canyouhearthelight

[canyouhearthelight]

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[canyouhearthelight]

Chapter 18: Social Engineering

Lights, Camera, Action! Lash and Nils go public and dare people to call their bluff. The interview goes slightly off the rails, with good reason.

@baelpenrose, as co-author and beta reader for this chapter, did a great job making sure the reporters were as 'paparazzi' as possible.

I can fake a smile

I can force a laugh

I can dance and play the part

If that's what you ask

Give you all I am

Christina Perri, “Only Human”

Lash

By the time Lucas had returned to the hospital, Mori had pulled herself together and was in full combat general mode.  Neither Nils nor I had clued her in to our plan regarding shaming the hospital into covering the cost of care for everyone involved in the fire, and I was grateful that he hadn’t mentioned it in front of her.  With her focused on our parents’ care and haranguing doctors and nurses for updates, I could focus on dealing with the reporters who were already descending on the hospital.

Nils was hovering next to me, his hand close to mine. “Important to ask because a whole lot of people are going to ask unimportant shit and we need to be on the same page to avoid idiot drama that will deflect from our goal: we’re a couple or just good friends? It doesn’t matter what our answer is as long as it’s the same one.” He took a breath. “If you don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that, easy way out is ‘we stick to whatever bullshit they feed us until the cameras go away and something else dominates the news cycle’.” 

I thought it about for a brief moment. “We’re going to be doing a lot of lying, let’s have one less to keep track of. Stick to the truth: we’re friends who recently went on our first date and you were meeting my parents when everything went down.  If someone sticks a camera in my parents’ faces later down the road, they won’t have to think to confirm that.”

He nodded. “That works well enough. Okay, so to clarify our story: The hospital admins - someone even I, with all my familiarity with the hospital staff don’t know by sight - offered this to the people injured in this crisis as a one-time matter because they recognize the extraordinary circumstances involved. They recognize the crisis in the community and have risen to the occasion. We can say some nice things about the doctors that let them share the glory the local news is going to be throwing at us because hey, local news loves a hero. Hospital will be really reluctant to give it back if they can trade for political favors later.”

“Oh, I cannot wait to hear you say nice things about your father.  On camera, where everyone can see it,” I teased, trying to bleed off some of my anxiety.  Truth be told, any anonymity I had up until now was about to be blasted out the window when we spoke to these reporters.  And I would have to use my real name, or my online persona was toast.

The thought immediately made my heart sink, tears prickling my eyes. Toast. The burned out cafe, all those lives wasted… and for what? Because some hateful asshole thought he had the right to - 

I didn’t even realize I was speaking out loud until Nils bumped me with his shoulder. “Hey. I’m not going to tell you it’s okay, because it isn’t. But right now, we can honor the dead by taking care of the living. So let’s focus, okay? We can figure out whoever did this and get it back in blood later.” He offered me his hand. “For right now though, let’s go get some debts waived.” 

He gave a very subtle gesture towards the window, where to my horror, I could already see news vans outside, prevented from accessing the building. Vultures. I took a deep breath, took his hand, and squeezed it. “We look like burn victims, right?” When he nodded, I nodded back. “Then let’s do this before someone stops us.”

The moment we stepped outside the door, hospital wristbands conspicuously visible, we were swarmed.  I played up my shock by turning slightly into Nils, shielding my eyes. Four microphones were shoved in our faces, a female voice demanding “Were you at the fire earlier this evening?”

“Yes,” I answered. “We were inside with my parents when the fire was started.”

“Are you saying the fire was deliberate?” came a male voice from behind the blinding lights on the cameras.

“Absolutely. Someone blocked the exits and threw a burning bottle of something into the cafe.”

Nils took over at that point. “Molotov cocktails. The cafe had been the victim of several attempted arsons prior to this, according to the late owner, Ahmet Yildiz, who had, by the time this last fire claimed his life, given up on getting a proper investigation. He died attempting to help evacuate his customers and community.” His voice was clear, cold, and his words managed to bring across institutional neglect without actually blaming anyone of importance.  “He wasn’t the only one.”

“We were lucky,” I choked out through a lump in my throat. “We have minor burns and some smoke inhalation, but right now my parents and many others are in surgery or the ICU.  One is in the PICU.” As that last part sank in, some of the reporters and camera people around us gasped. “And we are all the lucky ones. At least three people never made it out, and we don’t know if everyone else is going to make it.”

A burst of chatter from the back of the reporters, then one of the men in the front asked a question I’d been dreading. “Can I get you two to identify yourselves?”

“My name is Elakshi Botelho. My parents, Sahar and Lorso Botelho, are still undergoing tests and treatment.”

“And mine is Nils Andover. My father is one of the doctors in the hospital, and my mother works as a lawyer.”

“We’ve heard both of your names from other witnesses at the scene, several of whom credit the two of you with a bulk of the rescues, what exactly happened during the evacuation?” Nils’ eyes flicked towards me. 

I gave the tiniest of nods and took a deep breath. “The only exit was on fire. Nils was able to open one of the metal gates over the other exits.  He, my father, and Uncle - Mr. Yildiz helped carry people out while my mother and I wrapped everyone in whatever cloths we could wet to keep them from getting burned or inhaling smoke.  Nils and my father managed to get me and my mother out just before the cafe exploded.”  My voice was trembling towards the end, and I let the tears just roll down my cheeks. I was too tired to fight them, and it probably helped our cause anyway.

“Have you spoken with authorities about the attack?” the first woman asked.

“With all due respect, I have been more concerned about my family and my community,” I responded. “We plan to speak to authorities when they reach out.”

Nils gave my hand a small pump, as though communicating silently that I’d said the perfect thing, then responded to the next question. “What went through both your heads when the fire went up?”

“Need to exit, wait, the exit is on fire, hey the windows, wait, the windows are blocked and they’re hot, oh wait, I have a leather jacket that can protect my hands while I open them.” Nils managed to drag his normal sarcasm with a trace of entirely uncharacteristic humility as though that was a chain of thoughts that would have occurred to a normal person to describe it all so dismissively. “Following that, ‘hey, leather jackets are fire resistant, I should probably help get people out,’ and somewhere in there is ‘thank God everyone here is sane, compassionate, and also helping’.” 

He took a breath. “Genuinely though, it’s amazing how much everyone came together in the fire, her dad, the cafe owner, her, her mom, everyone just kinda went for it and tried to help as much as possible, evacuate people as fast as possible, tried to help medic as much as possible. The hospital’s risen to the occasion too, in the face of all this: they said they were going to take care of the victims of this attack without charge, and they’ve been giving the victims amazing care.” 

The reporters went wild when Nils dropped that bit of ‘news’ on them. One managed to shout above the others a question about whether Nils’ family connection to the hospital had anything to do with that decision. “Both our fathers work for the hospital,” I confirmed when I felt him jerk like he’d been shot. “But the hospital has very much made this decision out of recognition for what can only be called a heinous act of terror committed against a small community.”

“Is it appropriate for you two to apply terrorism charges to an unknown…”

Nils’ voice cut across the question, coldly. “We just walked out of a building that exploded - killing at least three people - because a bunch of people set it on fire because they didn’t like that the owner was from the Middle East, after the building had been graffitied, repeatedly, with anti-Arab racial slurs. Terrorism is ‘violence committed against civilians for political reasons’ - what the FUCK would you call this if not that?” 

I noticed that Nils left out the ‘by nonstate actors’ part from the definition of ‘terrorism.’ Regardless, murmurs rippled through the crowd.  The point had been gotten across and given them something to chew on for local reports.  The first reporter to recover decided to pursue that point. “Is there anything you would like to say to the people who are responsible for the fire?”

By this point, I was shaking with emotion and dying to go back inside and sit down in a quiet place, see my parents breathing. “You burned down a popular shop full of customers who were minding their own business. There are women dying upstairs for drinking tea and gossiping about their grandchildren.  My cousin, Imran, is dead because he was picking up pastries for his wife and daughters.  My parents are severely injured because they were there to meet the young man I had just gone on a first date with. You attacked people for being people and having lives.  You are a coward, and I hope you have every day you deserve for the rest of your life.”  In that moment, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I spun, pulling my hand free from Nils’ and storming back into the hospital.

I heard Nils answer one more question in a capacity that barely managed to conceal impatience verging on contempt - though that might have been my familiarity with him, the reporters seemed charmed - before I heard him rushing after me. 

“I think we did it, Lash. You alright?”

Brushing tears from my cheeks, I laughed bitterly. “I am the furthest thing from alright. I want to see Mama and Baba, and I want Baba’s beard to scratch my cheek when he hugs me, even though I know his face is burned and his beard is gone. I want Mama to be nosy and pat my cheek and her bracelets clatter and her rings to bump my cheekbone like they do.  I want Mori to be here to visit, not to help make sure my parents are going to survive.  I want to go get coffee and have Uncle wink at me when he sneaks me extra baklava, and I can’t have any of it.”  Without even thinking, I turned and buried my face in his chest, charred leather smell be damned.

“We’ll stay here for them, okay? We’ll be the first thing they see when they wake up. Promise. Your mom isn’t going to be long - it’ll be longer for your dad. But your mom should be coming out within an hour or two at this point.” Nils hugged me then, as though on impulse. His chin fit exactly on top of my head, and he was patient enough to let me ugly cry on him until all I was left with were sniffles and hiccups.

He said nothing about what I must look like after all that, only steadying me. “I think you need your sister right now. Let’s go find her.  She reminds me of your mom, so she probably knows exactly what to do.”

#original fiction #nihilus rex #traumatized characters #original writing #modern dystopia #afterverse #writeblr #the miys #arcadian inquisition #science fiction #original science fiction #original sci fi #my writing #friend’s writing

[canyouhearthelight]

It Runs in the Family

Hello!

This is another of my short fics I promised. It's been done for nearly a year and change - longer if you recognize it from part of "The Miys" (It was one of the stories told during a camping trip).

Short explanation is that this is the story of Red Riding Hood's grandmother, somewhat modernized.

Long explanation is that there are a LOT of trigger warnings on this one. A lot. I avoid getting graphic for the vast majority of the ones I am about to list, but I am still going to say to take these at face value. With the exception of the last one, none of these are glorified, excused, or otherwise without consequences. The person who does them gets what they deserve (spoiler, but a needed one).

Grooming

Domestic violence

Financial abuse

Parental kidnapping

SA

Murder

I promise the next story has no trigger warnings whatsoever, however. None. Not one.

Credit for this goes to @baelpenrose for being patient in waiting for this to be dropped, and for the author Tanith Lee, who's story "Wolfland" is a very clear and blatant inspiration.

When I was a young girl, I became the Lady of the estate. At eight years old, my mother passed away, leaving me the heir and only child of my father.  I grew up spoiled - a princess, ruling the forests of the Schwartzwald, where my father leased mining rights for a percentage and sold the timber for dear cost. The howling of the wolves at night was my wonderland and my lullaby, and I never took it for granted, knowing that I would inherit such riches.

When I was thirteen, I became a debutante: old enough for marriage, suitors knocking down my door. My father warned me to be as choosy as choosy could be, because none of them would be good enough for me, and I needed to find the one who was close enough.

Rolfe came to court me when I was fifteen years old. He came in the darkest of winter, with a basket of peaches from a hot house in the south, still firm and ripe like nothing I had ever seen. The dessert of royalty.  When I was seventeen, he returned with a carriage and six shining black horses pulling it.  The entire team would be mine if only he could come again.

When I was nineteen, he proposed marriage and handed me a thick velvet cloak, lined with the fur of a wolf, with a clasp that held the sigil of an arrow and a shield.  When I accepted my proposal, he promised me that, once we were wed, he would court me properly. For the last four years, he had showered me with expensive gifts. I laughed at him, “How much more properly could you court me?”

We were wed the winter that I was twenty, and that night, after we had said our vows, as I lay in our marriage bed, he came into the room. Red in the face with drink, with a cloth covered basket over his arm, just as when I was fifteen. He handed the basket to me, and with a smile I took off the cloth to find the perfect, hot house peaches, still firm.

But once I lifted one from the basket, I found something coiled and black at the bottom of the basket, like a snake. Pouring the peaches from the basket, there was a bullwhip.  As soon as the whip struck the cover of the bed, he snatched it up, wrenched me around with my hair, and proceeded to beat me until I couldn’t breathe any more.

This was my marriage.  Rolfe either drank himself to sleep, or beat me until he was satisfied.  He needed no pretense - if he was awake, he was beating me.

Finally, when I was twenty-three, somehow, I became with child. When I grew ill and couldn’t keep food down, he called a midwife from the village, hopeful that he finally had an heir. The midwife checked on me, and whispered that I would have a daughter. She then turned to Rolfe, chin held high, and confidently told him that I was with a son, but that I could not be hit, or fall, or trip - that I was not to lift anything heavier than a gown, for risk of losing the child.

Those were the sweetest eight months of reprieve in my life.

The day that I went into labor was the day my husband struck the midwife, who had become my confidant and ally, dead as soon as the child was born a daughter. But what Rolfe did not realize was that, throughout those eight months, she had been by my side at night. “To keep me healthy,” she had said. But in reality, as I drifted to sleep, she would smile with her long, yellow teeth, and tell me stories and lullabies that reminded me of the howling in the woods, putting my mind at ease.  I would dream of blood, and meat, and the yellow flowers that grew on the grounds in the dead of winter.

Once I had recovered from the birth, and a wet nurse was found, Rolfe did not hesitate to pick up his whip once more. As he did, my mind often strayed to those flowers and to the wolves I could hear hunting on the grounds. Whether it was these thoughts or having become a mother that made me bold, I never gave it any thought.  What I did know was, where before I had done everything to keep Rolfe’s attention away from me, now I demanded to see Annika, uncaring in the knowledge that he would beat me either way, whether with his fists or that damnable whip.  I wanted to know that my daughter - my heir, not his - was safe and healthy and loved.  He would, inevitably, lash out, and as soon as my mind would drift to the howling in the forest, he would beat me harder.

The wolves became a special enemy to him in the months to follow, as though he blamed them for my boldness.  He began carrying a pistol so that he could shoot them on sight as he left the property to spread his malice and my wealth down in the city.  When he returned from these trips, I would laugh as I saw his fury, knowing the wolves had been, again, too quick for him.  No small part of me hoped they would, maybe this time, be so quick as to relieve me of my burden.

It was the winter that Annika was two when things changed dramatically for the worse.  At this point, Rolfe had taken to organizing many unsuccessful hunting excursions on the grounds, inviting his odious associates into my home. My home, I always thought of it, Annika’s home. Never his.  The only saving grace of these intruders under my roof was the distraction they provided for my husband, keeping him downstairs to carrouse loudly with them, rather than coming upstairs where I hid.  During these invasions, I was able to steal quiet moments with Annika and her nurse. My daughter would babble to me endlessly about all the things she learned and seen, giving me small tokens that she found - a pretty stone, a perfect pinecone, endless amounts of feathers.

It was during one such stolen visit that Annika was particularly demanding toward her nurse, fussing and pulling at her.  The nurse seemed to realize what was so urgent, and gave me a soft smile. “Annika picked flowers for you today.  I have them in water.  Just a moment.”  She lifted my daughter and left the room, leaving my heart to momentarily ache at the absence.  Soon enough, however, they returned, Annika holding a small vase with the solemnity only seen in a Small Child with an Important Task. I was both startled and delighted to see a small posey of the yellow flowers found only on our grounds.

“Mama!” she cried, holding the flowers out to me.

The nurse smiled again at her antics. “Every one that she saw during our walk today, she would point and say ‘Mama’ until I would pick it for you.  I think they remind her of your hair.”

I touched the end of one lock, reminded again that Annika had inherited her father’s dark looks rather than my fair ones.  Thankfully, it seemed the only thing she had inherited, as she was fast proving to have a very gentle nature. “I will treasure them, my love,” I promised sincerely and honestly.

Far too soon, however, that visit ended as they all did, with the nurse taking Annika for her afternoon nap.  From habit, I went to unlock my wardrobe and pull out the carved box in which I kept all of my daughter’s gifts, quickly and gently touching each one like a talisman before sealing them away again.  I then turned to find a place to set the vase of flowers, so that I may be able to enjoy their sight before I dried them and stored those away, as well.

So absorbed in my thought as to whether I should hang them or press them, I committed a terrible error. I did not notice the door to my chambers opening until I heard the crash behind me. I turned, dreading what I would see.  Surely enough, the distraction provided by Rolfe’s companions had failed me, and he was now standing in my private space, kicking and swearing at the table he had broken upon falling into it.  When he turned his attention towards me, fury shone even through the glassiness of drink.  He stomped his way to me, hand reaching already to grab whatever part of me he could.

And then he paused, hand hanging empty in the air, staring at the small table beside me. His hot anger abruptly turned into cold, shaking rage. “What are those?” he growled.

“Flowers, from our daughter,” I whispered around the vise of fear in my throat.

“That useless thing is to be kept away from us both,” he reminded me. His hand suddenly returned to life, a backhanded blow like a hammer knocking me to the ground. Before I could pick myself up or even object, he threw the vase, flowers and all, into the fireplace. My body was wracked with sobs as I watched them wither to ash, only for the sound to be cut off with a boot to my stomach.

The mind is a wonderful and terrible thing, as the nurses that surrounded my bed when I next knew consciousness explained that they had needed to treat me on the floor for the first day, unsure if I was safe to be moved after such a brutal beating.  Indeed, though I did not remember the act, a mental catalogue of my injuries implied it had been the most savage one to date.  When I asked after his whereabouts, I was assured that he had left for the city shortly after they had arrived, and had not yet returned. 

“Bring me my daughter, please,” I sighed.  Though I did not want her to see me like this, I needed to know that she was unharmed.

They looked between each other, nervously, before one covered my hand with her own. “We cannot, Lady. I’m sorry.”

“He needn’t know,” I begged. “Please, she is my child and the only good thing left in my life.”

“It isn’t that - “

I struggled to sit up, pain flaring from every part of my body. “Is she hurt?” I demanded hysterically. “Tell me she is alive and unharmed.”

The one holding my hand stood and pressed me gently back onto the bed. “She is alive and unharmed,” she assured. “She has been sent to the city to live with her nurse and her family.”

“He sent her away!?” I screamed, now thrashing to be allowed out of the bed. “I need to retrieve her! Let me go!”

The nurse was far less gentle in her tone, now. “You are not well enough to travel, though I dare not let you out of this bed for fear that you will kill yourself in the attempt. Lay down and stop making your injuries worse, or I shall restrain you without telling you exactly how safe your daughter is.”

“You will tell me either way, or it will not be Rolfe you need fear when I am out of this bed,” I snarled before relenting.

While the other nurses were appalled, the one who had been speaking was an older woman, and clearly used to difficult patients. She simply arched an eyebrow and sat back down, still holding my hand gently. “The Lord of the estate ordered the child sent to the city to live with one of his associates, who recently lost a daughter.  The nurse was to travel with her, before being dismissed.  Before she left, she confided in me that she knew this man from his many stays here, and would not trust him or his wife with a dog, much less a child too small to bite him if abused. She instead took Lady Annika to stay with her at the home of her sister, who is widowed.  She will raise Annika and keep her safe.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks, knowing that there would be no way for her to send word, for fear that Rolfe would see it and find where our daughter truly was. “She is no longer under his control,” I assured myself, surrendering to once again being alone in the hell of my marriage.

Convalescing was a long journey, made no less frustrating by the threats Rolfe made towards those responsible for my recovery. Several of the attendant nurses could be overheard discussing how truly sorry my husband must be, how much he must truly love me, that he was so concerned I recovered.  I sneered to myself and the eldest nurse, both of us well aware that Rolfe held no such love.  Instead, this was another form of control - if I were to die, I would be free of him, and if that were to happen, he would punish anyone close by for letting me escape his reach.  Everything in my life - including my death - was to be decided by him and him alone.

I was able to walk a few, painful steps by the time he organized the burning.  Winters in the Schwartzvald were long, and the sight of the yellow flowers reminding him of the daughter who escaped grew too infuriating for him to bear.  His solution was to burn them out, each and every one within the grounds of our estate. His associates brought their servants and hired men, placing bets on which would find and burn out the most. I could only watch from the window of my chambers as my beautiful, wild forest became speckled with mud from where the defenseless plants had been uprooted, followed by great bonfires where they were burned.  Even the wolves had left when the commotion began, as though knowing that so many men would guarantee that someone would be able to kill them.

Throughout the rest of that winter and the following spring, a madness possessed Rolfe. I was still too frail to so much as leave my chambers, and he was unsuccessful in his many attempts to locate my daughter. When the wolves returned in the brief summer, he would jump and shoot in the direction of any snap of a twig, screaming at the distant howls that taunted him.  By the time autumn crisped the air, I was able to sit at my desk and balance the accounts, scowling at the great amounts of money Rolfe had burned through as though it had been heaped on the bonfires instead of the flowers.  On one such afternoon, while the sun was still in the sky, I heard my team of horses returning, pulling the magnificent carriage that he had gifted me all those years ago.  As I put the account records away, I braced myself for what new fury had taken him over, wondering if this would be the day he would cease caring about my recovery.

The door to my chambers slammed open, and rather than an angry and violent beast, I was treated to the sight of a drunken and rejoicing man. I was immediately even more suspicious of what could possibly make him so.

“I have found her!” he sang, stumbling in a circle. “I have been celebrating, for I believe I have found the child.  I shall go to retrieve her tomorrow!”

I hid my hands in my lap to conceal the trembling fear that had overtaken me. “That’s wonderful news,” I said carefully. “Where has she been?”

He flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, an empty bottle dangling from one hand. “Freiburg im Breisgau,” he laughed. “The stupid bitch took her to the wrong city. But she will be home tomorrow, where I can keep an eye on her again.”

You wanted her kept from your sight and mine, and she is, I thought. Can you not leave her be?  I pressed a hand to my forehead, willing the fear and the headache to retreat. “I will have the servants draw you a warm bath. I am sure you are cold, and would like to be clean when you see our daughter again.”

He mumbled from the bed, incoherent, and I carefully limped to the door to summon someone. After I made my request, I painstakingly made my way down the stairs for the first time in nearly a year, stopping again and again to let my dizziness fade before venturing further.  Despite my slow and deliberate progress, my mind raced to find a solution that would keep my child safe - far safer than I currently was.  It was only when the howl of a wolf rang out from far too close to the house that my attention was drawn outside.  A great, black beast with wild yellow eyes stood in the first snowfall, no more than thirty meters away.  “You don’t scare me,” I scolded it quietly. “I have lived with a far more terrible beast than you.  I would welcome your teeth in my throat if not for my daughter.”

To my surprise, the wolf made a yipping noise, as though it was laughing at me, and turned to walk away.  Immediately behind where it had been sitting, as though its eyes were still staring at me, spots of yellow broke through the snow.  Impossibly, the yellow flowers had returned.  Although this time, it was autumn, and the flowers had always bloomed only in deepest winter.  Hypnotized, as though not in control of my own body, I walked to the great doors I hadn’t been outside of in years, painfully pulled them open just enough, and walked, barefoot, into the snow.

The lullabies and stories from the midwife who died to bring Annika into the world came back to me. There is a wild magic in the flowers that grow on the grounds, but only when they grow out of season. Eating these, and only these, will make you strong enough to change your life.  However, no one alive can tell what form that strength will take, only that you must be willing to sacrifice everything in order for the magic to take hold.

Soon enough, I stood in the snow, looking down at the flowers that should not exist anymore. Falling to my knees in reverence and exhaustion, I plucked one, holding it to my face so that I could smell its fragrance.  The thought crossed my mind that the midwife had been insane - after all, she had lied to a violent man - and that the flowers would poison me instead. “My life is the only thing I have left to lose,” I whispered.

That is where Rolfe found me, after night had fallen: kneeling in the snow, surrounded by the stems of over a dozen flowers, their yellow heads now gone. “What do you think you are doing?” he roared, yanking me to my feet by my hair. “You are not allowed outside, stupid woman. The wolves will eat you.” It was only then that the flowers that had been too far to reach caught his eye. “Did you plant these!? Only to spite me??”

“No,” I choked out. “They grew back on their own, I planted nothing.”

���You lie,” he spat before walking back to the house, my hair still wrapped in his grip. I cried out in pain as he dragged me up the stone stairs, my wet and numb feet scrabbling and failing to find purchase. Once inside, he turned me to face him, hand still in my hair, and gave me a measuring look. “Still too frail,” he muttered.

Relief flooded me, believing that I was safe. Instead, to my horror, he grabbed the front of my dressing gown, tearing it from my body and throwing me painfully against the stairs.  I fought and struggled with what little energy and self-preservation I had left, but in the end, he left me bruised and bleeding on the cold stone as he stood to re-lace his pants. “This one had better be a son,” he instructed me before spitting a mouthful of blood onto my bare skin - mine, from the bite now oozing on my neck.

Slow, hot, impotent fury filled every fiber of my being. I would have laughed at myself, if enough of my mind had been present to think - I was too exhausted and injured to cover myself, much less to exact any revenge or violence on him.  One servant came into the hall, and stepped toward me to assist, only to be stopped by a second. “The Lady’s husband does not want us to touch her, on threat of death. He ordered that if she can move enough to disobey him, she can move enough to clean herself up.”

Tears of frustration rolled from my eyes and into my hair. I could barely move my head enough to look out through a nearby window, and that is what I stared out of for the coming hours. Snow falling, the moon slowly climbing higher and higher into the sky.  When I could keep my eyes open no longer, I closed them and listened for the chiming rustle of the flakes falling through the trees, for the crunch and howl of the wolves.

At some point, I drifted off, cold and alone on those stairs. But in my dreams, I was warm, and powerful. Stronger than I had ever felt in my life, even before I had been married. I felt boundless, free.  And dangerous, oh so dangerous.  I wanted to run, and dance, and laugh at all the things that thought they could control me. In my dream, I could pick myself up from the stairs, and I did, smiling. I danced up them, leaping powerfully toward my chambers.  I felt no fear - not of Rolfe, not for what he would do to Annika, none. I revelled in the unfamiliar sensation, wrapping it around myself like a blanket.  As I drifted further to sleep, I registered the sound of Rolfe shouting, but let myself drift deeper and deeper, until I was dreaming like I had when I was pregnant - dreams of blood, and meat, and yellow flowers.  Those dreams had been so comforting, left me so happy, and I let myself feel those things now. I remember thinking that this must be what dying felt like, as everything fell away.

But alas, it was not to be death, for I did awaken the next morning, as a servant I did not recognize stoked the great fireplace in the sitting room. I found myself lying on a chaise, covered with a blanket. That must be what Rolfe had been shouting about, I realized.  Wrapping the blanket tightly to my chest, I saw the child that was tending the fire - too old to be Annika, thankfully. I ignored them, instead taking stock of my condition.  I felt far less injured than I expected myself to be, although still naked, dirty, and covered in blood.  A gasp told me that the child realized I was awake, only to be confirmed a moment later as I heard them take off towards the kitchens, crying “The Lady is awake!”

It must still be early morning, for the head nurse who had stayed on as my personal staff came from the kitchens, where the servants typically ate. Swiftly but unhurried, she came to my side to check me over. “You are filthy my lady. I already have them preparing two baths for you - one to clean you, the other to soak the chill of that damned floor from your bones.”

“Can you help me to my chambers?” I asked, accepting the second blanket she wrapped around me as she helped me carefully stand.

“We are preparing temporary rooms down here for you,” she advised in her typically brusque manner.  Her no-nonsense nature had been the main reason I took her on, so I waited for the rest. “There was an incident last night, and unfortunately your chambers will need much repair.”

“An incident?” I started.

She would only shake her head. “I will explain after you are clean, not one minute sooner.”

True to her word, she insisted that every inch of my body be scrubbed, including my scalp, and then checked me for injuries again before allowing me to lower myself into the second bath.  Finally, when I was seated up to my chin in warm, fragrant water, I asked again. “The incident.”

She sat on a stool and took a deep breath. “Some idiot left the doors open last night, with you laying on the stairs for all and sundry to see.  Unsurprisingly, the blood must have attracted a wolf, for one made its way to your chambers and attacked my Lady’s husband.  He was found this morning with his throat torn out and great chunks of him eaten.”

I was grateful that she and I were alone, and that no one could see us. I felt only relief that he was gone, and confusion that a wolf would have walked right past my hurt and bleeding body, only to attack a strong and healthy man.  My nurse, who had never held any illusions about Rolfe, seemed more irritated that my rooms were damaged than bothered by Rolfe’s death. “So, he is dead?” I asked for confirmation.

“I do not recommend that you see the body,” she insisted. “Very messy business.  But yes, you are a widow, my lady.  I would offer my condolences.”

Left unsaid were any actual condolences. We did not lie to each other, and apparently were not beginning to.

Once my water started to cool, I was dried off and again bundled up, this time in warm clothes rather than fashionable ones, and taken to a small, cozy room on the ground floor.  It was too small for a fireplace, but seemed to share a wall with the kitchens, as it was far warmer than my chambers had ever been.  I was tucked into the bed and covered with several quilts before she would allow me to touch my account books - apparently someone had taken the foresight to retrieve them for me. “You may work on the accounts, but you are only to get out of bed to relieve yourself for the next four days.”

I tried to protest, but she was not alone in her assertions. The cook stepped into the doorway, bearing soup and a scowl. “You get your rest now that you can. Nothing needs done that would need you on your feet.”

Accepting the requirement was the first in a great many changes on the estate after that day.  I was able to return my finances to a more stable state, although it required the sale of more lumber than I was entirely comfortable with.  I was able to write to Annika’s nurse, who agreed that it may be safer for my daughter to stay in the city, although now she would be able to visit and be better provided for.  Once Rolfe was buried, word traveled fast that I was now quite a young widow, but any potential suitors were too put off by the wolves that once again freely roamed the grounds to return after being told they were, under no circumstances, to shoot a single one.  If this gave me a reputation for being strange, so be it - my first husband had made my life hell, and I had no wish to repeat the experience.

Annika grew to be a lovely girl, then an even lovelier woman.  She never developed her father’s vicious nature, although she never developed the wild nature I had as a young woman, either.  She was very gentle and kind, and if I was far more discerning of the men who courted her than she was, she never complained.  In the end, it was a businessman she married, one who was fascinated by the wolves and terrified of me, but loved her enough to ask me for permission to marry her.  When they had a daughter of their own, I was told fairly but firmly that I could only give her lavish gifts on her birthday, for fear she would be spoiled.

It was when Lena, my granddaughter, was nineteen that Annika passed after a long illness, and her husband passed shortly after of a broken heart.  When I wrote to give my condolences, I also advised Lena that this meant she was now my heir, and would need to travel to the estate to learn what that meant.  I knew, through Annika’s letters, that Lena had grown into a beautiful, opinionated, somewhat wild young woman. She would be unwilling to visit, so I sweetened the invitation with a cloak of thick velvet, lined with wolf fur, from when I was her age. And I explained that it was not a request, but a requirement of her inheritance. She had much to learn of estate handling and finances.

And even more to learn about the wolves, both human and animal. About yellow flowers and the special liquor we made here at the estate.

#it runs in the family #red riding hood #fairy tale #adaptive fiction #abuse #domestic violence #revenge #vengeance #my writing

[canyouhearthelight]

I genuinely don't remember which platform I mentioned this on, but I will never not love the bar being just yeeted into a bookshelf

Shout out to the best joke I’ve ever told, WWDITS style.

(His name is Timothy)

#deaf #tiktok #queer #video #funny #actor #everything needs a deaf #wwdits

[canyouhearthelight]

Tragedy and plans aside, I think one thing this chapter really highlights is how different Lash and Nils are when it comes to family and community. Yes, Lash argues with her parents, but at the end of the day she cares incredibly deeply for them. And she knows just off the top of her head all the comings and goings of her community, their stories, all of it.

And then you see Nils interacting with his father, as opposed to how he interacted with even just Lash's parents. His father is an obstacle, not an ally, and definitely not family.

Nihilus Rex 17: Embers

Nils and Lash deal with the aftermath of the firebombing, and Lash talks to her sister. Nils deals with his father, and both of them begin planning how they're going to pay for the victims' medical treatment. Cowritten by @canyouhearthelight.

The pull on my flesh was just too strong

Stifled the choice and the air in my lungs

Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie

'Cause when I open my body I breathe in a lie

Mumford and Sons, “Broken Crown”

Nils

The halls of the hospital were always too white, too sterile, and too bright. Honestly, the perfect kind of place for my dad to work -  if not for all the people screaming and asking questions about their loved ones. I was weary by the time we arrived, the pain from my minor burns beginning to wear on me, but we managed to check in on both of Lash’s parents before she or I got serious help. 

Neither of us needed much - minor medicine for the burns, some checks on our airways. A bit of shouting from nurses that I’d known since I was young that I should have come in sooner. 

Critically, combined with my knowledge of the system that you pick up by osmosis, and the fact that both her parents were here, I got the information we needed. 

Lash’s parents were going to live. Her mother was in worse condition, despite what we originally had thought - the smoke inhalation had taken a horrible toll on her. She had been touch and go for several hours, and her refusal to come in might have killed her if we hadn’t forced her. Her father, on the other hand, was still in serious danger of losing his leg, but was no longer at mortal risk.  The sheer number of casualties from the fire meant that we weren’t given beds, merely checked on and sent on our way - common in triage, especially for people who weren’t hurt.

As I slumped down by the wall, I smiled at Lash. “That…that has to be a relief, right? Your parents are going to make it.”

She nodded numbly. “Mori will be here soon, it will be nice to have good news.”

“I’m…I’m sorry about Uncle. And Imran. And…everyone else.” I was still shaken. I had barely known Uncle. I couldn’t imagine how Lash was feeling. 

Lash’s hands rubbed her face roughly, with complete disregard for the burn on one cheek.  When I pulled that hand away gently, she stared into the distance. “Fatima has three girls, I think the oldest is ten.  I don’t know how she is going to handle losing Imran.  And Auntie… They’ve been married since they were teenagers.  She’s never been alone, their kids and grandkids live overseas.”

“God.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, pushing in despite the pain where cinders had hit. “That’s awful.” Footsteps made me look up.  A tall man who shared my build, with the same cold, dark eyes and short-cropped hair of the same shade as my longer locks, was approaching us. 

“Nils.”  His voice was concerned and I forced myself to my feet.

“Father” My voice came out cold, and tired. 

“I heard you were at the fire. Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“I was busy dealing with a crisis, and I wasn’t hurt badly. I texted you back to tell you as much so you and mom didn’t worry. Incidentally, between my fashion sense and the first aid lessons, I wound up being pretty okay at helping people.” That last was delivered with a trace of sarcasm - my ‘punk’ fashion sense had never been popular at home, but the medical training had been taken well. 

The concern in his eyes didn’t waver, and it ironically only pissed me off further. Concern, in my parents eyes, was always the emotion that coupled with finding reasons I shouldn’t be doing anything but developing as a promising white collar professional rather than doing anything to help anyone. “Why were you sprinting into a burning building, Nils?”

“People were in it. Some of them were friends.” I felt the stubborn streak rising that always happened right before I said things that could never be unsaid, before I said flippant shit that put a whole lot of distance between myself and my parents. 

“He saved my parents,” Lash said, slowly rising to her feet. “And he didn’t sprint into a random burning building, he was in there when it was set on fire and the exits were blocked.  If he hadn’t helped get people out, all of your patients would be in the morgue instead of surgery.” The tired tone never left her voice, but she still spoke with that steady sense of conviction she’d had since I met her. She had barely met my father, and was already clearly done with his shit.

I suddenly felt warm hearing her voice. “There is also that I was inside when it was set on fire to begin with, yes.” 

My father looked between us for a long moment. “You haven’t introduced your new friend. I’m relieved you’re putting yourself back out there. I wish we’d met under different circumstances, but…I might have rushed to assume that you were spending time with people who were making you reckless after Jessie…”

I felt an immediate surge of rage. “Her name is Lash.” I took a breath. “And she’s had better luck talking me down from reckless plans than anyone else. And don’t bring up Jessie if you want me to be cautious.” The irony of either of my parents, who hadn’t known how close I’d come to suicide by cop after Jessie’s death, how…

“Mr. Botelho is dealing with surgery. I tourniqueted him, but you may want to check in on your hospital's best pediatric imaging guy.” 

My father shrugged. “Dr. Traviss is on it, he’ll be fine.” He suddenly looked at Lash, then something seemed to click. “Oh. Oh.” I sighed explosively with relief at that - one of the best vascular surgeons at the hospital was working on Lash’s father. 

“And Sahar Botelho? Who is her doctor?” Lash demanded.

“Parks.” 

I started chuckling.“Oh, yeah. Okay. She’s fine.” My father bitched about almost everyone, compliments were rare - I’d never heard him complain about Parks. “Your parents are fine.”

My father, seeming to realize he was meeting with a patient’s family member and realizing I was fine, looked almost relieved when his pager went off and he had an excuse to leave. 

Lash started to follow him, a look on her face like she was dying for someone to fight with and her target had been acquired.  She seemed to think better of it, though, and turned on her heel to pace instead. “I need my computer - any computer.  Where is my phone? Mori can pick it up for me. She has a key to the apartment, for emergencies.  And I need my power bank.” She turned to look at me, eyes wild. “Where is the nurse’s station? I need pen and paper, they’ll have it, right?”

“In that order: what do you need it for, probably still in your purse, if your sister is anything like you she is absolutely not going to stop by the house for your stuff while your parents are in the hospital, and yes, they will, but seriously why do you need it, and finally: while we are both only mildly wounded we are still wounded and had smoke inhalation and were told to rest and sit down. Actually sit down and just wait for a second.” I was aware telling any upset woman to calm down was a little bit like dipping your balls in honey and slapping them on a fire ant hill, but “you’re hurt please slow down and rest” had to be different. Right?

She at least stopped pacing, which I took as a minor victory. “Nils. This?” she waved a hand at the shiny hallway and directory on the wall. “Costs money. I can sit and rest and also start fundraising and working on commissions to pay for as much of it as possible.  You may not realize it, but almost no one who was in that cafe has health insurance, much less the money to pay for even a single test.  Baba, Mama, me, yes. You, yes. The mother with the baby, who is probably in the PICU right now for smoke inhalation? Neither of them can afford that.  But funds are the only thing I raise better than hell, so hand me my purse and let me message my sister.  She won’t go to the apartment, but she will send Luke.”

I handed her the purse, then a thought occurred to me. “Hey, Lash? Slow down on fundraising. We’re gonna have cameras here really soon. I’m about to piss off my father in a big way. We can help these people out with a social engineering bit instead of a hack - I mean if you want to do something with medical debt later, sure but right now…Behold our assets.” I spoke quickly, quietly, ideas forming as I spoke. “We are a young, very pretty couple that was hurt just badly enough to look more serious without being hurt badly enough to look deformed, perfect for cameras. We just helped a bunch of people escape a burning building that was set on fire by domestic terrorists - and a whole lot of people are swearing we are the heroes of the hour. We are definitely getting interviewed on six o’clock news tonight. We say, with my connections with the hospital and the fact that your dad is the hospital’s go-to for pediatric imaging, that the hospital is treating the victims of this fire for free as a matter of corporate stewardship? Hospital will prefer to curse us privately, but publicly will smile along with clenched teeth and leverage the city for political favors with the good publicity later.” 

She glanced up from her phone, eyes narrowed.  I could practically see the gears turning in her head. “We can definitely sell it, although I can see it coming back on Baba in a bad way. I’m still going to get the fundraising going, if for no other reason than to cover the funerals for those who aren’t here - unless you have a magical uncle who works for the city and won’t sue you six ways to shit for claiming the city is going to cover that, too.”

“We can work on the thing to make sure it doesn’t come back on Baba, and yeah, we can work on fundraising for funerals - actually, let me start. I’ll drop a few hundred into a gofundme. And I know someone who has the money for full body, full color portraits and really likes Love Hina and My Life as a Villainess - I’ll ping him your info.”

“Talk about a classic…” she muttered. “Let me get the gofundme set up, and a couple more places for people to donate/commission stuff.  Plus, my inbox is backed the entire fuck up with lanky anime boy requests - fully clothed ones, thank the gods.  XXXHolic has gotten really popular again, along with some others.” Her head snapped up, and she started waving. “Mori! Over here!”

I heard a slight scream, then felt myself shoved aside before Lash was crushed in a tight hug by a woman who looked like a slightly taller, slightly rounder Lash, who was talking fast. “You text me that Mama and Baba are hurt and then you tell me to get your things and you tell me they’re fine with no extra information…Elakshi, if you ever…” She spoke all this while apparently doing her best to squeeze all her worries out of Lash.

“Mori, this is Nils,” Lash managed to get out, slightly breathless. “Nils, this is my sister Mori, which I am sure you figured out. The short humans are my nephews, Jamal and Rihad.” She managed to squirm loose enough to look her sister in the eyes. “I need to tell you what happened, but not in front of the boys.  Where is Lucas?”

“Going to get your things and then parking the car.” Mori snapped her fingers at her boys to get their attention. “Jamal, I need you to take your brother into that waiting room.” She pointed firmly to the windowed area. “Do not disturb other people, but keep both of yourselves in there until either your father or I come get you.  Auntie Lash needs to tell me boring adult things.” ‘Boring adult things’ seemed to be the magic words, because both boys did as they were told without any argument. It was kind of impressive.

As soon as the door closed, Lash guided her sister to sit with her where we had been moments earlier. “A group of people firebombed Uncle Yildiz’s coffee shop. We were there. Mama, Baba, Nils, and I helped get everyone out that we could, but Mama’s lungs aren’t in good shape and Baba - “ She choked slightly on her words. “Baba’s leg was very badly hurt when the shop exploded.  He may lose it, but they are trying to avoid that.”

“Elakshi! That is not fine! They are not fine!”

Lash cut her sister off. “They are going to live. They are alive. Not everyone was so lucky.”

Hands flashed as Mori started smacking Lash on the arms and shoulders. “You do not tell me to get your things and then tell me that our parents are not fine!” The smacking stopped and Mori pulled Lash in for another bone-crushing hug, burying what sounded like sobs into her hair.

I was not at all sure I should be intruding, but coughed. “Your father has the best vascular surgeon working on him. Your mother is being looked at by one of the best ENTs available. They should both be fine. Genuinely.” I slumped back down again. The day was beginning to hit me all at once and I realized that if I was going to sell a thing to the media I needed to try to be a little more rested. 

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #Nihilus Rex #the miys #arcadian inquisition #modern dystopia #traumatized characters #cyberpunk #Afterverse #prequel

[canyouhearthelight]

Nihilus Rex, Ch. 16: "...and Tragedy"

Pretty sure that title says it all, so I apologize in advance. Please don't kill me!

Co-written and beta-read by @baelpenrose, so he's partially to blame. But he did pick out the song lyrics!

Warnings for racism, hate crimes, off screen deaths of minor characters.

Save yourself a penny for the ferryman

Save yourself and let them suffer

In hope, in love

Mankind works in mysterious ways

Nightwish, “Planet Hell”

Lash

Despite Nils’ earlier errors, the conversation with my parents was going surprisingly well. At some point, Nils had let slip that he didn’t get along with his father, and Baba just let the floodgates open on how hard it was to deal with man.  Apparently, Mr. - sorry, DOCTOR -  Andover was a complete and utter bastard, even by Baba’s very forgiving standards.

To say Nils and Baba got along was a huge understatement. “Oh no, sir, I’m not offended, everyone knows that he’s a great surgeon and an amazingly mean person. I think there’s a running gag somewhere about not letting him near the patients until after they’ve gone under?” 

Baba chuckled - practically a roaring laugh for him - and nodded, knocking one hand on the table. “Yes! The nurses are the only people who are not intimidated, and seeing them physically drag your father away from a patient is often the highlight of my day.”

“It’s probably the highlight of the patient’s day too, they just don’t know it. Trust me, waking up to that frowny, disappointed-Catholic face when you’re already in pain…not ideal.” Nils grinned.

Mama started to say something, but I didn’t hear her as the sound of broken glass made Nils’ head jerk over to one side. “Nils, it’s a cafe. Glasses break all the - “

“Something is burning,” he cut me off. “Chemical burning, not food burning.”

Just as he said that, another crash led to one of the aunties we had been watching earlier jumping up with a scream, beating at the hem of her skirt.  Another auntie threw the contents of the nearest cup on it, steam pouring from what had been a burning piece of fabric. Nils stood, yanking me to my feet by my arm. “Start getting everyone out of here,” he demanded. “If you smell gas, find another exit.”

I grabbed my parents first. “Someone is setting the cafe on fire,” I explained. “We need to go.  Find an exit that isn’t on fire, and go through there.”

They took off, grabbing people as they went. Usually, Uncle’s shop was wide open, with doors that rolled up rather than windows, but tonight was especially chilly, so most were closed and locked down.  Each one I touched was scalding hot, and the only option was one that wasn’t on fire yet but reeked of gasoline. “Lift your skirts!” I shouted, heaving the door up and gesturing people through. “Don’t drag it in the gas!” 

Another wash of heat from behind, and I heard Nils shouting something, along with Baba and Mama. Both my parents were determined to help get as many people out as possible: Mama hurling any available liquid on clothes as they caught, Baba carrying older women out and rushing back in for another.  Nils had pulled his leather jacket’s sleeves down over his hands and wrenched open one of the latches on the rolling window shutters before shoving it up. Flames roared on the other side, and I saw my father pick someone up and rush through, shielding them from the heat with his own body.

Mama and I took the hint and started yanking cloths from tables and shoving them in a sink full of dirty water, ignoring complaints as we wrapped them around people who could not get out fast enough under their own power. Each one, Baba or Nils would lift and carry out while we found the next, dunking whatever cloth we could in any water we could find. “UNCLE!” I screamed. “You have to get out! UNCLE!”

I couldn’t see him anywhere. “Did Uncle get out!?” I shouted at Baba.

“He is not on the outside,” came the response as a young mother and her baby were wrapped and ushered through the flaming exits.

Smoke started filling my throat, and I dropped to the floor, coughing for cleaner air. Someone pulled at my arm, and I yanked it back without looking. “UNCLE!” I screamed again before another coughing fit.

“We have to get out of here!” Mama was pulling me, Nils was pulling. A blast of fire came from the kitchen as shocking cold, stinking water poured over my head. “NOW, Elakshi!”

Mama and I were ushered out by Nils and his singed leather coat, Baba on the other side. I fell into the cold night air, gasping thirstily for it, as Baba ran back in one last time, shouting something I couldn’t understand.  My vision swam as I tried to look around and count faces, desperate to find all of them.

I was still frantically looking for a handful of people - Imran, Uncle, one of the aunties who constantly tittered at me and Nils - when I was shoved to the ground by an unearthly noise. I shoved myself from the ground, hands cutting on the asphalt, to see Mama hit the ground coughing, Nils barely standing and holding up Baba.

“Lash, help!” Nils was coughing. “Press your hand down, here,” He planted a point on my father’s thigh. “Broken glass hit him. Hold it down no matter how much he yells. I have to get a belt off and make a tourniquet or he’s gonna die.” 

Hot tears streaked down my face as I did what he told me. Baba groaned, and I pressed down like I was trying to crush his leg into the pavement.  Nils ripped Baba’s belt off and tightened it around his leg, hard, twisted it, pinned it there with a pen, hard enough to make Baba shout. “Sorry, hold it here. DO NOT TAKE THIS OFF until the doctors look at it. Please.” His eyes were blazing.

“Check on Mama!” I begged, cranking the tourniquet as tightly as I could, slamming my shoulder into Baba’s chest to both keep him from moving and hide my sobs. “She can’t breathe.”

Nils sprinted over and I couldn’t see what he did, but he seemed to be giving Mama an airway check, then water, and pulled her over towards me, slowly sitting her down away from the fire. “Your dad got the worst of it. Your mom needs oxygen when the medics get here, best I can do is keep her from overexerting in the meantime. Keep her calm. I’ll keep an eye on your dad.” 

Frantically, I ran my hands over my mother, checking her for any hidden injuries.  I took several slaps to the arms and two directly to the face, but kept checking. When I was satisfied, I turned to Nils and Baba, where Nils was doing the same I had done - pinning Baba to the ground with one shoulder while cranking the tension as tight as possible on the belt around his leg.  A smaller explosion within the cafe snapped my head up, and I started running. “UNCLE!” I screamed, still not having seen his face outside the now-burning shop.

A hand darted out and yanked an ankle out from under me, just in time for a lanky, leather-clad leg to pin me down. “I have two horribly burned and wounded Botelhos right now. I do not need a third. You can’t help him. Your mother starts,” he coughed, then finished in a snarl, “screaming she’s gonna die. Her lungs can’t handle that right now. Keep her calm.” Nils' voice was furious, and panicked, but as driven as I’d ever heard it.  

I nodded numbly, going to reassure Mama while glancing around frantically.  The young mother Baba had practically carried out was bouncing her screaming baby, and my nerves unexpectedly started calming.  I don’t know that I had ever been so happy to hear a baby scream so hard in my life, but it was the reality check I needed in that moment.  Those of us out here were still alive, by inches or miles, and we had to stay that way to keep the bastards who had done this from winning.

I pulled Mama to a sitting position. “We need to keep everyone calm,” I told her, well aware of what drove her more than anything else. I saw Nils mouth something that could only mean ‘tell her not to start shouting’. “I am going to prop you up where you can keep an eye on Baba, and I am going to bring people who are upset but not hurt. Can you help me keep them calm?”

This woman - my magnificent monument of a mother - looked at me like I had deeply offended her and all my ancestors. “Set me right there,” she gestured to a spot close but in clear line of sight to Baba and Nils, “and bring them to me.”

I did exactly what she asked. As neighbors came down to bring water and blankets, Mama commanded them like a general with her armies so that I could focus on those who were injured and needed more.  Even then, Nils would shout what people needed, and Mama would command if someone didn’t listen.  Someone would start wailing, looking for a family member who was unaccounted for, and after Mama started coughing, I did my best impression of her.

“It is the living who need us now. We will attend the rest when these are in the hospital.”

Baba was the first to go in an ambulance, with Nils shouting down his objections. “You may have waited too long to save the leg already and I don’t want you throwing a clot. GO!”

Every argument of “damn the leg” was met with an aggressive “you could still die, and then who will make sure the babies stay still for an x-ray”, until Baba surrendered under a murderous glare from the three of us.  After that, it was the elderly, burn victims, smoke inhalation victims - a whole new argument from Mama, one which required sedation - and finally those of us who were part of the walking wounded were left to lick our wounds in peace.

“You should go, Lash. Your family’s hurt.” 

“I need to call Mori,” I responded before adding lamely, “My sister. In case you didn’t pick up on that. She… she’ll want to know.”

“I can drive if you need. Call on the way.” he paused, then added, “Since the hospital is on the other end of town, it’s…probably better if someone drives you anyway.”

I felt myself falling into my mother’s role, unexpectedly and out of a habit I hadn’t realized I had until now. “The apartment needs to be locked up. I need to do that. And I need to let Uncle’s widow know… she shouldn’t have to hear about this from strangers.  Baba and Mama will ask, so I can’t go to them without doing those things.”

Nils looked at me. “Lash. If you don’t want to go yet, if you can’t face it, I won’t make you. But your sister can lock up if she lives with you. Since you’re calling her. And Uncle’s widow is another call you can make. It’s a bit of a drive, it’s on the other end of the city.”

“No,” I cut in. “Mori lives an hour away, with her family. And I don’t know how it works for your family, but I do not want Uncle’s wife hearing this from a stranger. I can - and have - faced what is happening to my parents. But, when they wake up, they will ask these things, and I have lied once today. I will not lie about something so important.”  I drew myself as tall as possible and sniffed back a sob. “You may escort me, if you wish, and then drive me to the hospital. Baba is in surgery, and Mama is in triage, so I can do nothing for them right now. But I can do the right thing for other people.”

Nils looked at me for a long moment, then he nodded. “Come on, then. Call your sister on the way to meeting with Uncle’s widow. We’ll tell her first.”

His phone started ringing, and he glanced at it and hung up. I only barely made out that his father had called him. “Come on. Let’s make sure you tell who you need to tell.”

#nihilus rex #afterverse #prequel #traumatized characters #the miys #arcadian inquisition #original fiction #science fiction #original writing #original science fiction #writeblr #modern dystopia

[canyouhearthelight]

Updated to include a link to the Masterpost for Nihilus Rex, since Bael actually updates his masterpost consistently.

Masterpost-Ception!

Now with more Masterposts!

Now that I’ve started working on projects other than Miys, I am going to start compiling links to each work here so that it’s easy to find and go through the parts if there are any.

Humans Are Space Orcs

The Miys  <Chapters 1-100>   <Chapters 101-200>     <Chapters 201-233>

Nihilus Rex (Masterpost on @baelpenrose bc he updates it consistently)

Horror

<Lydia Woke Up>

Leather Houses    <Part 1>    <Part 2>    <Part 3>   <Part 4>

Cyberpunk

Machine is Perfect, but Flesh is Free

<Act One>   <Act Two>    <Intermission>    <Act Three>

#the miys #lydia woke up #leather houses #my writing #writeblr #lights masterpost #machine flesh #nihilus rex #afterverse

[canyouhearthelight]

i updated it due to current happenings

edit: FUCKING REBLOG IT. LIKES DONT MEAN SHIT!

#trans #tumblr bullshit #trans rights #trans rights are human rights #transgender

[canyouhearthelight]

The speed with which their interaction goes from chitchat to Nils' terrible attempt to be flamboyantly gay to the Most Awkward Meeting the Parents is... It was fun.

Which is good.

Nihilus Rex 15: Stage for Comedy...

Lash and Nils have a date, and then...certain people show up. This is actually one of the fluffiest chapters we've written with this, with Lash and Nils playing off each other, both in the lies and the way the truth comes out. Enjoy it because this is the last fluff you get for a while. Cowritten by @canyouhearthelight. This is very much more her speed than mine, as you all know.

I wish somebody would have told me babe

Some day, these will be the good old days

All the love you won't forget

And all these reckless nights you won't regret

Someday soon, your whole life's gonna change

You'll miss the magic of these good old days

Macklemore ft Kesha, “Good Old Days”

Nils

“Happy slightly late birthday, Lash.” I sat down at our usual booth in Uncle’s tea shop, and tossed a very particular manga volume with a cyberpunk chick holding some very large guns onto the table in front of her. “Not as good as a comedy club, but if it involves Japanese art, Jeff can find it when I ask him.” I plunked myself down and set down my drink, grinning at her. “Wish I could have gotten it here for your birthday, but…yeah.” 

Her eyes crinkled at the corners with a huge smile as she picked it up in both hands excitedly. “I wasn’t even expecting to find it, so definitely beyond better late than never. Do I owe you anything for it?”

“Since I got it from a comic shop where I have the same arrangement as you have with that comedy club, no. I mean, if you want to check the place out, I’d love to show you around there. It's a pretty cool hobby shop and they run some cool events with local artists.” Jeff was an absolute gem, great dude, and ever since I’d gotten him out of a tight spot when some asshole had tried to frame him, he’d decided I shopped free for life. 

“So, new semester, and for once we actually do have a class together. Convenient for our cover story. Figure we can get half the assignments done in like a week if we binge?”

“Most likely,” she shrugged. “Macro…. Yeah, week and a half, tops. Unless we just royally screwed that class up.”

“When do we ever make mistakes?” I said, the ridiculously overblown expression on my face hopefully making it clear that I was joking. “At least, ones we can’t easily fix. I’ve had this prof before. Worst comes to worst, I’ll start talking faux intellectual white boy, and he’ll start nodding and being impressed.” 

“Because we totally didn’t just mess up the entire economy.” 

“I prefer thinking we improved it. And in terms of assignments, there is no way he’s updated his curriculum to reflect what happened there. At most there’s like. One more paper that we have to do talking about it. And we can provide a perspective on that. A very, very funny one.” My grin was becoming less ironic and increasingly “cat that ate the canary.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Can you even imagine? Trying to argue or discuss something we caused and pretending we don’t know the ‘socioeconomic pressures’ behind it?”

“By the time the semester is done neither of us will be imagining that…” I was shaking, trying to hold it in. I put on a ridiculous old man voice as I made duck lips with my hands, imitating a barrel chested man with a slight British accent. “How do you know this was the motive of the economic terrorists responsible?” Then, in my own voice, “Well, you see, it’s just a hunch, but trust me, it’s a good one.” 

She took on a serious expression and tapped her chin with one hand. “I wonder, how do you cite ‘trust me, I know’?”

“My best guess is cite something so fucked up that they don’t want to ask how you know that, but I don’t think that’s relevant here.” I leaned back. “There has to be a way though. Like, maybe the gender studies or one of those departments would know? They go more on personal experience than the hardcore academic histories and public policy side.”

“Mental note added to check if it comes to that,” she nodded. “Hopefully it doesn’t come up, but better prepare and not need than be unprepared and need.” She glanced around and groaned. “Nosy auntie brigade, your five o’clock. Already clucking away.”

I immediately turned towards a tall, muscular guy with a short, triangular, black beard - he actually was pretty easy on the eyes, just wasn’t, like, Lash - and gestured at him. “Oh, Lash, sweetie, how are you still single?” My voice took on a singularly fruity affect, and my body language shifted. It was fine, I’d done drag once when I was in undergrad, mostly as a favor for a friend who actually was organizing the college’s Queer club. Even if this wasn’t really my preferred style, sometimes if you wanted to protect someone’s privacy it was easier to lean into stereotypes. “Or is he not your type?” 

Now that I was looking he did actually look really good. Deep eyes, broad shoulders, I could see his back moving under an athletic shirt, like…hm. I could fake only being interested in him, even if it would be easier if I wasn’t sitting near the most attractive person of either sex in this shop and very possibly the whole city. 

Lash followed my gaze before choking back a laugh. “Imran is married and nearly forty, ‘bestie’. Also, he’s my cousin through some very complicated family accounting that I do not understand, except that he is actually related to me by blood.”

“Well, that does rule him out of my dating pool once and yours at least twice over.” I leaned back, and dropped my voice back into its normal register, lowering it to a whisper. “Okay, think they’re good?”

“One is arguing that you’re bent, two are completely unconvinced,” she muttered. “I don’t recommend hitting on Imran, though, if that’s your next brilliant plan. His wife has a wicked right hook.”

“The things I do for you, babe.” I put back on the over the top voice. “Nah, honey, I trusted you when you said he was married, I’m not looking to get involved with a married man, that seems like the kind of thing that gets everyone hurt and isn’t right anyway. Maybe that guy in class, that sandy blonde one with the sea green eyes? You thought he was cute too?” There was no such boy but playing that we were rivals for some ambiguously maybe-gay maybe-not queerbaity show reference would be easier to act and maybe deflect suspicion. 

The look she gave me almost made me flinch - clearly she caught the reference. “I think he’s dating that art major, the guy with the blue eyes and permanent bedhead? I see them together a lot.”

“Hun that art major has been at that school for ages, hardcore closet case with no chance in hell of ever coming out, he is wasting his time there. Either of us has a shot at doing better.” At this point I was just playing around to see if I could get her annoyed at a bad show and turn this whole charade into a joke on multiple levels. 

She waved her hand dramatically. “Too much baggage either way.  He mentioned the other day that his younger brother is a drug addict, I don’t want any part of that.”

“Your loss.” I leaned back and took a sip of the coffee. “He’s told me about his father, I think he’s pretty great for getting as far as he has.” I took a beat and reflected on the hypocrisy of the joke we’d both just made. I’d point it out later when we were alone.

Lower. “Now?”

“Hard to tell, they aren’t looking over anymore. We might be in the clear.”  Her phone vibrated suddenly, and she glanced at it. Her eyes grew wide. “Nope. Not in the clear. Abort mission, abort mission.”  The phone went off again while she was frantically gathering her things. She checked it again, this time sinking into her chair, looking defeated. “Nosy Auntie Brigade has won the round. We’ve been snitched on.”

I didn’t drop the effeminate voice. “To whom?”

“They told Mama on me,” she groaned, rubbing her forehead with one hand. “And I have been ordered to stay put, she’s on her way.”

I felt a surge of fear. Despite my confusion at Lash’s deference to her parents, she did still live with them, and I respected her too much to push her on it. “I will stay if you want, or go if you want, but if questioned about me, it may be better if they don’t get to ask why the boy the aunties told them about ran away like a coward. I can turn up the charm, or play out the ruse and just be your gay classmate. Or a work friend who also goes to school with you? Pick an angle?”

Her hand flew out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “Oh no, you are not leaving me to face them by myself. Work friend who goes to uni with me. No lying. She will know. Tell the truth, just not all of it. You are interested in men - not a lie. If she asks directly, spill your drink or something to change the subject. If you run, your cow will never survive the shame.”

“My poor cow.” I gave a slight smile. “I’m not a coward, Lash. I’d only have gone if you told me. But yeah, I figured it’d be better to stick around.”  I leaned back in the booth. “Meantime, some tea?” 

“One chai, one chai latte. Get baklava, Mama loves them and I need the sugar.  And a coffee! Baba is with her, and it will distract him.”

“As you wish.” I got up and ordered the drinks, and the pastry. “Hey, Uncle. How’s the shop been?”

“Decent. Not much more trouble lately. Been quiet for a while.” 

“That’s good. You deserved the break.” I tipped him and grabbed the drinks. I took a breath - I wanted Lash’s parents to like me, which was ridiculous all things considered, but…

The doors opened, they must have lived closer than I thought. Two people came in. I could see family resemblance, Lash resembled her mother in build, but her father in coloration, with aspects of both in her bearing, her facial structure, the way her hair fell around her face. Her father was a middle aged man with a mustache and glasses, with thinning hair. Her mother was slightly shorter, with her hair pulled back in a bun, but with the same glossy black sheen that Lash’s had, and she wore gold earrings and bracelets.

They made a beeline for her as I sat down beside her and waited for them to start talking. “Hello, sir, ma’am.” 

“Introduce us to your friend, Elakshi,” the woman I presumed was her mother commanded gently.

“Mama, Baba, this is Nils. We work together, and go to the same university. Nils, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Botelho.”

I filed away the last name for later, since I’d not gotten her last name, only her first. “Honored to meet you both. My name is Nils Andover.” I held out my hand to shake, giving a very slight smile and confidence I didn’t feel.

Mr. Botelho scratched his chin. “Andover.  I work with an Andover - is your father a doctor?”

I hid my internal wince, hopefully. My father was an excellent doctor but he was not exactly known for being easy to get along with. “Yes sir. He is. I didn’t know you worked in medicine, Elakshi hasn’t told me much about either of your professions.” I hoped Lash would forgive me - I had no idea how either of her parents would react to me using a screen name or nickname they may not have known she went by, and the last thing either of us needed was for them to think it was a pet name between lovers. I could always explain it that way later if I needed to. 

Lash’s nails bit into my wrist under the table as her mother’s eyes lit up and she leaned forward. “A doctor? And you let him call you Elakshi? So familiar.”

Through clenched teeth, Lash managed to smile. “I told him to call me Lash, and explained that my given name felt too familiar. I think he was just confused because you used it.  And he’s in school for programming.” More nails bit into my wrist.

Mr. Botelho took a sip of his coffee. “I work with your father - I do his imaging.  Very talented man.” I noticed he didn’t say he liked my father, just that he was talented. Oddly, that put me on a good position - I had heard the name before, I just hadn’t put it together. 

“Oh! That clicks, thank you. I knew I’d heard the name before. Yeah, Dad’s mentioned a Botelho who works in radiology before - says you’re probably the best in the department at pediatric imaging.” I turned to Lash. “My apologies about the name thing, I thought using a real name with your parents would avoid seeming too familiar. Clearly I was wrong.” 

Mrs. Botelho clicked her tongue. “So the two of you are familiar with each other? Elakshi, you should have said something sooner! And he is going into programming - very stable field, many opportunities.” She nodded as she took a sip of her chai.

“Let it go, my flower,” Mr. Botelho muttered. “It upsets her, and we do not want to fight in public.”

Tension dropped out of Lash, and she let go of my wrist to reach across the table. “Baba, I only do not want to be embarrassing. Nils is attracted to men, and I did not want to get Mama’s hopes up.” I kept up a poker face, but shifted my weight slightly in a fashion that people told me made me look gayer.

He patted her hand gently. “I fear that attempting to keep your mother’s expectations low is a Sysiphean endeavor.  After Mori married well…” He trailed off and his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “There is no hope for any of us in tempering her dreams.”

My eyes flickered between Lash and her family. Was this how families who could communicate talked? My parents and I normally just talked politics or philosophy, academic career shit, and avoided anything even remotely related to…feelings, and started getting either real cold or real explosive when that came up. “Sorry to get you excited, ma’am. But no, your daughter and I are friends. We work together. We have a class together.” 

“He tried to set me up with Imran,” Lash added, darting her eyes towards me with a glint that made me suspicious.

“Imran is her third cousin on my great-aunt’s side,” Mrs. Botelho chastised me. “And Fatima is very healthy, a good match for him.”

“And stabby,” Lash added. “Very very stabby.”

“I didn’t know he was even married!” I said, holding my hands up. “We were talking about homework and the topic of our options came up, and he walked by, so I asked her, then she explained all that.” Who even remembered family connections like that off the top of their head?

Mrs. Botelho warmed to me almost instantly, patting my hand and forcing a piece of baklava on me. “Now, Mrs. Ferreira’s grandson, Farouk - Very handsome boy, bit of a troublemaker, but he is going into business.” She pointed a finger triumphantly toward the ceiling. “If you truly are not hoping to win my daughter’s affections, he would be a fine match!”

Lash whispered quickly. “The business is drugs, and Farouk is gayer than a tree full of monkeys. She is trying to set you up.”

I blinked, slowly. Mr. Botelho rescued me from trying to respond to that by chuckling. “I don’t think we need to get our daughter’s friend matched with an entrepreneur of ‘experimental pharmaceuticals’.” His eyes did narrow slightly, then he asked a question that made me curious if he bought the story about me being gay. “How did the two of you come to meet?”

“We were partnered by our programming professor on a project,” Lash answered with flawless confidence. “The assignment was to create a small app or widget, one that wasn’t clearly based on an existing one.  We decided to make one that would let people rate coffee shops, specifically.” She gestured around us. “Obviously, I had to bring him here so he understood what a five-star rating should be.” For someone who seemed to think her mother had lie-detecting superpowers, she sold that one hard enough to almost make me believe it, and I knew she was shoveling a pile of bullshit.

“And it has replaced, without effort, the twenty four hour cafe I used to frequent. Which only scored around three stars.” I said, easily. “We’ve done a few small commissions together since then, little things for people around the community mostly. Our skillsets cover each other’s gaps pretty well.” True enough, and most of the ones we’d done together had been legal. Among those her parents would ever be able to ask about, anyway. 

Lash’s mother narrowed her eyes and pointed between the two of us, bangles clattering. “This. I like this. Partnerships are very much about complimenting each other, and this is a very good one.”

Lash groaned, dropping her head back dramatically. “Class partners, Mama. For projects.”

Apparently that didn’t help. “How do you think I met your Baba? At university - the man cannot keep track of his notes to save his life, and I am very organized. It was enough!”

“God save me, my mother missed her calling as a matchmaker,” Lash muttered, chugging the last of her latte.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #Nihilus Rex #Afterverse #modern dystopia #nils andover #Lash Dalita #traumatized characters #cyberpunk #the miys prequel #arcadian inquisition prequel

[canyouhearthelight]

I'm not crying, you're crying...

Or you will be.

#found family #fairy tales #fantasy

[canyouhearthelight]

Nihilus Rex, Ch. 14: Date Night

You didn't really think that yours truly could write this much of a story without some flat out tooth-decaying fluff at some point, did you?

I mean, who do you think I am??

But don't worry, @baelpenrose definitely did his part. Don't let his angsty ways fool you.

Hang my coat up in the first bar

There is no peace that I've found so far

The laughter penetrates my silence

As drunken men find flaws in science

Their words mostly noises

Ghosts with just voices

Your words in my memory

Are like music to me

Snow Patrol, “Set Fire to the Third Bar”

Lash

              At six forty-five on the dot, I spotted Nils from across the parking lot behind the comedy club. His expensively worn-out leather pants made me feel a little better about having braved the kohl eyeliner and mascara, along with wearing clothes that actually fit instead of the baggy cargos I wore day to day.  It looked like I overshot, though, because he started to walk right past me. 

              “It can’t be that bad,” I joked, grabbing his arm and startling him into turning around. I forced down the self-conscious feeling that tried to bubble into my throat.

              He started and then turned and stared, pale face flushing. “I uh…I’ve never seen you dressed up like this before.” His eyes flicked up and down my outfit, then fixed on my face. “You look amazing.”

              I kicked one foot playfully, looking down at my jeans and boots. “Usually I’m trying to avoid being noticed.  Pretty sure these boots were made to grab attention - they’re vintage. Borrowed them from Mama, and don’t ask why she owns them, because I don’t want to think about it.”  Thank god she did, though - cavalier boots were expensive, and these were actually real leather.

              “They look good on you. So does the sweater.” Nils took my arm. “I believe I promised you a drink?” 

              “Yes, sir. One cherry bomb, let’s go!” I tugged on his hand, leading us to the door. Without batting an eye, I handed my ID and cover to the door guy, knowing he wasn’t going to look hard enough to do the math.  Sure enough, he took the cash, handed back the card, and slapped a wristband on to show I was old enough to buy alcohol.  Nils just arched an eyebrow at me as he did the same.

              Once we were in, Nils let me lead him to the bar and delivered the orders - a cherry bomb and a Malibu sunrise. “You a fan of standup, or just the headliner?” 

              “Mmmm, bit of both,” I answered carefully. “Not a fan of the kind of standup that goes for the cheap jokes, but the headliner tonight is really clever. You don’t really expect the punchlines, it’s smart.”

              “Gotcha. So, uh. What the fuck is a cherry bomb? I’m not like. A mixed drinks expert but I know my way around a bar and I’ve never heard of that one…”

              “Ooo, you’ll have to try a sip,” I teased. “It’s cherry vodka and Redbull, kind of a big girl cosmo.  Tastes like those sour cherry candies, the bright red chewy ones.” I paused for a second before remembering. “If they’re mixed right. Some places add grenadine, and then it tastes like cough syrup.  They should be clear if they’re made right.”  Our drinks were set down right then, and I grabbed mine, taking a sip before holding it in front of his face. “See? No color.”

              Nils raised his eyebrows. “Swap sips? Thing I ordered is peach, rum, and coconut. Tastes like a melted smoothie, mostly - strong though, but it doesn’t taste like it.” 

              I reached for his, game for a little challenge. It was smooth, as promised, kind of like a fuzzy navel if it weren’t for the coconut.  Not my jam, but not bad at all.

              He took a sip of the cherry bomb and smiled. “This is excellent. Not quite my taste for a mixed drink, but amazing. Doesn’t taste like alcohol at all.”

              “I know, right? Yummy.” I turned to scope out the room before settling on a table roughly mid way back on the left hand side.  Without a word, I grabbed the first thing my hand landed on above Nils’ waist - either a pocket or a belt, I wasn’t sure - and started dragging him behind me. “Gotta snag the heckle-free table before it gets taken,” I explained when he yelped. Something wet sloshed on my arm, and I mentally promised to replace the drink I was probably now wearing.

              “Sorry!” he grabbed a napkin and started dabbing at my sleeve as we sat down. “I did not mean to splash that on you.” 

              “No worries, it’s my fault. And it’s wool, don’t worry about stains or anything.”

              “Ah.” He sat down. “How did you find out about this place originally?” 

              “Really bad day, and I wanted cheering up?” The look he gave me made it clear he wasn’t buying it, so I relented. “They actually found me.  Needed some advertising done and some security cameras set up, paid me half cash and free tickets to a show.  We’ve been loyal business partners ever since.”

              “That makes sense. So you did some art for them and did the systems for the security cams? That’s pretty awesome.” He gave me a strange look, very obviously forcing himself to keep his eyes on mine. “So you take all your shady hacker friends here, or just me?” 

              I stretched, waving at one of my favorite servers with a grin. “Nah, this is my sanctuary, kind of. Somewhere I can just be young and normal, do completely legal work for legal-in-two-weeks pay.  Please tell me you guys have poppers tonight? You were out last time, and it made me sad.” I pouted at the server with the biggest doe-eyes I could manage without laughing.

              She scowled at me for all of three seconds before cracking a smile. “Double order, extra ranch?”

              Nils pulled out a card. “Whatever she says. She’s just showing me around.” 

              I bit my lip to stifle the laugh when the server rolled her eyes and flipped her hair in mock arrogance. “Lashy-love does not pay for food.  Anything but the drinks are comped.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes again. “New guys. What are you gonna do?”

His face! “I told you it was cute when you thought you won.”

              He recovered with reasonable game. “You, Lash, are a genie and not the nice kind. Side note, you get better ‘free stuff’ contracts than I do - best I have is a nerd hobby shop that gives discounts.” He paused as he took another sip. “Though it is nice to finally get actual confirmation on your age. You’re 21 in two weeks, huh?” The lazy grin was back. 

              “For the record, I’m still trying to find volume seven of Battle Angel Alita,” I pointed out. “But yes. Lash Dalita is twenty-one as of a month ago. Elakshi is twenty-one in two weeks.”

              “That’s your name? It suits you. Thank you for telling me. Still can’t use it, right?” 

              “I would prefer you didn’t, yeah.  It’s… kind of the line in my mind that keeps my parents and sister safe.  For them, I’m Elakshi. For everyone else, I’m Lash.  Lash Dalita can get arrested without hurting my family.”

              He nodded, somberly. “I won’t use your real name. Not unless you tell me I can.” he let that sit between us. “Question though - why Dalita? I’m not an expert on Indian or Pakistani culture, but isn’t ‘dalit’ the term for…low-caste, often discriminated against?”

              Ooo, not so dumb after all. “It means ‘outcast, untouchable, undesirable’, yeah.  It’s kind of a private joke - who chooses to work with the ‘poor, discriminated against girl’, and who steers clear.”

              Nils visibly thought about saying something. “No One, apparently.” The tone made it clear that the word was capitalized. “I like your alias. Good signal for solidarity with people who need it.” 

              I winked as the plate of deep fried goodness hit the table. “You aren’t the only one with clever jokes.”

              “Clearly not.” He gestured at the guy who’d taken the stage. “Warm up acts here normally good?” 

              “He’ll either make us laugh, or make us laugh at how bad he is.  Worth finding out, right?”

              “Oh totally.” Nils leaned back. “If I can ask, and you can tell me to fuck right off, how are your family doing since…” He left unspoken the obvious. Since the liens released. Since debt stopped hanging over their heads. Since we rewrote millions of people’s financial situations. 

              I lowered my voice as the opener started what looked to be a truly poor patter. “He’s being Baba - I promise that will make sense eventually. But he doesn’t fully trust good things, so he is putting what he would pay on the car and my student loans into a separate account, just in case he has to end up paying. He says worst case scenario, he has the money to pay, best case scenario, he has extra savings. Truly a win-win, insert self satisfied expression here.  For him, that means he is happier than a pig in shit, honestly.”

              “And, if i can ask, how are you feeling about no more student loans?” There was something urgent there. His gaze snapped back to the stage and he chuckled. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about win-win with comedy. Latter option, here, but hey, it’s a warm up act.”

“Poor guy, yeah,” I chuckled, snagging a jalapeno popper and drenching it in thick ranch. “Student loans weren’t a huge problem, for me, thankfully - I got lucky. Only had a loan for my first semester, so it was something just north of seven grand.  I gave Baba the principal, he insisted on paying the interest because ‘usury is theft’, but it was something around seventy-five a month. I still give him the money, he sets it aside in savings, and I draw a couple more yaoi to make up the difference, just like before.” I took a bite of food and pointed at Nils with the other half. “By the way, South Park yaoi, real big right now.” 

“I’d say ew but my most profitable artistic side hustle was Avengers Mpreg A/B/O garbage paid by the page, so…actually, fuck it. ‘Ew, but I’ve done worse’.” He shrugged. “Amazing what internet perverts will pay for.” 

“Aww, A/B/O Mpreg not your jam? More of a tentacle guy?” I teased before giving an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t get me wrong, I have drawn entirely too many ovipositors and feet. But those so-called perverts pay really good money, so I refuse to judge them.” I did a mock toast before draining what was left of my drink. “Hmm. Water or another? The dilemma is very real.”

“I’m more of a ‘dangerous women who could kill me’ and ‘cute femboys and/or barra’ guy, which you almost certainly could have guessed from my everything, but that’s hardly the point. Also, I generally space drinks with water because it makes it take longer to get wasted and we’re gonna be here a while. Figure water first, then another?” 

“I think we do both, since the water will get refilled automatically, whereas we have to get up to get drinks. Sound good?” I pointed at the plate between us. “Besides. While I am fully capable of eating these by myself, I have no intention of doing so.”

He laughed. “I appreciate you. And yeah, sounds good.” He picked one up and took a slow bite. “Oh, holy shit this is amazing. I love this.” 

“The only place I know that makes their own,” I shook my head slowly in disbelief. “Fresh peppers, cream cheese, bacon wrapped, breaded, and fried.” I pointed to the ranch. “Don’t miss out on that shit, either. Extra garlic, extra salt, extra dill. Amazing.”

He dipped the popper in it and took a small bite, his eyes popping. “Oh my god. Lash. How did you..?” 

“I will eat jalapeno poppers from any gas station or drive through… this is all the cook in the back. Who I joyfully would one day marry, sight unseen, if he weren’t already married.” I took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Wife’s pretty cute, though. You saw her.”

Nils raised his eyebrows. “Damn. Just a husband-wife team run this place, huh? Love it.” 

I waffled a hand back and forth. “Sort of. Bartender isn’t family, and I don’t think they’re related to the owner. But if there is a good show, those two are always working.  You can imagine she cleans up on tips, between the food and - I mean, you saw her.” I gave him a sardonic look, knowing good and well the man wasn’t blind, no matter how much he was trying to make a good impression. Michelle plus pulse equaled crush, it was just physics.

“I can imagine.” He seemed to decide to take a chance, after weighing his thoughts for a second. “If I may be so bold, though, my attention was rather occupied by another young woman.” 

Thank fuck the lights were dimmed, I thought as my face heated up. “Glad to know the effort hadn’t gone to waste,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.  A hand immediately flew to my mouth and my eyes widened. “I - I didn’t mean…. Oh, god, I said that out loud…” I groaned and covered my face with both hands.

Nils was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual, something-far-away, private-joke smile, with something else he was thinking about. It was a sincere expression, with an amusement entirely in the moment. “Apparently I’m not the only one who trips over my own words sometimes either? But no, Lash.” He blushed. “I’ve noticed for a while. Hard not to when we did all that together and I got to see firsthand how brilliant you are, how hard you go for…everything.”

Applause erupted around us, and I was relieved to see the poor opener had finished his set. I felt so bad for him, but right now I was too embarrassed to do more than clap enthusiastically that neither of us had died of humiliation. “Hold that thought, I am going to get our next round of drinks. You flag down Michelle and order waters. No lemon, they don’t wash them.  And if she asks, tell her tap water. It’s the only kind they have, but she asks sometimes to figure out if people are going to tip or not.”

Nils nodded, face flushing, hopefully harder than mine. I took off to the bar, holding up a twenty to get attention. “One shot of vodka, neat.  Then a cherry bomb and a… shit. Malibu sunrise! That’s it.”  The shot was delivered first, and I downed it immediately to calm my nerves. When the other drinks appeared, I stuffed the twenty in the tip jar and paid with my card before heading back to our table.             

              “One Malibu sunrise, as promised for spilling the first one,” I proclaimed, setting the drink down with a flourish before taking my seat.  Two glasses of water and an empty shot glass were already there, and I barely set my drink down before tipping my head back with laughter, tears coming to my eyes. “Same brain, I see.  I had one at the bar.”

              “What’s your shot of choice?” The grin was back, even if the flush was still sort of there, as he, seeming to act almost by instinct, had stood up as I’d come back and sat down. 

              “Stoli,” I gasped, carefully dabbing tears from my eyes to avoid smudging my makeup. “Just the right price point that I don’t feel bad throwing back, but doesn’t burn or taste foul like the cheaper stuff. You?”

              “Jack Daniels. Cheap whiskey, you know. My grandfather was the first one in the family to make any money, said he really liked the kind of cheap stuff he grew up with. Kind of a soothing thing, and he and I were close.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but shrugged.

              “My family doesn’t drink except for holidays that require it,” I confessed. “We aren’t Muslim, by the way. A lot of people seem to think that, like I’m some black sheep or something. Baba just doesn’t get the point of drinking, and Mama is too much of a control freak. But Holi…. Hooo, you should see them.”

              “Hindu holidays then? Tell me about some of those. Google only gets me so far and I want to know more about you. What’re they like?” 

              “We’re… culturally Hindu, I guess you could say.  On Baba’s side. Mama is culturally Jewish, actually.  It’s a weird mix when it gets to holidays - Holi, then Passover, that kind of thing.  Funerals are very emotional. Beef and pork are pretty much just out of the question at home, in general.  Mama isn’t observant, so fermented foods are okay, and Baba would die without yeasted bread, I swear.  But both sides are very family oriented, so any excuse to get together is always an unbelievable amount of people.  I gave up keeping track, honestly.”

              “Big family get togethers. That sounds awesome. Complicated, but beautiful. Energetic, amazing.” 

              I wanted to ask Nils about growing up Catholic - a kind of sterility I couldn’t even fathom, honestly, in my messy, emotional family - but the headlining act came on and wasted no time in doing her audience work.  “Hands up if you’re married!  Keep them up if you came without your spouse!  And whose spouse has already messaged or called…”

              I took a long chug of water before I started laughing, knowing that I had about thirty seconds before I would start choking otherwise.  Sure enough, the first person in the crowd was called upon and Nils’ drink went spraying on the floor as some poor woman called out that her husband had texted asking where the ketchup was.

              “Okay, yeah, see why you love her.”

              “They asked if we had any clean towels!”

              I nodded, my face hurting too much from laughing to give a good response.  The second an older man shouted out that his male partner texted to ask if the partner had already had a hysterectomy, I knew any conversation was done for the rest of the set.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #nihilus rex #afterverse #modern dystopia #cyberpunk #alternate timeline #nils andover #fluff

[canyouhearthelight]

I would like to double down on the reminder, but also go ahead and bless anyone who, as @lavcircuts insisted on, decides to pull a Mariah Carey and decide you can't read when confronted with the reminder ❤️

Lav knows I love them to pieces, though.

Nihilus Rex 13: Victory Lap

Nils and Lash see the fruits of their victory, and their actual romance begins to blossom. Do please try to remember as you squee over the sparks that fly that this is the couple that ends the fucking world. I promise the villain shit is coming.

Cowritten by me and @canyouhearthelight.

Mama said

Burn your biographies

Rewrite your history

Light up your wildest dreams

Museum victories, everyday

We wanted everything, wanted everything

Panic! At the Disco, “High Hopes”

Nils

Lash texted. “Come to Uncle’s shop. You have to see this.” 

It had been a few weeks and we had been spending time together - not just for work. Off and on, for “school projects” - but also for coffee, talking politics, working on our idea for a “better world.” Calorie economy was a fun theory, one she’d brought up. We’d also been talking about philosophy, religion, life, all the things boring people tell you not to talk about.

I’d been getting to know the regulars at the shop, well enough that I’d been told to stop calling the proprietor “sir.” 

I threw on my jacket, combed my hair, and got into a pair of jeans that actually looked attractive and were designed to fit well rather than keep me from getting hurt. The shirt underneath was a button-down, looked good enough, and as I looked in the mirror I realized I’d dressed to impress.  Texted Lash to tell her I’d be over shortly, and drove to the shop as quickly as I could.

The place was alight with activity, celebration. Teenagers were running around, sure, but that was pretty standard for a Friday - there was some kind of afterschool thing that met here on Fridays, I’d learned, from the local neighborhoods. I was still trying to figure out what, exactly, they did here. I grabbed my usual, called the proprietor “sir” - and ignored his mock-annoyed glare as I dropped money in the tip jar and swiped my order off the counter, then sat down by Lash. She was, per her usual, dressed in bright colors, warm ones, yellow, red, and her dark eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“What’s going on?” 

She was practically bouncing in her seat and had a manic expression in her eye. “Lien release letters are being received. Baba’s came this morning, and…” She gestured around us before staring at me silently.

I gaped. “oh…Oh! Wow. This is…Lash…” I smiled at the sparkling in her eyes. It was unsaid between us. We did it. “That’s amazing.”

Ducking her head, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not just them… A lot of the businesses and apartments around here were apparently in the ones we sent ahead of the hack.”

I carelessly twirled the stirring stick for my coffee. “How inspiring of us.” I played it flippant but it was impossible to deny it felt amazing to have had a real, positive impact on so many lives. “Offhand and on a totally unrelated note, campus suicides around the country have had a marked drop. I wonder why.” There wasn’t a trace of glee, tinged with a tiny trace of sadness I hoped she didn’t notice. Totally. I offered her one of the pastries I’d gotten, one of the ones I knew she liked. 

She nibbled at it delicately, licking one fingertip before taking a sip of her coffee - hot this time. “When I went to the clinic with Mama, the nurses were in much better moods, too. Makes you wonder.”

“Does, doesn’t it? How much can change if we just stopped asking ‘should we change this’ and started asking ‘how?’ Just assumed it was doable and worked backwards from there? Look at all this - we saved lives, Lash. Saved homes. Saved families.” 

“Now we just need to keep from getting caught and plan our next move… Hopefully one with fewer unexpected impacts. Don’t get me wrong - in this case, they were good. But it may not happen like that next time.”

“All I heard was ‘less government backing so the gentlemen from the Treasury don’t get involved.’ Medical debt, maybe?” Holy shit, had going to ground to hide from the Feds been annoying. “Though if you’ve got some other secrets you want to dig up, I’m game.”

“We have time to think about it,” Lash admitted, popping the last bit of honey-soaked pastry into her mouth, an errant crumb sticking to her lower lip.   She didn’t seem to notice, making no attempt to brush or lick it away.

I forced myself to ignore the very real curiosity about what the baklava tasted like, and from noticing that the last crumb of them and therefore my last opportunity, was perched on her lips. “You have a thing…” I gestured, and felt I’d definitely missed something when she took up a napkin.

“Oh!” She snaked her tongue out to get the crumb before wiping any stickiness away. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

There were a handful of women who looked a bit like Lash a booth over and drew Lash’s attention to them via a subtle gesture. “How worried do I have to be about pretending to be gay right now?” Please say not very, please say not very. I don’t know if I can sell it with you right here, looking like this…

She glanced at the booth for a second. “They don’t live in my building, but I would just assume they know Mama.  Still, you should be okay as long as you don’t start flirting with me or anything.”

Unfortunate qualifiers for 1000, Alex. “Fair enough. Just curious. So, how’s business been? Things easing down for Uncle? Less trouble with various yahoos?”

“Eyeah, about that… Same-ish amount of trouble? But business is steady and he has less expenses, so he is making some plans to ‘deal with’ vandals.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “The less I know about that, probably the better.”

I thought about that. Risky situation. Him doing anything came with risks, being a Middle Eastern man in a mostly-white town. “Fair enough.” I took a slow sip from my coffee. “How’s classwork going? I know you wound up with Professor Matthews for one of your last Gen Eds, and while I don’t know if he’s more sexist or racist, I do know he can’t be making your life easy, but I had him a year and a half ago, if you want help just kinda. Getting through his course without too much trouble.” 

“Sexist, definitely, considering all assignments are online for that class and I don’t speak up in lectures,” she admitted. “You would think an Algebra professor wouldn’t care, but… yeah.”

“There is a reason women suffer in STEM and the Professor Mathewses. Matthews. Mathewii of the world, are like 90% of it,” I said, irritated. “When all you talk to is other old men, your idea of what’s acceptable to say to a woman…”

“At least I’m scraping out a C average in that class, so I’ll take it,” she sighed. “Acing my econ classes and all that, but somehow barely passing algebra.” She stabbed a spoon into her coffee with more force than strictly necessary. “At least Dr. Kwan cares about economic systems, and only economic systems. I’ll have to get a recording for you of his thoughts on the recent bank attacks - you haven’t heard it covered until you hear a man from a Communist country with a degree in Capitalism talk about it.”

“I would be very curious to hear about that to be so honest. What does an ex communist with a degree in capitalism think of the ‘anti establishment’ terrorists and their ‘as yet unidentified hacker allies’.” I was morbidly curious.

“Imagine a man with a very thick Chinese accent saying ‘that is some Commie shit’ every time a student asks about the government intervening in the ownership of property. It only gets better from there.”

“Gotcha. Generational trauma from Mao turned him into a 180 degree different kind of useless bootlicker than his government wanted.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Your sense of humor needs help. He’s making a point using humor.” The pat she gave my arm was condescending but lingered a bit more than usual. I think. “I’ll get a recording so you can hear it in context.”

“I’d appreciate that. I only had Ogilvy. You know, the Czech history prof with the interesting opinions on any kind of collective action because of his experiences in the Soviet Union?” I hoped she couldn’t see me blushing. “And I’d love any help you can offer on my sense of humor. It’s gone so well when you’ve helped with other things…” I gestured at the room around us. 

“As much as I want to keep you hanging on that one, I think I need to help just out of sheer self preservation.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking, but she pulled out her phone and scrolled for a minute. “Here we go. Comedy show Saturday, starts at 7, but the headliner goes on at 8.  Meet me there, and the less you ask about the underage drinking, the better.”

I resisted the urge to point out I’d been abusing my ADHD meds on and off, strictly worse than drinking underage, probably younger than anyone we were likely to see shitfaced. 

Then it hit me she had asked me out and I felt my heart pounding. “I appreciate the assistance. I’ll pay?” 

“I counter with I pay my own cover, you buy me one drink. A cherry bomb.”

“We each pay our own cover, I buy one drink, and I cover if we grab food after. Only fair for you showing me the place.” I grinned. “Feeding you, as requested.”

“I will gladly let you cover any food we get after we leave the club,” she grinned before sticking out her hand.

I took it, feeling a pleasant shock at the contact. “Done.”

“It’s kinda cute that you think you won that deal,” she smirked before draining her coffee.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #Nihilus Rex #Afterverse #original science fiction #modern dystopia #cyberpunk #alternate timeline #afterverse prequel #Nils Andover #Lash Dalita #friends' writing

[canyouhearthelight]

Machine is Perfect, but Flesh is Free Act Three

Here we are, the final act of our dancer's performance. As ever, I cannot thank @baelpenrose enough for his work beta-reading a story with so much going on that he didn't initially understand, and for helping me through the stickier bits.

Also, thank you to everyone who has read this story... I promise to get the page links done by the end of the week, and the master post links will be finished after this chapter. So much has been going on, and I need to get caught up, if we are being honest.

This story started out as my rendition of The Princess with Silver Hands, and then promptly got away from me. But I like it, quite a lot. I hope you do, too.

I dedicate this to the survivors.

The morning of the performance dawned with nothing short of complete and total chaotic confusion.  Even the sudden bright lights and lack of blankets had barely woken me before I found myself unceremoniously lowered into a bath.  Sputtering as I pulled myself from below the surface of the water - only decade long habits kept me from pushing with the recently earned strength in my legs - I shouted in alarm with my first breath.

“What is going on!?” I begged in confusion, looking around for a way to page a guard.

Urus’s voice came gruffly from just beyond the screen. “Performance day preparations.”

“Perform - “ I tried to wrap my mind around what he had just said. “Today!?”

“Apparently.”

It was completely out of character - Master Arik’s household had always been run with a precision that would have made a hive queen envious. “When was this announced? Why did M.Russo not tell me?” For the second time in less than a year, my entire world view was being broken apart and rearranged.

“Imagine the news is being delivered now, with his coffee and toast.”

Coffee. I wasn’t permitted anything with caffeine, but the scent was always tantalizing. “May I have some coffee today?”

A rough laughter echoed off of what felt like every corner of my rooms. “Absolutely no deviation from your performance day schedule.”

I scowled as my hair was washed, irritated by the joy Urus seemed to be taking in rejecting my request.

Once I was scrubbed, buffed, and stuffed into my warm-up clothes, Urus himself took the handles of my chair to usher me to the studio. We were greeted by a bleary and somewhat unkempt M. Russo, who grumbled as guards took up posts in corners of the space - again, in completely contrast to what typically occurred. “It is only for the fact that we have been rehearsing for far too long that I am not demanding to see that Master Arik is sane with my own eyes,” he muttered as my nerve blocks were administered.

Painstakingly, we went through each stretch and position as thoroughly as possible.  Gene hacks meant no need to be concerned for sweat ruining my hair, which was lacquered into immobility regardless.  Instead, M. Russo checked my temperature every half hour, barking to the guards to have ice water and cold packs brought as needed to keep me from overheating.  A final costume fitting had to be done in between stretching sessions, much to the chagrin of the utterly terrified seamstress.  I thought she would die of heart failure on the spot when she presented my new shoes for the performance, only to have M. Russo throw them across the studio.

“Unlace your shoes,” he commanded me.  Once I obediently handed them over, he tossed them at the poor woman’s feet. “Recover these.”

“Sir, these are nearly dead - “

“They only need to last fifteen minutes,” he barked in his most stern tone, one I knew brooked no argument. “We do not have time for them to break in a new pair. These are already broken in, they are just ugly. Recover them.”

“I do not have - “

M. Russo leaned to stare into her eyes. “If we give them new shoes, and even one blister appears after the performance, Master will whip you or worse.  For your own sake, ask the guards to send for whatever you need, but recover these shoes.”

That was all it took.  While she sent for materials, removed ribbons, and measured the shoes, M. Russo had me stretch and flex every joint in my body from the floor.  It was only as my headpiece was being sewn into my hair that the seamstress walked up to Urus. She set the newly covered shoes on the ground, wrapped in her own apron. “I need you to step on these please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but M. Russo cut him off. “The new glue is too stiff, and we do not have time to hammer and break it. You are the largest person here, Urus. Step on them please, until they no longer crack.”

For the first time in my life, I realized that M. Russo was higher in the household than Urus, as the head of my security detail closed his mouth angrily and started crushing the toe boxes with a loud, satisfying crunch.  While he took care of that, I was stripped and sponged off while the seamstress applied one last spray of starch to my costume.  Before I knew it, I was tucked into a robe and in my chair, to be whisked to the performance hall, for the first time with M. Russo following closely.

Where the journey to backstage was normally a blur, I made a point to pay attention to my surroundings: servants darting around with arms full of linens, vases of flowers, or trays of food.  The last part, I paid the most attention to, as Master Arik’s keep did not contain livestock or edible gardens.  I knew the path between the studio and the stage by heart, so I made a note of what artwork was near the doors I saw servants emerging from with full arms, curious where they led.

I did not get to wonder for long, as we were soon at the part where I was being sewn into my costume, pointe shoes tied on as securely as possible.  My familiar, worn shoes felt far heavier than recovering should have accounted for, and I rolled my feet around to adjust. 

M. Russo nodded approvingly. “She thickened the platform on the outside so that they do not die while you are performing.”

Once I was standing, I rolled onto pointe several times, taking tiny steps and checking the weight with an arabesque before nodding. “They will do.”

“They will have to,” Urus grumbled mockingly.

I could tell M. Russo wanted to argue, but was cut off as the orchestra’s warm-up ended. I took my mark, a circle laid into the floor - one I knew would rise into an incredibly narrow platform.  I had been told it was to demonstrate the precision and balance of the turns I would be doing, but strongly suspected an ulterior motive.  Namely, that if there was any chance of another person trying to shoot me, they would have a more isolated target.  The insurance on a stagehand - staff - was fairly small and paid to the family. Insurance on me - property - was far more and paid directly to Master Arik. I wasn’t terribly intelligent, but even I had figured that much out.

The music started properly, curtain parting to bring my focus to the present. The piece was a very long, original composition, tailored to the limit of my endurance - fifteen minutes, according to M. Russo. Any longer, and I started to show symptoms of heat exhaustion.  For Mme. Boulvais’ sake, I was far more worried about my shoes.

The platform started to rise at number thirty-two, and gasps of awe echoed at fifty once people realized what was happening.  By the time I was halfway through my second set of left-handed turns - eighty seven, eighty eight - the platform had stopped and I estimated I was two full stories above the stage, pivoting on a pillar barely wider than one of my feet was long.

And bored. I was so bored of spinning.  The music meandered, cresting and falling, as I mentally counted off turns.  Yes, this would look impressive from the outside.  Yes, it would increase my stock and hopefully bring my parents out of poverty finally.  But the reality was that, between pain inhibiting nerve blocks and the mostly-mechanical nature of my legs, the only thing that was straining were my shoulders and neck. Two hundred and four, two hundred and five…

If I never had to do another turn - not even a pirouette or chaine - after this, I could die happily.

Murmurs reached my ears, even past the orchestra in front of the stage. It turned into thunderous applause as the tempo of the music increased - as did my spinning.  Even though I could not see beyond the lights that were close to eye level and could not become dizzy besides, I made sure to spot in the exact same place each time - directly toward Master Arik, as always.  A simpering show of ‘gratitude’, as pointless as it was empty.  When a loud crack sounded, I pushed through just as M. Russo had insisted should anything disrupt this performance.  The applause turned into unseemly cheering.

After the second crack, angry shouts began and the music ground to a discordant halt.  I realized that I hadn’t been hearing any cheers at all - they were screams.

Shoving down my panic even as I cursed myself, I continued my now-morbid performance in silence.  What else could I do, two stories above the stage, knowing I would be even easier to shoot if I were still?

The third crack caused the platform to shake, and then sway from the force of my turns.  It began to tip, forcing me to come to a stop.  At the last moment, I realized it was collapsing and I would fall to the stage either way.  In a moment of sheer terror, with all the audacity I had, I jumped, choosing to let my enhanced and reinforced legs to take the brunt of the plummet.

Even with the nerve blocks, I could feel something shift horribly in my feet before the force of my fall caused me to roll forward involuntarily.  When I came to a stop, I glanced into the crowd in hopes they had caught the shooter.  My eyes came to rest on a man pointing an object at me, a guard behind him with a gun to his head, and my heart shattered.  Disgust and anger were the only things I found in the features of the shooter, like I was an abomination, a sin against humanity.  And then the guard fired, leaving the body to drop to the ground.  I screamed as the last anchor of my steady, predictable world was erased, familiar cane still in one strict and strong hand of the now-headless body, improvised gun not far from the other.

Someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me, breaking me out of my emotions. “Did you know?” a harsh voice demanded.

I snapped my head around, yanking my arm free of Urus’ grip. “You’re hurting me,” I threatened.

He pulled the arm he still held, navigating me off stage and toward my chair. “Did you know anything about Russo’s plan?”

I stormed ahead of him, forcing him to let go. “You are asking if I knew that the only person other than you in my entire life here who was trusted to be left alone with me wanted to kill me?” I stopped in front of my chair, turned, and stared at him blankly as my costume was cut from my body unceremoniously.

He scowled and pulled out the counteragent to my nerve block. I held up one hand, knowing I couldn’t stop him if I tried and beyond caring at this point. “Please let them remove the hairpiece first.”

The seamstress, Mme Boulvais, was less polite. “It is sewn into their hair, and then glued. Removing it will hurt very badly and cause bleeding if they are not still.  It is better if they cannot feel it.”

The nerve block did nothing for my body above the waist, but only I and the doctor knew that.  I certainly wasn’t telling Urus such information while I stood on what was likely a badly sprained or dislocated foot.  And as long as I stood, my shoes could not be removed, concealing it.  Instead, Mme Boulvais stood on a box to dissolve the glue and carefully cut away the threads with a deft hand, ignoring the runners constantly updating Urus along with the two guards who glanced about furtively, fingers on triggers.

The headpiece was finally free, and she stepped down and bent to start unlacing my shoes. Urus, again, stepped forward with the injectors, and I refused to watch, instead staring down at my shoes. They survived, I thought numbly. My practically-dead pointe shoes had survived intact, and tears came to my eyes as I realized I had made a decision I didn’t even realize I was contemplating.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered hoarsely.  Mme Boulvais whipped her head up to hear me better, and as my leg cracked into her chest and throat, forcing her to the ground to gasp for air, I realized it may have saved her life.

Judging by the sound I heard when I caught Urus in the jaw with my damaged foot, and how he fell so limply, he may not have been so lucky. “A kick like that could kill a man,” Arik had said.  The remaining guards stared dumbly, not knowing what to do when they had been trained to protect me and avoid harming me at all costs.

I ran. Damaged foot, one pointe shoe still on, and mostly naked, I ran through the hallways until I reached the first door I recognized as one I had seen servants coming from with armfuls of clean laundry. As I ran inside, I startled a young woman, causing her to drop the contents of her arms.

She swiftly squatted to gather them again. “You scared me, running in here like demons were chasing you!” She glanced up with a sparkle in her eye, but it faded as she took in my appearance.  Pure panic at being found out was hammering all the way to my fingertips as she shook her head and stood, dropping the laundry again. “Damned two-legged demons, more like it,” she spat angrily. “Pretty thing like you, running in here, bare as the day you were born.”

To my shock, she started rifling through stacks on the shelves, pulling out a shirt after a moment. “Sa bit big, but warm. Breeches or skirts?”

“What?” I asked dumbly.

“To cover up. Do you want breeches like a man, or skirts like a woman?”

“I’ve never been asked what I wanted to wear…”

She muttered something about wool socks before turning and giving me a look that reminded me of Mme Boulvais. “Pretty as you are, whoever you’re running from will know you in a skirt, sure as the dawn. Better be breeches…. Cook has a lanky one, where are - ah!” She seemed triumphant at the folded square the found, and handed the entire stack to me. “Here. Undershirt, shirt, jacket, breeches, socks. Better to look like a kitchen boy, no one pays them any attention.”  With that, she turned her back to me.

“What?”

“Get dressed, and I’ll take you to the kitchens.”

“Oh.” I felt like an idiot, but a grateful one.  When I had run away, I hadn’t had a plan, and here was this woman handing one to me. “I think I’ve got everything on right,” I said finally.

As soon as she turned, she heaved a breath. “Never worn breeches, I see. Lacing goes in the front, like a boy. Ladies lace clothes in the back.”

Finally, we were sorted out, and I was following her like a baby duck, a stack of what she swore were towels in my arms. I felt rather than saw as we entered the kitchens, the immediate and overwhelming warmth reminding me of a bath. “Marie-Jeanne!” a robust voice called out. “I thought you were carrying sheets now!”

“Hush, Therese,” my escort scolded lightly, as though she didn’t mean it. “I missed you and brought you towels and gossip. Lots going on upstairs! And I found Jean-Rene, I know you were looking for him.”

Alarmingly quickly, the towels were removed from my arms, and a pair of warm, callused hands gently grabbed my chin. An older woman, stout and red-faced from the heat, looked at me. Carefully, she spoke. “Yes, Jean-Rene has been ill and wandered off in his fever. Thank you for finding him. Let me get you both some soup, and you can tell me the gossip while I make sure he eats.” She flicked a towel near me, carefully not touching me with it. “Silly child, wandering around this keep like that when you’ve been sick.”

Without another word, she steered us into a room with bags upon bags of dried things, pointing one finger firmly at a large sack while staring me down. “Marie-Jeanne, you will tell me exactly what is going on when I come back.”  The woman - Therese, apparently - did not even leave the room, just opened the door to retrieve a tray that she seemed to know would be there.  My eyes widened at the sight of thick, buttered bread next to two bowls.  Actual food, not just porridge.

I ate as fast as the steaming stew would let me while Marie-Jeanne explained how we had encountered each other. It turned out that she thought I was an escaped and abused courtesan, and even at that would have brought me here without question. When she was finished, Therese looked at me in pity.

Holding out my bowl, I forced myself to speak. “I don’t think I can stay here. I think I killed a man.”

Two sets of eyes widened in my direction. “My nephew, Jean-Rene, helps with the deliveries when farmers bring tithe. You could leave with them, if you can be still. Can you do that?”

I thought about the neuro blocks in my legs, and how they would eventually wear off. “I can sit still better than anything, if I can have help getting there. I’m on painkillers, and they’ll wear off eventually.  I can still walk,” I rushed to explain. “I’ve worked really hard on that. But not very far.”

“Nasty fuckers,” Therese spat, looking meaningfully at Marie-Jeanne. “Keep people enslaved with drugs.”

If you only knew. I thought about all the expensive medical science in my legs, all to make me a pretty paper doll who could only function with my master’s permission. “Once the painkillers wear off, I only hurt if I move. So I can be very still.”

Therese and Marie-Jeanne stood, as though that settled the matter. Marie-Jeanne spoke this time. “I’ll send someone in here to lay down some beans and rice for you to lay on. Jean-Rene is a lazy boy, so no one will blink if you’re laying down out of the way.  Our next delivery is in a week, may be longer if Master Arik starts searching everything after what I heard about upstairs.” Therese elbowed her and she rolled her eyes. “That fancy dance instructor started shooting people, and the ballerine is missing.  Shame, really. I hear the performances are incredible.”

Therese’s eyes flicked to me before turning away to grab a jar of beans. “Mmm. I would rather be down here cooking and chattering, being left alone as long as everyone is fed. Even golden cages hold lonely birds, I think.  Might be he shot the ballerine and Master Arik is covering it up.”

Marie-Jeanne snorted. “Better for the ballerine, I think.”

#original fiction #science fiction #original writing #original science fiction #traumatized characters #writeblr #original sci fi #machine flesh #cyberpunk #dystopian fiction #biohacking #my writing

[canyouhearthelight]

Nihilus Rex, Ch. 12: Aftermath

Here we have what should be the last really technical chapter for...hopefully the rest of the book. Fingers crossed. Although I am sure we can sneak some more stuff here and there if someone asks for more technical stuff, just not so many unending chapters of it.

As always, on the even-numbered chapters, I wrote while @baelpenrose co-wrote and beta'd.

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We'll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

Fall Out Boy, “Centuries”

Lash

“I heard it was part of a bigger hack.”

“Everything I’ve seen about that goes back to some QAnon boards. They think everything is a conspiracy.”

My heart rate picked up just a bit as I looked over dozens of similar conversations across several message boards.  It was entirely too close to home, but felt completely surreal at the same time - I had been part of a coordinated attack against major financial institutions, and no one even believed the scale of what had actually happened.  Not even the people directly impacted, if everything from our botnets was accurate.

In the immediate aftermath, over truly horrendous spinach pie and far too many dolmades, Nils and I had kicked around what-ifs and half-assed contingencies.  It had all boiled down  to keeping an eye on our feeds, waiting for updates from Bishop if he caught anything, and laying low until the attack had aged out of the news cycle.  If online communities started piecing anything together, the plan was to sow misinformation and redirect.

We had definitely called it on the news portion - pundits were still arguing over whether the slain men were heroes of the middle class out to free people from the bonds of financial indenture, or anti-capitalist villains trying to destabilize the global economy.  Every late night show had a self-referential monologue about the deceased, followed by a person-on-the-street segment with split opinions like some ghoulish, real world version of the Boondock Saints.  No one could agree if their goal had been just the one attack, or if there was a secret manifesto somewhere with their ultimate strategy.  What everyone did agree on, however, from the Department of the Treasury, to the OCC, to all major news networks, was that the people responsible had been gunned down by police.  Body camera footage had been released, sometimes uncensored, with all six men declaring loudly that no one else was involved, nobody had put them up to this, nothing had inspired them. 

No One. Nobody. Nothing.  Anyone who had interacted with Nils online and had two brain cells left to rub together would have known immediately.

Except… Our damage control had done its work for us.  Every single time I had been alerted that someone was suggesting a larger plan, the same response had come: That’s QAnon nonsense. A conspiracy. I bet you think the moon landing was fake, too.

Nils had joked about his handle then. “Would you buy that my handle is also an Odyssey reference to be a contingency for exactly this?” He’d said, half joking.

I squinted, half smiling at the memory. “I bet your minion morons believe that.  I do not.  Especially not having seen how far back your handle goes, in some form or another.” She waggled a bite of food at him. “Nice try, though. The bravado almost sold it.”

“Fair enough. Speaking of handles, Lash. Can I get your real name?” He’d said, as they’d shared dinner after the fact. “I haven’t tracked it down as a matter of respect, but we’ve been friends for a while and I would like to know. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“You aren’t allowed to use it,” I had made him promise. Something about sharing my first name had always felt too… exposed. “Not in person, not via text, not at all.”

He’d given that weird smile that seemed almost like his signature, the one that seemed like he was laughing at something somewhere else, and said, “I promise. I’ll only call you Lash.”

“Then I will tell you when all this dies down and you can’t rat me out to the authorities.” He hadn’t been expecting that, and I winked at his shock. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Not like you would rat me out anyway.” Truth be told, I liked having him at something of a disadvantage.

He inclined his head at a little bow, “As you wish, Lash.” He raised a glass. “This was really fun though. Good working with you.” 

Now, I was staring feeds on three monitors, a week out, watching the entire financial sector and public refuse to believe anything more serious had happened than six armed men breaking into a major bank Guy Ritchie-style.  All three of us had expected some form of damage control, but there was nothing to control.

Almost like I had cursed myself, my phone started buzzing violently across my desk, sending me to my feet hard enough to almost knock my chair over.  “Spam Spam” showed up on my caller ID - Bishop.

“Please take me off whatever list this is,” I answered carefully. Bishop did not call me. He messaged me through about a million proxies, but calling was a no-no.  Paranoid did not begin to describe the man’s communication habits.

“Just a moment of your time, Miss,” the voice came through. “I am calling on behalf of Bloomberg to offer you a one year subscription for only $1 per week. That’s all your basic financial and stock news, for $52 a year.”

“That’s nice, but I’m broke,” I sighed, taking note of the site before hanging up.

My stomach sank when the phone buzzed again, this time a message from Nils. “Uh. Quick meetup somewhere secure. We may have overshot slightly. In a good way.” 

Definitely not good. “Let’s meet at the usual spot. We need to talk about the project for class, anyway.” I sent the message and didn’t even check for confirmation before gathering my stuff with one hand while I checked my news skimmer with the other.

Well, fuck.

Nils was waiting at the shitty hacker cafe, and he looked tense, eyes sharp. He barely waited for me to sit down. “So. There’s a thing. Remember when we were making the worm? And we had to shave some stuff off to make it small enough to still function? And we had to simplify some of its seeking parameters? Uh…it…I just realized that everything in Blackbox…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. “You and B reached out within about five minutes of each other, and he managed to tell me to check the news. I saw. We overshot by a couple orders of magnitude, yeah.”

“Yeah. Explains why no damage control. Until someone leaked it, I don’t know that they were legally allowed to admit it could be hacked.” 

“We need coffee,” I stammered out, running a hand over my head. “And B. But coffee first.” Without waiting, I bounced up and ordered for us both. When I came back to the table, he was bouncing a knee - not out of place in a place that specialized in caffeine addiction for the ADHD set, thankfully. “I don’t suppose you carry a flask or something? Could only make it taste better.”

“My flask is for energy drinks when I need caffeine in emergencies because my head is starting to hurt from withdrawals, so, no. It absolutely would not. I appreciate the suggestion though.” Nils’ voice was flat. “I’ll reach out to B and tell him to get over here. We have a bit of a security concern to address. A slimy, perverted security concern to address.” 

“He doesn’t know my actual name or my face,” I told him pointedly. “I’ll drive the bus if you’ll do the throwing, it comes to that.”

“He knows your handle, he’s better than we are at breaking encryptions and worse about boundaries, he absolutely knows your name.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to trust any records scavenged from a defunct elementary school or a birth certificate. Those are the only places my actual name is listed. I don’t even drive.” I thought about it for a minute. “But backing up his stuff remotely to make sure we have any sex trafficking or worse would be a good idea.”

“Honestly I was thinking simpler. We have a crime that he was accomplice to, he can’t blackmail us without incriminating himself without claiming he didn’t know what it would be used for. He might get immunity for the tip, but that takes time. He’s attempted to solicit you for indecent shit a lot, and attempted to get me to engineer…basically letting him do sex crimes, a few times. I kept the messages after turning him down, you? If nothing else it kills his credibility as a witness and ruins any ability he has to get us convicted of anything.” 

I gave him a dirty look. “What kind of amateur do you think I am? I have all my dirt on everyone backed up where no one can find it except me or my parents. External drives, somewhere safer than that server we just fucked up.”

“Of course, my apologies.” He looked a little calmer with the idea that Weasel was handled. “They’ll try to trace us but our databombs will have made such a brutal hash of anything they could trace that they won’t know where to start looking. At a guess they’ll move to a different system against future hackers - and I don’t envy the next suckers to try this.” 

I tapped my chin, trying to think what Bishop would point out. Something simple we would be missing. I wasn’t good a peopling, but Bishop was surprisingly adept - “They have six dead bodies, a drive designed to fuck shit up, and six cell phones that had been in contact with you.  So, first link is you. Let’s start there.”

“Burn phone, pre-paid, cash, with an out of state number, picked up ages ago for something else entirely, under an alias I no longer use, again invented for something else entirely, and called through wifi service using a vpn. Said burn phone has now been utterly destroyed with its remains scrubbed of fingerprints and the remains tossed into a dumpster, whilst I was not carrying my normal phone, on the opposite side of town from where we normally spend any time. I think that about covers it.” 

“I don’t ever want to hear anyone say women watch too much true crime,” I muttered. “You literally could have just taken it apart and used a belt sander on it, handed the pieces to a makerspace. Or donated it to a Goodwill bin.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.”

Bishop showed just after that, making a point to ignore us while getting his coffee and sitting at a table two over from us, facing away.

“I knew getting involved with both of you at once would get exciting. So. We want to talk about what you little maniacs have been discussing before I got here so I can go over what you missed?” B’s voice was vaguely amused, and a little tense. “I should mention, I’ve already gotten a message from Weasel. He put it together. Hopefully you two have a contingency for that.” 

“Oh, the usual,” I answered airily, arching a brow at Nils. “Blackmail and making sure there aren’t any other tracks to cover. Nils overdid it with his phone, but it should work.”

Harvey’s voice took on an amused note. “Alright then. I’ll tell Weasel to pound sand. Am I to take it you kids had fun the night of the job?”

“Food was hit or miss, and there was some half-delirious contingency planning around damage control.” I rubbed my face. That felt like a decade ago.

Nils was looking embarrassed and Harvey looked amused as the older man continued. “Pity. You two were getting really wound up and I was hoping you’d be able to take a load off that night. From the looks of things, Nils’ usual bullshit and choice of pawns is working out on deflecting suspicion against a bigger conspiracy - I think the feds are reluctant to give conspiracy wingnuts credibility.”

Someone isn’t paying attention to politics, I mused internally. On the surface, I just smiled and took a sip of my coffee, suppressing a grimace at how bitter and nasty it was. Cold brew…. How hard did you have to try to fuck up cold brew, I swear. “Either way, the damage had controlled itself so far.  Any updates since you called? I checked my skimmers right after, but the news was sparse.”

“So far an announcement that 4Chan white supremacist boards are going to be looked at more seriously as a breeding ground for stochastic terrorism coming from the FBI, unsurprisingly now that they’re affecting rich people.” 

Nils gave an evil chuckle. “Oh good, that’s a pot I was stirring a bit ago. Unmanaged retaliation against cops in a predictable timeframe for whatever happens to them and we can let the system eat itself and look away from us, thank you very much…”

The only reason my head didn’t bounce off the table when I dropped it is because my arms cushioned the fall. “Don’t get me wrong!” I held a hand up blindly. “After the revenge porn thing, yes, scrutinize breeding grounds. And at least everyone knows the guys who are currently taking the fall are not - “ I pointed at myself emphatically. “But I am not a fan of ‘unmanaged’ retaliation against a group with airtight legal protections and a poor track record of reading perp stats correctly.” It was the most polite way I could say ‘racist assholes’ without everyone in the cafe looking at me.

“Options: I have to actively take command of the right wing gun nuts a la some shitty real life Code Geass-ripoff shenanigans to manage them, or I let their anti-government shit lead them to fight actual problems for a change, or I let them continue believing that the Jews were running the world and that everyone who couldn’t pass a paper bag test were their foot soldiers in need of shooting - right as the ax was about to fall on them. Guess which option I figured involved the least collateral damage? If you prefer I decide to go whole hog on the aesthetic and try ripping off Lelouch vi Britannia harder, which to me seemed worse than telling them they were going to have a cop problem rather than a Jews run the world problem…” Nils response was less annoyed than exhausted, and unlike our previous conversation where it was clear that he hadn’t thought it out and felt bad about it, his tone indicated that he’d thought this one through and had simply picked the least evil available option he saw. 

Thankfully, Bishop’s unending focus on ‘simplest solution is best solution’ saved me palm abrasions and an assault charge from strangling the cute but dumb motherfucker on the spot. “Since the heat right now is on an actual breeding ground for incels, alt right, and revenge porn entrepreneurs, we could just let them chase their tails and keep laying low. White collar crime is historically white, et cetera, ipso facto Columbo Oreo.”

“I like that idea,” I agreed, putting as much reluctance as possible behind the sentiment. Realistically, Nils as Commander and Chief of the Fucknuckle Wingnut Army was not giving me the warm and fuzzies.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #nihilus rex #afterverse #science fiction #original science fiction #traumatized characters #modern dystopia #modern fiction #my writing #friend's writing

[canyouhearthelight]

This is largely the premise of a space horror, I want to say "Blindsight" by Peter Watts.

And it is exceptional. I cannot stress that enough.

So, something I learnt the other day. So, you know how dinosaurs supposedly can't see you if you stand still? Well that myth is based on real-life lizards/etc and how eyes in general work. So, once my dad starts infodumping, here comes some other cool information. We, humans, can in fact, also not see something unless it's moving. We fixed this by having our eyes constantly shake. And then our brain compensates for us, so we don't have to have shaky vision.

What if aliens don't have this? Like. What if they find out when one of us was looking at something in the distance, and they walk around this thing that's in front of them, and the alien is confused so they bob their head and oh, there's a thing there, but how did the human know that, and then we explain and they're like, horrified.

Humans are apex predators. They can hunt in packs. They can hunt in pairs. They can hunt on their own. They're persistance predators, which is unheard of. They get stronger when they're mad or scared. They have this thing called 'body language' which acts like a type of hivemind, even if they'll claim it isn't. And. They can see you. When you're not moving. They can still see you. If you ever find yourself in a fight against a human, for whatever reason? Run. Run as fast as you can. And hope, pray if you have a religion, that they won't follow.

#humans are space fae #humans are space orcs #humans are the weird ones #humans are space australians #earth is a deathworld #humans are deathworlders

[canyouhearthelight]

Machine is Perfect, but Flesh is Free Intermission

This chapter is longer than either of the previous two, and if I am correct, it is possibly longer than both combined. So hopefully that helps make up for the amount of technical things around dance that appear. For anyone who wants full context of what is going on: 1) the MC is dancing a deliberately more difficult variation of the Yuka Fukuda solo of Esmeralda.... which is already difficult enough. Every step happens on a beat, and there is not a lot of music for the piece and NO room for error, because the dancer has to kick a tambourine. Our MC is doing these kicks over their head rather than above it, which I think I have seen one dancer do only for the first portion. You can just search "Yuka Fukuda Esmeralda" to see the real one. 2) "The Fouettes" (fweh-tehs) refers to the Odette solo from Swan Lake. It is notoriously one of the most difficult passages to dance in ballet, and is also referred to as "The Thirty Two Fouettes". Spin spin spin, identically... it's exhausting, and it hurts. But if you have bionic legs and feel no pain when performing, you can imagine how boring it sounds. I swear I'm not disparaging the passage, but our MC experiences none of the things that make it hard. 3) There are two main versions of the fouette (the spin, not the passage), Italian and Russian. It actually takes less time to look up a video than listen to an explanation, and people have BIG opinions about which one is better.

All that said, thanks to @baelpenrose for making it through all these explanations the first time when I was writing it. On with the show!

For several weeks following my interrupted performance, I lived in the rehearsal studio with next to no contact from anyone except Urus and the doctor. Even M. Russo was banished from his place of power, and from the shouting I was barely able to hear through the door, he was incredibly displeased about the situation.  Urus grumbled about having to bring me meals and throughout the newly added watching me while I ate. No more solid foods, only some perfectly nutritious and perfectly flavorless concoction with a texture between porridge and puree.

Two weeks into my seclusion, my surly warden finally slipped, just a bit. “Food like that for every meal, I would dive in front of the next bullet,” he muttered.

I coughed, startling him.  Waving him off, I shook my head. “Bullet?” I gasped, trying to clear my throat.

He handed me a cup of water. “What about a bullet?”

The bowl of nutrients was set on my lap so I could turn my head and scowl at him. “The doctor said the bullet missed someone entirely the night I was brought here, and you just mentioned jumping in front of one now. I’m not deaf, no matter how much everyone likes to pretend I’m some windup doll. What bullet?”  It was the most words I had ever spoken directly to him, and from the look on his face, I had caught him off guard.

“Someone tried to shoot you while you were performing,” he explained slowly. “With a gun.” One hand dropped to his hip where he kept his holstered.

“Me?” I blurted out in shock. “Why? I’m not important, just a toy. Not even a pet.” I pitched my voice up as far as I could. “ ‘Wind up the little ballerina, let them dance’.”

That earned a more familiar sneer. “Poor little pet, to be kept so expensively and lavishly that you don’t even need to walk anywhere for fear of bruising your feet.”

“Yes, my pretty little golden cage.” I lifted the bowl and swallowed the contents as quickly as I could, wincing as I refused to let it come back up. Gasping as I finished, I held it out. “I’ve eaten. Your punishment is done for now.”

He ignored me for several minutes, until my arm was burning and shaking. I refused to beg or acknowledge our standoff until the bowl was removed from my hand.  As soon as I heard the door lock behind him, I let out a deep breath. Inhaling again and bracing myself, I slowly flexed my feet.  Pain spiked up through me, but I grit my teeth and focused on breathing with every movement.  The most recent treatments from Master Arik made it impossible for sweat to bead on my forehead, but my eyes and mouth felt feverish when I stopped for the water that was always within arms reach.

The memory of dancing - leaping, kicking, flying - warred with how quickly I was brought to exhaustion by the pain from something as simple as flexing my ankles and feet.  Since M. Russo was not allowed in the studio while I was being kept here, there were no rehearsals and therefore no need for nerve blocks, leaving me in full pain with every movement of my legs.  After another drink of water, my anger was burning hotter than my body. “Kick,” I commanded my legs. But only so fast, my teacher’s voice echoed in my mind as I strained against my own body to lift one leg, and to resist the urge to drop it.

“Again.” Breathe. My body could do this - had done this. Again and again. Only so fast, only so high, I reminded myself. Limits. When my eyes and mouth were hot again, I stopped for more water and to cool down. Another limit. 

In the ten winters I could remember being here, I had been very aware of my situation, but Urus’s comments today had been the first time I realized that perhaps I was the only one other than Master Arik who was aware. Clearly, Urus thought I was a pampered thing - what if he did not realize what the injections were?

I worked persistently at my own mobility, and it seemed that every small success woke my mind even further.  Where I had surrendered, been complacent to my existence of agony with brief rewards of relief when I behaved, now I was suspicious and curious of everything.  I was increasingly aware of how long it was taking to secure my personal quarters, where the studio had taken only a day or so.  Plots and accusations lurked in every corner of my mind that suddenly had light shining in them - why did the serving people never speak when they attended me before? Why was Urus assigned to me and me alone?  Surely Arik had other trophies - why had I never seen or heard of them?

Instead of keeping time by the things done to me - baths, meals, rehearsals I was led to and from - I began marking time by what I could do. I could slowly kick my legs five hundred times in a row each before needing to stop for water.  I could hold both feet in front of me for fifteen minutes at a time without assistance, ignoring the sharp electric razors spiking through them without a headache.

By the time I was released from my isolation in the studio, I could hold my knees to my chest with only the muscles in my legs and stomach  for an astonishing five minutes.  I had not dared to stand, but was contemplating the attempt when the locks on the entrance slammed open and Master Arik entered, accompanied by Urus and three other guards.  My back was to the door and viewing glasses, but I still dropped my feet quickly to their rests in my chair before even his brisk step could come around to face me.

“It is a good day,” he started without preamble. “Full of good news.  The man who tried to kill you has been executed, and your new quarters are finally ready.”

“Kill me?” I asked stupidly.

He waved my concern away. “Someone sent to hurt me by stealing you, once your value became known.  Thankfully, you were not injured, but measures had to be taken.”

Was I so valuable that someone would kill me to hurt him? I doubted it, but he seemed quite certain, so I nodded along. “And new rooms?”

“And a new insurance policy,” he assured. “To reflect your new value.”

Urus nodded towards my bedding and personal effects before grabbing my chair. Mechanically, I followed the script that was ingrained in me. “And my parents?”

“Compensated to reflect your rising stock,” Arik responded. Where before I had only been concerned that my family was not starving, now I was suspicious that the answer was equally rote and mechanical to my question.

With that, our accustomed exchange had ended, and Master Arik was supervising my removal from the studio space, ignoring me again.  I focused on keeping my features slack and dull, but this time I paid as close attention as possible to what was being said around me.  I learned I was being taken to the second floor, not the third - apparently my quarters had been on the third floor.  The studio, I found out, was on the fourth.  Instead of the sloped corridors, I was to be taken by elevator, which was a luxury I had never been afforded, but was apparently more secure.

Despite my new rooms being further away, the journey was far shorter.  The doors, like the ones on the rehearsal space, were keyed to the genetic pattern Master Arik’s doctors had placed in me.  Only he, Urus, and the doctor could enter without an escort - and myself, obviously, but it was left unsaid that the idea of my leaving under my own power was laughable.  The poor paper dancer could not walk, after all.

Once we entered, Arik turned with his arms extended, a smile on his face. “The walls have been reinforced, the windows filled and shuddered on the exterior with plates. To ensure your safety, obviously.” Leaning over, eyes cold, he flicked the end of my nose, his false grin never budging. “No need for cameras anymore. Any and all items and persons to enter and leave will be checked and accompanied by security.”

No windows. No more birds. No more clouds. A more secure cage than ever.

My face must have betrayed nothing that concerned him, as he stood and clapped his hands once. “Sleep tonight, and tomorrow you will perform.”

I shook my head, confused. “Perform? Not rehearse?”

He clucked his tongue. “You still need to complete your performance as Esmeralda.  It will be in the studio, and only myself and M. Russo will be in attendance, but you will be recorded so that your stock can be valued.  It is not ideal, but it will have to suffice.  Currently, your value is contingent.”

“I understand, Master Arik,” I muttered numbly.  I understood nothing, except that I had no say in the matter.

Striding to the door, he turned to Urus, who followed at his elbow. “Have dinner brought and have them bathed properly. They will be dressed here in the morning and brought to the studio for exhibition.”

—-

After a nearly sleepless night, I was roused from a fitful half-sleep by the lights in my quarters being turned on - no dawn noises, no slivers of sunrise, just a sudden bright pain stabbing through my eyelids.  Groggily, I allowed myself to be washed again, shoved into my costume, makeup slathered on my face.  My nerve blocks were not applied until after I heard the thud of the studio doors securing behind me, M. Russo pointing to my mark with his baton.  Rather than listening for the warm ups of the orchestra, a recorded track was played as it had been in any rehearsal, although this time without M. Russo counting me off.  Nonetheless, I stepped and kicked as intricately as I had intended to when it had been a theater of people watching rather than my teacher, my master, and who knew how many cameras. Each motion as controlled and flawless up close as it would have appeared from a balcony, each sounding of the tambourine measured and equal to the rest.

I finished, face impassive, without any applause.  Instead, Master Arik drummed his fingers on his seat, head tipped to the side. “It is a beautiful and dangerous interpretation,” he frowned.

“It is a traditional one,” M. Russo responded carefully. “A difficult one, to demonstrate their skill.”

“A kick like that could kill a man.”

A gruff laugh followed. “Only by breaking his heart. The feet are too fragile for anything more. They can hardly walk without your permission.”

Arik nodded, but seemed distracted. “I will have the footage released for valuation. Uncut, I think.”

“To cut it is to imply imperfection. Release all of it. There are no flaws to hide.”

“We shall see.” Standing, Arik nodded again. “Russo. The fouettes next, I believe.”  WIth that, he left.

No sooner had the door shut again than I was peeling out of my costume, inspecting my feet. M. Russo did not even pretend to look away - he made no secret that his interest in my body was perfunctory at best. “No blisters,” I reported, disgruntled.

“Mme Boulvais is much more careful than her predecessor,” he agreed. “And the softer shank made a difference.  But shorter in the right shoe for the next performance, I think. You were barely over the box.”

“Those toes are shorter,” I agreed. “And the ankle bends further. But the fouettes?” I pinched my face.

M. Russo seemed to agree, tossing his hands in the air. “You can leap like a cat, you can kick as though you have no bones, but he wants you to twirl in place for heavens only know how long.”

“I can do them Russian,” I suggested, feeling more mischievous than I could recall feeling in my entire life.

He gripped his baton like a sword. “I will cane you from the top of your head to the soles of your feet if you do even a dozen Russian fouettes before my eyes.  And then I will ask Master Arik to gouge them from my head so I may never see such a travesty again.”

I smiled softly, stretching deeply and grabbing my toes. “He said my Esmeralda was dangerous. That the kicks could kill a man.”

From behind, I heard my teacher scoff. “I would agree if you did not need medical magic to merely walk. A kick like that could break a man’s jaw at least, snap his neck at worst. But as you would never kick me like that, and cannot even stand to attempt it when you are elsewhere, it is a vain fear.”

I hummed, hoping he would take it in agreement.  It seemed he had, as by the time I stood again, he had resumed his teaching posture. “Go ahead. Show me your fouette. Ten to the left, then ten to the right.”

Automatically and without music, I started. Traditionally, the passage Master Arik was requesting used identical turns to the right, but we rehearsed with both to err on the side of caution.  Arik was known to add or change something at any time if he felt it was something new.  By the end of the day, both of my calves stung from being struck to correct their height or how soon I did nor did not whip my leg out - M. Russo had not been joking about his insistence on Italian over Russian.  As the weeks progressed, more and more turns were added, along with various surfaces for me to balance on for precision.  A strange tool was brought to ensure that my legs were at exactly ninety degrees, a position I had to hold for as long as ten minutes at a time.

By nights, I was standing under my own trembling power for just as long.

Unlike in the past, rehearsals went on for nearly half a year.  Increasing levels of difficulty were added, in theory to explain the time it was taking.  In reality, I overheard my security discussing the increased measures to make Master Arik’s keep more and more secure, to make the performance hall doubly so.  The idea made me feel melancholic rather than secure, and I avoided analyzing the feeling too hard with my newfound inquisitiveness.  Most importantly, the next performance was intended to be ‘exclusive’ as an excuse to limit any chance at another incident, and all staff were undergoing intensive background screening and medical analysis.  My own medical exams went on the same schedule as before.

After all, I wasn’t staff - I was property.

#machine flesh #original fiction #science fiction #original science fiction #traumatized characters #writeblr #original sci fi #writers on tumblr #cyberpunk #bio hacking #chronic pain #imprisonment

[canyouhearthelight]

Sooo... Yeah. In case anyone thought these three are The Good Guys...

That said, I hope you don't have to understand the tech-speak to get the rushed and frantic vibe for this chapter. Or Bishop's exasperation towards the end.

Nihilus Rex 11: First Capture

Here it is everyone, the long awaited heist. Cowritten, per usual, by @canyouhearthelight, and once again, cautionary note: this has not even been theoretically possible since 2017, and it was only possible in theory even back then. Do not try it IRL.

Artificial amateurs aren't at all amazing

Analytically, I assault, animate things

Broken barriers bounded by the bomb beat

Buildings are broken, basically I'm bombarding

Casually create catastrophes, casualties

Canceling cats got their canopies collapsing

Blackalicious, “Alphabet Aerobics”

Nils

30 days Until the Heist

“Icebreaker is ready - how’re the fake notaries coming?” 

“Worry about your gun nuts and about the databombs. We’re milling them out as fast as Bishop can find them.” 

15 Days Until the Event

“GODDAMNIT! How is the worm still too big?”

“Okay, is there any way we can shave just a few lines of code off of…”

10 Days Until the Heist

“Yes, you have that right, the Iconoclasts are handling all the intelligence gathering and the digital end. You just have to get a magnet on a computer, burn some paper records, and get a gun to one guy’s head and get him to press a button. Get it done.”

“Weasel got back to us with the icebreaker, it looks solid and small.”

“Okay, do we have any confirmation on the last of the…”

One Week Until the Heist

“ARE WE GOING TO WIND UP PACKING THIS IN BECAUSE WE CAN’T GET ONE FUCKING COMPONENT TO FUNCTION?!”

“Nooo more coffee for Nils….”

“Think he’d notice if I slipped him a fistful of Ambien?”

“I think a nap might actually kill him.”

Five Days Before

“Okay. To the great thanks of the hacking gods, the worm finally works and is an appropriate size, we have all the data bombs we need, and enough extra servers and slave CPUs to deploy extra icebreakers and databombing to county records around the country. Fuck yes.”

“About 75% of the releases we faked got recorded according to the botnet, assume we’re probably going to have a few more losses and a few more accepted by the day of, but probably not much after,” Harvey said, slowly. 

“Alright. Crash. Get ready. It’s gonna be the real test day of.”

I barely caught Lash muttering. “Telling US to sleep, like he has since this started… PAH!”

Day of the Heist

In the hacker lair, we were all sitting in beanbag chairs. We had dosed heavy on coffee, the good shit Lash had brought, and I had communicated orders to my idiots. They were en route to the big bank centers that we needed them in, and would be there in less than an hour. We had a series of slave CPUs ready to go, but we couldn’t fire them off until after we’d breached the bank - there was a really precise sequence we had to run. Another one, a live feed of the security feed for the bank, was on the wall.

We couldn’t fire it off, not yet. We needed the chaos. 

Jessie, sorry I didn’t sooner. I wish I had. I abruptly felt guilty. I had barely thought about her in the last month or so - as though keeping myself busy had let me forget a friendship that had kept me sane for years. Like it had been that easy to move on. It shouldn’t have been. I should have done something to take the burden off you sooner. I should have done more, sooner. But I can do something for people like you. Just watch. I’ll take care of all of it. You and I used to argue, up all night about what would fix the world, and I don’t think you’d ever have agreed with how I’m doing it. But I think you’d have been proud of what I’m doing.

As though reading my thoughts, Harvey looked over to me. “Hey, Nils. Just curious.” I started as though slapped. He’d never actually used my name before. It was always my handle. 

 “You talked about doing this before. Said it was impractical. What changed? Can’t just be the obvious crush on Lash.”  I flushed, but he ignored it. “No, I saw something a few months ago. Someone who looked like you, dressed way too formal, getting beat up by a bunch of QAnon dicks. Seemed like something you’d have been too smart for. But maybe if something happened…”

“Drop it.”  Harvey wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t the kind of person I’d talk feelings with. More of a work friend. 

Harvey tipped his head. “Okay.”

The message came up on the digital phone. 

LtGOATBarret504: @Nothing, we are almost to the objective. I was told the Iconoclasts were going to be doing digital shit and hacking for this job.”

I messaged back: “Correct. We are in process. Remember, orders for this: we are limiting collateral damage. No fire unless fired on. You’ve been fed your target for a hostage to get access to the manual deletion, and you know what to tell him. Get people out of debt, torch the records, smash the harddrives. Make an exit. We’ll take care of the digital end. We’re taking back property for the average American today. Fuck the banks, fuck the capital, fuck the government.” 

Barret: “Can’t believe I’m working with commies.”

I allowed myself an evil smile, knowing my pawn would never see it. “Welcome to the shadow war. Neither of us wants the circle in power. Do your job, we’ll handle ours. We can hash out our problems later.” 

“Alright guys, they’re almost there, start firing off Weasel’s icebreaker. We’re gonna get that shit in and start kicking this off.”

Harvey started typing and entering the commands, and I for just a moment found myself looking at Lash as we began preparing to launch the worm and set the delay sequence for the databomb. “Let’s see if this key was worth what we paid for…”

“We’re in. Launch the worm.” 

I slammed on my keyboard, setting the sequence for the databomb as fast as he could as Lash primed the worm and sent it winding down the long journey across the fiber optics of the internet and into the banking system, and Nils sent the databomb in as the chaser. 

“Alright, now set the music, we are timing this out the instant they hit the door.”  We didn’t have to wait long, the joke we’d made about Inception had actually taken off, and we’d actually timed the whole nightmare to music. And because you can’t beat the actual classics, we went with Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.  Thus, when the door got kicked in by a bunch of armed lunatics who were actually showing a surprising amount of self control - and we were slipping through nets, watching our worm pop open leases and flick them to counties - we kept watching.

I decided to delay the police response by having delayed the phone lines, just to give them enough time to respond, Harvey had already come up with the brilliant idea of a dial up bot to overload the police dispatch for a minute, which we were keeping running from one of the slave CPUs that would probably crash after about 15 minutes of sustaining that, but it didn’t need to last a lot longer than that.  We’d already given them a floor plan, so they had an easy enough time finding the physical records and setting them all on fire. One manager was dragged out with access cards, and pushed towards the TSYS machine with a gun to his head, told to release everything. 

The data bombs were in full swing, the worms staying ahead of what was collapsing by where we’d released them.

Once the machine had had the records released, one of the men shoved a magnet towards the hardware. I let out a sigh of relief, since I was afraid he’d shoot the thing, which I absolutely could not afford. 

We were already ahead of where I thought we’d be. “Alright, we have confirmation of most of the East Coast hitting the digital releases. Fire off the hacks there -” Lash moved to begin that set of slave CPU, and when we got the proof of the next wave, I ran for it, even as the one suppressing the alarms died and our idiots started making an exit, having finally torched the records they were looking for. 

They would doubtless be cut off quickly, and I was already operating on multiple cylinders.

Harvey was hurrying up dozens of slave CPUs to get the county records in another state, I was looking over the one in - Colorado, of all places, looking at three screens at once - and was barely paying attention to wherever these idiots were contacting me. 

“Come on, come on.” 

The alarm blared, the one we had to listen to the police bands, that reported the people who’d attacked the bank were now surrounded, and had engaged the police in a firefight, and I started snickering.  If they hit a cop, there was no way the cops would take them alive, and we’d have no chance of being ratted out. Better yet, it was going to freak out the police about the white supremacist wing nuts.

Alright, alright. Keep going. Focus. 

“Georgia releases received, databomb in.”

“Arkansas, received. Get records clearing.”

“Colorado Records cleared.”

“California, records cleared.”

Firing them off, one after another. Harvey took a breath for a moment, and for a second no one breathed as we heard the police bands, and one of our pet idiots was audible screaming some choice anti semitic slurs over our hacked police bands, with a few officers shouting “Officer down! Goddamnit!” more rattling fire, and a few more of the brave, bigoted, deluded bastards continuing to trade fire.

“Lash, you have them for…Yeah, okay.”

“Nils, focus on yourself. We got the hard part done, how’s the databomb doing in the bank?” 

“Ongoing, almost done, their database is basically ruined.” 

“Holy shit, that fast?”

“We overbuilt the shit out of it.” I spared a quick grin. “When you absolutely, positively need a database ruined in an hour, build yourself a custom spore, there is absolutely no alternative.” This was exhilarating. We could do this! We could take the system on and win! We had done this, we hadn’t done collateral damage except to the enemy! We’d ruined the banks and we’d helped millions of people like Jessie, like Lash’s family, holy shit.

“Keep working, Creampuff.” Harvey’s voice brought me back to reality, but I found myself laughing madly as the music blasted to a crescendo. “We have hours to go.”

***

By the time it wound down - and our idiot pawns had finally lost their gunfight - we had securely released all the liens and digitally torched all the records we could. All the student loans were gone. Millions of mortgages, liens, all of it, returned to the people. 

Holy fuck. We had managed it. We had probably committed the single greatest heist in the century. We’d pissed off incredibly rich and powerful people and they were going to be looking for who did it and it wasn’t that we hadn’t left finger prints but that the places that they could find them were so utterly in disarray that there was nothing recoverable to find. 

“We win. We win! Lash, we won!” I gave a mad laugh, sounding crazy to myself. “Harvey! You son of a bitch, who’s crazy now!?” 

Harvey looked more concerned than relieved. “We definitely started something. Now comes the worst part: waiting to see how much of what we did sticks.”

“We proved a point.” I said, still staring. “Like it or not. We proved people can do it. Which means even if not all of it sticks, some of it does. And someone’s going to try again. And in more places. Someone’s going to follow up, if we don’t get caught. We can build on this.”

He rubbed his chin, thinking. “The more we got this time, the better. After the government investigates - and they will be looking so far up everyone’s ass that some of them better clean their teeth - the banks will not just want to put better measures in place, they’ll be required to.”  He tapped his laptop emphatically. “Our best hope was Weasel’s shit. That company? They won’t admit they got hacked. Not in a million years, not with something like this.  I don’t think they’ll be allowed to, honestly.  But you’re right. People will keep trying now that it’s been done.” With that Harvey leaned over and looked at both me and Lash. “And every time they do, the walls will get higher, and it will get harder, and dumber people than us will get caught.  So we need to watch and hope that we got as much as we could in one go.”

I got it. “Yeah. I know. I get that it isn’t over.” I wished I’d done it sooner. I’d just proven to myself it was doable. That I could have acted sooner to make a difference. That it just took not waiting for permission. Just acting.

Harvey took Lash aside and said something quiet. Whatever he told her, she looked at her feet and nodded for a second before looking back up at his face and nodding again, more confident this time, squeezing his hands between hers. She turned to me. “Let’s run a botnet or two for the next few weeks… headline scrapers, maybe a little deeper.  Press will be doing it anyway, looking for anything once this gets out, so the net will get hidden in the chatter.”

“Agreed.” I wondered what she was worrying about. “Everything okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Just want to make sure everything sticks, like Bishop said.” She glanced at her cellphone. “It’s too soon to know, right? So we need to keep an eye out, for ourselves if nothing else.”

I nodded, gently. “Alright.”

She started gathering her things. “I’m going to head home, get some sleep.  Probably doesn’t need to be said, but the last thing we need is to be seen together, so wait an hour or whatever before either of you head out.”

I sat down for a minute and let the tension slowly bleed off. “So, Bishop. How’re we feeling?”

“I feel like you’re an idiot and you should go after her, you FUCKING MORON. She’s in her twenties, wandering an abandoned mall, at 1AM, alone. No one is looking for us yet. Dumbass.”

I jumped up. “Right, shit.” I ran after her and waved. “Hey, Lash. Uh. No one is looking for us yet. Far as anyone would even suspect, we’re seen walking around here right now, we’re a couple of dumb college kids whose worst crime is sneaking off to get high together. Probably. No one would suspect anything too bad about this. Want to go get something to eat, bleed off the tension a little bit?”  I sounded nervous, and realized that my habit of normally just going along with whatever Lash said without checking if there was an obvious subtext might have led me to make some really stupid mistakes.

She shrugged, but it looked numb, unenthusiastic. “I don’t know what’s open this late. Early? Late? Now, whatever now is.”  She blinked kind of owlishly. “Is there any breakfast around? Pancakes sound really good.”

I paused. “I mean. There’s probably an IHOP open 24/7 nearby if we want to go looking. If you feel adventurous, there’s a Mediterranean gastropub-thing that has honey cakes and decent gyro, also a bunch of pastry and eggs. I’ll cover either. I’ve had the Mediterranean one. It’s really good, and the honey cakes are amazing. They’ve even got Turkish coffee. Not as good as what your un…Uncle, sells, but really good.” 

“Coffee and honey cakes sound amazing. Do they do spanakopita?”

“Seen it on the menu, never ordered it. You’d have to find out if it's good for yourself.” I said. “Like I said, that’s the adventurous option.” 

She hooked a hand through my elbow and patted my arm with the other hand. “I’ll test the spanakopita, and if it’s good, I’ll let you try it. Can’t have you trying bad food.”

“I can tell you with assurance you do want to avoid the kebabs. They use a really weird rub. Entirely the wrong combination of spices. The dolmades, on the other hand, are excellent, if you are in the mood for them.” I said, with a faint smile. “Thanks for joining me.”

“Feed me, Seymour. Feed me.”

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