#seirah

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Even in death she couldn’t leave him.

Her baby brother was too small. Too soft. Too vulnerable. Prone to tears and always sticking to her like glue when he was in need of comfort. The crying he’d steadily grown out of over their years spent as NESTS’ guinea pigs; living weapons in training. Though he had more or less retained his clinginess when seeking comfort, which had been often. But he wasn’t so small or soft or vulnerable anymore. Not outwardly, at least. In the wake of her death, he’d started being stripped of such weaknesses. Along with everything that had made her little brother who he was. He was blanker now. Prone to vacancy and listlessness thanks to the constant brainwashing and conditioning ruthlessly eroding away his memory, leaving him raw with pain and confusion. And open to the scientists’ poisonous suggestions. Like when they called him the equivalent of a serial number and told him that was his name. It was a single letter and a line but he’d latched to it like a shipwreck survivor. It was horrible of those people. Cruel. And it was the tipping point that started twisting her sweet and kind little brother into an aloof and angry shell of his former self.

Instead of thriving on affection, he began seeking violence. And every word out of his mouth was curt and barbed, his demeanour frigid and stony; walls built thick and high to push people away, leave him in solitude. Now he only cried in his sleep or during particularly bad bouts of fever, when nightmares and repressed memories alike assaulted him. But with time, he’d begun to smother those weaknesses as well. He stifled his cries to choked gasps that nobody outside his room could hear. And would resolutely ignore the tear stains on his pillow, flipping it over to hide the evidence before starting yet another day of tests and fighting. Having to watch him live like this, unable to do anything beyond slipping into his dreams on occasion in an attempt to soothe him, hurt her in the worst possible way. She couldn’t hold him. Couldn’t talk to him. Couldn’t get him out of this awful place.

But someone else could.

They saddled her brother with a retainer one day. A towering man with sideburns who spoke honeyed words and wore the friendliest, most infectious smile, like that of a kind uncle. But the kindness never reached his eyes. There had, however, been a flash of smouldering hot anger chased by genuine concern upon first sighting her brother and the roughed up state he was in, thanks to the latest onslaught of testing. That much, at least, had given her hope.

Sometimes when Whip looks in the mirror there are a second pair of eyes staring at her.  They’re wide and intelligent.  Hazel.  Set into a little face on a little body.

A dead one.  One that shouldn’t exist.

Initial sightings of the phenomenon had frightened her, prompting her to whirl in place with a weapon in hand (Voodoo, or her gun, or whatever ever else she could get her hands on in the little bathroom that was even mildly dangerous), in search of the phantom intruder.  But the girl was just that: a phantom.  Likely a figment of her imagination and paranoia taking the form of the dead girl she’d been replicated from.  By now though, she was used to the spectre.  Talked to it, even, despite how nutty it made her feel.  She didn’t yell and scream at it to go away in hysterical tones anymore, but spoke to it quietly.  As if it was really in the bathroom, standing behind her with arms clasped behind its back and rocking gently back and forth on its heels; looking for all the world like it was next in line to brush its teeth or fix its hair.  

Usually, Whip’s pretty tolerant of the spectre, but she’s irritated tonight.  The day’s mission went badly, and ended with her other squad members gaining some pretty serious injuries.  All because of a stupid lapse of judgement on her part.  To top it off, she and K’ had gotten into a heated argument that ended with the both of them storming away in opposite directions, still fuming.  They hadn’t spoken when it came time for him to depart.  It’d made the atmosphere tense and awkward as she was saying her goodbyes to Kula and Maxima.

“Now’s not a good time.” She gritted out.  Shot the dead girl a scowl through the mirror as she swiped fresh antibacterial gel over the cut under her eye.

The spectre hummed.  "I know.  I saw.“

"Then you’ll know that I really don’t want to talk right now.” Whip stuck a bandaid over the cut.  Tugged the hem of her shirt up to assess the stitches in her side.  They were holding.  "So could you just go away and bother me in the morning?“

"It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Whip heaved an exasperated sigh.  "Go.  Away.“

"The mission wasn’t, anyway.” The ghost girl continued, ignoring Whip’s demands to be left alone.  "That argument you had with our brother was totally your fault though.“ It had the gall to shoot her a disapproving look.

"K’ isn’t-!”

She wasn’t even sure how she was going to finish that sentence - Isn’t your brother, he’s mine.  Or, Isn’t mine, he’s yours. - and frankly, it was probably better that way.  She was already hurt and confused enough about the situation without further riling herself up about it.

“He is,” the ghost said firmly.  Wide eyes softened out of a determined scowl, replaced by earnest compassion.  "Listen.  Clone or not, you’re a real person too.  And you’re definitely just as much his sister as I was.“

"Shut up,” Whip hissed.  She swiped at her watering eyes, uncaring of the sting brought from irritating the cut.  "Just… shut up.“

"He doesn’t show it well, but he thinks so too.”

BamBam~