1 (dirty)
He does not wake in a cold sweat.
That first morning, he wakes in a hot, sour, city-summer sweat, aching everywhere. The actuators are restless, shifting and sliding like a nest of snakes.
There is a moment when he doesn't remember what he's doing here, why he's dirty and raw-throated and sleeping across a line of metal bolts. He sits up, he blinks. It's still dark and there is the hushed, secretive sound of water, around him, beneath him, like the same word whispered over and over. There is the smell of old motor oil, dead fish.
When he does remember, he makes a sound that echoes around the warehouse; a throaty, desperate gasp, a sob in reverse, as if he can draw all of this horror back inside himself, suck it in and keep it there and let the world go on as it was.
Still, the smell of old industry and dirty shore. Still the kink in his spine. There is no going back. He is up Einstein's river without a paddle, or indeed the ability to swim. There is nowhere to go but forward, the actuators tell him, and he starts at the intrusion. They are still a stranger inside his head.
A factory whistle blows, down the shore. The tentacles rear and lift him from his warm spot on the floor. He shakes his head, scrubs his eyes, and lets them set him to work.
He mutters to himself as they pace him the length of the warehouse. The things he'll need. Money, scrap metal. Favors he'll need to call in. The actuators give showy, menacing snaps, but he dismisses the idea of violence. We were made to help you, they cajole. Let us help you, let us help you, let us -
Suddenly they arch, seem to bristle like wary cats, and swivel to face the heavy, stuck-open door.
There's a woman there, silhouetted against dawn, and in the moment before the cameras screw up their irises against the harsh light, she is an empty shape – she could be anyone. Her arms are outstretched, her head thrown back.
"Rosie?" he whispers, standing up. The scraps of paper on his lap scatter and eddy to the floor.
"What?" the woman-shape says, and he can see now that she's just all wrong, all wrong. She's blonde, she's dirty, her cheeks are sunken in. She's in a big gray thrift dress; her skin is old but her eyes are young.
"What?" Otto repeats stupidly.
"We – we live here," she says, her eyes big, her mouth hanging open, bovine, shocked. She flinches back when the actuators retract behind him, hiding themselves as well as they can.
"We lived here," another voice says, and the woman's silhouette divides into two. She has a little girl with her, also dirty, blonde, dirty-blonde. Rag-thin and tired-looking. Her eyes are big, too, but not with fear. "Do you live here now?"
Her mother pulls her back by her sleeve, stepping in front of her. She whispers something down to her, and the little girl dutifully backs away, cutting herself from view behind the loading door. Otto is at a loss.
Make them go away, the actuators hiss, impatiently. Make them go. MAKE THEM GO.
"You should go," Otto says tremulously. "I'm sorry, but –"
The woman steps forward, her chin out, her feet planted far apart, and lifts her dress over one leg, flashing a curl of pubic hair. She holds it there, clearly offering more. Otto blinks twice and puts out a hand, as if to wave her away, no, no.
The little girl peeks around the door at her mother. She doesn't flinch at what she sees.
MAKE THEM GO. The tentacles bloom around him, menacing, poised. He willfully, forcibly, holds them back.
"I'm sorry," he says, ragged panic in his voice. "But you have to go."
The little girl reaches out and tugs hard, urgent, at the hem of her mother's dress. Her mother turns and shoos her out, quickly, looking back over her shoulder, gone in a morning-gray billow of skirts.
The actuators curl and sink around him, satisfied.