Lamb And Canines
Mutant Experimentation escapees face the sea's new parasite with an abandoned lighthouse. Will they overcome the hurdles resulted from unethically run innovation?
CONTENT / TRIGGER WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF SA; CHILD ABUSE; VIOLENCE; EATING DISORDERS AND DELUSION.
(i) - the prologue
Processing...
The lifeform in the turqoise liquid formed.
Processing Complete.
Substance turned tar. The lifeform layered in fleshes expanded, absorbing the others within the remaining pods.
RED SPARROW maintained a twisted emblem, history and reputation. Their handling of mutants have had been disregarded by M.E.A '(Mutant Extermination Army)', especially ever since the government changed as of recent, from M.E.A to W.P.A '(Worldwide Protection Army)'. One facility survived W.P.A's hard hand: a laboratory amidst anicent mountains and forest, on a planet far from the main galactic routes. A poorer part of the world, an underdeveloped hideout for many mutants; many perfect specimens for Red Sparrow to -- quote, initiate, unqoute.
One repetitive morning, two guards craved some lost fun. Without notifying the lead scientist, they opened the vents to Root's cell and to Project Revelation's #07:17's confinement chamber. They led the subjects through the vent system, certain parts manually closed to create a straight-line path, bringing them to the cafeteria: an indoor prison backyard.
Two towers faced each other on the corners of the arena. The iron doors on the right opened first. The one the guards called Root stepped out. Head held high. Back arched.
She was as skinny as if only her dark-brown skin latched on bare bone. Her expression -- moreso impassive rather than alive. Her thick curly hair, of light brown color; it fell to her ankles. All the small girl had for wear was a patient’s gown. Dirty, full of spots of substance…. Full of strangers' sperm. Big purple patches ingrained all around her masculine body. On her branch-like arms, her trunk-like feet, especially her thighs. On her strong jaw, her rough face, especially her leave-like mouth. And on her lean, roots-like back, especially her butt cheeks. Dead and dry leaves kept staying stuck through her hair. She nipped at one, reassessing her situation.
A third guard complained to the initially bored two, who had set that play up: ‘The little boy doesn’t stand a chance against a Revelation.’ He pointed to the one they called Root.
‘He’ll have some damage, but nothing we cannot handle. / Of course we will seize the Beast before it eats him as well.’ The two voices and sentences overlapped.
‘What if he suffers too much damage?’
A lack of reaction.
‘What if he is no good to pass around anymore?’ That, the two guards protested. ‘There are plenty others to satisfy us.’
Size. The size of the gates on the right was very small. Only an infant could crawl through. She watched, ignoring the very loud conversation the guards kept having.
The only reason she willingly stood there was because they promised, promised they would leave her alone at night for the following three cycles. If she won. If she grabbed the Meal -- as they called it -- before the other mutant kid, who shall have been let out into the arena. She would finally have a moment of peace. An opportunity.
And the small door opened wide. The hysterical giggling and nervous laughter of the guards echoed throughout the arena.
The smart restraints around her wrists and joints taken off beforehand, the girl took position, opening her palms, ready to use her attributes. Collar around her throat itched; one smart restraint ready to zap her.
A guard came to the railing above what should've been two under them. Above her.
‘You have not eaten in weeks, perhaps, in months! This is the only ration left for this cycle! I doubt it’ll be enough for the two of you. You could try to share. If you can.’ The guard threw the piece of sheep. A large part of meat, likely extracted from a thigh. A squishing sound. A squelch.
Squash and Splat. The meat had long hit and plopped against the ground in the middle of the arena. Yet the sound… The sound continued, lasting longer.
‘It is yours for the taking!’ The guard yelled.
That was all the girl needed for her to sprint as roots grew around her palms. Starting from her veins under her thick skin and ending over her overgrown fingernails. Beaten, dirty lime nails.
The air got kicked out of her lungs. Knees buckled and her slipping ankle twisted.
Buckle. Twist.
She hit the floor with her ass and watched how in a swift move, a pile of -- something -- exited the small door and slid, all the way to the meat. And before the girl they called Root could near it, that -- whatever -- grew. Reformed, as if a blanket octopus had risen into a kid. Into another child.
Another, smaller girl. Another… mutant (?) girl, her curly hair a pastel, cherry pink that veiled her. White, big and round eyelashes. Pink, thin eyebrows made of scarce hairs, a contrast to her green skin with creases in between. She had vitiligo, some parts of her body ivory white. Grey eyes with milk white swirls within and a couple extra pairs of white globules right under. One pearl, eye looking oval sat between her eyebrows: ‘Hello,' A growl made out of thousands of breaths left the girl; The Beast.
Red pupils met gray crowns for big eyes. In the flavor of their crimson light. The roots over Root’s hot hands came to a halt. What was she supposed to do to the beast? The seemingly fluid girl. Mutant girl? No. She proved something different.
The wooden elemental, mutant girl supposed death would suffice. It would certainly save her the trouble of nightly visits: where her mind disappeared, before it returned to a sore, numb body, unusable after the overworking of it. And the abuse, of course. Yet, death never came.
And The Beast still looked. Hovering over the piece of meat. She stared, at the one called Root in name of casual derogation. Then she glanced down. Then up. And then down. Head tilted. Body tilted. And she opened her mouth to release a sweetly beautiful voice, an army of harmony.
‘You - red. Me swallow - bone.’
To the guards’ disappointment and the detriment of their fun and amusement, the lambert clothed Beast shared the food with the wooden, Elemental mutant girl. She stayed in place, letting The Beast girl rip the meat off the bone and pass it in her lap: ‘Chew.’ A line split her jaw to her long earlobes.
Ever since meeting the beast girl, the one they called Root could not erase her from the broken mind. The glimmer of respect The Beast offered her played in her head whenever the guards stripped her of her clothes, dignity and health thereafter; whenever she heard the dying screams of other experiments; whenever the doctors sedated her enough to be somewhat numb, too little to avoid the pain of the blade, needles or inappropiate medicine.
One (un)fortunate day, the guards brought her to a dead corner, away from the surveillance devices. It was next to the scariest chamber, at the very back of all the cells. The walls shook there and as luck had it, an unexpected breach let The Beast slide out an arm like a tentacle of many flesh pieces and skins and teeth; she sliced in half all the ones nearby... except her, the girl they called Root. Even heavily drugged, the opportunity could not be missed.
While all were distracted to contain The Beast to its’ prison, the Elemental mutant sneaked past them, sliding under closing doors, sprinting past people too frightened of the opening chambers, of the Beast unleashed, to pay “Root” any mind.
She jumped from the railing of a watch tower, landed in trees, disjointed an arm.
So she ran. She ran. Ran, ran, ran, ran! Bam! She hit a wall: a force field closing in the area. The girl screeched, nailing, scratching, hitting. An useless display of desperation.
Despite it all, luck struck once again. A stranger’s panicked tone shushed her.
Intruders.
The disembodied voices kept telling her she had bigger limbs, a bigger body, therefore she would have to "mature" and cooperate.
Six layers of brick, six layers of iron walls, six layers of thick glass -- of windows never used. The microscopic cameras... #07:17 heard them turn online or offline whenever another child from afar played too roughly in the other side of the "house" (how she knew the facility to be). Sleepless silence.
They didn't dare come near. None did.
All sensation #07:17 has ever experienced was the cold of metal surfaces (her very existence rotted the brick and reached the iron layers) and the slippery wetness of food she was granted. Yet, as of late, her many rows of teeth and fangs... all under the surface of green - snow white skin and boneless meat... they itched.
White, fin shaped and long ears twitched whenever the voices would murmur about a child, one they compared to her. About one they called Nil #0000. About the one who never screamed, the one who spoke to the underneath. Many gossips came and went.
At times, Nil #0000 would cause bends in the iron house: crooked ceilings, tilted floors, stretched walls. And earth sprinkled through. Her entertainment would be bits and pieces about Nil #0000, whenever #07:17 moved in ways the voices would latch on to with childish excitement. No other child or guard have seen the one correlated with #07:17. She craved for a glimpse, of the only one alike herself, of the one the voices called a second anomaly. #07:17 has not sighted any like herself ever since her birth, where the first thing she processed with the gift of sight were the piles of her siblings' cadavers, of bowels and molten limbs. Of jollity. The voices cheering.
Of... no-one.
In one moment, when the night lights of her chamber were on, chaos erupted. Muffled roars, screams, wind, bangs and explosions.
The house shook. Before #07:17 made sense of it, the gates to her little space groaned. They opened, a crease, before malfunctioning. Gunfire echoed. A lot. She crawled and peeked through to be greeted by a silhouette. Alike a squid, she squeezed through and jumped the silhouette. Mindful of granting them more moments to live, #07:17 stood in the bridge position, hands besides their head, feet spread around their legs, her main body suspended over them.
'I'm not a threat! It's me!' The one they called Root -- the girl named Wangi pleaded. 'I am here to return the favor, not harm you.' Palms open, body slack.
#07:17 blinked. She stepped off and began crawling back to her enclosure.
Wangi protested, stepping between her and the gates. 'You will be better off with us.'
Her head tilted, drinking Wangi in. A little bigger from last time #07:17 sighted her: back broader, jaw stronger, voice deeper. And scars, notable being the italicised "X", face center: 'I'm here to help, to free the children from these monsters. You understand?'
#07:17 finally turned her head to their surroundings. The bare hall of the facility was soaked in blood, the iron in flames, the roof collapsing in and their ground hosted trails of bodies, of guards. She returned to Wangi, who said: 'You can trust me,'
#07:17 pointed between them. 'Favor.'
Wangi nodded. That nod was all she needed to coerce the other into a wish making. She led Wangi to the place where the walls bent most, to the chamber of her one entertainment and sensation bringer.
'Project Nil #0000?' Wangi read the digital plate, putting away her wooden lasso and returning her arm of flesh, bloodied.
'Free,' said #07:17, squinting from... yet another sensation... like a lightbulb turned on within her cavities, roaches in her belly.
Wangi shook her shoulders, opened a communication channel from her earpiece and inquired for backup. #07:17 had self earned her long awaited glimpse.
Five mutant people and a human old man took Wangi and #07:17 outside the very last RED SPARROW ilegal laboratory. The Elemental mutant who could manipulate air carried Nil #0000 on his back. The woods were cold and wet. Humidity brought a sugar rush to her, walking behind Wangi and many steps away from the rest of the group. Nil #0000 owned a smaller, frail body. Bandages, stripes, a surgery gown and a river of thick, brown hair covered half of it. Her skin all purple spots, black cuts, stitches and rashes. #07:17 wished she could absorb the weird lesions off Nil #0000′s being, which had no place or belonging there, on the yet another child.
Wangi bid farewell to the others, Nil taken away with them. At the time #07:17 had not known the notion of protesting, thus she let them leave and complied with the insistent Wangi by staying by her side. Wangi took her far, farther than she ever felt her presence reach. If she were another, perhaps the experience of nature (which dried under her touch), fresh air (which bittered with her every breath), animal sounds (who scattered at her arrival) and birds singing (fleeing after) would have compelled her. Yet the one they used to call The Beast only noticed the humidity.
Cold, a familiar notion. A serene bringer in the mind at best, a biting isolation at worst.
Wangi ushered her, tidied and direct. She followed the other until they reached the end of ground: a coast. Wangi brought her to a tall thing the other embraced, body sagging. ‘This is my home. Feel welcome.'
#07:17 was brought to a new house, soon to be her secondary home. A lighthouse.
(ii) - the mundane
Two butterflies flew through the dry forest, in the warm, poor air. One smaller, with green glass wings and the other, a brown moth. The smaller stumbled right into a spider web. The moth quickly flapped its wings, moving from right to left, south to north. The spider came, slowly descending.
The web started from erased paint, once a grand red; then, it was a smokey pink. The other side was attached to the tree growing out of the hut at the base of the tower. The spider had many spots around the lighthouse, yet all its homes were taken away. That one was to be the last.
Malachite green claws picked the spider's bottom. Bubbles began stewing from within the spider's blood, its body turning from black to the gray of ash. The touch infected it, killed the eggs inside it. The claws squeezed. The one they called the Beast -- the one named Pinch; she sucked the remains off her fingers, then freed the toy butterfly made of gold and glass.
The moth circled her as she turned the key around many times, her touch chipping away the gold bit by bit, before letting the toy join the moth once more in play.
'Soup make....' The train of thought wanderded off. 'Crack, crackling, crackling, crackling.' she vocally stimmed.
Pinch returned to the house. On the threshold, she stopped to look at the knife cuts in the wood, indicating people's height increase over the modules spent there. The lines started at a meter. She grew half the mossy doorway. Wangi's line reached right under the top. Pinch scratched off the overgrown moss, using but the very tip of her claws, her needles when sewing. The web she took after killing the spider, she used to add a layer to her top. Transparent, silky white chest wear, hanging over her shoulders, linked at the collarbone. Pinch also embroidered, every interval of cycles and terms Wangi absented the house. Ever since the books taught her how. Her stitches were choppy, her lines in designs stuck out of the material, not all rows of string fully pulled. Yet her knots held everything in for long, the color choice on string enriched models of butterfly wings she drew; her trusted nail in and out. In and out.
Flees ate the insides long ago, an unpleasant surprise which kicked the gears in Pinch's head into motion. The overall massing and shape of the lighthouse remained the same, aside the tilt of the tall structure ever since her arrival. The red wood, brown brick, teal stone, black concrete, orange cast iron used in the construction of the lighthouse... Pinch attempted for the last couple of modules to perserve through amaterish tricks. The windows and fanlights were easiest to keep shining, with but an old cloth '(her hospital gown)' soaked in sea water. Sidelights and transoms long stopped working, burned out. The interior materials, such as plaster and paint; she filled in with colours from wild fruits and plants she'd turn to paste. The interior features, such as stairways and moldings, room configurations, and spatial relationships, as well as structural and mechanical systems; support buildings such as keeper's dwelling, oil house, fog signal building, barn, boathouse and privy... Wangi brought her the materials needed for those and helped her repair what could be '(afforded to be)' fixed and could not '(be afforded to)' be replaced.
She had gardens on the site features such as both sides of the roads and walkways, on the fences, around flag poles with long lost flags, above planters, water collection systems, on the docks and wharves, beachheads, seawalls and a pot on Wangi's boat. Gardens of weed, grass, ivy, loads of vitis. (Another hobby claimed with gardening: bug hunting. She fried them in the fire that kept the main room of the shack warm.) Pinch gathered grapes to put them in a net she tailored. The logs used for the small fires, she would garner from punching down trees and splitting them in squares. Perfect squares. Even numbered.
The work always served as nice distraction from the confusing stimuli Pinch has learned to notice, as to understand Wangi's states. When the hot affected her skin, the cold her lips and more. Another thing, one both liked '(lately, a thing Wangi singularly liked, for Pinch has suddenly fallen out of love with it long ago), she reminded herself, was seeing the mechanical woodpecker and mechannical butterfly toys working. Her claws rotated their keys hours on end. She did it in uncomfortable positions, her body rigid. The moth ate at their blanket.
Every cycle, Pinch messed with each nook of the house, ensuring it would last longer than Wangi's lifespan. After she died, Pinch would never mind the cold ruins to follow.
Greenish waves gently swayed the small, rusty boat '(more accurately described as a solar based surfboard, wide as a donkey's back)'. Wangi basked in the sunlight, cross-legged and stiller than moth fallen to flame.
The poison ivy died in the face pot Pinch tied to the sail bar with fuzzy rope. She snorted. Scratched at her stubble, made a mental note to replace it before Pinch noticed. A briefcase between crossed legs, usually stuffed with paper, charcoal, with brick pieces in a bag and her folded coat. She opened it, pulled down a charting paper and added a few lines to a map in progress.
It constituted three lands: The Lighthouse Island (also marked Home); Sand Island Patch; The Market Docs Of Mainland.
She had other extensions to the map: small papers, miniature maps of individual golfs. Yet their relevancy wavered once Pinch complained a tad too many... many times of her prolongued abstentions. Wangi sighed.
Her maps were amateurishly drawn, the horizontal lines a mimicry of lines seen in ancient books, the lands simple outlines wiggled quickly with some cursive handwriting added on. Yet she represented the shapes of islands exactly, guessed locations with precise accuracy.
Thumps.
The net she placed at the head of the boat eraticaly moved. Wangi closed the briefcase and pulled out the catch of the cycle.
'Ugh... salmon.' Fifth cycle of the term's dine.
The solar sail wide open and charged, the waves of sundown propelled Wangi closer and closer to her destination. Sunrays popped off in her green left eye and brown right eye, the blood red irises glowing. Every time, fog danced near shores, which obscured far off objects usually in sight.
Wangi inhaled, caught speed.
A blob appeared in the dense fog. Right on time. Wangi closed the sails and let the waves carry her. Knees pressed against the board, she used her arm to row for momentum. A sound thundered the open air and a red beam of light drew circles in the darkness, the light of the tower. The lighthouse waited a little farther to the left. Wangi grabbed the sides of the board and pulled onto the right as she pushed her weight into the left; she changed direction. Pinch's excited roar thundered, causing a grin to form on the woman's figure.
Safely, Wangi arrived home.
(iii) - the uncharted
Wangi's eyes snapped open. Call it a sixth sense. She turned her head from her blankets on the floor, to the little tub of ice '(then water)' Pinch slept in naked. During that very moment, though, Pinch was not sleeping but staring at the wall. Which wall? Wangi did not care, so she called for her.
Once. Twice.
She began giggling.
'Pinch... why -- why are you laughing?'
The giggling continued, raw, similar to a hyena's. Or a dolphin's, at times. Genuine joy echoed through her timbre, and it pained Wangi every time she had the duty to get up, walk up to Pinch, sit between her and the wall. Ultimately, ruining her '(that time, positive)' immersion. Her deep giggling came to an abrupt stop with an equally deep, sharp inhale, which had Wangi smile in awe: 'Do you see someone there?'
Pinch blinked. She titled, saw the wall. 'No one... there.' she eyed Wangi, who nodded.
Pinch mirrored her, jaw tense.
'Wanna return to sleep?' Wangi crouched, checked the water with a dip of the fingers. 'I could gather more ice for you. Is it warm?'
'Is cold. Sleep. Let... you and me sleep.'
Hearing Pinch's drowsiness, Wangi agreed. She fell onto her pillow bed as water splashed the edges of the tub.
The sunrise spilled over Wangi through the three windows, forcing her to open her sharp eyes. The very first thing they feasted upon was Pinch's serene, sleeping face. All eyes closed, mouth slightly open, drooling and burning the carpet layer by layer. Pinch moved next to her again. Wangi repressed the butterflies in her throat. Wondered. How good would it feel? Embracing her. How good would it be? Holding her. How calming would it prove? Closed proximity. Enough! Enough daydreaming.
Instead, she admired. How Pinch's hair fell next to her collarbone when untied; her vitiligo responsible for some easy sunburns (aside from the burn scars on her right side) visible on cheek and jaw; her round belly, hundreds of skin marks all over her lower body. Wangi realised, her gaze should not have slipped down there. Pinch seemed to have... shaved? Wangi averted her eyes immediately. "And that's naked pussy." she thought, felt the heat in her cheeks.
Felt the twitch --
"Morning wood" is natural. Still, Wangi viewed the naturality of sexuality as (a) wounding. Creeping. And shameful.
She jumped up, sweeped the hall, stormed out of the shack and walked straight into the shore water. She forced the freezing waves whip her behind like a flail.
On her usual en route, Wangi closed the sails, threw the fishing net Pinch manufactured in the water and waited. The clouds moved odd that day, oily instead of the candy cotton texture and Wangi's mind wandered back to Pinch's lopsided smile - one Pinch would usually show when she teased Wangi - upon the sight, which, (she argued) was it not incredibly unfair? (to be teased). Of course, to be teased; Wangi fixed the triangular collars of her coat, gulped then grabbed her map-case; forget the few uncanny clouds spawned abruptly.
She knew she told Pinch all planned for the day would be fishing, nothing more. Nonetheless, she hoped for a sign of uncharted waters. Another extension to her main map... Bumps interrupted her hopeless daydreaming, urged her to check on the net.
Within it were what would she call a shitshow of ocean waste: fish with rubber scales, of colors too vibrant for the species living in her sea. She knew Pinch squinted of happiness when Wangi assured she would be out fishing and return the same main way, the little boring path with unruly waves. The eyes of fish melted against her glove, rubber oil and light blue grease, too chewy looking for the species living in Sea.
Wangi emptied the net and held on to the - assumed eel. She followed the splatters of new clouds, a trail had led her to a deeper part of the west she often sailed over but that time around, something resided under.
Wangi tied her coat to the bar and dove in the water. The Something turned out to be a machinery too similar to a drill to be second guessed. And too advanced to be ignored, as Wangi quickly noticed after approaching; "Hydro based power in these parts?" she said. Wind swung her front, loose braids while she kneeled on the board tail of her boat. She looked as if she was praying; an image ridiculous for the plain fact she had no idea of the concept; "The wires electric..."
Every system had used Risen Energy for power ever since the ones called Mutant Extermination Army claimed governance.
"The scanner electric too," she also said.
Electronic means had only been the last ditch left for the poorest: the organic planets. Then... Well: what the fuck?
'Melt, melt, melt!' Pinch roared, soothing herself with courage to chase away the critters Wangi used to feed by ends of the house, the ones making Pinch's skin crawl.
Muddied squirrels scattered. Exited through the holes of the ceiling and floorboards.
Pinch knew they would return, therefore, she added new traps to the newly discovered breaches in the house. Mold. Her living there for as long as she did did surprise her. Things made sense again.
She blinked. Stared at a red dot glow underneath rotten wood. New thing in the house. Pinch shoved her face closer to it. Touched it. Despite scraping the mold, the dot did not deter, now a hole with red light coming through. Pinch bit her lip.
Frozen; waited for Wangi to arrive home and confirm the recent deterioration. Better focus on the tiny dot than turn to a figure.
Wangi returned (when? Pinch was unsure if early or late) and confirmed to Pinch all the wall suffered of was mold, no holes. Whole body cracked and jiggled from the inside when Pinch sat up from the crooked position. She shooed, shooed, signed for Wangi to sit at the table while she herself gave her a specially made salad. Wangi fried a fish, rest it on her set plate and joined the table. Deflated, sighed deeply. Breathless.
Pinch munched on the raw, couple of bass Wangi brought her. The eyes one her spine (the ones on the tape of her neck) slid to the mold, to the hole... which disappeared. She glanced to Wangi, who cut the heads of her carps and threw to Pinch to catch. Her jaws opened and ripped open. Tongue clicked.
Wangi emptied her own plate. Very odd.
'Odd,' said Pinch as much while pointing. Wangi always ate half of one fish and few leaves of salad before she could not eat anymore. She always stared at the plate, bowl, whatever and played with the food until she threw up at the thought of eating another bite she wanted. Wanted... couldn't.
Pinch pinched herself. Expectedly, no pain as everyday. In the very moment, the tapestry did not seem to hold secrets and puzzles; the flicker of the fire did not attempt to whisper truths; the white noise left her unaffected; the leftover fish did not breathe mocking laughter, assuring her of painful company, never a drop of loneliness.
Her kind company, however... Wangi stared, eyes brown. Both. Brown. Skin... jelly.
Pinch gulped. Not her Wangi.
Whatever this cardboard woman had to do in front of her, she had no idea. Pinch tasted the unpleasantly sweet citrine bruise, just like she had when she tasted for the very first time. Her first swallow, unable to call for her siblings. Lack of response certain.
Thoughts muddled, Pinch stood and felt the overwhelming urge to touch. Not her Wangi. But Wangi enough. She approached.
Not Wangi smiled, corners uncharacteristically deep for her Wangi. Laughed, voice too airy and light. A butcher of the laugh Pinch loved to repeat inner.
She reached, fingertips right underneath... where should have been olive-ish stubble, instead of similar enough blonde beard.
Tremors. Roaches in her throat, chest, stomach, bust. Fingers tickled. Pinch exhaled -- Pinch touched Not Wangi.
Outrageously different from her fantasies, negatively so. Instead of chewyness of flesh, she met hardness of boiled blood. Instead of lukewarm roughness, she met empty skin.
Instead of terror and firm sharpness beside an X scar -- softness and impassive motion.
Not her Wangi. It watched, burns spreading. Utterly disappointed and upset with whatever fooled her into an ancient urge, only for it to amount in no fruition whatsoever! Pinch squeezed, palm open.
Neck snapped with a big crack, eyes bulged out and splattered when hit the floor. Ash remained. And colorless, wet goop.
Pinch spat. Moonlight was creeping through the window when Wangi had yet to return.
'Wangi...' That promise breaker. 'Melt!'
(iv) - the light
Well past midnight, the waves brought Wangi to the Lighthouse shore.
Complete darkness. Wangi glanced at the shattered light posts and wasted no time to enter the house. No sign of life, blacks spots of wood burns left in stead of the overgrown nature which used to be within.
'Pinch?!' Wangi called, rushed upstairs.
She found Pinch on her knees, head against the glass encapsulating the tower lights. She bumped her head, once, twice, thrice.
'Pinch... what are you doing?' Next to her, Wangi also fell on her knees (then promptly scooted a foot back, for she felt her own skin tingling and squirming). 'You're upset?'
Mouthing answered: "No deep fucking shit, fucker!" Pinch gulped the inhuman screech which threatened to leave her.
'Something was wrong with the fish and I investigated. That's why I'm late.'
Pinch nearly hummed. Stopped herself.
Wangi offered. 'Should I grow you another garden?' Palms pressed, a jasmine bloomed.
Green forehead continued hitting the glass.
'Stop that, please.'
More mouthing: "Stop lying." Pinch swallowed. Sounds became too much, the air of the night a blanket specifically tailored for Wangi's taunt. What taunt? Pinch hadn't realised yet at that moment.
Pitch darkness caressed Wangi. Red Light taunted Pinch, now a flicker within the iris.
She avoided Wangi's figure, her stare.
"Go away," Told Pinch the growing light.
Wangi grew moss and big leaved, vines over the glass. Reduced Pinch's damage. Wangi waited for her to exhaust herself, fall asleep.
Wangi traveled to the docks of the mainland. It had always been the best spot for trades. Yet, that time around, Wangi planned on selling her catch of the cycle (stayed up all night after Pinch finally calmed down and fell asleep), instead of trading in for goods, resources and foods. Wangi anchored her boat under the docks.
She had an idea for the "pacifier" planned to be bought. She lay down her coat and her catch on a side of the market, dirt cheap.
When she passed a surge of people and reached the market, the crowd was scattered. Many stands were still full (most of them fishmongers, shit) while the brick walls of houses had posters plastered on them. Ads of... OpenHorizon, it was called. An artificial and intelligent tool, a generative tool. From essentials such as marine life to the pleasures of the arts.
Wangi scrunched her small nose. Ripped the posters off, set her own stand and talked more than she needed to in months. Called for passerby, showed the quality of her species and but yelled the one coin price.
A skeptical man stopped briefly. Wangi was ready to pack in charting paper the squid he was eyeing, before his eyes landed on a carp with coral stuck to its skin. He muttered the word fake before he left. Her thick, black eyebrows met in a frown. Wangi tried again.
A few meat mongers (triplets) closed their stall, took pity and checked out her little spot. 'Where did you manufacture these?'
'Manufacture?'
The shortest smiled. 'Ah, good. I thought you've worked with OpenHorizon for these.'
'Are they the ones who put that fucking drill in my sea?' Wangi retorted.
'A drill? Huh.' The meat mongers poked the fish with coral grown over fins. 'You must be from outside, and confused.'
Wangi shrugged but motioned for them to carry on.
'We didn't take them seriously when they first settled here modules ago. OpenHorizon got big as of recent. And of course, curiosity drove many customers of ours to keep checking out their type of... offers.
'It was horrid the first few weeks, no customers. Many, many surge of scams. But a lot people are returning. Many well kept ones too, luckily. They said that the use of that generator tells them: that certain merchant has products of little quality and a small income for them to turn to this tool.'
'You all know any more?'
They simultaneously nodded. 'A lot of the youth especially, began using it to cheat in the academy and other workforces. A cluster fuck of poor skill remaining poorer, turning into issues. The tech boy which used to work with door viruses cannot do us one password change no more. And also...'
Leaned in to whisper. 'We've heard the data they use for this tool... is very much -- illegally garnered. Hence why many fabrication companies avoid them.'
Wangi hummed: 'Tell me more.'
The meat mongers traded for the coral infested fish and sat down on the tile road. Complained and whined to Wangi in more detail, mentioned names, companies and investors of that OpenHorizon thing. Utterly useless thing, from what Wangi has gathered. Useless, unethical thing.
Wangi scoffed.
'I've never heard of the machine in the sea,' said the tallest triplet. 'Of which you spoke.'
Again, Wangi scoffed. 'From what I got, now I got it. These greedy assholes are draining my sea and fucking up my electricity means for this OpenHorizon shit. I need it off.'
Wangi needed that machine shut down somehow. Perhaps, she could start a petition or orchestrate a heist to move the cursed thing. Anywhere else but at her Sea. Her living: 'Thank you for the information.'
The meat mongers bid farewell.
Stubborn, Wangi decided to wander the town farther in attempt to sell her fish, her net or even her coat (despite often brushing the material Pinch's own fingers put together) for a couple coins; for a good trinket. Any pretty thing like a garden, truly.
'Shh!' Rung from a secluded alleyway.
Wangi stumbled upon a couple: man and woman, towering over a boy. A tween. The boy, very much naked, hugged himself. Begged for them -- her to stop, have mercy. The woman slapped him and dragged him closer by the legs; 'Put your mouth to use.'
Wangi turned to continue her wander until a glitter caught her cold eye. In the woman's hair, a mechanical toy -- a shark fin fluttered. Perhaps, Pinch having stopped her play with the toy butterfly and the woodpecker was because she grew bored of the same design. Pinch loved these toys (just as Wangi did). She needed it.
Returned on her heel, Wangi kicked the woman in the chin and punched the man's stomach. Immediately, the tween escaped.
The woman screamed and the man charged. Wangi decked him into passing out: 'That hair piece you have, trade with me.' She pointed to the woman crawling away.
The woman spat: 'Bitch.'
Wangi blinked. Spines grew from her joints, tailed after the woman and suspended her in the air, lightly piercing every bit of her body, specifically between her bare thighs.
'What are you doing to me?!'
'Putting myself to good use,' Wangi spat back (to her own surprise). She slowly, slowly punctured the woman alive.
Eye tissues pulled apart, skin hanging from very tips of spikes, blood gushing in rivers.
The woman attempted screaming. No use, since the spearing split her tongue in halves.
Wangi dropped her like a sack of sand.
Ignored the wheezes; she successfully obtained Pinch's pacifying present.
(v) - the deep
Red Light. Human blood colored rays.
Waste gathered on shore; waste of uncanny fish, fallen fake water, plummeted oil clouds, animal doppelgangers and more. On the extended shore, for the water began drying up a cycle ago. At that pace, within two cycles, the sea would be but a prickle.
Less edible resources meant Wangi's travels would be dragged along and dreadful; losing electricity meant longer dark and cold; plasticised skies meant less sun as substitute; it all meant relocation.
The Red Light stared, its source incomprehensible.
Pinch chewed, bits of moth wings falling over the mechanical butterfly it flew around like glue, moments before she snatched it on impulse. Ichor blood left her damaged oval carved in her forehead centre.
The squirrels ate the last leftovers and dirtied her sewing materials, before rushing out permanently (disturbed at the artificial trees and yet another corpse of a Wangi copycat). Pinch kissed that Moth and remained in a foggy stasis. Immobile. Stare.
Pinch pinched herself. Expectedly, no pain as everyday. In the very moment, the tapestry held secrets and puzzles; the ash of the fire tried to whisper ugly truths; the white noise insulted her; the melted, mechanical woodpecker in her embrace breathed mocking laughter, assuring her of painful company, never a drop of loneliness. Her kind company, however... Not Wangi's wry rubber corpse bloated with air balloons the color of urine, smell of citrine. Pinch gulped. Not her Wangi morphed with the floorboards. But another Wangi '(a hallucination, she figured)' stood in the doorway, vague and without detail.
Red, red light pulsed. A deep heartbeat.
She was going to leave her, was she not? But how was Pinch supposed to ensure her long living far apart and separated? How was Pinch supposed to sense -- to feel anything? Referenceless.
On her knees for Wangi, the tip of her index fingers offered the lightest of brushes on baggy, oversized boots. Rough to the touch.
#07:17 has not sighted any like herself ever since her birth, where the first thing she processed with the gift of sight were the piles of her siblings’ cadavers, of bowels and molten limbs. Of jollity. The voices cheering. Of ichor blood pools everywhere under.
Of... no-one.
Whispers. The disembodied voices whispered, while the robot kept saying the word "Processing". Siblings melted, rushed to her. Engraved themselves, brains and eyes, within, under, onto -- Spine untangled.
Wangi's voice, deep and airy, whispered. Murmured sweet nothings, air against mutant earlobes. Ticklish.
I like your laugh.
You're my hindrance.
My head's your home too.
Tone down your kindness, it's overwhelming.
Thank you for this dinner. I'm sorry I threw it up.
Warmth, boling over underneath the liver. Gas traveling up between loose, sugar ribcages. Hearbeats banging against the chest, the throat and the head. Rough texture slid from under fingertips. Damp wetness, as if dipped in it. The voice quieted.
Strangers' replaced hers:
You're perfect.
You have to mature.
You shouldn't exist.
Our death gave your chance at existence.
You don't deserve feeling. You don't deserve speaking.
You don't deserve warmth. You shall only have the bad cold.
You're not real.
"I'm not real." Pinch thought to herself in tandem.
Citrine at the tip of her tongue, soured against her gums. Floods of strong, old attic odor ingrained in cheek walls, under the long tongue, between canines. Choking on a bothered tongue, fangs bit into it with a numb sting. Iron and vanilla. Ichor flooded in.
We're... unreal.
(vi) - the consumption
Thunder.
Wangi blindly coursed through the upcoming storm, trying to keep her board staright as a needle while root arms rowed. Within all that darkness, she missed the sandbar ahead.
Odd. There were no such landmark last cycle.
Wangi spat a curse. Her roots extended against the ground, under her surfboard boat and lifted herself up, grew more roots to create a tumbling, a rolling effect. Shoulder lifted to ensure the mechanical shark fin still resided in her tight-ass bun. Splash!
Back onto still sea, Wangi had to rediscover her sense of direction -- still sea? The waves were brewing larger moments ago. Acryllic clouds, oil blues, lemon reefs. Dead wind smashed her sail. Starlight, she wished Pinch would've worked the lighhouse for her in the very moment. But Wangi upset her... that was right. And wrong. Even upset, Pinch turned on the light, always. Ever. (And besides, Pinch manifesting said anger would look like making and roughly using -- abusing drop spindle).
A shape sharply formed in the close distance, but Wangi hadn't the time to react to flesh spearing the sea, pulling and throwing a grand mechanism: that cursed, poor drill, its metal roaring.
Waves damped Wangi's brown turtleneck, her long bangs, loosening and brushing her belt at each sway of the tiring boat -- while cables snapped, sent shockwaves through the waves, fleshes or water. Wangi spat, throwing the flower pot off to tie her briefcase to what remained of the bar.
She dove right in; the currents smacked her and passed her around until her outstretched arms finally grabbed on a tilted tube connected to the shaking drill, its base screws about to snap. But the head of the drill was stuck in the crust of the seafloor... and as much as the root looking tentacles pulled, it barely budged.
Wangi wrapped roots of her own around them, let one pull her out. "Pinch!" yelled she roughly. "Let go of it!" Atop the mechanism, Pinch was glued to its' head, hugging the whole thousands of yards worth of iron. "How far can you stretch?!"
No farther than that, it seemed; Pinch thinned. Her expression -- moreso impassive rather than alive. "This thing won't melt! Let it go!" She swung and jumped, landed on a cable, then crawled closer and closer to the deforming women. But Pinch's wandering fleshes blocked her way. Their very presence oozed acid and Wangi ran the slippery slope to jump and land clumsily on her back. On the head of the drill, everything vibrated. "Pinch... what... what are you doing?!" Wangi's burned off braids collapsed upon the touch of tentacles. "You're going to snap in half, idiot! Literally!"
OpenHorizon’s Drill did shrill.
The whole thing tilted, capsizing. Tiptoeing was replaced with bolting, as Wangi lost her melted boots to slightly miss the collar of Pinch's top. The sea gulped them down. A new storm underwater. Wangi's boat lingered on surface waves and rain.
Encapsulating hunder.
House's door slammed against the wall so hard it fell off its hinges. Wet head to toe, Wangi passed the height charts, the fingertips burned against floorboards, the gaping hole, the stairs. Pulled on the rope tied around Pinch's collar. Her clothes killed things slower than her touch. Good, since it kept the momentum. Dropping her down the already disintegrating stairs would bring even more inconvenience.
Stopped near the railing, Wangi shattered the glass and brought it to the mouth opened from within Pinch's stomach. 'Fucking make a noise, fucking blink, please,' begged she.
The many rows of teeth tensed. The food, glass, objects proved futile to bringing Pinch together in a coherent form, one which not bled continously and melted in ichor. The fleshes were falling out of her. Wangi bit her tongue to shut her ugly thoughts.
'What were you plannin'? Even?' She pulled the lightbulb out of the lighthouse tower, unhinged Pinch's (somewhat solid) jaw with branches, shoved it down. 'To drown?!'
Nothing. Different.
'I'm sorry for yelling. Just... please.' The air got knocked out of her lungs. Pinch kicked her away. Small, thin fingers motioned Leave and Go. Wangi's stubby fingers nailed her worn out top.
Rust spread. Railing creaked, affix undone. Thunder cracked the lit up, rosy skyline, sound and light matching the livid expression which had crossed Wangi's face.
How good would it feel? Embracing her. Pinch needed feast. Nothing sufficed. Therefore --
How good would it be? Holding her. Wangi jumped into crouching position, bare feet cold in the starting rain.
How calming would it prove? Closed proximity. She charged. Grabbed, grabbed, slipped and clutched. And held. Held!
#07:17 has not sighted any like herself ever since her birth, where the first thing she processed with the gift of sight were the piles of her siblings’ cadavers, of bowels and molten limbs. Of jollity. The voices cheering. Of ichor blood pools everywhere under. Of... no-one. And of everything. Of indignation.
Whispers. The disembodied voices whispered, while the robot kept saying the word “Processing”. Siblings melted, rushed to her. Engraved themselves, brains and eyes, within, under, onto -- Spine untangled. Wangi’s voice. Ticklish. Their eyes always watched in return underneath the broken relections.
After: Warmth, boling over underneath the liver. Gas traveling up between low, sugar ribcages. Hearbeats banging against the chest, the throat and the ice pomegranate skull. Moist texture slid from under fingertips. Damp wetness, as if dipped in it.
Pinch found herself in an embrace. Extremly sticky and hot. Smelled of iron; so much metal, so much sourness filed the nostrils. She felt herself sort out, organs, flesh and all. Her mouth; full. A mouthful of -- red light, of Moth, of... wool. Pinch found herself in a dream and a nightmare all the same. Their lighhouse descended. Speared the remaining sea.
Tasted of amethyst and felt like fuzzy coral, dear Wangi.
Every cycle, Pinch messed with each nook of the remains of the house and tower, ensuring it would last longer than Wangi’s lifespan. After she has died, Pinch would never mind the cold ruins to follow. The one they used to call Beast breathed in vain, crouched into contortion onto the bridge of lighthouse ruins.
The other still sleeping, Pinch inspected her body from afar. A big burn remained on Wangi's left side; matching Pinch's right.
The hug was horrible, worse than the eye Wangi shoved down her throat. Wangi's green and red pupilled eye settled in Pinch's forehead, replaced the white pearl of bone. Pinch blinked.
Wangi breathed...and snored, whistles leaving her chipped nose.
Pinch bit off her lip. Having a taste of a denied meal always brought bittersweet grudges. Wangi would meet old age. And Pinch would have do with her scent and with the memory.
Whatever embrace, never to be performed. Never again.