#I really like the eyes on the black and white version ^^

[autistic-sidestep]

it's (basically still) wip wednesday and i actually haven't been working on any art pieces in a hot minute, HOWEVER i did start writing something on sunday inspired by @cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal with a fervor i can only describe as being possessed or something, so here's a lil excerpt of my revised version of the mortumstep reveal scene where i smash the two different paths together because i really like the intimacy of the lab reveal and the wound care in the alley <3

As things go, it could be worse.

The backseat of this car is a familiar place to you, though not in this body, at least—Juno fooled around with the doctor more than once here. This time, you're in your own body, in your most definitely ruined and blood-sodden clothes with a gunshot wound, with the woman who shot you to begin with. Dr. Mortum. The very same woman you—no, Juno—dated.

The windows aren’t fully blacked out, just tinted, so you can watch the blurry impression of the streets speed by as you shiver from the combination of adrenaline and air-con. In the rear-view mirror, her lips remain pressed into a thin line, her eyes still hidden by her tinted lenses. A small blessing. Neither of you need to make eye contact this way—something you both struggle with on the best of days. You suspect the self-driving function’s on, given how smooth the turns are, which is just as well. Between the scotch on an empty stomach and the numbers, she must be nursing a killer migraine right now. Ending up in a crash would certainly be the cherry on top of this nightmare.

Honestly, you're still more than a little mystified why you’re in here, instead of a cooling body slumped in an alleyway half a block out from La Cantina—hardly a fitting fate for Argos. Or why Mortum bothered to give you the medgel. Or why she’s driving you back to the lab to (allegedly) see to your wound at all. The patties are just first aid; a stopgap measure to make sure you don’t bleed out before then. But not dead.

Yet.

You might have been saved from one ignominious end, but Mortum’s seen the tattoos. You saw the recognition in her eyes when she cut through your clothes to assess the damage. She’s not stupid. Far from it. You might’ve seen her softer side in Ace’s body, but she was a villain. These things stick. You can’t be sure she wouldn’t sell you out as revenge for toying with her, send you right back to their clutches—but if she would, why do all this? Maybe she’s going to conduct her own research on you? She’s a scientist, after all. You know her type.

But you trusted her with why you needed Juno at the gala. To keep Juno safe when you slipped into this body.

In the end, maybe it’s just that. Trust. Trust that maybe some of your connection still remained after you ruined the lie. Trusted her even after she shot you. Trusted her clever hands, knuckles taut on the wheel and free of blood now—your blood—placed over yours to staunch the flow, allowed her to cut through your layers to bare your skin, ruin her manicure to inspect the entrance wound, traced over the slick orange tattoo—almost the same shade as her suit, in fact—running parallel with your clavicle with her fingertips. Warm. Soft, with intermittent pockmarks; little splotches of acid and solder burns, things you’d committed to memory when she undressed Juno that first night, and all the times since, another betrayal you couldn’t bring yourself to stop because you both liked this too much. Too addicted to how she let you feel.

Human.

She could still have second thoughts and dump your body in the harbor. Wipe her hands of you forever. It’s in the same direction as the lab. You wouldn’t blame her. You know what you are. And now Mortum knows too.

A liar. A cheat. A fake.

A Re-Gene.

“Sorry for getting blood on the upholstery,” you mumble, breaking the ten minute silence since she first hauled you in. You spare a glance at the blood-specked cuffs of her orange suit. At least she didn’t wear one of the white coats today. “And you.” Sorry for cat-fishing and sleeping with you as someone who’s not real, even if I feel like Juno’s more real than I am. Sorry I let this get too far instead of stopping it. Sorry for breaking your heart. “It’s a pain in the ass to get out.” You’d know.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Probably the first you’ve had a Re-Gene in here, though, right?” you joke, the words are thin and pained, for lack of anything better to say, your breath shallow from the initial blood loss and the resulting delirium, because you've lost your usual filter, running on blind terror and adrenaline keeping you from fainting right now, and because the quiet between you both is becoming unbearable. You’re not Juno right now. You don’t have the armor of her charm and likability to protect you. Trying to summon any of Argos’ bravado at the moment feels impossible. It’s just you. Wildly out of your depth.

“Vous avez raison, Fernando.” It sounds so strange in her mouth. No title to stumble over this time, French being as gendered as it is, and your gender being… well. You should probably be more worried about how she learned the full name, though honestly, the pain is making it hard to think. “I promise, your secret’s safe with me.”

The way she presses the point makes you believe it. At least for now. All you have is her word, and nothing else, because you can’t see anything into her head, and right now you’re at her mercy.

A long silence follows.

“Pourquoi fais-tu cela, Doctor? Why are you doing this?”