“Coming to terms with the past behind isn’t easy work. I know that all too well,” Alleah said, her gaze moving across the Tellerman Society Gala’s affluent attendees. “As a child of poverty and war, it’d have been easy for me to give up, to not become the woman I am today. Instead, I have the distinct privilege and honor to accept this award on the Tact Corp Charitable Foundation’s behalf. Thank you!”

She hoisted the award—some garish looking golden compass rose—high into the air and gave a bright smile, the mob of old money fucks in the crowd eating up her “bloom from the ashes” routine. She knew that’s why Tact Corp always asked her to speak at these events; assuaging the guilt of the moneyed elite with promises that their investments in imperial arms manufacturing during the war wouldn’t keep them from the afterlife was good business. Alleah was in the business of ‘good business’.

That just about everything Alleah said just now was a lie didn’t make it any less true for the people in the room. Some people needed placating lies. And it was always a decent time for Alleah: they shook her hand, they got pictures with her, and at least one of their wives discovered something new about herself in a bathroom stall sometime between the second and third round of champagne. Tonight’s wife was… Amy? Aly? Suzie? Something like that. Didn’t really matter.

All that mattered was the way Wifey’s body felt against Alleah’s as she ground down on Alleah’s fingers.

“I just— you were so, oh fffuck! I’m not i-into girls. I’m not like this, I’m ju-just—!” Wifey kept trying to justify what she was experiencing, but Alleah knew the truth: this had changed the poor woman. Even if she stopped now, it was too late; Wifey was gonna need a fuckbuddy to work out her attraction. And, in return, Wifey would make sure her hubby kept donating to the foundation and buying software from Tact Corp.

Networking, it turned out, was easy.

“P-please,” hissed Wifey.

Alleah kissed Wifey’s pulse point, then sucked gently—not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough that she could feel the way Wifey’s heartbeat quickened—before she responded. “Yes?”

“I n-n-need your…” Wifey’s face burnt with embarrassment.

Alleah nipped at her neck again. “Use your words.”

“Your tongue!” Wifey gasped. “I can’t finish. I-I…” Wifey let out an anxious, almost pained whine.

Alleah withdrew her fingers, relishing the way Wifey shuddered with pleasure even as they left, and brought them to Wifey’s mouth. “Clean them.”

Wifey obeyed, not breaking eye contact as she sucked each finger clean. Alleah loved watching this: the way a woman’s face moved from shock at the suggestion, to the abject revulsion she was supposed to feel, to the blissed-out, lustful eagerness she knew she felt. There wasn’t anything like it. These girls—and, unlike the woman that Alleah was, they were girls—were made better by the way she’d seduced them. They were made better by how loving and doting they became when they realized nothing much mattered if it wasn’t the pleasure Alleah gave them. They were made better by how dominant Alleah was.

“I taste so good,” Wifey panted. Fuck. How was she ever supposed to pretend this wasn’t her calling in the world? Alleah grinned. Queen bitch shit. She was gonna make this girl cum. Wasting no more time, she dipped her head between Wifey’s thighs, gripped her hips, and went to work tracing a languid path up her folds. Wifey gasped, going rigid as sensations she’d never experienced coursed through her body. Then Alleah found her way to Wifey’s clit, and Wifey went ballistic; she grasped at Alleah’s suit jacket, writhing and cursing both her impotent husband’s fumbling and how fucking amazing it felt. Wifey’s hands settled on the back of Alleah’s head, fisting handfuls of hair and pressing Alleah to herself.

Yeah. This woman was going to cum. She was going to explode all over Alleah. Paint her with delicious cum.

“You’re so fucking great, Hound,” Nat Temple Handler groaned from above her. No. No. No. Not here. Please. Alleah had been so good. It’d been hours since she’d thought about what happened last week. Why? Why couldn’t she have this? She tried to push the flashes of memory from her mind, but Wifey’s grip on her had only tightened and the hold—confident, assured, demanding—made Alleah wet; her thoughts went to all the ways Wifey could degrade and humiliate her, if only she begged for it like the weak, pathetic slut she knew she was.

She had to wrap this up.

Alleah sucked Wifey’s clit into her mouth as she buried two fingers deep inside Wifey’s wet cunt. This would do it. It’d be fine. She just had to focus. Stay present. She was nobody’s Hound. They were just words. Wifey’s orgasm peaked mere moments later, her body shaking so hard that Alleah wasn’t sure the poor girl wouldn’t vibrate apart.

They touched themselves up, and traded numbers, and a few minutes later Alleah stepped out into the hallway. Rach, who’d been guarding the door, clocked it immediately. “You good?” she asked, her voice a deep rumble.

“Yeah, just…” Alleah almost said the truth. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned on the charm. “She wanted to do some wild shit for a girl who’d never cum before.”

If Rach knew Alleah was full of shit, she didn’t let on. “Heh. Yeah. Had an ex like that. Christ alive. Huh. Wonder what she’s up to…”

Alleah put an assuring hand on Rach’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that to yourself…”

“You’re probably right. She was pretty bad for me.”

“…give me her number instead.”

Rach slugged Alleah in the arm, just hard enough to sting. She ignored the way the pain resonated low in her core.

* * *

Nat perched at her edge of seat, fuming as she worked on repairing some VP of Technology’s busted docscan. It wasn’t this piece of crap, cut-rate, hastily assembled slop job of a “productivity assistant tool” that had sent her blood pressure soaring, though; no, what had her bent out of shape was the ex-military dyke that leered at her from the corner. It’d been like this all week, even since she’d come back to find her desk ransacked.

It wasn’t something Nat hadn’t expected. She’d have done the same in Alleah’s position: find anything Nat had left lying around her that could be cause for a quick and easy termination. Except, despite the occasional bit of clutter, Nat didn’t keep anything damning at her desk. This job, for all its inertia and humiliation, was something that Nat needed. A work friend, she couldn’t remember their name, once remarked that if Nat got hit by a bus, the only thing they’d have to change out was the name on her cubicle.

As Nat was straightening up everything, she found two bugs: a microphone hidden in her commtab, and a pinhole cam on the clamp for her triple monitor mount. Both had been so poorly concealed—the mic tucked into an exhaust vent, and the pinhole cam applied with white putty to stick out—that it made Nat suspect that there were more cameras and microphones listening and watching. It was a message from Alleah: “I can get to you here”.

Nat recalled her conversation with Alleah from last week. Alleah promised suffering. This was meant to be the preamble. Even if she did nothing from here on out, Alleah would use what happened to her as a pretext to sunder everything Nat held close. Already, that wretched, smug woman knew something about Nat that could decimate the meager scraps of a life she’d pulled together. It was illegal to blackball an ACRE recipient, and all too common for it to go unpunished. That she still had the job was proof that Nat’s fall was going to be interminable and needlessly cruel.

That was Alleah’s style. “Scorched earth” never had it so good as before that woman came along. It was another reason Nat had to act, and act soon. The problem was that her shadow was too good at her damn job. Everything she tried, Rach was there. Hell, she even followed Nat as she went into IT-only meetings. That nobody in the room acknowledged her meant that everyone must’ve been on the same page: don’t get involved. Today, though? Today would be different. Today, Nat Temple was going out for lunch.

Canal Street was—predictably—choked with pedestrian traffic, the result of some of the best street food in XA being sold there during the day. Vendors from all over town jockeyed to get spots. Nat had her go-to: pork buns from Talent Shoppe. Nat wound her way through the crowds, recalling her training from her rebel days: stay low, change your outerwear if you can, cause distractions. The crush of warm bodies meant Nat could slip past Rach. All she had to do was break visual. That was easy enough when a small hover cart passed between them, midway down the street.

Nat took the opportunity to duck into a nearby alleyway. After a few moments, she saw Rach walk on by. It’d worked. Good. Or, she thought it had until she double backed to the Tact Corp. Building and found Rach seated in the lobby. Insult to injury, she was eating a steamed pork belly bun wrapped in a bright pink wrapper from Talent Shoppe. As Nat walked over, Rach extended a second one to her.

Nat took it, warily, and sat down next to Rach. “How’d you know these were my favorite?”

“Mmmm! Y’know, they don’t do these well most places,” Rach said, smacking her lips as she continued to chew. “It’s the sauce: it’s too runny. Gets on your hands. Hate that slick feeling. Or, well… I do when it’s not, y’know… other things.” Rach chewed for a moment more before she furrowed her brow and added: “Wait, these are your favorite? Weird! Amazing what one can get delivered.” A self-satisfied, smug little curl worked at the corner of her mouth.

Nat opened the wrapper to find that the bun was ordered exactly as she liked it: extra meat, extra veggie, extra sauce. “You’re not gonna make this easy, huh?” Nat asked before taking a bite. It was as good as it always was, and yet it tasted like ash in Nat’s mouth.

Rach shook her head. “That’s where you’ve got it wrong, Miss Natalia Jean Temple of 308 Hallerman Avenue: I’m gonna make it impossible.” Before she could elaborate, a ping sounded from her holocuff. She gestured toward it as she chewed. “The boss.” She wolfed down the last bite of the bun, balled up the wrapper, and tossed it in a wide arc toward the trash can across the lobby.

Goal.

Nat’s body lit up with the same shameful heat that always crept into her when someone pulled this kind’ve shit. She didn’t want to find arrogant, cruel women intoxicating, and yet she did. God, even as her body stirred with longing at the notion of driving both Alleah and now Rach to their knees in exultant worship, she couldn’t help but replay how she’d clocked the length of Rach’s fingers; or, how she’d once again marveled at the sinew in her arms. It’d been automatic, after so many years.

Her lust-addled stupor persisted even as she found her way back to her desk, slumping into her chair. So much for being better than this.

* * *

Leaving the past behind was easy for Alleah Masterson. You kept moving. You kept charging forward because if you stopped…

If you stopped, then the past found you and dragged you the ground. She’d seen it happen to the other girls from her orphanage. Drug addicted, disappeared, stuck in poverty… the odds were so damn grim and yet, Alleah Masterson had persevered. She’d won. She’d done it by standing tall and charging forward. Everything Alleah had, she’d built: her wealth, her friendships, her reputation. God, even herself, from the shattered bits of the girl that’d survived the siege of Gela-Akragas. She’d constructed a redoubt around the wound at the center of her being, and then poured concrete over it like it was fissile material in need of containment. On top if it she laid foundations, raised up latticeworks that gave way to defenses and armaments against the slings and arrows of life… until an oppressive, solemn citadel stood where once was the beating heart of a heartbroken girl.

And now Nat fucking Temple Handler— no, that wretched bitch Nat fucking Temple Handl— that dumb fucking loser who deserved everything she got Nat fucking Temple Ha—

Alleah pounded her fists against her desk, hoping the surge of pain would clear her head. It’d been spinning since whatever the fuck had happened with Wifey last night. She couldn’t think of H—that woman—without replaying what happened to her, again and again. The worst parts were the deafening silences in between, though, for they gave her some measure of hope. Every time, Alleah believed she was clear of it. Some damnable interval of ‘peace’ would descend where the scream that resonated somewhere deep from within her soul quieted. It never stopped. Never, ever had it stopped… but she’d gotten used to that. Now, though, it howled with a mournful sadness that shook apart every rampart, turret, and parapet she’d constructed to keep it in check.

With that howl she’d feel the pull of it, though, and the memories would come flooding back. Not just of her, but of all she’d tried to keep buried: of Gela-Akragas; of how she spent the week after sleeping in rubble of what had been her family’s home, desperately hoping that as they cleared the carnage that someone—anyone—would be left alive; of the people on her street that took her away when she became so stricken from malnutrition and thirst that she couldn’t even produce tears when she sobbed. She’d forgotten those memories. They were inconvenient to the strong, solitary woman she’d had to become.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Things like this didn’t happen to Alleah Masterson. Nobody damaged the ‘calm’ of hers. Not once, and especially not twice. And definitely not in ways that left her with poisonous thoughts of submitting to someone in her head. Because that’s all this was: kink. She was just horny. She was pent-up because for two fucking weeks she’d not been able to fuck and pillage and blow off steam in a way that’d become vital to her. The revelation was bitter. Alleah Masterson didn’t need things. The Hunts had been convenient. They let her outrun the voices.

She was horny enough that she’d brought her assistant, Mel, into her office to give her some relief first thing in the morning. The cute blonde knew exactly how to get her off with startling efficiency. It hadn’t been enough, though. She knew what she needed. It was between the legs of a loser IT girl goddess who made her feel so weak, so used, so… not herself.

It wouldn’t do. She pressed the intercom. “Mel?”

“Yes, Alle- um, Miss Masterson?”

“Get me Rach.”

* * *

When Rach Harrington arrived ten minutes later, Alleah was pacing. That was unusual, though Rach hadn’t seen much that was usual out of Alleah in the past few weeks. She’d been on the lookout ever since that night at Valhalla, right when that first blow to her ego had been struck. There was something… off about Alleah’s bravado. It wasn’t that she was an arrogant bitch who needed to be the best, and the hammering to that facade had left her shaken. No, that would’ve been expected. What wasn’t normal was that she’d seen this before, when she was a private at Industry Lake. It’d been months of attrition as the Sonnelan High Guard starved out the rebels dug into the sprawling production center. The waiting made people crack. Good people, who chose the quickest path to self-annihilation, body count be damned.

It was noticing that doomed look—the barest hint of it—that made Rach follow Alleah when she took off from Cirico Square. She hoped she was wrong. Then she saw what was in Alleah’s eyes when Alleah went after Temple. It was murderous and vacant. ‘Shellshocked’. Dissociated. Pick a term, Rach Harrington knew it all too well. She didn’t need to follow the two as they sprinted into that high-rise to know that Alleah was compromised. Didn’t even need to convince the Medical Staff.

And Alleah swore up and down that she was fine, that nothing had happened. It didn’t stop Rach from accompanying her to the tribunal. The speed and efficiency with which she crushed any record of the event told her that no, her employer was not “fine”. Pretty fucking far from it. Alleah was a paycheck, though. A milk run. Rach didn’t need to care.

‘Needing’ and ‘doing’ never much seemed to get along when it came to Rach, though.

“You called?”

Alleah stopped. “What’s she doing now?”

Rach sighed, and pulled a metallic cube from her pocket. “Ever used one of these before?”

“No.”

“It’s a tapcube. Pairs with remote surveillance tools.”

She depressed a small button in the bottom and activated it. A holographic projection appeared facing towards Rach, its contents obfuscated save for those at the correct viewing angle. It showing the feed from a camera she’d planted in corner of Nat’s workspace. Nat was at her desk, pouting, but otherwise…? “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Rach handed the tapcube to Alleah. As Rach did, the projection shifted to orient towards Alleah. Alleah looked away, as if the mere sight would scald her. Rach shrugged. “She’s doing her job.” The words seemed to disappoint Alleah. “Hey, if she’s that big of an issue, why aren’t you firing her?”

Alleah drew in a sharp breath through her nose, then paused a moment longer. “She’s an ACRE recipient,” is all Alleah managed.

“Ah.”

“Rest of the taps complete?”

“Yeah. We’re good here at work for audio and visual.”

“Desktop? Data slate?”

“Encrypted. Heavily, with biometrics. Bringing in a gal, but it’ll be few days.”

“Good. Other than that, though?”

“We’re good here. Having trouble with her apartment. There’s always people around.”

“What do you mean?”

Rach tapped a few times on her holocuff. “Just sent you the dossiers I’ve collected. They’re a polycule, or some weird found family shit. I dunno, depends on the day, I guess. Regardless, they’re tight-knit and I’ve not found a gap where there hasn’t been someone home.”

Alleah gritted her teeth. “I don’t care. Just do it.”

“Alright.” Rach gestured to the tapcube. “Keep that on you. I’ll let you know tonight when it’s done.”

* * *

The shrill wailing of the fire alarm that ripped through the restful slumber of the denizens at The Apartments at Aerielight wasn’t what startled Nat awake; it was the sound of Roque, screaming bloody murder. She knew all too well what that meant, even sleep-addled, even though she’d not heard them scream like that in years: it meant that Roque was going to go for their service firearm, stashed away under their bed in a portable gun safe.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Nat twisted the door to Roque’s room to see them hunched over a small box. Fuck. She took in a deep breath, trying with all her might to resist the urge to grab Roque’s wrists and still them. Every one of them had gone through what to do should something like this arise. The one upside of ACRE: at least the ninety minute course on “handling your disease” had been paid for by the state. Calm words. Disarm them with your voice. Ground them in the here and now. “Roque, listen to me. You’re here. You’re present.” If Roque heard Nat, they didn’t listen. Instead, their hand pressed another digit on the gun safe’s keypad. “Nobody’s trying to hurt you,” Nat said. “Remember where you are. You’re not in the bunker. They’re not here to take you.”

Roque let out a terrified sob. “She was here last week,” they mumbled. “You can’t trick me. Can’t trick me. Can’t get in. Can’t get in there. Not again.” God. Nat was so fucking stupid. How had she not thought this through? Smart job traumatizing your friend again, asshole. Deeper into the apartment, she could hear Min, Lace, and Elbrin headed for the door.

“I don’t smell smoke. W-we’d smell smoke, right?” said Min, her voice melodic and quavering with fear.

“It’s gotta be a false alarm, Min.”

“Even if it is, we gotta go. Where’s—” Nat flinched, bracing for what she knew was coming? “NAT? ROQUE?” A terrified, strangled sound somewhere between a yelp and a pained moan registered from Roque, and they only sped up their pace.

The chime from the gun safe, followed by the light ‘clink’ of it unlocking, was all Nat needed to hear to spring into action. The words were awful in their simplicity. “Roque. Stop.” And, to Nat’s horror, they stopped. “Put the gun back, and heed my commands.” And to the stirring of warmth low in her gut, Roque obeyed. There was no protest, no snark, they were just… under Nat’s control, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Go ahead, Elbrin!” Nat yelled back, her eyes still trained on Roque; they took in every facet of her latest conquest. The ease with which Roque dropped should’ve alarmed her—it’d been like slipping a key into a well-worn lock. Instead, what Nat focused on was how their eyes were vacant. Totally, utterly vacant. Wow. They’d never looked this hot to Nat before. And the way their mouth curved into a small, placid smile? Delightful.

Nat waited until she heard the front door close to keep talking, down regulating her emotions and breathing as she settled into what felt right. Into what felt proper for a woman like her. She didn’t quite manage it. Each time she tried to get into this headspace, every detail got more vivid. She was aware of so much more because she needed to be. Bits of the environment that she could use to reinforce whatever she’d do to—no, no. No. That’s not what this was. “Roque. Follow me downstairs. When we get outside, you’ll accept that this all happened, but you will not discuss it. Nod if you understand.”

They gave a slow nod, and Nat felt herself stiffen. The vision of Alleah giggling and sighing out the word “Handler” with such boundless affection crashed into her mind. She didn’t want it there. It was bad. And Roque wasn’t Alleah! Roque wasn’t a threat to Nat. Roque was a friend. Roque was… hers. No, not hers. Not like that. Never like that. This was just to do what was best for Roque. It was Nat saving Roque from what might have been a horrific tragedy; either for themself, or for whoever had gotten in their way. She ripped her gaze from her friend and marched out of the room. She didn’t have to check to know that Roque was following six steps back, and one to the left: just like they taught every hound.

And god, did it feel good to have done this. To know that it wasn’t just some fluke or an overreaction on the part of Roque, but that she really could get people to come undone. She’d been shaken from her certitude after this past week, both about her mission and about her capabilities. She wanted to have more regrets than she did, but this was too much. It was overwhelm upon overwhelm, a slithering superposition in which she was victim and perpetrator of this heinous crime. Yes, this was awful. Yes. Of course. Of course it was awful. It was the death of everything: of hope for a better world, of hope for a better her, of hope for a final and lasting freedom from the pain that had bedeviled her since the war’s end. Logically, she knew that.

It was still better than any other feeling in the world.

They wound down the stairwells in tandem amidst a throng of fellow residents, everyone weaving left and right to avoid the areas where the treads had worn so precariously that a single wrong step could cause one’s foot to punch through. Even then, Roque was six steps behind, and one to the left. Good. Obedient. Hound.

The stairwell opened out onto a main plaza between the two buildings that made up The Apartments at Aerielight. There were throngs of people still trying to get out onto the sidewalk, filing out of the controlled access entryway one at a time. As they approached, Nat felt Roque jostle into her before attempting to retreat. The crush of people, though, made that impossible. “I’m s-sorry,” Roque mumbled.

“What’re you—” Nat’s question died in her throat as she felt Roque press themself more firmly against Nat’s ass.

“I’m sorry,” Roque repeated, even as they began to rut against Nat.

“Stop, Roque,” Nat whispered over her shoulder.

Roque pressed the two of them forward, and off to the side of the exit. The milling of the other residents nearby made it difficult for Nat to do much more than brace herself as she slammed into the metal grating that surrounded the entryway. Roque rutted harder, their apologies giving way to more bestial noises. In the confusion and the din, nobody had yet noticed, but through the grating Nat spotted her roommates standing on the street. If any of them saw, they’d figure out what Nat did to Roque. That wouldn’t do. Summoning her strength, Nat shoved back from the grating.

The force of it pushed Roque off just long enough for Nat to slip into a gap between a couple holding hands. Roque let out a low bark and pursued—for what else would a rabid dog do? It took all of three steps past the gate for Roque to stop, the vapidity in their eyes replaced with sentience, cognizance… and shame. The two stared at each other for a long moment as more residents filtered out around them like ants marching around a bead of water. Then Roque stepped into the stream of people and left Nat alone.

Nat didn’t want to feel bad. She shouldn’t. She was helping. She’d made Roque better. Her only mistake was stopping.

* * *

She was alone. Again. Why was she always alone? Alleah had friends. Or, no. She didn’t. She had people who were beneath her that were so utterly terrified of her that they had to be friendly to her. And that was fine. It’d been fine for years, building up the sarcophagus of all things social around her: extravagant and idealized for onlookers, but dead on the inside. Her apartment hosted foreign dignitaries, CEOs, a literal king had once stopped by. When they left, though, it was like they took all the oxygen with them. It was a dull, dead vacuum.

Meanwhile, Nat Temple—this fucking waste, this bottom feeder, this parasite sponging off the glory of XA—had friends. Close friends. Loved ones! Not just the kind that hung around and complimented her when it was convenient, or whose proximity to Nat was subject to Nat’s proximity to power. No, these people fucking cared, based on the dossiers she’d spent the night reading. Littered in Rach’s meticulous files were hundreds of bank transfers, large and small, of these girls covering each other’s accounts when they dipped into the red; they’d put each others’ contact information on resumes; there were emails, and text messages, phone calls, social media posts… endless reams of small ways in which they’d woven their lives together to become “family”.

It was the part of this that filled Alleah with disgust and outrage. All of them said it. None of them meant it as the smug, condescending joke that Alleah had turned the term into. And how? How could this “family” of poor miscreants who had the gall to not do what she’d done to fit in—to blend, to assimilate, to hide the evidence that she ever used to be anything other than ‘Alleah Masterson’ because that crime was one that could make her something repugnant to the very people who happily shook her hand.

How could they be happier than she was now?

She was about to give voice to the howl from deep within when her holocuff pinged. It was Rach, just a quick text message:

R. Harrington - 08:32 PM
Up.

Alleah scrambled for the tapcube and turned it on. She spent a moment orienting it before she placed it down on her Delacroix coffee table, not realizing how zealous she’d been when a faint squeak registered from the tapcube made contact. Alleah winced. Last time it’d cost her 16,000S⃦̖̀ to get a minor abrasion buffed out. Carefully, Alleah shifted the cube to the side, then sighed. It didn’t leave a mark. Good. That was good.

And soon she’d have eyes on Her. She’d know where Nat was at all times. Nat was hers, and hers alone. There was a purity to the purpose of it. A possessiveness that she would’ve interrogated further if not for the loud banging of the front door to Nat’s apartment swinging opening. Alleah watched, enraptured, as a woman with tanned, golden skin and gray hair rushed through the apartment and towards their room. That must be Roque Lamarche.

They were followed by a shorter, pale woman dressed in a powder pink pajama set holding a teddy bear stuffie close to her chest, and a taller woman wearing boxers and a tanktop. That must be Min Ferellin and Lace Merre.

“They’re mad,” Min whispered.

Lace brought Min in close. “They’re not mad at you, okay?” Min nodded. “Wanna go back to your pillows?” Min nodded again. Lace guided Min to a small cluster of pillows and started to arrange them.

“You’ve gotta make sure they’re all nice!” Min whined.

“I know, Min. Don’t worry, okay? I’m just getting them all together.”

Freaks. They were freaks. That was the only way Alleah could think to describe it as she leaned closer in. This kind’ve affection wasn’t okay between two grown people. The way Lace treated Min was so soft, so loving, so… matronly as to make Alleah fidget just watching it. She used just the right amount of sympathy and kindness balanced with the unyielding authority of someone who knew they knew better. That Min treated Lace as a child would a doting parent made it all the worse.

A reedy, bespectacled woman with thick braids of dark hair cascading down to her shoulder blades stepped into the room next. This must be Elbrin Oaksorth, the veterans rights’ activist. She peered down the hallway before turning her attention to Lace. “Any idea what that’s about?”

Lace shrugged. “I’ve gotta make pillows.” Elbrin nodded, as if this was a normal sentence. As if the woman playing at being a little girl was worth indulging. As if Elbrin and everyone else just accepted her. Nobody did that. People didn’t accept one another, not like this. Why hadn’t someone taken this broken, damaged woman by the hair and told her that she had to “get it together”? Alleah’d gotten that message by the time she’d spent six months in the system.

It didn’t stop the strange, giddy nerves that shot through her. What was she even doing? Why was she so hellbent on invading these people’s lives. They had nothing to do with what was going on, and…

…And then that fucking monster Nat Temple She walked into the room, glowering. Alleah’s breath left her in a heated rush, warmth prickling every part of her as she stared—transfixed—at the sight. Even at this distance, compressed and viewed from high up so She looked so small, it was like a piece of the Sun had been brought into the room with her. Everything burnt hotter: her wounded pride, her mind, the blaze collecting between her thighs. Ever since the car ride, she’d avoided so much as looking in Her direction. It’s why she’d hired Rach. But now? Now she wanted the challenge. Her remote surveillance had shown just how weak they all were. That included Her. Alleah would win this; she’d watch enough to innoculate herself so that the mere sight didn’t set off these feelings.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Elbrin probed. Alleah scoffed. The nerve to ask she had to think of this woman as Nat Temple and not Her questions in that tone.

“Nothing, just… I’ll deal with it,” A woman who should’ve meant nothing She said, dismissive of Elbrin’s question. Then a woman who Alleah needed to mean nothing She sighed and added, “flashback.”

It was another sentence that seemed normal to Elbrin, who nodded in understanding. It mystified Alleah. How? How could it be so normal to have flashbacks? How could someone not look at you differently for having gone through that? Not judge you and call you weak and small for it? How could—her rival; no, her Handler; no, Nat Temple; no, Handler; no, fuckfuckfuck which one? They kept blending together and Alleah couldn’t understand how to untangle them. It was like she was back on her knees, feeling those mind-obliterating commands rip at her foundations—She stand tall in the face of it and see someone like that.

“You’re a good friend,” Elbrin said.

Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Nat Temple Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease don’t think of Her as Handler’s eyes were locked on a point somewhere down the hallway. “Yeah… I am.”

* * *

Nat rapped her knuckles on the door to Roque’s room.

“Fuck off,” came their reply, muffled through what sounded like more than just the door. Was Roque’s face buried in a pillow? The mental image should’ve made Nat feel worse. What she’d done was cruel. It was sickening. And it’d made Roque leak and whimper. That was what sealed it for her. Instead, she almost burst out laughing. Laconic, confident, self-assured Roque reduced to a crying little thing, all because Nat had said a few words?

God, it’s not like she’d done something truly awful, even. Was everyone this fragile underneath it all, just… pathetic collections of traumas and neuroses slopped into shells and sent out into the world? Nat had always assumed it was her who was defective. She cared too much. She was ‘too sensitive.’

Too weak to withstand being broken by that bitch of a sadist.

And yet, here she was: victorious.

Still, even in her moment of glory, she had to make things right with Roque. She’d have died without Roque. It was that simple, and both of them knew it. Roque was the one that brought Nat together with Min, Lace, and Elbrin. Yeah, their apartment was on Exhalation-blighted land and yeah, most of them were so broke half the time that they’d had to share what little they scrape together just to get by. It didn’t matter: all the girls living in unit 308 looked out for each other. Community—a community made by Roque, no less—had saved Nat, so it was only fair to apologize. Plus, Roque still knew some folks in the Seventh Legion and their assistance was going to be necessary. Fuck it: time to play nice.

“Roque, I really wanna apologize,” Nat let herself pretend to be weak, adding a quiver to the words that she didn’t feel. It’d be easier on both of them. And, after all, all she had to do was get into the room without Roque’s defenses going up. Everything else would be simple after that. She’d sit down next to Roque and they’d talk. Roque would see reason. She could fix this, or fix Roque. Both options appealed to her. She told herself she’d decide in the moment, even as she’d begun recalling all the ways Roque had made themself vulnerable with Nat over the years.

They could still have community… just at Nat’s hands. It’d be better this way.

Silence, followed by the shuffle of bedsheets a moment later, told Nat that she wouldn’t find any more resistance from Roque. The door swung open, and Nat’s face fell—her practiced facade breaking open into something softer and more genuine as she saw again what she’d wrought. Roque’s features were etched with dread and worry, eyes red with tears, their body tensed to strike. They looked diminished. Haunted. Remorse wrapped a hand around Nat’s throat and squeezed.

“I’m sorry, Roque. It was wrong of me,” Nat didn’t need to pretend to be weak anymore; the quaver in her words real now as she struggled to not fall apart and come undone.

Roque enveloped her in a hug and—just like so many times before—Nat felt the love wash away a layer of the pain that’d made her cruel. The roiling tide of rage at the events of these past few weeks surged out of her in a wailing cacophony of guilt-laden tears. When she’d stopped, she wasn’t sure how long had passed. All she knew is that—at some point—they’d moved to Roque’s bed, and she’d nestled her head in Roque’s lap.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Roque said, lightly scratching their long fingers along Nat’s scalp.

“I know.”

“I might never forgive you for it. Not fully.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

“It’s cruel to do that to someone…”

“It is, you’re right.”

Roque’s fingers continued their scratchy massage of Nat’s scalp as they fell silent for a long moment. Nat didn’t need to see their face to know they were contemplating something. She had a feeling she knew what Roque was going to ask, but…she didn’t want this moment to stop. Maybe if she told the truth, it’d be okay? She had to steel herself against the shame and panic rising in her; it was one thing to do that to Alleah in the moment—when she’d been begging for it—and another thing entirely to explain it to someone who’d been where they’d both been.

Finally, Roque asked the question. “How did you know how to… y-you sounded like She did. None of us ever sound like that.”

Nat let out a defeated sigh and brought her hands up to wrap around Roque’s wrists, stilling them as she pulled away. She didn’t want to say this while in her friend’s lap. It wasn’t right. She didn’t deserve to have someone like Roque comfort her after what she’d done.

She slumped away from Roque before she stood. “It’s… um… God, I don’t know where to even start.”

Roque furrowed their brow, concern and confusion evident. “Did that bitch do something to you?”

“No! Alleah, she’s…ugh. Remember when I Tagged her last time? She… I guess she had this fantasy where I was… that she… well, it…” Nat dropped her gaze to the floor. She couldn’t look Roque in the eye when she explained what happened. “Alleah fantasized that I was her Handler. She told me that. This time, I mean, after I Tagged her. She begged to be unmade at my hands, Roque. And it all came rushing back, even things I’d thought I’d forgotten. I remembered Her and the words she said and then I just…”

She felt the word forming on her lips and—despite her best efforts—she couldn’t stop it: “Knew.” It dripped off her tongue like sweet and sickening venom from deep within her soul, a malignancy she couldn’t cut free.

At the word, Roque went still again. Nat knew it without turning to look, that predator’s will scratching at the door to her soul and begging to be heeded; to be let in so it could run roughshod over the petty obstacles that held her back from greatness. Sparks of shameful delight coursed through her as she heard the way Roque had stopped breathing. They were waiting, ready to bolt or attack if Nat so much as said another corruptive word.

Nat couldn’t help it: it was cute to think Roque had a chance.

When she locked eyes with what she presumed would be a frightened thing needing to be coaxed into its rightful place, instead all she saw was…lust. There was panic in their eyes, too, but it was so small now that all it needed was a single word—“Calm.”—to be snuffed away; the final, dying gasp of Roque’s defiance uttered in sheer silence as Nat accepted what must be done.

Roque didn’t resist as Nat moved toward them. By the time she’d closed the gap, Roque had begun panting like the dog it needed to be treated as: a feral creature that needed to remember that in a civilized place, they required a firm hand. Nat brought one to rest against her new dog’s chin, brushing a thumb across its lower lip. Her dog whimpered and opened its mouth, letting Nat slip inside without further prodding.

“I’m really sorry, roque,” Nat began, relishing the way roque’s tongue instinctively went to work teasing at and suckling on Nat’s thumb, “but I can’t help you do anything other than break for me.” roque shuddered with delight, and Nat could understand why: to be unmade — to sink deep into the morass of gentle, enveloping, unyielding oblivion — was better and more potent than the Imperial drugs that burnt her soul in the galaxy’s crucibles. That’s what the scientists who’d attempted to “fix” them didn’t understand: no amount of rebuilding the brain could undo the craving for how it felt to not exist. Even the Tag Hunts were an ineffective remedy, often leaving Nat and the rest of her team on edge no matter the outcome.

Nat Knew roque had been craving it. Would it be so unkind, in the end, to offer it what it wished? After all, who was Nat to deny a broken mutt the opportunity to unburden itself? She wasn’t a Handler. She wouldn’t play god. All Nat could do was take this as it came. It would be the greatest gift She could give the deluded thing before Her: an end to the slog of self-directed living, and a new purpose as Nat’s sword.

If it also just so happened that She refused to wither to dust in a shithole apartment not a stone’s throw away from where the Ozyx High-Orbit Projected Energy Satellite had ripped a kilometer-deep trench into the ground, well then… that was just icing on the cake, right? And it’d be better for them all. The low-level, “harmless” radiological hazard meant that every few months they’d have to coat the streets in a “harmless” herbicide, lest the damnable, “harmless” vines get a chance to break through the foundations. They were still rebuilding the tenement around the corner from when it’d collapsed. Nat hadn’t seen that many bodies covered in cement dust since the war. Since Gela-Akragas. Since She’d shot Her friend and compatriot out of the sky and sent the core of his Hulkstrider plummeting into—

Nat shook away the memory. It came unstuck this time, a blessed change from the usual, but not without scratching its way free and leaving in its wake a trail of fine little wounds on her psyche. Guilt, and doubt, and loathing bled into her mind, the feelings bright and glaring chaos against the stillness of the dark. She couldn’t stop, though. Whatever’d broken in her was already sealing the gaps, letting the umbral ink of it seep back into the wounds. Who cared? Nobody.

Sucked for them, being dead. Nat refused to be. Life required living, and if it meant doing a little—what euphemism did they use again…? Enrichment?—to make it so, then…

Well, then what did it matter what She’d done? She was doing this to take away roque’s pain. To cure it of its craving for what only She could give it in this moment, and in the moments to follow. Revulsion, and the bile that followed, tightened Her throat even as She began whispering the words: “you must remember that you are mine, roque, but that you are mine only in secret—only where whispers will reach. The others will join us. It will be their pleasure. You are the first. What an honor I gift you.”

roque sighed as it suckled on Nat’s thumb, humming a bright tune She recognized as one of their company’s marches:

Mama mama can’t you see
What the army’s done to me