The black of sleep (? Have you been asleep?) has shifted to green behind your lids, your face is so hot, everything seems stifling, what is this?
Slowly, so slowly, your eyes crack open. A millimeter--a micrometer at a time, and even what you can glimpse from the slitted lids is so dazzlingly bright all you can see is white. What is this?
The sun. The sun! Whatever passes for fear in your muted spectrum slams your eyes shut again, forces your arms up to shield your face. Your pusher is thumping so hard in your chest you want to cough. But how long have you been here? And where is the pain?
Again moving with the slowness of antiquity, your arms lower. Your eyes again flutter open and, having anticipated the light, remain half-lidded. The sky. Something you've never thought about seeing in person, and the beauty is staggering. You could lie here all day, already drifting. How long have you been here? Where is here? And why haven't your eyes simply burned out?
"You could have this, whenever you wanted it."
At first the voice is strangely without character. No gender, no pitch, no animation. Halfway through, it becomes familiar and makes your insides go cold. Renani? Your head turns.
Nothing.
Turns.
Nothing.
"All you have to do is pledge to me."
Instead the voice is Hyaine's. You let your eyes flutter closed again and allow the sun to warm your skin. The irregular beat of your pusher evens out.
"You would need something a bit more enticing." You answer. If sunlight is all they have to offer, it's a weak trade. You've no idea what you're meant to pledge, what they expect from you, but if they want something from someone so famously guarded they'll need to make a better attempt. "What is this?"
"A dream, mostly."
"Please stop using his voice."
"My apologies." It's male now, you think. Male and a mystery to you. "Is that what you'd like, Eirene? To see him--either of them?"
"No." You answer decisively. Sure, as you grew older and wiser you decided to forego relationships permanently. But the two you had... "I'm not interested in your approximation of either. Because that's what it would be, right?"
"Perhaps. But isn't that what you gave them, Eirene? An approximation?"
It's not a stab, because it's something you had come to terms with forever and a day ago. Yes, you gave them your best estimation of a functional troll. You give the world an imitation. Surely they're trying to twist a knife, but that would necessitate them actually wounding you first.
"Part of you has always been missing, but I can give it to you."
This is a dream, you don't bother asking them what they mean. You know what part of you is empty, and therefore they know. Even in a dream, you don't enjoy someone having a piece of you. Knowing you.
"Just ask."
Your eyes snap open abruptly--for real this time. The warmth is gone, the light. The comforting darkness of your room, your lusus in his roost. All as it should be. All of course except for the crawling in the pit of your stomach. The idea of being known to someone, even if only a dream, makes your very bones itch.
Just a dream.
Nothing more.
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'Just ask.'
For weeks, these dreams. More personal now. Last day, your head on Renani's chest, hearing the steady thump of his pusher. Your defenses at rest, you let yourself feel comfort in contact, in familiar sound. It's not quite right though, you're too old and he remains the same. Not quite right but good enough, until he lowers his mouth to your ear.
"Anytime you want, Eirene. Just ask."
You bolt upright.
He's smiling. That same stupid looking smile he always gave, but his eyes are wrong. His mouth is wrong. He's not smiling, his mouth is in the center of his face. Something drips from that mouth like blood, but black. But purple. But searing green.
"Eirene, Eirene, ask for it, Eirene, or--"
An abrupt silence. As you stare at him, his face is blanked out by an eerily two-dimensional scribble. It twitches, an impermeable black.
"I'm sorry. Your memories don't seem to work so well on this one. Shall I try again? I'll let you see the other." It's stopped using Renani's voice again, which you're thankful for. You'd like for it to stop using his body, even if the face is blacked out.
"No. I'm going to wake up."
It sighs. You've been going around like this for weeks and it must be getting tired. Dreams of blissful domestic nights with Renani. Starlit dates with Hyaine in which you always have the upper hand. Sometimes your blood is different and you live out nights where you have nothing at all to hide. You can throw your windows open without trepidation, see and be seen.
But you still. Don't. Want it.
"I'm trying to be nice. It's easier that way."
"What is?" You would very much like to wake up.
"It just is. But Eirene, I want to be a friend to you. Ask me for something pleasant, because I don't want to force you."
"Force me?"
But before its response, your eyes are staring up at your ceiling. You sigh. You turn onto your side and beat a pillow into a comfortable shape to hold to your chest. They're irritating, these visits. You'd rather it be upfront, talk to you in person instead of manipulating what remains of your heart.
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He doesnt speak. You realize after the first day that it's because in the moment, so long ago, you were so incapacitated by horror that you can't remember a thing he said.
Dispassionately you watch as he drops your arm onto your workbench.
Perhaps you should have given in. Asked for Fake Renani, or Fake Hyaine, or to be normal. After weeks of this you can't rouse the fear you drowned in on day one, but your sleep is shattered all the same. You've tried to sleep in sopor but it stops nothing. It can still get in.
Ah. Just the fingers this time. What's left of your hand convulses, your vision darkening as your eyes roll back, but it's not like you're going to pass out. Panting, your head turns to watch as he begins to peel the flesh--
"Aren't you tired?"
"I'm so tired." Your voice is wet, clotted. All that blood.
"So ask me to stop."
You manage half a laugh, your eyes closing. He--It rips a sheet of flesh from your hand and forearm in irritation. Your body jerks but you make no sound.
"This is nothing. You're nothing."
This indeed is nothing compared to the treatment your remark gets you. It really is creative. You should have died nine times over, but it keeps going and going and going and going and
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What's sleep?
You live in a haze. Your nights are spent on autopilot, your work fallen to the wayside as you can't focus long enough to do any meaningful assembly. And then you spend your days being murdered over and over again.
"I think we've reached the end here." It says to the top of your head.
"Are you giving up then?" Your mouth asks from the floor.
"Not exactly..." It sighs, setting you on your workbench. "At this point, I suppose I'll have to take more drastic measures."
More drastic than spending weeks killing you? You can't imagine what that's supposed to mean. Mostly because you're so exhausted you can barely remember your own name.
"Get some rest, Eirene, my dear." It pats the top of your head like it's some small, cowering animal. "I'll be seeing you."
And suddenly you're sleeping. Blissful, uninterrupted rest. A full day, half the night, and even then you stir long enough to toss some food to your lusus before falling into bed once again.
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Rested, alive, aware. After a week of dying all day, you couldn't bring yourself to go to the shop. Tonight you intend to do some light work, clean up, work on some projects. You still feel too fatigued to deal with the public, so the shop will remain closed.
The bell above the door gives its gentle tinkle as you step inside. Your typical ghostly smile touches your lips at the sight of your works. It's been much too long--
Your foot slips. Curious, you lift it to find a slip of paper. It must have been slid under the door at some point, probably a menu for some new cafe... You unfold it with no real interest, but the message makes you pause.
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Ordinarily you would spend the day at your hive, but even with the "gifts" being left in your shop it feels safer there. Your hive is where the dreams began and that was so much more threatening than the physical intrusion. Besides, as you read through the journals Kairos left you find yourself wanting to be near your work.
From where does magic come? There's the energy inside all things, from what you read, but do you have the will to control it? At this mental state you're certain that you couldn't. Do you want to? This is an uncertainty. However, you've been left alone since you began studying the journals and you hope that it's due to this uncertainty. Your head is simply too full to invite any intruders.
Maybe you can't use the magical parts, but you've been imitating Kairos' methods of preparing the vessels. Many of the processes are the same as your own, but others of course are tailored to fashion the body for new (? Is it a new life or resumption of the old? You'll have to ask Kairos their opinion.) life. Even these steps are enlightening, and you make your own notes to incorporate and adapt them to your own speciality. Your hands tremble less. Your focus is already returning. All in all you are beginning to feel peace again.
With this in mind you've moved your lusus to the rooms behind the shop, set up their nestbox. By night you clean up and rearrange the shop after its weeks of disuse, by day you study and practice. The shape of your nights have become comfortable once more.
The living quarters in the shop are fine, if austere. They do lack a proper cooking lock and you've been relying on prepared meals for the last few nights. This dawn you are returning to your makeshift home with a salad for you and a fresh gathering of beetle larvae for your lusus. The little silver bell above your door tinkles. You hum contentedly and close the door behind you, locking it.
"I'm back." You call softly and wait for your lusus' echo. It doesn't come, but you aren't terribly concerned. He much prefers your hive and the freedom to scavenge for himself. You make your way to the back, balancing meals in one hand.
Strange. In the low lamplight, your workbench seems to shine. Assuming that your lusus knocked over a solvent or an oil you put the food down and flick on the overhead light.
Your workbench is indeed shining, wet. It is glimmering a fresh, vibrant acid green. Your stomach sinks. These little intrusions had stopped while you were staying in the shop, and you'd foolishly hoped that was the end of them. With a low groan you snatch a rag from your supply cabinet, prepared to clean up some new limeblooded creature.
It's a bird. Just the bones and blood, whatever the thing haunting you does with the flesh is still its secret. You pick up its delicate skull with a twinge of sadness. Birds are your favourite, they always strike close to home. Even if it was given to you as a threat, you'll put the poor thing to good use.
You're gently collecting the bones when the feather catches your eye.
It sits upon your open journal.
It is meticulously clean. A brilliant, uniform white. A tail feather, long and elegant with a distinctive curve.
Your heart stutters.
The nestbox is empty.
Your lungs cease function.
Slowly, your eyes turn to the green tinged skull you'd placed so carefully in the box.
A shuddering gasp. Another.
Your face is wet. Your gloves, gone spongy with blood, track bright green lines over your makeup. You cannot discern one wetness from another but are you crying? Are you? Your stomach knots, flops, it's thrashing like a wounded animal, like a caged bird.
An animal, a bird, your eyes flutter.
It's too much, it's all too much. The wetness trickling down your face, the way your gloves stick to your fingers. Your innards crawling inside you. The white feather is blinding you.
This is it. The final insult. And what took it so long? Was this where it was building to all this time?
"No more," you manage to choke out through a throat that's trying to lock up. "Please stop."
"Is that right? You're asking me to stop?" Of course it's here. You're so stupid. It's always here, isn't it?
"I'm begging you to stop."
And it does. There's a painless tug at the base of your skull and suddenly you feel nothing. The ache of your muscles clenching with despair, the wet tracks of tears, all is gone.
You're looking at the back of your head. You reach out? Your body doesn't move. You reach out? There's nothing there, no hand to be seen.
You? Get to your feet. You turn to face you? Your cybernetic eye is still teal, but your other is flat black. Like a hole. You look at yourself. You look back at you.
"Don't worry. I'll only need it sometimes. We can share, and I'll be so gentle," You say to yourself. "It's a little funny, Eirene. I normally don't need to give anything, just the asking is enough. But it stopped, didn't it?"
"This isn't what I wanted," you say, but you don't really. There's nothing there to say it with.
"Now, I'll be borrowing it for a little while tonight. Just a little while, and then you can have it right back. I'll take such good care of you, my darling."
You walk through the shop, to the door, and again there's a tugging that you can't explain. How are you drawn along without a body to draw? As if leashed, tethered, you follow your self into the night.
tw: death, it's a little gory but not too descriptive.
Signal lost.
That's all it took for the higher-ups to declare you dead. And to be fair? You can't really blame them. You DID die. But apparently a few shades of uncertainty were enough to stamp your enlistment papers with a big fat "TEAL".
You did die. But apparently no one expects "TEAL" to wake up face down in the ashes, choking up blood into the remains of your helmet. Least of all you.
Your suit and weapons are on lockdown, having been tied to your biometric signature. There's probably a few minutes of leeway, folks stop breathing all the time, but from the way the light falls on the wreckage it's been a few hours. You have to pry yourself out of the suit, a few million caegars left in the dirt. It was never about money anyway, it was the land and the rebellion that was always the first priority.
They won't be able to use this land. You should get on the communicator and tell them 'Don't come, stay away, there's something in the ground here.' Too well trained, your hand is already reaching for your helmet. But it's locked, and useless, and why should you fucking care anyway? Your hand does find the helmet but only to hurl it into what remains of a burned-out hive.
What's ringing alarms in your throbbing skull now is this: your cell was the third team sent to this region. So they had to know, right? That something was fucked here? So not only were they sending you here to slaughter rebels, they were fully expecting you all to die too. Right? Right?
Something in the ground.
You were razing one of the hives. A child ran out. Cierel to your left was on Wriggler Wround-up, everyone's least favourite duty. She drew the short stick for the third cleanup in a row and was not happy about it. You disengaged to let her ahead, watched her take off after the kid. There were five so far, all of them screaming and fighting with their pitiful limbs thrashing.
"Come with me, you'll be safe."
Safe enough. You were never sure what kind of lives the kids were going to have after this shit. Bad enough that you, an adult, had to watch your friends die. There's no imagining what that's like for a kid.
"Trip, there's ano--WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"
She is shrieking into your headset and you nearly drop your weapon. Cierel, who is the cell's token stoic, has stopped even using her words. These screams are raw and piercing, ringing in your ears, and you pivot with your gun raised.
The kid is gone. The kid is your very least concern, as your cellmate is continuing to screech wordlessly in your helmet. The other members of the cell try to cut in but nothing is making it through that ragged howling.
"SOMETHINGS WRONG, GET OVER HERE!" You snarl into the headset, hoping that it goes through.
Something has just fucking appeared. There's no way around that--there's no fucking way something this size could have approached in any direction without being seen. It blots out the sky, and you can't make out its shape, its features. It is a clean and perfect white, untouched by the colours of the moons.
Part of it has wrapped itself around Cierel's waist, a tail? A tentacle? An appendage. And it's squeezing, you realize, it's squeezing because you can hear the metal crunch of Cierel's suit snapping around her.
You aim and fire mechanically. Without a form you can decipher, you are just shooting blindly at this shifting mass of pure white. Cierel stops screaming. You keep shooting.
"Trip, disengage! We have to go we have to fucking GO." It's Lakoil, first in your headset and then at your side, his hand yanking on your shoulder. You lower your weapon and take a step back. "This is fucked, it's just us Trip, oh fuck, it--"
White floods your vision and when it clears, most of Lakoil's body drops to the ground.
"Oh. Oh fuck." You breathe out. You breathe in and that appendage (the same one that crushed Cierel?) slams into your midsection. There's that same crunching sound. Your sensors are all going haywire, and your body has left the ground.
It's all very painless until you hit the ship and your bones break. You can hear them even through the sound of your suit crumpling. You hit the ground and your helmet shatters and drives glass and wiring into your face.
The kid is fine though. The kid's fine. The kid's smiling up at the thing and the thing's appendage is pointing toward the caves. It's sinking away, like mist, and so is your vision.
The kid's alright, and you're...
Sitting with your back against the ship, picking bits of your helmet out of your face. Rolling your shoulders. Your mouth tastes worse than blood.
You had this coming, you suppose. You didn't ever want this job, but it was yours all the same. The problem now is that you are alive when you very much should not be. You examine a large chunk of metal you pulled from your abs.
