24 – Saturday Sirens
He didn’t sleep the night after the real Jerme trial woke up seizing.
It was a nightmare with his look-alikes and Chryl all in the cramped room with him.
Thankfully, the next morning, Chryl let Tommy in to collect it before Electra woke up.
He’s been in bed ever since, with Chryl bringing him meals that she figured out how to order.
When Jerme died, he got up and went to work the next day, and the day after, until he got proficient at going through the motions.
But now, after what feels like a catastrophic failure where he’s not only disappointed himself, he’s letting Jerme down, going through the motions doesn’t seem to matter.
The only thing that matters is the woman he keeps lying to.
The point is, he’s fucked, so why get out of bed?
To waste another precious DNA sample on a trial that will undoubtedly fail?
He isn’t sure he can do that again. Though on a positive note, thinking it worked only to realize he was wrong has warned him off activating a future trial just to see.
“You going to get up today, brother?” The body double pats his shoulder through the blankets.
“The tablet told me about MSP’s best comfort food, so I ordered us all the best things,” Chryl chimes. “How about some yummy faux-tater tot hotdish or roasted sweet corn?”
“I’m not hungry. Go away,” he grumbles, even as his stomach protests.
“If you don’t eat your meal, you won’t get any Gel-Oh salad!” she says.
One of them tugs the blanket hard enough that it slips down. When his eyes blink open, he’s face-to-face with Chryl’s bright, unsettling smile.
“Hi there, handsome!” She fishes out his arms and drags him forward, so he’s forced to sit up. The body double is sitting in the chair staring at him, having obeyed his command to go away. Chryl’s defiant attempt to pry him out of bed is another indicator that something is off about her.
“Hi Chryl,” he mutters, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He misses his bedroom with its dark walls and soothing art. The stark white of the four walls surrounding him makes the space feel like a seclusion room . . . or maybe that’s his mental state.
“Too much time in bed can promote negative thoughts, worsen health, disturb sleep, and cause physical decline and isolation. Inactivity may harm both a patient’s mental and physical well-being,” Chryl says, scrambling off the bed and collecting a package.
She opens it and hands him a takeout container.
“Tommy said you weren’t listening to his messages, so he told me to tell you the repairman will be here soon. ”
“Repairman?” he asks.
“For the malfunctioning dress, silly! Remember the lie you told Prototype so she wouldn’t discover our supersecret in the closet?!” Chryl claps excitedly as he forces down the food. “Tommy got us tickets! We’re going to the ball!”
He groans. Things are really getting out of hand.
Half an hour later, he’s successfully extricated himself from bed, showered, and is stationed at his desk getting caught up on the hundreds of messages in his inbox.
Electra’s desk sits empty, though it is still early.
The doorbell rings. He answers, noting Electra’s head pop out of her room a few moments later.
He lets in a technician carrying a small kit and wearing a gray onesie with a nametag that reads Trent. Beneath it are the words Tower A Electric. He scans the room, landing on Electra. He nods like he’s ticking off a box and says, “I’m here to repair the dress.”
His cheeks heat. This was Tommy’s brilliant idea? Send a tower maintenance man?
Electra steps into the room, coming to stand beside him. She shoots a skeptical look at the man, pointing to the logo. “You’re the dress repairman?”
He clears his throat. “Side gig.”
Chryl whips her hand in a circle above her head. “I’m going to be a cowgirl!”
“Yes, for the fantasy ball we’re going to tomorrow,” Res6 agrees.
There’s no stopping his descent into the purgatory he’s landed himself in. But on the off chance Electra will believe this charade, maybe he could gain back a smidgeon of normalcy. “Ready to fix the dress?”
The man lifts his toolkit in solidarity. “I’ll have the dress fixed right away.”
Res6 forces a smile. “Great. Right through here.” He grabs Chryl’s elbow. “Show him the dress. I need to talk to Electra for a minute.”
Chryl winks, which Electra won’t think anything of because . . . Chryl. “Sure thing, Daddy!”
When the door clicks shut, he braces himself. “I’ve had a rough couple of days—please don’t be mad at me.”
Her eyes narrow. “About your brother?”
His insides light up. Finally, something he doesn’t have to lie about. “Yes.”
It’s magical how her features transform from anger to sympathy. “Is that why I haven’t seen you for two days?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” It’s true. Zorg, telling her the truth feels so good. After this little bout of lies related to bringing back Jerme, he’s never lying to her again. “Come here.”
She lets him pull her into an embrace, and it’s the best feeling ever.
After the last two days, he really needs comfort—shit.
This is what she wanted from him that first week.
But they were strangers then. Things are different now; something has grown between them.
Something inevitable, at least on his side.
That’s why his instincts were screaming to keep a distance between them.
But now, he has the same feeling he did after the robbery when he knew she was safe—he’s never letting her go.
When she finally pulls away, he says, “I should probably go check on Chryl and the technician.”
Once he’s safely on the other side of the door, he sags with relief against the wall.
She doesn’t hate him. It’s a miracle from Zephyr herself!
If the reasons for not lying weren’t abundantly clear before, the last two days he spent wallowing without her in bed have made them undeniably obvious now.
It’s not helpful that his manupartner body double is sitting there in the ergonomic chair, staring at him judgmentally. “I told you keeping up your lie was a bad idea.”
Chryl climbs onto the body double’s lap, straddling it. It sits there unfazed as she reaches up and grabs two fistfuls of hair, tugging them so she’s forcing eye contact. “Prototype can’t know Daddy’s and my secret! Got it?”
Zephyr, he’s created a monster. The manupartner’s eyes go wide as it nods emphatically.
Chryl grins. “Good boy.” She lets go of its hair, spins around, and settles in so she’s effectively using the body double as a seat.
Trent, the technician, watches them incredulously. “I get it,” he says, chuckling. “You like to watch.”
Res6 buries his head in his hands, groaning. No, he doesn’t like to watch what is essentially an overly SexcitableTM, half-sentient manupartner and his body double, who he’s been imagining is his twin brother, having sex. Not that they are having sex . . . that he knows of.
The four of them occupy the room for an uncomfortable yet convincing twenty minutes until the technician finally slips out. Thank Zorg, the building technicians sign resident privacy statements.
November 17, 2390.
His eyes land on Electra as she slips out of her room, and all his worries over the past few days fade into the background.
Her long black hair is swept up on one side, and the rest falls in waves down her back.
The swooping points of her eyeliner mimic the copper butterflies with their delicate wings and twinkling fairy lights that adorn the front of her dress.
The fiery orange of the bodice softly transitions to a forest green where the hem grazes the floor.
As she moves toward him, two slits reveal a brief glimpse of her upper thighs, sparking his thoughts for later use.
With Electra’s warm skin, highlighted with bronze and golds, plus her freckles, she looks like an autumn queen.
He swallows, awe overtaking him. “There aren’t sufficient words to describe your beauty.”
She blushes. “You look perfect, as usual.” She pats the deep rust lapel of his tuxedo. “These shoes, though, they were the best I could find.” She gestures to the wedge sandals she wears. The movement causes the slit to slide further open, revealing a tempting expanse of her toned thigh.
The sight almost makes his knees buckle. Zorg, Res6, get yourself together. He needs tonight to go well so he can show her he’s someone worth forgiving when his lies eventually come out.
“Your shoes just came in.” He unboxes a pair of strappy copper heels and points to his desk chair. “The laces are complex. Allow me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
The corner of her mouth twitches as he kneels, holding the shoe out like an offering—another idea he got from DumBot.
In the scene, a man called Prince Charming offers the heroine a glass shoe, the fragile material a rude gesture, leading him to question whether romance—or something far more nefarious—was the prince’s aim.
His own intent, however, is decidedly more straightforward.
Plus, the prospect of Electra allowing him the intimacy of slipping on the delicate sandals he picked out has had his blood stirring in anticipation all morning.
Thank Zephyr, the footwear arrived on time.
She sits, lifting her foot to him. A wave of heat washes over him.
You’ve seen a woman’s leg before. Contain yourself.
His hands tremble as takes her foot and slips the toe strap on.
At first it’s awkward, but it only takes him a second to have the ankle straps wrapped around and secured snugly.
She swallows as his fingertips graze her other ankle.
For the next sandal, he moves slowly, with more intention, allowing his touch to linger.
He’s acutely aware of every sparkling point of contact as he finishes the job and then the absence as she gently places her foot back on the floor.