─ ❛ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 ❜
BY ALL ACCOUNTS, Cyi should be dead. Instead, she's crammed into the hold of some chumbucket of a spaceship with a kid that may or may not be toying with the fabric of the universe.
By all accou...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
.･ ̣ ✵ ･ *.
⠀⠀⠀ CYI'S CELL ISN'T particularly unpleasant. Just gray. Concrete floor and dull walls, a slate gray cot with a thin white mattress and a scratchy blanket. Chilly too. Small. Pitch dark when she turns off the cold white light in the ceiling.
⠀⠀⠀ Okay, so maybe it's a little unpleasant.
⠀⠀⠀ On the bright side, the thin blanket and chill give her an excuse to curl up tightly under the covers. And she can thank Asir for excellent vision, even in dim light.
⠀⠀⠀ 03.42
⠀⠀⠀ Early hours, even for her.
⠀⠀⠀ With an almost inaudible click, she opens that compartment in her calf. There are perks to having repaired limbs.
⠀⠀⠀ Replaced. Synthetic. Unnatural.
⠀⠀⠀ Cyi sets those thoughts aside. They might be true, but if they're going to pay rent, they're not getting brain space.
⠀⠀⠀ She pauses for a moment, listening carefully for any sign of imminent interruption. Silence. Then she runs her fingers over the contents of the compartment: a coil of wire, a small screwdriver. Pliers. Nothing remarkable, really.
⠀⠀⠀ There are perks to having improbable thieving capabilities. With as little motion as possible, she sets to work.
⠀⠀⠀ Cyi starts with the first pair of pliers.
⠀⠀⠀ Simple things, really. Two metal rods, hammered at one end and joined in the middle by a pivot. She disconnects the two levers, then lays out everything but one of the halves beside her metal thigh.
⠀⠀⠀ Next is the wire.
⠀⠀⠀ With steady fingers - another perk of literally not having nerves - she threads the wire through the gap left by the pivot. Then she uses the second, intact, pair of pliers to loop it around several times, tightening it as she goes.
⠀⠀⠀ Cyi holds still a moment, then moves on to the other half of the pliers.
⠀⠀⠀ She repeats the process with the other end of the wire, leaving less than a cubit between the two pieces of metal. Loop, tighten. Loop, tighten.
⠀⠀⠀ Finally, she pulls at the two ends experimentally, straining the wire. It settles and holds against the pull.
⠀⠀⠀ The cut of the wire against her fingers, the solid tension of the cold metal, they're harbingers of someone else's doom. Cyi's lips twitch.
⠀⠀⠀ Stage two of Operation You Thought complete.
⠀⠀⠀ THE GARROTE REMINDS her of nicer times, because it reminds her of the wires her mom used to cut clay. Cyi closes her eyes, and the cold gray room is the smallest bit better, because happy memories are swirling through her mind.
⠀⠀⠀ Sitting at the table with her mom, working on her own little lump of slippery gray clay. They listened to music, and Cyi can still picture that bright room in her mind's eye.
⠀⠀⠀ It was small, and its creamy white walls magnified the rays of sun that streamed through the little round windows. When she was little, Cyi's mom helped her paint the sills bright shades of red and orange and yellow. There were a couple of desert cacti too, with colorful leaves and even more colorful flowers.
⠀⠀⠀ When her mom wasn't piloting cruisers, or calmly kicking drunken patrons twice her size out of bars, she sat in that bright, sunny room and molded shapes lumps of slick clay into bright dishes. The gray water would run up her arms and leave dust streaks against her dark skin.
⠀⠀⠀ Sometimes, Cyi's dad would join them with whatever chart or inventory he was busy with. Inevitably, his warm voice would fill the room with stories and jokes, and laughter would make his eyes sparkle. But he was a pilot, and often gone, and so most days, it was just Cyi and her mother.
⠀⠀⠀ Cyi would sit with her, practicing her mathematics tables, or drawing pictures of all kinds of spacecrafts. When she was little, her mom turned on music, and they'd sit and listen. But as Cyi got older, they began to talk more and more.
⠀⠀⠀ Then, when Cyi met Lein, it was her mom who heard all about Lein's laugh and her jokes and her slanted eyes that sparkled with mischief. It was Cyi's mom who heard about the walks they'd go on in the evenings, when the desert began to cool, and the flowers they'd find.
⠀⠀⠀ Alone in that cold gray little cell, Cyi tilts her head against the wall. An ache is forming between her eyes. If she could cry, she would be, because she misses everything about Lein.
⠀⠀⠀ She wonders if Lien knows what happened, if Lien would still like her with metal limbs and synthetic organs. If she would stare with horror if she ever sees what's beneath the SimSkin on Cyi's face, or learns about the part of Cyi's brain that's a computer. Or if she'd laugh and hug Cyi and tell her it doesn't matter.
⠀⠀⠀ She wonders if she'll ever have a chance to find out.
⠀⠀⠀ She misses her mom too, the warmth of her smile, the small wrinkles around her eyes. Her beautiful hair, sometimes braided, sometimes not. Cyi remembered when she dyed it dark blue. That's a fun memory.
⠀⠀⠀ Cyi was seven, and at the time, her mom's hair was a halo of dark brown curls. She'd put it in braids that matched Cyi's, and emptied a bottle of dye to turn them a vibrant shade of ultramarine. Then she'd worked the leftovers into Cyi's own braids, and for the next several days, the color would catch seven-year-old Cyi off guard every time she passed her reflection.
⠀⠀⠀ Her hair isn't colored anymore, and it's not really her hair either, but Cyi still twines a braid or two around her fingers when she's nervous. Like she is now.
⠀⠀⠀ The guards will come for her and death for them. Well, maybe just light asphyxiation and a scratch or two. Cyi's not a killer.
⠀⠀⠀ She sits patiently, alone with her memories, the garrote tucked up her sleeve. Still, the guards do not come. In the end, they never do.
⠀⠀⠀ Instead, the wall beside her explodes.
.･ ̣ ✵ ･ *.
quick note:
this chapter is dedicated to the lovely folks that gave me some much needed motivation to get off my ass <wanda is that you> and actually keep writing:
