive scarring and--as far as you've been able to tell--lack of an eyelid, it's safe to say it's not the latter, either, unless she’s a woman of unusual tastes.

"Yeah. Well." Aubrey looks off at the wall for a moment, and you're concerned you've pushed the conversation too far until she turns back to you. "This is… It does other stuff.”

"What kind of other stuff? "

"Can I show you something? Promise you won't get grossed out?"

"O... kay?" Before you can ask any more questions, her left eye has popped clean out of the socket and zips around her in a loop, coming to a stop in mid-air a foot or two away from her.

"It's a drone," she explains, as you stare at the thing (and do your best not to stare at the empty eye socket; you catch the glint of light on metal on the interior and that’s plenty enough for you). "It works as an eye, does all the stuff you'd probably expect from a fancy cybereye, but I can pilot it around like any other drone, too."

"Doesn't that feel weird? Popping it in and out like that?”

She shrugs. "I don’t feel much around there at all. You get used to it. I used to feel sick seeing two places at once, but you get used to that, too." Well, you don’t know what the fuck to make of this. Your best guess had been that it was an archaic piece that was all she could access or afford, but it seems you were very sorely mistaken. For a drone, it’s tiny, and completely silent, on top of lacking any visible method of propulsion. This is not something she picked off the shelf at any old clinic.

"Where did you get that thing? Something like that can’t come cheap."

Aubrey looks down and sucks on her lip, as the drone slots itself back into place in her eye socket.

"I was moving with some bad people, before I got this job," she says, eventually. "I had to do some shitty things, and I had some shitty things done to me. I had to… make some sacrifices to survive in that world."

"Is that why you…" You nod vaguely in her direction. "With the arms, too?"

"...Yeah." It takes her a moment, but she nods slowly. "Look, I don't… want to get into it."

"Right. Of course." You hardly register what you're doing as you scrape the ingredients into the pan and push them around. She's said so little, but revealed so much. "I'm… sorry that you had to go through that."

She's silent, at first. Then:

"Thanks," she says, quietly. She props one arm up on the counter and leans her head against it. You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, and you swear you see a tear roll down her cheek.

But you can't be sure. You're not looking properly. You shouldn't comment. You turn your attention back to cooking and start chopping chillies instead.

"How'd you find this job, anyway?" you ask, taking the initiative to set the conversation back on a more positive course. "It's a big leap, to go from… what, gangs--?" (You look at her, and she nods) "--from gangs to working private security overnight."

"A friend tipped me off that you were hiring, and…" She trails off and shrugs her left shoulder slightly, her gaze darting from you to the floor and back again. "Can I tell you something?"

"What?" Because that doesn't sound like this is about to get sketchy at all.

"They… called in a favour for me. They got my application in front of the right people, and… I don't know. If they did anything else, they didn't tell me. All I know is I passed through all the interview stages, and here I am."

"Aubrey…"

"I needed this job, okay?" She spits the words out with unexpected aggression, her expression suddenly sour. "You know where I'd be without this? Hanging out at some shitty, crusty bar, doing a ton of Bull and beating people around in the parking lot for fun, waiting for someone to drag me away to start gunning people down. Nobody ever treated me like a person. I don't want that. I don't ever want to go back to that."

Her voice cracks at the end, and you realise too late that your attempt at fixing the conversation has gone awry. Shit.

"Aubrey, no, I don't…" You sigh, go to pinch the bridge of your nose, remember you were just touching chillies and think better of letting your hands get so close to your eyes at the last second. "It's not-- I'm just--"

"Don't tell anyone." You glance down, and now her eyes are wide with the same primal fear you saw when she was threatened with an extended hospital stay. "Please. I don't wanna get in trouble. I need this."

"I won't, I won't. It's okay. You're not in trouble." You exhale hard and stare down at the chillies, like they might hold all the answers to the situation you find yourself in. They don't, and after a few seconds, you flick them into the pan.

"I guess there's nothing to be done about it now. I mean, I think you really are a solid candidate, regardless. You're good at what you do. And I'm glad it got you out of a bad situation. Nobody deserves to be stuck somewhere like that forever."

"So you won't--you won't tell, or--"

"Nobody else has to know," you assure her. "It's irrelevant now. You're here, you can do what the job asks of you, and you can do it well. Not everyone can keep a grown man pinned when they've got a bullet lodged in their gut."

You can see the fear fall away as she slumps against the counter again.

"I don't want to lose this."

"You won't. It's okay. I wouldn't… do anything that I thought would endanger you like that." You don’t know where you’d even take this, anyway, if she has someone on the inside vying for her. But you have no reason to chase it up, beyond rules-for-rules’-sake; nor do you have it in your heart when you look at her. Her intense fear every time she thinks her job is under threat is making more and more sense, and she’s completely won you over.

She’s trying to do better. She’s trying to break the cycle. And you would be a terrible, terrible person to sabotage that.