1.1.4 Good For You (Patreon)

Path 1.1.4

(3875 words of Ranch broken legs ending with solo Ortega friend or romance. Sappy Sidestep opening up. Once again, this was written in one sitting, first draft, no variables, no choices, no personality, no grammar checking. Will probably be changed a lot, I just needed to get it out there.) 

(The other part of Revelations I am working on, 1.2.2 is in the boring stage of filling out and adding variables and connecting scenes to turn it into a proper demo, so nothing fun to share there yet. Progress is being made though!)

----

You're never getting used to the emptiness. 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. 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 on yourself. Day three, and nothing much have changed. Clothes have changed, 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 day here. It's easy to do, you were half unconscious with pain already. You feel better now, not because you've healed to any great extent, but because you haven't moved around. 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 wish you could fall asleep again to enjoy them.

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 them, 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.

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. Not inside dogs, thankfully, you couldn't handle an excited border collie right now, let 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. But this time, they are on your side.

Safe. It's hard to guard against that feeling, even as broken as you are. They roam the ranch, Elena's eyes and ears. It shouldn't be safe for a lone woman to live here, out in the middle of nowhere, especially not the mother of one of the Rangers. She's armed, sure, but the real protector hovers close to her, eager for breakfast. She laughs, scratching the bony forehead around the horns. A Nigerian dwarf goat might not look dangerous, but Snowball is the reason you agreed to come here. How long has it been since you and Ortega rescued her? Almost a decade? She must be getting old, but there's no hint of pain in her joints or back. How would aging even work for a boosted goat? What other experiments did the scientists subject her to before she killed them?

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, but from what you can pick up from her, so far it's mostly been Coyotes getting exploded. You hope there won't be human operatives next time. You hope Ortega's been able to erase your tracks through the system. $!{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 doubts 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 put 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?" The words are softly spoken through the door, allowing you ignore them 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...

*page_break ... The Summer of 2012.

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

[i]"She'll deal," Ortega assures you. "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.

[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. "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 wil 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 do.

[i]You press your hand against your eyes, hard enough to see stars. Green. That's a thought you don't need. 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.

"More coffee?" Tia Elena makes a move for your cup, and you nod mutely. It's not strong, the scent offering 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 of things." 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.

"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, looking out the window. You echo her movement, the curtains are open now, revealing sunshine and view if the distant brown hills. "We thought you were dead."

"That's not far from the truth." Your voice is bleak enough that she doesn't get angry. 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 themself. "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 were 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. "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. 

"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. Do they bark?"

"Sometimes," 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 they recover as your brain does? How will you know?

*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.

*page_break You Wish You Could Forget More.