had solved the greatest mystery I knew of about Transforms, how Arms got along with each other, and my findings were stuck with me in my damned no-hope cell of doom.
I hoped Keaton liked my tag discovery . If I ever managed to get out of this place, the first thing I would do would be to patch things up with Keaton , in person . I wanted her to tag me. With the tag, I would be able to set up a relationship with her preserving some part of my free will , and, better, a relationship protecting me from her own dark beast . I understood the parameters – with Bobby tagged, when I hurt him I hurt myself. I suspected the tags would be good enough to stop even a Keaton psycho attack. Unless I deserved punishment, I would be safe. Big if, yes, but I hoped.
Everything I ha d experienced since my graduation and everyone I had talked to reinforced the idea that Arms couldn’t survive on their own…and despite her psychotic breaks Keaton was still the person I trusted the most.
What a mess. Almost a year ago, Zielinski had told me Arms were social creatures, and should be able to get along better, but I hadn’t underst oo d his point . I thought keeping Keaton on the other end of a phone would suffice, but it hadn’t. We still argued and couldn’t get along. Worse, we still felt compelled to stay in contact, or at least I did. T he Arms, like the Focuses, were indeed instinctively social. I doubted I would be able to convince Keaton she needed me, but I sure as hell needed her.
T he tag discovery would give me something to offer her besides myself. I remembered Mary Fouke, the baby Arm from way back when Keaton train ed me. I ha d hated her from the moment I first saw her. I thought I had legitimate reasons at the time, but looking back, I realized my hatred was simply an excuse for my immediate visceral reaction. Keaton should have had her tagged…and perhaps I should have had her tagged as well. The problem w as simple: Fouke was an Arm, a competitor.
My analysis was emotionally correct. N ature had equipped us Arms to be instinctive competitors with each other, and had supplied us with instinctive needs to socialize with each other. The Arm tag was a necessity.
How to get the information out, though? I had nothing to write on or with. I did, however, have myself. A long shot, yes, but when you’re cornered and there’s no way out, you fight, despite the impossible odds. I sh ould be able to burn the information into my memories, a gift for whoever ended up owning me. They might pass the information along to Keaton or Lori. I did a little experimentation until I proved to myself my idea would work, and I burned in those memories. This trick cost me a couple tenths of a point, juice I didn’t have to use. I managed. I succeeded. Someday, somehow, these memories would surface.
After my little burn, m y rashes returned. My sense of my own juice count went haywire. Low juice, now for real. Hour by hour, minute by minute, I slowly fell apart.
Endless time passed after I prepared my memory gift , alone and cold in the wet dark . I feared any more experiments with tagging; I couldn’t risk using any more juice. Nothing remained to distract me. My juice craving s got worse.
The craving would defeat me eventually and the results would be much better if I gave in now, while I still had some remnant of intelligence left to deflect them from Bobby. I needed them now. I had to surrender now.
So I did. I said I would give them what they wanted. I said I would answer their questions and do all their tests. As long as they gave me juice, I would give them what they wanted.
The y didn ’ t respon d .
I offered examples. I told them I knew where Keat on lived. I told them I knew about multiple murders and dozens of missing persons cases that I w ould resolve for them.
N o one came.
Finally, I acknowledged what my gut had recognized long ago. They didn’t want my
I hoped Keaton liked my tag discovery . If I ever managed to get out of this place, the first thing I would do would be to patch things up with Keaton , in person . I wanted her to tag me. With the tag, I would be able to set up a relationship with her preserving some part of my free will , and, better, a relationship protecting me from her own dark beast . I understood the parameters – with Bobby tagged, when I hurt him I hurt myself. I suspected the tags would be good enough to stop even a Keaton psycho attack. Unless I deserved punishment, I would be safe. Big if, yes, but I hoped.
Everything I ha d experienced since my graduation and everyone I had talked to reinforced the idea that Arms couldn’t survive on their own…and despite her psychotic breaks Keaton was still the person I trusted the most.
What a mess. Almost a year ago, Zielinski had told me Arms were social creatures, and should be able to get along better, but I hadn’t underst oo d his point . I thought keeping Keaton on the other end of a phone would suffice, but it hadn’t. We still argued and couldn’t get along. Worse, we still felt compelled to stay in contact, or at least I did. T he Arms, like the Focuses, were indeed instinctively social. I doubted I would be able to convince Keaton she needed me, but I sure as hell needed her.
T he tag discovery would give me something to offer her besides myself. I remembered Mary Fouke, the baby Arm from way back when Keaton train ed me. I ha d hated her from the moment I first saw her. I thought I had legitimate reasons at the time, but looking back, I realized my hatred was simply an excuse for my immediate visceral reaction. Keaton should have had her tagged…and perhaps I should have had her tagged as well. The problem w as simple: Fouke was an Arm, a competitor.
My analysis was emotionally correct. N ature had equipped us Arms to be instinctive competitors with each other, and had supplied us with instinctive needs to socialize with each other. The Arm tag was a necessity.
How to get the information out, though? I had nothing to write on or with. I did, however, have myself. A long shot, yes, but when you’re cornered and there’s no way out, you fight, despite the impossible odds. I sh ould be able to burn the information into my memories, a gift for whoever ended up owning me. They might pass the information along to Keaton or Lori. I did a little experimentation until I proved to myself my idea would work, and I burned in those memories. This trick cost me a couple tenths of a point, juice I didn’t have to use. I managed. I succeeded. Someday, somehow, these memories would surface.
After my little burn, m y rashes returned. My sense of my own juice count went haywire. Low juice, now for real. Hour by hour, minute by minute, I slowly fell apart.
Endless time passed after I prepared my memory gift , alone and cold in the wet dark . I feared any more experiments with tagging; I couldn’t risk using any more juice. Nothing remained to distract me. My juice craving s got worse.
The craving would defeat me eventually and the results would be much better if I gave in now, while I still had some remnant of intelligence left to deflect them from Bobby. I needed them now. I had to surrender now.
So I did. I said I would give them what they wanted. I said I would answer their questions and do all their tests. As long as they gave me juice, I would give them what they wanted.
The y didn ’ t respon d .
I offered examples. I told them I knew where Keat on lived. I told them I knew about multiple murders and dozens of missing persons cases that I w ould resolve for them.
N o one came.
Finally, I acknowledged what my gut had recognized long ago. They didn’t want my
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