Chapter Text
I ranted to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic heart.
I sought my betters: though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart.
Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.
W. B. Yeats, “Remorse For Intemperate Speech”
“Yeah, I did get the promotion,” Amelia says. She can’t help the grin tugging on her face, full and wide, every fluttering pulse of pride beaming out through her smile. “Didn’t think it was poss, but I did. They’re pinging everyone about it tomorrow.”
Orion whoops, the sound momentarily clipping in Amelia’s rings, and he sets down his third glass of who-knows-what to give her an exaggerated high five. Tyra just pats Amelia on the back, smiling faintly. Her martini is still untouched.
“Good to hear, good to hear,” she says, “and you were asking for a while, weren’t you? You surprised?”
“Oh, nah,” Amelia says, shrugging it off, stirring her soda with the straw. Yes, she had been asking for months— but it had seemed inevitable, really, completely poss. After all, things like this are simply a matter of time. She knows this, acutely knows every move to make, every way to win, every possible facet of working in audcom.
Amelia takes a sip, peers at the other two over her luxes, letting her eyes graze easily over their careful expressions. (They clearly don’t know, not the way she knows.)
It’s not hyperbole— nobody’s better at industry politics, but I’m trying to be humble where I can. Guess Tyra’s just a little slow on that part.
Tyra, to her credit, only nods serenely, taking a miniscule sip of her drink.
“Well, of course you’re not surprised,” Orion says, downing the rest of his glass before leaning back with a smirk. “I’m not surprised either. You excited to boss us around, department manager?”
“Am I ever,” Amelia says with a chuckle that’s anything but sarcastic. Of course I am. “I’ve already started drafting a couple of policy changes, so keep your eyes peeled.”
“Oh?” Tyra says. Orion, too, turns to her with a curious glance.
“Some ownership stuff,” Amelia drawls, “a little bit more review done on management’s side, maybe a change in the usual song clearance process. Just trying to streamline stuff, caught?”
“Yeah, caught,” Orion says. “Although…”
He trails off, eyes settled uncomfortably into Amelia’s through the lenses of his luxes. All at once, something frosty creeps over the booth, dampening the chatter around them and sinking deep. Their careful smiles from before begin to sour before her eyes.
“Hmm?” she says.
“Oh, no, I just…”
The light glints off his frames in a way that feels blinding, and she can already tell he’s looking something up, maybe even privately pinging Tyra something— probably, judging by the way both of them are suddenly blank-eyed and quiet.
That’s right, Tyra got vias done last week. You can even see them flickering over her eyes right now, see through the modded eye color, the flimsy glare shielding. It’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Ah, they’re probably drumming all kinds of shit about me, aren’t they?
“Well, what do you mean,” Orion says slowly, “by ownership stuff? Are you shifting snippet ownership regulations around?”
As expected. Strick this, time to make her exit. Amelia doesn’t bother even trying to give a convincing performance, just swallowing the last dregs of her soda before standing up with a grin.
“Actually,” she says, “my sister’s—”
Her rings start chiming, a ping popping up in the corner of her vision, and Amelia could almost laugh at how perfect the timing is.
Meg> I’m picking you up
She doesn’t even bother subvocing a response, just thanks her lucky stars and plants her hands on her hips. What a coincidence. Thank god for Meg.
“Yeah, sorry, my sister just pinged,” she says, wiggling her fingers at both of them. “Urgent as always, so I’m off. Have fun!”
“Oh— uh,” Orion says, and adjusts his luxes awkwardly on the bridge of his nose. “Well, have a good night.”
“And congrats again,” Tyra adds. Amelia doesn’t miss that quick glance they share with each other— but she smiles back anyway, giving them a final wave before turning to leave, weaving through tables and groups with hurried steps.
It all drops the moment she steps foot outside of the bar. What a pain. Inside, someone shrieks with laughter, the sound vibrating unpleasantly through her rings. She flicks a couple settings across her view and shifts them quieter.
What a pain. What a stricking pain. Amelia sticks her hands in her pockets, tries to breathe slowly.
Can’t fucking believe it here. Let’s not forget who actually got the promotion. Stricking losers.
Granted, it’s a little easier to calm down outside. The air is fresh, erring on the side of cool, and the street is empty for the most part. Really, the only activity is the gentle flicker of shopfronts and the ever-present flow of adstreaming messages up above. Staring up at them makes her eyes burn and her vision blur— Amelia reaches up to trace along the temples of her luxes, running her finger along the right-side panel until her vision corrects to be a little less murky in the dark. (The panel itself is a little scuffed, and she flicks a quick note across her view to get that fixed sometime.)
Now she can see all the way down the street without too much eyestrain, flicking her eyes over the alleyway to her left to zoom in here and there, and she absentmindedly fiddles with her rings until the adstream’s loud enough to hear.
In a way, it’s soothing. Familiar— the messenger sounds the same. The music sounds the same. Even the spiel of corporatisms, self-deprecating and clever, slippery and fanatic, is exactly the way it always is. And then the jingle Amelia wrote last month: up and down, up and down, up and up and up, she thinks to herself, humming along with the melody going up and down and up. Remind yourself. You did this— you’re doing good. You’re gonna keep doing good.
Up and up and up and up.
The panel in her lower left view tells her Meg’s a minute away. She listens to the adstream for a little longer, picking out the jingles and snippets she knows, listening for the background bleedthrough of songs that always seems to be omnipresent. There’s Wereco’s latest single— then something she can’t really place, although it sounds like something from Pleight—
“Amelia,” Meg’s voice says, drumming in and cutting through the adstream— Amelia flinches and glances over to see her sister on her ecobike at the end of the street, holding up a gloved hand, her glossy helmet covering her face completely.
“Hey!” Amelia says, turning down the volume and jogging over. “How was the ride?”
Meg shrugs and tosses her a helmet. “It was fine. Did you wait long? Have a good time?”
“Nah, not at all,” Amelia chuckles. “To both of those. You saved me from some real annoying crackle back there.”
Meg snorts. “Really? How so?”
“People being irritating about my promotion,” Amelia says, swinging her leg over the seat of the bike and leaning into Meg’s back. “You know how it is, you heard them in the office today, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Meg says.
They don’t say anything after that— Meg just starts up her bike, and off they go, Amelia loosely holding on and staring out at that gentle pulsing of the streets whirring past.
It’s a special kind of weekday night, the kind of night where everything is dampened and unfamiliar. Even the adstreams feel pretty in their own strange way: their pale, bright colors, blurry faces shifting softly over the sky, are like flattened clouds. Convenience stores and shopfronts stream past in blurry ribbons of sterile white light, silvery mirrors of the sky above. Soon, the few bikes and cars around dissipate as they merge onto the freeway, and Amelia finds herself thinking about how empty it feels for 21:00, how silent. She can’t remember the last time things felt like this— she usually drums with Meg’s music so they can listen to it together, but Meg’s link says she’s not listening to anything at the moment, and so the only sound in Amelia’s rings is the gentle buzz of the adstream.
Fine with me. I could just fall asleep like this, she thinks. Meg’s warm. And I’m home soon…
She lets her eyes close, lets her thoughts shut off, luxuriating in the gentle buffeting breeze, the slight chill in her hands.
“Amelia, hey,” Meg’s voice says. “We’re home.”
“Oh— already?” Amelia mumbles, lifting her bleary eyes from Meg’s back. It’s their apartment’s old parking garage, a couple of lights fluttering on and off, a familiar sight all in all. She straightens up and cracks her neck.
“Did you fall asleep?” Meg says.
“Nah,” Amelia replies. “Well, maybe a little. I’m wide awake now, though. Thanks for picking me up.”
They pull off their helmets— Meg adjusts her luxes, blinking at the light and running a hand over her braids. Amelia does the same, and for a moment they glance over each other wordlessly, a silent check of are we good? before stowing the helmets away and heading off to the elevator doors.
They’re silent again, walking down the hallway to their apartment, Amelia flicking up the passcode on her luxes and opening the door. Meg taps her shoulder—
“Are we good?” she says, repeating it with her eyes and locking the door behind her.
“We’re great,” Amelia says. “What is it?”
They stare at each other— Meg opens her mouth, nothing coming out. Amelia blinks back. And suddenly she feels like the silence lying between them is tired, worn, straining, somehow a far cry from the peace and calm of five minutes ago.
“Are you…” Meg says, her voice hesitant, slow. “Look, that promotion, whatever happened at the bar. What’s going on?”
Wonderful. Here we go again.
Amelia sighs deeply, plunking herself down on the sofa and shrugging off her jacket. “What, you’re not happy for me? You know how long I’ve been wanting this, don’t you?”
Meg shrugs. “Sure,” she says, terse, small. “Just… what are you planning now?”
“What makes you think I’m planning something?”
“Well, you’ve told me,” Meg says flatly.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Amelia says, leaning back and kicking up her feet on the coffee table. “So? Nothing’s changed. You see what I do at work every day, you know I’m still doing what I can. Planning the future. Playing their game just fine, caught?”
Meg gulps, her eyes wandering everywhere but Amelia’s face, hands loosely grasping at her jacket.
“I just think you… okay. Never mind,” she breathes out, already turning to put away her jacket and bags.
Amelia can’t help the twinge of irritation that rises up in her throat at that. “Never mind what? Are you gonna keep talking in codes? You got a problem?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Meg snaps, and she turns back to Amelia without a trace of the nervousness from before, her face stony and set. “Ever considered how much I want you to be safe? I don’t want audcom to swallow you up completely, god knows you’re halfway there, seeing how raged you are these days—”
“I’m raged, really?” Amelia cuts in. “I’m achieving the future I’ve always dreamed of, and that’s raging? I’m making the changes I always said I would make. I’m doing everything right. Why the hell would I be raged about that?”
Meg’s face hardens even more—
“Don’t mask with me,” she says.
Amelia pushes on. “What, are you jealous or something?”
“No,” Meg grits out, “I’m not. Actually, I’m quitting next week.”
Any words or retorts Amelia had in mind crumble away, and even breathing feels impossible as she stares up at her sister.
She’s…
She’s quitting?
A million thoughts rush up through Amelia’s chest— a million little snippets of betrayal, hurt, fear, discomfort, anger, feelings she can’t name, much less comprehend. She started the day with a promotion— and now she’s here— and it doesn’t make sense at all. Meg clenches her eyes closed, and her face reflects Amelia’s thoughts right back at her.
“Yes,” she says. “I am. I can’t work audcom another minute. I’m not going back. Not with everything you’re doing.”
“What—” Amelia chokes out, her head spinning, “what, what’s wrong with what I do for audcom?”
“You know, you’ve always been like this,” Meg continues, her face painful, her words landing heavily. “You lose sight of everything, because at the end of the day you just want more. You want the credit. You want the title. You want them to pull you up and take you in—”
Her voice cracks, wobbling precariously on that last word, and before Amelia can even process any of it Meg’s already rushing off to her room. She doesn’t thunder, doesn’t stomp. She doesn’t even slam the door. Like a mote of dust, she simply sweeps herself out of reach, and Amelia is left blinking at an empty patch of floor.
“Meg?” she finally says— but she wouldn’t be surprised if her sister’s switched off her rings’ receptors by now, and it’s not a surprise when nobody responds.
I’m sorry is supposed to come next. Then I didn’t mean that, right?
What did I even mean in the first place?
Bust, this is a headache. Amelia slouches, dissolves into the couch, screwing her eyes shut and trying to focus on tuning her rings back to her adstream. Everything is all scrambled— her hands are shaking too much to really finagle with the manual dials, her head is too mixed up to shift the channel— all she can hear is buzzing, chattering, up and down, up and down, up and up and up…
My head is completely fen. How many times have we done this? We were completely fine just a few minutes ago.
And she hasn’t ever mentioned being unhappy with work, has she?
No— every time I see her at work, she’s fine, every time we talk about work, she’s fine, it’s just me with the problem, me with too much on my plate, trying too hard, wanting too much, wanting to fix everything, wanting to have it all, to be pulled up and taken in—
Enough. Amelia flicks all the settings on her rings as low as they can go, ears buzzing as she stands up on shaking legs. She goes to her room and, on a total whim, pulls up some of her old sheet music on her luxes while she changes clothes. One stands out, for some reason she can’t quite place— it’s the sheet music for one of the crackle compositions she’d written when she had just started working audcom, a ratty old thing, outmoded and simple. A vague and amateurish attempt at originality, really.
“But it’s jazzy,” she had insisted every time. “Improvisational. Vintage.” No, it’s crackle, and Amelia doesn’t have to look at it ever again.
(She doesn’t want to put it away just yet.)
Just a little. Indulge in it, just a little.
So she takes out the old ecoguitar, tunes it up with her rings. It’s not a bad time. Her fingers aren’t used to the sharp strings, and her hands are slow and straining, but the notes and chords start to ring nicely. The song is obviously stupid— devoid of magnetism, strength, energy, a far cry from the types of audcom compositions she makes nowadays— just a stupid little song. She keeps playing.
At some point, careful melodies dissolve into reckless chords, delicate picking into quick and rough strums. She lets herself enjoy it, nonetheless. Tomorrow’s another day. The future is opening up to her, with or without Meg. And Amelia is going to get every last drop out of this promotion, wring it desert-dry, until this hell lets out its last rattling breath.
For now, she doesn’t think anymore. She just plays.
“We’re talking about children here, do you realize that?” Linh says. She stares at Francis’s hunched-over self, watching for a sign of anything — the cafe’s dim light strains her eyes, and so truly glaring him down is impossible. It’s an irksome reminder of just how much she hates meeting people here. It’s an enraging reminder of how much she hates meeting Francis in particular.
Francis, meanwhile, just smiles that same tight-lipped smile, his eyes faraway and full of mimed remorse. “My apologies. I really can’t give you the kind of information you’re looking for.”
“Children,” she repeats, because it’s true— they’re talking about children, babies, adults too, but the central point remains— “Children, dying. Dismembered. Dissected. If you know all the gory details about this case, I think you can make an exception for that.”
“What, like every other time?” Francis huffs, fiddling with his cigarette, still staring off into nowhere. “I’m afraid that’s not the case with this job. I genuinely can’t help you.”
“But you know something ,” Linh says pointedly. “Clearly. And I know your circles overlap all too well with the locations and individuals involved.”
Francis shrugs. “Well, that’s all subjective, isn’t it? Who’s to say I’m involved with anything?”
Who’s to say I can’t end you right here? Infuriating. Stricking infuriating.
He taps the side of his skims, a rather gaudy pair with round, red lenses, like he’s been recording all of this— Linh presses her fist into her thigh, grits her teeth, closes her eyes for a moment, as if any of it will quell the flood of frustration sweeping into her chest.
Of course it doesn’t. Francis is still there, probably double-crossing her right in front of her face, smug and silent. He scratches at his stubble, still staring at her with deep, sunken eyes, as if he’s receding even further into his own world, taking every crumb of information with him.
He looks exhausted— he looks spiteful— he looks impossible. At this point, her hands are just begging to shoot out and throttle him.
“You,” she says lowly, “owe me. So much. And this isn’t even much to ask, seeing how much I know already, and you can’t even try to cooperate.”
“And whose fault is that?” Francis replies— raises an infuriating eyebrow— “You’re not the only person who needs something, and you know whose side I’m on.”
No, I don’t, Linh thinks, because she doesn’t. Because he says this every time, as if it’s some kind of bitter truth they have to live with, as if it’s not ridiculous and mocking and evident that he’s not on anyone’s side, not even his own—
This stricking traitor. I can’t stand him. I can’t believe how much I’m risking for this fen garbage.
“I’ve already offered my side of the bargain,” she finally says. “I expected something of substance from you. But have it your way.”
Francis laughs humorlessly, pushing his ridiculous hair out of his face. “Don’t push me more than you should. You set your standards too high, Linh. You know exactly the kind of lowlife I am— who else would even consider selling you this kind of intel? Especially for such a high-profile case.”
She blinks hard at that—
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“As far as the entire world is concerned,” Francis continues, steepling his fingers with a horrible kind of focus, “you never existed. You’re a nonperson, even to the majority of crash. The only reason you’re still alive and handling these cases is because M values your work, even though your sources are just me, old man Wang, and Chrys, and that’s not exactly a safety net—”
“That’s enough,” Linh says firmly— and something sour settles in her throat, something sinister.
Francis stubs out his cigarette in his empty glass. “I don’t know why you think I can give you anything,” he says. “As if you and M are the only people seeing what’s been going on lately? Why don’t you go ask Wang instead? After all, you know his brother and sister well enough…”
“You really don’t know anything , do you?” Linh snarls, standing up to shove her chair back, all the blood in her body suddenly surging up through her head.
Some part of her resolve breaks, unable to hold anything back anymore— every part of her is left trembling.
I’m going to kill him, every part of her screams. I’m going to kill him.
“Don’t ever ping me again. And stay the hell away from us, caught?”
“I’ll see you,” Francis merely says, but Linh’s already turned to leave, slipping her skims over her eyes and yanking up her balaclava with trembling hands—
Ignore it. Ignore it, get out, she says to herself, get out, go around this table, open the door. Breathe. Get out.
Stumbling out and onto the sidewalk, she flicks a couple programs across her view to scan her kitt for bugs, making her way over to where she parked her ecobike. The street is bustling, everything honking and groaning with noise. Above, the sun casts a weak light, filtered through the smog and the adstreams, somehow too bright and too dim at the same time.
(Don’t push me, Francis had said. Go ask Wang, you know his brother and sister well enough.)
Shivers run through her back and chest, because she knows what he really means by that— exactly the threat it implies, exactly the assurance that yes, I know where you live, I know who’s important, I know, and you don’t.
She’s really regretting her outburst. Really, truly regretting it.
I’m the one who doesn’t know anything. Not even counting Francis, I can’t make heads or tails of this, and if I don’t get paid we’re stricked, and if I have to see another dissected human brain and examine all the little bits and pieces I think I’m going to—
I’m…
Linh gulps down as much air as she can, and she flicks the ping window up on the left side of her view to subvoc Moreira a quick message while she starts her bike:
> Nothing from that. I’m not going there again
Almost immediately, Moreira pings back.
M>
Alright, that’s fine. Thanks N
M>
Day after, 14
>
Caught
Linh flicks the window closed and merges onto the main street, rolling her shoulders back and straightening herself up. Right, it’s not the end of the world— it’s not. She won’t contact him again. She’ll wipe her trail completely, she’ll get it all sorted out at that meeting with Moreira, do some more digging, go scope out the crime scenes again…
I didn’t want to depend on Francis anyway. I really stricking didn’t.
The thought doesn’t make her feel much better, though. Linh tries to focus on any of the other horrible draining things around her— well, traffic is crackle today. The adstream keeps blaring into her eyes, somehow stabbing through the settings on her skims, feeling strangely sinister. Reallly, every part of existing in this moment feels like a chore beyond comprehension. It takes every drop of energy she has left in her body to stay upright on her bike, to keep going, to keep breathing.
Finally turning off the freeway, a new message pings up in the corner of her view:
Mei!> babe are you getting home?
Linh lets herself smile for once underneath the balaclava, speeding up as she subvocs a response.
>
Yeah, be there in a few
>
Long day.
Mei!>
almost there!!
Mei!>
imu
>
I miss you too.
Mei!>
come home soon <3
Soon can’t come soon enough. It feels like an eternity before Linh finally pulls into the shopfront under their apartment, walking her bike into the back storeroom and rushing up the stairs, footsteps quick and breathing deep. It’s hard to feel the straining of her lungs over the rushed pounding of her heart. So she slows down at the door, fumbles with her key for another eternity.
It’s all good, though, all fine the moment Linh gets the door open, barely closing it behind her before Mei pulls her into a tight embrace.
“Hey,” Mei murmurs.
She’s warm. She smells really good. I missed her.
“Hey,” Linh replies, her heartbeat still pounding.
“Glad you’re back,” Mei says, and her voice is all muffled in Linh’s shoulder, pulling her in for a final squeeze before loosening up. “Wanna eat?”
“That’d be nice,” Linh says, reaching up to pull off her balaclava and skims. “Did you make something?”
“Yep!” Mei says. “Got home from work early, so I dropped by Yao’s to get groceries. I figured I’d get the cooking out of the way.”
It’s something simple, small, something they’ve both done a million times. Linh puts her shoes away and holds on to that lingering warmth in her chest nonetheless.
Things are peaceful, slow. Dinner is as good as it always is, and they clean up together, wordless as they work. Linh goes to take a shower afterward, stares at herself in the mirror for entirely too long before stepping in. Things are peaceful, she reminds herself. Things are slow. She’s safe, I’m safe right now. He can’t get to me. He can’t. Just breathe.
Breathe. Get in the hot water and breathe.
Taking a shower doesn’t get rid of the issue at hand, but it’s enough to compose herself and get her thoughts back together. When she comes out, Mei’s sitting on the bed, scrolling through the netfeed on her screen— Linh settles down next to her and finds herself leaning her head on Mei’s shoulder, letting her eyes slip shut. At some point, their hands twine together easily, and everything in Linh’s mind softens into comfortable illegibility.
I’m so tired. I could just fall asleep.
“I could just fall asleep right now,” she murmurs aloud, eyes still closed.
“You should,” Mei says. “Did something happen today?”
“Understatement,” Linh says, sighs. “Francis— he brought up my status. No clue why.”
“Wait, your status?”
“Mm. Yeah. I really don’t understand him. He was going on and on about how much of an unperson I was, how stricked I was.” Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Mei doesn’t say anything, just pulls Linh closer. Breathe. You’re safe.
“And,” Linh finally grits out, “he mentioned you. And your brothers, and I think he knows about us, and I was just…”
“Jeez,” Mei sighs. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think I pried too far. It really felt like a… I don’t know. Like a death threat,” Linh says, and her voice is shaking so much more than it should. “I mean, that’s the usual, and threats are nothing new. I just— don’t know.”
Mei sucks in a quick breath and gives Linh’s arm a squeeze. “Well, you’re not pinging him anymore for intel, right?”
“No. Not worth it.”
“Oh, thank god,” Mei says. “Here, give me one second.”
She leans away, and Linh cracks open an eye to see Mei stowing away her screen before reaching to pull the blanket over both of them.
“Thanks,” Linh says.
A moment later, the lights flicker off, and there’s nothing beyond the warmth surrounding her and the gentle rasp of Mei’s breathing. The whole world shrinks into their singularity. The usual ruckus of the street outside melts off, the exploding anger and anxiety from before sloughing away too, until all that’s left is this.
Linh lets herself escape for a moment, lets herself breathe easy. It’s okay. Just a moment.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Mei says, pulling Linh closer and nestling into her. “You know that, right?”
“I don’t know,” Linh says. I hope so.
“I think so. He’s not a clinker, is he?”
Linh frowns, traces idle lines across Mei’s back. “No, I don’t think so. He works in audcom, last I checked. He just knows enough of them to fen everything.”
“So you think he’s threatening to sic his cop buddies on you if you won’t back off?” Mei says.
Linh sighs. “It might be complete crackle on my part, but yes. Maybe.”
“No, I get it.” Mei’s voice is brittle. “Bust, I really stricking hate them. I’m sorry he threatened you like that.”
“It’s…” Linh starts, stops. “It’s fine.”
“It’s really not, though.”
“I’ll make it through. Just… be safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Mei huffs softly, resting her chin on Linh’s head. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about in that department. I’ll do what I have to.”
Linh can’t help chuckling at that. “What, are you going to shoot him?”
“I have a collection for a reason, you know.”
“I guess you do.”
“Just, you know, give it some time,” Mei says, running a slow hand through Linh’s hair. “We can talk about your case more tomorrow, okay? Go over the details with my brothers? But no more worrying over it for now.”
“Okay,” Linh says. “I’ll give it a break.”
They’re silent for a while, and Linh is already starting to drift off, her limbs feeling heavy and her thoughts wisping away. The darkness is velvety, lovely all around her. Mei’s breathing slows down, and Linh finds herself mirroring it, soothing herself to sleep.
“Thank you,” she whispers, quiet enough to be a subvoc, burying her face further into Mei’s shoulder. “Good night.”
“I love you,” Mei whispers back. “Good night.”
Linh sinks into those words, diving into the gentle warmth behind them, and sleep finally takes her away.