1.1.4 Pretensions (Patreon)

Well, a change of pace. I have grown increasingly frustrated with my "voice" in the puppetstuck path, so instead of banging my head against the wall there you get a bit of extended/reworked Innocent Sidestep stuck at the Farm content. As always, missing choices, one path etc.

Hopefully I can figure out what bugs me about the puppet headspace soon so I can bat it into shape. Maybe it is just that I am in too melancholy mindset. It might be that simple.

Anyways, apologies for the delay, and enjoy!

---------------

*comment 1.1.4

*label innocentend

Tick-tock of the clock next to the bed. Repetitive beat tearing through the silence, a greater silence than you're used to and also a louder one. No restless sea of thoughts and dreams washing against your shields, Los Diablos a distant presence beyond even your reach. Tía Elena a slumbering pond, easy to skirt, reflecting nothing but moonlight. Somewhere, the distant thunderstorm that is Ortega, unreadable, untouchable. Asleep.

You should be too.

The house keeps making sounds. The settling of wood cooling from noonday heat. The distant hum of the air-conditioning unit. The sound of wind against windows. A distant howl of coyotes, far enough away to pose no threat. The chickens are at peace, their hectic cackle a soothing murmur now. If birds dream, they are too shallow for you to dip your feet in. The horses hover close to waking, always ready to run. You skirt their dreams on tip-toes, pausing by the nighttime guardians to sense if there's any cause for alarm. None. The dogs are calm but alert, you make sure not to alert them to your presence. You couldn't handle deep-diving the mind of an excited border collie right now, let alone her two rottweiler friends. They're among the hardest dogs you've met to change the minds of, their instincts run as deep as their need to breathe. You wish you didn't know that as well as you do, memories of running rising to the surface, only to be squashed back down. That doesn't matter. That was the past. This time, they are on your side.

*fake_choice

  #They still make me uneasy, though.

    No matter how much you feel the dogs' loyalty to this place and the people here, you can't help but feel as an intruder. As if they could turn on you at any moment, realizing what you are.

    You let out a breath, trying to dispel those anxieties. You know that's not true, dogs are not intrinsically your enemies. They are trained. And these dogs are trained to protect. Their enemies are coyotes, not Re-Genes.

    You are safe.

  #Sharp ears. Sharp noses. Your allies in this.

    Dogs have senses you don't. If you want to, you can dip into their minds, listen in, search for things that makes them uneasy. They might sleep the hot hours of the day away, but at night they are alert.

    Keeping you all safe.

  #They make me miss Spoon.

    They couldn't be more different from Spoon, but they still make you miss the excitable Greyhound. He would probably love the farm, chasing chickens, wide open spaces. Less so the heat, or the fact that small, feathered animals aren't prey. The instinct to chase is bred too strongly in him, you wouldn't trust him with small animals. You understand why Chen muzzles him when he lets him off the leash. Less chance of an accident.

    The dogs here are far more dangerous, but disciplined. Trained to go against their instincts to hunt prey, and protect it instead. Keeping everyone safe.

You can feel them now, doing their slow rounds, alerted by the distant howl of Coyotes. They're alert to the sounds of the surrounding night, but as the horses are still calm, they are too. Would they pick up on human intruders? Professionals? It is possible, but you also know that any professionals worth their salt would take down the dogs before approaching closer. Silencers. And that would be the last thing they ever did, because the death of the dogs would alert the last line of defense.

Said defense is also awake, roaming free with the dogs, leaving her herd behind. No assassin would waste a bullet on her, a trained dog would be a threat, but who would be scared of a little white Nigerian dwarf goat? Nobody, until it was too late.

Snowball is the reason you agreed to stay at the ranch in the first place. How long has it been since you and Ortega rescued her from that medical research facility? Almost a decade? She must be getting old, but there's no hint of pain in her joints or back as you brush her mind with yours. How would aging even work for a boosted goat? What other experiments did the scientists subject her to before she killed them and blew up the lab?

You can feel Snowball pick up on your presence, and you send a ghost-pet across her mind, once more affirming your mutual pact of protection. You've upheld your part, you brought her here, to Elena's ranch and a life of relaxed happiness. In return, she'll eliminate any threat to this place. At the time you were worried about someone targeting Elena because she was the mother of the Marshal, but from what you can pick up from her it's mostly been Coyotes getting exploded.

Hopefully that state of affairs will last.

It's always been unclear exactly how intelligent Snowball is, but you would put her on par with the dogs, and quite possibly more. Now that you have spent time with the Rat-King you've grown more adept at non-human minds, or perhaps it would be better to say you've become less prejudiced. There are so many ways that minds can work, and a bit of humility in interpreting impulses go a long way. You do your best to give her a heads up at the kind of threats that might come your way, quietly in the night, men with rifles and powers. People who would kill her dog-friends, then come for everyone else.

Oh she understands that. And she doesn't like it.

*if motivation = "anger"

  You spend a moment warming yourself at the fires of her rage. They haven't faded over the years, and you can feel part of her would almost welcome an attack.

Caution is needed, you urge. If it happens, look innocent. Look afraid. Not a threat. Keep quiet.

*fake_choice

  #And then kill them all.

    Caution is needed, you urge Snowball. If it happens, look innocent. Look afraid. Not a threat. Keep quiet.

    And then kill them all.

    You can't afford to take chances. Not in this. It's kill or get killed, there would be no mercy for anybody here, the place would be razed to the ground, leaving nothing but burning buildings and dead animals behind.

    Snowball understands. That much is clear. She's a clever goat, you wouldn't have trusted her to stay here otherwise. The amount of destructive potential they packed into that little animal is nothing short of staggering.

  #And do what needs to be done.

    Caution is needed, you urge. If it happens, look innocent. Look afraid. Not a threat. Keep quiet.

    And do what needs to be done.

    Snowball understands. That much is clear. She's a clever goat, you wouldn't have trusted her to stay here otherwise. There's no human conscience making her hesitate, in her world it's kill or get hurt. And she's had enough of getting hurt. Enough of watching herdmates singled out and never returning. She won't let anything like that happen to those she cares about.

    She'd kill them all and scorch the earth first. And she could do it too, the amount of destructive potential they packed into that little animal is nothing short of staggering.

  #And make sure they don't see her coming.

    Caution is needed, you urge. If it happens, look innocent. Look afraid. Not a threat. Keep quiet.

    And make sure they don't see her coming.

    Snowball understands subterfuge. She's a clever goat, she wouldn't have escaped her confinement otherwise. The only one that did. She's had enough of getting hurt. Enough of watching herdmates singled out and never returning. She won't let anything like that happen to those she cares about.

    Be patient. Take them out one by one, nobody'd look to the goat for the culprit, there's nothing directly linking her to the explosive results of her powers. You've seen the mess she leaves behind, the amount of destructive potential they packed into that little animal is nothing short of staggering.

Were they trying to unlock Cavalier's power to cause explosions? It would make sense, he was one of the more powerful heroes before he turned villain and blew up the Pentagon, dying in the attempt. Did they splice some DNA into Snowball and her friends, trying to find the correct trigger? Maybe. Maybe it was luck. In either case, they got more than they bargained for. As would anybody coming here, that much is clear.

You reluctantly release Snowball's mind after a mental scratch, landing heavily back in your own fractured form. Back to gravity tugging at your broken bones.

"$!{swear}." It helps. Saying it out loud. Tasting the frustration, using it to plaster over the cracks where pain runs red-hot through your nerves.

*gosub_scene gosubtext paingate

You run your hands over your face, feeling the healing scabs. You need to stop those thoughts, right now everyone thinks you're ${name} ${surname}, retired vigilante. Not ${villain_name}. You need to push down that part of you for the moment, use your apparent innocence to heal. Ironically, your reveal as a Re-Gene has given everyone an excuse for your behavior. Of course you would seem suspicious. Weird. Distant. Imagine to have carried this secret all your life.

You prefer not to. There are conversations about in the future that you've been putting off by pretending to be hurt and tired. Not that you need to pretend very hard. You need to rest. Allow your bones to knit. Even the best therapeutic casts can only do so much if you don't allow them time to work. The micro-vibrations feel nice, and you find yourself relaxing despite yourself.

Maybe you can sleep?

Just stop. Don't think. Breathe. Focus on the bed. The vibrations. The faint moonlight outside. Count down. Like you were taught.

You fall asleep long before you reach zero.

*page_break Blessed Darkness.

[i]Blessed unconsciousness. Freedom from pain. Freedom from thought.

[i]It's so quiet. You don't hurt anymore. Adrift on a soft bed that smells like something you might be able to pretend could be home.

[i]But with sleep comes dreams, and with dreams comes awareness. And memory. You grit your teeth in your sleep, fighting a losing battle with your own mind and body.

*gosub_scene gosubtext dream2

*fake_choice

  #[i]I could kill ${him} now. Easily.

    [i]You could kill Ortega now. Easily. Nobody would know. Nobody would blame you. A needle in the wrong place. A necessary sacrifice for your ascent.

    [i]No. This is wrong. That was not then. This is now.

    [i]This is just a nightmare.

  #[i]Why can't I fix this? Put everything together right.

    [i]Why can't you fix this. Put everything together right.

    *if tech_savvy

      [i]You're supposed to be good at repairs, right? Why can't you make sense of the tangle of wires beneath you? Ignore the twitching flesh, focus on the spine. You can do this. Fix this.

    *else

      [i]You know people. You understand how they work. So why are you so bad at this? Trying to pull together connections lost? Digging through old memories, performing acupuncture on your heart. You can fix this.

    [i]Fix you.

    [i]Not that it matters. This is just a nightmare, isn't it?

  #[i]This is a dream. I need to remember. I need to[/i] [b]wake up.

    [i]This is a dream. You know this. And still you're here. And still you're dreaming. Deeper. Your hands sink into Ortega's spine, now metal and wires wrapping around your arms, tangling you to memories and fear. You need to remember.

    [i]Remember what?

    [i]Remember that this is a dream. Nothing else. It can't touch you.

[i][b]wake up

You jerk awake in your bed, the scream unheard in the quiet room. Nobody here. The morning light casts gentle shadows over the room, mostly blocked by the thick curtains. The door is securely closed, giving your frazzled mind some much needed privacy.

Awake. At last.

You look over at the clock, it's morning thankfully.

No way you can back to sleep after that dream. What are you doing remembering the Void? You've spent the last ten years trying to forget that mess ever happened.

*if voideyes

  Even if the truth stared you into the mirror every time you looked. Not that you did so often.

  Your reflection was always disturbing to you. Your green eyes did not make it less so.

*if force >= 81

  Irrevocably changed. Would you be this powerful without those experiences?

*if subterfuge >= 81

  You learned too much that day. Learned to see the world in new ways.

You look down at your hands. Bruised but steady. No shaking. No

weakness. This was just a nightmare, nothing more. At least it

waited until late to sneak up on you, your brain needs time to

recover and sleep is the best way to handle that. You learned that the first time you were here, and... oh. Of course. You came here for the first time after the final battle with the Void. That's why you're dreaming about this. Resonance.

Memories. Healing.

Stretching your bruised mind you revel in the quiet of the surrounding landscape. Empty in a primal way non-telepaths wouldn't understand. Stuck in bed, you can't walk outside to enjoy the near-endless horizon, but nothing can hide the absence of minds. Just one, distant, preoccupied. Tia Elena is feeding the horses. Too early to feed you yet, you need your sleep, she's worried...

The thoughts of concern makes you recoil like a snail meeting salt. You don't need to feel exactly how pathetic you must look, all you have to do is look down at yourself. Day four, and nothing much has changed. Clothes, sure, but casts have not. At least Ortega and the others have left for now, giving you time to recover yourself and forget the embarrassing memories of your first days here. It's easy to do, you were half unconscious with pain, sensations muddled, focus going inward to keep yourself from breaking. Breathe. Bite down on another cry. Don't show weakness. You feel better now, not because you've healed to any great extent, but because you haven't moved around.

You can't. Instead you stretch your mind, as broken and aching as your body. Tia Elena is petting a horse, her thoughts as solid as the ground she stands on. Would Ortega's thoughts feel the same if you could ever read them? Or would they be flighty and skittish like the horse? You can feel the animals around her, relaxed, but ever ready for flight, checking the signals for the others in the small herd to know if it's time to run. No, Ortega wouldn't be a horse, at least not someone running from danger. maybe towards. You shake that thought from your mind, and stretch further, but there's no other humans near enough to reach.

The sensation is something akin to relief. Not that you can relax, you're too aware of your weakness. Would you be able to detect any thought-voids? Maybe, if something alerted you to trouble. The horses are good that way, ever alert for strange smells and sounds. They'd pick up on a threat quicker than you would in this condition. And if they didn't, the dogs probably would. You have no doubt they'd be loud enough to wake you, even from a drugged sleep. You need to cut down on that, they help with the pain but you need to be sharp.

You hope you have time to heal more before something goes wrong, you're in no shape to fight. Not that hope does you any good, but yet you keep reaching for it like a life-preserver. You hope nobody will come for you. You hope Ortega's been able to erase your tracks through the system. So many hopes, will one of them be enough to keep you afloat? Will putting your trust in Ortega? $!{he} seemed confident enough. But ${he} always does. Seeing ${him} that distraught at the side of your bed in the hospital was new, and you've both done your best not to talk about the mutual cracks in your facade. You don't doubt it is coming, but right now you have enough to deal with from ${his} mother. Who is heading back to the house to cook you breakfast. Grand. That means you'll have less than an hour to pull yourself together in some imitation of humanity.

You reach for a drink of water, the movement making you wince. Almost time for a new dose of painkillers as well, though you're lowering the dose to what you can tolerate. You don't need the numbness, not now. The combination with your concussion reminds you too much of helplessness. At least you've got long sleeves now, Ortega promised to bring back some clothes in your size, but until then you have to make do with ${his} spare ones. The shirts are worn enough to feel like silk,

*if tall

  and with enough room for movement that you don't feel claustrophobic.

*else

  and large enough that you need to roll up the bottom of the sleeves.

*if ortega_secretcrush

  At least they don't smell like ${him}, that would have been additional torture you don't have the bandwidth to deal with right now. Thankfully, Elena uses a different detergent.

*elseif ortega_flirting_new

  You almost wish they would smell like ${him}, but Elena uses a different detergent.

*else

  They smell like Tia Elena's detergent. Safe. Crisp.

"Good morning. Are you awake yet?" Tia Elena speaks quietly through a crack in the door, allowing you ignore her if you had any hope of going back to sleep.

"I am," you say instead, resigning yourself to her sunny face as she pushes the door open.

"I'm making breakfast," she says, though the smell of coffee whiffing through the open door tells you that much.

*if veg

  "They don't have that vegan bacon you liked so much out here, I've told Ortega to bring some when ${he} comes back. But I've got some vegetarian patties in the freezer if you want some?"

*else

  "Do you want bacon or not?"

*fake_choice

  #"I wouldn't mind some, I need the proteins."

    "I wouldn't mind some," you say with a sigh. "I need the proteins." And an appetite. But the nausea will fade and you need to eat.

  #"No thanks, I'll stick with porridge again."

    "No thanks, I'll stick with porridge again." You still feel nauseous, and the thought of something fried makes your stomach turn.

  #"Please, I'm starving."

    "Please," you say with a sigh of relief. "I'm starving." You need to eat when you're injured. Thankfully that's never been a problem for you, and even with the faint hint of nausea from your concussion, your stomach is grumbling impatiently.

  *if (not(veg)) #"No, unless you've got any vegan bacon?"

    "No," you say, shaking your head. "Unless you've got any vegan bacon?"

    "Sorry. They don't have that out here, I've told Ortega to bring some when ${he} comes back. But I've got some vegetarian patties in the freezer if you want some?"

    "Thanks." You try to ignore your nausea. You need to eat. "Some proteins will be nice."

"I'll be in with it soon." Elena hesitates a moment before continuing. "Do you mind some company when eating? I've only had coffee?"

"Why not?" You suspect you don't have much choice here. She's filled to the brim with questions, and today is apparently the first day she's felt comfortable approaching the painful subjects. It's better to have food to hide behind. Makes it feel less like an interrogation.

"I'll be back with your tray in a moment." Her face lights up in a smile so much like her

*if ${he} = "he"

  son

*else

  daughter

that you can't help but answer it.

As soon as she's out the room, your face falls back in its usual scowl. You shouldn't let this get to you. You're ${villain_name}, and your broken body is nothing but a temporary inconvenience. Being here feels like hanging by your fingertips, your past the gravity that threatens to pull you down and break you. You can't allow that to happen. You need to remember the stakes.

And yet... the moment she pushes the serving cart through the door, you find yourself letting go, plummeting freely into memories unearthed by the nightmare...

*page_break First Time You Came Here.

[i]That drive was hell too. Pain of a different sort. A desert painted in disconcerting colors sweeping by the window, no less real for being imagined.

[i]"We shouldn't go there. I can't..." you mumble, bundled up in Ortega's car as ${he} drives too fast, too reckless down the bumpy gravel road. "Your mother..."

[i]"She'll deal," Ortega assures you, bandaged fingers clenched white around the steering wheel. You doubt it's safe for ${him} to drive. Neither of you care at this point. "You think this is the first time she's seen me messed up?"

[i]"I'm not talking about you." You press your knuckles into your mouth, feeling the pain as your teeth almost break flesh. Almost. "I'm not safe."

[i]"You said you can't be around people. There's nobody there but her and the animals. If it becomes too much, just tell me, and she'll move into my place for a few weeks while you recover."

[i]"What if I hurt her?" You teeth has left deep indentations in your flesh. A small valley of red surrounded by pale edges. Dry. No blood.

[i]"You're not going to." Ortega sounds so sure, but ${he} doesn't turn to look at you as ${his} car speeds down the road. "Right?"

[i]"I wish I knew." You can't stop the chuckle, it feels odd, like a tongue rattling in a can not knowing what to with itself. "Everything feels wrong now. After..." Void. After killing Void. Killing? Did you? Really?

*fake_choice

  #No. She reached too far. Got lost. I lived.

    [i]No. You didn't kill the Void. This was their own doing. She tried to destroy you, but didn't anticipate how stubborn you could be. Lost her footing and fell down a crevice. Closest analogy. You don't want to think about it.

    [i]Not that the technicalities matter. The world is better now without her in it.

  #Yes. I lured her to her doom.

    [i]Yes. There's no blood on your hands, but you might as well have held the noose yourself. Luring the Void out into deep waters. Too deep. People always underestimated you. She was no different.

    [i]The world is better now that she's dead.

[i]"You did what you had to. We did what we had to." Ortega does look at you then, the briefest of glances, turning back to the road immediately. The look on ${his} face is grim. Did your eyes gleam green just then? You've spotted it in the mirror, it's impossible to imagine that ${he} wouldn't. Weaker. It will hopefully fade soon. "The Cult of the Green Sky is done."

[i]"I know." You do. That's not what scares you.

[i]"I'll be okay," ${he} lies, in the face of your memory of watching ${him} scream, strung up for some sadistic bastard's enjoyment. If neither of you talk about it, it might as well have been a dream. "I just need some quiet. And you do too."

[i]"I know." Los Diablos had crowded you as you returned, leaning in with screaming mouths and minds tearing at undeveloped shields, wanting more, wanting everything. You would have lost yourself had you stayed there. Ortega's suggestion threw you a lifeline you hadn't admitted you needed.

[i]"You'll be okay," ${he} says with the surety of faith.

[i]"That's doubtful." You breathe another laugh, and this time your tongue fits right. "You're assuming I would know what being okay would feel like."

[i]"It's okay to be fu—messed up." $!{he} bites back a swear, already preparing for ${his} mother. "Ashfall's not doing any better. Chen and Luis will hold the fort until we return."

[i]You don't answer that, nor the next few sentences. Ortega doesn't need a discussion, ${he} needs an audience to monologue to. And maybe you need ${his} voice, anchoring you securely in your body and head, instead of hovering on the terrible boundaries that the Void opened inside you. If what you did to stop the Nanosurge broke something inside you, the Void dug her fingers in and tore it open. No. That would imply intent. The Void didn't mean to do anything to you. You were inconsequential. A hostage for Ortega's good behavior. A sacrifice for ${his} eventual ascension.

[i]And instead you are the one sitting here, after flinging yourself on the pyre intent to burn. Yourself. The Void. Everything.

[i]Everything burns.

[i]Maybe that's how you need to think about this. About yourself. Damaged. You've seen what Emberfall left of his victims, struggling for life in a hospital ward. Third degree burns can be survivable, as long as the skin grafts work and infection doesn't take root in the meantime. Maybe that's how you need to think about yourself. About your mind.

[i]No skin. No walls. Open to everything. Even the bad stuff. Especially the bad stuff. Ortega was right, getting away from the city was necessary, and not just to give ${him} time to put together a new public face that fits right. You need to build some shields. New ones. Better ones. You put up brick walls after the Nanosurge, but they're in ruins, unable to withstand the seismic disturbance of whatever the Void tapped into. No. Something new. Something better. And in order to do that... you need to be around someone you can shield yourself from. Ortega wouldn't do, ${he} wouldn't tax your mind like that.

[i]$!{his} mother though? She would be a good test subject.

[i]You press your hand against your eyes, hard enough to see stars. Green. That was a thought you didn't need. Banish the Farm and all the things it taught you. You like Elena. You've had dinner with her a few times. She's seen your face. You've laughed together. She's not a tool, she's Ortega's mother.

[i]"How's her ranch?" you ask, desperate to ground yourself in familiarity. You haven't been there yet, Elena moved out of Los Diablos permanently after the Nanosurge.

[i]"It's nice. I've only been there a few times myself, and most of those back when my uncle ran it. I think she's got rid of most of the cattle. Glad she kept the horses. She's got a couple of farmhands to help her run it, but she's given them a week off. Guess we'll better get used to mucking stable if we want to earn our stay..."

[i]You smile to yourself as Ortega keeps talking. Animals. Ordinary. Life. You can do this. And if you don't, you promise yourself to tell Ortega that it's not safe. You can trust ${him} to make the right decision. Maybe not the one you want, but the one you need.

*page_break You Trust $!{him} With Your Life.

Do you still? Abandoning your memories you weigh the question in your mind. It chafes oddly. A puzzle piece carved with a razor trying to fit a premade hole.

"More coffee?" Tia Elena distracts you as she motions to your cup, and you nod mutely. It's not strong, the scent offers promises that the flavor can't cash, but right now you don't mind. It's warm, and it gives your bruised hands something to hold.

"Sorry. I think I spaced out there." You look down at the remains of your breakfast, eaten while you were lost in thought. You used to trust Ortega. When did that change? Right now it feels impossible to determine.

"It's fine," she says, "concussions makes people lose track at times." You're offered a gush of warmth remembering a young Ortega suffering bed rest after a bad fall off ${his} bike. Fond memories since things turned out fine, but filled with remembered worry that it could have been worse. Would be worse. Like after you died. She looks away with a wince you wouldn't have picked up if you hadn't read her thoughts.

"You can just ask, you know." You don't want more Ortega memories mainlined into your tired mind. Better to offer her a knife for your own jugular.

"I don't know where to start," she admits, still looking out the window. You echo her movement, the curtains are open, revealing sunshine and view of the distant brown hills. "We thought you were dead. I still thought that a week ago." She avoids the fact that Ortega didn't tell her. That's between them. An argument to come, like a thundercloud growing on the distant horizon.

"That's not far from the truth." Your voice is bleak enough that she doesn't turn that anger on you. Doesn't accuse you of nearly ruining her

*if ${he} = "he"

  son's

*else

  daughter's

life, though you catch an echo of Ortega's grief reflected in her thoughts. You raise your shields, you don't need to know how it feels to watch someone you love nearly destroy ${him}self. "It wasn't my choice to stay away." Not at the start. And then things became too hard.

"Is it true... that people might be looking for you?" Cautious words. Is she afraid to reveal that Ortega has told her some things?

"Yes," you admit with a sigh. "I shouldn't be here. I'm putting you at risk."

"I'm the mother of Charge." She tries to catch your glance. "My husband was transfered to Los Diablos to help with the restructuring. I've had threats against my life before. Besides," and here she smiles, "I still have the cutest bodyguard."

"Have you had any... trouble?" You wouldn't have let Snowball stay here if you weren't sure that she was safe to be around for friends. If you hadn't made sure to tell her that Tia Elena was important and precious.

"Once." There's a look of unease on her face, and you realize she hasn't let Ortega know. "Snowball... dealt with them. I suppose the coyotes took care of the rest. I had to keep the dogs in the barn for a week until the rains had washed things away. I didn't tell the police. It seemed... unwise."

"And hard to explain." You're still impressed that Elena accepted Snowball into her household, even after knowing what the goat was capable of. On the other hand, she did the same with you. "I'm sorry I'm not what you imagined."

"$!{name}." She pauses, trying to find the right words. She leans closer, hands clasped in her lap. "I'm so sorry you felt you couldn't tell us. I'm so sorry we made you feel that unsafe and unwanted."

"You didn't," you argue, but can you really finish that sentence? Not more than other humans? You feel that she wants to see herself as more than that. Understanding. Caring. She wouldn't have told anybody. But... "At least it wasn't just you. It was everyone. And your husband was in the military." The fact that he was dead before you met her didn't mean you could dispel that family connection.

"That he was." She looks down at her hands, an uneasy twinge in her mind. It tastes odd for grief. "I just want you to know you're safe here."

"Thank you," you start, but you can't stop, "but I'm not. Not here. Not anywhere. And it's not your fault. Too many people saw me at the hospital. All it takes is one stray comment. Running away here is..." you rub your eye. "Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's delaying the inevitable. I just need enough time to heal. Then I'm gone."

"You don't need to hurry." Her gaze goes to your casts. "Broken bones takes time. And you don't have to pretend to be strong. Not here. I've seen worse."

"It's not for you," you say dismissively. "It's for me. I can't afford to..." Crack. Break. Splinter. All metaphors that feel too apt with your broken bones. "Just let me do it my way." It's not like with the Void, you're stronger now. Been through hell and back enough that this is a minor inconvenience. A setback, not an end.

"Fine. I will trust your judgment." She doesn't want to, you can feel that. But she will. "Just tell me... if worst come to worst, what will happen? What should I do?"

"It will be during the night." You're sure of that. Standard procedure. "Probably around 3 or 4 am. I expect the horses to pick up on it first, or maybe the dogs. I assume they bark?"

"More than I wish they did," she admits. "They roam the property, keeping the horses and goats safe. Stella usually picks up the scent, and her barks bring Joe and Pima." You catch her thoughts, and it makes sense. The border collie bringing the two rottweilers for backup. Enough to make the coyotes run. "Sometimes they wake up Snowball too."

"It will probably sound just like that. But the barking will go quiet fast." You don't tell her why, you see from her eyes that she knows. "If you hear that, don't go outside. Go and lay down under your bed and leave the rest to us." Her scent will already be strong on the bed, hiding beneath it means there's no new source of scent in her room. Hopefully enough to for hurried operatives to overlook her presence. She's not important.

"I can't just hide," she says, and there's Ortega staring back at you but in the shape of a petite woman in her sixties.

"Yes you can. I can't worry about you. Please. Leave them to me and Snowball." You try to project confidence, but it's hard to believe your own words. Broken legs. Bruised mind. Filled with painkillers and spite. Will they be prepared for you? How much do they know? You'd feel more secure if you were confident in your ability to possess one of them. But your inability to find your puppet has made you question that part of your talents, will it recover as your brain does? How will you know before you try?

"I have a gun, you know." Her face is set in stone, challenging your judgment. You doubt it is a standard handgun.

"Then keep it under your bed and don't use it until they spot you." You don't add that you doubt it will do any good.

*if ${he} = "he"

  "Once Ricardo returns, I will rest easier."

*else

  "Julia will come back soon, then you won't be alone."

She does her best to push back her nervousness and you don't mention that if anybody is liable to lead them here it is probably Ortega.

"Don't underestimate me," you joke, gesturing to your body. "Despite my current condition, I'm not exactly helpless. I haven't spent the years idle."

"I can see that." She nods, looking at you with a faint frown. "And I'm going to want answers about that. Eventually." The last is added softly enough to make it feel like less of a threat.

"Later." You put your mug down with a finality that surprises you both. "It's not something I want to talk about."

"You said that once before," she points out. "And in the end you did. And it helped."

"If you say so." You wish you could remember how it had felt, sitting in her kitchen, eviscerating memories for examination in a vain hope to chase out what seeds had been planted inside you. You wish you could remember so many things. Holes, like cheese. But who bored them and what did they contain? "But I doubt I have the answers you need."

"Why do you say that?" She lowers her voice, but you can feel her concern. What she wants to know. Why hide for so long? Why stay away? Why not ask for help?

You wish you knew. At this point you feel uneasy by your lack of answers. There's the superficial ones, of course. Anger. Betrayal. Risk. And yet... You trusted these people once. And you can't now. But they did not sell you out once they realized what you were. What else were you mistaken about? "Have you ever made decisions that felt right when you made them, but later you wonder why you ever thought that?"

"Yes." She looks down, mouth twitching sourly. An uneven edge between her and Ortega. A buried scar, never spoken about. "I have. And I think I can understand why some things would be hard to share. ${ortega_name} can be... difficult to talk to."

"Huh. I thought I was the only one who thought that. Everyone else seems to think ${he}'s easy enough." Easy words and bluster, effortlessly sliding off the teflon coating underneath.

"Only about things that doesn't matter." She pauses, then shakes her head. "No, that's not true. It's more about whether it hurts. Gets under ${his} skin And I know part of that is my fault. Or rather ${his} father's."

"Not a subject ${he} brings up willingly." Good, her thoughts are turning inwards, away from you. To her own guilt. Her own grief. A safer subject, by far. "I don't think they got along."

"An understatement. They were... too alike I suppose. Or maybe not enough." She looks down at her coffee, not meeting your eyes. "And I didn't want to see how badly things were going." Arguments turning physical. Neither of them wanting her to see, and yet the signs were everywhere . "I took Enrique's side. ${ortega_name} was acting out. A lot."${ortega_name}

"I can imagine." You don't know what to say, her mind is awash with memories, things she should have said, should have done, but never did. Plausible deniability. Discipline. Divorce was unthinkable, what kind of security would she have had? A failed career as an athlete and a family that would take her in but judge her silently for her actions. And now she is judging herself instead.

"I should have asked. Should have talked to him. Should have stopped him. Maybe if I had, ${ortega_name} wouldn't have left hime that early. Maybe ${he} wouldn't have taken such stupid risks. Maybe ${he} wouldn't have crashed. Been turned into..." She gestures vaguely, and you realize for the first time that Elena really doesn't like what has been done to her child. Never did.

"Have you told ${him}?"

"No." She looks up at you, face pulled together in a frown. "It feels like it would be worse somehow. To admit that I suspected. Or at least added things up after the fact. It's better that ${he} think's I'm stupid and blind. Or even that I agreed with what Enrique did. Better that than a coward." She blinks, too fast, trying to keep from tearing up.

"Your choice," you say gently. You don't know what would be best here. How Ortega would react. You're not even sure how you feel about it. Families. You've long since known they're not all what they're cracked up to be, as a telepath you have no illusions there. But in this case you had. Maybe because Ortega feels so impervious. Because Elena always felt like a comforting rock. And now you learn they're both just as messed up as anybody else in this business.

"I know." Elena finishes her coffee. "But moving forward always felt easier than looking back. We didn't always have a close relationship. Maybe it took the accident for me to see what I almost lost. That it had almost been too late. And when Enrique died, reconnecting was easier."

"Sweeping the past under the carpet."

"Yes. I think it was mutual. Neither of us wanted to remember."

"I can understand that." You finish your own coffee, looking down at the empty cup. "Digging into the past can bring things back nobody involved is prepared to deal with."

"Are you talking about yourself now?"

"Does it matter?" Outside a horse shies, and you fall silent, but it was just a hen flapping her wings. No threat.

Too many ghosts are gathering at your door, it feels like your only choice is fight or flight. Pretending nothing is wrong is getting increasingly hard. But will telling the truth arm your ghosts or send them packing?

You wish you knew.