The Void 8 - Sidestep (finale) (Patreon)

Ortega's still breathing. It's a stupid compulsion needing to look to make sure, but you were always like that. Couldn't trust the world hadn't changed since the last time you checked, maybe that's why you started seeing the edges back at the... No. Don't think about that. Think about Ortega instead, the sweat-stained skin, the slow rise and fall of that bruised chest, deeply asleep. Not unconscious, not limp enough for that. There's a stillness to an unconscious human, something almost approaching Re-Gene in nature.

Shit. Your thoughts went there anyway.

You lean forward, chasing away the flies, and you can see Ortega's skin move under their feet. Twitching. Dreaming? Hopefully not. You should take a nap as well, conserve your energy, but instead you keep clinging to the taste of neon green on your tongue, worrying it like a loose tooth.

What was that? What did you see?

The ground is no longer steady beneath you, the world threatening to spill apart in new angles, new knowledge prepared to break you. Like a wave. You remember being back on the farm, feeling minds crash down upon you like waves, unguarded, not equipped to understand. Nobody had told you that humans were so immense, so complex. Nobody expected you to understand what you saw, what you felt and maybe you didn't. 

You don't need to understand a wave to ride it.

Drift ashore covered in seaweed, a bloated jellyfish speaking like a man with the memory of whales. Landlocked. A scientist that missed the ocean and there were Words again, Thoughts and Feelings. Big Ones. And then they built the house that was you and it was a fortress of steel over the ocean, long legs drilled into the bedrock. Above the waves. Orderly. Controlled. 

You Obeyed. You Did Not Smile.

The water tastes like plastic, but you savor it anyway. Dehydration is a killer. If your body temperature rises too fast that will kill you before your wounds do. No pain-gate can handle that. Autonomous. You hate that Ortega is so fragile. You don't want to be alone with your thoughts and the silence. Maybe you're unfair there. Not fragile. If you didn't know it wasn't done you would think Ortega has a pain-gate too. The way there's no cringing, no hesitation. Just necessity.

What was it again?

A half-remembered story of climbing up a cliff. No harness. Death below. Aching hands. Can't flinch or you die. Embrace the pain. The only thing blood means is that the grip gets slicker, but the dust takes care of that. You remember asking why. Why not? You suppose you see the logic in that now. 

You're the same. 

The flies return, and you move your hand to chase them away, pleased to feel it functioning, less pleased at the feel it makes as it passes through the air. The ground shifts again, and you press your hand against your mouth, swallowing down the feeling of freefall. Focus. Sit. Listen. Here. Now. You. 

You almost lost yourself the first time they took you out on a mission. Blunted handlers, unreadable minds. Approaching the city slowly, observing as your eyes grew wider. Discipline. Breathe. You had been taught shields, but not been taught what you were shielding against.

The beauty.

Your weakness saved you, smelling the edges of glory but blind to the full truth. After your escape, you felt it again, riding the bus into downtown Los Diablos, bathed in humanity. Falling freely into the warm ocean, whispers surrounding you. You learned to listen to them, in time you learned how to tell them apart. 

To influence them.

You need to REMEMBER that now, like you did after the nanosurge when you took that tidal wave of pain and fear and anger and told it to STOP, and it did, and you held IT even though your mind was breaking into bloody glass and you remember blood. Nose. Ears! Not supposed to happen. You nursed your headache for months, you can't go through that Again, you can't let yourself think, you can't let yourself SEE.

Stupid heart beating too fast. Breathe.

You place your hand on Ortega's back and tries to match your breaths together. One breath. One heart. Shouldn't it be more of a difference between you? Real and Fake. You breathe. In. Out. Slow. Void fed you their blood. Her blood? It felt like a woman. As much as it felt like a human. Boosted. It's supposed to boost people. But you're not people, you're a Re-Gene, vat-grown with boost drugs seeping through your umbilical, seeing which pod will survive the change. You're not human, you never were, of course it wouldn't work right with you. Of course you would survive.

The wave breaking above you.

You've felt it before, so you knew what to do. Don't fight. Don't breathe. Fall and ride and be pulled and, when you can, surface. Breathe. See. Don't judge. Don't understand.

You rub your eyes hard enough to hurt, hard enough to paint fireworks in the darkness, green lines of logic in the chaos. You did understand, that's the problem. You did understand, but you can't see it anymore, just whiffs in the air, a scent long forgotten. Ortega's shiver under your hand demanding vengeance. You can't read that mind.

But you can make sure it won't have to suffer these dreams again.

So.

You're on your feet before you know it, filled with an aggressive energy you thought were lost to you moments ago. The Void WILL come, you know that. You've tasted obsession, and it doesn't let go of it's prey. The Void will come and you need to be ready. Armed. You didn't find a gun when you searched the buildings, but you need something sharp enough to cut a skinsuit. It didn't feel like armor. You don't remember armor. A helmet, yes, larger, fitted with...

A diver descending the depths....

"Hey, Sides?" Ortega's voice catches you frozen against a window, a twisted silhouette feeling less than human.

"I hate that nickname." You complete your scrutiny of the surroundings. Nothing. Yet.

"You told me no names on the job." A groan as Ortega gets up on all fours, cords still attached.

"Learning in the worst possible way. Just like you." You move over to detach Ortega, the batteries drained. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit." But on their feet, flexing with a wince. "I can move. You said there was a generator?"

"I did, if the gasoline's still good." You had sniffed the tank, but it had been hard to tell.

"It can go bad?" An incredulous look, and you toss Ortega the water bottle. Good catch. You feel better about your chances.

"Of course it can." Trust a Ranger not to know about things like that. Everything new. Everything paid for.

"I think we should start it up." Low words, meeting your gaze.

"Me too." On the same page, like always. "We're gonna be found, might as well lead them to where we want them. And we'll have a better shot with you at capacity."

"Doubt we'll get there on a generator, but any zap would be good."

"Setting yourself up to be bait?" You finish your search of the room, finding no better weapon than the utility knife you found earlier.

"The Void's looking for me."

"And I can make sure they don't spot me."

"Can you?" Ortega puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you around to face them. "You said that didn't work last time."

"I didn't know how the Void worked last time." You try to turn away, but the hand keeps you there, and for some reason you don't want it to let go. 

"And you do now?" Trust Ortega to get well enough to worry. "We'll only have one chance at this."

"And what are our options?" It's not wise to lean close. It's not wise to place your hand over theirs. "Walk into the wilderness hoping Sentinel picks us up first once dawn comes? Set d¨fire to the building to draw attention to us?"

"That's not a bad plan." Soft words against your ear, not a hug, but the whisper of one. "He must be looking."

"You want what I want, though." You knew it when the generator was mentioned. Knew you were on the same page.

"To take down Void." Pulling away. Ortega or you? The cold air doesn't reveal your secrets. "We won't get a better chance."

"Angry. Overconfident." You could taste the arrogance. 

"You should be dead. I should be a ruin." Ortega grins.

"You should be desperate for a reload." Your smile is an echo. "A light in a dark place, barely hidden behind blocked windows. A running generator."

"We don't know who will come." Ortega looks unsure, for the first time. Some of those pendejos I'm not sure I could take. Not like this."

"Won't dare to wait too long. Would risk losing us to death or rescue. Probably who might have been left at the place we escaped."

"And we took a toll there already." A grim set to Ortega's jaw. "Void is the biggest danger then."

"I might have a plan for that." You do. And you don't like it.

Neither does Ortega when you tell it to them.

...

Hours later. Pre-dawn. The generator chugs away in the shed, the single lightbulb casting a pale, yellowish light over Ortega, sprawled against one wall. It could be a Renaissance painting, if you hadn't forgotten the names. You were taught them for a cover story, it's a wonder the feeling of light on humanity stayed at all. Some Madonna, or broken God, resplendent in their humanity. Ortega's eyes are closed, but you can feel them waiting. 

Can the Void?

You doubt it, predators don't bother with smaller ones, what does a wolf care about a cat? Or a rat? You feel like one, squeezed into the corner of the shed, behind the generator. Your breathing is covered by the sound it makes, your electrical aura covered by what Ortega puts out. Heat signature wouldn't be too different, this one is running hot. As for your mind...

You're not even here.

Re-Gene stillness, calmly waiting, nothing moving, no thoughts. Awareness. Waiting. 

Waiting.

Waiting.

The ground twists, but you don't move. The air shivers, but you ignore that violation as you do the door. Kicked in. Brutal. Not Void, a zealot unmoved by Ortega's display, stepping through the room like a battlefield, but someone's watching...

There!

You feel it in the defiled spaces of the room as Void follows, eyes on her target, safe in voidglow, the field barely deployed. Is she worried it might hurt Ortega in their state? So bruised, so hurt, struggling to their feet at the zealot approaches, no fear at the spark of electricity.

Sorry Ortega, looks like this one won't care you've got your juice back.

You move, slowly and without intent. To the side, not a threat, don't look. Look at Ortega slammed back against the wall, dust raining from the roof, the shed groaning under the impact. Look at them. Look at them struggle. Look at them fight. Charge. Hero. Nearly broken. Afraid.

Afraid? Good show.

The utility knife is already extended, not too far, just enough to... there, your eyes don't look, but you can see, no intent, just calm observation of the heavy helmet, the thin skinsuit, lightly armored, but the joints...

Ortega screams in pain.

You don't look, but the Void does, takes a step forward, arm raised, breath quickening, curse Ortega for knowing that leaving the jacket off was the right call, you step closer, feeling the world turn but you're a tightrope walker and you slice!

Deep.

Through the field. Through the thinnest lining in the shoulder joint. At the arm pit. Never comfortable if it is thick and hard there. Not in armor like this. Not for someone who is not used to getting hurt.

It's not supposed to happen.

You feel the Voidfield deploy, pain washing over you like acid, but you're not screaming, you're licking the blade. A sharp stab as your tongue is cut, but by then the green has you.

"Gotcha."

The world has slowed, but not for you, and not for her. You're falling freely, but you're not afraid to land. You're churning like a cork in the waves, but you're still afloat. Your brain reaches for pictures to make sense of a world that does not, but in the end you do what saves your sanity and don't.

No.

Don't understand. You have a grip on Void, in the three ways and five, your fingers in her arm and you smash her helmet as you fall sideways. It breaks like frozen paper, bottleglass visor cracking to your weighted fist, but her eyes are wide and she screams at you and you force yourself not to hear. You did not understand language, once. You did not understand concepts. You still said no, and you do it again.

No.

Pain blooms, but your pain-gate doesn't care what way your nerves are flayed, it throttles sensation to an acceptable level. She thinks you're human, and she's so wrong. You laugh. She hits you again and you keep laughing. It's a drop of blood, you waste of space, what do you think you can do with that against her?

So you bite. Hard.

Blood in your mouth. Deep underwater green of folding reality and does she wear the helmet because she is Afraid? Because she is Afraid of what she might see?

Deep, deep, deep, you fold and she screams and you're clinging to her, mouth and arms, and you can feel the pressure. Hard. Unyielding. You should pop like a grape in the jaws of death, but you refuse understanding on a level equal to armor. Slam the gates, shut shut shut, watertight seals, partition understanding before the truth breaks over your head. 

She screams.

You accept the reality of a scream (sound is heard). The fact of blood in your mouth (you have no mouth). The feeling of a mind against (not yours). Push down (wrong word for wrong direction). Close folds (understanding collapses here so you don't).

No.

You exist at a level of reality where you have no business existing.

And so you leave her there. 

Broken.

Compressed by understanding.

Humanity always looked for the light of knowledge even if it would burn them.

You're not human. You couldn't care less.

Unfolding.

Cutting away, and that HURTS in ways your pain-gates struggle with. Becoming lesser. Flattened like a folded paper. Dull. Nothing.

You're not human: you know this. 

Worthless: a reflection of glory.

Fact: acceptance.

"words.familiar.understanding.forced.yourname."

"words.mumbled.fragment."

"yourname"

"disjointed.word."

"YOURNAME!"

"What?" You cough the word into the world, and stares up at a face, strangely angular against the retreating nothingness. 

"We need to get out!" An arm is trying to drag you to your feet, and you realize that there is a fire burning. The back wall. Near the generator lies the zealot, the big shape twisted in death, the handle of a screwdriver jutting out of one eyeball.

"You. Killed." Death. Should you know death?

"He had a screw loose." The joke is. Is. A joke. You know jokes. You know this. You know... Ortega.

"Idiot," you say and reality fits together once more. Fact. Ortega is an idiot. Your idiot.

"We need to go." But the look on their face fits it better now, the angles making a strong nose, a sharply angled cheekbone. "You're stuck, I need you to help me."

"Stuck." Your arm is cold, and you realize it is stuck. In the ground. For a moment the world turns bad again, and you pull it out.

Then you throw up.

"Ugh, gross." Ortega tugs you to your feet, and you stumble together through the broken door. Outside, the sky has lightened into blue, and the smoke is rising into it.

"Don't let go of me." You feel an urge to rise with it, to fade to nothing in the worlds between.

"I won't." Ortega holds you tightly, and you ride the waves, focusing on their heart. You feel drunk, the senseless motion of everything, the urge to turn yourself inside out. "What happened to Void?"

"What did you see?" You don't want to.

"I don't know." Maybe Ortega doesn't want to either. "The Void field. I couldn't. And then it snapped, and the guy who was choking me out screamed, so I stabbed him in the eye Then you were there, half stuck in the floor."

"I think Void is... dead." You say the word and it's not a lie, but you don't think it's true. Neither is gone. Or unmade. Flat terms for a worse fate. 

"No body, though."

"Not here." You swallow, forgetting. "Elsewhere."

"Oh. Well, good riddance. Hope they won't return for a rematch, you look half dead," Ortega tries another joke.

"I feel it." But that is also a lie. You feel alive. Giddy and unsteady. Drunk on oxygen at the top of the world. "And they're gone." Understood. You are better at forgetting.

"Think Sentinel will see this signal?" Ortega looks up at the smoke. "I'm alright with being rescued. This once."

"Again you mean." You focus on the banter, and the feeling of skin against yours. It's not easy to let the feeling of understanding go. Is that what made people so addicted to Void's blood? The glimpse of something more?

Maybe. Not safe to think about.

And, if you're being honest with yourself, you don't need more.

This feeling. Hurt and bruised but together. Laughing. Human. It's enough. More than you ever thought you'd get.

You let everything else drift away like smoke on the wind.