1. Honey [CW: vomit] The table top is a smooth piece of glass. It's cold against Wrath's hands. It's sticky. Everything smells like honey. Everything smells like blood.
The Compliance Officer smiles. Honey oozes out of her hair like sweat. Her pink lipstick is perfect. She taps her fingernails on the table top. Her nail polish is pink and chipped. "Have a cookie."
They're honey cookies. She knows this. She can't taste anything else in the world. The sky outside is on fire. Somewhere, Octavian is screaming, in the distance.
"I don't want a cookie."
"It's good for you." The Compliance Officer pushes the plate toward her. "They'll make you better."
"There's nothing wrong with you."
"Of course not, sweetie. You just have a few little behavioral problems. We'll fix them together."
She takes a cookie. It sticks to her fingers. She's crying. "Why won't he stop screaming?"
"No one's screaming," the Compliance Officer says. "Don't worry. We'll fix that, too."
When Wrath opens her mouth to answer, only honey comes out, and endless golden stream that she vomits and vomits and vomits, her stomach cramping, pain exploding in the back of her head, her senses overwhelmed with cloying sweetness until it fills the room and she drowns.
The Compliance Officer never blinks.
2. Battlefield Medicine [CW: mutilation, zombies] The confusion of a battlefield, organic chaos, with long, whipping limbs, and screaming, blasted mouths too big to belong to anything human. Octavian--black armor, poison green piping, that's how she knows it's him--weaves his hovercycle through reaching arms and long, claw-tipped fingers trying to pluck him from his hovercycle.
Wrath slashes at the seething mass in front of her, and smoke rolls up as the burning blade goes through flesh, something screaming inhumanly, not quite blocked out by his helmet. Her HUD shows friendlies, but not so many as before. And the formation is scattered, broken, twenty different private battles against an overwhelming tide of mottled, sagging, disease-melted flesh. She slashes again, at a lump that looks like it might have been a head, though the features have sagged and run down to the dysthrope’s stomach.
Something grabs her from behind, trying to drag her from her hovercycle. She curses. Hears Octavian, dimly, "You got this, Wrath?" And of course she's fucking got it, she's always got it.
No, she doesn't got it. More hands grab her as she slashes. There's too many. The right flank of her platoon has crumpled completely between one blink and the next. And then all she sees is rotten, scabrous flesh as they pile on top of her. Their teeth on her armor is crushing, bruising, but that's fine because it means the armor is holding. Then she feels a sharp pain, claws breaking through and sinking into her thigh, and she screams. There's only so much armor can hold. Her arm is next. But she's already dead. If she could just free one of her arms, she could at least detonate the power plant on her hovercyle. She's going out in glory, motherfuckers.
The scrabbling darkness crushing her down heaves, moves. A hand grabs her and yanks her free, popping her out like a cork. She falls, bleeding, over Octavian's lap. He kicks his hovercycle into gear and they shoot backwards at full power, then spin and blast toward the inner line.
"We need reinforcements on Red Sector right fucking now!" Octavian shouts.
"Request acknowledged," an overly calm voice returns.
Wrath takes a sickening, bumping glance back; the things scrambling to pursue, but the hovercycle is much too fast. Blink into darkness as she blacks out.
The epi pack from the medkit hits her like a horse kicking her in the chest. She sees the smokey sky, Proles starting to hump up on the horizon, the start of the dome arcing over the buildings. She feels like her skin is on fire. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
"Get a hold of yourself!" He rolls her then pushes her back to the ground as she tries to sit. "Your armor integrity is shit. Did anything actually get through?"
She wants to say no, because she wants to live. She knows that's not the truth, and as much as she wants to live, she doesn't want to take anyone with her. "Fuck." She's not crying. She's too pissed off to cry.
"What’s bleeding? I can’t tell over all the slime." His voice has gone tight and clipped.
"They got through on my left arm. Right leg. It fucking burns, Octavian. Fuck! It’s too late."
Octavian freezes for a moment, then slowly breathes in. He raises his sword, thumbing the controls to start the plasma cycling back up to white heat. "But anything’s worth a try, right?"
Wrath shakes her head. "You're gonna have to kill me anyway."
"I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. Let’s make it seven."
Wrath’s small body clenches like a fist. "Do it."
He sets the white arc of his sword against her left arm, mid humerus. Smoke and steam pour upward as Wrath screams and screams.
Wrath
The table top is a smooth piece of glass. It's cold against Wrath's hands. It's sticky. Everything smells like honey. Everything smells like blood.
The Compliance Officer smiles. Honey oozes out of her hair like sweat. Her pink lipstick is perfect. She taps her fingernails on the table top. Her nail polish is pink and chipped. "Have a cookie."
They're honey cookies. She knows this. She can't taste anything else in the world. The sky outside is on fire. Somewhere, Octavian is screaming, in the distance.
"I don't want a cookie."
"It's good for you." The Compliance Officer pushes the plate toward her. "They'll make you better."
"There's nothing wrong with you."
"Of course not, sweetie. You just have a few little behavioral problems. We'll fix them together."
She takes a cookie. It sticks to her fingers. She's crying. "Why won't he stop screaming?"
"No one's screaming," the Compliance Officer says. "Don't worry. We'll fix that, too."
When Wrath opens her mouth to answer, only honey comes out, and endless golden stream that she vomits and vomits and vomits, her stomach cramping, pain exploding in the back of her head, her senses overwhelmed with cloying sweetness until it fills the room and she drowns.
The Compliance Officer never blinks.
2. Battlefield Medicine [CW: mutilation, zombies]
The confusion of a battlefield, organic chaos, with long, whipping limbs, and screaming, blasted mouths too big to belong to anything human. Octavian--black armor, poison green piping, that's how she knows it's him--weaves his hovercycle through reaching arms and long, claw-tipped fingers trying to pluck him from his hovercycle.
Wrath slashes at the seething mass in front of her, and smoke rolls up as the burning blade goes through flesh, something screaming inhumanly, not quite blocked out by his helmet. Her HUD shows friendlies, but not so many as before. And the formation is scattered, broken, twenty different private battles against an overwhelming tide of mottled, sagging, disease-melted flesh. She slashes again, at a lump that looks like it might have been a head, though the features have sagged and run down to the dysthrope’s stomach.
Something grabs her from behind, trying to drag her from her hovercycle. She curses. Hears Octavian, dimly, "You got this, Wrath?" And of course she's fucking got it, she's always got it.
No, she doesn't got it. More hands grab her as she slashes. There's too many. The right flank of her platoon has crumpled completely between one blink and the next. And then all she sees is rotten, scabrous flesh as they pile on top of her. Their teeth on her armor is crushing, bruising, but that's fine because it means the armor is holding. Then she feels a sharp pain, claws breaking through and sinking into her thigh, and she screams. There's only so much armor can hold. Her arm is next. But she's already dead. If she could just free one of her arms, she could at least detonate the power plant on her hovercyle. She's going out in glory, motherfuckers.
The scrabbling darkness crushing her down heaves, moves. A hand grabs her and yanks her free, popping her out like a cork. She falls, bleeding, over Octavian's lap. He kicks his hovercycle into gear and they shoot backwards at full power, then spin and blast toward the inner line.
"We need reinforcements on Red Sector right fucking now!" Octavian shouts.
"Request acknowledged," an overly calm voice returns.
Wrath takes a sickening, bumping glance back; the things scrambling to pursue, but the hovercycle is much too fast. Blink into darkness as she blacks out.
The epi pack from the medkit hits her like a horse kicking her in the chest. She sees the smokey sky, Proles starting to hump up on the horizon, the start of the dome arcing over the buildings. She feels like her skin is on fire. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
"Get a hold of yourself!" He rolls her then pushes her back to the ground as she tries to sit. "Your armor integrity is shit. Did anything actually get through?"
She wants to say no, because she wants to live. She knows that's not the truth, and as much as she wants to live, she doesn't want to take anyone with her. "Fuck." She's not crying. She's too pissed off to cry.
"What’s bleeding? I can’t tell over all the slime." His voice has gone tight and clipped.
"They got through on my left arm. Right leg. It fucking burns, Octavian. Fuck! It’s too late."
Octavian freezes for a moment, then slowly breathes in. He raises his sword, thumbing the controls to start the plasma cycling back up to white heat. "But anything’s worth a try, right?"
Wrath shakes her head. "You're gonna have to kill me anyway."
"I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. Let’s make it seven."
Wrath’s small body clenches like a fist. "Do it."
He sets the white arc of his sword against her left arm, mid humerus. Smoke and steam pour upward as Wrath screams and screams.