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The wind was wildly whipping any head of hair in the vicinity on the helipad. No matter how high up the blades technically were, you still had a habit of ducking your head down to avoid any chances. Of course he wouldn't be there to greet you, instead several synths standing in his place, poised and ready to take you in. And none of them were familiar faces except Eins; some Rook model, a David- he must've just been purchased, and .... well someone else, but he didn’t look like any synth you’d ever seen. Must be a chief scientist.
They gave you small nods or a smile as you approached in your quick little scurry, but didn't speak. Eins did.
"Very good to have you back, miss," he spoke over the helicopter as the blades began to slow, "shall we go inside?" He gestures to the rooftop door behind him. When you looked at the David he gave another smile and a nod, hair never looking unruly despite the wind, and you didn't realize you returned it until you were doing it. You'd forgotten how efficiently handsome they made him, boring flightsuit and all. Maybe later when there was a moment you'd ask to see if there was really a "W" in place of a patterned fingerprint on him, like the ads always said.
Walking ahead, Eins following, you already knew the route: down the steps, to the elevator, more steps after the elevator, clearance, sanitation, pleasantries, then you were home free to wander. Whether or not Kavalier would let you see anything he was working on this time around was yet to be seen. He was hot and cold like that.
"So," you turn to Eins as the elevator slides down towards the lower floors, “how have things been?” A nod of his head to the side as he thought of a way to sum up the chaos in brief enough words, save the rest for Kavalier to disclose at his discretion. “It's been eventful. Impactful. New things happening,” he looks at you when he says that. “Everyone seems to be very content as of late.” He looks at you, “however, as for your-”
“You don't even have to tell me,” you cut him off with a hand, sighing, “I know.”
The greatest thing in the world could happen at your brother's hand, and it has- several times- but he could never be pleased. It had to be faster, look better, never good enough. And he would wear himself down to do it. You'd seen it a thousand times. The mood of this conversation was already starting to kill the good one you had before you arrived, invading your mind like some kind of fog. “Well,” you chirped, changing the subject and turning your head to him, “do you need any maintenance done? For old times sake?” you smile innocently. Eins folds his hands behind his back, inhaling when the elevator slid to a stop and the doors opened, the lower temperature of the living quarters rushing in feeling amazing against your face which was still a bit warm from the outside island weather. All the while, despite his initial silence you had a good feeling he would say yes. You weren't hearing a no.
Eins lets you step out first before quietly following suit, and you let him mull it over as he leads you to your space, instead listening to padded steps hitting the carpet. You weren't even sure why he bothered to escort you anywhere to begin with, you knew the way, and he knew you knew the way; you'd been staying in the same room every time you visited, call it a human sentiment. By the time you reached your room, the door was already open, and you stepped in to see your room ready as usual; bed made with the corners tucked in, any little trinket you’d left behind throughout the years was still in place, not a speck of dust on it. Your things were already waiting as usual, placed on the table underneath the flatscreen, perfectly even with equal space on both sides. Then there was the hum of the air conditioning kicking on, and you could hear the ducts crackling to life, the smell of the filters hitting your nose.
“It would be an honor, miss,” rang out. Turning to Eins, you saw his face was still vacant as ever, only with a fleeting ghost of something in the corner of his eye. “Really?” you asked as you stepped closer with a raised brow, not a hundred percent on if he was saying it out of truth or politeness. Yes, you were the direct relative of his boss who he was programmed to obey, but you had computer skills too and he knew that. Many of them you'd taught to Kavalier yourself growing up, it’d just been a while since you'd been able to apply them, your new life away from the beginnings of Prodigy being quieter these days. Simpler. He gave a singular nod of the head, “Time willing, of course,” and your grin emerged as nothing short of wickedly eager and you gave him a small pat on the shoulder.
“Let's do it.”
-
“I am not letting you do that.”
Eins had said he would rendezvous with you down in the service level so you could refresh each other's skills, but instead of a suit and a familiar face you were met with wild snowy hair and tanned skin. The same one you’d seen on the rooftop when you’d first arrived, and for the past four minutes now, you'd been bickering with whoever the fuck this was in the science hallway. Apparently, security before wasn’t good enough.
“I have my credentials,” you press.
“And I have orders,” he asserts.
No matter what you said, he had block after block loaded up, and it had pissed you off after the second time he’d done it. Under any other circumstance where this guy wasn’t here, you’d be in the maintenance wing and waiting, now here you were forced to bide time and wait for-
“Ah, giving you trouble, is he?”
You sigh in relief, pivoting on your heel you turn, crossing your arms as you see Eins striding down the hall, hands behind his back, dress shoes a sharp snap against the spotless floor. Jutting your hip out to the side and tilting your head you ask in a fake demand, eyes giving him a sassy once-over, “And where were you?”
“I was tending to your brother,” he comes to a stop in front of you, eyes moving to the man behind you as he continued, “another one of his impulsive needs, I insisted he take his medication.” He probably didn’t, you think as he inhales, now addressing the man, “Move aside,” which is wordlessly obeyed. Stepping to your right, he scans his thumbprint, and you turn at the click of the door, stepping in as he pushes it open for you. There’s no hesitation when you shoot the man with white hair a look as you walk past, which he returns with a narrowing of his eyes, still holding his little tablet.
Your eyes immediately scan the room, trying to refamiliarize yourself with the layout: The table for a synth to lie on in the middle, and as the room slopes upwards, there’s a long kiosk for the scientist to monitor, more screens surrounding in a large semi-circle. Heading to the service table, you click a few buttons, putting it into maintenance mode and hearing the systems jump to life, the empty stats popping up on the screen. When you look up you see that the white-haired man has followed, and you can’t deny your spark of irritation, but you don’t say anything, turning to move towards the science station. “Just go ahead and lay there while I get a few things ready,” you say to Atom as you sit, a tinge of satisfaction when your credentials are accepted after entering. There’s a few things to input, the system having to know what’s to be done for the procedure, and your fingers easily slip into muscle memory as they fly across the keyboard. It feels good, being able to do this again. You see Atom moving out of your upper peripheral, removing his jacket and folding it to place on the nearest empty platform. You’re reminded when he starts on opening his button-up how overbearing his form was made to be. Made to be intimidating and take up space, nothing short of the build of a club bouncer.
With the last few clicks of the keyboard, diagnostics are run on Atom, and there’s… not much, honestly. They seem to consider him as very high-status, because he’s nearly in perfect shape, well taken care of aside from a bit of alloy degradation and a screening of his matrix for a few bugs. Easy work, you think as you move back towards the operation table where Atom is quietly waiting. Pulling out the rolling stool from underneath, you take your seat, warily eyeing the stranger who has yet to say anything, still watching, but you won’t say anything if Atom doesn’t. He knows best.
“Okay,” you sigh, looking back to Atom, “we’re just gonna replace a bit of your alloy skeleton, the skin fibers and just see if there’s anything that pops up in your psychological screening.” It feels terribly like doctor-patient, where you explain things as plainly as possible, yet you don’t even know why you’re doing it. You don’t have to; Atom already knows the routine, and knew what needed to be done before you even arrived.
“Very good,” is all he says before he goes still, and you know he’s put himself into standby mode for repairs. It feels disappointingly flat, a very clipped default response, but oh well. More buttons, and drawers underneath hiss open to reveal prepared synthetic skin, the same color Atom is because of pre-set features for each individual synth, but all perfectly pristine. The fog of the sanitation is rolling off of it in waves, and the shine of the alloy catches your eye, looking iridescent under the lights. Plucking the tool from the cassette, you ready the bit that can handle the larger, heartier alloy, and then you can work smaller and do the finer details as you finish up with the skin.
It takes a few minutes to drain his hydraulic fluid from his ports after you hook them up, watching the cylinder behind his head slowly fill before you fish a pair of density lens goggles from the multiple hanging by the station and slip them around your neck. Once the cylinder is full, you click the switch underneath and watch it swirl around to refresh and do its thing. Whatever that “thing” is. Looking him over, you see there’s a bit of wear at the skin of his outer ribcage, where his arms brush as he walks- or worse, knowing him. You feel it when you run your fingers over it, the usual- no trouble at all, and once you pull your goggles over your eyes it feels like no time at all before the brunt of the work is almost over with once you start, Atom still basically catatonic as you open up the skin to reveal his inner hydraulics. It isn’t difficult to repair synthetics, just tedious. It’s kind of like 3-D printing and soldering mixed together, you’re just doing it with a pencil. However, the prying pair of eyes watching out of your line of sight is starting to make it difficult. You try to push through, ignore it, but the rustle of fabric as you’re trying to work on the finer details of skin alerts you to the fact that he’s moving closer and your eyes shoot up when you eventually catch his movement. He’s still kind of close to the doorway, just not close enough. Finger releasing the trigger of your tool, the spark of it goes out and you move your goggles up to your forehead. “What are you doing?”
He tilts his head, squinting before he sets his tablet down on a clear space, still moving closer, “Watching.” Well, yeah, clearly. You squint back, asking in a very trying tone, one that clearly voices you don’t want him watching, “Why?” He stops, still a decent distance away, whether it’s for personal space or whatever else you don’t know, until he says,” Security purposes. Curiosity.” He’s very uptight, this one, whoever he is. That makes you sit up straighter, a more smug curve along your lips, “Ah. So you’re wary of me, are you?”
“All Prodigy technology is of value. Even with our most trusted scientists, there is always a spectator present.”
That makes you scoff, “Who, like you? I already have a usual set of eyes watching and annoying me when I do this I don’t need-”
There’s a hiss as the words are leaving your mouth, the man’s eyes flick up to look behind you, and as you turn your head you see-
“Well, well, well, look at this little get-together!”
Even eight years wouldn’t dampen that little shithead’s fire. He’s still sauntering around in those same linen clothes- it wouldn’t kill him to wear socks, sandals, something?
Turning back down to your tool, you slide down your goggles and fire it up again, “This isn’t a “get-together,” he’s just watching. Apparently.” You flick your eyes up to him again even though he can’t see them behind the polarized tint, but you’re sure he knows. “And being creepy,” you emphasize. Kavalier puts his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth with his little robe following suit, mouth in a line., lilting, “Yeahhh, he does that.”
“I can see that.”
Moving closer, “The old routine with Atom?”
“That’s right.”
Kavalier practically bounces over, stopping on the other side of Atom, sticking his face too close for comfort to where you’re working over his half open chest cavity. You immediately click the pen off, “This shit is bright,” you sneer, wrenching your goggles up to your forehead, “don’t get so fucking close.” He only laughs, that evil kind of laugh he makes when he knows he’s irritating the shit out of someone and enjoying it. Even if in this case it could mean going blind because he wants to stick his face close to active welding equipment just because. Whisking over to the kiosk, he flops down in one of the chairs so he could watch you, the chair squeaking as he swiveled back and forth, tossing his little rubber ball to each hand. The man still watching is oddly silent, you figured he would have said something since his boss is in the room, but he doesn’t, only moves a few steps closer to Kavalier, never looking away when he does it. Sparing both of them one last glare, you put your goggles down and keep working, now overly aware of your movements since your audience just went up in judgemental points. Thank god you’re close to finishing up, the alloy done, not much longer now- two more strips of skin and you’d be able to hole up in your room, get some dinner and get out of everyone’s line of sight. The first section went easy, quiet as you were switching bits and putting little dents into the skin, sun spots, small moles, dark spots from friction, anything that a human would have. The second one however, as soon as the large bit was attached, still looking very raw and not seamless at all…
“Are you almost finished?”
You don’t stop, only shaking your head and sighing. Not now. Just keep working. There’s a little bit of peace as you switch tool bits, cleaning up your edges, taking your time with it since it is Atom after all, he deserves it with the shit Kavalier makes him put up with. Eventually your shoulders relax, and you’re getting back into the flow, thinking of what you’re going to order when you’re free when there’s a sigh that sounds out, a hum mixed in. Judgment. From who, you’re not sure but you loudly ask, “Can you not? If you’re feeling so impatient, you can leave.” It’s directed at both of them, really, hearing Kavalier lightly chuckle as you switch to another tool bit. There’s nothing said after, but you’re sure that something had to have been, because there's a shuffle out of line of sight before the unnamed man eventually passes through it, your eyes briefly following before you fully resume your work, and then you hear the hiss, then another one, then the click of the lock. You feel free to let out a sigh, drawing it out to really get the message to Kavalier.
“Thought he’d never leave. What’s his problem?”
You hear the chair as he gets up, hearing his feet pad closer, “With the workload he’s given from me, lots.”
More divots into the skin, little bits of vitiligo that comes with age, and you apply the little birthmark that’s stowed right under one of his upper ribs. “Yeah?” you ask, putting the tool down, feeling the circulation of air hit your lids as you flip your goggles up, pulling them off. “Well, might be too much because if he wasn’t a prick before he’s turning into one, his hair color gives it away,” you jab as you smooth the flyaways down on the top of your head, reaching toward the cylinder the flick the switch again, the illuminated light dimming as more of the circulatory fluid flows back into Atom. “Look into that.” The light turns off once it’s empty.
-
The entire rest of the night was such a shitshow, even the private moment you tried to have with Kavalier didn’t work out. It was in his room on his bed, surrounded by a little bit of takeout- even though he’d opted for nothing as many times as you’d offered. That’s how the conversation turned- you telling him how he wasn’t taking care of himself, how he looked thinner all the time whenever he was on TV and if he didn’t start taking his medication regularly- which you knew he wasn’t- he’d never get better.
“Listen, I care about you,” you’d said from the foot of his bed, pushing your chinese to the side so it wouldn’t spill over if you shifted as you swallowed a piece of broccoli, “I’m your older sister, I want to see you do better. What you’re doing now can’t last forever.”
He was sitting at the head of the bed, laying further up on the pillows, arms crossed, legs sprawled out, feet facing towards you, looking a bit stony in the face, thinking about something like it was a storm in his head. He'd been oddly quiet for a while after the subject had turned to this, and he might have planned to stay that way until you stayed pressing harder. He was breathing in like with every inhale he was trying to say something, wanting to say something, then he’d stop. Like it was on the tip of his tongue but he wasn’t sure how to say it, whatever it was, but you were remaining patient, listening to the low drone of news he’d abandoned on his monitor. More about the damage done to New Siam you’d been hearing about all week. He inhaled again, remnants of a sound escaping him, but still nothing. He tried once more, this time looking at you instead of off in space, and you sat up a bit straighter, ready to listen, and it seemed like this time he was going to get it, even if it came out angry like you were expecting, until his eyes shot up, looking somewhere over your left shoulder. Of course the prick would show up now.
“Sir.”
Kavalier sighs, and you mimic it, albeit much quieter. He only grunts in acknowledgement,
“I was to let you know when the cargo was secure. It is such.”
Kavalier crosses his arms a bit tighter, not missing the look you send him that says is this guy fucking serious? He runs a hand over his face, scratching at his jawline before saying, “Alright, good to know,” which you thought was a very mild response compared to what another you knew of Kavalier might say. You roll your eyes, going to stand before you whisper, “That could’ve been an email,” pushing off the bed, “I’ll see you later.”
You make sure to shoot the man a glare hissing, “Your hair is fucked up,” as you walk past, heading back to your room.
-
Whoever this guy was, he was really wearing you down, him and his stupid hair. How he was managing to do it when you didn’t even know his name you weren’t sure, but he hadn’t offered and you weren’t asking. It was just roadblock after roadblock; rooms you’d been in a thousand times before that you suddenly weren’t allowed in, certain areas of the island that were off limits for “reasons” made vague to you. Kavalier wasn’t willing to be helpful either, usually just saying something along the lines of, “ Probably something I’m doing there that I forgot about. I'll get to it later.” You didn’t miss how tired he looked sitting in his chair when he said that to you, voice a tad weaker, movements sluggish, eyes droopy, even his curls didn’t have the same energy as they fell across his face. You made sure to drop off something light and easy for him to eat from the private kitchen and you told him to go the fuck to bed after he did, but not before you reminded him that you needed a little bit more wiggle room to wander during your stay here.
“Outside is outside, okay?” you asked, watching from the side of it as he rolled around on his bed, tablet balanced on the bottoms of his feet so he could watch whatever- probably camera feed. “It’s only certain times of day, and I’m sick of running into that asshole at every turn,” you explain, arms crossed, “What’s outside that you’re hiding?”
His lips move into a hard line before he lets the tablet tumble onto the bed, and before you know it he has one of his feet reaching for you, every single toe somehow outstretched in the most disgusting way. “None of your business!” He seemed to be the only one in the family that could do it, and it always made you recoil, which you did just now.
“Jesus,” you growl, hand slapping his calf to give you some reprieve from the assault, “get that musty fucking thing away from me!” He only responds with a cackle, moving his body down the bed to get his foot closer to your face, which makes you resort to darting under it to grab his fallen tablet. When he tries to start using both feet to attack you, you start slapping them with it. “Do you deliberately not wash your fucking feet?” which he answers with an even bigger evil grin, which nearly makes you falter and stifle a laugh as you hit him again. “Get that shit away from me!” This only eggs him on to fully sit up, legs still outstretched, which you react to by pushing him back down, taking this as your chance to start punching him anywhere you can reach once you toss the tablet to the side. In the legs, in the stomach, in the chest with one hand, the other on his calf keeping his feet at bay.
He seems to be enjoying this, growing more animated and vocal as he tries to fight you off. It kind of reminds you of the small moments you got as kids when your dad wasn’t home and you both weren’t hiding out in your rooms. “You know, just because I’m older doesn’t mean I can’t beat you, right?” Yes, it was fighting, yes, there was occasional bruising, but it wasn’t with him, so it was a way to simultaneously have fun and get your feelings out. It was odd, but it was a way of bonding and the two of you really needed an emotional outlet back then.
This time both of you are smiling.
Eventually he seems to start to tire out, his slaps growing more and more powerless, and you follow suit, but not without giving him one more punch in the stomach for good measure, which knocks a bit of wind out of him. You’re out of breath yourself, and you slowly ease off of him, standing up as your chest heaves. “Okay,” you breathe, already seeing him wind down, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes. Hopefully, he goes to bed. “I’m out of here,” and there’s a low hum from him.
Moving farther away towards the door, you slow, calling over your shoulder, “Make sure you eat that stuff at some point, okay?”
Another hum. It sounds more flippant than you’d like.
“I’m serious,” you chide, fully turning around. He’s still laying there, but even from the door you see him peek one eye open. “Hello?!” you practically shout as the door opens, “I know you hear me!”
“Yeah, sure whatever,!” he lilts, voice forceful, closing his eye but staying still.
“Okay, god! And fucking-” you fully turn, holding your hands up even though they don’t really know what to do, “keep that guy away from me will you? Sick of seeing his fucking face.”
Kavalier lets out a long noise that trails off for an annoyingly long time, to the point that it turns into just a weak rumble of the throat until he runs out of breath, then he chuckles,“Yeah? He’s bothering you that bad?” He sits up a little bit to prop himself up on his arms, “Have you tried, oh, I don’t know, not talking to him?”
“You think I haven’t?” you scoff, brows lowering into a scowl, “everywhere I want to go, he’s there telling me I can’t.”
He throws his hands up, “You know I’m working on stuff here! Just say something to him that isn’t so… I don’t know. Walk away for all I care,” before he lets them drop onto the bed, stressing, “Find something else to do.”
You’d slam the door if you could on the way out.
-
The next day there was a period of reprieve. No Kavalier, but that was fine, he wasn't planning to be out and about from what you could tell. Atom seemed to be in good sorts when you’d passed him in the hallway, not an improved mood per se from his clipped greeting, but simply Atom. The David smiled at you when he passed by when you were wandering in the more common areas of the building, saying a quiet “Good morning.” His hair was still perfect. It managed to put you in a slightly better mood when you received another hello from a very pleasant looking woman; warm smile, calm, friendly disposition paired with voluminous brown hair tied in a larger than life bun with a blue scarf, round glasses, and silver hoop earrings. She felt like mother if it were a person; seemed very personable compared to any employee you’d seen so far. Free to be herself.
It pushed you to go outside, get some sunlight since the garden looked promising, wandering between the trees, daring to stray from the path just for a few steps to let a few leaves swipe your face. It was warm, but not too warm, a nice cool breeze whispering through that kept you from sweating too badly, and even better, a lot of the trees were about to start bearing fruit, all still small and green with a few more weeks to go, but soon. A lot of the blossoms were still present but dying off, a few bees here and there, which you frantically darted away from when they got too close, much to your embarrassment. As you reached the more open part, a rounded off area with a pavilion in the center, a few blooming vines growing over it and as far as you knew, you were alone out here and if there was security or anything like that, you hadn't seen them so you were caught a bit off guard when you heard a voice- a yell, to be specific. It made you slow a bit, craning your neck to see around any type of corner you might be missing, but nothing, just the trees, same birds and insects you've been hearing the entire walk, but regardless of the silence that resumed, you stay wary, making your way under the shaded awning, letting your hand rest on one of the posts, circling it, fingers drifting along the wood, digging into some of the knots and flaws. It was nice the way the sunlight rippled through the open roof, down through the blooming vines, little spots dancing over your skin. When you move to the wooden table, easing down lighter as you hear an angry creaking from the bench, you look out at the ring of flowers that line the surrounding rock outside the pavilion, chin resting in your palm, free hand drawing shapes into the tabletop, another gust of wind sweeping through to rustle leaves, your loose clothes following suit. The tranquility of your surroundings didn't last long before there was the frantic sound of crunching rock, footsteps, running. Getting closer. You barely had time to turn around before someone was basically falling at your side, the bench shaking from how hard they were scrambling to sit. By the time they slowed down you saw it was some boy, pretty young, maybe just hitting his 20s, in a blue flightsuit.
“Hi,” he heaves, waving, shifting on the bench.
“Hi,” you returned, not sounding as casual as you'd like, given that he just threw himself into the space. Who else does he have lurking around on this island?
“I'm Smee,” he waves again, “wanna meet my friends?”
Ok…
Before you can answer, he yells, and you hardly have time to be startled before there's a whole group that comes stumbling out from the trees, similar in age, same outfits, and they're rushing to crowd around you, saying things in all these overlapping voices. By the time they're up-close and surrounding, you can only think that never have you been jumped like this, you can't even get a word out, and you're sure surprised confusion is written all over your face. In all the cacophony you even manage to get a splinter from an unknown spot in the table, and you can feel your palm starting to throb angrily.
When they finally start to settle, you finally get the chance to tell them your name when they start asking why you didn't answer, and that's when they go completely quiet.
A girl with short fiery red hair gasps, pointing, “You're his sister aren't you!?” and there's a little gasp that ripples through the group. She starts grinning, and so does another girl with a hairstyle so short it makes you think it's very… French. “He talks about you sometimes,” she says lowly, “he misses you. He doesn't show it but he does.”
You nod slowly while she sits down, because of course he would, just never out loud like you thought. “You guys see him a lot?” you turn to another, a boy with shirt brown hair, a bit of a mustache coming in. He nods, “Y-yeah, a lot, he comes in the room sometimes when he wants sometimes,” he says looking down as he fidgets with his fingers, “but he usually talks to- oh, hey! ” as Smee slings an arm around him, pulling him onto the bench, where they promptly proceed to start slapping and shouting at each other, tumbling to the ground as it turns into wrestling. The rest blankly watch before their attention turns back to you. “Don’t mind them,” the girl says, and she holds out her hand, “I’m Wendy.” You reach up, shaking her hand, and the rest follow suit and you’re able to get their names one by one.
Nibs, the redhead, Curly, self explanatory, Issac, the tallest, and Wendy points to the one wrestling with Smee on the ground, “That one is Slightly,” he takes a hit to the stomach almost immediately after.
“Cool. Didn’t know he had a bunch of kids on the island.” Some of them exchange a look at that. “When did that happen?”
Wendy circles the table, climbing onto the bench across from you, “Not too long ago. I was the first one.”
The one with long hair, Curly adds on, “We were sick. We were all sick, then Kavalier made us better. But Miss Sylvia and Kirsh take care of us.”
That seemed interesting enough, but it makes your brow furrow, especially the new names. “So, like what, he’s in medicine now? That doesn’t seem like him.” Which was true, Prodigy only really dealt with robotics, to heal sick kids, that was never something that the company would normally touch as far as you’d known. “Not exactly,” Nibs smirks, and she walks to the end of the bench, and you watch her, waiting. “We were sick,” she said, “dying. But Prodigy put us in the program.” Program, what program?
“He made us stronger.” She squats down until her hair disappears from view, and for a second nothing happens, until you catch Wendy’s knowing smile, the group taking a step back, and you and the bench are being effectively lifted, and you gasp, having to grip the table to make sure you don’t slide off. Your line of sight shifts, and you can tell you’re already at least five feet off the ground, and you instinctively hold your hand above your head to brace the ceiling when you see it coming closer. The others around you are laughing, and you laugh too, but more out of exhilaration from the experience than humor. God, your heart feels like it’s in your ass right now, it only gets worse after she starts to turn in place, giving the bench a spin that makes your heart jolt in spite of how slow she’s actually turning, and you have to close your eyes with a nervous titter. After she’s had enough, she slowly sets you down, the rock shifting as the bench settles back over it, the wood creaking in protest.
You have to rub a hand over your chest from how fast your heart is pounding, before you pant out, “Synthetics,” your eyes traveling along them, “you guys are synthetics?”
Wendy sits forward a bit from your side, “We don’t like that name.” She says it a bit harsh, and she must realize it because she dials back a little, her shoulders shrinking, “We’re something different.” You steal a glance at Nibs, who has her hands in her pockets, her shoe suddenly being interesting, “So, what are you?” you ask softly to match Wendy’s cadence.
The group exchanges another quiet look, and Wendy looks like she’s really thinking about something, and by now you’ve figured she’s definitely got to be the leader of the group from the way everyone seems to follow after her whether it be literal or metaphorical. “Well,” she starts, “we’re-”
“What are you doing?”
Instantly you grimace, rubbing your hands over your face, quietly mumbling, “This fucking guy.”
Once again, he seems to have an excuse to show up, and the kids around you are apparently familiar with him because they all almost immediately straighten up, eyes to the ground. Looks like the fun was over.
“Nothing,” Isaac quickly says as you turn on the bench to see him approaching, a bit more of a sway in his step as his feet hit the rock. He didn’t have a tablet in his hands this time. “I saw everything, which was not “nothing,” he conceded, “everyone inside. Now.”
“Kirsh,” Curly says weakly, and your eyes fly to him as your brain immediately files it now that there’s finally a name for the face, “we were just-”
“Now what would Kavalier say if he saw you completely disregarding direction?” he objects, sauntering closer, and when he stops he tilts his head, eyes squinting as they travel along the group, “not pleased, I will tell you that.”
Silence falls over the group, and you notice that even Wendy doesn’t have a counter for that, even you absently run your sweaty palm along your pant leg, eyes darting down to it when you’re reminded of the stupid splinter making itself known again. “So, as I said,” he dictates, “inside.” Everyone wordlessly obeys, only the shuffle of shoes against rock heard as they all file away, disappearing down a path and into the trees, one by one.
Taking a breath, you swing your legs over the bench, ready to challenge. “So,” you start, standing up, “I guess I should be going too then, Kirsh?”
He answers quick and mild, his body shifting a bit as his eyes give you a once over, and just now did you notice that they were a deep brown from how the sun was hitting them, “No. You’ll be coming with me.”
Your hands instinctively go to rest on your hips, already expecting the usual back-and-forth to spark between the two of you, “Now why will I be doing that?”
“Because,” he quickly replies, “I can answer any and all of your questions,” he shifts again as his eyes quickly move down, hand gesturing, “and remove that splinter from your palm,” he quietly concludes with a small quirk of the mouth.
Oh.
You’re very much inclined to continue standing your ground, tell him you can remove a splinter your damn self, but the longer he stands there, waiting, you’re very angry with yourself to find that you’re losing your fire as the moment drags out. He’s patient, probably the most patient he’s been this entire time, and it’s pissing you off. He’s assertive too from the way he’s carrying himself right now, and you reluctantly feel yourself deflating, arms ultimately falling to your sides, you click your tongue with a small, “Okay.”
At this he seems relatively pleased, and he promptly contends, “Right,” gesturing to his side for you to join, “this way,” before starting off. You are not pleased that you find yourself jogging to follow.
-
Once you’re situated in the lower levels of one of the science wings, standing around looking at a few odd covered cages you turn when you hear a rumbling to see Kirsh pushing an office chair your way, instructing once it rolls to a stop, “Wash your hands there,” pointing to a station nestled into a corner, “then have a seat.”
Walking over you look down at your hands to realize they are pretty dirty, there’s loose specks of soil from touching the table and posts, dried sweat making them stick to your palms, dirt underneath a few of your nails, and there was already a bit of pus forming where the splinter was stuck under your skin. You were definitely going to need a shower after this. Once you’re all clean and drying your hands with a paper towel, you head back over to the work desk where your chair is waiting, seeing that Kirsh has a pair of tweezers and a sealed bandage laid out on a paper towel, currently pouring a bit of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad as you sit down, and when he wordlessly holds out his hand for yours, you think this was either going to go really well or very badly once you see his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow.
“So,” you start, breaking the silence since you find it incredibly awkward with him basically holding your hand, brushing the cold pad over the broken skin, “your name is Kirsh?”
“Yes,” he answers flatly, eyes squinted in concentration as he lets his hand drop to the bin on the side, discarding the cotton pad. He doesn’t elaborate further as he reaches for the tweezers. His hand is warm in comparison to the conversation.
“That’s it?” you replied, hinting that he should have a little bit more for you, craning your head into his line of view right above where your hands are joined, “no last name?”
Very briefly do his eyes meet yours, before he resumes, disclosing, “You should know, and you do” tweezers now digging into your skin, “synthetics do not have last names.”
Your eyes widen at that, your hand giving an involuntary pull, one that he manages to quickly control as you nearly shriek in surprise, “You’re synthetic!?” You don’t know how it never crossed your mind, but now that it was said it all makes sense, the overbearingness about credentials, the boundaries around the island, why Kavalier never seemed to mind the interruptions, his attitude throughout; it isn’t his fault. It’s directive; programmed personality.
At that exclamation he stops, tweezers held in place, looking at you with an expression close to incredulous, brows lightly raised, “This surprises you?” He asks it like it should have been obvious, like you were borderline stupid for not knowing, or realizing, you weren’t sure which one.
For the first time since you’ve met, you’re rendered speechless, mouth hanging open because, yes, you are. This entire time you thought he was a deliberate, intentional asshole, but now it made sense, why he had you down here, tending to something as small as a splinter, because human harm happened under his watch. The attitude just happened to be programmed into him, and it made sense given who made it so. And now you kind of feel like shit about it.
Resting your chin in your free hand you shook your head, tone lightening, “I’ll be honest,” you sighed, “this entire time I thought you were human.” He continues working with the tweezers before it eventually proves fruitless, the splinter is close to entirely horizontal under the first layer of skin- you can see it clearly- instead flipping open a drawer and pulling out a long silver tool with the tiniest blade at the end, and even that manages to make startlement flash across your face, which he notices. He responds by holding the blade skywards, which is received as a good sign on your end when he flips to the flat side, pressing it to the surface of your skin, that’s when you understand, feeling relief when you realize that he didn’t intend on cutting. Once he sees you’ve received his message, he goes to work, “What made you think that?” he queries as he starts to gently swipe at the end of the splinter, attempting to coax it out, “I thought your own brother would have informed you. Or you would have found out for yourself, since you find me so vexing,” he adds. Your mouth presses into a line at that but you stay quiet.
I did too, you thought, but apparently he chose to keep a few things to himself.
“No, he didn’t,” you confirmed, voice turning smaller, “ he probably wanted me to find out for myself.” You continue to gaze at him, now really willing to take in his appearance now that you weren’t fighting: white hair, tanned skin, toned body, good choice, unfortunately. “He just made you look so different from anything else I’ve ever seen, I’m impressed, honestly,” your hand is pulling at the seam of your linen pants while you say it.
“Why is that?”
Now that you knew his secret, you just couldn’t stop staring at him, the lifelike wrinkles in his face, the untamed nature and color of his hair, even down to the beauty mark near his eye, the subtle masculinity; it was just class. Efficient. You didn’t know how else to describe it, but then again you had a tendency to be captivated by the variety of features that most synthetics displayed throughout the years, prone to appreciation. Sometimes more.
“You’re just so…” you trailed off, not even sure you wanted to say the word after the attitude you’ve been receiving the entire week, “unique.” You wince at the slight sting you get from the pressure against the sensitive skin. If that word struck him at all it didn’t show on his face.
“Unique,” he repeats lowly, still working at your hand, close to getting the splinter completely out.
“Yeah,” you breathed, now a little too aware of how you were ogling him, too aware of how intimate this felt with your hand in his after hating him the entire time you’d been here, too aware of how subdued you suddenly felt, pointer finger picking at the skin at your thumb out of his view like you were some kind of nervous school-girl. ‘A-and he made you?” like you were underneath him when it was crafted to be the other way around.
“Yes,” he answers promptly, finally getting the splinter to peek out from the layer of skin, switching back to the tweezers and effectively pulling it free, a small amount of pus following. He discarded the tweezers and began using his thumb to make sure everything was out, pressing down pretty hard until there was blood that followed, which you fought through to keep your hand in place, praying that your heartbeat remained steady enough to remain unnoticed. After he seemed satisfied, he was quick to pour alcohol onto another pad, pressing it to the small stream of crimson, which had a way harsher bite than you expected, making you hiss, wanting to pull away from the sting, but stopped when he held you firm again speaking a soft, almost warning, “Steady.” It was gone as quick as it happened, and you mumbled a small thanks, which he returned with a barely there smile. You found yourself starting to mirror it before you covered it with a swipe of your free hand over your mouth. Subtle.
“If anything,” he said after tossing the pad away, skillfully unwrapping the bandage one-handed, gently pressing it down over the wound, eyes meeting yours, “I should be thanking you,” he held his gaze as his warm fingers deftly smoothed out any air bubbles in the waterproof sealing, and you could feel your chest blooming with some unidentified feeling to the point it nearly hurt and you had to tear your eyes away.
“What do you mean?” you breathed, eyes fixated on his working hands when they let go, and it feels like that blooming sensation suddenly withered, a rubber band snapping after being stretched too hard, and you felt the pang of disappointment.
He’s not looking at you anymore, busying himself with cleaning all the tools now, running a soaked pad over them, letting them dry before he tidies everything away, the last thing to go being the bandage wrapper, which he crumples in his hand before he drops it in the trash can. You couldn’t help but notice the way his veins bulged when he did it, and you had to ask yourself if you were gawking at the David in a similar fashion, just forced to keep to yourself about it.
When he finishes up he leans back in his chair, doesn’t say anything right away. Simply looking. So are you.
“I’m correct in saying that you taught your brother a number of things in robotics?”
“Yeah?” you answer, slow, unsure.
“Then I can also assume that without your previous input, the probability of my creation and its extent would be significantly lower?”
That made you snort, “Well, I’m flattered, but I wouldn’t say that.”
“It isn’t flattery. What would you say?”
“Well, I would… I would say…,” you run your finger over your bottom lip, eyes turning down to a spot on the table, “damn,” suddenly finding it more interesting than his. It was uncomfortable to have him basically put you on the spot only to ask you questions about you and what you thought. You’d gotten so used to being alone that it just wasn’t something you dealt with anymore. Maybe he knew that. “I wouldn’t take that much credit, that’s all.”
“Why not? You agree you had an influence in all of this.”
“Again,” you blurted, “I-I wouldn’t really say that.”
Why?” he asks again.
“I don’t know.”
He squints at that, repeating a bit slower, “You don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” you answer, harder.
“Why is that?”
Again with the why, you nearly snap out, “I just don’t know, okay?”
He's looking at you like he's considering, his head tilting again, saying, “That’s something to think about, then,” but you have a feeling he wanted to say something different.
You inhale, and it's shaky, like your lungs are being squeezed. You've had enough, and you stand up, still not looking his way, like he’ll burn you if you do, wandering too close to a pretty light that you forget lets off too much heat.
“I have to go.”
His head tracks you as you start off, “Have to or want to?” and that softly asked question really makes you think he's intent on reaction. What kind? Probably anything, given him, but you throw a cheap lie his way regardless.
“Have to. I’m tired.”
Your back is to him now, and when the chair swivels he still has one more thing to say, and you nearly fall over from recoiling when you feel his hand, fingertips barely brushing yours before they grasp. You whip around faster than you can register the touch, a harsh tingle shooting from your hand to your spine. “I trust you’ll have my answer before you end your stay?”
My answer.
My answer?
You’re standing there, dumbfounded, looking down at him with wide eyes like his head just fell off, and there’s nothing but your hand in his and his patient stare. Nothing, because you really can’t make any promises on it given that you don’t know. It’s like being asked your favorite movie or song, when you’re forced to think about it, it suddenly doesn’t come to mind. Nothing, because whatever you end up saying as an answer right now won’t be true, won’t be genuine, and all you can muster, weak as your hand pulls away, “I have to go.”
That word was like a bug bite; my. Not too much to dwell on at first when it was fresh, just a bit of out of place pressure, but even after you leave him hanging in the lab, going back upstairs, you find the word choice pressing more and more, racking your brain as to why he would use the word. By the time you made it back to your living quarters, you were sure by the time you left you’d be scratching until you bled.