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❝ you're the color of my blood ❞
[The worst morning of Une's life begins with a sunrise like any other, dark skies heralding the sun with pale pink hues that soon fade into the blue of a clear day. Light peers at her through the curtains of her hotel room window, urging her to rouse from beneath her sheets. Eyes still shut tight, she clings to yesterday when another body shared her bed. There's plenty of space for her to toss and turn yet she stays to the left side of her mattress, insensible as it is. After all, housekeeping came and went the day before, taking away the last traces of her lover; changing her bedding and stealing away the smell of his hair and skin. Yet somehow, she can't bring herself not to leave an empty space for him, somewhere for the image in her head to reside.
There's a tingle to her parched throat as she runs her dry tongue over the back of her teeth. Much as she resists, her body begins to answer the day's call to waking. With a groan into her pillow, she forces herself to sit up, long brown hair falling all over her face. Seconds pass between a few deep breaths before she lets her feet touch the carpeted floor, pain radiating from between her thighs down to her legs. Naked, she walks to the bathroom, shivering as warm carpet turns to cold tile. She washes her mouth out and spits with all the distaste she has for what lies beyond her room.
Brunch at 11. Pitch the strategy for lunar economic growth. Discourage the tax hike.
Dirty politics always goes down better with rich food and morning cocktails. Vice on top of vice. It's their playing field, not hers. Running the faucet, she splashes water on her face even as it runs through her fingers. Her reflection is one she doesn't dwell upon; lipstick smudged around her mouth as a garish complement to bloodshot eyes still smeared with mascara from the night before. She turns the spigot off, splaying her hands to touch frigid marble on either side of the sink as she slumps, watching the water go down the drain.
I can't keep doing this. I can't just-
The shrill ring of her room's landline steals her thought away, forcing her to stand at attention and grab her bathrobe. Cursing under her breath, she wraps herself in terrycloth, lacing the belt as she grabs the phone from its cradle.]
What is it?
[No pleasantries and a tone short and sharp enough to qualify as a switchblade. At her beside table, the clock blares 0900 with bright red numbers on its display.
We were just concerned about you, Ms. Une. The car you took last night...
Her hand trembles even as she keeps the speaker to her ear.]
What happened?
[There was an accident, ma'am. About a mile from your hotel. The car was totaled and-
Time bends just then as she slams the phone back down onto its cradle, frantic to grab her cell. Dial this, dial that. She's breathing heavy as she tries not to scream at every press contact she has confirming the news.
This has got to be a mistake, a joke, a hoax... Those bastards are messing with me.
Hospital address. Room number. The words flow into her ears and move from pen to paper as she paces her suite in a daze.
This can't be real.
Within an hour, she's moved to pacing in a hospital lobby, smartly dressed in a skirt suit with her high heels clicking against linoleum. Did she even bother to paint her face? Did she drive herself here? All of it fades to the back of her mind as she awaits clearance to head up and see the man who survived the crash.
There was a fatality but one of them survived. We're not sure if it was the driver or the passenger...
Even as her press contact spoke to her on the phone, her ribs seemed to close around her heart and lungs.
It has to be Warsman. It just has to be.
She'd wish death on an innocent man just to see him again. Selfish. Cruel. If Warsman had perished, she'd deserve the pain she got.
Ms. Une, you can head up now.
On shaky legs, she steps into the elevator, heart pounding as it ascends. Once the doors open, she enters a hall bathed in white and the harsh scent of antiseptics.
This way, please.
The nurse's white cap bobs as she walks and Une follows blindly until they reach the third room to the right. With a bow, the nurse leaves Une to turn the knob herself. Swallowing her fear and the lump in her throat, she pushes the door open and steps inside. On the bed, a hulking man lies battered, purple bruises blooming on his tanned skin, oxygen tubes feeding into his mask.
Her legs finally give out from under her, and she falls to her knees, hands clapped over her mouth as she tries and fails to hold back tears. Both relief and horror wash over her, neither granting her any sense of respite.]
There's a tingle to her parched throat as she runs her dry tongue over the back of her teeth. Much as she resists, her body begins to answer the day's call to waking. With a groan into her pillow, she forces herself to sit up, long brown hair falling all over her face. Seconds pass between a few deep breaths before she lets her feet touch the carpeted floor, pain radiating from between her thighs down to her legs. Naked, she walks to the bathroom, shivering as warm carpet turns to cold tile. She washes her mouth out and spits with all the distaste she has for what lies beyond her room.
Brunch at 11. Pitch the strategy for lunar economic growth. Discourage the tax hike.
Dirty politics always goes down better with rich food and morning cocktails. Vice on top of vice. It's their playing field, not hers. Running the faucet, she splashes water on her face even as it runs through her fingers. Her reflection is one she doesn't dwell upon; lipstick smudged around her mouth as a garish complement to bloodshot eyes still smeared with mascara from the night before. She turns the spigot off, splaying her hands to touch frigid marble on either side of the sink as she slumps, watching the water go down the drain.
I can't keep doing this. I can't just-
The shrill ring of her room's landline steals her thought away, forcing her to stand at attention and grab her bathrobe. Cursing under her breath, she wraps herself in terrycloth, lacing the belt as she grabs the phone from its cradle.]
What is it?
[No pleasantries and a tone short and sharp enough to qualify as a switchblade. At her beside table, the clock blares 0900 with bright red numbers on its display.
We were just concerned about you, Ms. Une. The car you took last night...
Her hand trembles even as she keeps the speaker to her ear.]
What happened?
[There was an accident, ma'am. About a mile from your hotel. The car was totaled and-
Time bends just then as she slams the phone back down onto its cradle, frantic to grab her cell. Dial this, dial that. She's breathing heavy as she tries not to scream at every press contact she has confirming the news.
This has got to be a mistake, a joke, a hoax... Those bastards are messing with me.
Hospital address. Room number. The words flow into her ears and move from pen to paper as she paces her suite in a daze.
This can't be real.
Within an hour, she's moved to pacing in a hospital lobby, smartly dressed in a skirt suit with her high heels clicking against linoleum. Did she even bother to paint her face? Did she drive herself here? All of it fades to the back of her mind as she awaits clearance to head up and see the man who survived the crash.
There was a fatality but one of them survived. We're not sure if it was the driver or the passenger...
Even as her press contact spoke to her on the phone, her ribs seemed to close around her heart and lungs.
It has to be Warsman. It just has to be.
She'd wish death on an innocent man just to see him again. Selfish. Cruel. If Warsman had perished, she'd deserve the pain she got.
Ms. Une, you can head up now.
On shaky legs, she steps into the elevator, heart pounding as it ascends. Once the doors open, she enters a hall bathed in white and the harsh scent of antiseptics.
This way, please.
The nurse's white cap bobs as she walks and Une follows blindly until they reach the third room to the right. With a bow, the nurse leaves Une to turn the knob herself. Swallowing her fear and the lump in her throat, she pushes the door open and steps inside. On the bed, a hulking man lies battered, purple bruises blooming on his tanned skin, oxygen tubes feeding into his mask.
Her legs finally give out from under her, and she falls to her knees, hands clapped over her mouth as she tries and fails to hold back tears. Both relief and horror wash over her, neither granting her any sense of respite.]
no subject
À̢T̴̀͞T͝È͠M̶̸P҉Ţ҉I͜N̶͏G͠͡ ͏̡R͘ȨB͠OO̧T͜
AT͝T́EM̵̨PT̵I̕͏Ń̡͟G͞
R͜E͠C̵O̧N͠F͟IG̡UŖA͝T̶ION̡ ̴SU͠CC͞ES͞S͜FUL̷. INIT͝IATE ̀REP̕AI͞R͞ S̢EQU̸EN͡C̛E?
. . . . .
Warsman is incapable of pinpointing the precise moment when awareness finally broke through the fog of that endless nothing; it's like opening his eyes in a dark room, like having the temperature slowly raised in a bath. Imperceptible. Even as his mind begins to warm over again he can't seem to make it snag on anything. All around him is little more than an absence, smooth and resistant to the blind ministrations of his consciousness in the way of deep space, that silent cage. A matrix.
Within, though: life. Or electricity. Don't try to tell him they aren't the same thing. It's the only way he can be sure that he is at all- or, indeed, that he is a he. But it's starting to stream back to him now, that he is, and sooner or later (he can't tell which) a name emerges from the hypertrophic thrummings of his cerebral cortex: WARSMAN. He is a sophisticated robo-choujin wrestler whose functionality is at a little less than 12.23%, his name is Warsman.
And the last thing he has has recorded is impact.
From there, as his memory core repairs every fractured bit of data, it's only a matter of watching the complex web of thoughts and feelings weave itself. It would kill him stone cold if he were capable of really taking it in, but as it is Warsman feels little more than a distant fascination, as though he were watching another body construct itself. Once upon a time, a brutish ogre and a beautiful woman met and fell in love. Absently, he notes the make and the colour of the car that blindsided them, the fraction of its number plate his ocular sensors could catch. Then...
SENSORY SYSTEMS AVAILABLE. REBOOTING: AURAL SENSORS. . . SUCCESSFUL.
The first thing he hears, beyond the sick thump of his pulse, is a high-pitched beeping. At first he wonders if it isn't some internal alarm, but his sensors are still adjusting themselves and a moment later he's swamped by distant voices, footsteps, an ambulance in the distance. After his silence it's almost too much to take in, and in a way he's grateful for the distraction because if it weren't there he might have to recognise that black morass of emotion he's been secretly acquiring in the backwaters of his heart. He's alive and he's in hospital. That's more than he could ever have hoped to ask for.
Only when the knowledge comes that his olefactory system is online does he truly feel its weight, like a kick in the gut. In the air he smells shampoo, and skin, and the blush of makeup, and in the chaos he hears a sob- and he knows all of it better than he knows himself.
Elle.]
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