Third times the charm

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

You startled, then snapped in her direction. The visuals were more-or-less right – her long hair pulled into a thick braid, the sleeves of her coveralls tied around her waist, all the little things you’d subconsciously come to expect after months of living in proximity to one another – but her tone was all wrong, far away and airy where you’d come to expect a certain edge, a directness. She also, notably, had not looked away from her monitor. The captain was the only one with his gaze directed upward, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the bridge’s helm.

You took that as a sign to do the same. Admittedly, the view was beautiful. The sea floor stretched on as far as the eye could see, illuminated by spotlights and roaming underwater drones and what few rays of sunlight managed to dive this deep. When you strained your eyes, you could see the dull glow of bioluminescent animals emerging from the sea floor, always moving so slowly toward the surface, but they tended to keep their distance. The walls of the Mariana Trench sat snugly to either side, your stationary base nestled between them. Usually, you loved it – that feeling of being so totally enclosed, how simple the world felt when cast in shades of blue and green. Now, it just felt a little claustrophobic.

The geologist turned to you, dull eyes over wire-framed glasses, and you realized that you were supposed to answer. “I guess so.”

The captain nodded, pleased. You forced yourself to clear your throat and go on. “How did last week’s expedition go?”

The biologist straightened. He’d always struck you as the quiet type, only liable to respond when addressed directly. Today, though, he seemed more than capable of speaking for the group. “Oh, it was uneventful.”

And then, the engineer, her normally clipped voice melodic, as if finishing the biologist’s thought. “Nothing to report. Just the usual marine activity.”

It was a lie and it wasn’t even a good one. They should’ve corrected you the second you called it an expedition. In reality, the captain, the pilot, and the biologist had taken one of the submersibles on an unplanned voyage to an area worryingly close to your base that had been exhibiting readings no one could seem to make sense of, least of all you. As soon as they’d gotten back, the geologist and the engineer were called to the labs for some unspecified emergency. They’d locked themselves away for hours, not making a sound, only resurfacing once you gathered up the courage to knock. You’d been too shocked to do anything when they actually opened the door, when they invited you inside, when they showed you the deformed remains of a new specimen and tried to tide you over with explanations of unusual geological activity and pre-historic fossilization. The not-blinking had started around then, too.

“Huh,” you said, layering the nonchalance on thick. You pushed yourself to your feet, stretching your arms above your head. “Well, I—um, I better get going. Filters to check and all.”

Five heads snapped in your direction at the same time. Thankfully, your panic was limited to a pair of pressed lips and a small, mostly swallowed squeak. Only the captain actually spoke, his voice calm and his tone easy. Somehow, that made it worse. You would’ve preferred the chorus, discordant and unintelligible, to a lone mouthpiece. “You’re in such a rush to leave us. Did we do something wrong?”

“I have to do my job, sir.”

He hummed. “Make sure to report back when you’re done.” He paused, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Your input is so very important to us, after all.”

You hated the way he said it, like he was fighting not to laugh. You hated the way the pilot was looking at you, now, head cocked and fingers drumming over her desk. You hated the way the geologist was moving, back too straight and limbs too stiff as he started to push himself out of his chair and—

Oh, fuck.

It was time to go.

You offered another dull excuse before slipping out of the bridge and back into the vessel proper. You knew where you were going – hell, you’d spent the last twenty weeks dreaming of the day you’d finally get to make this walk. Down the hall and past the communal spaces, then up through storage – carefully avoiding the labs on the same floor. The transport module (or, more realistically, the elevator shaft) had its own compartment, carefully sectioned off from the rest of the craft. It was only meant to be used twice: on the day you arrived and then again on the day you left, when you would be ferried up to the surface and granted the privilege of never having to think about life on the sea floor again. Only the captain knew the launch code, but there had to be a manual override. And hopefully, you’d spent enough of the past few months wrist-deep in the vessel’s wiring to figure out how to activate it.

You didn’t have time for delicacy. You’d barely stopped moving before you were dropping to your knees in front of the access panel and prying the interface out of its casing. It came away easily, and then you were digging through wires and ports, searching for something to connect, something to pull free, something that would get you out of this godforsaken pit at the—

There weren’t footsteps, or voices, or any warnings you might’ve heard over the sound of your own racing pulse. There was only a hand on your shoulder, another around your wrist – gently easing you away from the open panel.

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” A voice, simultaneously painfully familiar and altogether alien, sighed in your ear. Your captain. Or, what used to be your captain, at least.

You weren’t sure you ought to be calling him that, anymore.

And, judging by how softly he spoke as he went on, he seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“I think it’s about time we met properly. Don’t you agree?”

~

 The captain, as you’d known him, was a man just south of middle age with white streaks in his startlingly dark hair, crows’ feet carved into the corners of his eyes, and a scar across the left side of his mouth that he would joke was from biting down on a fishhook in college. At least, you’d assumed he was joking.

You guessed you’d never get the chance to ask, now.

He was also gigantic – taller than most sailors with the physique to match. Even seated, he seemed to dwarf his surroundings, to leave you frail and minimized on the other side of the table. He’d wanted to do this in his office, but you’d insisted on the canteen. At the time, it seemed like neutral territory, somewhere wide and open with plenty of space to breathe. Now, you could only lament not pushing for someplace more closed-in. At least, if you were cornered, you wouldn’t have to keep glancing over your shoulder.

It didn’t help that the engineer was posted by the doors, back to the wall and her unblinking stare focused on you. The captain tilted his head to the side apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ve only just gotten used to having so many eyes.”

“Eyes you stole from my friends.”

“These people weren’t your friends.” Pity dripped from his voice, honeyed and thick. You squared your shoulders. “This one, maybe, but not the rest. They saw you as—What’s the word?”

“A janitor?”

“Oh, dearest, not even that.” He paused, smiled. The expression looked wrong, like he was manually calculating how far to strain his lips. “A criminal.”

You inhaled slowly, holding your breath for a moment before letting it out again. The sting was present, but manageable. You’d known that. You must’ve known that, even when you first volunteered for this. There weren’t a lot of people willing to spend half a year of their life on the bottom of the ocean, and even fewer who would spend that half-year doing laundry, sweeping floors, and changing lightbulbs. But it was better than jail. This way, you could pretend you’d chosen to be here.

“Not to worry!” He clapped his hands together. “They won’t be saying much of anything, anymore. And the names I call you won’t nearly as cruel.”

“They weren’t—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “What are you?”

“You can see that for yourself. I’m sitting right in front of you, love.”

“No, I mean—Where did you come from?”

“You call this the… Pacific Ocean, don’t you?”

You shot to your feet, slamming your palms into the tabletop. “Why are you doing this?”

He glanced over you, then met your eyes. “That would’ve been a question for your coworkers. They were the ones who dug me up.”

You fell back into your seat, huffing. This was getting you nowhere slowly. The captain – the monster – seemed to feel the same way.

“You don’t seem very scared.”

“I don’t have to be. If you could do—” You gestured vaguely to the engineer, still lurking in your peripheral. “—that to me, you would’ve.”

“Would I, now?”

You opened your mouth, but stopped short of spitting anything out. It felt like a dial being turned, a switch being flipped. There was nothing, and then, there was everything.

In an instant, it was all too much. A hundred thousand voices in the back of your mind, chanting the same hymn at their own tempo. A hundred thousand images flashing across your vision, each stolen from a new set of eyes. You tried to focus on something else, to feel the cool wood under your hands, but even that sensation soon blurred into a million others until you couldn’t tell what belonged to you and what belonged to another body, another mind. You were being pulled downstream and the current was using your arms and legs against you. You were listening to the loveliest song you’d ever heard and you couldn’t seem to open your mouth and—

And the music stopped as you fell back into your own body, as you blinked away other perspectives and heaved air into your own aching lungs. You were on the floor, splayed across the tile. There was saliva at the corner of your mouth, and more concerningly, the captain was kneeling over you, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Do we understand each other?”

You forced yourself to swallow. Your voice came out hoarse, dry. “Get away from me.”

“I can try, but it’s a small craft.”

“Then let me leave.”

His thumb settled, then slipped lower. “You know, there are so many things I’ve always wanted to try.” He cupped your chin, stifling a laugh. “With someone who isn’t myself, I mean.”

Disgust tore you through you, curdled and vicious. You brushed him off and scrambled to your feet, stumbling past the engineer and out into the hall. The captain joined her in the doorway, but only watched on as you did your best to get away.

~

The weeks following your conversation passed slowly, cold honey through a tight bottleneck.

The assigned date of your designated departure came and meant. It was quickly made clear that you weren’t allowed anywhere near the transport module. Someone, usually the geologist, always seemed to be posted outside, just waiting for you to try your luck again. For the first few days, the engineer also followed you in-person, but that wasn’t a permanent feature. You couldn’t get into much trouble nearly seven miles below sea level, and whatever project your captor was working on seemed to be an all-hands-on-deck situation. It had something to do with excavation, but how far it fell outside of the vessel’s expected field of research was lost on you. Still, you were thankful they were distracted. It seemed to be enough to know that, no matter how much distance you tried to maintain, you’d always be within arm’s reach.

You spent most of your time hiding. It felt a little childish, honestly. Not very long ago, you would’ve gladly done anything if it meant never feeling alone again, and now you were locking yourself in your bunk, tracking movement patterns on security cameras, pressing your ear to every door before you opened it and praying that there wouldn’t be footsteps or voices on the other side. Your contract was only for half a year, but you had enough food and fresh water to last five times that, meaning that entertainment was going to be more of an issue than survival. You ransacked the others’ rooms, stealing books and card decks and gaming consoles, anything that might help pass the time. And, at night, when the isolation was almost too much to bear, you fled to the atrium.

It was a large, open space on the vessel’s uppermost floor, which was otherwise reserved for vehicle bays and tool storage. The ceiling was high, domed, and entirely transparent, and even before something took over your crewmates and everything went to shit, you liked to lie in the center of the room and watch the dark water ebb and flow. Now, you tried to keep your visits brief, to leave before anyone had the chance to join you. You’d only slipped up once. A swarm of bioluminescent jellyfish was passing over your vessel in the small hours of the morning, and you must’ve lost track of time. A storm of gold and crimson lights was still gently bobbing past when he joined you.

They were all limbs of the same creature, but the captain seemed to be the designated face. He settled next to you, legs crossed and head bowed. You stiffened, got ready to bolt, but he only laughed, waving off your skittishness. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

You swallowed. “…should I not be?”

The way you said it, muted and questioning, must’ve given away your paranoia. The captain shook his head. “There’s no need to worry. If I wanted to keep you on a shorter leash, I could.”

Great. Perfect, actually. He thought he was being nice.

“I have something for you.” He never looked away, but the sound of clipped footsteps drew your attention to the doorway. The biologist, uncanny smile plastered over his face and a small, silver tray in his hands. “A gift. To celebrate our three-month anniversary.”

The biologist stopped in front of you, and you recognized what you’d desperately been trying not to. A perfectly round, perfectly generic cupcake, the icing only a little smudged. Your stomach dropped. Perishable food was hard to get down here, even harder to keep fresh. There was one for every member of the crew, and they were supposed to be saved for birthdays – a little piece of home to keep you all sane, in theory. Anyone taking more than their share would mean there wasn’t enough to go around, which meant someone would be angry, which meant someone would be angry with you and—

And you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look at the biologist’s grinning face.

You guessed you didn’t need to worry about that, anymore.

Still, the idea of choking down freeze-dried cake was enough to make your stomach turn over. “I’m sorry, I—” You pushed yourself to your feet quickly enough to make your head spin. The captain followed you up, catching your arm when your balance threatened to give out. “I really can’t do this, right now.”

“Of course. You must be tired.” The biologist was already leaving. “Let me walk you back to your room.”

It wasn’t a question, but you shook your head regardless. “I’m alright, just a little—”

“I insist.” His hand slipped from your arm to your upper back. “Unless you’d prefer the captain’s quarters?”

“No.” Bile rose into the back of your throat. The repulsion was instinctual, the rejection reflexive. “Please, no.”

“How you break my heart, love.”

This time, his hand slipped down to yours, squeezing gently. You should’ve just taken the fucking cupcake.

“It’s a good thing I have spares.”

~

Four months. That was how long you made it post-invasion, trying to live every moment as if you were under constant observation, ignoring every base human urge that might’ve been at odds with your all-seeing captor. Sixteen weeks. One hundred and twenty days. People had cracked under much more banal forms of torture in much less time.

And, in your defense, you had the foresight to take precautions. An especially busy day that saw all useful members of your crew posted at their stations. An unused wing of the medical bay rather than your own room. An allotted fifteen minutes to do what you could. You figured, failing everything, you could be proud of yourself for giving it your all. Admittedly, you hadn’t spent much time thinking about worst-case scenarios.

This was definitely worst-case.

The pilot stood on the threshold of the medical bay, the door hanging open behind her. Heat flooded your face, your cheeks, and you made a valiant effort to pull your hand out of your pants and wrestle your coveralls back up to your waist – as if that’d do anything to undo the damage. She waited until you were (mostly) redressed and scrambling off of the cot before edging forward, careful to keep her body between you and the door. That was fine. You were too mortified to so much as think about going much of anywhere.

“It’s a—a human thing,” you rushed to explain, as if it made this any better. As if it would get her to stop staring at you like that. “To blow off steam, and kill—”

You tried to step around her. An arm lashed out to stop you, barring any hope of retreat to your left. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. “I’d like to go back to my room. Please.”

The pilot didn’t respond. Her attention flicked downward once before returning to your face and refusing to let go, pinning you under the weight of her wide-eyed gaze. You were stuck there, trapped and immobile, as her free hand found your collar, then drifted south, lean fingers grazing over your collarbones, your midriff. Finally, she dipped below the waistband of your coveralls, dragging her two fingers over the seat of your panties. The material was still disheveled, too flimsy to provide any real sense of comfort. Her thumb caught on your clit and—

“Please,” you gasped, surprising yourself. She didn’t seem fazed. “Stop touching me.”

A second passed, then another. When she eventually did draw back, it was with an airy sigh, the smallest quirk of a frown tugging at her lips. “Fine.”

You waited for her to pull away entirely, to lose interest and return to the bridge with the rest of the crew – not totally unlike the previous inhabitant of her body had, on the rare occasion she was forced to speak to you. Instead, her hand curled around your wrist, blunt nails pressing into your skin as she tugged toward the door. You half-expected her to take you a little too literally, to drag you back to your bunk and lock you inside, but she passed the rooming area entirely, taking you down the hall toward the captain’s quarters. Your heart seized up inside your chest, but you tried not to let the panic seep into your voice. “Where are we going?”

“To do different human things.” And then, more cheerfully, “You’ll like it.”

You doubted that, but her pace was steady and her grip was unwavering. It didn’t seem like she planned on giving you another choice.

The engineer was already waiting by the door. She followed you and the pilot in, keeping close in case you tried to bolt. You were given all of a second to take in the massive, king-sized bed before being mercifully pulled in another direction, into the en-suite. The engineer must’ve worked quickly. The shallow tub (an Olympic pool compared to the shoulder-width shower stalls in the communal bathrooms) was already full, steam still rolling off the water’s surface. A body scrub and matching oil sat on the low wall, neither used. You did your best not to wonder who’d brought them.

You looked to the pilot, then the engineer, who both watched expectantly. It took an embarrassingly long moment to realize they were waiting on you. “Oh, I’m supposed to…?”

You nodded to the tub. The pilot’s smile turned sympathetic. “Before the water gets cold, yes.”

The engineer chimed in, “You have taken a bath before, haven’t you?”

“Shut up.” And just like that, more out of spite than anything, you were wriggling out of your uniform. Your clothes formed a wrinkled heap where you let them drop, each layer leaving you that much more exposed, that much more desperate to crawl back inside of something thick and warm and protective. Covering yourself would’ve been an admission of defeat, so you kept your arms stiffly at your sides as you stepped into the tub. The scalding water burnt at your numb skin. You hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until you started to thaw.

Surprisingly, they didn’t join you. The engineer perched herself on the basin’s wall while the pilot leaned against the vanity, taking in the view. You pulled your knees up to your chest, but it was clear you were being overprotective. The engineer only hummed as she cupped the water in her hands and poured over your head, soaking your hair, your face. It reminded you of something else, something sacred. You had to hold your breath, but that part was holy, too.

The engineer’s hands found your shoulders, massaging gently. The words caught in your throat and snagged on your lips, but you spit them out regardless. It would’ve been more painful to let the silence sit. “Is this your idea of what humans do? Or did you just want to embarrass me?”

“Partially,” the pilot answered. You chose not to wonder which question she was responding to. “My other reasons are much less selfish.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s a little silly.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought she sounded shy. “I wanted to see what it was like to take care of something else.”

Oh.

You sank that much deeper. The engineer’s hands followed you down, never leaving your skin for a moment.

You’d never noticed how cold she felt, before.

~                                                                                                                                       

“I really didn’t mean to.”

The biologist hummed. He was sitting at your feet, leaning against the wall next to your cubby of a bed. He’d brought tea, the mugs mismatched and the contents still hot enough to steam. You were determined to let yours go cold, and he seemed happy enough to run his thumb over the ceramic rim, soaking in the warmth as it seeped out.

“You did an awfully thorough job.”

“I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, sucking in a deep breath and pressing your cheek into your stiff pillow. Behind you, the geologist shifted, slotting his chest against your back and draping an arm over your waist. Your captor had become increasingly more interested in that type of thing, recently – touchy, sentimental, human. You would’ve liked to say that they wore you down, but honestly, you hadn’t put up much of a fight to begin with. “It was self-defense.”

“You didn’t call the police.”

“I was going to, but there was so much blood, and—and then they were already outside, banging on the door. Anyone would’ve frozen up.” You let your voice get very, very quiet. “He kept me in that apartment for sixty days. Two months. What was I supposed to do? Go outside and make small talk with the neighbors?”

“And the trial?”

“I wasn’t allowed to talk at the trial, the lawyers—” Again, you cut yourself off. “And you already know this. You’ve been in my head.”

The geologist’s forehead settled against the back of your neck as the biologist spoke. “I like the view better out here.”

“You’re so creepy,” you huffed. “It’s just, if this is hell, or some stupid karmic punishment you’re all in on, then—”

“You don’t think I’m real?” He almost sounded offended.

“I don’t think you deserve to keep me here.” There wasn’t a point in answering. Whatever was happening to you, it was real enough. “I’ve got family waiting for me to come back.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine. I have friends. People who are going to miss me.”

The biologist sent you a skeptical glance. You bit down hard on the side of your tongue.

“You can’t keep me here forever.”

The geologist’s hold on you tightened abruptly, crushing your ribs into your lungs before going slack just as quickly. “Not forever,” the biologist mused. “How long do you think the oxygen recyclers will hold out?”

This time, you didn’t bother responding at all. The geologist seemed content to draw you that much closer, and the biologist was more than happy to sit at a distance and watch.

~

You found the captain on the bridge, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the glass wall. The room was dim, the overheads switched off in favor of the softened blue of the emergency lights. No one else was there, his spare sets of eyes scattered to different parts of the vessel. It looked like he’d been waiting for you.

The jellyfish were passing through again, too. The swarm was dense and close, the view all-but completely obscured by bobbing golden lights, casting the bridge in a ruddy bronze. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought you were on another planet.

…you did know better, and the thought still lingered longer than it should’ve.

You sat down next to him, legs bent in front of you. It was uncomfortable, but that didn’t matter. You doubted you’d be staying in this position for very long.

“If I—” The words burnt like acid on your tongue. You rushed to find a less corrosive replacement. “If I do what you want me to, I can leave, right?”

“I don’t remember saying that.” His voice was lilting, tone playful.

“Then say it now.” You huddled into yourself. “I need to get out of here, and this is the only time I’m going to ask nicely.”

“I don’t seem to recall you ever being particularly nice, either.”

Something shifted out of place deep in your chest. You moved to stand, but he laid a hand over yours, laughing. “Sorry, sorry. I should know better. I know what it’s like to be trapped somewhere very, very small for a very, very long time.” He lowered his voice. “Let me have this. You’ll get what you want out of it, too.”

“Just this once?”

“Just this once. Then, I’ll take you back to the surface.”

You didn’t want to. No part of you wanted to give anything to the monster that’d held you captive for over a year, but you needed fresh air in your lungs. You needed to see another person, someone who didn’t look at you like something to cut open and dissect.

This didn’t seem like a lot to give up, in comparison.

You nodded, and his hands were on your hips immediately. He hauled you into his lap, and then you were straddling him, your legs clumsily thrown around his waist and your chest pressed into his. There was no pretense of reluctance, just his mouth on your neck and his fingers working at the buttons of your uniform, haphazardly pulling and dragging until fabric slackened and you felt cold air wash over newly exposed skin. This close, he should’ve been enough to warm you up, but even that small comfort rang hollow. His body was malleable stone against yours – willing to give, but so undeniably lifeless below the surface.

A calloused hand cupped your breast, groping harshly. A pained hiss slipped through your grit teeth, and his head tilted back, wide eyes meeting yours. “Can I kiss you?”

“Would it matter if I said no?”

“Of course.” His smile had turned simpering. “I would cherish any reaction you showed me.”

That didn’t mean he would listen, though.

His lips were chapped and tender against yours. There was nothing romantic about the way he kissed you, just a heady sort of affection and a curiosity that made him lap over your tongue and push into the hollow of your cheeks like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. At the same time, his thumb swiped over your nipple, fingertips biting into the plush flesh of your chest. It was almost a relief when he moved on, his touch skirting over your midriff, your navel, your stomach before settling just above the waistband of your panties. You wished you hadn’t worn them at all, in hindsight. Anything to save yourself the stabbing agony of realizing he would have to take them off of you.

Not that he seemed to be in a rush to. The pad of his thumb dragged over your clothed slit, mapping the terrain, before pulling back and pressing into your clit. His mouth fell to your throat, sucking harsh bruises into your skin as he traced mindless patterns into the most sensitive part of you. It was humiliating – how quickly your deprived boy gave in to the first hint of stimulation you’d gotten in the better part of a year. You could feel yourself getting hotter, getting wetter, the seat of your panties soon uncomfortably damp. You felt the captain’s grin against your jugular and clenched your eyes shut.

His touch was sickeningly exploratory. Your panties were pulled to the side, two thick fingers eased inside of you. Even that was too much of a stretch after surviving so long on nothing at all. You buried your face in his chest as he rocked his palm against your cunt, doing your best to keep your teeth planted in the flesh of your cheek, your nails burrowed into the back of his neck. It was unfair – he was still dressed while you were being split in half. He was going to get what he wanted and you’d be the one to suffer for it.

A third finger, added while the heel of his palm ground against your clit. You jerked forward, a strangled moan escaping before you had a chance to swallow it down, and the captain cooed in sympathy. “That’s it, love.” He pressed a kiss into your temple. “I’m only trying to make what comes next a little easier.”

“I—” He curled his fingers and you sucked in a shallow breath. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Yes, you do.”

God, you hated him.

“No, you don’t.” There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your mouth. You were beyond caring where he touched you, how he touched you. Minutes too soon, you could feel a steady pulse playing in the pit of your stomach, a tightness in your chest that wasn’t entirely due to burning hatred. You felt his tongue against the side of your neck, following the curve of your throat once, then twice before biting down – teeth sinking into skin too fluidly, too easily. It took you a second to decide why it felt so unnatural beyond the initial shock, but not much longer.

He hadn’t hesitated. Not the way he should have, when he knew what he was doing to you might hurt. Not the way anything human would have.

He stayed there, latched onto you and sucking gently, as what was left of your self-control eroded and fell away entirely. Your hips bucked against his hand, the movement jolting and involuntary, and then you were moving on your own, working to fuck his fingers that much deeper, to make up for that many more days of your third and final stay in prolonged captivity. When he raised his head, it was only to chuckle, to nuzzle against you, to pay more attention to the angle of his wrist, to how exactly he nudged you closer and closer and closer to the ledge. “So beautiful,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear for his voice to echo in your mind. “I could keep you like this forever.”

You made a mewling, pained noise, cut off abruptly as your body went rigid against his. He led you through the worst of it, pace slowing as he drew out every little clench and tremor, but his patience was clearly thin and his attention clearly elsewhere. You felt him shift underneath you, and then your body was being lowered to the floor by too many pairs of hands. You didn’t realize that you’d shut your eyes until you had to force them open, until you saw the pilot’s smiling face above you, her unblinking stare fixed on your face.

Dread and embarrassment and panic flared in your chest, driving spikes into your heart, your lungs, your throat. “I don’t want other people to—”

“They won’t.” His hands were already pulling at your uniform, dragging it off. Your panties were stripped away just as quickly, just as heartlessly. You tried to grab for his wrists, but the pilot was faster, catching yours instead and drawing them above your head. “It’s just us. It’s only ever been us.”

But it wasn’t, not really, not in the way that matters. You could see the others in your peripheral, made shadowed and faceless by your refusal to look closer. It was almost a mercy when the pilot ducked, lowering her head to your chest and latching onto your breast, reminding you that there were worse things in the world than unwanted voyeurs – worse things you were currently experiencing, in fact. The captain’s hands found your sides, then your hips, pinning you to the floor as he settled between your legs. You whimpered, sobbed, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sounds of rustling fabric and hitched breathes, to distract you from the feeling of something hot and blunt pressing into you pussy.

He hesitated there – the pilot, too, her tongue going still where it was lapping over your nipple. “I love you,” he said, nearly under his breath. “And I wish this wasn’t the only way to make you understand that without getting rid of the you.”

You didn’t know what he was talking about. You didn’t have time to figure it out, either.

He was already inside of you.

Big. He was too fucking big. For the first time, you genuinely resented – sincerely, deeply, searingly resented – that the captain had been chosen as the dominant mouthpiece, rather than one of your much more moderately sized crewmates. It felt like you were being torn open from the inside out, his thick cock splitting your cunt in half, jagged veins and liquid heat arousal only making it more overwhelming. Your legs snapped closed around his waist, hips bucking against his hold, but the captain didn’t seem to notice. He buckled, head falling low as he caught himself with a palm planted next to your head. The pilot moaned against your skin.

Long, agonizing moments passed before he started to move. You became terrifyingly aware there was still more of him that he was trying to ease into you. His thrusts were short and slow, every inch another way to make you squirm and clench. You weren’t in control of your body, anymore. If you cried, if you struggled, if you went limp – that wasn’t your fault. You were only doing what you had to.

Finally, finally, you felt him bottom out, his hips pressing into yours. There was an airy grunt, another less dignified noise, and then he fell into a steady pattern of grinding down and pulling back and thrusting in with enough strength to force the air out of your lungs, to make your back arch off of the unforgiving cement. Your hands grabbed for his shoulders instinctively, and he let you, falling that much closer. The pilot retreated, but only far enough to pull your head into her lap. Touching wasn’t the priority. She and the others were just there to observe.

His cock twitched inside of you. There was no cursing, no unconscious reactions, but his hold on you tightened and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath cold and wrong against your skin. “I’m sorry, I don’t—” A rough groan, a stilted thrust. “I don’t want to, but—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish. It was already happening.

It wasn’t like the first time. That day, it’d been deliberate, a calculated plunge into the middle of a very large, very cold body of water. This time, his influence came in fragments, pulling you into the river but giving your mind a chance to cling to the shore. You could feel the ground against your back as you blinked through a hundred million sets of eyes, and you were aware of the pressure in your core as that pulsing, heartbeat choir overwhelmed anything else you might’ve heard. There was water in your lungs, but at least you still knew which lungs were yours.

Your orgasm came in waves, flooding in from multiple perspectives. There was your pleasure, strained and confused, and then his, tender and so loving and filling you to the brim. That was enough to bring you back to yourself, although there wasn’t anything you could do to mitigate the damage. His hips were pressed flush against yours, his hands clamped tight enough around you to bruise, excess cum dripping down your thighs, the curve of your ass. You couldn’t be sure how long you stayed like that – a second, a minute, an hour. It didn’t matter. It was all an eternity to you.

Eventually, he seemed to catch himself, straightening with a slight laugh. “How embarrassing. I—” He cut himself off, smiling. “Next time. I’ll be more considerate, next time.”

Your only response was a low, disgruntled whine. Sympathy softened the corners of his expression. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

“And then—”Your voice gave out immediately, dissolving into a coughing fit. The pilot rubbed the back of your neck. “Then the surface, right?”

“Of course, love.” The words might’ve been more comforting if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at you. “And then, the surface.”

~

Half an hour later, you found yourself slumped against the captain’s side in the transport module, still not quite able to rely on your own legs. Both the elevator walls and its shaft were entirely made out of glass, but even as you ascended out of the abyssal darkness, through the brightening twilight and back into the more hospitable sunlight zones, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to enjoy the view. A few stray jellyfish from the previous swarm were still bobbing diligently toward the surface. You tried half-heartedly to name the species, but nothing came to mind. You’d had a tense conversation with the captain (the real captain) early on about deep-sea life, but he didn’t seem to think you’d run into anything more interesting than—

You straightened abruptly. The captain hummed, holding that much tighter. “Is something wrong?”

“There aren’t supposed to be jellyfish this deep. Not in a group this size.”

“So there aren’t.”

You hesitated, then tried another angle. “Whatever you’re doing down there, is it—”

“The work will carry on, but the worst of it is over.” He squeezed your side. “You’ll understand, soon.”

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the ascent. There was a brief depressurization, and then the doors opened into the sterile, chromatic control bay you only vaguely remembered from the day you were sent down. You let go of the captain, rushing forward. You were going to get out of here. You were going to breathe fresh air and feel the sunlight and talk to someone else, anyone else. You were going to kiss the first person you saw. You were going to—

“But, it can’t be—”

You made it one glorious, euphoric step outside of the module, then came to a stuttering halt. A half-ring of strangers stood perfectly still in front of you, a mix of scientists and engineers and operators you wouldn’t know if you recognized. Any familiar traits, any human spark – all of it was made alien by identical, calculated smiles and those unblinking, unfeeling, unthinking eyes. You were tempted to rush to the closest window, to hope beyond hope that this hadn't spread any farther than the facility, but you smothered the urge quickly. You already knew what you were going to find.

The captain stepped behind you. “You can go on running, if you’d like,” he said, resting a hand on your shoulder. “I shouldn’t have problem catching up.”

“It is.” He laughed, the noise bright and giddy. For once, it sounded natural.

For so long, you didn’t realize that there was anything to leave. That there was anything in the world outside the small damp space in which you lived. The concept of other things, of a sky that wasn’t the grey stone, of a ground that wasn’t cobbled and hard, had never been taught to you. You didn’t even know there were other people (and weren’t you a person?) in the world, before the books. 

You taught yourself all this, and much more besides, with their help.

Master didn’t like that. Really, he didn’t. He got so mad that your hair ached for days and your stomach didn’t settle down for longer than that because of how awful it felt. (You’d even lied to him at first, how foreign and wrong.) 

But it’s been a while, and he’s grown softer about it. You think he has, anyway. He sometimes gives you a novel to read, and indulges your questions, but only the ones he thinks it’s proper to ask. So you’re very careful when you open your mouth. As long as your questions are cute and quiet and not too adventurous, it’s okay. 

But there’s a difference, isn’t there, between reading about all these other things, seeing pictures and photos, and actually experiencing them? You could know so much more, be so much more, if you actually stepped out into the world.

Master won’t like it. You know this, you really do. And it might be the smarter thing to do, if you simply ask for permission. Then he could tell you no, and explain why you’re not allowed, and maybe the curiosity churning inside you would be sated.

But that’s just it–you know he won’t give you permission ahead of time and you don’t like that, already anticipating how it will make you feel. All hurt and clammy on the inside. 

Although you should be fine with it, because whatever he wants for you is best. And yet–and yet the thought of him saying “no” to this desire hurts you so strongly. 

And he would say no. 

Whatever intelligence you possess is strong enough to predict that. And once he hears about your desire to go out, he won’t let you out, ever. He might even take away the books he’s started to give you, quash your knowledge down until it’s nothing much at all. 

Might do more, things you aren’t quite sure about; things he’s teased now and then, with a word, with a touch, that he can do. He tried to fix you once before. And if you’re this far gone, maybe he’ll throw you out entirely.

That wouldn’t be right. 

So, you lied and snuck away. You were careful about it, waiting until he would be gone for hours and hours and hours. It was just a look, you reasoned, when you were still half-deciding if you ought to leave at all. A look at the outside world that you could carry with you, more real than any image in a book.

And here you are now, hands roaming the sides of a tunnel you’ve never been so deep in, walking further and further away. Now you’re walking toward something. There’s even a sense of shifting in the world as you wander further away from the place where you live with your master. There are little things that tell you that you’re coming close to that tantalizing thought: out. 

The air is lighter, not as wet, not as cold. And there’s a light–so much brighter than the lamps hung on the walls back home. It must be a very big lamp, you think, and then bite your cheek. 

How wrong–you remember now. Outside, there is no lamp, but the sun. The sun is a star, and it’s very big, and during the daytime–daytime being another concept you did not fully understand until the books–it makes the world very bright. 

And as you get closer, as the brightness begins to become almost painful to look at, another world comes into view. The edges of it, a blurring of sight and sound, your heart pounds so hard and you might turn around and run back and forget the whole thing–

Until you step out of the open sewer drain and into the world outside and you know it was the right choice. 

Your eyes fly to your face and you cover them up at the muchness of the world.

It’s so bright–the sun!--and everything assaults your senses all at once. Sounds in the air that are not the dripping of water or the screams of experiments. Colors you have only seen printed on secondhand pages. Things that were vague and almost formless as you read about them, given true shape here.

Slowly, over minutes and minutes, you bring your hands down. You stare at the ground first. The ground is not hard and stone, and you kneel down to examine it. Underneath the hardened feet of your soles is grass. Real grass. Not painted like in the picture books. It’s vibrant and almost tickling as you run your palms along.

You like this green. It’s not the sickly green you sometimes see come out of the experiment’s mouths when they ingest the strange things master gives them, but something more vibrant, more pretty. And it smells good–fresh. Like when master brings pitchers of water and runs them over your body to clean you. 

Blinking, you raise your gaze, taking in the rest of the world. Somehow, you didn’t imagine it to be so big. But here it is. There is so much green–there is grass, and you recognize the shape of trees but could not fathom in the books how tall they actually were; your neck hurts when you crane up, and the sun catches your eye and makes you cover it with your hand. 

It’s the flowers that have you reaching for the ground, though. Sprays of colors, pinks and yellows, and the smell–they do smell lovely, like you thought. Pungent and sweet all at once, tickling your nose. 

There are sounds coming from the trees, which seems silly. Trees don’t make sounds. Or at least, you’re pretty sure they don’t. Maybe you haven’t read enough books about them. It doesn’t seem like the sound a plant would make, though. It’s not a rustling of leaves, it’s more like music. 

Almost like a whistle. Your master whistles. But this is more delicate, higher pitched. And there’s more than one of them, all different pitches and lengths, seemingly dotted throughout the higher bits of the tree.

It makes you smile, whatever this is, and then the sound seems closer and you look up at a tree again and oh, there is no word to describe your first sighting of a real bird. 

It’s small and round, chubby cheeked, all brown with a patch of red in the center. It stares down at you and quirks its tiny head, then flies away without a care. 

Flight. Real flight. 

Fingers pat against your cheeks and find tears. How strange, to cry, when you’re clearly so happy. A new emotion only seems fitting, considering what you’re doing, and you embrace it with a wider smile. 

Oh, what a world, what a world.

What a beautiful world you’ve been in, all this time. . 

You shouldn’t go much farther–you could get lost, and then master would know you’d gone out. But it’s hard to turn back when just these first few steps have given you so many wonderful things. The touch of grass and the sight of a bird and the smell of trees, all tucked behind your ear like a strand of hair, to be kept forever.

So–out of greed and curiosity–you decide to explore further. Just a bit. Just enough to give you one more thing to take back home. And, the thought is chewed like sticky candy between your teeth, you could always sneak out again. For longer next time. 

The world outside is not just grass. It’s not long before you find stone–but it’s smaller, narrow, winding around to places you can’t see. It looks a bit like the sidewalks you've seen in a few books, although usually they’re placed in front of a house. The kind with a white picket fence that you don’t get to have, or at least, you haven’t dared bring it up with your master again.

Where would this stone lead, if you walked it?

A thrillingly frightening truth is the answer: you have to follow it to find out.

You have to take one step–and you do–and another–and you do–in order to see what’s out there. So you step, and step, and step–

And trip over something grooved and uneven, and find your face and body planted directly into something green and prickly. A bush. That’s what it is. Or a hedge. It’s hard to tell the difference, because books aren’t quite clear on the subject. You ponder this, as you hoist yourself out the poky green brush. Is a bush a hedge only when it’s square? Or is a hedge a bush when it’s too round?

Well–

It’s a question that you don’t ponder for long. 

Not because you aren't curious. Far from it. You're the most curious creature on the planet, maybe. You're not sure, because you're not entirely sure how big the planet is or really what a planet is other than you live on one. (It’s a big ball of gas, sometimes. Sometimes it is magma. Sometimes it is something altogether.)

The point, really, is that you don't think about the bush anymore because you see what's beyond the shrubbery.

Something far more interesting. 

Something far more devastating. (You, poor thing, will find this part out later.)

What you see are people. Real people, living people; people confirmed to be people by their mere existence outside of home, where Mahito says he only brings experiments. (You do not entirely believe this, but you swallow down the doubt like sludge every time.)

These people are undoubtedly people, because they are outside. In the air, above the grass, sitting on a pretty white bench surrounded by pretty white flowers.

And they are pretty people, too, you suppose. Even though their face isn’t like yours. Their skin is like the photos of people in your master’s books–the books he doesn’t like you reading anymore; smooth, clean. There's no stitches, no scars, no pieces that don’t quite seem to fit together properly. 

Even their limbs seem to match up perfectly. How odd, how extraordinary. You glance down at your legs, the uneven skin tone, the way one of them has larger muscles than the other. Why are you like this…? 

But the people are more interesting than those fleeting thoughts that crush your chest. You crouch low, keeping yourself secret and safe, and continue to watch them.

They must be husband and wife. In the books, husbands and wives sat together. Sometimes they got into bed and–well, you know the rest. If you’ve any luck, maybe this couple will fuck right on the bench, and you can see what that looks like from the outside.

Will the woman look funny when the man grabs her hair and yanks it back until tears come to her eyes? When Mahito does that, he always assures you, you look perfectly pleasing. Despite the fact that it hurts. But hurt is okay, hurt is normal.

What does hurt look like when you’re the one watching?

You peer closer, almost eager, wondering, waiting–

Despite their closeness, though, they keep their clothes on their bodies. Hmm. But! Suddenly, the man begins to move, and something inside you twists, ready to see and know and learn. It’s better than a book, this live demonstration of humanity. 

But he doesn’t take off his clothes at all.

All he does is raise his hand–oh, he’s going to strike her, what did she do–and… cup her cheek. He smiles. She smiles. But he doesn’t strike her at all. His touch is all softness, making something pillowy fluff up inside your stomach. 

One hand, unbidden, touches your cheek and rubs against the jagged stitches there.

(The tips of your fingers, then–stroking the ghost of a bruise, one that had been all green and sickly. A casual backhand to your face, when you’d forgotten to be quiet after he told you three times.)

“I have something for you,” he tells her, almost murmuring, and his fingers curl against her cheek before he reaches into a large bag at his feet. 

This is not entirely unfamiliar. Mahito has given you things, before, from bags. Sometimes the bags have words on them, or pretty pictures, and he’s even let you keep a few and lay them out on the floor to admire later on.

What this man pulls out of a bag is a beaker, a large one, rounder than the kind master uses in his experiments. It’s what is inside the glass that delights you: flowers. A spray of color on top of green steps, all chopped up at the bottom, floating in water that catches a sparkle from the sun.

It’s not a beaker, then, is it? You struggle to bring up the word, remembering it from a book about housekeeping. (You had asked Mahito, once, about “housekeeping” your home. He laughed and poked your nose.) 

It’s–

A vase! Yes. A vase of flowers. People put them on countertops, or windowsills. They gift them to friends and lovers on special days, and you ought to always remember to keep them in water, or else the flowers wilt much faster.

They wouldn’t wilt at all, you think, if they were kept in the ground and not neatly snipped up.

But still. They are pretty, even like this. And the way he cradles the vase carefully as he hands it to her, the way she takes it with a delightful smile parting her bright red lips. She says something you don’t quite catch, a breathy thank you, probably.

And then the vase is shattered. It happens so fast that you nearly scream, clapping a hand over your mouth only just in time to avoid it. If they saw you–you don’t want to think what would happen then.

It’s not time to think about yourself, though. It’s time to think about that woman, and her vase, and her flowers. Because she dropped them. Slipped them right out of her hands, and now underneath the bench is an array of broken glass and sad, wilting looking flowers. She’s blubbering something, apologies, quick. 

Like the ones you give, hoping to keep master happy. 

Something rock hard tightens in your stomach, and your chest, and you cringe. You want to watch, you don’t want to watch; because here comes the part where she gets slapped. Where he grabs her hair and twists so hard her scalp prickles with blood. Where he says she ruined something very important, and she’s an awful thing that deserves to be punished.

So you steel yourself for the sound and the noise she must make when he hurts her. You squeeze your muscles, bring yourself inward, and try to tell her that it will be quick, that she’ll learn and won’t do it again. It’s only a thought, and it can’t really reach her, but it makes you feel better.

Only.

Only he doesn’t slap her at all. He doesn’t grab her hair or squeeze her cheeks or send her away.

He laughs.

He laughs! He laughs and cups her cheek again, turning her face towards him. “It’s just a vase,” he says. “You didn’t do it on purpose.” 

And then he tells her to lift her legs up–she does–and he hoists her up like a precious doll, holding her close as she yelps out, giggles. 

“I don’t want you to accidentally step on the glass,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She giggles again, such a soft sound. Like the birds in the trees, it blends into the woods, gets absorbed into the concrete, worms inside your ear.

He carries her away and you’re left, palms running with anxiety through the prickly brush, naked as the day you came into this world, alone. 

Thoughts pound into your head so much that they hurt. 

This isn’t how it should be. That’s not what he should have done. You know this. You’ve learned this. And yes, yes, the books, the books; but master told you that the books weren’t always real. There was fiction and non-fiction. Your life was non-fiction, that’s what you ought to remember. In fiction, things went differently.

People lived in pretty houses and had children. Husbands went to work and came back, Honey I’m home, and everything else besides.

But the world was non-fiction. The world out here was very much real. Those people were real, certainly. So why didn’t they… why didn’t he hit her? Hitting was your master’s way of teaching you, correcting you. That’s what he said. That’s what you know.

Or knew? 

Or knew.

A hand goes to your head, fiddling with one of the stitches on your scalp, tucked away beneath your hair, though it never quite grew over that spot properly. A headache begins to pound at the front of your head–

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

When you make your way home, tracing your steps, there is a lump in your head and your heart, and both feel like clay.

–

Your master does experiments. Lots of them. Sometimes every day, in long stretches. He has notebooks and beakers, scraps of this and that; his experiments live in the same place you do, around a corner. Sometimes their sounds keep you up at night.

He does the experiments, ordinarily. But ‘ordinarily’ does not seem so solid a word anymore and now, just this once, you want to complete an experiment of your own.

Mahito is the one who does the experiments. But. But just this once, you want to do one of your own. It’s not a decision you make at once. It’s something that tugs at you, whispering, from the moment you return into the tunnel and sneak your way back into the familiar dampness.

The whispers prickle and poke, even when you settle into your nest of a bed, waiting for him to return. Even when you squeeze your eyes shut and try to pretend it’s a dream; try to shelf away the world outside, the man and his giggling wife, with the other things you’re not supposed to know.

It takes a few days for the courage to build up. A few days, give or take, for your heart to stop hammering quite so loudly. Surely he could feel it, hear it–but he didn’t say a word. Part of you wants to give up the thought, shove those whispers into the cracks in the walls to live with the mold.

Because he hadn’t found out about you leaving home. Not yet. And didn’t you want to keep it that way? Didn’t you want to sneak out again, wicked thing, to explore more of the world? Yes–and yes. 

But you had to know, too. And that knowing, that need, that want, was more important than your secret. 

The beaker in your hands is not as pretty as the flower vase. It’s got smudges on it, dark red ones. Your master rarely washed his hands after the experiments bled onto him. It wasn’t worth the effort, you think. 

And floating inside the water here is not a bundle of pretty flowers, but one of his experiments. All shrunken and strange, bobbing up and down in the water. There’s memories of this one in you, if you were to think hard enough. Was this one of the ones who could see him? No, he usually left them big, kept their eyes open.

They blur together after a while anyway. 

It’s easy to pretend it was an accident. You have them often enough, clumsy thing. Your hand brushes carelessly to the side, and the beaker crashes to the ground. Splinters of glass are loud against the concrete, and the experiment bounces away like rubber. It’s ruined, though. 

The apologies get blubbered out like bubbling water. I’m sorry, master, Mahito, oh, really, I didn’t mean it.  When did you learn to act? And is it one? 

He was fiddling with something right before the moment of the broken glass and whips his head around at the sudden noise. There’s a slight widening of his eyes (he’s surprised) and a quirk of his lips (he’s annoyed) and it’s when he comes straight for you, footsteps assured and quick, that you know he’s going to do it.

Even before he raises his hand, casual, a familiar gesture, you know your own experiment failed.

You’re not smart enough to recognize the variable that keeps it going, though. The variable being yourself, the whispers, the invisible mechanics inside you that won’t fit back together properly after being outside and seeing what you’ve seen.

Because when he raises his hand and goes to strike you, you flinch, squeeze your eyes shut, and shout:

“No!”

It’s his turn to flinch. To pause. To widen his eyes in a type of surprise that makes you feel all sour. It’s a low sourness, a stench that seems to seep from your shoes all the way up. Fear. 

“No?” His mouth quirks. First up, then down. A frown. “Why would you say no, pet?”

The answer doesn’t come easily. Despite the courage to plan the experiment, you hadn’t thought far enough ahead to think of what came after. Your mouth trips over itself, tongue tied in knots.

“I… I…” You’re searching for a lie, you realize. A lie that might appease him and make this all go away.

He grabs your lips before you can consider that further. “Don’t lie to me,” he orders. “I thought we fixed your lying.”

Fixed. That word again. Fix, fix, fix. You were supposed to be all fixed from the last time. It didn’t last, and maybe he’d try again, but something in you recoiled at the thought. Why wouldn’t you just be happy with what you had? Yet…

The truth unties your tongue, without your say-so.

“You’re not supposed to hit me! That’s not what he did when she broke the vase”!

Mahito blinks at you. He blinks and although you’re not supposed to, you imagine the thoughts clicking into place. 

His fingers slide from your lips to your cheeks, and he squeezes hard, keeping you in place. He leans in, peering, like he can see right through your eyes. And maybe he does. Maybe, somehow, in the reflection of them, he can see it all–

The brightness of the sun and the green, green grass and the beautiful bird flying out of a tree and the couple, giggling on the bench, all softness, all sweetness. 

“You went outside,” he says, finally, slowly. Each word landing against the damp concrete with purpose.

“Yes,” you say. A fact. And a confession. But something else lies underneath your fear. Something like fury, maybe. Something like righteousness. Your master, after all, could simply not know the truth like you did. 

Maybe he hadn’t gone outside where you had, hadn’t seen real people, hadn’t witnessed how they behaved. It’s the best explanation. The only one that lets you reconcile the world around you.

So you explain it all in quick succession, talking through the increasing grip on your cheeks, even when it grows so tight that your jaw hurts and your words sound funny.

“--So you see,” you finish, “It’s not supposed to be like this, and we ought to go outside and I can show you, because it was just like the books and I just know this is right–”

The cuff across your face doesn’t come as a surprise, but the sting shocks you, anyway. Enough that you don’t have time to move before he grabs your head with both of his hands, fingers digging into your hair, his pinky scratching painfully against your stitches.

It’s like he can see right through your skull, down into all the wiggly bits you’ve seen in anatomy books.

“Why,” he says, softer than you anticipated, “do you always turn out like this?” The fingers on your scalp stroke harder, like he’s digging down. 

The question does not want to be asked. The question wants to stay weighed down, buried. And yet, you ask it. 

“What do you mean? Have I… been like this before?”

Your mind flits back to being fixed. After the books. But that was just the once, wasn’t it? Just the once, the first time since you were made, since you came into this world all new and confused and yearning. 

He repositions your head until you’re looking at him with your wet, glassy eyes and lips all puffy from his earlier grip. His gaze narrows, looking further down that he ought to, into something not ever drawn in the forbidden books you’ve eaten up. 

“This is the third time,” he says, quiet. Almost musing. Almost a confession. “And every time I remake you, you keep turning out like this. No matter what body I make, no matter what I change.” His hands trail down, landing on your cheek, a mockery of the man outside. “What am I doing wrong?”

Thoughts stutter inside your head. This can’t be right. This can’t be what you’re hearing. He gripped your head too hard and now you can’t process language, that must be it. He–remade you–three times. 

You’re not you. Or you are you, three times over. Does that make you the same person? A new person? Not a person at all? Are you indeed just a creature, fashioned, half-made up?

The tears streaking down your cheeks are hot and ugly. Your eyes blink and twitch, and the thought comes: are these even your eyes at all? What body do they belong to? Your mismatched fingers twitch, and you think to your legs, your arms, every bit of what you are that doesn’t line up quite right.

Does your body even belong to you? Is it really a body at all? Are you a brain, a heart, a soul–

“What am I?” You ask, every word stickier than the last, because you don’t want an answer.

He’s not angry when he looks at you now. Not angry at all. There’s more disappointment in him than anything. Frustration that bleeds out the edges. His fingers on your cheek pinch, tugging your skin away, before he lets go entirely.

He could tell you what your brain has begun to put together. He could make it all click, easing the puzzle pieces into the proper place. He could. That would be honest. That would be cruel. 

Instead, he stares at you again, looking deeper than you want. Looking into something far beyond the body and the brain, whomever they belonged to. 

“You’re mine,” he says. “I made you.” 

“Made me,” you repeat. You don’t ask: From what? No. From who? Because there is a wall, a limit, to what you want to know. And maybe you can brick it up, cover up the sight of the birds, the sound of that woman’s giggle.

Maybe if you keep yourself from yearning, you can avoid the next question, the one that tugs at you like a child tugging at a parent’s hand:

What happens if he decides to make you a fourth time?

The question and its answer linger between you as he abruptly pulls you close, pressing his lips to your aching scalp. They linger there far too long. Long enough that you imagine being set on one of his tables, splayed out like an experiment.

Imagine him cutting you open and putting you back together, pulling out what he did wrong this time, hoping for the best. Maybe this time he’ll make it so you can’t walk and can’t ever go outside. Maybe he’ll take away your eyes, so you don’t read.

Maybe, maybe, maybe… 

Instead of horrors, he pulls away. Slaps your cheek to get your attention. 

“Clean up the glass,” he says. An order, and a distraction.