Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

Location: Downtown Archipelago - Car Lyle
Time: early morning


Helix,

When the sun's rays peek over the water and wake you, you find yourself in the comfy bed where you fell asleep with Salem. Surprisingly, you find yourself alone - no sign of the little girl, not even a stray curly hair or other sign of her presence. You hear the sound of people in other rooms, moving about. Also, there's the sound of something sizzling coupled with the smell of cooking meat, and it isn't fish.

What do you do?

When I open my eyes, these things are true: Kiwi is dead, I don't want to be here, and the sun still rises.

Despite what happened yesterday, or maybe because of it, once I fell into the current of sleep, it carried me far and deep. This bed is objectively more comfortable than my own, and Salem's little body by mine kept any chill of night away. Now, though, I'm wondering if I only imagined her.

I sit up, taking in the room in the light of day and inhaling the scent of meat, not briny and sweet, but something distinctly non-oceanic. I can't imagine what. Rat, maybe? If you don't let them feast on garbage, they don't taste like it later. My stomach tightens with hunger, a sensation I've long since conceded to accepting as a faithful friend.

I make the bed, wincing when I move my arm too quickly, shooting pain through my elbow. If anything, the bruise and cut look worse today, but hurtful things often do in the light. I straighten myself up as best I can, smoothing the wrinkles out of the yellow dress and running my fingers through my hair to work out the snarls. I don't relish the idea of leaving this space and starting a day with the Sippians, but avoidance won't save me. Only I can do that.

I wonder if Lucky Strike found my scalpel left by his gun last night. What did he make of it? Will I ever get it back? I open the door and quietly make my way toward the kitchen.

You find nobody in the hallway and head to the kitchen to find this woman busy cooking strips of meat in a skillet:


You've served Pall Mall at the Belly dozens of times. What's her favorite drink? How does she tip?

Pall Mall usually drinks, and I quote, "anything extra dirty." Kiwi usually ended up mixing beer and pickle juice, but sometimes made a true vodka martini. Regardless, Pall Mall was usually all bark and no bite. She'd berate me boundlessly, then leave a good tip under her chair where none of the other Sippians would see it. I wonder who will mix her drinks now that Kiwi is gone.

She orders me into the kitchen and the counter in my chest clicks the start of another shift. It's the feeling I get every time I step into the Belly, but now it may be my life. I wonder if by the time the month is up, I'll still feel it, or if it will become like every other harsh reality - registered at first, then routine.

"Sorry," I say, moving into the kitchen and opening the cabinet she pointed out. "I'm used to working nights." I pull seven glasses down - enough for the six at the table and Pall Mall - and start filling them up. Without a proper serving tray, I can only carry five drinks at once - three in the palm of one hand with a fourth balanced on top, and the fifth in my serving hand. It means I'll be leaving someone out on my first trip to the table. Perhaps that should be Salem, as the youngest, but instead I drop my first drink to Lucky and the second to Salem. I leave one of the others out at random, running a second trip to the table just for them.

I should be able to go back to the bar where I could roll my eyes with Kiwi at the rude comments from customers before coming back into the fray. Now the only one waiting for me is Pall Mall, and even if she's left good tips before, that doesn't mean I trust her enough to be honest with her.

The comment Benson makes about Nuport is a barb that sticks though, and my lips tighten, turning down at the corners as I straighten. I wonder how much worse the world would get for me if I smashed a second Sipp's hand, or head.

I inhale through my nose, pushing the thought away. I don't need the Whispers to remember the bloody nail Lucky laid on the table. But that doesn't make the Whispers useless.

'You said Mikkie talks to you,' I ask them as I go to get Benson's water. 'Do you help him win his fights?'

"We do, we do," a voice responds in a syrupy sweet voice.

"But only when he begs us," another snaps.

"And the cost is high," yet another warns. "Very high. What do you want help with, Helix?"

You pour the water from the sink into the glass to bring it back to Benson. He reaches for the water and you feel Lucky Strike's eyes on you, watching.

What do you do?

The Whispers mention a cost and my ribs shrink. Having them trapped in my head is costly enough. What else would they want? Would it be worth it?

I cross the room with Benson's water, wishing I had Orion's venom to top it off for him.

'I want to know how I can get under Benson's skin,' I tell the whispers as I hand off the water and watch Benson the way a caged dog watches its captor. The hair on my neck bristles with the sense of someone else's eyes on me and I blink to the present, looking over at Lucky Strike for a moment before I step away from Benson and go back to the kitchen to await my next orders. It feels like Lucky sees too much.

In a flash, you see Benson's younger brother Hedges standing twenty feet over him, laughing at him. Benson shrinks down and cowers from Hedges, fear putting a telltale tremor in his voice.

When the vision fades, you find yourself standing by the table. Benson yanks the glass away from you, calling you a stupid cow for being so slow.

The vision floods my emotions, drowning me in Benson's fear and Hedges' power, the dichotomy threatening to tear me in two. Just as soon as it comes, though, it goes, as do so many things in this world - food, freedom, friends - and I'm once again a stupid cow in a yellow dress trapped with dirty dishes and, if I'm lucky, my daily dregs.

I avoid meeting Salem's gaze as I move back to the kitchen, but I can't help but wonder what she makes of this. She's likely used to it, me and the "other slaves" being demeaned and demanded about, but I doubt she dreamed alongside any of them the night before. I doubt she dazedly dubbed any of them her mother in the after-midnight hours.

It's Lucky Strike's last order that bothers me most. Being given a task is one thing. Being sequestered to a single space for an indeterminate length of time feels like a pointless power play. It is a bitter weed on my tongue. I don't answer Lucky Strike aloud, but I set about washing the dishes like he said, thinking of the dishes I left drying at my own apartment as I do. Will they still be waiting for me when I get back? I have to get my pets before long, but I don't think asking for a return trip home is going to do me any good right now. If I ever have a free moment, maybe Regal would take me.

While I wash, I listen, trying to glean as much as I can from this breakfast gathering. Are these members Lucky's inner circle? Or is this merely a casual occurrence? Why is Salem here with no other children around?

The group seems to be Lucky's inner circle - they're getting prime meat and service on the upper floor. You notice as they talk that none of them are smoking. There are no ashtrays up here, the telltale stench of cigarettes is absent. It must be some rule or something because at the Belly everyone in the Sipps smokes. Pall Mall hands over a skillet and a couple of pots you have to scrub, but she doesn't care that you're here - you just save her work. You can feel Salem's eyes on you as she sneaks looks at you a few times.

Benson and a couple of the other Sipps are telling Lucky Strike about repairs on "the big ship". Lucky's asking probing questions about the engines and guns. It sounds like something big. Big ships don't sail in the Downtown Archipelago because of the risks of tearing open on unseen buildings, but it very much sounds like this ship is going to sail downtown. Benson laughs as he calls it "our real pirate ship". It sounds like they should have it ready to sail in a few days.

Lucky Strike tells them to go get to work and promises he'll be by to check things out soon. Sounds like the ship isn't in Car Lyle. They exit and Salem is told to go find Bristol to work on her lessons. Lucky tells Pall Mall to "take off", and she wipes off her hands and leaves, too. It means you're alone with Lucky Strike.

I don't understand how the Sippians think they're going to get the "big ship" through the buildings and rubble in the Archipelago, but maybe I'm too dim to follow their conversation correctly. Canary would know. She also knows precisely how ill-suited I am for the waters around us, a weakness I'm resolved to keep hidden from my current company.

More than the mechanics of the big ship, though, I'm worried about the mission. Bringing a big ship - a pirate ship as Benson says - into the midst of our world doesn't seem like a good thing, especially when that ship is in the hands of the Sippians.

I've only just exhaled a breath of relief when Salem leaves, no longer worried about what her bright eyes are trying to tell me, when the tension returns double. Lucky Strike's quiet command makes me question every step I take. I know he's capable of issuing orders aloud, but when it's just us, he seems to prefer silence. It makes my hands feel too cold.

I follow him toward the door, unsure of everything but very aware that I don't know when I might have another chance alone with him. When I catch up to him, I say, "I have rent to pay. I have to work my shifts at the Belly still."

The wind whips past, carrying the smell of the water with it. The place is green with vegetation, all in pots that hang from wires in neat rows. You see a few people wearing wide hats to hide from the sun who tend it. Lucky heads to the edge of the roof and sits down. He's facing The Tower. He pats a piece of roof near him, a place to sit.

What do you do?

He doesn't answer and I don't dare ask again. When he leads us to the roof, I check the sky for storm clouds before I follow him up. The Whispers revel in the rain. It's how they first found me, and to this day storms will turn me to a mewling kitten, sequestered to a fetal heap on my bed with my hands clapped over my ears until the storm passes.

Without imminent clouds, I safely climb to the roof and take in the view. It reminds me of my days as an Ivy, ascending to dizzying heights, and when Lucky Strike invites me to sit beside him, it brings back another memory of my Ivy days. The sound of a body hitting the water from this high up. It isn't so much a splash as a splat. A dull thunk of flesh on something that is more solid than liquid before the corpse disappears below the surface.

Lucky threatened to nail my body to the side of a building last night. I doubt he'd hesitate to push me off the edge of one today, but I have no choice. I move up to sit on the edge beside him, trying to remain as far away as I can without it being too obvious. My fingertips press hard into the rooftop below me, holding onto the surface just in case.

My whole being is balanced on the edge of a blade. On either side, a lethal fall, and where I am a cutting danger. I watch Lucky Strike even though he doesn't look at me, my eyes keen for any flinch or twitch that might indicate a threat.

I had hoped he'd forget about what I said last night, but apparently he has only stewed on it since then.

I swallow, then I skirt the question with, "If you had, wouldn't you be broadcasting it as a reason none of the Sippians should cross you? A man willing to kill his own blood wouldn't hesitate to oust an unruly pledge. I haven't heard you doing that."

"He knows you know," a Whisper informs you amid the howl of the wind carrying your hair.

"Lie to him. Hide your power. He'll leech it from you," one warns. "Remember the nails!"

"What you know is why you're here," another impresses on you. "If you know nothing, he'll shove you off and be done."

The Whispers make everything feel more dangerous. They war in my head and I'm caught in the middle. I resist the urge to close my eyes to focus on quieting them.

"Benson and Hedges think you did it," I say after a moment. "Why?" I find myself leaning back from the edge a bit, half-expecting him to push me off the roof for even asking the question.

I flinch when he moves, my stomach falling like I'm in freefall, but he doesn't send me flying and I let out a soft breath.

If the Whispers are right, and they usually are, Lucky Strike knows I can do something, but I don't know how much he knows. It is a game of cat and mouse. I am certainly the mouse, but a mouse with voices in her head and a nose for survival.

I meet his eyes. "Why are you telling this to the person who's here to wash dishes and put up with everyone's insults?"

My jaw flinches when he mentions Kiwi's name, my throat tightening when he confirms aloud his suspicions about my power. The vice grip intensifies as he extends more claws - the prison sentence, the homelessness, the joblessness. I'm given a choice between a nibble of cheese for a party trick or a neck-snapping trap that will be equally fun for the audience.

"It's not much of a choice," I echo softly. I look away from him, down to the waters below. "Was it Salem's mother? The one who could see things?"

I hesitate, not sure if I should pry, or end this while I'm still breathing. But when I remember the way Salem shrank into her covers last night when she told me her mother left too, I have to ask, "What happened to her?"

My emotions flicker below the surface in a dozen dazzling colors. A flash of sadness for the little girl left behind. A streak of fear that my fate will be the same. And a flare of anger that lingers.

'You killed her?' I demand, my fingers pressing into the rooftop for a completely different reason than before. 'Is that your plan for me too? Drive me to the edge, then over it?'

Realizing I've been outwardly quiet for too long, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I don't blame her." Once out, it feels too honest and admits more than I intended. I consider adding more to cover my blunder, but if Lucky remembered how I dodged his question last night about his mother's death, he won't miss this either. Covering would only make it worse.

"You reap the whirlwind," a whisper says.

"It will take you away," another one finishes.

The Whisper's answers remind me of something Blackjack says - play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Lucky Strike is forcing me into a very stupid game, but refusing to play would mean losing - losing everything. I look back at him and nod. "I will. It would be helpful to know how she died. And where."

Seeing the bullet makes me think of Kiwi, of desperately trying to dig the bullet from his body being the bar. My gaze flicks to the Tower, thinking of the elite living there. I bet one of them could get shot and survive. I bet they wouldn't use chopsticks for their emergency surgery. They'd have a dozen people bringing whatever supplies were needed to save a life - a wealthy life.

I take a breath and return my focus to Lucky Strike. He holds such reverence for the bullet in his hand and my survival instincts sense a chance to seize an opportunity. The mouse makes a move for one of the cat's claws.

"May I have that?" I quickly look from the bullet up to his face and add, "Not forever. But having it to help focus my...sight could help." It feels foreign, speaking about the Whispers aloud. I stumble over the right words to use. "Sight" doesn't feel exactly right, but I don't try to correct it.

I swallow when he brings up the scalpel. Lucky Strike does have a way of always bringing things back around, in his own time.

"You've already threatened to take my job, my home, and my freedom. I don't know what else you think I have to offer here. I can't even give you the clothes off my back. They're already yours."

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth as he scans me, holding back the barrage of words and feelings bristling against him. When he demands one of the paltry possessions I have left, a surge of frustration breaks the barrier. "No," I say, the word sharp and short. "If you don't want to give me every opportunity you can to find your mother's killer, you can sleep with that guilt. I'll find them, because I have to, but it'll take longer. Just know you're the one giving them their freedom in the meantime."

The suddenness of his laugh makes my eyes shut quickly, as if expecting a blow, but then he only stands, towering over me and ensuring I feel just as small as I know I am in the world. I don't stand until he's finished speaking, then I get to my feet, resisting the urge to touch my harness to comfort myself with the fact that it is still mine.

"Does watching my back include letting me go back to work at the Belly? It's a good place for me to collect gossip and rumors. Getting people drunk enough helps too."

I may not be getting ahead for the next month, but I will be surviving and sometimes that's all you can expect in this sea-soaked world. I don't relish the idea of handing over everything to the Sippians at the end of the night, but I'd relish relinquishing my job entirely even less.

When he mentions Salem, I'm quiet for a long moment, tempted to tell him that I learned to keep myself warm at night younger than she is now. Instead, I say, "Well. I assume you want me to come back here when my shifts are over." It's an offer, to continue staying with Salem even if I'm arriving long after she's gone to sleep. If it keeps me in the penthouse instead of down below, I'll take it. "I'll need a ride back. Or I can buy one with some of Karo's wages."

I don't follow Lucky Strike this time. I'm not sure if he expects me to, but he'll have to ask - with more than just walking away - if he does. Instead, I turn away and sweep my hands back through my hair, exhaling a long breath that carries a quiet curse quickly captured by the breeze.

Finding Hard Strike's killer is one thing, but gathering enough evidence to convince the doubters is something else altogether, and I have to do it broke, displaced, and secretly. "I'm going to be a slave here forever," I murmur to myself.

I almost don't want to stir up the Whispers, but I can't help but reach out. 'What will it take for me to get a name out of you?'

"Kiwi," one of them whispers. "Bring Kiwi to us and we will provide the name."

There is a whispering laughter from another voice, "Prove that the living is more important than the dead."

Twenty-four hours ago, I would have scoffed at the Whisper's request. I would have told them there's nothing after life, no spark of Kiwi left to hand over, but after last night, their laughter makes my stomach turn. Am I supposed to be the arbiter of the afterlife now?

I close my eyes and press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. 'Absolutely not. Forget I asked. I'll do it myself. I don't need you.'

With that, I head toward the ladder to go back into the nightmare. I can't hide upstairs forever. I need to see what I can learn from the rest of the Sippians. Maybe one of them knows more than they're admitting. Maybe one of them did it.

You take the short ladder to the stairs and head down from the nice top floor to the smoky floors where most of the Sipps live and work. The Sipps may play hard, but they work hard, too. There are Sipps scraping and cleaning weapons and equipment, some of them are tending hanging plants, others are scaling and curing fish caught from below, a few minding the gennies, and there's even a guy showing the dozen or so kids how to tie knots. The Sipps don't pay attention to you, but they know you're not one of them if they don't recognize you.

Bristol spots you and comes over to take your arm and pull you away from the others.

It's almost impressive, watching everyone working away at their tasks with such practiced focus. But I've scarcely started to study them before Bristol pulls me away. I don't resist her, but I'm surprised by her intensity.

"I was looking for you, actually," I tell her. My eyes scan the room again, as if I might find a clue about Hard Strike's killer written on one of their faces, as if anyone would be so stupid. I look back at her and instead of stating my reason for being here, I ask, "What's going on down here? Everyone seems so busy."

The Ivies are the closest thing I've experienced to something like this, but we weren't friends, not a community. We weren't working TOGETHER so much as competing. Who could climb highest, fastest? Who could reach the best loot first? Who could ingratiate themselves to the Gardeners to get the best food, best blanket, best sleeping place? Who could you throw under the tide to get ahead?

I don't have a place in my book for what this is.

I bring my gaze back to Bristol as she searches for secrets about last night. I think of Lucky Strike shedding more and more of his clothing, stripping off his shirt. If I hadn't asked him to step away while I changed, would he have invited me to his bed instead of sending me to Salem's room? And if I had gone with him instead, would I still have pulled Kiwi back from his happy beyond?

I blink the thought away and focus on the woman in front of me. I remember the way Bristol looked at Lucky Strike as he headed upstairs, the Whispers divulging her desires to me. I don't want her jealousy, but if the Sippians think Lucky wants me for more than doing dishes, that might prevent them from hurting me, or killing me outright. I lick my lips and instead of answering her directly, instead say, "He said I could keep working my shifts at the Belly, and that you could give me rides there and back."

Bristol's commendations fall flat on my heart. A congratulations for getting to work there while I'm not working here isn't precisely the praise I pine for.

She asks what Lucky tastes like, and I'm tempted to tell her he tastes exactly like I imagine every Sippian does - like old cigarettes and fish. Instead, I inhale a short breath, lean closer, and say quietly, quickly, like it's a secret since that seems to be all she wants, "I'm not supposed to talk about that."

I wonder what that is dripping from beneath her helmet. Thinking back to the times I've seen her at the Belly, I'm not sure I've ever seen her without it. It's not uncommon for people to wear the same thing day in and day out. I tend to change up my look more often personally, though I suppose now I may be stuck in this sea of yellow until the month is up. The thought is more sobering than my practical side cares to admit.

"Are you okay?" I watch her eyes, wondering what she's hiding. "Do you need..." I'm not sure what I can offer here. At the Belly, I at least have an arsenal of options available. A drink. Food. Napkins. A better seat. A reason to step outside. "...something?"

I watch Bristol go, torn between following her and satiating my curiosity and taking the opportunity to roam free without my designated "minder" on my heels. If she'll be the one ferrying me, I'll have plenty of other opportunities to learn more about whatever she's hiding. Who knows when I'll next have this amount of freedom.

After I've thought it, I realize how sad it is that, already, I view this as freedom.

I head further into the room. If Hedges and Benson think Lucky Strike killed his mother, then they must not have done it, but I'm not so easily convinced that it wasn't an inside job. If one of the Sippians pulled the trigger, they'd certainly be motivated to keep it quiet now. The first Sippian I can think of having an excuse to seek out, unfortunately, is Karo. I roam the space a bit, head on a swivel, looking for him.

You don't have to search for long - you hear Karo standing on the edge of a balcony as another Sipp is trying to teach him to fish with his off hand. Karo is milking this injury and you're pretty sure the Sippian knows it.

I wonder how many times, and in how many ways, Karo has tried to shirk work in the past. I move up to the pair of them. "If you need another hand," I say, "it'll be here waiting." I lift my hand, then let it drop.

The other Sippian sees you, then he pushes the fishing rod into Karo's hand as if you're good enough to be Karo's other hand.

I move up to the railing, an unamused expression painted across my face. "With you around, that's pretty much guaranteed." I look down to the waters below. "So this is what you do all day? Catch fish and drink beer?"

I wish I could say that seeing Karo's injuries doesn't bother me, but the twist of his fingers beneath those bandages makes my skin crawl. I didn't know I was capable of doing that to anyone, and after what I did to Kiwi last night...what else might I do?

Karo brags about all he contributes - used to contribute - to the Sippians. He's haughty enough about it that it's almost hurtful by itself, but he tags a reminder that I'm a slave now onto the end and I feel the sting of it flash on my face. Find who killed Hard Strike, and get out of here, I remind myself.

"I guess you're lucky he's in charge then," I say. "It sounds like Hard Strike would've just killed me outright and then you'd be fishing alone." I watch his reaction, hunting for whatever I can glean about his feelings toward Hard Strike, or about Lucky's leadership for that matter.

I look away when Karo calls me a tralk, talking about heirs and assuming exactly what Bristol did only with a completely different attitude. I've only just shoved my chagrin aside when Karo asks me for the cigarette. I give him a deadpan look for a moment before telling myself that making him feel in control is probably to my benefit. Power makes people prattle when they should practice prudence. I wonder how many other Sippians would admit out loud that they see Lucky as weak.

I exhale a quiet breath, then reach into Karo's pocket. "Is the lighter in here too?"

I jerk back as he reacts to the sudden tension on his line, watching as he struggles to maintain control. If he's not careful, he could lose not only the fish but the whole rod. The pain is clear on his face when he tries to use his other hand, but I hang back, not jumping in yet to help. "Need a hand?" I offer. I move a little closer to him, lowering my voice to just above a whisper, "Say you're sorry for calling me a tralk and I'll help you."

My lips part in surprise and in inhale a short little breath when Karo lets the rod drop. I didn't actually expect him to just let it go. It disappears into the water below with little more than a splash, lost to the tides forever, out there somewhere with Doral and so many more.

Karo screams his refusal at me, rage barely bridled beneath the surface. I steel my nerves, look pointedly at his mangled hand then to his face. "I bet you're sorry you grabbed my zok yesterday." I try not to brace my body for the blow I expect. I may not be a fighter, but I've been hit enough times to know it's better when you're relaxed.

You don't have to wait long before he backhands you - it's his off-hand, but he's angry (take 0-Harm, but please roll the Harm move to see if it's worse than expected).

His knuckle catches you just right at the temple and before you have a chance to react, you feel your legs give out underneath you and you drop to the floor of the balcony like a bag of fish. Dazed, you look up to see Karo screaming incoherently at you and it looks like he's going to kick you. Your arms won't respond and even though your head's fuzzy, you realize this is going to hurt more.

Before the blow lands and much sooner than you can summon enough energy to move, you hear shouting and the rattle of chains before something flies over the top of you and slams into Karo, knocking him back. The lithe form shoves Karo back hard and you feel something slither over the top of your face and body. It's a chain, Helix, something tethered to the person who just tackled Karo and is punching him wildly while cursing like a sailor, wild words that stitch syllables together without much sense, like a drunken nursery rhyme.

You feel hands on you, and from behind, see Bristol trying to yank you back and out of the way of this scrum. Others are rushing forward toward Karo and this wild talking feral thing attacking him. Someone shouts that they're about to go over the railing, but before you can witness it, you're back inside the apartment with the smoke and the stench of fresh fish with Bristol still pulling you away.

I anticipate the pain, the sharp sting, the unavoidable tears that prick my eyes, but I'm not prepared for the way my head swims, the ringing in my ears, the sudden drop to the floor, my inability to move.

"N-nnnn-" My mouth is filled with cotton and fear. I can't get the word out, but I feebly try to say 'no' as Karo winds up for a kick that will probably crack a rib. Despite my desire, I can't even curl into a fetal ball of protection. I lay there, paralyzed, waiting and helpless.

But before the kick can come, a creature careens into Karo. Bristol brings me away while I'm still trying to orient myself to what's happening. I stumble with her and collapse on a couch that smells like a century of cigarettes and campfires. My tongue works inside my mouth, moving the cotton away before I speak. "I don't...I don't know." My words sound muffled, but I'm not sure if that's my tongue not working yet, or my ears. My fingertips tingle as life starts to return to them. "Who-who was..." I turn my head in the direction of the balcony and it makes the whole world spin. I close my eyes, fighting the sudden lurch in my stomach. "Were there chains?"

I suppress a shudder at the concept of an eyeball squelching between teeth before squirting viscera down Nuport's chin. I turn my head more carefully back to look at Bristol, taking in her warning. "He poisons his blades? Or...you all do?"

But even though that's the question I give feeble voice to, what I'm wondering about more is Nuport. Why would she come to my defense? More likely, it had nothing to do with me and she's just a shark drawn to blood in the water regardless of who or what it comes from. If there is some modicum of humanity left in her and she thinks coming to my aid could absolve her of killing Kiwi, though, she is more deeply deranged than I dreamed. I reach a hand up and gingerly touch the side of my head where Karo hit me.

I find myself reaching out to the Whispers, asking them the question I don't dare ask Bristol aloud. 'Why did Nuport come for me?'

Bristol nods her head in answer to your question about poison, explaining that all the Sipps use toxins, which is why they like the drinks at The Belly. But you barely hear her when the Whispers answer your silent question.

You get a flash of Nuport lying in a dry bathtub, a chain around her neck. She starts twitching as if she heard something, but there are no noises. She flicks at her ear with a hand and gets more and more irritated. Sits up in the tub and looks around, angrily yelling at nothing and cursing until finally, she says, "YES, ALRIGHT! I'LL DO IT! FINEFINEFINE!" You see a link on the chain to her neck snap, and she climbs quickly out of the tub to shove open the door and run screaming until she tackles Karo before he can kick you.

Then, you hear a whisper, "We like you."

Followed by another voice in your head, "Bring us Kiwi or we stop liking you."

"We don't like Harpy."

Learning that the Sippians use toxins brings a bitter taste to my tongue. I'll need to question every morsel I find around here, eating only what I see others eat first, from here on out. It's a blessing then, I suppose, that it seems like I'll only glean the leftovers of the meals upstairs.

But all of that fades with the vision the Whispers flash in front of my eyes. All of it strums a cold chord of caution in my chest, and the notes hum through me, dark and foreboding.

Earlier, the Whispers offered the bait - trade Kiwi for the delicious treat of information on Hard Strike, my jail pass out of this prison.
Now, they threaten the hook - trade Kiwi to them, or they're not sending Nuport to save me next time.

I replay the last Whisper's words about Harpy in my head. There used to be a Harpy in the Talons, but I thought she died. Thinking about it now, though, the way I remember Harpy does sort of remind me of Nuport, except that Nuport is completely insane and missing an eye. She couldn't be the same person...could she?

Before I can wrap my head around that, Bristol's question brings me back to the present. My left cheek under my eye is pounding from where Karo hit me, my temple throbbing with my heartbeat. The noise of the Belly will not be pleasant tonight.

Maybe it's my despair at the impossibleness of my situation that removes my filter. I give Bristol a withering look. "I'm a slave, remember? Work doesn't end. How could it start?" I look down, regretting answering in a way that could get me into trouble again, then say more quietly, "I usually start after dinner. Eight or so."

Bristol tells me things I already know, but hearing them in her steady tone somehow makes them seem more true. It builds an invisible barrier between Bristol and me, a plane she'd crossed before for gossip and giggles that now seems impassable.

I look down, my soul wilting inside my chest. "I understand," I say softly. "Thank you for pulling me away from Karo. I should...get back to work." I don't know what that really means here, but I'd rather be busy than stuck sitting with idle hands and this reality.

The overwhelming odor hits me harder than Karo did. The stench makes my eyes sting and I have to swallow hard to keep my stomach steady. I touch the back of my hand to my nose, but it doesn't help so I drop it again, willing myself to acclimate.

Pall Mall offers bags, but I get the impression that even if I wrap myself in every bit of plastic available, I will still smell like whatever all that grayish-yellow goo is. It will be in my hair, on my skin, absorbed into my throat so that I might never stop tasting it.

I lower my head and walk over to grab a bag, tearing holes for my head and arms and slipping it on over the yellow dress that isn't mine. There's only one upside to this...if I get a knife, maybe when we're done, I can find a way to KEEP a knife.

I turn around. "Where should I start?"

Pall Mall hands you a knife that she tells you "is clean" and now that sounds more ominous than before. She puts you to work for the next few hours. If you want to keep that knife with her watching, I'd like to have you Act Under Fire after she declares that you're both "done for the day" and that you can clean up.

I wish I could say that I eventually lose myself to the monotony of my messy mission, but I feel every moment that creeps by. Every wet, cold fish seems more disgusting than the last, and my dissatisfaction is reflected back at me in each one of their marbled, cloudy eyeballs. My head throbs, but with my slimy hands, I can't even touch it to gauge the swelling. I don't complain, not aloud at least, and focus instead on how I'll manage to keep this knife on me when we're done.

Over the course of our work, I collect a string of tangled netting off one of the fish, hoarding it away. Once we're cleaning up, I try to use that netting to tie the knife to the outside of my thigh where it can hide under my skirt until I'm back to my room, or until it's needed, whichever comes first.

Helix,

The work is tiring and difficult. Pall Mall is very demanding about speed and accuracy with your fish cleaning and deboning. And she doesn't miss much. You can either take the knife with her knowledge, which means you owe her. Or you can hide it from her, but someone else will take notice later that a knife is missing.

By the time we're cleaning up, it's hard to imagine working a full shift at the Belly later, but that's what's going to happen. The spike of adrenalin I get from tying the blade against my thigh is useful in more ways than one, I suppose, even if it only gets me a little further before it disappears. I manage to get the knife secured and hidden under my skirt while Pall Mall's vision and hearing are obstructed by her shucking her plastic bag apron from over her head. I put on a stoic expression as I straighten, my own plastic bag already shed. I stand up and the knife pulls on the netting tying it in place, but it holds.

Pall Mall doesn't ask for the knife back and you slip out of the cleaning room before she thinks to do so. Bristol is off doing something or other and you don't see Karo around, either. A dozen Sippians are seated or leaning against walls while eating their lunch. They're munching on skillet-fried fish in leafy wraps. They eat and chat quietly as you enter the working rooms. A few of them openly stare at you, making you feel like the outsider you are.

What do you do?

In this yellow dress, I am a beacon to the eels. I feel their eyes slithering for any crack or crevice they could exploit to their ends. I don't know where I should go now. Can I go upstairs again so soon after gutting fish for hours? Lucky Strike did promise me a shower last night. But with so many people watching and so much uncertainty, I find myself moving quickly for the nearest escape from view. I head for where Bristol went earlier, where I think the bathrooms are. At least I can wash my hands.

You find the bathroom in the room near where Karo was fishing and head inside. The room is small, with a toilet and a shower with the curtain closed. The water sputters out but appears to be filtered, probably clean. You wash at the much and grime until you hear the rattle of a chain and turn to see a silhouette standing up in the shower. Is this the bathroom the Whispers showed you? Is that Nuport?

What do you do?

I gasp at the sound of the chains, whirling around and leaning back against the countertop, grasping the edge of it with dripping hands. Maybe I should run, but it's like I got smacked by Karo again and my limbs aren't working.

"Who's there?" I demand, voice strung tight. The image of Nuport crunching down eyeballs flashes through my mind.

I don't know any of the names that come from behind the curtain, but hearing that voice, I have no doubt who they belong to. Seeing Nuport there, bloody and chained, is staring into a nightmare. If she hears the Whispers and Mikkie does too, maybe I'm destined to be as morbid and mortifying as they are.

I don't move from the sink, leaning as far away from her as I can without actually moving my feet. "Haven't the Whispers told you? Didn't they say when they sent you to save me?"

I lean away from her but Nuport is the wind while I am a sail, tense and strung tight against the power she wields. The thought makes me wonder if she's exactly right. Maybe I do need her. What is a sail without the wind?

Still, my fingertips brush the knife hidden under my skirt. This is the person who killed Kiwi, the one who cackled and crooned while he breathed for the last time. Lucky Strike wants revenge for his mother's death. Maybe I should get the same for Kiwi's. Not even Kiwi's own mother has done anything about it.

My hand scrunches up the skirt of my dress until I can grab the knife beneath, my knuckles white with the tension.

And then, all at once, I realize something. The tension drains away and I let the knife hang back on its netting.

"The Whispers, the voices, they made you kill Kiwi, didn't they? They made you kill him so that they could ask me to give him to them after."

Nuport's words strike my heart more directly than her finger jabbing into my chest does. My lips part but no air moves between them. My body is as stony and silent as a corpse.

After a few breathless moments pass, my voice finally returns to me, "I didn't make you kill him! He was my friend. I don't control the voices any more than you do!" I raise a hand, gesturing vaguely to the air around my head. "They're the ones who are in control here."

The blood in my body is dangerously close to my skin, vulnerable to the most innocuous of attacks, and Nuport's attacks are anything but innocuous.

"They said that they like me," I answer, my voice just above a whisper. "They've sent people to save me before. This time, they sent you." I swallow. "But I'm sure you could kill me, if you wanted to. They probably wouldn't stop screaming at you about it after, though. Ever."

It's hard to look away from the hideous harm hewn across Harpy - now Nuport's - face. Her confession about her coming to communicate with the Whispers and killing Condor confirms the question that once lingered in my mind. She looks different, behaves even more differently, but this is the Talon I once saw with Litch and his crew. It's a sobering reminder about how far someone can fall, and how quickly.

I straighten from where I'd been leaning back against the sink in a feeble attempt to get away from her, swallowing before I say, "They came to me in a storm. I was locked on a rooftop without cover, and I couldn't escape the swirling maelstrom above. When the storm cleared, instead of being dead like I should have been, I had the Whispers." I shuffle a step toward the door. "I guess I'm lucky that I was young enough that I didn't have anyone to love yet, and they haven't let me love anyone since." Another shuffle. "It's too hard to get close when the Whispers want to invade their mind." I push away the memory of the last person I tried to get close to, and how seeing his fear in my mind in the midst of our tryst had me kicking him out of my apartment with his pants in his hands. I touch the handle of the door. "Thank you for coming to save me." I'm about to leave, but then I can't help but ask, "Did you kill him? Karo, I mean?"

I watch Nuport step back into the tub wondering if the Whispers would ever bring me to such a lowly state, or if Nuport did that to herself when she killed Condor. But even though I can leave this room, I have chains of my own. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here right now.

After a few quiet moments, I say softly, "Me too." I slip out the door, still alive at least.

You step out of Nuport's bathroom into the working level of the Sippians' gang to see a number of Sipps - mostly men - grabbing weapons from a locked cabinet and heading for the hallway. They aren't on alert, it doesn't seem. Aren't heading out to repel invaders or anything. But they are heading somewhere. The sun bleeds through the broken walls to the outside and you hear the sounds of boats and jet skis revving up.

There is a dozen folk still here in the three conjoined rooms with little walls to keep them distinctly three-room-like. You recognize Hedges from breakfast - he's chatting and flirting badly with a Librarian named Pellet. Pall Mall is pulling in the fishing lines and rods and working on making sure they're in good order. Bristol is having a smoke on a balcony and watching whatever's happening outside.

What do you do?

My eyes skip around the room, each picture they peruse another portrait I have no desire to populate. After my conversation with Bristol on the couch, where she reminded me of my place, I'm not eager to return to her side even if I am curious about what's going on below. Pall Mall is likely to pull me into a bunch of work I don't want to get involved with, and will probably chew me out about letting Karo drop his fishing rod into the waters earlier. Or Hedges, the brother of the man who spent this morning calling me a tralk and a stupid cow for bringing him water five seconds after everyone else.

After such a bad outcome with Karo and such a risky situation with Nuport, I'm more hesitant to rush into anything. Instead, I hang back, surveying the room before doing anything more.

You scan the rooms and realize Pall Mall is the biggest threat to you. If she sees you chatting or hanging out in a casual way while she's working, she'll throw you into some horrid chore. So if you're going to do anything other than offer to help her, you need to do it like you've been ordered to do it.

What do you do?

My back straightens when I realize what Pall Mall might see if I'm not careful. I take a breath, then head resolutely toward Hedges and Pellet. I've liked the Librarians when I've crossed paths with them, and I relish a little reprieve from the Sippians. Perhaps Pellet would be pleased for an escape from Hedges' flirtation too. I walk over to them like they're a table I've just been assigned to.

"You're a Librarian, right?" I ask when I reach them, trying to make my tone deliberate and polite, though I offer no smile of greeting.

"I'm not," I tell her without additional explanation.

I glance at her outstretched hand for a beat before I shake it. "I've been told I should make sure you're comfortable while you're here. If you need anything - a drink, a chair, some fresh air among the gardens on the roof - just let me know." I offer the roof more description, hoping she'll choose that so I have the excuse for going myself. It's like pushing a special at the Belly - name it last and give it flair, that's what Blackjack says.

I resist the instinct to pull back from Pellet's protracted touch, not wanting to give her any reason to retract her interest in the roof. She sends Hedges off for whatever ganja is, and I find myself wondering if he'll resent me for interrupting later.

Pellet talks enough for both of us as I lead her over to the elevator to climb up, and I'm grateful for that, but I'm also uncomfortable hearing her speculate on the facts of my life and person. The corners of my mouth turn down just slightly when she mentions the storms.

"Everyone is quiet compared to Peppering, so I'm not sure that's saying much." I gesture for her to climb up first, then try to shift subjects away from me. "What brings you here today?"

Maybe Pellet never noticed how loud Peppering is because she was too busy talking herself, I think as I climb up after her. When I notice her struggles, I feel my old Ivy instincts kicking in and I prepare to hold myself firmly to the ladder if she comes crashing down on top of me. I should probably also try to catch her, in this case.

I pause when we reach the floor above, giving her a moment to catch her breath which she quickly utilizes to keep talking. She's here to get high? I wonder if that makes her a customer or if she and Hedges have some sort of relationship. I'm not even certain if dating outside the gang is allowed. Maybe if it were serious, they'd have to discuss bringing the lover in.

"No," I answer her about problems at the Belly. "I still work there too. This is a temporary arrangement." I don't want her to know I'm here as a slave, though I'm sure it will unavoidably come out at some point. The longer I can dodge that particular blade, though, I will. "This way." I lead her over to the roof access, the same path Lucky Strike took me on this morning when he laid down my ultimatum. "We don't want to miss everyone sailing off." I use the same phrase she did earlier with Hedges, though I haven't a clue what it means. It didn't seem like the Sippians were in a rush to leave, but something is obviously happening. Maybe they do this all the time - patrols or something of that ilk.

As Pellet prattles on, you watch as dozens of rowboats, skiffs, jet skis, and all manner of vessels depart the Car Lyle docks in all directions. It reminds you of a hive of bees spreading out to seek out flowers. Lucky Strike is at behind the wheel of a yacht with armor plating bolted on the sides.

When we reach the roof, I check, as always, for clouds before moving up to the edge where Lucky Strike and I sat this morning. I'm tempted to tell Pellet that it would be much more terrifying if she were at this edge with someone who might push her off at any moment, but she's already talking about gardens so I let it pass. I remain standing, watching the watercraft spreading out. It's a strange dance, how they all scatter. Aren't they even going to the same place?

Spotting Lucky Strike on that yacht makes my stomach nervous. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it's because without him here, I'm left to the whims of those who remain behind. Bristol will do what she's supposed to and get me to the Belly, I'm sure. But Karo will also be left behind, and him I don't trust at all. Without Lucky around to keep him in check, my next best option is trying to get the Whispers to call Nuport again. But if she's a repeated threat among her own gang, I have no doubt they'll do worse than just chain her up in the bathroom. It would be a death sentence.

I look down at Pellet. "Where are they going? Do you know?"

Pellet's mention of the librarian's knowledge makes my toes squirm inside my boots. She may be only my age, but her implied intellect as a Librarian is intimidating. How many books has she read, hidden away in their archives? How many could she write?

"It's helpful to have something uniquely useful in this world to wear as a shield," I say softly, my gaze still set on the steadily disappearing boats. I inhale and sit down on the edge of the roof like I did with Lucky Strike earlier, turning to look at Pellet where she sprawls. "Is the ganja how you met Hedges then, or did that happen the other way around?"

Pellet's recounting resuscitates the vision I had this morning of Hedges towering over Benson. Finding it's not an unfounded fear makes it more feral, gives it fangs. I'm grateful. The Whispers interrupt, informing me of Pellet's intent to impress and my lips part slightly in surprise. I have no idea why she would be worried with impressing someone like me, but if I can play it to my advantage, I will. I'll take anything I can get.

"Oddly chaste?" I echo her last phrase back to her, turning from watching the pebble fall to look at her. I'm about to ask her what she means, but then it's probably to do with the fact that I work at the Belly and don't bring a different person home with me every night, which is what a lot of people expect. I take a short breath, then answer, "I haven't tried it before. I don't like being...out of control." I think of Nuport, driven to madness by the Whispers. Maybe I'm fooling myself. How in control am I really? "I don't think Hedges would want me to share anyway. I'm-" I hunt for words that don't involve 'slave' or 'prisoner.' "I'm on the clock, technically." I check over my shoulder, aware that Hedges could join us at any moment, then ask Pellet, "The Librarians...you guys have information, but it's all old stuff, right? Do you have information about recent events too?"

I stiffen when Hedges finds us, the tender flower of hope that had started to bloom in the sunniness of Pellet's personality closing back up. I might have chosen to leave them here on the roof if Pellet hadn't included me in this ritual with her question. I cast a quick glance to Hedges, then look back at her. I shake my head. "I haven't done that before, no."

I pull my legs from dangling over the edge to sit cross-legged opposite Pellet, tucking my skirt into the crook of my knee to keep it from flying up in the breeze.

I watch Pellet's nimble fingers then mimic her motions, rolling the paper in front of me until I get to the last bit. I lift it and lick it, sticking the paper down to itself and trying to make sure the whole thing stays together as one. "It's not as good as yours," I say, handing it over to her. I'm not choosing which one Hedges will get. I'll leave that decision to her.

The easy way Pellet controls Hedges, and the way he accommodates her, makes her explanation of their relationship seem more plausible. There's a part of me that had doubted her, suspicious that she is the type to flit from love to love, head over heels for each of them whether they deserved it or not.

But when Hedges drops the s-word, I'm sure compensating for being so consumed by Pellet in front of me, my warmth toward their relationship cools. I don't move for a few beats, my tongue pressing to the roof of my mouth like it can hold the truth inside. Finally, I say, "It's temporary." My gaze skips from Pellet's face to her hands to the waters below to then to my own hands as I push against the concrete to stand. "I should go."

Hedges seems to have given in, but I hesitate, harried by the hypothetical repercussions. It's not just getting high that worries me. It's Hedges being here. Were it just Pellet and I, I could partake a little and perhaps even enjoy the escape, but with a Sippian here, my guard is up. Might he use this against me later? Will he use it against me now? Will I say something I shouldn't?

Stay or go? I ask the Whispers. They saved me once today, so they wouldn't fail me now I hope. What's going to happen?

"If you stay, Pellet will be your barnacle," a male Whisper suggests. "She'll expect you to help her once she helps you. A fetter."

"But, she will open Hedges' mind up to you, pry his secrets free," another Whisper interjects.

"If you leave now, he will be angry and she will be sad," a third predicts. "She will feel guilty and he will seek out ways to punish you."

The idea of another fetter on me makes my chest tighten, but the allure of knowledge and the security of keeping my captor happy is enough to make me sit back down.

"Alright. I'll try it." I let out a slow breath, attempting to ease the tightness in my chest. In my head, I keep replaying the words Pellet used - indentured servitude. I'm not sure what it means, but it sounds better than slave. I wonder if it's a word the Tower made up. They seem the type to paint pretty pictures over the corpses their comfort comes from.

You take a few puffs of the J and it burns your throat for a few minutes before the marijuana kicks in. You start to feel your body relax and ease into a pleasant euphoria. Your ears tickle at the wind and your skin tingles with warmth. Hedges starts to giggle softly as he puffs away. Pellet moves over to lay her head in his lap when he sits down, and before you know it, you start handing both of the spliffs around in a slow circle, puffing on the tight J and then taking the one you rolled. They both start to lose their taste and become a delivery for the sweet feeling of the ganja.

You feel a connection growing between the three of you - Pellet and Hedges as well.

The concrete rooftop is quickly a summery field beneath me, or at least, it is what I imagine a summery field might be - warm, aromatic, comfortable. The normally stoic and tense muscles in my face relax into something that is not a smile, but at least is not as reserved as usual. It feels like being naked, naked but free.

My eyes are soft and distant, even as I watch the faces of my companions mere feet away. The Whispers feel more a part of me, and I of them, than ever before, and it makes me wonder if this Sippian might be someone I have more in common with than I thought.

Smoke curls around the three of you, enveloping you in the embrace of a new experience. At one point, Pellet takes a big drag, then she pulls you close enough to blow it into your mouth without touching, calling it "a smokey kiss". Later, you find yourself volunteering to do the same to Hedges - and it's fun. Something in your head whispers that it shouldn't be fun, but it still feels fun. And funny, too. You feel laughter burble up in your chest and burst out of your mouth.

After the smokey kiss, you look into Hedges' eyes and try to pull secrets from his mind. Something is in there, you can smell it amid the sharp aroma of the ganja - secrets you need to know. You tug at it, try to wedge it free, yank harder until...

Until something gives way.

Hedges lays back, his eyes unfocused as he gapes with wonder and befuddlement in equal parts at the expansive sky overhead. He seems incapable of words and a bit of drool leaks out of the corner of his previously cruel mouth that lays slack and open.

Pellet giggles and murmurs something like, "i think you broke him, helix." She seems unconcerned, so maybe it isn't a big deal. Maybe this is what the ganja does. What do you know, right? But something feels bad about that interaction with Hedges - as if he's... fallen open.

When your senses start to creep back into your head, you find Pellet lying with her head in your lap. She's staring up at the sky like Hedges, but distinctly not like Hedges. She's present - if a bit euphoric.

Hedges is not present. Not present at all. His mind has gone on a long trip and left his body behind, it seems.

What do you do?

Hedges' mind in my hands is a rope suddenly loosed from its mooring. It hangs limp and useless, but I don't realize the full ramifications of that right away. The ganja is too strong, sweeping me and Hedges off in its current. I float there, concerned but unfocused.

But soon, or not-so-soon, focus returns. I sit up, not sure when I lay down, and look down at Pellet with her head in my lap, the same place Kiwi's head rested when he died. The thought grounds me further and my gaze moves to Hedges, who doesn't move at all.

My hands tighten as if remembering the rope they pulled and Pellet's words from earlier come with them - "I think you broke him, Helix."

What little color existed in my face drains and I slip away from Pellet, crawling to the edge of the building to retch into the water below. The ramifications are waves ramming me against the rocks, relentless and raging. Did I hand him to the Whispers? Did they take him completely? Will I do it again, to anyone I come close to? If crushing Karo's hand landed me here, what will this bring to me? Should I try to run now while I still can? Will they chain me in a bathtub like Nuport, or will Lucky Strike make good on his threats of nailing my body to a wall?

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then look back to where Hedges lies. He has to snap out of this. If he does, then everything will be okay again. I move quickly over to him, and shake his shoulders. "Hedges," I say, a distinct note of alarm in my tone. "Hedges, get up."

Hedges doesn't move. Pellet starts to sit up and seems to register that something is terribly wrong.

"We will take Hedges," a Whisper states.

"Since you didn't give us Kiwi," another adds with a laugh.

"No," I answer the Whispers aloud, the word breathless as if I had been punched in the stomach. "No, no. You can't do that. I thought you liked me!"

"Bring us Kiwi and you can have Hedges back," a Whisper demands.

"Not that you really want Hedges back," one giggles.

Pellet's words aren't ones I hear so much as a reminder that I'm speaking aloud. I remove my hands from Hedges, sitting back on my heels and staring at his vacant face.

The Whispers aren't wrong - I don't want Hedges back. I also don't want the problems him not being back will cause.

My mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof and when I swallow, my throat burns instead.

'What will you do with Kiwi?'

"We will bring him into the collective," a soft voice replies.

"Kiwi is dead. Heaven is a lie. The Maelstrom wants him." a Whisper states in a flat tone.

Bring him into the collective? Does that mean Kiwi would become a Whisper too? The thought makes me feel sick again, but I keep my stomach down. I close my eyes.

Kiwi is dead, no matter what I saw last night. Hedges is alive, sort of. I am alive.

That is most important, whatever else might happen. I am alive, and I intend to stay that way. I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose, prickles of bright tears stinging my closed eyes.

'How do I give him to you?'

"Call to him. Call to Kiwi, ask him to come here," a soft Whisper answers.

"The same as you did last night," another explains.

I ignore Pellet, closing my eyes tighter, resisting the inevitable a few fragile moments more before I break like a wave against the prow of a ship, dashed into a thousand pieces of fury and power.

I. Must. Survive.

I cast out for Kiwi with my mind, bait him with a thousand strings to my heart. A million snapshots of our interactions at the Belly form together into something complete and whole and here, if I can will it to be so, and I wait for the Whispers to take him.

I move my hand from the bridge of my nose at the chill on my neck, looking over to see the ghost of Kiwi against the sky. It steals my breath.

Though I'm kneeling inches from him, I'm useless as Hedges returns. My hands are anchors, back slumped with the weight. I drag myself to my feet and take a few steps away from all of them, moving toward the edge of the roof.

'You win,' I tell the Whispers. 'You got what you wanted. Now you can leave me alone.' I cross my arms over the emptiness gnawing at my stomach. I wonder if Doral felt like this before she jumped.

"We can," one of the Whispers answers.

Then, you feel a chill as another Whisper giggles, "But we won't."

I shudder at the Whisper's laugh that lingers in my mind too long. I need to get off the roof, away from the water and sky where the Whispers roam too free. I need to go back to the Belly, where the noise and work drown out their laughter. I need to get my pets to drain their power.

Arms still clasped around my ribs, a delicate bandage holding me together, I turn back to face Hedges and Pellet.

"Yes," I echo Pellet's platitudes, my voice feeling more distant to me than the Whispers. "You passed out. But you're okay now."

Hedges seems to accept the reality you and Pellet hand him. He eventually gets up and tells you both he needs to walk around a little. Pellet stays with you when he walks away from the edge of the roof.

I look at Pellet, then away again. "It was my first time using ganja," I answer softly. "I don't know who I was talking to."

My gaze lingers on the paper, the pen, the scribbles Pellet scrawls--a secret code I was never taught how to solve. I wonder if any of the loops and lines on her paper are mine.

I pull my gaze away, heat crawling up the back of my neck at the idea that she might notice my uncomprehending stare. "None of this is important enough to write down," I tell her. "You shouldn't waste your ink."

The corners of my mouth turn down when she says we both know I'm important. I don't know if it's because I disagree with her, or if it's because deep down, it feels like she might be right. Importance is not a feeling I've made a close companion of.

She offers me an escape from the Sippians so confidently, I believe she might actually make it happen, but the idea of being surrounded by books I can't read and people who can might be worse than gutting fish with Pall Mall for the next month.

"I broke Karo's hand," I say, going with the easier truth of them all. "Lucky can't let me go so easily or he'll look weak in front of his gang." I know it's the bullet that killed Hard Strike that really binds me here, even more than that, but that's a secret I don't dare tell. "It is a good offer, Pellet. I can't take it though."

Watching Pellet walk away makes me feel exactly as stupid as I am. I sit on the edge of the roof again, legs dangling over the long fall and look over the horizon with a sadness that has made a permanent home in my eyes.

'You have Kiwi,' I tell the Whispers, my thoughts as resigned as the rest of me. 'Tell me who killed Hard Strike.'

"We do have Kiwi," a Whisper agrees with a flat tone.

"True to our word, we will name the murderer of Hard Strike," another Whisper answers with a soft giggle.

"No Sippian killed Hard Strike," a Whisper informs you. "Wells Fargo of the Vault shot her in the back and let her to rot in USBank."

The information doesn't taste as sweet as I thought it would. A name is nothing without proof. I can only hope the Sippians had problems with the Vaulters already, that they would easily believe one of them would kill Hard Strike. Maybe a name will be enough and I can go back to my life tomorrow - not to the Librarians with their words, not to Nuport with her accusations - back to nights at the Belly, days in my apartment, safely away from the world where I can't wreck any minds or barter anyone's souls.

I scan the horizon, wishing Lucky Strike were here so I could tell him immediately and know if I've done enough to free myself. Instead, I exhale a breath and get up, heading for the door to go back inside. The ganja has left me thirsty. I need a drink.

End Scene