Mach2 — Roleplayer Guild

Vander nodded to James, instantly forgiving him. Had the situation been reversed, she could have understand his anger and frustration entirely. She took the bedding from him gratefully, and started making the couch. "Thanks. Really, thank you. I'll head home in the morning, I promise," she told him.

When he left and she curled up on the couch, it was softer by far than the old box-spring mattress in her own apartment. Vander was asleep within minutes. And, with Lucid still coursing through her body, she was dreaming in minutes more.

Vander dreamed she had no hands.

She was back in The Spit. Only this time, her arms ended several inches before her wrists. They simply tapered off into dull, unattractive, stumps. She walked through the club, stopping to make conversation with some of the more drunken patrons. They told her stories, and she listened with undying interest. Each of them had a life....had stories to tell that she would never experience. She soaked up the lives they spoke of as if they could someday be her own. She was a vampire, feeding off of their life stories as one may feed on blood. But always, just as the stories became truly interesting, they realized she had no hands. Horrified, they would put a stuttering, awkward, stop to their tales, before leaving. And disappointed, Vander would move to the next.

Deon was in the club, fighting in the ring that night. He promised her hands. He could get her a new set of hands, if she could beat him in a fight. She had no choice but to fight him...you couldn't function without hands. She climbed into the ring, the bright spotlights glaring down on the two of them, and the bell rang to begin the match.

It was only then that Vander realized that she couldn't punch without hands. Deon's blows came fast and strong, one bruising her cheek, another heading for her stomach. She dropped, her abdominal muscles seizing, and the blows kept coming. She curled up, raising her hand-less arms to try to cover her head. And still the punches didn't end.

Vander awoke, completely entangled in the blankets on the couch, and covered with a layer of fear-induced sweat. Her hair was a mess, parted unevenly and hanging over both sides of her face, rather than brushed over to the right as usual. She took several deep, gasping, breaths. Her stomach was still clenching from the blows in the ring, and she couldn't feel her hands. She quickly raised an arm in front of her face, relief flooding through her when she saw the spiderleg fingers curled at the end. She had hands. The nerves were just fried from being over-stimulated by Lucid. But her stomach was still churning, and the nausea only grew worse.

She quickly disentangled herself from the blankets, making a beeline for the apartment's bathroom. She knelt down over the toilet just in time for her stomach to eject a mess of liquid bile. She hadn't eaten anything substantial since the morning the previous day. Only Lucid, alcohol, and weed. No wonder she was sick. She took a steadying breath, and her stomach lurched again. Heaving into the toilet bowl, nothing came up this time. Unsteadily, she stood up and flushed the contents away. With numb, clumsy, fingers, she turned on the faucet. Vander awkwardly splashed water over her face, and rinsed the acidic taste from her mouth. The water dripped off her fingers, her hands unable to hold it.

She leaned against the bathroom counter, her headache already beginning once again. She had no idea how many hours she had slept for, but it was enough for the Lucid to run its course. She had to get back to D-16 and grab another syringe. Vander stood in the bathroom, trying to massage some feeling back into her hands, in order to lace up her shoes and be on her way.

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Mad Hops

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