A/N: HERE WE ARE AGAIN. HOPEFULLY THIS IS THE LAST TIME I REWRITE THIS SUCKER—I mean, third time's the charm, right? Right?
Anyways. Enjoy.
- PART 1 - CLEAN OUT OF AIR -
•••
I was having a pretty okay day before I got electrocuted. Unsurprisingly, though, that isn't actually the worst thing that's ever happened to me.
That sounds odd out of context. I should probably start from the beginning.
Since I've lived here, Divine has never allowed me outside. I don't know why. I've never wanted to ask. But I've learned to sneak out.
On the third floor, there's a vent shaft just big enough for me where I can slide down into the grounds outside, then make my escape out the back lot. I shimmy back up through the vent and into the hall when I have to come back. Easy as that.
On weekends, and sometimes on Monday mornings, even those clerics who always get up earliest sleep in until at least nine. I can slip out without worrying about anyone seeing me—least of all, Divine.
Outside, it's a crisp and cold morning—the sky is gray and overcast, and it feels like it might rain if the cloud cover doesn't burn off by mid afternoon.
I'll take any weather, though; the Movement building is always abnormally cold. Whatever I get, rain or shine, I don't care. I'm just lucky to be outside.
I have a handful of people inside the Movement that sometimes help me get free. Clerics who don't know my name, but will turn the other cheek when I slip past them. Seria, especially, is a godsend; she'll cover for me if I'm gone and Divine is looking for me, and sometimes I'll find little gifts she leaves under my bed. Sometimes it's money for my next venture outside. I've been in the Movement for as long as I can remember, and she's always helped me no matter what without so much as a request from me.
The Movement building is in the heart of the business district, close enough to downtown that I can see neon lights from my window every night. If I follow the footpath underneath the highway for ten-ish minutes, though, I come into the Daimon District.
It's quiet, a little dirtier than it is near the Movement, and full of people with strange yellow markings on their faces, but I've never been bothered by anybody while here. I just get looked over and passed by.
I have no trouble with it, though. The less people who bother me, the better. It's just for safety's sake. It'll get me in trouble if I make any friends outside the Movement and they come looking for me.
There's a tattoo and piercing place on the corner of the main boulevard, squished in between a card shop and a garage. I've been there a few times, usually after I've saved enough of the money Seria leaves me to pay for something. On the inside, it smells clean and cool, and there's always something with a lot of guitar playing on the record machine in the corner by the waiting area chairs.
Yoshiko Inoue is at the counter, as per the usual. She's a plump, tall woman almost Divine's age—taller still with the help of the high heels she totters around in—with a sparkly septum piercing, tattoos peeking out of the neckline of her top, and wavy hair dyed a bright cyan.
"C," she croons when she sees me. "It's been three months too long, sweetheart."
"Hi, Inoue." I boast a smile.
"What brings you around?"
"Just wanted you to check how my forearm is healing. And maybe get some more ink."
"Sounds like a plan." She punches a few numbers into the cash register. "What'll you have?"
"What do you suggest?"
"I'll charge you the minimum and think of something pretty."
"Deal."
She passes me the usual paperwork to sign, and I hand over the money and put my signature in all the necessary places. I'm two years short of the legal tattooing age in Neo Domino, but Inoue doesn't know. The Movement has all sorts of materials to fake credentials and identification for members who need to falsify their identities or otherwise hide their abilities. And I'm good at sneaking in and out of places I probably shouldn't be in; doing things I probably shouldn't be doing.
I've only ever used it a couple times—Seria confiscated it from me when she learned that I had it. Lucky for me, Inoue hasn't asked for it since the second or third time I showed up here, about a year ago when I first started sneaking outside. I've been here for two piercings and a few tattoos, and I spent enough time talking to her in the beginning that it didn't take her long to recognize my face.
I shove the receipt from the transaction into my back pocket, and Inoue hands me the tattoo book before we walk back toward her chair. I flick through a few pages, and when I decide what I think I want, I sit down and Inoue starts to prep my skin and her tools.
"Your last one looks pretty good," she says, turning my right arm over. "You take good care of your ink, that's for sure." Her voice suddenly changes as she says, "What's with all of the welts?"
It takes everything in me not to yank away from her, but I do turn my inner arm away from her to keep her from looking at the blood bruises and protruding veins beneath my skin. "Work injuries. I'm used to them, they're not as bad as they look."
"Mmhm, I remember something like those on you last time, too. Must be a pretty dangerous line of work."
"Yep," I breathe.
"What do you do again?"
"Electrical engineer," I blurt. I can't remember if she's asked me the question before, much less if I answered the same.
"Right, right, got it." I listen to the sound of her washing her hands in the sink behind the chair before she pulls her gloves on; the damp wad of cotton she rubs over my arm is a familiar, sort of soothing feeling. The razor blade that comes next almost tickles.
I've got three tattoos already—a bouquet of roses on my left shoulder, a compass rose on my right forearm, and a blur of clouds down toward my left wrist from my elbow. This will be my fourth; a flock of ravens to mingle with the cloud cover.
I watch her feed the design through her stencil machine, and I stay perfectly still as she dabs my skin with some water and presses the stencil on; it leaves a bluish ghost of bird shapes flying from my elbow to my mid-forearm.
There really isn't any meaning to these other than the fact that I get them when I hoard enough money for outside trips—they're mementos to remind me that I've been outside. That I've tasted freedom for more than a few moments. And they're pretty to look at when I get the opportunity.
I tilt my head back against the headrest as she prepares the needle and the ink. I only look up again, eager to watch her work, when the ointment that's supposed to hold the stencil in place gets slathered on my arm. Then Inoue finds a seat, picks up her buzzing needle, and goes to work.
Whenever I go, I just pick ones I think I'll like, often on Inoue's suggestion. The more detail, the longer I can stay outside. My pain tolerance is already so high that the buzzing of the needle against my skin only feels like someone grazing their fingernails up and down my arm.
"What's the news today?" I ask.
"Nothing particularly noteworthy," Inoue answers, without looking up from what she's doing. "Though, last night, there was a high speed chase outside my apartment building. Apparently a couple of turbo duelists got into it."
"That sounds exciting."
"It's been a while since anything really big happened, and that's saying something, that Neo Domino's underground district has been sleepy as of late." She glances up toward me. "Doin' okay?"
"Yep, take your time."
Inoue chuckles. "You say that every time you're here."
"Well, I want you to."
"Most kids who get ink at your age are crying at me to go faster," she laughs.
"I don't feel a thing, I'd let you draw on me for weeks."
"Well, jeez, maybe someday!" She looks back down toward my arm; I watch the ink bloom along my skin. "Hey, you hear about the Fortune Cup?"
"No," I say. "What is it?"
"Christ, kid, you definitely live under a rock."
"So to speak," I mumble.
"The Bureau Administrator, Goodwin, he's holding a tournament in the Memorial Circuit. Duelists from all over are showing up for the chance to duke it out with Jack Atlas."
"Oh, sounds prestigious," I say, even though I only have a very faint idea of who 'Jack Atlas' is. The name sounds familiar, like I must've seen it stamped on something I've read. A billboard I've looked at while walking by, or something.
The words 'Goodwin' and 'Bureau', though, are familiar. I can faintly recall Divine complaining about a Bureau and a man named Goodwin—that was a long time ago, when government workers were snooping all around Arcadia for… uh, something. I don't know what it was. I've never asked. They all left almost as soon as they came.
I spend the majority of the session staring up at the brick-colored ceiling, listening to the needle buzzing, picking out any other sounds I can find. Inoue left the door to her room open, so I can still hear the guitar music from the record player in the waiting room. It's Monday today, and I know from past sessions that no one else is ever in on Monday mornings.
Whenever I get the opportunity to come outside and treat myself to little things like this, I feel pretty good. It's something to cherish and to look forward to. I'll have to thank Seria for the money later, and show her my new tattoo. She worries about me and I don't think she'll ever really stop being upset with me about the fake I.D. thing, but she likes to hear about when I go outside. She says she can always tell when I've gone, because it "changes me."
Normally, I hide all of my tattoos from Divine. I put myself in Arcadia robes when I'm going around the Movement, and they cover me from neck to toe. The first time he found out that I'd been outside, I'd gotten the first one a few days before a medical examination I'd forgotten about. I had to disrobe for the doctor, who told Divine that I was tattooed, and he was livid.
The clothes I wear right now, I bought outside of the Movement; if I go out in Arcadia robes, not only would I not fit in, but I would draw attention to myself. Vice versa, I hide these clothes when I'm not wearing them. I don't know what Divine would do if he found them.
There's no clock in the room, so I don't know how long it takes for Inoue to finish, but before I know it, she's snapping a picture of my arm with her cell phone.
"It looks really nice with the clouds," she says. "Nicer than I thought it would!"
"Good, I'm glad," I laugh. "It is on my body."
"Pretty, pretty. That's going in my portfolio." She changes out her gloves, washing her hands in between, and starts to rub down the tattoo with ointment again. "I don't have to lecture you on aftercare, do I? Bandage on for two to four hours, wash it with soap, moisturize, all that good stuff?"
"Yeah, I think you've read it to me enough times."
"Great." She wraps it in bandages, then in a couple filmy layers of plastic. "The plastic's in case it ends up raining. The weather forecast says it's supposed to pour at some point today, and you didn't come in here with a jacket."
"I gotcha," I say, jumping up out of the chair. "Thanks, Inoue."
"Pleasure doing business with you, C. Stay dry, now."
"I will!"
On the fake I.D., "C" was short for "Chiharu", but that's definitely not what it's really short for. Actually, if I could sell my soul for "Chiharu" to be my name, I think I'd do it. Anything is better than what I'm really stuck with.
Outside on the sidewalk, I can practically taste the static in the air; it'll rain, but it's likely there'll also be some thunder and lightning. I really should go back, but I want to stay outside longer. I don't know when I'll be able to go out after this.
After wandering around for a little while, I find a coffee shop just out of Daimon that's pretty sleepy, only has a few people in it, and order a cup of black coffee.
It only takes a few seconds for the barista to pour it from a pot it looks like was just brewed, and I take the cup to a table in the corner. I read the receipt while I drink it; Divine never really let me have coffee, just tea. He always said tea was healthier for my "growth", but even now when I'm old enough to have stopped growing, he still doesn't let me drink coffee.
At some point, I can hear it start raining, and the other barista behind the counter gets up to close the door and keep the rain from blowing in.
If I could stay and do this forever—watch raindrops race down the windowpanes and sip coffee and forget that I have any responsibilities or worries—I would.
I could run, right now. And I've thought about that a lot. But I have nowhere to go, and the large majority of money I've been saving up, I just spent on a tattoo. I've never really been on my own… and there are a lot of things I just don't know.
And I guess I go back because I'm scared. I don't know what's going to become of me tomorrow, whether or not I go back to Arcadia. I never know.
When my coffee's gone, I stare at the grounds sitting in the bottom of the cup for a few more minutes, until I can't stand the sound of the rain hitting the roof anymore, and I head out.
I go running, the rain stinging in my eyes, ducking underneath overhangs in front of shops and buildings to try and keep from getting wetter. The run back to the Movement building isn't as grueling as I thought it might be. The rain soaks into my skin, and somehow I feel more alive as I streak back toward home.
It's the first time I've seen it for myself without looking at it through a window.
It takes me a little longer than usual to traverse the air vent—I've done it enough that I know the easiest way to climb it, but it's a little bit more difficult with wet shoes. I have to press my back against one side and prop my legs up on the other, then walk myself carefully up until I reach the lip of the vent that curves in toward the inside of the building, to the left of where I came inside. After that, it's only a little ways crawl to the vent cover at the end of the hall on the third floor—it's discreet and a straight shot, and Divine's office is on the eighth floor, so the probability of him being around to see me slip in and out is usually really low.
That is, unless he's looking for me. Which doesn't happen a lot anymore as of late.
I squeeze water out of the ends of my hair and jostle the vent shaft open, then unfold myself out into the hall. When I shut the vent, I slink forward a little until I can see where the corridor cuts into two, just in case someone might be near or coming. I don't hear anyone… I think I'm out of the woods, at least until I get back to my room, change, and dry off.
I brush the water from my arms and shake it from my hair, but as I round a corner on the way to the stairwell, I crash into him.
Divine.
Older than me by five, maybe ten years—lean, tall enough to look over me, with sharp green-gold eyes.
I think I liked him once. For a while, I think I even called him Father. But there's no kindness in his eyes now, and certainly no memories of my childhood anywhere in the rage underneath his expression.
Those eyes dart to my wet hair, the plastic around my forearm…
"You went outside again." It's not a question—it's more of a demand, really, for me to admit to my crime, and there's a deathly calm in his voice that makes my entire body feel like it's icing over from the inside out.
"Yes," I whisper.
The first time he caught me, when the doctor told him about the first tattoo, I tried to apologize. He said that, if I were sorry, I wouldn't have done it. I gave up on apologizing as a reply after that.
"When will you learn," he states. "I keep thinking that we've reached the point where you discover that you don't disobey my orders, but you keep proving me wrong."
I swallow. His eyes catch on my new tattoo for a few more seconds.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me along behind him; I don't struggle, I don't make a sound. That'll make it worse.
The door to the stairwell slams against the wall as he wrenches it open, and I hear it slam again behind us about two flights down, on our way to the Lab floor.
"Following directions is an effortless task," he says, voice sharp, as he pulls me down the stairs. "If you listened to me like a good girl, you could avoid this. I promise you that having to take punitive action for your misdemeanors hurts me much more than it hurts you."
I keep my mouth shut as we come out into the Lab floor, then further in to the testing quadrant. No talking back, either. That's worse than trying to apologize.
I'm familiar with the testing quadrant, but it's because I've been here so many times for the same reason.
Divine drops me, actually nearly tosses me, and my back hits the examination table so hard that air whooshes out of my stomach. By the time I catch my breath, I'm already in six of eight electrodes.
Electrocution, I've found, is similar to getting a really big shot. Or having your blood drawn. You don't realize that it's happened or is happening until you're knee deep in it, and by then it's too late to react. It's too late to do anything but try to grit your teeth past the pain. What's funnier to me is that I can never remember what it feels like—at least, until I'm already sitting there with the electrodes reaching beneath my skin.
"This is for your own good, Cipher," he says. And the electricity starts.
