[Original] formaldehyde

[clausewitzing]

There are many sounds in the haze.

Though now the sounds will stop so that the lights may return.

It has been four hours since her life ended. It is some seventy-two hours before her life should end, unbathed in the red solutions running through a mech's arteries.

Her body crushed in the cramped closet of the iron giant is hot.

Sweat drips down her brow and runs down her neck into her nape

Breathe—breathe—breathe—breathe

and pools in the small sticky areas all over her body, the divots where her skin goes down in nice little valleys.

She has to focus on not hyperventilating, she thinks.

It is a common enough response to danger Seon knows

(That's me that's my name—Seon—Twenty Four Seon born and raised like any other Seon she thought)

and she wryly thinks with a dark amusement that only against another pilot has she ever been in true danger. Even when she obtained that dreadful scar, she never was in that sort of danger, the sort where there was no proper resolution

Off her terms—her terms

no proper resolution which ended on a happy note for her, anyway.

She tries to move. Her arms are folded against her chest, because they will not fit in the small closet in the belly of the beast. The same goes for her legs, where purple bruises spread, not mollified by the lack of motion or movement.

She is still wearing her jumpsuit. There used to be a red patch on its shoulder in the shape of a stripe, and a Korean flag. But they were removed four hours ago, and thrown into the sea.

She tries to push outward, for her body aches.

No luck.

Her first clear memory of the now comes, is created, when the closet door finally slides open. Seon realizes how cold her body is, how drenched it was, in the closet, when she crumples to the floor—her legs having given out.

Her eyes crane upward

(Behold an angel come to save us she thinks suddenly)

Levitating, rising unbidden, to meet the gaze of her captor. Large and imposing in this fisheye perspective, bloated she thinks compared to the small light body Twenty-Four Seon has herself. (And yet they aren't all too different she thinks trying to be fair; no Seon is truly fat)

Her black hair is the vantablack material you see when a Formic pops, when its light-absorbing gore falls down into the cerulean sea below. That hair absorbs the light radiating about her head like a devil's halo

An indication of GUILT of GUILT of GUILT get me out of here

it is a coronet black as sin.

Twenty-Four's gaze trace her captor's lips, which are ruby-red, still done up with the makeup of last night. Her face white is like the moon in the sky, solid and pure and undefiled, a last record of this world before the Formics.

Her eyes drop down to the contours of the imprisoner's body, tracing them, committing them to memory (for what purpose?)—her body reacts involuntarily as the queen of devils before her takes a single step forward, one that appears more as a lurch to Twenty-Four but is inarguably intentional, measured.

Hi sweetie says this other Seon.

"Sweetie," she says again.

"Up," she says for the third time, Twenty-Four only now thinks That's what those words mean, her brain is running on autopilot, filtering out the stench—not of sweat, hers is bereft of a smell (then of what?)

Twenty-Four stands up. Her feet wo

(Pain lances through the soft and tender flesh of Twenty-Four's belly and it feels as if it will rupture in a spray of red gore once more—but it does not)

bble; below her tracksuit she is a canvas of bruises.

"We're out of Korea," announces her captor

Ten Seon

whose name returns to Twenty-Four (it is Ten! It is Ten Seon).

Twenty-Four looks at her mutely.

Ten's face is ambivalent, emotionless. The moon threatens to turn to its dark side, with it will go the life-giving substance Twenty-Four needs.

"Respond when I say something to you, please," Ten says.

Twenty-Four is silent for another moment, but this time only because she is frozen on how to reply.

"I," she weakly and finally replies, "I'm glad?"

"Hm," Ten nods, "That is nice~ And quite appropriate. Becoming of a good girl like you."

Ten stares at her. Twenty-Four Seon shivers. Her eyes claw at Ten's skin, but the piercing stares are deflected by the captor's iron demeanor. Unbidden Ten says:

"Ahaha hah … Wow. Did you know you're cute~? I don't think it's fair to refer to you only by number. So I will call you Monocarpic."

She smiled sweetly. "I am Marie to you."

---

Mono

Twenty-Four Seon

discovered three things. The first was that she had a hitherto unforeseen and unknown ability to desire death. The second was that Marie took many drugs when she struck out for America. The third was that Mono was hooked on drugs.

 

[clausewitzing]

For now she

Mono

Twenty-Four Seon

exists in a binary state. When Marie is near, she is Mono. When Marie has disappeared, down into the internals of her puppet bastion, or into the blood-red solution which preserves her body and mind, she is Seon.

Right now she is Seon. Marie has gone and this time she hopes it will be for more than a scant hour.

The sounds in the haze haven't faded, but Seon has gotten better at having her thoughts while submerged in them. Her body

a layer of grime oil from the machine a layer of sweat a layer of dead skin

is the most arduous part of it all now.

Seon mouths to herself: summarize, summarize! Think, Seon.

… Can she?

Can she think. There were exercises for this back in Korea-43, the hex where she was generated. Any proper pilot had to be able to think in the heat of battle, Formics only thought after-the-fact—so a slow pilot was at a major disadvantage

that's it keep the thoughts coming

and so Seon learned to think. To have an idea, as opposed to merely getting one.

'Can she?'

In those camps where she was raised, Seon would have exercises sprung upon her. The teacher, who was another Seon, identical in appearance but a full score of years older where it mattered—in the head—

the old bonce

would make the younger Seons, the cadets, continue her stories. She'd always start with a scenario, a mecha trapped in the expanses surrounded by Formics (and it'd have slight variations to make the game more challenging, less predictable). She'd look around and pick any of the Seons, and she'd say Can you?

With a tip of her head she would start the gleaming stopwatch in her hand. It would tick tick tick until all ten of the ticks it had in passed—by that time the Seon would either have responded with her story or she'd have lost that point.

Twenty-Four Seon never lost points. She answered the stories every time—she at least tried, that was what mattered—not the believability, as long as there was effort put in, but the willingness to step out.

Can you?

Can she?

Ha,

Aha haha:

It's not a question. Seon might be in this closet, trapped, held hostage and hooked on drugs—but she can, she can think.

First the situation.

Seon is in this closet. She is physically weakened, with a crippling injury, without her mech, and her timer

sands pouring quickly down the hourglass

is merely being delayed by these drugs Marie is giving her. The drugs allow her to think, too—ten hours she can last, if that, without them. Everything starts to break down again otherwise.

There's no way Seon will allow herself to stay here. It'd be advantageous (on top of comfortable) to be allowed out, into the main channels of the mech. But she doubts that she would be able to escape into Marie's tunnels, however—she is, after all, the injured one.

Seon thinks.

Seon thinks.

She needs to have an idea, as opposed to merely getting one.

 

[clausewitzing]

She has an idea. But first of all it hinges on escape from the closet.

But the third time that Mono is dragged from the haze is not for drugs.

"How is it?" Marie asks.

Mono hesitates. To be safe:

"Fine."

The answer seems to neither please nor upset Marie. The full moon wanes and then waxes but there is no threat of bipolar flip to new.

"I see," Marie says.

Mono regards her captor with a mix of disgust and awe.

"Well~" Marie continues, "Stand up."

Mono fumbles a moment, scrabbling

she won't begrudge me this look at my body

until her hands find a solid hold on the wall, on one of the shelves, and with her upper body strength she manages to haul herself off the floor, both legs wobbling.

There's something painful to the prude inside Seon about showing herself to another person like this—even someone like Marie. She'd almost rather return inside the dark closet.

"You've been good," Marie says, "very, very good!"

Mono is silent for a second, and then she remembers. Marie's face has already begun to darken, when Mono stammers out:

"Uh—Ah—I—Ah, thank you,"

Her captor's lips purse. She looks at Mono.

"Listen," Marie finally says and her tone is devoid of the cutesy mask Mono has become so used to,

guardrails

"If you don't respond when I say something I'll kill you.

"If you don't respond immediately I'll hurt you.

"If you don't respond in a respectful way I'll hurt you and then I'll take something away from you, a body part or a right or something you'll dearly want for when it's gone.

"If you try to be smart I'll just take something away.

"Do you understand?"

Mono swallows.

The moon falls as Marie takes two steps forward into Mono, still leaning back, holding herself up on the shelves, forcing her head back down; Marie's body is bent at the hips unnaturally as she stares down with burning eyes at her prisoner.

A white appendage grows from the trunk of the moonhead before Seon and slams

FABHGN njnfwa bnfhJGJK m,l …..

against her head. Seon's head snaps to the right and impacts the side of the tiny closet

JNN BHJGNA bnf AAAAAA n mmm

and there's a little bit of blood that comes from the gash present on it now

ggj ann nnn , ,,,,,,, …

and Seon swims in and out of consciousness.

"Get up," Marie says.

Seon is insensate, the arm comes agai

KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKHHH——————

n and again twice over and more blood comes and the gash is driven deeper

Get up

Mono breathes out, "Please don't hurt me," and as the arm revolves coming back to strike again she finds she is on her feet. The arm stops.

kK hghhhhh

Marie regards Mono with a new smile.

"Very good. You're a very good girl," she compliments Mono.

"Thank you," Mono responds automatically. Perhaps a yes ma'am would work she dimly thinks

swimming in and out of consciousness

Follow me, says Marie, as the darkness closes in.

Mono takes her first step in how many days? Only one, it's only been one day, she thinks, she hopes, since she came here.

She takes a second step. She's reminded of the lance of pain at her gut with that one, and stumbles—

then she falls over.

 

[clausewitzing]

Once again Marie penetrates the thick haze.

Open up comes the sound, "Open up," cooing.

S—Mono squirms, infantile, her ears still ringing

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

but manages to stammer out a word, a "Ma'am" with the front of her mouth and a hoarse voice coming torn violently from the chest.

Mono is situated on Marie's lap, in one of the blank corridors common to all pyrethroids.

Marie's fingers deftly maneuver toward Mono's mouth. The foreign entities invade her, salty, slightly oily and unclean worms forcing their way into the buccal orifice. Fingernails clink against Mono's sensitive, hitherto cared-for teeth. Mono tries to flatten her tongue so the revolting taste of Marie's skin might be assuaged.

A dry pill is set near the back of her mouth. She begins to choke, "Swallow," she hears distantly—is caught between response

(Yes ma'am!)

and action.

"Yes ma'am," she chokes, the pill falls downward but she catches it with the swap to the esophagus, on the floor she greedily chokes it down—it catches, she summons saliva to wash it down, it doesn't take—

She spasms, hacking at the dry pill caught in her throat. Rolling off of Marie's lap, onto the floor, like a dead fish—

Strong hands wetted from sick breath and a mouth's spit find their way around—Mono's neck, thumbs pressing down on the little area where the pill is—working it, down—down.

Mono struggles.

Their eyes meet.

Mono's are wide and bloodshot. Her pupils are black.

Marie's are sparkling and playful. Her pupils are black.

Mono writhes. The pill slips down and suddenly she can

Gasp

breathe once more, or she would be able to if those hands did not remain.

Marie keeps them there, tightening, for a few seconds. Mono feels her head swimming. Blood pools underneath it on the floor; the gashes are reopened. It binds her hair together like a tacky tar.

Marie stares, and smiles.

Mono watches the scene desperately from what feels like a third person's point of view. Dissociated, floating about the room, in and out—78 shots and 52 cuts.

It is voyeuristic, ritualistic.

The pressure at her neck only barely felt by now stops. Marie's hands drop to her side. Mono pulls air into her lungs, desperately gasping—unable to do anything more right now. She stares upward into the lights of the corridor.

Her chest rises as her muscles contract.

Into the fetal position she curls. It's too much. It's all too much for Mono—her entire body is warm, uncomfortably so, her head is in a daze, and she's unable to think—it surges up from her stomach and into her mouth, she tries to hold it in but vomit gushes from it in thin but somehow turgid chunks and flows, most of it water and drugs. The pill too, coated in the substance—

With lithe fingers Marie picks from the pool

Vomit mingling with Mono's blood, hair, and skin

and her right thumb hooks into Mono's cheek, pulling it to the side. Her teeth are exposed, her foul breath smelt by Marie who leans in close:

The left hand places the slick pill down onto her tongue once more, where it rolls back, Mono chokes, her head twists away, but Marie's right hand holds it still affixed, nailed into place like Jesus on the cross.

The pill tastes like vomit.

Mono chokes it down.

 

[clausewitzing]

"Up," says Marie, and the reply is an automatic

yes ma'am

Mono stands up from the twisted, half-fetal position. Blood and vomit drip down the sides of her face and suit.

"Follow me," Marie says.

It is the first time since her being brought to the mech that Mono has been truly allowed out of that closet and its haze.

There is a shower in the mech.

"Why is there a shower in your mech?" Mono asks timidly.

"It's a home," replies Marie. "For me and you. Now~

"Strip," says Marie. She is smiling.

If this were Korea-43, and it were an order from a superior, Mono would not hesitate to do it. Neither of those things are the case, however.

Marie has laid out rules, and disobeying an order isn't punished by those rules. Though Mono has no doubt Marie would add another rule if she did, and instead punish her retroactively—like when she hesitated.

Marie has kindly given Mono a second's extra time to think by now.

Mono's finger fumbles about the zipper at her collarbone and then pulls it forward and down, the vrrrrp of metal and metal interlaced unlocking. The line down the jumpsuit opens and it unseals, becoming a baggy mess around Mono's thin limbs.

The suit, though stained and bloodied, is a cradle and a shelter for her body. It slips down from her shoulders as she hurriedly removes it and renders her unsafe, more violated than even before

foreign entities invade her, salty, slightly oily and unclean worms

it crumples around her hips. Her hands pull the loose suit down the rest of the way, she does not mind the paleness of her arms, how they are exposed, how Marie watches her back intently like a predator—she does not mind it

(if she did the drugs wouldn't stop anything)

ha, haha, she cannot mind it.

The suit falls handily down the rest of the way. Exposing her legs to the light.

Mono's undergarments, thick and simple and devoid of eros, remain on her body. She looks hesitantly at Marie.

"That's enough," says the other woman.

A great pressure falls from Mono's shoulders. She slumps.

"Step into the shower," commands Marie.

She reaches up to the head and removes it; it stretches on a long length. She clutches it in claw-like fingers as if it's a gun as if she's unfamiliar with how to hold something, palsied warped talons trying to find a proper way to hold the metal showerhead—only partially succeeding.

The water begins to run. Mono stands over the black iron drain.

The stream impacts her body. It is cold, and it carries great force, causing her to stumble to the side as the spray cleans the grime and sweat and vomit and blood nesting in the subtle dips and divots in her flesh.

Marie adapts to her job with the frightening appearance of glee.

Does she take pleasure in torture, Mono thinks.

Is she a sadist. Is that all this is.

Is she doing this to get herself off, the thought floats as she winces and turns her body trying to shield the parts of herself that are still warm

(who am I kidding I'm freezing anyway)

but the incising ray emanating from Marie's hands manages to seek out those still-warm places and eliminate the heat from their crevasses.

The spray of water shuts off. The discolored water falls into the sinkhole that is the yawning drain below. Mono's captor drops the showerhead on the floor.

Mono sucks in a breath. Her hair is still greasy and her body still feels unclean, with the layer of oil that has accumulated not having been washed off. She shivers, and as always her gaze is, torturously, strapped tightly to the floor.

"Good," says Marie. "How does it feel being clean."

Mono feels soiled.

Marie steps backward, producing from one of the closets another pilot's suit tightly fitted to a Seon.

All Seons.

"Dress."

To focus on the bright side of things, at least it's nice that I don't have to wear my own suit again, Mono thinks.

The smell of that suit still overwhelms the pyrethroid.

She swallows down vomit.