Petrichor - a novel in "open beta" - [M/f, minigiant, post-apocalyptic dystopia, slavery, military setting]

[Kisupure]

@olo Thank you! In my original draft, I dangled the brass as a threat, but never made good on it. I’m really glad I decided to use them as a control group of sorts for how fucked up everything is. Besides, I think they’re going to come in handy later.

And yeah, Wesson is… beyond fixing. And he might’ve been beyond fixing long before the start of this story.

Gray’s trying very hard to be clever, but like a lot of my protagonists, he’s not as good of a liar as she needs to be to pull it off. Much of her life has been defined by apathetic transparency, and suddenly playing sneaky doesn’t suit her. Worst part is that she doesn’t exactly have a choice.

Finch is really fun though tragic, and I honestly get the heebie-geebies from her subtle arc the most. She’s a much more important barometer than Gray is for the state of things because she has no other frame of reference for the developments going on in her world, while Gray has glimpses to the outside - the real outside - and can compare her worldview with something totally foreign.

The pairing idea is still in situ… oh lawd I pray I do it justice.

[Kisupure]

(( I’m not sure how to feel about this chapter. It has important things going on, but it very much a first draft in need of samurai editing. The end originally played out as-is, and the decision to turn it into a recall was impromptu, borrowed heavily from an earlier version of the story where Gray and Wesson had much less of a dance going on between them and more of a steadily disintegrating relationship. However, I think this paints his character in a much starker, more effective light. ))

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CHAPTER 12

The empty oil drum was going to leave rust stains on the seat of her pants, but Gray didn’t really thunk much of it as she drew a needle through the heel of a sock. She was not very good at darning—the tension was difficult to get right—but she’d at least managed to track down a smooth enough stone to help keep the sock’s shape as she repaired the missing weave.

Her appetite had never come back even though she had nothing in her belly but a cup of shine. It tore through her hungry, exhausted body, and Gray was taking this opportunity to straighten up again before going off to attempt anything even remotely important. She drew the last bit of thread through, remembering not to knot it, and instead wove the several inches of leftover thread around the hole to create a smooth, seamless repair. Well, it was seamless to the touch—there was now a brown, coarsely-woven heel against a finer beige. But it would do the trick.

Saiyeh came up, sipping coffee. She was an interesting corpsman, a seventh-year about Gray’s age, and like Gray, tried to keep a low profile. The both of them were also wiry andneither tall nor short, but Saiyeh had a different complexion, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Like Finch, she preferred to keep her hair cut short, hacking it off with whatever was most convenient and as a result the black hair usually stood on end in all directions. Saiyeh’s popularity was almost exclusively due to the fact that shine made her sick, and was often keen on trading away fridays. Gray always liked her dry sense of humor, though, and she prayed her fellow soldier had something witty to say about now.

“Jeez, Gray, didn’t realize how awful you looked.”

That would have to do.

“Didn’t you know? Getting drunk is hard work around here.”

“Drinking enough water?”

“Doubt it.”

“Here.”

Saiyeh handed Gray the cup of coffee, and though Gray didn’t want it, not on an empty stomach, having something to wet her mouth didn’t sound so bad about now. She took a sip and winced; the stuff was even more bitter than usual.

“That was some fuckin’ lesson this morning,” Saiyeh said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

If the corpsman hadn’t seen it, Gray wasn’t going to mention the nausea. It was something to be embarrassed of. They’d all seen so much violence already, what was a little corporal punishment? And it’s not like she knew the youngyear, anyways.

“What’d Wesson say about it?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet.”

“Hey, I just thought you knew each other.”

Gray scoffed. “Yeah, Knew each other.”

“I’m friendly with Captain Benevidas,” she shrugged. Gray noticed an impish grin spread across her face. “Showed him mine and he showed me his.”

Gray set down the stone and the sock just a little too hard. “So that’s how you get all those slips.”

“And I’m sharing the bounty with the rest of yins. It’s win-win. Hey… something wrong?”

“You ever feel like you’re not cut out for this?”

“Not really. I’m still here, aren’t I? Don’t fall for the seventh-year blues, Gray, we’re on the home stretch. Just think: everything that happens here, it doesn’t matter on the outside. And there’s always gonna be ‘Naks anyways, whether you’re in here or out there. They’re like fleas. Really big fleas.”

“It’s amazing that whoever made the Algo—all those governments, those business people—didn’t see this coming,” Gray mumbled. “It’s like they got tired of managing their own shit and gave up. Here,” she mimed. “It’s the golden age of mankind, take all the power. But don’t ever do us dirty, alright?”

Saiyeh laughed. “Gimme everything I want and nothin’ I don’t.”

“I wonder what it would take to win this war.”

“A lot more than we got.”

“OK, what would it take to lose it?”

“More than they got.”

“So it’s not really a war, then.”

“What else would it be?”

A breeze picked up and Gray could smell the mules now.

“I don’t want to see him,” she finally admitted. It was the piece of lead lodged in her that she was putting off removing. But it had to come out.

“Why not?”

“Because he was my friend, Saiyeh.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“I know.”

* * *

Wesson’s tent was small and squat, but it still managed to loom over her as she stood in front of it. A sharp breeze kicked up, sending leaves and dust across the ground. Gray blinked and looked in the direction it was coming from—south-east—to instinctively check for rain clouds. There were none, at least none yet, but the season was on its way out and fall was around the corner. And with fall came the rains.

Even the smell on the air was new and ominous: a wind from faraway places, churned over the white and beige rocks of the Southland, baked in the sun, sluiced through thickets of gray oaks and blood-red manzanitas, and arrived here, for her to smell. Wherever this air was from, it only came this time of year.

Something about it made her feel a little more alive, a little braver. If it was hard to count the days out on a solitary watch, this was a reminder that the seasons were still changing, and Wesson, her estranged companion, would soon be gone.

This isn’t forever.

Gray stepped up from the dirt and onto the raised wood foundation at the flap, pausing just outside when she heard voices.

“…you did a fantastic job,” said a woman. She spoke with a slight accent, not the throaty drawl Gray was used to. “Now really, is there anything to be upset about that?”

“It was truly exciting.” This time it was a man. “Things can get so repetitive at the estate. It’s good to come down once in a while and see what the men are up to. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes. Even my little Archer keeps asking when he can visit the camps, too. I told him that he needs to wait until he’s older, and that he’s expected to memorize the Manual like anyone else. You should have seen the fit he threw!”

The man chuckled. “Well, the boy’s only eight, Mrs. Redding. What do you expect?”

Missus? What rank was that? Was it a specialty?

“At any rate, Captain Wesson, you have our strongest approval for your promotion. You’ll make a fine officer!”

Then, weakly, she heard her friend’s voice: “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh don’t look so grim, boy. Here, I’ve got just the thing.” Gray heard some rummaging. “A little something for the nerves, a sip will do the trick. Any more and you’ll be flat on your back!”

“What… is it?”

“Think of it like morphine… or morph, or whatever you call it.”

“Thank you, sirs.”

“Feeling better?”

“I think so?”

“Good. Now as you were, soldier. Continue to do Alpine proud.”

Gray skittered away from the tent flap when she heard footsteps approaching. Quickly, she fumbled around in her pockets for something to occupy herself with, and found a friday.

When the pair of majors left, Gray pretended to study the slip of paper as they passed her. Then she entered the tent. Slowly.

There Wesson was, slumped over his desk and on his elbow, looking as though he weighed as much as an Anak. He was studying a small flask, no bigger than the palm of his hand, but she startled him and he put it away.

“What are you doing here?”

“Finch told me you might want company.” Gray almost cringed when the words left her mouth. She sounded pathetic. “But besides that, no idea.” That was a little better.

“Those majors thought I did a good job,” he said. “Came by before starting with the bonds. They didn’t have to do that, they didn’t have to speak to me at all.”

“Lucky you,” Gray muttered.

“Alright, just… don’t. Don’t start with this again.”

“Start with what? You were up there on those boards today, sir.”

He jumped up suddenly, and Gray stopped. There was a wild edge to his eyes.

“I did what I had to do.”

She stayed quiet.

“I did exactly as ordered.” Wesson brought his fist down on the desk, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “Because unlike you, I actually believe in what we do here. I know that we do our part against the Algo. Did you know that the enemy has been losing 6% of its combat efficacy every year? That means less ammo, less armor… less fighting. That’s real, Gray. Something fucking real. And I—“

He swayed a bit and reached for the chair. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.

“What did they give you, Wesson?”

“Nothing. I just need a coffee. C’mon.”

The young man righted himself and grabbed Gray by the ripped sleeve of her fatigues on his way out. They didn’t say anything on their walk to the mess tent, and after Wesson stepped in to grab a cup, they didn’t say anything afterward either.

The look he gave her told her to follow him, though, so she did, and warily. They fell behind a small crowd of corpsmen headed towards the firing range, where the bond inspections were beginning to take place. Their raised, wooden stage at the quad wouldn’t come close to accommodating that many bodies.

There were two recruiting officers working the line of prospects, clipboards in hand as they processed everyone as quickly as possible. With so many cots to fill, Hitch couldn’t afford to be picky. Off to the side in more chairs set out just for them, were the brass looking on. Hitch himself stood, his arms folded as they observed the proceedings.

Something touched her arm. It was Wesson handing her his empty cup, and Gray balked, but took it silently.

“And you can read?”

“Y-yessur. I can spell my name too.”

“Good enough.” The officer moved up the line. “And you?”

“I can read Shakespeare, sir.”

“I don’t care if you read fuckin’ Archie comics, bondie. I asked you a yes or no question.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He moved to the next filthy teenager. “And you?”

Gray didn’t know how long she stood there with Wesson, but it seemed like hours. She watched as a bond was turned away for his limp. Another for knock-knees. A third for already missing a few fingers on his shooting hand.

Eventually, the officers managed to process the entire group of bonds, with a small handful failing to pass muster. There was still one test left, though: the pheromone.

The recruiting officers pulled out the stinking rags, holding them away from their own faces. There was no verbal abuse, no showmanship, not like Gray’s recruitment and inspection. There were just too many, and it was already getting hot.

“Alright everybody, your job now is to hold still. Anyone who tries to run or fight will be walking home today.”

She thought about the spectacle earlier, and a bitter taste filled her mouth. She also remembered that she hadn’t eaten yet. Maybe she could leave.

“I’m hungry,” Gray whispered. “Gonna grab a bite, OK?”

“Not now.”

“What?”

“Watch.”

The bastard, making her stay here with him for this stupid thing.

But she had technically asked him if she could go eat, hadn’t she? And when he declined, she obeyed. Like a good little corpsman. Maybe the change in the wind hadn’t made her braver after all.

Her frown deepened, but she only shifted her weight on the rough, uneven ground. She was still holding his cup, even. Still falling in line so effortlessly, mindlessly. Gray realized that she didn’t know how to act around him, anymore. It was awkward enough before all this, when they stopped sleeping together. But Wesson, in spite of his smooth talking and dreams of leadership, had a knack for making things awkward. He would go hard acting smoother than usual, smile wider, talk louder. There was a look he got when his place in the pecking order was threatened. It took her a few years to spot it, but she could clearly see that he was wearing it all the time now. It made her want to stand well out of arm’s reach. Something about it made her feel acutely vulnerable. Seen.

And not in a good way.

Ten yards off rags were being pressed to the noses of the first bonds. They passed the test in silence, and so did the next four, six. Gray watched the cords in their necks tighten, the sweat bead on their brows, the slow pulling away like the rag was a heavy ruck and they were sagging under its weight. One bond cried out, fell to her knees and was dragged, kicking, off to the side. Another bond disqualified himself by emptying his breakfast out onto the ground.

Gray wondered if Rice saw something arousing in this physiological response, this pure, unadulterated reaction of a small body surging with fear. Maybe he found it pitiable.

Or maybe Wesson was the one that liked it?

Out of the corner of her eye she surveyed him, stealing a glance long enough to read his posture. He stood almost painfully rigid, and there was color in his cheeks, more than normal. The captain stared with a strange intensity, like he was learning something, and the way he rubbed his chin was slow and repetitive, as if he’d forgotten his fingers were there.

Who was this man?

She was lifted from her thoughts by scattered applause. One particularly small girl was currentlytaking the pheromone without so much as moving, and when the inspection officer pulled away, she continued to hold her chin high. Gray was impressed. If the Anakim were experimenting with stronger scents, they’d need more recruits like that.

“She’s good,” Wesson muttered, as if to himself. “C’mon, give her to brown…”

No, it really was to himself. Gray never knew Wesson to do that.

“He’s not bad either,” the captain continued. “The girls are nicer to look at, though. Let’s see. One, two, three…”

Wesson counted twenty-six bonds that were so far passing inspections, and he kept his count with every one that passed the fear test. In the end only thirteen bonds appeared to be unfit, and they were soon tied up with ropes behind their backs to be led silently, solemnly away.

“Wesson, I’m fucking starving,” Gray whispered, wanting desperately to leave. “Can I please go eat?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Sure. Dismissed. Make sure to take that with you.” He gestured vaguely to the cup in her hand, then turned back to the bondsmen.

Gray wouldn’t walk away fast enough.

“Am I the one going crazy?” she muttered as she beat it back to the mess. When she got there, the seventh-year disposed of Wesson’s cup as if it were too hot to touch.

A few bodies were scattered around the largetent, most of them grabbing a bite before the first shift ended at 1400 and a lineup formed, but it was still difficult to find a table to eat at alone. Camaraderie was the quickest fix for boredom around here, and she only got a few precious bites in before a girl from gold toon set down her tray across the table.

Gray masked her frustration. There was truly no place a corpsman could go to be alone around here without looking suspicious, was there? Nowhere to go to just think; the place was crawling with people, bored and harried at the same time. The maddening part was that Gray doubted it was even intentional. Camp wasn’t a place to ponder things, it was a place to eat, sleep, and train. A personal life was the carrot they dangled at you from across the chasm of ten years of hard goddamn graft.

The corpsman went about her business, blissfully unaware of Gray’s angst. And it started to bother her. What about her posture said she wanted company? Gray scooped up a bite of food, letting her foon loudly hit and scrape the tray a few times. The older girl didn’t seem to pay any notice.

Gray glanced up to scowl at the oblivious intruder, hoping to make eye contact. Instead, she saw the older corpsman take a handful of something from her pocket and smash it into her serving of wet ration.

Maybe interrupting her would do the trick.

“What’s that?” Gray asked flatly. She recognized the black little fruits as a kind of wild berry, but always heard they were toxic.

“Nightshades,” she said, then chuckled. “Mellows out the “scum” in our pond-scum pate. And they’re good for ya, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup. They got vitamins.” She said it like she were in on a privileged secret. “Vitamins keep you from gettin’ sick, ya know.”

Sick. As in, what, a cough and a runny nose for a few days during the rainy season? If only that was the worst of her problems.

Gray continued to take measured bites of her unadulterated slurry, mostly wishing that Taylor or Tucker or whatever her name was would hurry up and finish.

“How d’you know they got vitamins? I thought those things were poisonous.”

“Oh the toxic thing? That’s a…” The gold foxer lowered her voice. “That’s a lie. The officers don’t mind us putting stuff in our rations, but the Nightshades are tricky. They’re only safe when they’re ripe, so to keep half the camp from shitting their guts out, they just say they’re poisonous. And besides, the officers eat them like candy. Those guys never get sick. And I’d know, Captain Berg pays me in fridays to forage his.”

The conversation had suddenly taken an interesting turn, and Gray found herself perking up.

“You’re not a ninth-year, are you?”

Of course she was, the five slim bars on her lapel was plain as day.

“Yup.”

It was Gray’s turn to lower her voice. “Does the Corps really treat ninth-years differently?”

“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but—”

Would be hard to, seeing as how Gray didn’t know her name.

“—They do. Some of us, at least. Even if you’re not after a promo, getting friendly has its perks, right?”

To hear it so plainly was a surprise. It was a well-worn complaint that often snaked through the rumor mill by bitter downranking enlisted, but this was the first time that she’d actually asked a ninth-year about it and gotten an answer. Hm. Maybe it was time to go fishing.

“Well, my captain seems to like me a lot, but I’m only a seventh-year,” she explained. “I’m afraid he’s going to get the both of us in trouble for rubbing shoulders with me while we’re on-duty.”

The ninth-year glanced at Gray’s tattered left sleeve, and noted the color of her camp emblem: a brown, snarling fox’s head with three Anak bullets in its mouth. The tenth-year nodded.

“That new promo,” she said, going back to her food. “He’s got it tough, believe it or not. After promotion, the Corps usually sends its new captains to Alpine for training before being assigned to a camp. He’s learning on the fly.”

“He’s dedicated, though.”

“He is. I’ve heard a lot about him. Seen him this morning, too.”

Gray squashed the gross feeling in her stomach.

“So if you were in my shoes…?”

The ninth-year dropped to a whisper again. “You can’t turn him down, you should know that much. If a captain sees something in you, you’re theirs to groom. And if all you want is to get out of bondship…” She nodded sagely and finished her tray. “Then things just got a little more complicated.”

Gray stayed quiet for a minute, staring at her hardtack. Complicated. She turned the word over in her head, deciding that it was accurate enough. Accurate for the purposes of this conversation.

She decided to ask another innocent question. “What do I do if I don’t trust him?”

The ninth-year laughed. “Your problem, not his! Look, don’t think about it too hard,” she said, gathering up her tray. “There’s worse things out there than a captain getting sweet on ya.”

Gray smiled wryly. “I dunno, having a ‘Nak get sweet on you doesn’t sound so bad.”

She snorted and crossed the mess to dump her tray and foon into a tub of dirty dishes. “Yeah, until he decides you look prettier with a hole in your head!”

Gray laughed, but only so.

And as soon as the ninth-year was gone, her face darkened, and she poked at the wet ration, sinking back into her thoughts.

So there was nothing she could but lean into the discomfort, the strangeness. The idea gnawed at her, and her heart pounded. What recourse did she have? As far as anyone else could see, Wesson was following orders to a tee, and playing games that he as an officer couldn’t lose. He was the perfect little soldier.

She pushed the tray away, unable to finish. The image of him bringing down the hammer with every ounce of his strength haunted her, replaying a dozen times all at once. But then another memory surfaced: Kessler’s face when she told him that her entire exchange with Rice was a hallucination. His eyes.

Maybe she should have just shot him; it probably would have hurt less.

There had to be a way for her to use this to her advantage. It seemed that staying alive out here long enough to make it to nine years was difficult, and though the Manual stated that the average survival rate was currently 22%—one out of every five corpsmen would live to get their freemark—Fox typically had 800 or more first-years, with less than 100 ninth-years. Gray knew nothing about math, but Harper did. And he said that 1 out of 8 is a lot less than 22%. With fewer and fewer longyears, each survivor only becomes more valuable, more visible. Easier to single out, easier to get to know.

So what happens? You cozy up with a captain or two. You can make suggestions or get what you need, like get a few codys for an injured friend or an extra bit of food.

You can lie about playing a game of cards with Finch and some outsiders and win her a tin of screen.

Gray swallowed.

Or maybe you could get posted to sentry positions that make it easier to rendezvous with a certain Anak sentinel.

* * *

“Guys, they got the projector working!”

“No fuckin’ way!”

“Yeah, the brass brought parts with ‘em!”

“And they’re playing two movies tonight!”

At around 0900, just as the hot, molten core of the sun burbled along the far horizon, Gray found her way to the quad after a quick rinse. A few groups of corpsmen were busy hauling benches and tables from the mess, with other groups already laying claim to them. A few arguments broke out; some guy punched another guy in the face over a bench near the front and won it. Gray chuckled to herself. This was the kind of violence she preferred: the harmless variety.

Saiyeh had given her two fridays earlier, one for each pair of socks successfully darned, and though it always took her more than an hour to do a pair, it was a trade she’d make again in the future for sure. The caustic liquid always burned too good on its way down and dulled her senses in just the right kind of way.

She had one more day of R&R before heading out again. She wasn’t sure what shape Wesson was going to be in when she returned from her next post, and she wanted to at least attempt to plant a seed while he still wanted her to.

Finch and Harper came up then.

“Boy when you don’t wanna be found, you don’t wanna be found,” the man said.

Gray turned to Harper and cocked a brow. “Really? I was dozing off by the water tank for an hour,” she said, trying to inject a little good nature into her mood. “Hey, I think there’s a spot over there for us.”

Harper had a bedroll with him, and they laid it out on the ground off to the side. Finch pulled out her cards, and soon Saiyeh and Clark joined them for a game of something while they waited for the movie to start. Nobody mentioned the morning’s lesson again—it was already ancient history.

“So you miss patrols yet?” Saiyeh asked as she looked over her hand.

Finch did the same, organizing them. “Yeah. But it’s only until this fuckin’ thing heals.”

Her arm was no longer in a sling, but the wound was still only beginning to look a bit less ugly.

“She’s gonna be practicing with a sider again for next exercises,” Harper said, sounding relieved. “And she’ll be doing target practice before Wesson’s transferred, and we won’t have to worry about what the next captain will think.”

Just then there was a loud whistle from up the road and most everyone turned to see three corpsmen from the guardhouse escorting a pair of dismounted riders and their horses. These two weren’t exactly elegant, and even in the dying light of dusk she could make out worn their worn leathers and sweat-stained clothes. ‘Nak fighters from civtown, maybe.

“Guess it’s a party tonight,” Finch said, sitting tall to see over Gray’s head.

A pair of captains came over, waving their arms, and though she couldn’t hear them it was clear that the wastelanders were being turned away. A lively discussion ensued and a minute later the commander strode over with a colonel at his heels. Hitch began speaking, but the colonel cut him off—from his body language, Gray could see that the riders were being welcomed for the time being. The accompanying corpsmen were instructed to, she assumed, ready food and accommodations for them.

Their horses were taken, and the riders were invited to sit at the front of the crowd with the brass, passing by Gray and the others. Their group fell silent as they passed. The corpsmen eyed them curiously, warily, and even admiringly. Saiyeh’s eyes followed one of the riders, and with a grin she whispered that she always liked a man in chaps. Finch and Gray bit back laughter while Clark and Harper rolled their eyes.

Soon, Hitch stood at the front to ask for silence, a soft order which was mostly obeyed, and the movie started.

The sound came from the front, nearest the brass and officers, so it was difficult to hear. They decided to quietly keep playing, glancing up every once in a while to see what trouble Errol Flynn was stirring up to this time.

It didn’t take long to see him in chaps either. Gray let her eyes linger.

A few hands later, someone else invited themselves to sit down on the bedroll. In the dark it took her a moment to see that it was none other than Wesson, and her heart skipped a beat. There was a large cup in his hand. It was made of glass.

“You never saw me here,” he whispered with that famously clean smile of his.

The corpsmen looked at each other.

“What? It’s dark, no one will see me.”

Saiyeh was the first to excuse herself. “Good to see you, sir. Was on my way to the latrines, though. Wish me luck.”

Wesson scoffed as she left. “Well that was rude. Was just about to offer you guys a drink of this.”

Gray was immediately on edge. Surely it wasn’t…?

“Harrison calls it whiskey. And it’s up. Way up.”

Up; a word usually referring to either good sex, or a gun that fired especially straight. She’d never thought to use it to describe a drink, especially something from Harrison. Shine was never up, but maybe whiskey wasn’t shine. And if it came from Harrison’s, then it wasn’t whatever those majors gave him either.

Either way, Gray needed to play it smooth. She had seeds to plant.

“What’s whiskey?” Harper ventured. Wesson shoved the glass at him, and in the cold light of the Westie, the captain’s teeth shone a brilliant white.

“No idea. Just try it.”

Cautiously, Harper did. Gray watched as he went from suspicion to surprise after a single sip.

“It goes down… easy,” the cableman said. “And it tastes like…”

Finch plucked the glass from him and took her own sip. She looked perplexed.

“Tastes like hot tobacco,” she noted. “Or… or…”

Clark was next. He was so surprised that he coughed, and held the glass to the light of the movie. It had an amber color to it, not like standard shine.

“Why’s it brown?”

“Harrison keeps it in a wood barrel,” Wesson shrugged. Then: “Gray? You want to try some?”

Did Gray want to try some? If she wanted to get on his good side, if she wanted to stop fighting him and roll with the punches, score her nepotistic brownie points, then this was as good an opportunity as any. So she took it, and gave it a sniff first. The sheer complexity of the smell alone shocked her. This stuff was a force to be reckoned with. Maybe it was worth trying after all.

The sip went down like something slick and sharp and at once warm and cold. Finch was close when she said it tasted hot. It was more like…

“A campfire,” she said. “Tastes like oak logs on a campfire.”

“Yeah! That’s exactly it!”

Wesson gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Go on, pass it around again. It’s on me.”

They did.

“Did Harrison just… give this to you? Because a friday doesn’t buy whiskey,” Harper noted after had had his second swig.

“Money buys whiskey,” Wesson said. “Check this out.”

From out of his pocket he produced something that Gray had seen on few occasions before, and never up close. It was a slip of money. He held it up to the light, and she saw that it was bigger than a friday, though made from the same stuff, and instead of blue it was marked in deep green. On the corner was a big number 1.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be waving that around, sir,” whispered Clark.

“Look, I’m off-duty, just call me Wesson. And it’s fine, I’m an officer. They give me these now.”

Finch didn’t seem to care very much. “Hey, can I have one more sip?”

Wesson handed the glass to her and she threw down at least another finger of the stuff. And Wesson didn’t seem to care very much about that.

“If any of you want any of this,” he continued, lowering his voice even more. “Just let me know. I’ll be happy to trade for it.”

“Trade what?” Gray found herself asking.

“You know… favors. Take those two for example,” he said, nodding in the direction of the riders from the wasteland. “Maybe they want their leather shined, maybe they want a friendly face while they’re here. It might be my job to get it to them, and I’m nothing without my toon. There’s always stuff to do.”

Stuff to do.

“What if I wanted toby?” Gray ventured.

Wesson scooted himself closer. “Let’s talk.”

Clark let out a strained breath and stood up. “Think I need to hit the latrine too. Not sure if my stomach is liking that whiskey stuff.”

“Sorry to hear that. Don’t forget your patrol circuit tomorrow!”

“Uh, yeah. Of course, sir.”

Wesson turned back to Gray. “So you do smoke now!”

Finch cocked her head. “Since when?”

“Since, er… last week.”

“Sticks ain’t cheap,” Finch scoffed.

Wesson put a hand on Gray’s shoulder. “And that’s why I offered to help. Now what you got for me?”

“I-I…”

Think, stupid, think!

“I was wondering what you had for me?”

His hand drifted to her back, then, and she swallowed.

This should be easy.

Right?

The captain smiled. “Gimme time to think about it. For now, deal me something, Finch.”

[Kisupure]

* * *

When Gray woke in her cot later, she had a cutting headache. It was dark, and her bunkmates were fast asleep. There was something under her bare thigh.

With a groan she reached under herself, and whatever was there was thin and papery: fridays? There were five, six of them, and they stuck to her clammy skin. Where had they come from? What happened?

She settled back into her cot with a pained sound. Unfortunately for her, a wave of nausea kicked in, and she quickly staggered out the tent flap and away from her snoring comrades. Didn’t make it even halfway to the latrines before the meager contents of her stomach was emptied onto the ground. It was another minute of painful retching into the dirt before she looked around and realized it was dark, with a little light on the horizon. Was the sun coming or going? It had to be morning, right?

“You alright?” some lone corpsman asked, a silhouette standing a few feet away.

“I…”

Her mouth was bone–dry and not a lot of words were coming to her.

“Yeah.”

The corpsman shook his head and continued on his way. “At least clean it up when you’re done,” he muttered. Gray went back to her tent, swaying, but felt a little better. When she returned, she took stock of herself. Things were beginning to come back in pieces, like a bad dream.

There were cards, she remembered. And the movie playing in the background that, for some reason, no one was really paying attention to. And they played more hands than Gray could remember.

Poker. The game was poker, and Wesson was sitting beside her. Gray knew this because he kept trying to look at her cards and she kept having to hold them away from him. It was very annoying, but she tried her best to pretend otherwise. But it was important because they had started placing bets.

Gray didn’t know what was wagered, only that she and Finch got into a betting war that Gray eventually, miraculously, won. Is this where the fridays came from? No, it couldn’t be. Finch offered something else. What, exactly, was beyond her recollection.

Then Wesson’s hand was on her back. Yes, she remembered the way his fingers brushed along her spine, feeling the bones of her back and shoulders, because it reminded her of Rice’s touch, in a way. Its uncanniness stuck out in her memory. And strong on his breath was the whiskey.

What happened next? Gray shut her aching eyes and thought, thought. There was something, wasn’t there? A shift in mood, a change in the prevailing wind, something.

Right! That’s right.

Not to be outdone, Finch had set her tin of screen on the blanket. Doing so had made the object real, somehow. It wasn’t hearsay, it existed. There was a rare, foreign object in the corpsman’s possession. And it was up for grabs.

Maybe it was the shine, but Gray made a quip about it. Wesson wasn’t pleased. Gray made another quip.

Then there was backpedaling. Finch fell silent, her face lost in the deep silver shadows of a film reel in whites and blacks. Either way, Gray didn’t want to play for something like that, it was too personal, too dangerous. Could she have used it? Sure. But to her mind it was not a thing that should have existed in a Corps camp. And maybe the captain should never have given it to her.

“Did you even bother telling Finch what that game with the wastelanders was really about?” she’d said, feeling cornered. So much for her best laid plans.

Wesson strongly suggested that he and Gray speak someplace else, and she soon realized that she didn’t have much of a choice either way. At some point, they were back at his captain’s tent, and he was lighting the oil lamp. It had taken him a few strikes to get the match lit. The next part fell into place a little easier because she was on edge, senses heightened, when he reached into the desk to pull out that damn flask.

“I don’t need you making me look like a fucking idiot,” he’d said sharply.

Gray stood her ground, not remembering what words she’d used, or even if she’d said anything at all. Maybe she just stood there, unmoved, and that’s what set him off. Because after that he circled around the desk and took a quick sip from the flask before holding it out to her. He’d said something about his generosity, and his patience, and that she needed “a little retraining” to remind her of her place in the pecking order.

“Drink.”

She’d hesitated.

“That was an order, Gray.”

At that point, Gray definitely said something. She knew she did this time because she remembered the words:

“Is this how you got to Finch?”

Wesson lost it.

“I didn’t force her to do anything! She wanted it. She wanted it as much as she wants every 'Nak in the Southland dead.”

“But you’ll be happy to force me.”

“Because you just don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“And why should I? If this is how you act at camp, I’d hate to see you lead the toon in a firefight.”

He laughed, looked at her wild-eyed. “You don’t get it, do you?”

She must’ve been a bit wild herself. The whiskey still felt warm in her gut, and it was coaxing words out of her that she would have never otherwise said.

“I get it well enough. What are you going to do, hit me if I don’t take a drink? Don’t pretend you don’t know where I came from, Wesson. I was shoved in a mineshaft when I was nine goddamn years old, while you were busy splashing in daddy’s pool in Greenspring. Only reason you’re here is because the old colonel was a punter and a lush, and managed to gamble away one of his own sons. Then you, what, shoveled mule shit for three years before joining up? So go on, hit me. See what happens.”

He didn’t, she knew that for sure.

He simply stood closer, close enough for them to feel the warmth of each others’ breath, and held the flask in front of her face.

“Drink. It.”

When he didn’t break character, when he didn’t bend against her defiance, that’s when she grew afraid. The man she knew had become unreachable, and the fire she had that depended on his interest in her was extinguished.

He wasn’t still in love with her, was he? The mental notes he’d kept about their past… could it all have just been a ledger?

Gray unscrewed the cap on the cold vessel, and gave a weak sniff. It had smelled sweet. Sticky-sweet. This should have been a red flag.

It still burned on its way down, tasting only vaguely like shine, while the rest of it confused her tongue. If she was honest with herself, the distant memory of sugar floated to the forefront of her mind. This alcohol had sugar in it.

“More.”

She’d done as ordered, shutting her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him while her heart pounded.

“Good.”

He snatched the flask from her and set it back on his desk. Then he took her shoulders into his hands and Gray remembered feeling distinctly warm not long after.

“Fuck you Wes,” she hissed.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, G.”

His voice was soft now, and she couldn’t trust it.

“We used to get along, remember? We’d just shoot the shit out by the water tanks, we’d get into those mud fights during the first rains… Remember that time we stuck Halprin’s dirty underwear under Hill’s pillow and he couldn’t figure out what the smell was?”

Gray’s hands grew cold as the rest of her continued to heat up and there was a strangely bitter taste in her mouth.

“That Wesson’s gone. All I see now is a snot-nosed little kid trying to fill a big man’s shoes.”

She should have stopped a long time ago, but some part of her was still daring him to hit her.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He grew rough and bold.

“Get off me!”

She remembered his hands on her. She remembered the pain of him shoving her up against the edge of his desk and planting his knee between her legs so she couldn’t escape.

She remembered the way his hands crept up her shirt and snaked under the compression top to grope her breasts.

She remembered it feeling so… far away.

Things began to get fuzzy by then, sluggish. The office tilted, shuddering and twisting, and her mouth didn’t want to work. Nothing hurt. She couldn’t feel herself.

Her final memory was of being pushed out the tent and Wesson said something about the riders liking the way she looked in Corps fatigues.

The riders.

“Good girl.”

[Olo]

@kisupure

This was great social scenery in Alpine. Wesson keeps running hot and cold, and I think you do an excellent job keeping Gray—someone we’ve come to know is worldly and competent—plausibly mired in self-doubt.

I’m a little uncertain what was going on with Wesson, his cup, and the bond inspection. I get that it was an opportunity for Gray to observe Wesson and make internal commentary, but why did Wesson want her there? By the end he had lost interest in her. Why did Wesson make a point of having Gray return his cup to the mess tent, and why did the mess corpsman not want to touch it? Was Wesson just trying to show everyone that Gray was his to command?

Missus? What rank was that? Was it a specialty?

Warrant officer, natch.

The whole exploration of the ethics of trading favors with officers makes me curious if female officers similarly extract favors from corpsmen. Clark and Harper sound like they might be grateful for such an opportunity.

I was drunk when you posted this, and I’m hungover now, so the attempts at describing the flavor of whiskey were extra special.

On that note, I’m somewhat dissatisfied by the poker game being so blurry to Gray (and therefore to us). You write dialogue so well, and the Gray-Wesson-Finch triangle is so integral to this story that I think we deserve to hear all the quips and backpedaling. Particularly since the ultimate consequence is Wesson pulling a Cosby.

[Olo]

@kisupure

“It’s amazing that whoever made the Algo—all those governments, those business people—didn’t see this coming,” Gray mumbled. “It’s like they got tired of managing their own shit and gave up."

I’m gonna think of this every time I read about how our society refuses to save itself from Covid-19.

[nephilim]

This post is deleted!

[Kisupure]

@nephilim Damn, internet searches are failing me! In art school, pretty much every film department classroom had a poster on the wall that instructed readers to “edit like a samurai”. It was explained to me once, but this was a long time ago now, and I was hoping google would fill in the blanks… tough tiddy, apparently. Though I think it’s a truism that likely goes back to Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai.

If I was a good editor, I’d be happy to let you in on my secret! Until then, I guess I’ll just continue scrutinizing every word I write as I reread things for the 287th time lol.

[nephilim]

This post is deleted!

[Kisupure]

@olo I had a thread I was trying to follow with that scene, but it did fall flat. It’s the first time we see another inspection since Gray was subject to one, and I wanted to give a little glimpse into the mind of an officer (a compromised mind, albeit) during the proceedings. I also wanted to give a very small taste of what effects the drug has before we go from recreational use to malicious. The cup is another symbol of their growing disparity and proof that she is powerless, even in the smallest of circumstances.

On that note, I’m somewhat dissatisfied by the poker game being so blurry to Gray (and therefore to us). You write dialogue so well, and the Gray-Wesson-Finch triangle is so integral to this story that I think we deserve to hear all the quips and backpedaling. Particularly since the ultimate consequence is Wesson pulling a Cosby.

I was worried about it too, and I think I’ll still attempt another draft of this chapter without the flashbacks, but the “key progression” of it did feel right. Hurm.

[Kisupure]

CHAPTER 13

Gray’s face hardened in the dark and she swallowed resolutely. After a few moments she mustered the courage to survey herself, gently poking with fingers for the soreness of a bruise or spots dried to a… crust.

There was nothing.

Not even a stranger’s scent.

Had it happened at all? Or was this a convoluted trick he was playing on her? A threat he was not actually capable of making good on? But then just as likely was that he did.

He would.

She was playing with fire all along.

Wesson, she understood now, was not capable of keeping her or anyone else safe, as much as he might have wanted to. And maybe he really believed that’s what he wanted, or it’s what he wanted to want.

Promotion was safety—no, promotion was power. And power was safety. Power was control; it was a shield, a buffer. It was the grand defense strategy. Even The Algo wanted it.

Gray licked her dry lips and got up. For some reason, the idea of staying in that cot until dawn made her stomach churn again. She needed to stay moving in the fresh air. Stay on her feet. On her toes.

She soon found herself standing outside of Finch’s bunk of sixth-years a few flaps away in the big toon tent. In the distance she could her the camp beginning to stir—there was the sound of night patrols coming in, the hollow clang of metal as cooks began getting breakfast rations ready, the sharp whinny of an outsider’s horse, the chirping of an unseen bird in the underbrush.

“Finch,” Gray whispered.

Everything stayed quiet.

She slipped inside, stepped nearer to where her friend was splayed out on her cot.

“Finch.”

The sixth-year stirred in the dark, groaning and grumbling for a few seconds before wiping her face.

“Finch, something happened.”

“Huh? Gray, is that you?”

She nodded, not sure if Finch could even see.

“Something happened last night.”

“Yeah,” the groggy corpsman mumbled. “You pissed off the captain.”

“It’s something else.”

Gray darted back out and waited, chewing her lip. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to tell Finch; all she knew was that she needed to tell someone, and she had hoped her friend would understand. Or know.

There was some shuffling inside as Finch put on her boots and a moment later the redhead trudged outside, not even bothering to put her pants on. Gray looked to her then to the ground, suddenly embarrassed that this was a secret she couldn’t keep to herself.

“Well, what the fuck’s the matter?”

Gray hesitated.

“You woke me up, now spit it out.”

“When you and Wesson sat down with those wastelanders, how did it go?”

It was Finch’s turn to hesitate.

“He asked me and I said sure.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. We were there for maybe an hour or two, played pitch, poker, a couple other games. I kept winning, so Wesson pulled me aside, told me I needed to start giving them plays. I said some shine would help me lose. I got all the shine I wanted.”

“Did any of them touch you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that’s supposed to mean.”

“Wait, I thought you dragged me out of bed to tell me something, not ask me a bunch of questions about fuck all that’s even your business.”

Gray closed the gap between them and grabbed Finch by the shoulders with trembling hands. The sky was beginning to glow, and in the dim light she could just make out Finch’s face. The girl looked old and tired.

“He drugged me,” Gray whispered.

There. Finally.

“He what? How?”

“A couple of the majors gave him something earlier. I don’t know what it is, he… he made me drink it. I don’t remember anything after we left his tent.”

“Did they do anything to you?”

“I checked, I don’t think so.”

“Then what’s the big deal?”

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach and she tried desperately to look into her friend’s eyes to see what was there, but dawn was still a ways away and all she could make out was the suggestion of a head, face, and a pair of narrow shoulders under a shabby brown shirt.

Gray let her hands fall and she stepped back.

“I guess it’s not,” she murmured.

“They don’t need to touch you,” Finch said after a moment. “A lot of ‘em are happy to look. Like I said, not a big deal.”

Gray’s skin erupted into goosebumps.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Go back to sleep, Finch.”

* * *

The next day was supposed to be R&R, and Gray spent much of it sleeping as much as possible. Her body hurt, ached, and no matter what she did nothing seemed to help the exhaustion. Everything was spinning out of control, mutating into something ugly and unfamiliar and as she looked up from where she lay in her cot at 1000 hours, it felt like even the tent skins were slowly collapsing around her. It was as if some great hand was pushing down, and all she wanted to do now was let it crush her deep into the parched soil of the flood basin.

It was noon when Gray stepped out of the showers, blinking in the midday sun and wondering if someone would loan her a book for the afternoon when one of brown’s clerks walked up to her with a piece of paper in his hand and a smokestick hanging from his lip.

“Change of plans for you today,” he mumbled, shoving the paper at her.

Gray hesitated a moment, feeling distinctly like a pile of wet ration. When she finally grabbed it, her movements were stiff and clumsy.

The clerk noticed and laughed in a way that let her know she was the butt of the joke. “Got dusted last night, did ya?”

“Might say that,” Gray replied, low and cold, then turned away to read the paper. The clerk thought this was rude. He made a noise and walked away.

It was a handwritten note, she discovered, and recognized the scrawl as belonging to the good captain:

Avers disappeared last night on F circuit

Need Gray ruck out ASAP, find him, report status

- C. Wesson, 898.43

“Hey!” Gray called after the clerk, crumpling the paper in her fist. “Hey!”

He stopped, obviously irritated.

“Why do I have to do it?” she asked.

“Fuck if I know!”

He disappeared around a corner in a puff of smoke.

* * *

Her pack and gun were heavier than she ever remembered them being. Gray trudged along the footpath, now two hours out from Fox and skirting the furthest northern edge of their land claim. Hunger gnawed in her gut, and even if she’d been hungry, she wouldn’t have dared to eat anything; who knew how long Wesson’s drug would be there for. She cursed him under hear breath, several times, and found herself wishing that Rice’s great, big form would step out from beyond a bend in the trail, or from behind a tree or rock and make…

…make her feel different for a while.

While Gray knew the general meandering path of the patrol route from studying the new maps, it took walking it to find out just how hellish F circuit really was. The ten-mile loop cut deeply along an arm of the mountain range and zigzagged her up far above the flats below. It also took her eerily close to where civilization used to be, before the Disruption, before the Algo came and razed it all to the ground. Gray paused to catch her breath at one point and looked out, spotting rows of concrete pads in the distance, separated into blocks by strips of dark gray pave-mint. Streets used to be paved with a sort of thick, muddy paste, Cleo once said, which dried and grew tough, like a skin covering the landscape. Sometimes Gray would pull out her binos and see wastelanders cutting blocks of pave-mint like stone to sell or do other things with.

Directly below her were trees—sycamores, oaks, and other greenery she didn’t know the names for—that told her there was likely a trickle of water coming from a spring somewhere. She wanted to slide down the hillside and disappear into the cool oasis. But duty called, and she tore herself away from the thought. Duty always called.

Eventually the trail turned and carried her up and into a shaded canyon. She kept going. Another mile, two. The canyon began to lose its depth, but it also grew narrow, and Gray was almost grateful for the kind of unease that settled into her as she paused to gaze ahead. This was a dangerous puzzle, one she was intimately familiar with. One she knew she had a hope of maneuvering her way out of. For the first time since Wesson sat down on that bedroll with his glass of whiskey, Gray felt alive. She was even grateful for whatever idiot sapper team decided to cut the path this way; as treacherous as it had been for Avers, for her it was an opportunity to focus and forget.

She adjusted the weight on her shoulders, kicker slung along her back, and navigated the rocky footing ahead of her. The roughness of the earth felt good under her boots, under her hands. Color was coming back. Blood pumped and she breathed hard.

Another half mile and she found Avers.

Or rather, his body.

Gray stopped, sucking in a breath and found herself listening. The canyon was nearly silent except for the the rasping call of a scrub jay and the shuffling of a squirrel. She exhaled.

Avers, another seventh-year, had been shot three times: twice in the shoulder, and once in the side of the neck. His fatigues were drenched in blood, and already turned to a sickly brown crust. From where she stood about twenty feet away, she could see that his pack, weapons, boots, and ammunition were gone. And as she crept a little closer, she saw prints in the dirt around him. It was impossible to tell from where they’d come or where they’d gone to.

“Brigs,” she whispered, keeping a few feet between her and the dead man as if his fate were contagious. Should she bring back his tags? No. Nobody would care. And she needed to keep moving.

Gray readied her sider. She was more than halfway through with the circuit, so it was best to just keep going. She did so while keeping her eyes glued to the ridges on either side of her. Avers’ wounds had been inflicted from above.

The last of the canyon was up ahead, where a short but steep rockfall had been fitted with a rope to climb out with. _Idiots! s_he shouted in her mind. It was only chin-height: more than enough to slow a corpsman down for a minute.

But that rope, she saw now, had been cut. Gray froze in her tracks for a few precious seconds.

The first shot almost caught her by surprise—almost. It had come from her right, so she dove that way, pressing herself tight up under a rocky ledge as more bullets hit the ground near her feet, kicking up dust.

Shit, shit, shit!

Gray scrambled, heart pounding, to gain more coverage. But the ledge was shallow, and it was going to be impossible for her to return fire.

She heard the voices now, but couldn’t tell what they were saying to each other as they maneuvered about the ridgeline above. The corpsman steadied her gun, aiming it at the spot just above the rockfall where they’d get their first clear view of her, and scrambled to dig out the radio. It had been three years since she’d used one.

“Fox, come in Fox—this is G–Gray,” she hissed. “I’m pinned d-down by brigs after the 6-mile mark on F circuit. Avers is dead.”

As soon as her finger left the button, the corpsman realized that it using the radio had been more about Protocol than good sense: it would take backup two hours to get here. Meanwhile, she was moments away from being carrion food. The corpsman jumped when a few more bullets sunk into the dirt inches away from her feet.

“F-fuck it.”

She scowled, there was no use. She had to try.

Wesson, you son of a bitch.

Try, dammit, try!

OK. Gray listened, counted. They stopped shooting for a minute because they didn’t want to waste ammo, and whispered to each other briefly. Then there was movement, and two more shots. That’s when Gray realized that they had all been using small guns.

_Siders, she thought. And I have a semi.

Avers’ kicker must’ve jammed, otherwise they would have been using it.

Pebbles tumbled down the hillside as they began to make their way around and into the canyon, and she could hear them navigating the thick scrub brush out of her line of sight. Gray holstered her own sider and readied the larger weapon as best she could. It was her only chance at getting out of here alive.

She breathed. “Three, two, one…”

A loud shot rang out, a deeper, sharper sound. Distant.

There was a commotion above as the report echoed through the canyon briefly. She wasn’t sure where it had come from, but the bastards were distracted. With a growl, Gray hefted her kicker and launched herself out from her hiding spot, aiming for the brigs above. She saw them just as she fired her first sweeping burst, the echoes making it seem like she had a hundred guns. The rounds ripped into them, or it sounded like it at least—shrill cries of agony tore through the air as they were enveloped in dust. One man slid down the steep embankment and lay still beside the pile of cut rope, staining the rocks red.

There were a few shots returned, but with another lethal sweep, two more went down, and it didn’t look like they were going to get up again. Three, right? She’d counted three in total.

Gray’s heart was pounding and her breaths came short and heavy. She stood still for a few more moments, finger hovering over the trigger, until she deemed the situation safe again. The corpsman took a slow, deep breath for her nerves.

“Fuck,” she gasped, throwing her gear to the ground, body still amped and mind buzzing. She stepped over to the nearest dead man, turning him over to begin going through his pockets. A knife, she found; a handful of carob pods; a flask. She had just put the mouth of it to her lips when footsteps from above and behind made her freeze and raise her hands slowly into the air. Blood pounded, ears rang.

You miscounted, Gray thought.

Was it strange that all she could think about now was killing Wesson?

[Kisupure]

This chapter, last chapter, and next are all part of a trio that will need some srs business editing. At least I get to look forward to some wacky shit going down in chapter 16.

[Olo]

@kisupure

Finch doesn’t seem too shocked that Wesson drugged Gray. She’s either dead inside or she’s playing a wicked angle.

[Kisupure]

CHAPTER 14

Ch–chak.

The brig took a shortcut, sliding down the hillside and making a damned racket, kicking up dust. The barrel of a gun, still hot, pressed to the back of her head, and she swallowed sharply. Gray knew better than to turn around at this point. It would be better not to see it coming.

“I know you’re gonna pull that trigger,” she said quietly, trying to muster a chuckle, “But if you could do me a favor and promise me that you’ll shoot my CO too someday?”

The voice that answered was a rough and rocky baritone, though. Too baritone to be human.

“Might be able to work something out.”

Gray spun around and found herself face–to–face with Rice’s lowered 50–cal gun.

“Y–you son of a bitch,” she barked, and the giant just erupted into smug laughter. “Fuck you!”

He lowered the cloth from his face and flashed a fine set of teeth. Gray went straight back to the flask and choked down half of it, still muttering curses.

“It’s called gallows humor,” he said when she was done.

“Very funny,” Gray murmured.

She looked around again, trying to put together what had just happened. A silence passed between them and after a beat she realized that she was still shaking. With a groan, Gray sat down on a large rock. The flask she flung away.

The sentinel’s blue eyes were hard and impenetrable when she finally looked back toward him.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He reached up and pulled the device from his ear. So the rumors were true, they were easy targets for eavesdropping.

Rice turned his attention toward the fallen brigs, then up toward where the other pair lay. Without a word he adjusted the strap on his boomer, and climbed the rock fall with ease— it was, after all, less than chest–high for him. He picked his footing up on the ridge, and then kicked down the other two. They rolled and flopped over each other with a discomforting irreverence, then came to a stop in a pile of tangled limbs at the bottom of the gulch. Rice slid down again like he had before: an eerily boyish thing to do given the circumstances.

Gray sat there and stared blankly at the dead men.

“I’m sick of this shit,” she murmured. “Fucking sick of it.”

Rice cocked his head and took a step closer.

“Part of me wishes you would’ve pulled that trigger on me just now.”

Did Gray really mean that?

There was a pause as he seemed to think this over, before he closed the gap between them and with a quiet, practiced motion, had his sidearm pressed to her skull. She remembered what he looked like pointing it at that brownband, and wondered if he was the same now. No, not the same. There was no pheromone, and no fear.

“Still wishin’ for it?” he asked calmly, quietly.

She turned her head and looked down the black hole at the end of that gun, then her eyes fell back to her knees. Gray didn’t want to think about it right now. Not this trio of wasteland scum, not Avers. Not Finch or the captain.

“I don’t know anymore.” Gray possibly wanted to cry, but felt like she didn’t remember how. It’d been years, and instead her throat just tightened.

When the Anak fired above her head, she just about jumped right out of her skin. They listened to the sharp crack echo down the gulch and give way to the ringing in her ears again.

“I think you do, soldier,” he said.

A whisper. “All I know is what I need right now.”

When she met his gaze, there was a look of interest there, a little predatory, but very human. Rice sized her up briefly, evaluating like the apex predator he was designed to be.

“Can I… can you stop suppressing?”

He looked at her a little harder. What kind of request was that? Where did it come from? Did she actually want him to scent? Did she want that fear? Want to play with it? Yes. Because it wasn’t the same fear she had of the Corps now. Fear on the battlefield was honest, but at camp it was the dirtiest weapon of all.

“You really want that, don’t you?”

Gray swallowed.

I want… something raw.

She wanted him to be like the sun, hot and searingly bright. She wanted him to immolate her. Because maybe then there was a chance she could be remade into something else.

The giant stooped steeply to kiss her on the mouth, grabbing her under her jaw to lift her face skyward. Already she felt enveloped, at the mercy of the wall of this man-like creature and she wanted so badly for him to whisk her away like the hero in one of her Westies. The kiss was salty, smoky, warm, and firm. And it made a promise.

“Just follow me,” he said, rising up again and adjusting the kerchief around his face.

No, she wouldn’t be carried off into the sunset. But having the earth under her feet was almost better.

Taking one last look at the four bodies strewn about the head of the canyon, she hoisted up her own gear and hastened when it became clear that Rice would not be slowing down for her.

* * *

Where the path back along the circuit made a left, Rice made a right, up a narrow track of stones that hid his 24–inch–long bootprints. They followed that trail for a few minutes as it wound its way back toward civilization, sweeping up an easy hill. On the other side, she discovered, was the grounds of some ruined estate. They descended down into it.

It was a large brick and concrete pad, to the south of which was the bones of an impressive structure, rising up from charred rubble. Trees and greenery of all sorts grew out of the cracks in the pad, rustling and throwing them into mottled shade as they crossed the property. But perhaps the most astonishing part was the swimming pool beside them, full of water.

A small stream came out of the hills behind the house, its water flowing into a ditch created by the rent concrete and guided like a canal into the old pool. Its bottom was damaged, and half-filled in with rocks and dirt, but there was still more than enough room for several people – humans, that is – to submerge and swim. Gray gawked.

“What is this place?”

The Anak threw down his ruck and walked past her to the edge of the pool where he knelt and threw water on his dusty face.

“Rest for the weary.”

He undressed. Gear and shirt formed a neat pile on the ground, which were soon joined by his boots. She heard the jangling of a belt as he began to work off his pants. Gray shivered, remembering their night in the storage room. Then she remembered all the thoughts she ever had about him, actually. All the fantasies, the hopes, the wonderings. Then she remembered the bullet he put in that soldier’s head. The Tobins.

Maybe the Grays were more trouble than they were worth, too.

She sucked in a ragged breath.

Before long he was completely naked, and Gray realized that she hadn’t yet seen him bare from head to toe. Rice looked so much like a man—every muscle and tendon, the placement of every hair… it was all an exact copy of the real thing. Except for the fact that he was grown in a vat and just short of twice her height.

His knees, she immediately saw, were not original. The skin there was different: was it real, or something artificial? It was the same, too, for his ankles and toes. Surely that wasn’t the extent of it. She could only begin to imagine what his insides looked like. His brain.

Rice sunk into the pool in a way that made her want to follow. For him, it was shallow, but its cool, clean water was more than anyone in these parched hills could ask for. Her muscles almost relaxed at the sight, and soon she was naked too, staring at her feet in the water as she stepped into it.

Rice, sitting cross–legged, pulled her into his lap and maneuvered her to sit square on his dick. He firmed.

Then Gray thought of Wesson. She didn’t want to, but his face kept appearing in her mind with that cold, unsettling look in his eyes. She suddenly recalled another memory from that night: the smell of leather and exotic smokesticks. She could almost taste the vomit in her mouth.

“Hey. Eyes up here.”

Gray must’ve given herself away because Rice was holding very still all of a sudden, her delicate shoulders under his enormous hands. She just looked at him, struggling to focus because staring into those eyes was suddenly so difficult.

“I need… help,” she said.

The giant reached down between his legs and began to stroke himself, rubbing his hardening shaft between her thighs. The point of contact was electric, drawing her attention like lightning to a tent pole. She didn’t have to look at him, now. It was OK. She could just feel.

He stiffened quickly, and when that was done he pushed her into the water and began to rub her down. She’d already bathed that morning, but it still felt as if he were taking off weeks’ worth of dust and sweat and grime. But the idea of being coddled like a goddamn infant sickened her.

When Gray was back in his lap, thick shaft pressing up against her cunt as she ran her fingers down his finely muscled chest, the tightness was still in her throat.

“Don’t give me your pity,” she whispered, staring at the place between his abs where a bellybutton should have been. “And don’t give me your pity fuck.”

Rice grabbed her hair and jerked her head back to expose her neck. “You should know me better than that by now?”

She shivered at that. A good shiver. This was the kind of danger she wanted, Gray realized. There was a sense to it that seemed to pull all her loose threads together, even if it was just for a short while in the scheme of things.

“I’m gonna fuck you like the human you are.” He turned them around and her ass was on broken concrete. It was rough and uncomfortable.

Gray stared past him, into the trees. “No. Fuck me like a bond.”

He didn’t need an explanation. Her back was against the hard edge of the pool suddenly, and she hissed in pain when one of his thick fingers entered her, lubricated only by the waist–deep water.

Rice thrust in and out of her until whimpering pants were squeezed from her lungs. The friction was too much, too soon. But it was the wrongness of it that was good right now.

His free hand grabbed her chest and pushed her harder into the pavers around the edge of the pool. He had more than enough breadth for him to squeeze both tender swells at the same time, and he did so with terrible roughness. The skin burned and reddened under his hard ministrations, but her nipples puckered and she arched into it like the sick bliss it was.

Fuck you, Wes.

“Bonds like it rough,” Rice said.

Gray moaned.

“Seen some bonds fucked black and blue.”

His voice dropped even lower, deeper.

“Break something. Set the bone. Then break it again. They love the pain.”

Gray panted, reaching for the wrist between her thighs. She needed something to hold on to. But a swift, wet, slap to the face startled her.

“You’re a slave, Gray. You move when I tell you to fuckin’ move.”

She nodded quickly, blinking away wetness in one eye.

“Good.”

Rice bent down and covered her mouth with his. It was hardly a kiss—it was more a storm of huge tongue and teeth that left her with raw lips and a surge of moisture down south. Sensing something in her, he curled his finger and rubbed an entirely different spot inside, filling her with sticky-sweet heat.

Gray moaned at the intense sensation. She wanted to press herself harder against him, wanted to grab him, wanted to do something. But her stinging cheek reminded her not to.

After a few moments he stopped thrusting altogether and settled for simply rubbing at that spot inside of her, which created the most intense sensation of all.

The corpsman whined, trying to hold still, but it was so hard to.

The giant said nothing more as she clenched and writhed underneath him, almost trying to fight the building pleasure. But it was a losing battle. With a loud, ugly cry, she came, clutching at the pool’s edge. He looked on in that way of his, not covering her mouth this time, letting her scream it out. But this wasn’t like her other orgasms; this one kept going, and he didn’t stop rubbing until she was crawling from the stimulation, trying to get away from him.

Rice withdrew his finger when he deemed that she’d had enough, leaving her to slump there while she caught her breath and stilled the tremors still passing through her.

But he wasn’t done yet.

Without a word the giant rose up from his kneel and aligned his hips with her face as he stooped over with one foot planted firmly on the pool’s edge. Water sloshed. He parted his legs and steadied his aim.

She reached out for him, though, pawing at that immense cock with both hands and almost started at the warmth. The Anakim ran hot, maybe. He rolled his hips at her experimentally, and Gray quickly caught on that she was to encircle him with her hands and keep in time with his movements.

A rumbling bubbled deep inside of him and with a more forceful thrust than before, the end of his dick pressed against her face, demanding more attention. At the same time, something prickled in the air, and Gray recognized the sensation. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, greedy for it.

The squeeze.

This wasn’t just a fuck, it never was, and they both knew it.

Rice smeared his big cockhead along one cheek, then across her chin, and along the other. Slowly, methodically. She could feel his eyes on her, burning. Her skin tingled and she felt awake.

“You really do love it, don’t you?”

Gray just sucked in a shaking breath, trying to lose herself in it. This was familiar, comforting. It was everything else that was inexplicable.

Pre–cum glistened on her face and her heart beat faster and she opened her mouth wide to take as much of him as would fit. Teeth grazed the folds of his uncut flesh, pulling it back so that little pucker on the underside of the head was crushed against her tongue.

Gray’s heart went from beating to pounding, and panic convulsed in her before steadying again.

Nostrils flared. She breathed heavy, giving herself to the choreographed wrongness of it. The sentinel was so strong before her, around her, so capable. So effective. Who was she before this thing? He was like the land: undeniable, smart in ways she could only guess at, vast. Yes, there was a vastness to Rice, and a sharpness, too. Like the way the whole desert could be found in a cactus spine. What did the desert think of the little human called Gray?

The throbbing heat of his shaft stretching open her mouth like it had stretched open her core was absurd and dangerous in just the right way. It was right because she wanted it, pheromone and all, and that wanting, Gray was learning, meant all the difference in the world.

Like a knurled oak he bent over her, and the giant watched intently as he slipped himself into her very human mouth. The muscles in his hips flexed. His chest, still glistening with water, swelled when he took in air. The pheromone made him seem like a beast, huge and heaving and made of pure sex.

I’m still safe.

“Told you you’d be sucking my cock eventually,” he rumbled, those teeth now framed by a wicked smile.

True to his word, his hand slid back along her scalp to palm her head, bracing her for a thrust that hit the back of her throat and made her body jerk and gag. Fuck! Rice pulled out only a little, waiting for her to suck in a gulp of air before forcing himself back in again. Gray reeled and hands went to his thighs.

“Didn’t say you’d like it, corpsman.”

He seemed to get bigger, heavier. Rice continued to thrust into her mouth, holding her head in place with a fistful of hair.

“Mgh!”

“You know…”

He squinted down at her in a strange way, then.

“Humans make me sick,” he ground out suddenly. Gray shivered, alert to his subtle change in tone. But it was difficult—between the cock invading her mouth, the sting in her scalp from his rough grip, his pheromone thick in the air…

Rice continued with a dark look in his eye. “You’re weak, you’re slow… loud…”

He timed his thrusts now with his words.

“Petty.”

Gray gagged again, finding it hard to breathe.

“Arrogant.” He thrust faster and she sputtered around him. “But you know what? Unh. You give us something to do. Whether we’re fucking you… or killing you.”

Gray’s head swam and the squeeze was tight. She choked on his massive tool, and started trying to push him away, but it was no use. He held firm, and jerked her head to remind her who was in control.

“Mmgh!”

Rice didn’t yield.

She fought him harder, kicked her legs in the water until it was muddy.

That’s when he pulled out, and Gray gasped loudly for air, panting against the concrete. After a moment, she looked up to him, to his hard, cunning face and its distinguished contours. God damn he was big.

“You didn’t bite,” he panted, a little something in his eye.

“You meant that, didn’t you?”

“Little bit.”

“Well it’s true.”

She grabbed his girth and stroked. Bold, for a little human.

But the pheromone, in a weird way, egged her on. Already she wanted more: deep down she knew she was safe, the squeeze was a chemical lie. Would he hurt her? Could he, like her instincts were telling her he could?

Then it was both her hands. She wrapped them around his heat and bent forward to tongue his slit, rubbing him from base to head. The corpsman made sure to leave behind dripping trails of saliva. Rice muttered a swear.

“Look good down there,” he rasped in that clipped way of his, muscles tightening in his belly. Then he noticed something about her, and he went from gazing to reading.

“You need more, don’t you?”

Gray licked her lips, not even intending to look good doing it. But Rice’s eyes, already dark, narrowed, and a crease appeared between his brows. He stopped, staring at her as he slowly licked his lip, and there it was.

A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead from the effort.

His face grew meaner, and his hard look turned into a scowl. The air felt hot and the light felt bright and the slate behind her cut into her back.

Bold. She had been so bold a moment ago.

“Rice?”

He moved. Like a massive, bulging man, scarred and hungry he moved. His hands were on her thighs, lifting them, her, parting them. And then she was on her back on the ground, and his finger was massaging her asshole—

“R-Rice…”

“What’d he do to you?” came the dark, growling voice at her ear.

Gray just breathed, shaking, hands holding onto the Anak’s tree-trunk arms.

My god, I wanted this? Who was he? Really? Who was Rice? Was this, this superhuman menace, underneath that veneer? Or was this an act like the one he played for the other Anakim? Who are you?

“You want him dead. Tell me why I should kill him.”

There was pressure at her hole and she whimpered.

“Tell me.”

With a growl he was in.

“…He—a-ah!—used m-me.”

Gray was stretched so tightly around him that it almost hurt, almost, and why wasn’t she dead yet?

Why am I turned on?

The corpsman was hot—sweating now herself, shaking with adrenaline, body clutching greedily at that invading tool. So much of her wanted him to run her down like an animal, her body language was begging for it, Gray very distantly realized. She was. She was prone on her back, spread wide open for him, pinned. Her nipples strained in the air, wanting to be touched. Every inch of skin was on fire for the giant fucking her.

Let the ‘Naks take over, part of her was saying. This is where humans belong. We were made to be owned!

Rice didn’t say anything else for the next short while. He covered her with his body as he worked himself in, almost to the hilt, then he paused to catch his breath and position himself. The rest of his thrusts came fast and heavy. Neither of them had a chance to speak, there was no point bothering with words. Or at least, that’s what it felt like to Gray—she was sore by the second stroke, and he filled her so completely that every time he drove in he brought her to the breaking point, forcing a muffled moan. Rice grit his teeth and soon clutched her to him, the sheer pressure inside and the stimulation from his dark hairs tickling her aching clit. Panting, grunting, gasping—they came together.

He lifted away from her, still inside, and propped himself up. Neck bent, he could look down and into her eyes, which felt moist when she blinked.She listened to him breathe.

“Are you going to kill him?” Gray said, barely above a whisper.

Curling as much as he could, he managed to reach her much smaller lips.

“I’d like to.”

He pulled out and she winced, feeling suddenly both empty and vulnerable. Anak cum dripped out of her, and she wished it could mark her somehow.

But it didn’t, and she had to get ready to leave. Rice knew this and he dunked his head in the water before stepping out of the pool.

She followed him with her eyes as she slipped back in to wash the sex off. Gray had no idea if he was still scenting, or if he was doing it as strongly as before. She decided it didn’t matter. She had managed to keep hold of a thread running through it all—safety—and Gray realized that it would take a lot more than pheromone to make her afraid. It was just a chemical after all—real fear needed malice.

It wasn’t long before Rice fished out a cigarette, so small for him, and lit it up.

“What else does that machine pick up on?” she asked, tilting her head in the direction of his pack.

“A lot of static,” he said. “Some bands have voices that read out numbers.” The cigarette went out and he lit it again. “Sometimes I hear music.”

Gray thought about it for a moment, wondering what music was there, invisible in the air all around her. She wanted him to show her, she wanted to know his favorite song. But then she stopped, and Gray suddenly felt very tired.

“Didn’t think it was like you to want to die like that,” he said. “With a gun to your back.”

She frowned deeply and stood up, going over to her clothes. “You don’t know what I’m like, Rice,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me.”

The Anak turned to get a good, careful look at her. She paused to glance up when he drew nearer, looming like a naked god as he crossed his arms across that broad, scarred chest. Smoke curled from his nostrils.

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means you don’t know anything about being a corpsman.”

She grunted and shoved her foot into a boot and began lacing it.

“And being a corpsman means bending over and taking it up the ass because that’s what surviving looks like.”

“You didn’t have to—“

“I’m not talking about you, dammit!” Gray snapped. There it was, the lump in her throat again. “You know what, just forget it.”

Rice looked at her for a long moment as she dressed. Then he narrowed his eyes at her, like something had occurred to him.

“You want out. But you won’t defect.”

“’Course not. It’s only a matter of time before someone catches you with your pants down, mark-less, and you’ve got a rope around your neck. Again.”

He looked away, keeping the smokestick close to his mouth.

“Things are easy right now,” the giant soldier said, almost muttering. “But it won’t be that way forever. You and I will see combat again.”

Gray hadn’t thought about that nearly as much as she should have. He was right.

“And when we do… I’ll be happy to miss my target.”

She drew her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know if I can say the same.”

There was a stunned silence.

“So that’s how you really feel,” the sentinel spat.

“Goddammit, Rice, you have your freedom already!”

Gray’s chest burned and her throat clenched and her hands shook. But she didn’t get a chance to finish her thought because he already knew what it was.

“…And you’d kill me to get yours.”

The corpsman wanted to so badly to tell him that he had it all wrong.

But he didn’t.

“I hate it, Rice. I hate it more than anything. I hate it more than ‘Naks, the Algo, the fucking wars that ripped this place apart. I…”

“You should get going,” he growled, reaching for his own pile of gear. “There’s Corps activity in the area I might have to report.”

Gray was out of words. And as she glanced at her watch, she was out of time too. This wasn’t how this was supposed to end, but she had to get back to Avers’ body before anyone else arrived. Shrugging on her pack and with gun in hand, she took one last look at the tall, lean, Anak sentinel. There was still so much about him that she didn’t know, and would never know now.

Gray stepped onto the dirt with the sun behind her, heading up and over the hill, and was back in the gulch not twenty minutes later. Silently, she grabbed a sheaf of grass and got to work erasing his bootprints.

[Olo]

@kisupure

Yeah, creek water makes for lousy lube.

Very elegant device to get Wesson in Rice’s crosshairs. Kudos!

As skilled and experienced as these two are, they’re in unfamiliar territory, and there’s no one they can ask for guidance. Rice, in particular, doesn’t seem to like not knowing the lay of the land.

I really like the way Gray has converted the Fear from a biochemical agent into a philosophical posture. It’d be ironic if her “resistance” to the pheromone gives her away to her fellow corpsmen at some point.

I still wonder how difficult it is for Anakim to suppress their scent. Very intrigued by the possibility that Gray is the first human he’s fucked that asked him not to suppress.

“I think you do, soldier,” he said.

Soldier. Not corpsman, soldier. I might swoon.

Fear on the battlefield was honest, but at camp it was the dirtiest weapon of all.

I’m still not relaxing around Finch.

[Kisupure]

@olo

Yeah, creek water makes for lousy lube.

I… try not to think hard about it.

Rice, in particular, doesn’t seem to like not knowing the lay of the land.

Bingo! He puts himself out there only when he feels like he’s going to get the pre-planned outcome. Gotta love that humble pie.

I’m still not relaxing around Finch.

First draft, she was much more of a victim and Gray wanted to save her - and not doing it very well of course - but this time, Finch is turning out much more chilling in her own right.

---

In other news… I think one more chapter will do it, then I’ll be penning the rest away in cloistered secrecy! I hope to make it one helluva cliffhanger.