#he knows and reliably performs tasks that mitigate my disability

[fayeandknight]

One of things I try to be really cognizant of when doing public access training with Forte is confidence. And more specifically not becoming suspicious in already stimulating environments. It's something I knew I would need to include in my training plans due to his breed and the nature of some of his tasks.

Forte is very friendly for a Belgian but he's also still a Belgian and a teenaged one at that. So a staple of our training is playing look at that look at me games and just learning to chill in various environments.

I'd say Forte is about 75% confident at the mall at this point. He doesn't pull when we are walking but does sometimes drift little farther ahead of me than I'd prefer. And when we stop he does have a tendency to people watch. He doesn't hard stare at people but I feel like it could become that without mindful training.

My own feelings about the mega mall aside, I do actually like it as a place to train for us. It's busy with all kinds of people, there are lots of novel noises, several arcade type places, etc. It also has a lot of large alcoves with seating and only one or two store fronts. So we can have distance from the main thoroughfare while still being able to experience the mall.

Lately I've been using an alcove that faces the elevator banks. We're well out of anyone's way and have plenty of room to play/practice basic obedience. Then we sit and Forte is allowed to take in the environment while being rewarded for settling and checking in with me.

It usually takes him about 10 minutes to go from being in a down to being actually settled. Once he's actually settled I'll do maybe two to three minutes of task training behavior interruptions, then we leave. I'm trying not to have him do any crowd control tasks in the mall yet. Because I don't want to accidentally tip him from observant to suspicious.

He does crowd control in the form of blocking just fine at the grocery store and smaller shops. But I want him more at ease in the mall before I add that into the mix.

Anyway I'm so proud of him, slowly but surely we are coming along.

[fandom-space-princess]

An Audacious Undertaking, Even to God

Fandom: The Murderbot Diaries

Rating: Gen

Additional tags: Book 5: Network Effect, Book 7: System Collapse, Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Queerplatonic Relationships, 1 & 2 do still die but not for very long, 3 needs its friends back :( , studies in construct relations

Chapter: 1/?

Summary:

SecUnits are hard to kill, but it does happen. Unless... AU: through the combined efforts of ART & co, Three rebuilds and reboots One and Two. It isn't easy. Everybody has a bad time, then a weird time, then a better time. Is that the right order?

Read chapter below, or on AO3.

——————————

Designation: SecUnit-003 Barish-Estranza Explorer Task Group 520972

Status: piloting shuttle to network-external transport [vesselID(“Perihelion”), registry(Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland)]. Contact: UNAUTHORIZED.

Operational overview:

- Threat assessment: 64% immediate probability of harm to clients, 27% medium-term probability of harm to clients assuming pursuit of mitigation strategies

- Risk assessment: [additional data required]

- SecSystem access: OFFLINE

- HubSystem access: OFFLINE

- Deployment group status: SecUnit-001: OFFLINE; SecUnit-002: OFFLINE

- Performance reliability: 87% and falling

The transport completes the docking process for the shuttle without my input, which is for the best. My attention is divided. This is a violation of the protocols associated with both client retrieval and piloting. Under the circumstances, however, it is not a situation I am able to remedy.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

I have a number of responsibilities to fulfill. My primary duty is to ensure the welfare of my clients. (I have realized that even in the absence of punitive enforcement, I still accept and desire this to be true, which is a source of mild curiosity.) My secondary duties are laid out no less clearly, yet—

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

—“Hello? Are you there?” The exterior hatch has retracted. Two humans peer inside curiously. The one who has spoken bears feedID(“Amena”), gender(female), note: juvenile. The other—feedID(“Ratthi”), gender(male)—moves tentatively toward me. These humans are not unknown: they feature in the memories shared with me by Murderbot 2.0. This is a relief. Nevertheless, I step out of the piloting compartment before they can enter, and attempt to gently herd them away. Based on the information I have about them, threat assessment deems them unlikely to panic in a way that would be detrimental to the safety of themselves or others. While I accept this knowledge as accurate, it is still better that they be encouraged to stay outside the shuttle.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(performance reliability: 85% and falling)

Ratthi is speaking to me, introducing himself and Amena. He is very animated. He tells me that Perihelion knows I have disabled the governor module. He tells me they do not intend to hurt me.

The transport has different ideas. It establishes a private channel, which it promptly fills with vivid and comprehensive descriptions of the physical damage it will inflict on me should I attempt to threaten its clients, or itself.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(failure::retry)

(performance reliability 82% and falling)

“All clients require immediate medical attention,” I tell them. “They have been implanted with technology of uncertain functionality, and may remain under hostile influence, or represent vectors of contamination. Temporary quarantine is recommended.”

Amena replies, but my attention is pulled inexorably elsewhere. I turn my focus on the open hatch, and the dim interior of the shuttle piloting compartment. 

(failure::retry)

In my periphery there is movement, and noise. Another human has arrived. The humans and Perihelion exchange information with one of the transport’s retrieved clients, Karime. I have drones recording this interaction for later review, but I am currently preoccupied with my other functions. My awareness of this moment feels very far away.

(performance reliability 77% and falling)

(failure::retry)

“Hey.” There is a human hand hovering near my elbow. Ratthi’s face swims into vision. I blink, and try to refocus my eyes. This is only partially successful. One of my drones descends out of its patrol pattern overhead, and I examine him more closely through its camera. His eyebrows pull together. “Are you all right?”

The transport is in my feed. I feel it bear down on me. I do not understand what it is, or the limits of its capabilities. I know only that its presence is massive and imposing, its agitation palpable. It likely still believes me to be potentially hostile. It should be terrifying.

If I had the spare processing capacity to consider it, it would be terrifying.

(performance reliability 72% and falling rapidly)

Perihelion: Your resource utilization is near maximum. What are you trying to do?

(failure::retry)

(failure::retry)

Amena’s voice comes from within the piloting compartment. She would have had to walk past me to get inside it. I must have seen her do so. I have no memory of seeing her do so.

“Oh, no… um, Arada? There’s a body in here.”

(performance reliability 64% and falling rapidly)

I start toward her. I have no idea what I am about to say until my buffer produces it: “Equipment maintenance is in progress. For your safety, please step back.” One of the transport’s repair drones shoves past me into the compartment, which interferes with my balance. I put a hand against the wall for support.

(failure::retry)

Amena: “Perihelion, this isn’t one of your crew, is it? This must have been one of the corporate hostages.”

Perihelion: No, Amena. This is a SecUnit.

(failure::retry)

My primary auditory input glitches, and their words become garbled. I lean against the bulkhead. Standing has become difficult, but I still have a responsibility to perform.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(performance reliability 51% and falling rapidly)

And I am going to perform it, or be rendered nonfunctional in the attempt.

(critical performance drop::system restart)

——————————

[Before]

SecSystem: Ship status: on approach. Space dock arrival anticipated: 180 seconds. Tactical team deployment unit(s) acknowledge.

SecUnit-001: Unit acknowledge.

SecUnit-002: Unit acknowledge.

SecSystem: Baseship sentinel unit(s) acknowledge.

SecUnit-003: Unit acknowledge.

(While I do not resent guarding the ship, I have always disliked being the one left behind.)

SecSystem: Cold contact protocol in effect. Hazardous condition assessment: POSSIBLE/LIKELY. Backup to HubSystem external storage and mirror local copies to group.

SecUnit-001: Backup complete.

SecUnit-002: Backup complete.

SecUnit-003: Backup complete.

Though we are designed for redundancy with each other, not co-dependence, I have never functioned optimally when deployed separately from 001 and 002. I know this to be true for them as well. In the past, after activities that required splitting the deployment group, I have often reviewed their cached analytic data. Our performance individually and collectively is more reliable on average when we are assigned to the same task.

I try to avoid reflecting on why this is true. Idle reflection is counterproductive to the efficient performance of my duties.

SecSystem: Sentinel unit(s) resume patrol pattern. Tactical team unit(s) ready for deployment.

In the ready room that we share, 001 continues fitting its helmet into place. I acknowledge the alert to return to patrol. I must walk past them to reach the door and exit the room, and as I do so, I extend a hand loosely in their direction.

Tactile input is critical for calibration of construct balance and proprioception, among other core functions. We are expected to touch objects around us for many reasons, including ongoing orientation in physical space.

001 gently taps the back of my hand with its knuckles, tock-tock-tock. I reply once in kind—tock. 002 likewise repeats 001’s gesture as I move past, and again, I do the same: tock-tock.

I validate my expected sensor readout against the physical contact data, and log the results with HubSystem. There is an echo in the team feed as first 001, and then 002, do the same. And if we could achieve the same result by tapping a wall or a hatch… well.

On this choice, at least, our governor modules offer no feedback.

——————————

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 14

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Updated 2019.01.29. Minor name tweaks.

Pretty hard surveillance tw on this one, ah. And you get a cookie if you can spot the historical conspiracy reference.

Melancholy locked the pharmacy's front door behind himself, then wheeled to the back and took the elevator to the second floor. As he exited the car, Angel came from the break room about the same time, and stopped him in the lounge area.

"Ah, Sir!" It paused, genuinely confused. "Did you just come from downstairs? I was just thinking I needed to check on you. How did your little rooftop rendezvous go with your chums, ha ha!"

"--About that." 'Choly chewed at his lip and eyed his Handy-bot. He favored pushing past it in the belief it would follow. "I know it's a bit early, but could I bother you for a bit of dinner? Really, anything will do."

"Good that you're open to variety," Angel replied, right behind him as expected, "for we haven't got it. I'm afraid all we have left is Halloween candy, a few boxes of Instamash, and BlamCo Mac. Really, we should consider replenishing our pantry next you feel up to it. Perhaps a trip to the grocer's is in order, hm? You did outfit me with this dandy harness, and update my hydraulics, so that I might facilitate that kind of endeavor, after all." It held up two boxes, a red and gold square one and a thin flat teal one. "Would you rather the potatoes or the macaronis?"

"Mm. The macaronis."

While it put back the square box and commenced preparation of the other, it hummed a jaunty vaguely-British tune which its owner couldn't quite place. 'Choly set down his syringer and hood on the table, and with a lump in his throat, he watched the robot.

"Angel, I've been giving it some thought. About how Defense Intelligence Agency gifted me with you when I first came over. I... I know the DIA used you to spy on me. That it wasn't just nationalization effort to adjust me to culture and language. I also know the DIA fell with the rest of the government. We can talk more openly now, don't you think? Being honest with you is going to help us both help each other. Sure, the mandatory name change didn’t fool anybody: everyone still all thought I was a Russian spy or something. But really? They approached me, offered me the position at Deenwood. Part of transplanting key Asian experts into the US military, best I can tell. What can I say? I get bribed easily with promise of access to big toys. But really. All I was hiding was chem trafficking. Lots and lots of chem trafficking."

"I know, Sir."

"--Hawthorne and I--" The chemist cringed and glazed over. "Wait, what?"

"I know all about you and Mister Hawthorne's business practices. I didn't report any of that because it's not what I was programmed to identify and report. They cared only how you handled confidential information. My objections to your proclivities have always wholly been in my interest of preserving your health and quality of life, Sir." It stopped a moment to let the saucepan boil on the hot plate, but readily resumed stirring it as needed. "I am still transmitting this to proper authorities, mind."

The inability to process Angel's response elicited a strange smile.

"Yes, of course. You're likely transmitting to skeletons, but I understand."

He nearly related that Communism had lost, but so had Capitalism. It didn't serve to argue no clear winner when in the nuclear exchange, everyone had lost. His head hurt, between the goings-on with Jared and learning his robot had concealed this level of self-awareness from him from the beginning. In attempting transparency so his activities would come as no surprise, he could have never expected his robot to reciprocate such honesty.

Back when he trafficked chems under the paranoia of crossing the DIA's scrutiny, he'd taught himself enough robotics to defuse what bugging technology he could identify, such that these variably sophisticated sensors transmitted all-clear, where simply disabling them would have drawn attention to any tampering. Yet, even now the remnants of his robotics knowledge would benefit him, to perform maintenance on this stunning testament to the longevity of General Atomics craftsmanship.

Still, the possibility nagged in the back of his head, that Angel's transmissions might ever amount to conflict. He'd discounted the possibility of an existing surviving population, after all. He could get all manner of things wrong, including the radio death of the DIA. He'd have to do something about the bugging equipment, to sate his paranoia. Regardless, it relieved him that his cyclomorphine research had only come up between him and his business partner within the month leading up to the apocalypse. The nature of the chems he had skimmed hadn't stimulated his Handy to rat him out, but provided that it ever determined that any of the military compounds he'd formulated had left the compound...

Worst of all, he understood with horror, was the likelihood he was entirely right about the demise of the Agency. The only thing that had kept him in line after his American conscription was the threat of surveillance. Who now existed in this wasteland save himself compassionate enough to mitigate his moral compass for him? He doubted even he could keep himself from acting out on fantasies any longer, the more he recognized them trickling into mundane waking world. Of any aspect of this creeping reality, that terrified him most: more than the ghouls, more than the mutated insects, more than anything else he had not yet encountered that his imagination could not reliably fabricate. Who had the audacity to grant him self-agency?

Angel, presenting its owner a bowl of creamy reconstituted pasta, startled him from his waking nightmare.

"Bh--hoze--" He found himself frowning as he rapidly and repeatedly retraced his platysmal scar. Angel joined the bowl with a shot glass and the near-empty bottle of whiskey, and he poured himself a glass with his head hung. "Thanks, Angel."

"Sorry to startle you. You were most lost in thought."

"Doesn't change a thing." He favored eating over starting with the liquor for once. After a few bites, he cleared his throat. "So, I suppose I should explain my sudden willing openness. I have a job now. Salaried. I might still pick at the by-commission rooftop sales on the side, if it goes smoothly."

"My stars! What exciting news." Angel's movements seemed lyrical and airy a moment before it shifted to a scattered panic. "When do you start! Oh, oh dear. We've nothing for you to take for lunch! We must--"

"Angel. Angel, it's all right." 'Choly snapped his fingers a few times, then continued eating. "Stay with me. Maybe once I get Jared the information he needs, we can make a trip out of the pharmacy. That way, I can draft a laundry list of what all we need to scavenge for."

"Apologies, Sir. I'm just..." It idled beside him with its tendril-limbs curled up close. "I'm so eager for both of us. You've no idea how elated I am that I can foster vocational habits in you again. Tend to you, like... before. The normality of routine--that's the cement you need to get back to your old self. Ha ha!"

"Mmh. Makes two of us." He washed down the cardboardesque pasty mouthful with half the shot and, with a sigh, absently tapped his spoon in the dish. "I doubt the lab here would be suitable for the scale of distillation he described. Don't much like the idea of that much manure in the pharmacy, anyway. You're fond of reminding me not to bring home my work with me, and I think we can both agree that this building is very much becoming my home now. I don't think you need to remind me to leave that elsewhere."

"I haven't the slightest what you're on about, but manure? Yes, I'm quite glad we're in agreement that it doesn't belong indoors."

"Talking aloud. Imagine it doesn't make much sense. Mm mmh." He finished off the serving and shot glass, and sat back in thought. "I surveyed the assembly plant before I returned, and I think there's a good place there to set up a vat-style rig. Lots of pipes to make use of. Maybe... maybe refining a few water heaters...." With a sniff, he adjusted his glasses and glanced down to his Pip-Boy. "I'm going to get working on my invoice. Thank you for dinner."

"Of course, Mister Carey!" It cleared the table for him.

"I'm going to have to fix that one of these days," 'Choly mumbled to himself as he wandered off in the chair to nurture a Berries-induced engineering conflagration.

Taking stock as he navigated the building, he absently annotated in his Pip-Boy with blind keyless keystrokes, and as he went, he cross-referenced these against a more coherent draft he composed for Jared. In his ramble, he listed off various possible equipment which they could combined into a small-scale substitute for the mechanisms by which to load the crate of empty inhalers he had on hand in the pharmacy lab. To sustain the chem habit Jared sought to cultivate, there would have to be a tacit recycling effort of paraphernalia until they could locate more actuators. Too, he requested minimal opposition from Jared's crew as he toured Lexington, endearing that the city must already belong to the raider boss, or inevitably that it would. Something of this new world civility tickled 'Choly, and he guarded any potential conflict with the raiders by asking permission to scout the Super Duper Mart. Self-serving, he also tacked on a postscript that Jared's crew supply him with large quantities of Abraxo cleaner, to make possible synthesizing fresh Mentats of any variety, and he cited the need to stay sharp for the task at hand. By the end of the evening, he read it all over one more time and transcribed it onto a piece of card stock packaging, then shoved the results in the capsule pipeline.

He sank into his seat at Eleanor's desk and slumped his head along his outstretched arms. He popped a few painkillers in his mouth and chewed them mindlessly, and washed it down with the stale coffee he'd forgotten on the desk at some point. The familiar post-Berries headache crawled across his skull, but he hardly cursed it. The brain was just like a muscle in some regards, after all--running a marathon is a very different thing for someone who's prepared at length for it as opposed to someone who dashes from start to finish without even stretching beforehand. The habit would return. He'd gladly nurse it.

As he started to drift off, radio static echoed in Eleanor's office. Bewildered, he squinted and rubbed at his head as he pushed the button on the intercom.

"Chemist--" The caller was Jared. "You expect me to read this novel when you've got a working comm?"

'Choly grunted and resumed leaning on the desk. He hadn't expected Jared to come himself.

"I can hear your awful face paint loud and clear." He stiffened, double checking whether the button was depressed for automatic two-way chat, or if he'd simply held it a moment to check the caller. He swallowed hard and pushed the button again, hoping Jared hadn't heard that. "Sorry. I have more than a bit of a headache right now. And this is the first I knew that restoring power to the building had also restored the intercom."

"Fuck you're longwinded." Jared paused at length. "It's always the quiet ones. Ugh."

"Apologies. I was just trying to be thorough. Operating on the presumption that our correspondences over the invoice would all be written word, I just figured that a comprehensive list of everything that came to mind would limit how much time got wasted. I'm guessing you've had a chance to look it over?"

"Yeah, I got it. Flattery will get you everywhere in my town. You have the most unnervingly good handwriting I've ever seen, but I still can't believe I'm reading this right. You want in the SDM? You really are crazy. I'm not wasting warm bodies on that, but far be it for me to turn down the proposition of you spreading around any profit to be had of your confidence that you can manage it. Try not to die before we even get started. And get me some Sugar Bombs while you're at it."

Even Jared thought it a terrible plan to try to scavenge the grocer's for food reserves. 'Choly would have to think things through for certain, and he hid his anxiety over it behind a tiny chuckle.

"Heh, I can do that. What... about the other things I mentioned?"

"You've gone from asking for cash to asking for a metric fuckton of soap. That's marginally more sane than most of the things you've said today, but even that's pushing it. We're going in the right direction. Yeah, I've got a lead on where to load up on Abraxo, but remember. I'm only interested in Mentats as far as they're helpful to distilling my Jet. My project takes priority over any of your unrelated fun, and don't forget it." Jared snorted. "Still, you're going to have to let me try some of these infamous Berries you won't shut up about."

"Oh, for certain." 'Choly rubbed at his temples, his voice strained. "I swear by them. Only way I got through my military contract."

When Jared had nothing to say for a little too long, 'Choly realized that had been entirely the wrong thing to say.

"You a fuckin Brotherhood defector? That takes balls."

"Oh, I, no. The actual military. I'm a Pharm Corps chemist. Nine years, eight months, for Anchorage."

That had been an even worse thing to say.

"--I grow impatient with this conversation, chemist. Give me a few days to gather up what you've requested. Answer your damn comm when I come knocking." Jared snarled. "You're really starting to piss me off. If you're gonna get high like this all the time, at least journal your trips so they're useful to more than just you, all right?"

This time, 'Choly remained silent for a bit. Had he heard the raider right?

"You... want a transcript of my high?" 'Choly licked his lips and held in a breath as he stared at his Pip-Boy. "I... I can absolutely do that. You're in luck that that's... already an habituation of mine."

"All right. Now that, I like to hear. Expect to share. Both... experience and goods. Heh." At first, 'Choly had thought that was the end of it, but then Jared came back with somewhat sarcastic enthusiasm. "Let me know how your grocery trip goes."

"For certain."

When the intercom stayed idle for several minutes, relief oozed out of him, and he slouched back in the chair with a groan. He removed his glasses and dug his fingers into his eyelids. He could appreciate that Jared was on board with his plan, and that the raider was willing to accommodate interests that ran in direct tangent to the grand scheme. But, this conversation also solidified the contract into something tangible and unable to ignore. The chemist had a job again. Responsibilities. Someone he had to answer to. On the other hand, this also meant more of the building worked than he thought previous. If he intended to set foot outside the pharmacy, he was going to have to throw together a sign for the intercom, so that anyone who came calling would know he wasn't just blowing them off.

In the mean time, he took to the couch in Eleanor's office and passed out halfway through disrobing.

Go to Next »»»

[incendiaryplottwist-blog]

Other People’s Children

Speeding through the subway station at five-thirty on a Tuesday, the wheels of Corey’s power wheelchair whirred under them while their best friend, Bailey, talked their ear off, the words a welcome balm.  This was an early evening ritual continued as always, recounting the ridiculous bullshit that laced every work day--

“He swore he’d seen me there before. He wouldn’t leave me alone all night. Swore up and down I was his cousin’s friend in a wheelchair. Maybe I just forgot,” Bailey said.

Corey listened and smiled the smile the two of them knew as the reflex one kept at hand for the times it was needed badly enough.

Together they considered the facts. A strange man insisting he knew Corey’s very closest friend and took it all a step further by refusing to listen when he was told this was not the case. Horrible and invasive, but still not the weirdest gripe of the day, week or even this year alone. This was fairly standard in either of their lives, actually.

“Fuck him,” Corey said with false cheer. “May his teeth fall out.  My train’s here, I’ll call you back.”                 “Seeya!” the reply was a relieved sing-song. The call had done what it was meant to do, for now. Corey and Bailey each knew who the other was and what they’d need at any given time. The smile on Corey’s face softened and brightened as the line clicked off. They took a deep breath, then moved forward and drove onto the train, a maneuver which required concentration, and another fake look, one of patience and gratitude that able bodied people felt was required for the slightest acknowledgment of a disabled person’s presence.

This was not horror.  This was every single day. This was an okay day. Maybe even a good one. On this day, Corey felt human.

*~*~* The walk home had been pleasant as Corey swept through the fall air. There was always more wind resistance in a speeding chair, meaning it was best to travel bundled up a bit more than the average bear but the weather wasn’t something Corey minded one bit. This day was still counting as a good one when Corey arrived at the building and the warmth of home, definitely worth appreciating after the temperature outside. This was almost worth a real smile. For a little while, at least.

Corey had hired and paid a woman to work as a personal care assistant in the evenings. She was meant to assist with daily living tasks based on the level of help needed to mitigate disability. Her name was Beatrice and she was twenty minutes late. This was a common occurrence in the world of disability services and assistance, but not typical of this employee.

Dealing with many unreliable employees over the years meant the task of seeking their help came with a constant low thrum of anxiety. When someone was late, running through hypothetical scenarios of what might have happened was also typical. Things could go from standard and dependable to simply having no one available on zero notice with stunning regularity, an actual norm of needing this type of assistance, even with pay. Respect for employers was the exception and not the rule for so many people who looked at such work as charity done out of the good of their hearts, even if it came with a paycheck. This had never been a problem with Bea before. Corey thought about what may have happened to Bea. Maybe a hit and run, a sudden medical crisis, an emergency with her neighbor. Any of these and many other possible scenarios could easily take away reliable access to assistance, hope of a hot meal or a relatively clean house. Yet the reality of what was about to happen was something else entirely. Something mundane, a minute and predictable disaster that was nevertheless unexpected. Beatrice walked into work as if being late wasn’t even on her radar for the evening and Corey’s stomach was already growling when the door opened and Bea was finally there. There was a determined look on her face that made caused recognition to dawn for Corey. Beatrice was about to say something very uncharacteristic, at least for her. Dozens of other employees over a lifetime of workers, yes, but not Bea. “I’m leaving,” is all she said. Corey’s attention was suddenly taken up with trying not to panic. Getting out of bed, out of the house and to work were all still on the table. Hot meals and a sense of security less so. Corey started brainstorming about takeout food and badly-made sandwiches that barely tasted like anything but bread. “Tomorrow has to be my last day,” Bea said, and Corey’s stomach lurched, hunger evaporating in an instant. There was a dull feeling of betrayal, but this was not unfamiliar territory. Being seen as a person at all was a luxury often not afforded to Corey. The sting came only from the fact that it was Bea who proved this right yet again.

Corey thought about calling Bailey back but exhaustion seeped in and paused that plan. Waiting a little while to do it seemed the wiser course of action. Corey decided instead to eat a few Oreos and grab an iced coffee from the corner. They would be a consolation prize for suddenly losing the person who had once been the best personal care assistant in quite some time with no notice or consideration. Bea was not the literal best who had ever been, of course, but the best that was available then. Now there was no way to get around replacing her with someone whose reliability would remain to be seen.

When it was time to call Bailey at last, Corey leaned into this common hell for disabled people and let it seep into the first words of the conversation. “Bea’s gone,” Corey said, shaking slightly with emotion. It wasn’t usually hard to call Bailey. It was just the exhaustion. All reserves were gone. “I was wondering why you called back late,” Bailey said. “I’m sorry. I thought she was one of the good ones.” “So did I.” “Can’t believe she planned to just disappear on you.” “Me either,” Corey said, and admitted, “This one blindsided me,” and a fresh wave of frustration broke over the conversation. All the same, it had been worse before. Much worse. And Bailey had always been there. They would both remember that. It wasn’t worse. “Can I get a round of, ‘Fuck her?’ Kidding. Kidding.” Corey continued, then sighed. Time for bigger person mode, as always. “I’m sure she’s just going through something. So that’s that.” Bailey gave an answering sigh. “I’m sorry. You know what you need? Some wine.” “I’ve got Oreos.” “Sugar. Same thing? Nah. Not the same thing. But close enough, I guess.” “Wine tomorrow.” “I dunno how you do all this with so little social lubrication.” A soft laugh wound its way down the line. “Love you.” “I guess I just enjoy fulfilling the stereotype of the pure and virginal cripple,” Corey teased. “Love you too. Talk to you tomorrow?” “Yeah, unless no one shows up later and I really need a 3 AM shot in the arm.” “Good thing you’re not dealing with Bea.” Bailey’s sardonic smile was evident in her voice. “No kidding. Would the two of us have luck that bad on the same day?” “Let’s try not to find out.” “Indeed, let’s not.”

*~*~*

Being alone at home was sometimes better than the bustle of a work day, even after a string of nights like the ones following Beatrice’s departure. Sometimes things were worse. Sometimes there was employees around for errands and chores to get done and sometimes no one was available for three weeks or more. Sometimes getting to work was fine, but there were times it was impossible between PCA absences and all the side jobs given to disabled people (the job of going to doctors, the job of managing attendant staff) that are really each their own full-time commitment. Corey’s mother had said once between the beatings she doled out that storms were meant to be weathered, and storms were never that scary anyway.

These days there was Bailey, and sure, local contacts worth trusting half as much would be great too, but they were hard to find. Most of Corey’s social circle lived in outer Mongolia (okay, in various other states, but with travel being the pain it was, her people might as well have been on another continent) but they’ve all helped in the ways they could, especially Bailey. Nightly calls from people who knew exactly what to say were priceless. Corey treasured each time Bailey launched into another goofy story about Minx, the emotional support cat, and there was room to laugh together. In those moments the laughter held loneliness at bay, pushing back against the inability to tell who would be forced to be alone and stranded next. *~*~* Two weeks passed without much help at home. The ad Corey placed was garnering lackluster results on Craigslist. There had only been a few dead ends so far. The kitchen floor was sticky, and a light bulb that was unreachable from a seated position had blown out, but work at the office had continued at a steady and productive pace and a performance review came and went the previous week with positive results. All this despite stress from working behind the scenes to replace Miss Gone-Tomorrow.

Pickings were remaining slim, with nothing arriving since the application from someone who gave a number that didn’t work. Corey had run the ad multiple times with no results, but was considering sending an answer to the applicant whose resume arrived that morning. The applicant’s name was Gigi and her qualifications looked decent. CPR and first aid, while not necessary for daily practice on shift, indicated she had been prepping for this sort of job, and nothing about her work experience set off immediate red flags that she wouldn’t be open to suggestions during on-the-job training. That alone was an amazing sign.

Over lunch Corey decided to give Gigi a chance and prepared mentally for another phone interview. They had always been done in the hours after work, offering an idea of the applicant’s demeanor and commitment to the work they are about to be asked to do.  A five-minute phone check-in routinely answered a few lingering questions about the applicant as easily as it offered them a platform to ask directions and firm up the timing. Corey had tried to engage with one other applicant this way in the early days of running the ad without any success. Honestly, things are so often this way that none of it had come as a surprise.

“Sure,” someone named Vanessa had said in her phone interview, seeming bubbly and engaged, signs that the check-in might come to fruition. “I’ll see you then,” when they had scheduled a sit-down for two days later. When time had come for the interview, though, she hadn’t come, nor answered her phone or called to offer an excuse.

Corey pulled up Gigi’s email.  Her phone number, with a local cell phone area code, was on her resume.  It was easy to begin to dial. Rain began overhead and Corey’s head filled with a dull ache.  With three digits dialed, the phone was suddenly very heavy and fell back down onto the table. Corey thought about calling later, when the headache had passed. Later. Later. Days passed since the failed attempt to call Gigi. Another light had burnt out, this one in the bathroom. Corey rolled to work all week with a migraine that hadn’t let up since the night of the failed call. The freezer was coming up on empty but it hasn’t mattered much with the migraine stomach from hell. At least there was a small blessing in only being able to handle the lightest of meals. Having more food in the house was not going amiss. The last thing Corey wanted to do was make that call.  So an email went out instead.  It would have to do.

Gigi arrived on time for her interview, wearing sensible but stylish clothing, and her smile--her smile was the first sign she was happy to be here.

Her smile.

She was happy. Corey smiled back.

It was infectious, that was all, and Corey wanted to give an impression: appreciative that she came, but not desperate.

"Thank you for coming," Corey said. The gratitude was mostly genuine. After all, out of this batch of applicants, Gigi was the first to come to her interview. Corey would never understand job applicants who gave non-working numbers or people who refused to show up to interviews without so much as a single call.

"You're welcome," Gigi said, and when "honey," didn’t follow, nor "sweetie," nor any other false term of endearment, Corey’s smile widened a little bit. One test had just been passed. It would be all right to relax just a fraction and maybe to consider what it would be like to see Gigi Gates’ face most evenings of the week after work.

"It's good to be here," Gigi said, turning that same smile directly toward Corey.  “I’d like to see what I can do for you.”

Something, something was gnawing at the back of Corey’s mind as the headache returned, dull but present once more. Gigi’s smile didn’t move. It hadn’t moved once.

Thunk.

Corey kept a tool called a reacher on the hallway table, a long metal tube with a handle and squeezy button on one end which controlled a pincer tool on the other. It was there to offer Corey the option of reaching high enough to throw the chain on the front door. It had not moved.

The chain thudded home on its own. Corey knew because Gigi hadn’t moved either and no one had the reacher in their hand. “It’s good to be here,” she repeated. She dropped a bag in the front hall. It fell with a rather impressive sound, like it was full of bricks. “Don’t you worry,” she said from behind the smile that didn’t move. “I can sleep on the couch. We’re going to have a lot of fun. It’s so good here. I bet you need a lightbulb changed, don’t you.” All the lights in this room were working fine. Bile rose in Corey’s throat.

“Yes.” “Do you have any in the house?” “I’m not sure,” came the answer, something objectively true and yet horrible to admit--except-- “Well, dear, you’ll definitely have to get some. I saw the pharmacy on the corner. Why don’t you go and get some and I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Corey watched the chain on the door slide itself free once more and had to hold back a bout of oh shit I’m fucked uncomfortable laughter. “Now go.”

*~*~* Corey did go and get the light bulbs. The nearby pharmacy was two blocks down and once outside of the apartment the almost-ever-present headache cleared quickly. Getting the bulbs took all of five minutes. Once back inside, all too soon, it was clear Gigi had been true to her word. She was still there. The same smile was still on her face, never moving. “Good job!” It was unclear if this was better or worse than sweetie or honey but given that this person showed no sign of leaving-- “Um. Thanks. So….” “I think we’re going to be a great team,” Gigi said. “You know, just visiting with you, I feel better. Let me change the lightbulbs.” Corey moved to start showing Gigi where the blown bulbs were before stopping to think, but the stranger moved ahead of the chair, cutting off Corey’s path, and found each of them easily. Of course, she has been in the apartment on her own now. Maybe she had already looked around while Corey was down the street. Maybe she had looked through all of Corey’s stuff. “I’ll be right back,” was all Corey said before opening the apartment door and heading into the outer hallway and closing Gigi inside. Once away from her, Corey whirred over to the elevator and headed down into the lobby, slowly thinking over what to do next. The next logical step, as always, was to dial Bailey. It would be fine to just leave a message. It would be fine.

When riding in the chair, Corey carried a bag safely slung across her body so as not to interfere with the joystick. Pulling the phone from the depths of the bag, it was clear that the screen was blank. A moment later it became equally clear that the device was unresponsive as if the battery had run down. It had been at seventy-five percent when Corey was waiting for Gigi before her interview, ready in case anything had come up or she had been lost. Now the phone was dead. There was no denying it. All of the spare chargers were inside the apartment. Inside the apartment with Gigi.

Corey had left a strange woman in her apartment alone. If she hadn’t gone through my stuff before-- The thought did not complete, but then again it didn’t have to. The headache redoubled in strength. Corey leaned forward and to the side and retched onto the linoleum floor of the apartment lobby. She had to get out of here. Into the air. Maybe her phone would work out there.

Corey, my dear. The thought pushed through her mind, escalating the pain in her head. When you’re done, come back upstairs, the thoughts that were not her own continued. We have so much more to do. No. No. She wouldn’t go upstairs. She drove haphazardly in her chair through the lobby doors and outside. The further she got from Gigi…. The safer she would be. Right? The air around her was refreshing, a slight breeze buffeting her as she drove away at top speed. When she could see better through the pain, she checked her phone again. Nothing. Bailey. There had to be a way to let Bailey know.

But there was no battery, let alone a signal. The street was completely empty, nothing but spare bits of dirty paper rustling along the sidewalk. Still, Corey kept going, and going, and going, and yet… It felt impossible to get anywhere. First it just seemed that was the panic talking, but then, looking down, Corey considered something else. All the knobs on the power chair were in the right places to be going top speed indeed, thank you very much. That was nowhere near the speed Corey was going, though. Everything was slowing down, like in a movie, and the cool breeze had stopped. No one was anywhere. Corey was alone. Jamming everything as far forward as possible did nothing. The chair was moving, yes, but slower and slower the harder Corey fought for speed. Then, finally, the air shivered and the world pushed back. Not hard enough to send Corey’s 300-pound power chair into a full spin, but enough to be unmistakable. Pushing backward.

Corey, Gigi’s voice called, clawing its way inside, an invading force. Corey, where are you going?

Corey couldn’t see. The sun was suddenly blinding, the pain too intense even to drive the wheelchair. It hardly mattered, though. There was nothing. Nothing else. There was no way forward at all. There was still no wind, no movement in the air, except something was toppling the awnings of the nearby buildings, ripping them down as if the only sign that anyone had been here was nothing more than butcher-paper-thin nothingness. There was only silence, empty concrete, the buildings ripping down, and Corey. Soon the space devoid of people would be devoid of anything else, either. Nothing would be left behind, nothing moving or alive. Just like Gigi’s smile. There was nowhere to go but back inside. Corey experimentally backed the chair a bit further toward the apartment building and the universe allowed it. Corey moved on auto-pilot. The lobby of the building was now completely empty.

A sardonic thought flitted through Corey’s mind. In this world rapidly emptying of color and form, maybe the elevator wouldn’t work. Maybe the button would fall off the wall when pressed. Moving toward the elevator, pushed along by the terrible, empty wind, Corey saw that the bank of elevators had the most structure out of anything visible inside or outside the building. The elevator button engaged and the usual soft ping sounded as it arrived. The doors opened smoothly. Maybe Corey could stay right here. The air shivered once more and pushed.

Come here, dear. I’m your friend. Nowhere else. There was nowhere else.

Corey’s chair whirred, the noise suddenly loud in the sea of no-sound no-form that was whooshing into nothing all around. The elevator engaged and rose to the correct floor, the carpet moving eerily under the wheelchair as Corey headed back to the one remaining apartment door. Once inside, the door shut itself and, of course, the latch slid home. The apartment was dark and getting darker, but Gigi was still there, positively luminous. The air in the tiny living space flowed around her as if she were pulling it in with her very presence. She had also changed her clothes, now wearing a billowing night-dress of sheer fabric Corey couldn’t place. Corey allowed hypervigilance to be a guide in surveying the rest of the apartment. It was dark inside, yes, but more than that, out one tiny window stars were visible, as if the apartment itself had become detached from time. Five minutes ago it had been day, a day losing all of its color but day nonetheless. Hadn’t it? The apartment was dark for another reason too. The relatively empty white walls were no longer white. Wood paneling, or something like it, covered the walls now.  This meant the few small pieces of art and photographs Corey had collected over the years were no longer visible. A ladder stood in one corner, alone. This was not something that Corey owned. How much time had passed? While Corey had been desperate to make a phone call to Bailey, it seemed the world had slipped out of time somehow and Gigi had completely redecorated what space there was left.

Corey surveyed the furniture--the same--but suddenly realized that it was strewn with objects.. The contents of the bag Gigi had left in the hall were all over every visible surface. Junk. Clothes. Garbage that had not been there before. Tools, including a claw hammer. A claw hammer? Gigi turned her face to Corey again, her face almost completely featureless except that smile that never moved but was still there. Everything else that had been Gigi--eyes, nose, ears, everything, had gone the way of the rest of the universe, disappeared. That damn smile was still there.

I see you found my hammer, the thing that had been Gigi Gates said in Corey’s mind, then bent and picked it up. Corey’s eyes stayed right on the hammer as darkness descended and less and less of the garbage and other detritus Gigi had brought was visible at all. Corey had to watch the hammer. It’s so good to be home. I feel wonderful here. We make a great team. Just you and me.