Raven Chapter 18 Stolen Shirts and Shipping Manifests 216 #2
A cluster of crystals near the top flicker in sequence—left to right, then back again. An acknowledgment. Or a test. Or I’m reading way too much into this.
"Look," I say, pulling my mug even closer to my chest like a shield. "I just wanted to talk. Girl to… whatever glorious form of chaos you are."
An amber light blinks twice. A puff of iridescent vapor escapes a vent near the base and curls upward.
I choose to take it as encouragement.
"I'm not here to take him from you. Emerson, that is. I know you're his." I gesture vaguely at the whole magnificent mess of it. "His first. His oldest. The thing he built when he needed something that would never leave."
The crystals dim for a moment, then pulse brighter—a slow, steady rhythm now. Almost like a heartbeat. The fairy lights in the tubes swirl faster, then settle.
"I was nobody for a long time. Not alive, not dead, just... waiting. For forty years, the only things that saw me were two ravens and a giant squid. And then I found him. Found them. And suddenly the waiting didn’t feel like a punishment, it felt like a countdown."
My hands tighten on the mug.
"I'm not here to steal your person. I just... I've never had a person. And he feels like someone worth wanting."
The hum shifts—lower, softer.
"I just want to be part of the system. An ally.
Maybe even a friend?" I lean in conspiratorially.
"I bet I can convince him to spend more time in here with you.
Both of us. I personally really love this room.
Out of all the rooms, yours has the best ambiance.
And frankly? These crystals are gorgeous.
You're gorgeous. If I had a body made of lights and magic, I'd want someone to appreciate it too. "
A series of rapid clicks answers me, and a row of green lights near the floor chase each other in a circle—once, twice, three times. Then the amber light above me glows slightly brighter.
A slow grin spreads across my face. I don't know if that was a yes, or a hello, or just the machine doing what machines do. But it felt like something. A pact made in blinking lights and crystal pulses.
“Okay, so either I'm incredibly deluded, or I just made a new friend.”
The amber light pulses once. As if confirming. Or maybe just ignoring me and choosing to live its best life. So be it. I'm choosing to believe it's confirmation.
No more doubts. This thing is sentient. Definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent sentient.
I file away a mental note: figure out what snacks MORDRED likes.
What does a sentient supercomputer even consume? Data? Electricity? Compliments? And what do I even call it? It feels wrong. She? He? They?
You know, maybe let's just stick with they/them until we figure out preference.
Smiling, I reach out and give them a little pat. "Thanks, friend."
I give MORDRED a little wave before making my way out. Behind me, a single crystal chimes—soft, almost playful. Like it's waving back.
I'm not even to my room yet when I hear footsteps coming down the hall, measured and deliberate. The kind of footsteps that expect the world to get out of their way.
Forrest's eyes do that thing—the quick sweep that catalogs every detail like he's deciding if I'm a threat or just a nuisance. His eyes skim over my bare feet, gloriously pocketed pants, and stolen shirt, lingering on the pendant at my throat, the one that's supposed to make me hard to see.
“We leave for the office in 10 minutes,” he says, leaving no room for argument before stalking off once again.
When I slip into my room, I dive into the mountain of clothes piled on my bed.
They’d made a brief, unsuccessful bid for freedom on the floor last night, but they’re back in their primary habitat now.
I don’t have the time or the patience to put them away.
I eye the tiny closet in the corner. I’m also pretty sure there isn't enough room in there for all of this, plus my growing collection of liberated… well, let’s just call them treasures for now, that live under my bed.
Shelving my clothing mountain problem for a different day, I rummage through the pile until I unearth a thick knit cardigan.
After designating it the crown jewel of the mountain, I drop to my stomach and dig into my treasure stash for Kieran’s stolen band tee.
I’ve decided the fancy button-up is too stiff, too much like a costume.
I need something softer, more broken-in, something that feels like it’s already a part of me.
With the soft tee on and a sleeve slipping off my shoulder, I throw the cardigan over it. Em’s pants never left my body because have you seen these pockets? Legendary. Socks with little tacos all over them finish out the clothing side of this ensemble.
I pause, examining the tiny embroidered tacos. I haven't even had a taco yet.
Oh my gods, what if I end up hating tacos?
I shut that shit down. I’ve never met a human or supe that didn’t love tacos and I outright refuse to be the odd one out in anything else. I’ll just look at the socks as motivation to broaden my culinary horizons.
Finally, the shoes. I grab the black Doc Martens, so similar to Em's, and pull one on.
I've just pulled on the second boot when I realize its lace is just…
gone. I'm baffled—I just bought these. Then I vaguely remember yanking it out yesterday to tie up my hair during a shopping-induced crisis involving keeping Anik from disemboweling a shop assistant.
Shrugging, I slip the lace-less boot on and make my way back to Emerson’s room.
Another quick search through that box of forgotten items yields a thin, discarded power cord.
Perfect. I slice off the plugs with a knife from one of the desk drawers, and soon I’m lacing up the boot with a sleek, black cord.
Two functioning boots, one liberated power cable. Another win.
I make my way down the hall, ready to take on whatever the day throws at me.
Sashaying into the main living space, I see Forrest preparing a travel mug of steaming hot bean juice.
He’s once again in a perfectly pressed, well fitted suit.
Is it bad that I just want to crumple it up and see him in a pair of sweatpants and a tee?
I think I may have found a new thing to add to my list. There’s just something so…
intimate about a casual, relaxed Forrest.
“Do you not have an acceptable wardrobe after yesterday's shopping trip?” He asks, looking me up and down.
I hold up one side of my thick knit cardigan and motion to my boots.
"Yes! Aren't they so pretty? Quick question: why don't women's clothes have pockets?
Finding pants yesterday was impossible, so I settled for anything that was either incredibly comfortable or not pants.
Then I open the magical dryer machine, and there's a perfect pair of pants with, like, six pockets sitting right there. "
His hand comes up to rub at his temple, like I'm giving him a headache just by existing. “You’re telling me there isn’t a single pair of decent pants in the mountain of laundry that was done yesterday?
Or a nice blouse? I saw the credit card charge; you had to have bought more than boots and a cardigan. ”
I nod. “Well yeah, but I bought them before I realized how awesome all of this is.” I motion to my patchwork ensemble.
“You can’t just—” he cuts himself off with a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter; no one will be able to truly focus on you anyway. Come on, let’s go.”
He grabs his work bag and opens the door, motioning me through.
We quickly make our way down to the garage, where he leads me to a sleek, gunmetal grey sedan.
It’s so pristine it looks like it just rolled out of a showroom.
There’s a silent, heavy presence to it that makes me think of a sleeping predator.
“Gods, Ro-ro—,”
“Must you call me that?” He asks, his face unreadable over the top of this aggressively handsome car.
I give him a grin, “Obviously. It’s the perfect fit. Just like this car.”
He says nothing, simply unlocking it with a soft chirp. I slide into the passenger seat, and the door closes with a definitive thud. The interior is filled with muted gray leather and cool, brushed metals.
It smells of clean leather and something crisp. It’s like the physical embodiment of his personality: impeccable, controlled, and slightly intimidating.
I can’t stop touching everything. Who knew leather could be so supple? Hells, even the stitching in the seats is perfect. There are no crumbs, no dust, and no stray signs of life like a coffee receipt or wrapper.
Gods, there’s even distinct vacuum lines still visible in the carpet below my feet.
“Do you get this thing detailed with a toothbrush and level?” I ask, still in awe. “I think this is the cleanest thing I’ve ever been inside, including my own body. What is it?”
He settles into the driver’s seat, his movements relaxed but precise. “An Audi A8,” he states, starting the engine. It purrs to life with a deep, muffled hum that you feel more than hear.
“It’s so quiet,” I whisper, as if we’re in a library.
“It’s efficient,” he corrects, his eyes on the rearview mirror as we begin to move. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “It has been modified with the powertrain from an S8. The additional performance is a strategic asset should things ever go south.”
I stare at him, then at the serene minimalist dashboard hiding a beast of an engine.
Of course, he didn’t just buy a luxury car.
He had a luxury card fortified into an unassuming fortress capable of unleashing hell if needed.
It’s one of the most Forrest things I’ve witnessed in the five years I’ve been with him.