Maidens of the Fall

Scarlet must be joking. There’s no other explanation for her offer to help me shower. An odd moment to reveal her sense of humour; I had assumed she didn’t possess one, not beyond bitter laughter at her own confidential circumstances.

But now I see she’s perfectly capable of mockery. Laying a trap for the lecherous dyke. Ready with ridicule when I take the bait.

No other explanation. Surely.

A handful of heartbeats pass in sweat-stained silence. An ocean of trees crest and creak in gentle wind, half-drawn curtain swaying in the breeze, the scent of wet grass carried through the open window. Scarlet awaits an answer with perfect calm, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. She’ll break first, erupt into a nasty grin, like Grimgrave before I knew Grimgrave’s heart. Call me a homosexual, Scarlet, make this safe and simple for both of us. Stammer and apologise, or spit in my face. Laugh at my presumption. Brand me with the truth.

Scarlet’s confidence stands tall. Subtle heat-haze plays around her hair, tickling my peripheral vision. Her eyes blaze, grey skies set aflame.

Every heartbeat radiates little crackles of pain through my core. This Machine has remembered that it is flesh, and flesh has needs.

“Octavia?” Scarlet does break first, but not in the direction I presumed; I flinch in slow-motion, too tired and wounded. “Did you hear what I said? You can’t shower by yourself, you would fall over, or worse. Allow me to help—”

My prosthetic hand jerks out between us, my final shield. “What—” Croak, clear my throat. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Exactly what I’m saying.” Scarlet rolls her eyes and tuts. “I’m not insinuating that you and I should attempt to have shower sex. You’re in no state for that. The strain would probably kill you.”

“Mm,” I mumble. “Heart would probably give out.”

“Quite. And I … ” Scarlet’s confidence flickers, a gutter of flame in a hidden draught. She glances down at her own body, then lets out a humourless puff. “Oh, what does it matter? You’ve good as seen me naked after last night. Simple nudity would be far less difficult.” She gathers herself again, flame behind both eyes. “My offer is genuine. You have a need. I can assist.”

Scarlet Edge, England’s blood-stained idol, one of the most beautiful magical girls in the world. A woman beyond desire, a sex symbol for an age that all others past could not have imagined; the dirty locked-door secret of ten million silent orgasms a day, the subject of more explicit fanart than one would ever guess, the star of at least one pornographic video game — highly illegal in England. Untouchable, unattainable, unthinkable. Pure as white-hot fire. To dream of contact is to burn oneself to ash. To risk the reality would be death.

And now she’s offering to wipe me down in the shower, with the same determination she shows her Dreamland foes. A month ago I wouldn’t have dreamed this; it would have disgusted me.

Shivers take me. Can’t catch my breath. This Machine has found a new state, one it has never been in before.

Need to sit down. But take one step and I might go over.

“Do you … ” Swallow hard, dry throat, can’t speak. “Scarlet. Do you know about girl juice transfer?”

Scarlet’s confident crust cracks with a sharp frown. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Girl juice.”

“ … oh, that! Yes, magical reserves. Again, ‘girl juice’, really? Why call it that? And what does that have to do with showering? Do you recharge by submerging yourself in water or something? What am I not understanding here?”

Examine Scarlet’s expression. Brow furrowed, eyes pinched, nose wrinkled, and not the least bit embarrassed. She’s not capable of lying about this, not to me, not in this way, not after last night. She’s also not an idiot, and doesn’t think I’m one either. She simply does not know.

“Magical girls,” I say, “can transfer juice between each other by fucking.”

Scarlet stares, a total blank.

“Huh,” I grunt. “Yeah. You didn’t know that, did you? Kissing works too. And it’s just transfer, not generation, not as far as I know. Both parties have to be into it, or it doesn’t work.”

Scarlet’s mute shock flashes into wounded anger. “My offer was genuine,” she hisses. “I thought we were beyond this kind of farce, you—”

“M’not lying.” I raise my voice; hurts my chest, but it’s worth the pain. “Scarlet. I won’t lie to you.”

Scarlet frowns with great and terrible consternation, as if I’ve just upended some vital principle of physics, some constant upon which she has relied her entire life, and suddenly found a void where the ground used to be. Her eyes wander to one side, lost in thought. She takes a deep breath, then another, then a third, nodding to herself. But then she comes up short, eyes jumping back to me.

“How do you know this?” she asks.

My turn for a dark chuckle. “How do you not know it? They don’t tell you, do they? Your Dream-Gods keep secrets, other magical girls don’t tell each other—”

“No!” she snaps. “I mean how do you know it works? Have you … you must have … I assume you’ve experienced it. Is that correct?”

Walked myself into a minefield, haven’t I? Did promise her I wouldn’t lie. “Briefly.”

“With the … with the clown? With ‘Grimgrave’?”

“Uh huh. I had a heart attack, after the fight on the hospital rooftop.” Leave out the part where I masturbated myself into cardiac arrest; still technically the truth. “Grimmy … ” I gesture at my lips. “Resuscitated me.”

Scarlet swallows, not without difficulty. “And this ‘Grimgrave’, she’s also your … your … ‘good girl’? That wasn’t a joke? Truly?”

Have to cast my mind back to remember that one. The night Scarlet and I spoke over the internet, I told her Grimmy was mine.

Not sure Grimmy would agree, but keep it simple.

“That’s what I said.”

Scarlet takes another deep breath, nodding slowly, mostly to herself. No jealous rage, no explosion of flame. “I see. But how? How is that possible, how does it work? Magical energy comes from the Dreamlands, from Nightmares who bring it into the waking world, and from the Dream-Gods who uplift us. I’ve never heard of it moving from one magical girl to another. Either this isn’t known, or it’s kept from us.”

A tiny shrug is best I can do without pulling on my insides. Standing is beginning to tire me out. “S’all I know. Maybe it only works in certain conditions. Between girls attached to the same Dream-God, maybe? Or maybe only for Nerys? Maybe it only works in a Dreamland overlap, I dunno.”

Scarlet’s eyes linger elsewhere a moment too long. I’ve just given away that our ‘hideout’ is in a Dreamland overlap. Still, if DC hasn’t gotten that intel from Willow and the Lucid Dreamers already, what would they do with that knowledge? They’ll probably assume we live somewhere deep in London’s roiling corpse, and they can hardly comb the buried streets of the dead city. They’d never guess Luna.

Can I trust Scarlet? If not, then what’s the point in all this?

Scarlet’s confidence swells back. She pulls her spine erect and raises her chin, radiates confidence like naked flame.

“This changes nothing between us,” she says. “My offer is still genuine. You’ll fall down if you attempt to shower alone. Allow me to help you.”

Never before has anybody had such wide choice of good reasons to refuse, but all fall to nothing as I try to grasp them. I’ve never been naked in front of another woman, all those nights with Willow never happened; but as Scarlet said, I’ve already seen her good as naked, stripped down to nothing. I’ll be vulnerable, certainly, but I’m already vulnerable; if Scarlet wanted me dead, she could do it right now, my resistance would count less than wet tissue paper. My promise to Bright, to not get between her and Scarlet, has already been shredded.

But, so much more importantly, Scarlet has left the central problem unsaid.

Am I truly your good girl, Octavia? Or were those just empty words?

Scarlet trusted me to handle her at her most vulnerable; I cradled her face and told her she can be my loyal hound. I must do the same with my trust in her, or whatever we’re building here will collapse, though I cannot yet see the contours of the edifice. If I reject her now, I may as well knife her through the heart myself.

Or maybe I’m just a filthy pervert, presented with the best opportunity I’ll ever have.

“Alright,” I murmur. Louder. “Alright. Alright, Scarlet. You want to scrub me down, I’m game. It’ll help.”

Scarlet Edge beams, sudden and sharp and clean, a smile never before seen even in the most candid of promo shots and television interviews. The smile vanishes as soon as it peaks, a sunbeam from inside a storm.

“Right!” Scarlet says. “First step, let’s get you into the bathroom.” She draws close to me, doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, hovers without touching. “Do you need help? You can lean on my arm if you like. Which side should I take? Octavia?”

“I can walk on my own,” I grunt, “I’m just slow. Be ready to catch me if I go down, I guess.”

“Tch!” Scarlet tuts, steps in front of me, blocks my way. “Lean on my arm. Which side?”

A short staring match leads us nowhere.

This Machine being so defiant, playing the part of the cripple too proud to accept help, too sensitive to humiliation. Truth is I’m shaking to pieces inside, quivering like a leaf in a hurricane. Touch was so easy just a few minutes ago. Now it’s electric current.

Scarlet’s face contorts beneath the surface, seething with frustration. “Octavia,” she hisses. “Let me … let me be your—”

“I’m not insulting you,” I rasp. “I’m not being difficult, alright? You’re about to strip me down and hose me off. I’m a little flustered.”

“ … o-oh.” Scarlet’s anger evaporates. “I-I couldn’t tell, you didn’t—”

“Right arm,” I grunt. “Don’t touch the left, it’s still burned.”

Scarlet nods, steps to my right, and holds out her elbow. I grip her forearm with my prosthetic hand. She takes my weight like I’m stuffed with straw, strong as a god herself, even untransformed.

“Good girl,” I mutter. Scarlet makes a little sound, could mean anything.

Away from the television and out between the sofas, we trudge and totter together toward the walk-in closet. My mangled insides pull at themselves, like internal scabs have formed across my organs, hard structures amid the soft machinery of my innards, tissues tender and fragile. At the closet doorway Scarlet flicks on a light, floods the dark tunnel with warm glow. The closet interior is even bigger than I imagined, a wide space walled in off-white cream, carpeted same as the bedroom. A double-row of clothes on hangers stand as honour guard — dresses, trousers, blouses, skirts, ten times the wardrobe I’ve ever owned. A stout wooden chest of drawers stands tucked against the wall on one side, presumably full of underwear and other things that don’t go on hangers.

Nine paces to the far side an open door admits us into the gleaming haven of Scarlet’s personal bathroom. My stunned feet drag us to a halt.

The en-suite bathroom seems even bigger than Scarlet’s bedroom, walled and floored in dusky white tiles shot through with dark veins. A bank of windows, high and frosted, reflect greenish light from the woods and fields outdoors. A huge tub dominates one half of the room, a massive white boat of a thing studded with internal nozzles, surrounded by a rim of tiles wide enough to lie down on, one end clustered with soaps and shampoos and other bottles. It even has steps, one internal and one external. The sink, no less ostentatious, is a plinth to self-worship, set before a massive mirror that reflects the entire room. A fancy Japanese-style automatic toilet squats in pride of place next to it, legroom enough for an elephant. A fluffy waterfall of towels hang from a heated rail. A walk-in shower big enough for six people stands at the opposite end of the room, enclosed in opaque glass.

“Octavia? What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Is this marble?” I croak. “Your bathroom’s floored with fucking marble?”

“What? Oh, no. It’s quartz.”

A laugh spills out, no matter the pain in my core. “Oh, yeah, yeah, that makes all the difference, quartz, right, how could I be so stupid?”

Scarlet huffs. “It’s one of two bathrooms in the house. And there’s a toilet downstairs too.” Can’t help the stare I give her. Scarlet returns it, shameless. “My parents designed it, it’s not as if I had any choice in the matter. What am I supposed to say?”

“Soothing your conscience with luxury?”

Scarlet scoffs. “Conscience?”

“Soothing something, then.”

“Hardly.” She gestures at the edge of the massive bathtub, the wide lip of tiles. “Do you think you can manage sitting on that for a moment?”

“Mmhmm.”

A slow shuffle brings us to the side of the bath. Scarlet eases me down on the hard surface, lets go slowly, hovers nearby, perhaps afraid I’ll topple over. A grunt serves to reassure her that I’m not going to fall backward and crack my head open on the tub. Only then does she step away and head over to the far side of the bathroom, past the shower cubicle.

“How big is this place, anyway?” I ask. “The house, I mean. Two bathrooms this size, not to mention your bedroom? Must be huge.”

“Big enough. Too big sometimes, just for the four of us. My grandparents used to live here too, but they both passed away a few years ago. It was converted from an old manor house, done up and refurbished and whatnot.”

A latch goes clack; there’s a second door on the far side of the bathroom, tucked behind the angle of the wall. Scarlet double-checks the lock, tries the door, nods to herself.

“Where’s that lead?” I ask.

“The corridor to my sister’s bedroom.” Scarlet sighs, rejoins me by the tub. “She never uses this bathroom. She doesn’t like to enter my space, I suppose, but, well, with you here, I want to be absolutely certain of our privacy.”

Good thinking. If Bright walks in on this we’ll make the international news. Mysterious nuclear explosion levels half of Gloucestershire.

“Mm,” I grunt. “I’m your little secret.”

Scarlet ignores the bait. She draws herself up before me, radiating confidence. “Step two. Do you need help disrobing?”

A quick and decisive answer proves impossible. The eightfold engine of my heart turns rebel and tries to choke me, flooding my throat with oil. A hard swallow clears the blockage, but now I’m flushed hot and cold at the same time. Approaching this question directly feels like it’ll kill me.

“Taking my clothes off,” I mutter. “Right. Mm.” I lift both my arms, test the flex of my rib cage, swallow a nasty wince. “Dunno. Maybe a little. Maybe more than a little. Never taken my clothes off in front of another woman before. Only in dreams.”

“This isn’t about that,” Scarlet says. She believes it, too. “This is about helping you.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

Scarlet nods. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

My t-shirt comes off first, a supposed easy start. Fabric gone crusty with dried blood, sticky patches still glued to my back, it peels away with uncomfortable relief, exposing raw skin beneath. Scarlet does the actual work, I just raise my arms and grit my teeth. She does a decent job at not abrading the burned flesh on my left arm, pulls the t-shirt over my head, then balls it up and dumps it on the pristine floor tiles. Next comes my bra, but there’s no way I’m getting my arms behind my own back. Scarlet undoes the clasp, helps me thread my arms through the straps, tosses it after the t-shirt.

“Ahhhhh,” I wince. “Fuck.”

Open air on half-healed wounds. I feel like a cesspit in sunlight.

My exposed torso makes a busy canvas. Bruises gone classic black and blue, sickly greens and pale yellows. Blood caked in messy patches, dark brown and blackish flakes falling away. Stranger fluids have gone sticky and dark in great gritty streaks, the voided lubricants and fuel runoff of This Machine. The air reeks of stale blood and rancid oil.

Raw ragged circles of tender flesh pockmark my front, still faintly puckered — entry wounds from Willow’s accelerated pebbles. Three on my belly, two through my lower rib cage, and two on my left breast, right through my heart.

Scarlet bends over to examine my back, hands hovering but not touching, lips moving in a silent count. “Seven exit wounds, I was right. The exterior has completely healed, at least. We can get you in the shower, under the water. It will sting, though.”

“What doesn’t?” I grunt. “Come on, can’t stop halfway.”

Removing my pajama bottoms presents a significant challenge. For a farcical minute we shuffle about on the side of the bathtub, trying to figure out how I can raise my hips without wanting to scream. Then the problem clicks together in my head.

“This is fucking stupid, fuck this,” I grunt. “Come here, help me stand.”

“What, why? Oh, oh, right, yes.”

Scarlet gives me her arm and I climb back to my feet. Hook a thumb into my waistband, pajamas and underwear both, then drag them down off my hips. Fabric pools around my ankles. Cool air chills my thighs and crotch; just as badly bloodstained, but no wounds down there. With Scarlet’s support I step out of my abandoned clothes. Scarlet adds them to the pile.

“You’re not gonna try washing all those, are you?” I croak.

Scarlet hesitates. She won’t look at me, focused on the stained clothes. My heartbeat is painfully elevated, drumming against my will on the inside of my ribs.

“I … uh,” Scarlet mutters. “I didn’t think of that. Hiding blood will be difficult, I … could take them elsewhere, or do it by hand, or … ”

“Joke,” I rasp. Can barely get the word out. “S’a joke, Scarlet. Just toss ‘em, burn ‘em, whatever. Doesn’t matter now. Forget the clothes. Fuck the clothes. I can … steal some new ones. Whatever. Forget it.”

Scarlet nods, more to herself than me, then breaks our deal and makes it weird.

When she looks at me it’s the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t pretend she’s not looking, doesn’t politely avert her eyes or convince herself I’m too stupid to realise where her eyes are pointed. She looks me up and down, takes in the fucked up body that I’ve occupied for twenty years. She lingers on my belly, my thighs, my cunt. She looks openly at my breasts; bigger than yours, eh, Scarlet? Like what you see? She stares at the junctions between metal and flesh at my right shoulder and right thigh. She sees me, covered in three-day-old dried blood and engine oil, hunched with injury and internal pain, tits out, stark naked.

Apparently I’m worth a moment’s stunned pause. Mouth stilled, breath stuck.

Nobody has ever looked at me this way before, let alone my naked body, scarred and half-ruined and filthy. Even Willow’s dream-self never regarded me with this vulnerable curiosity, this cocktail of fascination and caution and wonder. And who would? My tits aren’t the size of my head, my hips are a little too much on the slender side; my skin is pasty, veins on my thighs, and I stand with awkward posture. I am not magical girl pinup poster material. Yet Scarlet pauses in stunned realisation, as others must pause when they see her in the flesh.

The engine of my heart wakes into a steady beat. Spine straightens, draws me up right. Deep breaths feed the furnace with an intoxicating rush.

Scarlet’s fully clothed, but I’m the one with the power. How is that possible?

She recovers with a curt nod, eyes the walk-in shower, then gestures to the massive bathtub. “I didn’t think of it at first, but there’s always the bath. It might be easier, if you can get over the side with my help. Do you want to try?”

“No,” I grunt. Power curdles into a bad taste.

“Why not? It might actually help, a soak in the hot water—”

“Scarlet. Think about it.”

She shakes her head, confused.

My turn to sigh. I tap my right thigh. “My prosthetic leg. It’s water-resistant, not water-proof. I can shower with it on, but I can’t submerge it.”

Scarlet looks baffled. “Surely you can take it off to bathe? There’s blood under that rubber socket, I can see it from here. That can’t be comfortable—”

“The leg stays on!” I snap.

Scarlet blinks. Her eyes fill with hurt, like I’ve slapped her, inches from anger.

I hiss with frustration. “It’s not a matter of trust, for fuck’s sake. It’s … look, when I take the limbs off, there’s phantom pain, a lot of phantom pain. I sleep with them on. I do everything with them on. The leg stays on for this, because it’s bad enough already that I’m going to have to remove my arm. Alright? Does that make sense now?”

Raise my right arm, broken plates of CFRN grinding beneath layer after layer of carbon fibre tape. Right now this limb isn’t resistant or proof against anything, let alone water.

“I didn’t know,” says Scarlet. “I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault.” Swallow ten years of humiliation; Scarlet Edge is not the world. “Don’t apologise.”

A long moment of silence, both of us staring at my arm.

Eventually Scarlet says, “Do you need help taking it off?”

No convenient table at which to sit for the process. No way I’m getting down on the floor and then standing up again. My arm is already so damaged that I could just let it fall, but the idea makes my stomach turn.

“ … yeah.” Clear my throat. Hold out my arm. “Come here, hold it here, and here, support the wrist and the elbow. Don’t bump the hand, that’s the most fragile part. And don’t drop it when I remove the socket, understand? Don’t drop it.”

Scarlet steps in close, our bodies almost touching. She cradles my wrecked prosthetic arm in her own, close to her chest like a crippled baby. She murmurs ‘I’ve got you.’ I roll the silicone socket down my stump, hissing at the pain it causes my burned left hand. Myoelectric pickups peel away from my flesh; my fingers go dead. The socket comes off, a little blood beneath, but the amputation site is clean. Cool air trickles across my stump. A phantom forearm begins to tingle with the beginning of old pain, tension creeping across the right side of my chest, muscles tightening against long-lost bones.

My left hand drifts upward, as if I can hide my stump with a palm.

“I’ll put it on the bed,” Scarlet says, starts to step away, carrying my arm.

“No!” I hiss. “Don’t— not— not out of my sight.”

One of the most humiliating things I’ve ever said. But Scarlet just casts around for somewhere proper to rest this piece of me. “Surely not on the floor?”

“Floor’s fine,” I grunt. “Just nowhere it can fall.”

She nudges a fresh towel off the rail with one elbow, and pillows my prosthetic arm in the crumpled fabric. Heat gathers behind my eyes, can’t stop it building. When Scarlet turns back to me, she pauses in surprise.

“Octavia?”

“It’s … ” Sniff back a bolus of mucus. “It’s nothing. Nothing. Just … ”

Can’t word this. Can’t even think it. Scarlet seems as surprised as I, but she she says nothing, doesn’t probe, just looks at my exposed stump. She waits for me to recover, looks back and forth between the stump and my prosthetic arm, putting something together in her head.

“You’re not going to get naked too, are you?” I ask when I can, cover for the tail-end of the tears. “That really would make this weird.”

For that I earn a sigh and a roll of the eyes. “No, of course not. You’re the one getting washed. Now come on, step three, into that shower.”

She does get naked though, in the one way that really matters; she rolls up her sleeves so they won’t get wet, exposes those scar-wracked forearms, offers up the sight without comment.

Scarlet begins the process with strict and awkward practicality. She herds me into the glass-walled shower stall, has me stand there while she turns on the water and waits for it to heat up, flexible hose held in one hand, testing the water with her other, feet planted in the open doorway. First contact with the water is excruciating, but we agree it’s best to get this out of the way first. Scarlet holds the shower head over me. A trickle, then a sluice, then a wave of hot water runs down over my shoulders, across my front and my back, carrying loose fragments of dried blood away to swirl into the drain.

Water’s touch draws pain from me like poison, sharp and stinging on the surface of my skin, crackling down deep in my core. Gritting my teeth can’t contain the low keening of pain, nor the gurgle in my throat. My vision throbs at the edges, pulse pounding in my head. I’m panting, drooling, almost going down. But Scarlet’s there to grab my flailing left hand, despite the superficial pain in my burned skin.

“Try not to scream,” she says. “I can’t keep this secret if you scream.”

“Easy for— for you— fuck— ow—”

Pain eventually ebbs away. Skin remembers it is skin, not exposed muscle and broken bone and the inner workings of This Machine. The world throbs back, the gentle echo of water splashing against the shower floor, Scarlet’s face in the stall doorway, my own body coming alive again beneath the hot water. Scarlet keeps the stream on me for what feels like minutes, heat soaking through me, unknotting muscles.

“Tolerable?” Scarlet asks.

“Mm,” I grunt, try to straighten up a little. “I’m— I’m good. Good.”

“Alright then.” Scarlet takes a deep breath, sets the shower head down on the floor, water arcing behind my ankles. “Step four, then. Yes. Time for … for step four.”

Scarlet takes a bar of soap, lathers up her hands. A moment of silent assessment and negotiation passes between us, not that I could speak even if there was anything to say. My burned left hand and forearm make it impossible for me to wash even my own belly. Scarlet can’t meet my eyes; our breathing matches, both going ragged as she reaches out to touch my body.

Her hands are the warmest thing I’ve ever felt, slippery-soft motion over the surface of my bruised and tender skin. She doesn’t start safe, doesn’t seem to understand safe; she soaps up my shoulders, my back, my belly, runs her divine touch over my stump, my hips, my thighs. She washes my chest, breasts lifting in her hands, so much more flesh there than I’ve ever really paid attention to. She doesn’t mean to do it, but she teases a gasp from me, a sound of wonder and pain. Slender fingers map the deep bruises beneath my surface, flinch from my sweating grunts. She touches the sites of my wounds, treats them just the same, tries not to press too hard. Traces my spine, encircles my waist. I hiss and grunt and whine as the deeper pains float to the surface.

Never been touched like this before, not even in a dream. In all Willow’s falsehoods, did she ever touch me with such intimacy? She never grabbed my tits like this.

I’m almost crying. Thank Nerys for all this water in which to hide.

Three times Scarlet soaps me up and rinses me off. Layers of dried blood and engine oil and caked sweat and old dirt slide from my skin, swirling around my feet, sucked down the drain set into the floor. Her hands ease the worst of the pain from my muscles, reveal the pale expanses beneath, the raw red entrance wounds still healing inside. We can’t wash everything, not all of me. She doesn’t touch my face, or my left arm; we keep the burns out of the water as best we can.

Scarlet turns a strange shade of pale red as she works in steaming silence. Mucus sticks in my throat, makes it hard to breathe. A shiver passes from my body to her hands. A hesitation in her is answered in me. The deep places of This Machine are flush with heat. Scarlet’s t-shirt is spotted with water, forearms wet.

Feels like hours, but it can’t have taken more than a few minutes. I’m clean now, except for all the places she doesn’t want to go.

But then she puts the shower head down one last time, takes up the soap again. She meets my eyes, lips parted, eyes wide as dinner plates, hazy with something I’ve only seen directed at me once before, pinned to my own bed in Plato Base.

Wet silence hangs between us.

Her eyes flicker downward. Back to me.

Neither of us can speak. This isn’t really happening. This can’t be real. Can’t think. I give her the smallest nod. Permission.

Scarlet slides one soap-slick hand between my thighs and grabs my cunt.

At first we both pretend she’s still washing, rubbing and squeezing with plausible deniability, soaping me up good and proper. But within a few moments she’s made me clean enough to eat off, and she’s not stopping. She kneads me harder, draws from my throat a strangled whine I never thought myself capable of. My left knee buckles, only my prosthetic keeps me upright. I stagger backward, thump into the glass wall, heaving for breath. She falls with me, braces us together with her other hand on my shoulder. Doesn’t stop.

Scarlet works my cunt like dough. She breathes hard and steady, panting in time with her hand. Volcanic heat rises up between my legs, like Scarlet Edge is pouring raw magma into the engines of This Machine; it flows through a channel she once cut through my core, the memory of her ruby sword an aching counterpoint to the rhythm of her hand. Broken pieces of my innards melt and run like molten iron, knots relaxing, structures smoothing out, scabs and scrap and pain falling away in discarded layers, dissolving into slurry inside my guts.

On the outside I’m snorting and gasping through gritted teeth, whining and keening and panting. On the inside This Machine is self-repairing. Soft mechanisms tighten like a bowstring drawn back, tension increasing every second, a piston quivering deep down in my belly.

Scarlet Edge looks me right in the eyes. Hers are dark red, skies on fire.

Sudden and sharp, orgasm rushes up me like a volcanic eruption. Kicks me between the legs, rolls into my belly like boiling honey, shoots upward through the belly-to-back scar left by Scarlet’s blade, explodes behind my eyes, whiteout and blindness.

Nothing like I ever imagined it would be, surrender and victory and ego-death all at once. Flame fills me from Scarlet’s hand.

The back of my head bounces off the glass. Eyes squeeze shut. Left toes curl against the shower floor. The noises I make are not pretty, not the kind of noises I half-remember from Willow’s dreams; I whine open-mouthed, heave through wet teeth, sound like a pig. My body wants to thrash and buck, but my wounds are still too deep.

Slowly, achingly, like a cooling tide of lava-flow beneath soft rains, it leaves me behind, leaves me smooth and clean and washed out.

I sag against the wall, head on a limp neck, eyelids heavy as lead, can barely stand. Insides engorged and sore in a way I’ve never felt before. Scarlet takes her hand from between my legs and stumbles back, fingers slick with soap and water and my own transparent juices.

Flushed, vibrating, intense, like she’s about to transform or explode or scream.

And then she opens wide.

“Rrruuurff!”

A bark, a real one. A hellhound warcry, wild and loud and beyond control.

She lights up with a beaming smile, eyes wide with shock and wonder, breathing so hard as a hurricane. Pride and confidence and power roll off her like heat-haze, a hundred times more real than any public appearance I’ve ever seen from Scarlet Edge.

But only for a moment. Euphoria ebbs even as it crests. Scarlet’s joy gutters, replaced with mortified confusion.

“Ah— I— I didn’t— I’m sorry—”

“No!” I snap, throat still a wet gurgle. Push myself up. Don’t let her go now. “No. Good girl. Good. Good.”

She hesitates, looks like she might turn and flee.

“Scarlet. Good girl.”

She catches herself. The smile creeps back, perhaps halfway to her prior peak. But she stands tall again, in pride and power.

We stay like that for a long moment, until I can stand straight again. Scarlet picks up the shower head and washes off her hand, then rinses my crotch.

“Step five,” she says, perfectly composed once again. “Stand up straight as you can, and close your eyes tight. I’m going to wash your hair. You don’t want shampoo getting in your eyes.”

Washing my hair goes by like the aftermath of a strange dream. Scarlet massages in the shampoo as best she can, but my hair is thick with grease, longer than I’m used to, and she has to go twice. Warm water and shampoo suds run down my face, over my closed eyes, cooling off a lingering subdermal heat beneath my scar.

One more rinse and we’re done. The shower goes quiet. Dripping water echoes off the glass.

Back out into the bathroom I step, wrapped in a fluffy towel big enough for a horse. Scarlet steers me toward the edge of the tub again, but I don’t need as much support anymore, my stride is more stable, pain blunted. I dry off mostly by myself, abandon my damp hair to the vulgarity of time. I even get to my feet without risking a tumble. Scarlet picks up my prosthetic arm and we return to the bedroom, through the enclosing tunnel of her closet, me trailing behind, still wrapped in the towel.

Sitting on the edge of Scarlet’s bed, I first reattach my arm, phantom pain releasing me as the myoelectric pickups find my skin again and my fingers come to life. Fresh air from the half-open window brushes residual moisture from my skin, deliciously refreshing.

“Are you sure your arm doesn’t need cleaning as well?” Scarlet asks.

“Well, yeah, it does, but it needs a full rebuild first. Never mind, I can put up with a dirty right arm.”

Scarlet’s spare clothes fit me well enough, though she’s taller and slimmer than me. Socks and knickers, both fresh, but no bra; hers wouldn’t fit me anyway. The big baggy black t-shirt is absurdly large, long sleeves to hide my prosthetic right arm and my burned left forearm. Jogging bottoms are a bit long on my legs, and a trifle difficult to get on over my prosthetic, but they’ll do; cream and red, like a cake with racing stripes. Not something I would choose to wear. The black hoodie I need a little help with, too voluminous to manoeuvre my arms through without pain. Scarlet helps me get it over my head. Like wearing a miniature tent, enclosing, warm, safe. There’s even a big pocket in the front for my hands; could fit my whole arm in there. A hood too, large enough to vanish inside. I pull my damp hair out, settle it over one shoulder.

The zoog on the desk opposite the bed peers at me through the mesh door in the animal carrier. He makes a sharp click with the side of his mouth. Scarlet starts in surprise.

“S’alright,” I tell her. “Means he wants help. Don’t worry, little guy, it’s okay. We’re going home soon.”

Scarlet peers down at me. “You do look as if you feel a lot better. Do you?”

“Mm. Not so wounded, I guess. Can stand, walk. All that good stuff. Pain’s still there.”

But not as bad, and without the pain I have fewer excuses for what I say and do, all those old inhibitions creeping back. What Scarlet and I just did in the shower, did that really happen? Was that really me? Seems half dreamlike now, something that should have happened to a simulacrum of Octavia Carter. But no, that was me, that was us.

Scarlet and I just fucked. Or she fucked me. Not sure how that works.

Raise my right hand, pull back the elbow, make a fist.

Translocation is still impossible. One glance toward the precipice sends a shiver of deep exhaustion through my guts, dull pain crackling across bruised organs. Still not enough girl juice for even one jump; my wounds have soaked up everything they can get, cannibalised my route home. But even if I could go, I can’t run from Scarlet now. If I wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am her, this house of cards between us will collapse in an instant.

Lower my hand, shake my head. “Can’t translocate, not enough juice. But yeah, I’m feeling better. Ish.”

Scarlet swallows hard, wets her lips. “It worked, then?”

“What worked?”

Deadpan comes easy; Scarlet’s composure cracks fast, sticky as warm toffee. She turns a most fascinating shade of muted crimson. “Octavia! You know exactly what I mean!”

My foolish mask peels off. Couldn’t help myself. “Yeah. Yeah, I … I do know. Is that why you did it?”

Scarlet thinks for a second, then shakes her head. “No. No, it was … it was what you needed. It felt right to do it. That’s all. Are you saying you didn’t … ”

“No. No, it was … you know.” Truth sticks in my throat. “Good.”

Scarlet lets out a big sigh. “I don’t entirely know why I did it. I just … it happened, it was … ”

“You did it because you’re my good girl.”

Scarlet bites her lower lip, lets out a tiny sound, might be a whimper, might be my imagination. But then she smiles again, the ghost of how she looked in the shower. Her eyes smoulder with the memory of fire.

But now it’s over, now I’m cleaner than I was and no longer marinating in my own dried blood, dressed in fresh clothes, pain no longer reducing me to a handspan higher than an animal, an obvious question germinates in the front of my mind.

Have I just cheated on Grimgrave?

Absurd proposition. Grimgrave and I are not in a relationship; she is not my girlfriend or my lover. There is nothing to betray, nothing with which to break faith. Or am I missing something that should be obvious? Grimmy let me pin her to my bed and shove my knee against her crotch, endured my violent outburst, came crawling back in the spirit of sisterhood. She took me as I took Scarlet’s sword, and she did it willingly. To Grimmy I owe my life, twice over. To Grimmy I owe a prior claim. She’s a loyal hound and I will not kick her away.

Am I meant to do for her what Scarlet just did for me?

“Octavia?” Scarlet’s frown falls hard; she sees the problem in my face. “What is it? What’s wrong? Did I … was it … I didn’t … ”

Tell one truth, leave the other.

“That was my first time.”

“O-oh.” Scarlet blinks. “Of— of course. You and the Dreamer, she never really—”

“No,” I interrupt gently. “Not sex. First orgasm.”

Scarlet goes very still, stares at me for one long uncomprehending moment. “Ah,” she says, eventually. “I … I see. You mean you’ve never … ”

Shake my head. “Tried a few days ago. Gave myself another heart attack.”

“You gave yourself a heart attack trying to masturbate?! Then why the hell did you just let me at you!?”

“Because I wanted it.”

Scarlet huffs, looks away, folds her arms, unfolds them again. But she can’t stay angry. Grey-blue eyes drift back to me beneath a delicate frown.

“Your first time, really?” she asks. I nod. “I hope it was … adequate.”

“Nothing to compare to,” I grunt. “Your first time, too?”

Scarlet hesitates, shakes her head. “I’ve been weak before.”

“Weak?”

She catches herself. “Not like that, that’s not what I meant. With you, it wasn’t weakness. With … ” She pulls herself straight, packs her frame with dignity. “I told you that I’ve had ‘groupies’ thrown at me. My patron and the MGNR board, they’ve thrown pretty young things at me, as much as I want, especially when I was a bit younger. In the past I’ve been weak, when I thought the world could still be a beautiful place. You’re not the first woman I’ve handled, Octavia.” Her eyes flick to me, defying me to shame her. “First magical girl, though.”

“Huh. Well. I’m honoured to be a recipient of your hard-won expertise.”

Scarlet huffs. “It’s not like that.”

“Then how is it?”

You massive dyke, Scarlet; if only England knew. We are so much like each other.

Perhaps Scarlet Edge is a mind-reader. More likely she sees the thought plain on my face. Her eyes flash with exasperation and fairly-won offence, but she has no comeback to an unspoken smirk.

Scarlet sighs, steps away from the bed. “I’m going to put those ruined clothes in a bin bag, and stash it somewhere until I can dispose of it without being seen. And I’ll fetch the hairdryer, too. You stay there, and don’t go near the open window. We still don’t know who might be watching.”

“Yeah, yeah. Opsec can be my middle name a while longer.”

Scarlet gives me a searching look, tries to figure out if I’m teasing her again. But she gives up without an answer, rolls her eyes and vanishes through the walk-in cupboard again. A moment later, the rustle of plastic, the crack of a bin bag being opened.

No peeking through the window for This Machine, but I need to test my legs. If Scarlet is going to get me out of here soon, I better be able to walk under my own power. Standing up isn’t too difficult now, just sore and tender, though my prosthetic right leg still does most of the work, anchoring me to the floor. Straightening up sends my ribs into a chorus of intercostal muscle pain. Tendons creak, gears slip, muscles shiver, engines cough. But I’m upright and taking six steps to the desk, leaning down to peer at the zoog still clinging to the mesh front of the animal carrier.

“Not much longer now, little guy,” I murmur to him. “You just look after yourself.”

“Nnnnnnn … nnnnnnn … ” His doubtful rasps hurt my heart. I’ll do right by him soon enough.

Six paces back to the bedside, twelve paces over to the sofas. Working out the kinks, warming up the pipes, getting the lubricants applied to every surface. On each left stride something taut and tender goes pop inside my hip, but the pain is no worse than a stitch, I can manage. Raise my right arm and make a fist, flex the elbow joint, spread my fingers out to the side. Full range of motion, but loose and sloppy. CFRN plates grind with every movement. One solid punch and the arm will explode. This Machine is currently — and paradoxically — disarmed.

“Full rebuild,” I mutter to myself. “Start with something stronger. Or a double layer? Mmmm. Or maybe one solid piece, maybe that’s better than joints in the material. Or if I could just have more time for it to set. Or … um … ”

Alone with my own thoughts, all my concentration must bend toward the problem of my prosthetic arm. Otherwise I will start to think about the enormity of what we’ve just done.

Grey suggestion leaps across my peripheral vision.

A whirl almost sends me sprawling, clutching at the back of the sofa to catch my balance. Heart ramps up, engines ready to roar, head pounding with rocket fuel. Right fist pulled back, knuckles creaking. A familiar grey, one I saw up close before, one I dearly wish to revenge myself upon.

A cat. Perched atop the animal carrier.

Silver-grey fur, sleek and muscled as a miniature missile, well-fed and well-kept, sharp-eyed and sharper-eared, with a plain collar around its throat. Eyes of mirrored silver gleam dark.

The dream shatters to the sound of a zoog’s hiss. Long and loud and spitting mad. The zoog inside the animal carrier hisses and rasps and thrashes like he’s trying to burrow through the plastic. The grey cat’s concentration breaks; it leans down to peer through the metal mesh, silver claws flicking free from one elegant paw, tugging at the cage. The other paw bumps against the lock, suddenly free, falling to the desk with a metallic clonk. The mesh begins to swing open. Another set of claws extend from the opposite paw, reaching through the gap.

“No!”

I lunge, but I’m not going to make it, too slow to close the gap. What can This Machine do against a quicksilver cat? I’m about to lose another zoog, see my poor little friend gutted alive by yet another silent grey assassin.

A patch of black oil bubbles from the wall just above the desk, a sudden dark stain intruding on the waking world.

Nerys — Nerys the zoog, jaws open wide, claws extended, tail lashing — bursts from the pool of oil in a blindsided pounce, falls upon the silver dream-cat from above, knocks it from the animal carrier.

They tumble through the air locked together, teeth and claws biting and tearing, a rasping and a yowling. Nerys has the ambusher’s advantage, jaw locked around the cat’s throat, back feet gouging intestines free in a shower of silver fluid, blood unspooling into the air like liquid mercury.

Nerys and the cat hit the floor — and fall right through it, into another pool of sticky phantasmal tar.

The black oil vanishes. No bloodstains on the carpet. Like it never happened.

The zoog in the carrier is still hissing like mad, and I don’t blame him. I yank the metal mesh wide and drag him free. He bites and scratches and writhes, doesn’t realise it’s me, not until his teeth close on carbon fibre. By the time I’ve pulled him out and cradled him to my chest he’s realised this is rescue. Burrows close against my chest, tiny lungs panting hard, beady black eyes wide with panic, claws clutching.

Scarlet bursts from the walk-in closet, wild-eyed. “Octavia?! What was that!?”

“A cat,” I rasp. “A cat, it— it was on the animal carrier. And Nerys— Nerys—”

“A cat?”

Scarlet goes cold with quiet panic.

“Was that your patron?” I ask.

“A cat,” she echoes again. Swallows hard, strides across the room, towers over me. “What kind of cat? Octavia, describe it, what kind of cat?”

“Grey. Silver-grey. Uh, big. It— it had collar, it—”

“Mangy or healthy? Well-fed or thin? Octavia, think! This is important!”

“Healthy. It looked strong. Scarlet? Scarlet, was that your Dream-God? I think Nerys might have just killed it, she … ”

But Scarlet’s not listening, eyes a thousand miles away. Sweat beads at her hairline.

“Scarlet!”

She snaps to, eyes on me. “We have to leave. I have to get you out of here, right now. I have to get you … ”

Scarlet Edge grabs me by the collar and mashes her lips against mine. Can’t be called a kiss. Lasts barely more than a second, then she pulls back, eyes wide and wild, free hand clutching at the bite mark on her lips.

“Well!?” she spits. “Did it work? Can you translocate now? You have to leave, now! Can you!?”

Don’t feel any different. An abortive raise of my fist does nothing. “No, no—”

“Why? Why doesn’t it work!?”

“I don’t know!” I spit back. “Probably because you just did that out of pure necessity, I assume!”

“Shit.” Scarlet steps past me, goes to the window, looks outside, then jams it shut with a thump, drags the curtain closed. “We have to leave, right now. Octavia, get your phone and that— that—” She gestures at the animal carrier, then realises the zoog is already in my arms. “That thing. Don’t drop it, don’t let it run off, because we are not going back for it!”

The zoog lets out a tiny hiss at her, then scrambles down my front and burrows into the massive front pocket of the hoodie, cradled safe against my belly; some zoogs would be too large for that, but he’s scrawny and compact enough to hitch a ride down there. I grab my phone from the desk, slip it into my right pocket. Scarlet runs into her walk-in closet and reemerges holding a pair of spotless red crocs. She tosses them down.

“Put those on, now! Or just one, if you need it, whatever!”

Scarlet produces her own mobile phone, jabs at the screen, puts it to her ear. She paces past me, turns and paces back. Waiting, waiting, waiting for somebody on the other end to answer. I jam my feet into the crocs. Get ready to move.

“Can I trust you?” Scarlet suddenly blurts into the phone, stopping dead still. “Exactly what it means. Can I trust you? With anything? Truly anything? You once said … ”

A long pause.

“Alright, where are you?” Scarlet says. “Yes, right now. I need to talk to you, in person, ASAP.” Then a tut, tight with frustration. “Is anybody else there? Okay, you stay right there, I’ll come to you. I’ll be thirty, maybe forty minutes. No, no, I can’t fly or translocate. Don’t ask that. And don’t tell Azure or Dawn. Do not breathe a word of this. Swear on your own God, whoever it is. Swear! Good.”

Scarlet terminates the call, shoves the phone back into her pocket.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Scarlet hesitates. “Somebody I might be able to trust.”

“Might?”

“It’s the best option you have right now!” she snaps. “I can’t fly or translocate, they will know exactly where I’ve taken you! You can’t translocate yourself, you—” She stops short, tentative relief on her face. “Tell me where your hideout is! I can translocate you there. And then I’ll just come right back, and—”

“No.”

“This isn’t a trick, Octavia! If your hideout is beyond their reach, who cares?! You have to leave, you have to—”

“No,” I hiss. “Scarlet. I don’t think you can safely go there. I don’t know what it’ll do to you.”

“ … what?”

“It’s somewhere you can’t go. That’s all.”

Scarlet’s eyes go wide. She puts two and two together, because she’s no fool. A Dreamland overlap where no earthly magical girl can tread. Distant Luna, beyond Earth’s reach.

But then Scarlet’s confidence comes raging in like a wildfire. A deep breath to feed the flames. She straightens up, eyes blazing.

“Scarlet. You can’t.”

“I could,” she whispers. “I could do it, Octavia. You think there’s anything to stop me anymore?”

“I thought you didn’t want to abandon England.”

Scarlet’s confidence flickers. “That’s … that’s not what I meant, I just … ”

“I’m pretty sure the only way to go there safely is to be one of Nerys’ girls. Even Willow could barely survive up there. She was burning out fast. And you’re no Dreamer.”

Scarlet seems lost; I wish I was wrong, wish she could just flee.

“And,” I say, slowly, carefully. “We don’t even know if that message got through. That’s what you’re worried about, right? That cat was a messenger of some sort, a spy, right? You weren’t listening to me earlier. Nerys appeared, she ambushed the cat, got it right in the throat, then vanished back into wherever the hell it is things like her go. The Dreamlands, I guess. She killed it, she won. The message might not even have gotten through.”

Scarlet’s brow furrows. “Your patron, the pretender, if she won, she should have informed your companions.”

“ … ah. Huh.”

“Yes, ah, indeed!” Scarlet hisses. “She should have told them. They should be here, to pick you up.” She gestures at her bedroom. “And they’re not.”

“Nerys?” I croak at the air. “Nerys?”

“Your patron has lost,” Scarlet says. “Or the cat slipped away. Or the combat is still going. We need to leave, Octavia, right now! This might be the only window we have. Please, tell me where your hideout is! Or— no, I don’t need to know. I can see the moon with my own eyes well enough.” Scarlet reaches out toward me.

“Good girls don’t get themselves killed for me,” I snap.

Scarlet’s rising fury slams to a hard stop. She stares at me, wrestling with anger.

“What was your first plan?” I prompt, get her back on track.

“I … I don’t … alright!” She hisses. “Alright, we have my plan A, fine. We get you out of here by car, and meet up with … you’ll see. If we hurry, we can outpace any observers. But we have to hurry, Octavia. Right now. If we get caught, if this goes wrong … I’m sending you home by the direct way.”

Scarlet Edge offers me her hand. Eyes ablaze, more determined than I’ve seen in her a thousand propaganda posters.

I accept, fold my prosthetic right into her grip.

Scarlet leads me across the room, glances back to double-check. I make sure the zoog is snuggled down safe in the front pocket of the borrowed hoodie, curled against my belly. Scarlet unlocks and unlatches her bedroom door, draws back the bolt, throws it wide, pulls me out into a plush, pale corridor.

Sunlight falls slanted through distant windows onto dense carpet. Exposed beams cross a high ceiling, vanishing into the white plaster of the walls, above a few ‘tasteful’ watercolours of rural landscapes. A big latticework window at one end looks out over distant treetops; two surprised doves take off from the outside sill. A few other doors punctuate the long hallway, longer than any domestic house should have right to. Scarlet’s home is truly beyond my scale.

Scarlet shuts the door behind us and pulls me around to the left, toward a corner. “My car’s parked outside. My parents might be in, but just keep walking, no matter what they say. We have to get you moving before … ”

A figure shuffles out in front of us, six paces from the corner. A dark mirror to Scarlet at my side.

Dirty topaz eyes set in a sallow, rotten, sunless face, lit from deep inside by dying fires, framed by long lank blonde hair. Slow to surprise, stunned incomprehension. Hunched and slumped, as if only just risen from exhausted and restless sleep, ready to drop into oblivion. Baggy trousers, black tank-top, no socks.

She halts like a zombie faced with a wall, a shuffle of stunned feet, a blank gaze.

“Bethany!” Scarlet says. “Oh, oh it’s just you. I thought you were still out. Are you … alright? I hope you’re … well, I have to hurry, we have to … have to get going … ”

The mirror-apparition doesn’t move. Her mouth hangs open. She stares right through me.

Bethany Fairfax, Francesca’s estranged younger sister.

Burning Bright has caught me red-handed.