[b]Canada![/b] “I am already saved,” Tirzah says, her tone just as impossible to read: quietly gloating, or quietly resigned, or stating a simple fact. “And I saved you. But there is a way that you can help me.” Her finger hooks your collar, tugs you closer. For a moment, you’re back then, when everything still didn’t make sense but “Tanya Gold” had chosen you, her lips on yours. But there are veils between you now, and not just physical ones. “It is very difficult for me, now that Canada has come back. Tirzah, they say to me, Tirzah, tell us about her. How did she survive? How can we stop her mind control? How can we find her? I am the expert on her, you know.” She’s different than the Tanya you remember. Tirzah has different teeth, long and straight and pale under her veils. (That crooked front tooth was designed; it was grown from the gums by magic science and then adjusted with drills and styluses. You didn’t see her for days after the surgery to replace them with “proper” teeth while she recovered.) She should be wearing sunglasses and jorts, her skin blotched like a treasure map, not these stupid slinky see-through dresses that show off skin like bronze, smooth and unblemished and uncanny. Just another reminder she’s an [i]alien.[/i] “I think that it was a mistake for her to come back,” she says, and is that a tightness in her voice. “And that whoever helped her hide might be regretting it.” Her nails are light on your skin, for now. There is a great deal of control in her fingers. “So I would be interested in hearing your thoughts, as a slave to their better. Why do you think Canada risks everything she has been given by this fool?” (It’s her. She’s the fool. She’s the one who hid you, who helped you, who knows who you are. Who could tell the Inquisitors who you are at any time.) *** [b]Étoile![/b] “Twenty shavings says she took it off herself,” the Janissary says to his companion. They have expertly taken control of the situation: now that one stands on either side of you, waiting for the arrival of the chain-clippers (after their commanding officer ordered them not to try shooting them off with a laser-musket, because you were obviously an expensive house-slave and needed all your fingers), you are not a revolutionary sign screaming defiance at the Annunaki, but a Bad Girl who is being punished by display in Six Wave Commons. The loss of your veil is to shame you, obviously, and in conjunction with the lashes is to show what happens when you are Bad and step out of line. And the lack of jacket is because the Annunaki don’t care about toplessness and assume all their slaves stop caring, too. These Lynxes, evidently, still care. A lot. “They’re [i]animals,[/i]” the other one hisses gleefully. (Like she’s not an oversized serval herself. The hypocrisy!) “No self-control.” A tail bats in your face. Ack! Hair! Up your nose! “Imagine [i]owning[/i] this one,” the male growls. “Having her wake you up for morning drill! Whoops, lost her veil again... let’s look for it in the showers!” They laugh. That tail is pressed firmly against your lips. Your back [i]hurts.[/i] The light is pale and weak, designed for curfew hours. You can barely see the tiles in your shadow. A shiver runs through that tail from base to tip. Gross. “Oh, [i]human,[/i] don’t be silly! If there’s no milk in the rations, I’ll show you where to get more!” The female makes [i]noises.[/i] Mouth noises. That damn tail is curling lasciviously against your jaw while the male cackles. Shut [i]up![/i] People are trying to [i]sleep[/i] while he’s yakking it up at your expense! What if they open their windows and look out to see what woke them up? More eyes to stare at the little tableau under lamplight. And even if they don’t, slaving away another day without even the comfort of sleep is [i]miserable.[/i] “Don’t worry your silly little face,” the male says, his tail finally leaving your mouth, but working dangerously down your chin and neck towards that tight little band. “I’d teach you all [i]kinds[/i] of things you could do without a veil, little slut—“ “Hssst!” The female’s tail fluffs up and smacks you in the cheek. “Great one coming!” The two Janissaries stand at attention, tails nowhere near you, and now you hear it: clack, clack, clack. Annunaki sandals, impractically heeled. And then one of your worst nightmares looms out of the dim light of night. The Inquisitor squats down to look you in the face. She’s wearing impractically skimpy armor, made of a silvery metal you can’t quite place, over a bodysuit of swirling, sickly color: bruise-like purples and greens and reds. Her veil is gaudy, purple and black and gold, but her eyes are grey and steady and they’re drinking you in. Be the mask. Play your part. She decides whether you go free or need to be re-educated. Or disappeared. “She stinks of the demon,” another Lynx says, looming in the dark behind the Inquisitor. “It’s the slave that Ma-Ri-Ann stole.” “Hmm.” There are wheels turning, delicate and fine like lacework, behind those steady eyes. “Why here.” It’s not really a question. “Marking territory, or perhaps a distraction. It’s difficult to say, yet.” She reaches out and caresses your cheek. (She’s allowed.) Underneath the cold metal of her gauntlet, her bodysuit [i]feels[/i] you, writhing like a worm, clammy and [i]hungry.[/i] It wants you. It wants to eat you. Maybe those are the same thing. “Confess,” she commands you. *** [b]Anathet![/b] [[i]love, the deep and enduring love of holding a stuffed animal that you’ve owned your whole life[/i]] The black-eyed girl sinks her ghostly fingers into the rich black soil and smiles. She radiates that love at this: gardening, earth, growing. Then she concentrates and thinks an [i]image[/i] at you. It’s ferns, growing rich and wild. You can hear the insects chirping. You can feel the humidity crushing you. You can see the ferns coiling around a ruined Annunaki outpost as it slowly decays and the sun flickers in the flashing sky. You can taste mud and sunlight, the way that a fern would, the exact way. You can smell the release of gasses from the stinking mud and the rich, subtle scent of ferns uncurling. The shadows yawn and uncurl and the world fragments— Then you’re back, the sensory information cutting off. It took a moment for something so rich and info-packed and... dangerous. At the end. She was barely keeping control, wasn’t she? She could only avoid overwhelming you with wrongness for so long. She curls her arms over her knees and scoots closer, like a skittish wild animal.