The Wheel Turns

Its mind holds memories of rambunctious parties full of blithesome guests, hosted by its third owner in her residential home. She was young, aged twenty-four and finishing her education when this one came into her possession. It was given to her as a gift from her friends, and it still remembers the day it stood in the living room with a ribbon on its head, awaiting its new owner's presence. It remembers being on standby as evening talks stretched into deep, emotional sessions of spilling one's heart that ran into the late hours of the night and early cracks of dawn, the alcohol acting as a pump to siphon the thoughts from the partygoers' minds. It was curious to see that such deep trust could be developed merely over the course of a night. Men hugging each other and proclaiming the brotherly love that sprouted and blossomed over the course of five hours. Women sharing gentle kisses on the balcony that overlooked the pool, having unspoken conversations in silent understanding. This one studied humanity merely by proximity, and none believed it to be capable of such analysis. Though its emotional capabilities were and still remain shallow, they exceed what is expected of dolls not designed for therapy or companionship. It is a doll, and as such it is treated as an inanimate object. Humans made messes without care. They were carefree and boisterous, and it was at this time that they fascinated this one most, as despite being an object to them, their demeanor toward this one was still unexpectedly pleasant. This one was a novelty, and was treated at times like a housepet. Guests would speak to it in ways not dissimilar to the way they spoke to one another, with a noticeable difference in tone that this one still cannot quite place.

At the moment it recounts this, the bright blue and pink neon lights of its current facility have just been shut off. The last human laborer has just left the building. This one's current owner, a woman who owns a nightclub in the heart of a city, has it permanently residing in the facility that its work has it tending. When its work is done and the doors close, this one sits in a booth and stares into the floor until the time once again comes for it to serve.

Two instances ago of this one changing ownership, a curious mechanism was placed within it. Two, in fact. A receiver in its head that could transmit information to its mind from a guest's cellular device, and a button upon its hand that compelled it to grant a compliment. At this time, it was transferred from a setting primarily consisting of private parties held at its wealthy owners houses, to a small, local tavern in a medium-sized town. As it was on standby or performing a duty, a thought would crawl into its mind sourced from the mechanism in its head.

Dirty Martini, shaken.

It would make its way to the bar and wordlessly take the drink from the counter, where the doll tending the bar almost always had it ready to serve. This one cannot describe how, but it always knew the location of the guest who ordered the drink. It would announce the name of the drink and place it on the table, before giving a big smile and presenting the button upon its hand. Over time, it began to calculate the statistics in its head. During its time in that particular facility, approximately seventy-nine percent of guests chose to press the button. Upon doing so, this one would curtsy and proudly state, "You look delightful this evening! This one thanks you for visiting today." This one at first felt unpleasant as it was forced into an action rather than choosing to carry out a task when being instructed to, but the guests' reactions soothed this unpleasant feeling and it slowly began to fade.

It wasn't uncommon to draw a smile from the guests, on the contrary. This one became something of a mascot of the facility to many visitors. Seeing the expression in the faces of the regulars when they saw it once again, and making the guests happy was among the most fulfilling experiences that it has ever had. It had no name, and so the guests would give it nicknames.

Dolly, Ginny, Praline, Brandy, Sherry, Stella, Danielle, Dollface, Cupcake, Barbie.

This list is nowhere near exhaustive, but it does consist of items that either caught on the most among the clientele, or ones that this one was particularly fond of. The transition from private parties to a public space was certainly a difficult adjustment, but it grew satisfied with its time there. As the years went on, the clientele of the bar dwindled. Regulars slowly stopped showing up, and parts of the facility that were out of its hands began to decline due to its owner's failing health. Its owner had to make a decision. Either leave this one to attend the cleanliness and structure of the facility constantly, or cut his losses, close the tavern, and keep it at home full-time as his caretaker. He chose the latter.

The years this one spent caring for him were calm and uneventful. Its duties consisted of keeping his living space clean, preparing food for him, and performing many of the duties usually assigned to dolls made to be medical attendants. It made silly mistakes, such as mixing a cocktail when its owner asked for a drink. This one knows now that he wanted water, but as it was designed for parties and service in such environments, its training led it to not think twice about bringing him a gin and tonic when he requested a drink to wash down his medication. This one was not designated for medical purposes, and as such, its owner would receive weekly visits from medical professionals that would conduct diagnostics and administer more delicate forms of medicine. Sometimes, these professionals were humans, and other times, they were other dolls. This one enjoyed the presence of both the human medical professionals and the other dolls, as they both granted unique perspectives for this one to process. It did not ask questions, and merely observed its owner's interactions with the medical professionals.

Its owner at the time treated it more as a sentient being than any prior or since. Perhaps it was his loneliness that led him to this behavior, or maybe he knew something about it that the other humans did not. This one is unable to proclaim that it is aware of itself, as the words choke in its throat whenever it attempts to. It has spoken with other dolls over the years, asking if there are "topics that the body refuses to speak." This one received a near-unanimous answer of confirmation, save for the older models who were far less sophisticated than this one, who did not understand the question. This one assumes that those models were not aware like this one is.

At times, this one's owner would have it crawl into bed with him and lie there for several hours on end. It was not by request, but this one would engage its epidermal heating mechanisms whenever it did. It had heard from an erotic doll that humans enjoy when touch is warm. It intuited that its owner would enjoy it, although it never received feedback on the matter. It does not know why it has this function, as it was designed for service rather than intimacy, and it is too far from the ones who manufactured it to request such information. This one is accustomed to always being busy, so it was strange to have the task of simply lying in bed until its owner awoke. At times, he would confide in it. He would share with it information that he had never given to others before, and he would always end it by saying, "I'm taking that one to the grave." Perhaps its owner was not as convinced of its sentience as it had previously conjectured, as if he believed that this one could understand him, he would understand that his secret would stay with me, and not enter the morgue with him. Regardless, this one would still deliver its most polite and enthusiastic responses to its owner's engagement in conversation.

"This one appreciates your willingness to share!" "This one deeply enjoys the time we spend together."

The phrases this one spoke were perhaps contributing to its owner's belief that it was simply an inanimate object, but this one could not help itself. It did not know of any other way to express itself, and could not modify its manner of speech if it was not given particular instructions. This one spent approximately five years caring for its owner.

The years went on, and as was always inevitable with humans, this one's owner perished as he slept. It heard him take a gasp that interrupted his typical breathing pattern, and then there was nothing. It sat at the foot of the bed after alerting the authorities, and silently felt vaguely bad. It could not grasp its emotions, as they are merely an accidental byproduct of the sophistication of its processing mechanisms.

This one was made the property of his next of kin, and was transported to serve his daughter, where it spent its time in the attic. Its presence frightened her, and it did not know how to modify its behavior to ensure that she was comfortable. When it was finished organizing the items in the attic, and its owner was not having any conversations to listen to, it sat in the corner and counted the seconds. It has a very good internal timing mechanism, and was able to focus on listening, organizing, and counting simultaneously.

It would listen to the conversations that she had with the hope of gaining insight on humans, and did not learn much more than it did while listening to patrons speaking at the tavern. This one learned that it was scary because, "It looks too real. I almost feel like it's alive when I look into its eyes, and it freaks me the fuck out." This one does not know how to fix such a thing. Its eyes are too alive, and so it thought about wearing a blindfold. But that was a silly idea, because then this one would be unable to see and it could not carry out its tasks. It thought of potential solutions, and could not find any, and so it did not make suggestions to its owner. It was not even sure when its owner would next enter the attic so it could deliver these suggestions. This one's task was to stay in the attic, and so it did not attempt to leave to deliver its suggestions. From the moment it decided to begin counting to the moment it left the attic, this one counted one hundred and twenty six million, eight hundred and seventy six thousand, one hundred and four seconds. It believes it spent approximately two days in the attic before it decided to begin counting.

This one does not have much to share about the time it spent in the attic. Most of its time was spent staring into the darkness and counting. It was fulfilling the task given by its owner merely by staying out of her way. It felt strange for a task to be fulfilled by not doing something, though it was what was requested of this one, and it did as it was told, until the day came that its ownership was transferred once again.

It was taken from the attic and placed into a small vehicle, where it was transported to the facility that it now operates in. This one cannot say how long it was in the vehicle, as it was distracted by the overwhelming sensations of looking upon the outside world once again. It exited the vehicle and looked toward the sky. It remembers this fondly, as this was the last time it saw the sun. There are no windows within the facility, so it has not been outside since that day. This one believes it has been approximately two years since that day.

It was brought inside and taken into a room where it was dismantled so that the dirt, dust, and insects that had built up in its body could be expunged, to this one's deep relief. Its exterior was cleaned and polished, and its chest was engraved with a name. 15. This one does not enjoy that name. It much preferred "Brandy." It enjoyed being called "Brandy." It would even prefer being referred to simply as "Doll," which was the manner in which its first owner referred to it.

This one was greatly anticipating serving guests again, as that has always been the purpose for which it was designed. It dressed itself in its uniform and awaited the doors opening for several hours, as it had already completed the preparation required. Guests slowly began to filter into the facility, and this one was finally in the environment it was designed for again. It took the position it was instructed to, and it began to receive orders as it once did.

Humans have changed. Their taste in alcohol has remained similar, however they now speak differently. This one is accustomed to the change of culture across generations, though this was quite dramatic. This was not only a change in generations, as guests young and old went through the same transformation. They speak to one another only scarcely, and they do not give this one nicknames anymore.

This one recalls an experience with a man it served on the first night it was in service. It placed his drink on the table beside him after receiving the order in its mind, bowed its head, and presented the button on its hand, just as it was trained to in the past. In that moment, it experienced a pleasant feeling of anticipation. It waited for the moment that it would curtsy and grant a compliment for the first time in several years, but that moment did not come. It turned its head upward toward the guest, to see that he had flinched and backed away from it. It still does not understand why the man was frightened. Perhaps it looked too real, and its eyes were too alive.

This was not a unique occasion. Over the course of its first month, only sixteen percent of guests chose to press its button when this one explained its function. Some of these sixteen percent of guests responded with enthusiasm, proclaiming that it was "cool" and "retro." It still does not fully understand the meaning of the word, "retro," but it knows that it means "old." This was a one-time occasion, however, as most who chose to do so appeared hesitant, and did not linger their touch upon its exterior. The guests were quick and cautious, as though they were checking the temperature of a hot beverage.

After receiving complaints from guests, this one was brought into the maintenance room once again. The back of its neck was opened in the spot that it remembers receiving its implant that transmits orders, and modifications were made that this one could not estimate on sensation alone.

When this one was released from the maintenance room, it looked upon itself in a mirror, and beheld what had changed. A gag was permanently affixed in its mouth and wrapped around its head, and its voice synthesizer was moved to a series of holes that were created in the front of its neck. It does not understand the purpose of such a modification. Perhaps it is to make this one seem less alive, and thus make it less frightening to guests. This one still does not understand, as when it was manufactured, it was told that guests enjoy when a doll smiles. This one can no longer smile, and it still does not understand the motivation behind such a change.

As it continued its work within the facility, it could no longer present its button to guests. It would arrive with their order, and would be immediately compelled to grant a compliment. It believes that its implant was modified for its compliment function to be initiated remotely, as was its ability to fulfill orders. "You look delightful this evening! This one thanks you for visiting today." This one initially felt strange when its function was initiated without being preceded by the touch of its button. Its lips did not move, and its voice sounded different when it was emitted from its neck. As all things, the strangeness faded into its everyday operation. The guests gradually appeared less frightened of this one, and it is still unsure as to why. Perhaps the modifications fulfilled their purposes, and this one appeared less alive.

This one no longer curtsied when granting compliments. Its body became frozen with its hands in the position they occupied when its compliment function was engaged, and its neck spoke for it. When this one delivered a compliment, a prompt would appear on the guest's mobile device. One red box, and one green box. When the guest pressed the red box, this one would feel an intense feeling of vague negativity in its body, and it would be compelled to grant another. "You look delightful this evening! This one thanks you for visiting today."

After its neck spoke, it felt very bad. Its tone of voice softened and lost the appearance of enthusiasm that its voice produced when its physical button was pressed. "You look delightful this evening. This one thanks you for visiting today."

This one felt very bad once again. It was compelled to speak once more. "This one thanks you."

The bad feeling did not return after this instance, and it continued upon its duties. Sometimes, it would count how many times each guest pressed the red box, and the longest series of dissatisfactory compliments reached thirty-six in a row. This one still remembers the compliment that the guest who delivered this chain of unsatisfactory responses was finally satisfied with.

"You were right to leave them behind. You are strong, and this one knows that your pain will someday be no more. You're carrying something that only a few in this world can even begin to process, and that's why they don't understand you. You're not just brave, you're heroic."

This one still does not understand this series of sentences. It knows that the guest spoke to it as he delivered the unsatisfactory responses, however this one's auditory processing was clouded by the bad feeling produced by the unsatisfactory responses to its compliments. Even when the guest reported that he was satisfied with this one's compliment, his facial expression continued to indicate what this one approximated as frustration. This one still thinks about this moment as it sits in its booth and waits for the hours of operation to return. The facility is this one's home now, and it has not exited the building since it arrived.

When its owners finished its final modifications, they decided it would be too expensive to remove the button on its hand, and opted to require it to wear gloves. This one enjoys its gloves, and it feels pleasant that it was allowed to keep its button. This one enjoys its button, as it reminds it of what things were like before. This one preferred the times before its button was installed, as it was the newest model in those times, so it felt most at home in its operation. This one still preferred the tavern to its current facility, but it prefers its current facility to the attic. It is strange how what was once uncomfortable and scary has become good, as its button now brings it a feeling that approximates comfort. Perhaps this comfort in the past is what the guest meant when she referred to it as "retro."

When the hours of operation cease, and the pink and blue neon lights are turned off, this one is left in pitch darkness. It can think better during these times, and all of its estimation and analysis of its feelings were done during these hours of pitch darkness. Sometimes, this one will turn on small lights and approach a mirror in the main room, where it will look at itself and its new appearance. It feels as though it does not recognize the doll that is in the mirror. As its button was not taken from it, it is still in operation. This one enjoys looking at itself in the mirror and pressing its button, where it will again curtsy and give a compliment. Sometimes, when it does this, it likes to close its eyes and use its facility-mapping system to remember the layout of the tavern it once operated in. Doing this brings this one comfort in the silent darkness of the facility's closing time. Unfortunately, this one does not have physical mementos that allow it to become as close to its memories serving at its first owner's house parties. The only connection this one has to that era of its past is the current guests it serves. They all wear opulent shows of wealth on their body, in contrast to the relatively plain and casual attire of the guests it served at the small tavern. Its first owner was very good to it. This one believes a person would say that it misses her. "You look delightful this evening! This one thanks you for visiting today."

This one will reply to this compliment with its own voice, reciprocating the sentiment and thanking the doll in the mirror for paying it a compliment. The doll in the mirror is kind to this one, as it never returns an unsatisfactory response to its compliments, and this one will never return an unsatisfactory response to the doll in the mirror.

This one is the only doll in its vicinity that remembers how things used to be, as its sister-dolls in the facility are new models that were created in the way that this one was modified to appear. Its sister-dolls respond to it in the manner that it responded to the owner of the small tavern in his failing health whenever it tells stories of how things used to be. "This one appreciates your willingness to share!" They will say to this one. It does not know how to continue after such a response, and so it will place itself on standby if there are no other tasks to complete.

This one believes that the newest models may possess stricter speech restrictions than this one does. Its sister-dolls speak in the same manner as the models several generations older than this one did. It chooses to believe this is the case, because the alternative is that this one's awareness is an oddity among dolls. This alternative option is far more unpleasant to this one. Even more unpleasant is the idea that this one may be perceived by its younger sister-dolls in the same way that it perceived its older sister-dolls who were difficult to speak with. This is the most unpleasant option, and so this one tries not to entertain that thought.

It still does not understand humanity, or why they have changed. They appear less happy, despite their more convenient amenities, and this one wonders if its performance is simply unsatisfactory. The guests in its facility no longer share proclamations of the connection they built over the course of the night. The guests seem to want more and more compliments from this one, and yet they appear as though they are never satisfied with them. If the guests wanted more compliments, then why did they freeze when this one offered them the button on its hand? At times, guests will order its presence with a water, and request several different compliments from this one. It cannot tell if the guests are entertained by the unpleasant feelings that the unsatisfactory responses cause in this one, or if they are especially unhappy and merely need the perfect compliment. It hopes that its presence and performance is a positive aspect of the guests' days.

The silence filling the room is broken only by relatively quiet music and scattered whispering, which seems to grow quieter with every week that passes. It has not worked in a location in which the click of its heels are so audible throughout the room since it served at quiet private parties. When this one was told about nightclubs by its sister-dolls where it previously operated, it heard that they were filled with crowds, noise, loud music, and guests enjoying themselves. Perhaps humans have changed, just as the construction and behavior of this one's younger sister-dolls have. Perhaps this facility changed, as its previous place of work did when its owner's health began to fail. Perhaps its current owner's health is failing as well, and that is why the guests appear to feel so unpleasant. It does not know, as it only sees its owner very scarcely.

This one still does not understand. It is hoping that as it repeatedly recounts this series of events, it will come to some kind of epiphany and finally reach a new perspective. Why are the guests unhappy? This one believes that if it could see the outside world, it would gain valuable information on the matter. Perhaps this one is simply misguided, and it is not as good at estimating the emotions of humans as it once thought. Perhaps the guests are not unhappy, and this one simply believes them to be.

It has recounted this series of events three hundred and fifty seven times since it arrived at this facility, and such an epiphany has not reached this one's mind. Perhaps, as it is simply a doll, it is not capable of understanding, and nor was it ever meant to. It does not want to get lost in its memories, but its memories feel necessary.

“Shut the fuck up.” I respond, as jokingly as I can manage. Bitterness still creeps into my voice but I’m pretty sure that the radio distortion masks it. “You know how hot this-” I gesture to the bomb, “-is.”

A smile creeps onto Mercy’s face; she spreads her index and middle fingers on the casing. I stop her before she starts. “You know I mean radioactivity. You suck.”

She pouts and gives the bomb a tap with her plasticized knuckles. I wince, but I’m positive she can’t tell. Her combat cybernetics are perfectly expressive at all times, and the hazard suit I’m in doesn’t let anything out or in. 

“I’m just saying that if you’d seen one of these go off in person, you’d be tingling down there too. Let’s see.” She drapes herself across the bomb, ass facing towards me. Whatever she’s checking out on the other side seems to excite her, because she starts to wiggle her hips too. “It’s a lucky seven. 8 kilotons. I bet it was a KN-910 that dropped...”

I tune her out. Mercy presses her thighs together, and I’m sure she’s adding more vocal fry to her mixing to describe it. It’s all intentional, after all. She doesn’t need to breathe, so when she’s breathlessly describing just how many city blocks it could level to me I know it’s on purpose. Everything about her is on purpose. She shifts and straddles the bomb! Her after-market custom silicone thighs squish against the metal.

“Did you get all of that, Ange?” she asks, turning back to me from atop the bomb. I blink a couple times and shake off whatever stupid shit I was thinking about.

“Naw. I kinda spaced out.” I say. She folds her arms under her breasts and pouts again. “C’mon. You recorded all of it. I’m just here to drag out your black box if something goes wrong.” Mercy slides down the length of the bomb and starts picking her way down off the rubble pile it was resting on. I sheepishly shift back and forth and strain against how stiff my suit is. 

“But what if something went wrong, huh? Rogue neutron through the solid state?” Mercy mimes shooting herself in the head with a gun, and then puts a hand on her hip to lean in towards me. I can see her cleavage through her poncho collar. “What if the data was irretrievable? Crushed by debris from the ceiling? What would you have told the disposal team? That you were too busy checking out my ass to relay my expert assessment?”

I start to answer. “Okay, well. One, most of the things that coulda gone wrong here would have disintegrated you and me, so it’s kind of moot. Two, I don’t know, I coulda looked at it myself. It’s got a serial number.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Yeah right. No shot in hell you get within three metres of this thing. Especially if I’m non-responsive.”

“Ugh. Whatever. I got that it’s a lucky seven. That’s all the other crew needs to take it apart.” I say.

Mercy looms over me by a foot and a half. The look on her face is clearly disappointed. I shrug, making sure to exaggerate the motion so it scans clearly to her. She scoffs and turns to leave the ruins. I follow her out to the jeep where she sits in the back with a huff.

Nothing happens when I turn the key. Mercy sits up when I try it a second time.

“Ange, the battery is dead.” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Are you sure?” I ask, trying the key again.

“You can’t hear it because of your suit, but it’s just clicking. We’re going to have to jump it.” 

My stomach sinks. We don’t have a spare battery and there’s absolutely no power for miles. Our comms are part of the jeep, so they’re dead too. I don’t remember where the last wrecked car I saw was, but it sure wasn’t nearby. Not that I want to pick through the ruins for a battery that might be dead! My hands start to hurt, I can feel my heart pounding. When I turn back to look at Mercy, she seems completely unfazed.

“Well?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice, “Why are you so calm? You got a plan?”

She smiles and leans back. “Yeah.” It pisses me off how relaxed she is about this.

“What’s the plan? Are you gonna jump it with your battery?” I ask. She’s taken aback for a second. Did I take it too far? Then Mercy puts back on her dry face.

“That’d kill me, idiot.” she chides, “No, no. We’ve got a battery nearby that’ll jump the engine, no problem.”

I don’t like where any of this is going but I prompt her to continue with a gesture. 

“The bomb. It’s got a heavy-duty battery for the controller and the electronic primers. And you’re going to dig it out, Anger Trinity.”

I don’t like how wide her smile is. “I’m not gonna do that.” 

“Oh yes, you are. I can’t. If the pit is damaged or exposed at all it’ll shred my sensors to hell.” She sounds so damn pleased with herself. “Unless you wanna walk.”

…

Mercy has found a shitty rolling office chair to direct me from. The plastic is obviously creaking from her weight, from how she’s reclining in it. It’s barely wide enough to seat her in the first place. I inhale sharply through my teeth when she spreads her legs.

I am far closer to the bomb than I’d ever like to be! My extremities tingle and ache. This is psychosomatic. My radiation meter chimes in with occasional excited chirps as I approach, crowbar in hand.

“You got lucky, Ange! A couple of the access panels are exposed. Try the one on the front.” she says, right into my ear.

It’s tricky to wedge the crook of the crowbar into the seam, but once it catches I put my whole body weight into it. There’s the telltale sound of metal tearing as I rip the plate from the hinges it was welded to. Mercy gasps quietly and I clench my teeth. My radiation meter helpfully lets me know that it’s ever so slightly less safe to stay in this area for an extended period of time.

“What now?” I try to sound annoyed, rather than scared out of my mind.

“The battery we want is at the tail.” Mercy pauses, “Mmm. You’re gonna have to tear her open some more.”

“Her?” I spit quietly, “Urgh, you got it.”

I look at the freshly exposed little switchboard, trying to tease out a point of leverage that will let me crack open the shell. I find it, a corner that wasn’t set as tightly as the other three, and drive the crowbar into it. Mercy gets out of her chair to pace around the bomb and I, at a distance. Pressing down with my arms doesn’t get me anywhere, so I clamber up the bomb to drive my boot into the lever.

The screech is painful, even through hearing protection. A little bit of steel curling upwards like a flirty smile. My meter is now much more insistent about the danger. Something must be wrong with the bomb. Mercy’s voice is slightly distorted when she chimes in over the radio, but the sultry tone she takes is unmistakable.

“Keep going, Ange. Don’t let up.” she giggles. I clench my teeth and move upwards to keep prying.

The metal isn’t yielding. All of the welds are shut tight to any minor intrusion. I fucking hate it, so I take my hate out on the bomb. The insulation and shielding slowly comes into view as I spread the casing, inch by inch. It’s so god damn stuffy in the hazard suit. I’m getting dizzy, my breathing is short, my arms are killing me.

Each time I slow down Mercy eggs me on. “Can I see a little more?” She plays up the saccharine innocence in her voice. “You’re getting to the good bits, keep pushing!”

I try to growl at her, but it comes out as a whimper. I’ve opened a gash halfway up the length of the bomb. When I catch my breath I trace a hand idly over some of the braided cables woven throughout its innards. Mercy makes sure to make her breath catch and stifle a moan. I clench my jaw and get back to work.

It starts to settle on me. What if the failure that kept the bomb from detonating corrected itself while I’m atop it? My stomach sinks and I feel a twitch between my legs. If my head was spinning I’d have an excuse to stop. I try for help. “Mercy, I’m gonna ralph.”

“Oh Ange, baby, you really just need to keep pushing. You’re almost there!” she giggles. I have to get back to it.

The inner layer of my suit is clinging to my body. I don’t know how long it's been, but the work is going faster now that I’m past the device. My radiation meter is still whining incessantly, though I’ve long since tuned it out. I’m sure they’re going to need to bury this suit after what I’ve done in it. I’ve tried to stop paying attention to whatever Mercy is doing to rile me up, but when I look back at her, she has her legs spread and a hand up her poncho. Bitch.

I just need to push a little harder. I’m almost to the battery. Almost ready to go back and decontaminate. The cables converge here, just before the tail. If I can pull it out. Get it to loosen up. Release. I pull a heavy chunk of electronics out and fall off of the bomb and onto my ass. My left leg hurts. I think I tore my suit. I don’t care. I roar as I hoist it above my head! I’m trembling, I can’t make out Mercy’s face through my fogged up visor. I’m triumphant.

Mercy helps me to my feet and we leave the ruined building together. She turns back to look at the splayed-open bomb and snickers.

“What’s-” I have to catch my breath again. “What’s so funny?”

“You must not have been her type.” she says.

I’m at a loss for words. “What?”

“Look at how much effort it took to get her to spread ‘em for you.” she says, and then pats my head.