Chapter Text
It's not a pretty thing. A bomber plane bearing the Lakelander's sigil obliterates half the Primary sector, smoke rising so high it becomes the Sun's own mourning flag. The hired pilot doesn't get shot at, not accurately, and is lost during pursuit.
I give a shitty speech to the community, my "family", before returning to my office. There are many people to blame for this tragedy, all of which are innocent, presenting the blueprint for a very complex web to weave. I can't wait to tell Diana.
Entering the secret basement in my nondescript house, I savor how fast my heart beats. Then unlock a titanium and magnesium door.
She lazes on the grey carpeted floor, a forearm beneath her head. Wearing the clothes I provided: white cotton shorts, and a white cotton shirt, both oddly thin. Sick satisfaction courses through me. At the compliance, and the raised hairs on her body. This room is abnormally cold for a purpose.
She sighs upon seeing me. Bored. I smirk. "I hope you didn't think that shaking was for you."
"I'm sure it was, Governer. Everything seems to be." Her tone is tired, but I notice the twitching in her cheek, her fingers. She wants to kill me. Has wanted to, for weeks.
And I notice great worry.
"There is nothing left in the world for you to trouble about but me."
"Which means?" The scabbed over cuts on her wrists have never stood out from the silver handcuffs so starkly.
My throat suddenly goes dry. She won't like this. She won't. The promise of a big reaction had riddled me with excitement all day, and yet...
I clench my fists. "The Farley's are dead."
"Everything costs something, whether you negotiated a price or not. Always figure out the price first."
The cost was a nightmare.
My bed is too hot. Every pillow has been flipped and laid on, multiple times. My blanket feels like a mobius strip, and the sheets are damp from sweat. Impossible to sleep in.
Milk does nothing. A hot shower does nothing. Chocolate chip cookies, a slice of cheese, and a non-fiction book do nothing.
The basement trapdoor seems to beckon. I stare at the rug that covers it, a tapestry of green needled trees from another land. The land Diana's parents travelled from, to get into this "democracy." Would it be better if I told them the truth of Diana's fate before killing them, or leaving their minds to wonder?
It makes me feel cruel. I feel dirty.
I can't recall a time when I felt different.
So if this is all I will feel, then...
Crawling down the basement ladder, I keep quiet, hoping to catch her asleep. The pitch black hallway of dusty concrete suffocates what little air circulates down here. My hands ghost around the door, the handle. A deep breath. It creaks open.
This room might be even darker. I only make out the faint shadows of a matress, a toilet, sink, and thick padded chains emerging from the walls on my left and right, connecting to the last eclipse of light.
She snores faintly.
It's calming. Like only one other before.
Her snores were even quieter. Softer. She never slept well, so being awake long enough to hear such serene vulnerability was a gift.
The figure moves constantly. A rising, and lowering. Devoid of light, black moves in, covering, distorting, changing her–she stops moving.
I see nothing. No reflection from the void that holds the dearest and the dead, as one and the same.
I couldn't have done this.
I couldn't have done this.
This isn't me.
She takes a breath.
I leap for the light switch.
In the fluorescence, her eyes squint open an fix mine. It's a breath in my lungs. Quiet calculations begin stirring, a return to my natural state. And another, different state. I want to sink into her lakes and never emerge. Instead, I observe the lithe body sprawled, still on the floor, belly up, face up. Face angled towards me. She is no less intimidating for the pink in her scleras.
We stare.
Me at the blood stained carpet.
Diana at my throat.
Heat spirals down my body. Whatever she thinks of, I hope it is more clean than my imagination. Her hands squeezing my windpipe, cutting off breath, while I fight and thrash for my life. We tumble ferociously on this drab carpet. When I win because of my better nutrition, IQ, plan, and environmental advantage, I'll get the kiss I failed to retrieve the first time. She'll pant into my mouth. Her teeth will pinch my lower lip. At the stinging contact, she'll slide our hips closer, and bite harder. Harder. Until all I feel is the pain of canines, in my mouth, on my ear, along my neck–
She rolls over. Away from me.
I leave the basement without a word.
And return with tools.
Even with the light having been left on, she pretends to sleep. I walk to her cautiously. No reaction. I set down a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a washcloth, rope, and thin bandages. Still nothing. The previous anticipation turns into stomach churning, my tongue heavy and too big, making me nearly gag.
Those handcuffs won't be enough. I need to get close, and clean beneath them. I should've gotten padded ones. Even though the idea is good, executing it would cost too much. Me buying padded handcuffs would make it in the newspapers, and draw attention my direction right after bombs got dropped on my territory. Exposing where my priorities lie.
I pick up the rope, and inch closer, within range of her legs. Closer. Closer. She could swipe at me now. But she doesn't.
There's no way she's tired enough to sleep through the insufferable lights. Even if I only feed her in the mornings, while I'm still at home. The result is clear in the bonier cuts of her body. Dwindling is the healthy layers of fat and muscle necessary for a woman to sustain herself. Because she doesn't need to sustain herself. In time, I'm going to.
My guard is held high. I grab one forearm.
She takes mine.
Bitten nails incision themselves near my elbow, dragging down, down, through tawny skin, blood quickly following and blurring the squiggly fault lines, spreading them in rivers that deposit over the knuckles of my hand. I feel the very tissue separate and scream with it, wrenching my whole arm away. Diana doesn't make it easy.
Her hand reaches the end of mine, latching on. I can't remove it. In pain, fear, I scramble back and am only stopped by fingers splattered in iron tanged liquid. I'm safe from the worst. I repeat, again and again.
I am safe from the worst. It allows rage to coil like a snake in my gut. And returns my familiar clarity.
The transluscent polyester cord is in my free hand. Diana is holding my other with nothing but grip strength, as her fingers are awkwardly clawed around my palm, and her entire body is pressed against her wrists, stopped by the wall chains.
Easy and simple.
I yank out of the bloody hold and punch her in the gut. She keels over the chain with a groan, that hateful glare no longer paralyzing me. I slip under the quickly buckling metal and wrap the rope around her throat to yank back, effectively choking her. I hope she hears my manic cackle as her head hits the floor.
She's not getting up. Red leaks in a circle around her blond hair, framing her paling cheeks garishly.
I kneel before her unfocused eyes. It's not so pleasant anymore. What had I come here to do? The wound cleaning supplies put the world back in 3d.
It's a sullen walk to grab them. She barely even hisses as the alcohol burns down her wrists, into the ruined shirt.
Locking the door takes more strength this time. More force of will. I do it anyway, and drown out my shame in government paperwork until the dawn.