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ohlawdthebirds · 5 months ago

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Sunday Morning

Butch!Soap MacTavish x gn!Reader

Synopsis: Two freaks (affectionate) go to church.

Cw: religious themes (this fic involves the nuances of two character's experiences with religion, namely Christianity/Catholicism). These views don't necessarily reflect my own, and they may not reflect yours either!)

Special thanks to @stellewriites for encouraging me every step of the way! This fic wouldn't exist without you💖🫂✨️Also, y'all should check out her fic that inspired this.

I highly recommend listening to Ethel Cain’s Preacher’s Daughter while reading this. I had Family Tree on repeat while writing, so if it feels like your bones are breaking and you taste blood in your mouth, that’s why.

Johanna “Soap” MacTavish was not a praying woman. Not normally, at least. Her years of seeing the horror the world had to offer, and her participation in them, stripped away what little faith she had remaining. And it wasn’t as though she’d never had faith.

She remembered being a wee bairn, legs kicking against the wooden pews as she listened to the hymns the choir sung. She remembered the smell of incense, the sting of the kneelers digging into her knees when it was time to pray, the way her hand flew through the motions when she made the sign of the cross.

It all meant something, once. A time where she felt that God was listening to her, that God even cared. If you asked her now if she thought that God cared, she’d respond that she had no idea.

She might even tell you she wasn’t sure if God was even real.

Add in being a huge lesbian and Soap found more than enough reasons to stay away from church.

And yet, when you come up to her on a random Saturday and ask if she’ll come to church with you, she finds herself agreeing.

“Ye take all yer dates tae church?” she quips. The joke is a feeble attempt at fighting back the rising panic in her chest. What she’s scared of, she’s not yet sure.

Soap notes the exhausted smile that crosses your face.

“Only the ones I really like,” you toss back. “But seriously, only come if you’re comfortable. I just…just felt like checking out that church a few blocks down the road.”

“Any reason ye asked me? Th’ others weren’t around?” It’s not that she minds, but Soap can’t seem to recall ever telling you she was religious. Or, at least, that she grew up that way. Maybe you pieced it together after glimpsing the cross necklace she kept tucked under her shirt.

“I don’t know, exactly. Had a feeling you’d understand my reasons for going. Thought maybe you’d get something out of it too.”

Before Soap can ask more about your cryptic answer, you make a beeline for the door.

“I’ll meet you outside your barrack at 0700 sharp. And I’ll bring breakfast!”

0700 comes sooner than she’d like. Soap wakes and dresses, pulling on a plain shirt and black cargos. Her feet are slipped into freshly cleaned boots, ones she stayed up an extra hour scrubbing the dirt from. Felt like bad manners to show up at one of God’s many houses and track filth in. Her hair has grown out past regulation length, but Price isn’t up her arse about it. A bit of water and a pea-sized amount of pomade nicked from Gaz helps tame her mullethawk.

For a moment, Soap wonders what she’s doing this for. She could have very well declined your offer. In some twisted way, she feels like a dog returning to its vomit; the church of her youth left her disillusioned and previous attempts to return felt like forcing open a locked door. She wasn’t sure why she even went back. Maybe it was for approval. Her parent’s or God’s, who’s to say? Her mother routinely asked if she kept up with her prayers and Soap never had the heart to tell her “Only sometimes.”

For all her doubt, Soap couldn’t help the occasional prayer for protection before embarking upon missions, and a word of thanks when the team made it back in one piece.

A knock sounds from the door. Soap grabs her jacket from where it hangs over her chair. Before she can fully cross the room, something tugs at the back of her mind. She remembers her gran’s rosary beads; the ones passed down after her death years ago. She digs them from where they rest in an ornate box stashed towards the back of her desk. They’re slipped from the box’s silk lining and gently lowered into a cargo pocket. Soap moves back towards the door, pulling it open to reveal you.

You’re dressed similarly, with nondescript trousers and a shirt with the logo of a band she’s never heard of. There’s a plastic container in your hands. You give her that same exhausted smile from yesterday and Soap wants nothing more than to cradle you in her arms. But, before she can, you pluck the top off the container and offer it out to her. The scent of cinnamon and sugar hits her nostrils.

“Ghost saved me a few of these. They’re from that bakery he’s been frequenting. Think he’s sweet on the bird that works there.”

Soap pulls out a cinnamon bun and immediately tucks into it. She wonders, briefly, if she should say grace, but this thought comes after she’s halfway through the pastry. Maybe next time.

You lead the way off base and down the road to a church Soap has passed many times before. It’s small, with stained glass windows and a tiny cross perched atop the steeple. The doors are open, and people trickle in. Soap notes how you hesitate before clenching your jaw and striding forward. She follows you up the steps and into the sanctuary where the two of you sequester yourselves in a pew farthest from the pulpit.

The smell of the church is a gut-punch of nostalgia, all old wood and onionskin paper. The cushioned seats of the pew are worn, threadbare, and do nothing to stop the varnished wood from pressing into your legs. Soap is surprised by how calm she feels. There’s none of the usual guilt and fear crawling under her skin and nestling into her bones. Peering over to you, the exhaustion in your eyes is still present, but you’re not as tense.

Soon enough, service begins, and the reverend takes to the pulpit. The congregation is led through hymns that take Soap back to her childhood. She finds herself swaying along with the rise and fall of voices. You do the same, albeit with less familiarity.

When they end, the reverend begins his sermon. It’s some variation of things Soap has heard before, an interpretation of Jesus’s teachings and how they relate to the modern era. She nods along at some points, frowning at others.

Jesus wouldnae say tha’, she thinks at one point. You, on the other hand, have a notebook out and scribble furiously across the page. When Soap leans over to get a closer look, you tilt the page towards her.

‘This guy’s a HACK’, she reads. It takes everything within her to hold back a laugh. You grin, continuing to write as quickly as the reverend speaks.

Communion is towards the end of the serivice. Soap had completely blanked on it being the first Sunday of the month. Her mother would be pleased to hear her wayward daughter had received the Eucharist the next time she called.

Congregants stand and shuffle into a line leading up to the pulpit. You end up in front of Soap, hands fiddling with each other while you wait in line. When you finally reach the front, you bow your head quickly before cupping your hands, left under right, to receive the rice cracker.

“The body of Christ,” the reverend says.

“Amen,” you demure, slipping the cracker between your teeth, chewing only twice before it basically dissolves. The reverend extends the chalice in his hands, full of red wine, and you accept it into yours, taking a modest sip. You move to the side immediately after and walk back to the pew.

There’s a slight nervousness stirring in Soap’s guts as she approaches. Her body moves through the movements on pure muscle memory, the “Amen” leaving her mouth without much thought. The cracker is dry on her tongue, the wine sweet in her mouth. She walks back to the pew feeling strangely renewed.

Service concludes soon after, with a parting prayer and a hymn for the road. The exit from the building feels less like an escape and more of an emergence into the late morning sunlight. Like Jesus on th’ third day from tha’ tomb, Soap muses wryly. When she turns to you the exhaustion seems to have been lifted fully. Your eyes are brighter, and a genuine smile graces your face.

“Hey, can I show you something? It’ll be quick,” you ask. Soap agrees, following close on your heels as you lead the way to the church’s garden towards the back of the building. It’s not lost on her that she’s been following you around for most of the day. Maybe, in some freaky way, you’re a shepherd that was sent to retrieve her back to the flock. If anything, Soap believes you have a slightly better sense of direction than her.

The church garden is small, with a wooden gazebo and stone benches dotted around the property. Flowers grow in manicured beds along the cobblestone path winding through the garden. Further in is a huge planter box crowded with fresh vegetables. A wooden sign leaned against the box advertises the vegetables as free for whomever wanted them.

You settle onto a stone bench. Soap wanders a bit more, ambling over to the planter box and plucking a tomato off the vine. She bites into it, eliciting a shriek of mock horror from you.

“Johnny! You’re just gonna eat it raw? You didn’t even wash it off!”

Soap smirks around the juice and seeds. “Not the only thing I eat raw, bon,” she jokes.

You grimace only for it to turn to laughter. Soap joins in, head tossed back and doing her best not to choke. Your laughter dies down soon enough, leaving the two of you to bask in the tranquility of the garden. Though it pains you to do so, you’re the first to break the silence.

“I come here sometimes, to pray.”

Soap finishes off the remnants of her tomato.

“D’you believe in it? Erm, in Him? In God?”

“Not sure. I think I’m trying to,” you hum. “I think… I want to. I want to believe in something bigger than myself, like it all means something, y’know? Like, this all has a purpose.”

“I get tha’,” Soap murmurs. “Been tryin’ tae figure this out for mysel’ fir a while. Grew up in th’ church, but things weren’t workin’ out.”

Soap turns to you, a question burning on her tongue.

“What’d ye mean yesterday, when ye said ah wid ken yer reason fir goin’ ‘ere?”

“I’ll be so honest,” you said sheepishly, “I kinda made that up. I just wanted someone to come with me and you were the first person that came to mind.”

Something warm blooms in Soap’s chest. She takes the opportunity to reach over and entwine her fingers with yours. You respond in kind, squeezing her fingers gently.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you say. “I don’t know if I’ll keep coming here going forward, but I wanted to try at least once.”

“And if ye ever dae come again…I dinnae think I’d mind comin’ with.” Soap says.

And, in a moment of bravery you didn’t think you possessed, you lean over to press your lips against hers. The kiss is soft and warm, much like the sun on your skin. Soap tilts her head to deepen the kiss when someone clears their throat loudly. The two of you jump apart and come face to face with the reverend.

“Pardon me,” he says bashfully, “But the gardens are due to close in a few minutes. I apologize for, uh…interrupting you two.”

You grin. “Not a problem! We’ll be on our way.”

Soap’s hand stays in yours the whole walk home, kisses snuck in every step of the way. You separate briefly when you get to the barracks, promising to meet back at hers once you’ve changed into something more comfortable.

Soap kicks off her boots and swaps out her clothes for a much rattier shirt and gym shorts. You return the same way, swaddled in a huge shirt and baggy joggers. You both slip under Soap’s covers for the most sacred Sunday ritual of all: naptime. Before Soap can fully snuggle in, she remembers the rosary still in her cargo pocket. She’s out the bed before you can protest, hand reaching in and cradling the rosary after fishing it out.

The box sits open, patiently awaiting its treasure. Soap makes the sign of the cross with it, pressing her lips to the metal crucifix before arranging it back within the silk lining. You welcome her back into bed with open arms, pulling her against yourself. Sleep beckons the pair of you in, letting the rest of the day drift by.

Johanna “Soap” MacTavish is an occasionally praying woman. For what could possibly be the first time in her life, she lets herself bask in the moment. There’s no panic in her chest, no fear in her heart. If heaven is real, she hopes it’s a lot like this.

If God is real, she hopes He’s a lot like you.

#Spotify #cod #butch!soap mactavish #butch!141 #I'm kinda proud of how this came out #thank you again to stelle im gonna give you a million dollars if i ever get the chance to #cw religious themes #mw2 #fem!johnny soap mactavish #fem!soap

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streetkid-named-desire · 28 days ago

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Ooohhh this one was good too a new Jewish start for Bea where her family owned a diner in Pacifica.

Chapter 1

My back was killing me. It was only 3 PM and I had seven hours to go. Zayde had to pick up a bunch of stock from All Foods and needed me to close, “Darren, watch the front for 15, I need a break.”

I walked out the back and sat down on a black milk crate and stretched my arms and back. I should save up enough for a pain limiter or posture fixer but all my wages went back into the diner. Machines were always breaking, all the seats needed new upholstery. I won’t lie, I love my zayde but I feel trapped in this life. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall and browsed the net on my holophone.

There was a new horror braindance I was dying to see. Zombie Joytoy was supposed to be gory and you could feel every bite! I was always too exhausted for it. After work I’d just shower to get the stink of grease off and collapse into bed. The timer buzzed in my forearm display and I got up, doing some last minute stretches for my legs.

A man called out to me and I turned around. He had a blue mullethawk with a black undercut and wore a red and black CORPOTHIEVES MUST DIE tank top and black jeans. His arms were toned and he had a handsome face. “Yo, you know the way to Bernie’s joint?” Bernie’s was a bar and it was directly behind him. Was he gonk? Did he not see it?

“Look behind you,” I said and lifted my chin to point. Alright, I knew a pickup when I saw one. Sailors and pirates tried it all the time being situated near the docks. I didn’t have time for this.

“Ha! So it is. Thanks choom,” he said and waved. Normally they didn’t go away that easy. Maybe he really didn’t have enough CHOOH2 in the tank.

She opened the door and he called out to her again, “Come by after your shift! Buy you a drink on me.” And there it is.

I smiled politely, “Sorry, can’t. See you around,” I didn’t look back when I went inside.

“Thanks Darren. Hey, I’m closing tonight. Go home in a couple hours so you can get your homework done on time for once,” Darren was only 16 and enrolled at the technical college. He wanted to work at Orbital Air one day but his math was abysmal.

“Shove off, you’re not my mom,” he teased.

“No, but I’m the closest thing you got twerp,” I ruffled his curly brown hair as I walked to the register and started checking customers out.

Wednesdays were pretty close and the night ended without incident. The dockworkers enjoyed their peace and quiet and maintained that by any means necessary.

These long shifts really did a number on my back and legs and I wanted a drink by the sea before going home. I locked up and walked down the docks. Lit another cigarette and pulled my flask out of my back pocket. Moishe made the most preem moonshine. Zayde said it would rot my liver and I’d never be able to afford another one but I refused to use ‘dorphs for the pain. I dangled my legs off the edge of the dock, I liked the vibrations radiating up my legs when I kicked my heels against the wall. The gentle lap of the tide against the wall always relaxed my nerves.

I hadn’t eaten much and the moonshine was going straight to my head. I took a last swig, maybe one too many, and stood up. I flicked the cigarette butt into the ocean, it was so toxic that any wildlife died decades ago. I turned around too quickly and almost fell back into the ocean. I looked at the cargo containers, had they moved? I swear the blue ones were on top and the path between them was better lit than it was. It all looked fuzzy anyway, was probably just the alcohol. I could navigate back to our shack with my eyes closed.

I walked through the cargo containers. Wasn’t that right a left? And there was definitely a flood light on this corner. I heard some voices, finally I must be getting close. I lost my balance for a moment and fell into an empty container, a muffle clang echoing down the path. The voices stopped. My shoulder would have a nasty bruise tomorrow.

I saw more lights in the distance and headed for them. But I stumbled upon a group of scavs and some nomads – they didn’t have any family patches. Shit, Raffen Shiv. “Haha, hey, got lost on my way home. I didn’t see nothing, see ya!” I turned around ran into a burly man a foot and a half taller than me. He smiled, his teeth were fine metal points. The butt of a gun smashed into the crown of my head and I dropped like a doll.

Next thing I know I’m strapped to the back of a motorcycle, my hands and feet strung together with bungee cord and I was staring at pavement rushing by at 80 miles and hour. I had a gag around my mouth and couldn’t scream. I was still in my diner uniform, a blue and white pinstriped dress and tan stocking and felt the fabric fly about wildly with the speed. As we slowed the pavement turned into dirt and we finally stopped inside an abandoned mine.

A man picked me up, hauling me over his shoulders in a fireman carry and I tried to squirm. “Quit it!” he yelled. I looked around and saw cages holding women and other raffen scattered about. Some were outside the cages tormenting the women, shocking them with cattle prods and laughing. I stopped squirming.

I was tossed into a single metal cage.

Chapter 2

The first three days I was kept away by bright lights and loud metal music. The shivs would drag a baseball bat or baton against the bars of the cage and laughed every time I jumped.

On the fourth day I was so dehydrated and hungry and exhausted that I passed out. I was dazed and paralyzed in my body but couldn’t open my eyes. I heard the cage open and felt rough hands grab my calves, pulling my legs apart. Cold air hit my skin as my pantyhose was ripped.

Once my dress was pulled up I mentally checked out.

On the fifth and sixth days I was fed.

On the seventh, I heard them discuss what they were going to do with me. I had to get out.

I hatched a plan. The squirreliest one would be on guard duty tonight. He wasn’t allowed to touch any of the girls. If I stayed up late enough, I might be able to convince him to open my cage.

I sat and bided my time. I looked at the other girls. I could only save myself.

I started to doze off when I head the squeaky voice of the youngest raffen. He must have been only 17. I ripped the front of my dress more than it already was and walked to the bars closest to him and pressed my chest against them. “Hey,” I whispered.

He turned around, “Shh, you shouldn’t be talking!”

“I’m lonely,” I said.

“So what?”

“So…I was hoping for some company.”

“Fuck off.”

I reached a hand out and stroked his shoulder, “Come on, they’re asleep. No one will know.”

I stretched and arched my back, running my hands down my chest and sides as he watched.

“Five minutes, honey, that’s all I’m asking.”

He was silent for a while and I moved my hands down to lift up my dress, exposing myself, “I know you can’t touch us. It will be out secret.” I started touching myself. I was sticky and crunchy from all the dried blood and body fluids.

He looked around then looked at me, I pulled the top of my dress down, fully exposing my breasts down. I saw him swallow.

“Three minutes,” he whispered and pulled some keys out of his pocket.

He unlocked the door, left it open, and stepped inside. I grabbed one hand and put it on my breast as I started taking off his belt. He was kissing my neck now and moved his head further down to my chest.

I whipped the belt out and wrapped it around his neck, sticking it through the buckle and pulling hard. He tried grabbing at me but I kneed him in his crotch and he instinctively doubled over, I was able to get even more leverage and pull harder, tightening the belt even more. With all my strength I made one last pull and heard his neck snap.

I didn’t look for a weapon, I should have, but I just needed to get out. I ducked down and started moving against the wall, sidling along slowly and quietly until I reached the opening of the mine. There were no guards at the front. Why the hell were there no guards here? I chanced a glanced behind me and saw why. The poort girl.

I ran as fast as I could, my feet were getting cut by sharp rocks. I saw the moonlight outside and with my first step out of the mine my foot slammed down on a board with a rusty nail through it. I covered my mouth to muffle a screm and looked down. It had pierced the center of my foot. I looked behind me and heard panicked and angry voices echoing out.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and quickly pulled my foot up. I couldn’t stifle my scream that time. I started running again, well limping. I was leaving bloody footprints. I found a large boulder and hid behind it, ripped off a piece of my dress and tied it around my foot. I touched the bottom of the makeshift bandage and it stayed dry.

I had never been outside Pacifica. I knew I was in the desert but no idea where. I remembered Darren teaching me some random shit about the stars and directions and looked up. It was too cloudy to see the stars. Just my motherfucking luck. I scanned the horizon to see if I could see the city lights but nothing.

The sun started to rise. I knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west. I know Night City was on the west coast of the New USA. I started running west.

I ran for hours, when the sun hit noon I noticed how thirsty I was. All around me was cacti and dry scrub bush. I went to a cactus, tore off another piece of my dress, and tried grabbing a piece off to see if I could get anything out of it.

My dress was too thin and all I got was cactus spines embedded in the palm of my hand.

I heard the roar of motorcycles behind me and whooping and hollering. I had to keep running. I had to make it to the city limits. I saw a cave and headed towards it. My legs were burning, my sides were burning, my lungs were burning.

The cool shade of the cave felt nice. I sat against the rock and closed my eyes. I slept. When I awoke it was noon again. I watched the hot air wave in the desert, I tried standing up but my foot was in too much pain. I touched it. It was hot.

I crawled on my hands and knees out of the cave. I didn’t hear the motorcycles or any sound anymore. In my near heat stroke and with the sun straight up, I couldn’t tell where east and west were. I looked around me for any landmark I saw yesterday but all I saw was the mirage. I crawled over to a rock and burned my palms as I used it to stand up. I chose a direction and started walking.

I was so hot. I wasn’t producing spit anymore. My lips were cracked and my cheeks burned. It had been about three days since I last had any food or water. I collapsed onto my knees. I was going to die in the desert. No one would find me. My body would be stripped for parts by raffen or worse.

I prayed to Hashem. I wasn’t religious but I prayed.

A dust storm started to roll in. The sand and silica cut against my eyes and skin. I tried breathing but the sand choked me. I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at my neck, trying to get the dust out of my lungs. I took in one last, ragged breath and collapsed.

I felt a cold hand on the back of my head, lifting it up, and ice cold water dribbling over my mouth.

“Is she alive?” a woman asked. I opened my mouth to let the water in and swallowed.

“Yeah,” that voice sounded a little familiar. Some water poured over my face and I felt another cold hand gently rub off the sand caking my eyes shut.

I opened them. I saw the bright blue mullethawk, it looked so bright against the clear blue sky and I squinted. I tried to sit up but the hand that wiped my eyes touched my shoulder, “Hey, easy now. Don’t get up.”

Footsteps and a light brown-skinned woman with long dark brown hair in a thick bun was standing over me, “Get her to my truck. We need to get her back to camp.”

The man repositioned his hand behind my head to get under my shoulder and put his other arm under my knees and lifted me up.

Interlude

V gently set the woman down in the back of Cheyenne's truck. She looked like she'd crawled through hell itself. The top of her dress slid down exposing her when he set her down and he took off his jacket and lay it over her.

She had curly green and yellow har, a few facial piercings, and a tattoo across her chest of a death's head moth.

He got in the passenger seat next to Cheyenne and they drove in silence back to the camp.

When they parked Cheyenne got out first and ran to the medic tent to have the doc prepared for the woman. V picked her up again, making sure she stayed covered with his jacket and met Cheyenne in the tent. He set the woman down on the gurney and V and Cheyenne left.

"Fucking raffen," she muttered and lit a cigarette. "When she wakes up we need to know where she was coming from. There may be others there."

Daniel walked up behind her, "Can't save 'em all, Chey, you know that."

Daniel was the clan leader. He took a conservative approach which frustrated Cheyenne. He was too afraid of risk but the only way they'd move up was through risk.

"But I can try," she said and stormed off.

Daniel moved to stand next to V, "Recognize her?"

V closed his eyes and tried to recall. All the dirt and blood obscured her features but he recognized the dress, "Maybe, I saw someone wearing an outfit like that near Bernie's."

"There's a diner nearby," Daniel said.

"Yeah, maybe that's it."

It was dark when the doc finally left the tent. V stood by the tent the whole night, like a sentinel with a solemn duty. Cheyenne walked over, "How is she, doc?"

"Got the foot infection handled and she's on a saline drip for the dehydration. But…" the doctor looked down at his hands and sighed.

"But…?" V prodded.

"I…"

"You what?" Cheyenne snapped.

"There was so much damage to her cervix and uterus I had to give her a hysterectomy and place a synthetic barrier."

Cheyenne paled, "Oh my god."

"I've given her a sedative to help her rest."

Chapter 3

I woke up. I heard soft beeping from biomonitors and had an IV in my arm. "Hello?" I croaked.

A doctor shot up from his stool, "Oh good lord you scared the shit out of me. Hang on."

The man walked outside the tent, "V, Cheyenne, she's awake."

The three of them walked into the tent. The new man was the same one she saw outside the dinner. She couldn't forget the hideous haircut and blackwork tattoos on his face giving the illusion of a skull. The woman was sturdy and broad.

"Where did you escape from? Could you find it on a map?" The woman immediately asked.

"Cool it, Chey," the man said. "You're at the Aldecaldo camp. We found you in the desert half dead."

I closed my eyes, "All I know is it was east. An abandoned mine."

Cheyenne nodded and her and the man left. The doctor slid his stool over and sat down. He held my hand, "Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?"

"Bea."

"Nice to meet you Bea. I have something to tell you that may be difficult to hear. Your reproductive organs were heavily damaged from what you went through."

My heart raced.

"I had to give you a hysterectomy. There are great advancements in in vitro and clone technology," he started to say.

"It's okay," and it was. I didn't want kids. I still felt sad, that that was the reason and it wasn't permanently birth control by choice.

"Where do you live? Cheyenne will take you back."

"Docks by Pacifica, near Joe's Diner."

The doctor nodded and walked out of the tent. I sat up, I felt so sore. I was wearing a patient gown. My clothes had already been burned by now. I turned and started to swing my legs over the bed but when I spread them there was a sharp pain in my crotch.

Cheyenne came in with a pile of clothes and I stood up, a little wobbly at first, "Here, I hope these fit. Get dressed and I'll take you home."

Cheyenne tried to make small talk, but I wasn’t home. I just watched the desert landscape blur past my unfocused eyes, watched it turn into neon.

She stopped in front of the diner and I saw Zayde talking to an annoyed NCPD officer.

“You don’t understand! She is responsible, good. She wouldn’t leave!”

“Sir, please calm down. We can’t investigate every missing person. I know a private i-”

Zayde shoved the officer in the chest, “Feh! A private eye, a private eye he says!” Darren ran out to try to calm him down.

Cheyenne got out and opened my door, Zayde and Darren looked over.

“Oh, Baruch Hashem where have you been, girl?” Zayde ran over and practically dragged me out of the car. He held me and the feeling of his long, scratchy white beard on my face made me cry. “Shh, shh shefela, what is there to cry about? We’re here alive. Darren, get the nice young woman’s name and number and lock up the diner. We’re closed the rest of the day.”

“Ah, no sir, it’s fine,” Cheyenne said.

“He won’t take no for an answer,” Darren said flatly.

Zayde sat me down in a booth and went to the kitchen. I smelled chocolate as he heated up a slice of babka and I lay my head down on the table. He came out with a vanilla milkshake, two slices of chocolate babka, and a bowl of our house special matzo ball soup. I didn’t have an appetite.

“Gone for a week and you lose your manners? Ach, up up!” I sat up and put my hands in my lap. He put the food down in front of me and he sat across from me.

“Shefela, what happened? Where did you go?” I just stared at the food on the table.

“Eat, eat, you look terrible.”

“Here’s the lady’s number. She’s a nomad,” Darren said and set a notepad down on the table.

Zayde patted him on the arm, “Thank you my dear boychik. Go, pack up some soup and babka for your sister then go home.”

Darren leaned down to whisper to Zayde, I saw his eyes go wide and fill with a rage I hadn’t seen since I was very small. He shook Darren’s hand and thanked him.

When Darren left Zayde got up and sat down next to me. He put his arms around my shoulders and began humming the Shema. I pulled the milkshake towards me and took a sip. It was sweet and rich, we were the only diner in Night City to have real cow’s milk milkshakes. I tore a piece of babka, dipped it in the milkshake and ate.

Eventually word spread about what happened. The dockworkers became even more vigilant and more violent when protecting the peace of the diner and five years passed without incident.

Darren graduated from the technical college and started an internship at the European Space Agency.

Zayde had a fall in the kitchen one closing night and our timeline for having me take over ownership of the diner accelerated. I wanted to join The Mox. I wanted to protect other girls from having the same thing happen. It ate at me every day. Why was I rescued? Why did I make it out? Why couldn’t I remember where they were? I should have gone back for them. I should have let them out.

It haunted me for weeks after. I’d have nightmares, they’d be crawling up the edge of my bed asking me why, why, why did I leave them. I’d wake up screaming.

I hadn’t had a dream like that in at least a year and haven’t woken up screaming for over a month.

Interlude

“Tell us where you’ve seen her, cunt!” the scav spat in the cowering woman’s face.

“I don’t…I don’t know who you’re talking about!” she wore yellow overalls with LUKA CARGO stenciled on the back.

“Yes. You. Do. You work at the fucking docks don’t’cha?”

“Sure, but I see hundreds of people!”

The scav pointed his gun at her and then flicked a holo image of Bea to the woman, “Her. You see her?”

The woman’s eyes widened, “Oh, sure! Joe’s Diner! She’s the owner. H-hey…can…can I go now?”

The man laughed and shot her point blank. He sneered at the teeth that feel onto his shoe.

Chapter 4

Zayde and I sat at the Night City Hall clerk’s desk and he squeezed my hand, “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Sign here and here, please. I’ll also need your hand print and personal link signature.”

I frowned, “I don’t have a personal link.”

The clerk looked at me over he round glasses, “Everyone has a personal link.”

“I don’t.”

“What do you mean, ��you don’t”? Just jack in, please.”

I showed her my wrists and she gasped.

“Jesus, you really ain’t. Well, I’ll be damned. Don’t think I’ve ever met a chrome virgin in my life! Good for you honey, if you can keep it that way. Well, I’ll need a little sample of your blood then.”

I signed and scanned my hand while she rummaged in her drawer for something. She pulled out what looked like a pen. When she clicked it a sharp needle poked out the end. She pressed some buttons on her keyboard and the hand scanner flipped to reveal a blood typing card. She grabbed my hand, pricked my finger, and squeezed some of my blood over the card. It flipped back over and she began tapping away at her keyboard.

“Well congratulations you two! Ownership of Joe’s Diner has officially been transferred from Mr. Josef Weinberg to Ms. Batsheva Weinberg. Mr. Weinberg, enjoy your retirement.”

Zayde nodded and we left. We walked down to Reconciliation Park and sat on a bench by the lake. “What are you going to do with your new found freedom?” I asked him.

He laughed and then coughed, “Make sure you don’t burn the place down!”

Zayde and I had to make some final preparations tonight for the “under new ownership” grand re-opening. The diner was a mess still. Streamers needed to be hung, food coloring needed to be prepared, cakes needed to be made. It was going to be a long night.

11 PM and I was almost falling asleep on my feet. In fact, Zayde actually was asleep, snoring away in a little corner booth. The decorations were set and ingredients prepped but I still needed to cook. The ice cream cakes would take forever to set. Opening was at 9 AM.

At 3 AM I put the last ice cream cake in the freezer. I stood in the middle of the dining area looking at my handiwork. Bright headlights suddenly shone through the windows, blinding me. I heard the sounds of dirty engines running and some whooping and hollering.

I rushed over to the booth Zayde was in and ducked down, shaking his shoulder, “Hey, hey! Zayde, we gotta go. Wake up, we have to get out the back.”

“We found you!” a man hollered. I grabbed Zayde’s shirt and pulled him out of the booth and down to the ground with me and he woke up.

“Ach, what a dream I was having,” I shushed him. Zayde blinked a few times, trying to figure out why it was so bright.

“Is it morning already?”

“Be quiet!” I hissed. I scooched under the table and motioned him to join me.

He started to get up, “Oh no, shefela, we’re too old for this.” A bullet shattered the glass above the table and whizzed past Zayde’s face, just barely missing him and he dropped down.

“Little lost lamb, where are you?” the man called out.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. A series of gunshots rang out and all the windows shattered.

The smell of smog and rotten fish wafted in and made my eyes water.

“Alright, get in there,” the man said. The group whooped again, someone lit a molotov and threw it into the broken window. The streamers immediately lit up and the flames rippled across the crepe paper, dropping ash and fiery bits of paper down on us.

“Batty, we have to leave, come on,” Zayde said. He hadn’t called me that since I started going by Bea. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out from under the table and we started crawling to the counter, trying to get to the kitchen and out the back.

Huge metal boots crackled on broken glass and I felt a sudden sharp sting in my ankle and heard a sizzle. I cried out and looked behind me, the man that had been calling for me was standing in the doorway, a huge sharp bloody grin on his face. In his hand he was twirling the monowire that had just sliced into my achille’s tendon. I tried standing up but fell again.

Zayde stood up, his hand grasping under the counter for the revolver he always kept there. It had only been fired once in the diner’s history.

“You shall not hurt her,” he said calmly. I started crawling again and heard the velcro as Zayde pulled the revolver out from the counter.

I got through the swinging doors to the kitchen and grabbed the corner of a counter to pull myself up and limp to the back door. I heard a single shot, the revolver, followed by a tattoo of automatics and maniacial laughter, echoing everywhere. Bullets started flying past my head as I kept moving for the back door. I caught one in my shoulder just as I got out the door.

Headlights blinded me again but it was the lights of utility vans and the dockworker’s trucks. I heard rifles and shotguns being loaded. A young woman with a Mox tattoo on her should helped me stand up and get into the bed of a truck. She shut the gate and banged her fist on the hood twice before nodding at me and running to join the fray.

We sped away into the heart of Night City and I watched the flames rise into the starless sky. The truck pulled into the back parking lot of Lizzie’s Bar and a couple Mox came out with a first aid kit. They helped me out of the truck, patched my wounds, stuck a hypo into my ankle repairing the split tendon and brought me inside.

The next morning I was at the bar, watching the news, “Beloved Pacifica working class restaurant Joe’s Diner was consumed by a fire last night. Owned by the Weinberg family for generations, Mr. Weinberg had just signed over ownership to his niece.

The woman from yesterday sat down next to me, “Hey, I’m Joanie.”

“Hi Joanie,” I replied.

#emotional support imagination playground

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