Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

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."