Quoted By:
>Advanced Mercy
It's tricky to concentrate with Pat's eyes locked so intently on you, but nevertheless you think about it. And think about it. And settle, finally, on a course of action. "Yeah," you say. "I want the fucking snake. It's <span class="mu-i">my</span> snake."
Pat doesn't collapse to her knees or beat her breast or wail or anything, but it sort of looks like she wants to. It wouldn't be too much exaggeration to say the life's all wooshed out of her: she stands there waxen and stiff, her shoulders raised, her fingers curled, her eyes dark and glassy. "Makes sense," she says, after a moment. "You know where it is, isn't it? I haven't moved it from the lab."
"Uh," you say. "Yeah, but—"
"Sounds good." She reaches down without looking and tosses you something shiny. You catch it without looking. "Elevator runs right there. These'll make it start."
Keys. You furrow your brow. "Thanks, but... are you not coming along? To make sure I don't sabotage the rest of your shit, or—"
"Madrigal," she says— with no sarcasm, rancor, nothing. Toneless. "I'm not going anywhere."
You can't even get a "what—" out, much less a "what the fuck are you talking about?": it all happens at once. There's something in her hand, and by the time you register <span class="mu-i">gun</span> it's already lifted to her temple, and by the time you register <span class="mu-i">that</span> the spear's already in motion, whirling and springing and hurtling down on Pat practically of its own volition. The gun, and her hand, go flying. A little bit of black shit wafts from the stump.
Pat's eyebrows shoot up and crash down in red rage. The skin of her face wobbles. She lifts her <span class="mu-i">left</span> hand and the gun in it to her temple and—
This one takes only a little flick. The gun, and her other hand, bounce slightly when they hit the ground. Pat stares. You kick it sideways before she gets any big ideas.
She doesn't say anything, though, or move, so you busy yourself with stowing the spear in its convenient sling. When you look up, her face has gone purple and her eyes have gone squinty, and when she <span class="mu-i">sees</span> you look up they go more than squinty. Shit. Shit! "What the <span class="mu-i">HELL?</span>" she half-screams at you. "<span class="mu-i">WHY?</span>"
You raise your hands in defense. "Hang on, just—"
"You hate me <span class="mu-i">THAT</span> much? You won't even let me <span class="mu-i">DIE?</span> I have <span class="mu-i">ONE</span> option left and I can't—" She's openly tearing up. "You want me to <span class="mu-i">SUFFER,</span> don't you? You psycho, you <span class="mu-i">CUNT—</span>"
"Holy shit, cool it!" you say, and slap her.
It works. She glowers back bitterly and silently.
"<span class="mu-i">Thank</span> you. Holy shit. I don't want you to die."
"Obviously," she hisses. "You just want—"
"You don't fucking know what I want, alright? I'm a fucking wild card. I'm a fucking..." You scrabble for an alternative. "...crazy-ass... bitch. Yeah. That's me. So shut the fuck up. I don't want you to get tortured, or- or locked up, or experimented on, or whatever the fuck Management's planning for you. Alright? Because that's fucked-up."
(1/5)
