#carrierverse

Hello everybody, I am doing a bingo card challenge! There are three different cards to pick from depending on the amount you want to participate. The goal is to get a bingo.

You can post to the challenge either here (tumblr) or on AO3!

5x5 (keep reading for other cards):

ProviderVerse - a Provider is a cis woman who can get another cis woman pregnant, as a Carrier in CarrierVerse. It's possible to find out you're a provider earlier in life but not generally done, most women find out when they get someone pregnant.

Fandom: Brokeback Mountain Summary: Jack knew that something was wrong the moment that he pulled away. Ennis had once said that driving away from Jack had felt like having his guts pulled out, and now Jack was experiencing that feeling firsthand. That was the only thing that he could do, though. Warnings: Mpreg, pregnancy, carrierverse, angst, and mentioned homophobia Word Count: 5,396 Ship(s): Jack Twist/Ennis Del Mar

Archive link!

Jude had decided to kill himself, but there were too many practicalities to consider. He had gone through the trouble of writing out a whole letter explaining to CJ how grateful he was that Earth Vanguard had found him when they did, he had fetched the bottle of oxycodone from last year’s crushed arm and counted the pills (still forty remaining), he’d kissed goodbye to their cat and arranged himself artfully on the bed, but then he just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t swallow the pills, even though the pain was bad and sure to get worse. He’d tried to kill himself three times as a teenager, the final attempt leaving his voice a permanent rasp, but now when he had a perfectly good excuse, now when he had a goddamn imperative to die, suddenly he was attached to his life with all the stubbornness of a barnacle. 

It was the location that was wrong, he decided. It would be totally unfair to CJ to leave them the responsibility of finding his body, even though they would surely honor him as a martyr. He enjoyed a moment of fantasy, CJ and Theo and Rooke and them sitting around a table a year from then, in the middle of planning some action, a bombing maybe, drinking beers, and one of them (not CJ, they were too reserved - Theo? Could he dare to imagine it as Theo?) would raise his beer and say, “To Jude. If only he were here to be part of it,” and then CJ would say, in their quiet way, “He died a martyr’s death,” and they would all drink to Jude’s bravery, how he had refused to become a tool of the gender-worshippers. He had tears in his eyes imagining it, and he also was completely disgusted with himself, so he got out of bed and took just a single oxycodone, because the pain of the Change was mostly just making him feel sorry for himself instead of wanting to die.

He decided to kill himself in a hotel so the burden of discovering his body would fall upon a stranger. He grabbed his fake papers and his money but the oxy was making him stupid and he forgot all his protective gear at the apartment, walked out of the building’s de-pollution chamber without so much as a facemask. The ozoneless sky scalded his face and the other people waiting for the bus looked at him like he was crazy.

He disembarked in the urbanized clump of Montréal’s extérireur characterized by weather-eaten buildings and the maskless disenfranchised. It all made a rather poor last meal for his eyes but he did not even consider dying in the intérieur even though for twenty-three years it had been his home. It was not that he disregarded the idea, it simply did not cross his mind.  He chose a particularly flea-ridden hotel and paid with his fake credit card and fake name. 

“Here’s your key!” chirped the young man working the front desk. He was not much older than Jude, his face sanded down by the harsh extérireur air. Jude took the white key card, but the young man continued on. “Are you from Longueuil or just visiting?” 

“I’m visiting,” Jude said. The clerk could surely tell from his teeth and accent that he had been raised of the intérieur, but he was polite enough not to comment on it.

“Well, welcome to our little city.” 

“Thank you,” Jude said, not wanting this to be the last conversation he had before he died, fearing it was going to be. 

“If you want some advice on where to eat around here,” continued the oblivious clerk, “don’t go to the diner across the street. Their clima-control must be broken or something, man, the radioactive mold I caught growing in my burger!”

Jude smiled despite himself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The clerk took his smile as desire for further conversation, and leaned in. “Hey, from one Gen-Zenith to another,” he said. “The place to go. Marv’s on sixth, just two blocks down. Great curry, cheap beer. That’s the spot.”

“Really?” Jude said. The clerk was flirting. He was lonely, the clerk was. His coworkers were all older than him and they all either looked down on him as a child or tried to sleep with him. He tried to make friends with other Lost Boys, the youngest members of Generation Zenith, but so many of them were caught up in the wretched lives they had been groomed into. They didn’t work, didn’t have interests, even at thirty years old they were still acting like children, desperately chasing the attention of the older men who saw them as poor substitutes for what they really missed. The clerk had even been in that life himself, but he was trying to get out of it now. Then Jude had walked in dressed very plainly, not out to attract customers at all, just like a man, and the clerk had thought see, it’s possible. We can be normal. 

Of course, it was all conjecture on Jude’s part, but he was so used to trusting his instincts about other people that he took it as basically fact. Ever since he was young he’d had the uncanny ability to know what people were wanting or thinking after a few exchanges of conversation. It was less than a supernatural ability, more than a talent. His gift had emerged in his first years of boarding school; perversely, around the same time he’d first tried to kill himself.

“Hey, us Lost Boys gotta look out for each other, right?” the clerk said hopefully.

“Right,” Jude said. 

“I’m Henri,” the clerk said.

Jude sighed and handed him back the key card. “It’s nice to meet you, Henri,” he said, “but I suddenly realized I can’t stay here.”

Despair crossed over Henri’s face. “Wait - is it something I said? I apologize-”

“No, you’re fine,” Jude said. “I’m just late for something.” 

“It’ll be a few business days before the refund shows up on your card,” Henry called after him. Jude waved as he waited in the cheap de-pollution chamber. 

He got back on the bus. Perhaps he did not need the oxycodone at all. The bus route went all the way across the Saint-Laurent, ending at the Victoria Crossing into Montréal’s intérieur. Jude got off at the second-to-last stop, on the Longueuil side of the river, and walked along the lonely ledge to the bridge’s midpoint and looked down over the filthy water. 

There were no ducks bathing themselves, no animal life in the river’s toxic depths. There was a chain link fence spanning out from the railing to prevent this exact sequence of events but someone had taken a bolt-cutter and torn a human-sized hole in it, and for whatever reason whatever institution responsible for this bridge had yet to come and fix it. He breathed the foul  extérireur air, tasting garbage, tire particles, the pollution from the river, for one last moment just a man in the ragged remains in the natural world.

It’s time he told himself, but his feet didn’t move. He had not wanted to kill himself since he found Earth Vanguard, found CJ, since he had learned there were truly good people in the world, people who believed in something more than themselves. He had thought it was duty that had kept him alive these past years, but perhaps it had only been an audacious desire for life. He had thought, too, that it was duty driving him to this bridge, but perhaps in the end it was only cowardice. Oh, Mother, don’t I have anything I believe in? He thought in despair. But would it really be so bad if he lived? He had more he could contribute to Earth Vanguard, didn’t he? The air was scraping his throat, like smoking a dozen cigarettes at once. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette in forever. Earth Vanguard considered them a bourgeois luxury pollutant, but occasionally he and CJ would share one. Yes, perhaps he could live with his vulgar contraband of a body. Maybe he could get away with it. 

There was the sound of tires braking. A car had parked alongside him, an old man was getting out, wearing only an N95 against the air pollution. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jude said with a sigh.

“Got anywhere you’re going? I can give you a lift.”

The old man had moved creakily, and Jude was right on the precipice. If only he had real conviction, he could hurl himself over the ledge before he had time to react. He could become a permanent fixture in this man’s nightmares. 

“Not in particular,” Jude said.

“Well, come along anyway,” the old man said amicably.

Jude climbed into the car. The old man shut the door and the clima-control hissed as it filtered out its brief gasp of plastic particles. The old man removed his face mask. He had weathered walnut skin, creased and spotted.  “You hungry? I sure am.”

The creeping pain in Jude’s stomach was making him nauseated, but he said, “sure.” They drove across the Victoria Bridge up the crossing and stopped at one of the restaurants selling outrageously overpriced food to travelers. They ordered good hardy food. Jude wasn’t hungry but he was very thirsty, and he drank glass after glass of water. It was impossible that his body could still have needs and still feel pleasure from their satisfaction. Then the food came and it turned out he was hungry after all. The servers gave him side-eyes as he ate, he was covered in dust, but the old man didn’t seem to care. 

The old man’s name was Basil. He was sixty-three and had been a machinist most of his life, but had lately been out of work. His wife had survived the Plague but after ten years behind the safety glass had died in lonely Quarantine. They had a son, Alex, who was only a little older than Jude, and worked in the intérieur as a domestic servant. Basil had driven to the border today to pick up his son for his one day off that month, but Alex was once again held up by the security at the border and getting his visa sorted. Basil didn’t want to dwell on it further, but Jude knew without him saying that he hated Alex working on the intérieur and seeing him so rarely; Jude could see his shame at not being able to support his grown-up son, but there were no jobs for either of them on the extérireur. Basil worried deeply for his son, like so many of the older generation did, but they each had a different lie they told themselves about how things were going to be okay. Basil saw his son in Jude, of course. In exchange for Basil’s kindness Jude gave him a fabricated version of his life, one where he hadn't quit his job as a carbon-capture engineer seven years prior.

“So you’re working to fix the future,” Basil said, excited.

Jude ripped sugars to dump into his coffee. ”In theory.”

Basil caught the hesitation in his voice. “Only in theory?”

“It doesn’t work,” Jude confessed. “It doesn’t mean anything. We can capture a ton or two of carbon, but it doesn’t matter, the corporations put a billion back into the atmosphere. They give us money so they can say, look, we did something, we can pollute as much as we wish.”  There is only, Jude thought, one thing that will work.

“But the technology will get better.” 

It won’t, Jude thought. Basil must have read it on his face, because he leaned in.

“Is that why? The bridge? You think it’s hopeless?”

Jude hesitated. 

“My son,” Basil said, “he feels the same sometimes. He worries there’s no future. Not for him, at least. He likes to watch old movies from before the Plague and cry over what he’s lost. I tell him not to, I say he’s torturing himself. Things were always bad, I tell him. I thought a million times over that the world was going to end. For a while, when he and you were both babies, it really did seem like it was. But look, we lived through the loss of everything. The loss of our mothers and sisters and wives, and we’re still here. There’s still plenty of life left over!” 

That’s right, Jude thought, I have a duty to the world.

“The trick is to find happiness where you can,” Basil said. “There’s no need for you to be sad, you’re an engineer of the intérieur! You don’t have a wife?”

“Ah,” Jude said. “No.”

“Well, you can certainly afford one!” Basil said. “Then at least there’s a future. I tell my son, look, in a few years there will be plenty of carriers for everyone to have a wife. There will be children. The world has not really ended, thank god.” He sighed heavily.

Oh, that’s right, Jude thought. That was his real duty, now. That was what the bloodsucking parasites wanted for him. Breed and bring more children into this dying world so we can rape the planet in perpetuity. 

“I need to use the restroom,” he said.

The blood was soaking through his underwear. He prodded at the indentation just for the satisfaction of the pain, then stuffed more underwear into place. When he got out of the bathroom Basil was talking on the phone. “Good news!” Basil said. “He’s almost through.”

Jude wanted to pick up the check, and even though he was under the impression that Jude was a rich man Basil wouldn’t dream of it, and Jude relented so as not to drag on the process of paying. They drove the rest of the way to the checkpoint and Jude slipped all the drams he had into the glove compartment before following Basil out of the car. A young man with the same walnut skin came out of the gate and flung himself into his father’s arms. They were both smiling. Jude swallowed, feeling absurdly jealous, not sure where the feeling had come from. He didn’t belong here, he was intruding. Basil introduced them to each other and then Jude made up a story about meeting his own father in the intérieur, and how he needed to get through the checkpoint. He joined the line of passport holders, waving goodbye to both of them until they were out of his sight, and then he went to the disgusting public bathroom. His father had been dead for four years. 

He locked himself into a grimy stall and rested his head back against the door. He could hear the movement of bodies out on the concourse; there was the faucet dropping; there was his own harsh breathing. It’s your duty, he told himself. No more distractions. He withdrew the oxy from his pocket and tapped all the pills into his palm, counting them. All he wanted to do was walk in a crowd of people as a stranger, feeling anonymous, feeling like part of them. A stranger among strangers. If he didn’t do this he would be discovered as Comrade Marco had been discovered five years ago; Comrade Marco, who had been too cowardly to end his own life, who had been married off to a rich man from Prague and from all reports was on his third child, a productive breeding mule. Jude raised his hand to his mouth.

Someone yanked on the door, the lock rattling. “Hey, hello! Hello! Anyone in there?” the interloper yelled in English. 

“It’s occupied!” Jude snarled in the same language. “Use the other!”

“I can’t, man, it’s fucking disgusting! These Outside animals trashed it!” 

“Well, trust me, I’m going to be in here for a while,” Jude snapped from the end of his rope.

“Aw, come on, dude,” the man on the other side said, but was quiet. Jude sighed and raised his hand to his mouth again, and the man slammed on the door, and Jude jumped, and the pills flew from his hand in an arc, right into the toilet bowl.

“Fuck!” Jude yelled, and dropped to his knees, and in desperation thrust his hand into the filthy water.

“Dude, I have to take a shit!”

“Fuck!” Jude yelled again, feeling for the pills, but they were already shrinking. He sat back and analyzed the situation. There was eight hundred milligrams of oxycodone dissolved in the toilet water. If he drank it, it would kill him as surely as taking the pills dry. Was that how badly he wanted to die? Choking on dirty toilet water? He started to laugh.

“Dude, fucking come on-”

Throwaway682: I’m Changing. What should I do? 

I (30, Arlington) think I’m Changing. The pain started a few hours ago. At first I thought I’d injured myself somehow, so I tried to examine myself, and what I found wasn’t an injury. It’s . . . the indentation.

My father wants to help me hide the Change, but I’m not so sure. I know I only have a little bit of time before the pain gets so bad I can’t think straight. I guess I want to know: what should I do? Should I go to the hospital or try to tough it out on my own? For reference I’m a non-citizen.

Areallyniceguy: citizenship status shouldn’t matter much. Any hospital you go to in the Arlington area will immediately transfer you to an intake center in Dallas - in your case, probably Deeserk, unless you’re independently wealthy.

This sort of post has actually been made before, here and here. What you’re really asking is, “should I self-surrender to an intake center and accept my life as a carrier, or should I attempt to hide the Change, and spend the rest of my life lying about who I am?” It’s a question no one can answer but you. Everyone thinks they know what they’d do, given the situation you’re in now, but only you can answer the question for your own life. 

Jessie19: everyone STOP fearmongering. Throwaway, you’lll be Fine at the DICERC. There are laws about your care! Your close family will be allowed to visit you, they’ll even get clearance to cross the border. 

Helixfelix: telling him to sel-surrender at Deeserk is like advising him to go get raped.

Jessie19: if he doesn’t go to an intake cneter he’s way more likely to get raped

Helixfelix: jeanlaurantjournals_pdf read these and get back to me

Jessie19: those were proven to be fabrications

Helixfelix: proven how? In a statement released by Deeserk??? I bet you also think americans really went to the moon in 1969.

Jessie19: what the hell are you talking about

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Angelicheretic: [comment removed]

Jessie19: [comment removed]

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Jessie19: kill yourself then.

(user deleted): YOU fucking kill yourself

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Angelicheretic: [comment removed]

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wannabeinside: what? Changing? Is that even possible? I thought everyone in Gen Zenith was too old. 

Cher: if he’s 30, then yeah, it’s possible. The rate above age 28 is about one in a thousand, but it’s not UNHEARD of. 

Infinitezest: if you’re a NO-FHKT, I’d say self-surrender. If you go through a program like Deeserk, you’re basically guaranteed a rich husband and citizenship on the Inside. I’m not saying it’s impossible to hide the Change and live as a man forever--I’m sure there’s plenty of people who’ve done it--but I’m saying, why would you, unless you love your job and your life so much you can’t bear to give it up. Being a carrier is a guaranteed security for the rest of your life, and as the population ages, that’s not an invaluable thing. 

Angelicheretic: if I were you I’d bucker down w/a ton of booze/black market painkillers and wait it out for the two weeks. There’s no medical reason for you to go to a hospital except for fluids, especially with your father / presumably family looking out for you. Just make sure they don’t fucking tell anyone.

Jessie19: your advice is to go stealth??? 

lochness Mounsier: are you crazy? What about the bloodloss?

mslenina: i’ve actually heard it’s way easier to live stealth than you’d think, you just need access to estrogen blockers to keep your tits from coming in and ruining everything.

Jessie19: you’re all a bunch of fucking LARPers. My cousin tried living stealth back in ‘09. In the end it wasnt even the fucking trffickers that got him - it was his own coworkers, who put two and two together and decided to take advantage. By telling someone to live stealth, you’re asking them to live in a world of ONLY men as the ONLY carrier, constantly vulnerable to discovery. Yeah sure there’s some decent men but I think we all know that the vast majority of people are scumbags looking out ONLY for themselves, and they won’t hesitate to take advantage of someone they think is vulnerable. Can you imagine living like that? Constantly living in that fear of everyone around you? My cousin got lucky, he LIVED through his attack. There’s way too many stories of carriers that DON’T live. Sure, Deeserk has stories. I don’t doubt there’s abuse of authority, like there is in ANY institution. But the end of it he’ll be married to a rich husband and live a comfortable life - THAT’S what’s certain. If he tries to live stealth, the only thing that’s certain is that one day he’ll be discovered. So enough of the ‘this is how you live stealth’ LARPing survivalist shit. You have NO FUCKING IDEA what you’d do.

Helixfelix: OP, don’t let yourself be scared into making your choice, just look at the reality: regardless of the debates over ‘oh, Deeserk isn’t really that bad, you won’t be raped,’ WHATEVER, you’re still signing up to, at minimum, marrying for money. EVERYONE agrees that’s what happens, that carriers marry the richest man who bids on them. Are you okay with that? Is that the kind of life you want to lead? I’m not making a value judgement, I just want you to ask yourself that. Are you okay with marrying someone you don’t choose?

And so on and so forth. The post was trending on the Dallas subforum. Even if Kalum as a man would cease to exist, his post would live on, forever testament to his existence. At one point, the man Kalum Miller had lived, and strangers all over the city were worried about him, and wanted to give him advice, and help him.

Fingers trembling, he typed:

How do I know I won’t love him? What if I could be really happy as a carrier? 

The reply came after only a minute.

“Oh, shit!” Hammond said, pulling his dick out. “That’s a lot of blood.”

“S’fine,” Sol slurred. The sooner this was over, the sooner Bardo would take him to Millie’s to get burgers, as promised. The Haze killed the sensation of hunger, but he was looking forward to the outing - the cracked red vinyl booths, and the upbeat pop music, and the best part of all, the other customers: the old guys who played cards in the corner, the factory workers having breakfast, the thirty-somethings still in their club outfits, drinking orange juice to ward off hangovers. 

Hammond looked skeptical. His bloody dick had started to lag.

Sol tried a whimper. “I need it so bad, so bad, put it back in, pleasepleaseplease-”

Hammond’s eyes glowed and he once more inserted himself. Sol felt vague pressure, but no pain. The pause had brought him back to himself, and he put more effort into rolling his hips and moaning, to speed up the process, and also so Hammond couldn’t complain again to Bardo about not getting his money’s worth. Guy was some kind of bureaucrat at City Hall, high enough on the food chain to feel like he was owed power, not high enough to have any. Once a guy of Hammond’s pay grade couldn’t have afforded the same air as Sol, but Sol was a depreciating commodity. 

The pace picked up until the bed was rocking. Hammond’s breath began to tighten - and then he pulled out again and said, “Holy fuck!” and groped at Sol’s perineum. 

“What?” Sol said blearily. He tried to draw his legs up but Hammond wouldn’t let him. 

“Ah-hah! Holy shit! You’re Changing!”

“What?” Sol said again. “No, I’m not.”

Hammond grabbed Sol’s hand and dragged it down, so Sol was touching his own skin, which was slick with blood. And there his fingers brushed over something, some kind of indentation.

“What did you do to me?” Sol asked. He thought that Hammond must have injured him. Impatiently, Hammond grabbed his phone from the nightstand and groped at Sol’s genitals so he could get a picture. Sol bristled -- photos were extra -- but then Hammond showed Sol his screen. 

Sol’s first thought was how unattractive that part of his body was, especially when photographed in such unforgiving light. There was a lot of blood. But if that was a wound down below, it was unlike one he’d ever had before. The skin wasn’t ripped open, it was parting. 

Hammond was looking at his phone screen when Sol realized he was right, he was Changing. Sol was a practiced hand at containment, and he was able to school his expression before Hammond looked up again. 

“Wow, that’s crazy,” Sol said breathily.

Hammond chuckled. “That’s all the excitement you got? Fucking miracle of nature happening here.”

“It’s the Haze,” Sol said, his words deliberately slurred. He needed time to think, to ground himself. “C’mon, baby, Vin, fuck me, please. My asshole still works, doesn’t it?”

Hammond got back into position. “Fuck, your pussy’s gonna be worth a million shekels,” he marveled. “You’ll give me a discount, won’t you?”

“You’ll have to take it up with Bardo,” Sol said, grunting as Hammond fucked back into him.

“Can’t wait to fuck you in the tight virgin pussy.” 

“Oooh,” Sol intoned, just so Hammond felt like he was listening.

“Stuff you full of my come.”

“Ohhh, feels so good.”

“Get you pregnant with my kid.”

“Please, please, Vin, feels so good-”

Hammond went on like that for a while. Sol’s mind was working furiously. Changing. Changing! He was really Changing!

When he was younger he had hoped, wildly, that he would Change, and be whisked away by a prince charming type, just as he had longed that the police would bust down the door and shoot whoever his current owner was into smithereens, just as he had longed for a bomb to fall on the house and kill them all. He had become more practical, he had gotten sick of desires unfulfilled, he had learned to want only things within his grasp; nicotine, time in front of the TV, a trip to Millie’s, people-watching while Bardo scrolled on his phone, and of course, the Haze, ever-available, cooked and smoked. He had not dared to want this in a very long time. His furious hope burnt through the worst of the Haze; he was aware of the salvation right at his fingertips, and how easily it could be wrenched away from him. 

Hammond must have orgasmed, because he was slumping on top of Sol. He stroked Sol’s sweaty hair. “Did you like that, baby?”

“It was so good,” Sol said. He said, “Did you really mean it? About having a baby?”

Hammond laughed. “That was just dirty talk.”

“Oh. But I thought - but it could be real.” Sol tucked his face into Hammond’s shoulder. “Just for a second, I thought,” he said softly. 

Hammond’s hand stilled in Sol’s hair. “You’re crazy, right? You know your psycho owner would never just let you go.”

“But if I’m a carrier, that means I have to be registered, right?” Sol insisted. “Like, the government will come and get me. I just need someone to report me.” 

“And then you’ll be married off to the highest bidder,” Hammond pointed out. 

“Not if I tell them I want you,” Sol said. “Then they’d have to let us marry. I looked it up.”

He was lying blatantly now, but Hammond was floating on endorphins as well as his own double dose of Haze. Sol felt him considering it. 

“I always wanted a carrier,” Hammond said, absently. “My fucking boss has one and he’s always showing her off. Lording her over us. Fucking things are expensive, though.”

“You have to report me to the Dallas Police,” Sol said. “Not the Plano ones - they’re in Bardo’s pocket.” 

Hammond sat up. His face was shiny with delight, like he’d found a five-hundred-shekel bill on the ground. “You have to tell them you’re mine,” he said. “If I do this for you. You gotta promise.”

“I promise,” Sol simpered. 

They kissed; Sol suffered through his sour breath. They both dressed and Sol went to the adjoining bathroom to stuff toilet paper into his underwear while Hammond hid the bloody sheets and dressed the bed with new ones. They kissed again; Sol’s heart was thrumming in his throat. 

They left the bedroom. It was almost dawn, the last of the cool moonlight coming in through the barred windows and leaving blue stripes on the floor. At the end of the hallway was a yellow rectangle of light, the kitchen. Sol plastered a dopey expression on his face and followed Hammond down the hallway. Bardo was sitting at the small pocked card table, playing cards with one of his lieutenants, Flores. Their guns were on the table within reach, good-sized pieces. 

“How’d it go?” he asked mildly. 

“Great, as always,” Hammond said. He must’ve been nervous, but there was nothing to indicate it in his voice. Bardo looked at Sol. Sol was supposed to indicate here if they’d done anything extra, so Bardo could add it to Hammond’s tab. 

“Good,” Sol said. 

“Amazing,” Bardo said. “That’ll be ten thousand shekels, then.”

“Can I use Cash-Up?” Hammond asked, pulling out his phone. 

It was the Haze that had made them both careless. Inwardly Sol started to curse, but he purposefully relaxed further, made his eyes stupider, even as Bardo’s gaze hardened.

“You damage my whore, fool?” Bardo said with a false friendliness in his voice.

“What? No, that’s nothing,” Hammond tittered, trying to swipe away from the photo of Sol’s developing cunt on his screen.

“Then what the fuck is that?”

“It’s nothing, just something I got from the internet,” Hammond tried.

Bardo stood. Before he could understand what was happening, Bardo had Sol by the throat and was bending him over the table. Sol forced himself to go slack. “Bardo, seriously, it doesn’t even hurt,” he said. “Just a little bleeding.”

“You only think it doesn’t hurt because of the Haze,” Bardo pointed out. “You play rough, they get charged extra. You know that.”

“So sorry,” Hammond said. “I don’t mind, really, I have the money.”

Bardo ignored him and yanked down Sol’s leggings. He made a noise of displeasure when he found the wad of toilet paper in Sol’s underwear. Fingers went into Sol’s body. He was as limp as someone could be, bent over the table like this. Bardo felt around, confused. He pulled his fingers out and groped at Sol’s balls and dick carelessly, and then he found the indentation, and went very still. 

He stood. Sol got back up just in time to watch Bardo take his gun from the table and shoot Hammond through the head.

The sound was like a slap. Wet pieces of Hammond flew everywhere, coating all three of them. Sol started to scream. Hammond’s body folded in half and collapsed. 

“What the fuck,” Flores said, wiping his face. Sol was still screaming.

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Bardon snapped at Sol. “He’s Changing,” he told Flores. “Fucker must’ve known - took the picture to show to someone. Will you SHUT THE FUCK UP?” he screamed at Sol. Sol had fallen to the floor from shock, so Bardo kicked at him. Sol shut up. “Fuckin’ finally,” Bardo said. “Yeah, sly fucker definitely knew. Who knows who he woulda told.”

“Changing? Seriously?”

“Yup, you hear that baby? Your market value just tripled.”

“What should we do?” Flores asked.

“First things first I’ll let El Capo know what’s up,” Bardo said. “You call Jaque to come clean up this mess.” He knelt and pet Sol’s face tenderly. “You even understand what’s going on, you dumb little whore?” he said softly.

Sol realized that, despite Sol not reporting his injury, somehow Bardo believed that Sol had not known; he could not imagine that Sol would’ve tried to deceive him. He met Bardo’s gaze. “I’m Changing?” he whispered.

“Sure looks like it.” 

“But - what’s going to happen to me?”

“Nothing, baby,” Bardo said. “We just gotta get some better security before word gets out, and bribe the right people from Carrier Affairs so the Insiders don’t send the army after you.” He put his arm around him. “This is gonna be a great thing for us,” he said. “El Capo was complaining no one wanted to pay premium for you anymore since you’d gone and grown up, but now - can you even imagine how much those Insider perverts will pay to fuck you when you’re pregnant?” 

Flores went off to call the cleaning crew, and Bardo sat back down at the kitchen table to call El Chapo. “Alright,” he said to Sol when he was done. “We’re moving you to the Coffin, he’s going to have the Doc meet you there.”

Sol shuddered. “That shithole?” The Coffin was the gang’s nickname for the concrete hideout in the Packing District; he’d spent some time there back when Bardo had bought him from his old owners. 

“Security’s way better. Don’t argue, just go get cleaned up and get your shit.” 

Sol showered off the remnants of Hammond. The blood was still coming from the wound. No, it wasn’t a wound. It was his new body coming in. He could feel the pain now, like there was something sharp sticking into his body, scraping him every time he moved. He was shaking hard. It was time for another dose of Haze. The pain was bad but not as bad as the promise of withdrawal; he could feel it in his aching teeth. He could feel it in his crawling skin.

He dried off and dressed in fresh clothes, packing more toilet paper into his underwear. He had been on Haze since he was thirteen, although occasionally Bardo would withhold it as punishment. He followed a very rigid drug schedule; he knew that after about twelve hours of abstinence he would begin to slap at insects that weren’t there. It occurred to him that if he made it to the Inside, they would surely make him come off the Haze, and he was briefly frozen with indecision. 

His kit was on the nightstand where he had left it. It would only take five minutes to cook it, inject it, get his relief. It would feel like sliding into a warm bath. It would make him very stupid, when he had to be the sharpest he had ever been. 

Maybe just a little, he told himself.