[Can’t Opt Out]

The room sparked. Emilia ignored it, so did her Censor.

Having known Mazi for nearly a decade, they both knew the feel of his skills—had felt those skills that first night, when he had warped the aethernet around the men harassing her and Beth. His skills didn’t feel quite the same as when a Baalphorian manipulated the aethernet, but Mazi had lived in the country—trained in the joint military forces that had heavy favoured Baalphorian techniques—so long, that it had slowly morphed into some amalgamation between the abilities of Halberstie, the Free Colony he had grown up in, and Baalphoria. It was familiar, and when the room shuddered, the walls blackening under the force of the barrier he had formed around them, Emilia felt nothing but safe.

It helped that she could break it, if she had to, of course.

The bartender glared up at her, a flick of his eyes, a small swallow, the only indication that Mazi’s manipulation had put him on edge.

[Person: {Grandy Lane}]

There was no way that was his real name, but it was apparently the one he had given her last night. She’d been too high to retain it, but her Censor, of course, had. Always remembering the useless things for her, even if it couldn’t always judge whether things were true or not.

[Person: {Grandy Lane} Updated]

[{Grandy Lane}: Possible alias]

Emilia mentally shook her head. Sometimes she wasn’t completely sure her Censor wasn’t fucking with her.

Grandy Lane’s—

Nope. She couldn’t even think of him by that stupid name.

The bartender’s fake glasses were askew, an arm fallen off one of his ears. They’d caught on the tip of his nose, barely saved from flying across the room, unlike his ugly hat. “What is this!?” he spit out, pushing himself up and glaring at Mazi behind him. He’d barely spared Emilia a glance.

“Just a little chat,” Emilia said, continuing to lean back and enjoy her drink. She’d never really been trained in interrogation, but she’d been brought in on enough to know the basics of how they went down. She wasn’t sure she’d be good at it, but between her and Mazi, she was sure they could get something out of him. How much was the question.

Every time she had seen people come into contact with Mazi’s abilities in the past, they had found it off-putting—wrong. This guy, though… he barely seemed to notice. Either he had experience with Free Colony abilities, had been expecting something like this to happen, or something was wrong.

“About what?” the man asked, finally looking at her, a sneer written across his face. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and righted his glasses. He glanced towards his hat, but it was too far away. Receding hairline—so that’s what he’d been trying to hide under that thing, not that she still didn’t think its distractive qualities were meant to hide more than the fact that he couldn’t afford knot therapy to delay that little quirk of genetics. “I’m not having a three-way with you and the lynie.”

Emilia’s expression darkened slightly. “Watch your mouth.”

Mazi shot her a look that said, “It’s fine,” as though being called an outdated and derogatory name for Free Coloniers was fine.

It wasn’t fine, but it was interesting. In Piketown, at least, most people kept their bigotry to themselves, especially in a work environment—even if this one was currently a little hostile. To let such sentiments so easily flow off your tongue…

The bartender smiled up at her, rude and challenging, and like he didn’t realize how fucked he was, stuck in this little, aether-enhanced room with two people who could rip him apart. Ex-military, they could claim it was PTSD—wouldn’t even be a lie, not for her, at least. “Little irregular got a thing for the lynie?” he asked, eyeing her up with something between desire and disgust.

“You don’t seem to like us very much,” she noted, taking a sip of her coffee as she forced her anger down, the too bitter flavour sliding over her tongue. She used to be good at keeping her cool.

The man’s nose wrinkled, but he said nothing more. His eyes flickered, pulling together in confusion, before they shifted back to disgust.

“No more to say?” she asked, setting her can down with a jarring clink that made the bartender jolt slightly. “You’re willing to call us names. You’re obviously disgusted with us, yet you have nothing more to say on the matter?”

His jaw tightened, like he was trying to hold himself back from saying more. His shoulders flexed backwards, bones cracking, and for a moment Emilia thought he was going to lunge at her. Then, Mazi’s foot was forcing his face into the carpet.

“Fuck!” the man growled, yelping when he was forced further into the rough fibres. “Fucking animal!”

Aether fluctuated around him, like he was trying to summon power to force Mazi off. It wouldn’t do him any good. Mazi’s barrier limited the use of aether within it to only people he trusted. It goes without saying that this man was not included on that list, and after a moment the aether he had been trying to summon shuddered away from him. He cursed, and for the first time, true panic flashed through his eyes, then vanished, replaced by a distant look, before flashing back to that look of anger and disgust.

“Is that what I am?” Mazi asked disinterestedly, like it was something he had heard a thousand times before. He probably had. There was still a lot of anti-Free Colonies sentiment—obviously—and it had been even worse during the war. He’d probably heard worse than this from people he was supposed to trust with his life.

She had heard those things too, during the war, before and after it.

“Do not speak to them.” The crack of fingers snapping in an angry grip. A shoulder popping out of a socket. A hand on her arm, pulling her away, the others following close behind as someone shouted obscenities about irregulars and Free Coloniers behind them. “Pieces of shit.”

She supposed she’d just lucked out, belonged to a unit of people who didn’t quite belong. Who despite their differences—their sometimes outright hatred for one another—had been connected by a thread of otherness.

“Better than someone who doses random women,” Mazi commented.

Laughter.

Emilia glared down at the erratic man, laughing into the floor. Her Censor reached out, sliding against the cool, chaotic vibrations of his. There was definitely something not right with it—with him. She wouldn’t be able to tell what exactly it was without diving inside him. Insanity? Black knot? Personality disorder? Maybe just high? Hell, he could have even accidentally dosed himself, for all she knew.

“Random women?” the bartended asked between his laughs. When he looked up, trying to twist his head to look back at Mazi, his eyes were blown wide. “What makes you think it was random? Or just women?”

“Why?” Mazi asked.

“Why not?”

“You’re lying.”

“Says who?”

“You, dumbass,” Emilia sighed. “You can’t not know why you chose not-random people.”

His laughter flittered out. Dark black eyes turned to her. They were so empty they made her insides roll. They hadn’t been that empty a moment ago. “Guess the irregular isn’t completely deficient,” he said, head tilting to the side, as though trying to make sense of her. “Too bad. Your type are better when they’re ex-300. You make such pretty little toys to—” The man broke off as Mazi’s foot ground him further into the carpet. He was going to have some killer carpet burns on his face when this was over, not that they were likely to let him live too long.

“Pria?” she called out through her Censor, hoping her friend was paying attention to her messages. She was supposed to be, but her friend was notoriously distractible.

“Yeah?”

Pria’s vision overlaid her own for a moment. The club. It was hot, but nowhere near as unpleasant as campus had been. There was a pretty redhead, their hair falling in curls down to their tiny breasts, her dress so low they were practically popping out. She was smiling at Pria, giving her that look.

“Don’t bring anyone whose been dosed back to the dorm, please,” she teased, making a mental note to mention to last night’s girl, if she happened to see her again, that she might want to get her knots checked. Hopefully, within a day or two, the entire city would know about the knotter. This being kept as club business meant news would be a bit slower to spread than it would have through an official SecOps investigation, but it would get around. The Club Cartel would let clinics in their pocket know, same with dealers, who would be quick to tell everyone who bought from them about it—no one wanted their drugs blamed for this. Eventually, it would make the news, but probably not until everything was settled—until there was nothing left for SecOps or The Black Knot to do, no bodies for them to find. “When did you get the shot?”

A bubble of confusion slashed over her mind. “I dunno? Not long after you left. I got one for you, too. Got your message about leaving after I paid. Gave it to a little gay boy— Oh! Fuck.”

Emilia wondered if her friend knew how lucky she was that she’d given it away and not double dosed herself. She definitely wasn’t going to point it out to her, in any case.

“It wasn’t meant for my friend,” Emilia noted, thanking Pria and wishing her luck with her conquest. “It was for me.” Both she and Pria had been pretty smashed last night. People who knew them would have known they’d be fine the next day, but this new guy? He’d probably assumed Pria would be too shitfaced to remember details of where she’d gotten the drink or when. There was safety in dosing someone blackout drunk, as long as they actually were blackout drunk.

The man’s eyes relaxed. Emotionless, calm. Then the anger and silence returned, the man seemingly having no clue that his sanity had every left. His lips pressed tight. She knew that look. That was the look of someone trying to keep their secrets and vitriol inside. She saw it often, on Beth’s face, whenever her family came up, on stranger’s, whenever they looked at her hair and eyes with barely suppressed disgust.

“This’ll be easier, if you just tell us~” she said, leaning forward and sighing, like the idea of having to force it out of him was exhausting. It would be exhausting. She’d really prefer he did just tell them what he knew, but she already knew that wasn’t going to happen. They might be able to get a few more details out of him, little slips of the tongue, but it wouldn’t be enough. She gave him a beat to consider—to let something slip—then said, “Hacking it is, then.”

At the mention of hacking, the man tensed. “There’s no way.”

Emilia bent, peeking at his face a little better. She could see herself, through her Censor’s expanded view of the room. She looked more than a little deranged, like a child smiling down at a new toy. Well, it was only fair. He’d implied she’d be a great fuck-toy first. From the corner of her eye, she could see Mazi watching her. He was doing a pretty good job of hiding his own surprise, but she could still see it on his face. People who could hack another's Censor, outside of The Black Knot, were rare. Emilia knew well enough that the few hackers in Baalphoria who were capable of forcing their way into a Censor and not part of the secretive organization belonged to the gangs. That was the only place they were safe from The Black Knot, who picked up people with that much skill before they could become a nuisance.

Fortunately, The Black Knot wouldn’t be picking her up. Not now. Not ever.

“Oh, yes,” she cooed, taking a step towards him. A ripple of pleasure she hadn’t felt in a long time shuddered through her. She had missed this—this power, this control over the world around her. It was barely a fraction of what she had once been, but it was enough to sate the little hunger inside her she had grown used to ignoring. “So, shall I hack you apart finding the answers? Or, do you want to tell us, about you and that knotter? The hack’ll go better, the more you give me.”

For a moment, Emilia was sure the bartender was going to resist, force her to go in with virtually no information. She’d do it, but the more she knew about what she was looking for, the better, for both her time and his mind. Then, he sighed, the fight leaving him.

“I got them from some guy, some purist. He said give it to anyone who comes in who’s wrong. Who doesn’t belong here. You count. So do all the other irregulars who come in, and the lynies.”

“Why?”

The man shrugged, as much as he could manage to, still trapped beneath a man twice his size. “Didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

Emilia rolled her eyes. Of course, this guy hated people like them enough to mess with their genes just for the shits and giggles. “Did he give it to anyone else? Did you?”

Another shrug. “Not me. Him? Probably. Guy seemed to be making the rounds at our, ah… gatherings.” Our, as in, people who really hate people like you.

“Anyone you know?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he lied. It wasn’t even a well covered lie.

“Is that right?” Emilia asked, taking another threatening step towards him.

“Fine! Fine!” he yelled, mumbling off the names of a couple people he’d seen the guy talking to.

Mazi cursed. “I know most of them. More bartenders—more new bartenders.” His eyes glazed over, presumably to contact bouncers at the clubs they worked for to tip them off that their patrons were being dosed with some bad shit.

“Thank you,” Emilia said, squatting down next to the bartender. Her dress pulled against her thighs uncomfortably, but she needed to be closer, for this.

He glared up at her, looking for a moment like he was about to spit at her, before thinking better of it. Wise decision. She’d probably have cut his tongue out.

“One more question, before I decide if hacking you is really necessary. Then, we’ll decide what we’re going to do with you. ” She blinked prettily down at him, as though perhaps she really were considering if the crumbs he had given them were enough. As though there were any ways out of this that didn’t involve his corpse.

She wasn’t completely sure he realized that, though. Either from whatever was eating him up or just general ignorance. He was going to be hacked, and whatever was left of him at the end, she and Mazi would hand over to the club’s enforcers. Drugs were big business of the clubs. Bad drugs were bad for business. Bad drugs meant patrons might not come back, might not spend a fortune every few days getting safely wasted. Bad drugs meant SecOps might get involved—or worse, politicians. There was always some politician running on a platform to make drugs illegal. They had been illegal once, before Censors had been programmed to monitor their owners for signs of misuse. A knotter that could drive people into insanity? If the clubs didn’t get a handle on that immediately, it would be a shitstorm.

The man’s face twitched, although he said nothing. Too calm, again.

“Who was it, that gave you the drug?”

“The fuck makes you think I know?” he bit out. Was he getting as much whiplash from his mood swings as she was?

“Well, a more helpful man might give us any details he could. What he looked like. If he had an accent. Things like that.” Emilia smiled mildly at him.

“No idea. I ain’t good with details like that.” Another calm.

A lie and the truth. He’d managed to remember Pria and Emilia had been buying for each other despite them only going up together hours before she had left, after all. The way his eyebrows pulled together, however, eyes shifting as though looking for something. A blank space where the memory of the man’s face should have been? That was most certainly not good. That potentially put a time limit on this.

“So, when you ran out of the stuff, you were just going to give up this whole dosing not-random people thing?”

“Yup. Just a one-time thing.” Another lie. He really wasn’t particularly good at it. He probably thought he was, with his cocky confidence. He had tells, though, and not ones related to whatever was eating memories and sanity up inside his head. No, this man raised an eyebrow, as though in challenge. “Call me out on my lie, if you dare.”

That, she was sure, was all him.

On its own, a shit ability to lie was boring fact. Assuming she was correct, however, it did tell her that whoever had given him the knotter had either been a bad judge of character or wanted him to get caught. That, or whatever was eating him up was meant to leave him brain-dead before anyone caught up to him.

“You know I can tell you’re lying, right?”

The man glared at her a moment more before closing his eyes. “You said one more question. I told you I don’t know—that I don’t remember anything. I don’t care to answer anything else.”

“Ah~” Emilia sighed, straightening up. She turned, walking to one of the couches and plopping down. She yawned, arms reaching high above her as she stretched. “Guess I’ll have to rip the answers from you, after all.”

“You think I’m stupid?” he asked, voice laced in that disgust that seemed much more natural than the calm. His eyes flicked open for a moment to meet hers. He looked tired, and done, like he was sick of looking at her. “I know I’m not leaving here alive.” He smiled, wide and cruel, for a moment. “Least I can do is wreck that irregular brain of yours before I go. One less bitch to ruin this world with their shit genes.”

She gave him a sleepy smile, letting his words wash over her as though they were nothing. They were nothing. Nothing but thousands of years of belief over whether genetic spasms were good or bad. Truth was, they were neither. They just were.

She sighed, sagging lower into the couch. Her cloud filled bed was calling. If it hadn’t been for this man, for the chaos he and the knotters could cause, she would have gone home after the restaurant. Sadly, it looked like it was going to be a while before she could fall into the land of dreams and nightmares—not that the place she was going now wasn’t liable to be a nightmarescape.

She didn't want to face all the destruction and murder that was tucked away inside him, but the way things were going… well, she didn’t really want to wait for him to be moved to a Black Knot site for proper examination.

Who knew what would be left of him, if something was inside him, eating away his memories and sanity.

“I ain’t that easy,” she said, before sucking in a breath, her digital self and real world self breathing together, synchronizing. It had been a long time since she’d hacked someone’s Censor—someone’s mind. Hopefully, she wasn’t too out of practice.