potentially become contaminated. Vol stalks the halls, too wired to eat or sit. She passes others, Tower residents and Marks alike, both of whom give her a wide berth. Drove passes her, too, does a double take, and says, “Hey — did ya lose something?”
“ No.”
He hesitates. “I heard they've got great footage of you kicking Bastien's ass on the holladrama.”
“ Yes.” Her head is still throbbing. She doesn't mind Drove but each word he speaks is an ice pick in her ear. The thought of Bastien isn't helping. Vol grits her teeth and walks faster.
“ Be careful,” Drove cautions, doing a little hop to keep up with her. “He's none too happy with you, and neither is Cori.”
“ I don't care,” says Vol. And in that moment, she doesn't. At all.
Drove catches her shoulders, keeping her still for a moment. Sparks play on the back of her neck, aggravating her headache further. “You should. They're professionals. Bastien, especially. Selmaireans take honor seriously. You made him lose his.”
“ Thanks for the advice.”
“ It isn't advice. It's a warning. Watch out for those two.”
“ Have you seen Ariel?” she asks abruptly.
He stares at her, clearly startled by the non-sequitur. “The God Mod? No, not recently. Are you all right? Your eyes are a little wild. Maybe you should lie down, get some rest.”
“ I don't think so,” she says, stepping away. “Thank you for your concern.”
“ I know it's none of my business, but whatever you're on, you should stop. While you still can.”
She wants to laugh. He thinks she's on drugs?
(It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)
The skin on the back of her neck prickles in alarm. Where did that thought come from? She has never done drugs before. Has she? The smile on her lips disappears. The fugues. During the fugues, anything is possible. Vol does not believe in many things, but in this, she possesses utter faith.
Drove is staring at her, awaiting her response. She looks at him, then away. “Later, Drove.”
She half-expects him to stop her as she walks away. If they were closer, perhaps he would. But he doesn't know her, and they aren't close, and so he takes her curt dismissal at face value. He lets her go.
(It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)
An image of a hypodermic needle filled with some kind of golden fluid pops into her head. Why does that thought keep coming back to her? She can't think of any drugs that are gold in color. Bliss Blossom is yellow, but it isn't used in needles. You stir it into a drink — preferably an alcoholic one — for an added buzz. Bliss can make you act a little crazy, and sometimes users do hurt themselves by attempting feats from the ensuing hallucinations, but it doesn't make you into a monster.
Vol rests her forehead against the full-length glass windows overhanging the plaza. Outside, Marks wander about as busily as ants, seeking oblivion in one form or another, or else selling it. In Vol's current state, the prospect of imminent satisfaction seems preposterous, mystical even.
She watches a group of teenagers years younger than her, hating them, envying them, and yet feeling affectionate towards them all at the same time. Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn't it? So easily burst, like a bubble blown by a child, and always on the verge of being carried away.
(All she can do now is pretend.)
As she watches, two of the ant-sized teens peel away from the group. Vol straightens. She recognizes them. Ariel and Tash. They are walking up to the Tower, hand in hand.
Vol dashes to the elevator, slamming the 'down' button so hard her palm stings. On some level, she is aware that her behavior is borderline-unacceptable. Never a social butterfly, Vol feels like what little social skills she possesses are rapidly deteriorating in a reverse-metamorphosis.
To say that Ariel and Tash are surprised to see her is an understatement. As Vol spills out of the elevator in her haste to greet
“ No.”
He hesitates. “I heard they've got great footage of you kicking Bastien's ass on the holladrama.”
“ Yes.” Her head is still throbbing. She doesn't mind Drove but each word he speaks is an ice pick in her ear. The thought of Bastien isn't helping. Vol grits her teeth and walks faster.
“ Be careful,” Drove cautions, doing a little hop to keep up with her. “He's none too happy with you, and neither is Cori.”
“ I don't care,” says Vol. And in that moment, she doesn't. At all.
Drove catches her shoulders, keeping her still for a moment. Sparks play on the back of her neck, aggravating her headache further. “You should. They're professionals. Bastien, especially. Selmaireans take honor seriously. You made him lose his.”
“ Thanks for the advice.”
“ It isn't advice. It's a warning. Watch out for those two.”
“ Have you seen Ariel?” she asks abruptly.
He stares at her, clearly startled by the non-sequitur. “The God Mod? No, not recently. Are you all right? Your eyes are a little wild. Maybe you should lie down, get some rest.”
“ I don't think so,” she says, stepping away. “Thank you for your concern.”
“ I know it's none of my business, but whatever you're on, you should stop. While you still can.”
She wants to laugh. He thinks she's on drugs?
(It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)
The skin on the back of her neck prickles in alarm. Where did that thought come from? She has never done drugs before. Has she? The smile on her lips disappears. The fugues. During the fugues, anything is possible. Vol does not believe in many things, but in this, she possesses utter faith.
Drove is staring at her, awaiting her response. She looks at him, then away. “Later, Drove.”
She half-expects him to stop her as she walks away. If they were closer, perhaps he would. But he doesn't know her, and they aren't close, and so he takes her curt dismissal at face value. He lets her go.
(It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)
An image of a hypodermic needle filled with some kind of golden fluid pops into her head. Why does that thought keep coming back to her? She can't think of any drugs that are gold in color. Bliss Blossom is yellow, but it isn't used in needles. You stir it into a drink — preferably an alcoholic one — for an added buzz. Bliss can make you act a little crazy, and sometimes users do hurt themselves by attempting feats from the ensuing hallucinations, but it doesn't make you into a monster.
Vol rests her forehead against the full-length glass windows overhanging the plaza. Outside, Marks wander about as busily as ants, seeking oblivion in one form or another, or else selling it. In Vol's current state, the prospect of imminent satisfaction seems preposterous, mystical even.
She watches a group of teenagers years younger than her, hating them, envying them, and yet feeling affectionate towards them all at the same time. Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn't it? So easily burst, like a bubble blown by a child, and always on the verge of being carried away.
(All she can do now is pretend.)
As she watches, two of the ant-sized teens peel away from the group. Vol straightens. She recognizes them. Ariel and Tash. They are walking up to the Tower, hand in hand.
Vol dashes to the elevator, slamming the 'down' button so hard her palm stings. On some level, she is aware that her behavior is borderline-unacceptable. Never a social butterfly, Vol feels like what little social skills she possesses are rapidly deteriorating in a reverse-metamorphosis.
To say that Ariel and Tash are surprised to see her is an understatement. As Vol spills out of the elevator in her haste to greet
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