A/N: Kid and Pat's fanmix link in my profile ^^


(dylan)

"Dylan," says your mother, and there's the most peculiar look in her eyes as she kneels down to embrace you.

"Hello, Mom."

She doesn't reply, only holds you close, her grip warm and firm and somehow so motherly you can't help but respond, hugging her back just as fiercely and burying your head in the sweet-smelling crook of her neck. A moment later you feel your feet leave the ground as she lifts you and walks to the living room, her heels clicking on the black marble of the apartment's floor.

"Hey Mom," you say from her lap once everyone's been situated, "who's that lady?"

The lady in question smiles and waves. "I'm your Aunt Maddie," she says. "It's good to meet you."

"Likewise," you reply, eliciting a warm chuckle from your aunt.

"That man's taking good care of you, Dylan?" Mom asks, hands running across the top of your head.

"Yes," you say. "Mr. Calibur is a great cook." You reach up and tuck a strand of hair that's come loose from your mother's bun behind her ear, to match the other one, and beam at the sudden symmetry of her face. She smiles back, lips curving upward, but somehow her expression is almost melancholy, which doesn't make sense, as smiles are supposed to be expressions of happiness. "Why are you sad, Mom?" you ask her, and her eyes widen, surprised.

"Why would I be sad?"

"I don't know. But it's not good for you to be sad. Let's play a game of chess; that'll cheer you up!" Excitedly, you leap from her lap and towards the coffee table in the middle of the living room. With a few swipes you've pulled up the chess mod. The pieces materialize about the smooth surface, a perfect array of little holograms. You look up at her, grinning eagerly.

"You're very lucky, Arianne," says Aunt Maddie lightly. "He's quite smart for his age."

"Yes," replies your mother softly, settling down cross-legged on a cushion across from you. You're the white, so you go first.

"Mom, where's Dad? How come he didn't come too?"

"Your father is very busy, Dylan," she replies, tapping the square directly in front of a pawn. "He couldn't make it, I'm afraid."

"Oh," you say, crestfallen. "But Dad said that he really wanted to see me. He's the boss of his company, right? Couldn't he leave for an hour or so?"

"I'm afraid not," your aunt says with a shrug.

"Why?" you ask, frowning.

"We have a deal, your parents and me," is all she says, and something in the overly saccharine way the words drip from her mouth makes you turn back to the board, feeling that it would be unwise to question further.

"So how's school? What have you been up to?" Mom asks you, her voice a little too bright.

You shrug. "I'm not sure school is the right word, but the tutor bot is teaching me trigonometry. I'm also going to be seven in a week. Mr. Calibur says I can't have a party." Suddenly hopeful, you look up at your mother. "Can I have a party?"

She laughs. "Mr. Calibur's word is law, unfortunately, so I'm afraid not. I will make sure to get you a present, though."

"Oh, yes," Aunt Maddie purrs. "We all will."

Mom gives her a swift, piercing glance. "I'm sure," she replies, her voice clipped.

"Check," you say.

Your mother raises her eyebrows. "My! When did you get so good at chess?"

"Mr. Calibur and I play a lot of games," you say smugly.

She frowns, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Mmm…I sense a trap, so…check, right back at you."

You stick out your tongue. "No fair."

"All's fair in love and war," chirps your aunt.

Your mother's jaw stiffens. "Not now, Madeline."

You eye the two women, puzzled. What's going on? But glancing at the board, you see an opportunity, and with a small smile take out her knight with your bishop.

"Checkmate," you say, and then sit back, arms crossed over your chest.

Mom squints at the board. "I do believe it is," she says finally.

"Well," says Aunt Maddie, standing up, little numbers flashing briefly in her eyes. "It's time to go. It was lovely meeting you, Dylan. I'm sure your mother feels much the same." She opens her arms for a hug. You oblige her, closing your arms quickly, briefly about her middle before stepping away.

"Dylan," says Mom, and the hug you give her is much more heartfelt.

"Can't you stay a little longer?" you ask, looking up at her pleadingly.

Mom smiles and shakes her head. "I wish. But I've got to go back to work." She leans down and plants a quick kiss on your forehead before following your aunt out the door.

You are almost seven years old. Today was the first time you met your mother in the flesh, rather than speaking to her in a hologram. You sigh and, after a few moments, call for your tutor bot to come and resume the lesson.


(patti)

"Hands up, cash out," says Sis in a sing-song voice, pointing the pistol almost lazily at the man. After a beat, he complies, sighing resignedly.

"I wouldn't do this if I were you, girls," he says, as you saunter forward, snagging the wadded paper from his hands.

"Too baaaad," you chirp, smiling as you jab him in the ribs with your gun. The man only sighs.

"You'll be sorry," he says, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," your sister snaps, pushing the barrel of her weapon against his neck. "It's us who got the guns, not you, asshat."

You giggle, twirling your gun around your fingers. "Bang, bang!"

"I'm not someone to be trifled with...the cops will be notified of this."

You don't bother to contain your guffaw at his threat. Sis smiles, a thin stream of smoke issuing from her parted lips. "Look around. You're in the bad part of town, buddy," she says, plucking out the cigarette from between her teeth. "Cops don't care about the stuck-up little gutter rat who got his paycheck jacked. Now shoo, if ya know what's good for ya…"

"Mmm," he hums silkily, hand drifting towards the breast pocket of his coat. "I don't think so."

Suddenly, you know what's going to happen. As the man pulls the gun from his pocket, you lift your own and pull the trigger in one fluid motion. The man's head jerks back, blood flying from the hole in his skull to splatter against the grimy walls of the alley as he crumples to the ground.

"Aw, Patti," says Lizzie. "Now my new shirt's dirty."

"You can have mine!" you reply cheerfully. Your sister shakes her head.

"No, keep it. I have a spare." She kneels down and begins pawing through the dead man's clothes. "Knew it," she mutters, pulling out a fat wad of cash from an inside pocket of his coat, along with a knife, a wallet, and a few other odds and ends. She tosses you the cash. "I could have handled him, you know."

"Not without getting hurt."

Sis sighs. "I just don't like you killing people."

"But you do it all the time!"

"That's because I'm older. I'm supposed to take care of you."

"We take care of each other."

Your sister gives you a long look. "Sure, Pat," she says finally, and her hand reaches down, fingers lacing with yours. "We do."

-o-

They come at night, when the two of you are curled together on the nest of rags that serves as your bed, shattering the relative quiet of the night with their loud voices and bright lights and grabbing hands, yanking you roughly out of sleep. Your sister shrieks and struggles and so do you, but your twiggy, undernourished body is no match for that of a hardened police officer's, and you're forced to watch as they wrestle your sister into electrocuffs that shock her every time she tries to break free. "Sis!" you shriek. "Sis!"

"Patti!" she cries, and that's the last time you hear her voice for a while.


(dylan)

You decide to hack Erebus Medical, your father's company, because you are sick and tired of being kept in the dark.

Since you can remember, your parents were only ever holograms that you got to talk to for one hour every day, and never both at once. Then, when you were seven, your mother visited, and then one month later, your father, and so it's been for the past six years, always in the company of either Aunt Madeline or Aunt Shaula for some inexplicable reason. At first, you took it as normal, that that was the way that all families worked. But then, as you became more and more embroiled in the online world of the terminal, you'd found that it wasn't the case, that people's parents usually came home to sleep at the very least, no matter how busy their job was. In fact, if you didn't know better, you would almost think that the three of you were criminals, but the very notion was so preposterous that you dismissed it at once. Or, at least, the idea of your parents being criminals. You're not sure if the kind of hacking you do is illegal; after all, you're not releasing any bugs in the systems you compromise, instead seeking merely to challenge yourself. But if you asked your parents or aunts, all you'd get was a vague "Lots of work to do!" and suddenly the conversation would be steered to safer topics.

"What are you doing?"

You don't turn around, keeping your fingers steady on the terminal's control desk and repressing the urge to twitch at the sound of your caretaker's voice behind you, entirely unexpected. "Go away, Mr. Calibur, I'm busy," you say, keeping your tone carefully flat.

Your caretaker marches up and peers over your shoulder. "What was that you just exited out of?"

"Research for my assignment."

"So then why did you close it as soon as you heard my voice? Pull up your history, young man."

You grit your teeth and do as he asks. For a few moments, Mr. Calibur stares at your recent webpages, mouth agape, and then his pasty face quickly turns to an astonishingly rich shade of puce. "Are you trying to hack your father's company?!"

"Yes," you say, keeping your tone carefully even.

"You fool! Stop this right now or I'll-"

"What? Tell my father?"

"Fool!" screeches your caretaker, brandishing his cane. "I will pull you from that terminal myself if you don't stop right this instant!"

You give Mr. Calibur a dirty look, wondering at his overblown reaction. "For thirteen years-"

"-you've had a wonderful life! Why should you possibly care why things are the way they are! They just are! That's how most families these days operate anyway!"

"No, it isn't! I saw on the terminal-"

"Then no more terminal!"

You look at your caretaker, incredulous. Mr. Calibur's watery blue eyes drill into yours unflinchingly. "No more terminal," he repeats.

"Bullshit-"

"Don't you swear at me-"

"I wasn't going to damage anything-"

"Fool! You don't know the-"

"Why the h…the fuck else-"

"That's it, young man, no more-"

"WHAT, exactly?! The terminal is the only-"

"FOOL!" bellows Mr. Calibur, his voice reverberating through the apartment. Your mouth snaps shut, but you're breathing heavily. "No more terminal," he says, his eyes locked onto yours. "It'll blow up in your face, kid," he says. "Now go to your room or so help me…"

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Calibur?"

"Yes," he replies, and he opens his mouth like he wants to add more but then snaps it shut. "Go to your room," he says gruffly. "Go. Just go," and something in the set of his face, not possessed of its usual fire but suddenly rather exhausted, something it's never, ever been before, sends you on your way without complaint.

-.-

It's on quiet socked feet that you emerge from your room, the screen holding your notes under one arm, and tiptoe to the living room, where the terminal crouches against a back wall. You can hear Mr. Calibur's snores, safely loud, in the room across the hall from yours, and smile to yourself. Your caretaker's in on whatever secret it is your relatives are keeping from you, apparently, and that's why he got so angry when he found out what you were up to. But it's one thirty in the morning, and he's asleep. You have plenty of time.

Computers have always been your one great love in life. Their precision, their unscrupulous, inexorable calculations, their beauty, their efficiency all appeal to some deep part of you. From an early age you were drawn to them, messing around on the terminals, learning their language, the way they worked. Even so, your father's internet security poses a challenge. You'd been chipping away at it for days, though, and finally, at six-oh-four in the morning, you gain access to his databases. You have to repress the urge to shout with triumph.

But what do you look for? You press your lips together, and settle on your mother, because she's the best lead you have. You know that she works for your father, that she has for a long time. With shaking fingers, you type her name: Arianne Mortimer.

"Clearance Level 10 Required" flashes briefly across the hologram, followed by "Access Granted." With bated breath, you watch as your mother's picture loads. She smiles her Mona Lisa smile at the camera, clad in a white lab coat and glasses, her dark hair done up in its usual no-nonsense bun. Beneath it is some basic information: her height, weight, age, birthdate, and…

"Icy," you whisper, because there on the bottom row are the things you've always wanted to know: Projects. The list is short: Spider (C), DWeap-42 (C), Bandage (C), 83657 (T), REVIGOR (IP)

Frowning, you click "REVIGOR", as it is the most recent one. Almost immediately, the data begins to load, window after window of charts and graphs, reports and signatures, and at first you're completely bewilderedby the sheer amount of information, eyes rapidly scanning the documents before they're eclipsed by new ones. You catch snippets:

"…formula 36 unsuccessful…"

"…subject exhibits signs of rapid mental degeneration…"

"…blood unable to clot…"

"…to achieve a living stasis…"

"…sudden cardiac arrest…"

And then the images begin to appear, little windows into the experiments conducted under the project. Your eyes widen, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from gagging.

a woman, clad in a thin white shift, her skin splotchy and bruised, bloody tears leaking from her eyes

a man whose heart monitor is still, but opens his eyes when a bot walks in

a robot with a human brain in its see-through skull

a child hitting its head over and over against the wall, smearing it with blood

a body twisted and disfigured by monstrous tumors

a woman whose skin appears to ripple as she descends into what looks to be an epileptic fit

and other, worse horrors. You're pressed into your chair, paralyzed by the atrocities committed in the depths of Erebus Medical, unable to believe that this is what your mother and her sisters do, that this is something your father condones. At some point you find that your eyes have slid shut and you've curled into a ball. "Halt data flood; show synopsis," you choke out, suddenly finding your voice, and after a count of exactly eight seconds you dare to open one eye.

There is only a block of text, hovering quietly, innocuously above the terminal. You pull your chair back towards the control desk and realize that you are shaking.

CLASSIFICATION LEVEL 10

REVIGOR

HEAD OF OPERATIONS: Arianne Mortimer

OBJECTIVE: Halt natural physical degeneration in order to prolong the human life span

STATUS: In Progress (IP)

REPORT INDEX

You release a breath that you didn't realize you were holding and throw up, just as Mr. Calibur emerges from his room, blinking blearily. He stops in his tracks, eyes going wide as he takes in the scene.

That's when the terminal abruptly shuts down.

-.-

"I'm impressed," says Aunt Madeline, her voice warm like honey. "We didn't expect you to make it that far in."

You don't respond, instead looking at a point somewhere above her head. The two of you are sitting across from each other in your living room, the coffee table stretching between you. Mr. Calibur is nowhere to be found.

"You've found out some information of a rather…sensitive nature. We can't have word of it spreading, you understand."

"Are you threatening me, Auntie?" you ask, your eyes darting to hers.

She smiles pleasantly. "Yes, I am."

You snort.

Her smile widens in response. From the pocket of her coat, she pulls a remote. "Do you know what this is?"

You don't answer, just stare at her flatly, letting your annoyance show.

"I wouldn't look so exasperated if I were you," she says cheerfully. "You see, with a push of this button, a small device embedded at the base of your skull will send an electric shock down your spine and overload every nerve ending in your body. You will feel the most awful pain before you die. Like your entire body is set aflame."

Involuntarily, you twitch. One hand feels the back of your neck, probes the topmost bones of your spine. After a few moments, you feel it: a small lump where there shouldn't be, something you'd always taken for a natural, harmless mutation of your spinal column. You look at her, incredulous, heart suddenly beating at twice its normal rate. "When did you-"

"When you were a toddler," Aunt Madeline laughs. "We gave both your parents one, too. If they didn't cooperate with us…" She lets the sentence trail off, one manicured finger stroking the remote. You fight the urge to gag.

"So that means…that means…I could have died?!"

"Oh, yes," says your aunt, and you hate the wide, gloating smile on her face. "Now, we'd like to ask you for a favor, Dylan."

You can only nod, numbly. It's not like you have any other choice.

"You've demonstrated admirable skills when it comes to computer security. So we'd like you to…use them for our mutual benefit."

"Of course," you reply.

"Excellent," says Aunt Madeline. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Mortimer." And with a kiss to your cheek, she walks out of the apartment, golden hair glittering.


(patti)

A NEW WAY TO STAY YOU!

We at EREBUSMED are seeking volunteers to participate in a CONFIDENTIAL RESEARCH STUDY that examines the effects of REVIGOR on the human body. REVIGOR is an experimental drug designed to keep you younger, longer!

To become one of the first to obtain the quantum driver of the cosmetics industry, you must:

be between the ages of 15 and 55

be mentally stable

have no dependence on alcohol, hallucinogens, or other such substances

Testing involves injections via hypodermic needle and minimally invasive surgical procedures. A sum of 80,000 units will be paid to eligible volunteers upon signing, with up to 2 million units in compensation.

PLEASE PING: revigorstudy:erebusmedical:corp

CALL: "Revigor Study Erebus"

"What'cha reading?"

You twitch, startled by your sister's sudden movement beside you. "Ah, nothing," you say. "Just some ad."

"What's it say?" Sis yawns, slumping back on the bench, her eyes sliding closed again.

"A research study," you say. "For some drug that makes you stay young. If you volunteer you'll get eighty thousand units."

Sis blows a raspberry. "S'not worth it," she sighs, eyes still shut. "They'll mess your body all up."

"Yeah," you say, but the thought of eighty thousand units isn't easily banished, even though the grimy screen has long since switched to another product.

The hoverbus comes some time later, and you wake up your sister and lead her up the steps and into a seat. "You should take a break, Lizzie. The cops aren't gonna get on you if you miss a day."

She snorts. "There is no way in hell," she says, fixing you with a bloodshot blue eye, "that I'm going back to jail, because then you'll be a government ward again and we both know how well that turned out."

"Yeah."

Outside, the city flashes by, the skyscrapers a towering myriad of golden flecks against the blackness of the night. On Eibon-7, that's all there is, concrete and metal and glass, a great vast metropolis covering the whole planet. And your sister is falling apart trying to keep you and complete a sentence that should have been yours, no matter what she tells you to the contrary. "I'm sorry, Sis," you say softly, biting your lip, not looking at her. A moment later, you feel her hand, rough and callused from years of labor, work its way into your own.

"Nah, don't be. Don't be," she repeats, soothingly, and it's so stupid that you're suddenly crying right now, here on this stupid bus that smells like stale food and feet and giving up because your sister already has enough to deal with without you adding to her burden. "You couldn't have known that that shitstain was some undercover government goon. I don't blame you," she murmurs into your hair, and you sniffle and clutch her tightly and nod.

Lizzie took all the blame for the incident, saying that she told you to shoot him, that you didn't know, that you were just a little kid. She was given twenty years' hard labor in a factory instead of jailtime because she was so young, only fourteen. At first she was little more than an indentured servant, but since you came to live with her again she's been given a small stipend, just enough for two people to live off of. Your sister doesn't blame you and tells you so on multiple occasions, but all the forgiveness in the world can't erase the fact that her exhausion and fragile feelings are all your goddamn fault.

-o-

You get the call in the morning, during school. The blackboard is in the middle of demonstrating one of the myriad ways to solve a quadratic equation when the office lady pokes her head in the classroom, her face unusually pale.

"Patricia Thompson?" she asks. The blackboard pauses midsentence. Heads swivel towards you. You lift your chin and raise your hand.

"I need you to come with me," she says. "Please bring your things."

Puzzled, you do as you are told, powering off your screen and threading your way towards the door.

The office lady leads you a little ways down the hall, not looking at you.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Not exactly," says the office lady, and when she turns around her expression is unusually grave.

"What's wrong, Miss?" you ask, brows furrowed in bewilderment. "Is everything okay?"

"There was an accident at the factory," she says, and then swallows. "Where your sister works. One of the machines failed."

You go utterly still.

"I received a call telling me that Miss Elizabeth Thompson was among those critically injured in the explosion. She's currently in intensive care in Erebus Hospital 15, but…"

You're already sprinting down the hall.

-o-

"Let me see her!"

The nurse puts both hands on your shoulders and pushes you gently but firmly away from the door and into a chair. "Miss, I'm going to need you to-"

"Let me in, damn you!" You take a swing at her, but the nurse dodges your fist.

"Miss, I don't want to have to stick you with this, but I will if necessary!" From a pocket she pulls out a syringe, the clear liquid inside glittering dangerously. At the sight of it, you stop resisting, and instead slump into the chair, burying your head in your hands.

The hospital waiting room is all dark, muted colors, probably meant to be calming but instead more closely resembling a funeral parlor, currently crowded with the families of those injured in the accident. It's a hive of activity: nurses call to one another and mothers wail and siblings pace and mutter and sometimes shout, but none of it reaches you, because all you can think of is Sis Sis Sis, all you can think of is her voice and her rough callused hands and the way she used to sing you to sleep when you were children and had no home but each other.

"I know, I know," says the nurse softly, her hand making soothing circles on your back, and suddenly you realize that you're crying, big fat tears slipping from your eyes to your hands and run hot and wet down your arms, and your mouth is turned down sharply and you're breathing in great ragged gasps because what can you do? Nothing, nothing, nothing at all, just sit in the funeral parlor and wait and hope and wish.

"I just want my big sis to be okay," you sob.

"We all do," the nurse replies, and at that you look up at her, silencing your tears with a great effort of will because suddenly you realize that if it was you in there, Sis wouldn't be breaking down like this; Sis would be trying her damndest to get to you and figure out how to make things right.

"Please let me see her," you say to the nurse, looking right into her eyes. They're blue, framed by red glasses and strands of dark hair. For a long moment, she holds your gaze, and then looks away, sighing deeply.

"I'm too soft," she murmurs, half to herself, and with a soft popping of bones she straightens from her crouch and pulls out a datascreen. "Who's your sister?"

"L…Elizabeth Thompson."

"Thompson…Thompson…ah, that'll be in room 1014. Come on, then."

She leads you through the door and into a long, white hallway crowded with harried-looking doctors and nurses running every which way. In the commotion, your presence goes unnoticed. The nurse turns left and right and then left again, burrowing ever deeper into the twisting rabbit's warren of the emergency ward. Through some of the doors you can hear moans and even screams and shouts, and you can't help but shudder, wondering what exactly you'll find in the room where your sister is being kept.

"Here we are," says your guide, jolting you from your thoughts. The door she's brought you to is much like the others: plain wood, windowless. You push your way through, and almost burst into tears again at the sight of the person on the bed.

Both her legs are missing. That's the first thing you notice. One ends at the knee and the other at midthigh. It's curiously incongruous, almost comical, really. You fight a sudden, insane desire to laugh. Her beautiful long blonde hair, the hair that she carefully washed and combed and tied into a ponytail each and every day is gone, and what little remains is chopped brutally short. One of her arms is in a cast and the other is vanished, empty white blankets in the space where it should be. A patch is over one eye. The pieces of skin not covered by bandages are an angry red, twisted and melted-looking. A machine breathes for her. Another monitors her heartbeat.

"Hi, Sis," you mumble, and grip the part of her remaining arm where her hand should be.

"She won't last much longer," the nurse says from behind you, and you whirl, eyes narrowed.

"Don't say that!" you all but shriek. The nurse takes a step back, raising her arms in an attempt to placate you.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just-"

"You can save her, right? There's gotta be a way, right? You can put Lizzie back together?"

"Well, erm, yes, actually-"

"How?!"

"C-cybernetic body parts," the nurse stutters. "But they're…the cost is astronomical; no one can afford them-"

"I CAN!" you blurt fiercely, gripping her shoulders. The nurse looks up at you, frightened, her glasses askew. "I can," you repeat, but the tears are coming back because you can't, there's no way, you and your sister barely have enough to pay for meals, much less impossibly expensive cybernetic body parts

body parts

and then your eyes widen as an idea occurs to you, beautiful and shining, a brilliant moment of clarity. "I CAN!" you cry, and without waiting for a response you sprint out of the room, running as fast as you can to the nearest public terminal.

-o-

TO: revigorstudy:erebusmedical:corp

FR: patriciathompson:scythenet:prsnl

RE: revigor research study

Hello, my name is Patricia Jane Thompson. I am interested in participating in your CONFIDENTIAL RESEARCH STUDY. I am sixteen years old. Attached are all the forms you said wannabe participants had to fill out. About the payment, I have one little request: please forward all units towards the paying of my big sis's hospital bill. You'll find her listed under "Elizabeth Marie Thompson" in Erebus Hospital 15. Thanks a bunch!


(dylan)

It's strange, seeing your father in so casual a setting, dressed comfortably in a t-shirt and jeans, his light brown hair artfully tousled. He could be anyone but the high-powered CEO of Erebus Medicine that he actually is. He smiles at you, and it's free of tension, an easy, genuine thing. You grin back, relaxing into the metal of the chair.

The two of you are out for lunch at a small café built into the side of a skyscraper, composed of a terrace jutting out from the main body of the building. Plants cover the veranda: shrubs burst fluffy and round from pots, towering trees cast everything in cool green dimness, and honeysuckle vines and assorted kinds of ivy drip from the edge to sway comfortably in empty space below. Live grass replaces carpet for the floor. The kitchen, despite being tucked within the building proper, is open to the air, and so the smell of food drifts enticingly through the miniature forest, causing your mouth to water.

"It's amazing, isn't it," Father says, golden eyes twinkling like twin suns. "I thought you might like it."

You nod, gazing wide-eyed around you. "It's lovely. What's the name of this place? I haven't even tried the food and I want to come back."

"The Café de Verdoyant," he says. "It's French. Means Verdant Cafe."

"Interesting," you say, as a waiter arrives to take your orders, a flower crown perched atop his head.

"So how's work?" your father asks once he leaves.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Oh, same old, same old," your father says, waving a hand in the air. "I'm the puppet of your lovely aunts and there's nothing I can do about it." He grits his teeth. "Nasty pieces of work, those women."

You grimace, hand drifting up to rub the back of your neck and the small machine hidden there beneath your skin. "I agree."

"My office is bugged, you know. It's a right pain in the ass, especially because I have a tendency to mutter to myself, apparently. I don't like spending time there, but I have to; else they'll get suspicious...perhaps rightly so," he says, in clear mockery of your Aunt Madeline's honey-sweet voice. You choke on your water, half-amused at his manner, half-terrified because of it.

"Shh!" you hiss when you recover, although the smile on your face somewhat minimizes the severity of the reprimand. "There could be cameras!"

"Hell if I care," says your father, glaring up at a knothole in one of the trees.

You sigh. "That kind of attitude will get yourself or Mother or me killed. I'd appreciate it if you were more careful."

Your father grins wryly. "You know I'm only joking, kiddo. It's either that or completely lose my mind."

"I suppose that's one way to cope."

"Yep." Casually, he slides a paper to you across the table, and you take it, giving him a brief, searching glance. Your father's eyes meet yours, calculating, glittering. "But enough of that delightful subject," he says. "Let's talk about you! What's going on? Any new stories about the snobby legal department?"

"What is it with you and those people? They're insignificant paperwork managers who think that they're almost as important as the board of directors. There's nothing to tell."

"Mmm, that's a shame. Their stupidity is hilarious. Are you sure you don't have any?"

"Well…Jacqueline Dupre went off on some poor human resources drone for daring to swipe the last donut on the entire floor…"

Your father laughs, and after a few moments you smile. When your father laughs, he laughs with his whole body. Just watching him makes you want to join in.

"So how's work?" he asks finally. "You're the…tech repairman, right?"

"My official title is network security expert, but yes, my duties do extend to servicing hardware and such during the day. And then, of course, the...side jobs I do for my lovely aunts."

"Sounds like fun."

"Infuriating, mostly. You wouldn't believe the amount of people that do not understand the basics of terminal operation. You should have a mandatory technology training seminar next week before my brain blows a circuit."

Father snorts. "Like the snakes would let me."

"Damn…that's too bad."

The food comes just then: a sandwich for you and a stew for your father.

"Why aren't you eating?"

"It's so beautiful," you say reverently, eyeing its perfect symmetry. "Almost art."

"I thought you were taking medication?"

"I am," you say, and pick it up, taking a large bite. Warmth fills your mouth: the smoky flavor of cooked turkey, the sharpness of melted cheese, the crisp freshness of lettuce, the coolness of onion and tomato, the sour bite of pickles and the moist mildness of mayonnaise all combining in perfect, beautiful, harmonious balance to create a symphony of flavor in your mouth. You chew slowly, eyes sliding shut, savoring every bite.

"Enjoying yourself there?"

"Mmm," you hum, unwilling to disentangle yourself enough from the food to form proper words. Your father chuckles, and for a time it is silent but for the breeze rattling the leaves and the conversations of other patrons drifting softly between the tree trunks.

"Definitely coming back," you say, once the entirety of the glorious sandwich is in your stomach.

Your father smiles. "Glad to hear it. This place is one of my favorites. Maybe we can do this again sometime?"

"Sure," you say.

Your father holds out a fist. "Pound it."

"Father, no."

"Isn't that what you kids do these days?"

You sigh. "That's an ancient gesture of Terran origin used to express friendship among peers."

"Well, aren't we friends?"

"I suppose."

"Then come on!"

"I don't know how you got to be CEO," you say grumpily, bumping his fist with your own.

"Murder," says Father cheerfully. You're pretty sure he isn't joking.

-.-

You sit at the Café de Verdoyant, alone, a newspaper pulled up on your screen and a coffee in front of you. Eventually you have to put your screen down because your hands are shaking too badly to be able to read the small print of the article. You already know what it says, anyway, because the gist of it is smeared big and thick and loud across the top in the form of a headline.

You put your head in your hands.

Your father was electrocuted to death in a freak accident at five fifty in the afternoon, one week after the two of you had lunch here last. Apparently he died while tinkering with his malfunctioning terminal. It's a feeble excuse at best, but the public seems to buy it wholeheartedly. You know the real reason, though: he and your mother were plotting to murder your aunts, to break their control for good. It's what was written on the paper he gave you along with instructions to "sit back and watch the show unfold."

Well, a show did unfold, although perhaps not the one your father had in mind. Abruptly, you laugh once, a brief, mad thing that somehow dissolves into a sob. You crumple the rest of the way down to the table, jaw clenched tightly. Your erratic, loving, flamboyant father, who had a sharper mind than he let on. How were he and Mother caught? How did your aunts find out? You twitch as a thought occurs to you: what if the device in the back of your neck lets them see through your eyes? But that's preposterous; your parents have one too and Madeline and Shaula only just found out…right? Thinking about it, the timing of his death was a little too coincidental to have been a sudden act of savage discipline. Shivers run icy fingers down your spine. How much do they know, really? What else have they put in your body without your knowledge?

"Sir? Would you like to order?"

The waiter's voice jolts you from your thoughts. "No," you say without lifting your head.

After a few moments, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You jerk away from the touch, mouth open in a snarl as you prepare to give the man the most vicious verbal thrashing he's ever received in his life, when your eyes meet his. A flash of recognition jolts through you, stilling your tongue. You know those eyes: a pale, watery blue. "Mr. Calibur?" you gasp. Your old caretaker smiles sadly.

"Hey, Dylan. It's been a while."

Flustered, you wipe your eyes. "Yes, it has," you say. After a brief, awkward pause, you blurt, "I thought you were dead."

"Oh, but I am," Mr. Calibur says, and his hand rubs the back of his neck.

"They gave you one, too?"

"Fool. Don't sound so amazed. I knew too much. It's only a matter of time, really."

"Oh," you say, because you don't know what else to tell him.

He huffs dismissively. "It's fine. I've lived a long, fulfilling life. Centuries and centuries spent sleeping among the stars. I doubt death will be much different. But before I go…"

"What?"

"Your mother wants you to meet her in her laboratory, at three eleven in the morning. Room 1001, in the basement of the Erebus skyscraper, level 10. The two of you are leaving; don't ask me for details, but she's got something worked out. Here's a keycard," he says, slipping you a rectangle of cool plastic. "It's old-fashioned, I know, but it should get you through with no trouble. There's a door on the northern wall of the building that leads directly to the labs, so use that instead of the lobby, what with all the security cameras there."

You look up at Mr. Calibur. Gold meets blue. "Thank you," you tell him.

"Fool," he says. "I'm not doing it for you." He stands up. "Well, take care, Dylan. Try not to die. You've got a lot of life in you yet." With that, he turns and walks into the shadows.

"Mr. Calibur, wait," you say suddenly, getting to your feet. The old man turns, one eyebrow raised inquiringly. "I don't think I've ever asked your name."

He laughs. "Took you long enough. I am Edgar Xenophilius Calibur. My parents had a funny sense of humor."

"How so?"

"Fool! My name is E.X. Calibur! Excalibur! Like the legendary sword of King Arthur! Please tell me you've heard of King Arthur of Earth!"

"Of course."

"Good." He eyes you beadily. "At least you took in some of the valuable knowledge I attempted to impart. Goodness knows you need it." And with that, he vanishes into the trees.

You know he won't come back.

-.-

You alarm wakes you, and for a moment your mind is blissfully ignorant of the events that transpired the previous day as your hand slams down on the snooze button. But then your eyes snap open and you throw off your blankets with a gasp, turning off your alarm and setting about getting dressed in your usual impeccable attire: a white button-down shirt and black pants, dark hair combed to silky perfection, a miniscule dab of cologne in all the right places. Just because it is three o'clock in the morning does not mean that you can leave your apartment looking like a bum. Plus you are about to do something that, if discovered, could mean death for you or your mother, and so you take extra care with your wardrobe choices. It's winter here on this part of Eibon-7, so you don a large black trench coat over everything. You've already packed a bag, and you grab it on your way out the door. You lock your apartment, even though you're not coming back.

The streets are dotted with figures hurrying to and fro, and the multicolored skyscrapers tower over all, slender structures with metal bones and bodies made of concrete and glass, testaments to the power of human engineering. Above, hovercars whiz among the buildings. The city never sleeps, you think wryly, and you quicken the pace of your steps.

Your apartment building is close to the Erebus skyscraper, so it takes no time at all to arrive. The door is exactly where Mr. Calibur said it would be, embedded in the northern wall. You slide your keycard in, breath billowing thick and white from between your lips. After a moment, the light turns green, and with a sigh of relief you slip inside, closing the door behind you.

The hall you find yourself in is long, concrete, and dirty, lit from above by harsh fluorescent lights and almost as cold as it is outside. You hunch your shoulders and put your hands in your pockets, striding purposefully down the corridor. You've never been down here before, and you grit your teeth, on edge at the unfamiliar surroundings. You pass a few doors, cold, metal things, tightly locked with old-fashioned keypads. You don't attempt to open them. Eventually, you come across an elevator and push the only button present: down.

After a few moments, it appears, clanking and wheezing. Uneasily, you enter it. It's small, dim, and dirty, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke. You slide your card into the slot by the floor numbers, and the light turns green, the elevator doors sliding closed and the buttons flicking on in response. Recalling what Mr. Calibur told you, you push the number 10.

The elevator begins its descent. You fidget, eyes glued to the grimy screen where the floor numbers flicker as the elevator passes them. You've always hated small spaces, especially death-traps like old cable elevators. You sigh. As you descend deeper into the earth, you can feel your ears popping. You wonder how many meters below ground you are, and immediately steer your brain in a different direction because if you contemplate it too long you just might go mad. Instead, you eye the dirt on the metal floor with distaste. You wonder when this thing was cleaned last, if it ever was since its installation.

Finally, when you're growing light-headed from the cigarette smoke, the doors shiver open with a faint ding, and you step out into the lowest level of Erebus labs, coughing furiously, at last setting foot in the place you saw on the terminal screen six years ago, when you were but thirteen years old.

The place where your mother works is clean and white and delightfully modern. You pass several examination rooms laden with the best medical technology Erebus has to offer, as well as countless offices and laboratories and terminal rooms. But they are all empty, devoid of Mother or anyone else at all. The silence is almost eerie. A childish part of your brain half-expected it to be ringing with the screams of the test subjects, but of course all the staff would have gone home for the night.

"Dylan," says a voice from behind you. You whirl, and then relax when you realize that it's your mother. You frown as you take in her appearance: her usually impeccable bun is a mess, strands of hair falling out of it to frame her face. Her glasses are slightly askew, and beneath her white coat she wears sweatpants and a band t-shirt rather than her usual pantsuit. You haven't seen her since your father died. For a moment, she stands still, looking at you. "You have his eyes," she murmurs softly, and despite her furious blinking the tears still slip down her cheeks to splatter on her lab coat. Wordlessly, you come forward and enfold her in your arms. You're taller than her now, and she buries her head in your shoulder. You rub her back, blinking back your own tears because there's something very strange about seeing your cool and collected mother break down like this and you don't like it at all.

"It's all my fault," she whispers. "My idea. My fault."

"No," you say automatically. "Father knew the risks. You didn't force him."

The soft, choking sobs cut off as she drags in a deep, shuddering breath. "Please don't b-blame yourself," you murmur before she can speak, drawing her closer to you. "I don't think he'd want that." Thereafter, she's silent, and the two of you stand hugging each other for a long time.

"I'm sorry," she says sometime later, pulling away with a great sniff. "I've dirtied your coat." You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak, and offer her your handkerchief. She blows her nose with a honk. You wipe your eyes on your sleeve and clear your own nose with a tissue you have stowed in the inside pocket of your coat.

"We don't have much time," says Mother, shaking her head as if to clear it. She strides off down the hall, tennis shoes squeaking softly on the pale floor. You follow in her wake.

"I've put explosives on every floor below the ground," she says tersely. "They're set to detonate in exactly thirty minutes."

"What about the test subjects?"

"What about them?" she asks dispassionately. "They're all half-mad. Death would be a blessing to them."

"I suppose so," you say.

"All except one. We're taking her with us. Her name is Patricia Thompson and she is the thing that my sisters have been seeking so desperately these past twenty years. It seems she has achieved immortality, although I remain unsure. The formula I used was, at the time, extremely temperamental. It's thoroughly permeated her cells, so she may die within the next decade or continue as she is for any number of years. All I know is that biologically, she hasn't aged since I injected her with it." From the pocket of her sweatpants, she pulls out a small tube. "This holoscreen contains all of my research, as well as a few other...important details. Put it in your bag and keep it safe, no matter what."

She hands it to you, and you stop, unzipping your bag and tucking it safely away amongst a few pairs of carefully-folded pants. "Where are we going, by the way?" you ask when you finish.

Your mother glances at a security camera. "I've disabled the network, but I'd best not tell you until we're safely out of the building."

She turns into a small office that resembles a doctor's examination room. "But before we can escape, we need to cut the nubs from the back of our necks. Otherwise they could track us wherever we go. You first."

"But-"

"If we're discovered, it's you they'll kill. They need me."

"Yes, Mother," you say with a grudging sigh. She nods, turning around and pulling an assortment of medical supplies from the cabinets on the wall.

"Turn around and remove your shirt."

You oblige, and immediately feel the pinch of a needle in your neck. "It numbs the area," she explains. "Can you feel my fingernail digging into your skin?"

"No."

"Excellent. Please try not to move your neck or head."

It's silent, save for the soft buzz of the electric lights. You try not to shudder as you feel drops of blood creep down your back.

Suddenly, there is a sharp pain, beginning at the top of your spine and racing down your nerve endings like liquid fire. You cry out, hands jerking spastically, trying your utmost not to flinch.

"Almost…" your mother murmurs, and then the pain stops as abruptly as it started. You sigh, relaxing, as your mother cleans and bandages your wound. As you put on your clothes, she drops something small into your hand.

The device is small and black, shaped rather like a grape and coated with blood. One end of it has a sharp point, presumably used to anchor it to your spine. "This can kill me?" you ask, holding it up. It's very small, akin to the size of a raisin.

Grimly, your mother nods. "Yes. It is of my own design, unfortunately."

You exhale sharply, a huff of humorless amusement. "How ironic."

"Mmhmm. Let's go pick up Patricia, and then we'll go to the robotics ward for mine. Improper removal of the device can cause lifelong paralysis."

"Oh."

She exits the room. As you follow, you drop the small device and crush it to bits beneath your heel. You grin, a sudden feeling of happiness ballooning in your chest. It's as if a great weight has suddenly been lifted from you, a weight you didn't know you carried until now. You tell your mother this, and she laughs.

After a journey through more hallways, you arrive at a door, plain, unmarked, and windowless. Your mother knocks, two sharp raps upon the doorframe. Almost immediately, it flies open, revealing a young-looking girl with short blonde hair and wide blue eyes. "I'm not leaving this planet without my sister, Ms. Arianne," she says, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick to you. "Is that your kid?"

"I have a name," you say dryly. "It's Dylan."

She sticks her tongue out. "Nobody asked you, Kid."

"Not now, Patti," your mother says tiredly. "We'll pick up your sister, I promise. Now let's-"

Suddenly, she freezes, her mouth open. "Mother," you say, as Patricia makes a noise of concern and starts forward as well. "Mother, what's-"

"Don't touch me," she chokes out thickly, lifting her hands as if they're weighed down with bricks. "They've found us-"

She coughs. Blood sprays from between her lips, dribbles to the floor. Her eyes, so wide the whites are showing, meet yours, and they're afraid.

and then

her body crumples, convulsing horribly on the floor. Her back arches only to abruptly straighten, her eyes roll, wild and unseeing, red foam gathers at the corners of her lips to drip down her cheeks, her limbs flail, her body twists, all as if she is having a seizure. She doesn't scream, but occasionally these awful grunts escape her, as if she's trying. But her neurons are no match for the electrical overload, and eventually even the groans die down. The convulsions stop as quickly as they came, and your mother takes one more shuddering breath before her eyes roll up in her head and all life leaves her body. Suddenly, it's silent except for the buzz of the harshly bright overhead lights. You and Patricia are frozen, stupefied, unable to look away from her crumpled, twisted form, unable to believe that what just happened is real. But your mother begs to differ. Blood drips from her open mouth, making red tracks down the pale skin of her cheek.

That's when the lights go out. Beside you, Patricia whimpers.

Automatically, you reach out, hand fumbling at her wrist because it's shaking so badly. "Come on," you say. You hear your voice as if from far away: a steady monotone, a robot's voice. "We need to leave. The explosives are going to detonate in fifteen minutes. Do you know where we can find a flashlight?"

"No," Patricia murmurs.

"Do you know a way out?"

"N-no."

You swear, your voice without inflection. "Come on, then. We need to leave."

You try to remember the way you came in. One long hallway, a left down another, a right down another (that was the way, wasn't it?). Three turns (or perhaps four?). You break out into a run, Patricia right behind you. "D'you know where you're going?" she asks.

"No," you say, and run faster, one hand trailing along the wall in an attempt to keep track of where you are.

It's a nightmare, navigating in darkness so thick and black it feels as if you are being smothered, drowned, stopped. You take deep breaths and count to eight, over and over. You're shaking so badly now, claustrophobia and dawning horror threatening to send you into a panic attack. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Your mother's body, twisted and jerking, eyes rolled back in its head, flashes at you in the dark, and you almost stumble. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Is this what happened to your father as he was sitting in his office? Did his blood splatter against his terminal screen? Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. When you turn around, they're there, your parents, moaning your name, blood dripping from their open mouths, their limbs so grotesquely twisted they can hardly walk and their eyes rolled back in their heads, reaching, reaching for you you you, and when you scream you're not sure if it's an apology or a plea to LEAVE ME ALONE but

onetwothreefourfivesIXSEVENEIGHT

"Kid?" says a voice. It sounds so very far away, like an echo.

ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHT

"Kid?!"

ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHT

"DYLAN! DYLAN, GET UP! DYLAN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHT

"GET YOUR ASS MOVING, DAMN YOU!"

her hands, Patricia's hands, are shaking you and she's screaming and maybe crying too. "I'm here," you say, and you're still shaking but when you open your eyes your parents are gone, and you grab her hand and leap to your feet and run again, faster than you've ever run in your life. you can't let go of her fingers even if you wanted to, but it seems to be okay because she's there beside you, her warm living breaths assuring you that you are not dead not dead not dead, and they give you strength, because maybe there's hope, maybe you can escape this nightmarish dark hell miles beneath the earth and breathe the fresh sweet air and see the sun, bright and warm and real

straight

right

left

left

left

straight

(onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight)

Your fingers scrabble along the wall: there, the button. Patricia tugs on your sleeve. "Fuck," she gasps. "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, I see flashlights. Dylan, there are flashlights, what does that mean?!"

"Nothing good," you hiss, your hand mashing the button over and over. "Come on, dammit!" you half growl, half moan, whipping around. You can see the play of light at the end of the hallway, and your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline flooding your veins. Those flashlights belong to your aunts' goons, you're sure of it. You punch the button with renewed strength. The elevator door has to open, because the hallway is a dead end; there's nowhere else to go, and you can't be caught because otherwise they will make you pay

A flashlight beam arrows down the hall, landing squarely on Patricia Thompson's face.

A beat of silence.

Then Patricia screams, a sound of pure, unadulterated fear. "I don't wanna go back," she sobs, pushing you out of the way to scrabble at the elevator door, which remains hopelessly shut. "They can't make me go back there, no no no, he'll cut me up, he'll cut me up while I sleep-"

The lights are brilliant, like little suns charging towards you, blinding you, and for a moment you're transfixed until the elevator doors open with a surprisingly mundane-sounding ding! You stumble backwards, into the small metal box, yanking Patricia in with you, your fist mashing on the button to make the door close, the lights in your eyes coming closer closer closer. You hear the heavy footfalls of booted feet, the shouts of "STOP!", but none of that matters anymore, because the doors are almost closed and then your pursuers are late, beautifully, mercifully late. The doors close just as the goons reach it, and slowly, slowly, the elevator creaks and shivers and clanks its slow, cigarette-smelling way to the open sky.


(patti)

"Where are we going?" you huff. Outside, it's frigid. You're clad only in the shift that they gave you in the lab, your feet bare, goosebumps standing out on your arms.

Dylan shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion. "Someplace far away. The bombs could go off any moment now."

You skid to an abrupt stop, suddenly feeling as if the bottom has dropped out of your stomach. "Wait," you say, and he pauses, golden eyes sharp and impatient. You open your mouth, but the words won't come.

"What?"

"If they go off, that'll collapse the basement. All of it."

"Yes. And your point is…?"

"If the basement collapses, the skyscraper would too, right?"

Dylan nods once, his eyes glued to your face.

"My sis lives a few blocks away from here," you choke out. "If the building falls, she'll...she'll be…"

Dylan takes a very deep, deliberate breath. One hand comes up to cover his face. It sounds like he's counting to himself.

"Are you shitting me," he says finally, his voice very flat.

"No!" you shriek, suddenly furious. You aim a barrage of kicks at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! There is no way that we're leaving Lizzie behind! I'd rather die!"

"Christ, calm down!" Dylan snarls, shoving you away. "We'll go get her and get the hell off this planet. If we die, I'm blaming you."

"I don't care, Dipshit."

You take off running even though you're already tired. You don't care about the people on the sidewalk who give you strange looks as you sprint by. All you can think of is Lizzie, sleeping and vulnerable and completely unaware of the danger she's in. At last, the apartment complex appears in front of you, and you slow down to a brisk walk, panting almost too hard to speak. Dylan is in the same condition, and neither of you say anything as you trudge into the lobby and hop on yet another elevator.

"I hate elevators," you gasp with sudden ferocity, temporarily overcoming your exhaustion to articulate the thought.

"Funny," Dylan replies, still struggling to steady his breathing as he steps over the threshold once the doors ding open. "I...live here...as well."

"Whaaat?!"

"Yes. Two hundred and twenty-fourth floor."

"Lizzie lives...on the two hundred and thirty-sixth."

"She's higher than me! Unfair!"

"It's cuz she's nicer."

"Oh shut up, Patricia."

"Although why're you living here?" you ask. Anything to distract yourself from the unbearable pressure in your throat, the hysteria bubbling beneath that. "You're Ms. Ari…" You trail off, the image of the woman's gruesome end running through your mind. Involuntarily, your eyes fill with tears. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dylan glance at you, golden eyes piercing. "You're your mama's son," you say. "Why aren't you living in some fancy apartment in the rich part of town?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"Are you crazy?!"

"No," he replies evenly. "I merely wished to make my own way and not rely on my family's fortune."

"Oh."

The elevator fills with awkward silence. You wipe your eyes and glance at the floor number, still frustratingly low. Dylan leans up against a corner, golden eyes hooded, staring at nothing. You shoot glances at him from time to time. He really looks like Ms. Arianne, from his pale skin to the shape of his face to his shiny black hair. Only his eyes are different: the piercing gold of someone whose family has lived on Eibon-7 for generations rather than Ms. Arianne's dark brown.

"Who's your dad?"

Dylan's pretty eyes meet yours and then flit away. "He was a good man," he says.

"He's dead?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"What do you have to apologize for?"

You shrug, shifting from foot to foot. "Dunno," you mutter, and silence falls again. You glance up at the floor number: 138.

This time, it's Dylan who breaks the quiet. "Who was my mother to you?"

"Kind," you say, looking at the ground. "She treated me like I was a person, not a test subject. Not like the other doctors."

"Ah," he says.

"I'm going to miss her," you say suddenly, wiping at your nose. "She was almost like…like…like the mom I never had. God, that sounds so stupid, especially considering where I was, what they did to me." You tilt your head towards the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

Dylan looks at you, head leaning slightly to one side, golden eyes liquid and swimming with some unfathomable emotion.

"Y'look a lot like her, ya know," you tell him softly, still gazing up, the corners of your mouth twitching downwards.

"Yes, I know," he murmurs, and his voice sounds a million miles away.

The elevator chimes softly then, its doors sliding open whisper-quiet. At that, you bolt into the hallway, Dylan right on your heels.

It's silent, almost peaceful on this floor, the occupants blissfully unaware that the remainder of their lives has been cut to a matter of minutes. You find Sis's apartment quickly, the number illuminated by a softly-glowing plaque. You knock out your special rhythm on the door as loudly as you can without attracting attention, and then rock back on your bare heels.

"I thought test subjects weren't allowed to leave the lab," Dylan says hoarsely.

"No, they're not," you say. "But Ms. Arianne would sometimes leave my door unlocked and I'd sneak away to see her."

"What's her name?"

"Elizabeth. But most people just call her Liz." You knock again, so hard it hurts your knuckles. "And she's…different."

Just then, the door swings open, revealing a very sleepy-looking Sis, cybernetic limbs on full display with the loose t-shirt and shorts she wears. "Patti…?" she asks, robotic knuckles digging into her one human eye. "What's…what are you…who's that?"

"That's Dylan," you say. "I'll explain everything later, I promise, but right now we've got to go."

Your sister frowns. "But-"

"Please," you say, and some of the hysteria you're just barely managing to keep at bay escapes. "A building's gonna to collapse any time now and if it does you'll be crushed so please please please just grab some coats and let's go!"

Your sister's mouth thins into a grim line as her eyes dart between your face and Dylan's. At last, she nods once, disappearing back into the apartment. For what feels like an incredibly long time, she doesn't reappear. "Sis, hurry," you call out more than once. At last, she emerges with boots on her feet, a long coat draped over her pajamas, and a bag slung over her shoulder. She gives you a pair of boots and a coat like hers, and you put them on as the three of you run back towards the elevator.

"So where are we going?" Lizzie asks as the elevator descends.

"Away," Dylan replies tersely.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Off-planet," Dylan says, and you nod vigorously.

Sis raises her eyebrows. "I'm still on parole-"

"They'll torture you for information on our whereabouts," Dylan says flatly, looking your sister dead in the eyes. "Patricia is a very important test subject and I am the heir to Erebus Medical. I promise I will explain everything once we are out of danger."

"If I go back to jail because of you-"

"I don't intend for that to happen. Elizabeth, do you have a companion bot?"

"Yes," says your sister. "Why?"

"I need you to summon a taxi with instructions for it to take us to the nearest port."

"Aye aye, Captain," Sis mutters sarcastically, but she pulls out her small mobile, fingers flying across the screen.

"Done," she says after a few moments.

"Excellent," Dylan replies, and the remainder of the descent passes in uneasy, vaguely panicked silence. At every small noise, you jump, unable to stop imagining debris tearing through the apartment complex and crushing you flat.

When the doors slide open, the three of you sprint towards the building's exit. Mercifully, a cab is waiting, just as your sis requested, and you all pile in. "Go," Dylan says, almost before the door closes, and the AI complies, whisking you up and away to safety.

-o-

You manage to slip onto a passenger liner a scant thirty minutes before takeoff. Dylan, who packed an obscene amount of money into his bag, buys three seats in the third-class deck. The three of you settle in without incident.

"Okay," Sis says, leaning forward so she can glare at Dylan across you. "Now tell me why the everloving fuck you and Patti dragged me out of bed at ass o'clock in the morning without explanation!"

Dylan sighs. "It's complicated," he says. "I suppose I should start at the beginning."

The tale he weaves is like something out of a spy movie: subterfuge and murderous family members and desperate plotting and not-so-accidental murders, as well as exactly how important you are to everyone. You frown. It explains a lot, really: Ms. Arianne's manner when she talked about her work, her seemingly frantic pace, and the unexplainable visits from her two sisters, Madeline and Shaula. You shiver, remembering the way they looked at you, like they wanted to peel your skin back and ferret out every one of its secrets.

When he finishes, there is a beat of silence. Sis's mismatched blue eyes are wide, her mouth half-open.

"Oh my God," she says, and then her arms loop around you, clutching you close. "Oh my God," she repeats "I'm so sorry," she tells Dylan, and he nods stiffly. Her arms loop around you, pulling you close. "You could have died," she murmurs. "Just to pay for my…aw, Patti…"

And she proceeds to cry quietly into your coat.

"Shh, Sis, it's okay," you say, patting her head. "We take care of each other, remember?"

"Yeah," she says with a sniffle. "Yeah, we do."

"Takeoff commences in approximately one minute," the ship says. "Please fasten your safety belts and secure your belongings."

"I've never ridden on a starship before," you say.

"Me neither," says Sis, wiping away a tear from her one human eye.

"Nor I," murmurs Dylan.

"Let's switch," you say to him. "I wanna sit by the window."

"But Patti…"

"Don't worry, Dylan's okay! He won't bother you!"

"But I hardly know him!"

"Takeoff is in five seconds anyway," Dylan says dryly, and then you're flattened to your seat as the liner catapults itself off the ground and into the air, rocketing towards the nothingness of space. Your eyes slide almost shut and for a brief moment you can't breathe. It feels like you are being crushed. You feel like you're about to black out when, mercifully, the weight disappears. All three of you take great gulps of air. You swallow, and your ears pop.

"Takes some getting used to," says Sis, shaking her head. You glance at her and can't stop the snort of laughter from escaping at her appearance. In the zero-g, her hair has fanned out all around her in a fluffy blonde cloud, unmasking her piercing robotic eye.

Lizzie sticks her tongue out at you. "You're one to talk," she says, reaching out and rubbing your head.

You glance at Dylan. His hair is shorter than yours, but it's long enough that the effect of weightlessness on it is noticeable. "You look funny without your bangs," you tell him with a giggle.

Dylan glares, but there's no real venom behind it. "Oh shut up, Patricia."

You grab Sis's bag and start tossing it from hand to hand, laughing at the ease with which you can bat it around. "It's like we're underwater," you say.

Sis smiles. "Yeah," she agrees, running a hand through her flyaway hair. "Damn, I wish I'd brought a ponytail holder…"

"Quantum jump will commence in thirty seconds. Please keep your belts on and remain seated," the ship's computer announces in a cool voice.

"Do you feel it when it happens?" you ask.

"You're not supposed to," Dylan replies.

"Can you see it?"

Dylan glances out the window, and you follow his gaze and can't help but gasp. Beyond the thick glass is Eibon-7, huge and round and glittering, veined with bright yellow lights like so many stars. "Woah," you breathe, and Dylan nods fervently in agreement.

And then, abruptly, impossibly, it vanishes, to be replaced with inky diamond-speckled black, so very dark compared to the brilliance of your homeworld. At the same time, Sis gasps, a swear flying from between her lips.

"Sis? What's wrong?"

Lizzie shudders and shifts, moving her legs, her arms, her fingers, her eye. "My prosthetics went dead for a second there."

"Interesting," Dylan says, squinting at your sister, but doesn't comment further. Instead, he yawns widely, and you find yourself doing the same.

"Let's get some sleep," Dylan says. "It's been a long day."

"Mmm," you hum, leaning back in your seat and twining Lizzie's cool robot fingers with your warm living ones. "Nighty night, Sis."

"Night, Patti."

"Night, Dylan."

"Goodnight."

-o-

are you awake? asleep? you don't know and can't remember, but it's okay, because you're warm and safe and sis is right beside you. but then you hear noises, noises that sound like someone's choking, and slowly slowly your head turns to see a man (dylan, your brain tells you), face all scrunched up, a screen clenched tightly in his hand and tears dripping hot and thick from beneath his closed eyelids.

"why y'cryin'?" you slur (or you think you do anyway). "we're righ' here." somehow you move your heavy, heavy arm, fingers fumbling to link with his. "s'fine," you mumble. "sleep."

dylan's eyes meet yours. they're gold and wet and glittering, pools of molten metal, wide and blazing in his angled pale face. you smile. "y'have pretty eyes," you say. "i could drown in 'em." and so you do, letting them grow bigger and bigger until you're swimming in a sea of liquid gold, warm like the sun.