Somehow, I believe her. She’s frowning, just a little, and I want to reach out and smooth the lines away. But I’m struck by the kind of pathetic image she must have been confronted with—when she found me sprawled on the floor—and I clench my hands into fists in my lap. Something bitter coats my tongue, and I shake that desire right out of my head.
“I’m, uh, gonna go to bed,” I say, hopping down. Before I can delve into that particular shitstorm any further. Before I can work myself into a deep mortification.
I prepare myself for the inevitable: some innocuous but frustrating gesture taken straight out of the universal operating manual for dealing with the disabled. It’s a common belief that humans are related by, at most, six degrees of separation, even after recent population explosions, and somehow, the one thing we all have in common is an urge to pity the ‘differently abled’.
“Do you need anything?” Tanisira asks, running her eyes down the length of my body. There’s absolutely nothing salacious about it; the look is, in fact, so clinical that I feel vaguely scoured by it. My skin prickles, my fingers twitch by my side. It takes a lot of effort to keep a scowl off my face.
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Kit should have the final list for us.”
A beat passes. I stand there, blinking at her like a dolt. Tanisira tilts her head and after another moment of silence, says. “...Good night?”
I’ve been dismissed.
It feels like something has been stolen from me. Instead of deflating, de-escalating, I turn on my heel and stomp out of the med bay. The scowl I’d suppressed makes an appearance, especially because my body stillhurts. My behaviour’s immature, uncalled for, and unfair. I know all these things. Right now, I don’t care—I’m buried under the chaos of the last few days.
I’m angry. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Tanisira.
Another Lifetime
The brain matter is everywhere. Gore splattered all over the furnishings. The floor. The ceiling. I look up, aghast, as a glob of viscera slides down the wall. It lands with an offensive squelch. Despite myself, a shudder creeps down my spine.
Beside me, Vee squeals in a mixture of disgust and glee. This is too much for a boy his age. Ripping the headset off, I narrow my eyes at him. “I find it hard to believe Marlowe is okay with you playing this game.”
The boy stares back at me with so much innocence in his green eyes, it’s almost hard to believe who his mother is. Almost. Marlowe is distilled into his bone structure, and no onecould ignore it. The absence of guile, though, that’s something I can’t attribute to Marlowe.
Vee squints. “Are you just trying to get on mum’s good side?”
It takes extraordinary control to maintain my composure. “Of course not.” Now that I know what kind of game it is, I pluck the headset from him. “Why do you say that?”
“Cause she’s mad at you.”
I falter. “Did she tell you that?”
He grins, highlighting the impish lines of his boyish face. “No.”
I grunt and stow the headsets in their cradles, trying not to react. Then he says with a careless shrug, “She called you a bad word, and I guessed.”
Illogically, I wonder in which language. Vee has a less than rudimentary understanding of my mother tongue and, like all children his age, he mostly knows the insults and the expletives. I doubt Marlowe knows how much he’s picked up. Apparently, Vee learnsSurya-Vaniwhen he’s with Gryphon, so that doesn’t surprise me. There’s a disconnect there I don’t exactly understand, but supplying his pre-pubescent child with violent games just seems like more of his brand of parenting.
My next question slips free before I can examine it. “What does it mean when she’s mad at someone?”
Vee smirks and bounds to the other side of the arcade, a room designed solely for him. Certainly, no one in Gryphon’s circle plays games. According to the approved list of guests on file, Dominik rubs elbows with politicians and industry titans. His closest friend is a man who recently ran for president of America. They’re not playing Mario Kart in their downtime.
Vee scoops up the vintage console, looking like he’s contemplating my question. So many expressions flicker across his face in such rapid succession, and he doesn’t try to hide any of them. It’s one of the sweet mannerisms that hasendeared him to me, even though every time I turn around, he’s underfoot. Like a puppy. A house-trained puppy, but an excitable one, nonetheless.
“Are you scared of my mum?” he asks, obviously amused. It sounds like something he’s used to.
“That’s a silly question.”
I lower myself into one of the ridiculous gaming chairs as he pushes a Pulse into his ear. Vee is, putting it mildly, bursting with energy at all times. Easily distracted. I’m pleasantly surprised when he extracts one bud and continues the conversation. I should be worried that I want an answer this badly. Marlowe’s quick with a smile, a joke, but she keeps parts of herself firmly distanced. I don’t think she even realises she’s doing it. Maybe she’s so experienced she doesn’t imagine anyone can tell.
I should know: like calls to like. The real surprise is how much I want to reel those parts back in and inspect them. Still, the idea of anyone else doing that to me is an uncomfortable one.
“It’s not silly,” Vee says. “Loads of people are scared of my mum sometimes. Especially when my dad annoys her, and she gets this vein in her forehead that throbs like a zit, and she getsreallyquiet.”
“Was she that annoyed this morning?” I ask in alarm.
