#ambiguous relationships

When two particles experience quantum entanglement, they are linked, no matter the distance between them. From the moment Murderbot steps onto Perihelion’s bridge, their lives become inextricably linked.

For “I hold you in my bones”, I connected the moment in which Murderbot stands in the geodome in Rogue Protocol, in awe of the storm, to its understanding of ART’s powerful and all encompassing presence.

For “Your metal bones hold me”, I show MB floating in space, gazing up at ART’s ship body, as ART releases its pathfinders to encircle MB.

You exhaled sharply through gritted teeth with every punch, each breath leaving your body like steam from an overheated engine. The old punching bag rattled on its chain beneath the force of your hits, swaying violently before snapping back toward you like it wanted another round. Your knuckles burned raw, wrists aching from the repeated impact, but you barely felt it anymore. Pain was simple. Pain was clean. Pain drowned everything else out.

The gym smelled like sweat, rubber mats, and rusted metal. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too harsh, reflecting off the sheen of sweat coating your skin beneath the heavy grey hoodie clinging to your frame. The fabric was soaked through at the collar and sleeves, sticking to your back in damp patches. Somewhere along the line, your knuckles had split open, tiny smears of blood staining the canvas bag where your fists landed over and over and over.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

You hit harder.

Your shoulders screamed in protest. Your lungs burned. Your body begged for a break, but your brain refused to allow.

Because if you stopped moving, you’d think.

And if you thought too hard, you’d spiral again.

Work had already been hell this week—deadlines stacked on top of meetings stacked on top of people talking over you in that careful, patronising tone that made your skin crawl. But yesterday had been the final insult. Your period had hit out of nowhere, cruel and mocking, like your own body was laughing at you.

Just fantastic.

You slammed your fist into the bag hard enough to make the chain creak overhead.

“Attagirl,” the ugly voice in your head sneered immediately after, dripping venom. “Punch it harder. Maybe if you hit something enough times, you’ll finally beat the girl out of yourself.”

Your jaw clenched.

Another hit.

“You’ll never be a real guy.”

Another.

“Doesn’t matter how low your voice gets, missy. Doesn’t matter how many hoodies you wear.”

Another.

“They can all tell.”

You sucked in a shaky breath through your nose, fury boiling beneath your ribs.

“Cute little faker,” the voice continued mockingly. “Playing dress-up like one of the boys. Bet they all humour you out of pity.”

The next punch landed crooked. Pain shot through your hand.

Good.

Maybe you deserved it.

“Keep going, tough guy,” the voice taunted. “Break your hands. Maybe then people will stop pretending.”

“If you keep swinging like that, you’re gonna shred your knuckles, pretty boy.”

The real voice cut clean through the noise.

You ignored it instantly.

Chad—Flambae, according to the ridiculous SDN tag clipped to his gym bag—leaned against the nearby rack with his arms crossed. Sleeveless crop top. Rings on his fingers. Sharp eyeliner is somehow still perfect despite the heat. His black hair was tied back messily, and there was that same infuriatingly smug expression on his face that always made you want to either punch him or avoid eye contact entirely.

“You can’t just rawdog a punching bag barehanded, sweetheart,” he added dramatically. “That is not how we preserve the merchandise.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to hurt and cranked your headphones louder.

Music flooded your ears.

Not enough.

“You look stupid,” the voice in your head hissed. “Look at you. Sweaty, bleeding, emotional. Such a girl.”

Your breathing became uneven.

The bag swung again beneath another vicious punch.

“You think he sees you as a guy?” the voice mocked cruelly. “Please. He’s just humouring you because you’re pathetic.”

Your vision blurred for half a second.

Another punch.

“You’re soft.”

Another.

“You’re weak.”

Another.

“You’ll always be—”

Suddenly, hands grabbed your shoulders.

“What the—HEY—”

Before you could react properly, Chad spun you around with alarming ease and scooped you clean off the floor into a bridal carry.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly over your startled swearing. “You are one mental breakdown away from exploding your wrists, bro. We’re done.”

“Put me DOWN—”

“No, angel.”

“Chad—”

“Incorrect. Right now, I’m your court-appointed emotional support hunk.”

You squirmed furiously in his arms while he carried you toward the benches like you weighed nothing. Heat flooded your face instantly, humiliation and anger tangling together into something sharp and unbearable.

“People are staring,” you muttered through clenched teeth.

“Good. Maybe shame will teach you self-preservation.”

“I hate you.”

“Mhm. Drink water.”

He planted you onto the bench despite your continued resistance and tossed his water bottle directly into your lap. The plastic smacked your stomach lightly.

You glared at it.

Then at him.

Chad crouched slightly, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arching upward.

“Drink, puppy.”

Your stomach twisted stupidly at the nickname.

Annoying. So annoying.

You unscrewed the bottle and took a reluctant sip. The cold water soothed the raw dryness in your throat immediately, and only then did you realise how badly you’d been panting.

“Again,” Chad ordered.

You drank more this time.

“There we go. Good boy.”

Heat climbed straight up your neck.

You quickly looked away before he could notice.

Too late.

The smug bastard definitely noticed.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly as he reached for your hands. “Baby, you really tore yourself up.”

You flinched automatically when he touched you, not because it hurt, but because his grip was careful. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you thought you deserved right now.

Your knuckles looked awful up close—split skin, reddened bruises already forming across your fingers.

Chad clicked his tongue.

“What’d the bag do to you, champ?”

You shrugged stiffly.

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.”

He dug through his gym bag and pulled out a roll of black hand wraps, kneeling in front of you between your knees without another word. The position alone made your brain short-circuit a little.

His fingers worked slowly around your hands, wrapping the fabric securely over your knuckles and wrists.

“You know,” he said casually, eyes focused downward, “for someone who acts caring to others, you are genuinely awful at taking care of yourself.”

You huffed quietly.

“Didn’t ask.”

“No, but unfortunately for you, I’m deciding to care anyway.”

The words landed harder than any punch had.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

The voice in your head tried again immediately.

“He’ll get tired of you eventually.”

Chad adjusted the wrap gently around your wrist.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to punish yourself every time your dysphoria spikes,” he said quietly, like he could somehow hear the thoughts clawing around inside your skull. “You’re not proving anything by hurting yourself, dude.”

You swallowed hard.

Silence stretched between you, except for the muffled music from the gym speakers and the soft sound of fabric pulling tight.

Finally, Chad looked up at you.

His expression had softened completely.

“There,” he murmured. “Much better, handsome.”

Your breath caught embarrassingly fast.

You looked away again, cheeks burning.

“Shut up.”

He grinned immediately. “Aww. There’s my tough guy.”

Once he finished wrapping both hands, he stood and slung his bag over one shoulder before offering you his hand.

You stared at it for a second.

Then took it.

His grip tightened warmly around yours.

You had the pleasure of observing both groups of people in separate but the same place(s). Killers and survivors, those who lived and those who didn't. They didn't much interact with you, not unless you had outfits to sell them. Some of them, mostly the survivors, had most if not all of the outfit you had to offer for them, and always jumped at the chance to buy more from you whenever you had any for them in stock. The killers, most of the time, didn't pay you much mind. Maybe one or two of them wanting one or another thing before going back to not interacting with you.

One killer in particular was. Definitely something. You probably watched him the most when he was in the main cabin, though he never payed much mind to you. John Doe, usually not there much if at all. Red and black overtook half of his body, his mouth a smile he didn't seem to be holding himself. Only one eye blinked, the other coved by that same red and black.

He didn't come to you on his own. Usually dragged along by c00lkidd, who couldn't get anyone else to come to you with him. He never interacted with you, only watching as c00lkidd excitedly asked about any new cool costumes you might have for him.

It took a long time for him to be dragged over by 1x1x1x1, who demanded he buy at least one outfit for himself. John didn't respond, though. Only stared at 1x with that smile you fully believe to be frozen onto his face. It took even longer for him to come to you on his own. With his only usable hand, he had plopped down enough 'player points' to buy an outfit. He never wore it, but he bought it. And that was progress.

It was only when Noli came around that John bought another outfit. He still didn't wear it. Then he got another. And then another. And by now, you don't have anything for him because he had a ton of 'player points' saved up and had the ability to buy all of his outfits. You didn't enjoy how he had to go to someone else to get more outfits. But, for some reason, he'd leave the points equivalent on your counter after buying the outfits from someone else.

All of the survivors complained a lot about John. You had once even heard Elliot refer to him as 'The Trapper'. You never understood it, but it's whatever. He wasn't so bad to you. That's all you really cared about.

~~~