PUNK GAN EDAN Chapter Three: The More Flesh― The More Worms
ThatGazzer
Minds Eye Bind
- Location
- PNW
- Pronouns
- They/Them
PUNK GAN EDAN
Chapter Three:
The More Flesh― The More Worms
"King, beggar and fool, I have been all by turns,
Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind's treason;
Taliesin still, I show you a new world, risen,
Stubborn with beauty, out of the heart's need."
-Taliesin, R.S. Tomas
Chapter Three:
The More Flesh― The More Worms
"King, beggar and fool, I have been all by turns,
Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind's treason;
Taliesin still, I show you a new world, risen,
Stubborn with beauty, out of the heart's need."
-Taliesin, R.S. Tomas
"Right, you wouldn't know what that is, would you?" The Aide-turned-Super-Spy raises his brow, the slightest movement extrapolated into its actual meaning by your Head…Space…Thingy. You really need to think of a name for all this. Time seems to drag for a moment― you suddenly find yourself disassociating, and inevitably the peanut gallery pipes up.
[INLAND ISEKAI]: Thought Cabinet? Mind Council? Parlement Psychédélique? Kokoro no Kyūden? Der Denkraum? Officium Cogitationis?
Suggests in the Chuuni that lives deep in the folds of your ―you assume― rotting gray matter. Idlely you wonder how many languages you know but cannot touch― and why does this part of you, of all people have access to all of them? Her voice is your voice, you think. Just a little to the side of yours, as if filtered through amber-gold memories.
She sounds― you decide, like childhood summer sunsets. Like Before. But you're not sure what kind of Before you're thinking of.
[AESTHETIC] (Easy Success): Like Nostalgia and Liberosis― The incessant desire to care less, to hold less tightly onto the past contrasted with a deep and desperate longing for it.
That's the most insightful and interesting thing you've ever said. Honestly, you're a little surprised it wasn't about shoes.
[AESTHETIC]: Darling, a girl can be shallow and know how to do words pretty. Presentation, and understanding how it affects people? That's half the job of being a politician!
What's the other half?
[L'ESPRIT DE CAPITALE]: Essentially? Legalized bribery.
[EMPATHY]: I'm sorry to interrupt, but if you'll let me, Ladies?
Time snaps back into motion at just about the same speed as your soul when snaps back into your body― You've just missed the first few words of what Abel said. Seconds have passed when they felt like minutes, a side effect of a conversation that moves as fast as you can think. Which admittedly is sometimes inconsistent, as you push past brain fog and bone-deep pain.
Oh, sorry you apologize rather lamely. There is a feeling― not quite words? That suggests she understands; it is her job to understand― before Empathy moves to speak.
[EMPATHY]: This Abel Face, as I'm coming to think of them, is one that could be called a kind of smile― It is light, and excited. Technology is something he likes talking about. He's a bit of a Tech-Head, you think.
"-tty self-describing, Greene. But in the most simple terms, it is a discrete peer-to-peer messaging app that can be found in The Broadcast the AIC sent out, as part of The Box. As far as anyone can tell, it doesn't cache anything, or hold any data, it sends your message as encrypted background noise, which only the receiver holds the key to unlock, generated the moment it's sent. The message deletes after checking that you've read it and understand it with a modified attention tracking algorithm. That's after a few other layers of verification."
[PERSPICACITY] (Easy Success): He shrugs, and you notice how his jacket pattern seems to shift with him, the flow of the lines never upset by his movement.
[LOGIC]: Smartfabric is not usually printed with such high resolution, as the expense is prohibitive. This is far more than just fashion.
[AESTHETIC] (Failure): You're right old girl. It is Art, Darling! You should get one of those. Are they a perk of joining up? If they are, I really want to join now.
And Aesthetic is back to being shallow, so much for starting to like them.
"It's really quite clever."
"So it's Snapchat?" You find yourself saying, somehow dragging a nigh two-hundred-and-change old app from the depths of your broken memory.
[L'ESPRIT DE CAPITALE]: You had to gladhand for donations from so many weird old millennials who would not stop talking about the good old days of Vine, Snapchat and oy vey, whatever tiktoc was. (Depending on who you talked to― it was either old Chinese spyware or a dating app for queers?) A lot of what you know about it seems to have stuck around. It suggests a lot about how deeply entrenched it is― and how often you had to hear about it, just to make money.
Neurons fire― your broken brain begins to grind and turn, your gene-refined neuroplasticity patching holes and making new pathways.
Something about that…
You can almost hear the whir and ding, like a typewriter sliding into position, as it all slots into place.
[Completed Thought! Parliamentary Process]
Solution: So you don't feel qualified? Let us let you in on something Greene. Only a narcissist thinks they're qualified for anything 100% of the time― *Nobody* knows what they're doing. That's the secret everyone is desperately trying to hide from everybody else― *Everyone* is just hoping nobody notices they're just *making it up* as they go along.
Here's the thing, as far as we can tell― most of your job was begging people for campaign money and convincing the people you privately loathed that it was *in fact* in their best interest to take a small tax increase that would see them paying an extra *whole tenth* a SolCoin to fund public works and civil programs. Programs your party was forced to mothball as the lauded *Parliamentary Process* ground it down to nothing.
You later discovered that the money that would have gone to your programs instead went to a 'Anti-Riot Fund'. After that? Well― They had to replace your heart. It's only four or five years old― you killed the last one with the stress, lack of sleep and constant midnight jogs in a desperate attempt to chase a runner's high, a literal hedonic treadmill. That heart is basically a toddler and you're putting it through all this? You might not be qualified― but then again, Nobody Is!
(+1 To Physical Traits, running 3km may heal 1 morale)
Solution: So you don't feel qualified? Let us let you in on something Greene. Only a narcissist thinks they're qualified for anything 100% of the time― *Nobody* knows what they're doing. That's the secret everyone is desperately trying to hide from everybody else― *Everyone* is just hoping nobody notices they're just *making it up* as they go along.
Here's the thing, as far as we can tell― most of your job was begging people for campaign money and convincing the people you privately loathed that it was *in fact* in their best interest to take a small tax increase that would see them paying an extra *whole tenth* a SolCoin to fund public works and civil programs. Programs your party was forced to mothball as the lauded *Parliamentary Process* ground it down to nothing.
You later discovered that the money that would have gone to your programs instead went to a 'Anti-Riot Fund'. After that? Well― They had to replace your heart. It's only four or five years old― you killed the last one with the stress, lack of sleep and constant midnight jogs in a desperate attempt to chase a runner's high, a literal hedonic treadmill. That heart is basically a toddler and you're putting it through all this? You might not be qualified― but then again, Nobody Is!
(+1 To Physical Traits, running 3km may heal 1 morale)
Oh, you get it now, you hated your job.
"You hated your job, Greene?"
"Fuck, did I say that out loud?" You run your hand through greasy unwashed hair.
Abe's brow raises slightly in amusement. "Yes, and that part too, to dispel any possible confusion."
[INLAND ISEKAI]: He's taking all this very well for a man who now knows his boss is basically a Blank Slate Protagonist. This feels just like my fanfics! My Precious Fanfics!
[L'ESPRIT DE CAPITALE]: It isn't that he's taking it well, it's that he's putting his freak out aside for when it won't get in the way. It's how he's always dealt with these sorts of things, and it's useful, most of the time. Compartmentalization is always helpful, in business and in life. We're a walking example of that.
"As for what you wanted to do here. I don't know how much we can affect things, but I do know we can at least help London. Maybe talk to some people taking charge of the area? Do some interviews, say we're…Observers for the AIC, maybe? They gave me a unique id code that can ping any Active Box-Chan. Gives me relatively unrestricted access to the Box catalog, but it can also serve as proof for that cover."
You frown at that. "Isn't my face a little too recognizable for that?" Abel blinks, but doesn't say anything, so you continue. "I'm an MP, a politician. A public figure― I might not know what my face looks like right now, Abe. But a bunch of people do, don't they?"
"Normally, I would agree, but…" he hesitates, adjusting his glasses again in what you begin to realize is a nervous tick. "If I didn't know you personally, didn't recognize your clothes and voice― it is best I just show you. Come on Sil, follow me to the bathroom, there's a dumb mirror in there that won't try adjusting things."
[REACTION SPEED] (Easy Success): Hold on there, Sil? Who is Sil?
"Sil?" you ask as he gently guides you to the bathroom, past a loose shower head, still releasing steam. It adds a weight to the air, a kind of thickness in your lungs that reminds you of That Wine-Dark Void-Sea― before you woke up again to reality.
Abel glances at you, that micro expression of worry popping up in the twitch of his sylvian ears. "Silvia. Your name is Silvia Greene. I had assumed you…" he trails off, looking away. "I am going downstairs. I'll take what I can to the recyclers, and talk with the Admin about getting the window replaced with something…You proof. I imagine you will need some space. To process all of this."
[EMPATHY]: He had hoped you at least remembered your name.
[DRAMA] (Medium Success): It's him that needs the space, Majesty― he's asking you indirectly for permission. It's an old bit of social legerdemain between you two, a script so rehearsed that you almost don't notice the quiet nod and mutter of assent you give him, your body moving on stiff, animatonic habit.
He nods back and hesitates for a moment at the bathroom door before grabbing a broom and dustpan from a narrow closet space, you hear him move and sweep, and he is out the door with a trashbag of glass and other debris minutes later.
You realize― about five minutes into doing nothing, that you're avoiding looking into the mirror and you don't know why. The mirror is fogged over, its internal heating element turned off. You can see the haze of your face― but little else beyond a vague impressionistic blur, an image that is echoed in your mind.
[INLAND ISEKAI]: Hold it Senpai! Once done, this can't be undone. A Face defines you, makes you more real― Makes this more real. I say avoid it. We can imagine whatever kind of cool face we want, but only if you don't look in that mirror. Otherwise―we're stuck with what you've got.
[VOLITION] (Challenging Success): We already are stuck with the face we've got. Pretending otherwise is leaning a little harder into being unsane than I'd like.
You consider that for a moment before you reach out and wipe away the condensation with a rumpled sleeve.
You see before you an upsettingly youthful face, for how old you feel inside. The sheer incongruity is almost dysphoric. There are wrinkles, yes, but they are light. There is gray hair, but only a few wiry strands that add a sort of sparkle that might look nice― were your dark curls not caked in sweat and grease.
But past the unjust youth of your face, you see the truth of the damage.
You have an olive tone to your skin, but you are cast pale with pain and slick with flop sweat, your face is gaunt and unhealthy.
Next, A hawkish sort of noise that you would say goes well with the rest of your face, what with it being recently broken and inexpertly reset. A bloated mess of inflamed flesh serving or rather― attempting to serve― as a nose.
[LOGIC]: Well, at least that explains why your head hurts so much.
Your eyes, a bloodshot hazel with subtle flecks of green. Your sockets you think for a moment are ringed by dark makeup but you realize, with a growing horror, that the darkness is from perennial lack of sleep, the bags so dark and deep they seem to make your eyes almost manic in contrast. Your lips are full, with a near perfect cupid's bow― but chapped and bleeding, peeling skin pulling at the edges of your smile.
Yes, smile― For some reason, beyond your control you are *smiling*.
It is a light, almost wry and confident expression totally at odds with how you actually feel. It is a face that says "I am in total control, even if *you* don't think so." Well― you don't think so at all. You know so, in fact. The smile does not seem to reach your eyes in the intended fashion, it goes sad and dead somewhere in the middle. Like it was painted on your dead body by a hobbyist mortician.
[INLAND ISEKAI]: I warned you! I warned you all! Now we have to live with *this* awful fucking face.
[AESTHETIC]: Right then Darling, stop making that expression and we can move on. Honestly, you don't look too bad, besides that awful *thing* on your face, a shower and a bit of makeup to cover those bags and you'll look almost human.
You nod to yourself, and stop making The Expression.
[AESTHETIC]: Darling, you seem to have failed to stop making that face.
You glance at the mirror again, and see the moment that you stopped focusing on it, The Expression came back.
[AESTHETIC]: Oh my god you can't stop can you? If you weren't a mess it might work but as it is you look insane. Or a walking corpse, or both…Yes. Both.
I don't know, I think it looks more pitiful than insane, you protest weakly. Still making The Expression, as if you were cursed by Mona Lisa Themed Witch for your sins. What sins you're not sure, but they must be terrible. It might even be sort of roguish and charming in the right light. You lie to yourself.
[VOLITION]: You look like shit. You feel like shit, so that follows. But at least there's nowhere to go now but up.
[GRINDSET]: You heard her! Keep fuckin pushing uphill, Sister-yphus!
you think you hear a chorus of pained groans that follow closely after your own but you ignore it, and pull yourself back into your body and away from the circus that has taken up your headspace.
Right― You nod to yourself, and push away from the counter after washing your face and gingerly avoiding your noise. You rummage around until you find some toothpaste and mouthwash, and at least rid yourself of the taste of death crawling around on your tongue.
You glance back at the mirror.
"Still look like shit, Silvia," you say to your face in the mirror― trying the name out for the first time. It feels like a hand-me-down sweater, familiar but not quite comfortable. Not yet― Maybe not ever. "But at least you feel a little better."
The Expression stares back, defiant and totally out of place next to your exhausted eyes and messy nest of hair.
[THEORY]: Time to see a Man about a Revolution.
Hm?
[THEORY]: Abe― Abe is down stairs and probably has a few ideas to help folks out by now. I have a few brilliant ideas myself, ya know, but that'd need everyone to at least have a solid grounding in Adamist-Mutualist-Anarcho-Poststructuralism to really be effective...might need to start a reading group to really get the foundations needed.
[HALF LIGHT]: That seems like a lot of extra steps when you could just fuckin' start helping people?
You snort to yourself. Yeah, you wished it was that easy, sometimes. You trudge down the hallway and to the stairs.
LOADING…
Tip:…Be careful in your dealings with the ruling authorities for they do not befriend a person except for their own needs; they seem like friends when it is to their own interest― but they shall not stand by you in the hour of your distress…
LOADING…
It is a surprisingly short walk down the stairs, your body moving automatically and allowing your mind to wonder. You were at the top of the stairs and now you are at the bottom, with nothing between. The effect feels a little like teleporting.
[PROPRIOCEPTION]: You do so much work and all you get in return is 'oooh im teleporting', I walked this half fried meat-mech down stairs with you zoned out and I don't even get a good job, Propri, you're so necessary to human function, Propri. Fuck me I guess.
This one had only spoken perhaps once before, and you hadn't really gotten much of an impression. Now though, as close to the front of your mind as the Aspect is?
You instinctively associate her with the color red. Red like muscle, like blood and marrow. They smell like sweat, and they sound like the tendon's stretching. She sounds tired. Overworked, and fed up with being pushed to the side. She is in every ache and pain, intimately tied, more than most of the others, to this gutted and aching husk of a body. Most of all― She reminds you of someone, but you can't place who.
[L'ESPRIT DE CAPITALE]: You really do owe her a debt. Out of all of us, she's the one putting in the most work. Pay it back a little, lest the interest build up.
Uh, I'm sorry. Thank you?
There is a grudging acceptance from your Body Pilot as you look around the lobby, which appears to be serving a double duty as an improvised community center.
[PERSPICACITY] (Medium Success): There are people talking, one corner claimed by broad shouldered men and women in denim jackets with matching LONDON GOFERS UNION Stencils― in another sits a set of little old women, who seem to have set up a sewing circle. A few children mill about― sometimes messing with a somewhat broken pinball machine, while two exhausted parents snore curled against each other in a nearby booth. To one end of the room, close to where you are, there is a stage― currently empty.
[LOGIC]: Perhaps set up for a lounge singer, or open mic night?
[DRAMA] (Easy Success): The stage might be empty, Majesty, but she is so full of POTENTIAL!
[PERSPICACITY]: There is music too― piped through deliberately retro-styled speakers for more authentic sound― it's a gentle hopping, bouncy Golden Age lofi instrumental― designed by a computer to be as inoffensive as humanly possible while still being omnipresent and easy to loop endlessly― it does a fine enough job of muffling the conversations and the everpresent hum of fans and electrical wiring that you've trained yourself to ignore over the years.
Abel isn't far― You spot him after finishing your (or was it Perspicacity?) scan of the room. He appears to be speaking to a tall, round-faced green man in a vest and slacks and a very put-upon expression that pulls around the tusks peeking out from his jaw. Attached to his vest with a pin, a small bronze plate proclaims his name and corporate rank Lawrence Garte, Local Service Admin, Jr Grade. Green Goddess.
[LOGIC]: Green Goddess must be the name of the Hotel you're staying in.
[AESTHETICS] (Medium Success): It's a fitting name. The walls are painted in imitation Scheele's Green. One of the more modern reproductions made without acidic copper arsenite.
[PHARMACOLOGICAL]: That's poison, by the way. Invented in 1775, an ancestor of Paris Green. Both pigments dropped in popularity when people realized it was killing them. Even then it still took way too long. Even when they *knew* it was toxic, they used it in sweets. Did find some use as an insecticide in the early 20th century.
[AESTHETICS]: Being perfectly fair Darling― It's a very pretty color.
You just roll your eyes, honestly, you're almost used to the constant chatter in your head, walking up to the pair as Abe finishes a sentence, one you happen to catch the tail end of.
"―I am sorry about asking for so much print time, Mister Garte, but I'd imagine you'd rather The Goddess have all her windows where they belong and her rooms undamaged." Abel states with a dry sort of humor that the other man seems to respond to readily.
[L'ESPRIT DE CAPITALE] (Easy Success): You have the sense that he has not explained exactly how events came together to wreck a room, shatter a window and generally make a mess of one of Mister Lawrence Garte's Hotel. But Abel has made it very clear that he's Dealing With It, and Garte wouldn't have to pay much mind other than to confirm it's been done, The Managerial Ideal.
It's then that the Admin turns to you with a look you uncomfortably clock as recognition.
"Oh, its you-" He begins to say
[HALF LIGHT] (Medium Success): Fuck we've been made! Punch him!
What? No! That won't help. You protest, hugging your arms tightly as if to secure them against lashing out at the command of the intrusive thought.
"The Detective" he remarks with tired sarcasm and active, actual physical air quotes.
"What?" Detective? What is he talking about?
"Your friend here explained you might be a bit foggy. So I'll be nice and explain. Keep in mind I only got here last night. Most of this? It all started about three days ago when you first checked in, clearly intoxicated on something," he shrugs and makes a seesaw motion with his hand. "Which honestly isn't that unexpected, yeah? We're in the middle of a bloody mess, it's stressful innit? What gets me is you checked in under the clearly fake name Judith Barathius Holmes."
"I did that?" You think it's a pretty cool sounding name, but yes, it does sound very fake. Probably why he's calling you Detective.
You hope, anyway.
"Yes, yes you did."
"Hold on now, detective, haven't got to the good part." Oh no. "Then― according to security footage, you spend a full 9 hours drinking yourself even deeper into intoxication at the bar and somehow convince a Box-Chan that you need ―and I'm quoting the request log here― 'all of the drugs for all these emotions.'
[COMPOSURE] (Heroic Failure): Oh no. You begin to break out into a cold sweat. Your chest is starting to pound.
"While 'doing all the drugs' You sent one of my best workers home in tears for reasons I don't fully understand. I've had to take over her shifts."
[EMPATHY]: Sweet Moses. We made someone cry!?
"Also, I hope you remember this, but you promised to mediate an agreement between The London Commune and the Remnant Hermes-Istar Upper Management. There is a kind of informal ceasefire right now of course but tension is…high. To say the least. You apparently made a compelling argument for someone so crossfaded I'd call you a Star Wars wipe. There was a vote last night when I came in, which is how I heard about all of this and…"
[VOLITION]: Oh no. I don't like where this is going.
[GRINDSET]: Oh yes! THIS IS MY SHIT! A CHALLENGE! The Pressure! The Weight Of Expectation! It'll forge fuckin diamond! AND WE ARE THE DIAMOND UNBREAKABLE! Ooooh Yesss! Sweet familiar Anxiety― Oh Child of Pan, baby how I missed you!
"You're in. Holmes, this idea of yours better work. Else we're right back to fighting and dying."
Well, it's official.
You hate your new job just as much as your old one.
Last edited:
