#normally i try to arrange things so my octobers are quiet and orderly lol but i was unlucky this year and havent had as much time as id lik

[rotworld]

3: Eye For An Eye

(previous)

the law of prismville is reciprocity.

->sexually explicit. contains gore, body horror, decapitation, size difference.

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She sits on the metal guardrail with a cigarette dangling between her fingers, watching the fog dance. Her hair is auburn and halfway down her back. “Chilly out here,” she murmurs. She nudges an acorn around with the toe of her shoe. Sometimes she leans over your shoulder, watching your pencil move. You mark New Ridgeway with an X inside a circle. Don’t come back here, it means. “Man. You do this all the time, huh? Drive around out here like it’s nothing. What do you do if you get lost? Or stuck in a shift?”

You shrug. “I figure it out.” 

She exhales, stretches her arms above her head. Rolls her shoulders until they pop. “Couriers are just built different, huh? Fair enough. I’m not cut out for this shit.” She purses her lips around the filter and closes her eyes. Eventually, the tremors in her hands die down and she holds one out to shake. “Meryl Underhill. Associate Professor, Department of Verisimilibiology. Mimic studies, basically.” 

“The University sent you out here?” you ask.

“Cleanup assignment. We do pest control, you know. Not really anybody else qualified.” 

“Pest control? With a sledgehammer?” 

“I know. Should’ve brought a shotgun. We got a letter last shift from New Ridgeway about some glass mimics nesting in a sawmill, could somebody give it a look, clean ‘em out, et cetera. I think the fucking mimics wrote that letter.”

Elisile said he knew somebody in the Stillwoods. You wonder if that was true. You wonder if any of it was true. “What do you think happened back there?” 

Meryl shrugs, blowing out a line of smoke. “Mass exodus. That’s the only thing that makes sense with mirror hoarding like that.” 

“They up and left?” you say, incredulous. “The whole town? Why?”

“No clue. I just got into town last night and it was already empty. Must’ve happened during the shift.” She looks at your map again, sparse as it is. Henley Creek in the center; New Ridgeway, no man’s land; the little starburst of Prismville, all in a line. Highway squiggles snake out of Verlinda in five directions and go nowhere, vanishing into the vast unknown. The whole thing might be obsolete in a day or two, or a week. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Meryl says. “What kind of apocalypse works that way. It’s gotta take years and god knows how much money to import all those mirrors, sneak ‘em past border inspection. What kinda thing goes so slow you can wait that long to run from it, but when you leave, you gotta go to a whole other fucking dimension?” 

You sit in silence, watching the road for a while. The sun’s setting, somewhere beyond the fog and the clouds, a shadowy gloom settling over the Drift. A harsh wind rattles the trees. Something yips and screeches far away. Meryl shivers. “We should get moving,” you say gently.

“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat. “Yeah, yeah. Definitely. Damn, I shoulda brought better shit to trade. Honestly I’d give my kidney for a bed right about now.” 

“They barter in Prismville?” you ask.

She chuckles as she limps back to her car. “You’ll see.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: LUNA (MOON OF CLAIMING) BY CEMETERIES]

Night strips the roads of detail. Everything beyond the gaze of your headlights is shadow play, mere shape and silhouette. The path slithers, jagged sidewinder, down corridors of evergreen. The underbrush goes thin and patchy beyond the guardrail, tufts of hardy wildflowers swaying in your wake. You crest a hill and below, nestled in a crater-shaped valley, city lights glitter like grounded stars.

The Prismville welcome sign is suspended on a highway overpass, blocky lettering affixed to a metal scaffold. It’s not neon but it glows like it in your headlights, sanded gemstones scattering slivers of rainbow. Ahead is the busiest, most bustling city you’ve ever seen. There’s traffic—real traffic like you’ve only heard of it, bumper to bumper, crawling snail’s pace through intersections. The roads are glassy and glittering, geode avenues shimmering with bands of indigo, cyan and pale shades of rose. Highrises of gigantic quartz cut a jagged, angular skyline and the streetlights are capped with prismatic crystalline shades like painted glass.

It’s dark, you realize. Bright enough to see, but dimmer than you expect a city this size. They keep the lights low where they have them, strangled and split through thick gemstone panes. It’s a full moon tonight but the clouds seem thicker here, slow-moving. They form wispy, dangling funnels and hide the stars.

The first hotel you spot has a holographic courier sticker on the automatic doors. Meryl parks beside you, off to grab a luggage cart before you can stop her. “It’s the least I can do,” she says. You don’t have much to deliver but the crate’s unwieldy and you don’t want to risk dropping anything. The lobby is opulent, black marble veined with gold. What you mistake for potted plants by the door is carved stone, thin stalks of obsidian topped with emerald leaves and pale chalcedony blossoms. An artificial waterfall trickles softly behind the front desk. Someone, somewhere, is playing the piano.

“Thanks for the escort. And, y’know. Saving my ass,” Meryl says, the closest you’ve seen her to sheepish. “I owe you one. If I ever make it back to the University and you’re ever in the neighborhood, ask around for me.” She drags herself to the front desk as soon as one of the receptionists are free and you find a quiet place to sit, settling on a leather sofa. Shrugging off your backpack, you check your map again, widening the boundaries of Prismville. You stretch your legs and watch people come and go.

You’re far from the only late night traveler. Guests, new arrivals, and the hopelessly lost trickle in and out. Two women in cocktail dresses link arms on their way to the elevators. A man in a suit keeps checking his watch, watching the circle drive outside the front doors. A child sits unattended on the couch across from you. She might be nine or ten. Long, unruly hair hangs in her face but you feel her staring intently. Strangest of all is the table of miners still in mud-covered boots and uniforms, playing cards around a table. One of them is covered head to toe, features obscured by a hard hat and respirator mask with the long tube hooked to a canister at their hip. They hiss something that makes the others laugh uproariously. 

“You’ll have to tell the front desk.” 

You flinch, startled. Someone walked right up behind you, a hand resting on the couch beside your shoulder. He’s wearing gloves. The leather crinkles when he shifts slightly, noticing your discomfort. 

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says. He’s average height, tall but not too tall. His hair is neither particularly long nor short. He wears a white button up and black slacks. Unremarkable, except for the gloves. There’s some kind of glittering dust on the palms. “This is a big city. They’ve got more than one courier spot. If you tell the front desk, they’ll call the other locations, get everything organized. Very efficient.”

“Thanks,” you say. 

He smiles, waves. Walks away. The man checking his watch looks up and the two of them leave together. You’ve already forgotten what he looked like.

But he was right. The front desk handles everything. A few phone calls later and grateful strangers arrive. The specimen jars go to a petite woman in a University sweatshirt. “They didn’t make any noise, did they?” she asks. 

“I don’t think so,” you say. She looks relieved and hands you a hefty hardbound tome. There is no text on either cover. The edges of the pages are gilded. “Where do you want me to take this?” 

“Oh! No, it’s for you,” she says kindly, shaking her head when you offer it back. She leaves before you can stop her. That’s strange, you think. Maybe it’s a local custom to pay couriers. 

The letter is for an older man in a wool coat. He rips open the seal and reads it in front of you, sighing deeply. He shoves a bottle of wine at you and turns to leave without a word.

“Atticus Gosse, where do you think you’re going?” 

The man freezes. The lobby is utterly still and silent. The miner in a mask stands from the table, and only now, as the dangling, teardrop diamonds of the crystal chandelier scrape their helmet, do you realize just how enormous they are. They saunter closer, their footsteps sounding like grinding stone. Their voice is a brittle rasp, wheezing and muffled through the filter of their mask. They speak slowly with small, slight hand gestures. Their gloves, like the rest of their clothes, settle strangely on their body, saggy and shapeless in places, clinging tightly to hard lumps and ridges in others.

Atticus frowns tightly. “Do I know you?” he says tersely.

“Gosse,” the miner sighs. “You’re making me look bad. What’s the law in Prismville, hm?”

“I paid them.” 

“A bottle of wine, for news like that?” The miner takes another crunching step forward, beside you now. The rough material of their glove settles on your shoulder. It feels more like reassurance than a threat, but you’re still intimidated by their shadow falling over you. You have to crane your neck to peer into the darkened portholes of their mask. Something glints inside. “You got the cheap stuff, too. Not that it matters what it cost, but you wouldn’t even drink this swill yourself. That,” they point to the letter crumpling in his fist, “is near priceless to you. Isn’t it? Are you seeing the problem here? You’re a tourist but you know better, I know you do. What’s the law?”

Atticus tries to speak but all that comes out is a sharp, wispy sound; chalk squealing softly on a blackboard. He touches his throat with a shaky hand, eyes wide, disbelieving. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. You don’t know what’s happening but you feel like it’s your fault. “He really did pay me,” you insist. “And he didn’t have to. Nobody usually—” 

The miner squeezes your shoulder, hard. A warning. “The law of Prismville is reciprocity,” they say. Atticus sinks to his knees convulsing, nails raking desperately over his own neck. He scratches and claws at himself until his fingers are wet and red, until he’s torn through his skin and sunk his fingers into the glistening meat underneath. There’s something there, protruding between muscle and tendon. Thorny starbursts. Hard mineral growths. Gemstones, you realize, veiny and bloodsoaked. He tries to pull them out but his fingers are slick and trembling. He makes a strangled sound and something rattles in his chest. The blood he vomits on the floor is gritty like sand.

“What’s that even mean to you, Gosse? You spit in the waiter’s face when they bring the check?” The miner lets you go and lumbers forward. Atticus is bleeding from the eyes and ears now, thick and sludgy like lava down a volcanic slope. He coughs up a chunk of tourmaline with grimy bits of esophagus clinging to its jagged edges. One massive gloved hand seizes his head just as he starts to droop. The miner lifts him off the ground without even a grunt of exertion and carnelians scatter from the yawning wound in his throat. Their other hand grasps his shoulder. You watch in horror as they start to pull. 

Atticus comes apart like a ragdoll with its seams snipped. Skin stretches taut, splits, unravels, and finally snaps apart with another gush of slow-moving blood. It oozes onto the floor in a long, igneous clot. Small, colorful stones skitter across the marble floor. His head leaves behind a gaping, ruby neck wound studded with turquoise and zircon, harder and sharper than bone. The body slumps and the miner, soaked in quickly drying, hardening garnet blood, looks at you. 

“Take what you’re owed, courier,” they say. You don’t move. You see yourself reflected in the black portholes of the mask, shrinking back. “But it’s all yours. As much as you want.” They hold out the head by the hair as though you might find it enticing. You shake your head. 

“No. No thanks,” you say quickly. 

“The law of Prismville is reciprocity. You did a service. Now you get paid.” 

“I don’t want…that.” You’re acutely aware of the silence now that it’s crept back in the absence of someone struggling and trying to scream. “If you really want to pay me, then—if you have any eggs…” 

“Eggs?” the miner repeats. You can’t tell if they’re angry or just incredulous.

“Please,” you add. 

They chuckle, dropping the head atop the body. “You poor thing. Of course. Let’s get you some eggs.”

Just like that, gentle ambience washes over the lobby again. Chatter, laughter, the tinkling notes of the piano, back like they were never gone. Someone in a staff uniform begins collecting the gruesome gemstones. Someone else wheels in a cart of cleaning supplies. You flinch when the miner approaches you. They bend slightly, plucking your last delivery from the luggage cart; the crate. It should take a crowbar to pry off the lid but they snap it open with barely a flick of their fingers, peering at the contents. “Perfect, thank you. Now I owe you, too.” 

“Just eggs,” you insist fearfully.

“You’ve never been here before, have you? I’m sorry, I really must’ve scared you with all this.” They nod towards the elevators. “Come upstairs. Rest a while. You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” You stammer an excuse as they reach up, lifting off their helmet and setting it in your lap. They have no hair but strange, swirling stone in the shape of it. The straps of their mask are pulled taut over twisting rock formations, white and gold-speckled granite forming frozen waves and nautilus curls. When they unlatch the clasps and pull off their masks, your breath catches in your throat. 

She’s pale like limestone but prettier, a colorful sheen across her skin like the inside of an abalone. The striated stone of her hair forms delicate, framing curls around her face. Her lashes are glossy onyx and and her eyes banded agate. Full, nacre lips curl into a smile and the sound of her facial movement is the scrape of stone. “Do I still scare you?” she asks, her voice the same breathless rasp even without the mask muffling it. You’re too stunned to answer. She chuckles and nods towards the elevator again. “Come on, courier. Let me do something for you.” 

She takes up most of the elevator, ducking slightly to fit inside. You squeeze against the wall but it’s impossible not to brush against her. The texture of her body is distinct even through a bulky layer of clothing. You feel curves; dips and grooves; some sharp, prodding things. “Call me Iridesce,” she says. “Welcome to Prismville. I’m a supervisor at the chameleite mines.” She studies you, smile widening at your confused expression. “You’ve seen chameleite before. They call it other things, depending on its tinge. It’s used for construction in some places. Computer parts. Proofing mirrors. Jewelry, of course. It’s extremely malleable. I could show you how we treat it sometime, if you’d like it.” 

The numbers tick higher as the elevator rises. You’re headed to the sixteenth floor, the very top. PENTHOUSE, the label reads beside the button. “What are the laws here, exactly?” you ask. “You said reciprocity. I just want to make sure I don’t, uh…”

“Earlier? Ah.” She tucks the crate one of her arms. Her other hand settles on your back, gently rubbing. Her fingers are unusually long; you can feel them through the glove. She digs them into your muscles, easing tension you didn’t realize was there. “It’s simple. Reciprocity. If you receive, then you give something back. The value must be equal. Not monetarily, of course. Sentiment. Meaning. Intention matters most.” 

“I’m not sure I understand. Who decides what something is worth?” 

She just smiles. The elevator stops, doors sliding open. Iridesce leads you through a winding labyrinth, black walls inset with swirling crystal panels. The penthouse is at the very end of a hallway and just as luxurious as the rest of the hotel. Iridesce sets the crate aside and sheds clothing across the floor as she walks deeper inside. A thorny patch of amethyst and rose quartz grows from one of her moonstone shoulders. Her stone skin is open in places. Honeycomb indentations litter her chest and torso, little mouths of geode full of glittering crystal, but she is smooth between her legs.

She perches on the edge of a canopied bed, parting the velvet curtain with one large, long-fingered hand. A ridge of aquamarine glitters in her wrist.

“Courier,” she says, beckoning you with one curling finger and half-lidded eyes. “Come here, precious. The road’s eaten into you. Let me soothe those aches.” 

“You don’t need to,” you say, but you go to her. Her fingers aren’t as cold as you expect, the warmth faint, buried somehow. They’re perfectly smooth as they trace your jaw and lure you closer. She’s close enough to kiss and then she dances away. Your palms sink into the mattress as you crawl forward, beneath the shadow of the canopy. The bed is enormous, easily able to accommodate both of you, but she pulls you into her lap. Her thighs are thick and veined with swirls of sapphire like porcelain. 

“But it’s my pleasure,” she murmurs, massaging your shoulders. “Repayment doesn’t have to be a chore. And you’re so lovely.”  Her lips are softer than you expect. The kisses are chaste at first, fleeting. She eases off your jacket and slips her hands under your shirt, teasing you, flicking her thumbs over your nipples. “Do you want what I’m offering, courier?” You nod and she chuckles, cupping your chin. “Don’t be shy, my sweet. Have as much as you like.” 

The next kiss is hungrier. She coaxes your mouth open and her tongue is warm and wet, licking into you. One hand stays on your chest but the other slides down, clutching your waist. You’re reminded of just how much larger she is; the spread of her palm alone wraps around your body, her spidery fingers clutching nearly halfway around you. She guides you into a languid grind. The grooves and bumps on her thigh create pleasant friction. She hisses when you move your core against them. 

“Does that hurt?” you ask. She makes a pleased sound, a hum of laughter, her breath fanning across your lips.

“Mm. Just the opposite,” she says. She reaches down and lightly scratches the end of her finger against one of the rounded gems embedded in her skin. Her eyes fall shut and her hips jump beneath you. “Why don’t you keep rubbing yourself on them, hm?” 

You lose your shirt next. Iridesce strokes the newly-exposed skin, sliding her hands up and down your sides. Your hands settle on her chest, cupping the heavy spill of her breasts. They’re firm, the first part of her that looks as stiff as it feels. But when you drag the pad of your thumb over the rose quartz embedded along her collarbones, she grips you tightly. You keep stroking them as she draws you in for another kiss, gaping softly into your mouth.

It stops too soon, too suddenly. Iridesce pulls away and stops you from following, pressing her finger to your lips. “Everything off, my dear,” she whispers. The concentric mineral rings in her eyes have widened like a dilated pupil. “Let’s see if I can fit inside you.” 

You watch her as you strip off your pants. She knows where you look and lets her legs fall apart. There’s nothing there. Smooth stone, not even adorned with little gemstones like her hips. You wonder if she’ll use her hands—they’re smooth and long, surely satisfying, large enough that just a finger or two could fill you—but then she twists to reach into the bedside drawer. You hear the click of plastic. She drizzles cool, clear lube into one of her hands. 

“Come back to me, lovely. In my lap like before, but facing away.” The textures of her body rub into your skin. It’s not unpleasant, nothing too hard or sharp unless you dip your fingers into the jagged geode openings. You settle atop one of her thigh crystals and it’s warm, startlingly so. She spreads your legs wider. One hand holds your hip and the other reaches down, feeling for your entrance. She traces her finger all around the opening, teasing. Her breath warms your ear as she eases just the tip inside. You lean your head back against her shoulder. “That’s it,” she whispers. “Relax. Oh, you’re so tight. Are the roads lonely?” 

“Ahh—sometimes,” you stammer. 

“You won’t be lonely tonight.” She stretches you slowly, murmuring praise against your ear. She’s up to two fingers before long, slow, deep strokes that reach just the right spot inside you to make your breath hitch. “Should we stop here?” she asks. Her tone is airy and teasing. She doesn’t mean it, but you still whine when her hand stops moving. “You’re such a small thing next to me, and you’re already squeezing so tight. It doesn’t seem like you can take much more.” 

“Please.” You’re begging before you’ve really thought about it. You stroke her thigh, thumbing those raised spots that make her moan. She presses her lips to the nape of your neck and curls her fingers inside you, pressing against that same spot until you whine. You’re not happy when she withdraws her fingers but then she reaches over again, grabbing something from the drawer again. 

Impossibly long and as thick as your arm, it’s the same shimmery color as her body. The head is a tapered mushroom shape and there are bulging veins carved along the shaft. The underside bulges slightly, studded with small bumps the same size as her thigh crystals. Iridesce grips it by the base, laying the entire length between your legs so you can feel its strange, pulsating heat against your skin. You give it a light, testing squeeze, cupping the throbbing bulge along the bottom, and Iridesce inhales sharply. She rocks her hips against your back. 

“Here, courier. Take what you’re owed,” she murmurs. She urges your legs apart again, spreading you over her lap. The toy—if that’s what it is—slides in easily until you reach the thick flare at the base of the head. Iridesce gives you short, shallow thrusts but you can feel it’s not enough. Her movements are shaky, the hand on your hip squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. There’s a pause, a shared grunt when she pulls it out. Then she’s pushing you down on the bed and rolling you over onto your back.

You’re struck again by her size, how completely she takes up your vision looming over you. “Legs up, darling,” she says, her voice ragged. You struggle to hold them yourself so your knees go over her shoulders. The spongy tip of the dildo pushes back inside you, and then it goes deeper. The first small, bumpy ridge drags just the right away against your inner walls. You think you’re full by the second but there’s still so much more. Iridesce starts a rhythm she can’t maintain, slow, steady thrusts becoming faster and harder.

“You’re—oh, you’re perfect!” she moans. You didn’t realize how gentle she was being before, but now she’s pounding you with the full length and you can barely breathe. You’re full now, you’re sure of it. You’re stretched as far as you can go and twisting your hands in the sheets, the bed shaking and your thighs trembling over her shoulders. Beneath her, seeing her lashes flutter against her cheek and her lips part in a soft moan, hips moving, you can’t tell whether the thick cock inside you is in her hand or between her legs. “Cum for me, precious,” Iridesce whispers, thrusting harder, fucking you into the mattress. “I want to feel you fall apart.” 

She kisses you, trails her lips from your cheek to your neck and sinks her teeth into your skin. The length inside you drills fast and deep and throbs, the bulge rippling, every little bump massaging your inner walls, and it’s all you can take. You cum with a cry and arch into those last frantic thrusts. Iridesce swallows your moans and buries the tip of the dildo as deep as she can. It twitches, little sharp movements like a dry orgasm, before it gradually softens inside you. 

Awareness becomes foggy and distant. Your thighs ache. There’s something hissing—water running. You’re lifted, carried into another room. Hot water engulfs you and you sigh, leaning into the pleasant pressure of Iridesce’s hands on your scalp. “I should order us some room service,” she muses, kissing your shoulder. “Maybe after we luxuriate for a bit, hm?” 

You nod in agreement, relaxing against her chest. She rests a hand on your thigh and you feel the striations of the stone like muscle fibers. It occurs to you suddenly that she is what the man downstairs was becoming. “Have you…?” You hesitate, unsure of what to ask or if you even should. She hums encouragingly. “Have you ever…not repaid someone the way you should’ve?”

“A long time ago,” she tells you. “A long, long time ago. Prismville was hardly a town then. I stole little things here and there, just to make him mad. Well…not just for that.” 

“Who?” 

Iridesce laughs and strokes your hair. She never answers you.

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