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illfoandillfie · 3 years ago

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A Different Kind of Education: I Is For Impact Play (Chapter 8)

ADKoE MASTERLIST

Pairing: Professor!Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader

Series Summery: After being broken up with for not being kinky enough, Reader seeks out her professor to give her some private tutoring so she can win her boyfriend back.

Chapter Summery: A new week and a new lesson, but also a new challenge. How can you possibly find the courage to talk to your professor about your period?

Warnings: Modern AU, smut (18+), slow burn romance, dom/sub dynamics, dom!roger and sub!reader, professor x student sex, dialogue heavy, conversations about and mentions of menstrual cycles/periods, discussions of impact play including: spanking, kicking, slapping, punching, floggers, paddles, crops, whips, and canes

Words: 10,391

A/N: Better late than never, right? Big apologies for taking so long to get this one up! Once again I've had to split a single topic into multiple chapters lmao. This one is mostly the theory part of the lesson and a bit of an info dump, but the next part will focus more on the actual smut.

Taglist: @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @ilovequeenmorethanyou @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies @cherries-n-rocknroll @rogersslave @scorpiogemini

@80s-roger @libsterslobsters @okilover02 @cjand10 @dealorgirl32 @youngpastafanmug @onceuponadetectivedemigod

You knew it was something you’d have to deal with eventually, that having your period would affect your lessons with Roger. But still you felt reluctant to broach the topic with him. It wasn’t something you generally discussed with people, especially not your professor (even if you were regularly sleeping with him). And you could already hear the lecture he’d give you about why you shouldn’t be embarrassed to tell your sexual partner about your cycle, and about how he’d taught reproduction enough to not be phased by it. The problem was you weren’t really sure how you felt about having sex during it and you knew even less about whether Roger would want to. You were definitely going to have to talk to him about it, no matter how much you didn’t want to. So, wondering when the best time to bring it up would be, you checked the curriculum he’d written for you. Impact play. That was the topic for the week. Roger might consider you clueless about kink (as you’d learnt during the previous week’s munch), but you at least knew enough to know that impact play meant spanking. For a moment you were distracted from your worries about the conversation you were going to have, rather excited by what you’d just read. Spanking was one of those things you’d been expecting to try. When you thought about BDSM, spanking was the second thing to come to mind after bondage. It was one of those things Dylan had hinted at being into. A couple of times during sex he’d given your arse a slap and, though you’d never really asked for it you also hadn’t told him to stop. He never hit too hard and it added a bit of excitement so there was no harm in it. And you suspected he might be interested in pushing it further if you ever suggested as much. So, to know that Roger was going to run you through the basics of it and show you how it felt, you couldn’t help but be a bit excited. And maybe you’d be able to keep things over the clothes to start and you wouldn’t have to tell Roger about your period after all. The good thing with having an implant was that it reduced the duration of your period. It would have been nice if it stopped it entirely but at least it shortened it and made it a little lighter. So maybe you could organise a second session later in the week for the more hands on part of the lesson, and not have to explain at all. You left your apartment feeling happier and excited to see Roger that night. But you didn’t have to wait so long to see him.

You’d barely taken two steps inside when a familiar voice called out Ms Y/L/N and you found Roger walking towards you, his hand raised in a lazy wave. “Hi Professor,” you smiled, surprised but happy to see him, “I’m just on my way to class, what’s up?” “Oh, in that case,” he glanced over to a group of students ambling past you, “do you have time for a meeting before you leave this afternoon?” Your heart rate sped up at the serious way he looked at you over his glasses, “Umm sure.” “Good. I’ll see you this afternoon then. Don’t forget.” You nodded but a new worry had taken over your mind. There was only one reason he could want to talk to you. Your degree. If it was anything to do with his tutoring sessions then he would have just said it when you got to his place that evening. No, it must be to do with your class work. Maybe something had been wrong with your last exam? Possibilities were turning over in your mind as you resumed your path to your first class, each worse than the other. Maybe you’d misunderstood a question and gotten it completely wrong. Maybe he’d had to fail you. Maybe your overall grade had dropped. Maybe he was going to call the whole tutoring thing off because you’d gotten too distracted and done so badly on your recent assessment. You spent the entire day trying not to get too worked up about it, trying to tell yourself that if your work had slipped even a little he would have called to talk about it earlier, that if it really was as bad as failing his subject you’d have discussed it long before now. By the time your last class of the day ended you were somewhere between terrified about what Roger was going to say and relieved that you were about to find out.

Your hand was shaking as you knocked on Roger’s office door and pushed it open at his word. “AH, Ms Y/L/N, shut the door please and take a seat.” he said, shifting a stack of papers to the side of his desk. It was only once you were sitting that he seemed to look at you properly, “Are you alright? You look a bit pale.” “Professor I’m so sorry, I swear if something was wrong with my last exam then it wasn’t because of our lessons and I promise I’m not letting them distract me at all. I put so much time and effort into studying and if-” “Woah, woah, hang on. No one said anything was wrong.” Your breath caught in your throat and it seemed to take you twice as long as it normally would for you to understand what he’d said, “There’s not? Then....why am I here?” “It’s about tonight’s tutoring session.” “Oh?” “I wondered if you’d be okay making a small change to the plan.” “S-so nothing's wrong with my work?” Roger shook his head, “Your work is impeccable Ms Y/L/N. Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d assume the worst. I had no intention of worrying you like that. I was intending to mention it this morning but you seemed to be in a bit of a rush and I didn’t want anyone to overhear so...” he gestured vaguely towards you with his hands. You let out a relieved chuckle, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders, “What was the change you wanted to make?” “Do you know what we’ll be focusing on this week?” “Impact play, Professor.” “Very good. And do you know what that entails?” “It’s like spanking isn’t it?” “Spanking is definitely part of it, yes.” “Cool. But you’re not wanting to switch topic are you? Only I’ve been kind of looking forward to this one since it’s like proper BDSM stuff....or like, not that other things aren’t I just mean that spanking is part of what I initially imagined, y’know?” Roger held up his hand to quiet you, “I understand what you mean Ms Y/L/N. And it’s not that I want to change the topic, I just wanted to change where the lesson would take place.” “Okay...” you were a little surprised by that. Where else could he have in mind when your lessons were supposed to be secret. “I thought we might have the first lesson here.” “Here?!” “Keep your voice down, Ms Y/L/N. Not here exactly, not this office. In the first-year bio room actually.” “Why? Isn’t that kind of risky? What if someone saw?” Roger shrugged one shoulder, “It might be, but I think what I intend to show you could be covered as a biological experiment. Let me explain,” he said upon seeing your confused face, “So, as you no doubt remember, first years do a lot of dissection of various animals, working their way up to human.” You nodded, remembering hours spent bent over various carcases and cadavers. “Well, I thought it might be beneficial to show you some of the impact play tools we can use, demonstrating how they work and what effects they can have, but I don’t want to demonstrate them on you straight away. Luckily, it just so happens that one of the animals my first years are studying right now is pigs, so I thought we might use a pig carcass instead. Pig and human flesh are quite similar so you should get a decent sense of how being spanked with various tools will look and the impact they would have on your skin. We can compare being spanked by hand to flogging to a crop and so on. All without experiencing any pain at all. Of course, it is a dead pig so it won’t be exactly the same and you probably won’t see the same levels of bruising you would on a living human being, but it’s a good starting point. Plus this way you could try wielding the tools too, so you can get a sense for how they feel to use them and how much force is required to make them work.” You were taken aback by the explanation and had to stop your jaw from falling open as you listened. But Roger waited patiently for you to think it over and you quickly concluded it was a good plan. You could easily write it off as related to your dissertation if anyone saw and asked what was going on. It wasn’t at all related but Roger was about the only person who knew what topic you were researching so no one else would pick up the lie. “Okay then, let’s have the lesson here.” “Excellent. You really don’t mind hanging back?” “Not at all.” “Good. I think we should possibly wait until a little later before we start, just to let the place clear out a bit. Perhaps we could get some dinner and eat it in here before we head down to the room. You can tell me how you’re getting on with your dissertation.” “Okay, I like that idea.” “Shall I duck out and get us some food then? What would you like?”

After what could only be described as a minor argument about the merits of Mexican food, you and Roger eventually settled on a nearby Greek place. He tapped the order into Uber Eats and then went to wait for the delivery out on the street so the driver wouldn’t have to find their way through the numerous carparks and laneways on campus. You ducked out to your own car to drop off your bag full of books, though you kept your laptop to make notes on. It would also make your story seem more legitimate if anyone did stumble onto the lesson and ask what was going on. The thought of the lesson made you smile. Partly because you were keen to learn about the topic but also partly because you knew there was no way sex would be part of it. Roger would definitely draw the line at fucking his student in his classroom where anyone could catch you. And if you were going to be spanking a dead pig then you wouldn’t be asked to remove clothes or anything like that. So you wouldn’t have to discuss your menstrual cycle with Roger at all. You’d just say you were busy until later in the week when your period stopped and organise the follow-up lesson then and Roger wouldn’t be any the wiser. It was perfect. That, in addition to knowing nothing was wrong with your actual schoolwork, put you in a very good mood and you could have whistled with joy as you made your way back to Roger’s office.

By the time you’d finished eating, the sky outside the window had changed from a mix of warm pinks and yellows as the sun set and was gradually darkening the longer you watched. It was only when Roger glanced at his watch and saw that it was a quarter to seven that he decided the building would be empty enough for your lesson to start. He grabbed his own laptop as you grabbed yours and then led you along the corridor and down a set of stairs, taking you towards the back of the building where the hands-on biology lessons were held. Roger made sure the door was shut and locked before dumping his belongings onto a desk. “Can you give me a hand?” he asked, before moving to the door to a walk-in freezer at the back of the room. Together you hoisted a large pig carcass onto a cart and wheeled it out into the main room. Roger then ducked back into the freezer returning, after a little rummaging, with what looked to be a child’s toy crate. It was made of yellow plastic and seemed light enough that Roger had no trouble hoisting it onto one of the desks, but it was not full of children’s toys. You couldn’t see everything immediately but poking out of the top was a long black handle with a leather flap hanging off the end. “Is that what we’ll be using then?” You were eyeing the box warily. “Yup,” Roger began pulling the items from the box one by one, laying them out on the desk, “I brought the box in earlier and hid it down here so no one would stumble onto it. I didn’t want any awkward questions. Or to have any of them stolen since they’re mine,” he added with a chuckle. You looked over the collection with interest, some of the objects familiar to you and some only vaguely recognisable, “Is that a hair brush?” “It is,” Roger winked playfully, “Kink can be very D.I.Y and the back of a hairbrush makes for a good makeshift paddle. The front of the hairbrush can be fun too actually. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m going to go through everything individually, explain what they are and what sort of effect they have and I’ll demonstrate them on our piggy participant. There’s also a few things I don’t have which we can run through at the end, sound good?” “Sounds great.” You sank into one of the nearby seats, pulling your laptop towards you, ready to take notes. “Right well. Impact play is a BDSM practice where one partner strikes another for sexual gratification. As you rightly said earlier this includes spanking but there's a little more to it than just that. You can slap your partner, punch them, kick them, whip them or flog them. There’re numerous ways to play with impact and as with all BDSM it’s important to negotiate what you want before you start. Being struck can leave marks of course. Brusies, welts, scratches, right through to cuts that draw blood. For some people, the marking aspect is an important part of their enjoyment, and they might go so far as to intentionally make the marks more apparent. But whether or not you want visible marks might be influenced by your job or the season or your social life or any number of other things. Personally, the marks are secondary to why I enjoy the forms of impact play I partake in. But my feelings aside, the nature of our lessons and the secrecy required, means I won’t intentionally be marking you anywhere that isn’t easy to cover up. If you even want to try it out. You might see everything today and decide it’s not for you and that would be okay.” “I don’t think there’s much danger of that Roger. Dylan’s spanked me a little before and I’m interested enough to try more.” “In that case then, you should know that physical pain is part of impact play no matter what aspect you try. And it can bring up more mental pain too, depending on the individual. Which is why I want to start with testing some implements on this pig. We can go through a few things and you’ll get a sense of them and then we can talk about what you might actually want to try or if any of it seems wrong for you. I’m also going to be much more diligent with your safe word in these lessons than any before. So what is your safe word?” “Pizazz, Roger,” “Good. Remember you can use it whenever you need to, even today. If things get too much for you I want to know.” “I know. I promise I’ll use it.” You were struck by how serious Roger’s tone was but understood it, after the conversation you’d had during your previous lesson. And, for the first time, you wondered if this would be a topic Roger would find hard to teach. “Thank you. I’ll check in with you every so often, especially when we move onto the practical lesson and you’re experiencing it firsthand. So, if I ask you what your safe word is, I need you to respond as loudly and as quickly as you can. It’s a way for me to gauge how well you’re coping and to make sure you’re still capable of using it.” “That makes sense.” Having assured himself of your understanding, Roger took a deep breath and smiled again, “Well, I have a range of different implements you can use here today but we’ll start with the most basic,” he held his two hands in front of him, palms towards you, fingers wiggling, “Hands.” You smiled at his showmanship but your gaze lingered on the offered view. His hands had always seemed quite lovely, even when he was just teaching you biology. The way they moved so delicately as he demonstrated necessary scientific processes for the class, or rapidly twirled pens around his fingers to impress new students. Of course, you’d felt them too since you’re first private lesson, the way he caressed you and held you. His fist tightening in your hair and his fingers plunging into you and making you moan and the way he’d gently stroke your skin as you were both regaining your breath. You were excited to feel the power in them as he spanked you. “Spanking is entry level impact play. Everyone and their mother has heard of it. It’s a common thing to see in pornography and even in Hollywood movies when they want to show sex as kinky. And because you don’t need more than your hands it’s easy to experiment with. Do you want to see what it looks like?” You nodded and Roger stepped closer to the pig, angling himself so you could see. Suddenly there was the sound of a clap as Roger’s palm hit the pig’s flesh. “See how my hand was open and my palm was flat?” Roger demonstrated again but slower so the hit barely made a sound, “But what if I do this?” He hit the pig again but changed the position of his hand. The sound of his hand colliding with the pig was deeper the second time around, “If you cup your hand, curve it slightly, you can change the way the spank feels and sounds. Just like clapping.” You experimentally clapped your hands together, first with open palms and then with each hand cupped so that the fingers wrapped around the back of the other. “Now you give the pig a try.” Feeling a surge of nervously excited butterflies, you got out of your seat and took your place at the pig. With a breath and a swallow you quickly brought your hand down. The slapping sound seemed to echo in the quiet room but it wasn’t as crisp as the noise Roger’s hits had made. With a look to Roger for permission, you tried it again, creating a slightly more impressive sound. “Good, now cupped?” You did it again, curving your fingers in a bit and bringing it down again. It felt more awkward than the open palm hit had so you repositioned yourself to hit the pig from a slightly different angle and tried once more. “Don’t be afraid to pull your arm back further. The more your rear back, the more force will be in the spank. Like this,” he pulled his hand back past his ear and swung down hard, the spank echoing around you. “Of course, you can also spank from a nearer point too. Spanking, and a lot of impact play, is best if you mix it up a bit, don’t stay in one rhythm too long, do some spanks with your fingers spread, or change how hard or fast they are. I might give a sub two or three hard hits each with a pause between but then I’ll switch to a more rapid series of spanks that don’t have as much force behind them but come faster.” You nodded and experimented with taking your arm back further, testing out ways to change the strength of each spank, until Roger finally called you to stop. “How did that feel?” he asked as you took your seat again. “My hand tingles.” “That’s normal,” Roger laughed, “in fact it’s one thing I really enjoy about spanking by hand. The sub isn’t the only one who feels the spanks, the dom gets some of the pain in his hand too, especially if the intensity ramps up or there's a section of quick-fire spanks. And that can a) help the dom understand what the sub is feeling and work out how long the scene should go and b) brings a sort of intimacy to the scene that is harder to achieve with a tool.” You hummed as you noted down what he’d said, “Have you ever spanked someone so much you injured your wrist or anything?” “No.” Roger shook his head, amused by the question, “My wrists are pretty sturdy. But a few times I’ve been left with a stingy, tingly hand for an hour or two. Which brings me to an important note about pain. There are two main types of pain you can experience in impact play. We refer to them as thuddy and stingy.” “Thuddy and stingy? What is this, an afternoon kids show?” Roger rolled his eyes, “The names are simple but they explain exactly what they mean. Some types of impact will have a stingy sensation which is usually superficial. It won’t go deeper than the first few layers of skin and probably leaves the skin feeling warm and a little tingly or like sunburn, y’know? It’s typical of spanks and slaps. Thuddy pain is deeper, it gets into the fat and muscles and tissue and aches more. And I’ll go through which tools cause which sort of pain as I get to them. Generally though, people who enjoy impact play have a preference for one or the other.” “And your preference is what?” “Thuddy. Definitely. Although I prefer inflicting stingy.” You hummed thoughtfully. “Now, I’ll go into details about ways to actually incorporate spanking into a scene later. We can talk about it while we’re negotiating our scene. Today is just about the practicalities and sensations involved in the different types of impact play. So are you okay to move on?” “Yup, definitely.” And then, sensing Roger might ask, you added, “Pizazz.” feeling pleased when you saw him smile.

“I don’t expect us to delve too deep into them but I think I should touch on kicking, punching and slapping. Kicking and punching are things I’ve not done. They can, obviously, be quite painful. But they’re pretty self-explanatory. From what I understand about it, and what I’ve heard others who enjoy that kind of thing say, kicking and punching can both be very intimate, similar to the way spanking by hand is, but in a more primal or animalistic way. Punching is, of course, done without any accessories but kicking often includes footwear of some kind. A lot of time it’s something like a steel-toed boot or something with a bit of weight to it.” “That isn't something I want to try.” You’d learnt a lot about how far kink went so weren’t completely shocked that some people would enjoy something as forceful as kicking, but it did take you by surprise to hear Roger talking about it. “What about slapping?” “How is that different to spanking?” “Well, you’re right, they are similar. But slapping generally refers to slapping on the face whereas spanking is usually on the, uh, derriere. Of course you can slap or spank other parts too. For clarity’s sake, if I say slapping assume I mean on the face whereas spanking is anywhere else on the body.” You thought about it for a second, “I’m not sure if I’d be game to try it but I do want to know more.” “Slapping can be fun. Again, it’s not one I do a lot but I have played with it in the past. It comes in handy for particular scenes and there’s a fairly bratty sub I’ve worked with who responds really well to it. The most important thing to know is that if you are slapping someone’s face only ever aim for the cheeks. There’s a lot of fragile places around the face and it’s close to the brain so you need to be careful not to do any lasting damage. Never hit the temples because you hit them with enough force and it can kill a person. Nose and ears are off limits too, anything that is important. You knew enough about biology to know Roger wasn’t making those rules up for fun. Noses were easy to break and hitting an ear too hard could damage someone’s hearing. But face slapping did still intrigue you.

“Well, I’d say the next – let's call it the next level – of impact play is paddling.” He picked up what looked to be a wooden plank with a handle. It was an inch or two longer and wider than his hand with small holes cut out in a repeating pattern over the flat side so you could look right through it. “They don’t always look like this. Paddles come in lots of different shapes and sizes. This is a wooden one but they’re also frequently made of leather and sometimes the leather ones will have one side that’s a little more padded than the other. That gives you a bit of versatility with the pain. You can start off lightly with the padded side to get you in the zone and then during the scene switch it to the firmer side that hurts more. Or, if you don’t have access to a paddle at all, you can substitute a hairbrush.” He picked the hairbrush up and waved it back and forth. “And that-” you pointed at the hair brush, “will feel the same as that?” you pointed at the wooden paddle, not quite able to reconcile the two in your mind. “Not exactly the same but close. Honestly you can get really creative with impact play and not spend any money to get nearly the same results. I mean a plastic hairbrush might take a few extra hits or a little more force to really bruise someone but they’ll still end up sore from it. Or, if the hairbrush doesn’t do it for you, dig through your draws and see what else you can find. Wooden spoons, cutting boards, rulers, leather belts, spatulas, rolling pins, ping pong paddles, anything you can get your hands on. Just be mindful of how easily they’d break or them causing more pain than you expect.” Again, you weren’t necessarily surprised by the lengths people would go to for sexual gratification, as Roger had put it, but it was a bit astounding. Still, you noted it all down just in case. “Now a paddle generally falls under the stingy category but you do tend to get a deeper bruise than with your hand. Different factors could alter the way it feels too. If you put less force into it the pain will fall more on the thuddy side, same goes for if your hits are slower. But the pain call also be influenced by the size of the paddle, the material it’s made out of, the texture of it.” “Texture?” “Sometimes paddles have added texture, so they aren’t just a smooth, flat board. They might have metal studs that are more raised than the surface of the blade – the part you hit with – or ridging that will imprint the skin. This one has holes in it which definitely changes the feeling, makes it more intense. As you strike and the blade hits, the holes do two things. They stop any air cushions forming that would lessen the impact and they sort of push the skin into the holes which means the pain isn't completely even along where was hit. Plus it also leaves these cool circle marks behind which is fun.” You realised you’d held your breath through the explanation, eyes following the paddle as Roger waved it through the air and ran his hands over it unconsciously. You hoped he had something more beginner friendly at home, though you couldn’t pretend you weren’t turned on by the way he wielded his weapon. “Using it is quite similar to spanking but your hand isn’t hitting, it’s holding onto the paddle handle. So you just pull back,” Roger’s arm went back and the paddle swung backwards,” and then hit,” he swung his arm forward, the paddle cutting through the air and landing directly against the soft flesh of the pig. It made a satisfying thwack sound on impact and when Roger’ brought it back again you could see the circular patterns he’d talked about. He demonstrated a few more times before he handed the plank to you. It was heavier than you’d been expecting, solid wood, but the handle fit into your palm comfortably. You ran your hands over the flat part, what Roger had called the blade, and felt the holes with your fingers. The weight made it a little hard to swing but not impossible. You managed to mark the pig as well, stroking the circular imprints with your fingers. “Try the hairbrush,” Roger said, swapping it for the paddle. Its handle wasn’t quiet as long, but it was lighter and you found your hits were harder with it, without you even trying. “Something to be aware of if you use an ordinary household item, or even just a different sort of impact toy. Because it’s lighter you can pull it back further and swing harder. A dom has to be aware of how much is going into each hit and how much their sub can handle.”

“So what’s after paddles?” “Floggers.” Roger picked his up off the table, “This is a fairly typical flogger. As you can see it’s made of black leather. It has the handle which is the thickest part and then a number of smaller tails. The tails is where you get the most variation which can be a stylistic choice or just a side effect of its price and overall quality. There’s a trick for knowing if a flogger is good quality or not. It should be pretty evenly balanced between the handle and the tails, so you should be able to do this,” he held out a finger and balanced the flogger on it carefully, the handle pointing out one way and the tails dangling over the other. You thought for sure it would tip forward onto the tails and tumble to the ground but it hung there perfectly. “Sometimes there will be more tails or they'll look different but no matter what, it should be balanced.” Roger gave a practiced flick of his hand so the flogger leapt into the air and he was able to catch the handle before it fell. “From a more stylistic point of view, you could get a flogger with less tails but they’ll be made of braids of leather which makes them heavier and thicker. Braided tails are also likely to have knots in the ends which can be a bit scratchy and even draw blood. They don’t have to be made of leather either. Rubber floggers are also popular. The tails on them tend to be more rectangular in shape, still flat but they have more edges and it actually feels like you’re being hit with more tails then there really are. And if you’re looking to really fuck someone up you can get hemp floggers. Sometimes they’ll look similar to this leather one but hemp is fairly stiff material and sometimes the tails will be shaped so that they’re sort of squiggly rather than flat lines. The squiggles hurt like a bitch, especially if they have knots at the end. Definitely start off with simple leather and work up once you’re more experienced.” Roger dragged the ends of the tails over his hand as he spoke, “I’d say this falls into the more thuddy type of pain. It can cover a large area of your body since the tails spread out and each of them creates an individual pain point. And because you’re being hit six or seven or nine or however many times at once, you can build up quite a rapid movement over a short period of time.” You eyed the dancing tails as Roger moved his hand through them, “How long are the tails? Isn’t it a bit dangerous to have so many bits flying in all directions?” Roger laughed, “Well yeah, kinda. I mean, that’s BDSM for you though, it gets dangerous which is why we’re all obsessed with safety. It’s a good thing to have noticed though, well done. The tails on this one are on the shorter side but some floggers will have much longer ones which means the dom can stand further back and still inflict a lot of pain. But you’re right, you do have to be mindful of the length and where they’re flying because a longer tail can potentially wrap around to somewhere you aren’t intending to hit. For instance, if you’re standing behind a person and flogging the back of their shoulder, you don’t want one of the tails to fly past their shoulder and around their neck. That would be incredibly painful and probably not what they expected or wanted from the scene.” “So you have to take into account the length of the tails when you’re negotiating the scene then? And know where on the body to focus the hits so you don’t risk causing the wrong sort of pain and ending it early.” “Exactly. That’s why negotiating the scene is important. Then both the dom and the sub will know what they want to achieve, what they want to get out of the experience, and they can tailor things to fit better. A lot of doms who are into impact play are likely to have multiple versions of their favourite toys – I myself have a few different paddles at home, I just didn’t bring them all in with me today – so by talking through what you want they’ll be able to choose the style of toy that will best fit the scene.” “So how do you use a flogger then? Is it the same as spanking and paddling where you just swing your arm forward?” “Sort of. Floggers have a few different ways to use them. There is of course the single strike option where, yeah, you do just hit them like you would with a paddle. I find that you don’t need to bring your arm back so far though, the movement comes from your elbow more than your shoulder.” Roger bent his arm so his hand and the flogger were roughly head height and then brought it down on the pig, “And you can change the angle of your single strike so that you hit them overhand or underhand or from one of the sides.” He demonstrated each direction as he said them, first bringing the flogger down from above, then swinging it up from below, then from the right side and finally a backhanded hit from the left. “But you don’t have to just pick a side to hit from. Paddles and hands are limited in how you can swing them but floggers have more movement. One way to use them is to swing them in a circle.” He moved back towards the pig to demonstrate, standing side on so that the tails whipped around and struck the pig, “I like starting off with circles because you can keep the pressure quite light. The tails sort of brush over the sub as they pass and it can be a good way to slowly build up. And then you can move into a figure eight as you get a bit harder.” Roger shifted his circles so they made a sideways eight in the air, subtly adjusting his stance so that the tail swished over the pig’s skin on both the forward and back motion. You watched, awe-struck by how easily Roger swung the flogger, falling into a rhythm quickly. It wasn’t hard to imagine how he’d suddenly change the speed or the force of the swing when you were least expecting it.

You were brought back to the present by Roger clearing his throat as he stilled the flogger, “The figure eight is why you should practice your backhand swing as much as any other. Because the tails will hit the sub on both the forward and back swings and you want them to be as even as possible.” He flipped the flogger in his hands, holding the handle out to you. It felt smooth and cool in your hand, lighter than the paddle had been. You swished it experimentally, trying to get a sense of how it felt in motion.” “Show me your overhand hit.” Roger said, leaning back against the nearest desk to watch. You tried to imitate how he’d swung it, elbow bent, flogger raised. It must have been good enough because Roger nodded and said, “how about underhand?” He kept calling out different directions for a while, testing your reactions but you felt it helped you get a better grip on the toy and you found yourself adjusting how you held it so your movements became more fluid. Roger watched you as you tried to keep up, his eyes locked onto your hands. Had you been looking, you might have caught sight of him subtly adjusting himself in his pants. Finally, he seemed satisfied that you could successfully single strike from any direction and asked you to try the circle and figure eight motions. They were harder to start, more awkward as you tried to work out the best way to move the flogger, and you caught Roger chuckling.” “Oi, stop laughing,” “Do you want some help?” he was still smiling but his request was genuine and when you nodded he stepped towards you. One of his hands moved to your waist as the other lay over yours on the handle of the flogger. You tried not to grin too much as he did exactly why you’d hoped, and you felt him so close behind you. “Like this,” His arm gently directed yours, the flogger beginning to move in a smooth circle. “Oh, not so hard then,” you laughed, half turning to face him, “Y’know if someone walked in now this would be pretty hard to explain.” His eyes darted to your lips, “Good thing we locked the door then.” You hummed, waiting to see if Roger would close the gap. He did a few seconds later, leaning in to kiss you softly. But the movement caused you both to forget about the flogger, your hands falling out of rhythm, and the tails whacking against your outstretched arms as they fell. “Ow,” you both groaned, Roger stepping away from you. It was disappointing but the disappointment was a little confusing. Surely you weren’t hoping for your professor to kiss you when you had no intention of sleeping with him that night. Roger laughed, “Maybe that’s enough of the flogger today.” “Might be for the best. Good thing I was so bad at it, otherwise we might have been really hurt.” “You weren’t that bad. You actually looked good with it before I brought in the circles. Quite sexy really.” “Thanks,” you said softly, trying to hide how pleased you were at that praise, “What else is there then?”

“There's only one more that I can demonstrate but then there’s a few others I’ll touch on quickly too. So the last one I own is a crop.” He picked it up off the table, his fingers sliding along the length of it’s handle as he spoke, “This one I would put in the stingy category. It’s fast and sharp. Again, you can get crops in a few different styles. They will all have a handle like this, long and thin and probably with a slightly thicker point towards the end that’s easy to hold onto. The difference will be in the bit you hit with. This one is based on the sort of riding crop that's used on horses, so it’s quite plain. There’s just this loop of leather which hangs off the end. But others can be more decorative. I’ve seen crops which had ends shaped like hearts or that had studs pushed into them. Some of them are padded and some have a more rounded shape. We like our variety.” “It looks scarier than the others I think,” “Yeah, they’re quite intimidating aren’t they. And if you do it right, it’ll make a noise through the air, which just adds to how intimidating it can be.” “Can you show me how to swing it now?” “Absolutely. Now, you want to stand a bit further back with a crop because there is such a long handle. And the magic is in the wrist with these. You just flick the wrist and...” You could hear the whooshing sound of it flying through the air before it cracked against the pig. “Now some crops are more bendy and some are more stiff so, if you get one, you’ll want to practice swinging it a bit before you use it on a person, to get a feel for it. The flexibility of it might dictate how you stand or how strong the swing has to be. Give this one a go though.” You felt oddly powerful as you took the crop and tightened your fist around the end. For a moment a vision of you decked out in leather dominatrix gear popped into your head and you nearly laughed. Unfortunately, the intimidating whooshing noise Roger had achieved was not as easy for you to make as you’d hoped, and the imagined power soon dissipated as you struggled to make the weapon sing. Roger however was not disappointed. “It takes practice,” was what he said when you lamented your inability to create the sound, “And you don’t have to have the sound to make a good hit. It’s just kind of cool.” When you still seemed disappointed he sighed. “If it’s any help, I can’t always make the sound either. And besides, I wasn’t intending to use that one on you, unless you really, really want to. I mostly brought it to show you as an interesting part of your theory lessons. And so you’d have a sense of what a cane is like, even though I don’t have any of them to demonstrate.” “A cane? Like....caning? Like what Victorian kids used to have done if they misbehaved or whatever?” Roger laughed, “Kind of, yeah. It does have a history in corporal punishment. Which, might I add, wasn’t just for Victorian kids. It was still a thing when I was a kid. We didn’t get caned, more likely to be whacked over the knuckles with a ruler, but still. I don’t think it really left schools until the 80s.” “Jesus,” “Yeah. Occasionally I do wish I could bring out a ruler to shut a kid up,” he winked in jest, “Anyway, caning for BDSM is similar and uses the same sort of tool. A cane, funnily enough. Canes are long and thin like a crop but without the leather flap at the end or the more padded handle area. Traditionally they’re made from rattan which is a type of plant, but you can also get synthetic canes which are covered in leather. In my experience synthetic canes are actually harder. Not to use, I mean in the way they feel when you’re hit with them. The traditional rattan ones require a lot of maintenance though. You have to water them between uses, literally soaking them in a bath of water so they don’t dry out and break. But the benefit with a rattan cane is that if you get it home and realise you’d like something a bit shorter, you can cut it off yourself and just sandpaper down the rough edge and it’s good as new.” “So are there any different version aside from synthetic? All the other toys had lots of variety.” “Hmmm, not really. Most of the difference will be in how thick the cane is, which can effect the feel of it a lot. A thinner cane will sting when it hits and the force will make the skin hug the cane so it leaves these long marks behind. A thicker cane though might sting less but it’ll still hurt a lot, just more thuddy. And you tend to get more bruising from the thicker ones.” “And do you use it the same as a crop?” “Mostly, yes. The biggest difference is that you can use a larger section of a cane. The crop has the specific bit at the end to hit with whereas a cane doesn’t have that limit. The most important thing to remember is to try and aim a little short of where you want to hit because if you hit with a part of the cane six inches down, those top six inches are going to hit as well, and with force behind them they will wrap around the person’s side or arse or whatever until they make contact. But other than that, it’s a similar motion from the wrist and uses a similar amount of energy. And canes can make the cool whippy noise too.”

“Is that everything then?” “One last one, really quick. Whips.” “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of whipping in kink.” “Yeah, it’s one of those things that gets mentioned a lot even if comparatively fewer people are actually into it. But everyone’s heard the phrase chains and whips��in relation to BDSM. There's a few different varieties of whips but I don’t really know enough about them to know the difference. They all look like whips to me. Very cowboy. But they’re one of the more intense versions of impact play. The pain they cause is quite sharp and stingy and will be very localised to a specific point because they have the one tail, as opposed to floggers which have multiple tails. Whips are very capable of breaking the skin though and feel very intensely painful. I do not recommend them unless you discover you’re a masochist and you’ve tried everything else impact play has to offer.” “No need to tell me twice, Professor. Definitely do not want to try whips any time soon.” “That’s very reasonable. And that is all of the impact play options I wanted to go through. There’s a little more to cover regarding safety before I let you go for the night, but how about we put the pig away and hope no one notices it’s been marked by crops and floggers.” You chuckled and quickly moved to help Roger push the trolley back towards the freezer, locking the dead pig away securely, and to help pack up his toys. When everything was tidy again you re-took your seat, Roger taking the one beside you. It made the end of the lesson feel less like a lesson and more of just a casual chat, the topic of which happened to be BDSM. “The most important thing to remember when trying impact play is which parts of the body are safest to hit.” He paused for a moment, considering you, “But you’ve been studying biology for a while now, Ms Y/L/N. Care to guess which parts are safe and which parts you should avoid?” You hadn’t expected to be asked so took a moment to consider your answer, “Well, the arse obviously. Ummm.... I guess I’d assume the best places to hit are the bits with more meat on them.” “Very good. Entirely correct. There’s a reason most people think about spanking on the arse and that’s because it’s one of the best places to spank. Well, that and the fact that spanking is used so frequently in punishment scenes where you bend the naughty girl over your knee. But, yes, hitting the arse is good. Hitting the thighs can also be good, though the bit just under the arse cheek where it connects to the thighs hurts a lot. Which isn’t to say don’t ever spank there, just be mindful that it’s going to hurt more than directly on the arse cheeks. The pecks or breasts can be good places to hit, even the upper back where the shoulder blade is can be good. What about places to avoid hitting? Any ideas what those might be?” You hummed in thought, “I’d imagine you wouldn’t want to hit the spine since it’s so important.” “Right again Ms Y/L/N. The spine is definitely something to avoid. I don’t like hitting on the back much at all because there's too much important stuff there but I do know some others who don’t mind using a flogger there, especially while warming up before things get too intense. There are also the kidneys to watch out for,” he moved his hand to press against the spot on his own back, “because, as you no doubt know, part of the kidneys stick out under the ribcage so aren’t fully protected. Then a little lower down, just above the arse, is the tailbone which should also be avoided. “What about the neck? That would be bad to hit too, right?” “Yup. And that’s something to watch for if you’re doing anything on the shoulder blades. The spine of course runs all the way up the back of the neck and hitting there can do some very serious and lasting damage if you’re not careful. I know some people who will only flog the shoulder blades if the sub is wearing a collar because that adds a bit of protection around the C5 and C6 vertebrae but even so, better safe than sorry in my opinion. The front of the neck is also not good to hit since that’s where the vocal cords and all that is.” “Which is why you have to be careful with a flogger’s tails, right?” “Right. But what about on the front? Is there anywhere else you’d avoid?” “Pussy,” you said with a laugh. Roger laughed too, “Actually, depending on how it’s done, spanking a pussy can be quite enjoyable.” “Wait really?” “Yeah. I prefer doing it with my hand since you can feel when it makes the sub wet but it’s not totally unusual to use paddles or crops or even floggers down there too. I’m sure some people whip as well.” You gulped at the thought. “The biggest area to avoid on a person’s front side is the diaphragm and middle of the chest. There’s a lot of important stuff in there and a lot less tissue than elsewhere.” “Do people get badly hurt doing impact play?” you glanced over the list of places Roger said to avoid. It made it seem like almost any spanking was running the risk of more than just some bad bruising. “Sometimes.” Roger said seriously. He paused for a moment, thinking, and then continued, “Things can go wrong. And when you’re playing with intentionally hurting someone, things going wrong can be very serious. I won’t pretend there aren’t stories of people trying impact play and ending up paralysed or worse. But if you’re careful, if you pay attention and only hit certain areas and are mindful of how hard you’re hitting, then you’re going to be fine. And that’s why we come up with safe words and talk through scenes before we do them. So that you can minimize those risks and have a chance to communicate any worries or concerns.” “But how can safe words help if you say them after you’ve already been hurt too much?” “Well, for one, even if you’ve been hurt badly, using your safe word can stop things from being made worse. But you don’t have to wait until you’re hurt to use the safe word. Yes, if I spank you four times in a row and the fourth one feels so bad you can’t go on, then you should use your safe word before I give you a fifth. But you could also use it after the third hit when you aren’t sure if you want the fourth. And safe words aren’t just about physical pain. If you start off excited but then feel anxious after two hits you are well within your rights to safe word. You don’t have to wait until the damage is done. And, obviously, it’s not always easy to tell if that one hit more is going to be enough to make you want to stop. You can’t always know if the next hit is going to catch your neck wrong and do serious damage. But if you feel at all worried that it might, speak up. Not just worried either. If you feel distracted or you think I’m not paying enough attention to how I’m spanking you, or if I move to spank and area you don’t want me to touch, tell me. There is no wrong reason to use a safe word, even if we’re only a few minutes into the scene. I’ve said before that I’d rather you tell me to stop than for us to go on and you not feel comfortable, and I mean it.” “I know, I guess I just never really thought about it being for mental stuff as well as physical.” “Mmm, I should have checked that.” “Well, let’s face it, you probably tried and I just didn’t pay attention. But, y’know, you’re very good at reassuring me when I start to get nervous.” “I hope that’s a good thing.” “It definitely is. I think if I didn’t have the reassurance, I’d chicken out of some things.” “As long as you’re aware of the difference between some healthy nerves and anxiety that could be a sign you should slow down. And that you keep telling me how you’re feeling.” “Of course I will.” “Good girl.”

An understanding seemed to pass between you as you sat in near silence, eyes on the other. Until Roger drew in a long breath and stood up. “Right well, I think that’s just about everything. Obviously we weren’t able to see the levels of bruising that different implements can cause but it’s kind of dependent on the individual anyway. Everything can influence the severity of bruises and other marks. Tell me what a bruise is.” “It’s broken blood vessels under the skin which cause discolouration.” “Bingo. Now, obviously being spanked with a hand will leave less obvious bruises than being hit with a crop will and usually a paddle will bruise less than....i don’t know, a leather belt. But there's lots of factors to consider. The sub’s age, diet, the colour of their skin, their hydration level, how much sun exposure they’ve had recently, stress levels, hormones. And the biggest of all is how much stimulus they receive on that part of the body. The more you hit a spot, the deeper it will bruise. So, don’t expect bruises and marks to appear exactly the same every time you make them. There are some ways to heighten or lessen marks left during BDSM, but I’ll go through those when you’re ready for our practical lessons. And we’ll also go through some ideas for popular scenes and positions before we settle on what our scene will look like.” Roger seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, “Of course, it’s not so late we have to stop. If you did want to start testing out some light impact play, or if you wanted to revisit a previous topic, you’re more than welcome to come back to mine.” “No,” you said much too fast, the suggestion catching you completely off guard. “Okay, no problem,” Roger said, his eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean...just that tonight’s not great timing.” You’d really thought you’d got out of having to talk about it but you could see Roger was going to ask what you were talking about when on a regular tutoring night you’d likely still be in his bed. All the same you couldn’t quite make eye contact as you explained, “My period started last night, that’s all. Makes things a bit awkward.” “Oh is that all?” You shrugged, “Yeah.” “Well there’s no need to feel awkward or embarrassed about that. And there’s no reason to hide it from me. Aside from the fact that I’ve been married and had kids, I’ve also been teaching biology for longer than I care to count, so I’m very familiar with the reproductive processes and the reality of the menstrual cycle.” “I knew you were going to say something like that.” “Because it’s true. And besides, periods are important to factor into our lessons because they can change how you’ll respond to various kinks. Fluctuating hormone levels can change how much you enjoy or desire sex, as well as the physical sensation of different forms of touch. A lot of women find breast stimulation uncomfortable in the lead up to their period because their breasts become tender at that stage of their cycle. It can also make vaginal sex undesirable, at least in the first couple of days if not longer, whether because of a physical discomfort or pain, or just because it makes sex messier and more annoying to clean up after. The hormonal shifts in a menstrual cycle can also effect libido too, either stopping you from feeling aroused or causing hyper arousal. And all of that is important to consider, especially when we get to other things like orgasm denial. So, don’t feel you have to hide your periods from me, okay? I want to know if something is going to effect how enjoyable these lessons are for you. And plus, I factored periods into the timeline, remember? If you want to postpone for a week we can. His little speech did put you at ease a bit, the weight of admitting the truth no longer as heavy now that he knew, but it still wasn’t an especially comfortable conversation, “Well, I should be okay to go in a few days.” “Would you be up for having sex on one of the last days of your period when your flow is a little lighter? Or would you rather wait until after it was finished?” You tried not to cringe too much upon hearing Roger talk about your flow, “After I think. I don’t know. How do you feel about it?” Roger shrugged, “If we were just having sex without the kinky stuff I’d be okay with period sex. It’s a little more effort since we’d need to put towels down and all that but I’m not completely opposed to it if we’re both in the mood. However, I think since we’re playing with BDSM it’s probably a good idea to wait.” You nodded, glad the topic was almost settled, “Yeah, that makes sense. I think I’d feel too self-conscious to enjoy any period sex but you’re definitely right about the BDSM stuff. Just makes it easier for my first time trying things out if I’m not worrying about, um, bleeding everywhere.” Roger gave you a reassuring smile which made your heart flutter, grateful he hadn’t made things too difficult or drawn out, “That’s settled then. We can put a pin in all of this for now and come back to it when you’re ready.” “Thanks. Will Friday suit? I think I should be right by then.” “Friday sounds great.” “Really? You don’t have to, like, pick up the kids or anything?” Roger shook his head, amused, “No. It is technically my weekend with them but they’re both staying at friend’s placed over night so I won’t see them until Saturday. Friday we can start testing some things and if we need to, we can come back next Monday and go through more. And I finish a bit earlier on Fridays so maybe we could start a bit earlier.” “Yeah that works for me.” “Great. I guess we should get out of here then.” Roger ushered you from the classroom and walked beside you all the way to the carpark, your footsteps echoing down the corridors. He chatted to you quietly about non-kinky topics, as if you’d merely ended up walking the same direction by accident, just in case anyone was looking. You were almost sad to reach your car, drawing the conversation to an end, “This is me.” “One last thing, Ms Y/L/M.” “Mmm?” “For homework-” “Homework?” “Yes. For homework I want you to watch some porn with impact play in it. You’ll find a few examples linked in a document I’ve dropped in our folder but feel free to find your own too. It can be spanking by hand or flogging or any other form of impact we discussed today, whatever turns you on most. Because I want you horny when I see you on Friday. I want you to spend all week thinking about naughty sluts who get spanks, knowing you’ll soon be one of them. I want you excited to be hit and wet at the thought of me spanking your arse and cunt while I fill your holes with cock. Is that clear?” Roger had leant closer as he talked and your stomach did a backflip as he stood up. All you could do was nod, completely lost for words as Roger chuckled and walked into the dark towards his own car.

#my writing #my fics #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor smut #roger taylor imagine #gonna try and get the next one written a bit quicker lmao

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heartofsnark · 3 years ago

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Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Twelve): Your Demon, Never Leaving

Notes: Soooo, its been a minute, like I said, been kind of sick. And I've been sitting on this chapter for a while, I was gonna wait until I finish the next. But decided, fuck it. We're still rocking around the angst train with this and I'm sure some of you are like, when is Johnny gonna be let out of brain jail and the answer is soon, next chapter, promise. Our girl just needs some time to process and what better way to do so, then to get into a fist fight and talk to some folks.

Word Count: 11873

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and mentions, bit of blood and violence, general angst, some talks of sex but no actual in chapter sex.

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

V finds herself in Westbrook next, kicking herself for forgetting that Wakako never paid for the Dorsett job. The sun’s barely been up but an hour by the time she makes it to Jig Jig street, the merc preoccupying her time by pouring more energy drinks from a vending machine into her thermos. A quick hack used to get them for free.

She leans against the wall of the pachinko parlor while she waits, someone passing by offers to sell her drugs and a joytoy tries to flirt with her in the meantime. Both swiftly denied and the merc jumps when she sees the parlor lighting up, Wakako likely already tucked in her back room. She slides on her mask as discreetly as she can before she walks across the blue tiled floors and past the desk clerk, who shoots her a dirty look.

Past a beaded curtain, she sees Wakako at her back desk. A slick black and gold color scheme that seems completely at odds with the gaudy vibrancy of Jig Jig street. Wakako is one of the older fixers, V would wager to guess she’s at least Padre’s age, with long gray hair pulled back off her face and cold shrewd eyes.

“Well, well,” the fixer greets, “who do I spy but V, in my humble parlor no less.”

“Here in the flesh, never did answer my call,” V can’t help but sign, thankful her bitter smile is hidden behind her mask.

“I must have been busy, I’m sure.”

“Of course.”

“So, what brings you here?” Wakako asks, tapping her red nails across the wood of her desk.

“Last gig, said I had to swing by to grab my payment, remember?”

“I don’t forget such things, V. Here is your reward, it comes with a fairly ample bonus. Go to Cassius Ryder in Watson, he’ll weave you a derma-imprint with smart-gun compatibility, a Tyger Claws special. You did good work, you and that… friend of yours.”

“Appreciate it,” V signs, feeling her muscles tighten at the mention of Jackie. Then the money comes in, over three thousand, not bad at all. But, she could still use a bit more before she pays back Vik. If she completely drains her bank account for him, Vik will throw a fit.

“And V,” Wakako calls out before the merc can leave, “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for your calls from now on.”

V simply nods, unsure of how to take the comment as she leaves the pachinko parlor. Wakako is hard to read, that much she knows. Everything the woman says seems to drip with poison and sarcasm. She could wish V could morning and the merc would wonder if it’s a veiled death threat. Kindness and cruelty sound the same coming from Wakako. Meaning the statement could be a cruel taunt regarding V’s ruined reputation or it could be genuine, that somehow the merc has built back some of it. She has been going hard the past three or four days, refusing to do much else. Deciphering Wakako will only drive her crazy, V determines, leaving Jig-Jig street and climbing in her stolen MaiMai.

The fight in Kabuki is worth at least two grand, meaning if V’s lucky enough she can finish it up and pay Vik back while still leaving around… two grand in her bank account. Not much, but she’s worked with less. If she loses, she’ll just have to make it back in more scanner jobs, she supposes. Or start selling some stuff.

She parks near the coordinates Coach Fred sent her. V pulls off her mask, it could be considered unfair, fighting with a face cover. When she gets out of the car, she catches a flash of something in the side mirror, breath catching in her throat. Thinking it’s a flash of dark hair and a beard, think it’s him, she looks again. But only sees her reflection, granted, she looks like she’s already been fucked up in a fight.

Her hygiene has… suffered during this ordeal. Nose bruised to hell and back, looking a little crooked she realizes. There’s blood and dirt on her face, the worse of it down her lips and chin. She smells like sweat, blood, and still vague hints of stagnant water. Wakako probably smelled V before seeing her.

The merc first takes a deep breath, grabs her nose and cracks it back into place, setting it as pain shoots through her face and tears blur her vision. . She curses, giving herself a moment before she goes looking through her bag for wet wipes or antiseptic ones, something to give herself a quick whore’s bath. But finds nothing, her supplies needing a restock.

In a pathetic attempt at something, she spits onto her hoodie sleeve and tries to scrub some blood off with the drool. Only managing to smear the dirt and blood into a new pattern. As far as she knows, no one she cares about will be at the fight. She’ll shower before she sees Vik. For now, she’ll just be gross. Too exhausted and overwhelmed to care about how strangers view her hygiene.

She takes three heavy drinks of energy drink and makes her way to the feet, down a set of stairs that run next to the overpass, walking across cracked cement through patch work metal shacks. Up a little yellow ladder and climbing over air conditioning units. Even getting to the fight has to be an ordeal it seems.

V can see the backs of people, on one of the other rooftops involved in this little parkour endeavor. A crowd gathered around and she has to assume that’s where the fight is. A little set of metal steps up to the slightly higher platform. When she walks up the stairs she can see the crowd is around a clearing on the roof; two identical men squaring off. She half expected a Tyger Claw gang member, given the area is their turf. But the men look fairly nondescript, twins who box, she supposes.

“This is pointless, I know where I’m gonna strike before I do it,” one of the men say, fist raised to his brother, though the wording seems off. Of course, one would know where they’re going to strike. Brain damage too many blows to the head, maybe.

“Typical, I knew I’d say that.”

She raises an eyebrow but shakes her head, and clears her throat. The men straighten up, two pairs of brown eyes staring straight at V. They’re older than her, which isn’t saying much, with bald head and implants around their heads. Completely identical, only thing to separate them out is their clothing; one is a tee shirt and the other in a tank top.

“Was told I have a fight here,” V signs, “so, which one of you is it?”

“Me,” the men speak in unison and V blinks, confused.

“Didn’t know it was a tag team fight, but alright, who’s up first?”

“No, no,” the one in the t-shirt waves his hand, “you don’t get it. That body and his one, I’m the same person.”

“I’m seeing shit then?”

“I used to be twins, which you could probably guess. The twins had a close bond, but they wanted to be closer, stronger. “

“So they installed neural oscillation synchs. And now they’re… well.”

“Me, one person, two bodies,” the twins finish in unison again.

And here she is, two persons, one body. Whether she likes it or not. The whole tale is horrific to the merc, unable to understand why anyone would willingly undergo something like that. She has a twin, Eira, and despite everything that’s happened, V loves her sister dearly. But, she can’t imagine ever wanting to merge themselves together, to want to lose herself. Its part of why what’s happening with the chip is… horrifying. She doesn’t want to be something else, someone else. V is far from perfect, but, she’s her. As many times as she’s wished to be better, she’s always wanted to still be her.

These two willingly signed up for the horror show, V’s enduring, just split across two bodies. They wanted to be someone else, to morph into some new amalgamation of who they once were.

“So, I’m fighting you both at once?” She asks, trying to get out of her own head, to focus on the here and now.

“My bodies do everything together. Everything,” the pair speak with finality and V can’t help but smirk at the implication. How far does everything go?

“Everything? Even in the bedroom?” She signs, waggling a brow and can feel the immediate annoyance.

“I have one girlfriend for both bodies, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Shared between both.”

And it takes everything in her not to laugh, a smile pulling at her lips and face flushed at how stupid it is.

“So, what. she gets a daily double teaming?”

“No. She’s with one body from Monday through Wednesday and the other Wednesday through Sunday. Bitch.”

“You take shifts?!” V bursts, the entire ridiculous nature of it is exactly what she needed, cracking up at their whole situation.

And maybe it’s mean to laugh, but she can’t help it, holding her stomach as she cackles. The insult more than worth it to know these two have their girlfriend on a sex schedule, that they take shifts for fucking. They have fuck shifts, how is she meant to handle that information?

“We doing this or what?” The twins yell, obviously not amused by her outburst.

“Yeah, yeah,” she signs as she comes down, “but we’re doubling this, four grand.”

She was already at a size disadvantage, the twins not huge, but taller than her. And now they’re outnumbering her as well, it’s already high risk, so she needs higher reward. The twins consider her deal for a moment, before nodding to each other.

“Fine, see no problem there. So, can we get started?”

“Show me what you got.”

And three pairs of fist raise. The twin the tee shirt moves towards her first and she steps up to meet his charge, swinging the first punch and knocking her knuckles into his head. And then she steps back, grin on her face. Its been a long time since she’s sparred, a good clean fight with just fists and no weapons, it feels good.

She throws another punch and misses, the same twin comes back in to hit her, but she connects another punch first. He staggers back, but swings at her, a hard pain wracking her jaw when he connects. V blocks the next swing and momentum makes him twist around, letting the merc get a cheap shot against his back. Then another as he twists then she connects a right hook to his jaw; three hits in rapid succession, he stumbles back. He hits the ground. Then the other twin comes charging.

V throws a right hook into the force of his run, catching just the right way to make his nose bleed. She swings for a left jab but the tank top wearing twin ducks and steps back, the one in the t-shirt is back on his feet.

Tank-top comes at her again, right fist hitting her temple and she throws her own in return, knuckles catching his ear. She misses with her left and he brings a knee up, knocking it into her chin, making her teeth clang together as she bites her tongue in the force. He swings another punch and she deflects with her left forearm, punching her right into his face. He falls back.

T-shirt comes at her next and gets punched in the eye, blackening under her fist. She connects the next punch to the opposite cheek, knocking into his nose. He stumbles back and wipes blood from his nose.

The other twin swoops in, he acts like he’s going to knee her again, then swings a fist and catches her already injured nose. Pain cracks through her, but she laughs and throws a punch in return, connecting two more hits against him. Twins switch out again, t-shirt twin kicking her in the gut before throwing three quick hits. Then he shoves her back, only for her to push back and throw two more punches. And he’s down. One half done, she turns her attention back to the twin in the tank top.

He tries to keep distance from her and she waits him out, fist raised. And after a quick moment of dancing around each other, he runs at her. A punch to her head, a swing to his own, and she connects one more to his chest. And he hits his knees. V stares for a moment, unsure if she really just won a bare knuckle fist fight against two grown men?

“Stop, stop, I give up!” One twin yells and gets up, face bloody as he walks to the railing. V looks down at the other twin.

“You got more fight in you or had enough like your brother?”

“That ain’t my brother,” he yells as he gets up, “that’s me. Jesus, what’s so hard to understand?”

One leans against the railing and the other sits on a table by a couch, each with fresh blood and bruises on their faces. She finds herself standing before them, mind still revisiting the twin’s dynamic and situation. Melding yourself with someone else, even someone so close, she can’t even imagine being that close to someone. Even her own sister, she has a strained relationship with. She’s going into this situation with the chip kicking and screaming.

“Here, your winnings,” the twins eyes glow as they transfer four grand into V’s bank account.

“Not bad at all.”

“Don’t worry, there’s always the next fight,” one twin tells the other.

“Stop talking to yourself!”

V can’t help but smile at the odd exchange, “Thanks for the fight, it was fun just sparring for once, I’m V. By the way.”

“Certo,” the one in the tee introduced himself.

“Esquerdo,” the other chimes in.

“I know I kind of razzed on you earlier, just your situation is… interesting to me,” she admits, genuinely a part of her just wanting to ask a bit more about it. The twins must not have been perfectly alike, not anyone is, then they melded together. She can’t help but think of the ghost in her head, the man she’ll meld into, the fear of it.

“If you’re here to pry more into my sex life, piss off.”

“No, no, not that. Do you two read each other’s thoughts?” She asks, Johnny responded to her thoughts in the subway, assuming it was him and not an exhaustion induced hallucination.

“No. Same person. Same thoughts.”

“If that weren’t the case, I’d be on schizoid meds.”

“Yeah, be weird having someone else's thoughts in your head… Would drive anyone crazy. Speaking of, wasn’t that, I don’t know… scary.”

“What?”

“Melding together like that, becoming one person. Because like… you’re no longer you, right? You’re a new combo, wasn’t that terrifying, to lose yourself?”

“Not really, everyone’s always becoming someone new. Brothers knew each other well enough, loved each other enough, they knew they didn’t mind becoming each other.”

“Strange… no offense.”

“Why you so curious about it?”

“I don’t know,” she stumbles for a response that makes sense, can’t explain she’s thinking about the ghost in her head, “I got a twin myself, actually. Love her, but life took us to different places. Can’t imagine… becoming part her, part me.”

“You don’t though, you just become something new, the best of both of you.”

“Interesting, uh, I won’t hold you up any longer. See you around.”

V heads off and makes her way back home, guzzling energy drinks along the way, stinging the new bite mark in her tongue. She passes by Barry’s apartment on the way to her own, she’ll grab a shower, she decides before she talks to him either. Showing up at a former cop’s doorstep covered in blood and sweat sounds like a bad idea.

The merc strips down as soon as she’s in the privacy of her apartment and makes a beeline for the shower, Hot water a godsend even as it stings her cuts and bruises, the heat relaxing her tightly wound muscles and the ache in her head. Her eyes drifting shut, body relaxing. A blink that lasts a second, maybe a minute, or two too long.

Then pain shoots through her tailbone as she crashes to the wet shower floor, falling right onto her ass. She curses beneath her breath and gets back onto her feet, finishing her shower quickly before she falls asleep again. The energy drinks are cutting it less and less, three days without any sleep, other than long blinks.

She checks her tongue in the mirror thankful the bite didn’t tear at her piercing, and sighs as she takes a look at herself. Still bruised, but no longer bloody or dirty, dark bags have formed under her eyes and she’s paler than before. Her headache has become a constant throb she can’t get rid of, ears irritated from the rub of her hearing aids, the pain in her joints is equal parts overexertion and neglecting her immunosuppressants, the familiar burn of her disease flaring up.

If Vik and Misty see her like this she’ll never hear the end of it. It feels like lying as she grabs up her foundation and concealer. She laves on a heavier layer of makeup than she’d usually do, applying it until she looks a little more human, a little more awake and put together. After everything she’s put them through the last thing she needs is to cause them any more worry.

V throws on some clothes and makes up a new fresh batch of her caffeine cocktail before she leaves out again, fiddling with her bullet pendant as she makes her way down the stairs. She knocks on Barry’s door, trying to get the neighbors attention.

“Hey, you home?” She signs, turning the volume up a little on her translator, hoping he’ll hear.

“Who is it?!” A rough voice yells out.

“V, your neighbor, remember? We talked about rides, You were all worked up over the newest Mizutani. I said it was for flash-posers.”

“Heh,” he chuckles behind the door, “you don’t forget a gonk thing like that.”

“You gave me this look, I was about to run back to the Badlands right then and there.”

The door finally opens, showing Barry, just as she remembers the older man. Dark crew cut, over a foot taller than her, with tattoos across his biceps. He leans against the door frame, looking down at her by necessity.

“I remember, what do ya want?”

“To talk, I know that’s what you need right now, even if you don’t realize it. I can’t turn back time or magically make everything okay, would if I could, promise. But.. if nothing else, I’m good for a chat, hear you out as best I can, and make sure you know you’re not alone.”

“Now hold on a sec,” he makes her pause, the heaviness of it taking him off guard, “we barely know each other, and you just rock up here talkin’ to me about my problems? Where’d you get the idea something with me was up? You watchin’ me? Somebody send you?”

“You got me, your buds from the station asked me to drop in. I figured, why not, decent guy even if he’s got shit taste in rides,” she signs, with a teasing smile.

“Come back just to get your ass kicked?” His grin makes her snicker, “man, you really know how to cheer a guy up. Maybe those two asshats really are worried about me… All right, come on in. You wanna talk, let's talk.”

Barry leads her into the apartment, it’s layout a little different than her own. Most notably where her window stretches across the wall, he has none, with a couch against it instead. The apartment dark and gloomy without the sun being able to touch it, her boot knocks into an empty can, one of many. There’s trash across his floor, discarded takeout boxes, bottles, cans. Has he left the apartment since she spoke with his friends? Has he locked himself up in here for the past three days?

He sits down on the couch and V plops herself on the table in front of it, careful not to sit on his ashtray or nearly empty pizza box. She wants to be able to make eye contact and she knows human voices are far more comforting than AI ones, turning off her translator.

“I lost someone, too,” she hates the scratch in her throat, the slight widening in Barry’s expression as he hears her speak for the first time, “he was my best friend, a good man.”

“What do you mean ‘too’? Wait, this about Andrew? They… told you about him…”

“Yeah, I know it ain’t easy, losing someone like that.”

“Best bud I ever had… known him my whole life. Only person I could spill to without being judged.”

“Take it Petrova and Mendez weren’t that great at listening?” She raises an eyebrow, Mendez seemed like a genuine dickhead, but Petrova was nice. Surely, she wouldn’t have minded hearing Barry out, given how worried she seemed. Barry shrugs his shoulders.

“Petrova’s a decent gal, but she’s not good with this stuff. Mendez just doesn’t get it He thinks us blues need to be tough. Can bear the sight of a kid getting murdered? Born with pussy genes, according to him,” Barry tells her, the crestfallen expression telling her those are exact words from Mendez.

“You told them about Andrew, though?”

“Honestly? I thought about it a lot. Anyway… they don’t know everything. Better that way,” his soft nearly whispered tone tells her there’s more to this, something he doesn’t want them to know Or maybe he’s just like her and prefers to keep his cards close to his heart.

“What exactly happened with Andrew? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Does it matter? Uh,” he rethinks when he looks at V’s face, “old age took him…. No wonder, seeing as he was only a few years younger than my grandma.”

“I know it doesn’t make it hurt any less. But, Andrew had a long life with a good friend like you sticking by him through most of it. No better way to go, if you got to. And in Night City of all fuckin’ places? That alone deserves a fuckin’ monument.”

That makes Barry smile, a soft laugh tumbling from his lips, “ashbox in a niche will have to do.”

“So, was Andrew like a grandpa to you?”

“Hm. Wouldn’t go that far. He was like… egh. I don’t know. A window into the past or… something. He reminded me of my gram-grams, about our little talks… time when everything had its proper place, y’know? He was the last living record of those times.”

“He clearly meant a lot to you, it’s only natural losing him is gonna hurt. Mendez is full of shit, to be blunt. Life and loss is hard, really fuckin’ hard. And feeling that hurt doesn’t make you weak, makes you human.”

Her throat feels tight as she speaks, each word making her feel more and more like a hypocrite. Preaching the importance of feeling out your hurt while hiding from her own. She can still taste gunmetal, feel the weight of the barrel on her tongue as she willed herself to pull the trigger. Talking a man off a ledge she tiptoed no more than a few hours before. And it’s not that she doesn’t mean what she says, but she can’t give herself the same kindness she affords him.

“What if he’s right though?” Barry asks, eyes big with worry, “maybe my genes are soft? Don’t only the strongest survive?”

“Losing people hurts. And that’s okay, doesn’t make you weak, and ignoring it don’t make you strong. If you felt nothing at all, then his loss wouldn’t have any meaning. You lost someone you cared about, who was there for you most of your life; anyone with a heart would be hurting right now.”

“I guess… so. Thanks for the talk. I, uh, need time to take all this in.”

“Alright, take care of yourself,” she stands from the table, “and if you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

She leaves Barry’s apartment and lets out a soft sigh, rethinking what she told Barry, wondering if she handled it well. Taking in how it applies to her. The words she can easily speak to someone else, but not to herself. Feeling hurt doesn’t make her weak, just human. Painfully, disgustingly, revoltingly human.

V shakes her head, making her way out of the apartment complex and taking the NCART down to Buran and Bradbury. Walking down the family little cluster of storefronts, pass strippers dancing in windows, where Gary the wannabe prophet sleeps on some abandoned filthy mattress, and into Misty’s store. Her heart jumping in her throat when she sees the older woman.

“V!” Misty calls out, green eyes brightening and a breath of relief leaving her chest, “its been a minute, got worried about you.”

“Nothing to worry about, just been, busy… Actually, wanted to see Vik, got a debt to pay back.”

“Hmmm, c’mon then, I’ll walk you back.”

“I think I know the way by now,” V signs with a raised eyebrow. Misty isn’t going to start babying her now, is she? Sure, V got hurt and is in the shit right now, but that doesn’t make her any less of a grown adult.

“You’re the first customer to walk in today and I’m bored out of my mind, just give me this,” Misty jokes and V feels bad for doubting her intentions, though there's still something in the way the older woman looks at the merc. More akin to a worrying mother than a friend.

“Alright, whatever you want.”

The two women leave out the back of Misty’s store and into the back alley, V searches for the bald little cat she pet last time she was here, but it’s gone now. Misty leads the way down the stairs to Vik’s clinic, the ripper doc in his usual spot at his desk.

“Someone’s here to see you, Vik,” Misty announces as they walk through, the older man looking up to see V. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes pulls across his face, more of pity than happiness.

“Hey, kid, how you’ve been?”

“Getting by,” she shrugs, “more importantly, I got the eddies to pay you back.”

“What is this?” He asks as she starts to transfer the seventy thousand.

“Optics, mantis blades, and the launcher; all adds up. That’s the best estimate I could ge. If they cost more than that I-”

“Hold onto ‘em,” he waves her off, “just in case. You need ‘em more than me.”

“Not taking them to my grave, Vik, please, it’s the least I can do.”

His jaw clenches, gaze dropping; “twenty-five thousand, I’ll won’t take a dollar more”

“What? That’s not even half?” V blinks incredulously, can see Misty smiling at the exchange.

“Covers the mantis blades; you didn’t ask for the optics or launcher, seems fair to me.”

“Even if I didn’t ask for ‘em, doesn’t mean they didn’t cost you a pretty penny.”

“Not worried ‘bout it, spend the money on yourself.”

“Vik, seriously, there’s no point in me keeping it.”

“Six months is longer than you think, V,” his voices rises, a hint of frustration, “I’m not letting you throw that kind of cash away just because your-”

And he stops himself, before he can says what they all know. Just because she’s dying. Her jaw clenches and she swallows hard. Trying to search for how to respond, how to deal with that.

“I know you wanna pay him back, but Vik’s just trying to look out for you, V. Never hurts to keep some money in your account and besides, you’ve got way more than six months left in your,” Misty says, trying to smooth over everything. Her concern and worry always softer spoken than Vik’s.

“It’s not just because I’m dying, you’ve done a lot for me over the years, want you to have something to show for it.”

“That’s what friends are for, V.”

“Fine, fine, never had to beg someone to take my money,” she jokes, sending a transfer for the twenty-five thousand instead.

“Other than that, how have you been?”

“Already told you, getting through, not much to report.”

V shrugs her shoulders again, wondering why he’d ask the same question twice. And she can the clench in Vik’s jaw, the somber downward pull on Misty’s expression. They don’t believe her. And she can’t blame them for it, because she knows its not true.

“And how are you really feeling?” Misty asks, softly.

“I… is there anyway we could talk about Silverhand and the chip?”

“I’m no expert, but fire away, I’ll see what I can do.” Vik tells her.

“I’m seeing him, I saw him, again. And I hear him, even without my hearing aids, is that? Is that normal, I none of this is fucking normal what am I talking about…” She rakes a hand through her hair, cleaning her jaw.

“Well, that biochip is designed for users to communicate with constructs. It's just doin' its job. As far as hearing goes… Johnny’s in your brain, not your ears. You're deaf because the autoimmune disease destroyed your inner ear, but the Relic bypasses that and stimulates the auditory processing part of your brain like he’s actually there talking to you.”

“So, my brain treats him like he’s real, even though he’s not?”

“I mean, he is real, he’s a person,” Misty softly corrects, “just a person in your brain.”

“He’s data on a chip,” Vik corrects Misty in return, earning an eye roll for his troubles. V can’t say she gives too much of a shit about the philosophical aspect, more just wanting Johnny not to choke her out.

“He… tried to kill me,” V admits, both Vik and Misty’s eyes going wide.

“What!?”

“Oh… V.”

“Tried to put my head through my window. It… he… felt real as anyone else. He wants to kill me, I think, I don’t know what to do.” V can feel her eyes stinging again, tears threatening to escape, as she finally puts her anxiety out into the world.

“Well... long as you don't give him control, can't do too much harm. 'Course that won't necessarily be possible after some time.”

“And… what then?”

“What do you say, we don’t let things get that far? Find a way to get rid of Silverhand and fast.”

“What about his memories, why can I see them?

“You two share a brain now,” Vik says matter of fact and she wants to scream, “he has access to your senses, perceptions, even memories. Likewise, you get a look into his. After a while, won’t even know whose is whose.”

“Right…”

“V…” Misty says the merc’s name in a soft voice, “if you need to talk, we’re here for you. ”

“I need to go,” V signs and shakes her head.

She doesn’t want to deal with this. Hasn’t wanted to deal with it for days and she has no idea where she’s even going or what she’s going to do. But she hurries through the clinic gate and up the stairs, getting ready to cut through the backdoor of Misty’s shop.

“V!” Misty yells out and grabs V’s shoulder, all too reminiscent of the merc’s exchange with Cecelia the night before. Women who’d be better off worrying about someone else, spending their time worried about V.

“I can’t do this right now, Misty, I’m sorry.”

“You can’t run yourself ragged, honey, you’ll kill yourself before the chip does.”

“And is that really such a bad idea?!” She blurts out without truly meaning too, at her ropes end, because she can’t do this anymore.

“You don’t mean that, V.”

“Why not? I can’t fuckin’ live like this! I haven’t slept in three days, I’m fuckin’ terrified that I’m gonna wake up and it’s not gonna be me! That he’s gonna take over and kill me in my sleep or, or, if it’s not him, it’s gonna be his memories, his life, that I’m gonna lose a piece of me and not even know which one! I survived, but maybe… I shouldn’t have… ”

Her voice trails off, becoming choked and pathetic as a dam threatens to burst. Tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, threatening to break lose. But she doesn’t want to break down in front of someone. A few people in the alleyway give her side eyes, looking at her like she’s already lost her last scrap of sanity.

“C’mon, V, we can talk more up on the roof, okay?”

Misty wraps her hand around V’s, gently tugging the merc into the elevator. And V doesn’t have the energy to fight her, holding Misty’s hand in return and following along. The warmth and kindness of the touch sinking into her bones, making her squeeze tighter just to hold on to the small gesture of affection. As the elevator starts to shake and rattle upward, V can feel her limbs getting heavier, her exhaustion pushing her to lean her weight onto Misy.

To the merc’s surprise, Misty doesn’t seem to mind her weight, doesn’t even flinch when V lays her head onto Misty’s shoulder. Instead she lays her own head over V’s for the short moment, short wispy hair tickling the shorter woman’s cheek. Misty’s warmth and affection feels like a lifeboat, rather than the innocuous touch V knows it to be.

The elevator comes to a stop and Misty pulls V up the stairs up to the roof. A place V has visited so many times with Misty, Jackie, and Vik. A cool September breeze rolling through, cooling V’s skin while the sun works to warm it. The two women sit in the little plastic lawn chairs that are put around a table. V feels like she’s sinking into it. She feels heavy and like she’s dragging her own weight. Her emotional outburst just compounding her physical exhaustion.

“I meant what I said, V. That as long as your alive there’s still hope.”

“Misty...I-”

“I can’t imagine how hard this is, I don’t think anyone could. But… I don’t think it has to be this terrible hell, you think it is. Fate doesn’t act without reason and there has to be a reason for this, for all of it. But if you…end it all like that, you’ll never know.”

“You think this is fate…?”

“I do, your soul and Johnny’s were brought together for a reason, I think you owe it to yourself and Johnny to find out why.”

“So, what, everything that happened is fate, I’m supposed to blame fate for all of this, for the heist, for Jackie, for-?”

“Better than blaming yourself, isn’t it?”

The question takes the winds out of her sails for a moment. She’s never put much stock into fate and the idea that things are meant to be, meant to happen. It sounds ridiculous to her. That the fates or some mystical pull in the universe put them in that hotel, an excuse to take blame off her own shoulders, a way to avoid accountability.

“I already had a bad feeling before you and Jackie left, the heist was on the anniversary of the tower going down, and it just happened to be Johnny on the chip. And theres your tarot reading… there’s more to this, V, I know there is. There has to be,” Misty tries to implore her to understand, to accept the idea that this was meant to be. And all at once V is reminded of something she’s wanted to forget.

“I’m sending you something,” V says softly, watching Misty’s brow furrow as she sends her the image of that SID profile, that night her door wouldn’t unlock.

“What is… is that?”

“His SID data.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Night before the heist, I tried to unlock my apartment door. Wouldn’t work, mainteance guy comes down, says my SID chip is reading as someone else’s. Sends me the data, it’s him… How the hell does that happen? We hadn’t gone near Konpeki yet, I… “

And she’s said it, put out that maybe there is a little something to this fate thing, that she doesn’t want to admit, doesn’t want to acknowledge. How cruel can the world be if this was all intended? But, she can’t quite come up with a logical reason for it. It could just be the mother of all coincidences, but that feels like a cheap explanation at best.

“V... “ a small almost incredulous smile comes across her black stained lips, “this was meant to be. You and him, merging, it’s fate. There's something the world wants from you two, just got to figure out what.”

“Its… a hell of a coincidence… “

“A higher power is screaming at you and you’re gonna turn a deaf ear?”

“Only kind I got.”

“Smartass,” Misty teases, “have you talked to him?”

“Who? Takemura?”

“No, Johnny.”

“No,” V blinks in disbelief, has Misty lost her mind, “strangely enough I didn’t feel like striking up a convo while he was trying to kill me.”

“You should.”

“And why the absolute fuck would I do that?”

“Like it or not, V, his fate and yours are one now. This is as much about what the world has planned for him as it does for you.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“And?”

“And!?” V flails her arms out exaggeratedly, the flippant response taking her back, “I didn’t appreciate it!? I…?”

Misty laughs at V’s shocked reaction and the merc can’t help but chuckle too, the entire thing sounding and feeling ridiculous.

“Did you appreciate it when Jackie put a gun to your head?”

“That’s different, Jack was just doing a job.”

“So, it’d have been better if he was being paid to do it?”

“Yes, least Jackie had a reason, dipshit just wanted to hurt me.”

“Is that what you think?” Misty raises an eyebrow and tilts her head softly to the side, halo of blonde hair bouncing with the movement.

“Is there anything else to think?”

“Not saying it makes it okay, but, Johnny woke up fifty years in the future, in the head of a stranger. Feeling your feelings, your memories, and last thing he remembers is whatever the hell Arasaka did to him.”

“And?”

“And maybe, the fear you felt that night, wasn’t all yours.”

V hums, rubbing her hands together, “I’ll think about it. Still kinda think offing myself is the easiest move, though.”

“What would Jackie say if he heard you talking like that?”

“He’d kill me first for even talkin’ like that. Tell me to pull myself together, that it’ll all work out in the end.”

“And it will, don’t know how, but it will. Just need you to want to live long enough to see that happen.’

“Fine, fine,” V sighs, “no blowing my brains out on this fine day, happy?”

“Wanting to live is about more than just not killing yourself, V. You need to sleep, eat, drink something other than energy drinks and booze. Take care of yourself and actually deal with your shit”

“But that sounds hard.”

“Is it harder than running yourself ragged and no sleeping?”

“Maybe.”

“V…”

“I’m just… scared, of seeing his memories, his past. Or, him getting a hold of me in my sleep.”

“I could watch over you, make sure nothing happens.”

“And what if he hurts you?”

“He’s still in your body, V.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t use it to hurt you, I��m not risking that,” V tells Misty, shaking her head emphatically.

“You could sleep in Vik’s clinic, no offense, but pretty sure Vik could stop your body if Johnny uses it to do anything.”

“Nah, this is my demon, no one else’s. I appreciate the chat, really, I think I need to be going though.”

“V… please.”

“I’ll sleep tonight, in my own bed, alone. Just in case, but I’ll sleep, promise,” V reassures Misty as the merc gets up out of her seat, a few ideas already fluttering around in her head.

“C’mon, I’ll get you set up with something to help you sleep, alright?”

V’s soul feels a little lighter as she follows Misty back into her shop. The older woman getting a little sleeping kit put together for the merc. Lavender oils, tea, and spray. Moonstones meant to relieve emotional tension and help her relax. V can’t help but smile at the kindness of it all, Her money refused for the second time when she offers to pay Misty for it.

“Take care of yourself, please,” Misty begs again, ruffling her hand through V’s hair.

“I’ll give it a shot, thanks again, for everything.”

“Wait,” Misty calls out, stopping V before she can head out, “you mentioned Takemura earlier, did you and him talk?”

“He called me, morning after I got back to my place, wanted me to meet him for a chat.”

“What about?”

“Don’t know, not meeting up with him.”

“V…”

“You know you keep saying my name like that it’s going to start hurting my feelings.”

“Why haven’t you talked to him?”

V shrugs, “He’s a corporate rat, can’t trust him.”

“He saved your life.”

“He also tried to kill me, which I think balances itself out.”

“If he wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here, V.”

“Corpos are tricky bitches, guy probably has some scheme up his sleeves, kept me alive so the wolves would have fresh meat or some shit.”

“V… “

“My name is starting to feel like an insult.”

“Talk to him, what’s the worse that can happen?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Misty rolls her eyes and the two part with a quick goodbye, V feeling a little more energized, despite still being sleep deprived. She still has a few things she wants to cover before she goes home and sleep. Misty brought up something important, what Jackie would tell V if he were here to tell it. He’d want her to at least try and she owes him that much.

It's a longshot, she knows, but she pulls out her holo. Evelyn, the client, claimed she knew how to remove the chip. That was before it was damaged and V’s not entirely sure Evelyn knew half as much as she claimed too. But it’s worth a shot, prefers it to anything a corpo suit like Takemura might be offering. She calls Evelyn’s number, but an automated message tells her it’s not avaliable at the moment, V opts to leave a message anyway.

“Hey… this is V. Got the chip, I know the heist had a few… hiccups, but if you could call me back, that’d be cool.”

V huffs as she hangs up, blowing hair out of her face. She still doesn’t want to risk talking to a corpo, so she opts for her next idea. Learning more about Johnny, which feels weird to even think about. She’s not sure she buys the fate angle, not sure she really wants to ever have a chat with the man who bashed her head against a window. But, if nothing else, she wants to know more of who she’s dealing with. And while she gets his memories, she doesn’t have a good grasp on accessing them. She could look him up online and fully intends to. But, she has some other ideas in mind.

Dino is in the rockerboy scene, would know a bit about Samurai and Johnny. And despite what his faceplate looks like, he may actually be old enough to have crossed paths once or twice with the guy. The fixer may not be offering her jobs right now, but he only knows her as a V the merc when she’s wearing her mask. Without it, she’s just the girl he fucked in a bathroom stall once. Not her proudest moment, but hey, means he may entertain a conversation with her.

The trickier one is Rogue, who she knows was close with Johnny, was too close. V grimaces at a few choice memories that stand out to her. But Rogue’s the queen of fixers and has never so much as looked V’s way. It's doubtful the older woman would want some no-name merc asking about her ex from fifty years back. But, that’d be her best source to try to get some solid first hand info of how the beast in her brain operates.

The Afterlife is closer, but Dino is more the sure bet as far as talking to her goes. So, she catches the NCART into City Center. She gets off at the nearest stop, making her way through the crowd as she walks to his bar; Electric Orgasm. Because the man can’t name anything without sex being involved. The humiliation of fucking a bassist who named his band Gloryhole Bandits will truly never leave.

Her boots scuff across the black and white dirty tiles, music blaring in the bar, making her turn her hearing aid volume down. She walks past the arcade and vending machines on her left, the stage with a band playing on her right. Dino is in his usual spot, leaning against the red bar.

The fixer is taller than her by a ways, as most men are, prominent muscled biceps, one plated with bolts in an implant. Chrome in his jaw and along the back of his head, a mohawk of teal dreads and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. An energy that suddenly seems all too familiar, a rockerboy wearing sunglasses indoors with a smug air, the attitude of a man convinced it’s his world and everyone else is just living in it.

“Hey, you,” Dino greets her with a smirk she’s never seen him without, the drag of his tone telling her he remembers her face. Or maybe he’s just remembering what her throat feels like.

“Hey,” she signs and she can see his brows furrowing, thinking for a moment. ASL and translators aren’t… particularly common. She’s the only person she knows who uses them, but Dino seems less confident in that fact.

“You finally decide you didn’t get enough of ole Dino?”

“Maybe I did, but turns out men speaking in third person makes me dryer than a desert,” she teases, climbing onto the stool next to him.

“Oh, c’mon, girl,” he wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning in close, “don’t break my heart like that.”

“I don’t think your heart is what you’re most concerned about,” she ends her signing by tapping her finger to his chromed chin, “so any news in the music scene?”

“Nothing too exciting, a few new baby faced wannabes. We’re planning another show here in a few weeks, if you wanna pay me another visit, that is.”

“What, not a fan of the newer crowd, prefer the classics?” She pointedly ignores his invitation, she can’t deny she’s attracted to him, but fucking a bassist in a public bathroom needs to be a one time experience in her life.

“‘Course, new bands ain’t got style or soul, just young pissants hoping a guitar will help them get their dick wet.”

“Because you’re so much better than that,” she rolls her eyes and he smirks, “old school bands, like, I don’t know… Samurai, more your thing I take it?”

“Oh fuck yeah, you wanna talk style, Johnny Silverhand had fuckin’ style.”

“You ever meet him?” She signs, stomach drop at the mention of that name.

“Pssh, c’mon, little young for that. Did hit one of his gigs once.”

“So, not that young, actually,” she taunts him, because she can’t resist.

“Only as old as you feel, but...” he seems to to drift off for a moment, remembering, “that gig was fucked up, remember that much.”

“They play that good?”

“Eh, played normo. But Johnny, ‘parently he had some ‘saka suit tied up backstage. Said if they didn’t get at least three encores, he’d bash the poor bastard’s faceplate in. Like I said, he had style, kid.”

“Firstly, you don’t get to call me kid after your dick has been inside me. Secondly, that all you know about the guy?”

“What? You a Silverhand fangirl?”

“I would actually enjoy killing you for saying that,” she signs and forces a smile to her lips, to make it seem lighthearted. But just the notion of being that man’s fan has left her stomach churning and her skin crawling.

“Hehe, well how about I buy you a drink to make up for it?”

“I actually got to head out now, bye.”

V is out the door before Dino can say another word or stop her. Sex isn’t exactly a prority right now, dying taking precedent. Though she’d be lying if she said a part of her didn’t want to take Dino up on his offer. Her sex drive truly knowing no bounds.

Additionally, the merc tries to limit her amount of repeat partners; Cece and Jake the exceptions because of her own odd logic. Cece and Jake are both in their forties with kids. They’d have to be out of their mind to want anything more out of V, considering a twenty-year old merc isn’t exactly step-mom material, at least not if you give a damn about your kids.Means less worries about them wanting… more.

While less tethered than them, Dino is a grade A fuckboy with the same love them and leave them attitude, so he’s low risk as far as that’s concerned. Maybe another time, when there’s not a bomb in her head.

She takes the NCART back towards Watson, feeling a little silly for pinging back and forth between the areas. But as expected, Dino was ready to spill his limited knowledge on the rockerboy with only a little bit of needling, probably just happy to oogle the merc. Rogue will be her own problem of getting information out of, given the Queen of Fixers is a little over V’s head. Maybe she can pretend she’s looking for work, granted she knows Rogue would never work with her after her reputation tanked. But, could at least get her into Rogue’s booth and a chance to have a convo.

There’s an odd, bittersweet sense of nostalgia as she gets off a stop near the club, slides her mask on, and reaches the little enclosed alleyway that leads there. Stuck in one spot in the alley, remembering the night she met up with Jackie here, half expecting to hear him on the phone with his mother. But there’s only chatter of other mercs. She takes a deep breath and curses beneath her breath when she sees the flashy red and blue poster pinned to the alley wall, graffitied over. But the band is clear, bright red flaming oni face and Samurai underneath it.

Childish as it may be, she scratches her nail up under the corner of the poster and gets a hold of it, ripping it from the wall. An odd little sense of satisfaction at the way it tears half assedly, destroying the logo and oni head. Mild act of vandalism completed, she drops the piece she ripped up and continues on her way.

Turns the corner, through the doorway, down a set of stairs, through a pair of double doors and down another set of stairs. Fellow mercs are scattered in the hallway outside of the main doors, a few stare at her, seem to be whispering. Must be her imagination, flashbacks of the other kids in The Herd mocking her start to flicker in her mind. They’re all adults here, though,way above schoolyard rumors and bullying, right?

The same bodyguard from that night is blocking the entrance to the bar, he looks down at her and scoffs. Her jaw clenches behind her mask and her stomach drops, she really is a fucking laughing stock here now, isn’t she?

“And what do you think you’re doing here?” He mocks her and she hears some snickers, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin.

“Here to drink and talk shop like anyone else,” she signs, hoping he can’t see the nervous twitch in her fingers.

“After the shitshow at Konpeki? Not happening, get lost.”

Her face burns hot with shame behind her mask and it takes every ounce of self control not to kick him. She forces herself to turn around and walk out instead, trying to behave. Trying to ignore the side glances or the soft snickers as people watch her get turned away, mocking the pathetic little merc who thought she could still have a rep after that shitshow. The fuck-up they all blame for the heist gone bad; for Jackie and Bug being gone.

When she reaches the alleyway, alone, she pulls off her mask and puts it into her bag, tugging at her hair. Her feet stomp, anger and shame hot under her skin as she walks. She wanted to prove she was strong, capable, worthy of respect, worthy of something. And all she did was prove she’s as worthless as she always thought, as her supposed clan thought.

“Fuck!” V screams her anger out as she reaches the end of the alley, and slams her fist into the wall, feeling her knuckles split open against the wall. She follows up by kicking it, she needs another boxing match something to get the anger out.

“Need a smoke?” A sly female voice asks and leaning against the wall around the corner is Rogue. V still recognizes the much older woman from when Jackie pointed her out. And her face is still recognizable from Johnny’s memories, just more wrinkled with time. Her teal fluffed up mohawk of hair now traded for long gray hair shaved on one side. Cyberware notches along her cheeks and chrome peeking out over the neckline of her shirt. She’s puffing away on a cigarette, eyebrow raised as she watches the merc like a cat watches a mouse. Rogue is exceptionally tall for a woman and casually even in her older age, V can see the maintained muscle of her abs around a chrome inset.

Dumb luck seems to be on V’s side. Rogue, if she knows V at all, knows her as the masked merc. Which means V may be able to pass as a random civilian. She double checks and casually musses with her hair, making sure her hearing aids are covered. Rubbing at her neck but turning off her choker translator.

“Appreciate the offer, but I don’t smoke,” V tells her, shrugging her shoulders and leans against the wall, hoping her body language is as casual as she intends. Even if her own voice is grinding to the ears.

“Sure looks like you need something to take the edge off.”

“Eh, I’ll survive, always do.” V picks dirt from her bleeding knuckles, “you’re Rogue, right?”

“We know each other?”

“Boss of the Afterlife, everyone knows you,” V opts for stroking the older woman’s ego, on the off chance it makes her lips even a little looser.

“Ugh,” the older woman scoffs, V’s praise not quite hitting how she wished.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be?”

“You don’t know the half of it, but ain’t too keen on that label. ‘Boss’,” she roll her eyes, ''Makes it sound like I've got an army of greasy henchmen.”

“I mean, guy inside didn’t look that greasy.”

“Cute.” A soft sarcastic lilt colors her tone, but the slight hint of an almost smile lets V know she’s at least amused by the merc.

“So, what’d you rather be called?”

“Hmm,” she hums, taking a drag off her cigarettes before breathing out the smoke, “Good question. I'd have to think about that one…”

“Mind if I shoot another question your way?”

“Why not? But ask at your own risk.”

There’s an almost condescending bite to her voice, making it clear if V doesn’t traverse this next question carefully, she may find herself back in the landfill. Something about it… attractive, if the merc is being honest. And she’s not sure if that’s a physical attraction to the much older woman or that Rogue is… what V wanted to be. Exudes the confidence, commands respect, and is a legend in Night City; no one questions her strength or her competence. Rogue truly made it in Night City, something V can only dream of now.

“You use to run with Silverhand back in the day, right? What was he like?”

“Johnny...? Where’d that come from?”

“Seem to be as many rumors about him as there were fifty years ago. And not all of 'em gel together, figured this be one of my few chances to ask someone who actually knew the guy.”

“You a media, now?”

The ‘now’ hits V’s ear the wrong way, maybe just a slip of the older woman’s tongue. But, Rogue doesn’t know V, especially not without her mask, just some random stranger striking up a conversation. For all Rogue knows the stranger could be a media, maybe V’s worrying for nothing.

“Just curious, ain’t got to answer if you don’t wanna, both know I can’t make you do shit.”

“It's good you know that,” Rogue smirks, “Johnny was… strong, arrogant, uncompromising. He'd burn down half the city just to prove he was right. And burn the other half just for fun.”

“Sounds like…” V trails off, not completely sure of what she wants to say.

“Like a kid with a box o' matches and a can of CHOOH2.”

“Still stuck by him, though, didn’t you?” V can’t help but ask, more to herself than to Rogue, but the question bugs her. Even back in the day, Rogue was a certifiable badass, hot as all hell to boot. Yet she wasted her time on some greasy manchild?

“And how exactly would you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” V quickly covers her ass, “called him a kid, but way you say it, sounds more fond than mad, ya know?”

“Maybe, doesn’t matter, won’t speak ill of the dead, anymore burning questions or can I get on with my life?”

“I ain’t stopping you,” V says, shrugging her shoulders as she watches Rogue stomp out her cigarette and walk back down the alley towards the club.

V lets out a heavy sigh, she didn’t exactly get a great deal of information. She didn’t expect to get a biopic of the guy’s life. At the very least she got a bit of a better idea of his personality, but it’s done nothing to put her at ease. Anti-corp rockerboy, reckless, unpredictable, and destructive. It doesn’t give her much more of an idea of how to handle the guy. Misty is saying to give the guy a chance to at least talk, but god knows what he’d do if he had half a chance to hurt her again. V shakes her head, she knows Misty means well, but whether it’s fate or shitty luck, being stuck with this asshole can only mean bad news. She’d be better off keeping him under lock and key. It’s not worth the risk.

She makes her way back to her apartment at that, remembering her promise to sleep. She grabs a shower as soon as she gets home, letting the hot water relax her for a moment. Ther merc changes into comfy pajama, throwing on her slightly silly but cute plush golden brown hoodie, with little bear ears. It’s ridiculous and childish, but she loves it. The softness of it making her want to burrow under the sheets and never come up. Already exhausted and ready to sleep by the time she’s placed the moonstone in the shelves at the end of her bed cubby and sprayed lavender mist over the pillows.

Her eyes are already heavy when she lays down, half asleep already, she grabs her holo, deciding to try one more time. Evelyn hasn’t called back at all, so V sends her a quick text message. Right now, the blue haired woman is her only real lead on anything that could help. Other than speaking to Takemura and… that’s a road she’d rather not travel if she doesn’t have to.

V: We need to talk, it’s important!

[Unable to deliver message. Recipient may be temporarily unavailable.]

The merc blinks at her phone screen, yawning as she puts it aside, what on earth is going on with Evelyn? There’s no way Arasaka could have linked the heist to her is there? They wouldn’t have had a chance to track V’s call, Jackie’s phone had no correspondence with Evelyn if they got it, the bot couldn’t be linked back to her. Maybe Evelyn changed numbers and ditched town? V hopes the fuck not, but it would have been the smartest thing to do. But if so, V’s one lead is gone.

Thoughts and worries flicker through her mind, but exhaustion crashes down on her before they can run rampant, slipping into sleep. Darknesss flooding her vision.

A blanket of black then neon begins to bleeds through, brighter and brighter until it blinds.

World around her shifts and she’s no longer her but him.

Bright lights in a dingy club, the cling of sweat on skin, the weight of a guitar. Hands of flesh and chrome strum the strings, vocal chords straining as his voice screams out his lyrics. Kerry not far off to the side, the rest of Samurai behind him as they play through Blistering Love. A decent sized crowd screaming and dancing along to every note they play.

And its a soft thrum at first, the chaos that starts to erupt, but not because of the music. A steady murmur thats something is wrong, then chaos bursting forth as security starts running through the crowd. Trying to push through people, shouting over the music for someone to stop, unable to draw their guns in the sea of bodies without risk of hitting someone else.

Johnny’s gaze looks over to Kerry, confirmation that his friend is seeing this too, that the attention on them is shifting elsewhere. Samurai forced to play second fiddle to the growing commotion and when he looks back to the crowd he sees her, a woman cutting her way through the audience. Sweat stuck to her brow, a split lip with a steady drip of blood, and a wild mused mohawk of teal hair. Bloody lips pulled into a smug sneer as she ducks and dodges through the crowd, away from security.

Then that soft thrum explodes into something more, someone in the crowd throws a punch at a shoving bouncer and they throw one right back. The audience breaks out into a brawl as drunk idiots start attacking the bouncers or each other; blood spraying and teeth knocked clean out. Music stopping as they know the audience is done giving a shit about them.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ,” Kerry curses as a beer bottle smashes at the back wall behind the band, nearly nailing him right in the head.

“We better delta before the pigs get called.”

“Take care of this for me, Ker,” Johnny ignores Nancy’s warning, handing Kerry his guitar. He can see her making her way towards the door, trying to slip out in the commotion with a bouncer still on her heels. He’s not letting her go without making damn sure she knows who he is. An undeniable pull of attraction to her, to the kind of woman who can turn a crowd of drunk club goers into a battle royale.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Kerry questions him, but Johnny’s already jumped off stage and into the fray, shoving and pushing his way through people. He walks surefooted, head held high and no shame as he cuts his way through. Shutting down anyone who gets in his way however he has too; a solid left hook, silver knuckles leaving their nose a cracked mess. Slamming an elbow into someone's jaw and hearing the crack of it over the noise of the crowd. All with his eyes staying focused on her, on the flash of teal hair under neon lights.

She's nearly to the backdoor, Johnny not far behind, when a heavy wraps around her upper arm. One of the bouncers finally gaining ground and trying to wrench her backwards, though he can't manage to drag the amazon of a woman back.

"Think you'd get away with this, bitch!"

Her hand pulls back to throw a punch at the bouncer, but Johnny's hands are faster, stepping in to save the day. He slams his fist onto the bouncer's face, nose cracking and teeth gnashing under the force of the blow. The man is knocked back, the woman's green eyes glaring at Johnny, she looks pissed. Lips bloody and sneering, eyes dark with distrust. Domineering and angry in her demeanor, even while he's playing hero.

He reaches over her to wrench the door open, an excuse to be in her space, taking what advantage he can of the small height difference. She's only around an inch shorter than him, the heels of his boots extending that difference slightly.

"C'mon, no reason to stick around," he says, hand on her back as he pushes her through the door into the alley.

The night air cools his sweat slick skin, the woman quick to move away from his touch as the door shuts behind him. Silence enveloping them with the noise of the club is shut out. Johnny just takes her in for a moment; hot as all hell. Sweat clinging to her skin, freckles across her cheeks, split lip, and dyed hair falling into her face. A face cold and cruel in its expression, contrasted against the flush of exertion on her skin.

"The fuck do you want?" She asks him, glaring. Tone and attitude nasty, making him smirk. Always did like the bitchy types, more fun when someone's got a bite to them.

"Just saved your ass, wouldn't kill you to say thanks," he returns, already thinking of tasting the blood on her split lip and grabbing a handful of her ass.

"Don't need your help, rockerboy." She rolls her eyes at him, if he gets half a chance he could have her eating out of the palm of his hand by daybreak. Or better yet, could find himself between her legs before the sun comes up.

Johnny's not stupid, knows damn well the effect he has. The way he can draw people in, only reason Kerry still hangs around, maybe the only reason Samurai still exists at all.

"How 'bout a drink then?" He offers, smirk on his lips. And she groans, pissed off by the littlest thing.

"Fuck off."

He watches her stomp off, eyes drawn to her ass and the swing of her hips. But he doesn't go after her. Not giving her the satisfaction of seeing him chase after her twice in one night, instead lighting himself a cigarette. He's seen her type before, runs with the Atlantis crowd; no doubt in his mind. They'll run into each other again.

And as he breathes out a cloud of smoke, the world around him obscures. Gray filling his vision, flooding it, choking him on it. Until his throat itches, his stomach churns, pain cracking through her head… her head.

A migraine wakes V up, every single cell in her body on fire, a sharp pang in the back of her skull. Her stomach clenches and twists, tighter and tighter. When she opens her eyes, the world is shifting and glitching, swimming before her, eyes unable to focus. Every muscle in her body winds itself into knots and can’t get a deep enough breath, lungs struggling to take anything in.

Relic Malfunction Detected

The words flash across her optics as she flops out of bed onto her knees, gasping for air and retching to vomit all at once. Body unsure of what to do while everything seems to fall apart at once. She clutches at her chest, claws at her rib cage desperate to feel if her heart is even still beating, begging herself to just breathe, to just breathe.

And it starts to pass, her stomach calming down, her breathing evening out. Her muscles starting to release some of the tension. She’s still dizzy and the world is still wobbly as she wipes spittle from her lips, forces herself to stand up. V needs to do something, speak to Vik, maybe he can give her something. Do something for it, but he’s made it clear he has no idea how to save her.

She trips over herself on the way to her bathroom, grabbing at her sink for some balance. Looking down with her eyes closed as she breathes, steadying herself, waiting for the new fresh wave of nausea to pass before she looks up into her sink mirror.

But it’s not her she sees. Johnny fucking Silverhand reflected back at her, leaning his hands against her sink and staring into her eyes; glare harsh with that barely contained anger he brims with. Always looking a moment away from lashing out. And when she twists her head, his follows, as natural as a reflection. Like she’s really him.

“Jesus fuck!”

She curses and jerks back, falling back onto her ass, not even minding so long as she doesn’t have to see him. V grabs at herself again, feeling that’s her. Soft flesh, not hard muscle, skin where his chrome is. Her blue painted nails, her dumb bear hoodie, her bleached hair, and her smooth face; that’s it her. That she’s still herself. And she is; for now, But for how long?

V can’t keep doing this, can’t just wait until Evelyn answers her calls or texts back, she needs to do something. Anything. Even with popping the blockers like candy, she’s seeing him, living his memories. He’s bleeding into everything and she’ll lose herself to him before long. She can’t hide away, Jackie would want her to save herself, would want her to live. And she if she intends to do that she needs to move.

The merc rises, as she’s had to so many times before. Her reflection is her own again, still woozy from the aftermath of the relic malfunction, but she pushes through to shower and change. Collecting all she needs before she leaves the apartment, marching out of the apartment building with single minded determination towards Tom’s Diner. She’s got a date with a corpo. Maybe it’s a trick and maybe he can’t help, but he’s something. As he put it so elegantly, if she intends to live, she’s got to get back in the ring and she’s been fucking around in the sidelines for too long.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #johnny silverhand #silverv #misty olszewski #female v #aidan becker

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gastricpierrot · 5 years ago

Text

Title: Heartbeat

Series: Promare

Pairing: GaloLio

Rating: T

Summary:

Lio turns himself in after the final battle, the start of a new life he must get used to.

This is a story of how Lio Fotia navigates through the days that follow, learns that support comes in more forms than he's ever familiar with, and deals with his alarmingly developing feelings for Galo Thymos.

Warning: slow burn so slow the promare would’ve had to personally leave the earth

Also on AO3

[Prologue]

The first thing that sets in is the silence.

The voices that’s been chattering in his head since as far back as he could remember, the voices that screamed, demanded to burn burn burn—are gone. The sun is rising. Lio’s ears are still ringing from the explosions of the battle. He still hasn’t registered the foreignness of the feeling of cool breeze against his bare skin.

It's... quiet.

“Lio.”

He turns, meeting eyes with the man whom he’d just saved and set the world on fire with. Bruised and battered but still standing tall and proud, though a little mellowed out at the moment. Lio figures even Galo would be drained after that intense ordeal of piloting giant robots, screaming, and punching two-faced hero figures.

“Yeah?”

“What do you plan to do after this?” Galo’s voice lacks the needless energy and passion it always seemed to carry. It's instead level, laced with genuine concern. Lio averts his gaze towards the yellow-tinted sky, hugging his elbows as the cold begins to sink in.

“What about you, Galo Thymos?”

He breathes, basking in this short moment of peace for just a while longer. The ringing in his ears gradually subside; he can hear sirens in the distance, the buzz of aircrafts racing towards their location. His heart, once on the verge of stopping completely, beats in a steady rhythm.

“What I’ve been doing all along,” Galo answers, “rescuing people in need.”

Part of Lio can’t help envying his simplistic viewpoint. Part of him envies that Galo still has something so normal to return to, a world that doesn’t have to change as drastically as his own. Lio honestly doesn’t want to think about what future awaits him, but he knows he must. For the sake of all the Burnish he’d tried and failed to save from Kray Foresight’s grasp.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Galo prompts, and Lio feels himself smiling without mirth at the realization that dawns him.

He's afraid. He's so afraid, for once, of what could, and what’s going to happen from now on.

“I—” Even admitting it brings a tremor to his hands, and he digs his fingertips into the flesh of his arms. “I don’t know.”

He forces his mind to work through his exhaustion. The sirens sound much closer. Lio has to make a choice, has to weigh his options. His people still need him.

“Well for starters, why don’t we help get the Burnish out of the rubble while backup’s on the way?” Galo pats his back in assurance, albeit with enough force to make him stumble a step forward. He’s quick to offer apologies, but Lio doesn’t really mind. He appreciates the effort Galo seems to be making to put him at ease.

It’s truly comforting to be reminded that he’s still got someone to rely on, despite everything.

Lio scarcely flinches when multiple spotlights are trained on him, his hair whipping all over his face from the gale produced by aircraft rotor blades. Galo immediately moves to place himself between Lio and the forces arriving to arrest him, probably all set to argue in Lio’s defense. Lio tugs him aside by his wrist, having come to a decision.

“I’ll leave my brothers and sisters to you,” he says, only able to hope that his voice isn’t lost to the wind. He catches one last glimpse of Galo, wide-eyed and confused, before he turns himself in.

Lio Fotia, despite having been part of the pair that had saved Earth from imploding, surrenders himself without fuss. It is his way of taking responsibility for the destruction he’d caused during—and even before—his rampage through Promepolis. It is also so that the rest of the Burnish, now people just like everyone else with their flames lost, would not be punished for crimes they did not commit. Lio had been the one to give orders, the one who had led all those acts of arson in the city. Those who weren’t part of Mad Burnish had only been trying to live peacefully without being captured. Those who had been part of Mad Burnish had merely been following him out of blind obligation.

Lio is eventually trialed at court, under a law he still despises but have no choice to abide to. He’s prepared for a heavy punishment—lifelong confinement or even death, perhaps—so he’s genuinely surprised when he’s instead sentenced to several years of community service while kept under strict surveillance. He hears later that it’s because the members of Burning Rescue had appealed on his behalf, insisting that without him, the Promare would’ve gone haywire during Kray Foresight’s insane operation and destroyed the entire planet. They’d argued that the atrocities carried out by the Foresight Foundation far outweighs Lio’s actions in scale and consequence, and that Mad Burnish had mainly been only retaliating against what the government started. Facts provided by scientists and researchers who’d worked with the Foundation had added weight to their claims, and the decision is finalized after weeks of deliberation.

Lio Fotia is charged with arson and mass destruction of public property, but not for killing people.

True to Galo’s word, the former Burnish were rescued from the rubble of the Parnassus engine as soon as reinforcements arrived at the scene. Lio’s informed that most of them only carried light injuries; it’s likely that the final blaze by the Promare had healed most physical damages caused by the generators. Even so, there were still quite a number of them who had had limbs, even organs burnt away that couldn’t be recovered. Some hadn’t been able to survive. Those who were still hanging on has been sent to receive immediate medical attention, though at present it is uncertain if they could be treated with existing means.

Everyone else, on the other hand, has been brought to shelters to settle down while society and the government worked to right themselves after all that’s happened.

Lio is made to stay in a detention facility after his sentence, a tracker surgically implanted into his ankle to monitor his movements at all times. He isn’t allowed to meet the former Burnish, much less check on how they are faring. The first day of his new life begins with him waking at the crack of dawn, heading down hallways while fighting the urge to brawl with inmates who can’t keep their excessive obscene comments and gestures to themselves, and almost freezing to death when he takes his first shower in what feels like forever.

He's then clad in a jumpsuit that’s just a bit too loose over his frame, and given a serving of dry sandwiches and milk as breakfast. He’s later escorted into a vehicle where he joins a group of other inmates who barely make any eye contact (already miles more civilized than those who’d greeted him in the hallway, he thinks), and they’re taken to a site that seems to be just recently cleared of the remnants of destruction. Their community service turns out to involve helping rebuild and reconstruct places that have been wrecked during the latest battle.

Lio gets to work with a blank mind, at this point too tired to listen to his own thoughts and the occasional backhanded comments about him and the Burnish uttered by people around him who seem to have too much energy to spare. The intense labor keeps him occupied enough for the hours to pass at a decent speed, and by the time he realizes it, his whole body is aching, the sun is setting, and he’s ordered to stop and return to the detention center.

Lio spots the flashy blue hair first from the corner of his eye as he makes his way back to the van waiting for them. He turns, and, in another moment of unexpected synchronicity, their gazes meet.

And the first day of Lio’s new life ends with a wave and a bright smile from Galo Thymos.

#promare #lio fotia #galo thymos #galolio #liogalo #promare spoilers #at least the ending #but yooooooo guess who back at it again with the multichapters after uh #2?? 3 years??? yikes #not sure how many chapters this will take but lets all have fun getting there!!!#more ramblings on my ao3 post if anyone wants to read them hhh #fanfiction

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optimizche · 6 years ago

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Angelic : The Kiss (Park Chanyeol/Reader)

Full masterlist

Her

It was the warmth that drew me in. The slightest of brushes against the curve of my neck.

I would've mistaken it for a warm summer night breeze, but the next caress, placed at the corner of my mouth was far too deliberate to ignore.

A hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face. The skin of my face, where I was being touched, felt like it was burning.

But instead of recoiling from the heat, I leaned into it. Purely on instinct.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was darkness. Pitch black and impenetrable.

The only source of light came from a pair of glowing amber eyes that were looming above me.

A sudden jolt of fear paralyzed me, rendering me unable to scream, even though I wanted to.

I scrambled away, pressing my back into the headboard of my bed.

"Its alright," a voice came. Deep and velvety and undeniably masculine. "Don't be afraid of me."

His voice sent a shiver down my spine. Which he noticed.

Two of his hands came up to cradle my face, and I sighed at the pleasant heat of his flesh on mine.

The fear I felt began to dissolve, melting with the sultry touch of his skin on mine, turning into a curiosity the longer I looked into his amber eyes.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who are you?"

But he heard it all the same.

Leaning in closer, the glow of his eyes seemed to intensify, the deep gold swirling in his irises.

"I'm someone who has dreamt about you for as long as I can remember," he spoke, in a voice as quiet as the night itself. "I'm here to make you dream of me..."

He leaned in. And with the growing proximity, I could scent him on the air. Dark and musky. An intoxicating mix of mystery and desire and...

Sin.

Hands on his shoulders, I attempted to push him away, sudden realization dawning over me.

He was one of them.

Satan's children.

Effortlessly, he clasped my wrists in his large hands, halting my efforts to push him away. Pinning my hands to my sides, he leaned in even closer.

Until his nose was pressing into the curve of my neck. His lips brushing against my shoulder.

"You smell of flowers, little one..." he breathed, every exhalation hot against my flesh. "Flowers and purity and... chastity."

I could hear the utter arrogance in his voice, feel the smirk against my skin.

"Get out," I spat.

He chuckled, and his hands that were holding my wrists suddenly gave me a sharp yank. Pulling me towards him, into his chest.

I shoved at him again. But he didn't budge.

The first thing I noticed was the heat that was seeping from him. It felt like the fires from the deepest pits of Hell were simmering under his flesh. Wherever his form touched mine, I felt hot. Like I had placed my hand into a burning flame.

But despite the heat of him against me, I didn't flinch from the contact, which was surprising to say the least, since my kind always recoiled from theirs.

Instead of feeling pain wherever our bodies met, I felt a strange, vague sense of.... pleasure?

"No, no, no," I muttered to myself, under my breath, my wrists struggling against the iron grip he had on me.

He chuckled, clearly amused by my futile attempts, before giving me another tug, so that I was fully in his arms.

"You let me go, you vile creature. I command you to let me g-"

I was never able to complete my sentence, because his mouth was upon mine, silencing me.

For a moment, I froze completely. Unable to comprehend what was happening. Unable to understand anything, because this was an entirely different sensation for me.

Something I had never felt before.

Of course, I had kissed men before. Men of my kind. But this wasn't like the soothing kisses Junmyeon used to give me as he lulled me to sleep. Or like Yixing, who had the singular ability to heal every pain in me with a touch of his lips on mine. It wasn't even like Baekhyun's kisses, which always filled my eyes with light. Or Jongdae's, kisses stolen in complete innocence, when he'd serenade me with his songs.

This was different.

If the heat of his flesh on mine was pleasant, the press of his lips against mine was... incredible.

His lips were soft. Like velvet. And the urgent pressure of them, as they moved against mine, signalled that there was something else lurking beneath the surface. Something dark. Something sinister.

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, before he pulled away from me just a little bit.

"Open your mouth for me..." he said.

"I..."

"Open, princess."

And then he was back, a hundred times more eager. He wasn't just kissing me anymore, no. Frenzied nips of his teeth, his tongue licking across the seam of my lips. Begging. Pleading.

Even though every instinct in me screamed at me to push him away and be done with it, my mind was overwhelmed by an almost dangerous curiosity.

What if I did open for him?

What if I did let him in?

Just once?

Only once?

This morbid curiosity was steadily melting away my reluctance. As were his needy, almost agonized groans against my closed lips.

"Please, princess," he pleaded, running his tongue along my lower lip. "Please let me have a taste..."

When his lips closed the distance once again, I relented.

And the moment I parted my lips for him, he dove in.

His tongue slipped into my mouth, coming to meet mine. And when they met, I was lost.

Lost.

He tasted like...

....like the forbidden fruit.

Nothing like I had ever tasted before in my millenia long existence.

Tart and sweet. Honeyed spiced wine.

Inviting.

Luring me in.

I moaned into his mouth and he sighed, the kiss losing its chastness and becoming deeper.

Achingly deep.

Our mouths growing greedier, ravenous against each other, wanting to consume as much of each other as was possible.

I could feel the brush of his nose against my cheek, his lips sealing mine to allow a hungry exploration of my mouth, his hands clutching at the roots of my hair, holding me to him.

My own hands were in his hair and I was kissing him back, again and again, with a fervour with which I had never kissed anyone before. Not even my brothers.

My entire being felt like it was being burnt away in the sweetest, most sinful way possible, his lips on mine incinerating me from inside out.

And behind my closed eyes, I could see red.

A deep, swirling, hypnotizing red.

An endless ocean of red that I wanted to drown in.

So mesmerizing was this red, that I felt almost euphoric....

Triumphant.

Until I realized that the ocean of red was in fact the blood of my fellow angels.

My brothers.

I whimpered against his lips, horrified by the vision I was being made to see.

My hands pushed against his chest, wanting to break away from this lascivious entanglement.

But he held me tighter, his arms an iron cage around me, his lips relentlessly working into mine, the ferocity of his kiss causing my own lips to sting.

It was this very sting that began the shift.

The sea of blood vanished and I felt a sharp burst of pain beside either of my shoulder blades, right where the roots of my wings were.

The pain was blinding. Intolerable.

I moaned into his mouth, fingernails digging into his shoulders. Yet he remained latched almost fiercely to my mouth.

Every flick and lick of his tongue felt like lava. Pure liquid heat, that was serving to heighten the pain in my furled wings.

Through his kiss, it felt like he was penetrating my very being. Right down to my soul. With every passing moment, he was embedding something deep inside my soul. He was seeding something dark, something infernal within me. And the growing pain in my wings was a sign that my instincts were trying to push away this corrupt, damnable entity that was attempting to meld into me.

I didn't know for how long he kissed me. But when he finally pulled away from me, I was trembling from the pain.

Weakened considerably and unable to stay upright any longer, I fell back onto my bed, the scars on my back itching and throbbing, smarting as if someone had raked their nails through my vulnerable flesh.

It was incredibly foolish of me to think that the pain would lessen when I broke contact with him, this man who had just kissed me.

Instead, the pain only grew in intensity. Coming to me in sharp, pulsating heaves.

I gasped, my face twisting in pure agony as my entire being resisted and fought against whatever his kiss had implanted within me.

"Wh-what have you done to me?"

He laughed. "It has begun, sweetling."

I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but the pain drew forth a loud, agonized scream from deep within my throat.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

"You will be mine soon..."

And that was the only thing I remembered hearing, before the pain consumed me in all its torturous absoluteness.

_________________________

I sat bolt upright in bed, trembling from head to toe. Gasping.

Wild-eyed, I looked around, my skin drenched in a cold sweat.

The door to my bedroom burst open and Yixing and Baekhyun rushed in.

"Princess, are you alright?" Yixing asked, falling to his knees before me, his hands cupping my face. "Look at me."

"You were screaming," Baekhyun asked. "Was it a bad dream?"

It was a dream.

But it had felt so real.

So true.

I brought a hand to my lips, touching them gently. Trying to remember his kiss.

"I'm so sorry," I breathed, tears brimming in my eyes. "I'm sorry..."

Baekhyun and Yixing looked puzzled, exchanging a glance.

"For what, princess?" Yixing asked me.

For kissing the devil, I wanted to say.

But I remained silent.

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calligraphist-artemisia · 5 years ago

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Across Time and Space (Chapter 11)

Summary: Sequel to I’ll Take Her Place. Slav is showing off a piece of experimental equipment, when it malfunctions and blasts Katie and Keithir to another universe. At the same time, it drags Pidge and Keith over into theirs, effectively swapping places. With their fate resting in the hands of Slav, will they be able to get back home? Or are they stuck to live the rest of their lives in the wrong universe?

Also posted on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the username “kishirokitsune”.

Chapter 11

ALTEA – CASTLE OF LIONS

With a connection established, Slav and his team were able to press on with their work with renewed enthusiasm. Shiro traveled back to the Astral Plane a half-dozen more times, twice with Keith, relaying information to the other side and learning whatever he thought could help about what they were doing over there. As days passed and they gained a clearer picture of what it would take to get everyone home, a new problem swiftly emerged.

Shiro held up a hand to stop Slav’s unending flow of words that he could barely follow. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can understand most of that in order to properly relay it. It would be different if I could carry notes with me, but the Astral Plane doesn’t work like that, remember? Everything there, from the way you look, to what you carry with you, is based on personal memory.”

Slav crossed his arms over his chest and gave Shiro an unimpressed look. “You’re telling me you can’t remember a simple thing like-”

“No, I can’t,” Shiro interrupted before Slav could get rolling again. “We need to match this tech exactly on the other side in order for this to work, right?” He looked around the room, gazing seriously at all of the genius minds gathered into one place.

Honerva and Alfor were carefully studying the blueprints, while Coran hovered over their shoulders. Allura wrung her hands in worry. Hunk stood back with Lance and Travis, who were mostly there out of curiosity. Slav stood, unmoving, staring up at Shiro with narrowed eyes.

And then Slav sighed. “Ah, you’re right! How can I expect anyone to accurately describe the brilliance of my machine? I’ll simply have to build another one and send it to them!”

“We can do that?” Allura asked, sounding surprised.

“Of course!” Slav responded as though it were the obvious answer. “Though getting our delivery person back is more… questionable.”

Honerva looked up. “You are not seriously considering sending someone over, are you? The only reason we have a shot at getting Keithir and Katie back is because a perfect swap occurred. We would have to replicate that in order to send someone over and have a chance at getting them back as well. Would we be able to do that?” She turned to Alfor for assistance.

“It would require new calculations and reconfiguring the device, which could take days with all of the tests we would need to run. It is doable, but it will take time,” Alfor said.

“The longer we wait, the more of a risk we run,” Hunk pointed out. “Do we have that kind of time?”

“Question!” Lance blurted out, waving his hand in the air.

Everyone turned to look at him, but Lance said nothing more and kept his hand raised expectantly in the air. A few ticks passed and Shiro sighed and asked: “Yes, Lance?”

He lowered his hand. “For those of us who aren’t total nerds, what’s all of this about? I thought we only needed the one intergalactic thingy-” (“Trans-Reality Extrapolator,” Slav grumbled.) “-you know, the same one that caused this whole mess. Why do we suddenly need two? And why can’t we send it over on its own?”

“To begin with, the fact that this swap occurred with a single machine and no one got hurt or lost is truly a miracle. The second machine is needed to make absolutely sure that everything goes correctly, and for that they have to be as close to identical as we can get,” Allura explained. “It’s the last piece we need to put into place, now that father and I have used our knowledge of alchemy to follow the connection to the other reality and worked out how to apply it to the extrapolator.

“As for why we cannot send it over on its own… Slav – and the rest of us – fear that if it ends up somewhere else, it could be used for great evil. The chances of it not arriving in the correct universe are much higher than if we send someone.”

“So basically, we have no choice but to send someone?” Lance asked.

Allura worried her lower lip. “We would rather not, but if it is our only option… We still have a few days before everything is prepared. I would like to try sending Pidge with Shiro once again and see if we get a different result before we do anything drastic.”

Shiro wasn’t so sure that repeating the attempt would make a difference, but he was willing to try again. Whatever it took to get everyone home and also keep everyone in the correct universe. (And that was one problem he hadn’t expected to have.)

“I’ll talk to her about it later,” he promised.

Everything about getting Keithir and Katie back was more complicated than any of them imagined, but at least there was progress and a possible date in sight. In less than a week, they could have their friends back.

“So why can’t we send Keith or Pidge over with the machine?” Lance asked.

Allura paused. “It is a valid suggestion, but we want to ensure a smooth swap to get them back. Sending someone over is easy, but bringing them back is not. With the swap, we don’t have that problem.”

The door slid open at that moment, interrupting their meeting, and in stepped Alanna with baby Koichi in her arms. He smiled the moment he saw Shiro and reached his arms out toward him, babbling, “Dadadadada!”

“Sorry,” Alanna apologized as she walked over to him. “He’s been missing you both. You know I can’t resist those eyes when he asks for you.”

Shiro gladly took his son, swinging him up into the air and smiling at the delighted squeal he got in return. “Did you miss me, buddy?”

“Miss you!” Koichi parroted back, throwing him arms around Shiro’s neck. “Where’s mama?” He peered around until he spotted Allura and then pointed. “Go there, dada!”

Shiro chuckled and pointed to Alfor instead. “You want to go there?”

“No! There!” Koichi protested, giggling.

“Oh, that way!” Shiro turned around walked toward Allura, who met them halfway, greeting Koichi with a kiss on the forehead.

Koichi reached for his mom, and Shiro transferred him over to her with practiced ease. He spent a moment watching the two interact before remembering that they were in the middle of an important discussion.

“We’ll continue this later,” Shiro told the others. “Slav, do what you can and I’ll talk to Pidge later so we can try again with the Black Lion. It seems I’ve been neglecting a very important duty and need to attend to it now.” He watched Allura raise Koichi into the air and swoop him back down as he giggled and begged for her to do it again and again.

He had a beautiful family to spend time with.

Pidge hadn’t known what to say when Keith told her about Shiro being in the Astral Plane. It all sounded so unbelievable! But then again, had someone told her a year ago that she would find herself in space, working with aliens, and piloting a massive robot lion, she never would have believed that either. (Not to mention all of the other crazy things she’d seen and done.)

Once she got over her shock, it was time to get to work, figuring out exactly what she could do to help. Much like their reality-swap dilemma, it seemed more like something she’d have to take a backseat in and let someone else do all of the work.

That didn’t mean there was nothing she could do. Her purpose was just a little different from usual.

She sat down next to Keith as he towel-dried his hair after another lengthy training session with Thace. (One interesting thing she’d learned about Keith was that his habit of keeping his things neat and tidy also extended to his hygiene. He showered after every training session.)

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Shiro, and I know Allura said something about a way that our Allura can help, but I feel like there’s still more we can do before then. Or more we have to prepare for. I mean…” Pidge sighed and glanced up at Keith to find him staring back, giving her his undivided attention. She blushed a little at the attention and averted her gaze.

“We have the real Shiro in the Astral Plane, who has no body to return to, which is why he can’t leave. And then we have our impostor Shiro, who we know nothing about. Like, where did he come from? Who or what is he? I considered an android for a while, but I personally helped run diagnostic scans on him when we found him and he is one-hundred percent flesh-and-blood human. Or, well, almost one-hundred percent, with the arm and all. So I asked Allura if there have been any attempts at cloning in this reality, just to know if it’s possible, but she says its a type of alchemy banned across all Alliance planets and colonies.”

“But what else could he be?” Keith interrupted.

“I don’t know. I’ve considered shapeshifters too, but there’s no ability like that in the Planetary Database – or at lease, nothing that results in sharing memories or looking exactly like someone else,” Pidge said. “A clone is the only thing that makes sense, and when you consider everything that the Galra have done to expand their empire, it wouldn’t surprise me if they perfected cloning at some point. With Shiro’s arm, it would be easy to implant memories and control him in a way that wouldn’t be obvious to us.”

“A clone…” Keith looked away, his brow furrowed in thought. “We really couldn’t have known. If it weren’t for this whole situation, we wouldn’t have found out.”

Until it was too late.

Pidge didn’t know what the Galra were planning with Shiro, but she knew it wasn’t good. They needed to deal with it as quickly and quietly as possible, without letting the clone know something was up. She was sure they had some way of keeping an eye on him, or else there was some sort of trigger that would have him enacting their plans, like a sleeper agent.

“His arm has to be the key to all of this, right?” Keith asked. “It’s like what you and Hunk talked about before when Shiro started to remember how Ulaz helped him escape.”

Pidge nodded. “It’s the most likely way they’re controlling the clone. If we can remove it, that should be enough to stop him, but…” She hesitated, not sure how Keith would react to what she was about to say. She was still working out her own feelings about it all. “Just remember, this is all theoretical. I won’t know for sure until Allura tells me more about her idea and we get back to the others.”

“Pidge, I don’t care what it takes to get Shiro back. You have no idea everything he’s done for me,” Keith said, completely serious.

“There’s a moral issue that I’m not sure the others will easily overlook,” Pidge admitted.

“But this is Shiro we’re talking about!”

“I know,” Pidge said gently, laying her hand over his. “I know, and I’m with you. I’m just saying that this clone looks, acts, and thinks like Shiro and that’s not an easy thing to ignore. There’s also the question of whether or not this clone counts as a living, breathing person. What do we do if Shiro refuses to leave because he believes his clone deserves the chance to live once he’s free of Galra control?”

Keith opened his mouth, likely to give some sort of heated retort, but his more rational mind took over before he could do so. “That does sound like something Shiro would do.”

“We’ll figure out what to do if we get to that point. I won’t give up until we get him back,” Pidge promised him.

She meant it, with all of her heart. She’d dropped the ball when Shiro first went missing, losing herself to her misery and grasping onto the one lead she was able to chase after, which was the one that led her to find Matt. Looking back, she felt horrible about leaving him to search all on his own.

Pidge wouldn’t do that again.

If it was her and Keith against Lance, Hunk, and Allura, then she would stand by him until they had the real Shiro back.

“Pidge, I… I really appreciate that,” Keith said, his voice soft. “I guess there isn’t much we can do until we get home.”

“Or at least until we have more information,” Pidge agreed.

Her hand was still resting over his, but neither of them tried to move away, continuing to sit together in relative comfort.

“You know, Hunk and Lance brought over an Altean movie player and helped me set it up. If you’re interested in a quiet night in, I was going to raid the kitchen for snacks and bring them back here,” Pidge said.

Keith said nothing for a moment as he thought it over. “A movie night does sound nice.”

Pidge beamed and let go of his hand in order to get up. “Is there anything specific you want me to bring back for you?”

“You don’t want me to go with you?”

“I figured you could pick out which movie we watch first. They’re all in that box and Hunk promises they’re labeled and have descriptions. Something about Lance and horror movies?” Pidge wasn’t sure what that was all about and hadn’t been willing to ask more about it.

Keith shifted his gaze to the box and nodded. “I can get us all set up here. If you find any chocolate chip cookies, I’d like a few.”

Pidge fought back a grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

OLKARION – CASTLE OF LIONS

Katie slid into bed and curled into Keithir with a tired sigh. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, giving her time to get comfortable.

“Everything alright?” he asked. “Is our cub giving you trouble?”

“I don’t think she’s a fan of the food goo,” Katie said with a grimace.

Keithir chuckled. “I can’t say I blame her. No one actually likes food goo, except for maybe Coran.”

Katie hummed in response.

“We’ll be home soon and then we can find something she does like. I’m sure Hunk will be happy to help, and mother may have a few tips,” Keith said, once again kissing her, but that time on the cheek. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just keep holding me?” Katie requested.

Keithir was happy to comply and even happier to have a night where he could relax and cuddle with his wife in bed. She’d gotten so wrapped up in trying to help Slav build a replica of the original machine, that she often came to bed long after he’d already fallen asleep and then he would wake long before she did.

It wasn’t as though he was just lounging around while she worked. His role was to keep venturing to the Astral Plane, where he could talk to both Shiro’s and occasionally Keith.

And when he wasn’t there, he was trying to figure out a solution to the “Shiro Dilemma”, writing down any of his ideas and theories to leave behind for Keith and Pidge. He didn’t have much, but he hoped it would help in some small way.

All of that at least kept him from worrying.

About getting home.

About Yorak.

About the new baby.

And a million other little things.

Keithir closed his eyes and reminded himself to enjoy his time with Katie before another long, tiresome day of standing around and talking about how they could fix and improve the Trans-reality Extrapolator.

“I love you, Katie.

She shifted against him until she could kiss him, slow and sweet. “I love you too. We’re going to get through this, you know. We’re going to get home.”

“I know,” Keithir said, truly meaning it. “I just can’t shake the feeling of… I don’t know. Like there’s something we’re missing. Or something we haven’t taken into account.”

“There could be, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out in time.” Katie yawned and settled back in, snug at his side.

She was probably right. He’d sleep on it and probably come up with an answer in the morning.

The longer she stayed out of the room where they were working on the Trans-reality Extrapolator, the worse Allura started to feel. The guilt of needing a break when there was so much work that needed to be done ate away at her, but with the arrival of Matt, they had a fresh mind and could afford to take breaks. (Plus, Hunk and Coran worked together to ban her from entering the room, which was completely unfair. It was her Castle!)

Allura couldn’t deny that she needed to get away for a little while to give her mind time to rest, and once it was all over she would have to thank them, but for the time being, all she knew was frustration.

Everyone was doing their best, working hard to match the descriptions and details given to them by Katie and Keithir, but it wasn’t enough.

Allura walked through the halls, head bowed and her eyes trained to the floor. How had they gotten so close, only to see failure the more they worked? Replicating the machine was proving impossible without the blueprints, despite Keithir’s best attempts at relaying messages from the other side.

She slowed to a stop, closed her eyes, and took a deep, calming breath.

She had to relax. The stress would overwhelm her if she couldn’t.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Lance walking toward her, blue towel slung over one shoulder and a look of concern on his face.

“Allura, are you alright?” he asked.

She forced herself to smile and try and put Lance at ease. “I am perfectly fine. The others shooed me off to rest for a little while, so I was headed back to my room.”

“Ah, cool, so was I. I mean, not to your room! My room! I was going back to my room!” Lance babbled, a little flustered.

Allura watched in amazement as he awkwardly backtracked, wringing one end of his towel in his hands. It was a welcome change from the blunt flirting he used to attempt, but strange at the same time.

Was she starting to see the real Lance, and not the front he put up to protect himself?

“Going back for a bath?” she asked curiously, gesturing to the towel.

“Huh? Oh! Uh, no, no. I was going down to the pool and then I remembered that it’s in the ceiling – which is pretty! But not really great for swimming,” Lance said with a shrug.

Allura tilted her head to the side, unsure of what Lance meant. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with the pool. It looked fine to her when she and Coran were first looking over the Castle to make sure everything was running properly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Besides that fact that it’s on the ceiling? Probably nothing.”

Oh.

Oh!

Allura’s eyes lit up and she tried not to laugh.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with the pool, Lance just wasn’t using it correctly! Showing him how sounded like the perfect way for her to relax and take her mind off of more serious thoughts.

“Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” she told him, hurrying past him to her room. She caught sight of a fleeting expression of surprise and bit her lip to keep from laughing.

She reached her room in record time, stripping out of her gown the moment the door closed behind her. She tossed it aside, planning on taking care of it later, and began the search for her swimsuits. She found two stashed away in a drawer and took a moment to contemplate which one she wanted to wear.

One was blue and white and covered her entirely, much like her flight suit. It was primarily for public appearances; simple and modest, it covered her markings the way she was supposed to when being seen by someone who wasn’t family.

It would go against all of her lessons if she chose her second swimsuit, which was pink with white down the sides. It showed off her arms and legs and had always been her favorite.

Coran would be highly disapproving of her choice if he knew.

Allura figured he didn’t need to know.

She happily slid it on, grabbed her towel, and headed out to rejoin Lance. Her heart pounded from her unexpected fit of rebellion. It was exciting!

Lance was right where she left him, and as she approached, his expression shifted from confusion to surprise, his mouth parting as he got a good look at her. Allura felt her cheeks heat up at the attention and almost hoped he’d drop one of his outrageous flirtatious comments to break the mood, but none came.

He visibly snapped out of it and averted his gaze. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting – it’s a lot like what girls wear back on Earth.”

“What were you expecting?” Allura asked curiously.

Lance shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it just surprises me how similar humans and Alteans are. It shouldn’t after being out her so long.” He offered her a small smile. “So, you’re going to show me how to use your weird Altean pool?”

Allura laughed as she began to lead the way. “I’m going to show you how to use our perfectly normal pool.”

She and Lance continued to joke as he fell in step next to her, sharing a pleasant conversation as they walked through the Castle. Talking to him was effortless; something she hadn’t fully expected.

He had come so far since his first few months at the Castle. All of them had, but there was something remarkable about the change she saw in Lance and she couldn’t help but look at him differently.

He was someone she could call a friend. Someone she could talk to and rely on. Someone she trusted. Someone fun.

They arrived at the pool and Lance looked up at it and then very pointedly at Allura, one eyebrow raised as if to ask: “So now what?”

Allura, determined to prove him wrong, strode across the room to a slim door, passed her hand over the panel, and gestured for him to enter first.

Lance peered into the small room. “Uh, Allura? Why are you making me go into a closet? Is this some kind of joke? Are you going to lock me in there before I made fun of your pool?”

“This is an elevator.”

Lance needed a dobosh or two to recover before he could move and properly form sentences again, only to be stunned into silence a second time once the elevator reached the top and they stepped out onto a platform.

“Allura, this is incredible,” he whispered.

“This isn’t even the best part,” Allura said as she turned to a second display next to the elevator. She pulled up a screen, which displayed a variety of options. “Using this, we can create our own beach. Or at least a projection of it. From the crystal sands of Altea, the black sands of Nalquod… Even the red of Daibazaal.”

Lance was quiet as Allura demonstrated all but the last. “Any tan beaches?”

“Quite a few, actually,” Allura said, easily finding what Lance asked for.

The floor still felt like hard paneling, but over it was the image of hot, dry sand, shimmering beneath sunlight. Under Lance’s direction, Allura picked blue skies and tall plants with leaves sprouting from the top, which he told her mostly resembled palm trees, except they were the wrong color. An artificial sand bank rose up across one side of the pool, while the rest stretched on to mimic the natural ocean and horizon line.

It was far from perfect, but from the look on Lance’s face, she could tell that it was the closest to home he’d had in over a year.

“Once the war is over, I’d love to visit Earth and see your beaches. We could add them to the database here,” Allura said.

“Yeah?” Lance took his eyes off of the projected beach. “If you need a guide, I could show you around.”

“I would love that, Lance,” Allura said, and found she truly meant it. She set her towel down a good distance from the water so it wouldn’t get wet, and then grinned at Lance before running and diving into the pool.

Lance tugged off his shirt in a hurry, tossing it and his towel aside, and quickly joined her.

They spent hours up there, goofing off and splashing each other, showing off their best dives and “fancy” jumps. Allura completely lost track of time, and it wasn’t until the artificial sun dipped over the horizon and the low-level lighting kicked on that she realized how long they’d been up there.

“Sundown on the beach,” Lance murmured as he floated on his back. “I want to do this every night.”

“It really is nice,” Allura agreed. She hoisted herself up onto the edge of the pool and left her legs in the water as she began the lengthy process of gently squeezing water from her hair. “I’m glad I bumped into you, Lance. I really needed this.”

Lance let his legs sink down so he could properly look at her. “Anytime. I mean it. And not just for swimming. Any time you want to relax and do something fun, I’ll be there, if you want me to be.”

“I may have to take you up on that.”

There was so much she could share with him about Altea. Games. Stories. How to make the skin-care lotion that he loved so much. And in turn, he could teach her about Earth.

It would be a great cultural exchange.

#voltron #kidgemas #kidge #reality swap au #fanfiction #mild allurance

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garamonder · 5 years ago

Text

Said and Done

Peter pays Pepper and Morgan a visit for the first time since the funeral. Set just before Far From Home.

“Of course, Peter,” she'd said over the phone, “we'd love to see you.”

Peter had to give her the benefit of the doubt and hope she meant it. He couldn't blame her if she didn't. He hadn't seen Ms. Potts since the funeral. Even then they had spoken only briefly, Peter almost afraid to look at Morgan as he mumbled his condolences, shoving down his own misery and forcing himself to smile at the four-year-old. Her big eyes stared back, unsure of this stranger who'd shown up to her father's memorial. He must have appeared an adult to her.

Ms. Potts seemed to know Peter better than he would have expected, having never actually interacted with her before that day. But she'd also had a five-year head start on getting to know him. Peter kind of wondered at that until Ms. Potts told him that Tony had often talked about Peter to her.

For some reason it surprised him. Maybe because he'd spent more time dead than as Mr. Stark's 'intern' and Tony was not such a stranger to tragedy that Peter would've assumed he'd take up the lion's share of Mr. Stark's grief.

Then again, he'd recognized the look on Tony's face when Peter began to stagger toward him on Titan. It was the same instant, deep dread Peter was sure he'd worn himself at the sight of police lights flashing red and blue one night, and the horrified crowd gathered near a car he recognized as Uncle Ben's.

Peter was used to being the one standing graveside. He felt robbed, of course. But it was nothing next to losing a husband and father.

Peter hadn't explained his reason for visiting Ms. Potts and Morgan. Holding his cell and nervously fiddling with some machinery on his desk, he'd called with the intention of explaining everything then, but once he began to try he remembered who he was talking to and got glue in his throat. He only got so far as saying there was something he thought Mr. Stark would want Morgan to have.

Truthfully, he'd stopped himself clarifying because he'd been afraid Ms. Potts would refuse. Everyone dealt with their grief differently. What might seem a ghastly reminder to a widow would mean something entirely different to a four-year-old.

So here he was again, at the house in the woods. May had to work so Peter took a bus, forgetting to wear his earbuds while gazing at the city turning into trees, and easily covered the remaining distance. Happy could probably have driven him but Peter didn't really want to explain this to anyone else, no matter how sympathetic the ear.

He looked around. This place must have felt like an escape after the Snap. A born-and-bred city kid, Peter never lost a kind of marvel at unfenced green spaces. Gravel crunched under his sneakers. He'd always liked the sound of gravel.

Peter kind of had trouble picturing the flashy billionaire abandoning the penthouse view for a forest. But anyone who'd known Tony longer might have said the same if asked to envision him with a wife and daughter after all the supermodels who'd cycled through his life in an endless parade back out the door.

Ms. Potts walked out on the porch to meet him, dressed in a casual sweater and long pants. She looked around for the car that had brought him and Peter realized he hadn't said how he was getting there.

“I took the bus,” he said lamely.

“Oh,” she said in surprise, “you didn't need to do that. We could've come to the city.”

“No, it's fine. I don't mind,” Peter told her.

Mindlessly he'd stopped at the foot of the porch. Ms. Potts came forward and hugged him warmly. “How are you?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said, adjusting the strap of his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Um—you?”

“Okay,” she repeated, with a small smile and a shrug. “Sad. Making Morgan a lot of cheeseburgers.”

Despite himself Peter gave her a faint grin. He'd had occasion to witness Tony's fondness for them.

“Happy says you're going on a school trip soon,” said Ms. Potts, turning to invite him inside. “To Europe. Wow.”

“I don't think it's going to be that fancy,” Peter said. He'd looked up the hostels on the itinerary, and after seeing the foreboding Yelp reviews had updated his booster shots accordingly.

“Oh, but it's Europe,” Ms. Potts said fondly.

“Have you been?”

“Uh huh. I dragged Tony to the Louvre and he complained the whole time. I told him he needed to appreciate art outside of heavy metal album covers.”

Peter grinned again. He suspected she was trying to lighten the mood. “We're supposed to see Paris.”

“You'll have to find a cute girl to give a rose,” she teased.

He was hoping to do better than a rose. Besides, the cute girl preferred black dahlias.

Dishes sat in a drying rack. Though of fine quality, everything in the house exuded homey comfort. It was a funny mix of old-fashioned furnishings with evidence of high-tech gadgetry spotting bookshelves and side tables. If Peter ever retired, maybe he'd like a place like this. Provided it had good wifi. And a lab. And pizza within deliverable distance.

As though she'd read his mind, Ms. Potts said, “Pizza's in the oven. We're a little out of the delivery range. You like the works, right?”

Another one of the tiny things Mr. Stark must have remembered and told her. Peter Parker had liked pizza. He always got the works.

(Actually, what Tony had said to Pepper was: “I once watched Parker demolish a giant pizza in one sitting. Before wolfing down a bouquet of churros for dessert. It was like watching an anaconda devour a goat.”)

Touched, Peter said: “Yeah, but you didn't have to go to any trouble, Ms. Potts—”

“Pepper, please,” she corrected him. “And it's no trouble. Eat first?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Maybe it was better for Morgan to get her bearings around him anyway, before he started asking her odd questions.

The table was set already. When was the last time she'd set the table for three? Yikes, don't think about that. Peter was a little nervy being the only guest now, no strangers to act as a buffer between him and Mr. Stark's widow. He leaned his backpack carefully against a recliner.

“Morgan!” Pepper called down a hall. “Pizza!”

Moments later a bright-eyed girl emerged from the hall, carrying an action figure with her. “Morgan, this is Peter,” her mom told her, brushing aside a strand of fine dark hair from the girl's forehead. “You met him a few months ago.”

She remembered. “You're a friend of my dad's,” she declared with certainty.

Peter nodded. “That's right.”

He was glad she remembered, because it boded well for what he'd ask her soon.

Dinner ended up being a lot less awkward than he'd feared. Pepper had a knack for guiding the conversation without forcing small talk, and before he knew it Peter was chatting away almost comfortably. Morgan divided her attention between the guest, her pizza and her action figure, which she rearranged in different poses throughout the meal. Tony Stark was, conversationally speaking, the elephant in the room, and they skirted mention of him in their discussion with the delicacy of probing around a flesh wound.

Peter helped Pepper clear the dishes, wiping them off with a flowery towel. Once the drying rack was full again, Pepper sat on the couch with an arm around Morgan and watched Peter dig restlessly through his backpack.

Finally he withdrew a funny-looking contraption that comprised of a set of glasses, on which perched a recording device wired to a hard drive. The glasses were tiny, designed for a child. The device was a somewhat hodge-podge Frankenstein of tech cobbled from Mr. Stark's files with some additions of Peter's own.

“So, um,” he started, suddenly nervous again, “I borrowed from some of Mr. Stark's B.A.R.F. software. You know he's got it so it doesn't need an implanted chip anymore? It works on a proximity basis now. So when someone wears the glasses, it'll, like, recognize the user and act as a kind of Bluetooth for their brain.”

Pepper nodded, following along. Half-sunk into the cushy pillows, Morgan was gazing at the pink, child-sized glasses, which Peter had bought cheap in Flushing.

Peter turned the small headset around in his hands. “I thought Morgan could use it.”

Surprised, Pepper said: “Morgan? Why?” At the mention of her name, the little girl peered at Peter curiously.

“Have you heard of childhood amnesia?” Peter asked Ms. Potts. “You know how you just...forget stuff from when you were really little? Maybe there's flashes here and there, but it's hard to hold on to much.”

As if prompted, Pepper's eyes flicked to the side in an unconscious effort to recall early memories. She nodded again thoughtfully.

Peter went on, relaxing a little: “As we get older it's hard to retain memories from early childhood. Some stuff will stick out but the little things, the day-to-day stuff, gets lost. There's a lot of debate about how it happens, whether it's”—animatedly, he started waving a hand around— “developing cognitive behavior or because the GABA neurotransmitter acts as a gatekeeper for early memory retrieval—” He stopped as Pepper's eyes began to glaze over and started over with an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Anyway, it happens.”

He held up the gadgetry. “Morgan's actually at a really good age for memory retrieval. She's old enough to form autobiographical memories and young enough that they haven't been rewritten yet. Even better, she's able to process memory without emotion acting like, I don't know, rose-colored glasses. It's kind of hard to separate long-term memory from emotion, and that can almost change, um, your whole recollection of something.”

“Okay,” said Pepper, who was probably used to Tony babbling at her about this. “Tony mentioned some of these things during the early stages of B.A.R.F.”

Morgan giggled at the word 'barf.'

Smiling at her, Pepper added: “He said even though the system hijacks the brain, what it pulls back out might not actually be what happened—it's just our impressions. Even the holograms in his demonstration at MIT had to be padded out retroactively by computer modeling. I'm pretty sure he tried to make his younger self a little taller in the demo.”

Peter stifled a grin. “Well, maybe I would too.”

Pepper's eyes fell on the glasses. “What do you want Morgan to remember?” she said quietly. Maybe she knew the answer already.

“Her dad,” said Peter.

Faltering before the sudden silence, Peter fumbled for the hard drive and kept talking. “I uh, I've got this hooked up to a drive. Instead of projecting a hologram, the memories she consciously processes will be recorded on this. So you can, um—play it back. Like a movie, I guess.”

Pepper stared at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. Morgan abandoned her action figure to gaze up at her mother, alert to the change in demeanor.

Would Pepper tell him no? Thanks, but I don't really know if that's the healthy way for a child to process her father's death. It's the thought that counts. We appreciate you visiting, and please have a wonderful time in Europe.

A little desperately, Peter said: “It's hard to know now what memories Morgan's going to hang on to. Pictures and YouTube clips are good but they aren't really a substitute.”

He was speaking from experience, of course, but he didn't mention that.

“I thought maybe she could try it out. And if it works OK, you can spend a few weeks adding memories to the drive. The code is kind of complicated so I'll have to convert the files myself.”

When he looked up he saw Pepper blinking quickly. There was a long moment.

She turned to the little girl. “What do you say, Morgan? Wanna make a photo album of Daddy?”

“OK,” Morgan replied, still a little uncertain but it seemed to be the answer expected of her.

Peter blew his breath out. “OK,” he repeated, relieved. “Here, um—why don't you try these on?”

He passed the glasses to Pepper, who, gingerly considering the delicate tech barnacled to the frames, perched them on Morgan's nose. Perhaps knowing it drew from Tony's tech, and wasn't totally derived from a high-schooler's notebook scribbling, gave her confidence. “Stylish,” she told her daughter. Morgan preened.

Meanwhile Peter withdrew a laptop from his bag and opened it, setting it aside on the coffee table and attaching a cord to the hard drive wired to the pink spectacles. He'd already pulled up the software he'd use for conversion. He rubbed his hands together, suddenly energized as he always was when beginning a lab experiment. “Let's give it a test. So um, Morgan, what's your favorite animal?”

“A hippogriff,” she said promptly.

Pepper mouthed silently, “Don't tell her.”

“Oh—good choice. OK, can you picture a hippogriff? The last time you, um, saw one? You can close your eyes if it helps.”

Obediently Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. “Concentrate and think about all the different parts of the animal,” said Peter, scooting his laptop closer. “Like, what color is it? How big is it? You can answer by thinking about it.”

Morgan thought for a few moments. “OK,” she announced when presumably a hippogriff filled her vision.

Peter watched his screen as live data collected on the drive and took shape. It did not process like a movie file so much as a rendered model writ in code. She evidently had a very good recollection of what she thought hippogriffs looked like. When the stream tapered off he said: “Okay, pause your brain.” Morgan giggled.

Pepper watched Peter as he tapped away at his computer. “I honestly think Tony lost the ability to type,” she informed him. “It'd been so long since he actually needed a keyboard.”

Peter snorted. Tony must have thought it very confining, typing out one line when his brain was leaping ten lines ahead already.

“Let's take a took,” he said once he'd converted the file. “They take a while to render totally so it's low res for now.”

He took a miniature hologram projector Tony had once tossed him and hooked it to the laptop, which now resembled a nerve cluster with so many cords branching out. Then he pressed a series of buttons and a second later the slightly shimmering image of a hippogriff spun slowly above the device. Morgan had surpassed expectations: not only was the image of the creature clear (and a near-perfect replica of the one from Harry Potter) but she'd even envisioned its environment in the form of a forested clearing.

Morgan was delighted. “That came out of my head!”

Peter was familiar with the tech but he still marveled at its ability to draw out subconscious detail. Brains weren't a bank; they didn't store everything, but the software was very good at rounding out the model.

“That's awesome, Morgan. Now, let's try something a little harder. Can you turn your brain on again?”

Like an astronaut conducting a pre-launch checklist, she nodded, straight-faced.

Normally he'd run tests gradually building in complexity but this time he jumped ahead.

“This time, I uh, want you to think about something your dad's said to you. You don't have to say it out loud.” He shot a glance at Pepper, who merely gave him a small smile. “Think about when this was. Where were you? What were you wearing? What did he say, and how did he say it? Can you put it in order? What else was in the room? Go around the memory like you're looking everywhere in a room and memorizing it.”

He was half-afraid he was pelting her with too many questions. While her memory skills were developed enough for the device, it was a lot for a not-yet-five-year-old to juggle at once. But she didn't say anything, just sat with a face comically scrunched up from shutting her eyes so tightly.

Data began flooding through the drive. Peter sat and watched it materialize into characters on his screen. He waited patiently so his typing wouldn't disrupt her concentration.

While she sat and thought, Peter couldn't help letting his eyes wander around the living room, across family mementos.

It was just so different. Had Tony relocated here to escape the city? Following the Snap, it would have been full of shell-shocked mourners. When blows were so sudden sometimes the pain came belatedly, like a thunderclap following the lightning flash. The horror must have been worst the day after, when it became clear the disappearances were, in fact, deaths. Every day he would have encountered so many people he must have felt he'd failed.

What would I have done? Peter thought suddenly, startling himself.

Well, he'd failed people before too, and probably wasn't done yet.

Eventually the data slowed to a trickle. Peter cut it off after it'd leveled. “Brain off,” he said, and Morgan opened her eyes.

Pepper watched him work quietly. Peter felt tense again for a reason he couldn't explain. The data was much more complicated this time and required longer to convert to a viewable format. In the meantime, Morgan toyed with her action figure again, though her interest in it seemed feigned.

Finally Peter looked up. “Um—it's more 2D than anything,” he said, “for now. But I can project it. Just to show you.”

He picked up the hologram projector again and toyed with it. Light emanated from a lens and Peter looked up to see Tony Stark's face loom above.

Morgan watched with rapt attention. Her mother's hands were tightly entwined in her lap.

In the memory, Mr. Stark was putting Morgan to bed. It must have been very recently. For a four-year-old's recollection the image was quite sharp, though it was imperfect, vague in some areas, unrefined and lacked true three-dimensional modeling. The color was muted. You could see what he looked like and how his voice sounded. That was important; Peter had wanted her to retain that herself rather than having to round it out with computer modeling from archived data.

“I love you 3000,” Peter heard her childish voice say, tinny coming from the small speakers.

Tony seemed impressed. 3000 was a high grade, apparently. After telling her to go to bed or he'd sell all her toys, he went out and closed her door behind him.

As memories do, the hologram faded into an obscure, indistinct image and Peter shut it off wordlessly.

The room was hushed. Peter was startled to see tears falling down Pepper's cheeks. He felt uncomfortably like he'd witnessed something private. It seemed a little like eavesdropping.

“Play it again,” Morgan commanded him, and Peter dutifully played it back.

After they watched it again Peter said to Morgan, “You can keep those glasses.”

“Really?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah. When you think of something you want to remember, you can put them on and think really hard about it, the way you did just now. Then I'll get the drive back and make it so you can watch them later.”

“Okay,” said Morgan. She might have started right away to try and think of other pennies to put in the memory bank. Still silent, Pepper nudged her. “Thank you,” she added, remembering her manners.

Peter smiled. “Sure.”

There was a danger to this kind of technology, of course. Peter was never really sure about the therapeutic benefits of B.A.R.F. He was never tempted to use it himself. When you couldn't actually go back and change anything, what was the point to reliving it and pretending otherwise? It almost seemed another way to kick yourself for roads not taken.

It was easy to get lost in the past, but a child was less susceptible. He knew Pepper would never use the technology to recreate her husband. Once they'd collected a garden of Morgan's memories, she'd give him the glasses.

For the first time he realized how late it'd gotten. The summer evening had grown dark. “Oh geez, I should go,” he said quickly after glancing at his watch. The last bus would be leaving before long, and he had two miles to swing before he reached the stop. He disconnected the laptop and hologram projector, leaving the glasses and the drive they were attached to.

Pepper stood up with him, carefully removing Morgan's glasses and setting them on a shelf until they were ready for round two. “I'll walk you out,” she told him. Something in her voice was restrained. “Say goodnight to Peter, hon,” she said over her shoulder. “Then it's bedtime.”

“G'nite,” said Morgan, wiggling her little fingers goodbye.

“'Night,” he said back.

As he glanced back on his way to the door he saw that Morgan had not yet picked up her action figure, but sat instead concentrating on something they could not see.

The summer evening was pleasant out on the deck. A light breeze ruffled the tops of the trees. As a child Peter had found this sound ominous, but maybe it had meant something else to Tony and Pepper. He could hear an owl hooting.

They walked across the deck to the top of the stairs, where Pepper drifted to a stop. Peter stopped too.

“Um,” he said, words sounding flat in the dark air, “So in a few weeks I'll get the drive back—or you can send it, whatever you want—and I'll convert them to a better quality. I thought maybe I'd have to add some archival data to flesh it out, but her memory's pretty good and I might just leave it. It's not, you know, polished, but I think it's more authentic.”

Recorded memories were a distant second to the real deal, but repetition was instrumental to memory retention. If Morgan saw the recordings every once in a while, it'd bolster her real recall—he hoped.

Pepper nodded minutely. Her tears had gone and she seemed to study him a moment. Then, without speaking, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“This is a gift,” she whispered over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

After a long moment she drew back, keeping her hands on his shoulders like Aunt May sometimes did. “What made you think to do this?”

“Oh.” Peter shrugged. “Ah, it was just an idea I had. That's all.”

It wasn't, and Pepper knew that full well. He felt dumb; she had to know about the plane crash. Richard and Mary Parker had died when their son was no older than Morgan. Mr. Stark would have told her that too.

Pepper wore a bittersweet smile. Just then he knew she was wondering whether he remembered them at all. If she asked, he'd lie and say he did. Why upset her?

It was different with Uncle Ben. Peter could remember the things he'd said and done. In a way, they showed the way forward. So, too, would he remember Tony.

Sometimes Uncle Ben would fondly mention his late brother Richard. Once, when Peter was in fifth grade, Ben had asked if Peter remembered the way his dad would swing him side to side, making a seat from his hands and whirling his cackling son around. Amused by the story, Peter had said no. He never forgot the flash of disappointment that crossed his uncle's face before Ben's usual cheer reasserted itself.

He hadn't wanted that for Morgan, that was all.

“Come see us anytime,” Pepper said kindly. “And have fun in Europe. Make the most out of Paris. I know there's a girl.”

Peter laughed. “Will do.”

He went to Europe and came back. It was a hair-raising experience. He did give a girl a flower, even though it wasn't a rose and it was in London, not Paris.

“Hot dogs sound good?” said Pepper over the phone. Morgan had recorded several more memories, and they were ready for conversion. “I got some Nathan's from the store. Relish or no relish?”

“Relish, totally,” said Peter. “I'm civilized, aren't I?”

“Hawkeye's kid puts mayonnaise on his,” confided Pepper.

“Ugh.”

Hot dogs sounded great. He'd catch the bus upstate later, right after his date with MJ. He was going to take her swinging for the first time.

(I actually put ketchup on my hot dogs, I don’t like relish)

#peter parker #spider-man #mcu #tony stark #pepper potts #fic

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lucienfairfucked · 6 years ago

Text

garth’s diary, encrypted

extract one

I suspect I will live a long time -- intentionally, or not. Already, it is tempting to forget; with the passage of time, it will become easier. Perhaps if I keep a diary, then I cannot forget.

The brand of exile is on my back, where I cannot see it. A grave error. I should always be forced to look upon it. I should always remember their crumbling bodies in my hands, their ashes in my lungs.

I should stop studying. But I will not. Something good must come of this.

extract two

Perhaps there is no good in wallowing. It is enough that I remember; my punishment is a life without them, a banishéd wanderer, whose shadow is death. I must atone. I only atone by moving forward.

I took up with a caravan. They do not know who I am. When they stopped to trade, I heard my story from the lips of a merchant -- Samarkin currency, heavy with value, the story of a Willworker whose anam was warped by the Red hands of Los.

I am the villain of cautionary tales. Beware hubris.

extract three

A courier found me in the port city. An Alban aristocrat heard my tale from a travelling merchant, but did not seem to understand its message. He thinks me a scholar and an adept, and he wants me.

He is... not wrong, but he surely would not want the assistance of someone like me. I will not write him back.

extract four

I confess it. I did write him back. And now I am on a ship, for the first time in my wretched life. To Albion.

extract five

Lucien Fairfax -- he will not let me call him ‘Lord’, though everyone else does -- is a sorrowful man, a curséd man, and I feel... less lonely. I am afraid of this, afraid this will again lead me astray, but the fear isn’t enough. I am human and I crave understanding.

But he is also... a crazed man. He wishes to transcend death. He is enamoured of the Archons of Albion’s Old Kingdom, who saw their civilisation destroyed in their quests for greater power and might. The Court of the Void had only been attracted to the corruption that already existed.

I am afraid of Lucien. --No; that is not the truth of it. I am afraid for Lucien.

extract six

I am right to be fearful. This Sight of mine has always been a double-edged sword, but now it is almost accusatory. It knows I can See what it is showing me, and it knows that I choose to ignore it for now.

But... if someone had seen what was happening to me, and knew it for what it was, and had done everything in their power to try to keep me from it... perhaps I would not have done what I did.

I must have hope. For him. For... me.

extract seven

Lucien’s obsession grows worse. We have found his Tattered Spire, deep in the oceans. It is primordial now, having returned to its original state of malleability, lying in wait for... someone like him. I felt it awaken to his questing. It is glad to be found. It is glad to be found by someone like him.

I can no longer ignore what I See. Corruption squeezes his heart like an overeager lover, pushing away all else but the desire for power -- power to change the world, yes, but for whose sake?

extract eight

I thought that there is no way I could possibly cause any harm here. I was merely a research assistant, a passive agent. It did not help that I knew little of Albion save for its distant history. I did not realise how thin it would be, how chaotic and warped the anam of the land would be, after so many Corrupt incursions. I did not think of how easy it would be to fall in love with this man who was so much like me, who had also been convinced that he was incorruptible.

I did not think of how falling in love with him would give him power over me, power that I would willingly give just to feel...

Please, Gan, please let him see reason.

extract nine

I tried to be more forceful in my dissent. Lucien has never struck me before, and I was so stunned that in an instant I felt distant from myself -- far away, watching Lucien’s expression change from anger to fear to dismay, watching my lines flare like the noonday sun as my anam surged to protect me... or to lash out in pain.

It is not the slap that hurt, as much as the knowledge that he is too far gone, that I have failed him; and either I stay and do as much damage control as I can, or I leave him and leave Albion to its fate at his hands.

From here, I stand between him and Albion, until he... strikes me down, for good.

extract ten

Sometimes Lucien looks at me with speculation in his eyes. It used to be coy speculation, when he was still here with me, completely. Now it is calculating speculation. He does not see me anymore. He sees what I am, and how it can be used.

And still I remain.

extract eleven

I feel as though I am... fading. My purpose here is becoming less clear. Sometimes I still believe he will listen to me, that he will see reason, that he will look upon his works with sudden dawning horror and turn to me and... it shames me to admit... thank me for staying, for not giving up on him, for pulling him back from the edge.

It is a romantic notion, and I... I am who I am. But I cannot ignore the truth. Lucien Fairfax may have loved me once, but he is incapable of loving me now. The cracks that had appeared in his anam when Helena and Amelia were ripped so cruelly from him had let Corruption in, and he has come to embrace it as his own self.

And still I remain.

extract twelve

He says the Spire sings to him, or thrums like his own heartbeat. The Spire’s song gives me a headache of the most intense proportions. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet, if I am repelled instead of seduced by the Spire’s infernal rhythm.

I remember Lucien’s hands, so gentle and shy as they tried to follow my lines, his eyes crinkling at the corners when they danced away from his touch, then tentatively began to pulse to match his heartbeat. Today, those hands -- now tremulous and gaunt -- gestured roughly to Spire Guards, who executed workers that had dared to stand up to Lucien’s increasingly punishing demands and deplorable work conditions. His eyes were hard and glassy as he watched them die.

“They just don’t understand,” he said, pityingly. Neither do I.

And still I remain.

extract thirteen

My lines move sluggishly, my anam sleeping. I do not feel like myself anymore. I do not remember when I last did.

I report the suicides of workers with a voice I barely recognise as my own. I lie awake and listen to Lucien muttering feverishly nearby, surrounded by books and artefacts. Any research I had been doing on my own, for my own interest, I’ve given up.

What does it matter? What does any of it matter? The world is ending.

extract fourteen

Lucien has become a Will-user.

I almost tell him what happened to me. I almost tell him about the passage rite, the corrupting touch of Los. I almost tell him about the gift Los left me, the grimoire with its black leather cover. (I almost tell him what the leather was made of.) I almost tell him that I knew how it felt to be under the influence of Corruption and think otherwise, to truly believe oneself justified in one’s every action.

I almost tell him how one flare of rage cost me my family, my home, and almost my sanity.

But why would I give him that? He will not listen. He did not even listen years ago, when the merchant told him of me. Perhaps he will even, Gan forbid, laugh at me. And if he did, if he did dare laugh, I may again give in to a flare of rage, that will cost me...

extract fifteen

I have no more sweet words for Lucien, no more appeals to his goodness. My arms still ache to embrace him, but remain stiffly at my sides whenever he is near. This is another form of corruption-- the death of warmth, and the heart grown cold.

When I dream of him falling -- from where, or how, I know not -- I no longer wake with tears in my eyes. The weight of dread still sits on my heart like a stone, but my eyes are dry.

And still... yes. Still I remain.

Where else will I go, when he has taken everything I have?

extract sixteen

Today I stopped Lucien from some horrific experiment he was hellbent on conducting -- I think he wishes to... implant pieces of the Spire into men, to make them... Will-users. I cannot explain why this horrifies me. I cannot even explain why I rose from my recent lassitude to stop him.

I looked upon him, and he looks the same. The same lustrous hair, the same elegant high brow, the same sharp cheekbones and expressive mouth, the same poise and noble carriage.

But he does not look the same. His eyes are like cold iron. His laugh lines have given way to frown lines. He is losing weight, and deep shadows fill the hollows where healthy flesh used to be.

If I were to lay my hand upon his heart, as I once did, I would feel the Spire thrumming under his skin.

extract seventeen

I was out for a walk, the winter air as cold outside as I felt inside, when I heard the window shatter.

I ran back, but I was too late. One child lay murdered in the library. The other...

We are the villains of cautionary tales.

I can no longer remain.

#garth #[garth.lucien]#fable #fable.fic #because lucien's diary needs a counterpart

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jeanjauthor · 6 years ago

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This is one of the most powerful speeches on morality, values, and why you don’t need religion to have either that I have ever run across. (You can have religion and have both, mind you, but you don’t need to have it...yet you do need to have some sense of morality, and the values that guide it...)

“...this split between facts and values is an illusion, and my claim is that... that values are a certain kind of fact. They’re facts about the well-being of conscious creatures.

“They’re facts about the kinds of experiences it’s possible to have in this universe.”

This is from an excellent speech being given at Oxford University back in 2011 or so, a presentation on how morality does not have to be welded to religion to exist.

“Here’s the only assumption you need to make:

“Imagine a universe where every conscious creature suffers as much as it can, for as long as it can. I call this the worst possible misery for everyone. The worst possible misery for everyone...is bad. If the word ‘bad’ is going to mean anything, surely it applies to the worst possible misery for everyone.

“Now, if you think that the worst possible misery for everyone isn’t bad, or that it might have a silver lining...or there might be something worse...I don’t know what you’re talking about. (And what is more, I’m reasonably sure you don’t know what you’re talking about. either.)

“The moment you admit this, the moment you admit that the worst possible misery for everyone is the worst outcome...okay, then you have to admit that every other possible experience is better than the worst possible misery for everyone.

“So a continuum opens up...and because the experience of conscious creatures is going to depend in some way on the laws of nature, there are going to be right and wrong ways to move across this continuum.

“It will be possible to think you’re avoiding the worst possible misery for everyone...and to be wrong about that...and to fail to avoid it. (This is, in some sense, a navigation problem.)

“So here is my argument for...for locating moral truth in the context of science:

“Questions of right and wrong, and good and evil, depend upon minds. They depend upon the possibility of experience...”

I’ve linked the video at the start of this speech; you can listen to the whole thing, and certainly keep listening past these quotes if you like...but I watched this speech years ago--I don’t even remember how I stumbled across it, but I did--and it blew me away with how accurate it is in describing my own moral center, and my own values.

If you do think of a point in your life where you suffered horribly--say, you had a bad toothache, and had to get a cavity drilled & filled--then that’s a fair bit of suffering. You might not be able to chew food for a few days. There is a continuum of feeling better--maybe you just bit the inside of your cheek, which will hurt awfully for a few hours...but you didn’t have to have a tooth drilled.

If so, then there’s also a continuum of feeling worse--you’ve had your teeth punched out of your face in a soccer riot, your jaw is broken, you cannot chew food anymore... Or you could suffer even worse experiences.

The laws of nature, combined with conscious thought, tells us that when we hear about those three situations, soccer riots are potentially quite physically dangerous places, and that we should probably avoid them as much as possible. Cavities are quite painful, and we really should brush and floss more often to cut down on the chances of needing to get some dental work done. Biting the inside of your cheek is unpleasant and you’re going to be uncomfortable for a little while until the swelling and the ache subsides.

These three things are not the same in terms of pain, suffering, and the length of time which the suffering will condition.

Bitten inner cheek, resulting in pain & suffering for a few hours

≠ (does not equal)

Losing your teeth and having to blend your food for the rest of your life (or the suffering endured while trying to scrape together the cash for dental implants or dentures, which can take days, weeks, or even years.)

Personal experiences might put the middle suffering “option” (getting a tooth drilled) either closer to that bitten cheek in terms of pain and inconvenience over a relatively very short span of time...or closer to having all your teeth knocked out in terms of agony and incapacitated chewing ability for a potentially very long time.

But it is still a continuum. You can move along that continuum in either direction, too.

You can work to avoid participating in soccer riots, you can work to avoid cavities by brushing your teeth, you can work to avoid biting the inside of your cheek by being a little more careful of how you move your jaw and cheek muscles, etc, etc, etc.

Or...you can do things that constantly, physically put your inner cheek flesh between your teeth, you could refuse to brush your teeth, you could seek out soccer riots, boxing matches, mosh pits, demolition derby driving, bronco busting, etc, etc, etc.

The whole part about morality being based on values, and values being facts of lived experience, means that your morality can be of the variety “try to avoid the things that cause me (or the people around me) to suffer even worse” or it can be of the variety “cause even more suffering to myself and/or others.” And yes, this latter category includes “cause even more suffering for others in order to stop suffering for myself.” That’s not a good morality at all.

It’s a brilliant concept, once you grasp it.

The problem is...grasping it.

The biggest problem we have in America right now is that far too many people are refusing to acknowledge that the lived experience of other conscious beings (we’ll limit this category to fellow humans) is just as valid as their own.

The problem with that arises when someone denies my lived experiences (or yours), and derides or dismisses or tries to invalidate the values--the facts of & my reactions to whatever I have personally experienced--that arise from it. It arises from an outsider who refuses to grasp anything other than their own personal experience, or what they are told is their personal experience--and then insisting upon asserting their own values (remember, all of it based upon a different set of lived experiences) in order to deny someone else’s personal lived experiences.

“Getting hit in the face in a soccer riot doesn’t happen to people, because it’s never happened to me! You’re just lying about losing all your teeth--in fact, you’re probably just hiding them! You don’t need a blender to eat your food, so you start chewing that raw carrot and swallow it right down, or I won’t let you have any other food, or access to my cuisinart!”

Take a few moments to imagine yourself without teeth, without dentures, without dental implants to help you chew. It’s not a pleasant image, is it? Now, imagine being told all of that by the infamous Neurotypical Karen*, who thinks only her personal lived experience has any reality, and thus any value...

(Or perhaps it’s the other way around, who thinks only her pesonal lived experience has any value, and thus has any reality. Alas, I have encountered Neurotypical Karens of both varieties.)

...Either way, I’m pretty sure that while we can put a moral value judgment on that kind of attitude...I’m also pretty damn sure it’s not “...Neurotypical Karen is a morally righteous person to make those statements & that demand/threat.” (Rather the opposite, in fact.)

In verifiable fact, Neurotypical Karen’s statement is heartless, cruel, and inflicts misery after misery upon the toothless individual in the example. (First big misery, refusing to acknowledge their lived experience is valid even though it’s different from her experiences. Second big misery, threatening to punish someone with starvation if they fail to do something they literally cannot do, chew a raw and thus hard carrot. Third misery, it’s a frikkin raw carrot. You’re not going to be able to gum that thing into swallowable mush!)

It seems absurd that someone would argue like a Neurotypical Karen, doesn’t it?

...And yet that’s exactly what we’re getting with political messages like, “Democrats are just as bad as Republicans!”

*flat look*

Democrats = want people to have livable wages & universal medicare so they can be healthy, happy, & self-sufficient.

Republicans = want anyone who isn’t rich & white (& ideally male) to suffer, starve, & slave away for the benefit of rich white males & the detriment of themselves.

If you cannot see the differences between these two, you might have a severe morality deficiency / problem.

Worse, the Republican party tries to use religion to prop up their belief systems, predomonantly the beliefs that money somehow equals virtue (hoo boy, it does not!), and that everyone not them (not rich, not white, and especially not males) must suffer in order for them (GOP leaders) to have a good life.

(I’ve studied every single chapter & verse & book in the Bible. Took copious, extensive notes. Pretty damn sure that’s not what Christ said, at all, whatsoever.)

The problem isn’t morality in this country, however.

There are plenty of compassionate people who work every single day to alleviate the suffering being experienced by others as well as themselves. (a very morally good direction to try to navigate all those affected and adjacent lives).

The problem is people lying about morality, and denying the facutal life experiences of others, claiming that if they didn’t suffer those things, no one else possibly could have. Lying in ways that create blatantly false equivalencies...and lying so much and so fast and so often that they trick people into believing those lies, even to their own suffering & detriment.

That is flat-out evil...because it’s a viewpoint that refuses to alleviate the suffering that is going on.

So...if anybody tells you that following their religion is the only way to be moral...you know they’re not actually being moral. They’re being dogmatic extremist Neurotypical Karens who refuse to actually look at the real suffering that other people are experiencing. Who refuse to acknowledge its existence, independent of their own perceived lived experience.

Take for example, Christ. He looked at Judaism. He saw the Pharisees being self-righteous pricks concerned about making big shows of donating like at most 1% of their wealth to charity collection boxes, took a look at the humble widow donating the exact same amount, but which amounted to 20% of her whole income, to charity...a percentage she herself could barely afford to give. But she gave it because she gave as much as she could afford to give without thrusting herself into far worse suffering...while the Pharisees, high-caste society members, who could have donated a hundred times as much coin without blinking or suffering...refused to do so. They refused to alleviate the suffering to the extent that they could (and without suffering adversely themselves).

And Christ said (in essence), “You need to do this thing over here, help to alleviate the suffering of others, rather than that thing over there, make a big spectable of giving a pittance of money, just because giving that tiny pittance is a way for them to claim they’re kind and compassionate and charitable...when they’re not. They’re only doing it for show. They have no concept of the value of suffering, and the value of alleviating that suffering...and thus have no rock-solid moral foundation to stand upon.”

The Pharisees, who were one of the groups controlling the culture, saw this as a threat. Not to their morality--because they didn’t have much in the way of a true moral sense--but as a thhreat to their power structure. Jesus wanted people to move away from that version of the culture, which is what made the original version of Christianity so radical, and so “dangerous” to the leaders who were claiming they had the moral high ground. Why?

If you are more concerned about maintaining your positions of wealth and power than you are about making the world a better place for all...stop trying to pretend you understand the difference between good and evil.

And if you’re not that kind of person? (I hope you’re not!)

...Stop trying to vote for those kinds of people in positions of political, social, and/or economic power.

...I realize this may not be what some people expected to read on my Tumblr account. If you didn’t follow me to read these sorts of soapbox speeches & analyses...actually, I don’t know why you’re following me. Really. I have no clue.

While I may not have put these ideas and concepts, these morals and values, into as elegant and coherent a speech as this gentleman has...these are the same things I have wondered about, worried over, and encoded into the morals, values, and ideals of my protagonists.

If you have a belief system, a spirituality, a faith, a relgion...that’s okay.

If your belief system, formal relgion or otherwose, does not hold at its highest levels, its core, its peak commandment, the basic guiding principle of try to alleviate the suffering of those around you, as well as in yourself...what the heck are you doing reading my stuff?

‘Cause that exact sort of lack is antithetical to everything I write about.

Now, with that said...

May you be motivated to help alleviate the suffering of those around you, bringing respite and joy and safety and good health to them...and may they do the same for you.

And if you’re a writer, write that into your stories, so that your urgings can motivate others to make the lives of those around them better.

I mean, seriously, what is the worst that could happen when everyone does that? People actually getting to live happier, healthier lives? Not just in theory, but in practice, in lived personal experiences?

Who in the world would have a problem with that, if they want to be someone who is actually, morally good?

#*not to be confused with my relative named Karen who is far nicer than that

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ramblinganthropologist · 6 years ago

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Inktober 19 and 20 - Breakable and Scorched

Summary: Alistair Shepard’s policy on cooking could best be described as ‘scorched earth’ and ‘total disaster’. Luckily, the Reapers didn’t destroy pizza delivery when they attacked in 2186. It’s a weird retirement, but it’s his. Luckily, he has someone to eat pizza with, even if that companion is a wise ass.

---

Ok, who was the genius who decided that things you cook with could be so goddamn breakable?

Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn't lost an eye from the flying glass that had once been the measuring cup. Alistair was bleeding, sure, but it was only flesh wounds. The worst was in his hand. With any luck, he would only be picking glass from it for the next hour.

At least he remembered to turn the stove off this time as he backed away from it towards where he kept the first aid kit. Last time... well, he didn't want to think about that. Bo was still calling him an idiot over it.

“Oww.”

His classmates were often surprised he still felt pain. According to them, all his nerves should be used to it after being buried in the Citadel two separate times. Technically, it was only once with this body – that was something else fun to explain to them – but apparently it still counted. Unfortunately for him, he did still feel pain perfectly well in the parts that were still fleshy. Maybe he had less of them than most people, but they felt it well enough to make up for his missing limbs.

It took some fumbling to get the first aid kit open, but thanks to his prosthetic arm he was soon picking through it. A small amount of medigel was resting on the table as he grabbed for the tweezers he kept in there. Maybe not the best for picking glass out, but he had an edge.

Technically, biotics weren't exactly approved parts of medical procedures according to one of his teachers, but they weren't here and his good hand was fucking bleeding everywhere. It was good to feel that hum as his implant kicked in. Really, it had been too long since Alistair had last used them. Civilian life didn't exactly provide many opportunities for implementation, especially since humans were still a little leery about their own species making shit float. With all the exploding eezo since the reapers hit in 2186, more were starting to pop up. Not nearly as much as other species, but they might beat the turians out in twenty years.

It was always fun, beating them in something.

“Oww... shit.” Even with biotics, Alistair had to fumble with the tweezers to get one of the smaller chunks out of his hand. But it came out, and that was good enough for him. Now there were only a few more pieces, and those were bigger. They'd be much easier to get out.

A few more plucks, and soon his entire hand was covered in medigel and patched up with bandages. Alistair finally breathed a sigh of relief as he sunk back into the couch and closed his eyes. Clearly he was getting soft if this bothered him.

Though, after killing a shit ton of reapers, maybe he could allow himself that. After all, it was 2189 and the fact they could continue to date shit on the calendar was a miracle in itself.

He stayed there on the couch for a few minutes, quietly resting his eyes. School was wearing him out a little, though it wasn't as bad as 2186. Nothing could ever be as bad as that. Still, it was nice he could still feel stressed out about things. It made him feel human.

Just like the hypo that was starting to set in was making him feel. Right... he had been making food before all of this.

It took him some doing, but soon he was shoving his emergency sugar supply into his mouth. Brain functions would come back in a few moments, but until then he was pretty useless. So, back to sitting on his ass it was. No problems there.

Really, he had been trying to make dinner to avoid his homework before all of this. Clearly, he was getting back into the swing of being a student again with flying colors. It wasn't quite the military retirement he had expected – he hadn't thought he'd make it at all, actually – but it was how his life was going. Maybe he had taken a bit longer to get there, but he was there and that was all that mattered.

“Maybe I should give up on the cooking thing for tonight though...” he had enough scars as it was. Plus, with his last test results, maybe he had earned a little pizza. That order was easy enough to put through. Now he just got to sit back and wait.

And... maybe start on that homework he had been putting off. That was the trade off, wasn't it?

Honestly, Alistair tended to lose track of time when he was studying. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour. The thing that pulled him out of it was a knock on his apartment door. Well, that and his growling stomach.

“Be right there!”

He still had a bit of a limp – therapy couldn't get rid of that completely. But his prosthetic leg was doing a good job of getting him around. Maybe it wasn't quite Spectre quality, but he was retired. At least that was what he told himself as he stood up from the couch and made his way to the front door at a slightly reduced speed.

Much to his disappointment, it wasn't pizza waiting for him. However, Garrus fucking Vakarian definitely was a nice surprise.

Alistair didn't even think – he launched himself at the turian with the speed of his Alliance days. He didn't quite manage to knock his fiance to the floor, but at least he put in a good effort regardless. Garrus managed to catch him, and the two were against the wall. It was only decency and the reminder they were in the fucking hallway that kept them from, well, trying to fuck in the hallway.

Also the fact Garus fucking Vakarian was in fucking Baltimore when he should have been on Palaven. That was a bit of a kicker.

“Good to see you too, Al.” That was the first thing he said when he didn't have a tongue in his mouth. It had taken some doing to stop making out with him, but that was the price he paid for getting some information. “Guess I don't have to ask if you missed me?”

Alistair snickered as he nuzzled into Garrus' neck – not to make him totally horny or anything, there were children in the apartment down from him after all – and kissed him lightly over some of his older scars. Really, he would have thought he was dreaming. But his injured hand was aching, and so was his bad hip. Those were both great reminders he was awake.

“Ass. What the hell are you even doing here? I thought you said they were running you ragged back on Palaven.”

The turian responded by clucking like an unholy 7 foot chicken. The translator made it sound like laughter, but enough time around him had taught Alistair otherwise. Though Garrus said he didn't sound like a chicken when he laughed, he totally did. Though it was kind of cute too. He needed to do it more.

That was probably where he came in, being Mr. Vakarian's fiance and all. Laughter was kind of his department.

“I may have moved some things around. After all, isn't your birthday tomorrow?”

Fuck, was it?

Garrus saw the look on his face and laughed even harder. “You forgot your own birthday again, didn't you?”

“No.” The blushing gave Alistair away. Though, he eventually relented and grinned sheepishly. “Ok, maybe. School's been keeping me kind of busy.”

He chuckled as well, but that amusement turned to embarrassment as he heard someone clear his throat off to the left. When he turned to look, he blushed even harder. Garrus might not have been the pizza guy, but said guy was definitely there now.

Now what did he want more? His fiance, or food. Processing... processing... yep, the hierarchy of needs won out. Food it was.

“Uh... be right over.”

Garrus was nice enough to not laugh his turian ass off right away as he lowered him to the floor. Alistair was still blushing scarlet as he limped off to pay for his dinner. Sam – yes he knew the guy's fucking name, he saw him enough to know it – was doing his best not to laugh too. He did shoot him a knowing look as he handed over the food and departed. But then he was gone.

And... well, food.

“How many times this week have you ordered pizza?” Garrus was following him back into his apartment. The turian at least didn't look too shocked when he saw a similar box in the bin next to the door. “What a surprise, only once.”

If he was trying to get fucked that night... well, that was probably going to happen anyway, but he was pushing his luck for sure.

“I may have had some issues in the kitchen.” Alistair scowled a little when his fiance snickered. “What?”

Garrus was nice enough to help him grab a plate, but that was also because he wasn't allergic to levo food. It didn't do much for him nutritionally, but he could definitely steal at least a few slice and not have to worry much. And again, did pizza do much nutritionally for people who could eat it anyway?

“Al, your cooking strategy is scorched earth.” He stole a slice and quick kiss before Alistair could swipe him away. Briefly, it made the human wonder what he was actually saying – no way the turian military strategy would have referred to such a timeless classic with anything to do with their recent love/hate relationship partner. “What, it's an effective military tactic. You've still got a little Commander Shepard in you.”

Someone else might not if he kept it up... Garrus was lucky he was so damn cute. And he was a welcome distraction from homework. Alistair would have to get back to that later, but at least he had someone to lean against while he did it. That was enough to almost make it tolerable.

He still had to clean the kitchen from his attempts at cooking after this but... well, turians were great at dealing with the after effects of scorched earth policy. Maybe he could get his fiance to do it while he did his homework. After all, he was feeding him. Maybe he hadn't made it, but it counted.

That was how it worked, right? Damn... he wasn't so good with this sort of thing. Luckily, Alistair had plenty of time to figure it out. That was the bright side of saving the universe. At least he thought so as he settled in to eat some pizza before Garrus ate it all.

Maybe it was a weird retirement, but he was happy to have it – homework and all. Though, he would have to see if he include that last one by the time he was done. Probably not, but the reapers hadn't been able to destroy that either. Guess you can't win them all.

#ramblinganthropologist's writing #Garrus Vakarian #Alistair Shepard #It's a happy gay retirement

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atamascolily · 6 years ago

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A Natural History of Tatooine, part 5/?

In which Luke is spared the ordeal of eating live grubs for breakfast and Tor forces him to confront his F-E-E-L-I-N-G-S for two very different Jedi.

(Parts One, Two, Three and Four.)

"Good morning," said Tor. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really," he said, digging into what he thought was a breadnut, although he didn't usually encounter breadnuts in such a violent shade of pink.

"A special hybrid," Tor said, seeing the flash of surprise in his face. "Extra anthocyanins, supposed to be very good for you. Tastier, too."

"I guess." He couldn't detect any of the differences, but he wasn't going to argue with her.

"Don't look so downcast. I have lots of fat nijki larvae that are ready for harvest that I didn't include because I know they make you squeamish."

Luke grimaced, and took a sip of cha. "We ate mealworms all the time on Tatooine, but they were dried, roasted, and ground into flour, not alive and wriggling--"

"That's how you know they're fresh," Tor protested, but this was an old dispute that she frequently exaggerated for comic effect. "So what did you dream about this time? Any future dangers I should know about?"

He hadn't expected her to segue back to the subject of his dreams, at least not so fast. "No, just old screw-ups," he said.

She looked at him, waiting for him to say more, but he bent into his breakfast and ignored her. The silence stretched out between them for another ten minutes before he finally answered her.

"You don't have to say it," he said. "It was a stupid thing for me to do, to go off to investigate some unknown evil with just two droids and a scientist for company."

Tor raised an eyebrow and coughed loudly. "Depends on the scientist, of course."

"Err--right," he said, aware that he might have insulted her, but she seemed more amused by his faux pas than anything else. Tor might be a professional botanist, but she had studied martial arts at her monastery and she gave even his advanced students a fight to remember. "Cray wasn't a warrior, and neither were Nichos and Threepio--and once I got injured, things went downhill fast--"

"So you didn't stop and think when you found a problem to investigate. Who would you have taken with you instead, given the choice?"

"I mean--hell, anyone, really. Kyp--Kam--Corran. Even Cilghal, I could have used her healing skills out there--"

"Mara," said Tor softly.

He sighed. "Yes, I should have taken Mara. Though--it would have been hard on her, the Imperial conditioning, especially after what happened to her in the Core. She might have gone over this time and not come back." He fingered the place where the cerebral feed had been jacked into his skull, pumping him with chemicals and memories not his own, in an automated effort to convert him to the Imperial cause. Cilghal had healed everything so well there was no trace of a scar.

He almost wished there was. Without it, it was far too easy to believe he'd imagined the whole ordeal.

Though imagining the experience of being trapped on a massive Imperial dreadnaught torn apart from the inside out by warring factions of confused aliens picked up in lieu of long-lost stormtrooper garrisons scattered across the galaxy, fighting the ship's rigid automated programming while coping with injuries that would have killed an ordinary person might have been preferable to the actuality.

"But you had Callista," Tor said. "Surely that counted for something."

Luke buried his face in his hands, and pushed his tray away. He couldn't deal with this level of emotion during breakfast. He didn't want to think about Callista.

Or Cray and Nichos, who hadn't made it off the Eye of Palpatine alive.

Cray, who had been captured and tortured before she'd sacrificed her spirit to save Callista by offering the fallen Jedi her body as a new home.

Nichos, who in one sense had died long before Cray had implanted his consciousness in a droid body, but couldn't bear to continue existing without her.

Tor thrust the tray back at him. "Drink your cha, Skywalker. There's been enough silence. Now it's time to talk."

He drank the cha on autopilot, unable to meet Tor's gaze. He didn't know what there was to say, what he could say. All the words he could think of were inadequate.

Everything was all tangled up inside his head. Callista. Mara. Cray. Nichos. He didn't even know where to start.

He wished Tor would leave him alone, let him suffer in peace. Everyone else had.

His students twittered to each other in awe about his prowess as a Jedi, wonder in their eyes as he passed. They mourned Cray and Nichos, but accepted their deaths as a necessary sacrifice to prevent a holocaust. Cilghal had healed his wounds, but could do nothing for his head or his heart. Leia and Han hadn't pushed him, trusting he would open when the time was right and not a moment before--and busy enough with their own lives as it was.

Callista had vanished. Mara had walked away.

(That last one wasn't fair, and he knew it. But she wouldn't have left if he'd been open with her. If he had--)

"I despise self-pity, Skywalker. Didn't your teachers ever warn you that leads to the Dark Side, too?"

"There were a lot of things they never told me." He didn't want this, any of this, but she wasn't going to let him slip away quietly. A flush of anger stirred in him. She didn't have the Force. She was strong enough and self-aware enough that he couldn't manipulate her mind, but there were other ways to push her away, fling her back across the greenhouse and away from him--

"It's fine to love them both, you know," Tor said.

Any anger he'd felt deflated instantly. She'd exposed him. She'd said it out loud. She knew everything.

Did everyone else know, too?

"Not everyone," Tor said. As she had pointed out on numerous occasions, you didn't need the Force to tell what someone was thinking--just a very good eye and an understanding of human nature. "Like I said before, the students are preoccupied with their own concerns. The others know that you're upset, but they don't know why--they think it's over Cray and Nichos's death or the considerable head trauma you suffered."

His voice was dry and ragged in his throat. "That's part of it."

"Of course it is," Tor said. "But all your physical wounds have healed. You spent several weeks in a healing trance in addition to all of Cilghal's ministrations. As for Cray and Nichos--I'm sorry. I miss them, too. But they're not the reason why you're stuck in this slough of despond, and it's misleading to pretend otherwise."

Yes. That was true. He'd grieved at his students' deaths, but he'd been overjoyed to learn upon waking that Callista had survived--even if she inhabited Cray's body now. It had been eerie for the students who had known Cray, to see someone else's spirit inhabiting her flesh; it was even odder for Luke, since Cray had been his student and Callista--was his lover.

Prior to his ordeal on the Eye of Palpatine, he'd had long discussions with Mara and the other instructors about the dangers of fraternizing with students. Even under the extenuating circumstances, it was still--awkward, to say the least.

He'd missed Mara the whole time. But he'd come to love Callista during that awful week trapped on board the Eye of Palpatine. Her sense of humor. Her laugh.

He'd thought he was going to die anyway, so why the hell not fall in love with her?

And then Cray, Nichos, and Callista has tricked him, knocking him unconscious and ejecting him in a shuttle with the other refugees to keep him from interfering with their plan to blow up the dreadnought and destroy Callista entirely. It was only after the explosion, after he'd mourned and grieved their loss, that he saw the escape pod holding Callista's spirit in Cray's body and dared to hope that one of them, at least, had survived.

As soon as he saw her, he knew, though the only thing that had changed in Cray's face was her eyes. They were no longer blue, but grey, the same grey he'd seen in his Force visions of her, and in those dreams-that-were-more-than-dreams they had shared aboard the dreadnought.

Due to a series of complicated events he hadn't been able to fully grasp the significance of at the time, Mara had been the one to rescue them both.

"Awkward" didn't even begin to cover it.

#star wars #my fanfiction #fanfic excerpt #a natural history of tatooine #there are no therapists in this universe #but tor does her best

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feathersforclones · 4 years ago

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On Steady Paws - Chapter 1

The Force, like already stated, is connected to everything. It gives life and meaning, it takes you in its embrace when you are dying or giving up. Its all that we ever strove to be, everything we are and everything we always were.

The Force is not only a guiding hand but also an entity.

It can create life from nothing, just put everything it needs in a bucket, shake that a few times and then upend the mixture onto the floor and see what happens, what will form.

The Force wanted its chosen one to have a friend, someone who could match him, outsmart him, stand by him, tease him, protect him, and love him with all their being. It searched the multiverse, gathered, and discarded ideas and impressions, tested freed spirits and essences, nudged, and asked for permission because there is nothing more important than free will and freely made choices. It would never only take and take and take, this was not in its nature.

Friends, the Force found out, were not only humanoids or highly sentient species, but friends could also be animals and even plants. Although it discarded the last point on the list quite swiftly. A plant being surviving on a desert planet. No, no walking and needle shooting cactus in this dimension, thank you. But an animal was nearly perfect. The only problem was that the desert planet was lacking most common forms of those and even the Force could imagine that a small, newly hatched Krayt Dragon was most certainly not a good idea for a friend for its chosen. (Though peeking into that strain of life had some entertaining points it had to admit.) So the Force needed to find something for its chosen one, a companion, loyal and headstrong. Thankfully, so it needn’t introduce a new species to the planet, there was one logical choice, even if those types of animals lived in the more rocky areas of the deep desert instead of in the more stable zone the cities are located in. But that was something that could be done later on.

Gathering itself on one of the abandoned temples on the desert planet, the Force condensed everything it had gathered and deemed useable and good for this project, shaping it into a ball and feeding it its own essence, coaxing the small starting of life into a new beginning, twining strands of a willing soul into the blue ball shape, giving it a greener appearance.

The Force was quite happy with the result, rolling the ball of essence through the air, tweaking it a bit and nudging the little thing, growing it some more and reshaping some facts.

After polishing the small ball of essence, the Force moved its main concentration and the ball over to the city, swooping through the alleys until it found its Chosen Ones bright and warm soul. Happily snuggling up to the small child, the Force plucked gently at one of the bright strands, gently opening a connection and combined it with one of the blue-greenish ones of the new being, sprinkling it with shards of gold.

The child startled, head swiveling around for a short moment before settling down again, a bright smile on his face as he babbled to his Mother. Giving the Chosen One one last snuggle, the Force changed locations again, rolling the ball around itself.

Now it only had to implant the ball of essence and life into a female of the species and voila! Everything would be almost perfect!

Giddily the Force dove under the sand dunes, into long and dark tunnels in hard rock only to find a pack of the animals resting in a big pile. Perfect.

---------------------- Honestly, the start of my new life is nothing out of the ordinary, so I am going to be making it quite short and give you a few episodes of the mundane things happening to me. The real life, the real fun and the meaning of my rebirth, second reality existing whatever you want to call it, comes a bit later. That only starts after I met the “Menace”.

-------------------

I come to consciousness a few weeks after being born. Thank gosh for that, I would not have wanted to be awake and aware for that procedure, thank you very much. My mind is not quite awake yet, thoughts muddled and swirling through my brain like the liquid in a slow working slushie machine. (I know now that baby brains do not ever work like that, their ability to regain and hold thoughts is worse than a goldfish.) Even the first few moments of being “awake” take a toll on me, it saps my will away fast and leaves me exhausted, only able to nose against the warmth right in front of my nose, which smells familiar in a way I do not understand yet.

Its dark around me and I cannot open my eyes. I feel warm though and somehow feeling like there are things pressed to me, someone is breathing in my ear, which can already flick and twist and someone is pushing me with his fat paws to get me away from my place of wherever the heck I am. But I am warm and comfortable and I feel safe where I am, so I wiggle a bit, push my appendage back into the one pushing me and nip the warmth right in front of my nose. I get squirted with something sweet and warm in response.

Really great day.

I lick it off and go right back to sleep, cuddled in the pile of warmth and fuzziness.

------------------- The next few awake periods are the same as before, I wake up, I nose up to the sweet-smelling warmth and I lay there, prodding my appendages against the other living fuzzy and warm things next to me. Sometimes I get nipped, blunt flesh grabbing onto my own. Sometimes I nip someone else.

Tastes terrible.

----------------------- There is not much to do in that time but think. And thinking is what I do, staying awake longer and longer with every awake period. The other beings beside me get more active, squiggling and wiggling all around and over me and getting nipped in the process. There is not much space I can feel around me, so I stay still and think, only moving if something pushes me away again. The sweet-smelling liquid I can always eat keeps me happy and sated quite well.

---------------------------

It is raining harshly, drops of water sliding down my ears, trailing down my neck and flee over my flanks to finally race to my tail and fall down the white tower I am hanging onto. My eyes are squinting, focused on the slightly overhanging ledge above me, only a few paw strides away. My claws are slipping, finding no purchase on the slippery surface of the tower and I want to bite down in frustration, tear cracks into the metal thing to help me climb! I cannot even jump right now, cannot use my hindlegs to propel myself upwards and into safety. So, I hold on, growling and hoping that something will happen to give me the opportunity to move again. Why, oh why had I joined this one to fly through space and see the lost planet? Oh yeah, because the Menace told me to take care of him and because I was not inconspicuous enough to go undercover with him and Pretty. So, here I am, hanging around for fear of falling and taking a bath that would probably be my last one. And it is all because of the one hand grabbing harshly onto my neck, panting breaths ghosting over my back and warmth partly laying on top of me. The straw haired youth would be so disappointed in me if I let the Sweettalker fall now, let him fall all the way down into the wild sea beneath us.

“That…” the voice whispers, words nearly swept away by the constant rain falling down on us, “this could have gone way better.” I grunt lowly, pushing one of my paws a few millimeters higher only to lose footing on my hindleg.

“I… Give me a few seconds, I can get us up. No worries.” The voice continues and I really wish I could give him a sarcastic remark, but sadly my vocal cords do not work that way. I can feel a second hand finally grabbing onto my shoulder, pulling my wet fur, weight shifting on my back and firm legs pushing the body up and shifting my weight to—

To fall over from my sleeping spot at the edge of the puppy pile and slide down the sandy hill build on bush twigs and prey bones until my ass is still up right at the edge of the nesting ring and my poor snout hits the rocky surrounding. My ears flatten beside my head and I must be a picture of pure pity right about now. Not that someone cares mind you.

I stay still, my thoughts whirling through my mind at internet explorer speed, its all muddled and confusing, more feeling and intuition than knowledge. I get those dreams, or something like them at least, not every sleep but more than half of them for sure. It is like I am remembering things and situation and people! But I cannot put a connection to them, like a living always reoccurring deja-vu.

A paw right in front of my snout drags me back into the present, the coarse and bright silver fur of my sire catching my attention at once. The paw is bigger than my entire form right now, the claws dark and long with tipped claws at the end. The smell alone has my soft and small hackles raising slightly. Sire is never happy with me. I was born the last one, the runt, the waste of space. I did not move much; I wasn’t as vocal as my siblings and I didn’t look like him or my mother one tiny bit.

He growls at me, his eyes slitting as he stares at me, a low huffing sound leaving his elongated muzzle. His ears are like radar dishes on top of his head, swivelling around and catching all the sounds in the tunnels.

I stare at him, there is not much I can do. And biting him with my puppy teeth is really not what I wanted to do.

Sire gives another huff and walks off, one of his paws coming down sharply on my long tail. Pain lances through me, my poor tail curling upwards and slapping the butthole of a canine as he stalks off, my unhappy and pained whines not even getting my sleeping mother to twitch.

------------------------------ I should have known they would do this. What happens to the runt of the litter? They get eaten in some instances, they get left behind in others. Not with us. Not with my species of canines living under the desert sands. No. ---------------------- Mother brought me outside the tunnels, sharp teeth digging into my neck and letting me dangle from her maw. The distance to the floor was great and so I didn’t try to wiggle too much, only whining and snuffling at her, not understanding what she was doing to me, why she is bringing me away when my siblings sleep and I should be too. She is fast, moving like a living shadow through the tunnels sloping higher and higher, the terrain getting more rough and stone like, th wind is getting louder, howling through these parts and carrying sand with it, which stings my sensitive ears.

And I am all ears. Literally. I look like a fat ball of coarse fluff with satellite dishes on top of my skull!

I yip again, whine and twitch my hindpaw at Mother, but she only shakes me a little and I fall silent again, the pressure on my neck thankfully not increasing.

I have a bad feeling about this and it gets worse with every step my Mother takes. As soon as she clears a bend in the tunnel I know what is going on. Light falls through an opening at the end of the tunnel, bright and warm and windy. Yes, a windy light, shifting and swooshing. Loud. The smells are off, no one had been here for a while and now my Mother was taking me here? One step more. I am the runt. Two steps. Not as agile. Three steps. Not likely to survive. Four steps. Not worth investing the energy to teach to survive or hunt. Five steps.

The light engulfs us, it’s a harsh thing to go from the twilight of tunnels to the bright lights of the rest of the world, thankfully our eyes have extra lids to shield them. The wind is louder, muffling my increased whinings and yelps.

We are up halfway to a mountain or something, I can see rocks, holes in the rocks and dunes. Dunes of sand as far as the eye can see.

Mother opens her maw. I fall.

#On steady paws #crackfick #gosh i did it #soon we get to see Anakin #poor puppy #mean parents #but its nature #was fun to write #feathers

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obduratemoon · 4 years ago

Text

Sedimentary City 17: STALE INFINITY

Jan saw before him an elderly man who had begun to stoop with age, even as he sat with the arrogance of a king or perhaps the insouciance of a street urchin. Around him stood an assemblage of young graceful men, slender as saplings, inclined towards their boss.

“Here he is, boss.” Pyotr said with sudden deference, head bowed and downcast eyes as if scanning the floor.

“Ah, Jan. I heard you had a bit of a run in, but good to see that you made it. I sent my best, a jackal and a force of nature, a born destroyer of men. Thank you, Pyotr.”

Pyotr made a small bow and receded, leaving Jan before the boss. Rollo had disappeared some time ago.

The old autocrat flicked two fingers up and a thin attendant came to his side with an open box. He withdrew a cigarette and perched it then between parched lips. Here in this throne room it was yet dark and in the weak grey light the man’s lips looked ashen and desaturated. The attendant lit the end of the cigarette and the boss inhaled, slow and languorous like a yawn or a stretch. The cherry glowed bright and threw off a remarkable amount of warmth and reddening light. Jan could finally see the man’s face against that cherried flame: pale and wrinkled, the lines and folds of his skin looking like fine filigree work on an ivory sculpture. His eyes were dull and black like two pinpricks in the fabric of reality, as if the world were a mirage projected upon a skein and only through these two perforations could one glimpse at the uncompromising blackness behind it.

The old man coughed, a loud and extended hacking which reverberated around the room and went on for some time. Jan watched as this sentient organism was reduced to a series of automatic and uncontrollable spasms. An attendant came with a scrap of fabric into which the decrepit man spat some sputum.

“You see Jan, I owe your father a lot. We made a deal, a good deal for both of us. He is a powerful man up there,” he motioned his hands, gesturing upwards, “and I am a powerful man down here. I gave him my word to take care of you. I heard you got scratched during your journey, huh?”

“Yes, but it is patched up now,” Jan replied.

After the attack the three trekked in silence and in haste for a long time, Rollo hanging far behind and sporadically returning, smelling of fresh blood and viscera. At last the narrow corridors opened up to a large room with ceilings so high the light from the headlamps seemed spent before reaching any destination. It had three doors set in what seemed like an endless obsidian slab.

“We’re almost there -- one door gets us home. The other two: death. Another kind of home.” Pyotr smiled sardonically, “I hope I remember.”

Once inside Jan saw that it was a catacomb of pathways and dwellings, a hive for a listless population who cast furtive looks of awe and fear upon them. Many wore threadbare All-Suits and had the pallid and forlorn look of purposeless men. Everyone was given what they needed to live but what was this subterranean group of men to hope for besides their deaths. They would die stranded in this place, their lineage, which had groped like the proboscis of life itself suddenly curtailed in an egressless finality. For a human to want to continue living, pulled forward as if caught in the midst of a cavalcade by the hope of the myriad days ahead, the reality of the end must be constantly held at bay

“Good, good!” exclaimed the boss man. “Wouldn't do to have you damaged. Would you like to see what was exchanged for you?”

A beautiful youth with a shorn head and a neck muscled like a bull pushed in a large box covered by a crimson fabric. The frail authority stood up and circumambulated the box and, like a magician, he pulled off the covering.

Inside was a transparent box which held a pair of lungs, disembodied but breathing and animated, filling and unfilling in slow metronomic regularity. It was set like a gem in a pool of dark vermillion liquid like a siamese amphibian. The young man pointed a dull lamp at it so that it was spot-lit like a rare treasure. The old one smiled sweetly beckoned for Jan to come closer.

“What do you think, huh? They tell me this comes from a promising athlete. I wonder what happened for him to lose these. Probably threw it all away for some trifling idea. I hope you are not like one of these stubborn young men, so disinclined towards the project of staying alive.”

Jan peered into the box. It was an unnatural sight, the unconnected organ, removed from a former body and made to be all by itself, self contained and purposeless. At the moment it was respiring for no one.

The old man held up his hand and a lithe attendant handed him a lit cigarette. He took a drag and was racked by stuttering coughs. At length he regained control over his diaphragm.

“As you can see, my lungs won’t last much longer,” he looked at Jan, “I think it was a good trade. A life for a life. Your father will keep me alive for as long as you are alive. So, my boy, you must live here a good long while!”

Jan was not listening but rather he was still transfixed by the sight of the lungs breathing automatically in its mechanical bardo. Although organ transplants had long been routine and easy, Jan wondered at the uncanniness of it, this emigration of foreign flesh.

The surgery capsule has the shape of an octagonal cylinder, a solid slip of chrome. It is a kind of metallic sarcophagus. Contained inside is an array of arms and tools: auto-cauterizing scalpels, tubes, needles. The unit handles almost all surgeries including transplants. It can keep the organ bathed in a nutritious pseudo plasma until time for its incorporating into the target body. It is also capable of keeping a patient on multiple bypass for hours, a man can lay there fully eviscerated and organ-less for almost a week. It’s manifold tiny arms structured like a splay tree can suture the fractalized interface of vessels and nerves in parallel, drastically speeding up the critical step of connecting a new body component. Once the capsule is sealed it is absolutely sterile preventing any chance of infection.

The ability to so easily switch out organs heralded an age of semi immortality. The IV feeds deliver an assortment of nutrients, chemicals, and biologic nanobots: immuno-manipulators which can up or down regulate precise aspects of the body’s homeostasis as needed.

Medical science provides a pseudo immortality. While the brain could not be replaced, most organs could be transplanted, most limbs could be made cybernetic.

“This is your room, Jan, one of the best. I live nearby if you need me. Rollo lives in the barracks. I can show you sometime. We have arranged a companion for you as well, she will take care of all your needs.” At this Pyotr gave him a sly and significant look and repeated: “All of your needs.”

“She?”

“Yes, you’ll see what I mean. Don’t be put off, you are lucky. Very. You saw those people from before, you don’t want to be them. The boss man wants to give you something of your old life. You don’t have to worry about anything, she will bring you anything you need.”

Jan looked around the grey box of a room. A large low bed, a table with chairs, some organizers, a strange sculpture in the corner, a kind of interior obelisk. On one side an All Suit hung from the wall. On the other was a doorless entrance to another room, the bathroom.

“There’s no plumbing here, so she will bring you water and take care of your chamber pot. And food. The food they deliver here is laced with sedative. They want to keep us sleepy. We extract it out, don’t worry, but she will also bring you the pills we make from the extraction. There is a little extra in them. Rollo and I are not allowed to take them, we have to stay sharp. But you, Jan, you are on vacation now, haha.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name? I forget, you can ask her, or maybe you can make one up for her.”

They stood there for a few moments in silence, the ineffable weight of reality coalescing in Jan’s chest. Was this the rest of his life?

“You’ll be ok. This is the land of no future. And the past is too distant. Here is only present. And there are no gods, only men. We didn’t make this world. We are free to kill and destroy, but also to create and be good. We arelike actors living in this nightmare, but at least it’s not our nightmare.”

Jan thought back to the pain amplifier, the phantasms that were urgent and real even though he knew they were crafted and implanted.

“Jan, I ask you. When you have nightmares, or dreams, there are people in them yes? Do you think those people suffer as much as the dreamer himself?”

“I’m not sure. Is there any difference between the dreamer and the dreamed?”

“Ah yes, I wonder too. Maybe the same. To kill is to die as well. That would make me and Rollo ghosts, yes? Haha!”

With a wry and bitter smile Pyotr turned to leave. Jan layed on the bed and looked up at the featureless ceiling. Long bereft of his old All Suit and belongings, he could not bring up a hologram of Eva nor anyone nor anything else from his past life. He ruminated over them in his mind but each pass of remembering seem to only wear out an image already vague and faded. To recollect is like bringing a deep sea creature up from the depths. On the surface it dies.

He lay like this for a long while, motionless and horizontal slowly passing and in out of consciousness, not sure if the room was a room or merely the shape of a room. Room shaped, just as he was Jan shaped. Then he heard a slight shuffle and saw someone laying things on the table. His heart raced.

“Eva?”

She turned, “Yes?”

Jan got up too quickly for his blood to catch up and felt dizzy. He saw a woman with short black hair and delicate features looking at him steadily without expression. Instead of an all suit she wore a dress, a simple one piece without much color or ornamentation.

“Oh … are you? No, you’re not. You’re the one Pyotr told me about?”

“Yes, I am to be your companion.” The sound of her voice was dusky and complex, imbued with rich harmonics and a hint of rasp. Jan took a few steps closer. Her skin was white as sheet paper, subtly translucent and pink displaying an intimation of blood flowing within her. She was neither tall nor short but very slight and insubstantial.

“I brought you some food.” she said, gesturing towards the table. A square of nutrition cube, brown and replete, sat upon a crude dish. Next to it were two pills and a glass of water. “The pills are the sedatives. It takes the edge off time.”

“Time.” Jan said to himself. The weight of time hit him in that moment; the aeons that came before him and would come after him, unceasing and unconcerned that within its endless expanse it contained all life and reality, all sadness and joy. It simply moved on like a ship apathetic of its boundless cargo.

Jan sat down and ate, an act which was no great pleasure nor chore. The nutritional cube tasted like garlic and mud. The woman sat across from him and simply watched, sometimes at him and sometimes beyond him. In a place with no windows, a person had nowhere else to look through.

“What is your name?”

“You can give me one. Perhaps Eva?”

Jan looked up at her in shock, into black eyes. There was a small smile on her face, an inviting look, or perhaps a simulacrum of one.

“No, I’d rather not call you that.”

After finishing his meal, he walked outside and looked down the long corridors which led off in both directions. Either terminated in darkness. The walls were bare except for doors and there was no one in sight. Except for the weak light escaping from his room, there was no illumination. All around him a forest of silence hemmed and contained the world into a small and quiet place. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do.

In the room the woman had scarcely moved. The table had been cleared except for the two pills and the glass of water. She sat with her head bowed and back slumped slightly as if in some indolent prayer.

Jan returned and swallowed the pills. He drank down the water like a man parched and lost in a desert. He lay down on the bed and the light seemed to dim and grow warmer with hues of vermillion and yellow. He felt a slackening and letting go throughout his body and could sense the viscosity of the fluid coursing through his veins and arteries. The bed, which had been firm and ungiving, seemed to depress in order to cradle him and give him the soft sensation of a perpetual and endless sinking. He was going down, further and further. He imagined sinking into a shallow grave where he could sleep forever within its downy indentation.

The woman came to lay on her side next to him and gently held him in her hands. Slowly she stroked his hair and the side of his face as his pupils dilated wide and round. She nuzzled him sweetly and the warmth of her thin body made Jan feel like he could live in eternity if only he were a rock or piece of dirt, thoughtless and un-discomfited by the howling wraiths inside him. Her light embrace reminded him of the cocoon he always yearned for, the start and the end.

It seemed like a blink of an eye but somehow now she was crouched above him. He saw her face above him, her keen eyes miscegenated with sorrow and cruelty. He could now see her Adam's apple working underneath the white skin of her neck and the veins blue as cobalt. She bent down to kiss his face now wet with tears. Her face blurred and oscillated between Eva’s and her’s, and sometimes to a third face which looked like no one he knew at all, a blank and abstract kind of face that seemed alien and suprahuman.

“Eva?”

“Yes”, she replied, her reed thin body arched over him like a leopard over prey.

#sedimentary city

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valkyrie-echo · 7 years ago

Text

Project Echo, Part 2: Chapter 17 (Friends?)

Part 2 Summary: A new enemy surfaces with a team of the Avengers’ greatest foes, hand-picked for their destruction. Meanwhile, Inessa’s pre-Hydra past begins to surface, casting doubt on where her loyalties truly lie.

Chapter 17: Friends?

Unable to move, Inessa watched the man with the metal arm struggle as they dragged him into the room. "Put him over there," Dennisson's voice sent shivers down her spine. A chair was wheeled in behind him, and the technicians operating it rolled it around to the indicated corner. Bucky was dumped into the chair, shackled, and a strong magnet activated- he was pinned down by his metal arm. If all other restraints failed, that one would keep him in place.

Dennisson walked over to the corner where shackles hung from the ceiling. He stood on tip-toes and closed one around his hand. The guards who had strong-armed Bucky into the room came over to help him bind his other wrist. Once Dennisson was chained and the electric panels had been secured around Bucky's face the technicians left under the escort of the guards.

Inessa felt her muscles unlock and she casually picked up the remote from the table- the one that would wipe Bucky, turn him back into the Winter Soldier. She twirled it between her fingers and eyed the two. "Make your case, gentlemen," Doctor Pryor put a hand on Inessa's shoulder, but was she comforting the girl, or holding her in place?

"What did I ever do but flap my lips?" Dennisson's voice was unnaturally calm and collected, a caricature of the dead man. "I just told him to turn you- how many other ways could it have been done? We could have simply invited you to join, used our rhetoric to seduce you. But we didn't. We dragged you off the street, then he tortured you. Tell me, did I ever so much as lift my hand against you? What my guards did- was I ever present during those occasions? You've always assumed it was me who gave them permission, but was it really? I never wanted you to be a part of Hydra, we both know that. They wouldn't look away, I knew if I didn't take control, someone else would. Then what? They'd never risk burning you out the way they did Bucky, you could lose your abilities. But they have other ways- ways you can't say no to. I didn't do anything. I tried to help you die, when you couldn't even gain purchase in this world, I tried to help you die. I ordered you brought for termination, they stopped me from saving you from all that pain."

"And you?" Doctor Pryor gently turned Inessa. The panels were already covering most of Bucky's face, but the power hadn't been activated yet. Still, he was terrified, "What is your defense?"

"I- I didn't know what I was doing-"

"-you didn't?" Doctor Pryor turned Inessa to face the opposite end of the room. The wall dissolved, and it was like watching a movie. Inessa was in the same chains that bound Dennisson now, hanging unprotected. The usual thin gray cloth pants Hydra had forced all prisoners to wear were only knee-length. Bucky was sitting on a stool, holding one of her legs just under the knee. With his other hand, he carefully and meticulously flayed the skin away from the muscle. There didn't need to be any sound with the video- Inessa remembered. "You look very sure of your actions."

"I didn't know what I was doing," Bucky closed his eyes and whispered, "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Choose, Inessa," Doctor Pryor spun her back towards the two men, "one you free. One you don't. Free the man who did less harm- and destroy the one who tried to control you. Dennisson gave the order to turn you, the Winter Soldier decided how that should be done. Neither can be called 'innocent' in any of this, but who had the better intentions?"

Inessa considered Doctor Pryor's words carefully, flipped the remote once in the air, and hit the button. Bucky began to scream, she smelled cooking flesh as the electricity burned through his skull, and Doctor Pryor just smiled, "Good girl."

Avengers Tower

Inessa sat up with a gasp. She was cold, but sweat covered her entire body. She couldn't stop shaking- and the smell of charred flesh was one she couldn't get out of her head. There was a rapid throbbing in her head- just like the headaches she always left Pryor's office with.

It wasn't even two in the morning, and Inessa knew she wouldn't be able to sleep for the rest of the night. Again. Ever since she started with that woman she hadn't slept more than four hours in a row. Her dreams always followed the same pattern- confronted with any one of a dozen different scenarios, she always killed an Avenger. Pryor meant to turn her against her friends- Inessa just wished she knew how the doctor was getting into her head, and how to stop it.

Steve and the others knew nothing about it, of course. It would be a distraction they'd all leap on, but they couldn't. A SHIELD consultant with a hidden agenda? They'd probably find some way to convince themselves it had nothing to do with Natasha's mystery video- or Berny Barton, who the others knew nothing about. Did Bucky know? He'd only visited the doctor twice before she told Steve she wouldn't need to see him again. What sort of seeds had she planted in his head? Had he let her?

One thing was certain- the treatment was helping Inessa, just not in the way they all thought. The doctor was playing at something, and while she still didn't have the whole picture, she was still happy to play along and gather pieces to fit into the puzzle. Getting some real sleep wouldn't be unappreciated though.

The Tower was Inessa's haunt during these sleepless nights. She'd found nearly all of Clint's handholds in the lower rooms- half-empty shelves, reinforced picture frames, conveniently placed air vents- Tony left a veritable jungle gym in the lobby. It took some trial and error, but Inessa managed to follow the path left up into the rafters.

Natasha dropped from the rafters, landing lightly on the floor. The Shadow was curious about these humans who broke it's link with the Winter Soldier. It lept upward as Clint followed Nat down, nearly touched him. He felt it move past him, his sense of it stronger than ever. As he fell, he spun, tipped upward to watch the darkness. She peered from it, allowed him to see her, if only to determine what these creatures would respond with. He was terrified of the inhuman face that stared back at him. The Shadow pulled back from sight, hid itself just barely inside their world.

Inessa hadn't remembered that day in a long time- though in all fairness she hadn't exactly looked for the memory either. Clint, for all his gifts, was the most human of the lot. She'd had a sense he might be a friend. No matter what Pryor tried to pour into her mind, Inessa remembered that. The Avengers were not people she'd trusted blindly- not until she looked into their minds. The implant on her neck was something she'd sought- she just didn't think they'd use it against her.

If one of them offered though, would I have it removed? She was torn- on the one hand, fuck yes, other the other hand, she understood precisely why they'd tricked her. It wasn't "Putting a leash on the dog", as Doctor Pryor wanted her to believe, it was grounding the teenager.

How many people are being tortured right now, all because I let Mallory see me? Guilt and shame now. Whenever she tried to understand the others' minds, this happened- she was reminded keenly of her mission to protect Hydra's other prisoners. Pryor was something- but what? Psychic? Mind reader? Could she send dreams or whisper into your subconscious? She didn't know Inessa was far from her control- at least in that she'd never turn on the Avengers. Still, between the dreams and the small push on her mind, Inessa was frustrated. Being up in the rafters brought back flashes of memory- memories much more pleasant than the ones she'd been trying to forget. Memories of being something untouchable, feared even.

Inessa dropped from the rafters and went to stand before the door without even realizing her intent. She just stood there, staring at it. I miss being outside, the balcony was nice, but it wasn't enough. She grew up in a concrete jungle too, but since she'd seen Clint's farm being trapped inside so much made her miss even the rare city park- enough to brave being around all the people. She didn't have the courage to leave though. Maybe.

Bucky watched from he shadows of the stairwell as she hesitated. He couldn't sleep- not since he'd woken from a dream of her killing him with the electroshock machine. She stood in front of the door for at least fifteen minutes, then finally grabbed the handle and tried it- unlocked. Inessa was always free to leave, she just never had the courage to try, at least not before tonight. As soon as the door closed behind her, JARVIS' voice chimed softly in the stairwell, "Deploying remote Suit to guard Miss Inessa."

"Don't bother," Bucky stood up and descended the rest of the way, "it'll attract every curious eye in the city. I'll keep an eye on her."

"Yes, Mister Barnes. Have a good evening." Bucky double checked to make sure his long-sleeve shirt covered his metal arm at the shoulder plate, then slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed another for Inessa, and quickly departed.

Inessa was standing at the edge of the private entrance to Avengers Tower, just inside the threshold. She heard Bucky walking down the steps and tried to force herself through the doorway, but again, an invisible barrier stopped this act of defiance. If she got out before he hit the third floor, she had a chance of vanishing- not much of one, but she was optimistic. All she knew was that she didn't want to go back up there until she'd had a taste of freedom.

"You won't get far without these," Bucky reached around and dropped the shoes in front of her, "put them on quickly, we've only got a few hours to explore before you've got to be back to get ready for your appointment with Pryor."

She looked down at the shoes for a while before slipping them on. The invisible barrier was gone, now that she had someone with her- someone both familiar and alien. A friend and an enemy. "Thank you," she had a passable whisper now, clear and easy enough to understand.

"I grew up in this city, it hasn't changed much in seventy years," Bucky let her lead the way into the Tower parking lot and pointed to the barbed gate that separated them from the streets. Inessa went to open it, "Anything in particular you wanted to see?"

"Just walk." she stuck her head through a crack in the gate and eyed the sidewalk. There were a couple dozen fangirls dressed as different Avengers sleeping against the wall. Steve had explained the first time they mobbed the car on the way to Inessa's first appointment with Pryor- whenever the lights of Avengers Tower came on and anyone got word an actual Avenger was there, the fans appeared. There were always a handful, but their numbers multiplied the more floors that were lit. No one knew who was on which level, so everyone's fans turned out.

A couple of the girls jumped to their feet, excited, but Bucky just held up his (right) hand, "Night janitors, sorry girls."

"Wait, so you, like, clean for the Avengers? How cool is that!" one was way too excited.

"Nope, Mister Stark likes the stairs kept clean, in case anyone needs them. Sweep and mop, every night. Orders come from the computer-ie dude."

The girl rolled her eyes, "You mean JARVIS? That's only Tony Stark's best friend. You should be more respectful."

"I'll keep that in mind, ma'am," Bucky was speaking with Clint's slightly country accent, he was just glad the girls were buying it.

"What's up with her?" one of them (dressed in a flannel Iron Man suit) pointed at Inessa who was staring at the ground, "Why's she in pajama pants?"

"Cleaning pants, jeans get uncomfortable when you're working on stairs," Bucky waved and pushed Inessa through the crowd, "have a nice night, Ladies." There were a few mumbles behind them, but no one stopped the pair. Both of their faces had been on television newscasts about the Hydra invasion- luckily Bucky's was mostly covered by loose hair and blood in every shot and Inessa had wrapped herself in so many shadows no one would possibly recognize her. Otherwise leaving would have been tricky. "I should have been an actor," Bucky sighed as they crossed the street. He took his hand off Inessa's shoulder and stepped back, "Your choice- I can stay right by you, or I can be sneaky and you'll never see me playing bodyguard."

Inessa waved him over- her courage was broken by the two curious girls who suddenly blocked their way at the gate.

"You set the pace and direction, I'll just follow along." In a way it reminded him of when he was back in high school and his mother would make him escort one of his sisters to some function or another. The familiarity was calming after that too-vivid dream. Inessa chose a street that would lead them south and began to walk- unaware they were being watched.

"I'm impressed," Morris smiled at Doctor Pryor, "you are worth every penny."

"My parents raised me to always exceed expectations. It's lucky she ever left at all. I didn't think my little nudges were working." They sat in her office, watching security footage from a store across from the Tower.

"Let us see just how much of that luck is in the cards tonight," he opened his phone and dialed one of the humans he had lying in wait- a girl dressed in Iron Man pajamas, "follow them until they angle back towards the Tower, then take them down."

"Yes, sir," she flashed a thumbs-up at the security camera, signaled two young men in the group pretending to sleep, and went after Bucky and Inessa.

"What are you hoping to achieve with this?" Pryor was interested.

Morris indicated the three as they passed out of frame, "I'm planning on none of them surviving the night."

Chapter 18: Shots Fired

#marvel #avengers #my writing

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inkyardpress · 7 years ago

Text

SPETH: 9¢

We had just started over the bridge, toward my party, when the famously cheerful “Don’t Jump” Ad clicked on. This had never happened to me before. The billboard’s advertising systems scanned me—analyzing my age, my style, even my pulse—and calculated I was in need of a friendly reminder not to kill myself. Colorful, hopping bunnies sang at my feet, on a waist-high screen that arced the full length of the bridge wall. Traffic roared along eighty feet below. Above, the city dome was lit a diffuse, fading gray by the evening sky beyond.

I felt a little queasy. Jumpers had been growing increasingly common, but I’m sure a higher railing would have been more effective than a glib cartoon. I wasn’t planning to kill myself. I had other things to concentrate on.

Mrs. Harris, my guardian, was still talking.

“You will get used to budgeting, Speth,” she chirped, but faltered slightly at my name, as if it wasn’t good enough for her mouth. My name was cheap and ugly. Speth. I hated it. It sounded like someone spitting. My parents chose it from a list of discounted girls’ names. When my brother was born, they vowed not to repeat that mistake and paid for a good premium name: Sam.

I wished Sam was nearby to distract me. Sam always made me laugh. But Mrs. Harris had shooed him off to help set up my party in the park, so she would have my complete attention.

Mrs. Harris was a little bird of a woman with restless hands and a tense, wrinkled little smile. She’d been lecturing me for the better part of an hour on what to expect on my big day.

I stopped walking and looked down at the shiny new Cuff she had clamped around my forearm that morning. It was a marvel of engineering—a cool processor, a rock-steady tether to WiFi and a smooth glossy surface impervious to scratches, dirt and smudges. It was rimmed in a burnished lightweight Altenium™ composite. The Cuff was nearly indestructible, unless the NanoLion™ battery went haywire and melted your Cuff and your arm off. The Cuff’s main purpose was to record everything I said and did, so I could pay the Rights Holders their fees.

“It’s beautiful,” my sister assured me. She patted my shoulder. The words she spoke scrolled up her Cuff as she was charged for each.

Saretha Jime—word: It’s: $1.99.

Saretha Jime—word: Beautiful: $8.99.

Then she was charged for patting me.

Saretha Jime—gesture: pat to shoulder—2 seconds: $1.98

Every word is Trademarked™, Restricted® or Copyrighted©. The companies and people who own these rights let people use them, but once you turn fifteen, you have to pay. Saretha had turned fifteen more than two years before. I was wearing the same bright orange dress she had, but not nearly as well. Everything else I owned was dull, gray and from a limited selection of public domain clothes Mrs. Harris allowed us to have printed at the UnderGap™.

At 6:36 p.m., it would be my turn; I would pay for every word I spoke for the rest of my life. Foolishly, I had believed it would be fun.

My Cuff felt tight. I tried to fit a finger between it and my flesh. There was no gap.

“In the unlikely event it needs to be removed,” Mrs. Harris said, “the proper authorities can do so. However, if your Cuff is removed for any reason, you will not be allowed to speak. Any utterance will result in a painful shock to the eyes.”

I closed my eyes. My lids slid down just a bit more slowly than before. As part of my transition, in addition to the Cuff, Mrs. Harris had roughly thumbed a corneal implant into each of my eyes. The implants were, at that moment, slowly fusing to my corneas. She said I would have terrible eyesight without them.

I’m almost certain this was a lie.

“You’ve read the Terms of Service?” she asked, but she knew I hadn’t. No one read the ToS. They were boring—hundreds of pages of intimidating, brain-melting Legalese. What did it matter? I had to agree. We couldn’t change them, and while technically I could “opt out,” I was required by Law to have the implants before I turned fifteen.

“Optic shocks may cause nausea,” Mrs. Harris said flatly, “dizziness, redness of the eyes, swelling, headaches, shortness of breath, seizures, confusion, heart palpitations, vision changes and, of course, blindness.”

“Rarely,” Saretha assured me. Her Cuff buzzed and charged her $1.75. I missed when we used to really talk. She was always so positive and joyful. I supposed she still was, inside, but I mostly talked with Sam after her transition. We didn’t have the kind of money that would let us talk freely once we were paying for our words.

“Traditionally, one arrives at one’s celebration at exactly the moment one turns fifteen.” Mrs. Harris’s thin smile pulled tight. I think she had timed our walk out to the park. Slowing down was not part of that plan.

I wished I didn’t have to have a Custodian. I wished my parents could have been here, but when I was little, our family was sued for an illegal music download traced back five generations to a great-great-aunt somewhere. We owed the Musical Rights Association of America® more than six million dollars in damages. Debt Services took our parents and placed them somewhere down in Carolina, pollinating crops with an eyedropper and brush until our debts were paid. My heart ached thinking of them so far away.

Mrs. Harris noted my sadness and moved on.

On the far side of the bridge, my celebration was crowded onto a small, manicured strip of green called Falxo Park. It sat at the very edge of the city, in the heart of the Onzième, where the dome curves down to the city wall. All the faux-Parisian-style shops crowded around the park, stretching off into the distance in a plastic approximation of Franco quaintness.

The outer shopping district and the park it flanked were beautiful if I squinted at it, awash and aglow in Moon Mints™ Ads. There was scarcely a surface in the city that couldn’t throw up an Ad. I liked the colors—sometimes. I just wished there was less going on all at once. It made my head feel fuzzy to try to take it all in—though Mrs. Harris said I had to try.

I could hear the party from across the bridge. All the younger kids were laughing and singing. I’ll bet there was dancing, too. The kids over fifteen would only join in after my speech, when the real celebration began.

I had really been looking forward to the party—seeing all my friends, what the Product Placers had brought and what my Branding would be. I was finally going to be a contributing member of society. Mrs. Harris said so. But suddenly, I didn’t want to cross the bridge. I didn’t want a party. I didn’t want a Brand. I didn’t care if I got lifelong discounts on Keene Inc. candies in return for unwavering loyalty to their family of products, or a small monthly allowance to speak encouragingly about Pamvax® Feminine Vaccines™. Now that I could really feel the change about to take place, I wanted to run. Why was this something to celebrate? How would I get used to measuring the cost of my words?

I had a strange urge to do or say something meaningful before the clock ticked over, but such behavior was frowned upon. I was supposed to wait until the moment after I turned. Then I would read the speech I had crafted with Mrs. Harris. I was contractually obligated to read it, from start to finish, as my first paid words.

The speech was in my hand, printed by Mrs. Harris on a thick sheet of real paper. My sponsors had approved it and subsidized my costs in return for peppering the speech with positive statements about their products. Keene Inc. even offered to have it framed afterward, so I could remember my Last Day, but I’d refused that offer; I didn’t want to be responsible for keeping a sheet of paper safe any longer than I had to.

I didn’t really care for the speech. I had thought it was funny to cram in as many endorsements as I could, giggling with my friend Nancee Mphinyane-Smil for weeks about how to work in something about Mrs. Harris’s favorite brand of industrial-strength suppositories.

I suddenly wished the speech said something more. More about me, my thoughts...my future.

“We should really get moving,” Mrs. Harris said.

I nodded, swallowing hard, and began to move. My eyes ached.

“I understand it can be difficult. Reducing your chat so precipitously, after fourteen years of free speech.” Mrs. Harris let the word precipitously slip out between her teeth with delight. The government paid for her words, and she relished them. There was a reason a woman like Mrs. Harris became a Custodian and took on guardianship of so many children.

It wasn’t compassion.

“Undoubtedly you have been speaking more than normal lately,” Mrs. Harris said, waving at me to hurry.

I hated that she was right. I had been talking more. I had also been dancing and singing and practicing gymnastics. That was all finished. Every dance move, every gymnastic flourish and every note of every song was Trademarked and priced outside what my family could afford. None of this was Mrs. Harris’s fault, but I still wanted to blame her. I had always disliked her. I glared at her horrible, insincere face.

“What?” she asked, taken aback. I took a deep breath.

“Is it normal to be able to see through people’s clothes?” I asked, squinting through my new corneal overlays.

Mrs. Harris flinched and moved to cover herself, until I snorted out a laugh.

“Sorry,” Saretha said for me. Sorry was a fixed-price word at $10, and a legal admission of guilt. She should have let me say it. I still had a minute left. I just wanted to have a little fun.

Mrs. Harris shook her head, tapping at her own Cuff a few times until a micro-suit showed up. The first thing to appear on my Cuff’s screen was $30 worth of Mrs. Harris’s “pain and suffering.” She sued us all the time like this for petty grievances. Saretha just tapped PAY.

“I have helped thousands of boys and girls transition, and trust me, you aren’t any different,” Mrs. Harris sniffed.

The clock was ticking down. In a few seconds, I would officially turn fifteen. I wanted to think of something meaningful to say, but what? My heart was pounding. My tongue felt like a solid lump in my mouth. Mrs. Harris sighed.

“It is very easy to slip up and speak, or shrug or scream, before you read your speech. This would void your contract, which would be disastrous. I must remind you of your obligation to read it first.” She lifted the hand that held the speech and shook it around, like I was a puppet. “These need to be your first paid words, Speth.”

I pulled away from her. I knew what my responsibilities were.

Mrs. Harris watched the time tick over on her Cuff. “You are an adult now,” she said, her eyes fixed on the podium in a way that highlighted the fact that we had not yet reached it.

The bunnies sang more loudly at the apex of the bridge. “Don’t jump, puh-leeze.”

Saretha beamed at me. Smiling was still free. How bad could things be if she seemed so happy? Her smile was wide and bright and friendly. It made you feel warm. She looked like she belonged in movies. A step behind us, her Ads sang a different tune across the glossy LCDs.

Saretha’s Ads were full of romance, perfume, alcohol and shoes. She didn’t come close to a jumper’s algorithm: she was too pretty, too graceful and too well-dressed. When she chose her Branding, Saretha got to choose between twenty-three different corporate brands. I would be lucky to pick from three. Saretha was a Facer, which meant that when she drank a soda in public or ate some chips, she was expected to face the product label out so people could see it. The systems almost treated her like an Affluent, although they never digitized her into the Ads. Truly wealthy people often had their likeness scanned, recreated and enhanced to look a little more beautiful and happy in a commercial.

Mrs. Harris thought Saretha’s looks were our family’s best chance at a better life. She didn’t just look like a movie star—she looked a lot like a particular star named Carol Amanda Harving. Carol Amanda Harving’s smile was more perfect and white, but somehow Saretha’s was more comforting and real. As Mrs. Harris liked to point out, my sister and the actress looked more alike than Saretha and I did. My heart sunk every time she declared it, usually in a tone she reserved for crueler moments.

Saretha and I looked enough like sisters, but whatever people might have said about her, they said less enthusiastically about me. Saretha was beautiful with an almost golden complexion. With work, I could be pretty, but my skin never shone the way Saretha’s did. Saretha had dark, welcoming eyes, the color of chocolate. Mine were just dark and sharp. Saretha had long, amazing, black wavy hair that rode over her shoulders like a shampoo Ad. I kept mine short, fashioned in a pixie cut Mrs. Micharnd, my gymnastics teacher, found for me in the public domain. When she was my age, Saretha already had curves, and now she had more. I had next to none. I was small, sinewy and perfect for gymnastics.

Saretha went on dates with gorgeous boys who paid for her words and expected affection in return. I went walking with Beecher Stokes, a skinny boy with messy hair who lived with his grandmother. He wasn’t terribly cute, but he made me laugh—or at least he did, until his fifteenth birthday. Then his mood soured. His jokes vanished. He would just stare at me, wordless. To fill the awkward silences, I let him kiss me—as much as he could afford. He could not afford much.

I find it creepy that the system can tell how long or hard a kiss is. I don’t know exactly what the system monitors, but Beecher would pay something like 17¢ for each second. That’s supposed to feel normal. It’s been like this longer than I’ve been alive, but something still felt wrong about it.

Mrs. Harris didn’t think it was appropriate for me to be with him, given what she called his “circumstances.”

When Beecher was ten, his father tried circumventing the programming of a food printer. He wanted to make more nutritious meals. It was in blatant violation of Copyright, Patent and Terms of Service—the Three Major Fields of Intellectual Property. Mr. Stokes disconnected from the network, but he was caught anyway. Debt Services took Beecher’s parents into Collection immediately. They would have taken Beecher, too, but Collection must let you finish school.

Beecher could have had another two years, but he dropped out of school a few weeks after his fifteenth. I couldn’t believe it. I asked him why. He shrugged like it was no big deal—50¢ to act casual. I kind of loved that he did that, even though it seemed so foolish.

“Beecher...” Mrs. Harris said, shaking her head. It was like she knew I was thinking about him. She really didn’t like him, which was part of the reason I kept seeing him.

Mrs. Harris hadn’t read my mind, however. Beecher was at the foot of the bridge opposite us, waiting, like he wanted to catch me before the party. My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t love or a crush. The way he looked at that moment worried me.

Bunnies surrounded him, too, but in darker colors like green and midnight blue, because these were supposed to be “boy” colors. His eyes were red. Had he been crying?

“Don’t jump, don’t jump,” the bunnies sang cheerfully to us both as Beecher drew up.

“Speth,” Beecher said. His face winced. Mrs. Harris grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

He closed the space between us, quick, and kissed me. I felt a sharp jolt. This wasn’t like his other kisses. My lips stung. My body tingled. I realized, with horror, that his eyes were being shocked for kissing with insufficient credit.

“Beecher Stokes!” Mrs. Harris warned.

My pastel bunnies and his dark ones mingled in the Ad, harmonizing, “Don’t jump, pleeeeezeey weeezeey.”

My cheek twitched. I put a hand there to feel the spasm. Warmth spread through my face. Somehow, my Cuff’s software knew I hadn’t kissed back. It really unnerved me to realize my Cuff had such weird access to my lips and intentions. How did it know? Suddenly this whole system seemed too, too real.

Beecher abruptly stalked off, head down, hands jammed in the pockets of his dumpy brown public domain longcoat. Black, gray and blood-red bunnies, glowing from the Ads at his feet, kept singing that he shouldn’t jump. But Beecher didn’t take advice from bunnies. That had been one of his jokes, back before he turned fifteen. I’d always thought it was really funny—until he mounted the rail and took a great leap into the traffic eighty feet below.

The bunnies stopped singing.

TWO SECONDS OF SCREAMING: $1.98

Once, I loved to talk. What did I say with all those words? It seems like nothing now. I honestly can’t remember much: a conversation with Nancee about how birds make it into the city, an argument with Sera Croate about my hair (she said I looked like a boy with it short, but the style was free), a discussion with Beecher about how I liked the feeling of certain words in my mouth.

Luscious, Effervescent, Surreptitious, Cruft. I wasn’t thinking about expressing myself. Beecher had warned me: “Expressive words cost more.” He’d said it as if I should already be careful. He looked down at his Cuff’s thin amber glow.

Beecher Stokes—sentence: Expressive words cost more: $31.96.

His face was all gloomy. He could have spent that money on kissing, or saying something nice. He could have told me how he felt—he could have asked me anything, or at least warned me about how it really felt to pay for every word. Maybe that’s what he was trying to do. That was our last conversation.

I raced to where he had jumped, then stopped myself short. I couldn’t look down. I shut my eyes tight. The leaden thump, screeching tires and clatter of twisted metal had spared me nothing. I reeled back and doubled over. What did he just do?

A shattering wail filled the air anyway—Beecher’s name as a question. My eyes stung with tears, burning the fresh overlays in my eyes. It took me a second to realize I wasn’t the one screaming. It was Saretha.

I let nothing escape, not a scream, not a gasp, not a breath of air. I had stopped breathing, like it wouldn’t be real until I drew breath.

The howling stopped. Saretha’s Cuff buzzed.

Her shriek was legally considered a primitive call for comfort, aid and/or sympathy. The charge was 99¢ per second. Mrs. Harris twisted a bony, aggrieved finger in her ear and shook her head. She picked up my left arm and looked at my Cuff in disgust, but then her sharp, disapproving face broke into a ghoulish smile.

“Speth,” she said, wide blue eyes piercing me, “there may be hope for you yet!”

There was no concern for Beecher in her. She exhibited no revulsion. She was simply pleased I had not made a sound.

I swallowed. I was breathing again. Long, panicked breaths passed in and out.

From below, an intense, white, molten light flickered. The NanoLion™ battery in Beecher’s Cuff had ruptured. And then I knew that he was truly gone.

Saretha looked at Mrs. Harris, wild-eyed. Mrs. Harris put on a look of concern and patted her shoulder three times, did the math on what it cost and calculated Saretha warranted two final pats. The government didn’t cover Mrs. Harris’s gestures. She had once quoted a statute to us about how gestures were an inexact means of communication.

“Personally, I find them coarse,” she had told us. “A poor use of funds.”

I could not look at the woman. I stared blankly up over the bridge’s rail, to the expanse where cars were slowing in the distance, backed up by the accident. Cars began to honk at the delay, a dollar per honk, even though the bright white glow of the ruptured battery told them there was nothing anyone could do.

They hated us, those wealthy people, driving the ring for pleasure. Beecher, whom I’d cared for—maybe not the way he’d wanted, and not as much as he’d cared for or needed me—he was dead, and all they felt was irritation at the inconvenience.

Around me, there were other noises. My party filled with gasps and cries, then trailed off into a timorous murmur.

Timorous, I wanted to say, but I did not speak it.

Cuffs buzzed like an insect swarm. Sam came running out of the crowd, his mouth open, his round, usually playful face squinting in confusion.

“Why?” he asked in a rasp, looking over the edge at a scene I could not bring myself to witness. How could I answer?

I pulled him back from the edge. I wanted to tell him what I knew, but it was too late. I looked at my Cuff. The clock had run out. I pinched my fingers closed and ran them across my mouth. The sign of the zippered lips was a rare gesture still in the public domain. It was meant to allow people without means a method to communicate their lowly state, so Affluents wouldn’t have to waste their time. I wasn’t really supposed to use it with people who weren’t wealthy.

Mrs. Harris winced. “This isn’t the proper circumstance.” Her tone was somewhere between compassionate and annoyed.

“What else is she supposed to do?” Sam asked, his face red with rising anger.

Mrs. Harris put a hand on Sam’s chest to settle him down. He batted it away.

“She is supposed to read her speech and have her party,” Mrs. Harris said, as if nothing else was possible.

“Mom doesn’t approve of that gesture,” Saretha said, a step behind, waving her hand vaguely in front of her lips.

Our mother felt like it was groveling. She used the word supplication, which cost $32 that day. Mom said the only reason the zippered lips gesture was free was so we could humiliate ourselves. I had never seen her do it, not even when we were broke, not even when she was supposed to. I suddenly felt like I had let her down.

I wanted to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but Mrs. Harris had warned me about comforting gestures. I bit the knuckle of my cuffed hand instead.

A low, strained chatter resounded from Falxo Park, first from the younger kids, then from everyone else, as they tried to work out who had jumped and why. I thought of Beecher, and I felt airless.

* * *

Mrs. Harris led me to the edge of the stage. Ads crawled blithely along the city wall behind, a blur to my wet eyes.

“The Placers did a fine job,” she said, gesturing to my product tables. Product Placers had slipped into the park and set up an array of snacks and product samples. I had truly been looking forward to seeing what they brought, but now I felt disgusted looking at it all.

Mrs. Harris took a Keene Squire-Lace™ Chip—an elegant, intricately printed, crisped potato disk with my name and the number 15 laser-etched into the center. The Placers had left bowlfuls of them.

Mrs. Harris popped the chip in her mouth. As she chewed, she pretended to be upset.

“No Huny®,” she commented, looking around with a wrinkled nose. Huny® was Saretha’s Brand. I didn’t expect they would be my Brand—usually it’s your sponsor—but it was a little unusual they hadn’t put out a few packets.

“Well,” Mrs. Harris said, “I guess you should go ahead and read your speech.” She wiped her hands clean of the chip’s Flavor Dust™.

My body shivered. I felt weak. Maybe she was right. I had my contract to think of. If I broke it, there was no telling what my sponsor might do. No one was paying attention. Maybe I could read it quick and get it over with.

Sirens wailed in the distance. A news dropter appeared out of nowhere and hovered over the highway, where Beecher and the mangled cars were splayed. Then another dropter appeared, then more. They jockeyed for position and, failing to find a good spot to film the body, they spread out to the crowd and then to me.

“She can’t make a statement,” Mrs. Harris said, shooing them away while smirking at the attention. She lifted my hand to show them. The beautiful paper of my speech was distressed—creased and wrinkled from the tension of my grip. Mrs. Harris clucked and moved my thumb. “Let them see the Keene logo,” she whispered, even though I wasn’t a Facer.

“You do know someone’s dead, right?” Sam muttered. Mrs. Harris’s face twisted into what she thought was an appropriate expression of concern.

Saretha gently pulled Sam back, and every lens turned to her.

On the highway, a dark line of cars threaded through the clot of traffic. The other vehicles parted to let the Lawyers through. They arced around us, taking the long curve up the exit to the green. News, police and cleanup crews trailed them, ready to deal with the wreckage Beecher had wrought.

A distinctive Ebony Meiboch™ Triumph snaked its way to the front. Everyone knew that car, and they all gave it a wide berth. The Law Firm of Butchers & Rog had arrived.

SILENCE: $2.99

Butchers & Rog was the city’s most prestigious firm. Silas Rog himself had drafted countless pieces of legislation for the city, and some, it was said, for the entire nation. It was hard to know how powerful he was, because one piece of his legislation barred what he designated “undesirable news and information from outside the city.” Other people said he ran the city, though Rog himself denied it.

I was nine years old when Butchers & Rog delivered a bright yellow envelope to our apartment door. My father peeled the thing open and dropped a thin, torn slip of yellow to the ground. Sam tried to keep it. He was too young then to know you need a license to keep paper. The Paralegal slid it out of his hand, then held out his Cuff for my father to plead. My parents never read the terms. There was little choice but to agree. No one could disprove an ancestral download. Fighting would only cost more money. Silas Rog never lost. My father tapped AGREE with a hard knuckle, my mother with a trembling thumb. We had seven days with my parents while they set affairs in order and packed the few possessions they were allowed. My father tried to give us what advice he could, with what words he could afford. My mother said nothing; she didn’t want the Rights Holders to make another cent.

I wanted to know what song was so important that our parents had to leave because of it, but Saretha said that was childish; we had to take responsibility for what our family had done.

Within just a few months, the same thing happened to Nancee. Her parents were plunged into debt by a similar discovery: her great-grandparents had once been in possession of a silvery, rainbow-colored disc that was said to contain twelve beautiful pieces of music sung by insects. They had smashed it to pieces long before Nancee’s parents were born, hoping to avoid trouble, but trouble found her family anyway.

There weren’t many kids at my party who hadn’t been affected by the National Inherited Debt Act, and its Historical Reparations Agency. Night and day, algorithms scoured every piece of data the Rights Holders could scrape up. Mrs. Harris was guardian to at least a half-dozen of my closest friends, Nancee included. We usually steered well clear of her, as best we could.

My Last Day celebration meant Mrs. Harris was all mine for the day. They would be spared.

Mrs. Harris took me by the shoulders with her strong little hands and made sure I was facing the glossy black Butchers & Rog Meiboch™ Triumph.

The Lawyer began to speak almost as soon as the driver had his door open. He knew he had everyone’s attention. Sam glared like he was the devil himself. The Lawyer kept talking until he reached me.

“On behalf of Butchers & Rog, and senior partner Silas Rog, Esquire, I, Attorney Derrick Finster, Esquire, advise the party hereforth provisionally referred to as the Provisionally Counseled Party, that you, Speth Jime, the Provisionally Counseled Party, may reasonably anticipate compensatory damages should you, Speth Jime, the Provisionally Counseled Party, choose to engage the services of Butchers & Rog and its Attorneys thereof against the actions of one Beecher Bartholomew Stokes, alleged Jumper.”

Finster jerked a thumb back to where the road was being cleared and smiled. My stomach turned. I knew enough Legalese to understand he was offering to sue Beecher Stokes and his family on my behalf, but the cold-blooded, litigious sound of his words made me recoil.

I didn’t see how it would work. Who was there to sue? Beecher’s grandmother? What would they do with her? She was so old, it wasn’t even worth it for Debt Services to take her.

“Silas Rog himself has taken an interest,” Finster added, polishing a legal medal with a pinky. He was tall and square-faced and wore a broad chest full of legal medals on his clean, perfectly cut charcoal-gray suit. His eyes were covered by matte sunglasses, gray and pebbled, which gave him a disturbingly eyeless appearance.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Harris groveled. It wasn’t her place to thank him, and I didn’t share her awe.

Finster stood before me politely, letting me think.

Traffic on the road began moving again. Beecher’s body had been cleared, and the road scrubbed of him. The thought of it made me sick. The speeding cars began to roar in the distance.

Finster tallied some costs on his Cuff and licked his lips. His Ebony Meiboch™ Triumph was parked askew on the sidewalk, its driver waiting expressionless for his return. Lined up behind him were other Lawyers, eyeing my guests, waiting to see what bones they might pick. Finster continued.

“Our preliminary, and by no means complete or binding, estimates suggest compensation should be sufficient to abrogate your existing family debt and thus relinquish all claims, public and private, against your assets, material and otherwise, including, but not limited to, time, labor and servitude imposed upon those members of your household in debt bondage.”

I worked out what he said, and my heart leapt with hope.

“Our parents could go free?” Saretha asked.

Finster’s face broke into an eager, gap-mouthed smile. He nodded reassuringly. “All you need to do is agree,” he said. He held out his Cuff for me to tap AGREE.

Was it really possible that my parents’ servitude could finally be over? Was a simple tap all it would take to bring them home?

Mrs. Harris blinked, and her brain tried to work out what this would mean for her.

“She hasn’t read her speech,” she said quickly. Her face was bright red. “She does have a contract.” She could not look Finster in the eyes. Finster cleared his throat and smiled, like we had passed some test. He lowered his Cuff and looked down at me.

“Butchers & Rog recognizes your preexisting obligation to read, as your first and primary paid words, the sanctioned a priori speech approved by the entities of Keene Inc. and its subsidiaries, including but not limited to those endorsements and declarations of intent to purchase products and services from your guarantor. I hereby defer communication concerning Lawsuits and damages levied against Beecher Stokes, his corpse, his family and/or his assigns until such time as the allegedly aggrieved Provisionally Counseled Party, Speth Jime, has fulfilled her preexisting obligation of allocution of said speech, and can freely affirm her intention to retain Butchers & Rog for legal representation pursuant to actions against Beecher Stokes, his corpse, his family and/or his assigns.”

“The hell you say?” Sam asked.

“He is agreeing,” Mrs. Harris explained calmly, “to allow Speth to read her speech before giving a response.” She smiled like this was a great favor.

How generous, I thought.

“How generous,” Sam said flatly. I loved Sam.

“You may read your speech,” Finster said to me, waving a magnanimous arm toward the microphone. He took a step back to give me space.

“Thank you,” Saretha mouthed to him. Her Cuff buzzed with the fee, plus a 15 percent surcharge for speaking without sound.

The crowd of partygoers watched, wide-eyed. Even the younger kids were silent. I stepped to the podium. The Ads behind my celebration muted. I lowered my head and covered my eyes. Nothing made sense. Why would Silas Rog care? If I could have our parents back, surely it meant a worse fate for someone else.

Cars roared nonstop on the road where Beecher had been. They had returned to full speed, as if nothing had happened. On the bridge, two police officers were pointing, marking the trajectory where Beecher had leapt. Between them was a small, bent woman in a rough long-sleeved public domain dress: Beecher’s grandmother. Her misery was apparent, even at a distance. What would become of her? Dropters buzzed around her like a cloud of flies, small, dark lenses flicking between Beecher’s grandmother, Finster, the traffic and me. We would surely make the news tonight.

The police pointed at me. Did they tell her he’d kissed me? She looked bereft. I suddenly felt embarrassed to be onstage. Did she think it would be wrong for me to continue?

“Read your speech,” Mrs. Harris said.

Saretha nodded. Her Cuff buzzed in the eerie quiet. Sam looked away, arms crossed, eyes blinking.

My breathing grew fast and labored, like I couldn’t get enough air. How could I read the speech? How could I accept Butchers & Rog’s terms?

How could I refuse?

Finster stood placidly by. He knew exactly how everything would play out. I didn’t have any real options. I had to read the speech. I had to tap AGREE. I had to do what everyone expected. Silas Rog would sue Beecher’s grandmother or Beecher’s mangled body, or whatever his vile plan was, and he would grow richer from it. In the bargain, I would get our parents back.

The small quaint buildings on either side of the park seemed to close me in. I saw worry on faces in the crowd. Norflo Juarze met my eyes and shouted, “Feliz Quinceañera!” $25.99 spent on Spanish words he couldn’t afford. Sera Croate smirked, her eyebrows raised. I was taking too long to speak. She wanted me to fail, of course. Your friends come to your Last Day, but so do your enemies.

I thought I might throw up, and then thought, if I did, at least something would come out of my mouth. Sam would have laughed if he heard that thought. He would have understood. I wanted to show him with my eyes that everything would be okay, but instead, I started crying.

Beecher’s grandmother was watching from the bridge, stunned and expressionless. I wish she had been angry, or sneered. I wish she had walked away. I wish she had told me it was okay. The speech in my hand had no words of comfort or mention of Beecher. It was nothing more than typical generic nonsense about consumer responsibility, Moon Mints™, Buonicon Tea™ and Keene’s Kelp Gum™ (all owned by Keene Inc.).

I held the speech up. I couldn’t say how I felt about it. I wasn’t allowed to speak other words. Suddenly, a tide of rage coursed through me. My hands seemed to burn. I crumpled the speech into a ball. I threw it as hard as I could toward the highway. It fell uselessly into the astonished crowd, not even a quarter as far as I’d imagined it would go. Gasps rose all around. Mrs. Harris actually started to cry. The news dropters raced to film it like a pack of dogs chasing a bone. They got their shot and turned back to me.

Everyone knew what came next. I would be one of those few pathetic kids you see on the news who squeak out a few words of protest before being carted off. Finster waited for it, smiling, as though he expected me to break contract. It would ruin me. It would ruin my family, and for what? Whatever I might say would change nothing. He eyed Saretha and smiled a little more.

On the bridge, Beecher’s grandmother didn’t move, or acknowledge that I had done anything. She stared blankly toward my stage, flanked by two gaping police officers.

Then, suddenly, another option blossomed in my mind. I seized it, because it was a choice—my choice—and one I’d never heard anyone suggest or seen anyone do. I put a shaking thumb and finger to the corner of my mouth and drew my hand slowly across. I made the sign of the zippered lips, and I silently vowed I would never speak again.

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