Chapter Text
When you hear the news, you end up inadvertently burning Mack’s hand. He pays no heed to the simmering hot coffee trickling down his skin, eyes not leaving the direction of Chester’s radio. It’s not until the sizzle of his flesh becomes louder than the broadcaster that the sergeant withdraws his arm, dropping the mug on the dry grass below. No one rushes his assistance as he grasps the wounded skin without so much as a whimper.
Jolie switches off the portable butane stove, losing interest in the prospect of frying eggs and sausages. A bowl of cracked eggs sits beside her older sister, who holds the crushed remains of one in her fist. Behind the lorry, you hear Chester hurriedly zipping up his pants, before darting into the clearing. He stands there, eyes wide and mouth agape, his mind too clouded with disbelief for a word to even form.
The radio sits on the ancient tree stump, impervious to the information being broadcast through its speakers. That doesn’t stop Chester from falling to his knees and clasping his hands around the device, as if he is begging it to stop and apologize for this sick prank.
It doesn’t.
“The breakthrough came as a result of research conducted by Enzo Badalamenti, a professor on sabbatical from the Sapienza University of Vesper. Badalamenti was able to locate the insurgents’ camp using an intricate system of seismographs within Revachol’s abandoned sewer systems. Despite this discovery, conflict between the insurgents and INSURCOM has continued both underground and on the surface of Revachol’s coast. This story is quickly developing, so tune into R-Double-I for further-”
Even as Chester hurls the radio at the ground, it continues its announcement, barely interrupted by the disturbance. It’s surprisingly sturdy, hardly showing any signs of damage from the impact. Chester glares at the radio, his fists so tightly clenched that the skin upon his knuckles resembles paper. Without warning, he kicks the radio across the clearing, a wave of dust following it as it skids into a ditch. The outburst does not appear to help him.
“Fuck.” He curses to himself, pushing up his hat so he can tug at his hair. “Fuck!”
“Chester, stop.” Ninel’s voice is tight as she squeezes her sister’s shoulder. Jolie doesn’t respond to the gesture, her eyes heavily-lidded as she hugs her knees.
“Stop? Why should I stop? How should I stop? Just go into the woods and meditate for a bit? No!” He collapses to the ground, resting his head against the stump. “It’s fucking over, man. We’re screwed.”
Chester continues his near-incoherent warblings as you walk towards the ditch. It doesn’t take long for you to find the radio nestled between patches of dandelions, the station host now languidly droning on about a failed robbery at a topping pie restaurant. Despite the few scratches on the finish, the device seems mostly unharmed.
“Do you know the working range of your radio?” All you get in response is another sorrowful cry from Chester. You sigh, before hauling yourself out of the ditch. Chester has not lifted his forehead from the abrasive surface, and not even the heavy pats on his back from Mack’s good hand are doing anything to remedy his torment. Not that you can really blame him.
“Mack.” Chester mumbles wetly, his voice muffled by his sleeves. “You know what we have to do now.”
“...Yeah, buddy. We’ll get back to Revachol in a few days, don’t worry-”
“There ain’t even gonna be a Revachol by the time we get back!” Chester finally raises his head, striking his fists against the stump. “We’ve got to go out with dignity. Honor the pact we made.”
“The pact? I thought that was a joke.”
“I thought it was a joke, too! I didn’t think we would actually have to go through with it!”
Mack looks down, his eyes beginning to glisten. “But… What about my momma? My momma would be sad.”
“Your momma’s probably dead, Mack! She’s rotting in hell as we speak!” Chester’s voice has raised an octave, cracking heavily. “We might as well join her-“
Before Chester can say another word, Mack is grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hoisting him to his feet. A thin sheen of sweat glimmers on Mack’s forehead, his teeth tightly grinding behind his lips.
“Keep my mom’s name out of your rotting mouth, you piece of shit. If you say anything like that again, I will personally-“
“Enough.” You step towards the duo, radio still chattering away in your hand. “No one is going to do anything rash, and you aren’t going to kill each other. All we know was that the camp was discovered, but we don’t know how many people are actually down there. For all we know, everyone could have made it out safely.”
“And what are the odds of that?” Jolie clasps onto her sister’s hand, gliding her thumb across her palm. “When we left, there must have been at least two-hundred people living down there. Probably more.”
“We won’t know until we check. Chester,” he looks down at you with frenzied eyes, trying to pry Mack’s fingers off his neck. “Do you know the range of this radio?”
“It’s not far.” He gasps out. “Probably only, like, fifty kilometers at most.”
This is not good. Even at your most generous estimate, you are still hundreds of kilometers away from Revachol. Until you get in close enough range, you have no chance of confirming Harry’s condition. Both him and any hope for the future may have vanquished. Tendrils of despair begin to prick at your consciousness, and you have to peel the thought from the front of your mind to keep yourself level-headed.
“What are we waiting for?” You ask rhetorically. “We’re not even a day away, potentially even closer if we hurry.” After checking that the stove has cooled enough, you pick it up to put back in the lorry. You’ve been gone for too long, and you don’t have any room to wait and see what will become of Revachol before you return.
—————————————————————
Esprit de Corps - In his home in Grand Couron, civilian consultant Trant Heidelstam shelters-in-place with his son. The months-long ordeal hasn’t been detrimental to the boy, as he’s been given significant free time to tinker with his radio computer. His father is not so fortunate.
“Look, Dad!” Mikael beams up at his father, pointing to the screen. “The code’s finally running!” He immediately turns his focus back to the computer, thrilled with this achievement.
Heidelstam smiles weakly. This is nearly all they have been doing since Le Retour began. “Very nice, Mikael. Good job.” He thinks about the hospital just north of his house, the one that has been accepting volunteers due to the influx of wounded. The one that has an ungodly stockpile of Pyrholidon. They surely wouldn’t notice if some of it went missing. As appealing as the idea is, he’s still on the fence about it.
Thirty kilometers east, in La Delta, Satellite-Officer Kit Mimosa is under so many layers of disguise that he has begun the process of forgetting who he is. Within the span of three months, he has been hired by the RCM, the Trompe Le Monde newspaper, East-Insulinde, the Roadworker’s Union, and even the Moralintern itself. He’s long lost track of what he’s supposed to be doing.
One-hundred kilometers west, two junior officers emerge from an abandoned mine in coal city. A young woman has to carry her companion out of the adit, his entire thorax sticky with blood. It’s difficult for her to remove his shirt, but when she’s finally able to assess the damage, she realizes that this officer is not long for this world. After a few moments of silence, she removes her sidearm from her holster. The young man solemnly nods. This young man is *not* Junior Officer Kuuno de Ruyter.
Crawling through the capillaries between porch collapse, you feel like a lamb being led to a slaughterhouse. In your brainless daze, drunk from the palpable glory of revolution, you were foolish enough to believe that the lead around your throat had been severed. Even if rope no longer bruises your skin, the path you walk remains the same. And unfortunately for you, the path is not particularly clear. It’s full of thickets and brambles, tearing you apart as you wander through, tenderizing you.
No one in their right mind would take this path through Le Royaume. Except for Moralintern officers, they probably get exposed to pale so much that one extra day doesn’t mean anything to them. Even so, they won’t expect you to go this way: if not for the clumps of pale, then the massive trail of mirrors that would tarnish any chance of a stealthy entrance.
Of course, Jean joined you on this endeavor, but the addition of Judit to the team was more surprising. Not McCoy, though. You had a feeling that McCoy would want in on this.
In terms of numbers, you have no idea of how far away you are from the camp. But you’re really more concerned about the measurements from your pure intuition. And your intuition is telling you that you are getting close. The path to base is coming soon, cradled beside the subterranean creek that acts as your sewer system.
That damn river could have been a landmark if it hadn’t been so polluted. Just the idea of walking past it causes a revulsion to your core, your spinal cord demanding every nerve in your body to flee the scene. You aren’t expecting anyone to be there. They probably don’t even know how good of a hiding spot they chose, although that’s probably not ideal for them. All that matters is that something loud and volatile is piercing the rock wall beside you, and you don’t have anything to hide behind. Even falling to the ground won’t provide much protection against the oncoming onslaught.
Despite this, you and Judit both collapse as soon as you hear the gunfire, pulling out your firearms. In one instant, you see McCoy aiming out in the open, like he’s unaware of the consequence of death. In the next moment, you see a frightened animal flattened against the wall, his teeth bared as he grips his pistol. This is not an uncommon pose for Jean to make; you’ve found him in a similar position many times in the catacombs.
Two silhouettes manifest on the other bank, barrels extending from their forms like skewers in meat. One barrel is still smoking, tilted downwards as its user fumbles with the rear. You hold your breath and raise your pistol, pointing it at the foggy masses before you. This won’t be precise, but you’ve made worse shots before. The sight and your targets blur, and you slowly inhale…
“Stop! Stop! Don’t shoot!”
The words come from your side of the river, and you’re disoriented by the change in tone from your companion. Judit slowly lifts herself off the ground, her pistol remaining on the floor.
“Those aren’t INSURCOM. Look at their weapons, they’re loaded from the rear. INSURCOM soldiers only use front-loaded weapons. These rifles are old, they are probably union members.”
Echoes ricochet through the tunnel as the two figures break their silence, murmuring between themselves. After a few moments, one of them steps forward.
“You’re from the RCM?”
“Yes, we are from the RCM, and we’re here to help you evacuate.”
Even across the river, you can hear the contempt in the man’s voice. “I don’t give a shit what you do, but we are not evacuating. If these tunnels go down, we’re going down with them. We aren’t going to flee like cockroaches.”
Judit tries to get Jean to sit down, but he refuses, his patella and tibia precisely married to avoid his knees from buckling. If he doesn’t relax soon, a divorce between his bones may be imminent.
McCoy grunts. “Stay down here then. But it’s not my problem when you two get your brains blown out.”
“…Understood, Lieutenant.” That’s one person out of your group that these two recognize, although you swear they sound more on-edge than before.
“Do you two know if there are any more survivors? Anywhere?” Judit asks, smoothing the fabric on Jean’s sleeve.
With your eyes adjusting to the darkness, you can see one of the men shrug. No, not men: boys. They’re young. Too young.
“I don’t know, everyone’s just kind of split up. They can’t exactly go to Alpha anymore. We’ve been hiding here ever since the Coalition arrived.”
The following question leaves a foul taste on your tongue, but you ask it anyway. “Do you know anyone who got killed?”
One boy shakes his head. “Neither of us are in the RCM, we’re just volunteers.”
“So are we. Everyone in the RCM is a volunteer.”
“Yeah, but we’re volunteering under him.” The boy points just to the left of you. “The Lieutenant.”
“You?” The pieces are fitting together into something abhorrent.
“They’re working under me, Disco.” McCoy nods, placing both hands on his belt, gripping the leather. “And they don’t even have the decency to remember my name.”
McCoy’s voice suddenly catapults in volume. “I am Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor John ‘Archetype’ McCoy. Whenever you ankle biters address me, you will address me by my full name. Not John, not McCoy, not Lieutenant, the full title. Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor John ‘Archetype’ McCoy. Is that clear?”
You swear you hear one of the boys sigh. “Yes.”
“Say my name.”
“Lieutenant Double… uhh…”
“You guys suck.”
“…If it makes things better, we think we know where your captain went. The bald guy.”
“You’ve seen Pryce?” You ask.
“Yeah, he asked us what we were doing down here, since we aren’t officers, and we’re too young to join a union. We told him that we were working under McCo-… Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor John ‘Archetype’ McCoy. He wanted us to leave, but it wasn’t safe yet. And then the siege happened.”
“What did he do during the siege?” Judith’s voice comes from the ground, where she has managed to get Jean to lie down.
“He did a lot of things. You know… some people died. He killed a few, I think. Yeah, I know. Some people he definitely killed. He told a lot of us to run, and others he told to barricade the base. I think there were others also giving directions, and some of those directions contradicted each other… It was chaotic.”
Empathy - One of these boys replays that night in his head every time he closes his eyes. The other has barely absorbed the information into his hippocampus.
“Would you two have happened to have seen a boy a bit younger than you? Maybe your same age? Red hair, freckles, green eyes-“
“A total asshole?”
“He’s not an asshole.” You say before your heart can beat.
“You’re talking about Cuno.”
“Yes, we’re trying to find Cuno. Do you know where he went?”
“Two of the old guys took him. The captain had them flee north. At least, it may have been north. It also may have been west. Or maybe south…” The boy is clearly filing through his memories, trying to plug the data into his sense of triangulation.
“Wait, was one of these old men a radio operator?”
One of the boys lets out a surprisingly deep, displeased groan. “How the fuck are we supposed to know what job we had? Do you think we’re psychics or something?”
Inland Empire - Nope, not you two.
You crouch beside Judit and Jean, taking your partner’s hand in your own. The appendage shakes uncontrollably; the skin is ragged with callouses and sores.“If Pidieu is with them, we might be able to call them and ask where they are.”
“And how are we supposed to know what frequency to call.” Jean drones out, not really asking a question. “Pidieu is not the only man in Revachol who knows how to operate a radio.”
“…Right, that wouldn’t work.”
“Wait,” a young voice calls out from across the river. “I think he mentioned something about a hospital.”
“A hospital?” Your words sound like air leaking from a balloon.
“He’s talking about the new one they were building in the Old South. The one they kept saying that they were going to finish, but they never got around to it. Some union members are hiding over there, I think the captain wanted to send out a warning.”
“He didn’t really need to send one.” Judit murmurs. “It’s all over the news.”
“Oh shit.” One boy gasps. “It’s all over the news?”
“On every damn channel.” McCoy confirms.
“Godamnit. My mom’s going to lose it.”
“Then stop fucking around in a cave and go back home.” Jean grumbles, struggling to lift himself from the ground. You and Judit both lift him by a shoulder to keep him steady.
“But she’ll beat my ass.”
“Either she beats your ass or you get killed by the Coalition. Your choice.”
The boy doesn’t have a response. Neither does his friend.
—————————————————————
You were only within a day of returning to Revachol. Had you just played it smart within those remaining twenty-four hours… Okay, you would still be up shit creek, but not to the extent that you are now. At some point, you got careless, as opposed to just getting lazy. The combination of a 37-degree heat wave and broken AC in the lorry cabin was more than you could handle in your current condition, and now you have to pay the price.
The damage to the lorry is probably superficial, given that it was able to drive after you passed out. The damage to your reputation is not.
Upon waking up, you immediately find yourself in a pleasantly cool room, gently tucked under a thin bedsheet. You’re almost completely naked, the only article of clothing spared being your briefs. Not even your glasses remain upon your face, so you’re unable to analyze your surroundings. The fact that all lights are turned off doesn’t help. If you had to guess, it’s early in the morning.
Turning your head, you can make out the familiar glint of your lenses on a nightstand. You waste no time in reaching over to retrieve your glasses and return them to your face. Yes, this is much better. The oppressive blur has dissipated, giving you a decent view of everything. The flint grey and white walls, wooden beams across the ceiling, the hideous rose-gold lamp in the corner of the room, and the woman sitting beside it, an open book in her hands. She’s looking at you.
“Good morning, Kitsuragi.” Ninel places the book on the desk beside her, before standing. “How are you feeling today?”
You sit up, being careful to remain covered by the sheet. The tattoos on your chest do somewhat obscure your scars, but they’re still noticeable to people who look closely enough. Besides, you don’t think you can explain your lack of a nipple.
“I’m feeling well. But what about the lorry? Is it…”
“Jolie and the boys are outside looking at it. The driver’s side door got dented, but it should run fine. I’m just glad you didn’t get yourself hurt. You gave us quite the scare.”
You nod, lowering your head as your ears begin to flush red. Because of you, Ninel has had to deal with two separate accidents.
Ninel walks over to the nightstand and picks up a water bottle, handing it to you. It’s partially empty, and it still feels rather cold. “Drink up. You lost a lot of fluids yesterday.”
As soon as the liquid touches your lips, you are hungrily swallowing it down. It takes only a few seconds for you to down the bottle. When you finish, Ninel takes the container from your hands before you can object.
“I imagine you’ll want more.” She’s even more curt than you’ve become accustomed to in your short time together.
“I would appreciate that, thank you. Where are we?”
She crouches beside a small icebox just in your field of view, removing another bottle. “We’re in a hostel, a bit down the road from where the accident happened. We would have brought you to a hospital, but we didn’t think that was a good idea given… everything. Luckily, we were able to cool you down. Khm…” she seems uncomfortable. “Sorry about your clothes, by the way, but we had to get them off to treat you.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m grateful for your assistance.”
Coming back to the bed, she hands you the second bottle. The condensation drips between your fingers as you unscrew the cap, and this only makes you thirstier.
“No worries. We didn’t want you croaking on us.” Ninel sits on the edge of the bed, hands braced against her knees. “So, how many?”
“How many what?” You lift the bottle to your mouth, tasting the sweet, cool water.
“Weeks. In your pregnancy, I mean.”
The word ‘pregnancy’ is all it takes for you to break out in coughs, your body trying to rid the water from your windpipe. Startled, Ninel slides over and begins patting you on the back, trying to help clear your throat. You’ve barely regained your ability to breathe when you speak again.
“What do you… what do you mean?”
There is not a hint of amusement on Ninel’s face. “Lieutenant, we saw it moving inside you. There’s no hiding it.”
Right. That started happening recently. It kind of looks like something from a science-fiction novel, one of the horror ones, and it kind of freaks you out.
You cough into your fist, blood running cold as you digest what she just said. “And what else did you see?”
“What else did we- nothing. We didn’t see anything. I promise you, we didn’t go checking you out.” The accusation has left her more flustered than she would like to admit, avoiding your gaze. You share the same sentiment.
Ninel picks at one of her fingernails, struggling over her next words. “Just letting you know, Mack and Chester are going to be dicks about it, at least for a while. They don’t have the maturity to handle this type of situation.” She waits for your response, but there is nothing for you to say. Nausea bubbles in the back of your throat as you imagine the coming conversation with the other officers.
“They aren’t going to do anything to you, though. They’re assholes, but they aren’t heartless.”
You think back to the fight in the restaurant, the way Mack spared you from having your face crushed in. Would he have helped if he had known about your secret? Would he be satisfied to just stand by and watch you get beaten into a pulp?
“And I’m not bothered by it. Like, I don’t see you differently for being a… a…”
“Transsexual.” You say curtly. “I’m a transsexual. You can say that. It’s fine.”
“…Yeah. I’m cool with you being a transsexual.” She clears her throat. “You’re pretty far along, aren’t you?”
This is really starting to grate on your nerves; none of this is her business. If it weren’t for the pestering you’re sure to receive on the entire drive back, you would tell her to leave you alone. You feel a firm kick to your side, and you try to covertly rub the taut skin beneath the sheet.
“I’m around twenty-two weeks now.”
Ninel looks up at the flush-mount light on the ceiling, performing a few mental calculations. “You weren’t that far along when this started.”
“I wasn’t. And I didn’t know what was going to happen until I was already caught up in it. I wouldn’t have willingly dragged them into this.” You stretch your back, finding that this new position puts unnecessary strain on your belly. God, you really need to put your clothes back on, this is just humiliating.
“But you could have just left us as soon as we were out of the city. You’d be safer down here than up there.”
“Would I?” You ask, masking any irritation in your voice. “I don’t think people around here would take too well to a pregnant half-Seolite transsexual. You saw what happened at that restaurant.”
At the memory, Ninel ghosts a hand over her injured thigh. “Yeah, but are things really much better in Revachol?”
“A bit. I have people in Revachol who I do trust, and my status in the RCM makes things easier.” Just a bit. The dogwhistles haven’t stopped.
“So that’s why you’re so insistent on getting back.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I want the world to be just a bit better before they’re born. They deserve to grow up in a stable environment.” And I’m worried I’m sabotaging that, you don’t add.
“I understand that. It’s just that it’s too dangerous in Revachol right now. The moment we cross the city’s borders, you could be bombed into oblivion. Or shot. Or even just hit in the wrong way. That fight could have ended a lot worse, you know.”
“Of course I know.” You scold. “Do you think I haven’t been thinking about it every day since it happened?”
“I’m not saying that you haven’t! I just think you should stay away from the coast until the conflict’s over. You don’t know what shit the Moralintern is going to pull next, they might start using chemical warfare or something. That kid might come out as an abomination, with ten eyes and three legs or something.”
Normally, something like this wouldn’t get much of a reaction out of you. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t gotten an ultrasound in nearly three months, leaving plenty to the imagination of what is growing inside you. More likely, you’re just fucked up right now. Exhausted and sore and scared out of your mind and hormonal. Your face grows hot, and you turn away from Ninel as soon as your eyes start burning with tears. You pull in your knees as much as your belly will allow and hide your face, wrapping your arms around the caps for extra coverage. This doesn’t make things much better, given that it’s pretty obvious what you’re doing, but you want to preserve the small remnants of your dignity.
“Kitsuragi…” Ninel shifts on the bed, hovering around you without much clue of what to do next. She’s probably unsettled by the way you cry. You don’t even tremble, and it’s so quiet that it’s like you’re in a vacuum.
After a few awkward moments, Ninel speaks again. “Look, I shouldn’t have said that. It didn’t help anything, and I’m sorry. Your baby probably doesn’t have a third leg… you know what, it definitely doesn’t have a third leg. Yeah, your baby’s normal. It’ll be okay. You’ll both be fine. Don’t listen to the dumb shit I say.”
“It’s not you.” You shift back enough to not have your voice muffled. “I’m just not acting like myself right now. In a few minutes, I should be back to normal.”
Ninel doesn’t make any further attempts to console you, which you’re thankful for. She’s probably caught on to the source of your distress, as she gets off the bed to give you the space needed to calm down. Even when your tears stop flowing, the shame doesn’t dissipate. If it weren’t for the fact that it was currently happening, you wouldn’t be able to believe that you got yourself into this situation. Not just the ordeal with the lorry, but everything: getting pregnant by a man you knew for three days, being near-fatally wounded, involving yourself in an act of political rebellion that could kill you, all while not having the stamina to perform to your highest standards because of the energy being drained from your body. You feel weak. Weak and pathetic.
The door abruptly creaks open, dragging you from your thoughts. You wipe the remaining wetness from your face and look towards the edge of the room, hoping that it’s just Ninel leaving. Instead, a new presence has entered, and the act of hiding your dismay is more strenuous than usual. Upon seeing you awake, Mack freezes, mouth agape. He’s wearing sunglasses, but you know the expression in his eyes is one of horror. Disgust. The air in the room is thick and warm, despite the air conditioning.
“Hey.” He says at last, fumbling with the plastic bag in his hands. “You feeling okay, Kimball?”
You weren’t even too queasy, but the mention of that alias is enough for a wave of sickness to crash through you. The reputation that proceeds you is not one that you particularly care for.
“I’m doing better.”
“That’s good.” He turns to Ninel, as if asking her for confirmation. When she gives a quick nod, he opens the bag. “I’ve got food. You should probably eat some, since you’re-”
“Thank you, but I pass.”
“Come on, man. Even if you don’t want to eat, the little man’s got to. Or little lady. Whatever.” Mack sets the bag on the nightstand, and you can faintly smell toasted sourdough and some sort of cheese. Hopefully, it’s a cheese you can actually eat right now: you’ve lost track of what’s safe.
“I am capable of choosing when and what I eat.”
Mack crosses his arms, his forehead creasing in frustration. “Don’t give me that attitude. You’ve been working like a slave while fucking pregnant.” The last word drips from his tongue like bile. “Do you not know how stupid you look right now?” He forms an arc around his midsection with his arms, imitating the swell of your abdomen. “Thinking you're so cool? Trying to play captain while lugging that gut around?”
“Mack, quit being a dick.” Ninel slugs him in the shoulder. “You’re the reason we’re here in the first place.”
“I only crashed the damn thing the first time!” He points to you. “The dork here crashed it again because… because being pregnant is apparently not an important piece of information!”
“I didn’t tell you because it was never relevant.”
Mack opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Instead, he points his direction at Ninel. “Okay, let’s do a little experiment. Ninel, you’re pregnant.”
She blinks a few times. “What?”
“In this hypothetical scenario, you’re pregnant.”
Ninel rests the side of her face on her hand, groaning. “I can’t believe I’m entertaining this.”
Mack turns back to you. “Okay, so let’s say Ninel’s pregnant. Chester and I are about to go on a mission to rescue two brave fallen soldiers, and Ninel insists on tagging along-“
“So I’m supposed to be Kitsuragi in this scenario.” She says, tapping her fingers on her forearms.
“Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”
“But Kitsuragi’s a man. If we’re doing this hypothetical, I think you should be the pregnant one.”
“I don’t have the gear that you two have. It wouldn’t be realistic.”
“It’s a hypothetical.”
“I just don’t understand why you have to go demasculating me. No offense, Lieutenant.”
“Would you two just stop already?” You pull the sheets tighter against your chest. “And can you leave so I can put my clothes back on?”
“Fine, fine.” Mack leans over to pick something up off the ground, and rears back to throw it to you. But after a moment’s consideration, he decides to just gently place the bundle of your clothes at the foot of the bed. As Ninel follows him out of the room, you can hear her continue to chastise Mack.
The pile of clothes seems like a pitiful apology from the universe. A meager barrier from humiliation that no longer means anything. You feel a sharp kick in your abdomen, and you wish you could provide a more suitable apology to the person growing inside you.
—————————————————————
You doubt there are more than a dozen windows in the entire hospital. Most were likely shattered at some point by vagrants, or were casualties in target practice from local teenagers. The vegetation lurking around the building had been previously tended to, but this was seemingly an on-and-off affair. This hospital has gone through seasonal periods of upkeep and decrepitude, and it is currently in the hibernation stage of its life cycle. Even if future fundraising brings the building out of its slumber, its metabolism will likely halt in another few months.
It would have been nice if this hospital was an active, functional part of the environment. The cargo in your arms certainly wishes so. Jean managed to slow the bleeding, but there’s not really any way for a freshly shattered kneecap to be tidy. Judit is certainly not frail by any stretch of the imagination, hardly a single noise of distress escaping her throat as you carry her to the entrance. Even so, you know how much pain she’s in; she’ll probably end up with a worse limp than your own.
It wasn’t even an ambush, given that you had startled a single Coalition officer who was taking a piss. He was still pissing as he shot Judit through the knee. Part of you wanted to laugh. You don’t like that part of you.
“Easy, Jude.” You keep trying to soothe the woman in your arms: she’s the one who needs a comforting word right now. “We made it. Gottlieb will get you fixed up.”
Judit hides an involuntary moan with a cough. “We don’t even know if he’s here.”
You hear the sound of a zipper opening as Jean removes his jacket, before draping it across Judit’s chest. “If he’s not here, we’ll still be able to give you first aid. After that, we’ll take you to a real hospital.”
“Inside or outside of Revachol?”
“Outside. There’s no way we can go to one inside.”
Judit’s eyes flutter close. “You’re not making me leave the city, Vic. I’m not abandoning my kids.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not abandoning anyone, you’re just getting your leg fixed. As soon as you are discharged, you can see them.”
“No, I won’t. I haven’t seen them in months. They’re probably wondering where I am.”
“They won’t be for much longer, you’ll see them soon.”
“White lie.”
Given the hospital’s multiple halts in construction, there’s hardly any furniture. You’re left to improvise with a pile of clothes and backpacks, before resting Judit down in the makeshift nest. No matter how much you support her leg, she still gasps when her foot brushes against the ground. She lays her head back and sighs, already exhausted long before this ordeal.
While Jean tends to Judit, you and McCoy decide to scout out the hospital. You split up, with McCoy supervising his young soldiers in the upper floors of the hospital. Everything below the second floor is your domain, an empire of fossilized excrement and crushed beer cans. The former is nauseating enough to distract you from your cravings for the latter. Walking into the stairway to the basement floor… you don’t want to go there. It’s dark and rancid and oddly damp.
Endurance - What’s the matter, Princess? Can’t handle a bit of stench? Afraid of getting your feet wet? Do you want a manicure and a kiss on the forehead?
Of course not. You are the reanimated spirit of a corpse dehydrated by decades of alcohol abuse, a gross little basement isn’t anything compared to what you’ve put yourself through. Once you get past the first few steps, it’s not even that bad. Hell, you think you even catch the fragrance of peppermint oil…
A lot of peppermint oil. More than what should be in a hospital that never operated. And it’s not a stale scent, but a fresh one. You turn around a corner in the direction of the scent, and in one of the rooms lining the hallway, you see a dim yet warm light shining through the door. In this light, there’s a shadow. A human shadow.
Perhaps you should say something, covertly alert this hominid of your presence without startling them into another shootout. But that would just be stupid. Giving away your location before you have even scoped out the threat? Rookie mistake. You’re better off sneaking into the hallway and taking a peak.
You don’t quite have the Pepperbox out, but you’re ready to withdraw it in an instant. Perhaps too ready. No, you are never too ready. Your dented nose is proof of that.
Creeping along the wall, you expect to hear something from the room. Footsteps, words, the sound of a muzzle being loaded. But it’s just too damn quiet, you can’t get a feeling for your danger level in this situation.
Wait, did they already hear you? You place your foot down, and jump up in surprise when it meets something that is definitely not the floor. A rat squeaks and bolts from beneath your shoe, and you are thrown off balance. When the front of your body mates with the concrete, panicked gasps erupt from the room. You turn your head, expecting to find a muzzle pointed at your face.
Instead, you’re met with a not-all unfriendly group of people. Some familiar, some not, and one that you’ve been looking for. Aside from the shock from your abrupt arrival, Cuno is clearly very surprised to see you.
—————————————————————
“Are you sure you feel okay?”
After ensuring that Judit was in Gottlieb’s care, you decided to have a private conversation with Cuno. You ease your hand toward the boy, as if he were an abused animal… Dammit, he is an abused animal. As are you. That is the title you share. Just as you expected, he rejects your touch, shoving your hand away. There’s something so familiar about the way he does it, and you feel a deep melancholy.
“What broken tape player type-shit do you have going on? You’ve asked that so many times that I’m starting to think you have dementia.”
Drama - Cuno hasn’t even *seen* your broken tape player impression. I don’t think he’s ready for such a performance.
“I just worry.” Your face twitches, the divot across your nose feeling deeper. Not for the first time, you wonder if you did the right thing by bringing Cuno into the RCM.
Cuno’s composure softens, just a bit. He probably realizes this, as he tilts his face away from your line of sight.
You sigh, preparing for his reaction to your next statement. “Tomorrow, Jean and I are taking you out of here. Somewhere safer.”
Hearing this, Cuno immediately glowers directly into your eyes. “The fuck you aren’t! Cuno is in this shit like white on rice! Do you think I’m just going to leave my pig for the worms?”
“Cuno-“
“And where are you going to take me? Some orphanage in the middle of nowhere run by child molestors? I’d rather be blown up than have to go through that!”
“You’re not going to any shady orphanage! And this isn’t forever, this is just until we win.”
“This is just until we win and communism has been achieved and everything’s perfect. That’s what you sound like right now.” Cuno stands up, his lip quivering. “You’re fuckin’ delusional, piggo. We’re the most inbred city on the planet, and you think we’re going to magically come together to build a commune?”
“Didn’t you say that you believed in magic?”
Cuno’s eyes go wide, and his pupils shrink like they did when he was high on speed. “Of course I do. You and the Cun are magic, but none of these other fucktards are. God has it out for us, pig. We’re just rats in his sick experiment.” His voice cracks, and he is preemptively wiping his eyes to dry tears that have not yet formed. “When will it be enough? When will this end?”
You open your arms without much expectation, but you are surprised to feel Cuno accept your embrace. This is clearly something he is unused to, as he feels stiff and uncomfortable as he hugs you back. In an attempt to make things less awkward, you pat him on the head. His grasp around your waist grows tighter.
“The end is coming. But it won’t be the end of us.” You reassure, tussling the red strands of hair. “We’re going to be like cells in a bacteria culture, thriving even after the world has wasted away. And once the apocalypse ends, the world will return again. The universe itself will be envious of our tenacious spirit. We’ll-”
“You sound like a crazy person.” Cuno mutters into your sleeve. And he’s right.
“I’m not crazy: I’m the Firewalker. And the Firewalker is going to save this city. The best thing you can do to help the Firewalker is to be safe.”
“So where am I supposed to fuck off to? Magritte? Become a boiadero and hang out with a bunch of wrinkly homos in the pale?”
“Nothing wrong with a bunch of wrinkly homosexuals.”
Cuno snorts. “You say that because you are one.”
“I’m not sure about that. Back in my day, I was quite the lady’s man.”
“So you’re some sort of other thing?”
“I don’t think I should discuss these things with you.” Cuno steps back from your arms, and you pat him on the shoulder. “We’ll find somewhere for you to go, and it’s not forever.” You’re surprised by the extent to which you believe your words.
You wish this moment could have lasted longer, just you and Cuno having a peaceful moment in the chaos that has consumed the city. The knock at the door feels like electricity in your veins, bringing you back to reality.
“Lieutenant Du Bois, McCoy wants to talk to you. He’s in the basement.” A young voice says, one of McCoy’s boys from earlier.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” After waiting for the footsteps leaving the door, you place both hands on Cuno’s shoulders. “Let me make it clear: I am not abandoning you. The two of us have that thing, what do you call it..?”
“They call that shit a bröderbund.”
“...It’s kind of like a bröderbund, but different. Deeper. Stronger. But all you need to know is that I am here for you. Whatever you need, I will do in a heartbeat.”
There’s a shimmer to Cuno’s eyes that was not present before, and he coughs in an attempt to disguise this as a result of congestion.
“I don’t know what you’re doing with all this sentimental shit, but… it’s tight. Not much shit going on around here.”
You grin. “You had no idea what you were getting into when you barged into my hostel room. Now, I’ve got something I need to attend to, so get some rest in the meantime. And I promise that we’ll figure something out.”
You know that the boy is more exhausted than he would like to admit, so you leave him to catch up on his sleep. McCoy has claimed a room on the second floor meant for conferences, and it is one of the few rooms in the building with furnishing. Opening the door, you see McCoy and Jean. You also see a very familiar face. He’s old and plump and currently tied to a chair, but if it weren’t for the rope, he would look like he was sitting down for tea.
“You…” Your finger points to his face independently of your own directions.
“Yep, here’s our special boy.” McCoy doesn’t even look up at you, instead using his knife to carve his signature on the table. “And since we’re just such big fans, we’ve brought him over for an interview.”
Enzo’s eyes narrow upon your face, as if he’s searching for the source of a nagging pain in his mind. Eventually, his face lightens in recognition.
“Hey, I know you. You’re one of the officers who I met in the basement. You were with this guy,” Enzo tries to point at Jean, but he only struggles feebly against his constraints. “Where’s your friend? He seemed to like my machine quite a lot.”
Half Light - Look at this sleazy bastard, trying to make you spill Kim’s location. No matter how round and pathetic he looks on the outside, this man is monstrous. He is another organ in the superorganism hellbent on taking everything from you. This piece of shit won’t think twice about being complicit in the death of Kim and your baby.
Logic - Easy there, tough guy. If he really wanted you dead, he would have done something when you first confronted him. This guy doesn’t care much for politics, he’s just *really* fond of his machines.
Interfacing - I can’t blame him. I’m fond of his machines, too.
Suggestion - What will happen if he thinks that Kim is deceased? Not only would this prevent him from leaking information about Kim’s location, but you can also get a read on his true character.
“Our colleague was killed in the siege. The one that you allowed to happen.”
Jean shoots you a perplexed look, before coming to some conclusion on what you’re trying to do. The news doesn’t seem to sit well with Enzo, as a tight little frown has crept onto his face.
“Oh no. I’m sorry about that. I had no intention of that happening, he seemed like a very nice man.”
“What did you think was going to happen?” Jean lets out an incredulous sigh. “Did you think that we were just going to talk it over?”
Enzo thinks for a few seconds, before letting out a sad laugh. “Now that you say it, it does sound pretty ridiculous. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, I just wanted to work on a project that I could show to my graduate students.”
Rhetoric - For a professor, this man is gloriously naive. What world has this man grown up in where this type of conflict wouldn’t escalate into violence? People are going to get hurt, that can’t be avoided. But his actions have resulted in the deaths of your comrades. It’s time to get *filthy*. You won’t leave anything to the imagination.
“Do you want to know the worst thing about it?” You bring your face close to Enzo’s, the scent of licorice thick on his breath. “He didn’t die instantly. If we were able to bring him to a hospital, he might have made it, but he didn’t have that luxury. And it’s all thanks to you.”
For the first time, there’s a genuine thoughtfulness in Enzo’s manner, like he’s reflecting on his actions in the past few months. The borders of his eyes are a dark pink. “I’m sorry.”
“We could see his intestines. We would just sit around and watch as his food digested. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.” You shake your head, your own tears beginning to build up in your eyes. And unfortunately, those tears aren’t an act. You have gotten so caught up in this story that it is vividly appearing before your eyes with stomach-churning details. No pun intended.
“I’m sorry.” Enzo’s voice cracks, a gentle whimper filling the air. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s gone!” You wail, burying your face in your hands. “Kim is gone, and I am never going to see him again. I’ll never see his smiling face, hear his laugh, hold his hand, feel him…” You slap your palms against the table and stand up. “Your ‘sorries’ won’t bring him back. You didn’t even know a thing about him. He was the most amazing man I ever met, and you-”
“Shitkid, stop it!” Jean clutches you around the shoulders, holding you back. “Kim is not dead. He’s alive and well, so you don’t need to lose your shit.”
Under your heavy breathing, you hear a soft sniffle. There’s a new look of hope in Enzo’s bloodshot eyes. “He’s okay? Really?”
“Yes, really. My partner here was just making something up to get a reaction out of you. Seriously,” Jean pinches your shoulder, “We watched his food digest in his stomach? Where did you even get that idea?”
McCoy slowly claps. “Great improv, everyone. Now that Captain Sober here has received the attention he wanted, we should get back to what we were doing.”
You wipe your cheeks, which are balmy to the touch. “Look, even if Kim didn’t die, there’s still a lot more people who did. Good people who just wanted a better future. Do you really think that you’re on the right side of history?”
Enzo hums, thinking of his response. “You’re being very vague. You know that, right?”
“How so?” You wipe your sleeve against your nose, and Jean lets out a disgusted noise.
“Well, I know that you want a better future, but so does everyone else. And ‘better’ is very subjective. I’m very curious to know what your plan is, please tell me!”
McCoy slams his knife into the stable, eliciting a gasp from Enzo. “We’re the ones asking the questions, fatass. We’re not giving you more information to regurgitate to the Moralintern.”
“But I’m not part of the Moralintern..” Enzo quickly shakes his head. “I’m a civilian contractor. I only accepted this job to further my studies in mechanics. Aside from sending in my seismographs, I don’t have much contact with my employers.”
“Alright.” McCoy whispers slyly, pulling his knife out of the table. He admires the sharp edge, tinted in what you hope is rust, before grabbing Enzo by his thinning hair and pointing the knife at his throat. Blood trickles down where the point meets his skin, and Enzo’s skin is pulled tight in an attempt to spare himself from the slashing. “So even if I do this, you aren’t going to say anything? Not a peep?”
Enzo has the eyes of a fish on a hook. “All I knew going into this project was that the Moralintern suspected acts of terrorism within Revachol. I didn’t hear anything else from them, and the seismographs aren’t intelligible without the use of a computer. I don’t have any other information, I promise you on my mother’s soul.”
Enzo gasps as McCoy digs the knife deeper, but the motion is interrupted by Jean. The older officer looks down at Jean with loathing in his eyes, but Jean doesn’t hold back. You feel pride blossom in your chest.
“That’s it. I am not going to sit by and watch you kill this man.”
McCoy tightens his hold on the knife. “Fuck off, Vicquemare. You know how many people died because of this cunt.”
“You don’t care about that. You just want an excuse to kill him.”
“I don’t give a fuck if he dies. If anything, it’s an inconvenience if I kill him. I’m just trying to save us from getting torn to shreds. If we let him go, he’s just going to go straight to the Moralintern.”
Jean’s pale eyes scan the room. He looks at Enzo, who is returning the gesture with utmost panic. He looks at McCoy, who is biting his lip as blood continues to leak from beneath his knife. And then, he looks at you. You look at him, too. You see him. He sees you. Just two creatures tired of slaughter looking at each other.
You turn to McCoy. “If we kill him, it’s going to be a PR disaster. His death will be broadcast all over the world. ‘Civilian professor murdered by extremist terrorist group in Revachol.’ You can see it, right? Yeah, you see it.”
McCoy pulls his knife away from Enzo’s throat, resulting in a relieved sigh from the man. “Since when did you care about professors? Aren’t they bourgeois or whatever you keep calling everything?”
Enzo manages a nervous chuckle. “No, I wouldn’t call myself bourgeois. I only get paid enough to make ends meet.”
“We don’t get paid enough to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, but we chose this job.” Jean thinks for a moment. “Or do I have to remind you of that again?”
“No. You really don’t.”
McCoy stands up. “You know what, he’s your problem now. Do whatever you want with him, you can fuck him for all I care. Just make sure you clean up after him.” He inserts the knife into the sheath on his belt and leaves the room. The three of you are left to glance between yourselves, trying to make sense of these new circumstances.
—————————————————————
Pain. All you feel is pain. Not the usual discomfort from your sore back and aching feet, but an abominable agony worse than anything you’ve ever experienced before, worse than being shot through the chest. What you are experiencing is unnatural, no one is supposed to suffer this much and survive.
It is so very bright, the lights appearing like stars gathered in the surgical theater to watch you writhe in pain. The stars are not the only witnesses: a team of doctors are gathered around you, mumbling incoherently to each other. Maybe they aren’t even speaking Suresne, it’s impossible to tell. You think there are a few students in the theater, pointing excitedly when you groan through the pain. More spectators reside behind a window, a jury clothed in finely pressed suits and dress pants.
Something squirms inside of you, bruising your organs and cracking your ribs. Your muscles contract to the best of their ability to rid your body of this monster, but it’s just too big. This is not your baby. This is not even a human baby, for that matter: it’s too massive to be such. It’s so heavy that you don’t think you could move, even if you wanted to. You taste blood in your mouth, and you can feel it seeping into the bed between your thighs.
You ask for water, you’re so thirsty. No response. The horrific mass shifts downwards, and you scream, begging for them to cut it out, sparing you from this fate. No response. Nearly too weak to say another word, you request painkillers. After discussing between themselves, a nurse inserts something into your IV bag.
Whatever it was she injected into you, it is not a painkiller. It’s as if the word “torture” has been imprinted into every cell of your body. The contractions increase in both their rate and potency, desperate death throes made in one last ditch effort to eject the massive organism within you. Something begins to bulge at your entrance, either the rear or head of this revolting creature. There’s no way you’ll be able to fit around it, it’s just too big. Something is about to rupture.
Another contraction shoves it further, and you feel your perineum start to tear. You can hardly hear your own screams under the enthusiastic chattering of the doctors surrounding you. As the thing slowly inches out of you, the tear just grows longer and longer. By the time its long limbs exit, you think that the fissure easily goes from your anus to your mons pubis. There’s no cry as the newborn is tended to by a nurse, only a low, watery growl. This creature is just as unhappy to exist as you are to birth it. Something else begins to leak from your entrance, pouring onto the sheets below. You think that it’s your intestines; the birth was so traumatic that it disemboweled you.
Two students prop you up with down pillows, ignoring the fact that you are on death’s door. In the first bit of comprehensible language during this entire experience, one of them asks if you want to hold it. You don’t. You want nothing to do with this abomination that just tore through your body. You want your baby, the one who is so unbearably tiny compared to this wretched behemoth. They don’t listen to you, and a heavy bundle of blankets is placed in your arms. Stupidly, you decide to peel back the blankets and look at its face.
You don’t even know what you’re looking at. It’s bright red, brindled with shades of mauve and yellow. Two eyes bulge from its skull, still shut tightly, but you can see its eyeballs. That’s when you realize that its skin is transparent, looking like an aquarium of flesh and blood vessels. The creature has a long neck and a prominent snout and ears that are still sealed. This thing is severely underdeveloped, having no chance of surviving outside of your body in its current state. And yet, it continues groaning, brown liquid frothing from its mouth and nose. It pokes a limb out from the blanket, and you unconsciously wrap your fingers around the appendage. At the end of the limb is a rubbery end, the bottom of the “foot” covered in featherlike filaments. Beneath the soft covering, you feel something hard. For the both of you, this is a day of mourning, but no one else in the room seems to care that you’re not making it out of here alive.
When you bolt awake, you don’t scream. That’s good, given the fact that Ninel and Jolie are sleeping on the floor and couch, respectively. You don’t know how you would explain it to them, given that the contents of your dream are already fading from your mind. All you know is that it involved them.
You place both hands on your abdomen, your palms meeting the surface far later than you expect them to. It’s as small as it was when you fell asleep, just as gentle, just as human. Your breath comes out shakily, and your heart is still pounding in your throat. The room is a shade of pale green as morning light filters in through the window, and you can hear the trill of cicadas outside. It doesn’t matter how hot it will get today, you need to get back to Revachol. Being out here for so long is dissolving every sense of normality you still have.