Time is flying by now, hour after hour people come in, do... whatever it is that they do, do a couple of beeps and boops on their datapads, and walk out. Its mostly Dr. Joric, I don't see much of Dr. Lira or Cassie, Lira is supposedly hanging out with "Engineering" wherever that is in this place, and Cassie was a temporary assistant. Rylan was too, but then the incident happened, and now he's not allowed to leave my side unless told otherwise.
So that means my only two windows of social interaction are... Taijekan... Hm.
Luckily for me, I got an E-Reader, and it has been the savior to my constant boredom. Every waking hour of the day I am reading, sometimes Dr. Joric or Rylan has to pry it out of my hands in order for me to do whatever tests or checkups they need. Then, almost like a toddler, they hand it back to me and tell me to go back to reading so that I don't distract them. The only real gripe that I have is that the selection of books that are available to me is extremely limited.
Its all big page documentaries and non-fiction. I have found a few, maybe three, fiction books altogether. One of them is a romance novel, and the other two are... children's books. So I read the documentaries over and over again, because I refuse to read the children's books. I did try to read the romance novel, it was... something.
The documentary I am reading right now is about the biology of Cordyceps and some other fungus. Oh oh, like did you know that there is a fungus that makes ants climb a tree, bite down on a leaf and wait for it to die before bursting out of its head? That is insane. I didn't know that.
The whole fungus thing is really interesting, how it can completely hijack a creature, its mind, its will, and use its body as a vessel for its own needs. Its a parasite. Its... kind of like me. A parasite inside this body.
Other than that, its just been mundane nonsense. Rylan feeds me every couple of hours, Dr. Joric has me breathe on my own for a few minutes every day, each session getting a little longer, and my readings are getting stronger. That's good, I think.
But with it, comes more... feelings. More sensations. I can feel the texture of the sheets now, they're soft. I can feel the coolness of the room. The air is... crisp. And I can feel the presence of the people in the room, not as just a visual input, but as a... feeling.
The feeling of being watched. Analyzed.
But the worst part of it all is that now that I'm being fed "actual food," I have to... yknow... get rid of it. It's one thing to be fed through a tube. Its another thing to be conscious, aware, while someone has to... clean you. It's demënskanizing. Or... de-deer-izing now, I guess?
I swipe with my thumb on the E-Readers display. The hyphae network, often referred to as the 'Wood Wide Web' is a complex system of...
The door slides open. In walks Dr. Lira with a datapad and a bag on her shoulder. To what do I owe the pleasure?
"Good afternoon, Six-eighty-two." She says, not looking up from her datapad. "How are we today?"
"I'm fine."
"Good." she says, still not looking at me. "I have some things to go over with you regarding the next phase of the trials, do you have a minute?" She says, like I have a choice. Or anything better to do.
"Next phase?" I put the reader down, "Next phase of what?"
"It means, that since you are relatively functional, Joric and I think its time to actually begin with the trials."
"I thought we already did begin. You know, with the whole... " I gesture vaguely at my body.
"No." she says, finally looking up from her datapad. "This has been phase zero. Your integration with the body was not meant to take this long. We thought that you'd be up and walking within the first five hours of the transfer. Not five days." The tone in her voice is annoyed. She's annoyed at me. Like its my fault this happened. Like I wanted this to happen. What a bitch.
"What? Wait so... so... so you mean that this whole situation. This whole," I stop to catch my breath. "This entire fiasco, all of the pain I have been in, everything. This wasn't supposed to happen?"
"It was not. The trials were meant to be for about two to three months, but this setback, plus complications with the Board, has extended it for at least a year." She says.
A.
A year.
"A... year?" I say. "A..."
"A year, Six-eighty-two."
"What... No... No no no no. No. You can't. You're joking." My hearts not beating, but I can feel a phantom pounding in my chest. "I... I can't stay in here for a year." I try to sit up, but the tubes in my chest tug and I'm forced to lie back down. "Do you see this?" I say, pointing at the pump. "Do you see this thing? This... this THING on my chest? I can't... I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. I can't BREATHE without a MACHINE. You want me to stay like this for a YEAR?" My voice is rising in pitch, and I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me. It hurts to speak loud, but I don't care. "No. No, absolutely not. I can't. I won't. Get me out."
"Not yet." The sheer lack of emotion in her voice is infuriating. "We've hardly even begun."
"No! Just put me back!" I try to sit up again, but the pump holds me down. "You are TORTURING ME." I'm shouting now. "YOU ARE TORTURING M— Agck!"
I lurch forwards and start coughing. Hard. Each cough is a violent, painful spasm that sends a jolt through my entire body. The pump whines in protest. Rylan rushes to my side, but I push him away with a surprising amount of strength.
"You need to lower your voice, you're going to agitate your throat—"
"I DON'T CARE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"
"Six-eighty-two, calm down." Dr. Lira says.
"NO! I won't calm down! I've been good! I've been patient! I've let you do whatever you want to me! But I refuse to stay like this for any more than a second!"
"Six-eighty-two."
"You... you... you did this to me! You... you did this!"
"Six. Eighty. Two."
"I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"
"DAMN IT LYNETTE BE QUIET!" Dr. Lira roars. Her face is inches from mine, her eyes wide with fury. The name she used, Lynette, it's a punch to the gut. "You're going to burst a lung if you keep screaming like that, do you understand me?"
I fall silent. I'm panting, my chest heaving. The pump is doing its best to keep up, but it's struggling. I'm shaking with rage. "Don't you call me that." I whisper, my throat raw.
"If you would let me finish." She says, her jaw clenched, "We cannot transfer you until your brain integrity is high enough. If we were to try now, you will not survive the transfer." She takes a deep breath. "As of this morning, your brain integrity is at thirty-eight percent. With the rate it is climbing, that is the time-frame we are looking at." She looks at me, "It could be longer. Or shorter. We don't know."
"No you knew, you knew exactly what you were doing!" I yell.
"I swear to the ancestors that make up your lineage from the MOMENT they laid claim to this colony if you do not stop yelling I will clamp your damn mouth shut!" She points a shaking finger at me. She's angry. She steps back and sighs. "Okay... Okay..." She says, composing herself. "I'm sorry I yelled. I should have explained better."
"It's a little too late for that." I say.
"Here's whats going to happen: In a few days, a new pump will be installed. One that is portable, and does not need to be connected to the wall 24/7. And once that is in, we can start physical therapy." She says. "Then you will be moved to the Commons Wing, where everyone else in other trials are. You'll have your own room, you'll eat in the mess hall, you'll be able to walk around. You will have some freedoms. You will have a chance to live... relatively normally while we conduct our research."
I stare at her.
"But, there are some nuances with that. Commons does not know you are an asset of the facility or of the state. In fact, they don't even know what trials you are a part of because this is all still highly confidential, per the requests of the Board. To them, you are just another patient. A very, very sick patient. You will not be allowed to mention your identity, or what you're really there for. You will only be known as Lynette."
"Lynette..."
"Yes. You were never transferred. You had a severe accident, and you were brought to the ICCU for treatment."
"I'm..."
"Your speech is clear, your motor skills are improving. You are a person, Six-eighty-two. You are a participant. And you will be treated as such, but you will have to be treated like a... " She gestures around the room. "This."
This is insane.
"I am not—"
"You are. As of right now, your name is Lynette. You are a Taijekan woman who was in an accident. You have severe nerve damage and amnesia. And you are recovering in this facility under the 'BrainGrow' trial. To put it simply, you are a volunteer who takes pills that stimulate brain growth." She says. "Your 'outbursts' and the pump are side effects of the medication. That is how we will explain it.
"No." I shake my head. "No. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to pretend to be... this."
"That's too bad. You're going to keep your mouth shut, you will follow the rules, and you will do as we say. I dare you to step out of line, I will do EVERYTHING in my power to make sure that you never existed. Not in this world or the next if you even so try and start anything."
...
"Now." She says. "I need to go over some things with you, Lynette, regarding the design of your next pump, you are going to have some choices."
Choices? What choices? The choice of what color my handcuffs are?
"There are two main options that engineering are giving me. The first is a variation of the Mk.II, or there is the Mk.III."
"Mk.III?"
"Yes. It is still a prototype, but... it's an internal pump. We would place it inside your chest cavity, next to your lungs. You wouldn't need the tubes. You would just have a small port on your side where the blood substitute would be fed into. It would be a lot more discreet."
"But my heart..."
"Would be removed. The pump would essentially be a full replacement of the heart itself."
I look down at my chest, at the tubes that emerge from my skin like some kind of twisted umbilical cord. An internal pump. The thought of it... of being cut open again... of having another piece of machinery crammed inside me...
"What is the other one like?" I ask.
"The Mk.II variation? It is essentially a copy of the Mk.II that allows you to keep your real blood. Its much smaller, and it will have battery so that you can walk around for about half the day unbothered.
"And the internal one?"
"Nuclear battery, you would die of age a billion times over before your pump gave out, and would not have to worry about eating or drinking as it would use the substitute again." Dr. Lira says
"Substitute... the stuff that feels like... being stabbed with needles?"
"Yes."
"Not a chance."
"So the variation then?"
"I guess."
"Good. I'll let engineering know." She says. "I'll be back in a few days when it's ready."
She turns to leave, but I stop her.
"Wait."
She turns back. "Yes?"
"..."
"Fuck you."
"Noted."
With that, she leaves.
...
Damn it.
I want to rip this room apart. I want to tear the sheets, break the bed, smash the E-Reader against the wall. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.
Rylan stands by the door awkwardly. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to say.
"It's... going to be okay?" He says.
"No it's not." I say. "It's not going to be okay. Not for a long, long, LONG TIME." I say, my voice rising with each word. "And you want to know what the best part is? The best part is that I have to pretend to be a fucking deer person while it happens."
"Uh..."
"A DEER PERSON, RYLAN. A DEER. A STUPID, FOUR-LEGGED, PLANT-EATING, TAIJEKAN ANIMAL. And I have to live with them. And eat with them. And... and breathe the same air as them."
"Were... not all bad." He says.
"Oh, here we go. The 'we're all the same on the inside' speech. Save it. I've heard it a million times."
"It's not a speech." He says, "It's just... the truth."
"The truth?" I let out a bitter laugh. "The truth is that your people are ticking time bombs. You came to our cities, you took our jobs, you took our homes, you took our everything. And now you've taken my body. My life. And I'm supposed to just... what? Be grateful? Be happy that I get to be one of you?"
"We didn't take anything!" He says, his own voice rising in anger now. "We were here from the start! Taijenfolk! We were one! Then your ancestors decided they were too good for us and left us in the north while they made those... those... lizards." He scoffs, "I don't care! I just want to live and be happy, is that so hard to ask?"
"I want the same too you know, but we can't have that together, its one or the other." I say. "And I'm not going to be happy. Not until I'm back in my own skin, and you and your kind are back in the north, where you belong."
"You... You are impossible. You are... You are..."
"A monster? A racist? I've heard it all. Pick whatever makes you happy."
"You're a child." He says. "You're a spoiled, selfish child who has never been told 'no' in your entire life, and now that you have, you're throwing a tantrum."
"I am not a child." I say.
"Then stop acting like one." He says. "This is happening. You can either accept it and try to make the best of it, or you can spend the next year being miserable and angry and making everyone else's life a living hell. I don't make any choices around here! Why are you mad at me? I just want to help." He throws his hands up in the air, "This is what I get for trying. For trying to be nice, for trying to be... a person."
"I don't need your help."
"You do." He says. "You need my help to eat. You need my help to breathe. You need my help to... to live. I saved your life! I am the one who has been here with you every single day! I am the one who has to clean your mess! ME. Not Dr. Lira, not Dr. Joric. ME. You've never ever EVER told me thank you." His face is flushed. He's angry. Really angry. "I have done everything I can to make you comfortable. I've brought you books. I've talked to you when you were lonely. I've held your hand when you were scared. And for what? So you can spit in my face and call me an animal?"
"I never asked for any of that."
"I am not an animal!"
"You are!"
The door slides open. In walks Dr. Joric, his datapad in hand. He takes one look at the two of us, me in my bed, red-faced and seething, and Rylan, standing by the door, fists clenched at his sides, and he sighs.
"Everything alright in here?"
"Fine." I snap.
"He's... upset." Rylan says, not taking his eyes off me. "About the trial."
"So I heard." Dr. Joric says. He walks over to my bed and looks at the readings on the pump. "So, I'm supposed to start calling you 'Lynette' now, excited for that? Its a pretty name."
"I'm not excited."
"I know." He says. "But it's a name right? You currently don't have one of those." He smiles a little.
"Six-eighty-two." I say.
"That's not a name. That's an inventory number."
"Is that not what I am?" I say, "An inventory number? A specimen? A... a THING?"
"You're definitely a person." Dr. Joric says. "And that's the problem. A person needs a name. A person needs a life. And we're trying to give you that, even if it's not the one you want. At the least, its a temporary one until we can fix this." He says. "Now, I need to check your brain activity, so I need you to lie still and try not to think about... whatever it is you're thinking about."
"Too late." I mutter.
"Just... try." He says. He attaches a small electrode to my temple. It's cold.
"You can't make me be her."
"I know. But I can make you pretend. Think of it as... an acting role. A performance."
"I'm not an actor."
"Everyone is an actor." He says. "We all play a role. The good son. The loving mate. The dedicated employee. You just have a new role. A new stage."
"And what's my motivation?"
"Survival."
Survival. That's what it all comes down to. Not happiness, not justice, not even freedom. Just the primal, animal instinct to keep breathing. Or, in my case, to keep the pump from stopping.
"You think this is funny?"
"No." Dr. Joric says, not looking at me. He's focused on his datapad. "I think it's tragic. But it's what we have. Now, please, be quiet for a moment."
I watch Rylan from the corner of my eye. He's still standing by the door, but the anger has faded. Now he's practically wiping tears from his face, what a baby.
After a while, Dr. Joric pulls the electrode from my temple. "Okay. Your neural activity is elevated, I can see why, but the patterns look good. Strong."
"Great." I say. "Does that mean I can leave sooner?"
"No." He says. "It means your brain is getting better at being a brain. Not that it's ready to be moved."
"You both suck."
"We're just trying to help you." Rylan says. His voice is still a little shaky.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You didn't have to." Dr. Joric says while packing up his things. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with the board. They're not happy about the situation. Mostly because of Lira."
He leaves, and I'm alone with Rylan again.
...
"I'm sorry." Rylan says, his voice barely a whisper.
I don't say anything. I just stare at the ceiling.
"Are you... hungry?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"Do you need to—"
"No!" I snap. "I don't need anything from you. Just leave me alone."
He hesitates. "I can't leave you alone. I'm supposed to be here."
"I don't care. Leave."
He doesn't move. "Lynette..."
"GET OUT!"
"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!"
He flinches, but he doesn't leave. He just stands there, looking at me with those big, sad, stupid eyes. I want to claw them out.
"Please." I say, my voice cracking. "Just... please... leave me alone."
He nods slowly. "Okay. I'll... I'll be right outside. If you need anything."
The door slides shut behind him, and I'm finally alone.
...
Fuck.
Fuck!
FUCK!
"FUCK!" I scream into the empty room. "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
I grab the E-Reader from the bedside table and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying CRACK and clatters to the floor.
I hope it's broken.
I hope it's shattered into a million pieces.
I want to break everything in this room. I want to tear the sheets, shred the pillows, smash the pump against the floor. I want to feel the glass under my skin, the blood on my hands. I want to feel something real. Something that's mine. Something that isn't this... this... THIS NIGHTMARE!
I AM DONE. I am so, so done with this shit. This was not the deal. This was not the agreement. This was not... this was not supposed to happen.
This was... this... UGH.
I want out. I want out NOW.
I DON'T WANT TO BE STUCK LIKE THIS FOR ANOTHER FUCKING—
"Hic... h-hic..."
...
...
“Hhh... hh..."
Is that?
"Snnh... snnh... snff..."
Is he? I think he is.
Serves him right.
"Snnh... hh..."
It's a quiet, pathetic sound. A small, ragged sob, muffled by the door. The image of him standing there, his shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face, it's... it's...
It makes my stomach churn.
Stop it. Stop crying.
I press my hands over my ears, but the sound is still there. It's in my head. It's in the silence.
I try to laugh, but my throat is still raw from the screaming, and all that comes out is a pained, wheezing gasp.
"I don't... I don't know what to do..." His voice is a thin thread of sound, barely audible. "I'm trying... I'm trying so hard..."
Oh for the love of the ancestors...
"Rylan." I say. My own voice is a wreck, all gravel and static.
"Shut up."
The sobbing stops. Silence.
Good. That's better. That's what I wanted.
I should be happy. I won. I broke him. I drove him away. I'm alone. This is what I wanted.
I look at the ceiling and all of its smooth, white tiles. There's a crack in one of them, a thin, jagged line that looks like a lightning strike. I wonder how it got there. I wonder if someone was in this room before me. I wonder if they screamed. I wonder if they cried.
I wonder if they broke things too. I look over at the E-Reader on the floor. The screen is a spiderweb of fractures, a little black hole on the corner where the impact was.
I... regret that.
I shouldn't. I should be glad. It was their book, not mine. Someones going to have to replace that and its not me, so good. Fuck 'em. But... it was the only thing I had. The only thing that could take me out of this room, out of this body, even for a little while. It was a window. And I smashed it.
...Because I'm a child.
His words echo in my head. A spoiled, selfish child who has never been told 'no' in your entire life...
No. That's not true. I've been told 'no' my entire life. No, you can't have that job. No, you can't live in that neighborhood. No, you can't marry her. No, no, no, always 'no'. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know me.
But... I am being selfish. I'm throwing a tantrum. I know it. He knows it. Dr. Joric knows it. Even Dr. Lira, in her own cold, bitchy way, knows it. And what has it gotten me? Nothing. I'm still here. Still trapped. Still... Lynette.
I can't do this for a year. I can't. I'll go insane. I'll lose my mind completely. And then what? They'll have turned me into one of them. A mindless, compliant... Taijekan.
The thought makes my skin crawl. This sensation of... revulsion... crawls up my throat. My stomach churns, and for a horrifying second, I think I'm going to be sick.
I can't be sick. I don't know how.
"Rylan." I say again, my voice a little stronger this time. "Rylan, get in here."
Silence.
Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe he's gone for good this time. Maybe he's finally realized that I'm not worth it.
"Rylan!" I yell, but it comes out as a weak croak. The pump struggles to keep up.
The door slides open. He's standing there, his face blotchy and red, his eyes still wet. He looks like he's been through a war.
"What."
"I... I'm going to be sick." I say. "I think."
He looks at me, then walks to the far end of the room and grabs a trash can. He places it by my bed. "In there."
He starts to walk back to the door, like he can't wait to get away from me.
"Wait." I say.
He doesn't stop. He just keeps walking.
The door slides shut.
...
Fuck.
I stare at the trash can. I can't even be sick by myself. I need him to hold the bucket for me. I need him to clean up my mess. I need him to... to do everything for me.
My stomach turns again. The revulsion is stronger this time, a sour, acidic taste in the back of my throat. I look over at the small table next to my bed. There's a cup of water. I reach for it, my hand trembling. I can do this. I can do this by myself.
My fingers brush against the plastic. I can feel the coolness of the water through the cup. I can feel the slight weight of it in my hand. I lift it to my lips, but my hand is shaking too much. The water sloshes over the rim, spilling onto my chest and the bedsheets.
It's cold. So cold.
I drop the cup. It clatters to the floor.
And then I'm heaving. My body convulses into a violent, uncontrollable spasm. I try to turn my head, try to aim for the trash can, but my neck is too weak. Bile burns my throat. It's hot and acidic and it tastes like... regret. Like failure. Like everything I've ever done wrong in my life, all coming up at once.
It's over as quickly as it started. I'm left gasping, my throat raw, my chest aching. The pump whirs frantically, trying to keep up with my ragged breathing. I can smell the sour scent of my own vomit. I can feel the wetness of the spilled water soaking into my clothes and the sheets.
I'm completely and utterly helpless.
And I'm alone.
The anger is gone. The rage, the hatred, the defiance. It's all been burned away by the acid in my stomach. All that's left is this... this hollow, aching emptiness.
I'm stuck.
...
"Rylan."
The door doesn't open. I didn't really expect it to. Why would he come back? After everything I said? After everything I did? I pushed him away. I told him to get out. I told him to leave me alone. And he did.
He listened.
"Rylan."
Silence.
I slump back against the pillows, defeated. I'm a mess. I'm a pathetic, miserable, disgusting mess. And I deserve to be alone. I deserve to lie here in my own filth until the pump runs out of power. Maybe I should just die. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe that would be better.
But... I don't want to die. I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die in this body, in this room, as this... person.
I want to live.
I want to go back to my old life. I want to feel the sun on my skin. I want to taste real food, not this nutrient paste. I want to walk, to run, to breathe on my own. I want to be myself again.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently it is.
"Rylan... Rylaaan."
Nothing. He's gone. He's really gone.
"Rylan." I say again, but it's more of a moan than a word. "I'm sorry."
I don't know if I mean it. I don't know if I'm sorry for what I said, or if I'm just sorry that I'm alone. I don't know anything anymore.
"Don't say it unless you mean it. Remember?" He says from behind the door. He never left.
"I... Rylan."
"You don't mean it."
"Rylan please." I'm crying in earnest now. Tears stinging in my eyes. "Please."
"No. You don't need me." The bitterness is so thick I can taste it. I deserve this. Every bit of it.
"I do. I need you."
"You don't." He says. "You just need someone to clean your mess."
"I'm sorry." I say. "I'm sorry."
"...Shut up." He says.
"Rylan..."
"SHUT UP!"
"..."
"You don't get to do that! You don't get to push me away and then pull me back in whenever you feel like it! That's not how it works! That's not how people work!"
"I'm... I know." I say. "I know."
"No you don't. You have no idea."
"I..."
"What." He says, "What could you possibly say to make any of this better? To make me feel better?"
"Nothing." I say. "There's nothing. Just... come in here. Please."
I hear the door slide open. He's standing in the doorway, but he doesn't come in. He's just looking at me. At the mess. At the vomit on my chest and the floor. At the broken E-Reader. At the cup on the floor. At the pathetic, sobbing wreck I've become.
He doesn't look angry anymore. He just looks tired.
He sighs. Long. Slow. An exhale that seems to drain all the energy from his body.
"What did you do?" He asks.
"Threw the book."
"I see that." He says. He walks over to the broken reader and picks it up. He turns it over in his hands to examine the shattered screen. "You know I'm responsible for you right? I'm responsible for what you use and what you break. You know this is going to come out of my paycheck right?" He says, not even looking at me.
"Oh."
"Great. Just great." He sets the broken reader down on the table. "And let me guess, you want me to clean you up?" He says.
"Yeah..."
"Why don't you? Clean it yourself. I don't want to put my 'filthy' Taijekan hands on you, you might bite me. Who knows."
"I can't." I say.
"You can't what?"
"I can't clean myself."
"Why? You have the strength to throw something across the room, you have the strength to clean yourself." He says, and then he stops, and then he remembers. "Oh. That's right. You're a child."
"I'm not a child."
"Could've fooled me."
"Rylan, please."
"Why should I!? You're not going to thank me, nobody is going to consider what kind of position I'm in, they're just going to think 'oh it's just Rylan, he's always there for everything'. I'm not a dog, I'm not a servant. I'm a person, Lynette." The name again. "A person who has feelings. A person who gets tired. A person who gets angry. A person who gets SICK of being treated like this."
"I know."
"DO YOU!?"
"..."
"DO. YOU?"
"No." My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. "I don't. I'm sorry."
He just stands there, staring at me. I can see the conflict in his eyes. He's angry, but he's also sad. He's hurt.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" He says. "This is what you wanted. To see me get angry. To see me be... 'less than' you."
"No."
"Why do I have to be less than you? Why can we just be equals? Are you afraid of me? What are you so afraid of that you have to act like this?"
"I'm not afraid."
"No. You're a liar, nobody acts with this much hate unless they're really, truly afraid. What could have been so terrifying that it made you take this path?" He steps closer. "Huh? What was it? What did I do to you?"
"..."
"That's what I thought. Nothing. I did nothing. You're just... broken. And you want everyone else to be broken with you."
"No..."
"Then what is it? Tell me. What could I, a 'filthy' Taijekan, have possibly done to you to deserve this?"
"It's not about you." I say.
"No? Then who is it about? Me? Dr. Lira? Dr. Joric? The next Taijekan you meet on the street when you get out of here?" He says, "When will it end? When will you be happy? When we're all dead? When I'm dead?"
"Rylan!" I shout.
"Tell me!"
"I'm afraid of the mindrot! OKAY!?"
He stops.
"That's quite a stupid reason."
"Don't you say that!" I say, "You didn't... you didn't see what I have seen!" I say, "I saw it! I saw what it does! How could you not be afraid?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Who isn't afraid?" He says, "You don't think I'm not afraid? I'm the one who would turn into a rabid, flesh eating monster. You don't see me making it my whole personality." He says, "The mindrot is a disease, not a choice. It's not our fault."
"But... you're..."
"We're what?" He says, "Monsters?"
"..."
"I'm not a monster, Lynette."
I'm not a monster. I remember telling that to Kaius. I remember telling him that I wasn't a monster. I was just a person. A person who was afraid.
"I know."
"So then why?" He says, "Why do you treat me like one? Why do you treat all of us like monsters?"
"I... I don't know."
"Bullshit." He says, "You know."
He waits.
...
"He was my brother."
"He... he was only ten. He... "
I stop. I can't. I can't say it. I can't go back there. I can't see it again.
"I can't tell you Rylan." I say. "But I have my reasons."
"Well keep me out of them." He says. "I have nothing to do with your reasons."
"I know." I say. "I... I'm sorry."
"I don't believe you."
"Rylan please, please I mean it, I am so sorry."
He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me. His eyes are soft now. He looks sad. For me. For himself.
For the both of us.
"Stop squirming." Rylan says as he snips the bottom of my gown with a pair of scissors.
"Well don't look at me then."
"And slice into you? Yeah, sure. Right after I jump out a window." He says. "This is a part of my job. If I can't look at you I can't wash you." He has to lift me up to get it from underneath me. "You're going to need to help me a little here."
"I am helping."
"You're not." He says. "You're dead weight. A very squirmy dead weight."
"I'm... trying."
"I know."
"Arms out."
I do as I'm told. He pulls the gown off and cuts the rest of it off. I'm fully exposed to the open air. I try to cover myself with my hands, but its still kind of cold. It's... weird. I feel vulnerable. I feel... small.
I'm no stranger to taking a peek. I've had my fair share of women, more than my fair share, if you ask me. I've seen them, I've touched them, I've... I've known them. But this is different. This is... me. And it's not. It's her. Its different when you're the one being looked at.
Rylan doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't show it. He's professional. He's a caregiver. He's... not looking at me like a woman. He's looking at me like a patient.
He starts with a warm, damp cloth. He wipes away the vomit from my chest and my neck. The cloth is soft, almost gentle. The water is warm. I have to close my eyes. I can't watch him do this. It's too... too strange.
When I open them again, he's moved on to my arms. He's working his way down carefully. He's not rushed. He's not rough. He's... he's being kind. After everything I said to him. After everything I did. He's still being kind.
"You're quiet." He says.
"What do you want me to say? 'Oh, that's the spot?'"
"No." He says. "I just... I'm not used to you being quiet. Ever since you started talking again you won't shut up."
"I'm tired."
"Of me?"
"Of everything."
"Yeah." He says. "Me too."
We fall into a silence again. The only sound is the soft swoosh of the cloth against my skin.. fur... both... whatever.
"Okay." He says after a while. "We're done. You're no longer covered in muck. I'm not going to do any more than that. Both because you don't need it, and I don't think you'd want me to continue anyway."
"I would kill you if you did."
"You want to kill me for just existing. So what's new?" He says, "The sheets are a little more complicated. I'll need to get you up and out of bed and then I have to sanitize everything."
"I can't stand."
"You probably could. You just haven't tried."
"Yeah no."
He starts to try to lift me, but I stop him.
"No don't, I'm too heavy."
"You're not."
"You're going to drop me!"
"I'm not." He says. "You're not a sack of rocks. I know what I'm doing." He slips one arm under my back and the other under my knees. "Ready?" He says.
"No!"
He lifts me anyway. I'm right, I am heavy. He grunts a little, but he holds me. He doesn't drop me. He scoots me over to the chair beside the bed and sets me down gently.
"See?" He says, a little out of breath. "Nothing to it."
He untangles the tubes from the pump, making sure he doesn't pull on them. He's careful. He's so, so careful. He's still being kind.
"So, what are you going to do?" I ask.
"I'm going to strip the bed and then I'm going to help you get into a new gown, and then I'm going to go get you a new book."
"A new one?"
"You broke the other one."
"I might throw it again."
"I'll get one with a rubber case then." He says. He starts to strip the sheets, balling them up and shoving them into a large garbage bag. He works quickly. He's done this before.
"You're good at this." I say.
"I've had a lot of practice."
"Do tell?"
"I was a nurse before coming here. In my home city." He says. "I thought I wouldn't need to change diapers for old people and hold down squirming kits with the change of scenery, but now I get to do it full time with you!" he says, a little too cheerfully.
"You hate it?"
"It's honest work, but I kind of want to do other stuff." He says, "I still have a few more years of schooling to go, but I'd like to do more research, like Joric. I want to understand things. Why they work, why they don't."
"You want to be a doctor?"
"Yeah. I want to help people."
"You're doing that now aren't you?"
"Yeah, but I want to be a part of something groundbreaking. Not just behind the scenes, but like... actually being the one to pave the way for the next greatest invention. The cure for something. That kind of thing." He says. He finishes bagging up the last of the soiled linen. "I'm going to take this to the disposal. I'll be right back." He hands me his radio. "Don't go anywhere."
"Hilarious." I say. I take the radio anyway. It's heavy in my hand. Solid.
He's gone for a few minutes. The only sound is the pump.
whirr... click... whirr... click.
It's a rhythmic, almost soothing sound. I find myself focusing on it, trying to match my breathing to it.
I look down at myself. At my body. I'm only wearing loose shorts. The fur on my legs is a light brown, spotted with white. It's soft. I run my hand over it. It's... strange. I can feel every little movement, the texture of it against my own skin. I can feel my own touch.
I've touched fur before. Coats, rugs, wilds. It's always been... dead. Stiff. This is... alive. It's warm. It's... me.
I look at my hands. They're slender, with long, delicate fingers that taper into hoof-like appendages. Creepy. I still can't get over the whole... two thumbs thing. I try moving them both. They obey. I can pick up the radio. I can hold it. I can press the button. I can almost speak into it.
Then I look at my chest. There are two small mounds there. Breasts. That's probably the most jarring thing so far. More than the fur. More than the antlers. More than the ears, which I can now feel swivel in response to a distant, metallic clang from the hallway.
I touch them. Gently. They are soft, sensitive. The feeling is... confusing. It's not unpleasant. It's just... wrong. It's not supposed to be there. I'm not supposed to have them. I'm a man. I was a man.
I was.
The door slides open. Rylan comes back in, pushing a cart loaded with clean linens, a folded gown, and a small basin of water. I look up at him and he looks back, he can still see me groping the uh... extremities.
"Am I interrupting? I can come back later." he says.
"Shut up." I pull my hands away. I feel a hot flush of shame. I shouldn't be embarrassed. I shouldn't care what he thinks. But I do. I care a lot.
I watch him as he folds the sheets and blankets, and then carefully makes the bed, tucking in the corners and smoothing out the wrinkles.
"You're staring." he says, not looking at me.
"I know."
"Why?"
"I don't know." I say. "I'm... bored."
"You could talk to me."
"I don't want to."
"Then be bored in silence." He pulls a fresh gown from the cart and unfolds it. "I need to cut the holes for the tubes to fit into again." He says.
"I want to do it."
"You can't even hold a cup."
"I can try."
He looks at me for a moment, then he hands me the gown and the scissors. "Fine. But be careful."
I take them. The scissors are heavy in my hands. I focus. I line up the scissors with the fabric. My arms sway back and forth, and it takes a lot of effort to steady myself. I can do this. I can do this. I can—
The scissors slip. They slice through the gown, but not where I wanted them to. They've torn a huge gash in the side, from the neck all the way down to the hem.
"Shit."
"I told you."
"I'm sorry."
"It's just a gown."
"..."
He tosses the gown into the trash bin and pulls a new one from the cart, this one is pink. "Ooh, pretty." He says.
"I... I don't want to wear that."
"Well you're not wearing the soiled one, and you're not wearing that torn one. So this is your only option."
"It's... pink."
"Yes, it's pink. Do you have a problem with that?"
"I..."
"Look, if you're going to be like that then just don't wear one." He says. "I don't care. You're the one who wants clothes."
"I'm not going naked."
"Then wear the pink gown."
I don't say anything. I just watch as he cuts the holes in the gown. A couple small, neat slits. One for the stomach, and a few for the smaller tubes that push around my blood. He makes it look so easy. He makes it look like something anyone could do.
"Okay." He says. "I'll need to unplug you from the pump so I can snake the ends in, Just breathe on your own for a bit."
"I'll try."
"Good." He flips a few switches on the pump and the whirring stops. My not really heart but sort of heart has stopped.
I can do this. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. It's not that hard. I've been doing it my whole life.
Rylan unbuckles the clasps from the tube's adapters and squeezes any loose blood out into the water basin, making it pink. He then snakes the end through the holes in the gown.
"Arms up, here we go." He says as he slides it over my head. It smells clean, like laundry soap. It's warm. It's... it's a gown. It's a stupid pink gown and I'm wearing it.
"There. All done." He looks at me. "Pink suits you."
"It does not."
"Well its better than being naked, right?"
"...I guess." I say. "Hey..."
"Yeah?"
"You're... You're..."
"What?"
"...Thank you."
He just looks at me for a moment, then he nods. "You're welcome." He says.
He turns away and starts to clean up the loose blood splatters on the floor. He's quiet. I'm quiet. The pump is quiet. The world is quiet. For the first time in a long time, Its really quiet.
Once he's done, he latches the tubes back into their adapters to the pump, then flips the switches. The whirring starts again. A slow, steady rhythm. Whirr... click... whirr... click. The pink gown is a garish sight against the white of the room. My skin. My fur. I look down at the two pink blobs on my chest and a wave of disgust washes over me. I try not to think about it.
He finishes cleaning the floor and puts the supplies back on the cart. "I'll be right back." He says. "I need to get a book for you."
"W-wait."
He stops at the door. "What now?"
"Do you... do you... Um..." I don't know what I want to say. "Chess?"
"...What about it?"
"Do you know how to play?"
"No not really." He says, "Why?"
"Could you bring one? A board?" I say. "Something to do."
"You're just going to throw it."
"I won't."
He looks at me with a small smile playing on his lips. "I don't know..."
"Please." I say. I hate myself for saying it. I hate the way my voice sounds.
"Oookay okay, fine. I'll find one." He says, "You get one more chance. If you break it, you're getting nothing. Ever again."
"I won't break it."
"Okay." He says. "I'll be back."
The door slides shut. I wait. I don't know how long. A few minutes? An hour? Eventually though, the door slides open again. Rylan comes back in, carrying a small, wooden box with an E-Reader on top. He sets the E-Reader on the table, then places the box on my lap. "There you go. One chess board. Pieces not included."
"Seriously?"
"I jest. They're all there, though one of the horses is plastic instead of wood because someone lost it." He says. "I don't know who."
I open the box. The top of the box is the board itself. Its made of worn, smooth wood. Inside are the pieces, all tucked into their little velvet compartments. They too are made of carved wood, except for the plastic knight, which is a glossy black, a blemish on the otherwise perfect set.
"Here." I lift the box to him "Put it on the floor, we'll play there."
"Are you going to be able to reach it?" he asks.
"I'll just sit down on the floor."
"Uh-huh."
I start lifting myself off the chair and onto the floor. My arms are shaking. It's harder than I thought it would be. One of my arms slip off the chair and I land ass first onto the cold floor, hard. A jolt of pain shoots through my spine, and the pump whines in protest.
"MMMMM!"
"You okay?" Rylan says as he kneels in front of me.
"That... that hurt."
"Did you land on your tail or something?" he says, trying not to laugh.
"I don't... have a tail." I say, rubbing my lower back. I can feel a faint tuft of fur right at the base of my spine. I do have a tail. A small, fluffy one. "Oh, for the love of... I have a tail." I say.
"Yeah, I do too, but its more of a nub than a tail. Yours is similar, but a bit longer."
"I don't like that."
"Get used to it." He says. "Okay so what do we do?"
"We have to set up the board first. Do you want to play white or black?"
"Is there a difference?"
"Yes. White moves first."
"Oh. Okay then you pick for me. I don't know what I'm doing." He says.
"Okay, you'll be black then." I say. "So... I'll put the white pieces on my side, and the black pieces on your side. The rooks go in the corners, then the—"
"Rooks?" He says, looking at the pieces. "Which ones are those?"
"...The ones that look like little castles."
"Oh, I thought they were called towers."
"I mean, they are towers, but they're called rooks." I say. I place them on the board. "Okay, then the knights go next to them. The horses."
"Right. The horses." He says.
"Then the bishops go next to the knights."
"What are the bishops?"
"The ones with the pointy hats." I say. "Then the queen and the king go in the middle, but the queen goes on her own color."
"What does that mean?" He says.
"It means the white queen goes on the white square, and the black queen goes on the black square."
"Oh. Okay."
I'm not sure if he's really paying attention. When we're done, the board is a perfect mirror image of itself. A battlefield of black and white.
"Do you know how the pieces move?"
"I think?" He says. "The little guy moves one square in any direction. The tower guy moves in a... straight line? The horse guy moves in an 'L' shape. The pointy hat guy moves diagonally. The queen can do whatever she wants. And I dunno what the king does." He says. "Right?"
"Close enough." I say. "The queen can move in any direction, but not like, 'whatever she wants.' Neither can the king." I say. "She can move any number of squares, in a straight line or diagonally. She can't jump over other pieces. And the king can only move one square in any direction."
"Which ones can jump?" He says.
"The knights."
"Only them?"
"Yep. The other pieces can't."
"So... what's the point?"
"The point is to checkmate the other person's king."
"Which means what?"
"It means you trap the king so he can't move anywhere without being captured." I say. "So... do you want to go first?"
"I thought white goes first."
"I mean you can go first if you want to, I don't mind." I say.
"Oh. No, you go."
"Okay." I move my pawn forward two squares. Pawn to e4. A classic opening. Aggressive.
"They can move two squares?" He says.
"On their first move." I say. "Your turn."
He looks at the board for a long time. He chuckles a bit. "I don't know what to pick." he says as he picks up a pawn and moves it. h5. A terrible opening. He didn't even move his center pawns. He moved a pawn on the edge of the board. Now he's just... looking at me.
"Okay." I say. Knight to f3. Developing my pieces, controlling the center. A good, solid move.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing." He says.
"You're trying to... take my pieces." I say. "And protect your king."
"Okay." He says. He looks at the board, then at me. He moves his knight too, knocking over one of his own pawns by mistake. "Oops."
Knight to f6. Not a terrible move, but he's just mirroring me. He's not thinking. He's just reacting.
I move my bishop. Bishop to c4. Putting pressure on his weak f7 pawn.
He moves another pawn. d5. Just... putting a pawn in the way of my bishop. He's not trying to develop. He's not trying to control the center. He's just... pushing stuff.
So I take. exd5
He takes back. Queen x d5. A total blunder of the queen! He's just lost his most powerful piece in a single move. He...
What?
I look at him. He's smiling. He's proud of himself for taking my pawn. He thinks he's winning. He thinks he's a genius. And I'm about to crush him.
Why?
What do I get out of it? A moment of pride? A fleeting sense of superiority? What's the point? I've been chasing that feeling my whole life. The feeling of being better. The feeling of being right. And where has it gotten me? Here. In this room. In this body. With him.
I look at the board. I can end the game in just a few moves. I can prove my point. Or... I can let him have this. I can let him feel good. I can let him have his moment. I can... what? Be kind?
I move my pawn. Pawn to d3. A useless move. Defending the bishop rather than taking.
He takes my bishop with his queen. Queen x c4. "Ohhh two in a row!" He says. "I'm pretty good at this!"
"Yeah." I say. "You're a natural."
"Really?"
"Yeah." I say. "I didn't think of that move." I lie. "It was a good one."
"Thanks."
I move my pawn. d4. Another useless move. Another waste of a turn.
He takes it. Queen x d4 He's really getting into it now.
"You're on a roll." I say.
"I know!" He says. "This is fun."
I finally take his queen. Queen x d4 "Gotcha."
"Hey!" He says. "That was my best guy!"
"I had to." I say. "You were taking all my pieces."
"I know!" He says. "I'm winning."
He's not. He's getting crushed. He's taken maybe a few useless pawns and a bishop. But I have control over the center with a queen and a knight. I can checkmate him easy peasy.
But he's happy.
He's smiling. He's having fun. And I'm... I'm just... sitting here.
I'll poke him a bit. Just to see what happens.
"So... Whats your middle game strategy looking like?"
He looks up, "The what?" He says.
"The middle game. The plan you have for the middle of the game." I say.
"Mmm. Lets hear yours first." he says.
"Okay." I point to a piece. "So, Im going to bring my bishop here to challenge your knight." I say. "And then Im going to castle to bring my rook to this open file, to put pressure on your king."
"A castle? What's that?"
"It's a special move. You can do it once per game, as long as your king and the rook you're castling with haven't moved yet, and there are no pieces between them. You move the king two squares towards the rook, and then you move the rook to the square on the other side of the king."
"Why?"
"It protects your king."
"Oh." He says. He looks at the board. "Can I do that?"
"No. You have a bishop in the way." I say.
"Oh. So why do you wanna challenge my knight?"
"Because this is my easiest lane of attack." I say. "This is where I'm going to try and win."
"Oh." He says. "But that seems like a bad idea. I could bring my rook and protect it. You might lose your bishop."
"You'd have to put your rook in a dangerous spot to defend. Then I'd just take that because its worth more than the knight." I say. There's a little bit of frustration leaking into my tone.
"Oh." He says again. "That seems complicated. I think I'll just try to take your queen next." He says. "That way you lose your best piece."
"A piece is only valuable if its doing something."
"Yeah, that's why you took my queen, because I was taking all of your stuff!" He says. "So if I take your queen I can take all of your other stuff too, because you won't have your best guy to protect them."
"You think so?" I say, and I let a smile escape my lips. "Okay. Try me. But I think you'll find that taking my queen is a lot harder than it looks."
He moves his other knight. Knight to c6. I move my queen. Queen to h4. Now I'm putting pressure on his knight. I'm forcing him to make a decision.
Rook to h6. He thinks he's being clever. I could easily take the rook with my bishop. But I don't.
I castle short.
He moves another pawn. g5. Queen to g3. h4. He's on the hunt
Queen takes g5. "Didn't see that, did you?"
"I was trying to take your queen, but you keep running away. You're a coward." He says.
"I'm not a coward." I say. "I'm being strategic. I'm making you waste your moves."
"You're not making me do anything. I'm the one who's taking your pieces."
"You've taken two pawns and a bishop. I've taken your queen and a pawn. I'm up 6 points."
"So? I'm winning, aren't I?" He says with a wide grin on his face.
"Are you?" I say.
"Yup." Bishop to d7
"My queen is rather surrounded." I play along. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know." He says. "Maybe you should just give up."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to. You'll have to checkmate the king if you want to win."
"I will!" He says. "So... where's your king again?"
The game goes on for a little while longer. Each of us just... shuffling pieces around playing this back and forth of losing and taking. I let him capture my queen, which he does with a triumphant roar that makes him stand up, nearly knocking over the board in the process. He's genuinely ecstatic. His laughter echoes in the room against the steady whirr-click of my mechanical heart lung thing. He's still clutching the white queen. It looks tiny in his broad palm.
"You didn't even see it coming, did you?" he says, pointing the queen at me like a tiny, accusatory dagger. "My pawn. A pawn. Just walked right up and took her."
"It was a bold move." I say. The words taste strange. Not sour, not bitter. Just... not what I would usually say. I'd usually be grinding my teeth, feeling the heat climb up my neck, the urge to flip the board and send all the pieces skittering across the floor. But now...
"It was genius." He says, placing the queen next to the other captured pieces. He surveys the board, a king surveying his tiny, conquered kingdom. "So... what now?"
"Now..." I look at the board. My king is exposed. My remaining pieces are scattered. His pawns have created a chaotic wall. He's vulnerable, but only if I'm looking for it. If I'm playing to win. I can see it in three moves. A rook slide, a bishop check, and then... checkmate. Easy. "Now you should probably try to protect your king."
"My king?" He squints, locating the small wooden piece nestled behind its wall of pawns. "He looks pretty safe to me."
"Looks can be deceiving." I say. I move my rook and put his king in check. "For example."
His smile falters for a second. He looks at the rook, then at his king, then back at the rook. "Oh." He says. "But you're not taking him, I can just move out of the way."
"Maybe, but my bishop also blocks some of those escape squares." I say, pointing with my hoof-finger. "Now my rook is coming for you, and you have very few places to run."
He studies the board. For a second, I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Not understanding, not quite. But a little spark of it. He's seeing the pattern. He's seeing the threat. "Oh." He says again. "Okay. So... I'll just move my king." He moves the king one square to the left. "There."
He walked right into it. The second-to-last mistake.
"Okay." I say. I move my bishop. Another check. He has one move left. One.
"I could just block that, right?" He says, looking at his knight.
"You could," I say, "but then I'd take your knight with my rook, and your king would still be in check."
"Oh." He says. He looks at the board. He's trapped. He's cornered. He's done. I see the realization dawn on him. The slow, sinking feeling of defeat. He thinks he's going to lose. He thinks his little victory parade is over. For a second, I feel that old surge of pride. The thrill of the hunt. The satisfaction of the checkmate. I almost do it. I almost move my rook. I almost end it.
But then I look at him. At his face. He's not disappointed. He's not angry. He's just thinking. He's trying to figure it out. He's enjoying the puzzle. And I'm about to take that away from him. I'm about to ruin his fun. For what? For a meaningless victory in a game he doesn't even understand? What would that prove? That I'm better than him at chess? I know that already. I've known that since the first move. What does it matter? It's a stupid game. It's a piece of wood. It's a way to pass the time. It's not... it's not...
...Important.
What's important is the look on his face. The way he's leaning over the board, his brow furrowed in concentration. The way he's tapping his finger on the floor. The way he's... alive. He's alive in a way I'm not. He's present in a way I'm not. He's here. And I'm... here.
I can win this game. Or I can let him win. I can crush him or I can... I can let him have this. I can let him feel smart. I can let him feel good. I can let him be happy. And maybe... maybe that's the better move on the board.
So I move my rook. Not to the winning square. But one off.
He moves his king. He's still running. He's still trying to win.
I move my bishop. Its not a check, but its still an aggressive move. Still not checkmate.
"I could take your rook with my rook." He says.
"Oh... Yeah you could." I say.
He does. Rook takes rook. He's taken one of my major pieces. A huge advantage for him. A huge disadvantage for me. I'm losing now. I'm actually losing. I've given him the advantage. I've let him back in the game.
"Hey!" He says. "I stopped your attack!"
"Did you?." I pretend to be shocked. "Oh shoot... You did."
I look at the board. I'm in a bad spot. My king is exposed, my pieces are scattered. He has a rook, a freshly promoted queen, and a bunch of pawns. I have a king, a bishop, and a couple of pawns. I'm losing. I've lost. I've thrown the game.
And I'm okay with that.
We play for a few more minutes. He takes my last remaining pieces. He corners my king, but he still needs a bit of help figuring out the checkmate. I nudge him along. A subtle suggestion. A hint.
"Your queen could go there, but then my king could just run away." I say. "But what if your rook..."
"Could go here?" He says, moving the rook to the square I was thinking of. Rook to d2. A net. I have no choice but to move to King a1
"And then..." I say.
"And then the queen goes here!" He says, moving the queen to c1.
That's it. Checkmate. He's done it. He's won.
He's beaming. He's actually beaming. He's so proud of himself. He looks at the board, then at me, then back at the board. "I did it! Checkmate!"
"You did." I say.
"I'm a genius!"
"You are." I say.
"I'm the best chess player in the world!"
"I wouldn't say that much, but you are pretty good." I say.
"Pretty good? I'm the master! The grandmaster! The... the... the king of chess!" He says, standing up and doing a little victory dance. It's a clumsy, awkward dance, but it's genuine. It's real. It's... sweet.
I watch him dance. I watch him laugh. I watch him be happy. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel that old, familiar bitterness. I don't feel the need to tear him down. I don't feel the need to prove him wrong. I just feel... happy for him. I feel happy that he's happy.
Is this what it's like? To not be at war all the time? To not be fighting? To not be hating?
"Okay, okay, okay." He says, finally calming down. "Okay. Let's do it again."
"You want to play again?" I say.
"Yeah! I want to beat you again."
"I thought you said you were the king of chess. Why would you need to play again if you're the best?"
"Because I have to defend my title!" He says. "And because I want to know more about that... middle game stuff."
"Do you want me to teach you?"
"Yeah." He says. "But not, like, in a teacher-y way. Just... play with me, and if you see me do something dumb, just tell me. But not, like, in a mean way. Just... tell me."
"Okay." I say. "But I'm going to beat you eventually."
"Never!" He says, and he starts to set up the board again. "The king of chess never loses!"
"The king of chess is a bit of a sore loser, I see."
"I'm not a sore loser. I'm a... I'm a... a... a gracious winner."
"Sure you are." I say.
"I am!" He says. "Now, are you going to help me set up this board, or are you just going to sit there and look pretty in your pink gown?"
...
Huh?
...
He... called me pretty? That's... that's not...
I don't like that. I don't like him saying that. It makes me feel... no. Nope. I don't like that.
I look down at myself, at the pink gown. At the fur on my arms. At the... the... the me that isn't me. He's right. I do look pretty. And that's the problem. He's talking to her, not me.
"You're a jerk." I say, but the words don't have the same bite as before. That's not good. That's not good at all. I need to be mean. I need to be... I need to be me.
He just chuckles. "Okay, sore loser. This time, I'm white. I want to go first."
I look back at him, "And why is that?"
"Because the king always gets to go first." He says.
"That's not how it works."
"It is now." He says, and he picks up a pawn. "Where should I put it?"
"In the center." I say. "Pawn to e4. That's a good opening."
"e4?" He looks at the board, at the little letters and numbers etched into the side. "Okay." He says, moving the pawn. "e4 it is."
"Okay. Pawn to c5." I say. "The Sicilian Defense." I'm not going to go easy on him this time.
"The what?" He says.
"The Sicilian Defense. It's a response to your e4."
"Oh. Okay. So... what does it do?"
"Its the name for my favorite opening as black. There are a bunch of openings." I say. "It's what's called an asymmetrical opening. I am playing a game that's not symmetrical to yours."
"What kinds are there?" He says.
"There's the Osclan Game, the Ruy Lopez, the Queens Gambit, the Kings Gambit..."
...
...
Pretty...
Huh.
