Chapter Text
A white-gloved hand slides an ornate fleur de lis glass across the bar counter with practiced smoothness, hardly disturbing the sapphire-blue beverage inside it. “Enjoy your beverage, dear.”
Moth, giddy at being the pretty drink’s recipient, gives the bartender a smile. “Blue curaçao in some real fancy gin, right?” There’s some kind of shimmery ombre in the drink’s color. Their fingers sting at how cold the glass is when they touch it. A little paper flower with blue and green tinsel rolls against the rim as they tentatively pick it up. It smells piquant and fresh.
“...with lime, basil, and vanilla,” the bartender adds theatrically, “and a touch of coconut.”
“Sweet. I feel so fancy, dude.” Moth proudly tugs at the collar of their pinstriped black dress shirt, playing with the silver pins on their lapels. The neck is unbuttoned, showing off a layered silver choker. The warm low light of the lounge meets the bright light of the bar, highlighting the contours of a sleek pair of black pants and dress shoes. The jewelry is striking paired with the voidlike darkness of Moth’s carefully planned but mostly minimalistic outfit. It’s the best formal look they could muster from their limited wardrobe. “Mmmm,” they moan as they take a sip, straightening their back. “It’s perfect.”
The bartender bows informally, accepts the praise, and moves on to the next customer.
The drink is remarkably easy to get lost in. It has a warm sweetness that balances out the sharpness of its bitter notes, and Moth joyfully picks out the flower decoration and spins it around in their fingers as they drink, taking each sip with their eyes closed. It’s been a long week, and as exciting and eventful as their work has become, and as much as they’re here to celebrate, they’re also here to just forget about it all for a while, before their thoughts chase them down at bedtime. One of the plush vintage couches in the lounge calls to them, and they decide to slip off the barstool and settle down in it. A puff of warm old couch aroma perfumed with something that smells like sandalwood and oud rises from the cushions. Their sore back pops as they consciously try to break out of the hunched posture they’re used to when they’re sitting in front of their tech, staring at lines and lines of readout. The next time something hits the screen looking like it’s half code, half abstract poetry, I’m going to… They take another sip of the drink.
The interior design of this windowless speakeasy place is pretty striking, but as they take in the look of the industrial pipes that zigzag across the ceiling, it starts to feel like they haven’t left the basement of the FBX building after all. A spherical blown-glass lamp on one of the luxuriously curtain-draped brick columns starts to look more and more like the corrucyst. Moth finds themself staring at it, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anxiety. The real cyst is dark black with the faintest hint of violet, but the lamp, glowing pink from the inside, feels like a symbolic effigy to the cyst’s tantalizing secrets. A moth is drawn to light, after all. Jesus, can I think about literally anything other than the cyst right now? This shit is making me manic.
Moth downs a whole swig of their drink, barely taking a moment to savor it this time, then sets the pretty fleur de lis glass on a nearby table. There’s a convenient footrest with carved lion’s paw legs within radius, so they prop up one of their dress shoes on it. The shoe’s leather is slightly peeled; The laces are slightly frayed. Nobody would notice the wear and tear without looking closely, but if Moth stared at it too much, it would mess with the vibe they’re very earnestly trying to cultivate.
There are other people around; the speakeasy is getting a good amount of Friday night business. The other patrons are bundled into tight little cliques and couples, however, and it’s not the time of night for people to be intoxicated enough to look beyond their companions and dates yet, so Moth’s butt stays glued to the chair. They pull the footrest in a little closer with their heel and get even more comfortable. The speakeasy is playing a very palatable mix of bossa nova, big band, smooth jazz, and electro swing on its speakers. The laptop in Moth’s bag tempts them with something to satisfy their corrucyst-fixated mania, and Moth gives into the urge to pull it out. Once they’ve made sure nobody is looking over their shoulder—only another specialist who works with external mindspike data flows would know how to interpret the readout, and the separated streams of objective raw outflow versus subjective operator outflow, but you never know what trained eyes could be lurking—they stare at the mindspike data they smuggled out of the basement, tapping their foot and staring at the glowing screen with restless abandon. There has to be something else I can make sense of.
A while passes. They ask the bartender to mix more of that blue gin drink, and his memory of what he did to make it is impeccable. Their head is at a comfortable level of fuzziness. When they hear the door chime go off, they figure it’s just another patron, but then a very familiar short, stout figure with long black hair and round glasses slips into the space, completely underdressed.
Moth closes their laptop and looks at their friend and fellow cyst investigator in surprise—not only are they here, despite being seemingly preoccupied, but they're not wearing their mindspike. In the several years since their friend got the implant, Moth remembers very few occasions they've seen them without it that didn't involve some kind of external pressure to look less intimidating. At technical industry-focused contexts like expos, demonstrations, professional meetups, or conferences, they wear that thing like a third arm in a way that gives other mindspike users pause, since mindspikes have a reputation for being extremely uncomfortable to have active on one’s person for long periods of time, especially given that they need a portable battery pack to move and function. This habit receives a mixed reception: to some people, it's a sign of dedication, but to many others, it’s weird and off-putting—snobbish elitism, showing off, a toxic lack of work-life balance, impracticality, eccentricity, a sign that they've “gone too far”, an alignment with the freakish, unacceptably transhumanist, childish, an obnoxious political statement in favor of transgressive atypical cybernetics, a threat to the mindspike industry's reputation—and other such things. Moth still remembers the hostile look one guy gave them when they picked up his dropped wallet for him with their spike.
And, despite everything, this absolute anomaly of a person wears their mindspike like they’d get phantom limb syndrome without it. They wear it while casually hanging out with people, especially Moth. They wear it while they're totally alone. They fall asleep wearing it. They practice doing normal everyday tasks with it.
So, why not tonight?
The one and only Interloper waves stoically at Moth from across the room without saying a word. Moth takes a moment to recoil from the shock, then gestures for them to come on over.
“Hey Interloper,” Moth says, teasingly avoiding their friend’s true name in reference to the big secret the two of them are holding together.
Interloper instinctually keeps extra space behind them as they weave through the furniture towards Moth, an invisible tithe of consideration for the mindspike they’d normally be wearing and the things it could bump into or knock over, or the people whose personal space it might accidentally breach. They’re so obviously used to having that mindspike equipped more often than not that Moth finds it amusing, but it puts yet another question mark on the situation. When Interloper finally reaches Moth, they lean over the antique chair where Moth is lounging and stare down at them, not particularly expressive except for a narrowing of their eyes that hints at something mischievous. Then, they ask, at a completely normal volume: “Do you think they have orange simulacra here?”
“No, buddy! Shush!” Moth reprimands. “What happens in the basement stays in the basement, okay?” They go alert for a minute to scan the speakeasy for any familiar faces from work or any recognizable FBX agents, then relax and let out a nervous chuckle.
Interloper slides down into the chair across from Moth and sets a foot on the same footrest as them. “You answered.”
“You asked.” Moth slides their foot off the footrest, brushing it lightly against Interloper’s ankle on the way down and sits up, leaning towards them. “What do you want to drink?”
“Don’t know. Menus?”
“There aren’t any. It’s part of their shtick. Special drinks customized to your mood by people who really—” Moth says the word with a growly gusto. “—know how to mix ‘em."
“I guess I’ll trust that stranger behind the bar, then.”
“I’m amazed you found this place. I know we talked about it, but…you didn’t follow up on asking me the directions, and this place really leans into its pretend prohibition-era secretiveness. You’d never be able to tell a bar is in this building from the outside.” Moth squints at Interloper and snorts. “Here I thought you were just going home for the night and getting your long-ass commute over with.”
Interloper shrugs.
“Anyways, what’re you in the mood for, buddy?”
And just like that, the bartender is there— ever observant, with excellent timing, watching the two of them expectantly. “We have almost any kind of liquor you could want, presented however you’d like. We also serve mocktails and other non-alcoholic beverages.”
“Sounds expensive,” Interloper notes quietly, then looks at Moth’s drink. “What are they having?”
“Have a taste.” Moth holds out their drink to Interloper before the bartender can open his mouth, and to their amusement, Interloper is a little confused about what to do with it.
Interloper opens their mouth slightly and leans their face down to the glass for a moment, as if Moth were offering to hold the glass while they sip hands-free, but then they lean back and think better of it. Moth stifles a laugh. Interloper takes the glass gingerly and samples the tiniest sip. When no resolution comes to Interloper’s face, Moth keeps staring at them eagerly, and they drink more, ponder the taste, then hand it back.
Interloper turns to the waiter. “Something classic and strong, with whiskey.”
“Something to fit the vibes of an old guy who plays billiards and smokes cigars?” Moth suggests, which Interloper relays affirmatively to the bartender with a curious nod.
The bartender snaps his fingers and beams, his legs elegant and straight. “I have an idea for you! I’m picturing an old fashioned, but with a twist.”
“Sure,” Interloper agrees, their naturally flat tone keeping the bartender hanging for a moment before Moth gives him a thumbs-up to assure him that Interloper has indeed just ordered. When the bartender walks off, they look at Moth.
Moth looks back, wondering what Interloper wants from them.
“Your drink,” Interloper adds. “It’s good.”
“Don’t look at me, look at the guy in the vest and sock garters.” Moth gestures to the bartender. “Or are you trying to compliment my tastebuds for doing a good job enjoying it?”
The bartender takes a while to mix Interloper’s drink since some other patrons are demanding his attention more insistently, and Interloper and Moth sit together in silence, eyeing each other. Moth feels Interloper’s eyes analyzing them, and for a moment they wonder if Interloper is checking them out, or at least thinking about how they look in their fancy outfit. Interloper doesn’t say anything indicating one intention or another, and they’re not the type to be obvious or rude about it, but Moth is pretty sure it’s happened before. They glance back at Interloper while they’re staring off into space, scanning the way they’re shaped. Moth feels a pleasant tickle in their chest when Interloper stretches, resting their arms behind their head with a small groan and pushing out their chest, arching their back. Interloper's mane of hair—somewhere between wavy and curly, and usually a bit unkempt—looks shiny and well-groomed, and it shifts around beautifully over their shoulders. As their little stretch finishes, Interloper meets Moth’s eyes with direct intensity and unzips their oversized jacket, revealing a thin yellowed band T shirt that shows off the soft curves of their body and the solidness of their arms. Moth thinks they see a smile on their face, but they’re not sure. Almost in response, Moth stretches too, adjusting the tuck of their shirt in their waistband in a way that subtly emphasizes their hips, and sets both feet next to Interloper’s on the footrest as they sink down. They run a hand over the fuzz of their undercut at the back of their head, giving the longer layers of hair above a little toss. The two of them don’t talk about anything for at least five minutes.
The bartender returns carrying a short, wide glass of amber-orange old fashioned with swirls of brown and one big spherical ice cube floating in the center of a herd of orange zest bits. “Here’s your drink, dear.” He leans down to Interloper with one hand behind his back at the buckle of his black vest and the other lowering the drink. He waits as Interloper sits up enough to take it from him. Interloper nods, and he glides off.
“You’re not going to ask what’s in it?” Moth raises an eyebrow.
“I will if it poisons me.” Interloper takes a long sip, swishing it around in their mouth and coating their tongue with all the flavor.
“How does it taste?”
They set the glass down on the table. “Rich. Syrupy. It has autumn spices in it. Marmalade. Something that tastes like coffee.”
“That sounds SO good dude. I almost want that, now.”
Suddenly, Interloper winces. One of their eyes twitches. Their shoulders tense and untense in angry jerks, like a hornet is latched onto their back and repeatedly stabbing them.
“You good?” Moth lays a hand on Interloper’s leg.
“No,” they choke, but in their characteristic deadpan lilt, with more annoyance than urgency. Without any fanfare or explanation, they get up from their seat and speedwalk away, leaving their drink and bag with Moth.
Moth eyes Interloper’s back as they go, seeing a hand-tailored rectangular flap over the place where their implant hardware is, fastened down by a single button. It looks like a new DIY project. Minutes pass. Moth contemplates taking a tiny sip of their favorite weirdo’s old fashioned while they’re away, wondering what magic the bartender might have worked on such a classic recipe, but they decide to wait and ask to try it.
Meanwhile, in the speakeasy’s bathroom, Interloper rushes into view of a mirror and starts to rip off their shirt, but in the very same moment, some other random person walks in, and they freeze, staring the sorry sap straight in the eyes like an opossum ready to play dead. The person frowns and continues on to one of the stalls, where they pee loudly as Interloper lifts up their shirt the rest of the way, feeling at the silicone cushioning of the implant’s port dock. They crane their neck over their shoulder to look at it in the mirror. The edges feel fine, the bolts feel fine, no metal or composite parts seem to be bent, the jacks are stable. There isn’t any static electricity in their shirt. Still, something pinches. They poke at where they feel tender, shifting around the skin underneath the port dock, and an exquisite pain replies for a moment before receding as fast as it came. Interloper sighs in relief and stretches again, holding the port dock in place as they bend over and touch their toes with their free hand. The toilet flushes and the other person in the bathroom washes their hands and scurries out, not making any eye contact. My brace, Interloper ponders, paying the other person no mind. They roll their shirt back down and head out to Moth.
“Hey, buddy,” Moth greets them. “Can I try your drink?”
“Sure.” Interloper settles into their chair, feeling the port dock press softly and uneventfully against their spine as they lean back with their drink and place their feet next to Moth’s. Before they hand the glass to Moth, they make eye contact with them and take a long sip, anchoring their lips to the rim. Moth takes it when Interloper finally hands it over, and to Interloper’s silent pleasure, Moth takes a sip from the side they just drank from, not quite on top of where their lips were, but overlapping.
“Wow,” Moth laughs. “This actually tastes kind of like cigar smoke. Like, it tastes like other stuff too, but it’s smoky. That bartender is an artist.” The giant ice sphere, slightly melted, clinks against the glass as they hand it back to Interloper and change the subject. “You were in there for a bit. Doing good?”
“Better,” Interloper replies curtly.
“Something up with your spike?”
“It’s just a little pinchy.”
“Well,” Moth folds their arms and lowers their voice. “After all the overloads and all the you-know-what with you-know-what, that makes sense. Maybe you should be more careful in the thingamabobber. Your brain’s been fucked with enough by it.”
Interloper tilts their head skeptically.
“You know what,” Moth retorts, “Why am I even saying this? You’re a Tonga user. Your modus operandi is to put your brain into a blender and see what happens.”
Interloper nods and takes another drink.
“I noticed your newest little sewing project, by the way. It’s cute.”
Interloper’s eyes widen.
“Are you doing that to all of your shirts?”
“Only the ones I wear.”
Moth sips their blue gin drink and grins.
“It's just awkward, otherwise,” Interloper elaborates. “Shirts have to be taped up, fabric gets caught and pulled, underwear gets revealed. My other designs were sloppy.” Interloper tugs down the fabric of their shirt again for good measure, feeling under the flap at the holes they added to the back around the mindspike ports. “I don’t like the feeling of cold air on my skin.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for a striptease,” Moth kids. Right as the suggestive joke comes out of their mouth, they begin to feel hyper-aware of the warmth in their cheeks. It grows into a fluttery self-consciousness that they quickly lasso and drag back into the shadows.
“Alright, then.” Interloper maintains direct eye contact with Moth as they slide their jacket back on and zip it all the way back up.
The self-consciousness weasels out again. Moth is puzzled and very mildly disappointed, but they don’t complain. It would be even weirder to ask them to take it off again. More silence follows. The cyst can’t occupy the two of them with mutual fixation, shared goals, and plans to discuss—the two resigned themselves to utmost secrecy about it wherever there might be eavesdroppers—so there's little to talk about at first. Moth thinks of questions that might evoke more than simple one word answers. Surprisingly, it’s Interloper who breaks the silence first.
“Can I try some of your drink again?” Interloper asks.
“Sure, if you let me have more of yours.”
Moth holds out the fleur de lis glass, and Interloper holds out the spiced-up old fashioned. While the two exchange their beverages, their hands connect into a circle.
“You can keep mine for a while, if you want,” Interloper offers.
“Thanks, dude. I’ll savor it. Do you wanna toast to something? Like, to you-know-what, and all our work on it?” Moth raises the glass and leans forward.
Interloper mirrors Moth and raises theirs, too, poised for a toast. Moth smiles, and Interloper smiles faintly back at them.
“To your Tonga operating system.” Moth declares.
“To all the jobs you’ve brought me,” Interloper adds.
Moth’s eyes soften. “To your brain not exploding.”
Interloper leans in. “To every question...” They bring their face slightly closer to Moth’s than necessary and lower their voice. “... that we’re finding the real answers to.”
“Well, shall we?”
Moth thrusts the glass upwards, and Interloper follows suit. Just as the glasses clang together, however, a sharp pain snakes its way up Interloper’s spine, and they cry out, spilling some of Moth’s drink. “Shit,” Interloper grunts through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, Moth.”
Moth hastily gathers the drinks and sets them on the table, spilling more in the process, and then shoots over to support Interloper as they keel over. “I don’t care about the drink. This is seriously starting to freak me out. You can’t just run into the bathroom on your own this time.”
The bartender materializes with a towel and a look of preparedness in his eyes. “Do you need any assistance?”
“Yeah,” Interloper croaks, adjusting their glasses. “Is there a… back room, or something?”
“Mindspike issue.” Moth gestures to Interloper’s back. “We just need someplace private to look at it and maybe let them lay down for a while. Don’t worry, we’re professionals, we know what we’re doing.”
Interloper hisses in pain, grasping at Moth for stability.
“Right this way,” the bartender leads, gesturing to a little room behind the bar. “I’ll bring your things behind you.”
The two stumble into what appears to be a small break room connected to the kitchen where the speakeasy prepares its snacks. There’s a little couch big enough to fit the two of them, but not quite big enough for Interloper to lay down comfortably in. It smells like dust.
“Just look at it,” Interloper demands to Moth in a pained groan, unzipping their jacket violently and throwing it off to the side. It lands over a half-empty crate of prosecco bottles. Moth’s hands guide them to the couch, and finally their heartbeat slows down a little.
“Should I open up your shirt holes?” Moth fumbles at the fabric flap, hands shaking as they unbutton it.
“They’re meant for connection, not diagnostics. You can’t see the full thing through them. The whole shirt has to come off. Sorry in advance for the striptease.” Interloper drops down to the couch and raises their arms so Moth can lift the shirt off of them, looking at Moth over their shoulder with an intense expectant stare that Moth feels a complicated excitement about. Moth does as they ask, and then Interloper’s back lays bare before them, split down the middle by the silicone padded tech covering their spine. Moth stares. It’s one thing to see a picture in passing or read a description in a news article of how mindspike implants look, but it looks freakier in person, close up, surgically embedded in their friend. There are still visible scars from the procedure that put it there—wrinkled little geometric zigzags from precision laser incisions, dashes from nerve threadings and skin tension releases, staple-holes for the big ones—and some connect to the marks of unrelated procedures, like the top surgery scars that wrap around Interloper’s sides. There are too many components to name, most of which Moth can't remember the names of.
“It doesn’t bite,” Interloper says, their cybernetically-enhanced back looking naked to Moth, yet also permanently clothed.
“Sorry, it’s just neat. I know implants like this are more normal these days, but this is the closest I’ve been to yours.” Moth hovers their fingers over Interloper’s skin, conflicted about what they should touch, what is necessary and unnecessary to feel, what seems pragmatic to be curious about and what seems awkwardly perverse.
“My skin at L4 and T9 feels like it’s burning.”
“Point me to it. I don’t know medical jargon like that.”
“Just look down the sides of it from my shoulders to my hips and tell me if anything looks or feels off. Is anything hot?” Interloper rubs their temples, battling a fierce headache on top of what’s going on around their spine. They finally feel Moth’s cool fingers press down on the skin around their implant. The sensation feels particularly alien amidst all the prickling heat and overactive, stinging nerves. Interloper’s breath hitches, and Moth freezes.
Interloper turns to look at them.
“You do feel w-warm,” Moth observes, resuming the palpation. “And your skin looks a little irritated. Especially around the implant. But you’re not hot—” Moth gets flustered for a second. “—at least, your skin isn’t. The implant isn’t hot either.” They continue down Interloper’s back, shakily feeling up the skin like their hands don’t belong there. Interloper’s skin is smooth and inviting, and touching it feels like a rare opportunity. This is much more intimate than touching the outer plastic of a protective suit, or sitting across from them, sitting next to them, or even a hug. This sensation is connecting directly with someone who normally wears a lot of layers, both literally and figuratively. The external parts of the implant are warm and soft like Interloper’s skin, not cold and lifeless. Moth feels at the edge of a silicone plug covering and peels it off of a set of connector ports, revealing all the little holes. Aside from a few medical-grade titanium pieces grounding it or the replaceable metal jacks, it’s all made of a flexible material that glides over the muscle and bone below when Moth pushes it. Every bit of this port dock and the visible parts of the implant are carefully designed to be waterproof and to not interfere with movement.
“Do you think Velzie did this?” Interloper asks.
“Maybe. But there’s only so much Velzie can do with your mindspike buffer and my rerouting stuff standing guard between the cyst and your brain. I’m not a doctor or an expert on intraspinal implants, so take my opinions with a grain of salt. We should get mindsci involved as soon as we can afford to let the rest of the department in on what we’ve found, just to be safe. But I’ve seen mindspike ops with worse stuff going on turn out fine after giving their spikes a rest for a while. It could be your nervous system acting up or a delayed reaction to those overloads. And, just in general,” Moth draws in closer, allured by Interloper’s body heat. They breathe in, catching a subdued hint of tea tree oil and amber intermingling with Interloper’s sweat. Their chin brushes against Interloper’s hair. “I hate to say it, but you do wear your spike more than it was built to be worn, dude. Who knows what’s going on with your nerves from all that.”
Interloper winces, takes a deep breath, and leans back with an exasperated sigh, brushing against Moth. Their shoulders tense up. “I’ll make it through this job. Don’t worry too much.”
Moth finds Interloper’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
Moth pokes Interloper’s shoulder. “For the striptease.”
Interloper laughs with unusual expressiveness. “Sure. Are you into me?”
“What?”
“Are you into me, or am I reading this wrong?” They lean back further and tug at Moth’s lapels to angle Moth’s face close to theirs. Moth doesn’t resist. Interloper stares at them with that classic flat but intense look. Moth is comfortably paralyzed.
“Really funny that you’re asking me this right now, buddy!” Moth finally interrupts the moment.
Interloper blinks. “You made an uncharacteristically big deal out of inviting me to drink with you at a fancy bar after work and you just thanked me for a striptease. I’m asking for absolutely no reason at all.”
Moth cackles. “If you really want to know,” they tease, “...Yes. Maybe it’s just the dopamine and adrenaline from this job that’s got me particularly excited, but yeah. I’m into you.”
“Okay, cool.” Interloper drops to a gravelly low tone. “When my implant stops acting up, do you want to get out of here?”
There's a long pause as Moth processes what Interloper is implying. Finally, it clicks, and Moth laughs. “Do you think that maybe you should proposition me when you’re not dealing with delayed neurological feedback from a mindspike overload?”
“Sure, I can proposition you tonight and also some other night, if that’s what you want.”
Moth flushes deep red. “Okay dude, you probably shouldn’t be driving home like this anyways. We don’t have to bone it out but you’re definitely sleeping over.”
There’s a knock at the door, and the bartender peeks in. Moth and Interloper try to project an aura of desexualized composure. He smiles at the two and nods, then places their bags next to the couch before slipping back out. “Would you two like your drinks?”
“Sure,” Interloper answers. The bartender disappears and reappears with the drinks, asks the two if they need anything else, and then heads back out when Moth makes a few requests.
A few minutes later, Interloper sighs as Moth presses a glass of water into their hands. The door is closed again. “I’m a bit horizontal for this at the moment,” they say, rolling their aching neck and groaning. Moth cups the back of Interloper’s neck and, to Interloper’s absolute joy, Moth doesn’t just press the glass to their lips— Moth takes a gulp, holds it in their mouth, then kisses Interloper, pressing their fingers into Interloper’s cheeks to tell them to open up. The cold water rushes down into Interloper’s tired, dry throat.
Interloper moans. The pathetic feeling of being in mindspike-related pain intersects fascinatingly with a fun kind of horniness. They swallow the last drops of water and gasp for more. Moth gives them another mouthful, and it feels so good that they dig their fingers into the couch. Finally, Moth helps Interloper sit up, and Interloper takes a huge swig of the old fashioned.
“Jesus dude,” Moth sighs. “Take it easy.”
“Hurts,” Interloper mutters, then they lean up to Moth and lock lips with them. Their throbbing back still feels pinchy, and it radiates referred pain and sensory noise to completely different nerve branches in their body, but it adds to the urgency and need. The smoky, syrupy drink flavors their lips. Moth breaks away to reach for the water; they take one drink of it for themself and another for Interloper. When they dive back into the kiss, they gift Interloper another mouthful of water, laughing when Interloper predictably moans.
Moth slides down the arm of the couch and lets Interloper crawl on top of them. “You’re so weird, dude. I’m into it, though. It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of whatever the fuck runs through your mind when you decide to accept thoughtforms from a corrucyst into your actual brain.”
Interloper, straddling Moth with their knees, pushes Moth’s hand to rest over the implant’s port dock and squeezes, pressing Moth’s fingers around the edges. Moth starts to push it around.
“What’s this about?” Moth pushes down on the implant, forcing Interloper to arch their back. Interloper’s soft stomach and chest rest gently over Moth’s slight, angular frame.
“Feels good,” Interloper replies. “Helps with the pain.”
“Should I be concerned about pulling a wire or breaking it?”
“If it broke that easily,” Interloper pants, “I’d be dead, or paralyzed.”
“Ooookay.” Moth grabs their gin drink and downs the rest of it, prompting a surprised look from Interloper. “What, you think I can’t hold my liquor? We’re probably going to be here a while longer.”
“I hope we’re not going to be here a while longer.”
“Is the pain going away this fast or are you just a crazy masochist?”
“Both. What you’re doing is working.” Interloper feels something catch and then slip free inside their back, sliding around with Moth’s motions. It evokes a sensation like a gentle buzz, or a pinprick of coldness. Their glasses have started sliding off, and they’ve gotten smudged with oil from Moth’s skin. “Peel back the waterproof layering again. Find a small switch.”
“This one?” Moth shoves a finger into the silicone and finds it with the help of Interloper’s guiding hand.
“Flip it. It’ll manually clear the local EM buffer and run a quick EM cycle. It’s usually for static electricity, but it should help with this too.”
There’s a knock at the door. Moth has a moment to position themself and Interloper in a way that looks slightly less suggestive and slightly more like partner yoga before the door opens. “Okay, let’s keep doing those stretches, you have to get, uh, the lumbar nodes back into position,” Moth contrives as the bartender peeks in asking if they and Interloper need more water. “Sure, more water would be really helpful. Can we also get the tab? My buddy here is ready to go home and rest. Thanks, we really appreciate it. Tab’s all on me, by the way.”
The bartender closes the door again. Moth looks back to Interloper and after a moment of staring into their eyes and flipping the local EM buffer switch, they slide their face down to Interloper’s neck and kiss it with wet, hungry lips. They suck at the skin, letting their teeth graze lightly against it. Interloper makes a strange little squeak that Moth completely doesn't expect, so they stop in case it means Interloper is uncomfortable. Hinting to the contrary, Interloper pushes their neck against Moth's lips, their hands grabbing at Moth's black dress shirt and dragging them back in. Their glasses fall off.
“Don't stop until he comes back with the tab,” Interloper commands, softly but firmly.
You really are a freak, Moth wants to say, but their mouth is too full of Interloper’s perfect, perfect neck. Their ears are too full of the little sounds their friend makes. They're salivating so much that it's dripping down Interloper’s collarbone. It feels nice to know exactly what to do. Their mind floods with unhinged thoughts about what Interloper might tell them to do next.
There's another knock, and the two rip away from each other and sit side by side on the couch. Interloper shoves their now-fingerprinted glasses back on. Moth squeezes their thighs together and rests their hands in their lap to hide the bulge in their pants. The bartender walks in and cheerfully presents the check to Moth in a sleek leather folder. Moth grimaces slightly looking at the total, but they swallow their apprehension.
“You sure you don't want me to help with that?” Interloper asks.
“I'm employed by FBX, so I get cushy government job benefits like health insurance. You're a freelancer, buddy. Let me treat you, especially after you've put everything on the line for me.”
Interloper makes a small sound of amusement before reaching into one of the many pockets of their cargo pants. They fish out twenty dollars, which they tuck into the check folder. “Cash for the tip.”
Moth squints in confusion at the twenty dollar bill for a moment before nodding at Interloper, and then the bartender, who gives Interloper a genuine smile of appreciation and pride for his work. Once Moth scribbles down what the check requires and slides in their card, the bartender bows, thanks the two for their patronage, wishes the two a good night, and wishes Interloper a smooth recovery. He hurries back to run the card, returns it to Moth, and then attends to his other customers.
“Can you walk?” Moth asks Interloper.
With a slight hint of strain, Interloper picks themself up and stands straight. Moth stares for a second while Interloper retrieves their shirt and jacket and reaches into their bag. Out comes a black elastic thing that looks vaguely like a corset or a back brace. Interloper pulls it on and secures it around their midsection. The thing has layers of rigid plating and padding around the back that give the implant’s port dock extra support for mindspike docking and higher impact activities, and Interloper easily slips their clothing back on over it. Moth carries both bags for the two of them.
Interloper feels Moth pick up some of their weight with a sturdy under-arm support hold. “I can—” they start to weakly protest, but it occurs to them that this is a perfect excuse for Moth to stay close to them without it obviously looking like the two of them are going to hook up. They sigh and let their friend usher them out the speakeasy’s nondescript front door and into the parent building's weird, liminal hallways. “My car…” They start, “has my spike in it.”
“I took the bus here. I can drive us back once the last of that gin gets out of my system. Where did you park?”
“Fifty blocks away.”
Moth scoffs.