dejah_thoris | Prodigal

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Prodigal

After a long day in the forge, and a long night of pacing the corridors of the bar looking for Curtis, Dejah had come back to her rooms and tried to work on the prostheses. She'd made significant progress, building the initial layer of isolates and imprinting the neurological signature she'd recorded the very first day onto the layer itself. It took an incredible amount of focus and when she was done, she lay her tools on her work bench. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, she made her way to the bed.

She didn't wake for many hours. Not even the recurring image of Curtis's shy smile melting into the leering grin of Matai Chang could manage to stir her from sleep. It was late in the day when she rolled over and peered at the window. The sun was going down. Or was it coming up? She couldn't tell.

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She grins at him as he laughs. She knows how serious this is for him, and in trying to approach it with humor, she's trying to make it easier. For the both of them.

Her eyelids flutter at the caress, and it's clear, he's having an effect on her, but she's focusing on his words.

"I do. One of the things I love about this place... It lets me put down a lot of what I carry in Helium. I love Helium, but sometimes, I forget I need to rest."

She takes a breath, a soft, contented smile on her face. "Do you want me to remind you? I mean, if you want to talk about it. Or -- something..."

Again, she falters, grinning despite herself.

Edited 2015-06-16 07:25 (UTC)

God, she's got a beautiful smile.

"Reminders might be good." Soft. "If I take it too far. I don't want to get pissed off too much at things that're...I don't know."

He doesn't want to say normal. The train was normal for Curtis. What came before, the parts that've come after -- that's the anomaly.

"I guess just what I said before. Things you can't help."

Her expression gentles, the light behind her eyes still vibrant. She can't stop touching him. Her hand works it's way between the layers of sweater and shirt, seeking him out.

"I understand. You're not angry at me. But you are angry, about what happened. To you. To your people. Sweet Issus, do I understand that -- helpless feeling, and the rage it brings."

The answer was right in front of her face, for so many decades. They were sabotaging her work, and she can't help but feel, if she'd only been smarter. Quicker. If she'd known then, what she knows now, then she could have saved so many people. She understands better than he knows.

"It all right to be angry, so long as you don't let it consume you."

His breath catches. With effort, Curtis steers himself back toward the conversation.

"It's kinda hard to keep it back sometimes," he says. "Just looking around, seeing the shit people take for granted here." His smile goes crooked. "Thank God for the gym, huh?"

(And occasional brawls with Dejah's friends. Er.)

She feels his breath catch, and hesitates, silently looking to him to see if she should back off. She doesn't know how to read him, yet.

"Yes, the gym. And now the forge perhaps?"

His smile grows, losing its lopsided edge, and he shifts into her touch in silent encouragement.

"Yeah. That too. Easier to forget what I wanna forget when I'm moving around."

She can't help but mirror that smile back to him, gentle hands slipping under his sweater, smoothing over his ribs. He's putting on weight and muscle, and she can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric. She's not asking for more than this, just simple intimacy. To be close to him.

Quiet, she asks, "What about the outside? Are you ready to go for a hike yet? I hear there are butterflies in the upper meadow, I'd love to see them."

He has to work to keep his breathing at a slow, deliberate rise and fall. Curtis closes his eyes, focusing on the contact like he did the first time they came to her room. There's no clinical distance to her touch anymore; despite the familiarity of the moment, the space around them feels wholly changed.

"Maybe?" he says after a moment. "How long a hike we talking about?"

She hums, nuzzles his cheek. "Just for the day I think. A few hours, if you need to work up to it. We can even invite Edgar, if you think he'd like to come with us."

Better to have a chaperone, she thinks. Just in case she loses her mind or something.

After a beat to mull that over, Curtis says, "I think I can handle a couple hours."

A full day sounds too daunting. He's gone outside a few more times since, but after a while, the sheer size of the grounds starts to get to him. Too much sky; too much space.

"I'll ask him. He still thinks grass is one of the best fucking things in the world, so he might be up for it."

"All right," she says, grinning again. "I'll set it up. In the meantime," she steals another slow, warm kiss. "Would you like to see what I got done while you were in custody?" There's a definitive tease, a playful lilt to her voice.

His eyebrows lift. "You got something done?"

Color Curtis intrigued!

She beams back at him. "I got quite a lot done. I needed the distraction. Stay here, let me get it." She gently extricates herself from his embrace, careful to keep her robe from coming undone.

The arm is on its stand on her work bench, and when she picks it up, he can see it clearly. The upper and lower arm seem to be complete. The hand itself remains a bare metallic skeleton. She brings it and the same small pendant he'd seen before back to where he's seated on the couch.

She settles beside him, the arm resting over her knees. "Want to give it a little test drive?"

Damn. She wasn't kidding when she said she got a lot done. It feels like every time Curtis blinks, another part of the arm materializes.

Tentatively, he reaches to touch the prosthesis, sliding his fingers over the metal plating. That's going to be a part of him soon. Uneasiness flickers again, then vanishes just as fast; it's a tool, she told him, no different than a crutch or an umbrella hook.

(Except for how much goddamn nicer it looks.)

"Right now?" he asks, and immediately thinks, that's a dumb question, of course right now.

Dejah can't help but think her face is going to ache later from all the smiling. The metal beneath his fingertips is not cool to the touch. It's a little warm in fact. It's not smooth as glass, but has a brushed, matte finish.

"Here, hold it like this." She shifts it into his lap, palm up. "We're going to have to construct a stand for you, so if you want to take it off, it'll be easier to put back on. Now, the pendant is still keyed to your neurosignature." She slips the device, now on a thin silver chain, around his neck, tucking it under his shirt so it's against his skin.

After a moment, a pale blue light start to flicker down through the device, like water wicking through fabric, seeping along the individual threads.

Curtis watches the light spiderweb up the prosthesis. His hand rises to rub at the chain trailing under his shirt. "Does that mean it'll do the same thing it was doing the first time?" he asks. "Like, I think about moving my hand and -- "

The fingers of the prosthesis twitch.

" -- Jesus!" He jerks back without thinking. The prosthesis wobbles. Just before it topples off his lap, some signal from Curtis' brain hits the neurotransmitter: the fingers grab onto Curtis' leg, the disembodied arm steadying itself.

Curtis just stares.

"Oh!" Dejah laughs, delighted. There's nothing quite like seeing a project start to come together. "Be careful, I don't think there are any sharp edges, but -- just in case. There should be no sensation. Just motor control."

Curtis carries on staring. Watching the arm move, seemingly independent of everything around it, is...he's not gonna lie, it's really fucking disturbing. It's like watching a severed limb twitch.

Very, very gingerly -- and focusing on keeping his breath steady for much more unpleasant reasons now -- Curtis reaches to grasp the prosthesis, pulling it closer to his stump. Maybe it'll be easier to handle if it looks like it's attached to him.

Dejah looks so proud. And she should be. This thing's a fucking marvel. He doesn't want to act like a dick about it.

The metallic hand curls into a fist and her smile falters. Her delight fades entirely when she glances to his face and sees the quiet horror behind his eyes. "Here, let me." Gentle as ever, she takes the prosthesis and helps him maneuver it to where it should be. (And if he jerks away from it, it won't land on the floor.)

"It will take some getting used to, we knew that. Just take a deep breath, like before, and use your other hand to mirror what you want it to do. If you'd prefer, please just tell me and I'll shut it down."

Shit.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and shakes his head. "It's fine."

It definitely feels better to have the arm where it's supposed to be. It's easier for his mind to smooth over the small gap between the end of his folded sleeve and the beginning of the prosthesis. Taking the instructed deep breath, he wiggles the fingers of his right hand.

After a beat, the fingers of the metal hand ripple in a brief echo.

The horror vanishes as Curtis breaks into a grin.

Her smile returns, subtle but unsure. She didn't think. She watches him like a hawk for the rest of the demonstration.

"The delay will be nonexistent when the connection is integrated with your neural pathways. Once the core is installed properly, it will be begin to learn and adapt to you."

"Okay." He rotates his wrist, turns his palm face-up; again, there's the fractional delay before the prosthesis follows suit. Curtis bends his elbows to test the joint, then cups the back of the metal hand with his real one.

It's so good, to look at something like this and think, this is mine.

"This is fucking incredible."

"You'll also be able to feel feedback from the limb once it's integrated. All of the devices I've made using the Ninth Ray isolates, they all have a kind of -- they respond in incredibly subtle and complex ways. The more you listen to them, the more they learn and respond to what you need from them. It becomes an almost symbiotic relationship."

Dejah shifts one hand away, letting him take half the weight. She flexes her fingers and then shakes out her hand a few times.

"This is just the mechanical apparatus. The true test will be in the actual integration." She sounds like she's still concerned about that.

"Shit, if this is just the mechanical part," he starts to say -- then pauses, watching her shake out her hand as if stung.

"You okay?"

She brushes his concern off with a gentle deferral. "I'm fine. This is just the beginning. It looks like it's almost complete but -- again," she laughs, remembering the day she took the first measurements, "do you know how many nerve endings there are in the human hand? I have a lot more work to do before this is actually going to be ready for you."

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