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The industrial elevator creaked. Within it stood seven Replika. None of them had talked to STMR-3302, who sat in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest, bracing herself for the descent that was about to happen. The Sicherheitstechniker-Massenzerstreuung-Replika (Security Technician-Crowd Dispersal-Replika) were not known for being sociable or kind, and it was only understandable to her that they would not approach her. A Sturmvögel, alone as always. She fiddled with the black and red straps that distinguished her armor from the Storch-standard issue, and pushed the uneven strands of hair that didn't quite reach her midsection back behind her ears.
A bit to her side was a bubbly Eule dressed more like an Ara, who kept shifting eyes to her. She was right in front of the emergency controls system, the tools to adjust the settings hanging on her belt. The unit had apparently insisted on being the one to come up with the Mynah and Ara, who had shared a joke implying she always volunteered to. An Adler was monitoring three Mynah that were shifting massive crates of supplies into the center of the room. He was preaching about the importance of maintaining the balance, roughly paraphrasing the ARAR that had been patched into the communications. She was on the secondary shell of the system, and once she felt it was balanced enough, she started the system up.
The lights flickered. The thick steel cables roared by, and the elevator shuddered violently as it descended between the hole bored down through the massive ice crust that made up the moon Etna’s surface. The ice groans, formed by the minor tectonic shifts of the frozen sea, echoed all around them. Each creak was like the last gasps of a Replika with a fried voice box, that subtle whine they release before their body gives out. The cold, miasmic smell of dry burn filled the cabin. STMR-3302 coughed. She hated that stench. The one thing she was looking forward to with this reassignment was getting into the actual ocean, and as far away from the smell as possible. Given that the elevator only ran on a biannual schedule, when the facility below ran out of supplies, she has spent the last few months restlessly waiting.
ARAR-3307’s voice came over the comms again. “No tears!” she announced. “Systems nominal. Continuing descent at normal pace.”
“Good,” the Adler responded. “I want to inform the commander of a successful transfer when I return to the surface.”
As the ride continued, the three Mynah began to chatter amongst themselves. It was hard to parse their accents, especially through the heavier suits they wore for work on the seafloor facilities. Something about making the rations last with the supply chains choked? STMR-3302 couldn’t quite tell, but it sounded like things were going as well down here as they had been on the surface. Great.
The EULR kept looking at STMR-3302. She filtered through the Replika registry she had examined beforehand. Ah, this one is EULR-3322. Goes by “Weißfußmaus,” which STMR-3302 concludes is a nod to the unit’s lack of any coloration on their leg joints, which are entirely white. She had a thumb wedged in the knee, and was trying to pick off a piece of dust that was made all the more obvious under the white shell. Once done, her face unfurled from its concentration and turned back to STMR-3302 again. Weißfußmaus smiled and waved, but the replika turned away and went back to watching the Mynah mingle.
They had left the ice a bit ago, but only now did the miles of vertical ocean make their presence known. Deep sea currents rumbled, sending the structure to the sides with a crash. STMR-3302’s stomach dropped, and she was flung from her place on the ground, head bashing the wall. The power briefly cut, and red backups filtered through the metal cages that held their bulbs. The crates tried to slide, but the Mynahs held them in place with bare hands. The high-pressure variants used on seafloor facilities were really something. ARAR-3307 said, “Sorry ‘bout the pause. Abnormal currents for this time of year. I imagine Harzburg will be really interested, especially given the gentle relaxing of the equator glacial flow–” Adler cut her off, and sighed to himself.
“You okay, miss Petrol?” a voice asked. STMR-3302 realized her chin was resting on the lap of Weißfußmaus, who was currently running a finger across her lips with a sly smile spread. Petrol jumped up and back, scrambling into the corner. The Adler turned to give her a stern look after she bumped the wall, before going back to monitoring the cargo.
The Eule crawled over to Petrol. Even on her knees next to the knocked over Petrol she was much shorter. “We’re twenty or so minutes from the bottom, but that should be the worst of the currents. You’ll be fine, miss.”
Petrol barked back, “I don’t need your reassurance, EULR-3322.” The rest of the cabin turned towards them, to which Petrol gave a death stare that sent them back to their own business.
“Ah well,” the Eule mused, “At least let me sit by ya for the last bit down. ” That much Petrol could allow, and so the pair sat listening to the nasty hum of machinery. The Eule chided, "Don't worry, if the systems were going to fail, they would've done so when we first left the ice. That's why I'm over here and not at the emergency controls anymore."
The reassurance didn't help with the noise. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, and the rhythmic bumping gave an all-too-unpleasant memory of the beating of batons on riot shields. Shields crashing onto necks, and the way flesh writhed when severed, as if trying to will itself into a life separate from the body it came from. Out in the sub zero, the way it hardly steamed; The blood froze halfway out of the body. Batons shifted from shields to ice, and everyone shattered.
#
The elevator bumped, and swayed gently to the sides. Petrol was removed from her daze, and realized that the rest of the crew had already departed, spare for the Ara, who was busy using a tool to run diagnostics on the machine. She was chatting with Weißfußmaus, but pointed at Petrol. The Eule turned around, said a goodbye, and skipped over to the STMR.
Weißfußmaus tapped the floor in front of Petrol and stood up, beckoning her to the entrance. The Sturmvögel rose to her feet, and stretched out her bulky legs. She adjusted the battering rams that were attached to the shins, lining them up just right in the tracks. It felt nice. She bent down, picked up the dingy box of her belongings, and moved to the door.
The Eule was waiting, a beaming smile on her face. “Welcome down to the bottom of Etna, Petrol! The Breath of the Nation, D-33 Dykhaniye!” Petrol scoffed at the mouthful of words put together for such a drab place. It certainly fit the aesthetic of a cold, isolated research facility. Not a bit of color on the entry that attached to the western end. Blocks of thick grey bulkheads partitioned the lighter grey floors and ceiling. The wall paneling had become slightly misaligned, each one not quite flush with where it belonged.
“Sorry ‘bout the lack of a welcoming committee, miss Petrol,” Weißfußmaus said. She had a slight somber that happened when Eulen got disappointed. They were all fairly expressive, especially for the negative emotions. Petrol found it hard to care.
“It’s okay,” she mumbled, “I prefer that.” Seeing Petrol’s lack of disappointment, the Eule immediately bounced back, once again brimming with energy. She was like a whirlpool of questions that had caught the 8-foot Replika in her tow. And somehow, with each one waved away, she only asked more. The Sturmvögel wanted to scream. It was too familiar.
But instead she spat, “Just say what you want to say, EULR-3322. I don’t care for antics.”
Her lips, smeared in makeup, shifted down into a deep frown. “I just wanted ta show you around the place, give a little tour.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You don’t want me to show you to your dorm?” Her quivering voice was so sad it made Petrol want to cry from tear ducts that had long collected dust. Not here. She would not let it happen again down here. She had to reject this, here and now.
“I memorized the map. I already know the way. Goodbye, EULR-3322.”
STMR-3302 turned her back from the Eule, and her clawed feet clunked as they moved her towards a large hall. The occasional scrape came from her imperfect gait. She let her posture slip and breathed out when she saw the entire area was empty. She hated keeping that up around the others.
“Ah, I wouldn’t go that way,” Weißfußmaus called. Petrol stamped her foot in frustration as she turned to see her skipping over. “The Protektors’ offices are down there! They crowd those corridors a lot.”
Seriously, what did this girl want from her? Petrol’s brow furrowed and she examined her further. Weißfußmaus became a bit nervous under examination. Her hand awkwardly toyed with one of her joints. None of the joints were perfect. Must have been defects. She had a little beauty mark on her cheek, and her lashes were done a bit more subtly than a typical Eulen, not that Petrol had interacted with many in her time on the surface. Her blush was a bit heavy handed, it was clear she struggled with it.
The Eule stuttered, “Ah, well, I just know you guys don’t like people, is all.” She had a bit of lipstick on her teeth. “Well, not people, specifically the other Protektors, but anyways, what I was saying is I wanted to warn you before you walked right into the lion’s den and–”
“Which way’s the quietest?”
“I’d be happy to show ya!” Weißfußmaus beamed. Her beauty mark folded into her dimples. They weren’t as worn as they should have been. Petrol found brief concern in that, but shook her head violently and tossed that away.
#
“So, we’re on the upper floors, but besides the main offices and the loading bay, we don’t have quite too much up here. In fact, most everything is centered around the–” She’s been talking the whole way. Meanwhile, Petrol has been reviewing the layout she had memorized in her head. It seemed roughly right, except– Was that a KLBR office on her left? That should have been the ADLR office for visiting units. At least the stairs were in the same place, but the floor they came out on seemed entirely different.
“–And this is B1, which is directly above the thermoelectric generators we have placed on the vents. The generators are so cool, though! And surprisingly quiet. You’d never hear them here. Anyways, it’s mainly dorms and the mess on this level! You should swing by when I’m working. I’ll fix you up with my personal cookin’. It’s hard to put anything together with the ration bars, but–”
“The format is slightly varied from the map,” Petrol remarked. “Rooms have been changed around.” Weißfußmaus let out a quiet giggle. “What?”
“Petrol, are you sure you didn’t look at the old blueprints?”
Her ears steamed with embarrassment. The fans beneath her armor whirred to audible life. She turned away from Weißfußmaus, stewing and sulking. Seeing this, the Eule couldn’t stifle her giggling. Petrol whipped her head around and glared. She felt violent. She needed a door to kick the shit out of. Something to smash. Anything to get out the bubbling red she felt.
Weißfußmaus quietly said, “We rearrange fairly often down here. Gives us something to do. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but it gets boring on the bottom of Etna.”
Neither talked the rest of the way.
“So, this is your place, miss.”
“I could tell,” Petrol remarked. The door to room B1-17 had a spray painted STMR on one end.
“You can go now, EULR-3322.” Weißfußmaus gave her pleading eyes. That only made her more frustrated, more struck with recurring images she wanted out of her head. “Thank you. Now go.”
She walked into her new room, and immediately collapsed after sealing it shut. She pushed the box aside, and it spilled the contents over the floor. Nothing too much. A few non-Vinetian oceanography books, not hers. There was the extra holster for the vintage semi-automatic she had traded her whole surplus of ration marks and nothing short of a year's worth of shifts for. But it was worth it. It was so much better than the rusted Mauser the Nation had supplied her with. Unlike that, this one fired. And the piece of junk itself sat there. She couldn’t bear to get rid of it.
She picked up the spill, and took the final content of the box out: A frame with the photo turned around, hidden away. She set it on the rickety desk, and set the old gun beside it.
Looking around, she realized the place must have been an examination room from when it would have been in the medical ward. Two lockers were on the wall, old padlocks still on. A wheelchair was left folded, laying on the ground like a beached whale. It was next to a door that presumably was to the bathroom. A gurney lay in the corner. It had extendable edges and an extra mattress tucked underneath, so at least she could make it fit. Petrol tossed her armor off and laid down. She could get a quick nap in before she reported to the Protektor Controller.
Her gaze shifted to the artificial window, a thin strip that went across the wall her head rested against. It had images of underwater flora, and the occasional fauna that swum in the far distance, never moving close enough to make out. A dim blue color projected over the room. The facility shuddered, and the image blanked a solid color for a moment. The blue sheen put Petrol right to sleep.
#
“STMR-3302, checking in with STCR-3307.
Where idle chatter had echoed from inside the office just a few moments ago, an older Star and worn-down Storch exited, waving a goodbye to the one who remained. They eyed her up on the way out like predators sizing their prey.
Petrol stepped in, and stood before the Protektor Controller in the small office. Well, it was not particularly small, but the entire thing had been lined with bookshelves that were absolutely stuffed with yellowed pages. The smell was rather pleasant, but the thought of cleaning the dust out of her joints later was not.
At a dense desk, which seemed to be made of an artificial wood, the same as the bookshelves, was STCR-3307. She had a pair of glasses that sat on the tip of her nose, and a scar that went from a cheek and reversed itself on her nose before traveling all the way up by her cracked eye and into her scalp. A large swath of her hair was missing from it, and the typical STCR bangs had been adjusted to the other side because of it. She was buried in paperwork that had piled up onto every available surface.
“Ah, STMR-3302, you made it down well enough, I suppose. Was worried when you didn’t swing around, but I figured someone had grabbed you and kept you busy.” Petrol saw the little Eule buzzing in her head. She had been kept busy, all right. “Sorry I didn’t welcome you to D-33. Or maybe you’re welcome for not doing so. Your type always perplexes me.”
Petrol cocked her head and thought of a response, but figured it would be a waste of her breath. If the Storch wanted her to be thankful she would be thankful. And so she bowed her head and gave a brief thanks.
If the formality of a gratitude had been noticed, it was not acknowledged. STCR-3307 continued. “So we need to talk about your shift placement.”
Petrol nodded. “Alright.”
“Have a seat and I’ll go over them with you. My name is Artemisia, by the way.” The Storch’s hand was outstretched across the table. Petrol met it. Her grip was firm. Not cruel, not kind. Firm.
#
Unfortunately, while the walk to Artemisia's office had not met Petrol with any of the other Protektors, the way back did. A group of four younger STARs were walking in tandem, their masks and bangs obscuring nearly every expression they had. When they saw the STMR unit walking towards them, they called out. Petrol tried to keep walking, but soon a hand took her shoulder and she was shoved into the nearest office. There were boxes of files everywhere, and her head went straight into the closest one.
“Oi. What’re you thinkin’, walkin’ by Dalma starin’ all creepy?” one of the Stars yelled, gesturing at another Star, who Petrol figured would be Dalma. She wasn’t particularly threatening. In fact, she seemed really young to be leading her cadre.
One delivered a kick that slammed into Petrol’s breast. She yelped. “Stop daydreaming, new bird,” they mocked. Another kick hit. Another. Like the beating of a drum. Petrol’s vision errored red. “New bird, new bird! Already stuck in your own head.”
Dalma, presumably, raised her fist and they all went quiet. One went for one last kick, but regretted it after Dalma sent her knuckles into their gut. She walked past them as they collapsed onto the room's desk, wheezing, and came to stand in front of Petrol.
“We haven’t had a shitbird STMR down here in a long time. You’re Petrol, are you?” The Replika nodded, and Dalma grabbed her by the chin. Her grip was strong enough to crush through the ports on her jaw. A drip of oxidant came down. “I dunno what got you sent down. Frankly, I don’t care. But down here, you are nothing. You are a stain on this facility, just like the last failure STMR they sent here.”
“We decommissioned her!” one of the Stars said, cackling.
Petrol started to protest, saying, “I have done nothing–”
A fist cracked her chest. Petrol exhaled every bit of air in her lungs, coughing trying to find anything to breathe in. The Star ripped her mask off, revealing a set of cracked teeth and an uneven jaw. Her eyes were erratic, twitching, and the vein lines beneath her skin looked ready to burst. “You– Your kind, have done everything, everything wrong in this facility. Don’t you dare suggest otherwise.” She put the mask back on, and turned to leave. “Give her a few for the road,” she said to the other three, waving. “I’m heading back early."
#
Night shifts patrolling down the B2-B3 levels sounded just fine. Artemisia had reassured Petrol that only the technicians worked down there. She felt at the sore spot on her jaw, which she had filled with repair gel she found laying around in her room. Petrol had barely choked down a ration bar she got from one of the machines last night; No one wants to be seen in the mess hall, bloody and bruised.
Her entire body ached, especially her forearms. No good blocking batons if they just smash through the limbs. Petrol wished she could get the sound out of her head. Or at least recreate it beating in the skulls of that cadre.
She had checked into the armory after waking up, managing to sneak in alone; Her shotgun seemed to be the shittiest one they could have picked out, courtesy of the Stars. The trigger was stiff and smelled of various fluids, none of which made Petrol happy.
Whatever. She continued heading towards the main elevator. However, one of Dalma’s Stars was standing guard in front of it. Shit. Petrol ducked behind a doorway, contemplating what to do.
“Whatcha hiding from?” Weißfußmaus startled Petrol, who fell flat on her ass. She had pulled the shotgun from her side, and nearly raised it at the Eule. Petrol mumbled an apology as the Eule helped her up. She noted the unit had her hair tied back, spare the shorter bangs that poked out onto her forehead. Her makeup was lighter as well.
“Not hiding,” Petrol retorted.
“Sure doesn’t look that way,” Weißfußmaus mumbled. “Here, follow me. The stairs are right around the corner.” She took Petrol’s hand, forcing the taller Replika to bend down as she tugged the two down a series of narrower halls that finally lead them to a stairwell, labelled ARAR ACCESS ONLY. Weißfußmaus produced a keycard, which pinged with a green light and the door clicked open. She ushered Petrol in, and the two slammed the door behind them.
Her hand felt cool to the touch. Petrol relished in it quietly, hoping the Eule wouldn’t pull it away. She didn’t, nor did she pry more about her reluctance to be around the Stars.
Weißfußmaus tugged on her hand. “Well, c’mon! We’ve dilly-dallied enough. You’re on for your first shift, right?”
“Why are you coming with me?” Petrol asked. She didn’t need a guard dog, a person to accompany her for something as simple as patrol. She felt offended that Weißfußmaus seemed to think so.
“Don’t mistake it for that,” Weißfußmaus responded, shutting down the tangent Petrol was creating in her head. “Once I’m done in the mess I come down here for training. Blair, oh I suppose you don’t know her, but she’s one of the head Ara, and they’ve been apprenticing a lot of us Eulen recently. They say it’s good for us to have something to do, and the repairs team could always use help, and really it is fun working with them, but I have to say it is disappointing they don’t let us anywhere near the generators–” Petrol sighed, walking hand in hand with Weißfußmaus and listening to her rambling. She felt bad for the earlier comparisons she had made to– Well, it didn’t matter. Weißfußmaus’s voice was calming, and Petrol could just drift off with it echoing in her ears.
She snapped back into the conversation after hearing her name. “Can I ask about the legs, miss Petrol?” Weißfußmaus was looking up at her, eyes glistening with that puppy dog pleading that would have worked on anyone that wasn’t a Protektor. They were not something she wanted to discuss.
“No.”
“Those are battering rams, right? They let you take them down with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Ah, my apologies…” Weißfußmaus drifted off. She bit her lip the rest of the way to the machine shop, her teeth worrying a sizable gash into the fleshy lower side. The lipstick hid the red oxidant that bubbled from inside.
Her voice was low and disappointing to Petrol’s ears when she said, “Well, this is my stop. Thanks for walking me.”
“I didn’t walk yo– Wait!”
The Eule didn’t seem to hear as she stepped through the door and slammed it shut.
Petrol spent her shift walking quiet, trying not to notice the tap of the rams on the ground with each step. Why did she bring those godforsaken things with her?
#
Dalma knocked her into the sink. It was the third time this month the Stars had caught her off of her shifts. Well, the third time it escalated beyond the simple beating they gave when they caught her by the elevator. Petrol hadn’t taken the ARAR stairway since the first time with Weißfußmaus, and she had been unable to find the Eule. It seems she had upset her, somehow. Faucet on the edge of the sink slammed her forehead. The freshly open wound dripped oxidant as it tore itself apart further.
“This shitbird tried to hide from us, Cézanne.” Cézanne was the name of the newbie Storch that seemed to be in her introductory period with, of all people, Dalma. Petrol didn’t blame her for whatever she was about to do to avoid the Star’s wrath.
“I want you to do as you believe I would, okay?” Cézanne nodded, and her fingers interlocked with the short strands of Petrol’s hair. The rookie Storch slammed her into the metal. Over, and over. And then the mirror. One of the shards tore her cheek open, and the loose flesh sagged from Petrol’s face.
Dalma whispered, “Look me in the eyes, Petrol! You stupid hag.” Her crazed eyes were open wide, and her cracked smile was wide in her uncanny face. With each hit it grew. Until it burst, and those teeth finally moved in and met their mark.
#
Petrol settled into bed for the night. Well, her morning, but nothing was much different besides the brightness of the hall lights simulating day-night cycles. And not in bed, given her gurney, and she didn't even sleep in the gurney but underneath it. A little cloth skirt went around the whole thing, and she felt safer with the rows of metal above her.
It had taken a while to patch herself up this time, and she had run through most of the coagulant and repair foam she had collected over the past weeks. Knocked-out tooth fragments sat in a little bowl on the desk. She’d figure out what to do with those later. Right now, she just wanted the cold of her pillow on the hot, swollen cheeks that seared with pain. Petrol wondered if this is what the Gestalts had felt like. Thinking of it made her feel nauseous, but she found no other rabbit hole for her tired, defective wolf-brain to pursue.
A knock at the door. She jumped and smashed her head on the gurney, but decided she would ignore it. The knock was insistent. Petrol groaned, and pushed her tired body out of bed, dragging her hands across the wall to keep her balance on the way to the door and prying it open when she finally got to it. Worst case scenario, a group of Stars with batons at the ready.
“Petrol,” Weißfußmaus gasped. Ah, it was just the Eule. “What– What happened to your face?”
“Fell.”
“No you did not! Who was it? Was it Dalma?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“You’re a sour liar, you know? No, I don’t care about that right now.” She shoved her way past and took the medical supplies on the desk. “Come over here, and let me see what we’re working with. Don’t stand there, Petrol, shut the door and get your ass over here.” She did as she was told, albeit it taking a while as her shoulder kept banging into the wall when she lost balance. She waved off the Eule's attempts to help her up, and dragged herself the last few steps and sat down on a chair in front of the desk.
“You sound upset,” Petrol mused, while the Eule took some of the half-molded foam and stuffed it through the tears. It was an odd sensation, each stitch being pulled out as she worked her way through the flesh and wires.
“Of course I’m upset… I came here looking to ask to try again at being friends, given that you clearly weren't interested last time, and now here I am with my hands in your innards trying not to bleed you out before the foam fills you up.”
“I wasn’t not interested, I–” She yelped in pain as the cold foam filled in another gash on the back of her head, a spot she had not known was damaged. Weißfußmaus quietly apologized and started warming the foam container in her hands before using it.
“You don’t need to explain, either, Petrol. We hardly know each other. But please know, going from here…” She paused to finish off a rough stitch, slowing down the pace any time Petrol winced in pain. “...I really want to be your friend.”
Petrol looked into the fake window, hoping the thoughts would wash up the same way the pixelated kelp tugged its way toward her. But the deep ocean was still tonight, and even a false image couldn't change that.
“Why?” Petrol questioned, turning back to Weißfußmaus. The Eule seemed surprised at her questioning in it, and she leaned back with her butt on the desk. She started worming her fingers through her joints again. She opened her mouth, but before she could Petrol filled the air.
"I mean, I’m a– I’m a failure..."
"No, Petrol–"
She hit her arm on the gurney and the whole thing nearly tipped. It left a nasty dent that was visible even in the dark room. It reminded her of the chair in the interrogation room in Iyen.
"I couldn't. The interrogation, it was so horrible. They just kept asking me, and they didn't believe me even when I told them. It hadn't been me. They didn't care, they applauded the idea that I killed them all. But they didn't like what I– was unable to stomach it after I opened up the doors... It–
"I’m a worthless Protektor…”
Petrol’s head was forcefully pressed against the collarbone of Weißfußmaus. The STMR whimpered, and Weißfußmaus adjusted her grip to be a bit lighter. Her hands ran through the undamaged parts of Petrol’s hair, feeling over each strand and twirling it over her dainty fingertips. She started a smooth circular motion with each one, gently massaging. One hand traveled down, and pressed into Petrol’s back.
“It’s not your fault, Petrol,” she whispered. “Many of us are the ones who couldn’t… stomach the surface. You’ve, you’ve probably seen far worse, and I’m sorry you had to go through that. That, that it sticks with you…” Weißfußmaus’s forehead pressed into Petrol’s. There were tears stuck in her face. Her lip was shaking. Her words were no longer full, but broken apart by sobs. “This isn’t… there. No Gestalts, no gestalts are here, none of the– riots. You are safe here, in this room, nestled in the breath of Etna with me. You’re, you’re safe, okay?
“You’re safe, Petrol.”
The Sturmvögel cried for the first time in her life, bathed in the dim blue sea. The groans of the facility sounded as Gestalt death rattles, and the moans of the half dead before a metal foot goes through their neck.
#
Dalma taught her another lesson. Even took the gun, her fetish object. It was bad. Her legs were completely shattered, the rams catching on each tile of the floor. With scraping heaves Petrol had nearly crawled her way back to her dorm, when Weißfußmaus shrieked and ran over. Her feet tapped anxiously on the metal as she figured out what to do. Petrol looked up. She must have just gotten out of the workshop, given the Ara-like armor at her side. It looked good on her, even when she was drenched in fluid and covered in grease. She had put on muscle, too. Petrol felt sad she hadn’t gotten to eat her cooking today. Rations weren’t half bad, made by her. But oh what a good last sight, that cute Eule…
#
Weißfußmaus didn't say a thing. Fuck. What could she do, what could she do? No, she couldn’t panic. She couldn’t panic. Her taps ended and she bent down, her watery eyes prying into Petrol’s to make sure she was still conscious. She wasn’t. She reached down, and pressed her fingers between the neck guard to feel for a pulse. Still going strong. A good sign. She picked up the much larger Replika, and lugged her the rest of the way to the STMR Dorm.
She didn’t bother with the bed or the chair, instead leaving Petrol on the ground and tearing off a wall panel beside the lockers. Good. The stashed first aid kits that Blair had told her about were still there. She was gonna kiss that Ara later for telling her about them. She propped it open, and found an autoinjector, a mess of spray foam that seemed to not have been properly sealed, and a few coagulants. Thank Falke.
She took them all, and leaned her ear over to listen in to their breathing. Didn’t sound like Petrol was struggling. But the blood loss was bad, and the damage was definitely too much to do careful work with. She yanked the battering rams off of their tracks; They didn’t come off easy, and pieces of Petrol’s shell broke off and clattered onto the floor. Weißfußmaus said a prayer, took the autoinjector in hand, and slammed it into Petrol’s thigh.
Their body recoiled awake, Petrol gasping, gulping the air down. Weißfußmaus said, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how else to keep you going long enough for me to patch this. Now hold still, please, I need to get the other leg.”
She took the coagulant and spread it over the entire shell, and then got to work with repair foam on the hard sections. Any other time, she would have watched the stuff grow with a morbid fascination, but here she moved quicker. Sewing up the flesh came next, her fingers gently sliding in and out of the tears in Petrol’s stomach ports, brushing her digestive tract. The organs jumped and jiggled with each cough of Petrol’s desperate lungs.
“It’s okay, it’s okay Petrol,” she said, but internally her heart had never been pumping faster. Any other time, the bloodrush to her brain would have passed her out. “I’m almost finished, just breathe. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hey, it’s okay, Petrol, I’m right here by your side. I’m done, here, hold my hand, okay squeeze, squeeze as tight as you can. It’s alright.” Weißfußmaus sighed. “It’s alright.”
#
Petrol woke up on the floor, her body crumpled on the spare mattress pulled from beneath the gurney and a pillow tucked under her head. She felt a dull prickling, as if her legs had not yet caught the memo that she was awake. Stomach felt off, too. Like everything had shifted to the side and turned inside out. Knuckles from her hand that reached down brushed up against patchy stitches. Petrol groaned. She had really done it this time.
“How are you feeling?” asked a familiar voice. Weißfußmaus leaned over her, dried oxidant covering her chest, hands, and face. Her makeup had been wiped away, and her hair was a mess. It was something Petrol had not seen of her.
“Feels like I just had an autoinjector shoved into me for the first time.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I had to take the rams off to check the damage to your legs.” Ah, so that’s why Petrol felt like something had been missing. The rams were at the side, covering in gooey, bloody pieces of shell that had glued themselves as the oxidant dried. “You really shouldn’t put them on yet.”
Petrol ignored her, and reached for the pair. She peeled off the pieces, shaking her hand to get them off her fingers. Shit, her hand ached. It was just as busted. The rams were clear, and ready to go.
“Petrol–”
“It’s,” she grunted, with a painful yelp and click. The first one was in. The next went rougher, and took a lot of force and groaning to get in. Weißfußmaus stared with wide eyes. “It’s fine,” Petrol said.
The facility rumbled, as it did sometimes, and the two shook in quiet. “I’m gonna kill those fuckers,” Weißfußmaus muttered. “And I’m strangling you after, Petrol.”
“No, don’t get yourself involved.” Petrol couldn't bear to imagine it. The Eule surrounded by the Stars, battered open and teeth sunk through her chest. Slowly and agonizingly dying, still gripped by that last great terror of death.
“What, and wait for you to die on your stomach, crawling?” Weißfußmaus looked at her and huffed. Her fists were clenched, but her entire body was shaking. Petrol didn’t know what to do. And so she only made it worse.
“You shouldn’t wait for me in the first place."
Weißfußmaus’s foot stamped the ground in front of her. “I don’t give a fuck what your baggage is, Petrol! You don’t bring that down. You have your body, your belongings, and you have– No you never even have thought once you could have me. And you’re throwing yourself into this! Not once have you asked for help, for getting out, because…
“I don’t think you want out, Petrol.”
“So you want me to what?” Petrol asked. A stupid question she would regret asking for the rest of her commission.
“Stand up for yourself!” Weißfußmaus screamed. “Fuck, I can’t stand you!” She took the pistol off the desk, tossed it to Petrol, and stormed out of the room. She slammed the door.
#
Petrol stared at the rusted gun. She reached to the desk, and pulled down the frame as well. It was all she had left of the surface. An old photo she couldn’t stand to look at, and a pistol that hardly fires. But she held the two close, and took a deep breath of the smell of mildewed photo paper and oxidized metal. They were gone, and the riots had passed. But down here, down here she had something still.
Struggling to her feet, she grabbed an old round she had managed to stow away, loading it into the pistol. She went to affix her spare holster and slotted the gun in. She would wear it proudly, and she would go to get the other back. Her greatest achievement, that vintage weapon older than Replika themself. It didn’t belong in Dalma’s hands.
But that could happen after she went to Weißfußmaus and apologized. Apologized for treating her like shit, and pushing all of this onto her, and for making her look so sad all the time, and for staining her in oxidant that never should have tarnished her image. She needed to find her.
She forced the door open, and started hobbling towards the elevator. But she didn’t make it far before her goals shifted. Because at the end of the bathroom hall, leading her into the showers, was Dalma, her Storch, and an entire group of Stars. They had their arms around her, laughing. A hatred rose inside Petrol.
The hobbling pace of Petrol turned into a heavy sprint that left claw marks on the floor, and she soon found herself crashing into the wall to stop herself right at the door. It was locked, and beneath the sound of the showers running and laughter echoing, she could hear Weißfußmaus protesting, yelling. And the sound of a hit, and a guffaw from the Stars, and then a heavy blow followed by Weißfußmaus gasping. It could've been her dying breath. Petrol's heart plummeted realizing she might be too late.
The door was locked. She shook at it. Petrol couldn’t get it. She braced herself, and with all the force she could slammed her leg into the door. It budged, but not all the way. She braced again, as the voices inside changed to surprise at the massive bang, and with another sent the door flying in. It clipped one of the Stars, who fell over and smashed her face on the tile. Water splashed onto the others feet.
There they were. Dalma was right there, with Petrol’s gun rubbing against Weißfußmaus’s neck. The Eule had a bloodied eye, and was squirming, but couldn’t escape the vice grip of the Protektor. “Heya shitbird!” Dalma said, chuckling. “Fancy seeing you here, isn’t it? And look at the little toy we caught coming from your dorm! We were gonna finish you off, but when we saw her we couldn’t help ourselves and add some fun to it. Oh, you should see the look on your face right now.”
By now, the Stars and the Storch had their batons and sidearms in hand, waiting for the confirmation from Dalma to get to work. “Anyways, I really wanted to show this Maus the gun you gave me. A real beaut’, ain’t she? A shame it’ll kill her.”
Petrol’s fans were whining with fury, and her legs were crackling as she tightened the muscles and pulled her shell further apart. Her guts started to spill from her abdomen as well. She had torn the stitches. How the hell was she supposed to get that gun off of Weißfußmaus?
“Wow, your girlfriend did a fuck-up job patching you up, huh?” Dalma asked. The gun pointed off of Weißfußmaus and onto Petrol's body, scanning up and down. It was off of Weißfußmaus.
An idea struck Petrol, and she took the chance. “Dalma, you’re a bitch.”
The Star’s eyes widened, as if it was incredulous to ever conceive those words in relation to her. Her hand twitched aggressively. “What. Did. You. Say?”
Petrol knew what those scars were from, where that anger Dalma contained had formed. "You’re a fucking coward who couldn’t even kill a single Sturmvögel with your own hands. You can’t do anything without your lackeys, and you’re afraid to even be alone you’re that much of a bitch.”
Petrol was right. It was the last Sturmvögel who had done it. The Star threw her mask off; The crazed eyes had returned in full. Her cracked teeth had torn through her lips, and oxidant dripped from her chin. One of her cadre tried to hold her back, but she hit the butt of her pistol into their head and continued towards Petrol.
Dalma grabbed Petrol by the throat, and repeatedly swung the metal into her jaw. Hitting her arm was no use, and she showed no signs of her grip loosening. But Petrol realized that in her fury the Star had lost all composure, and was only haphazardly attacking, leaving ample openings. So Petrol waited, taking hits while waiting for her gap. Just a bit longer. A bit longer. Now.
Petrol reached down for one of the battering rams, and yanked it off. Her leg was nearly hauled off with it, but she ignored the bile collecting in her throat from the pain, and smashed the ram into the Star’s leg. Dalma stumbled, the entire leg exploding out into a mess of gore and shards that left only bone in the center. Petrol hit the leg again, watching with satisfaction as Dalma fell onto her back. The Starlings watched in horror, stunned by what they were seeing.
But the STMR did not restrain herself, and mounted onto the Star, the vomit in her mouth dripping onto the lower’s armor. They tried to fend her off with hands, but she simply slammed the ram through her hands, the fingers cracking backward and the forearms shell being pushed through the upper arm, nearly severing. With the arms out of the way, Petrol slammed the ram through Dalma’s face, completely crushing it in. It was like a thin ceramic, which then got beat down into the flesh and metal, until tiny dots of the skin color shell covered the mess of read and the grey bones that poked out beneath. Petrol kept going, ignoring the flailing of Dalma's arm.
Dalma scattered, and with her remaining fingers drew the rusted Mauser pistol from Petrol’s holster, and cocked the gun. The Sturmvögel accepted her fate, and a gunshot echoed.
#
Artemisia stood, a smoking shotgun in her hands. Standing beside her was a shameful Cézanne, who seemed unable to look at the scene. In the doorway two Kolibri leaned, seemingly unamused by what was happening.
“Enough!” she yelled. She pointed at the group of Stars. “You five, back to the dorms, now!” She took her hand and threw Cézanne forward. “You, take Dalma to medical. I’m taking these two.”
“But–” one of the Stars protested.
The metal barrel of the shotgun slammed like a bat into the Star’s jaw. Artemisia said, “You say one more word, and I’ll pin your guts to the walls like the insects you are, and make sure you live through each agonizing second of it. You’re lucky to not get decommissioned right now. And you!” she turned to the bloodied Petrol. “Once you’re patched up, we’re going to have a talk.”
Artemisia walked with a limping Weißfußmaus at her side, and a half-conscious Petrol in her arms. She personally brought them down to medical, waving to one of the nurses who quickly brought half a dozen over. Any apprehension to operate on a STMR was quickly dissipated by Artemisia’s dead eyes staring through the Eulen with a universally understood threat.
#
Various monitors beeped, and the tapping of the nurses' feet echoed in the larger ward that lay behind the curtained-off stall. A red screen, laced in static, sat on the counter beside the hospital bed, lighting the whole room scarlet. A Storch hunched over in a visitor's chair and looked at the unit in bed.
"What were you thinking, Petrol?"
Artemisia sat across from the STMR, who was laid out on a gurney with her guts barely held in, after hours of work by the medical EULR. They had called Artemisia over, claiming Petrol was finally awake, but that seems to have been ill lasted. She had already fallen back asleep.
"Shit," Artemisia said. "Here I thought she was finally conscious. Well, she's all yours then. I'll talk to her another day. Good day."
The Storch bowed to the Eule who had maintained a death grip on Petrol's hand the entire time, and went to go see how Dalma was doing.
#
Petrol’s mind was a haze. She had been standing on the ice, watching the geysers with the Gestalts, the rock sailing off towards the rings of the distant gas giant. And then the snow was pink and frozen, a liquid slush, and it slowly solidified and the blood congealed. It was all blood. Hardly a drop of oxidant spilled.
Petrol woke up with Weißfußmaus curled up beside her, with her head resting on her chest. The Eule stirred, and with a slow blinking her eyes opened. “Ah, sorry, miss Petrol” she mumbled. “I convinced them to let us stay in your room, since there was a gurney there already, and Artemisia let me get you out of those cuffs they insisted on in there.”
She brushed the short hair from Petrol’s face, and leaned close to tap her forehead to hers. “You okay, Petrol?”
Petrol’s voice was cracked from disuse, and the years of degradation of it showed more than ever. “I’m sorry, Weißfußmaus. I should have taken care of it myself, I should have.. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” she responded. “I’m still really, really upset, but– I’m glad you finally did something.” She tapped at Petrol’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t have been for a defect like me though.”
“You’re not a defect, Weißfußmaus. You’re–” Petrol trailed off, unsure of whether she could voice what she was thinking aloud. How could she, put those thoughts that rushed into her head like a flood of warmth, how could that be expressed with words alone?
She looked at Petrol expectantly. “I’m what?”
“You’re really, really kind, and generous, you’ve been here for me, this, entire time and I’ve– I've shrugged you off and I don’t even listen to your rambling, and I’m, just. I’m sorry. Please, just please forgive me for not acknowledging you.” Petrol hid her head in her casted and splinted hands; Just as soon as she peered out did she see a smiling Weißfußmaus, those ocean blue eyes mere inches away. Were they always the same shade as that window that lulled Petrol to sleep?
“A kiss would be a nice start,” Weißfußmaus cheekily whispered.
“A kiss?”
“Nothing special, Petrol. Just on the cheek.” Weißfußmaus tapped the cheek, a bit away from where her beauty mark was. The small mark was mesmerizing to Petrol. “Us Eules do it all the time. Y’know, even the Aras do.”
Petrol painfully sat up, and gently placed a kiss onto that mark. And from that closeness she saw the slight crook in the Eule’s nose, still bruised, and kissed that as well. She let out a gasp, but the STMR continued. The swollen eye that lashes struggled to poke through was the place she slowly felt hot, as her lips brushed against the ticklish hairs. Weißfußmaus giggled with those kisses. Along the gash on her brow, she let out soft moans with each touch. And the cuts on her jaw led so easily into her neck that Petrol found herself buried in the crook between shoulder and neck, inhaling the mixture of oxidant, machine oil, and makeup. It was a savory she wanted to hold as long as possible.
Weißfußmaus gave a gentle kiss to Petrol’s forehead, the latter flushing bright as her body grew hot and her fans whined to life. “Thank you, Petrol,” she whispered. She relaxed down, and the two laid beside each other. Once again Weißfußmaus’s hands found their way to Petrol’s hair, fingers curling the crusted strands.
“Also,” she whispered, “your shit-talking needs some work.”
“I’ll– I guess I’ll work on that.” The Eule mumbled a response, but it was really just a grunt, and she was asleep. Petrol had so many words she wanted to say, but instead she listened to the soft murmurs Weißfußmaus made in her sleep, as the rhythmic breathing of the small form slowly spread to her. She listened to the drum of her heartbeat, and for once heard only that.
#
Petrol felt around the gurney. She was alone. And it wasn’t a gurney. She was in an actual bed, on an actual mattress. Weißfußmaus had made sure one was brought into the STMR dorm, and that it was more than big enough to fit two Replika. It still surprised Petrol to wake up without her feet hanging off the rails.
It had also ensured she was no longer sleeping hidden under the gurney. It took a lot of reassuring from Weißfußmaus to get her out from there once the Eule found out about it, but she felt glad. Even if on the odd day there was that twinge of fear that told her to make sure the rams were attached just right before crawling into a corner to cower.
Weißfußmaus. Petrol wondered where she had gone. The Eule had been asleep with her last morning, but she should have been back from her shift at the mess by now. Dalma's cadre wouldn't have done something, right? No, they were under control.
They hadn't even approached Petrol after Dalma was found decommissioned by Artemisia. The exact circumstances were being kept under wraps by the Kolibri, but the Storch had immediately entered probation, which involved monitoring from the Kolibri until they deemed her fully fit for her work. Although from the rumors Weißfußmaus shared, it seemed she was still running things just fine.
There was a knock at the door. And another. Petrol chuckled to herself. Oh how she loved to hear that incessant knocking. She stumbled up, and the door swung open to reveal a beaming Weißfußmaus. She held two holsters in her hands, and a familiar old Mauser and its well-maintained brethren.
“Artemisia asked me to deliver these. Said she had them cleaned off and repaired before she stepped down. That’s her way of apologizing by the way. She might not outright say it, but gift-giving is that Storch’s love language." Speaking of love language, you really love these two, don’t you? I’m not sure I quite understand the appeal, but if they make you happy I’m happy to bring these over.”
“Ah,” Petrol muttered.
“What is it?” Weißfußmaus asked.
“I’ve just thought about your name for the first time. You have Maus in your name, Weißfußmaus. Just like this girl here.” She pulled out the pistols and ran her fingertips over the engraved Mauser on the sides. She took the weapons and set them on the desk, and shut the doors. She leaned into the Eule’s ear. “And I love Mäuse.”