Trust Me.

This starts out at the same point as last month's excerpt, but with choices added at the start, and a different person to meet than ZaZa. The latter part don't have choices or variables yet, but enjoy!

...

*label path2.2

The days pass. One after the other. The inertia of hiding after the terror of running. Nothing to do but live through it. Sink down in restless sleep, wake up with a feeling of disappointment because nothing has changed. Brush your teeth, clean your body, glare into the mirror for too long before the tension gets uncomfortable. Your body. Not your body. Familiar. A stolen car now in your name, tuned and taken care of and yet not yours.

Yours. Was your body ever truly yours? A project. Grown for someone else. Were you ever anything but a glitch in the system, a bug corrupting what you were meant to be? Free will in a brain designed for the opposite? So what are you now? Free from baggage? Free from tattoos? Human through and through. You could run. Leave it all. Be nothing. Nobody.

Do you even know how to exist without chains? Without limits?

No. You made your chains into weapons, into armor. Filled the little box they had put you in with rancor until you were as dense as a black hole. [i]Exceed maximum psychic depth.[/i] Hah. As if limits weren't just constructions of the human psyche. You were never human.

And now you are, and it's terrifying.

You can't feel the weight of the city around you. It doesn't feel real, reduced to concrete structures with cardboard people, all of them smiling, frowning, laughing, staring, none of them real. None of them with the weight of thoughts. You never thought you'd miss the skittering of cockroaches in the walls that you had reduced the onslaught of thoughts to, but now that it is gone how can you be sure you're real? You can strip off your clothes, but you can't strip away your skin. No clawmarks will change things. Nails not weapons. Red stripes that fade quickly. No tattoos, you could walk down main street dressed in nothing and all that would happen would be that you would be arrested for indecent exposure.

Not true. Not quite. Not after the hospital. You might get arrested by the Rangers. But the point still stand. As do you. Alive. Free.

*fake_choice

  #In hiding.

    You need to stay out of sight until you understand what's going on. Luckily you're no stranger to that life.

  #Terrified.

    Whatever is going on here is not good. You don't understand it. You have no control. All you can be sure of is the rising dread, and your attempt to stay one step ahead of it.

  #Paranoid.

    You've done a paranoid dance around the city, never sleeping in the same place twice.

    *set daring %- 10

Steal a car, ride the bus, rest in a library. Rent a hotel room, worse and worse as your funds got lower. Avoid places you would be seen, keep your notes, draw your maps, try to find a way to solve this.

Can you?

Facts on paper, black pen, blue pen, no orange because the temptation to draw on your skin might be too strong. What you know:

<lb>

» My body is alive.

<lb>

» Somebody is using my body.

<lb>

» I won't go back when I fall asleep.

<lb>

» I can't go back.

You look down at the page. [i]Somebody[/i] has been written in, [i]something[/i] has been crossed over underneath. Your pen hovers over [i]I can't go back[/i], almost ready to cross that out as well. Defeatist thinking. You won't accept that. Instead you carefully add a new line:

» I can dream.

Disconcerting. True. You don't remember much come morning but you remember that you dreamed. Something. [i]Something.[/i] You put down the pen, turning to a new page. No facts. Speculation. Blue pen. The end of it is chewed bumpy already. Frustration. An itchy pain. Like a teething baby, but you were never a baby and you don't remember your teeth growing in. A fleeting notion of losing teeth, growing into adult ones. Did they fall out in the tank? Were they caught in the filter with all the refuse? Did some technician pick them up as trophies? You were supposed to put them under a pillow, right? Someone told you that, but was it a memory or an implant or stolen thoughts? Faeries. Stealing your teeth and giving you money in return. The Farm never gave you anything. Did they keep your teeth? Did someone steal them?

*fake_choice

  #They might as well have.

    They might as well have. Perhaps they still exist, frozen in a sample-container somewhere with your blood and marrow. You can extract DNA from tooth in a pinch, and in case of a freezer-failure they would last longer. Sounds like them. But the truth is the Farm could never steal anything from you.

    You don't even own your own body.

  #My memories taste wrong.

    Maybe you have stayed too long in this body already, your memories taste wrong. Smell like something intrusive. A door that had been closed for too long finally open wide. A stench. Dead air. A dead body. You nearly choke, but as you do the smell is gone.

    All that surrounds you are the scents of coffee and people.

  #Do faeries exist?

    If people put their teeth under the pillow for the faeries, does that mean faeries exist? Why else would they make up a story like that? You always thought the rules the Farm invented for you Re-Genes were strange, but perhaps that's a trait of humanity in general.

    Or perhaps you're spiraling again.

You chew the pen, then stop as you catch a look from a young woman at another table. The coffee shop is busy, but she noticed you all the same. Did you look out of place? Did you grimace? You force your face into a small smile, hiding your fangs for now. No fangs. Why do you want to bite people? When did you start? Your first weapon. Are you regressing? Your smile works, this body still knows the drill even if your brain is circling the drain. The young woman looks down at her magazine once more, sipping her coffee. You admire her hair, her perfectly poised hands. Like a statue. She doesn't feel real. You don't know what she feels. If she feels. You don't. You can't. She's blank. Dry cardboard. A fake fruit in a display case, never rotting, never eaten. Does it matter? If it's never eaten, it doesn't matter if it's real. If she never dies, does it matter if she was alive at all?

It's like being surrounded by dead bodies who are still moving. A quiet, polite, zombie apocalypse. Not even Ortega's annoying static to prove ${he}'s alive. Flat. Empty. A graveyard of bodies where the souls have checked out.

You look down at the page again, the tiny letters scrawled in blue. By your hand? Maybe. Probably. [b]DieDieDieDie[/b] is written between the lines. You hold up your hand and look at it. Is it a wish for murder or a chance to prove your luck?

*fake_choice

  #Someone needs to die.

    Someone needs to die, you know that deep in your bones. And yet you're not sure the intent is yours. You know your enemies intimately, but this feeling has no target. There's a taste of blood in your mouth and hands on your face, a caress filled with a pain that almost feels intimate.

    *if ace

      Ah. You know this scene. You watched it play out in black and white, Ace's eyes meeting yours across time and space. Seeing you. Telling you.

      You look down at the paper again. Are you haunted? Receiving messages from beyond, penned by a dead soul, already devoured and digested?

      Do they want you to kill Shroud at last?

      Or... them?

    *else

      Feels like a first kiss. Feels like drowning. Feels like things you should ■■■■■■. You don't dig your fingers into a wound and hope it will heal. You do it to dig out what hurts you. Who hurt you.

      Who hurt... ${phim}?

      There is no face. A white veil. A cellar. A chair. A camera in that keeps watch.

      You turn to look at it, knowing someone will be looking back.

      Eventually.

  #Throw the dice and hope for sevens.

    The gesture of throwing a pair of dice feels natural, you can almost hear the sound of them landing on soft felt. The physical thrill of knowing before they stop. Taking that moment, stretching it, pulling it back, back like a hooked fish until you can taste it before touching the dice. Knowing if it would be bad. Or good. Hear your own sigh of excited relief or annoyed huff at a loss.

    Learning when to walk away.

    *if ace

      You know this body didn't in the past. Will it be able to with you at the helm?

      Ace. Are you the ghost in ${phis} machine? Or just the pilot of an abandoned ship left to drift?

    You've been dreaming of tables. The smell of too many bodies, alcohol, sweet perfume, cigarette smoke. Learning to walk away, cash in your chips in time. And then... and then...

You look down at your hand drawing an increasingly smaller spiral. In the end all patterns become a dot. A point. A point you can stretch into a new line. Spiral to wave to pattern, tic, tac, toe the line, wait two breaths to pick up the dice, change the angle you toss them at. A bad roll to a good one, shake them in your hand until it felt right and then let go.

Watch them fall with the surety of a winner. No doubt. Ride that wave. Remember that feeling.

*if red13

  You felt it at Joes. The dizzying spin of the wheel.

*if precognition <= 30

  But what is it?

*elseif precognition >= 50

  It has served you well so far.

*else

  Right now it's all you have.

You've made a bet you're not sure you can cash right now, but you need information. Possibly help. Not that you can reveal the truth, but you needed someone in your corner. Backup.

It took you weeks of agonizing to determine who you would call.

*if boss

  It couldn't be Pelayo. You know him, he'll do his job, and if he was asked to bring you in, he would. Ward was too close to Pelayo, and you didn't trust Nehal to keep her mouth shut even if you were ready to risk her like this. ZaZa was an option. He always was the wild card.

You weren't sure if you could you trust $!{hench_name}. Under other circumstances you would have said yes, but you have no idea how eloquent your real body is. Or what or who is in it. If pushed to choose between ${villain_name} and ${puppet_name}, who would ${hhe} pick?

*if ((puppetmortum_relationship = "frosty") or (puppetmortum_relationship = "business associate"))

  You knew Dr. Mortum wouldn't stick ${mhis} neck out for you. Not when you can't pay ${mhim}, and right now you don't dare to access any of your accounts. They could be used to trace you.

*elseif ((puppetmortum_relationship = "revealed") or (puppetmortum_relationship = "betrayed"))

  Dr. Mortum was a risk. $!{mhe} might be the only one equipped to understand the truth, but you didn't part on good terms. And with things the way they are, ${mhe} might see this as yet another attempt to manipulate ${mhim}.

*else

  Dr. Mortum would come if you asked ${mhim} to. You knew that. But getting ${mhim} involved gives rise to other considerations. You want your body back alive, and how can you be sure the good doctor won't take the simpler route and have ${villain_name} eliminated if given the choice? You would need to craft the right story to make sure that wouldn't happen, without revealing the truth.

*if ((puppetortega_relationship != "none") and (puppetortega_relationship != "workout friend"))

  And finally there was Ortega.

  *if ortega_flirting_puppet

    You've strung ${him} on so far, but how long can that last?

  *if suspect_ortega_uses_puppet

    You're an excellent liar, but you can't shake the feeling that so is ${he}. Who is using who is debatable at this point.

  $!{he} would come if you asked ${him} to, but could you predict what ${he} would do? Would you even know what story to tell?

Hard decisions, but in the end the person you decided to ask for help was...

*fake_choice

  *if (boss) #ZaZa.

    *goto zmeet

  #$!{hench_name}.

    *goto hmeet

  *selectable_if ((puppetmortum_relationship ! "frosty") and (puppetmortum_relationship != "business associate")) #Dr. Mortum.

    *goto mmeet

  *if ((puppetortega_relationship != "none") and (puppetortega_relationship != "workout friend")) #Ortega.

    *goto omeet

*label omeet

*comment NO CHOICES OR VARIABLES HERE YET, JUST A SINGLE PATH.

Ortega is late. You look at your watch, feeling the cold steel in your pocket. Another bet, Russian roulette, not a White Russian but a Virgin Mary. Finding the right moment to push your bet. Risk reaching out. The gun feels heavy, like failure. But being here feels right. A chance. You can't run away forever, you tried, and that didn't get you anywhere. Is ${he} watching you? You try to reach out, but again your numb brain finds nothing but your own paranoid fantasies. No familiar static. Not just that. It's worse. You can't feel anything. No thoughts. You wish your head was empty. A joke you never understood before. But now? The people around you might as well be. You used to be bombard by the streams of their consciousness, a constant trickle, from rain to waterfall. And now?

Dry. Empty.

You look down at your notebook, then close it. It fits in your pocket. How come this silence is so different from what you used to feel around Ortega? $!{he} never felt dead to you. Not empty. If anything, ${he} was always too full, to the point of overflowing. Full of ${him}self. You can't stop the chuckle. Your life might be in shambles and your body hijacked by an unknown entity, but at least you still have your sense of humor. Such as it is.

Is this a bad idea? You scan the cafe again, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. How many times have you been sitting here before, as ${puppet_name}, waiting for Ortega? Another date. Another stolen moment in a stolen body. And now you really have stolen a body. And ${he} knows it. You attacked Steel. Which wouldn't make things better. And yet you are sitting here, betting everything on Ortega being curious enough to talk rather than send in the LDPD to arrest you. After all, you know where ${name} is. $!{he} wouldn't be able to ignore that bait. $!{he}'d need to know.

The bigger question is how much you can afford to tell ${him}. Not the truth of course, that would be a bad idea. Maybe some curated version as a last resort, but once you start talking about things like body hopping and possession, there's too much of a risk that ${he}'d put things together. You don't think ${he} knows that ${name} is ${villain_name} yet. You managed to talk yourself out of trouble before the crash. That's one boat you don't want to rock. No, you need a better story.

The faint sound of chimes at the door makes you look up, locking eyes with Ortega the moment ${he} enters. As if you both instinctively knew. $!{he} breaks the connection first, walking over to order coffee. Chatting with the girl behind the counter, a carefree smile as if nothing was wrong. At ease. You know the truth. It's there in the way ${he} still has you within ${his} field of vision. Just to make sure. Still, you're grateful to get a moment to compose yourself, trying to decide how to play this. Play ${him} without playing yourself.

"Fancy meeting you here." Ortega's smile is relaxed but ${his} eyes are tense. Not something anybody would notice, but you know ${him} too well. "Been a while."

"Well, you've been in the hospital." You keep your voice soft as you sip your cold coffee. No trace of bruises on ${his} face, just the faintest hint of a healing scar where ${he} must have been cut going through the windshield.

"You were visiting I heard. I'm a bit disappointed it wasn't me you wanted to see." Oh there is the razor in ${his} smile. No. Not a razor. A rusted dagger, liable to give you tetanus if you allowed yourself to be stabbed.

"It was business, not pleasure." You keep your voice short while allowing your gaze to waver. Play up the conflict. Play up the worry. "I wanted to. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Ortega lifts ${his} cup but doesn't drink. Instead ${he} looks down at it, as if trying to discern the future in the milky foam on top. It's formed a heart, which is probably a bad omen. Nothing but broken hearts here for the two of you. $!{he} takes a sip and eradicates any trace of it.

"For this whole situation." You gesture vaguely, letting ${him} take ${his} pick.

"We both know that's not true." There's a tired capitulation in the way ${he} looks at you. As if seeing you face to face settled something. "You're here for a reason. Might want to start with that."

"$!{name} is safe. Alive." You lock eyes with ${him} as you say the words. The relief is obvious in the way ${he} carefully puts the cup down so ${he} can rest ${his} face in ${his} hands for just a moment. Guard down. If you wanted to take ${him} down, this would be your moment. Instead you sit there, giving ${him} the time ${he} needs to pull ${him}self together again.

"Why?" $!{his} eyes narrow. "Why did you help kidnap ${chim}? What possible use could ${che} have to you?"

"It's not important." You can sense that ${he}'s fishing for something. As if ${he} already has a theory and only want you to confirm it. That's an opening, as long as you can figure out what it is. "I'm just doing my job."

"I've heard that before. Is this your job too? Was I?"

"It's complicated," you admit. "We're complicated. But the fact that I'm here? That's for me. Not anybody else. I shouldn't be here."

"You shouldn't," ${he} agrees. "But I'll take what I can get." There is a moment where you can see ${him} rub one of the emitters on ${his} hand, most likely considering ${his} options. "Are you working for Hollow Ground?"

"You know I can't answer that," you say vaguely, taking another sip of your cold coffee. You don't like to think about the meeting under Parkfield. It had been stupid to go in your real body, that was what this one was for.

"You just did," Ortega says softly. Is that pity in ${his} voice? "And I'm not surprised. It explains everything, doesn't it?"

"Then there's no need for me to give you answers." You wish you could keep up with whatever conspiracy theory ${he}'s entertaining now. Being vague is your best option.

"Only about one thing. You wanted a meeting, and I know it wasn't to say you were sorry."

"Yes," you admit. "Regardless of what you think, I like ${name} and don't want to see ${chim} hurt. Getting ${chim} out of the hospital was for ${chis} own safety. But..." you look up at Ortega, trying to judge how ${he}'s interpreting your words so far.

"Who told you it was for ${chis} own safety?" The question is surprising enough that you draw a blank.

"I mean... I got my orders," you mumble, annoyed that Ortega didn't go for the bait but something completely irrelevant. How typical. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Can't blame me for trying." $!{he} smiles. "Are you worried about ${chim}?"

"I am," you admit, that part is true. What is going on with your body worries you on a deep, visceral level you don't want to think about too closely. "${name} has changed since... since ${che} got back. Something is wrong and I'm worried."

"Huh." Ortega rubs ${his} chin. "@{sv Has|Have} ${che} done anything, or is it just a surprising change in demeanor and attitude?"

"I mean..." you frown, trying to figure out what Ortega is getting at. It's too specific to be a guess. "It's like you say. $!{che} @{sv has|have} changed. I had to leave, it was just too... weird. Not threatening, just... wrong." Technically no threats. Just a wrongness so terrifying it still gave you shivers. From the look on Ortega's face they believe you. Which is worrying. What does ${he} know that you don't?

"And you came to me."

"You're... friends?" You add a question mark at the end to make it more believable. $!{puppet_name} wouldn't know all the details. "I don't think ${che} @{sv has|have} too many of those."

"Oh boy." Ortega sighs again, looking towards the windows, but doesn't seem to spot anything suspicious. "I know I can't ask too many questions yet. I'll try not to..." the smallest of shrugs. "You know."

"Sure." You don't, but you're not about to tell ${him}. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you to help. Somehow."

"Help ${chim}... or you?"

"I..." you swallow, avoiding ${his} gaze. "I don't need help."

"Bullshit. It's written all over you. When was the last time you slept?" $!{he} leans forward.

"Pot calling kettle much?" You lean in as well, ${he} might try to look all smooth and in control, but you can see the cracks. "But sure, I'll bite. Maybe I do need help. But above all I need you to help ${name}."

"How?"

"That's..." you hate how ${he} catches you off guard with those direct questions. How are you supposed to play ${him} if ${he}'s the one in the driver's seat? "I need to meet with ${name}. In person. But right now I don't dare to do that on my own."

"Are you afraid you might be seen as disloyal?" The words are careful, almost tender.

"I suppose. Or worse. I don't know where we stand anymore, and..." you break off. Frowns. Tries to find words that won't hang you. "I want to help ${chim} but I'm not sure ${che} wants help."

"Oh I can guarantee you ${che} @{sv doesn't|don't}." Ortega smiles. "But that doesn't mean ${che} @{sv doesn't|don't} need it."

"I wish I could tell you more." Is that true? Do you wish you could bare your heart to Ortega and admit everything and get this masquerade over with? Maybe. Rip the bandaid off. Be the villain. Be the manipulator. Be the enemy. Just to stop ${him} smiling softly at you when you're wearing someone else's face. "I wish I knew what to do."

It's a gamble either way. If you can meet your body face to face perhaps you'll be able to take it back. You're not sure how, though. You're not telepathic anymore. What if you can goad the imposter into attacking you? Initiate the contact? That might be enough for you to get a foothold. And then the rest would be up to you. However, you don't dare to walk into your base alone. The imposter might order you shot. Or imprisoned. $!{che} would have too many options. You need to make sure that a telepathic attack is ${chis} only weapon. The best plan you have so far.

But that means getting ${villain_name} out of ${chis} base. You don't want Ortega near it, it's likely even ${he} would add up the dots. $!{name}. $!{villain_name}. If you can pull this off without ruining your secret identity it's worth a bit of extra effort. The question is how. The reason you're sitting here with Ortega in the first place is that you can't trust ${hench_name} to not pick ${villain_name} over you. And with the injuries it will be some weeks yet before ${che} can move on ${chis} own. Maybe you should have waited. You have a bad feeling about this, all the ways out are bad ones.

"Hey," Ortega says, a little too loud to get your attention.

"Sorry, I was a million miles away." You try to laugh it off.

"You looked it." There is a hint of worry on ${chis} face. "You were saying that you didn't know what to do, and I suggested that you trust me. You need help."

"I do," you admit. "But I can't." Trust Ortega. If you thought you could do that your life would have unfolded very differently. "I shouldn't have come."

"Hey," Ortega repeats, softer this time. "I'm glad you did. You might not believe it, but I was worried about you too."

"Business before pleasure," you mumble, but you don't hesitate when ${he} he reaches out to take ${his} hand in yours. The way his thumb rubs the back of your hand is an intimately familiar gesture. "I need to think about how to go about this."

"You could just tell me where ${he} @{sv is|are}. That way I can help you plan the rescue." So convincing. So willing to help.

"It's not that simple." You feel an impending sense of doom, squeezing his hand in return. You can't tell him that, the odds are not in your favor when it comes to this particular russian roulette. You know it. "I can't. Not yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that." $!{he} shakes his head. "But I understand. Business before pleasure."

Your body locks up in a cramp before you even realize what has happened, the pain hot enough to send you to the floor tasting lightning. The bastard tasered you. Smiled at you so sadly and zapped you through the hand he was squeezing in pretend goodbye. There are distant screams, and the last thing you hear before you back out is Ortega's voice, filled with authority.

"It is fine, I'm with the Rangers. Stand back. $!{phe} will be fine."

And then the world goes dark.