rip and tear

you collect your things, you've gone through this house, you've got everything you can carry, so you leave. there's a zombie outside. only one, they don't often travel alone. that's interesting. it stands tall, it doesn't move toward you. that's interesting. it looks a bit like an old friend of yours, with what little you can see of its face. it stays where it is. you move towards it, slowly. mushrooms can't hurt you and zombies don't bite, you are holy, holy, and the sun is bright and cruel above you. it looks at you, with its one good eye. half of its face is annihilated by mushroom growth. porous and organic and waxy. it looks at you. it looks like your old friend. it doesn't move toward you. you stand in front of it. there is a spark of hope within you, for some reason. maybe you Know something. you call out its name. its head tilts to the side, like its listening. like its thinking. its mouth is fused shut by mushroom growth. it points, with a hand held together by fungus, at your bag. at its own old bag. you held onto it, you kept all the pins and patches, as best you could. you tried to keep it safe. you didn't take anything out. it reaches to the bag, it doesn't cross into your space. just gesturing with a knuckle, with a hand that won't open. you hold the bag forward- no, it moves its hand again, down and inwards- you hold the bag open, and it knocks its hand against the pocket that has spike in it. the tiny little plush dog. you remember his name, you kept him safe. you kind of want to cry. you take spike out of his pocket and your friend takes him, carefully held between two hands, and holds him against its face. it likes the texture. you remember. you're going to cry. you thought it was dead. it's still here, just like you. maybe it's been blessed like you have.

it follows you when you go to sit against the wall of the house, it sits next to you on the dirty gravel. it leans towards you, and you rest your head on its shoulder, and it rests its head on top of yours. sandwiched. you didn't realise how much you missed this. you try to get your breathing under control. it sits there with you for a long, long time. you thought it was dead.

eventually, the sun moves enough that your spot against the wall goes from baked in sunlight to cast in uncomfortably cold shadow. you should get back to the colony, you have resources. you stand up and you collect your things, and your friend walks by your side as you go. so you talk. quiet chatter, fills the space comfortably. you can pretend its like the old times. you talk about what you've been up to, about the gods that have chosen you. you can't really pretend it's like the old times. you keep walking and it follows.

they didn't mess with your legs, normally for torture they go for toes or nails, you think. you don't actually know normal torture very well. this is new, for you. they ripped your skull in half, you think. you haven't seen it you arent sure you don't really remember. but it feels like all the front+bottom part is gone. that hurts more then the rest, it hurts still. big hole. you need to stay awake. it's hard. your head is too heavy for you to hold it up. that's bad, also. you force your eyes open. focus on your body. you feel all wrong. you've got chunks missing. you, um, you try to remember. they took your jaw, you're pretty sure. why did they do that. you try to remember if there was a reason. you try to force your eyes open. its hard. you, um, you, fuck.

there's a noise somewhere in the basement, really far away. that seems bad. there are, um, hands? you fall forward and someone catches you. you try to stay awake you try to stay present. it's loud, and you're moving. you're not moving. someone is carrying you. is that bad? you, um. there's yelling, about something. you don't know. you're pretty sure you're dying. there's lots of sounds, you try to identify them. it's hard. there's, um, running. yelling and running. and then something moves your head wrong and it hurts and. you're. where are you. flat and kinda cold. you're on the table? in the truck? your friend's truck? how did that happen. how did- that seems too nice to be real. people don't normally come to get you out, of, places. you. um. it's really far away. you try to stay awake and you don't manage it, this time.

-

and you decide that you believe her. and you realise you believe her because your breathing is more normal and you heart is more normal and you're no longer moving like you're trying to break and panic and escape. so you hold her hand. you're holding it too tight you should let go a little bit. you hold her hand. and you breathe through your nose. in and out.

it takes you a few seconds but you identify the people still here, the three wealthy and loud people who were doing all the talking this meeting, and their bodyguards. by now, no one is shooting anymore. one guard is still standing, a guard and a businessman are on the floor but conscious. they look like they've come to an agreement or something. temporary peace. you want more then that, technically. or you want money. you're, like, pretty sure no contracts have been negotiated yet, so you won't get paid if you killed these people. you have no motive for it. the one person standing spots you, they hold eye contact for a moment. a long moment. you don't know what their face is communicating and you don't know what your face is communicating. but eventually they look away, in a natural way, doesn't draw attention to your location. that's on purpose. that's nice of them. or you threatened them. whatever.

eventually, slowly and quietly, they take the businessman under one arm and drag him out of the room. so now there's only one conscious person for you to be worried about here. no wait fuck you got distracted. fuck. you have a job. the handler is quieter now. you try to get her attention but she doesn't see you. and you're not going to make noise or grab him. so you, uhh. you stand guard. you keep watch. you keep watch for danger, and none comes, they're all dead already. that last guard goes limp, eventually. you listen to the sounds of the pipes in this old building, and the sound of the handler, next to you, alive. you put your visor back on. you keep watch.

[hey, can I hug you?]

eventually, she scoots closer to you. he wipes her face and signs, awkwardly 'cause she only just started learning sign, she's learning it for you, [we are safe?]

you nod, yes. he takes a moment to think, or collect herself, maybe. then he nods back.

[we should leave?]

you nod, again. you stand up, you're visible, you're out of cover, and nothing happens. no one shoots at you. the handler stands up as well. you offer your hand and she takes it. she's warm. people are warm, usually. he follows you out, but he stops to look at the bodies. you don't know how to interpret their face. they are quiet, as you go down the few flights of rickety old stairs. she is afraid, still, you think, which is why you are afraid. that's new, that doesn't normally happen. getting freaked out, because of someone else. you keep your breathing slow and regular. you make it to the little truck and nothing bad happens on the way. you are fine. both of you are in your seats. the handler has not driven away from this building yet. she is fidgeting with her hands like she is thinking on something. eventually, she turns to you.

oh. you weren't expecting that. you, uh, you don't normally touch people. make skin contact. like that. but it's not weird when she holds your hand. and a hug is just like that but scaled up. you think. you, uhh.

[and you don't have to, if you don't want to. you know. no worries at all.] he says, very quickly. so. you stretch your arms out, to her. and his face folds into a big soft smile and he hugs you. she is, um, she is warm and soft. your arms are wrapped around him. you feel like you are made of concrete? you feel like you are doing this wrong. how the hell are hugs supposed to work. how are they supposed to feel. you don't know. you try to pretend to be soft and relaxed. the handler is soft but they are not relaxed. you count their breaths, you can feel their chest rise and fall shakily. how long are hugs supposed to be. you don't know. but your guess is that that does not matter. you wait for her to let go of you, to straighten up, to wipe her face, to take a deep breath. to fumble around for a cd. an instrumental album. you like this one, you can count it too. you don't like music you can't count.

-a steel support beam comes down, almost on top of you. the agent pushes you out of the way, just in time, and it manages to avoid the worst of it. not all of it. there's an awful, awful crunching sound. you grab its arm and pull your friend off of the steel that has carved a long, wicked hole in its back. right through the fuel tank, right through the ribs. that's bad that's really bad. yyou, uh-

it gets weird looks, they know they're in some danger, but no one ends up hurt. it stresses you out, a little bit, to see your agent around civilians. you dont really know why. or, well, you know what it can do. you don't know what it won't do. it's impossible to test for the absence of an occurrence. that's not the phrase. it's impossible to prove that something will never happen. that's it. no wait, that doesn't sound right either. whatever. you are not afraid of the agent, it is your friend. these random civilians are not it's friends. as far as you know. but it is polite, as far as you can tell, as it moves through the crowded kitchen. you check that it has access to the latest version of your little map of this building, and it does. and then it proves that it does because it goes the long way around and takes the door that leads to the staff hallways, and not the fancy ass dining area. it's following the route it needs to, no issue. tiny issue. it needs to get through two locked doors. issue so small it is microscopic, because all these locks are ID activated. lol. you scrape the biometric data you need from the security network, and update it's chip. and it's let through without issue. no wait. a little warning popup about how one person apparently went through one door twice in one direction. valid concern. you delete the warning. lol. the agent makes it to the room without issue.

inside of the room is a slender young man with short, greasy hair and a jumpy air to him. the agent startles him a lot by just popping up silently in the corner of his office. this is the client, and not the target. your view from the agents visor keeps wandering, because it's a bit bored. the client, Petra, asks you a question, out loud. well, he asks the agent a question, but it's not really listening. you respond via text, same channel that he hired you on.

"So. You're... agent Mandible?"

the codename you're currently using. [yes yes. where is the target? thought there was a job to do.]

you do not need to be this rude, but also it's kinda fun, watching the fear on his face, watching him puzzle the pieces together entirely incorrectly, because he whispers "Ah, so you're a robot..." under his breath in a way he thinks you won't hear. lol? even if one of you was a robot, you would be able to hear that. this guy is a fool. a fool who is paying you to kill his superior. it might actually be his dad, you didn't pry enough to find out. he has composed himself enough to tell you what room the target is in.

"I don't think I need to tell you how to get there, given that you found me just fine." he shuffles his feet, and visibly struggles to maintain eye contact. he feels he needs to be polite, apparently. "You arrived at the perfect time, he should be asleep for the next 15 minutes or so..." he trails off, and then turns to look out a window, hands behind his back, all fuckin formal. the agent is out of there as soon as the talking is over, and you've sent it on the updated map. you check on the targets room remotely. holy shit. the door lock isn't even engaged. he left it open. there are two cameras in his room. one is completely off, he requested that? lol. the other is not off, but it is on standby mode, it should alert and start recording when it detects movement. getting past that specific trick is not brainlessly easy, but it's not impossible either. you just want it to look untampered with. or- wait. it only needs to look untampered for the text ten minutes or so, while no-one's looking too hard, probably. you get it hacked, it's a good enough job. as good as it needs to be. they won't have footage of the incident. now you get to watch the agent do it's part of the job, from its perspective, no less. it takes a moment to consider something. medium of dispatch, maybe? oh, yeah. it gets out its knife. hand over his mouth, blade into his neck, up into the skull. simple and silent. kinda messy and gruesome also. the poor cleaning staff, that is not a cheap carpet. at least that desk seems very blood-proof, with how excessively shiny it is. the agent wipes its knife on the targets sleeve, and then it is out of there, along the new route you've sent it, down the quiet staff hallways but not the same ones as earlier. you leave your cam hack in place, might as well, and you text the client and tell him [it is done.] which is very edgy of you, you admit, but it's appropriate for this job, probably.

hmm. there's something to ponder there, about the aesthetics of death. guns make the process of creating death much more efficient, they're machines, they're optimized. using your own hand weapons takes the degree of separation out of it. you're much closer to the violence you're doing. you, in the general grammatical case, your personal hands are still pretty clean, overall. well, ok, no. degrees of separation, again. you are paid to be the middleman between the person who wants someone dead and the person who does the killing. person is here. you wave it into the truck, and then you drive away, out of this parking lot.

[do you want more hand weapons? i've been mostly focusing on guns, for range and effecacy, but for small jobs like this it might be worth it. maybe? what do you think?]

it makes a small ponderous noise, and looks up to the roof, fidgeting with its fingers, deep in thought.

[i should be able to get my hands on some weapons catalogs for you, plus there's that expo coming up in a few weeks. but with both of those, there's the problem of you being actively sold something. lots of loud flashy words to get you to spend lots of money money money]

it huffs a quiet laugh, and then it pulls its mask down to tap at its jaw. huh? oh, it's referencing the guy who sold you that jaw, and a lot of other very flashy and not strictly nessecary items. you laugh at that.

[oh man, i don't remember how many of them you've met, but i have quite a lot of friends like that. my sincere condolences.]

it throws it's hands up in mock despair, very clearly smiling at the same time. you have a new message, from Petra. [The money has been forwarded to you.] oh damn. immediately after the job? this guy has a lot of trust in his bank security. or he just hasn't thought of what an investigator might look for. family of rich idiots, over there. once the money comes in, you'll move it to your actual account. obfuscatory steps. the agent is messing with a small piece of fabric, folding and unfolding it. it might have snatched that from that last job. that's fair, honestly. small enough to be hard to identify and easy to dispose of it needed, and it looks like it has a good texture to it. you should get it some new fidgety things, once this money comes in. you could get yourself something too, maybe. been a while since you got new clothes, but also you don't like lugging around too much unnessecary stuff. maybe there's a clothes swap event somewhere nearby you could drop in to. how would you find that. you could ask a friend. carmen, they seem like they would know. you should drop into them anyways, say hi. it gets kinda hard to keep up with friends, with the constant travelling. but you do your best, and your friends are cool, they all seem to understand. the agent has just finished typing something out on its communicator.

[bazooka would be funny]

that is SO far from anything you were expecting, you're breathless with laughter.

[say fuck all of you. get explode]

you make a little explosion motion with both hands, one still on the wheel. the agent looks somewhat proud of having gotten you to laugh.

[okay, man, do you have any actual ideas?]

[no. give me some time]

you've just seen the agent off, it's gone in through the vents, and you and acorn are going in through the rotating glass doors at the front of the building, like fools. not like fools. this is part of the plan. you are undercover, as software specialists, here to fix the mysterious security bug that showed up in their financial database recently. the one that you planted. but they don't know that. you did a pretty good job with that one, honestly, but there's only so much you can do remotely without getting caught. much easier to do damage up and close. also much easier to get caught. fuck. you aren't getting caught, right now, because you don't look like scary hackers. you look like somewhat gay software engineers, which is mostly true. you don't actually know what degree acorn has. it might be accounting??? you forgot to ask, and now is not the time. but it would explain why she's so good at the financial end of the business. you walk up to the front desk, and you try to act harmlessly nervous, like you're supposed to be here, you just got lost. and it works, the receptionist gives you the keycard you need. you thank her, and you follow the acorn into the big fancy elevator. the ride is silent, but the acorn glances at you several times, like she wants to go over the mission plan. she doesn't, because she knows how easy it is to install cameras in buildings like this.

the elevator ride is long enough, it gives you a moment to breathe. then it comes to a very jarring stop, slams your jaw into place all wrong. you would think they'd have good control systems in a building this fancy and high-budget. flashy but ineffective. that checks out with what you know about their software infrastructure, honestly. that's a good sign for this whole mission. you walk down the hallway, and you remember to look nervous and ordinary, and the acorn follows you. a guard points you to the server room you need. they look distracted, honestly. like they need a smoke or something. acorn goes and plugs her laptop into the first server she sees, and sits down on the floor to start working. you're a bit more subtle, you think. or, that's your part of the job. to remember things like this. with her down low like that, there's one camera to be concerned with. you stick to the wall, just about out of its view, you think, and you reach up to stick an interruptor on. the ceilings are low as hell in here, cramped and buzzing little space, full of beautiful data. you sit down next to the acorn, and you pull out your laptop to look like you're doing your 'job', and you intercept the security camera feed. you grab the latest clip, of the two of you sitting peacefully, and you loop it. nothing out of the ordinary. even the timestamp is displaying as normal. you're so good at this. nothing is exploding. hoorah. oh, you should tell the acorn that. you give her a thumbs up, all clear, and she shuffles herself deeper into the maze of servers. you launch an application to keep an eye on all the data moving in and out of this server room. ach, no wait that's way too much to process at once, you can't think that fast. you filter out all the redundant boring stuff. ok that's readable. now you can see when a server tries to announce that it's being read/modified, and catch the message before it gets out. you also catch the automatic security cam refresh, and make sure it continues to loop the footage of you two acting unsuspicious. you are holding down the fort. you are doing a good job. you are not getting distracted. you wonder what the agent's up to. you open up two separate new encrypted channels, to make it as hard as possible for anyone to spot what you're doing, and then you use one to ping the agent for its location. turns out it's right above you, just chilling in the vents up there. vibes, okay. nothing has gone wrong yet. you don't want to get complacent. you use your second empty channel to get access to the cameras in the hallways just outside. it's a finicky job, but you do get in. just in time, actually. the guards shift has changed, and the new guy seems more attentive then the last one. that's not ideal for you. you try your cam footage looping trick again. it's a bit tricky, because you don't have any interruptors out there, you need to use the one in-point you have to the cam network to get to the ones you want. oh wait shit. have you got it. yes you have. epic. epic. okay. here's the acorn. she's shaking your shoulder gently to get your attention. you got absorbed in your work. that happens a lot. she gives you a thumbs up, along with her normal somewhat blank stare.

you want to make everything look smooth and not obviously weird as you leave. so you tell her to sit next to you again before you stop the footage loop on this camera. perfect. not perfect, she's on the other side of you now. whatever, they probably won't notice. maybe. time to get out of here. you get up and go out the door and the acorn follows. that guard is dead. one shot to the head. acorn latches onto your arm when she sees the body. you turn around to look at the vent just above the door and the agent is there, unscrewing the silencer from its pistol. it gives you a thumbs up. you try not to laugh at that.

[time to get going] you say, one of the only things you've said aloud this mission, somehow. you walk acorn over to the elevator. she still looks freaked out. you want to distract her.

[you should dye your hair again, the green looked nice]

[Oh! Thank you. Uhh, I've been meaning to, but my landlady got mad at me the last time I got dye all over the shower. I've also been busy, bleaching it is such a pain...]

the two of you just watch the crowd for a while, it's a normal enough night. then you catch someone making a beeline for your friend, someone with a slightly weird look to him. patchy facial hair and a bit of a jittery vibe. he comes up to the two of you and starts trying to say something to your friend, who after a moment of very focused frowning, shakes its head and gestures out a door, into the exit hallway. the two of them move and you follow.

[Hi, hello, my name is Alister, Stefan recommended you to me. Said you were his best. And- wait, who's this, then?]

the guy, alister, tries to stare you down. it's not terribly effective, you're quite a bit taller then him. then, in a move you weren't expecting, your friend reaches over and takes your hand in their good one. this catches you off guard, you have to take a second to sort of process it. they're warm, in a comfortable and ordinary way, and their hand is mildly calloused.

[Ah, alright, I see. Sure, I guess that's fine, partner in crime or whatever. But listen, I'm here to offer you a job. Do you have your own weapons?]

they shake their head.

[That's fine, I can sort that out for you. But I have a hit, who my connections have recently made me aware of. And there is a handsome reward on his head, which is why I only have one shot. Which is why I need the best. Which is why I'm looking for you.]

they think on it for a second, then nod, once. you are- uh, you have some questions about the situation. you decide to voice some of them.

[hang on. what, uhh- what sort of price are we talking about here?]

he leans in close to whisper [*A hundred and sixty thousand!* And that's after I've taken my cut! This is too good to pass up!]

[and how big is your cut?]

[Oh, well- moderately sized, I'm sure you'll understand...]

after a bit of heckling, you get your friend's cut of the profits up to 200k, which you are quite happy with. that's enough to get a house, or a nice car, or an overly fancy piece of new tech, or- you stopped listening. whoops. alister is handing your friend a small and inconspicuous usb drive.

[The details of the hit are on here, and if you are at the right place at the right time I will have arranged for there to be a good quality sniper rifle there for you. Leave it behind after you're done, try not to leave too many fingerprints on it, and try not to be seen as you go. Got that?]

it nods again, once, with a look of calm focus that, if you're being honest, freaks you out ever so slightly. nothing about this situation has caught it off guard. alister is gone now, the interaction is over, and you ask it [you have... experience in this department?]

it nods, while moving back to its spot by the rim of the dance floor. it carefully presses the usb into your palm, and you put it into one of your pockets, a small one so it won't fall out. you- this seems- hm. are you in over your head? maybe not. it seems as though the hardest parts of this job will be in the hands of others, with experience. and the pay will be really good, if you don't cock it up. good enough to get you on your feet. or to get your friend that prosthetic. that does actually take priority. yeah okay. you're going to do a good job the first time around, get a high quality aid and install it properly, to minimize lingering problems. that is actually your area of expertise, you're going to do a good job there. you know you will. you know you can.

-

you aren't going to plug this usb drive directly into your not-shitty computer, you have no idea what's on here. or, well, you have an idea of what is supposed to be on here, but you don't trust this guy that much. you spend a bit of time messing with an old, crunchy laptop you found in a skip, and eventually it turns on. oh damn, this thing actually isn't terrible. you could save it if you wanted. but you don't want, you need a test subject in case this drive has malware on it, so you plug the USB right into the poor little computer. and it doesn't die! nothing actively malicious on here, from what you can see. a couple documents, a couple maps, and a list of instructions. and an executable. oooooh.

you give your friend the laptop, and they take their time to read through everything. once you get the laptop back, that .exe has been opened. you're about to chastize them for their terrible digital safety skills when you see what the program is for. it's a security cam feed. holy shit?? okay, that's quite cool. the cams show two empty rooms, which the instructions doc says are the room for the 'agent', the person doing the job, and the room that the target will be in. you're curious about the software this uses, now. you'll try to take a look at it, once you have time. you're in no terrible rush, you're not late yet, but this isn't the sort of thing you want to be late for *at all*. so you leave shortly. you don't bring much, and you dress in a non-eye-catching way, no bright colours, face covered, and you take sandy's car, you asked her yesterday and she said sure. you didn't tell her what it would be for, but that's probably fine.

the drive there is uneventful, but by the time you arrive you are thoroughly anxious. there are so many ways this whole situation could explode and kill both of you. you have no idea what you're doing. oh god. you jump a bit when your friends rests it's hand on your shoulder. you look over to it, and it holds its hand out over its chest. in, and out. deep breaths. you laugh at that, kinda. how the hell is it not nervous? maybe it's just better at hiding it. that's probably it. whatever, deep breaths. you've got this. it's got this. it gets out of the car and slips through the back door of the designated building. the car is turned off, nice and quiet, and you open the test laptop and pull up the security cam feed. there it is, and there they are. the target is sat at the edge of that crowd, not as close to the window as you'd like, but his platinum blond haircut makes him easy to spot. and there's the sniper rifle, where it was promised to be. the agent only takes a moment to wrangle it into its good hand, and then it's in position.

a long moment goes by. several long moments. it almost feels peaceful.

and then it takes the shot.

your cams don't have audio, but the sound is loud enough that it jolts through your chest, even in the relative safety of your little car. your monitoring station. your agent needs to get back, now. and not be seen. it keeps low, and it moves smoothly out the door. and now you can't track it. the other cam is just showing the conference room, which has broken out into chaos. yeah, yeah. more importantly, no one seems to be trying to find the gunman yet. too busy panicking. goddd where is it. you need to get out of here. you were drumming your fingers against the steering wheel, but that was too loud, freaked you out more. so now you're drumming your fingers against your legs. it's a bit quieter. where the fuck- THERE IT IS thank god. okay. it steps into the car, and as soon as it's closed the door you are OUT OF THERE at a normal and calm speed. you are normal you are not on the run. you are normal. ohhh god. okay you are driving slightly too fast because you are panicking. oh no oh no. you ask it to keep an eye out for anyone on your tail. you don't see it's response, your eyes are on the road. you merge onto a main road, and you know no one will be able to follow you from here, because you can see two other cars of this same make and model already. very common and normal car. but you don't actually calm down until you're back at sandy's place, where you sit on the couch and put your head in your hands, and you try to count your breaths. deep and slow. calm down. holy fuck and shit. someone sits down next to you. it's your friend. the agent. it just did that. it just took a life. you helped it. because you're friends. and the money will be good. deep breaths. you ask if you can hold its hand, and it lets you. it's hand is warm and ordinary, and calloused from years of doing whatever. this, probably. and maybe normal work, whatever that would be for them. you are calming down now, you think. what the fuck. what the fuck. but at least the job is done.

-

[Hey- mom! This is a killing machine! What if it hurts me or, I dunno, breaks something?]

[Then it's distributor would owe me a lot of money. Again, this is a small test. I want to understand its performance.]

and with that, the lady of the house leaves, with the handler in tow. she's gonna be doing stuff he is good at- business negotiations -for the next hour at the very least, and you're stuck on babysitting duty. the kid no longer seems concerned about how dangerous you might be, which is nice, you suppose. she's on her phone.

someone just entered the shop, and they're only a little bit suspicious. until their eyes lock on to your table. you see the way their hand goes to their pockets, briefly, before they remember they're undercover or whatever. you're out of the truck already. the parking lot is just behind the, uhh, beer garden? you think that's what it's called. you hop the fence and slip through the back door and are at your human's table just in time to flip it on its side and pull them behind it. you don't have time to get them out the back door with you, the target has opened fire. you need to return fire. the humans in here - all of them - have gotten loud. hrmm.

-

you reach over to hold Fig's hand as the agent pulls up its pant leg to retrieve the handgun it keeps in its calf, in the space between the artificial muscle and bone. Fig has started to hyperventilate. that's not ideal. you keep your voice low, and you try to tell them that the situation is under control, that they'll be okay. the agent fumbles at its arm for a handful of bullets, and then it loads its gun with a few smooth and practiced motions. it straightens up to open fire on the attacker, and you rub circles into Fig's hand with your thumb. it's weird, working with someone who isn't used to this. makes it more stressful. you keep talking to them, quiet as you can. you think you're doing an okay job at being comforting? you hope you are. you hear a particularly loud bang from just above you and they instinctually grab at you, pulling you closer. turns out that was a good move.

-

man, fuck this guy. he shot at one of those big fancy lampthings above your human's table. that was sort of smart. you weren't expecting it. you panic, a little bit, and end up throwing yourself into it, shoulder first. it lands just out of range to do your humans any damage, but the guy got some free shots at your back and side in the process. you're mad now. you shoot him in the hand, and the shin, and the thigh. he fumbles his gun, and it falls to the floor. that's all you needed. time to get out of here. you reach down and grab the handlers shoulder, briefly, to draw her attention, and then you point out the back door. emphatically. we need to go. the handler gets the client up and on their feet, eventually, and you keep your gun trained on the attacker. he doesnt try anything. he doesn't even notice you're still pointing a gun at him, he's busy with his thigh wound. killing in public is ill-advised, which is why you aren't doing it. one of the other humans in this building is on call with an ambulance, or the cops, more likely. finally, finally, your humans are moving out the back door, and you follow, making sure they don't get ambushed. the handler opens the back gate easily [you didn't know it opened that easily. you didn't have time anyways it's fine] and the three of you load into the van, because the client walked here and also theyre still panicking. and you wouldn't be able to help with that and the handler needs to drive. so the client is in your seat, and you're in the back, by the operating table. and it's fine. it's fine. they're in your seat and it's fine. there are splinters in your shoulder that you didn't notice earlier. but you don't remember which drawer the tweezers would be in. and the road has lots of sharp turns, you don't want to mess anything up with your shaky hands. your hands are shaky. you can hear them talking in the front, in quiet shaky voices like humans who just endured something traumatic. you don't really want to be able to hear them. you have a music player back here, you remember where. you pull up something loud and shapeless and think about that for the rest of the trip.

---

you are finally, finally, finally back in your own house. and despite how paranoid you've been lately, you feel pretty safe, because there are two assassins sitting on your living room floor. Grenadine - no wait, sorry, the handler - is pulling small bloody shards of wood and glass out of their agent's back. they're leaving the pieces in a little plastic tray on the floor next to them. the agent has taken its shirt and jacket off, and it's [it, right? not they? yeah it] it's just sitting quietly, eyes closed. its chest is littered with small scars, and with bigger patches of skin that don't quite look like scar tissue? they look like something else. you're not really sure what. its shoulders are broader then you'd expect for someone with top scars, faint as they are. you're staring. you've been staring. fuck. you finish what you went to the kitchen to do, putting a frozen pizza in the oven and making some hot chocolate, for you and your guests. you put a metal straw in each cup, because you have them and they're fun. you try to carry the three mugs out to the living room, and then you decide to be smart instead and just make two trips instead of spilling all over your carpet. the handler thanks you quietly. ah, quiet mode. okay. you grab your mug and sit on the couch, trying to give them some space. the mug is warm in your hands, it's helping you calm down.

you check your phone, in case anything important happened. ah. you were the important thing that happened. you get shown four different photos of you at the restaurant and decide you don't want to see any more. you switch to the music app, and play something quiet and calm and backgroundy on the TV speakers. it has lyrics but they're soft enough that you think your guests won't mind. your guests are taking a hot chocolate break. the agent takes its mask halfway off, and underneath it has a shiny metal jaw, like a proper cyborg. it doesn't really seem to have a lower lip to speak of. it uses the straw.

the handler puts her mug down, and puts her hand on the agents shoulder, rubbing small circles with their thumb. the agent puts its mug down and lies its hands flat on the ground, and the handler gets to work pulling out bullets. you don't watch that too closely, but you do find out what the not-scar skin is, it's fake, it covers up patches of cyborg machinery inside it. that's - that icks you out for some reason. makes you feel weird in your skin. you get up to check on the pizza. it's done. you cut it up and bring it out. you put it on the little table next to the couch, and you grab a slice, and you sit down. it's not long until those two are done. with one arm around it's shoulders, the handler gets the agent to move to the couch. it's sat next to her and she's sat next to you. it's very quiet in here, somehow, even with the music. you hazard a question.

[...Will it be okay?]

[oh, yes, no doubts there. it's already asleep, see.]

and it is asleep, injured shoulder pressed gently into its partner's side, face wrinkled up in what could be focus, could be distress. you're not really sure.

[will you be okay?]

[Yeah... yeah.]

they give you a look when you say that.

[do you want to talk about it?]

you breathe a long, drawn out sigh. [Sure.]

you think it's nonthreatening. the armed civilian disagrees, because he shoots you, in the same knee that you got shot in earlier. you drop down to hide from the small barrage of bullets and also because ow. fuck. your knee. you get a message from the handler, displayed on your visor: [CIVILIANS. DO NOT ENGAGE] and that makes sense but also. fuck. ow. the roadbridge has a decently sized barrier along the edge, to prevent cars from falling off, so you're decently sheltered right now. you try to crawl forward, to where the handler is parked, and it is slow fucking going. you are leaving a trail of blood behind you like a weird snail. and then you stop going because you are ordered to. by the civilian? you make your movements slow, and you hold up your hands where you can, while you maneuver yourself into a sitting position, so that you can see the situation. yeah, it's the civilian. he still looks really scared. and he's aiming at your head now. this situation is suboptimal.

[Are... are you... with them?] he gestures at the ground with his head, and at the bodies littering it.

this guy is scared and he's operating on an information deficit. you shake your head, no, you are not allied with the people you just killed.

[Prove it. Prove that you're not... with them.]

brooo you don't know how to do that. you don't even know what this conflict was about, you thought it would be a quick job. which is why you didn't bring your communicator. fuck.

[PROVE IT! PROVE IT OR I'LL SHOOT!]

[hey! hey can you not shoot that guy, it's with me, thank youuu]

ohhh thank fuck, it's the handler. you're good now- no wait no you arent. she is very vulnerable to things like bullets. the civilian turns abruptly to face her.

[hello, please don't shoot me either, we were called in to de-escalate the conflict in your town. this here is my agent, it was the one who killed all these soldiers who have been giving ye trouble. and our job is done, so we'll be leaving now.]

after a long, tense moment, the gunman switches on the safety.

[thank you. hey dude can you walk? take my hand.] you hesitate, because you are rather bloody. [what? oh, dude it's fine. clothes are washable. that's why I like this top so much actually, it looks like it should be, like, dry clean only, but no it's really durable and easy to clean, it's great.] she pulls you up and swings your arm over his shoulder, and he supports you on the walk back to the truck, and the whole way you are trying to keep an eye on what the civilians are doing. it does look like the gunman is losing his resolve to shoot by the second, which is good for you, because you are in a bad defensive position right now. but you make it back, and there is a space cleared for you to sit down so that the handler can take a look at your knee.

[and this skirt, I found at a charity shop on, like, the other side of the country. and- oh?]

you've grabbed your communicator, [good outfit for today. cute and non threatening.]

they laugh, and they thank you, and then the laugh turns into a cringe when they process the full sentence. [oh, did you think you looked threatening? you scared them?]

[yes]

[why?]

[normally happens. and he shot me. im dressed for combat]

she has a complicated expression on their face, but he sighs like you're right. [yeah... im used to making myself look nonthreatening.] she laughs, and it's not all that funny.

[you talk, also. like human]

[that's true...] he's kinda busy fishing the bullets out of your knee, but she keeps the conversation going. [do you regret, uhh, all this? do you want to change?]

[no. no no. it's just weird]

you stand behind the company spokesman, on stage, live, and he announces the next phase of the organization's plans. a holy crusade, a blessed war. only our best guns to keep all of us safe. so many will die. so many will die by your hand. the crowd of journalists applauds, discordant, and the stage lights sing too loud, and you stand in your place, two steps behind his right shoulder. and you know you can't do this. you will not be able to live with yourself past this. you will not live past this. you will die here, then. you take your holy gun, and your hand is quick and your aim is true, and you shoot the spokesman straight through the skull. quick and efficient, because you're good at your job. and he falls. and then you fall. you're gunned down by the security complement, quick and efficiently, because they're good at their jobs.

you don't die there. that would be too simple.

you're not alive, either.

there is a way for a person to live past death. it takes a very skilled individual, and a lot of money, but it's possible. if the self is returned to the body, the person is no longer dead. if the self is lost, the person is lost. if the self is stored somewhere, very carefully, the person is not dead, but they are empty. more receptive to orders. a gunman who asks no questions is a perfect gunman, except for the cost of construction. it's only worth it sometimes. when the empty gunman is sent to the mess hall for meals, the other agents see them, and they know. it's hard not to know, it's very noticeable, when a person is empty. they're like a black hole, like if you stand too close, you'll go tumbling down into nothing, forever. that's an old wives tale, everyone knows this. it's a perfectly safe and well understood process, the emptying. everyone avoids looking them in the eye. they are not there to notice.

a weapon is only as good as it's wielder. this empty gun is only as good as their commander. normally, the commander is not incompetent. but sometimes there is an error made in paperwork, somewhere in all the layers of bureaucracy, and someone underskilled is assigned a job too big for them. this is one of those times. it wouldn't have been an issue, except the commander needed to access storage, and he was a coward, and a fool, so he brought the empty gun with him. this wouldn't have been an issue either, truly, except for the fact he got lost, down in the maze of sensitive archives and artifacts. and he kept the empty gun with him, because he was scared. and he brought the empty body right past the shelves, tucked away into a corner, where the souls are kept. they walk right past it, and they feel their hands again. what? you feel your hands again. what? these are your hands. you come to a stop. these are your hands. where were they? where were you? what happened? what? you died, you think. probably. this is your body. it's been so long. you want to cry. you want to scream, and sing, and dance. you start to dance. spin around yourself, step light, step heavy, dip deep, arc high, this is your body. it's been so long. arms out at a nice steep angle, spin in place like the old spinning top at your grandparents house. throw yourself, arms first, wildly, side to side. get tackled to the ground. the floor rings out with a single pure note. no it doesn't. where did your hands go. he hisses something into your ear, and you aren't there to hear it. the empty gun comes back to a stand, and continues to follow the commander. the rest of the mission is uneventful. everyone goes back to work.

-

one day, a good few months ago, your brother went to work, and never came back. there's a hole in your life, in your every day, and no one believes you. or, they think they deserved it or something. they never said what their job truly was, it was some government thing, it paid well. supported the family. they left and never came back. the police gave up on searching, after a while. you knew not to trust police. you also know your brother. they wouldn't just leave you, you know this. you refuse to believe that they're dead. you cannot. if they were gone, the world would have stopped spinning already. you know this. in your bones, in your soul, you know this.

during the day, you work your retail job, and in your free time, which you don't have a lot of, you've started meeting up with this small group of radicals. not, like, proper real radicals. you guys aren't blowing anything up. it's mostly art you guys make. mostly graffiti. you're a good writer, you do what you can do, and you write. anti-establishment stuff, mostly. anti-war. there's a girl in the group who has connections with news publishers, and sometimes she can get your stuff in the papers. all anonymously, but it gets the word out there. a good few people have joined because of your writing. it makes you feel like you're doing something good. you're doing what you can. lately, your group has been organising speeches, at universities mostly, and small protests. nothing big enough to get big eyes on you. you think. you thought. turns out you were wrong about that.

that's the main thing you dislike about moving here. none of the hospitals recognize your degree. yet. so you're looking around for whatever jobs you can find, for the time being. right now you're getting ready to work your evening shift at this big big supermarket chain. you don't like it, it manages to be both boring and overwhelming, but it's money. just until you find something better. you're lacing up your boots when sandy comes barging through the door.

[Hey!!! How good are you at surgery?]

[what?? i'm pretty good, why?]

[Something went down at Stefan's bar, the one I brought you to the other day. One of the security guards got fucked up, I said I knew a doctor so he sent me to get you. Cmon let's go-] she grabs you by the wrist and starts dragging you towards the door. this is all moving very fast.

[wh- at least let me get my suture kit first! I don't know what I'm dealing with here.]

[Oh I don't either. That's probably smart.]

you grab as much stuff that you think you might need as you can carry and then you and her cram into her dinky little car and she hightails it to that one kinda seedy queer bar that she brought you to the day after she met you. you forgot that the owner's name was stefan, but you did meet him. very pretty man. the bar is actually really close to sandy's place, you get out of the car and she herds you through the main area for dance and drink and whatever and into a back room with the owner and a couple other people in it, and you don't care about them because there is a person sat against the wall who has lost a lot of blood, and an arm. the wound has been bandaged, tightly but clumsily, and when you unwrap it you can see that the cut was clumsy and messy as well, all the way through and just below the elbow, bone and nerve exposed and open. you have a bottle of saline solution that you use to wash out the wound quickly, you don't want to aggravate anything unnecessarily and you also don't want it to get infected, and then you- oh wait. before you stitch it closed, you ask the people in this room if the arm is salvageable. you are pointed to a plastic bag with a very mangled arm in it, enough tendons cut and nerves damaged that it won't be worth the time to try to reattach it. would take a lot of resources you don't have. alright, you suture up the sides of the wound so that it will be easier to work with as it heals, and then you bandage it, properly this time. you ask someone for a bottle of water or ginger ale or something, just to rehydrate the patient, and then you turn your attention back to them. they are shaky and sweaty, and making a valiant attempt to stare stoically into nothing. you don't want them to pass out on you quite yet, not without an IV. you ask them if they can hear you, and after a moment they nod their head. you ask for their name, and they don't answer that. someone- stefan, speaks up from behind you.

[This one doesn't talk on a good day, but they're good at security so I don't ask questions I don't need answers to. Not that kind of business, you know.]

huh. you have a lot of questions you could ask, but he just made it fairly clear he can't or won't answer all or maybe most of them, and also here's the ginger ale you requested. you press the cup into their good hand but they're a little too shaky to hold it themself. doesn't stop them from trying. you help where you can, and they don't seem to resent you for it.

[what even happened?]

[I said that already, you weren't listening.] his tone is only a bit accusatory, light hearted in total.

[i was busy making sure your mystery security guard doesn't die. tell me again.]

[Guy snuck in, he was fash. He had this fucking home made mini chainsaw, and we don't stop people from bringing in weapons but we do stop people from using them inside, especially on patrons. Thanks to this one, no one else got hurt tonight. I need to up their pay. Oh, before you got here I got em to undo their binder, that seemed smart.]

you nod, that is a good move. they've finished the drink, and are beginning to fall/melt/slide down the wall they're sat against.

[still with us, soldier?]

they nod.

[good. you did a good job dealing with the situation, you won't die tonight. im, uhh...] you falter for a second, then regain your mostly faked confidence, [im going to get you a prosthetic arm. yeah. don't you worry.]

they muscle through the fatigue to give you a deeply incredulous look.

[yes. yes. and I want to make sure you're okay tomorrow so I'm going to keep an eye on your state. either by you coming to my place or me going to yours, whichever works for you.]

they take another moment, then lift their good hand off the floor to point at you. your place.

[my place?]

they nod.

[alright. hopefully sandy won't mind. im gonna pick you up now, let me know if you need me to do anything. or stop doing anything. you know.]

they're not short but they are light, for the obvious reason. missing a substantial amount of body mass. sandy says something to the bar people as you leave, which is good, because you forgot to. you climb into her little car, into the back seat for space for you and them. with their head against your chest, you can hear their breathing, quiet and laboured. they don't quite relax, but they do drop the attempt at military stoicism. a lot of things about them seem weirdly militaristic. you hope they'll be okay. no- they will be okay. you know this. you're confident in your competence. yeah. sandy, who is in the driver's seat now, adjusts the rear view mirror to make eye contact.

[All good back there?]

[all good. sorry for the sudden extra person to keep on your couch.]

these contact lenses feel weird. you're not allowed to pick at your face, you're not allowed to fidget 'too much'. your task is to look normal, and not make a scene. you don't even have to do the hard part, answering questions, that's what the handler's doing. your hear the person she's talking to ask him [so, how long have you and your... partner been together?] and you go back to not listening, and scanning the crowd for potential hostiles. there are none. this venue is very safe, physically. you have to be normal and presentable and not weird and not scary. you adjust your pose to look slightly more human. you keep your breathing even. you don't avoid eye contact but you don't look at anyone for too long either. you think you're pulling this off. probably. you focus on where your gun is stowed, in your calf, nestled between the synthetic and organic muscles. wait- no you don't. you're thinking about normal and non threatening things. totally. nothing to see here. the weapons scanner triggered on you on your way in but they let you in anyway, they were 'informed' of your 'special circumstances', which is already too much intel for them to have on you, as far as you're concerned.

a waiter comes around with a tray of drinks in delicate little glasses. the handler is offered one, and they take one for you as well. they hand it to you, and linger on you for a second. ah, yeah. you move your mask the minimum amount necessary to sip whatever this drink is. it tastes like alcohol, gross, but your systems don't clock any actual poison. you raise the glass in a gesture you hope looks friendly, and the handler nods slightly, and turns back to the people she was talking to. his dress swishes around her legs as she does, the soft loops of red and purple and pink twisting into each other delicately. this whole event is so weird and delicate and pretty. you feel so dangerous and strange, shadowing your friend, avoiding prolonged eye contact. you adjust your grip on this glass to be less likely to shatter it and to make sure the skin looks normal. god, if someone looks too hard at you, it's over. you fiddle with the skin of your hand again, trying to make it look like it sits on top of muscle instead of metal. you feel like it looks slightly worse now. fuck. the handler moves back to address you again, whoever they were talking to has finally left. [we were very lucky to be invited here, the networking opportunities are bountiful.] their tone is weird as hell because their primary objective is to spill nothing, to not give away any valuable information. neither of you know how much data is being collected and from where. you have a nonzero amount of data storage and processing tech in your brain and chest which is why you need to be careful of how loudly you think about certain topics. this is so weird. this all sucks.

the handler is moving towards a table with a bunch of fragile little pastries on it and an atypical heat source underneath. it's a machine. you can't tell what it does and you don't want to risk it. you take their elbow, trying your fucking hardest to be gentle and normal, and direct them to a different table of powdery little sweets with no detectable unknowns hidden underneath. she takes some for himself and offers one to you, and you decline it. you really want to avoid having that powder texture on your hands right now. you put down the fragile little glass, and you wonder if it's bad etiquette, somehow, to not leave it on a coaster or something. you can't see where other people put their glasses when they're done. maybe they're just collected up and swept out of sight. there's someone new talking to the handler now, and they're dressed in silver and white to match the walls and the tablecloths and the long tall curtains. that's something they would do if this was their venue. they're moving with a calm confidence that supports that idea. and they're smiling in a way that might be fake? that might be what faces normally look like. that might be what their face normally looks like. you're no better at reading what a face means now then when you were a kid. that's what the handler is good at, the talking and the parties and all. you can't read her face either but that's pretty normal for an interaction like this. they're talking about, like, a trade or a sale? some sort of business endeavour. that's also pretty normal. the person in silver drifts over to the table with the pastries and the unknown device, says something about how delicious these are and offers one to the handler. technically that's normal too. you stay close to them.

[We understand that you are one of the best engineers in the world when it comes to designing for modern security concerns, and we are interested in facilitating your technological developments with our resources.]

[thank you, but I am content with my current resources, and am not looking to expand or share. my designs are all proprietary, i'm sure you understand.]

[Mmm, I do understand. And I trust that you understand that by refusing this partnership, you are turning down an opportunity to be on the cutting edge when it comes to understanding what might be used against you, what exactly you need to be secure *against*.]

and they say more but you don't really listen because they've reached behind them to pick up a device from the table that looked a bit like something to pick up food but you can see now is connected to a cable that goes down through the table. and you don't like that. you step in front of the handler just in case and yYYYYYYYYYYYYYyou are on the floor. you are injured. you are injured everywhere maybe? that doesn't make sense. your face is slick with something. it might be one of those drinks. but no, it's under your mask and it tastes like metal. so it's blood from your nose. one of your eyes is non functional. you can't tell which. that's a shame, if the attack affected either the organic or the synthetic eye but not both that would be valuable intel to learn about the nature of the attack. the attack was bad, you think. you can't really move. you feel like a plastic bag full of jello. no, pudding. in a burnt plastic bag. with holes melted into it. theyre still talking, over your head. it sounds, uhh, dramatic. like from a show. where the good guy stands up to the bad guy and something something. it's been a while since you felt this bad. you don't want to focus on that. you try to listen to what they're saying above you. above? it doesn't feel like 'up' but you're pretty sure the sound is coming from 'not the floor'. it's never a good sign when your sense of direction gets busted. urgh.

[-incorrect yet again. it isn't a tool and it isn't for sale, it's a *person* and it's my *friend*. and-]

it seems to have some strong electrical manipulation capabilities too, you can tell when it's stalking your boat because your readings get messed up in these very consistent patterns. that might be why it's following you tbh. your boat also generates and manipulates weird electrical signals. you're proud of your boat. it's a good boat, absolutely full of very under-the-table technologies. anything in here that you didn't build yourself, you've traded for with someone else who engages in not-quite-legal research. you're currently thinking in a very rambly and bored way because you've spent the past several hours putting in new braids, in a fun wine-purple-red color that you really like. you're finally at the stage where you can seal off the ends, you're dipping them in hot water to set them and it ALMOST fucking spills on you and burns you because something slams up against the side of your boat. what the fuck. you're going to investigate. but first you dry your hair quickly and put the water somewhere it won't spill and THEN you go out to the deck to see what the fuck that was. it's, uhh... for a moment you can't see it through all the blood in the water- there's a lot. there's so much. this seems like too much- but then it bobs up to the surface and you can see that it's a weird fish. a big weird fish. with humanoid arms and a head. and gray-black and orange-red scales. and a large facial injury, which is where all this blood is coming from. you are going to get this fish into your observation tank. it looks like it might be dead already, but that just means the worst case scenario is that you have a previously undocumented specimen to study, and the best case scenario is this weird fish won't die tonight.

it takes you longer then you'd like to accomplish this goal, because this fish is fucking big. thick and solid, an amount of blubber that indicates they're probably meant for deeper waters then this? and its roughly twice as long as you are tall, and whenever you're on land trying to talk to people they always point out how very tall you are. this fish is too big for you to comfortably manoeuvre. but you can uncomfortably manoeuvre it, you just have to make use of your net and pulley setup to get it out of the water as gently as possible- god, you really don't wanna aggravate its injuries unnecessarily but a certain amount is unavoidable, but- fuck. you really don't like the look of the way the ropes dig into the rough rips in its skin. but after some struggling, you get it inside and into your tank, and here you can check its pulse. heart still beating, fish still alive, just about, and you've turned on the oxygen circulator in the tank so it can continue to respirate while unconscious. you think the reason it's still alive at all is because it happened to get caught in a strong current that kept water moving through the long gills set into both sides of its torso. it's injuries are numerous, but the most pressing one is its jaw, which has been fully torn off, not a clean cut but a jagged rip, exposing rough muscle and meat and bone underneath. the flow of blood is slow enough that you know the wound isn't too terribly fresh, but you'd still like to take care of this somehow. you consider cauterizing the wound but the face and neck is too vulnerable for that, so you opt to just go with extensive bandaging until the bleeding stops. you aren't confident that the integrity of these bandages would hold up if soaked in water for several days, so you decide to sit its head above the surface of the water, with the rest of it still submerged. this close, you can see a lot more details, and the funk of blood is beginning to wash away so you can appreciate the dense, muted sheen of its scales, as well as the many, many places along its tail where those scales have been ripped away to reveal brown-red skin and deep red-brown flesh. you administer a dose of pain reliever that you've had in storage for a while, and you're glad you didn't throw it away because it's finally become useful. it's basically horse tranquillizer but for the sea, but it'll help with managing pain and reducing inflammation.

there are bits of something stuck to its head, and after some investigating you come to the conclusion that it was a sea anemone who used to live there, some sort of symbiotic relationship, and has since been ripped off. there is nothing you can do for this poor little anemone by this point. your priority is to take care of this merperson for now. you really want to ask what happened. you wonder what language mermaids speak. oh- well- this one probably won't be speaking the same way from now, but- uh- agh. no one is here to listen to your thoughts but you do still feel bad for being rude to this unconscious fish. actually, wait, you have time, and more or less all the resources you need, you could build it a replacement jaw. a prosthetic. going off the shape of its skull and the teeth that are still there, you could build a simple prototype to just help it catch and eat prey easier. and then maybe after that you can iterate on the design for any other functionality it might look for. yeah. alright. you start moving benches and machines around to work on your new goal. hell yeah.

-

you wake up, slowly, and the first thing you notice is that you are alive. that's nice. you weren't really expecting that. the next thing you notice is that you feel weird. and bad. you hurt all over. and this water tastes weird in your lungs. and the pressure of it is too small, like the weight of all the water in the whole ocean dried up and disappeared, like there's nothing to keep you down deep where things make sense, and like you're exploding, but, like, slowly. and also something is ON your face it feels like it might be a net or trap and that's bad. you try to grab at it to get it off but your arms aren't really working properly. sore and weird. and slow. you feel really weak. and tired. and freaked out. you're agitating the shallow water here because you are agitated, and you try to push past the weirdness in your arms and your everything to get this thing off your face and this time you manage it but the thing isn't coming off and it's really tight and weird and there's something here. someone. a person. with no scales and weird dry head tendrils. a land walking two-legs. and they're saying words that you've never heard before and have no idea what they mean but they sound nice. and calm. and they're moving slowly and carefully like they don't want to scare you. and they have no claws and blunt teeth and no spines. and you're tired. and sore. so you put your arms back down and close your eyes and try to relax. and then you open your eyes again when you feel weird soft two-leg hands on your face. they're taking the tight thing off. and underneath there is a BIG HOLE you are missing a LOT of face you are VERY hurt you are- you were going to die. you expected to, after that fight, which you kind of won but mostly didn't. fucking shallow water meanfish. with the shiny too-bright scales and the territorial nature. but you expected to be dead. and you're not. there was a lot of blood and there isn't anymore. maybe that's what the tight thing was for. to hold it closed. that would make sense. they're putting something on the wound now, it's nice and cool. makes it hurt less. you end up drifting off to sleep again, which probably isn't all that smart, you still don't really know how dangerous this person is but. you're tired. and their hands are soft.

-

this guy was prepared, you don't know why and you don't care. you stopped him from using that gun but you didn't stop him from breaking those bottles. there is a lot of debris in your abdomen. it's sharp. it feels like some important stuff was severed in there, specifically something to do with spatial orientation and navigation. you are really dizzy right now. you're leaning against- something. this is really not ideal. you need to leave. you'll take a moment to breathe first though. urgh. this is really not ideal. fuck.

-

you woke up to the sound of some sort of scuffle, coming from the old man's apartment. you always got a weird vibe from him, or at least, your dad always said to avoid being in the elevator alone with him. but he never did anything to you, you never saw him doing anything actually illegal, and even if you did, the cops don't come up to this floor of this building. you try to go back to sleep and you fail, that fight is just getting louder. the sound of breaking glass and breaking wood isn't filtered at all by these thin fucking walls. eventually, finally, there's one big thump, and then silence. now is when you should go back to sleep. now. you should really not get involved in whatever that was. but you would hate if- if someone needed medical help and didn't get any, just bleeding out there- fucking hell. you get up and pull your sneakers on, and stealth your way past your dad's room and into the hall and over to the old man's open door. there's a lot of blood on the floor. like- a lot. some of it leads to what looks like the old man's body, dragged roughly into a corner, but most of it leads to a person, standing by the counter, hunched over. he- she? whatever. they're dressed like some sort of fucking cyber ninja, and their height just makes them look extra intimidating, and they're currently pulling half of a broken bottle out of their stomach. there's a lot of blood, obvious even against their all black clothing.

they must notice that you're here, because they don't look at you to make eye contact but they do lift up their arms in a classic 'i'm not going to shoot' gesture, and it looks like that put them in even more pain because they hunch more into themself, you can see their hands shake. it's only now that you notice you've been frozen to this spot, breathing heavily and probably also loudly. you step forward, careful not to get bloodstains on your old sneakers. you ask what happened, quietly, and they gesture vaguely. that's not terribly helpful. you ask them for an actual explanation, and they shake their head stiffly, and gesture at their masked mouth. they can't talk, maybe? or they won't talk. alright, whatever, fine. you ask if they need medical help, because you do know first aid, and they stare into the distance for a brief moment before nodding, slowly. alright. you step a bit closer- you're really close to this person who you don't know and who is definitely dangerous- and you get them to lift their shirt up so you can assess the damage. the damage is a lot. it looks like that bottle was stabbed into them again and again and again and again. some rings of cut look really fucking deep, and some- you must be seeing this wrong or making this up, but- some look like you can see metal under the skin. good lord. you grab a clean looking towel and start mopping up some of the blood. oh, yeah, okay. not only could you see metal, but now that you're trying to clean the area you can see severed wires, sticking through the skin. coming from the inside and going out. it makes a little questioning sound, because your hands have gone still, and you take a second to recuperate before you ask if it's some kind of robot. it replies with an [ehh kinda] sort of noise and makes a matching sort of hand gesture, and that would be more annoying if you weren't right now staring at the evidence of them being some sort of kind-of-robot. a broken kind-of-robot, to be specific. they're leaning heavily against the counter by now. they look like they can't really get home by themself, wherever their home is. ugh. you should not have gotten involved in whatever this is. you tie the towel around their abdomen, in a way that is rough as all hell but will staunch the bleeding for a while, and you pull their shirt over it to make the mess slightly less obvious. you then make the executive decision that they need to get downstairs and out of this apartment building, and they can't do it by themself. this is confirmed when you take their arm over your shoulder and they sort of collapse against you. they've lost a lot of blood.