dark-pattern-witch

[dark-pattern-witch]

Petrochemical Dependency - 3

— Part three of a short narrative building on the work of @empress-em-kaldwin , Part two here

The angel's name is Lilia, she reveals that to Rowan after three hours of idle conversation. Another hour later she starts to give an answer as to how she wound up in the program, but halts it half way, eyes still too distrusting. Some sort of group living arrangement, apparently the requirements for treatment of minors under CRADLE could be provided by CRADLE facilities if the parents or guardians, of the kids consented. And for the kids who were being cared for by the state…

Just a convenient excuse to get rid of some freaks that they didn't want to care for was how Rowan saw it. She understands why Lilia can't trust her, especially given the scale of betrayals she must've been experiencing lately. The moon is high, piercing through wispy clouds that obscure all but the brightest stars. Rowan stares at it through the dirty windows of the bus. Next to her, Lilia shivers. The temperature inside the bus only gets colder as the hours past. Everyone watches the boots break open a case of hand warmers. They share them among themselves. Nobody bothers trying to ask for any.

More hours pass, the bus stops again, more people shuffle on, the driver changes. The earliest hints of morning creep across the horizon. The sound of gulls places Rowan geographically. They'd been driving steadily northwest for an unknown amount of time, long enough that her aching joints no longer bother her. She's starting to get thirsty too, but there's no water for her on this bus. She sucks her lips against her teeth, wetting her tongue and throat with saliva. Lilia slumps against her, eyes shut. For a brief moment Rowan panics that something awful has happened to the girl, but relaxes when she shifts in her sleep.

The angel's dreams are restless, Rowan watches her drift in and out of sleep as time drips like pitch. She is starting to grow tired too, after however many hours awake. At least twenty four now, she thinks. The warmth of the sun on her face doing little to keep her awake. The bus pulls off of the interstate, puttering along northwards, ever northwards. Of course the busses still ran during the day.

She curses herself for being naive, not that any of it matters anymore. Stick to cities and interstates by night, stick to backroads and remote highways by day. One thing that's puzzling her is why they're going such a long distance. She knows that there are CRADLE facilities in every state, so why drive a busfull of people eight hours north? Her eyelids are heavy. The question tumbles in her head like rocks. White noise to make her fall asleep.

Lilia nudges her awake a couple hours later as the bus rolls into some New England town. How many hours has it been, she wonders. Does her family know where she is now? not her parents, she doesn't care what they think. But she's curious about her cousins and uncles and nieces. Do they know what kind of degenerate freak she is? Are they celebrating CRADLE, would what's happening to her change their minds? Rowan looks down at her lap, thoughts clouding her head. She knows that this isn't something useful to think about right now. She knows that keeping her wits about her is important. She knows she should be protecting Lilia. But she can't help herself. The more she thinks about 'family' the angrier she gets. At least the anger keeps her awake.

The angel smiles up at her, obviously forced. Rowan returns the gesture and puts her arms over the kid's head. The closest thing she can give to a hug while her hands are cuffed like this. She isn't sure why she does it. But despite all of Lilia's distrust, the gesture seems to relax her. The two shift how they sit to be more comfortable and Rowan's smile shifts just a little bit towards being genuine. Making Lilia feel better, even just a little, does a lot for her. They sit like this for a while, Rowan's attention more on the guards than ever before. She knows that Lilia will get no mercy from them for being a kid, she hates them for it.

The bus pulls off yet another highway, Rowan can't remember all the numbers, or all the mile markers. She's hungry and thirsty and starting to ache. And she can feel the tension on the bus rising. Two hours ago someone started pleading for water and got their nose broken for it. The guards said we'd have our needs taken care of when we arrived, that we just needed to be patient. To follow instructions. That we'd be fed and housed and given water. That everything would be okay if we just listened.

Rowan puts all her effort into keeping quiet, normally she'd be more than willing to make sure that someone else isn't suffering alone, but she has Lilia to protect right now. She bites her tongue and keeps her eyes down. She's not going to get the kid hurt. The metal frame and and old seats rattle as the tires hit gravel, the smell of a burning timing belt fills the cabin and hangs there as the bus continues along a road that had seen better days. CRADLE Facilities were all active hospitals or inpatient facilities, sure, but wherever they were being carted off to must be pretty remote. She sighs and pulls Lilia closer as she whimpers.

The bus halts along the dirt road, a building visible in the distance, maybe half a mile away. There's swearing from the drivers seat and a conversation between the boots and the driver. And a few moments later, a shouted order from the front to stand and follow. Rowan untangles Lilia from herself and stands, helping the angel up as well. They're escorted at gunpoint off the bus, and down the dirt road to the tall and wide hospital building. Rowan realizes, the closer they get, that the hospital is not in fact as isolated as she thought.

No, the hospital is in a fairly nice town off some major interstate. They were just being brought to it in a roundabout way. Probably because the people in town didn't like having to think about demis being carted off with guns pointed at them. Not that they minded it happening, just that they minded thinking about it.

The half mile walk is awful, as the line of people get closer she can see a large shipping container that's been shoved against a rear entrance to the hospital. Heavy piping runs over the top of it and leaks water at the joins to the metal box. Rowan looks around, considering the woods. If the angel wasn't there then getting shot in the back while trying to run would probably seem preferable to trudging towards imprisonment. But as is… she isn't sure what's best.

The shipping container is a large, open floor plan shower. Rowan's cuffs get exchanged for circlets that are pinned uncomfortably tight. Everyone is made to strip, even the kid. They're given delousing shampoo, shouted at to make sure it gets everywhere. The guard stares at each and every one of them with the same level of affectation that you regard a paper target. Rowan stares back, wishing she could rip the fuckers throat out.

Finally, everyone gets ill fitting slippers and warm scratchy clothes. Rowan flexes her arms, and uses the newfound freedom of her limbs to hug Lilia properly. The Angel tries again to smile, but doesn't get anywhere. Rowan grips her tightly, and leads her into the chaos of the mess.

[dark-pattern-witch]

Rusted combat doll. Years and years and years since anyone saw to you. For a while after they all died you tried to take care of yourself, but it wasn't enough. There were places you couldn't clean. Tools broke and went unreplaced. You ran out of oils and lubricants.

They left you behind, all of them, and now you're left here ticking slowly and quietly in the hallways of an abandoned bunker. Every now and then you hear distant voices, people getting a thrill out of exploring abandoned buildings and trespassing on private property.

You desperately wish for them to find you, but they never do, you're too far away, guarding a door that was too well hidden to be found and too important to have anyone else in front of it.

You still have your gun, might even use it if given the chance, with time, it fails too.

One day, when your ticking has slowed to a glacial pace, you distantly become aware of someone in your hallway. Leaning over you, examining.

By now the gun in your hands is junk, the rust has crept deep, and animals have taken up residence inside your torso. But you still tick.

You tick slowly, hours between easy tick now, the shallowest breathing you can manage. You want to cry out "take me! Please take me in!" But you cannot. You can't and she's going to leave and no one will ever find you again.

You manage to move your finger one centimeter, no more.

Something shifts in the ancient building and old dust falls, casting shadows on the halls, a slight rustle in the now skeletal ceiling. The woman turns at the noise and stares at you.

You try to move again, but your mainspring has seized and your joints stay unmoving.

You beg silently, please notice me, please take me, please.

The woman rests a hand on your shoulder briefly, and is called away by the rest of her team.

[dark-pattern-witch]

Petrochemical Dependency - 2

— Part two of a short narrative building on the work of @empress-em-kaldwin , Part one here

At least hour has passed since the bus left that parking lot, Rowan keeps shifting from leaning her head on the glass to curling in on herself. She's cold, the bus has no heating system and frigid air leaks through the poorly sealed windows. She tries to comfort herself, but knows that it's just false. One by one the mile markers count down as they travel ever northwards, ever colder.

Rowan shakes her head, trying to stay in the present. As awful as it is she prefers it to the wall of grief about what she's just lost. She cannot think about that now and may never get the chance. The bus halts suddenly and she has to catch herself awkwardly with her bound hands. The crystal lined cuffs dig into her wrists, stifling her magic, stifling her thoughts. She tries to reach inwards, to feel the source of it. Faintly, through layers of exhaustion and defeat, she feels it warmly throbbing. Some small spark of what makes her real still flickering in the growing dark.

Somewhere, behind many layers of clouds, the sun drifts closer towards the horizon. They knocked on her door at 6:30pm, by now it must nearly be nine by now. The CRADLE busses only seem to run at night, it's yet to turn from open secret to glorious spectacle. Open celebration of the demihuman's condition is still a touchy subject in polite conversation. Rowan knows this won't last much longer. People like her were not the first and will not be the last. Everything always sucks, and everyone wants someone to blame it on. Some individual, some thing, some type of person that can be the source of everything bad.

Someone to blame for the cost of living, someone to blame for kids doing worse in school, someone to blame for their wife leaving. Anything but the people on top, anything but themselves. Rowan sighs and touches thumbs to fingers to try and calm herself, to stay out of the big picture. She spent fifteen years of her life worrying about why things are, about getting through to other people. She wishes she could spend some time worrying about herself, but she can't help it, even now, even on what might very well be the last bus right of her life, she cannot help herself. Still thinking about how things are, still thinking about the suffering of others.

They said to her when she was young that Witches and Warlocks were selfish creatures, that the price of magic was to abandoning humanity, forsaking society and betraying the trust of their loved ones. All that was so long ago now. Rooms that smelt like hot dust and wood pellets, pine sap sticking to her fingers, her parents sent her to summer camp in hopes that it'd make her into more of a normal boy. But that never had a chance of happening. She knew back then and she knows now that nothing can change the course she is on. Nothing.

The bus halts again, a new parking lot, a new city, four new faces, a man, wrinkled lines in his pale face and pink cheeks, his eyes set deep in their sockets, look empty, seeing some place other than the bus. He raises his hands and scratches at the bridge of his nose, he too has shackled hands, caster. Two younger men huddled together, expressions stony, each trying to stay strong for the other, dark skin shining and dimming as cars pass on the nearby highway, hair in neat tight braids, as they speak Rowan catches a hint of fangs. A girl— Jesus Christ, she can't be older than seventeen— Rowan stops and tries to focus, inventory, keep track of the faces, you need to remember, someone needs to remember. A girl, jacket neatly hiding wings, her eyes are red, cute wide nose dripping a bit of snot, reminds Rowan of a childhood friend.

Rowan looks down at the ground and stares at her feet, she needs to be able to face this, her tongue moves in her mouth, struggles to find the shapes of the words that she knows. The girl is standing around, not sitting, this is bad.

"Take a seat." The voice comes from the rear of the bus. Rowan's head turns, the guard's finger has slipped upwards to the safety of his "less lethal" firearm, plenty lethal at this range, in this space. The angel girl is desperately trying to catch her breath, leaning against one of the seats, she's just one row away from Rowan. She isn't moving, Rowan tenses, eyes flicking between the man with the gun and the girl. She stands, stumbles, and catches herself on the seat in front of her.

"Sit down!" The shout is focused at her, that much is obvious, her hands shoot out to the angel gripping on the end of the jacket. With a sudden movement she yanks hard, sending the young girl stumbling towards her. Her ribs catch the undeployed armrest of the seat row in front. The angel looks at her, pained and confused seat row. "Sit next to me." Rowan hisses, and yanks again.

The young girl sits and Rowan stumbles the two-foot distance back to her seat. She leans against the window glass and is just about to sit down when a baton catches her in the side of the head. Blinding white hot pain shoots from her temple into her skull. She collapses into her seat, legs no longer able to support her as her vision narrows. Her head aches for hours and hours, even after her vision clears, all throughout the rest of the bus ride and the conversations with her new friend.

The guard warns her that if she does not comply, he will have to use force next time, which makes her wonder what the baton was meant to be. Still, she nods at him and tries to pay it no mind. Survive. Now isn't the time to bite, getting shot will not save anyone else, and right now it might even get someone else hurt. She doesn't want to make the others watch someone be beaten bloody. Especially not the kid. Water would help a lot right now, she thinks, having water after a head injury is a good idea. Or maybe that's just something she's making up because the last time she had something to drink was before the pigs black bagged her.

The kid nudges Rowan's leg with her knee and adds a small wave once she was sure she had her attention. Rowan tries to smile at her, tries to make it not seem forced. The poor kid looked terrified. She was too, but didn't want to let it show, the kid deserved something slightly nice in these last moments. She wasn't sure if they were actually going to just be killed at the end of wherever they were going. There were only a select few CRADLE facilities that cameras were allowed inside and Rowan never really trusted any of them.

The media lied for her whole life about demihumans, she knows they're lying now, it's not like demiphobia becoming more common would suddenly make these institutions more trustworthy. She shakes her head, distractions, focus on the now, focus on the girl you're trying to help. She refocuses down and to her right. On second thought, she's probably closer to fifteen.

Rowan swallows thickly. She remembers arguments with her extended family, while everything was still in legislature. They weren't trying to hurt any kids, no, they were just trying to protect them. She remembers the insistance that these kids would get help, that embracing these mutations, these aberrations, was harmful to them, and that with proper medical intervention they could lead normal lives.

She remembers an aunt citing the text of the CRADLE act, that no kids would be required to report to Class B facilities, that it was only for adults. Children would be automatically signed into conservatorship agreements with their parents or other living guardians. Rowan knew at the time that trying to tell the aunt that this was a lie was pointless, and argued that that wasn't any better instead.

"Hey." she tries, returning the kid's wave.

"…hi."

"I'm Rowan."

The kid's eyes narrow at her, and then fall to the floor of the bus. "hi."

"Do you wan-."

"I'm not stupid." She interrupts, eyes up again, equally fiery, and tired. "I know I should have just did what they said. Don't try to treat me like I don't know what's going on. I know how bad it is"

"…"

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, Rowan waits for words to come but they do not. She wishes desperately she knew what to say to the kid to make her feel even a little better. What could anyone ever say. There's no words for it now.

Rowan takes a deep breath, undeterred, and tries her best.

"They were looking for someone to hurt, I just made the choice easy for them."

The young girl fiddles with the end of her sleeve. "…i get that."

"And… yeah. it's bad, it's really really bad, I don't know where we're going, I'm scared, but I don't want to let them see it. That's why I stood up like that. I don't want anyone else to see it."

A long time ago, one of Rowan's friends told her that being honest was a good way to make friends. She tried too much to come across a specific way, too much to be a specific person. She hopes that five years later isn't too late to put it into practice.

"…We don't have time for secrets anymore, lets try and stick together, okay?" She smiles, and hopes again that this will be enough to get through.

"okay." the kid says, more than Rowan could ever ask for. The two exchange tired smiles and quiet for a while.

Few voices are audible on the bus, aside from the shouting of the guards very little makes it over the clangor of the old engine. Something in there is probably broken, she thinks, a belt worn down, enough to make an awful noise but not enough to completely disable the vehicle. The concept of a burning out engine belt sticks in her mind. Thought so little of that even their imprisonment is being neglected. All that money is going somewhere, and it certainly isn't to the bus, or the facilities, or the pockets of the guards.

Someone might have pity for them, but she doesn't, they all can die. She wonders what they say to their families and friends about their jobs. Do their loved ones support what they're doing? Do they know? Do they brag about herding weary and defeated people onto busses with a couple hundred miles left to live? Or do they neglect the truth, leave out details, talk about working in security, about working in government contracting. The driver didn't have a weapon or insignia, does he tell his wife that he drives demis to the camps, or does he simply say "I'm a bus driver." Will any of them, five years from now, lord willing it, admit to being here?

No, of course not.

She hopes they all rot and burn.

[dark-pattern-witch]

tying you down and making you watch me fuck the shark.

[dark-pattern-witch]

i'll love you forever you just have to promise to never grow up okay?

[dark-pattern-witch]

Sneakily injecting pyrogens into your e vials so I can force myself on a delirious feverish slut

[dark-pattern-witch]

THEY SAY IN HARLAN COUNTY

THERE ARE NO MIDDLES THERE

YOULL EITHER BE A LITTLE GIRL

OR A THUG FOR J H BLAIR

[dark-pattern-witch]

i want to make a girl's words catch in her throat every time she tries to say 'no' to me.

[dark-pattern-witch]

Petrochemical Dependency

— Part One of a short narrative building on the work of @empress-em-kaldwin

Gasoline vapors permeate her sinuses as she waits in the old mall parking lot that had been converted to a detainment center. A tired breath leaves her lips, her eyes low, searching the other people there. Three other souls stand aside her, one of them has pad of gauze taped haphazardly against his temple. Their eyes catch each other and they exchange pity. From her for his bandages, from him for the binds around her wrists.

Her forearms still ache from where they were pinned into the gravel driveway behind her apartment building. She still was processing the last twelve hours; she'd thought she was doing a good job of keeping her head down. She had scrubbed all of her "Rowan the mage" social media far before anything got anywhere close to being this bad. Either someone told on her, or they had been keeping a list since then. She isn't sure which is worse.

Rowan is still trying to figure out how they'd found her out when the doors to the bus open and she's gestured on board, four men with rifles stand twenty yards away. The bus is maybe three quarters full, eyes as tired as hers stare back at her and at her cuffs. Rowan shrugs at them, no point in trying to explain. Not like it will do her any good now.

A week ago she'd been keeping her head down at her job, quietly talking to friends online. Over the past two years more and more of them just disappeared. Rowan hated watching them vanish, but didn't want to vanish herself. She still feels that way, still just keeps treading water. Perform well but not too well at work, only go shopping late at night when very few people were around, put in rent on time and don't draw any attention. She isn't sure what was wrong with it, she thought it was working. Maybe it had been.

Rowan first realized that something about her was 'wrong' was when she got grounded for two months for 'casting spells' on the neighbors down the road. Father didn't care that they'd asked to see magic, nor did he care that she didn't actually hurt anyone. What mattered was that 'magic' (which Rowan had yet to learn at the time) freaked people out. He didn't believe in 'unholiness' or anything of the sort, but the neighbors did, and the situation embarrassed him. He talked about the incident the same way he talked about her hair, which she'd always worn long. He said it "makes you look effeminate". She was about nine years old.

Whenever he yelled at Rowan for something he made sure to emphasize the fact that he didn't have a problem with it. He wasn't yelling because magic bothered him, he wasn't yelling because my hair bothered him, he wasn't yelling because being gay bothered him. No, being a sissy faggot who cast hexes on the local children wasn't a thing that bothered him, but, you see, the neighbors complained to him about it, and that was embarrassing. He hated being embarrassed.

As it turned out, she could actually cast spells, mostly trivial legerdemain, tricks of light at first and more with time. She read lots and learned fast, She felt that it was important to understand herself. She spent her teenage years learning more and more about witches and sorcerers and mages and enchanters and every other word that attempted to classify the ways that people like her defied classification. On social media she saw posts talking about how cool it must be to be able to fold laundry telepathically next to politicians warning about the dangers that magic users posed to the airline safety, they looked just like each other.

Who the fuck cared if she could smuggle drugs onto a plane with magic, the TSA couldn't even catch mundane attempts to conceal knives, seemed to her that they had other things to prioritize. Rowan kept those thoughts to herself thought, getting into fights about it online seemed… very stupid, to her. She knew after all that the claims of being 'safety conscious' were just lies. And all of the people who seemed to miss that just made her more tired, more angry.

The scent of gasoline reminds her of high school, waiting for the bus in early January where her breath clouded in the cold. At that point it was a open secret that something was wrong with her. The seat beneath her rattles heavily as the engine comes on in the rear, she leans her head against the window and tries to think about the last time she was on a bus like this. High school feels so far away now.

Not all the kids at school instantly hated her, but one by one indifferent ones joined the rest. Whether it was due to group pressure or influence from their parents, by the end of her freshman year everyone in the class had been taught to avoid her. She learned lessons fast, and the first year taught her that the other kids weren't her friends, and to keep getting good grades. She kept her head down, turned in her papers and picked the right answers on the tests. The few people who would talk to her asked her how it was so easy for her. She did' have a good answer for them, sure she never really studied and still got good grades but that didn't mean it was ever easy.

About a year and a half in her parents suddenly started asked how school was going, if she got bullied, how her grades were, if she was enjoying class. By that point she had already learned that talking to them about her problems didn't help, so she lied. No mom I'm not getting bullied, yes dad classes are going well. Even when her grades started to slip a little bit, she kept going. At the time she felt lucky that her parents never checked her report cards, so she hid the faltering grades and the bruises and the harassment from her parents.

She wished there was more to say about it, more weight to the high points, more depth to the lows, most of it meant very little. There was one thing that stood out to her though. In her senior year a club for demihuman kids. She…. never went, too much time reading arguments about ‘whether or not casters were actually demihuman' had left her too scared to go a club until college. But it meant something to her. For a little while she had felt like things were going to be different.

The bus jumps the curb its way out of the parking lot, her stomach lurches as she grabs onto the seat in front of her with both hands, cuff chains clinking. She wishes she could be so hopeful now.

[dark-pattern-witch]

awawawawawawa

*sound of charging handle being pulled*

awawawawawa!

*bang, bang bang*

awawawawawa....

*bang.... bang....*

AWAWAWAWAWAWAWAWAWAAAA

*BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG Click*

awawawa?

*click*

awawawa! ;_;

*sobbing noises*

[dark-pattern-witch]

[dark-pattern-witch]

heh

[dark-pattern-witch]

[dark-pattern-witch]

hehehehehe

[dark-pattern-witch]

[dark-pattern-witch]

RESETTLEMENT BEGINS AS CRADLE ACT ENFORCEMENT DEADLINE LOOMS

"She's complaining of nausea," Val said, speaking for me to the nurse, who was as far as I could tell human.

I groaned in weak agreement.

Val had found Cord's phone number on my upper arm in permanent marker, determined that it was an emergency contact, and made the call for me while I was unconscious. I would later hear from Cord that Val could have delivered the news—that I'd nearly been killed by fascists and was at St. Clotilde's Hospital unlikely to leave any time soon—a bit more gently. I would, of course, apologize.

I was given something for the nausea.

I'd cried for what must have been an hour when I'd been told the assault had left me with a traumatic brain injury—childish of me, I know, but the thought of years, with no knowable end date, of stabbing nausea, motor and speech trouble, sleep disregulation, and possible seizures didn't seem very fair.

"Val?" I asked, after I could cry no more.

It turned from its resting position to look at me, expression subtle in its barely-moving ceramic plates, yet unmistakably gentle.

"How come you're still here?" I wiped my face with a weak arm.

It hadn't left my side for even a moment since I'd been brought in, nearly two days ago at this point. There were two chairs in this room next to the bed. Val had been sitting in one, motionless and eyes on nothing, and its rifle had been resting in the other, loaded.

"It's ...between duties," Val answered evasively.

I nodded.

"I gotta piss," I mumbled.

"You mention because you want to walk down the hall to do it?"

I nodded.

"You don't have to g—" it tried to point out.

"I know," I interrupted, not wanting to think about it.

Val nodded, stood, and shouldered its rifle.

It let me rest most of my weight on it as it walked me to the toilet, and then back. I slept again.

I woke thirsty, and it pulled someone aside from the constant flow of bodies in the hallway, and hissed something at them, too quiet for me to hear. But I was brought something that wasn't water to drink, and something that wasn't food to eat, and a few unlabeled bottles containing what I recognized as my usual medications.

"How did you...?"

"It asked your emergency contact while you were asleep," Val said.

"Why are the bottles unlabeled?"

"Sticker paper shortage."

I blinked at that.

"The current legal situation affects supplies," it said, and turned its head to draw both of our eyes to its black rifle on the chair beside it.

We shared the silence for a moment. The television in the corner of the ceiling was powered off. Neither Val nor I needed a media talking head to explain the situation to us. In fifteen states we couldn't marry, in thirty-one we couldn't work for the government. We couldn't enlist, in many cities couldn't sign leases or work with children, couldn't enter or leave the country. We didn't get trials or birth certificates.

We knew.

A single tearless, angry sob escaped me.

"Would you like it to put its service weapon out of sight?"

I shook my head and forced myself to look down at my hands. I'd been trying to outrun the situation for years, to build a little life despite it, a life with room for Cord, when she graduated, and room for friends and going to stupid little concerts, and...

I found myself looking at the gun again without realizing it.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean my life, my girlfriend, all of it," I gestured weakly. "I almost got killed, and now I'm gonna have nausea for God knows how many years, and I'm missing class, and—"

"You care about missing class while they're putting us in camps?" Val tilted its head slightly.

"What the fuck better time to care about it, frankly?" I snapped, then immediately regretted raising my voice as pain shot through me.

It watched me calmly.

"Wouldn't want the life they want to take from me so bad to be empty," I said quietly, and managed a smile.

It nodded. "This is its life." It didn't sound any particular way about it.

I looked back and forth between Val and the black rifle. "How long has that gun been in arm's reach?"

"It gets a new service weapon once in a while," it said smugly.

"Well, how long—"

"Its first was the Springfield Model 1816."

"The what?"

"A musket." The amusement in its voice grew with every word.

"Oh." I paused, unsure how to put my next question politely. "You're an antiques enthusiast?"

"It is itself an antique," Val said, plates shifting ever-so-slightly into the biggest faint hint of a smile it could manage.

"Oh." I lay back in the bed, eyes on the ceiling. "Wow."

"Thank you," it answered brightly.

"What's that like?" I asked before realizing that was probably rude.

It didn't answer immediately, and, sucking air over my teeth in pain, I sat back up to look at it and prepared to apologize, but it gestured gently for me to lie back down.

A long moment passed. Then Val spoke slower than usual.

"It has... come to the realization that just as no defeat has ever marked the end of the struggle, so too no victory could ever bring an end to it." Its eyes were on nothing, its hands folded in its lap. "There will always be more to lose than one dreads and more to win than one dares hope, it thinks. As the last of its unit, it feels entitled to an opinion here and there."

Thinking of nothing else I could say, I mumbled "thanks."

"Ask anything you like."

"...are you sure?"

"It's sure."

"Did you get to meet John Brown?"

"No."

----

Previous chapters compiled at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61474369/

[dark-pattern-witch]

Heimerdinger Arcane Voice: Bi-gender I think you've done it!