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Phrygian looks up from their communicator, which hasn’t been working for the past five minutes, and out through the front of a Branched ship, out at the front lines.
The crystal shifts and twists before them, facets coming into and out of being. It changes slowly, organic, naturally inclined to its own rhythm and responsive to their foremost thought. The hull of the ship shimmers between black and translucent. An instinctive flick of a receptor and they can sense the front, a scarce lightminute away; a flick of another and they can sense it closer, sense the ships firing on one another and the horrible weapons the Principality deploys; another flick as they look for a strategy table and the whole scenario is already all around them, showing the positions of everything from out wide. Phrygian stops, processing.
It’s familiar, of course. They know the command deck like their own favorite usebody, the way it matches them perfectly as an extension of their every action, but isn’t so inviting that they want to stay.
They’re in a longer version of their usual envoy form. It’s standard, a barrier between them and the things they have to do. It’s less concerned with looking convincing and more with the task at hand. It has no eyes, no real face. They hadn’t even put complex photoreceptors on this one. The cables snap and ripple more violently, the shape changing as they want it to, and the limbs are all longer than they normally allow. Humans would hate it. More than usual, at least.
There are Branched around them. Five of them, all focused on their own stations and tasks. They’re all in usebodies, too, three envoys, one many-limbed body for using delicate instruments, and one human-sized beetle working at the comms. They've all tightened down into a similar size. Everyone’s presences are unobtrusive, but still palpable, still there. Connections between them are kept quiet and simple. Enzymes flick through the air with casual ease.
Phrygian stares down at their own long, many-fingered hands, gathering their bearings. They tentatively curl one into a fist. They try to recall how they got here, and they remember that a few hours ago they’d drifted up from their small Selfgarden and taken up the post. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. The previous officer is down there now for a reprieve. Palisade is already fuzzy in their mind.
Is that… is this right?
« You’re slipping up, Phrygian, » remarks a shimmering, impossible voice that freezes them in place. They cannot breathe. An involuntary crawling shiver goes through their limbs and up their back.
That’s not possible. It can’t be them.
But there they are. They’re unmistakable. Phrygian would know them in any form, even without the way the light changes around them and the holding-an-icicle solidness to their frozen chill. There they are, emerging from one of the permeable columnways. There they are, in their own envoy body, a walking form of crystalline ice and snow.
Frisson stops immediately. Phrygian realizes they’re presenting, automatic and instinctive, radiating out their sudden rush of confusion and grief. There’s an answering surge of concern from everyone around them – living, tangible concern, a sudden shock to receptors Phrygian is remembering they even have, all at once. It’s dizzying. It leaves them weak and unbalanced, their legs suddenly trembling with effort just to keep them standing up.
Their old friend doesn’t ask questions, thankfully. They move towards them with missionlike intent. Phrygian’s breath punches out of them. Their sense of the world around them swims and blurs. Instinctively, blindly, they reach out.
Frisson wraps around them, first with their envoy’s arms, and then with a curling wave of cold. The veneer of human features vanishes, and they are sunlight, cold made radiant, a breath of crisp, icy air. Their metal immediately frosts over and stiffens. Their freezing illumination hits Phrygian in an all-at-once wave of protectiveness. A fierce nothing-else-may-touch-you.
They can’t. Phrygian throws their envoy form off, billowing out into a cloud of navy blue ink. Thin fractals of frost encircle their tendrils and thread them into crystalline ice. Phrygian buries and swirls into the freezing sunlight, and it touches them, touches them for real. It stings against places that they haven’t felt in ages.
Frisson tightens their grip. Phrygian shakes their thoughts off and focuses on the steady chill. There’s a firm pressure on their back, insisting an idea into them: breathe, breathe. They acquiesce, and let it pull their gasping lungs back into a calm, steady rhythm, away from the edge. They breathe, slowly, growing and closing countless tiny eyes.
It’s like floating. There’s a soothing concern radiating off of Frisson, their presence connecting to Phrygian’s to quench the overwhelm they’re leaking out. A nonreactive byproduct precipitates out in a wispy steam. It’s already easing the edge off of it. The shiver that brushes through them is tingling and tender. Icy needles comb gently through their body, softly stroking, turning their molecules over like sand.
It feels so real.
« I missed you, » Phrygian says. Says, even though they are somehow certain that doing so is a terrible idea. It feels like making themself a hair being pulled out from inside a throat. They’re exposed. They have an unshakable sense that it is letting something touch something inside of them that they shouldn’t let anything touch.
It makes them pause. « Are you alright? » Frisson asks, puzzled. They were just on the current, after all. It’s only been a few hours.
Phrygian hesitates. Impulses, conflicting and nonsensical, pull them different ways.
« Give them space, » Frisson orders, and the tide of rising pressure pulls off as the others back away. Phrygian hadn’t even noticed it.
Frisson feels different. The way their light is angled is subtler, the boundaries of the shafts of freezing sunshine less pronounced. There’s more nuance to the form they’ve chosen. Phrygian can even tell that they themself have aged, have grown a little more, worn through a little more. They think they’ve added more form to their Being. They’re older, both of them.
« Phrygian? » one of the other Branched asks, and – that’s a strange modification of their name. Like calling them commander. There’s a tone of deference to it, of giving them a position of trusted authority. Leader.
« Don’t call me that, » Phrygian says.
Relief, from everyone, because that's what they always say. Even Frisson relaxes a little.
« Phrygian, » corrects their peer, this time toning it with decisive:master:strategist.
« Better, » Phrygian concedes.
Amusement crackles. The others crowd in around them and Frisson, brushing against them with light, curious touch. Phrygian lets them, taking in the glimpses of their inner states – concerned for them, mostly, and relieved to have something to focus on that isn’t the endless grind of war – and sharing their own. It’s as natural as breathing.
« Are you sure you’re alright? » asks their communications expert, still a beetle. « You seem discombobulated. »
« You’re working too hard, » says their mathematician, who would know.
« I’m fine, » Phrygian says. They shake themself off, straightening their strands of ink. It’s been a while since they’ve taken this body. The last time must have been home, or…
Or when?
« Take your envoy again, » Frisson reminds them. They ripple their ink with a touch. « I like this form. Don’t go and get the war in it, I want to see it after. »
After. After what? The war will keep going far longer than Phrygian will. There is no after.
But it’s a fair point. Phrygian pulls themself back into their body – the long wire one, which seems a little odd, even though it’s as familiar as everything else. Frisson follows suit, turning into an envoy form that looks like crystalized ice and snow. It’s solid, not the abstraction of cold that they truly prefer. Well-distanced from the Self.
It’s not a coincidence, that an envoy form is built to look like the enemy. It is built to endure. Its mental barriers are a quarantine. A shape of humanness is required to engage in what war demands, so that it does not escape into the rest of their Selves. A war form bears the burden of physical violence. An envoy bears everything else.
« Do you want to go somewhere private? » Frisson asks. It’s less spoken and more felt. This close, they can communicate directly, a touch and shift of surface on surface. Every word sends a spiderweb shiver through their eyes.
« I’m fine, » Phrygian says. They try to wriggle out, craning their body to look towards the crystal again. They need to get a sense of what’s going on around them. There’s still a sense of doubt in them, like something is out of place.
« Stop that, » Frisson snaps, flicking them in the chest with a cold, sharp sting. Phrygian winces, reluctantly drawing back. « Can someone else take over? »
« I said I’m fine. It’s still my turn. »
« I’ve got it, » says another Branched, softly. They’re familiar. Phrygian remembers working with them for the past few years. Their name doesn’t come immediately to mind.
« Thank you, » Frisson says.
There’s a swirl of admiration and worry in the expressions around them. Phrygian instinctively draws themself back upright. People are looking to them for guidance. They need to be steady, so they can keep their fellows afloat.
Frisson clicks chidingly and tugs on Phrygian, giving them an expectant unmet:halfway touch. Phrygian sighs and follows. They push through the barrier of the doorway, the membrane humming pleasantly against them as they pass through.
Taking its cue from their envoys, the plasmic swirl of the ship’s body opens into a hallway on the other side. Phrygian’s wires hum faintly from the leftover charge and heat. It’s exhilarating. They almost want to cross back through in another body, just so they can feel it press against them again.
Frisson keeps going. They turn into a hovering orb of translucent ice. Phrygian shifts from bipedal to quadrupedal, and then slinks down to the floor, octopode-ish, and then eases back up into their envoy again. The gravity shifts with them, pulling around them liquidlike as they follow their old friend down the hall. And then – just because they can – they extend the cables from their shoulders, catching against the ceiling, propelling themself past Frisson in an easy swirl.
« What are you doing? » Frisson asks. They sound a little bemused, but not like they think it’s overly strange of them.
« Just felt like it, » Phrygian says.
Frisson snorts out a little gust. Their icy sphere lights, and then they rocket just past Phrygian, twirling slowly, trailing a glowing comet’s tail.
« Race you to the observation deck, » they tease.
Phrygian immediately shoots their cables out and lunges after them. Frisson puts on a burst of speed and banks around the corner; Phrygian, legs as springs, is a heartsbeat behind.
They chase each other through the ship, darting and weaving. Their cables move with fluid ease.
« Sorry, » Frisson calls, dodging around to a startled officer’s left.
« Sorry, » Phrygian says, squeezing by overtop.
Phrygian tries to claw their way past Frisson as they come up the final corridor, and Frisson shoves back against them, trying to block their way. The two of them plunge through the observation deck’s membrane nearly on top of each other. Phrygian skids and rolls on the smooth open floor. They bump gently against the far wall, cables clicking.
Frisson is laughing in midair, rolling over slowly. Phrygian, still upside down, turns their head to look at them. Snowflakes are shaking off of them, twirling out in every direction. Gravity barely touches them. The flakes simply drift, showing the faint impression of circulating currents, slowly spreading out.
« I won, » Phrygian says.
« You’re ridiculous, » Frisson informs them, drifting over to them. They drop down next to Phrygian, coming to float almost to the ground. « You do know that? »
« You’re the one who made it a competition. You knew what would happen. »
« Well, maybe I like it when you’re ridiculous. »
« It would explain some things, » Phrygian agrees.
They roll themself over, winding their four limbs back into themself. Frisson doesn’t move away. They sprawl out into a general mass of twitching cables, a heap of metal and noise. The floor is cold beneath them. They keep their head; it’s a pain to regrow.
Phrygian can still feel the electric shiver crawling and prickling through their body. Frisson’s frisson. It’s different from the chill Phrygian likes to leave in people. Phrygian is arrhythmic, slowing and speeding as necessary. There’s a deep dread to their truest presence. They are disharmonic, ever-increasing tension, full of trepidation and suspense.
Frisson has always liked coldness. The first form Phrygian had met them in was a sun, a tiny little star that made everything around them colder instead of warm. Phrygian remembers rolling them around as a snowball, pushing them as they grew larger until Phrygian strained under the weight, Frisson laughing delightedly all the while. They’d both experimented with their bodies together, figuring out what they wanted, discovering what they could do. They’d always had a lot in common, similar both in interests and forms. They have whole ways of existing that were made completely in conversation with each other, words that aren’t real on their own.
Phrygian remembers them describing the jolt they’d got when they’d seen the exact shape of a prairie winter's day – beautiful, was the only word they’d had. Beautiful, full of secrets. The way the snow moved stirred something inside them. They’d told them that they’d wanted to be like that. They wanted to be that cold, bright, open sunshine. They wanted to be the mysterious thing that the snow knew, but wouldn’t tell you.
Phrygian hadn’t gotten it. They didn’t see the snow like that. But they’d tried to find the words for that electrifying thrill of snapping cables – excitement made visible! A deadly sine wave! The enormity of the ripples, the beautiful arcs! The whipping sound of the metal! The barely controlled way they crack! – and Frisson hadn’t seen that like they had, either. Trying fruitlessly to catch the joy in words, at least, they both know they knew.
« Okay, » Frisson says. They fix their attention on Phrygian in a long, measuring look. « What’s this about? »
« This is not about anything, » Phrygian says. « There is not a this for anything to be about. »
« Liar, » Frisson says, frank and unsparing of their ego as ever. It makes them helplessly happy, that voice cutting them back down to size. Phrygian tries not to think about it. « You were a complete wreck. What happened? »
« Nothing happened, » they say, which should be true.
« Why did you say you missed me? »
Phrygian’s breath catches.
« I don’t, » they say, « …I don’t know. »
Frisson unravels into a miniature spiral galaxy, reaching out to touch Phrygian’s back with a wisp of icy stars. Another somatic shiver crawls through them. It’s them, that sensuous algidity, as them as they can be.
« You can tell me, » they say, gently. « Whatever it is. »
« I don’t think it is anything, » Phrygian says.
Frisson sighs, a C-sharp arpeggio down. Their hearts pang. That’s something they borrowed from Phrygian. It’s such a small, simple thing.
What is going on with them? Why are they reacting like this? Maybe they’re sick.
« Maybe you should see the doctors, » Frisson says, almost echoing their thoughts.
« You are definitely overreacting, » Phrygian says.
« You’re sure? »
« I’m positive. »
« Alright, » Frisson says, clearly skeptical, but they leave it at that.
Nothing is wrong. This is exactly the same as it had been. Phrygian repeats that to themself, knowing it should be true.
It’s still bothering them. Something isn’t right.
« What would you say, » they say, slowly, « if I asked you to prove all of this was real? »
Frisson pauses. « You’re sure you’re alright? »
« See, that’s not very convincing. »
They flash a rude sequence at them, and Phrygian laughs aloud. They’ve missed being called names. Principality languages might have plenty of slurs for them, but they just don't have what it takes to get them right.
—There, again. They keep thinking that. Principality this, things they’ve missed that. They can’t stop catching the edges of knowing they just don’t fit.
« Phrygian? »
« Just– for the sake of argument, » Phrygian says. « How do we know this isn’t some kind of dream? »
Frisson sighs, but their light is shifting indulgently. They’ll play along. « Are we talking an ordinary dream? »
« …I don’t think so. »
« You don’t think so, » Frisson repeats.
No, it’s definitely not that. Maybe it’s nothing. But Phrygian can’t shake the sense of doubt. There’s a strangeness hanging over them, like something just isn’t right.
« Phrygian, what’s going on? » Frisson asks. They move closer, carefully touching them again. It feels right, being touched so often. Phrygian doesn’t know why they keep expecting it to be strange. « Is something wrong? »
« I don’t know, » Phrygian says. « Yes. Maybe. »
This could be fine, couldn’t it? This isn’t so bad. Phrygian could be here, with Frisson, if they could just let this be okay.
Except—
« You died, » Phrygian tells them. « You went off to war and you died. »
Frisson stills. They feel their friend searching their Self-expression more carefully.
« Phrygian, we went to war together, » they say, slowly. Slowly, like they're not sure how Phrygian will take it.
« I know, » they say, because– because they do. They remember that. That's where they are now.
« You’re not making sense. »
They’re not. This doesn’t make sense. Phrygian struggles with the certainty of it, the unmistakable certainty that they’d never see them again. Their thoughts are muddled, disconnected like an upper atmosphere. The contact on their back is hard to think through.
They’re sure this isn’t what happened. But they’re right there. They’re right there.
« This isn’t what happened, » Phrygian says. « I didn’t go with you. When you left for the front lines, you were by yourself, and you died. »
« Phrygian, that doesn’t make any sense. »
It feels real. Their body is reacting like it’s real. They’re being answered and responded to in a way that they’ve been starving for. They feel seen. Even with the constant awareness of being in a warzone, they feel safe. Phrygian has to take a breath, trying not to let it get to them.
« This isn’t real, » they say. « I’m not really here. »
Frisson sighs, brushing them with a brisk chill and standing up. « Alright. Come on, we’re examining you properly. »
« I’m serious, » Phrygian insists, coiling back into their usual, true envoy form. Human dimensions, human features, complete with eyes. « This is a dream. This didn’t happen. None of this is real. »
Their body immediately feels uncomfortable. Almost nothing here is built for photoreception, and seeing conveys no context – it’s all flat, nothing more than a material shell. It’s disorienting. And worse, they absolutely should not look that much like a human on one of their own ships. Not when they don’t have to. Phrygian instinctively smooths their face back out, stinging with embarrassment.
Which is stupid. It’s not real. Embarrassment shouldn’t even bother them anymore, after years dealing with all the bullshit from the Stels. But it matters, somehow, that they don’t show how much they’ve taken into themself. It matters that they don’t look like that here.
This might be a problem.
« I don’t remember any of that, » says Frisson.
« You wouldn’t, » Phrygian says. « Not if you’re dead. »
« So you’re saying I’m not real, » Frisson says, eyeing them skeptically. Phrygian has to shut off all their receptors for a moment, so dizzyingly familiar is the look.
« No, » they admit. « Probably not. »
« You’re serious? » they demand. « This isn’t a joke. You’re honestly trying to convince me that I died twenty years ago. »
« It was eleven for me, » Phrygian says.
« That’s impossible. »
« It’s not impossible. You know the math checks out. If this is some sort of simulation or alternate reality– »
« Yes, yes, I’m familiar, » Frisson says, impatiently. « But you remember coming out here with me, right? You know that was real. »
« I remember that, » Phrygian admits. « But I also remember… not that. And I know that the memories of being here are new. »
« New. »
« Yes, new. » Phrygian gestures, first with their hands and then with their body chemistry. It’s not like it’ll change anything if they stop themself. « They’re not mine. I shouldn’t have them. »
« But you’re here, » Frisson reasons. They keep moving closer to Phrygian, and then ebbing back like the tide. They shift around them in a rippling circle. Like they just want to be around them. Like they just want to be close. « I’m here, you’re here. Isn’t that what we have proof of? »
Phrygian shakes their head. And then, when Frisson pulses confusion, they say aloud: « I don’t think that’s it. I wasn’t actually here a minute ago. »
« You think you weren’t, » Frisson corrects.
« I know that one was real. »
« How? You can’t be sure. »
« I know because I'm still pissed at you about it, » they tell them. « I wouldn't feel like that if it hadn't been real. »
« …Phrygian, » they say, after a pause.
« I don't know how to convince you. I don't think I have proof. But you died. That happened. »
They move closer again, reaching for them. Phrygian pulls back before they can. Frisson pauses, taken aback, and then slowly droops. The pang of guilt that hits them feels like plenty.
« We can talk about it, » Frisson says, more quietly, more privately, even though there isn’t anyone anywhere around. Surface on surface, touch through touch. A shared sound in the space between them. « If you’re still mad at me. »
« I do not want to talk about it, » Phrygian says. On that, at least, both halves of their mind agree.
« You can be upset. I just wish you’d said something. I didn’t realize it was still… »
« It’s not. »
« Phrygian, you’re telling me you’re mad at me for getting myself killed when that never happened. You understand why I’m not convinced? »
« That is not the point of this, » Phrygian says. « The point is that this is not actually happening. It’s impossible. None of this is real. »
« Phrygian… »
Frisson tries to reach out again. Phrygian refuses to reach out and meet it. They need to stay focused.
« So you’re saying you aren’t from here, » Frisson says, dropping the subject. Good. It meant they could talk about the actual problem.
« No, » Phrygian agrees.
« That’s a pretty bold statement about what’s physically possible. »
« It’s not that bold. »
« And you're sure you didn't just switch places with my Phrygian? Some sort of temporary overlap between alternate universes, that sort of thing? »
Phrygian snorts, despite themself. « I mean, I can't rule it out. Obviously. »
« I knew it. »
Of course they knew it, anyone would. They're dealing in untestable hypotheticals here. Phrygian buzzes dismissively. « I am reasonably certain that I am not just temporarily inhabiting my own alternate self, and vice versa, » they say. « I remember coming here. I have memories that are from here, and memories from being back where I was. But given that in one world I was dealing with a Divine that does this, and in this one I was not, I think we can draw some reasonable conclusions. »
« Right, here you're just getting hit with Principality supertech in ambushes, » Frisson scoffs. « That definitely rules it out. »
Ugh. They hate it when they think they have a point.
« Oh, hey, listen to this, » Phrygian says, and then aloud, in their approximation of a voice: “I’m fluent in three major Principality languages. Which I wouldn’t be, if I’d actually gone straight to the front lines.”
Frisson contorts in surprise, and then narrows in suspicion. « You’ve been studying late again, haven’t you. »
Sure, of course they have been. Understanding the nuances of the enemy’s language lets them properly decrypt the messages they intercept. Phrygian can afford going without a little sleep here and there, if it means giving themself more of an advantage–
–Wait. No, that’s not what happened.
« No, » Phrygian says, reminding themself as much as anyone else. « I learned it back home. It took me a few years, but I trained in a lot of things. For the research mission. Which I went on after you died. »
Except they remember it clearly, now. Of course they’d been studying. Of course they’d had to treat the enemy’s dull, one-dimensional language as important enough to learn. It’s the sort of courtesy the Principality has never offered them. So far as Phrygian can tell, most of them don’t even know the Branched can speak.
The gaps are filling in. The illusion is learning and becoming more convincing. This is more dangerous than they’d thought.
« Phrygian, » Frisson sighs. They sound pitying, now. Phrygian bites back the urge to snap at them and just turns away.
« Forget it, » they say. « It’s fine. I’ll just go. »
« No, come on. » Frisson moves to block the way to the door, spreading a chilling lattice to bar the way. Their tone is soothing again, over the sudden poorly-concealed concern. « Don’t go anywhere. We can keep talking about it, that’s fine. »
« I don’t want to talk about it, » Phrygian says. « I want to get out of here. »
« Do you? »
« Yes. »
« Really? Is this place better or worse than the one you were before? »
« That's not the point, » Phrygian says. « What difference would that make? It's not real. »
« You don't know that, » Frisson points out. « From what you're telling me, it could be that you were transported here from an alternate reality. Even if what you’re saying is true and you’re not from here, that doesn’t mean this isn’t real. »
Doubt prickles, just a little. They feel queasy. Phrygian shakes it off. Focus, they remind themself, the mission hasn’t changed. They have to get out of here and find Brnine. They have to reconnect with the Blue Channel. They have to get back to reality, finish the fight on Palisade, and then…
And then, and then, and then.
« I can do more good where I was, » Phrygian says, though they aren't sure they believe it even as they say the words. « People need me where I was. »
« People need you here, » Frisson insists. « We need you, Phrygian. You're good at this. The things you've done here saved lives. »
And it's– true. It's true. They're not a general, because they haven't asked to be a general, but they could be. Phrygian has established themself as a mean shot and a cuttingly brilliant tactical mind. They've done things, here. They're at least as effective as they ever have been fighting for Millennium Break. Maybe more.
They've killed a Divine. People look to them, knowing that. Sure, it’ll be back, but they killed a Divine. They're already planning on killing another one. If the plan works out, if the trap snaps shut, it should only take a matter of weeks.
« I didn't even want to be a soldier, » Phrygian says. It's a quiet, meaningless thing to say. They know it doesn't matter. It wouldn't matter no matter which place they stayed in. But they have to say it anyways.
« Nobody wants to be a soldier, » Frisson says. They sound a little exasperated.
« You did, » they say. « You said you did. »
They flicker slightly, shifting to avoid a direct connection. « I… »
It’s a low blow. They don’t try to take it back.
« I wasn't in a good place, » Frisson admits. They won't look at them. « After my parents came back, and they… couldn’t look after me anymore. I wasn’t thinking straight. And then I started fighting with you, and… »
« Yeah, » Phrygian says. They can't say anything else.
« I didn’t mean what I said. I thought I meant it. I thought I had to. But I don’t, anymore. I swear. »
« I know. »
They’d known since they’d first said it. That hadn’t been the problem.
« It just kept getting worse, » Frisson says, quietly. « I know it was stupid. It was stupid, but I was so angry, and scared. I tried to just go on like everything was normal and I couldn’t do it anymore. I just couldn’t, Phrygian. I kept hurting people no matter what I did. There wasn’t anything else left for me but to come here. Or I thought so. »
That’s all true, Phrygian thinks, distantly. That’s all how it happened. That’s all the same.
« And you… you said you would go with me. » Frisson shifts slightly, unconsciously moving a little towards them. « You said you'd go if I did. And then you did. »
Phrygian remembers. They’d insisted on it, after they tried and failed to talk them out of going. The two of them had argued for weeks. Frisson hadn’t budged. And stubborn as they were, Phrygian hadn’t backed down either. In this world they hadn’t even had the chance to learn about the research mission, because by the time it had been suggested, they’d long since left for the front lines.
They remember not doing that. They remember holding fast to the trajectory they'd picked out, staying where they were as a researcher. They weren’t a soldier. The front lines were too futile and unending and they’d seen it take everything from too many people. It had been so obviously a bad decision, one they’d thought they could still talk their best friend out of. Opting for the standard minimum of military training, waiting for a chance to do something that might work, Phrygian had stayed behind.
By the time they’d realized Frisson had enlisted without telling them, it had already been too late.
It chokes the words out of them, holding the two possibilities in their mind. They could have done this. They could have gone with Frisson, and it would have been different. They could have been here, instead of alone, fighting alone with Millennium Break.
Is that what they should have done?
Frisson leans against them. Phrygian sighs, and lets them. Their edges wind around each other. In the face of a brutal, uncaring universe, it’s a comfort to feel their chill.
« Couldn’t you stay? » Frisson asks. It’s hopeful.
« No, » Phrygian says.
« You’ve done good work out here. This plan of yours is smart. »
« I also do good work there, » Phrygian says, « and I’m the only Branched they have. I can’t just go. »
« You're the only Branched? » Frisson demands, their voice pitchtilting up-sour with incredulity. « What do you mean you're the only– Phrygian. »
« Frisson. »
« No, » Frisson says. Their voice has resolved into something iron-firm, and they crawl further on top of them, angrily squishing them down. « No. You're not doing that. You're not going back there. »
« I think I already am back there, » Phrygian says, as they are stepped on. « This isn't real. »
« No. Shut up. No. You are not going back to some rock in the middle of Principality space to fight a war by yourself. I'm not going to let you. »
« You're not going to let me, » they repeat, feeling their hearts ache.
« No, I'm not going to let you, » Frisson says. Their grip tightens on Phrygian, protective, furious. « Obviously I'm not going to let you. You– you saved my life, Phrygian. I'm not going to let you go off and do that to yourself. »
« But I didn’t, » Phrygian says.
« Didn’t what? »
« Save your life. »
Frisson prods them sharply, a spike of fury shifting all their enzymes hot. « Shut up. Don’t you dare try and get all guilty on me. I don’t care what you think you remember from some other universe, you don’t get to autocannibalize now, you idiot. »
« It’s just the truth, » Phrygian says.
« Then stay here, » Frisson insists. They’re getting steadily heavier, pinning them down to the floor. It feels nice. « Don’t go back. Just stay here, and we can figure this out. »
« That’s not how this works, » they say.
« Says who? You could stay. Even if you’re right, you still have the decision. »
« But it’s not real, » Phrygian presses. « If I just give up, I lose my chance to do anything that matters, ever again. There’s a real thing that I need to be doing that isn’t just being here. »
Frisson shoves how little they think that matters against their surface. Irritably, Phrygian pushes them off. It sends them tumbling down to the ground, wrenched out of their grip.
« Fine! » Frisson snaps, hardening into a clump of dirty snow and ice. They can feel their hurt and upset radiating out of them. « Fine. »
A minute passes in silence. Frisson doesn’t move to touch them. They don’t say anything else. Phrygian can feel the air turning over miserably.
Phrygian reaches out for them. Maybe they shouldn’t. But Frisson reaches back, leaning into their space again, a snowy limb finding their wires and gripping hard. Phrygian pulls them into their embrace and hums, a full body reverberation that spirals up and down their coils. A single note, low, buzzing. It shakes its way through both of their bodies. They feel Frisson relax a little, same as they always do.
They have to get a grip. This is making it harder to turn their back on the lie, they remind themself, making the thought of leaving worse and worse. Comforting them, being comforted in turn – it feels like realizing just how badly they’ve been starving. The second they go, they won’t have it anymore. It’ll only be worse to have it taken away.
« I can’t make this be real, » Phrygian says. « It just isn’t. That isn’t how it works. »
« Shut up, » they mumble, buried in their cables. All the fight has gone out of them.
« Frisson… »
« Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare. We’re not doing this. You’re not going back. »
Not going back. What would that even look like? They’d just be in some other endless fight. Sure, they’d have other Branched around. Phrygian can’t see how that would make a difference.
Phrygian is not a soldier.
Is this all that’s waiting for them? Another life, where all they do is fight a war?
The exhaustion that’s been living in them for some months now is awake again. They can feel it, that dead, heavy burn in their hearts as it presses down on them. None of their emotions are responding. Their filaments feel gray.
« What is that? » Frisson demands, suddenly at attention. They grab Phrygian with none of their usual coolness, pressing them to tilt back their head. Phrygian struggles before they even register why, trying to push them off. Their outermost receptors strain to close.
« Get off! » they snap.
It’s too late. Even a brush against the thing they’d just been feeling, and Frisson jerks back. Shock and horror turn instantly to accusation, and they glare at them, a living furious cold-burn. « You’re war-weary. »
« It’s not– »
« You’re war-weary, you fucking idiot, you– why didn’t you say something? How long has this been going on? »
« I haven’t been here! » Phrygian defends, prickling self-consciously. « What part of alternate reality are you not getting? How was I supposed to say anything? »
« It was too much. » Frisson is barely listening, flickering as they pace back and forth. Anxiety is spiking off of them in waves, guilt swelling with every valley. « We shouldn’t have made so much your burden. I didn’t think it was this bad. How did I not notice? »
« Frisson, come on. »
« No wonder you’re talking like this, you– we need to get you out of here. We need to get you home. »
« That’s not— »
« I should have known. I should have seen it. We can’t keep putting this much on you. You have to go back. »
« No! »
Frisson stops short. Phrygian curses themself. They’d snapped it out instinctively, too pissed off to keep their temper.
« No? » Frisson repeats, in a tone that’s almost a threat.
« I can’t, » they insist, though their hearts are suddenly pounding. It’s stupid, they shouldn’t feel intimidated here. This isn’t even real. « I’m not here. Literally, if you want me to, I– »
« Phrygian, » they cut through. Their surface is seething. « How long have you known? »
« I wasn’t even here, » Phrygian objects. « I literally couldn’t have told you. It’s not- »
« You’re going home, » Frisson snaps. They withdraw, closing off from them. Phrygian bites back both their protest and retort, even as the absence aches. « I can’t believe you. You’re going home before you hurt yourself. Or someone else, you reckless:thoughtless:dead-to-be pile of noise– »
« We are weeks away from a major operation that I planned! This is not the time! »
« We’ll manage. You know we can. »
« I know that if I just go home out of nowhere people are going to ask questions. You think it’s a good idea for me to tell everybody who’s about to risk their lives that I can’t do it because I think it’s pointless? »
The last word is violent in itself, like a slap. Frisson flinches. By the way they quickly cast an eye around to see if anyone heard, Phrygian thinks, they know they’re right.
« We don’t do this, Phrygian. » they hiss. It’s a low, furious sound, rippling the air with its venom. « You can’t do this to the rest of us. We take care of each other. We aren’t them. »
« Right, » Phrygian says. « So we just lose an officer, our sharpshooter, and a major part of our tactical staff. That’s what we’re doing? »
« It’s better to do it now than later! What do you think is going to happen if they find out? »
« They don’t have to find out. »
Frisson jerks back from them, shock and horror flooding through them.
« No, » they say. « No, you’re not asking me to keep this a secret. You’re not. »
« If I go now, that Divine is going to kill people, » Phrygian says. « And you’re right. It’s going to do too much damage if people find out. »
« I am not going to be complicit in you doing this to yourself! » Frisson sounds desperate, their light flickering like a candle in the wind. « No. You can’t. »
Desperate, because if Phrygian does ask them, they both know they’ll say yes.
« I’m asking you to stall, » Phrygian says. « Just until we win this one. I can’t go yet. »
Frisson shoves them away. They’re shaking with hurt and fury. For a moment, they struggle to even form words, and then they only utter a strangled out « You know what you’re doing. You know. »
« I can handle it, » they insist. « I’ve been managing. »
« You know that’s not the point! »
« It’s just until we’re done with this. A little bit more. »
« I owe you, » Frisson says, voice shaking. « I owe you, and you want me to lie and help you hurt yourself. No. I’m not going to go along with this, Phrygian. Not like this. »
« I’m asking you to let me do what I need to do, » they say. « I can still do this. »
« Don’t act like you’re fine! I know you’re lying! »
« I’m handling it, » Phrygian says.
« You didn’t tell me. »
Phrygian looks away without answering.
« You knew, and you didn’t tell anyone, » Frisson says. There’s a dawning realization, spreading opaque white under the surface of their ice. « You’re not planning on going back. Are you? »
« It’s not that, » Phrygian says.
« Then what? »
« I’m just not sure, » they say. « I’m not sure what to do. »
Frisson hesitates.
« Frisson, it’s just so huge, » Phrygian says, gesturing all around themself, tilting it to indicate all-ness. « It’s just going to keep going. I’ve done the winning part. We’re going to keep fighting, and no matter how many fights we win, it’s never going to stop. »
Frisson drifts closer. They reach out to Phrygian, touching their heads together. Phrygian exhales and closes their eyes.
« You never said anything, » Frisson says.
« I didn’t know what to say. »
« You need to go home. »
« I can’t, » Phrygian says. « The war is still happening. Just because I’m feeling a certain way about it doesn’t mean anything will stop. »
« Phrygian, it’s not on you to stop this. It never was. »
Phrygian turns their face away.
« We’ll handle the mission. Trust us. We can take care of things, even if you’re not here. »
« I can’t just leave. »
« If we turn around and tell everyone that you’re war-weary, what do you think they’ll say? »
« Don’t, » Phrygian insists. They hate how their hearts pick up in sharp, sudden fear. This was easier when Frisson was shouting.
« That just tells me you know, » Frisson says.
Of course they know. Phrygian can picture it easily, the rush of worry. Just like they’d gotten when they woke up. Everyone would fall over themselves to tell them to go home. They’d reassure them that it would be fine.
And then they’d have to fight a Divine without their tactician, without their sharpshooter. No amount of saying it’s fine means it would be.
« Phrygian, » Frisson says. Their voice is less patient, now. « You can trust us. Just let us handle things for a while. »
« It’s a few weeks. It’s my plan. At the absolute least, I should wait until it’s over. »
–No, wait, they realize belatedly, that’s not right. There is no operation. They’re not really here. They’re losing their sense of what’s happening. They’re getting turned around.
« Fine, » Frisson snaps. « Then you’re telling the care staff so they can watch you. And once this is over, you’re going home. »
« Fine, » Phrygian says. It’s not like it matters.
« And don’t try to get yourself tangled up in something so you have to stay. I’ll drag you out of it anyways. »
« I’m not going to. »
« ...Well, good. »
Frisson glowers at them suspiciously. Phrygian doesn’t say anything. They’re numb all the way through. They should really find Brnine, they think. This is a waste of time.
There’s silence, as Phrygian stares out of the darkened window, and Frisson hovers silently.
« …I’ll go back with you, » Frisson says, quietly.
Their wires jolt involuntarily. It makes a sound like screeching violins. Phrygian squeezes their coils tighter together, forcing themself back into silence.
« There’s no point, » they say, when they can speak again. « That’s just taking two people off the field instead of one. We don’t get anything from that kind of disadvantage. I’ll be fine. »
« They can manage without me for a few months. » Frisson flashes dismissively, drifting a little closer. « Just until you’re properly settled. You know going home is its own burden. I’m not just going to let you deal with that by yourself. »
They need to get out of here. They need to get out, now.
« You don’t have to do that, » Phrygian says.
« Too bad. »
« Frisson, seriously. »
« You’re not winning this argument with me and you know it. » Frisson flicks them with a flare, chiding and brisk. « Consider it payback. »
« I didn’t go with you, » Phrygian snaps, unable to keep their temper in check. Something in them is cracking. « You’re paying me back for something I didn’t do. »
« I don’t care, » says Frisson. « You did for me. »
And then they're gone. Everything is gone.
Phrygian is standing in a vast, dark stone room. The floors are cold and thick with dust, and the air is not much better. They are in their ordinary envoy form. They can't hear anything. Everything is dead silent, impossibly silent, until they hear the vast uncanny shuffle of the Affliction's feet.
Slowly, they turn their head. They’re not alone. They recognize Figure in the dim light, crouching beside Coriolis, who is sitting cross-legged and staring blankly at the ground. Brnine is there, Thisbe is there. That spy Elle Evensong is there. They recognize Nidean uniforms, recognize the missing Millennium Break soldiers, and don’t recognize some of the other people who look like they’ve been down here for a while. Some of them look weirdly familiar. It takes a moment for them to realize it’s because there’s two of everyone in the room.
Frisson isn’t there. Obviously.
Phrygian breathes in, shutting off their photoreceptors. They have to open them again immediately. The lack of sound is too muffling. They can’t even hear themself– it feels uncomfortably empty, not resonating. They try to snap their cables; nothing. They feel the vibration like a phantom touch inside their form, but get no sound. They might as well be shouting into a vacuum. Everything around them just feels dead.
Phrygian catches a glimpse of another them among the doppleduster crowd, standing there in envoy form. It’s not doing anything. It regards them from a distance, impassive and unreadable. Their wires shift uneasily under their clothes. Whether all the doppledusters are like that or it’s some sort of statement on them, they have no idea.
This, they think resignedly, is a perfect example of Divines being the worst. They continue to be terrible even when they stop being Divines. They’ve never met one they liked, and they doubt they ever will.