***** Morgan Abrams
3 days until arrest
You only see the FBI agent briefly as Rivka marches you through the kitchen, one hand gripped tightly around the base of your neck. Have you seen him before? There’s something familiar about him but you can’t place it.
He’s tall, wide-shouldered with a black suit and tie straight out of a period piece movie, just like– oh shit, you have seen him before. This is the same FBI guy that did the press release, and before that you saw him from a distance in Hydroponics.
He waves at you with a smile as you pass, nursing a mug of something pitch black that smells suspiciously like coffee except that there’s no way in hell that your mother, Rivka Abrams, would ever willingly make somebody else coffee.
“And here’s the man of the house–”
“In a minute, Lowe,” Rivka snaps, cutting the man off. She gives you another push, tightening her grip as she forces you out of the kitchen and through the hallway. Doesn’t let go until she can shove you into your bedroom.
“I need you on your best behavior. Do you understand me?” she hisses under her breath at you, teeth gritted.
You nod.
“Now make yourself presentable and then get out here,” she orders before retreating back into the hallway, slamming your door shut behind her.
Fuck.
Okay then.
Semaphore Log
🍏RottenApples.Ltd🍏
Centimorgan: there’s an fbi guy in our apartment
Centimorgan: he’s talking to rivka
Centimorgan: somebody please tell me i’m hallucinating
WileyRiley: Yo WHAT
WileyRiley: Dude, you okay?
Centimorgan: i don’t know
Cassiopeia: Are they interviewing your mom?
Centimorgan: I don’t know
Centimorgan: he’s just sitting in our kitchen
Centimorgan: drinking coffee?
B-Max6969: Coffee?
Cassiopeia: Probably just the interview? They’re talking to everyone
B-Max6969: Wouldn’t they do that at her office though?
Centimorgan: i’m supposed to get dressed and stuff and go out there
WileyRiley: You need me to come running over?
WileyRiley: Do some wacky distraction shit?
Centimorgan: how would you even get past the checkpoint
Centimorgan: aren’t you supposed to be going to school today
WileyRiley: Look I’d think of something
Centimorgan: no it’s okay
Centimorgan: sorry i just freaked out
Cassiopeia: Keep us updated, okay?
B-Max6969: How many are there?
Centimorgan: I only saw the one?
B-Max6969: That’s weird
B-Max6969: I think they’re supposed to work in pairs?
B-Max6969: I saw that in a movie
B-Max6969: You’re probably fine?
WileyRiley: Yeah! See? It’ll be okay
Panic, it turns out, is as effective a way as any to shake off whatever desire to go back to sleep you might have been holding on to. You put your phone down on your desk and take a breath. Arms in, arms out.
Come on, Morgan. Get a grip. It’s just. The FBI. Visiting your home. Talking to Rivka. And there’s only the one of him. Brayden says they’re supposed to come in pairs, and this guy is alone. So… that’s good, right? It has to be.
The static in the walls feels the same as ever. Out in the kitchen you catch the feeling of two people. No one else. No other hidden security agents waiting to jump out of the ceiling or whatever.
They’re just… talking. That’s all. The guy has a cup of coffee for crying out loud! Everything’s fine. You’re just… over-reacting out of a guilty conscience or something. And if you let that show, draw attention to yourself, you’ll blow it all and it’ll be ten thousand years of turbo jail and and and–
Fuck! No. Stop.
The room feels crushingly small. There’s no way out of here, out of this apartment except through the kitchen. So you’re trapped. Again. Like always. Need to get it together and think, damnit!
First thing’s first.
You wake your computer up, close out every folder and quit every app. Run a script to delete your browser history and flush the memory cache before doing a restart, just to be safe. You go through your meds while that’s running, find the one for anxiety and add an extra dose to your morning handful. There’s still a half-cup of water sitting on the bedside table from the other day. Better than having to go back out to the kitchen before you’re ready, so you swallow your disgust at the lukewarm temperature along with the meds and gulp it all down.
Emptying out your pockets gets you your tablet and Rivka’s ID card. Both of those go straight under your mattress, as far in as you can manage. You make your bed afterwards – ‘look presentable’ Rivka said.
You finish smoothing out the sheets and check over your work. Catch an edge that hasn’t been tucked in and fix that. No, now this other part isn’t smooth. And fuck, what angle should the pillows be propped up at? You can’t mess up any part of this.
Your phone buzzes, making you jump. Hands scrambling to see who’s messaged you like it’s a bomb with seconds to go before it explodes – oh, it’s only A*.
PDA A*
A*: Your heart rate has been elevated for several minutes.
A*: Are you alright, Rosalyn?
M: i’m fine
M: oh
M: shit uh
M: can you switch back to calling me Morgan
A*: Very well, Morgan.
It’s just a name. A bunch of letters. It shouldn’t hurt this much. You should have pulled the plug on this months ago. Never gotten attached.
M: i’m not forgetting anything else before I go out there am I?
A*: Clean clothes that haven’t been slept in are an important step on the path to success.
M: which step to success is that
A*: 27
M: i can never tell if you’re joking or not
Digging through your closet, you try to pick out the most boring outfit possible. Not too hard, they’re all boring. Settle on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that’s a size too big. While tugging on a fresh pair of socks, Riley’s voice echoes in the back of your head – ‘keep those ankles covered, slut!’ – and you almost start laughing at nothing in a haze of nausea. Not the time Morgan, focus!
Stand up, smooth out your clothes. Have second thoughts about the shorts – too much leg visible, too much you visible – and switch to jeans. There. That’s a normal boy-looking outfit, right? You finger comb out your hair, chewing on your lip as you do. Decide to pull it back into a ponytail. That’s… less effeminate looking than just letting it hang, right?
You have no idea.
Do you take off your bracelet? He could have already seen it, so… maybe it doesn’t matter? There’s not enough time to take off the nail polish either way. There’s only so much you can do to playact at being a normal boy, isn’t there? Because that’s what this is. An act. Like dressing up for a role in a play. Weird to have that revelation now of all times. If it weren’t for the accident of your body, you wouldn’t be in this situation.
You fall back on the bed, hands finding the felt fin of your fish plushie. It finds its way into your lap as you try to give the meds a few more seconds to start kicking in. Something to keep your hands busy without tearing your skin apart. Should probably hide the plushie too, come to think of it.
Why do you have to constantly crush down everything you actually want just to keep a bunch of other people… not even happy, no one’s happy about this – but just to keep them from hurting you? You’re so tired of it. Sometimes it feels like you simply don’t exist. Just an empty shell pressed into shape by outside pressures. What would you do if that stopped? What do you actually want? Do you really know?
Can’t even bear to think about it. It feels pointless.
A taunt, or some novel form of self-harm.
Not sure how long you sit there. Long enough to be breathing a normal amount again at any rate. You put the fish back on the bed, tuck it up against the wall behind your pillow with a pat and then stand up.
Okay.
No one’s out in the hallway, though a glance in that direction reveals a glimpse of Rivka pacing the floor. Satisfied no one is looking, you duck across and into the bathroom to brush your teeth, take care of your face.
Feeling almost like a real human being as you exit the bathroom, only to find yourself nailed to the floor as Rivka’s raised voice echoes off the walls.
“Shut that smug mouth of yours and listen to what I am telling you! You need to talk to your bosses and get them to place the entire complex on a full quarantine. There is no ‘upside’ to this situation. Idiots chasing half-baked ideas like Chrysalis or Silkworm are the reason we’re in this situation to begin with.”
Creeping towards the kitchen, you find the FBI guy is still sitting at the table. Down to half his cup now.
“How can you say that when your department is bound to get a huge increase in funding six months down the line?” His black hair is cut short and slicked back, revealing a sort of overly square face. He’s the kind of guy you’d expect to have a big bushy mustache but no, he’s clean shaven.
“Because you can’t control NMIV, Lowe. It’s a virus. It mutates, evolves. Mark my words, in some ventilation shaft of this crumbling monument to human greed is the actual heart of the problem and every second you waste here courts a disaster to the tune of thousands of lives.”
“Becky Becky Becky, you’ve been out of the game for decades–”
“Because you people locked me out of it!”
“–Imago explicitly can’t do that. It’s not viable airborne for longer than thirty minutes. And that’s not even considering the filtration system itself is designed against this exact scenario.”
Wait– Becky?
Seriously? No one in your entire life has ever called Rivka anything approaching a nickname. Who the hell is this guy?
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Sweetheart, come on. It’s a weapon, okay? Not a head cold. NMIV just isn’t capable of that degree of change.”
“Don’t you fucking ‘sweetheart’ me. I’ve seen the ecological impact reports, Lowe. Don’t pull this bullshit with me.”
“How would you have seen those? That’d be violating the terms of your arrangement.”
“It adapts, it changes, host and symbiote together, and above all else it spreads. That was the entire point. None of you people appreciate what NMIV was meant to accomplish.” Rivka’s voice is strained. Frustration leaking through the nominal veneer of self control.
“And what would that be, Becky, that NMIV is meant to do?”
Silence.
The FBI guy’s tone is upbeat. Amused verging on patronizing. “You don’t know either, do you? Even among the old monster squad you were always the odd duck out, never quite fitting in. Ah–” His eyes find yours and he says your name, beckoning you into the kitchen wave a wave of his hand. “So nice to finally meet you.”
You freeze in the doorway. Look to Rivka and then back to the man.
Can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve had to suffer hearing your first name in the past year. It was great.
Suddenly hearing it again is like getting blasted with feedback
Or a punch to the stomach.
“Lowe, this is Morgan.”
“Morgan, not– oh right, I remember now. So sorry, Morgan.”
Remember?
Does this guy know you somehow?
“Morgan, this is Alexander Lowe. He works for the FBI.”
Why does someone from the FBI know who you are?
“No thought to our long and meaningful relationship?” the FBI guy jokes.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
With a hand to his mouth like he’s trying to keep Rivka from hearing, he stage whispers to you, “Your mother and I go all the way back to our undergrad days.”
He drops the hand, holds it out to you in offerance of a handshake.
You stay where you are, staring at him.
What on earth is happening.
“Morgan,” Rivka reprimands. “Greet our guest like a human being.”
“Uh–” have to fight to keep your hands still, “um–”
There’s a deep, exasperated sigh from Rivka.
The FBI guy actually laughs, mercifully taking his hand back unshaken. “It’s fine. Kids, right?”
“He’s seventeen and should know better by now.”
“S-s-sorry,” you manage to get out. No one seems to notice as you inch into the kitchen.
“There, you’ve met. Now Morgan can go back to his room and–”
“Nonsense! You can’t hide him away like this forever, you know.” The FBI agent laughs, again. Slaps the edge of the table and twists in his seat to address Rivka. “Did you seriously never mention me?”
“There’s nothing to mention, Lowe.”
“Hurtful words, Becky,” he says with a smile, earning a snort of disgust.
At the confusion on your face, the FBI agent once again cracks up.
Rivka watches on with a murderous expression on her face. “Just… sit down, Morgan.”
Rivka… taking orders?
Shit. Are you the one in trouble?
“You’re not in trouble. So sit down,” she repeats.
The FBI agent – Agent Lowe, you guess, raises his coffee cup in your direction as you take the chair furthest away from them both and make yourself sit. Hands folded together in your lap in a struggle to keep them still. Maybe if you stay still enough and quiet enough they can forget you’re here and you can get away with not having to talk to anyone.
“Morgan, so how are your classes coming along?”
“He’s doing fine, Lowe. Better even,” Rivka answers for you.
Agent Lowe holds up his free hand, expression still placidly pleasant. “I want to hear what Morgan thinks.”
With a scowl, Rivka huffs. Gestures at you to answer when she sees you look to her.
“Um…” Hands still. Don’t fidget. “Fine?”
“You had a pretty rough start to the year, I hear.”
You look in Rivka’s direction again. No help there.
“Y-yeah.”
“But you’ve pulled through, that’s something to be proud of.” Agent Lowe raises his coffee again like he’s toasting you. “Tell me, have you thought any about what you want to do once your finish your primary ed?”
“Uh…”
Rivka bangs her cane against the floor. “He’s not joining the goddamn FBI, Lowe.”
You cough, almost choking on your own spit. What.
It feels like the room is spinning around you.
You?
In the FBI?
That’s not– never in a million years had you ever thought– what?
Maybe… maybe this is a way out of working for Praxis? And you can still do something with your life. Be useful. All thanks to this stupid glitch you have by accident, which. Wait. He knows about that too. And about what happened in October. Maybe January too.
How… how much does he know?
With a look bordering on conspiratorial to you he says, “It’s a pretty solid career path. We’re always so desperate for candidates with useful glitches that you could swing that telepathy of yours into a full education contract. In fact, if you’re willing to step up now–”
“Absolutely not! I forbid it!” Rivka yells, taking a step towards him. Looking for all the world like she wants to reach out and strangle him to death on the spot.
“Are you sure?” Agent Lowe asks. He still looks pleased, like this reaction was entirely accounted for. “I mean, since you’re apparently too busy to lend a hand yourself, I thought–”
“Are you out of your mind? He– he– he’s a child, Lowe! No, absolutely not. How many times do I need to tell you this?”
“Alright. But you know that once he’s 18, it won’t be your call to make, Becky. Isn’t that right, Morgan?”
You don’t answer.
The nausea is back, with a heavy side-helping of seeping cold dread.
“Oh, get over yourself. I’ve told you time and time again I don’t want you recruiting him, and that’s final. And all of your bullshit posturing means nothing. Morgan isn’t eighteen yet.”
Agent Lowe sips his coffee, with no sense of hurry. “You know Becky, when I first checked on your file and read that you went and had a kid, I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people in the world, I never imagined Bitter Becky Abrams would get baby fever. And now here you are, the overbearing mother you always hated.”
Rivka doesn’t have anything to say to that. Hands balled into fists and seething, the anger radiating out of her like a nuclear reactor core.
The FBI want you.
The FBI want you to work for them.
The FBI want you to work for them right now.
Out of everything that could have come from this conversation, this had not been anywhere on your mind as a possibility. And Rivka doesn’t want it to happen. Has been, apparently, obstructing it from happening for a while? But of course she would, right? She hates the government. Of course she doesn’t want you working for it.
Of course, some small part of your whispers, of course she would want you to stay somewhere close by where she can control you, forever.
Agent Lowe takes another sip of his coffee, playacting at obliviousness. He looks over to you, then back to her as if for comparison. “You know, it’s a little uncanny actually, the resemblance you two have. Morgan, have you ever seen a picture of Becky at your age?”
In a daze of unreality, you shake your head.
“If we start playing memory games,” Rivka says, trying to regain control of the conversation, “you’ll have us here all day. Unlike you, I have actual, real, work to do. You’ve made your pitch and got your answer. Can we be done with this now?”
He raises a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re as cold a woman as ever, aren’t you? You know, as a friend–”
“Don’t kid yourself, Lowe.”
“–but that’s exactly what I mean, Becky. You need friends to get by in this silly old world of ours. Who’s going to have your back if you freeze us all out?”
Rivka huffs. Standing perfectly still save for the tapping of one foot against the floor, her fingers against her arm. “I’ll be sure to take your unsolicited advice under advisement.”
“Believe or not, Becky, I’m still on your side.”
“Are you.”
Agent Lowe leans back, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. Enjoying himself as he talks. “I know full well you don’t appreciate me dropping in like this, but I am trying to help you, Becky. And Morgan here too. I really am. Which is why I wish you would listen to reason. You worked with us before, you can do it again. If I need to be blunt, I will be: It’s the best way to shield yourself from the obvious outcome of all this.”
“Lowe.”
“If not for yourself, think about your child. What is he going to do if you–”
“Lowe. Shut up,” Rivka hisses.
“I mean, just look at your table here.” He gestures with cup in hand at the candles still out on the table. “A mass-murdering Tomorrowist, still holding a candle for her old comrades? And a psychic besides, not just refusing to work with a federal investigation but barring her family from doing so as well? How much easier of a layup could HQ ask for to close this whole nasty business out?”
What?
No, really? No– that’s not– What?
He’s still talking, oblivious to your ever more white-knuckled grip on reality. “I understand your reservations but it’s time to put on your big girl shoes, hold your nose, and just–”
You’re standing. When did you stand up? No not important, this FBI guy is all but accusing Rivka. But that’s not– she’s being set up she’s–
Something clamps your mouth shut before you can open it. Words smothered in your throat.
“Morgan. Sit down.” When you don’t move, Rivka adds, “Now.”
It’s like an iron weight pressing down on your back. Your knees fold under you, bringing you back down to your seat.
Agent Lowe is looking between the two of you, astonishment on his face. “Wait… no! Good Lord, Becky, you never told him?”
Rivka pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes screwed shut. “It wasn’t relevant.”
You manage to find your voice again, long enough to croak out a “What?”
Before Rivka can silence him, Agent Lowe turns that horrible smug face on you. “I’m sorry to say but mother used to work with some very bad people, Morgan. I know you’ve heard of them. The Tomorrowists?”
You look to Rivka. Hoping for… what? A denial? Confirmation?
She’s not even looking at you. Has her head turned up at the ceiling, rubbing the skin around her right eye.
“I’m sure this is a lot to take in,” Agent Lowe continues. “Your mother did the right thing in the end however, and it saved a lot of lives, so you can be proud of that.”
This is real. This is happening.
It’s not real. It isn’t happening.
It’s too much. Too much is happening.
Every time she talked about wanting to kill someone. All those comments about the news. The government. The company. Hell. Just now! About not wanting you with the FBI! Is that because– But how is she– Why is Rivka not in jail? Why is she here? Why are you?
You feel like you’re going to be sick.
Rivka drops her hands to her sides, one finding the cane propped up beside her. Grips the head tight. “I’ll thank you not tell me my own business, Lowe. And I’ll doubly thank you to stop trying to undermine my authority.”
“Your authority,” Agent Lowe repeats, incredulous. “Becky, I can understand feeling ashamed, but did you really think you could keep this a secret forever?”
There’s the sharp rap of the cane against kitchen tile. “That was the whole damn point, Lowe! It’s been twenty fucking years!”
Rivka keeps shouting but the worlds flow around you, background noise. Beyond your ability to parse right now. You need – you need space. Where no one can look at you. While you have an emotion. Whatever else they might say, whatever words Rivka might have for you later. Fuck, Brayden was right about something. Why does Brayden get to be right about anything. You almost hate that more than what he was right about. It’s at least more tangible, more comprehensible than having to recontextualize everything you ever thought you knew about Rivka. A terrorist?
You stand up in your chair, almost knocking it over. An awkward scramble to keep it from tipping all the way and then you’re out of here. Rivka says something but you’re not listening. It doesn’t matter. Don’t care. Up. Out. Back to the bathroom. Shut and lock the door.
Fuck.
You feel sick. You feel sick and you want it to go away.
Need it to go away.
Right now right now right now.
Halfway to rinsing out your mouth with water from the sink by the time your thoughts have slowed enough to congeal back out of the hot plasma of panic and into something resembling a coherent solid. The inside of your nose still burns from stomach bile.
Spit out the last of the water in your mouth, wash your hands, dry them on the towel. Shaking fingers find the phone in your pocket as you sink down to the floor. Do you text the others about this? Can you – should you? What are you supposed to do here? What could you possibly say?
‘Hey guys the FBI want me to work for them, no I’m not joking, but my mom won’t let me. Also yeah it turns out Brayden was right all along and she’s a bloodthirsty terrorist. How’s class going?’
Insane.
You’re going insane.
You could ruin her right now, you realize. Rivka. The Tomorrowist. The Tomorrowist who did… something? with the FBI. Something good enough to keep her out of jail, apparently.
Set-up or not, if this asshole FBI guy finds out Rivka used an intern to get access to Imago research off the record… that has to be a bad look, right? Whatever else is going on, whoever is actually behind the Imago attacks, just the suspicion alone could…
Putting aside whatever you might feel about Rivka to figure out later, what the hell happens to you if she gets arrested on terrorism charges? You barely survived being the main character of high school social media for a few months. This would get the attention of the entire world.
Back in the kitchen, things have descended into an argument. Raised voices seeping in under the door. One-sided as it is, with how implacable Agent Lowe continues to be.
Breathing too quickly again. Why would you do that to Rivka. It’s not like Rivka is responsible for the attacks, she can’t be. The air filters Cassandra was setting out don’t seem to do anything, right? Right. The real list, the actual one not the one in the security footage barely matches with the places attacks actually happened. Hell, for all you know of the situation, what if what Rivka is doing is preventing attacks, right? Right??
Apparently she turned on the Tomorrowists once already right?
But– then why not do what Agent Lowe wants and work with the FBI?
Thoughts keep catching on themselves. Gears in a broken machine, grinding against each other. The buzzing hum of the wires in the walls digging into your skin. The nails of your fingers pressing moon crescent pinpricks into your legs.
You can’t hide in here forever. At the very least, hiding in your bedroom would be more comfortable than sitting on the floor.
With a robotic detachment you force yourself to unfold. Stand up, one hand out in front of you to steady yourself against the bathroom door. Like one of those games where you have to control each individual limb independently. Going through the motions to practice control. Hands in. Hands out. Steady breathing.
When you open the door, it’s as quiet as you can possibly make it. They’re still talking in the kitchen. Voices carrying – more clear now. Find yourself in no hurry to go anywhere and so you linger in the bathroom doorway, listening.
“Becky, I swear – had I known, I would have been more tactful.”
“Do you have any appreciation for how delicate this situation is? I need him to be willing to trust me.”
“I understand, believe me. But you need to face facts too. Both of you are wasted here. The agency is always looking for people with glitches, and they’re more than willing to bend rules to get people on board when needed.”
There’s a pause. Movement. You get the sense of Agent Lowe standing up. Putting a hand on Rivka’s shoulder and somehow not getting punched in the face for the gesture.
“Look, Becky. Put that fancy glitch of yours to work for me. Give me someone that I can satisfy the brass with and I promise I’ll have people check the air vents or whatever you think the problem is. Help me help you. Find me a scapegoat. Hell,” there’s a smile, “think of it as doing your civic duty to your fellow Americans.”
Rivka shifts away. Brushes his hand off her. “How many years have you been waiting to throw that pitch back at me?”
There’s a peal of deep laughter. “Now that would be absurd. Most people don’t hold grudges quite like you do, Becky.”
You force your hands to unclench. Press them against your thighs, wipe the sweat off onto your pants. Fingers find the seams of your pockets and trace the stitching. Your phone sits like a lead weight in your pocket.
“It’s been a while since your kid ran off,” Agent Lowe says, sending a whole new wave of anxiety pulsing through you. “Shouldn’t you go check on him?”
“Morgan will be fine.” Rivka waves the suggestion off. Is moving back to the kitchen, searching for a second coffee cup to stick under the flash. Presses the button once with her thumb and the machine starts humming.
“You’re sure about that? He was a theatre kid, right?”
“Before we had to pull him out of school, yes.”
“Did he enjoy it?”
“School or theatre? Hard to say.”
There’s a laugh. “It’s amazing how we grew up being told not to believe in all these stereotypes only for them all to turn out to be true.”
In the following silence you can just imagine the expression Rivka must be making.
“Oh don’t look at me like that, of course I would read his file. I bet you already know exactly what the Super has him labeled as,” Agent Lowe says.
You wish they’d go back to talking about terrorism or Imago or something. Talking about you is even worse.
“All these behavior issues? The shoplifting? Fights? And I saw what was on his nails. These are all textbook cries for help. It’s almost funny. What are the odds that your child of all people’s would be, well…”
“Enough, Lowe! Enough! You’ve done enough damage today. I’d thank you not to do any more.”
“Wait, wait,” there’s a deep chuckling laugh. Agent Lowe is shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t know that about you either? Are you serious?”
What?
“Of course he doesn’t.”
Doesn’t know what?
What else could you possibly not know?
“Oh Becky. You’re kidding me. I understand you’re ashamed of your past, but the kid almost killed himself, right? I’d have thought it’d be a, well, a comfort, or a point of connection for you two. You know, to really know he wasn’t alone with those feelings or–”
Rivka shatters her coffee cup against the counter with a crash, hot liquid spilling everywhere. Raising her voice. “What the fuck do you want me to say to her, Lowe? It’s not like when we were kids! The enemy fucking won! They won and we lost and if you weren’t lucky enough or craven enough to slip in under the gate and cover your tracks then you’re fucked! Am I supposed to just torture her with a truth she can never fucking have for herself? With knowing there’s an answer and that she can never, ever have it?”
“But–”
“But nothing! You have the fucking gall to lecture me about this? To come back here after twenty fucking years and dance in my face with your bullshit false concern you fucking quisling cunt!”
“Hey now–”
“They’ll ship ‘him’ off to some fucking conversion therapy camp where they’ll eat her alive, Lowe. Don’t you remember what it was like? Don’t you remember what it was like every fucking day seeing the future get just a little bit darker? I’m supposed to, what, taunt her with that? Do a fucking coy little song and dance with you about all the things that can never fucking be? Listen to yourself! Better she never get her hopes up.
“And then– and then as if all that isn’t bad enough, assuming I didn’t get instantly exposed myself and fucking fired, I’ll still have to go through a cavalcade of soulless suits who’ve let a fucking algorithm replace their higher reasoning and explain why they shouldn’t sack me from my job for the capital crime of embarrassing a company. God damn man!”
There’s silence. Rivka is breathing hard. Red in the face.
They– they can’t be talking about what you think they’re talking about.
That doesn’t– it doesn’t make any sense. That would mean Rivka was– that she’s also– that she– no. No. What? No.
Your stomach lurches, the taste of bile in the back of your throat. Yet somehow it all feels like it’s happening one level removed. At some point in this mess the whole world has slipped into watching yourself, trapped on the other side of a video game screen without you noticing.
Quieter, more calmly, Rivka adds, “I’m not suffering through all this– this-this-this parental bullshit just to end up with a dead child at the other end.”
“And whatever this is, that’s the better option, is it?”
“Screw you, Lowe.”
“I really have gotten under your skin with this.” Laughter. “Good to know.”
“Of course you’re happy about this. Damn it all, now I have to clean this mess up.”
“No, no, you take a seat Becky, let me.”
There’s the sound of Rivka sinking into a chair. Agent Lowe grabs a towel from above the kitchen sink and starts wiping the floor using his foot.
“I never should have done this, Lowe. I can’t– I didn’t anticipate how hard this would be.” Rivka’s voice actually breaks. “Keeping the child was a complete and total mistake. Far too much like me for her own good.”
“You cloned yourself, didn’t you.”
“Of course I did.”
“Becky, if I reported you…”
“The kind of work I needed done, I wasn’t about to subject anyone else to. I never intended to actually keep any of them. It was a moment of weakness. Or hubris. You pick.”
“And yet it turns out, he’s not just a mini-you, is he?”
“No. No, she’s not.”
With a calm, premeditated slowness Agent Lowe says in a chipper voice, “Well! I suppose if he’s still anything like you, he’s probably been listening to us talk about him this whole time.”
A pause.
The crash of doubled feedback hits between your eyes as the static briefly mirrors itself. Nearly sends you to your knees. From out in the kitchen you can hear Rivka whisper. “…shit.”
Louder, she says, “Morgan! Get out here!” When you don’t move, she continues, “Don’t make me come over there!”
Keep one hand out to the wall so you can feel something real as you pilot your body back to the kitchen. And there they both are. Rivka slumped against a chair. Agent Lowe with a towel under his foot mopping up a puddle of black-brown liquid on the floor. They both look at you. There’s something underneath Lowe’s expression of pity but you can’t – you don’t know what it is. Can’t process it.
And Rivka, she’s– you can’t make yourself look her in the face. About something, you or herself – it doesn’t matter. Meaningless noise that flows around you.
No.
No, you can’t do this right now.
She’s lied about everything.
You don’t even know who she is.
What could she possibly have to say to you now? There’s nothing that could make this okay, that could make this all make sense. And what does any of it matter anyway? You’re a mistake. Her words.
You back up. Find inside you somewhere some small remaining burst of energy to power you all the way back to your room where you slam and lock the door behind you.
Half a minute later Rivka is at the door, jostling the handle. “Open this door, Morgan.”
You throw yourself onto your bed and bury your head under a pillow.
“Open this door Morgan, or I’ll have A* do it.”
You sit up in bed and look over the room. Eyes landing on your backpack.
It’s not like you haven’t thought about it before, but – no. You shake your head. Stop thinking. There’s your backpack by the desk. Dump some spare clothes in. Grab a bag for your meds. Add those in too. You find your tablet under your mattress and drop that in after.
What exactly is the plan here? Maybe Riley’s parents will let you stay over? Until you can get your head straight around what the fresh hell today has been. But you can’t – you can’t be here.
You’re pressing the bag of medications down through the clothes when the door clicks open. Rivka charges through, freezing for only a second as she takes in the image of you kneeling on the floor with a half-zipped-up backpack. Shifts her posture.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
What does it look like you’re doing?
“Morgan, for fuck’s sake put that down and talk to me.”
You don’t look at her. Resume packing your backpack. Got to make sure the nanite bottle is cushioned, can’t risk that breaking. How much more space do you have in here? Should you get a another change of clothes?
“I would have told you the truth eventually Morgan, you know that. You have to appreciate how difficult a position I’ve been in. I’ve never lied to you.”
That’s egregious enough to get you to stop and look up at her. Never lied to you? Is she kidding herself? She’s lied to you every day of her life. She’s lied about who you are and who she is to you, to everyone. A Tomorrowist – a terrorist? That part was bad enough. To now know the whole time that she was– was like you? Or worse, that you’re like her? Not merely related but a– a clone? A copy?
Except look at her! No one would ever know she was ever anything not a woman! And she knew! She knew what was wrong with you and didn’t say anything! She had to have known this would have happened and clearly she knows some way to fix it, fuck maybe some way to keep this from ever happening at all! What if she had just fucking done some gene editing bullshit and made you a girl from the start!? Instead she’s made you suffer and wish you were dead all while pushing you to keep quiet, to not stand out – why? Because it would look bad for her?
“It’s not that simple, Morgan!”
You don’t look at her, attention focused entirely on the task in front of you. Is there anything else you’re missing? Phone, tablet, meds, change of clothes – no think that’s it. Just a matter of making it fit.
“And just where do you think you’re going with all that?”
That’s none of her business.
“Of course it is, I’m your mother.”
The audacity of the statement is enough to floor you. She wants to call herself that now? Years of correcting you, of getting pissed off about it, and now she wants to use that word as… what? A bid for authority?
Fuck it. Fine. Let’s do this right here then.
She wants to do… what? Damage control?
She wants to talk now? Fine.
“What. Do. You. Want.” you manage through gritted teeth.
“I need you to calm down. Do you have any appreciation to how difficult a situation we’re in?”
“How w-w-would I? You–-you-you lied to me! About– about everything! Your life, my life – you don’t– don’t care about me!”
“That’s not–”
“I’m a-a-a mistake right? A problem!”
A constant embarrassment. A distraction from what she really cares about: a bunch of dumb numbers in a spreadsheet. The worst part is that none of this is new information, really. Well, the full extent of the lie maybe, but you always knew, deep down, that you just weren’t all that important to her.
More a burden that she’d come to resent.
Rivka’s face contorts. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
She doesn’t say anything else.
Doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to justify it, or explain it away.
It all makes sense now, right? None of this talk about ‘keeping your head down’ was about you. It was about her. Not wanting to attract attention to herself. You were never a factor at all.
“You’re a– a terrorist. Or were one. I don’t know. And now you’re d-d-doing something– something wrong and–” the sentence dies in your throat, words failing you as your mouth clamps shut under the full force of Rivka’s anger.
“Be. Silent.” she hisses. “We were not–” Rivka cuts herself off. Takes a deep breath to calm herself. Hands in, hands out.
“I’m not relitigating my past to defend myself against a child. That part of my life was over well before you entered the picture, and you didn’t need to know about it.”
“If it’s– if it’s over, then y-y-you should be able to talk about it.”
Her response is immediate: “No.”
Even now she’s still hiding something. And not just from you. From the FBI guy. Maybe from Praxis too? Who knows anymore. She’s doing something and it’s wrong and she knows it.
You return your attention to the backpack. Ensure your meds are cradled by the clothes to cushion them against potential impact. Tablet kept on top for easy access.
“I know this has been a difficult year for you Morgan, but believe it or not, you are not the center of the–”
“Are you t-transgender?” you interrupt.
“Am I– fine, yes. So believe me Morgan when I say I know exactly how difficult things have been.”
You hand grips the canvas of the backpack, bunching it up in your first.
“Did– d-d-did you always know? About– about me? About…” you gesture down at yourself. Not the follow-up you meant to ask in the moment but it’s the one that comes out, unbidden.
“The research on the subject is minimal but I knew it was a possibility. You need to understand, Morgan. Genetics are not destiny. You remain your own person. One who is, for better and worse, very different from myself–”
“Th-th-that’s not what I’m mad about!”
It’s not fair. She knew! She had to have known from the start! She had to have known! Why did any of this have to happen to you? She could have fixed it – fixed you. You could have grown up a girl and never be the wiser and everything would be so much better. Why did you have to be put through all this? It’s not fair, it’s not–
“Life isn’t fair,” Rivka’s voice snaps through your thoughts. “ Do you think I wanted this outcome? I’ve gone out of my way to prepare you, to protect you–”
She keeps talking but you stop listening right there.
Zip up the backpack. Going to have to get her away from the doorway to get out of here and she knows it. Torn between feeling like your chest has been crushed and wanting to scream. Your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands. Protect you? Protect you?
Protect you how? Where was that protection in school? Where was it when you were trapped in that bedroom at that fucking Halloween party? Or with the therapist or all the other times since?
What fucking protection? And now the fucking lights in this shitty-ass room are flickering which is just a great addition to your already worsening mood.
“Morgan, you need to calm down.” Rivka reaches for your arm and you pull back, out of her reach.
“D-d-don’t touch me!”
She happily abandons you for days at a time and now all of a sudden you aren’t even allowed two seconds to get your thoughts in order?
It’s always the same, isn’t it? Everyone sees you, sees this stupid fucking body and hears your stupid voice and thinks they can just get whatever they want out of it and they never have to take responsibility, never have to even pretend to say sorry! She knew! She knew what was going on and she never even tried to talk to you about it except to tell you to stop making yourself stand out! Like that was something you had any control over!
And you’re now trapped in here. Again. With no way out and it’s just like you’re back in that fucking bedroom and she’s trying to fucking grab you again why can’t everything just STOP –
Rivka sucks in her breath, A pulse of pain and heat running through her fake eye as she slaps a hand over it.
There’s the buzz of something sharp and electrical.
And then the fucking lights in the room go out.
The two of you stand there in the pitch black for what feels like an hour. Your breathe feels hot in your chest. Throat squeezing tight. Anger. Emotion. Overwhelming in an intensity you don’t know what to do with. It’s all so horribly physical, you hate it.
“Morgan, what did you–” Rivka starts again.
No.
She’s seriously going to blame this on you?
Fuck this.
And fuck her.
You grab your backpack and sling it over your shoulder before shoving past her. It’s easier than you expected to just muscle past. Without a cane, Rivka’s balance is piss-poor. She staggers on her feet, hands reaching for the door, the wall, to keep from falling. In the end, after everything, she’s still just a bitter old woman. She can’t stop you.
The lights in the entire apartment are out, plunging everything into darkness. Great. A full power outage. Just what you needed on top of everything else today. One more example of how everything in this stupid arcology is falling apart.
Agent Lowe is still in the kitchen, illuminated by the light of his phone and sipping his coffee with one hand. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of you as you come into range of the light.
You ignore him, march past and reach for the door. It jostles in your hand. Locked. Of fucking course. Why wouldn’t the doors lock during a power outage? Great design. Extremely safe.
Can feel Agent Lowe’s eyes on your back as you stand there, staring at the door. Finally you turn around and stare back him. Daring him to say something. Do something.
He raises his cup at you. Has the audacity to smile. “You two have a fight?”
Fuck him too.
Without even thinking about it you imagine yourself reaching into the muted hiss of the static running through the door, squeezing tighter and tighter until the lock pops open.
From behind, you can hear Agent Lowe comment “Neat trick.”
You slam the door shut behind you.