Page 125 of Tapeworld Induction

She couldn’t hold back her moans, her legs wrapping around him in an instinctual motion, her heels against his bare buttocks, pulling him in.

His lips prayed to the goddess while her hands gripped his back, scratching him as she got so close…

As he rammed himself into her, over and over, everything began to overwhelm her – the feeling of all of him, his skin, his muscles, her emotions all ran together, tumbling in one continuous amalgam, a wild, endless circle. What felt like fate or destiny rushed towards her, a sucker punch with the roar of a lioness attacking its prey, she was always meant to be in this place—

She shouted, then he shouted, their voices becoming one for a mellifluous few seconds, as he flooded her with all of him.

He dropped to her side, chest glistening with sweat. He smiled at her, a tired, contented smile, eyes half shut.

Dylan grinned and took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling, pleasure shaping her expressions.

Isaak shifted close to her on the bed, his head on her shoulder, breathing heavily.

“I love you, Dylan.”

She smiled, sweat sticking her hair to her temples.

“I love you, Isaak.”

The words came as easy to her lips as they’d come to him.

He kissed her, and she rolled to embrace him. He hugged her close.

She could taste his sweat, the saltiness a pleasant sensation on her tongue. Her breathing came back to normal, the rush of pleasure dispersed into a slow, comforting wave.

Right now, the world was her and him, and fuck anyone who got in their way.

44

The Tech

Isaak

At an old, worn-down bus stop, Isaak and Dylan sat on the grey, barely there bench and waited for their auto-car. They were alone, but there was a stale smell of someone else’s perfume. It stuck to the air like a bad piece of gum, its taste long gone, but you keep chewing, because what else are you going to do? Spit it out?

There was a conspiratorial note to the way she eyed him now, her legs touching his. Last night was… It did a whole lot to fill him with confidence that they could do this. They would figure out where Cardinal Row was and rescue all those people. And, in the process, find Talia.

But last night was more than that. She made him feel things he’d never felt, emotions he didn’t think were accessible to his damaged self. Waking up next to her that morning, not in the Tapeworld or in a trap, reality felt like it made sense. They had struggled to get out of bed, giving in to their desires once more before meeting up with Elodie and Sacha.

Elodie had put the plan in simple terms. Time was running out for Talia. Prodding Isaak’s mind at Jeff’s was essential. Finish any pending business IRL. Attack the warehouse in Cardinal Row.

Dylan had helped resolve his guilt last night. About the security guard and the sleptigrades he’d killed. That he’d had to kill. She helped him find a way to make peace with himself. They might have been innocent people, forced to act out Astrid’s will, but there was no other way. They’d threatened their lives, and the lives of their friends.

He thought of what Dylan had given him the courage to do over the past couple of weeks. Rejecting Astrid and their time together, the manipulation and mind games his ex-boss had put him through.

Finally, the car arrived and they climbed inside. The streets they passed were covered with the usual for this part of London: discarded energy drink cans, snack wrappers, random disgusting unrecognisable foodstuff, empty synthtubes and condom wrappers, all bouncing around in the wind like a disco for litter pickings.

Jeff lived in Canary Wharf, the once proud hub of international banking, its forty-floor towers glittering odes to the accomplishments of rampant capitalism. At one point the buildings were fully realised mini-towns with their own gyms, cantinas, shops, deliveries, supply chains, offices, living quarters, and security force. People could live their whole lives there without stepping out of their mirrored vertical palaces. Their arrogance was such that you wouldn’t find a building called Dollar Tower out of place.

Now the dilapidated towers were home to squatters and graffiti. After the Brexit dividends didn’t pay off, and the banks made a swift exit to other countries, Canary Wharf was left to its confused residents, unused to relying on local community. The decay came around the Dark Year, when the riots made it to the Wharf.

It was in one of these hollowed-out towers that Jeff made his home. He wasn’t a squatter. He would say he was a principled renter who had paid his rent more than enough times to be allowed to simply reside.

The man had a massive hard-on for movies – particular, authorial efforts. Movies weren’t Isaak’s thing. Recent films were a waste of time, mostly just feature-length adverts for all kinds of nonsense. People had lost their sense of taste. It was all vegan propaganda now, and despite agreeing with the sentiment, Isaak missed the truth of old movies. The good ones were all made pre-Dark Year.

Shit, maybe he was starting to sound like Jeff…

They got out of the car outside his building, and the car sped off into the Isle of Dogs, its sinuous curves ever closer to the encircling rising river.