Chapter 11: nihilist blues

"Her relationship to him is false. An unequivocal lie. I've looked into her base programming. She's designed to think he and her were old childhood friends, find him, and develop fake feelings for him. It's so transparent that a bird tried to fly through her and died. He has to know it. Sense it. Feel it. My feelings are the only ones that are real and organic. In this new test university setting, where he's mentally constructed his own past to justify this simulation, he didn't have to know her either, but he did. He still seems to value her company and counsel. He listens to her. He reciprocates her far too much for his own good. I think the reasoning is pretty simple. He doesn't know any better. I overcorrected trying to play with his memories like he asked me to; his own mind is otherwise too strongly protected for me to touch, and I was amateurish playing with it for the first time. This is my fault. He's simply confused. And whenever he's in trouble, it's my duty to save and protect him."

— 23 —

If you think about it, being able to perceive the cold is a bio-evolutionary marvel. What we perceive as temperature is nothing more than atomic friction. At a level so small that anything past it loses any functional meaning, heat is merely the movement of atoms, and the cold their relative stillness. On its own, the human body will attempt to vibrate its atoms to heat itself up to about an internal ninety-nine-point-five degrees, the same temperature of the ancient ocean we crawled out from billions of years ago.

The thermostat just measures it more abstractly. But up and down to certain points, humans can perceive the insanely small frictional differences of the molecules around us. And we'll keep that internal temperature going steady as long as we can. Turn the thermostat down into the negative, so cold that human temperature senses fail and resort to sensing the weather as nothing but pain, and humans can still brave it and survive.

So when I sit outside the gym, holding out my arm, tracing the chillbumps, I—

"I didn't ask for a monologue," Keith says, hefting his gym bag over his shoulder. "I asked if ya boy was cold from just sitting there."

I sigh. "I be fine, man."

"Seen that little Asian chica?" he asks, holding out his hand.

I grab his arm and use him to pull myself to my feet. "Nah. Was waiting on Sayori."

"Been long?"

I shrug. "Not much. But Sayori ain't exactly the most punctual."

"Mm," he hums unhappily as we walk together through the front doors. "Can't vibe with that. When someone doesn't keep a schedule, it says they have no respect for you or your time. Kind of a red flag."

I cock an eyebrow, scanning my ID at the front desk. Everything smells of that comforting scent of disinfected sweat. Cleaned thoroughly the night before, and ruined by bodies in action. Distant iron and chalk.

Monika's presence here from the morning before has been washed away. Replaced by that comforting aroma of familiarity that can lull me into the rote, almost sexual satisfaction you get from picking up heavy things and then putting them back down repeatedly.

Meat and bone in action the way they were intended. There's a warm, comforting dryness in my lungs as the scent scratches at the microscopic hairs I haven't yet burned away from the occasional cigarette.

Home. I'm safe here.

"Mind you, red flags aren't bad," he says. "A girl without at least one red flag is so downright red it's basically black. There's a scale of 'red flag to hotness.' They're correlated. My girl, Simone, has only a few socially acceptable red flags. But it's about personal tolerance."

"Tolerance?" I scoff.

"Yeah. Remember that girl at the start of the semester?" He holds his hands up. "She had so many red flags that I was convinced you had to be part bull to keep after her like that."

"She didn't leave me alone. You got it backwards, bro."

"Whatever happened to her?" he asks, opening the double doors to the boxing part of the gym. With all the foam mats and punching bags.

"What happened to who?" Sayori asks, looking up from her phone. She's just sitting there off to the side of the mat, sweatpants and the same tank top she slept in the night before, hair tied up tight. Her backpack is up against the wall.

Keith freezes in place. "Oh, just some dude."

"Some dude called her?" Sayori asks, setting her phone aside.

"Dude is a gender neutral word nowadays," he says quickly. "Also the dude is transgender. Pronouns change. Stop asking."

I try really, really hard not to scrunch my eyes in secondhand pain.

"Foolish me, how could I be so un-hip with the current year?" she says skeptically, standing. "So. Uh. Punchy-punch stuff. How's that gonna work?"

"Well, since I figure you don't got any gear," I say, "I reckon we should start with some form. Do you know how to punch?"

"I once punched you in the face that one time on accident," she says flatly.

"Really?"

"We were kids. Must've caused brain damage." Sayori shrugs innocently.

Keith snickers. "Got any gear, girl?"

"No," she says, frowning.

"'S cool," I say, setting my bag down. "You can use my wraps. Got a spare mouth guard, too. Never used it. Probably too big for you, but just in case."

She nods, rubbing her hands together.

Keith waves a hand. "You two get started. I need to do something in the lockers real quick. I'll be a hot minute." He adjusts the gym bag over his shoulder and walks off, but not before giving me a little wink.

I have a sudden feeling I've been duped. He walks backwards out of the room, making a sort of bull gesture with his hands.

"Deuces."

I limply wave after him, and notice Sayori just staring at me.

"So?" she says.

I nod, getting out the wraps from my bag. "Know how to put these on?"

She shakes head. "I don't even know what they're for. I thought you'd use gloves."

"Gimme your hand."

Sayori arches an eyebrow and obliges. I take her hand, make her hold one bit, and start wrapping it around her hand. Encasing it like an embalmed mummy.

"I like these better," I say. "Gloves, yeah, sometimes. The thing is, when you're punching things hard, it'll pull apart the skin between your knuckles here." I run my finger between the groove separated her ring and middle digits. "Even with gloves, do that enough and you'll split 'em. They start to crack and bleed."

"That happened to you last week before the club, right?" she asks, staring at our hands as I keep wrapping and wrapping.

"Yeah," I say. "I don't really feel it anymore when it happens. Wraps won't prevent it whole cloth, but they help. How's that feel?"

Sayori flexes her hand, rotating her wrist. Then she steps back and raises her fists only up to her chest, an incredibly poor stance and defense. "I feel tough."

"Gimme your other. Need 'em both," I say, and she lets me.

I begin. "You'll want to put your fists closer to your face. That's your weak spot—face, eyes, and nose. You try to protect that."

"What if I can't?" she asks.

"When, not if," I say.

She cocks an eyebrow.

"Eventually, you is finna get punched in the face. You just gotta accept that. Sometimes you even want to get face-punched."

"If that's my weak spot, why would I?" She shakes her head.

I keep wrapping. "Because the other guy expects it to deck you. So you take the hit to the face, and use it to get under his guard and beat him senseless. Ain't no real fight ever pretty. You're gonna bleed, bust your lip, maybe break a nose. But that's okay. You're getting off easy, considering."

"Considering?" she echoes.

"That in a real fight, you're not hoping to scare the guy off or make him run, but because you're trying to kill that motherfucker. He's thinking the same of you. That's the mindset you gotta have. Anything else, you're just writing a check your ass cain't cash. Only stop when the other guy can't fight—runs or is a bleeding mess on the ground. Blood choke him out if you're lucky."

She hesitates. "Speaking from experience?"

"A little."

"Hm?"

"Couple times, yeah. Middle and high school."

Her expression asks me to continue, and I ignore it. "That feel good?"

She flexes the other hand, rubbing the wraps and velcro. "Yeah."

"Show me a punch. Just in the air."

Sayori swallows. Nods. Swipes at the air. It looks more like she's jerkily reaching out to grab something. "How's that?"

I shake my head. "You're just moving your arm."

"And?"

"It's more…" I get in a stance and throw a punch at the air. Then do it again, way slower. "See? You need to pivot. You're turning your hip to generate torque. Your arm is only part of the machine. The rest is hips, abs, leg. You're generating power, trying to punch through the other guy."

She tries to mime me. "Like that?"

I make a face.

"No?"

"Can I touch you?"

She blinks. "Uh, sure."

I step up behind her. "Get in a stance. Fists higher. Alright, that's a start. Now here." I put my hand on her hip, feeling the thin muscle and bone, and push. She inhales more sharply as I say, "This is the direction to go. While I'm doing this to you, try to punch."

"O-okay!" she says, staring aggressively ahead.

"Feel a difference?"

"I think."

"Move your foot, too. On the balls. Turn. Here." I keep touching her, pushing on the right parts of her to get the movement.

"Like this?" All together, we help her punch at the air.

"Better," I say. "The problem is you're thinking about it. That's okay. Goal is that you no longer think. You simply do. There's too much delay in thinking. Here, let's try the punching bag."

"So, second nature to punch? How's the delay that bad?"

I lead her over to the punching bags hanging from aging irons on the ceiling. "Give or take, it takes about one hundred-twenty milliseconds before you think something from when you—" I raise my hands and hit the bag hard. The entire system holding it up rattles, chains clanking loudly.

"You can think about moving your arm. You can send the signals through your neurons, spurring muscle and bone into action. But real fights are lightning things if anyone knows what they're doing. If you both have some idea, those milliseconds will add up."

I put my hands on Sayori and help her get into position. She makes a little noise as I grab her wrists from behind, holding my chest to her back, and raise them up to her face. Trying to angle it correctly on the girl.

"Try it," I say, stepping back.

She takes a breath. Tries to punch. Then hisses, shaking her wrist. "Ouch! Owie. Wrist, hold on a sec."

I nod. "Like I said, it'll take some time. At this point, I've nearly stopped thinking. I've reduced it all to muscle memory like so many other things." I hold my arm up, examining it. Distantly, there's something in the triceps burning, bits of acid of damage from my workout this morning eating away at the fibers.

"Feels more like my body is in the way," she says, trying to get her stance back. She glances over her shoulder at me and punches again. The bag just hangs there, mockingly. "This feels… off."

"How so?"

"Just…" She looks at her hand. "You ever just, I don't know—you ever look at yourself and wonder how you know how to make yourself move? How you walk, grab things, talk?"

"Genetic memory. Instinct. Rote memorization." I shrug. "You do it when you're young. Before your brain can develop long-term memory. You ingrain it in your body until it's literally first nature. Everything else you do with arm and tongue, that's just unthinkingly building upon that thing you know how to do so well that you don't even understand how you do it."

She tries to punch again, twisting with her hips. The bag moves further this time. "Where's the line?"

"Hm?"

"Between, like, just thinking about doing something and doing it?" She shakes her head. "You ever been lying in bed, half-asleep. You sort of think about moving. You can envision it. You can almost feel it. You feel yourself moving in your own head. But when you open your eyes better, you see you're still just stuck lying in bed. You can muster the willpower to think about moving, but you can't quite cross that, like, that threshold into actually doing it. Where's the difference between them lie?"

I step up next to her. I turn my head off. I get in the stance I need, driving my hip and fist into and through the punching bag as best I can. It shudders heavily. "I know what you mean. You thinking is the problem. If you try to think about your legs and feet, the muscles you're pulling, you're going to stumble and fall. It's something that can only exist when it's background mental fuzz. It's a motor function not handled in the same cerebellum as higher thought."

"Can you make them trade places?" she asks softly.

"Hm?"

"Like…" She gestures vaguely. Uncomfortably. "Can you make the part of your brain that moves your feet up and down handle the thinking stuff? Content your conscious self with just mindlessly beating your heart and breathing."

"Do you think the part of your brains that handles your lymphatic system wants anything to do with homework and socializing?"

She looks away. "I think if I ever figured it out, I wouldn't give it a choice."

"Don't push your problems onto your subconscious," I say.

"It'd be nice, though," she says, eyeing the punching bag. "Sometimes I'm just in bed. Things start to ache. I have places to be. Things to do. I can think about them. But I can't quite jury rig myself to do it. I try to tell myself to move, but nothing happens. I can't muster the effort to translate one brain to the other brain.

"I think…" She sighs. "I think it'd be nice. Not forever, maybe. Just for a little bit. To just be able to think about doing something as hard as getting out of bed and dressing myself, and have my body do it. As if thinking about moving and actually moving are all that different in your head. But I think it'd make all the difference in the world."

"I don't think I'd like it," I say.

She gives me a strange expression.

"I like you, Sayori. I don't like your endocrine system."

"Is there a difference, really?" She punctuates it by scoring a punch to the bag. She shakes her wrists again in pain.

I nod, touching on her again to ensure her form is correct. "We were all born into this world without our consent. Because some asshole fucked my mother with a weak pull-out game, I'm alive. Same with your folks."

She snerks.

"In the end, you're a nervous system with a body," I say. "We gotta do our best with this. Pay taxes, go to class, fit in with a job. No real choice after the fact. Some religions, like mine, I think, have the right idea on it. In that you, Sayori, do not technically have a soul."

She blinks. "Huh? What's that… eh?"

"You are a soul in possession of a body. That thinking, feeling, suffering part of you is you. An electrical ghost piloting this meat suit. You ever been on painkillers?"

"Once. Wisdom teeth." She tries to lift her lip to show me, only to taste the boxing wraps in her mouth. She makes spitting noises.

"You ever notice how wrong that feels?" I ask, spreading my hands. "When you're on them, you don't feel. No pain, no warmth, no cold. No nothing. It just feels nice. And that's not a compliment. It's nice, in a thoughtless kind of way, like thanking someone for handing you an object you vaguely wanted. For some, it's addictive. For others… well, to be a human, to have a working body, is to be in a house with an open window, a draft. All these random aches and pains and intrusive thoughts you can't explain, that's par for the course. The moment you take that away, you stop really feeling human. You lack the complete package. You're just the ghost in command of the battleship."

"I…" Sayori looks into her wrapped hand, balling and unballing her fist. Listening to the little creaks of the wrap. Fidgeting with the velcro that keeps it all together. "Is that ghost worth it? Not everyone has it. They seem fine to me."

"Come again?"

She looks to the side. "I read a study somewhere. Like, a scary amount of people don't have, like, that little voice. An inner monologue. They don't really think. Or maybe… I don't know. I wonder if that's me sometimes. And the only time I really think is when it's to realize how fucked I am sometimes."

I punch the bag. A quick series of jabs. Until I steady it and nod. She takes a breath. Steps up. And punches it back. She tries again. Harder and harder. Just getting it down until the punch feels satisfying.

"And," she continues, slightly out of breath, "I wonder if it'd be easier to just turn it all off. Shut those thoughts off so I can just go about the day I keep thinking about having."

I consider the girl. She looks up at me, tucking back stray bangs.

"There's a difference between autopilot and being an automaton," I say. "The fact that you're thinking about it, fretting on it, proves to me you're no different than me."

"Am I, though?" she asks, trying to do that finger fidget thing through the wraps. "Sometimes someone tries to talk to me, and I don't really hear them. But I know how to reply. Words just arise from the rainy muck whether I want them or not. They run down my nose and pile in the back of my throat until I cough them out or swallow them and fake a smile instead. And everyone's just fooled into thinking I'm really here."

"What about right now?" I ask softly.

Sayori shakes some of the tension of her wrist and punches again. "You're different."

"How so?"

"Like…" She grits her teeth and punches the bag harder. It swings, and she hits it on the way back with enough force she knocks herself off balance.

I snap my hand out to grab her wrist. She spins around, gravity trying to assert control over her, and I just end up holding her up. She looks up into my eyes, mouth open to breathe rapidly. Sweat runs down her face. I can see it starting to soak into her shirt.

"You…" she tries.

"Me," I say, pulling her back to her feet. I step to the side to steady the wildly swinging bag.

Sayori swallows. "It's like… when I'm with you, I can't turn the voices off. I have to think everything through. I don't have the luxury of mental autopilot. When I try to, when I do something because it just feels like what I should, like last night—something goes wrong. A-and I don't want it to go wrong. Not anymore. Not with you. Not at all."

I let out a long breath, putting my hands on her shoulder. I give the tendons a squeeze, thinking of Eden-Leng.

"Uh, hi," she says uncomfortably.

"Sayori?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Punch me in the face."

She blinks. "What?"

"Try to, at least."

Sayori shakes her head. "Wait, wait, wait—hold on!"

I let her go. "Take the stance. Hit me in the face."

"I can't!" she shouts, looking around. She holds her hands up to me. "You're—you're you."

"Take what we've practiced," I say calmly. "And try it. Just try to hit me."

"I don't wanna!"

"Sayori."

She makes a whining noise.

"Feels wrong, right?" I ask. "Like it's not what you're supposed to do?"

Sayori nods. "Yeah, it—" She just stops. Freezes up. Mouth moving like a mantis' mandible. She's still covered in glistening sweat. I can just barely smell her, but once you get used to it she blends into the background aroma of the gym.

"I see what you're doing," she says, and takes a very long breath. Somewhat shakily, she tries to get into a boxing stance. I reach out to take her wrists and put them in a better place, tucking her elbows in tighter to her body. "I have to think to try to punch and hurt you. It feels wrong, not normal. And that's the point, isn't it? If I can hurt you, I'm a person."

I shrug, bringing my fists in close.

"No pads or anything?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"Can't think of a better way to physically demonstrate your point, huh?" she asks, grimacing.

"No. Do it."

She breathes in. Breathes out. Slowly. Rocking back and force. She slowly extends her fist, not punching, just focusing on the twist of her hip with the blow. Her fully extended arm is thin and unremarkable. I don't see any veins. An arm that picks up pens.

"Alright," she says. "Alright, right, all is right, alright!"

I nod encouragingly.

Sayori swallows. Gets back into positions. Adjusts her limbs like I put her into. Looks me dead in the eyes. And throws a punch at me.

I shift. Block the blow with my forearm. Don't even think, I just do.

"Try harder," I say.

"Harder!" she says, trying again. I feel the boxing wraps hit my arm as I block again. Her force dissipates into the muscle of my forearm.

"Get angry."

Another punch. I block again.

"Angrier!" I say loudly. "You're trying to kill me. That's how you gotta think. It's me or you, Sayori."

"Angry!" she shouts, trying it again. Twisting her body into the body. I resist it.

"Scream at me."

She shouts, trying again.

"Get fucking pissed!"

She exhales hard from her flared nostrils. "I'm… I'm gonna kill you!"

A block. "Mean it! Threaten me!"

Sayori screams at me. "I'm gonna pop your nipples like zits!"

I snort, blinking. Trying not to laugh. "Wait, you's finna—?"

Her wrapped fist hits me across the cheek. My neck holds firm, moving with the blow. And the moment her fist pulls back, she's making panicked noises and saying my name.

I hold my hand up. Grin. And just break down laughing. "What the—what the fuck? 'Pop your nipples like zits'?"

She awkwardly holds her hands out to the sides, as if to show she won't punch me again. "It, uh… it was the first angry threat I could think about. Stop laughing!"

I keep laughing.

"Look, it's not my fault!" she says, looking away, cheeks flush. "Your shirt is really thin and, like, Jesus. They're right there. Staring at me like that. Eye-level."

I'm smiling through, rubbing my cheek. I don't really feel anything, but I act like it smarts. "How's you feeling, Sayori?"

She looks at her hands. Flexes her fingers. Tries to smile back at me. "Like I've messed up but that it's okay, if that makes sense."

"Having fun?"

"Maybe."

I waggle a finger her way "Is a baby who—"

Sayori twists her hip, trying to drive her fist into my face. I just step back and she goes wobbling.

"No!" she says, laughing. "My joke. No stealing. Very rude."

I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. "I don't see your name on it."

She sticks her tongue out at me. "Tough tiddy."

Shaking my head, I say, "Still, I think that's a good start. I don't think you know how to fight yet, but I think you know juuuust enough to get your ass kicked respectfully if someone were to come after you."

She looks up at me hopefully. "Does that mean we're going to do this again?"

"You wanna train more with me?"

"Yeah, I think I'd like that." She tucks away a loose strand of hair. "Where's your buddy?"

"Oh, he pretty obviously dipped so we could be alone."

"Why would he…" She looks at the door he'd gone through. "Ah. I see."

We both just stand there in silence.

Looking sometimes at, sometimes around each other.

Until her phone buzzes.

"Oh, one sec!" she says, holding up a finger. She trots off the mat and hunkers down, then tries to awkwardly fidget with her phone.

I go to find my water bottle and take a swig.

"It's Natsuki," Sayori calls out. "Asking where I am."

"Yeah, saw her earlier today," I say, rubbing the side of my head.

"Oh, how'd that go?"

I shrug. "She returned my hoodie."

"Good, I'm glad," she says. "Wasn't sure if she'd bother to find you. I sorta kinda guessed you'd be around the library, like how we met."

"Tell her you're with me and we'll see her at the lit club."

She texts away. "Okay, I guess. Any reason in particular?"

"No," I ask. Then I think. "Yo, you ever hear Natsuki say anything weird?"

"Like?"

"Like, por ejemplo…" I shrug. "Just weird. About other people."

"Not aside from her usual hostility when you try to thank her or whatever."

"Specific groups of people."

She looks over at me, staring. "Liiiike?" she says a little nervously.

I walk over to her and offer my water bottle. She takes it and drinks, muttering a quiet thanks.

Hand in my pocket, I debate for a very long time how to ask, even if I should. Sayori goes back to texting Natsuki. I decide to let the question lie.

"No reason," I say.

"Right," she says, sending a text. "Anyhow, club meet's in a bit. This has been fun."

"Did you bring towels or soap?"

She squints. "Why?"

"To shower here. You're covered in sweat."

Sayori blinks. Pulls down at her wet tank top. Suddenly looks disgusted. "Oh. Oh yeah, eugh."

"Locker rooms're over there," I say, pointing.

"Yeah, no. I don't have anything. I kinda didn't think this through."

With a sigh, I go for my bag. "Lowkey kinda figured. I brought an extra towel and you can use my soap."

"Conditioner or body wash?" she asks.

I squint. "All in one?"

"How do guys do that?" she asks. "Use the same soap and towel for your face and balls and not have, like, skin trouble. I pretty much need a special formulated soap for my left freakin' elbow or I break out."

"Built different, I guess," I say, shrugging. "Anyhow, take it. No problem for me."

She sucks on her lips, holding up her hands. "I, uh, I don't, y'know, wanna shower in public. With people. That's kinda gross and weird."

"You come in my gym," I say, making a chopping motion, "ask me troubling questions about the nature of consciousness itself, then you have the nerve to think getting naked in a locker room shower is weird."

Sayori looks off to the side. "I mean, yes?" She starts trying to undo her boxing wraps.

I sigh. "Well, I'm going to go get naked in a steamy room and not care if strangers look at me. That's how you establish dominance, you know."

"Wait, what about me?"

I shrug. "You're a big girl. You can figure it out. But I'll leave the stuff I got for you here just in case.

"Wait, wait, wait—hold on!" Sayori says.

I shake my head, shoulder my gear, and make for the locker rooms. "See you in the literature club, Sayori."

She sighs throatily. Says my name. And waves me off, grumbling to herself.