Her eyes closed, shutting off the darkness and the night vision—blocking out the arching metal and concrete ceiling above her that had half crumbled into patched in places. She placed her hands behind her head to create a pillow, content to read lines and lines of text as she gently slid her teeth over her upper lip this time—tugging it in and letting it pop back out.
Progressive? He really had a knack for twisting her words—catty is what it was. She chuckled as he sent the next. Thinking with his fingers brought about too many equally catty responses she could quickly shoot off without thinking much. But she didn’t, throat tightening with restraint as she considered.
>And where would that be?
….Cause she really couldn’t help herself.
>Be a pretty advanced toaster.
>Someone would have to be lazy
>to have to want their toaster make toast
>and send gay porn—any porn.
>Or… maybe they just like burnt cock for breakfast.
>Or maaaaaaybe the toaster they’ve got a hard on for does.
…Now she was rambling, making herself laugh at him—at her. No, not classy at all. In all honestly, it was a bit nerdy—the kind of shit someone would say when, like Fate, they were thinking with their ‘keystrokes’.
And then he was complimenting her again. About pervy things—about pics he thought was of some woman on her hard drive—Robin’s. Ignoring the fact that he thought she was a dude, it was the kind of thing Rage considered sweet.
>I’ve only given you an inch.
He could think that argumentative—defensive, or he could think it a taunt… or maybe more flirting. She went on smiling wondering, beyond the veil of their connection, what he was thinking that didn’t slip out involuntarily.
>You’re rambling again.
>What if there isn’t any music?
—she sent, because saying ‘Can you send me a pic of yours?’ was pretty gay based on his last reply.
She sighed wantonly as more text rolled behind her eyelids, white on a black screen. She frowned genuinely, sitting up as he sent ‘You’ve had enough for today.’ She pouted and brought one hand up, fingers touching her lips. Shit… was he cutting her off? Was she going to have to wait another week to start over again and maybe get back to this place?
No, wait…
She was so focused on what he was trying to say, mentally reaching for more with a knit brow, that she didn’t notice what he was doing on the other end of the line with all that metadata she’d been leaving him. It had been intentional, sure; she liked leaving breadcrumbs for her wire-tapped crush. But, what happened next was not exactly something even she could anticipate.
Which said a lot.
Or, maybe she was too drugged on what was pedaling that she didn’t think to care.
Her eyes widened first, her whole face going into shock, as her mouth opened in a gasp. Long transparent strands and red leather flapped about her body as she was tugged down by gravity. When the darkness came as she cut through the muted and moldy air, her tech went haywire—spouting off warnings and red alerts for her to do something before she damaged herself. Because even a fall this far without careful analyzation would do damage.
“Buggerin’ fuck!” she snapped as she twisted in the air, calculations and equations appearing to provide answers. She moved her body so she could hit one side of the metal tube with the sole of her boot for leverage, then another, slowing and cushioning her fall. When she hit bottom she bent her knees, alleviating the impact further with a fanged growl that couldn’t be helped.
Well… that was different. Certainly more physical than she’d expected.
>Like to give me a work out do you?
>Touche, wanker.
It would sound affectionate in her head. The idea of him beating off had no negative connotation to her. But he might construe the text, if he translated the slang, into being a little snappy.
After the reply, Rage immediately did an examination of where she was. As screens popped up analyzing further, see-through and wrought with colorful letters and numbers, she reached out. Leather gloved digits met with metal—thick hard ass metal. Something skipped in her chest as she went around—all the way—looking for an obvious exit.
It didn’t occur to her to try and climb out. Wouldn’t.
Anxiety prickled at her subconscious and her throat tightened as she stepped back. Ivory-chrome depths rippled and her hands began to shake. As her heart rate sped up, pounding an erratic rhythm too fast and odd to be human, her back hit a wall. And then she jumped, gasping loudly before placing both hands on either side of her head.
Closing in…. closing in…. nonono…!
Carefully constructed security measures and tiny bits of tech in her body went… silent; they died entirely and no longer offered protection. No firewalls against the camera feed in her eyes; against the nanotech working in her body and jetting through her veins trying to figure out what the problem was so they could repair it; and no firewall against all of the memories that flashed through her mind and were made into actual broken images for him to see on his screens—half scenes of a lab, of people white coats, of bubbling fluids surrounding someone in first person in a tube. And then just a blur of darkness. Chaotic audio bites were sent to him of people spouting orders in London English, of people talking mutely about prospects and possibilities; then came words like ‘disappointment’ and ‘failed experiment’.
A woman’s crisp English voice said over all the others on an audio bite, “They want us to start over. Disable and dismantle the subject. I want her in the incinerator by nightfall.”
It came in a like a stream: unfiltered and choppy, likely overloading his system with data and pain. Worse than the viruses he’d sent. Fear, fear, and more fear; it all latched onto the last connection she’d had—the one with him—unable to stop. Her mind flooded, becoming whatever the system could translate to on tech, screens, and audio.
She lowered, knees bending and drawing up as she sat—arms curling around them. Her eyes squeezed shut and her jaw flexed. She pressed her eyes into her legs, her bangs a tumble over the top of them.
She didn’t mind the dark; it was when the dark didn’t have a horizon, but a barrier without exit, without a way to be seen through with her tech, that it all came back. Too much time, too many days, too many hours aware and poked at—confined, confined, confined.
She was choking on it; choking on the walls they threatened to squeeze her bare.
“Fate…” her accented soft voice whispered, not entirely there, not entirely knowing she’d called his name over the open channel—because she wasn’t rational enough to know it was open.
Progressive? He really had a knack for twisting her words—catty is what it was. She chuckled as he sent the next. Thinking with his fingers brought about too many equally catty responses she could quickly shoot off without thinking much. But she didn’t, throat tightening with restraint as she considered.
>And where would that be?
….Cause she really couldn’t help herself.
>Be a pretty advanced toaster.
>Someone would have to be lazy
>to have to want their toaster make toast
>and send gay porn—any porn.
>Or… maybe they just like burnt cock for breakfast.
>Or maaaaaaybe the toaster they’ve got a hard on for does.
…Now she was rambling, making herself laugh at him—at her. No, not classy at all. In all honestly, it was a bit nerdy—the kind of shit someone would say when, like Fate, they were thinking with their ‘keystrokes’.
And then he was complimenting her again. About pervy things—about pics he thought was of some woman on her hard drive—Robin’s. Ignoring the fact that he thought she was a dude, it was the kind of thing Rage considered sweet.
>I’ve only given you an inch.
He could think that argumentative—defensive, or he could think it a taunt… or maybe more flirting. She went on smiling wondering, beyond the veil of their connection, what he was thinking that didn’t slip out involuntarily.
>You’re rambling again.
>What if there isn’t any music?
—she sent, because saying ‘Can you send me a pic of yours?’ was pretty gay based on his last reply.
She sighed wantonly as more text rolled behind her eyelids, white on a black screen. She frowned genuinely, sitting up as he sent ‘You’ve had enough for today.’ She pouted and brought one hand up, fingers touching her lips. Shit… was he cutting her off? Was she going to have to wait another week to start over again and maybe get back to this place?
No, wait…
She was so focused on what he was trying to say, mentally reaching for more with a knit brow, that she didn’t notice what he was doing on the other end of the line with all that metadata she’d been leaving him. It had been intentional, sure; she liked leaving breadcrumbs for her wire-tapped crush. But, what happened next was not exactly something even she could anticipate.
Which said a lot.
Or, maybe she was too drugged on what was pedaling that she didn’t think to care.
Her eyes widened first, her whole face going into shock, as her mouth opened in a gasp. Long transparent strands and red leather flapped about her body as she was tugged down by gravity. When the darkness came as she cut through the muted and moldy air, her tech went haywire—spouting off warnings and red alerts for her to do something before she damaged herself. Because even a fall this far without careful analyzation would do damage.
“Buggerin’ fuck!” she snapped as she twisted in the air, calculations and equations appearing to provide answers. She moved her body so she could hit one side of the metal tube with the sole of her boot for leverage, then another, slowing and cushioning her fall. When she hit bottom she bent her knees, alleviating the impact further with a fanged growl that couldn’t be helped.
Well… that was different. Certainly more physical than she’d expected.
>Like to give me a work out do you?
>Touche, wanker.
It would sound affectionate in her head. The idea of him beating off had no negative connotation to her. But he might construe the text, if he translated the slang, into being a little snappy.
After the reply, Rage immediately did an examination of where she was. As screens popped up analyzing further, see-through and wrought with colorful letters and numbers, she reached out. Leather gloved digits met with metal—thick hard ass metal. Something skipped in her chest as she went around—all the way—looking for an obvious exit.
It didn’t occur to her to try and climb out. Wouldn’t.
Anxiety prickled at her subconscious and her throat tightened as she stepped back. Ivory-chrome depths rippled and her hands began to shake. As her heart rate sped up, pounding an erratic rhythm too fast and odd to be human, her back hit a wall. And then she jumped, gasping loudly before placing both hands on either side of her head.
Closing in…. closing in…. nonono…!
Carefully constructed security measures and tiny bits of tech in her body went… silent; they died entirely and no longer offered protection. No firewalls against the camera feed in her eyes; against the nanotech working in her body and jetting through her veins trying to figure out what the problem was so they could repair it; and no firewall against all of the memories that flashed through her mind and were made into actual broken images for him to see on his screens—half scenes of a lab, of people white coats, of bubbling fluids surrounding someone in first person in a tube. And then just a blur of darkness. Chaotic audio bites were sent to him of people spouting orders in London English, of people talking mutely about prospects and possibilities; then came words like ‘disappointment’ and ‘failed experiment’.
A woman’s crisp English voice said over all the others on an audio bite, “They want us to start over. Disable and dismantle the subject. I want her in the incinerator by nightfall.”
It came in a like a stream: unfiltered and choppy, likely overloading his system with data and pain. Worse than the viruses he’d sent. Fear, fear, and more fear; it all latched onto the last connection she’d had—the one with him—unable to stop. Her mind flooded, becoming whatever the system could translate to on tech, screens, and audio.
She lowered, knees bending and drawing up as she sat—arms curling around them. Her eyes squeezed shut and her jaw flexed. She pressed her eyes into her legs, her bangs a tumble over the top of them.
She didn’t mind the dark; it was when the dark didn’t have a horizon, but a barrier without exit, without a way to be seen through with her tech, that it all came back. Too much time, too many days, too many hours aware and poked at—confined, confined, confined.
She was choking on it; choking on the walls they threatened to squeeze her bare.
“Fate…” her accented soft voice whispered, not entirely there, not entirely knowing she’d called his name over the open channel—because she wasn’t rational enough to know it was open.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
The following 1 user Likes Blade's post: Tindome
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