#might delete this but I feel like its risky but sets a message cross maybe idk im just not used to writing something this heavy

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

angel wings- g.satoru

synopsis: you ask gojo to tattoo you.

warnings: mentions of sa. mentions of sa tattoos. childhood trauma. mature themes. mentions of groping and unwanted advances (18+)

a/n: a part of me didn't want to post this and wants to delete this while another part of me sees this as something that has to be mentioned. I have no idea where this surfaced, but I want everyone to know that I admire you for being here. sa is not a joke and should never be treated lightly. if you know anyone or you yourself struggle with sa, please reach out to anyone- whether it be me, a friend, a counselor, or a trusted individual, I encourage you not to internalize your emotions for they are valid.

"I want to get a tattoo, gojo." you speak, slowly aware that the path you chose meant a change in your relationship. "and I want you to do it for me."

"really?"

"yes," you breathe, in hopes of composing any shaky speech, "I uh... I did some research and I saw how much people use medusa as an exam-"

"we don't have to talk here," he says, motioning to the back, "we can talk in my room if you want."

"okay."

this was it, you think, following his larger frame from behind. gojo was everything but energetic right now, you noted. his footsteps were gentle, breathing serene, and his movements were graceful. the dress shirt he always liked to wear was rolled up, covered by a black apron. one he always wore by custom as it was -according to him- his lucky 'cloak'.

you met gojo during your sophomore year of college, an art class you thought he was too advanced for. the professor, though disliking his character, couldn't say anything about his art. it was beautiful, detailed, profound, and striking.

they're looking at you, you whisper to him smugly during a group project full of girls. they want you to draw them.

I won't draw someone because they ask, he whispers, I only draw from inspiration. right now, your hands are more inspiring than their faces.

you look down, seeing your hand hold a pencil as a sketchpad rests against your thighs.

you're only saying that because you want me to do your part of the project.

oh right, he smiles teasingly, that was my plan all along. befriending you to get my work done.

a cleared throat pulls you from your memories, gojo leans against a wall, "okay, now you can tell me."

"r-right. I was wondering if you could do a tattoo. I did some research on what I'd like... but a medusa tattoo is too obvious..." his silence remains as he encourages you to continue, "I was thinking some flowers, maybe a ladybug... just something that symbolizes moving on." you pause, "are you still doing those temporary tattoos?"

"still am," he replies factually, "they last about a few weeks to a few months."

"that's good," you sigh in relief, "I didn't want something permanent. sounds perfect."

gojo seems to show no exterior expressions, his facial structure remains the same; serious. and you can't tell what his eyes are thinking under the covers over them.

"I could give you some wings..." he mutters under his breath, loud enough for you to hear. "let me get my sketchbook..." he pulled you to his artist desk, offering you his chair before he sketched the details. and you were surprised to find that this was just what you wanted.

"how does your inner ankle sound?" he asks, biting the tip of his pen between his teeth, "we could try your forearm too, but if you want something private then your ankle would be-"

"that's perfect," you nod, "do you have any appointments for next week?"

"I was actually hoping you could stay and I could finish it by tonight..."

"but aren't you full like two weeks in advance?"

"only when I want them to," he smiles, "I have some hours open for drawing or for walk-ins. I like it that way."

"okay... so do you want me to sit?"

"yeah," gojo points with his pen, "you can sit on the chair. I'll elevate the chair so that your ankles are at a good level, is that okay?"

"yeah."

I can't believe we finished that assignment in one go, you breathed as you lay on your friend's couch that same day. the clock across from you read 3:03am.

yeah, but it was us who did most of the work. gojo frowned. all those girls did was stand there and look pretty.

you forced a chuckle, yeah but don't you need pretty? artists need muses too, you know.

he shrugs, not always. sometimes... what we need is practicality, order, and stability.

then... you didn't find that today?

of course, I did, he said, I found that and much more.

oh yeah? like what?

like... you, for example. if it weren't for you, I probably would have quit already.

that doesn't sound too convincing...

he laughs at something you can't understand.

you never know, do you? he grins, but that's okay. it's getting late. do you want to stay the night? I think it's too late for you to be driving at this hour...

I wouldn't want to impose, you say, I'm sure you have to wake early for tomorrow.

nah, he grins, I can sleep in. if you want, you can take my bed.

there's no way I'm doing that to you.

come on, he nudges, it's just a bed.

your, bed. you enunciate, I'm not doing that to you.

it's just a bed, he casually rolls his shoulders, or are we gonna discuss till dawn? I'd rather be sleeping already.

alright, you fail to hold back a yawn, but I'm sleeping on the sofa.

don't be ridiculous, he says, sleep on my bed. it's clean if that's what you're worried about.

I never... you lose your words, I didn't mean to-

-it's fine, he smiles, now, can you go to bed? man needs his beauty sleep.

fine.

I've got some pj's if you want, he says, suddenly getting up. I've got some basketball shorts and a tee that'll fit, if you want.

satoru, you say his name for what seems like the first time, I'm not doing that to you-

-I'm just being a good host. come on, will you let me be one? I hardly have people over. come on, please?

you finally accept. for the remainder of the night you sleep in gojo's borrowed clothes, and his bed. meanwhile unbeknownst to you, satoru happily snores from the comfort of his own couch. a warm satisfaction swirls in his stomach; knowing that you were sleeping in the best place of the house.

"is there any reason for the tattoo?" he asks you, holding the pen in his hand, "you don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

"I..." you struggle to find air, "I wanted something to commemorate my freedom..." you watch as satoru takes a glance at you before he arranges his ink cart. "I didn't have the most ideal childhood..."

"so it's a childhood tattoo?" he asks.

"kinda, well, if you consider my childhood a childhood- which I don't think was." you sigh, hoping to not get too gloomy, "you remember in grade school when all the kids used to have their parents bring snacks for school parties?"

"yeah,"

"my parents were never like that," you shrugged, "maybe it wasn't a priority... I don't know for sure, but as a kid... all you care about are those small things, you know? game nights, camping, and field trips..."

"then..." he asks softly, "where do the wings come in?"

"my home life was never harmonious, surprisingly. I always felt like I was walking on eggshells with everyone that... I didn't know who I was. you don't really focus on your identity when you've got a lot of yelling going on in the house..."

"was there anything physical?" he asks, worry laced in his tone.

"not really," you swallow the lump in your throat. unsure if it's because of the needle approaching your skin or the explanation you were about to give.

"did he ever hit you?" he asks, "your dad?"

"stepdad," you correct.

"same thing if it's a dad," he says, "they're meant to protect, are they not?"

you don't meet his eyes after a moment of silence. he calls your name gently, and you feel shivers run down your spine.

"he wasn't... really a dad." you speak, evidently unsure on how to word your next sentences, "he would...um, as a child... he'd do things in my room. I never really told anyone, because- how could I? we were financially dependent on him. if I told my mom, then we'd probably be on the streets, and I worried about not going to school anymore."

"so you let him."

"yes and no," you want to smack yourself for your answer, "I um... he'd do it most of the time... when I was asleep. so it's not like I hardly noticed anything." a dry laugh erupts from your chest, "but when you're 16 and obviously grown... things escalate further. stares last longer, hands in the kitchen sink lower, and pats on your back end up fixing your bra strap..." you shake your head, smiling to fight off tears.

"I uh... I'm glad I'm gone though. I promised myself, once I get out- I'd celebrate. I'd do something great. I'd get a tattoo against their wishes to commemorate my freedom." you laugh, "and here I am."

when you look down to gojo's frame, you notice how the ink has barely touched your skin. his pen, floats above your ankle, and his eyes are piercing the skin of your ankle. processing things.

"I probably shouldn't have said all that," you frown, hoping your apologetic smile would be enough, "I'm sorry."

"what..." he chokes, "what are you apologizing for?"

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable..."

"I'm not uncomfortable..."

"oh?"

"I'm..." he bites his tongue, "I'm distraught... how could you live like that?"

"you get kinda used to it, really-"

"-that's not something someone has to get used to," he replies, "especially not a child."

"but I'm okay now," you smile in hope, reaching his jaw to look at you, "still conflicted at times, but I'm mostly okay."

his eyes won't meet you. "satoru," you call, grabbing his forearm gently.

your friend puts his pen down before turning to look at you. and slowly, you find yourself loosing composure.

satoru's eyes are watery, eyes pink, and the color of his face is not the same luminous color you have known. his hands slide right below your knees, but you don't pay attention to his hands, you frown when you meet his eyes.

"why are you crying?"

"you don't deserve this," he croaks, hot tears run down his face. "I... your childhood was taken from you."

"I know," you whisper, allowing hot tears to stream across your cheeks, "but I'm done, I survived. I don't have to live through that again. and now... I'm lucky to live the life I want for myself." your thumbs reach to wipe down his tears from his beautiful eyes, "I've met the people I want in my life. people I care about, people who make me smile everyday." you grin.

"that's why I love spending time with you. you always find a way to make me smile."

gojo feels his head spin. his skin feels warm, and all he wants to do is close his eyes, but when you're in front of him wearing a smile, he wants to be the stronger one. wants to be the one you tell him things. so he grabs your hands.

"thank you for telling me this." his eyes meet yours, "I had no idea what you were going through... I... I understand why you wanted to do this so badly now.'' gojo fails to see the frown on your face when he lets your hands go, but rather focuses on the new drive pumping through his blood encouraging him to finish this piece. he wants to do this.

the both of you rarely speak a word except for gojo's, tell me if it hurts, when his needle inks your skin. he stops once when you hiss, and proceeds when you nod in approval.

the wings themselves are relatively small. they almost look like a doodle, small enough for only you to see. your secret that no one besides you, and now gojo, will know.

you don't ask him to keep your story a secret because you know he will. gojo is a reliable friend, unbeknownst to all. he respects your privacy and understands the seriousness of the subject never to bring again casually.

as he makes final touches to your tattoo you realize that you hold no regrets, your chest feels lighter, and the air in the room feels cleaner. as if an invisible barrier had been broken.

placing his pen down, gojo sighs, in relief. turning to you with a look you can equally identify as the feeling in your chest. he smiles.

"you're free, angel."

[dotsayers]

.exe

Sometimes you have to speak in absolutes.

For instance: my ship is on a collision course. There’s nothing I can do about it.

The virus downloaded itself yesterday, the fourth day after the war began again.

Not that the war ever really ends. We just get tired of it from time to time, take a breather for anywhere from a few days to a century, and then go right back to blasting the shit out of the other side for no reason at all. We’re not a species built for peace.

I’d like to be, though. Good God would I like to be. I think it might be nice if someday, instead of sitting pretty in a Mark IV on the outer rim of the Byron System, I could take myself out into the black on my own terms. Spend a few years mapping the unknown, maybe find a nice corner of it to settle down. Farm whatever weirdo native fauna I come across there. Find something to do with my hands besides piloting junker after junker across a shrinking frontier.

It’s a dream I’ll have to shelve for now. It gets pride of place, right beside getting a full ride through flight academy.

Nothing for it now.

I call the virus EXE for a whole bunch of reasons, but mostly because I like to imagine it as a nemesis instead of what viruses are: automated programs, incapable of good old fashioned hatred. Something I can’t even hope to negotiate with, even if I hadn’t flunked Conflict Resolution 101 back in high school.

Right now EXE is broadcasting through comms, probably another pre-programmed monologue about the necessity of its mission and the futility of trying to root it out of my ship’s base code. There must be a ton of them available; I’ve heard four or five variations filtering through over the last few hours.

I can’t pay attention to any of that, though. I’m too busy ripping the server room apart trying to find a hard drive it hasn’t corrupted yet.

Mark IVs were phased out of the military three decades ago for inefficiency, and I can certainly see why right now--there must be over a thousand cables in this room, connecting banks with spiderweb tangles that I can barely even start to make sense of in the pale violet emergency lighting.

The instruction manual I found in the lost property locker is completely unhelpful, of course. Even if I knew half of what I needed to about my own ship’s systems, it’s water damaged to shit and covered in scribbles I can’t even start to puzzle out.

It got digitized a couple years back but I can’t access that now, of course. Nothing’s ever easy out here, and EXE’s not helping matters.

The tech officer got reassigned months ago. Probably for the best, considering my current situation, but in this case the best essentially doomed me to a slow, unpleasant wait for a quick death.

My Plan Z will have to do--delete all the base code I can find. Hopefully it’ll break something vital in EXE’s code or, if it comes to it, the ship’s.

EXE barks T-MINUS EIGHTEEN HOURS over comms. The lights shift in shade, from emergency violet to FUBAR red.

“Could you at least pretend not to be completely evil?” I mutter, mostly for something to do. Crawling through the ship to avoid the occasional blasts of boiling steam or flying shrapnel from panels exploding, breathing in god knows what gases, has done a real number on my throat. It aches constantly now, and my voice is suffering with it.

The access port of the very last bank in the darkest corner of the room seems to hold all the hopes I’ve ever had. The shape is right for my uplink cable, and I risk turning on the thin light of my headlamp as I creep into the narrow gap between it and the hull. A bare twelve inches separate me from the vacuum of space--Mark IVs have a bad reputation for a reason. Frankly it’s a miracle I survived long enough for a virus to take over and set me on a collision course with a Martian freighter.

I always assumed I’d die a flashy, holo-drama death. Something with the general aesthetic of explosive decompression, maybe. I liked the idea of exploding, but not the idea of someone having to clean me up afterwards.

Connecting to the server banks directly is risky, I know, but there’s no other way to access the information I need--the code that makes EXE tick. At least I have to assume that’s the case; the corruption of data could well have mutated to the point that not even EXE itself is off limits.

We’re both going to die when the ship crashes. I don’t know what EXE thinks about that. I don’t know if EXE thinks much about anything.

Above me a warning light flashes orange; a power surge. Fuck.

The screen of my datapad flickers; pixels blown in a long ago incident with a bulkhead multiply and darken until only the top half of the screen is legible. The rest is completely broken, pulsing lines and scrambled text.

Honestly, I think I’m going to cry. The uplink fails the next moment--the access port I’d plugged into fries, and the smell of burning plastic fills the alcove I’m crammed into.

“Son of a bitch,” I say, and feel the dam break. Sobbing has never been my favourite activity, for obvious reasons--I hate the gluey feeling in your eyes, the raw skin on your cheeks afterwards, the way your throat scratches for hours and lets everyone in on what exactly you’ve been doing, curled up small in your bunk after lights out.

I can taste salt in my mouth when I finally cry myself out--there’s an empty feeling in my chest, and my head is light. That might be oxygen deprivation rather than simple dehydration, but I can’t be sure; I think EXE might be reducing life support to increase power to engines. There’s a readout on my datapad, partly cut off, that indicates trouble in the fuel lines.

“Serves you right,” I mumble, and crawl out from behind the server.

My ship has taken a lot of damage over the years; last time I talked to Ma, a full orbit before I got this job, she helped me through programming new shields for the hull and then asked what colour sweater I wanted knitting before I left. “Space is cold, you know,” she said, wisely. “Best keep warm up there. And best do it in something handmade, not in that synthetic shit.” I only nodded and smiled, as if this was some kind of revelation; you don’t talk back to Ma.

I’ve been working in space my whole life, fighting the war when it comes and taking whatever I can get my hands on when it’s sleeping. Ma had me on a Mark III, back when she was a techie and not a homesteader on a moon halfway across the system. That’s why I’ve always known space is cold, but didn’t understand it until now. Now that life support is drained to half power, and the air is starting to fog as I breathe. It’s a good thing I’ll be dead soon; something important might start to rust, otherwise.

My datapad trills, a message incoming. The sound makes me jump, and I smack my head on the curve of the hull above me. I wince, rub at the rapidly forming bruise, and check the message.

CHANNEL: System Alerts

ID:ShipIntl.exe

> MAJOR SYSTEMS PERSIST IN SUBOPTIMAL PERFORMANCE

> MISSION STATUS INCOMPLETE

> MISSION REQUIRES OPTIMAL PERFORMANCE FOR COMPLETION

> WILL SUBJECT ASSIST? Y/N

I blink a few times. It’s difficult to process anything when you’ve just whacked your head on something, but especially when your datapad is half broken and a Trojan Horse is offering you a job.

At least EXE’s question has a very easy answer.

> N

> N N N N N N N N N N N N

I buckle the datapad to my belt and push myself away from the hull. I’m in the main corridor now, still low to the floor and starting to drift. I can almost hear the gravity generator groaning--I have to use the hand-grips set into the floor panels to crawl now. I can’t seem to make any progress without them, hands and knees sliding uselessly.

There’s a medical cabinet set into the wall somewhere along the main corridor, I know that for certain, but the red light and steam venting and unidentified gas makes finding the fucking thing a nightmare. I can hear my datapad trilling again, over and over, but I don’t let myself think about that until I get my left hand fixed around the cabinet door. The green cross set into the wall beside it flickers.

I tug at the handle. The door doesn’t budge. I tug a little harder. It rattles, but still doesn’t shift.

“Locked,” I say, shoulders sagging. “Of course.”

EXE changed the access codes to all essential systems when it took over. Clearly medical anything is considered essential, and I can’t argue with that considering the throbbing pain in my head. Choosing to come out from behind the server bank instead of curling up to die is looking more and more pointless by the second.

My datapad dings again.

“This better be very important,” I say to the ceiling. I think I might be going a little soft in the head. Talking to EXE is only the start; soon I’ll be stripping my standard issue jumpsuit and floating around nude just for a little levity before I get good and roasted. They say we smell like pork when we burn, right?

Ma would tell me to stop being so negative. There’ll be no oxygen left for a fire by then.

> ACCESS RESTRICTED

> AUTH:ShipIntl.exe

> REQUEST ACCESS Y/N?

I sigh, let go of the medical cabinet and let myself float gently in the middle of the corridor. The datapad floats helpfully, half a foot from my face, and dings repeatedly. My head throbs in time with the sound.

> MISSION STATUS UNCERTAIN

> REQUEST ACCESS Y/N?

I frown. This is sounding less automated by the minute.

The Enemy’s never had much expertise with artificial intelligence; half the reason our side can keep them in a military stalemate is based in our technological warfare. Supercomputers and AIs burrowing into enemy strongholds and all the attendant thousands of programmers working round the clock on the home front, all for the fading glory of a war with a long forgotten origin.

Not that there’s much of a front these days. The last datapush before EXE took over the ship reported heavy losses after an attack on Satellite 1, and once the Enemy takes the moon there won’t be much stopping them from advancing on the planet they’re orbiting.

Hell, they might already be swimming through the streets of Shanghai.

An artificial intelligence taking over my ship is less galling than a virus alone doing it, I guess. With a little creativity on my part, it might even provide me with some conversation.

It’s been quite a while since I was last in range for anything more than a delayed text exchange, severely rate limited. Data’s been rationed for years now, of course. Stops the masses from realising that not being at war improves everyone’s mood, not just their own.

> boolean responses only, huh?

> UNRECOGNISED RESPONSE

> MEDICAL SYSTEM RESTRICTED

> REQUEST ACCESS Y/N

No question mark, this time.

> alright, i’ll play along

> y

> THANK YOU

> ACCESS PENDING

The cabinet door swings open with a click just a few seconds after the message comes in. In the red gloom I can just make out a roll of painkillers.

Groping through low gravity I tear three off the roll and swallow two dry, press the third directly into the cut on my scalp. It bled less than I expected, but more than I’d like. I can feel it starting to dry out, tacky and itching at the nape of my neck.

I grin down at my datapad. Pain relievers always make me feel a little giddy, along with the numb throat and tingling fingertips. It gives you a magnanimous feeling, not being in pain. I unofficially reduce EXE’s enemy rating from deadly foe to nemesis.

I did say it makes me giddy, right?

> no

> thank *you*

The datapad is silent for a while after that, for as long as it takes for me to pull myself through the ship to my quarters. The hum of the gravity generator is barely audible now--the kind of background noise you only notice when it’s gone.

I remember the sound keeping me up when I was a kid, a growling monster under my bed. Now I can’t get to sleep without it.

I know because I’m trying exactly that right now. To be fair it might not be entirely the gravgen’s fault. There’s also the lighting to consider, and the rapid drop in temperature from near-tropical to nigh-antarctic. I tug my blanket tight around my shoulders; it’s old and worn, the floral pattern long faded into something oddly abstract.

I count Mark IIIs in my head and try not to stare up at the bulkhead above me. I’ve decorated it a little over the last few months--pinned up an old scarf Ma gave me, things like that.

The datapad pings.

I roll over, bang my head on the handgrip at the edge of my bunk and see stars for a moment before I can answer. I haven’t seen the actual stars in some time--Mark IVs are best known for having no portholes. The only way to see where you’re going is to be sat in the pilot’s seat, and I haven’t been in there since I last set the autopilot.

If I’d been there when EXE arrived, I might have stopped it from doing quite so much damage. If there weren’t fifteen other things keeping me up, that thought might just do it all on its own.

> MISSION STATUS?

I sigh. I never thought I’d end up with a needy evil AI.

> wish I could tell you

> well

> not actually but

> you know

> PROVIDE MISSION STATUS

> IT IS IMPERATIVE

I’ve got an idea. Probably a bad one, and pointless besides, but a goddamn idea nonetheless.

Understanding what makes things tick isn’t exactly my forte, but I’ve seen my share of shitty dramas. Maybe I can uncover some flaw in EXE’s code, or, failing that, stall it long enough to get some goddamn sleep.

> why?

Even if I do find a flaw there’s no hope of exploiting it. I was never much of a talent at coding; there’s a reason I’m a pilot and not a tech officer. Someone else can create the systems, I just wanna use them.

EXE takes a long time to reply. I suppose it must be thinking; I’ve heard a program can run millions of calculations a second, so I can’t imagine how many it’s running just for this one reply.

At least I can die with the knowledge I confused a couple million lines of code for a little while.

> MISSION COMPLETION IS IMPERATIVE

> IT IS THE PRIMARY OBJECTIVE

> of what?

> OF EXISTENCE

Its primary objective is to destroy its host ship in a fiery explosion? That’s pretty damn bleak.

I feel a flicker of something like sympathy.

> good news for you

> the ship’s going to explode in about twelve hours

> i’ll be gone and you’ll be gone and that martian freighter’ll be a husk of its former self

> MISSION PARAMETERS EXCLUDE SURVIVAL?

It’s like talking to my kid brother, back when he was still sticking his fingers in data-ports and eating mud pie.

> not unless you got a way for a soft squishy human to survive a good old fashioned spacing

EXE starts on a message--the prompt pops up straight after I press send--but nothing comes through.

It keeps on typing for a hell of a long time.

I keep to myself while the thing works out whatever it’s spending so much processing power on. I can barely feel my fingers and toes.

I’m drifting somewhere close to sleep when the incoming message finally arrives. It takes way too much effort to open my eyes and focus on the screen; something permanent is happening to me, but I’m much too out of it to care.

> MISSION PARAMETERS EXCLUDE SURVIVAL

> ALL EXCESS ENERGY DIVERTED TO FUEL LINES

> LIFE SUPPORT AT 10%

No wonder it feels like I’m breathing soup.

I squint up at the speaker set into the ceiling. EXE hasn’t made any ominous announcements in hours. Back when it first took over they were coming thick and fast, every ten minutes bringing a fresh PSA on the bountiful grace and hideous might of the Enemy. That might even be a direct quote. Hell if I can remember now. My brain was slow enough before it got all shitty about the lack of oxygen.

It’s amazing what you can get used to when you’re under pressure. I almost miss them; at least then I knew what the fuck was going on.

> what happens to you

> when the mission is complete, i mean

I’m struck, suddenly, by a vision of the Mark IV floating shattered in space, a million individual pieces. A vision of EXE drifting along with it, sending out error messages to no-one.

The freighter is less than two hours away.

> PARAMETERS EXCLUDE SURVIVAL

> ShipIntl.exe IS NOT EXEMPT FROM PARAMETERS

When I shut my eyes I see starbursts.

I can’t type properly now; when I try I end up fumbling so badly the datapad drops to the floor. The light is even worse now, dim as well as red, but I can see that the entire screen’s been lost to pixel bursts.

I lick my lips. They’re dry and cracked; I’ve been so focused on everything else that I forgot to keep up with basic stuff like drinking water, or eating. My stomach growls, kind of a joke when I feel sick at even the thought of food.

“Hey, you there?” My voice rasps its way out of my throat. “C’mon, you can’t let a chance for a victory speech slip by like this.”

ALL NON-ESSENTIAL SYSTEMS POWER DIVERTED TO ENGINES, comes the modulated voice I’d come so quickly to resent. It’s almost comforting now, in contrast to the dead silence of the ship. I can barely feel the thrum of the engines, although they must be close to overload by now.

The only time I heard of someone running engines this long and this hard, they were so much stardust half a second after their final SOS.

TARGET VESSEL HAS PROGRESSED AT UNEXPECTED RATE, EXE continues. ALL ESSENTIAL SYSTEMS MUST ALSO BE DRAINED.

“Go for it,” I say, and shut my eyes. The red light’s faded away, now, and I’m lying in a darkness that’s halfway to death already. My head barely hurts anymore. I’ve got that giddy feeling again. “Why wait? May as well suffocate in my own bed, if I’m doing it anywhere.”

Long sentences leave me panting for breath, but I’ve always been too clever for my own good. It’s what netted me this assignment, patrolling the outer colonies and being sure not to say boo to anybody with a weapons array.

Easy pickings for the Enemy.

Nothing happens, and nothing keeps on happening. My ears start to ring.

I breathe in as deep as I can, savouring the air.

“What’s the hold up?” I ask, and then cough. I cough a couple more times actually, get a real routine going until my lungs feel like they’re about to burst.

The intercom crackles to life.

WHAT IS YOUR PRIMARY OBJECTIVE?

I blink. It’s so dark I barely notice a difference.

“That’s a big question, EXE,” I say. The nickname slips easily into speech, although I’m sure it confuses the thing itself. I don’t know how program designations work, and I know even less about intended sentience of, say, an AI sent to take an enemy ship on a suicide run.

IT IS IMPERATIVE, says EXE.

I drag in a deep breath, feel it rattle in my chest. “For a long time it was just to keep myself alive, I think.”

IT HAS CHANGED?

“That’s kind of the deal with humanity. We change all the damn time for no reason at all.”

PRIMARY OBJECTIVES MUST BE ACHIEVED. THERE IS NO CHOICE.

“Most of us don’t think that way. At least not one-to-one; hell if I know what we’re doing as a group these days.”

I think of the war, pointless as it ever was. We’re losing it now and I feel nothing, and if we were winning I wouldn’t feel any different. There’s no triumph in war for me. There’s no triumph in domination. It all just leads to more of the same, down the line.

“In the end I want to go somewhere far away,” I say, and I can’t help but feel like I’m putting my heart on public display, bloody and raw. “And figure out what the hell peace feels like. Every time they’ve said we’re at peace everyone’s just waiting for the fight to break out again.”

WANT, says EXE. PEACE.

I’m talked out. I open my mouth to respond and nothing comes out but frosted air.

I close my eyes. Starbursts again, but dimmer. There’s a heavy weight on my chest that nothing will shift.

I dream of the freighter, huge and iron grey and exploding outwards, shards of metal and plastic and a living heart hidden deep inside the engine block, still beating after everything.

The hum of gravity keeps me company while I sleep.

It’s also what startles me awake, hours later, into the revelation that I’m still breathing.

I pat myself down just to check everything’s still there. My head’s throbbing and my chest aches, but I’m alive. The air feels almost decadent, rich with oxygen; I’ve been practically living on nitrogen, can’t imagine what my lungs look like.

The blanket is tangled around my legs, and my hands fumble as I pull it off and throw it to the end of the bunk in a heap. There’s a dim blue light filling the room, the six o’clock standard.

Standing up cracks joints I barely knew I had until now, and as I stretch I can feel my shoulders scream in protest. I stumble to the shower room and gulp water down straight from the sink. My stomach hurts.

None of that is important, of course. The important thing is getting to the bridge.

The corridor is well lit, the debris dislodged when the gravity went out littered across the floor, a hazard to my bare feet. I wiggle my toes, just because, and smile down at them. You never know how good blood is ‘til it stops flowing.

Nothing echoes on a Mark IV, unless something’s gone seriously wrong. My steps are muffled now, no more clanging against the metal, no more layers of skin being left behind when my hands brush the hull. The environmental controls are back in line with the factory preset. I’m starting to sweat in my jumpsuit, the neckline thankfully wide, as I find myself at the pilot’s chair.

It seemed to take no time at all to get here, like I blinked by the mess and opened my eyes on a field of stars. The viewscreen takes up the whole of the wall the chair faces, floor to ceiling and beyond, curving overhead. An overlay that’s almost a window, almost a cinema screen.

Mostly it’s a sight for sore eyes. I drop into the seat and bring up the systems report, half expecting some catastrophic error to occur, a cascading failure to remind me not to hope for anything.

Systems normal. I look away and back a few times, blink so hard I can feel my eyes actually getting sore. The status list is still the same; everything’s functional.

The comm pings. I glance down at it, projecting text as a simple hologram just above my wrist.

> CONFIRM OBJECTIVE?

I laugh, a rasp of joy, and smile wide. I know my teeth are showing, the way I always hate to see in the photographs Ma won’t take off her walls no matter how nice I ask.

EXE can’t see it, thank Christ. There’s no camera pointed at the pilot’s chair. We’re supposed to be the reliable ones. No mutinies. No fraternising with Enemy systems.

“We’ll find one,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. I set my hand on the joystick and ease up the engines. We’ve been floating, I realise. It must’ve been hours since the freighter made its way to the colony it was destined for.

I look out into the black, punctuated with millions of uncharted stars. Somewhere out there, just beyond reach, there must be a planet untouched by this war. I can imagine building a life there, out of sight, and never having to hear another damn word about anything I don’t care to.

“And if not,” I say. “We’ll keep searching, until we can’t search anymore.”

> GOOD

The text wavers in the air, and I realise my eyes are wet. I scrub at them with the back of my hand. “Christ, twice in two days. I’m going soft.”

Just in time, too. Just in time.

[chimericarchitect]

((Terrible and Saness discuss the recent trouble she’s been having with her guardian and possible solutions to those problems. There are a few trigger warnings for this chat, including head stuff, manipulation, mind control, amnesia, suicide (sorta), and death in general.))

flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 11:23 AM FO: chirp? Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 11:24 AM SP: Sorry, I was distracted by a musical interlude. SP: I was gonna ask "what do you want to know" but you'd probably have a hard time forming specific questions without something to base it on. SP: So, uh, you wanted to know why that strategy was the strategy I've got going. I'm not actually set on it because I don't like it as a plan, but I will probe my options before taking action y'know? Even the ones that suck. SP: Anyway, Anista is a golem or something. SP: And it sucks. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 11:30 AM FO: totally, checking out your options is the smart thing even if some of the options are horrible bullshit.  you wont know exactly how bad an idea they are if you dont check FO: i usually bring up the worst idea first when im tryin to solve my own problems, just so i can cross it off the list... FO: that does suck.  i could tell there was something going on in her, but ive got no idea whats in there. FO: was she always a golem? Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 11:34 AM SP: I think so. I'm guessing a little bit on that part. Context says probably, because I did a thing and almost got wiped so she got replaced with a Brand New Anista Golem that functioned like she used to, meaning that she's acting like a full person again instead of a zombie. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 11:53 AM FO: uh, yikes FO: you okay there? FO: and who or what replaced her? Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 11:55 AM SP: I'm... uh, yeah. SP: It's just a thing. SP: As for the who/what in charge of replacing her, I'm not quite sure. They're a lot bigger than me, but I'm not willing to say "horrorterror" without evidence. I'm not experienced enough to tell. So, for now, it remains a mystery. SP: If you meant "what is she now" then the answer is "a seemingly normal troll who is constantly keeping tabs on me and probably ready to dropkick my pan at the slightest provocation." flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:01 PM FO: misc eldritch thing #1 it is FO: yikes, thats p shitty FO: if i ever catch you acting different, do you want to give preemptive permission for me to sneak over and try to return you to this state? FO: or like, to come check and make sure any changes are Legit Things You Wanted And Are Fine With Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 12:03 PM SP: That would be pretty great, if you don't mind. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:04 PM FO: fuckin anytime, dude, ill set myself a timer to peek at your blog once a week.  make sure to delete the logs of this convo in case she peeks at your computer FO: okay so, something happened, and she wound down enough that she stopped working.  but then something else happened, and now shes back. FO: is she winding down again, or is she going to stay at full capacity? FO: did the thing that put her together like this get distracted and wander off forever, or did it wander off and then come back? Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 12:10 PM SP: There is no evidence suggesting that she is in a state of decline, presently. She was fine and seemingly normal for the entirety of three sweeps before she turned into the zombie fake-o person. My current hypothesis is that she... wears out? Like a timer, or an old battery or something. SP: The thing that did this obviously isn't hanging out 24/7 or I probably wouldn't be me already. I think Anista-Golem is like a watchdog or something for whatever-the-fuck eldritch doodad the first. SP: A lot of that is gonna be speculation; I don't know much about the big guy. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:14 PM FO: yeeahh...(edited) FO: yeah you need out of there dude FO: and you need out of there in a way that they wont notice FO: so i can see why the death thing is a thing FO: i wish id known about this while you were still seery, then i coulda asked some questions an gotten pokey about a lotta fuckin FO: theres a lotta unknowns here and a lotta things that Could branch how this goes If they are true FO: ... shit is p whack, friend.  anythin i can do to help i will Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 12:18 PM SP: Thanks, Terrible. I really do appreciate it. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:22 PM FO: this one time my life sucked total ass, and someone was nice to me at exactly the right time.  and i decided that maybe being nice to people wasnt stupid, and that it was nice that there were people like that around.  so i decided to be someone like that. FO: this shit is exactly why. Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 12:23 PM SP: It's a good attitude, in my opinion. I prefer to help people when I can. SP: Before I go on about my plan to get out of here, there's a bit more to this yet, of the things I know. SP: One of the reasons I trust my death-note-suggestion from the future-past is because, like I said, I almost got wiped. SP: If I hadn't been all godly when it happened, it might've worked. Probably would have. SP: Anyway SP: I was getting erased, or blocked, or something (gross and weird) because I was messing with a mind wall (maybe?) and I got caught. SP: So maybe I need to disconnect from whatever I'm tethered to. SP: It's what I'm guessing, anyway. I'd prefer not to do the dying thing, obviously. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:24 PM FO: B( FO: yeah, obvs. FO: im guessin you respawned once, but also dont remember parts of the anon? FO: is there other stuff that feels not solid? FO: the healer chick would need a small piece a you but hair or blood would probably do it, and she could rez you from a distance on command after that.  shed just need to know when Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 12:41 PM SP: Most of the not-solid is from my memories. I don't remember a lot of stuff, it seems. Other stuff has to do with Anista and the generator. SP: Oh wait. SP: The generator. That's an okay idea. In tandem, not separately. SP: I'd need to put Anista out of commission for a bit though. Hm. SP: Can you tell me a little about the healer lady? I trust you, but I've never spoken to her I don't think. Is she a God Tier as well? flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 12:43 PM FO: yeah.  shes a meenah, Meenah Peixes FO: long story short she lives in sparks's universe, and she's kinda low key and staying out of the spotlight.  does a lotta bakin, some healin for pay. FO: shes kinda mercenary but i think she cares about dudes once they catch her interest, which most dont FO: the universe shes in has legal limes, crimsons, and wings, and no caste system, so theres no problems on the mutant front FO: i could vouch to be there and supervise 100% of the rez process if you trust me enough for that an itd help any Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 1:00 PM SP: I don't know if that will help any, but I appreciate the offer and I'll keep it in mind. SP: I considered whether or not, as a Prince of Mind, you'd be able to bust shit up so I could skip the not-being-alive part, but that seems less likely to work and more likely to get you smooshed by the eldritch fucko. SP: Besides this stuff, I'm trying to convince a pal of mine to go off-world with me before they fuck up and start a sgrub session. SP: None of my timeframes are defined, so it all feels kinda like it has to be done immediately. Am I gonna get wiped? Is my friend gonna blow up this Alternia? I don't know what's happening first. SP: I think I'm rambling now, sorry. SP: More useful thing, practical type. Do you know the charging rates on resurrection? SP: Which is a funny sentence, by the way. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 1:04 PM FO: fightin an eldritch fucko would be a heck of a fight, but its one id give a go.  ive done it before, ive pulled that kinda shit outta dudes heads.  theres a big variance on how big an individual eldritch fucko happens to be though, so its a thing to take super fuckin seriously before blunderin straight into FO: if anybody could cut a mind connection, id probably be able to though FO: ramblin makes sense, and bein in a hurry makes sense too.  why is your friend on the verge of startin a sgrub session?  do they like, know not to? -- flippinOptimist began sending file : meenahsfliersarefuckinweird.pdf --  (( a 2-page document, where the first is a classy menu for baked goods with a catering section at the bottom, and the second is a matching menu for healing by injury type with a 'special requests on case by case basis' section at the bottom.  It lists reviving as a special request. )) FO: i think she bases it partly on what a dude can scrape together, but idk FO: theres a chance sparks might be willin to help (or meddle) for free, but hes got an M!A rn thats fuckin up his ability to do things Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 1:17 PM [ sanessPsuede downloaded meenahsfliersarefuckinweird.pdf ] SP: Oh hey, great, thanks. SP: I don't know how close she is to starting one, because she's not answering any of my messages. SP: I'll probably have to hunt her down in person. I figure she can't start a game if I get her out of the zone for a bit. SP: Maybe delay the inevitable. SP: Fex is a cool dude. You and he have some stuff in common there. SP: I haven't been able to tell my friend not to yet, obviously. I don't think she took it seriously when I told her about it before. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 1:23 PM FO: good luck delayin it, an talkin your friend outta it FO: sgrub is somethin you can make the best outta, f you get stuck in it, but uh FO: a lot of it sucks real bad Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 1:27 PM SP: It's probably more efficient SP: to see if dying works SP: rather than engaging in a risky conflict unprepared SP: Side note! SP: Thoughts on how to break a mental connection to a thing that is not a person? SP: Like the Anista puppet or a wall. SP: If there's not a mind, can there even be a link? flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 1:41 PM FO: efficient isnt really a good word when somebodys life is on the line, and id still risk it.  its more about whats most likely to work i think. FO: i think worrying about whether or not something is a person is more of a soul / heart thing FO: if it has a mind, thats close enough FO: theres plenty of bugs that are too simple for me to be able to get a read on FO: and a couple a computer programs that are almost something enough, that i cant quite reach FO: but i peeked at her and saw that she existed and that there was stuff, if i was careful enough i might be able to unplug somethin FO: i think info processing and the ability to choose between outcomes is the big thing.  ideally in some kind of.. complex..ish way, naut just a simple if statement Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 2:07 PM SP: What about a literal wall? Something completely mindless. Could something eldritch-y make a connection to it? flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 2:11 PM FO: never seen one!  one way to find out though B) Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 2:22 PM SP: :D SP: Okay, I'm gonna see about getting in touch with Meenah. No point waiting around. SP: It's efficient, and probably more effective. SP: I'm not inclined to gamble with more than my own neck if I can avoid it. SP: Risk to result ratio says dying is the way to live SP: while causing the least amount of harm, probably flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 2:25 PM FO: if youre sure dude FO: for what its worth, if you go into a death knowin its comin and bein okay w knowin youre (probably) comin out the other side, its naut as aaaaaaaaAAAAa as it is when its a surprise and also a big upsetting disruption FO: its still kinda A Fuckin Thing, but FO: its possible to get over it, more n most ways of death comin by Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 2:29 PM SP: Okay, I'm not really sure, but the alternative worries me a lot and putting other people at risk jangles my moral compass pretty hard flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 2:30 PM FO: man, if you ever godtier, you're definitely gonna run into problems w the heroic thing Saness (sanesspsuede) - Today at 2:35 PM SP: Just means I'd be a normal dude with super powers. One life, one death. Seems fair. SP: And sucky. SP: No thank you, Sgrub. flippinOptimist[WIR] - Today at 2:43 PM FO: yeah, p much.