Morgan Abrams
~9 hours until arrest
There are few things in life as fully energizing as the rush of knowingly making a bad decision.
Riley dragged you from store to store, insisting you pick one with a style you like. You were, of course, not in much of a state to be making any decisions requiring higher order thinking and so eventually Riley gave up on asking and just took the lead. Pulled you into a some department store with a distressingly pink sign over the entrance, down aisle after aisle as you tried not to feel like an intruder – a rat about to have the bar of a mousetrap snap down across your neck.
At some point, in what can only be described as giving in to a fit of utter madness, you start to lean into it. Now you have a backpack stuffed full of shoplifted women’s clothing. Sure, why not? Why stop at one crime when you can do two, or three, or, hell, why not a dozen?
Why stop there?
With Riley’s help as lookout, you manage to monopolize a bathroom for a shockingly long time. More than enough to get over yourself and do everything you need to in there. By the time you walk out, all dressed in brand new (stolen!) clothes, there can be absolutely no doubt:
You really are completely fucking insane.
Point of evidence the first: You are wearing eyeliner. In public. Where other people can see you. It’s really badly done eyeliner, but it’s there. It’s present. And you are fighting every urge you possess to keep from rubbing your eyes and smearing it everywhere. It’s. Really hard. To not do that.
Point of evidence the second: You are wearing clothes from the women’s section. It’s just a shirt with a differently shaped neckline and a weirdly tight pair of jeans but still. But still.
Riley hugged you and called you a girl.
Still. Trying to catch up to that, mentally.
Which brings us to point of evidence the third: No one milling around in this alley waiting for an open restroom spared you a second glance when you walked out. You in your dumb jacket and the gloves and the women’s jeans and the chipped nail polish and oh yeah did we mention the fucking eyeliner???
And then of course there’s the fourth point of evidence, the real clincher to this whole argument: you cut Rivka’s tracker out of your arm while in there.
It wasn’t even hard to convince Riley to make a pit stop at a pharmacy so you could get some aspirin, some anti-nausea meds, and oh look at that, where did this first-aid kit come from? Whoops! Everything you needed to do a little bathroom surgery to cut out that stupid fucking tracking implant.
So. The conclusion: You’re crazy.
But also, the whole world is crazy?
The only question is how far can you push this before reality finally snaps shut around your leg.
Riley does most of the heavy lifting with the conversation as the two of you pick your way through the mall to the SteakShack. You can barely focus enough to follow along with what she’s saying. There had been another Imago attack this week apparently, this time at a night club in the A-Class executive suite of Epsilon. A handful of the next generation of Praxis’s so-called ‘best and brightest’ had been caught up in the chaos, not long after the blackout in your section which was its own whole mess. Three entire floors without power – for hours. No word on what caused it, either. People were pissed.
Maybe it’s the physical state you’ve put yourself in. Three days on minimal sleep, the only thing in your stomach being the cookie you forced down an hour ago. The anxiety you’re feeling has to be at least fifty percent of the problem, though. Maybe more. Listening in on every discernible thought in the static just in case it’s someone judging your appearence.
Just in case someone is able to tell.
The few that do notice something off with you, it’s… perversely empowering? Like, yeah, maybe they think you’re a freak or something, but joke’s on them, you did this on purpose. What’s their excuse?
Those are the exception, however. It seems you do not, in fact, have a sign over your head pointing out your transgression to every passerby. Perhaps the old adage really is true: be it with people or computers, with the right clothes and the right attitude you can get into anywhere.
When the lockdown alert goes out, setting off every single cellphone in the Mall with a chorus of beeps, squawks, and bloops, you don’t even register it at first. Almost bump into Riley, who has come to an abrupt stop to stare at her phone.
Pulling out your own, you check the message for yourself. See what kind of fresh hell life has decided to dump on you next.
***WARNING** SUPERINTENDENT EMERGENCY INTERCOM **WARNING***
A SHELTER IN PLACE ORDER IS NOW IN EFFECT FOR:
TOWER EPSILON CENTRAL MALL AND ALL CONNECTING HALLS.
ALL PRAXIS EMPLOYEES AND RESIDENTS ARE TO SHELTER IN PLACE.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
– BIOHAZARD WARNING –
REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE AND DON APPROPRIATE P.P.E.
DO NOT IMPEDE SECURITY PERSONNEL AND OBEY ALL INSTRUCTIONS.
FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL BE PUNISHED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW
AND ACCORDING TO COMPANY POLICY.
DO NOT OPEN OR OVERRIDE ANY DOORS OR GATES.
EXTERIOR HALL ACCESS WILL CLOSE MOMENTARILY.
YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN SHELTER IN PLACE ORDER IS LIFTED.
“Seriously?” She hisses between her teeth. “A fucking Imago, now?”
Well, on the bright side, you might not have to worry all that much longer about how to handle Rivka or this whole ‘being transgender’ thing if you end up dead in a monster attack.
The crowd around you starts moving again as the background buzz of anxiety raises a notch. People moving with purpose, looking to get out of the hallway, ducking into the nearest stores.
“S-sh-should we, um–”
Riley shakes her head. “We’re finding Cass and Brayden first. If we’re going to be stuck somewhere all day, we’re doing it together.” Riley nods at her own statement, steeling herself against a tremor of fear running through her voice. “Got it?”
“G-got it.”
Riley raises the mic of her phone to her mouth. “Hey Sups, where’s Cass and Brayden?”
“Searching… please follow this way.” The Super’s tinny female voice chirps from her phone and the screen automatically switches over to a map of the mall, a red line stretching forward. “Be advised that a shelter in place order is in effect.”
“Yeah, we know.” Riley gestures you closer. “Com’on, we’re not letting this ruin our day.”
“We um, we aren’t?”
“Hell no, dude.”
Relinking her arm with yours at the elbow, she barrels forward, pulling you along while keeping one eye on her phone screen.
***
You find Cassandra first, waiting just outside the planned meeting place. The rundown exterior of the SteakShack has seen better days. A worn faux-brick exterior pockmarked with… are those fake bullet holes? Wait – the bubble lettering of the sign… Those are guns. The letters are guns. And… yup that’s a picture of an artillery cannon shooting a burger.
What is with Cassandra and picking the weirdest places imaginable. This must be one of those gimmick-themed fast food places that are always popping up and collapsing. Like bubblegum. Inevitably it’ll close and get replaced with whatever is projected as the newest trend.
Cassandra waves the two of you over, eyebrows shooting up as she registers the change in your appearence. She is, to your relief, wearing a mask. You had to badger Riley into it the whole walk over.
Eyes crinkle as she stares at you, stepping in closer. “Is that eyeliner?”
“Uh–”
“It looks good,” she says.
Riley barks out a laugh. “I know, right? I’m fucking jealous, like what the hell?”
You bite into your cheek.
Easier to believe they’re poking fun at you.
And then that’s that. The conversation moves on.
Riley waves a hand, gesturing back the way you came. “Did Brayden get in before the lockdown hit, or?”
Cassandra nods, biting her lip under the mask. “He said he’s on his way. Do you think it’s safe? Should I yell at him more to stay put?”
Yes, absolutely.
“Nah,” Riley answers with a shrug, unwarranted optimism entering her voice. “If there was actual trouble we’d have noticed by now, right? Maybe it’s a false alarm.”
You want to contest that but, checking your phone, there’ve been no signs of any Imago over the Chattrnet. Just a lot of people upset over locking down the mall. No one allowed in or out.
If it’s somehow not Imago related… what else could this lockdown be for? It can’t be Rivka; she wouldn’t need to do something like this just to get Security to force you home. Same for that asshole FBI guy.
A casual glance around shows a distressing number of other people doing the same thing you and Riley did: ignoring the shelter in place order and going about their business like it’s any other normal Thursday afternoon.
“Is th-th-this place even serving food right now?” you ask.
“Why not?” Cassandra’s sunshine enthusiasm returns in full force as she leads the two of you inside with her. “We’re all captive customers now, right? That’s the perfect demographic.”
“But–”
“We were planning to eat here anyway, right?”
Damn it.
Riley makes a point of ordering for you, not giving you a chance to skimp out. Sodas, chicken sandwiches (‘straight from the vat!’ a yellow advert says on the order screen), an unconscionably large carton of fries. Just looking at this menu brings to mind images of a cartoon heart choking on all that grease.
Once a tray with your collective order is slid into Riley’s waiting hands, the three of you retreat to find a corner table with a good window view of the redwood park. You can see the walkway one story down from here. A handful of brave (or foolhardy) people with shopping bags dart from one storefront to the next while big white billboards continue to advertise the ‘Latest in Running Technology!’ alongside cut-out models of larger-than-life rail-thin and white athletic people with perfect teeth, blue eyes, and straight blonde hair.
Wonder how many of those people are Ectogenes like Cassandra – grown in a vat to fit some CEO’s perfectionist ideal.
The interior of the SteakShack has a run-down feeling to it. The off-yellow plastic linoleum floor is peeling at the seams while war memorabilia decorates the walls. Carefully laminated mass-market photographs of rough looking men haunched over in combat fatigues from ancient times.
“Ah, World War II: the last good war,” Riley announces with mock solemnity as she sets down the tray and pulls into the seat next to you.
“You never see anything like this for more recent stuff, do you?” Cassandra says in agreement, sitting across from you. Reaches over to divvy up the food on the tray.
“Well yeah, it’s like, the only time anyone can agree that we actually won a war, right? Nobody likes a loser.” Riley laughs weakly at her own joke.
The three of you remove your masks and eat in silence for what feels like an agonizingly long time, though your phone insists it’s barely five minutes. You pick at a couple of fries. Take another bite of your sandwich under the glare of Riley’s aggressive insistence.
“Th-thanks,” you say to the table after swallowing an unpleasant lump. Aware of your own body again as if it were at one level of remove. A row of stats in a video game screen with the ‘hunger’ meter all the way in the red and somehow you never noticed.
Riley brushes her shoulder against yours, attention occupied with the task of eating with as few bites as possible a chicken sandwich oozing barbecue sauce all over her fingers. “Any time, dude.”
You make yourself nod.
Bite. Chew. Swallow.
Each bite is another pip on that bar.
By the time Brayden shows up, you’ve managed a dozen more fries and half the entire sandwich, stomach feeling uncomfortably full. When was the last time you ate this much at once?
Riley and Cassandra have already finished theirs and give a little cheer when Brayden sets down a fresh cartoon of fries.
“Hey B-man, good job not getting eaten,” Riley says.
“Wow, thanks for your concern,” Brayden replies, deadpan.
“No trouble getting here?” Cassandra asks.
“I saw like… two security guys and they were going the other direction,” he answers as he sits down.
Pauses as he looks you over.
Taking in your appearence.
“Fuck, Morgan, you look like shit.” He stops mid-thought, frown intensifying as he studies you. “What the hell is up with your face?”
At least you can trust one person to be honest with how you look.
“Brayden!” Cassandra frowns at him, slapping his shoulder. “Be nice!”
“Uh,” he hesitates. Begins to suspect that wasn’t the best opener. “You okay?”
“Eh,” you grunt and shove a french fry in your mouth as an excuse not to talk right now. You’re trying not to hate him anymore. You swear.
But he makes it so hard.
“Why are you dressed like that anyway?”
“I want to.”
“But–” he looks between Cassandra and Riley. “Oh, woah. You told them?”
“You’re not going to give Morgan any grief about the girl thing are you?” Riley asks on your behalf. Guarded, ready to jump in.
“What? No.” He holds up his hands and rolls his eyes. “I literally couldn’t care less. I promise. Just don’t come crying to me if you running around like that in public gets you picked up by Security.”
“Everyone already f-f-fucking knows anyway!” you spit back, clenching your hands. “The-the-the Super has it on my file. Rivka knew, the– the FBI knew, Riley knew–”
“Hey, my case is different,” she interjects.
“That’s not the point.” Your throat clenches up, tension choking out any further words.
“Okay…” Brayden says. “I’m going to need some context here.”
“In– in a minute.” Need to get yourself under control. Need to line up exactly what you’re going to say. How you’re going to say it.
“Fine.” He looks over the restaurant, trying to find a change of subject. “What the fuck is this place anyway? Coming here was your idea, wasn’t it, Cass?” Gestures at a row of helmets hanging from one of the ceiling beams.
“Isn’t it cool?” Cassandra beams.
“Dude, this place is nothing. You guys ever see Mr. Burkart’s classroom, the one with all the jars of pickled organs?” Riley asks.
You let the three of them talk, listening quietly as they swap school stories. Gossip about classmates (did you hear? Jason’s family never came back from their vacation to Calcutta? Great, hope he died in a ditch somewhere). Cassandra ends up monopolizing the conversation for a solid fifteen minutes on a tangent about some clerical issue of her internship which segues into expressing a fear that she’s going to get forced into management to inherit her mom’s job when what she really wants to do is go into the sciences.
It’s just… all so reassuringly normal.
You sit there there, listening, letting your food go cold. Colder. Make the appropriate noises at the appropriate moments so it looks like you’re paying more attention than you actually are. Trying not to let the creeping sense of panic that’s threatening to claw its way back up your throat squeeze the life out of you.
Between the food and the meds, some of your brain fog is starting to clear. The reality of your situation settles back in. Any moment you could get a message on your phone or some security officer could storm through the door looking for you.
There’s a flock of wild birds nesting in one of the tree branches close by. You can’t see see them through the window but you can feel them through the static. Well enough to know that’s actual birdsong amongst all the noise and not just ambient recordings.
Riley’s hand taps your shoulder, drawing you away from the window. She cocks an eyebrow. “Check-in?” she signs.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, painfully aware of Cassandra and Brayden watching, even if they can’t understand what you’re saying. “Sorry. I know you want to know what happened.”
“I’m not trying to force you,” Riley quickly signs.
“I know. I just– need to hold it together.” You hesitate, hand hovering in the air as you chew your lip. “I’m still freaked out. You really don’t think I’m a creep? Or crazy?”
Riley doesn’t sign back right away. Thinking out what she wants to say ahead of time. “Honestly? The more I think about it, the more obvious it seems?”
She intends to be assuring but it’s hard to take it that way.
For a brief moment it felt like this was something you were actively doing. A choice you were making. Not some fate you were tragically predestined to suffer. The last thing you want is for everyone to start thinking of you as Rivka’s fucked up failed clone, once you’ve told them the full story.
Have to look away, glance over in Cassandra and Brayden’s direction.
Brayden stares back at you, half a hamburger in his hand. “I hate when you two do this.”
Cassandra elbows him. With a mechanical exasperation she says, “Don’t be rude, Bray.”
“They’re the rude ones!” he sputters out. “We’re at the table too! And we can’t understand what they’re saying!”
Riley turns her attention on him and flips her middle finger up with a smile. “Nothing’s stopping you from learning, my dude.”
Cassandra bounces in her seat. “Oh, I think that’d be fun! Is there a Chattrnet course available?”
“I’ll send you a few links later, Cassie.” Riley returns Cassandra’s smile with a grin. Batters her eyelashes while Brayden crosses his arms in a huff.
“Um, so–” you flinch as everyone turns their attention on you at once. “Sorry for-for-for uh, for dragging you all out here.”
“Dude, we already went through this. It’s fine.”
Brayden puts his half-finished burger down. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. We’re stuck here until the lockdown lifts. You want to actually fill us in on what the fuck is going on now?”
“Uh– y-yeah. Sorry. It’s– it’s a lot.” You rub at your face, massaging your temples in the faint hope you can ward off the inevitable migraine.
“He– uh, they– uh,” Riley stumbles over her words.
“It– it’s fine,” you assure her.
“Morgan’s not kidding about that. We just got the preview and I felt like my brain was melting out of my ears.”
“D-d-did um, did Cass tell you um–”
Brayden’s frown deepens. “No, just that you weren’t doing good.”
“I wasn’t sure what would be safe to say over text,” Cassandra fills in. “Oh, do we need to turn our phones off?”
“I– y-yeah. Sure.”
You weren’t going to ask it. Not exactly feeling motivated to be keeping any of Rivka’s secrets at this point. But all three of them get their phones out, turning them off and placing them on the table without complaint. You follow suit, putting your phone down with them. The new one is a flimsy print-fab job. One of those limited-use bricks they practically give away at convenience stores. It took all of Tuesday night to hunt down and purge the adware from it.
“What happened to your old phone?” Brayden asks.
“B-broke,” you answer, before sighing at his expression. “Long story. D-d-do you want me to talk or not.”
He waves his hand, symbolically yielding the table to you before going back to his hamburger. “Explain away.”
It takes the better part of an hour to get through it all, stammering and stuttering over your words at length. Riley offers to play translator but no, you need to say it yourself. Everyone can just deal with your impediment. The only pause is when Brayden goes to get more fries for the table and you use the opportunity to compose yourself. Pry loose the vise-grip ever threatening to close around your throat.
“So let me get this straight,” Brayden says on his return, dropping the fries in the center of the table. “You’re a clone.”
“Y-yeah.”
“Of your mom.”
“Yeah.”
“Who was a Tomorrowist until she did something for the FBI to justify not getting shot with the rest of them.”
You nod.
“And now the same FBI guy she worked with back then wants one or both you to work for him. And if you don’t, he’s going to blame all the Imago attacks on your mom. Am I understanding this right? Jesus Christ, Morgan.”
“Right?” Riley says between fries. “So like, what do we do about it?”
Brayden jerks his head in her direction. “Do about it?” he squawks. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘what do we do about it?’”
“Would you want to work for the FBI, Morgan?” Cassandra asks. Looks directly at you.
It’s not like you haven’t thought about it over the past couple of days. Even if it got you away from Praxis and Rivka, covered all your medical bills and health concerns, there’s still one tiny problem…
“They um, they p-p-probably wouldn’t be… okay with me? I mean, like this, right?”
“But this guy your mom knows already knew about you. Maybe it’d be–”
Just as soon as the thought occurs to Riley it’s already escaping out of her mouth. “So like, what are the odds him and your mom are hatefucking?”
Cassandra lets out a startled squawk of suppressed laughter, hands over her mouth.
Brayden closes his eyes with an exasperated sigh.
“Riley!” You twist in your seat, aiming to punch her. Hard.
Riley wards off your weak attempt, fighting to control her grin. “I’m serious! You said they were talking like they knew each other! Obviously there’s history there! What if this guy is like, your secret clone dad or something?”
You reel, momentarily lost for words. “What? No! That’s– no! He’s not– oh my god Riley. That d-d-doesn’t even make sense!”
Cover your face with your hands, shaking your head hard enough that you’re starting to feel dizzy again.
“Don’t torment him like that,” Brayden says.
Riley prods your shoulder. Repeatedly. “She deserves it, dude! This little shit was lying to me for months, man! Months! I gotta get my petty revenge in somewhere.”
“We’re doing pronouns now? Whatever. Can you blame her, Riley?”
That question drains all humor from the table. You stare down at the food tray in front of you. Trace a finger against ridges of brown plastic.
Cassandra looks between the rest of you. “I feel like I’m missing something important.”
“Dude, you don’t know?” Riley asks.
She shakes her head. “Know what…?”
No one says anything at first. You keep your attention safely fixed on the tray as you chew your cheek, biting compulsively.
Riley breaks first, needing to fill the silence. “So like, there’s these like, these intensive therapy camps? For kids like us–” here, she gestures between you and her, “if they think therapy alone isn’t cutting it. It’s like summer camp but instead of camp you go to hell. I tossed all the brochures I got, but you should see ‘em. Real picturesque shit but if you read between the lines you start to pick up on things like, ‘shock treatments’ and ‘reparative labor’ shit.”
Cassandra puts the fry in her hand back in the basket, appetite gone. “Reparative what?”
“It’s behavioral ‘correction’ bullshit,” Brayden chimes in, doing the air quotes. “They ship you off to a bunch of fundies whose goal is to break you apart and make you into a so-called moral member of society. There’s a bunch of these Christian groups that the government has contracts with. They’re all out in the Midwest, I think?”
“Dude, B-man, how do you know all this?”
He stares at her. “What? You think I didn’t get hit with all the same shit you two did?”
“You never said–”
“Both of you would have just said I was pulling for pity points to make you forgive me.”
Fair. You would have.
“Bray…” Cassandra is looking at him now, eyebrows creased in concern. “That’s horrible. But– But this is New England. This is Praxis. I know things down south are… hard–”
You can’t help it, you laugh.
Cassandra flinches, has to rally herself before continuing. “I know things are unkind to, um, to people like that but–”
“Dude, it’s the fucking law. Don’t give me that we’re enlightened blue bullshit,” Riley interrupts. “This B-class company suit from the school was trying to pressure my folks into shipping me off last year.”
She pauses, struggling to control her voice. From your angle you can see her hands curl into fists under the table. “I got to hear from a therapist all about how it could ‘fix’ me, right up until they figured out our family was too poor to pay for it.”
“…Shit, Riley.” Brayden looks like he wants to punch somebody. “You never mentioned that.”
She presses her lips into a thin smile. “We’re all rotten apples, here.”
“Would Dr. Abrams really do that to you though?” Cassandra asks you.
“Riley only got c-caught once. I d-d-don’t think it’s– it’s optional if you mess up enough.”
“It’s not,” Brayden confirms, his voice hushed. “I had a cousin who got sent to one. Well… have? I don’t know, I haven’t heard from him in years – her. Shit.”
Cassandra’s eyes widen. “You never told me about this.”
He scowls. “Yeah, well. It’s not exactly much of a story, okay? But since we’re doing this whole… sharing thing. He–shit–she got it in her head with the whole… you know. The gender stuff. But she wasn’t… smart enough about it, I guess. The school reported on her and it started a whole mess with the company and then Child Services got involved and, fuck, to cut the whole story short they shipped her off and we never heard from her again. They claim she ran away but who knows, right?”
“Fuck, man. I had no idea.” Riley shakes her head.
“Yeah. Well.” He stares at you. Wants to say something more but decides against it. Puts a french fry in his mouth instead. Chews. Swallows. All-too deliberate. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, Morgan.”
Your fingers poke at the denim of your stolen girl-jeans.
Might be a little late for that.
So Brayden had a cousin like you. That would… explain a lot of odd things you’ve noticed about him. Or that he’s said.
Something about it doesn’t quite add up, though. Some vibe not quite matching with the tenor of his voice.
“Nothing’s going to happen to Morgan,” Riley says, trying to sound more confident than she feels. “Not gonna let it.”
“Don’t think it works like that, Riley.” Brayden looks back to you. “How much have you thought this through? Like, do you still want to be called Morgan? And do you want people using like, different pronouns for you and shit? In private, anyway. Like between us?”
You pull back in your seat, withering under the interrogation. “I d-don’t– I don’t know? I haven’t… really…”
Why does he get to know all this stuff? Where did he learn it from? His cousin? You’ve had to dig through layers of deleted posts and private-locked discussion forums to even get the vaguest outline of what a future might look like. And even then, you’ve barely let yourself imagine it.
And here he is, acting like you should already have all the answers?
“What was your cousin’s name?” Cassandra asks him. “Um, her preferred name?”
That throws Braydan off. “I think… the name she’d have preferred was Arianne. You know, like the space rockets.”
You bite your lip. Suddenly feeling like, well, now you have to come up with something.
“I like… um,” have to force the voice out of your throat, “I like Rosalyn.”
Cassandra is the first to respond, breaking into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Rosalyn.”
Something in your heart flutters and the mirroring smile on your own face is uncontrollable. “Th-thanks.”
Riley looks contemplative. “Rosalyn… Rosalyn… Roz? Rozzy? It’s got better nickname potential than Morgan at least.”
“Oh no.”
She grins back at you.
“Let’s um, c-c-can we just. Keep this to– to us?” you manage to ask.
Her grin fades a little. “That’s gonna be hard.”
Welcome to your world.
“It’s for the best,” Brayden says. “Until she’s able to get out of here, there’s not a lot we can actually do.”
And here’s where reality comes crashing back down.
“I c-c-can’t. My– I need my-my-my meds. Health insurance.”
“Are they really that expensive?” asks Cassandra.
You nod. “Nanite injections. Once a week. And then like… I’ve g-g-got like, four– uh, five different per-per-per– pills?”
“You know people with health problems survive outside the arcology all the time, right?” Brayden says. Props his head up with one hand, elbow on the table. “It’ll probably suck, but is staying here any better? You’ve got your glitch, right? Sure it’s a big part of the problem here but it’s not like you’re helpless.”
Aren’t you though? If it were possible, then surely Rivka would have– no. Discard that line of thought. You don’t know Rivka at all. You have no idea what she would or wouldn’t do.
Brayden must have read it on your face because his glare intensifies. “You might find options if you just look for them. That’s all I’m saying. Hell, the FBI wants you and you haven’t even graduated high school yet. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“Please don’t work for the government, dude,” Riley groans.
You shake your head. “I’m not g-g-gonna!”
“Good.” She brightens up. “You know what I think?”
“Wh-what?”
“This should be your mom’s problem? Not yours. It’s her fault and all, make her deal with it. We know… at least some of what she’s been up to and that she doesn’t want this FBI guy to know about it. And like, imagine if any of this got out, right? Praxis letting a Tomorrowist do Imago research? There would be pitchforks and torches.”
Right. Your life would be beyond over. Thanks for the reminder of one of the many sources of looming dread over your head right now. What are you getting at, Riley?
Brayden however is squinting across the table at her. “I think I see what you’re implying, and you’re nuts.”
“It’s not blackmail dude, it’s just… getting Mor–fuck–Rosalyn’s mom to ease the fuck up a little, right? Some enforced free space. Maybe actually help Roz out with this whole… uh, gender thing she dumped on her.”
Her – you – Rosalyn.
You know that’s not the part of this conversation you need to be paying attention to and yet it’s the only part that matters.
“Is that… a good idea?” Cassandra asks.
“I don’t know. It’s Rosalyn’s life. It’s his–bwuh, her call.”
They’re all looking at you again. Have to fight the urge to sink under the table. Try to actually engage with the question. Blackmail Rivka into… what? Letting you be a woman? How would that work? What would that even look like?
Just thinking about her again is enough to bring up an echo of that anger you were feeling. The sense of betrayal like a stab in the ribs. Can barely remember the rest of the night after you forced your way out of the apartment. A haze of migraine, dry heaves, and nose bleeds. Yet somehow the time before feels as fresh as ever.
“I d-d-don’t know. I don’t– I don’t want to-to-to talk to her.”
It’s not even like Rivka is really the problem here.
Sure. This is all her fault and every time you thought about her the past couple days you got so mad it felt like the lights were flickering again but… It’s Praxis that’s the real problem, right? And the law?
Riley puts a hand on your back. “You don’t gotta decide right now.”
“Yeah, sure,” Brayden rolls his eyes. “Except for the whole thing where the FBI is probably watching Morgan’s every move right now right along with her mother’s. You heard what she said, they still want a scapegoat for all this Imago shit. That means Cass isn’t safe either.”
Silence descends on the table as the three of them poke at the basket of fries.
Finally, Riley speaks up. “Brayden, anyone ever tell you that you’re, like, grandmaster supreme at finding the dark side to any situation, even when it’s already fucking bleak?”
You push your food away. No longer willing to pretend at being hungry. “I want t-t-to keep investigating.”
It takes the other three a second to put together what you mean. Riley speaks first, scratching her head. “What, like, with the Imago shit?”
You nod. “I want to… to g-g-go back to Zeta and-and-and really dig into every file I can find. Cassandra’s idea about the, the um, the victims? We can do that. We can look into Rivka. And this FBI agent. Anything. Everything.”
“And do… what, exactly dude?”
“I– I don’t know. Blackmail? Like you said. But we do it to Praxis.”
“Praxis?” Cassandra repeats. “You want to blackmail the entire company?”
“If I have t-t-to. They let Rivka be her um, her self. Right? So…”
If Rivka gets to live as a woman, why can’t you?
There has to be someone you can go after to force the issue.
Somehow.
Anything is better than continuing on like you have been.
Brayden just stares. “Remember how I just said not to do anything stupid?”
“You don’t have to help,” you snap. “But– but I’m going to do it.”
“Well I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’m still in,” Cassandra says. When Brayden looks at her, incredulous, she makes a face. “I am!”
Riley brushes against your shoulder. “I think maybe… we should think this over a little more? I’m not saying no though.” Switching to sign, she adds, “I told you, you and me against the world forever.”
“Th-thanks.”
Brayden huffs and throws his hands in the air. “Fine! I’m not going to be the one standing on the sidelines while the three of you blow your lives up doing stupid shit. But how are you going to get into Zeta? Security is worse than ever now.”
“D-d-don’t know yet.”
“If you figure out a way, let me know. I’ll… I don’t know. Help make sure you don’t trip and fall down the stairs over there.”
“Thanks.”
He crosses his arms, looking away. “Sure. Whatever.”
“In the meantime, we could keep looking into the victims…” Cassandra says, taking over.
You fade out of the conversation as she talks. Running through bullet point list of ‘investigation principles’ she learned watching true crime serials while Brayden and Riley try their best to keep up.
You lean against the window, staring down at the walkway below.
The scene is different since you first sat down. No more passing shoppers. Instead, there’s a pair of armored security officers, dressed in black standing in front of a game arcade. One has a hand resting on his gun holster, the other talking into a walkie talkie. The flow of people moving through the mall give them both a wide berth. As you watch, a third and then a fourth officer come into view, talking amongst themselves.
A hand raps against your shoulder, pulling your attention back to earth. Riley is staring at you with a pinched expression. “You’re not going to finish that?”
“Uh–” You glance down at your half-finished sandwich. The other half sits heavy in your stomach, an uncomfortable weight. “I’m g-g-good.”
She frowns at your answer, but doesn’t offer any further pushback. A mercy.
You stay silent, nursing your soda as the table conversation slowly moves back to more mundane matters. The last baseball game, people at school, Cassandra’s internship. One by one, everyone turns their phones back on, checking on the state of the lockdown. Still in progress! No official updates.
Just how long is this one going to last?
It’s hard to stay tuned in, anxiety sublimating into nausea. You’re the only one with their phone still off. The moment it comes back on, is the moment that A* can reach you again, and through it, Rivka – and you can’t do it. Not yet. You’re not ready. Not even from a distance.
Everyone’s trying so hard to pretend things are fine, to distract themselves, and you can’t. You can’t do it. It’s easier to be doing things. At least there’s a sense of control in that. But this is just. Waiting. You want to claw up your arms. Bash your head against the table. Something. At least it’d be something to do.
Have to excuse yourself to the bathroom, apologize to Riley for making her get up to let you out. At least in a bathroom stall there’s a pretense of privacy as your nails dig angry crescent moons against your skin. Everyone knows and they’re all okay with it, so why aren’t you happier? Why aren’t you relieved or comforted, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be feeling? What happened to that rush you were just feeling where you felt alive and in control?
Some small part of you is wishing you and Riley had actually fought. If she had outright rejected you or let herself get properly angry at you for lying. If they all disowned you as a friend. Or gone to Security about it. At least you could have done something definitive then. Something probably self-destructive, but at least you would be focused on that instead.
You’d pick a fight yourself, but you can’t actually figure out an angle you could stand to go through with in order to do so.
It doesn’t take a lot of effort to make yourself sick – the anxiety already has you halfway to nauseous as it is. And you just… hurry it along. Get it over with already. Hands braced against the stall walls to hold you up except your hair keeps slipping out of place and you keep needing to brush it back.
By the time you’re finished you almost feel better. There’s a weakness to your limbs, legs shaking, but the anxiety is less. No longer as suffocating. And hey, you’re not feeling all that lightheaded anymore either. This is fine, right?
You linger in the stall a minute longer, waiting for the bathroom to empty before coming out. Cup some water to rinse your mouth. Wet some paper towels and make sure your hair is clean. Maybe you can ask Riley to braid it again soon.
You’re in the middle of washing your hands when the door swings open and Brayden steps in. “Riley sent me to check on you. Wanted to make sure you didn’t fall in the toilet.”
“I’m f-f-fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He stays standing in the doorway, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You finish your little purging session?”
You freeze, water still running. Did he hear something? No way. You’d have known if he was close. No. Stop. Why are you acting like you have something to hide? You don’t. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“You know, Riley’s tearing her hair out over you, and here you are–”
“Sh-shut up.” Water off. Find paper towels. Pull dispenser. “I w-wasn’t– th-th-that’s not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was funny. I was your friend too, you know. You don’t think I noticed? You don’t think Riley notices?” Dry left hand. Pull dispenser. New towel. Dry right. “You can’t keep pulling this bulimia shit–”
“B-bulimia is a girl thing. I’m not–”
“Okay, one that’s bullshit. I looked it up. Two, what did you just get done telling us?”
You toss the paper towels in the trash. He’s still standing there. Blocking the way out. Goddamnit. “I’m n-n-not– I just. I get s-s-sick. Sometimes. It’s–”
“Side-effects, sure, whatever. Get real.”
“I’m n-n-not. That.”
“If you’re really that sick all the time, then something’s wrong. Okay? Cass said you guys met up today with you being booted out of the gym for passing out.”
“Thatt’s not– It’s– N-n-nothing’s– Fuck. Of-of-of everything w-wrong with me, I d-d-don’t have some-some-some eating disorder!”
“You get constant headaches, you stagger if you stand up too fast – fuck, look at yourself in the mirror!” You’d prefer not to. ”You’re thinner than you were even compared to last year, and that’s saying something. Do you really want to end up in a hospital again?”
“Wh-wh-what do you want me to do!? I– I can’t–”
“I don’t know? Talk to a fucking doctor?”
That gets you to laugh. Angry and bitter. “Wh-what, so I c-c-can get shoved in front of a– a therapist? Yeah Brayden. Because th-th-that worked out great for me last time. Or w-what? You w-want me to– to… talk to Rivka?”
“Don’t you have an actual doctor?”
“Th-that’s Rivka!”
His forehead wrinkles, taken aback. “Seriously? I thought–”
“Everything! Always has! Th-th-there’s no one else!” You shake your head. God you’re so fucking pissed. Doesn’t he get it by now? You’re Rivka’s personal science experiment.
Why are you even having this conversation.
“Morgan, fuck – Rosalyn, that’s messed up.”
The naked, misplaced concern hurts almost as much as your migraines. Have to work hard to shut it out. You’re not interested in whatever new imagining is going on in his stupid head. You have enough problems, enough disasters. You don’t have the space in your life to make up entirely new ones.
You. Are. Fine.
“Of-of-of all the, um, the things wrong with me. This– this isn’t one of them! So lay off!”
You glare up at him. He glares back.
Finally, finally, he relents. Steps aside, allowing you to make an escape.
He’s full of shit anyway. You don’t have an eating disorder. What does he know? You’ve never cared about your weight. Don’t even know what it is. And anyway, you’re such a blob of a person it’s not like you couldn’t afford to miss the odd meal now and again regardless, so what does it even matter? It doesn’t!
You’re fuming as you return to the table. Barely manage a smile when Riley and Cassandra welcome you back.
“Oh no,” Riley winces, looking past you for any sign of Brayden. “Did you guys have a fight?”
“It’s f-f-fine.” Have to repeat yourself a couple times before she believes you and you can reclaim your window seat. You shovel a couple handfuls of room-temperature fries in your mouth just to prove a point. You’re fine.
Riley and Cassandra exchange looks.
“It-it-it’s fine!” you snap.
“Sure thing, girl,” Riley says before silently pushing her boat of fries in your direction.
“So…” Cassandra looks around the SteakShack, casting for change of topic. “What do we want to do once the lockdown is over?”
“I… r-r-really don’t want to, um, to go home. Right now. Or… well. Ever.”
That feels safe enough to admit.
Riley thrusts her hand in the air, waving it around. “Oh, oh oh, Let’s do a sleepover at my place. I’ve always wanted to do one and the ‘rents are both working tonight. Win-win.”
You choke on a fry, coughing it up. “Wh-what?”
“You, me, and Cass,” she answers, pointing at each of you in turn.
“That sounds fun!” Cassandra agrees, already pulling her phone back out and typing something. “I probably can’t stay the whole night, my parents would kill me if they knew, well… sorry.”
“Oh, right, your parents are freaks. No offense.”
“None taken.”
You catch sight of Brayden returning from the bathroom and pointedly avert your eyes back to the boat of fries. Make sure to shove another entire handful in your mouth when he’s looking.
Riley frowns at you. “You sure you’re okay, dude?”
Cassandra claps her hands on the table. “Okay, I told my mom I have to stay late at the lab tonight to make up for getting caught in the lockdown, so operation sleep-over is a go.”
Brayden knocks on the table. “Uh, excuse me? A sleepover? Am I not a part of this?”
Riley raises both her eyebrows at him. “What, you actually wanna join in?”
“Maybe?” he says, shrinking back sheepishly.
“Not worried about your precious manhood?”
His expression turns wooden. “I think I’ll manage.”
Riley shrugs, picking up her phone. “Alright. I mean, I can ask.”
Cassandra grabs Brayden’s hand, pulling him back into the seat with her. “Yes! This is great!”
“Riley,” you tap her shoulder and switch to signing. “Are you sure about this? Your parents–”
“What’s not to be sure about? Cass is a girl, you’re… aspirational? And also my folks love you, remember? You can sleep in the kitchen like usual if we have to. And we’ll kick out Brayden at midnight before he turns into a pumpkin, easy.”
“Aspirational?” You chew your cheek, fighting the urge to dig into your skin right in front of her.
She looks at you. “You want to be a girl or not?” You nod. She straightens her back, trying to make herself taller while tilting her head in an imitation of a snooty aristocrat. “Well a woman is not born but made.”
“What– who are you quoting?”
Her composure breaks, dissolving into giggles. “I don’t know, some french lady I think? I read it online.”
Brayden stands up from the table, starts gathering everyone’s trash and trays together while Riley is busy giggling like crazy. He catches your eye, torn between being exasperated at Riley and finding some way to visually reinforce his side of the bathroom argument.
You glare in his direction as you shove down another fry. He huffs, glancing out the window. Pauses.
“What the fuck is going on down there?” he mutters.
All three of you crane your heads to see what he’s talking about. The security officers standing outside the arcade have their weapons drawn now, cordoning off the area and causing a pile-up of foot traffic. One lets a hand off her rifle to cough into her hand.
Two more security officers emerge from inside, dragging a dark skinned, purple-haired woman between them. Whatever’s being said is muffled beyond hearing but she’s clearly distressed – you don’t need telepathy to figure that out. Flailing her arms, trying to stay standing. Shouting at the officers dragging her. Blood trails down her face; angry red welts cover the exposed skin of her arms.
Yours isn’t the only group looking through the windows now. People are gathering, phones out and recording. It’s the kind of scene usually seen on the news, not happening inside the arcology.
From directly behind, you can hear Riley hiss. Feel the tension gathering in her shoulders. “It’s an arrest.”
“Do they… really need that many people?” Cass murmurs.
“It’s, uh, it’s pretty standard–” Brayden doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
Because the woman officer standing on the walkway, the one who was coughing before, doubles over. The man closest rushes to her side, one hand outstretched to pat her on the back, only to scramble away as a gush of silver-tinged blood hits the floor
“Oh fuck,” Riley whispers.
The security officer hatches.