Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa was created ill-prepared for this. Molech did not teach her to hear the unspoken, or feel the quiet heartbreak. She was not meant to shed tears, or hold the grieving, or fold the hurt into her arms where she can whisper quiet words. It's gonna be okay, Dolce. We're gonna get through this, Dolce. Things will get better, Dolce.

Every word, a dagger through herself. Every word a lie.

Quietly, she rocks, back and forth.

She's hurting them. She's hurting them, and she can't stop, and she's hurting herself.

She's going to have this conversation over and over again. Which would be easier to do--no, that's a fucking lie, every one will be harder than the last--if she knew what she could even say.

Rocking. Holding him, she realizes, like a comrade she's never going to see again. Like a fallen comrade, still warm, but going oh so cold. A comrade, soon in the ground, never to be talked to again, because after this point, they will be dead, and she will be gone.

"I didn't want to come on this trip, initially." She has no idea what she's saying. No plan, no perfect sentence planned out. She doesn't know where this goes, but... She looks up at the warm face under the hoodie, and dares to hope. Maybe it will be alright. Eventually.

"I had no choice," she hesitantly continues, and buries her face in the wool. She's hurting you, she's hurting her, and maybe if she can hug hard enough, she can say sorry enough. "Redana--you know."

"But Hades--he offered a wish. And I still didn't want to be here. But I at least had an idea. A hope that--maybe, if the stars aligned, and the gods were willing, and we survived--maybe, just maybe, I could be my own. That I could be something other than what I was.

"And now I... I am. Somehow.

"I was sure, beyond doubt, that only an act of the gods could change me."

No, it was them. All of them, telling her, over and over again, that it was okay to be herself.

"But now that I can be who I am... I don't want to lose that."

She squeezes him tighter. Never is an awfully long time to lose a friend.

"Given the option of crossing the rift--maybe losing all of that progress, of losing all of my memories, of losing things I can never get back--or staying here..."

Gods, she's going to lose them.

She's quiet, rocking, holding him in her arms, listening to the hurt she's doing and wishing she could stop.

"... You know, Dolce, I don't think you've ever told me what your wish was. I know what Vasilia wants. And Dany's probably horrifically noble and self-sacrificing. But you? What waits for you, if you decide to cross? Is it worth it?"

Breathless Dead

Slowly, lulled by the soothing voice, the waters subside and drain away. The flood has passed, but what emerges from beneath the water is different--thoughts rearranged, put into new shapes, all molded by a soothing voice.

Alexa closes her eyes, and presses her face against the wool once more.

"Then… I don't know whether I can cross the rift, Dolce."

She's all cried out, she thought. And yet, somehow, she can still feel more tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Your love--yours and Vasilia's. That's a living love. You're so different, but you fit together so well. More than that, you've built bridges where you don't."

She squeezes extra hard--reassurance, the best way she knows how to give. You two will survive this.

"But the love I have for myself… I love myself, now. Genuinely. But that's new. I'm better than I ever have been because of those choices. But the seed's only been planted. It needs time to grow.

"And the love I have for others…"

Carefully, she pulls one arm free of the wool, and pulls the battered scraps of pages towards herself.

"There are people I love who. Who aren't around, anymore. If we make it back--if, miracle of miracles, we survive this, and come back across--then I. I still won't be able to make new memories with them.

"The only place those loves can keep growing is on this side of the rift."

Breathless Dead

Nobody considers how it feels to be a dam.

And why would they? Behold the mighty face, the invincible buttresses. Relax by the placid, mirror-smooth lake. Enjoy the benefits of living nearby, of the mills and pumps of the tempered river. This is a home, a place of safety in the shadow of the dam.

And if the dam strains to hold back the water, that's alright. Downriver, just in sight, the dam sees them living and playing. People are counting on you to hold back the water. And if the water rises, and the strain increases, that's fine too. And if cracks start to form, you just need to hold together harder--people are counting on you. You can't be seen to be cracking, it'll cause panic.

And so the cracks grow, and the water rises to drown forest and village, and you tamp it down, because people need you--

Right up until the moment a too-small sheep with a too-large heart puts a hand on a crack, and tells the dam it's okay to break.

Even now, she tries to hide it, but the signs are too strong to ignore. The hug--at first, so gentle, folding you into her arms as if moving too fast might shatter this moment--now clings desperately, like a shipwreck survivor hugging a broken piece of ship. The hitches of breath, so shallow at first, are now wet gaping sobs. And even if none of the above were true, it would still be impossible to miss the dampness of tears soaking into wool.

"I thought--snf--I thought he was sharpening me to hurt you."

You. Vasily. Dany. The ship as a whole.

"An' I. An' I can't tell how much of what he said is actually good. For me, I mean."

The thought is terrifying, and she squeezes harder.

"It's all. It's all so confusing. Because I. Aphrodite's fucked with my head, but i. I like who I am. Who that advice turned me into."

Quiet, for a few seconds. Even as her breathing calms, the tears continue, and she presses her face against your wool again.

"… I don't want to go back to who I was before. Not even the Pallas. Alexa… Before I met everyone, I. I didn't want to live. With who I was. With what I was.

"I didn't love me. I didn't love anyone, not after Minerva.

"And that rift terrifies me."

She sniffs messily, and lifts her head to reach for a napkin.

"I don't. I don't want to live inside that head again. If I forget everyone--if I forget you, and Dany, and Vasily--"

If I forget Minerva, is not said so visibly it practically echoes.

"--and everyone else… Then who's left? I can't guarantee, if I cross, that I'll be…

"What's left of Alexa, when I forget who I love?

Breathless Dead

The world falls away, here, in this moment.

Touch. Just touch. No expectations, no duty. Just care and affection, from one friend to another, because he wants to. Tenderness, gentleness, all wrapped in cleaning grit out of grooves

The world could end, and she could no more pull away from the small, dainty fingers than she could interrupt the not-quite-hopeful voice.

And she daren't look inside the hoodie, because she knows what she'll find.

She stares up at the larger hoodie behind him. Hestia. Hestia, please. Please tell her she can speak here, in this island you've created, this bubble of peace in a sea of roiling turmoil. What one god has done, no other god can undo. Here, in this kitchen, they are safe.

A small nod.

Okay.

"You don't believe he will."

Not a question. Not an accusation, either, a dart meant to sting. A simple statement of fact. You're hoping, yes. Hoping that there is some promise, some sacrifice you can make so that you will be spared this if you cross. You can bargain for your love. Somehow, you will be the ones.

"Aphrodite created this situation, Dolce."

He's stopped his gentle ministrations. Please, keep going. Please, forgive her.

"He burned the galaxy, slaughtered billions upon billions, sank half of Poseidon's seas and everyone in it into the underworld. He wanted all of us. Everyone, here in the underworld. All, just to hurt Zeus.

"He manipulated Molech. All of that, for the love of someone who never existed.

"He manipulated Zeus, to give humanity the tools to create the Spear.

"He manipulated Hermes and Hades--for the love of humanity, for the love of Persephone."

When next she speaks--when eons have passed, and somehow the world is still too terrible not to say it for her, spare her the grief--she's almost inaudible.

"He manipulated me, Dolce.

"All this time, I thought he was helping me. I thought he cared, maybe. Not a friend, no, but… He kept bringing me out of my shell. Showing me that I could make choices. That I could leave, and so could choose to stay. That I had people who loved me. That I could love myself.

"And all this time. All this time, he was the one to make sure that Minerva--"

She can't bring herself to say the words. The thought is too large, that she's gone. Well and truly. Not kidnapped, not vanished. He hadn't said those words.

"… All this time," she murmurs. "All this time, he just wanted a spear."

Breathless Dead

There is an art to hearing words that can't be spoken.

Build out from the edges of the jigsaw. Gather the brightly colored bits. Piece them together. Match it against your friend and ask yourself, what's missing from this picture? Where have pieces, too painful to imagine, been removed from the picture? What's the gaping hole in the foreground? What words are too awful to say, even in the privacy of your own head?

What if I forget her?

What if she forgets me?

What if this time it's different?

What if one of us remembers and the other doesn't? You know those eyes, you've stared in them for years, seen the love burn in them, seen the pain, been their rock, been their everything, you know everything about them--and they don't even know your name. What happens when you look at someone--half of yourself, half of who you are, the one who knows you better than you know yourself--and see a stranger looking back?

How do you go on?

Sweet brave Dolce. Who could fault you when you have so much more to lose than just who you are?

But what can she say, when even he cannot approach the thought? She cannot, will not say it for you--will not force that upon you, will not harm you with that thought.

But what can she say that will ease the pain at all?

"I. I do not wish to forget who I am, Dolce. Or even who I was. I have learned so much and…"

Her voice chokes itself to death on the words.

Who will she be, when all that she has learned is wiped away?

An idea sparks against another, and Alexa stands from the table. Where did--somewhere behind the spices. Between the ras al hanout and red chili--a small red folio, labeled Recipes.

A lifetime's worth of experience. Snatches of memory, scratched down and recorded to be shared later. Something that--she clutches the book to herself, and shudders--will soon be a stranger's. Someone else will have written down the interesting things to be done with apples, and the many uses for eggs. Someone else, someone different, will read the book and know nothing about what the ideas mean. There won't be names or faces, just a list of ingredients and cook times.

"It is no substitute for who we are," she admits, pressing the book into bear-mitten'd paws. "But we could… Could write…?"

Gods' tits, what a stupid idea. Dear Alexa, I like you, and want you to know why and how. Dear Alexa, I hope you don't go back to who you were before. Dear Alexa, all written down, as if whoever she is will understand.

Breathless Dead

"I remember it."

That had been a bad three days.

Three full days of feasting, of singing, of rejoicing. Of watching friend after friend stream past to clap Vasily and Dolce on the back, and talk about how much they'd miss them. Over and over again, the same words, the same thought, expressed a hundred different ways.

You're already dead. You're already dead, and you just haven't found out yet. I'll miss you. I'll sing your song. I'll put flowers on your grave and mourn for you, and try not to think about this being the last time we talk.

Three days of following Dany through the best wake the Starsong could throw, hearing those words, and knowing that nothing could change her fate. Knowing that all three of them had had options, could choose at any point to leave, to live, to surprise everyone by coming back. Knowing she couidn't. Knowing if she died out here, it would be somebody else's choice for somebody else's story.

Three days of knowing that she'd never see a sendoff like this, just for her. Who could come? Who would care?

She shudders, and takes another bite of creamy sweetness.

"Dolce, I."

Maybe two. It's bracing. Keeps her mouth shut.

"… I'm scared, Dolce."

Somehow, it's worse to have the words said. To have that hang over the conversation.

"Aren't you terrified? Terrified of what it means to cross the Lethe? You go in, but who's going to come out? What's going to happen to Dolce, the Starsong? Even if we make it to the end of the universe and get your wishes, who's going to come back?"

Breathless Dead

The world is quiet, here.

Here, away from the thought of cornering a mass of metal limbs through the vents of the ship. Here, away from the manic, razor-edged thoughts of the Biomancer.

Here, away from the susurrus and rustle of rumor gone Rampant. Have you heard? We sail a ship of madness, destined for death--and that, only if we stay, shrink back from the Lethe. Much worse by far to cross, to lose self, to set up against the very queen of life itself!

Here, in a too-small corner of a too-large kitchen. Here, one used portion among dozens that sit untouched, an island of a hearth in an island of disused shelves and stoves. A home in the only way that matters--home, safety, friendship, food.

She sags onto a chair so heavily that for a second she's sure the legs must buckle underneath her.

And for a few precious minutes, that is all there is. Thank you, Dolce. Thank you for being here. For being a listening ear, when you need one so desperately of your own. Thank you, and thank Hestia, for a moment of peace, a moment of quiet, a moment of taking refuge in each other--

Finally, the nerves in her tongue manage to pass along the message that she needs to breathe again, if for no other reason than so that she can take another bite. Dolce, Jil-- Dolce, this is-- Jil, take some more, there's more, you can see the pot, there's more, you don't need to hoard the one cup you've been given--and for a second, she half believes Jil won't let her have the cup to pour some more in. She doesn't blame her--poor thing is too used to nice things being taken away from her. It's gonna take a while for her to trust her new family.

Family. Alexa really has a family in them, doesn't she. In the whole ship, too, but here. With them. Small, a little broken, but holding together.

Once they learn what is coming, they will abandon her.

Her heart will break again.

That's the problem with quiet, isn't it. You can hear yourself think.

But she doesn't have to do it alone. There are people she can trust, people she can talk to, people she can rely on, much as she hates to do it now, here, in this.

The world is quiet here. It would be a shame to ruin it, to drag the world in here and let it spoil this.

Still.

"You… heard them, didn't you."

Breathless Dead

She could do it, you know. Scream at her! Give vent to the bloody fury, bawl and wail that people choosing for themselves is not a goddamn flaw in the design! Why don't you get that, why can't you understand, how can the humans have perfected you so much that you can't choose for yourself?!

Grab the plans, hold them to the light, watch the glorious Bloodfeather diagram smolder and ignite. She doesn't want to hear the Katraph gush about how good the Kaeri are at murdering surplus leaders in time of crisis. Let it all vanish in flames. She could do that!

Or lift the Katraph off the floor! Grab her by the neck, slam her against the wall! Anything to let it out! Make her understand how this isn't okay, how she isn't okay, how can you be okay with this?!

And that's the thought that chases her from the room.

That's the thought that chases her down the hall to the grand garden, to the enormous fountain, to the spot where she can plunge her head under the water and scream until her chest must surely implode, and scream some more for good measure. Scream, because the alternative is worse.

Because she's a monster! She talks about killing and cloning and personality death as if it were what flavor of cake were best!

And the Katraph is also a victim of the very systems she espouses! She could no more accept that biomancy is wrong than change her mind! She'd accept the beating and the flames and the shouting with a smile, and ask for more, and accept that all of it was right and her fault, and how can she help you, please?

She returns, dripping wet, still furious, but at someone else.

"Just. Just stabilization. No pet package, no conditioning, no mental switches, no personality rewrites, no Lethe. If I find out you've cloned her or edited her or anything other than saving her life and helping reduce the effects of Rampancy... Just. Keep her alive. We'll deal with the aftermath ourselves."

Breathless Dead

"Katraph Sanchez."

She shouldn't feel this calm. The storm of anger is just there, just in sight, a roiling hurricane of a thousand things to say. And yet, her voice is level, she is composed, like she's passed through the storm of fury and found a tranquil island of rage on the other side.

"I have tried to understand. I've spent the better part of two centuries pondering the question. Not because I was programmed with social functions, but because I wanted to know why I felt so broken. So with that in mind:

"Everything you just told me is wrong."

She shouldn't feel this calm. She's putting Mynx on the line by saying this. If the Katraph decides not to help, Alexa will have to find a workaround solution in even less time than before, and now with an enemy working against her. And yet, the words keep pouring out.

"There can never be a servitor that can choose to perform their function as you've described it. Oh, some may do their job, and maybe some are even happy doing it. But humanity has marooned and abandoned its servitors--put them in islands of themselves, and left them no other option but to do what they were designed to do. There's no choice when you remove all but one option, and it's no coincidence that as soon as you actually give people options, they choose to leave.

"Dolce left his mansion, given the option. The Alcedi scatter to the winds, freed from the need to be nothing but disposable warriors. The attempt to be a combat model and a good daughter broke me so severely that it took me two centuries to rebuild myself in a better way. The robots of Barassidar have discovered the concept of play. None of we three bodyguards are slavishly protecting our target. The Lanterns step from the shadows. A member of a race of scavengers rejects that role, rejects the role chosen for them by their god, and searches for meaning in the stars.

"And it's not just us who are rejecting the roles chosen for us! That, if you can even define the arbitrary line between servitor and humans now. There are humans who are unhappy with their assigned roles--Coherent who embrace a different form, a different mind, who wish for only something different than they are! Even the Princess is not happy in the role chosen for her--the role of leader, of princess, of possible future empress.

"And so we change. We recognize that the roles chosen for us by someone else--by birth, by design, by biomancy--are not our own. And no amount of genetic engineering can prevent that change from occurring, once the news has got out."

She shouldn't feel this calm. She should be panicking, running, trying to find another way.

"I'm not here to save a piece of military hardware for a girl who's got attached. I'm trying to save my friend because before she was born, somebody decided she should be a bomb. And that's not a choice anybody but Mynx should get to make."

Breathless Dead

Slowly, one eyelid twitches.

"Why isn't free will included in the base model?

"Why isn't she allowed to have a sex drive by default? Why is she forbidden to fall in love?

"Why is long life an afterthought?

"Why are you asking me what the human wants? Why do you think the only thing a servitor can be besides a tool is a pet? Why aren't you asking Mynx any of this?

So many questions, lining up and throwing themselves against the gates of her mouth, all screaming to be released and none of them allowed to get out and oh gods how can they be so calm about this? How can they look at this and know this and think this is alright? How can you be so calm about this, act like trillions of people being hand-crafted to be the perfect tools is right?! It's me! It's you! How can you just accept that your purpose is to make sure this continues?

Inside her head, her words are bringing up a battering ram.

"Redana does not want a pet," finally slips out, and she's proud that it is a slip, and not a scream. "She could have had any number of royal pets back in the palace. She wants a friend, but not one who's only her friend because she's the princess. You're sure free will can't be had with her biology?"