Objective
#2 of B-Snakes
All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
-Elias Canetti
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The secretary was used to hysterical clients, but even she was put off by the being screaming down the line at her.
"Yes, I understand. No, she can't diagnose you over the phone. Yes. Yes. No. Let me check her schedule-"
The psychiatrist's schedule glowed back at her from the display, clear and unsullied.
"I may have to move some things around, but I think she can take you on the half-hour."
She nodded at the client's profuse thanks, and closed the connection. Double-checked to make sure "Monique Borgier" was spelt right. It was. She confirmed the appointment, and a note was sent to the terminal next door, and back-traced up the line to the person who had just called. Three separate notifications, all in a few seconds.
She didn't even bother looking up when a white-clad white poodle strode-scurried, really-into the anteroom fifteen minutes later. The receptionist merely flicked a nail file at the office door, which the poodle vanished through.
The receptionist shook her head before returning to her paws.
"Bitch," she muttered.
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To the doctor's credit, she had gotten her game system packed away by the time Ms. Borgier collapsed on her couch, distraught, and winced.
"I think I am going mad," said the poodle.
The cow sitting on the chair nearby paused.
She used paper and shorthand. Obsolete, she knew, but she liked the hard copy. Besides, digital media was so accursedly hard to burn.
Unflappable as most members of her species were, she was still surprised by the unusual opener.
"I...see..." she said automatically. "What makes you say that?"
+++++
It had been a nice day, up until that point. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Monique Borgier was all but dancing her way down the street to meet her beloved.
As she approached his apartment building, she found it surrounded by a curious crowd. Probably a suicide or something; no matter. She pushed her way to the boundary, looked up at the two armed soldiers in HAZMAT outfits, and stepped back. Getting shot would *definitely* ruin her day. She looked past the troopers, to the building-
They were bringing Marcel out on a gurney. Not the "you're sick, hold still" gurney, but the "don't make me use force" type of gurney, the kind that was sometimes accompanied by soldiers pointing guns directly at the face of the occupant as he turned, his neck oddly stiff, to look at the stunned poodle in the crowd nearby.
The birds stopped chirping.
"Hello, Monique," he said calmly. "Stop screaming."
Throughout history, beings in uniform have tried and failed to keep females away from people on stretchers. The ones maintaining the perimeter around Marcel's apartment building upheld that glorious tradition, and, within seconds, were somewhat ineffectively trying to pull Monique away from her fiance.
She managed to wrap her arms around his chest before they hauled her back. Marcel whispered one word; "Lie."
"What?"
"Lie with me, Monique," he stage-whispered. "Among the gardens, silken and green." The soldiers glanced at each other, and pulled Monique a little harder, almost throwing her back into the crowd.
She recognizes the line, Monique thinks as she bounces off a curious monkey in a yellow hat. It's from one of Marcel's poems, the ones that he never published, and barely shows to anyone. It was about a prince who disguises himself as a beggar to sneak into the castle of a rival kingdom, in order to be with his lover. They had sex in the gardens.
Monique scrambled to her feet.
(who needs a garden)
"Wait!" she yelled. "What's going on?"
"Ma'am, have you had any intimate contact with this man?" said the nearest of the soldiers.
Behind him-or her, it was hard to tell-Marcel stared at his fiance as he was loaded into a black van.
"N-no. We were waiting until the wedding night. Call me old-fashioned, but-"
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Wait, you never answered my question! What are you doing with my fiance?"
The soldier turned. Monique detected some uneasiness in their stance. The suit was baggy, so that may have just been them trying to compensate for some too-tight underwear. She couldn't read the expression on their face; the globe around their head was designed to render their features a vague blur.
She thought of the images of Agents she had seen in historical dramas, with the sunglasses that were supposed to keep anyone from telling where you were looking. That was an uncomfortable image, so she immediately thought of the soldier in front of her as a "fishbowl head". Much better. Her heart slowed down.
"We believe he *may* be a vector for a contagious viral agent," said the trooper. "According to UNF general order 13443-1 and Chapter 5, Subsection E of the 2517 UNF-Galatea treaty, we are taking him into protective quarantine. "
It took Monique's Officialese Translator a few seconds to run. "C-sn-mmph!"
"*No*, ma'am, and we'd appreciate it if you kept your voice down." The soldier removed his glove from her muzzle and trotted back towards their compatriots, who were loading Marcel into a black van. The crowd began to disperse.
Leaving Monique all alone.
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"Alone?"
"Yes, alone. Why?"
"Nothing. What did you do next?"
"I went to a cafe. To calm down, to *think*, you understand."
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Monique's head hurts as she tries to figure out what's going to happen. She finally decides that the best thing to do would be to stay the course. Go to Arianne's later that afternoon, wait a few days, then postpone the wedding while she talks with lawyers.
She takes a sip of her tea, a nibble of her brioche, and tries to lose herself in the late spring sunlight. She loses herself in the details, like the dog in the striped shirt and beret. He is on a bike, and there is a baguette in his basket.
The tea is too hot.
Of course, it would cost an arm and both legs to push back the caterers, the rentals, the cathedral. Did Marcel know how hard it was to get a wedding slot in a church at this time of year? The selfish cur would just have to go and get himself arrested now-
Someone sits down at her table.
The human is young, and possibly very pretty. Monique doesn't know much about humans. (She's not speciesist, though; her best friend is a human.) The one across from her is wearing a colourless sweatshirt over some sort of slick, shiny unitard. The poodle thinks she's just a random mistaken fetishist, until she notices the intense gaze peering out from under the hood and the robe-clad gaggle standing a respectful distance away.
Nuts. She was about to be asked if she had heard of the Church of the Reticent Hope or something. She drew first by asking "can I help you?"
"You already have, mistress, but I would ask a little more."
Merde.
Monique had been in this situation before, more or less, when a promising source turned out to be some random crazy person. She automatically moved her tea towards her, in case a throw-and-run was required. And it frequently was. The girl was babbling on about violence, and pain, and guidance, and smelt faintly of the type of drug used by people who wore Bob Marley t-shirts. And, of course, latex.
"-you did *things* to me, Elcaro. Wonderful, terrible things-"
Monique is vaguely aware of the quartet at the nearby table. A brunette, a redhead, a blonde, and another, possibly transvestite blonde, all human. They've all stopped chatting over their little pink drinks, and the poodle is acutely aware of the need to end this quickly.
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"Is that something you do often?"
"What?"
"Lying. Do you lie often?"
"I'm a writer. It's something of a requirement."
"How so?"
"You're always lying to someone. To your editor, to your readers-"
"If you write fiction."
"No."
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She leaned forward, and took the girl's hands in her own. "Please," she pitched her voice low and urgent. "This is not the best place."
"Have I erred, mistress?"
"It is too soon, too soon, little one. When the time comes, you shall know." She released the girl's hands, and sat back in her seat, trying to look confident and in control. She found, to her annoyance, that she was imitating the way her big sister had sat while waiting for her date to arrive.
The girl nodded, as if Monique had confirmed something. "Thank you. Thank you." She pushed her chair back, came halfway around the table, paused, and then darted forward to kiss Monique on the lips.
"Beautiful and terrible as the dawn," she whispered in the older being's ear.
And then she was gone.
Monique slowly untensed, her mind whirring.
Her headache was worse.
The quartet resumed their conversation.
+++++
"Who paid?"
"What?"
"Did you pay for her coffee?"
"...Yes."
"Did you feel responsible for her?"
"Why not? Last person at the table always pays."
"I see. What did you do next?"
"I went to see my best friend, Dervish."
"Why?"
"She was closest."
"Not because she's some sort of mother or sister figure to you?"
"A sister who owes me money, yes."
"What did Dervish say?"
"Not much."
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"Oh," said Dervish. Oddly noncommittal.
"'Oh'?" Monique retorted. "Is that all you can say? My life is falling apart. My fiance has been taken into custody, strange women are addressing me on the street, and if I wake up allergic to Cosmos tomorrow I don't know what I will do. Do you have any aspirin?"
"What for?"
Monique stared at her friend. "I've got an end table with a short leg. What do you *think*?"
"Top left, rear?" Dervish asked as she hustled her friend into the kitchen of the sparsely furnished apartment. Monique had once asked her why she never got any real furniture. Derv had replied that she wanted to make a quick escape. And they had both laughed.
Wait, what?
"Yes, that's where it is. How did yo-oh!"
"You don't need aspirin," Dervish explained as she kneaded her friend's shoulders. "You're just a little...*urgh*. A little *tense*."
Monique made little whimpering noises. Her leg thumped.
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"After a while, I felt better, and then I went home."
"Does she always do that? Divert your questions?"
"Come to think of it, yes."
"What does she do for a living?"
"I...I don't know. I think it involves the computer. Is that important?"
"Maybe. And then what happened?"
"I went home."
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Monique grabbed some aspirin from the medicine cabinet before flopping down on her bed. Despite Dervish's claims, the massage had only helped a little. Lights shone on the ceiling she was staring at, moving lights, indistinct images.
"TV off," she said. The lights vanished. Her tears didn't. Her foot hit something under the bed.
It was a box, declaring itself to be property of Alyn Industries. Marcel's company. Why would he put something under her bed?
(hide the evidence)
Because he forgot, a cold, rational voice at the back of her mind said. He bought something from work and left it here by accident. No need to make a fuss. No need to panic. No need to open it.
I wasn't thinking about opening it, Monique argued back.
A pause. Then there was a spike of pain, and the voice retorted, good. Good.
But, hypothetically, if I di-ow!
More pain? You should probably take some aspirin, lie down, put the box away, and forget about it. But put it away first, so you don't have to look at it. Now.
It was perhaps unfortunate for that cold, logical voice that Monique had been having a very bad day, and was tired of being shoved around.
She hadn't even gotten to finish her brioche, for Vishnu's sake.
She glared at the box, and tabbed in the first number sequence she thought of. Nothing happened.
See? said the voice. Nothing. Go to sleep.
She pressed her hand to the thumbprint scanner.
Go to sleep.
She swiped her paw across the DNA collector.
Sleep.
The box opened.
Her head exploded with pain.
There was a mask in the box, a white rubber mask like a horrible grin, on top of several white folds of the same material. It had all kind of zips and buckles and various pieces of unidentified metal Monique didn't even want to imagine the function of.
The thing smelt strongly of rubber.
It also smelt like her.
She wondered, absurdly, if rubber burned, and where one found gasoline or paraffin or a lit taper in this day and age. If the mask was invulnerable-possibly due to springing from Hell-she'd simply burn down the entire building. And Marcel's. And then that cafe. And maybe the whole city, just to be sure.
Don't be silly, broke in the voice. It echoed now, and seemed to be speaking a little faster as it suggested her that Marcel had probably just gotten her scent synthesized, and was planning to bring it up later. He had been leaning in that direction, hadn't he? Asking her to watch that weird porno with him? Maybe he switched the outfit into a work case because he hadn't wanted her to catch on.
But what about the woman at the cafe? The only way that and this could make sense would be if I'm-
You're not doing things you can't remember. It's just a coincidence, that's all.
In response, Monique pulled the mask over her head.
It fit perfectly.
The voice was silent.
She reached for the phone.
+++++
"And here I am. So, tell me, am I going mad? Am I the bitch in the rubber mask? What's up, doc?"
The psychiatrist blinked, and leaned back in her chair.
"What about the rest of the outfit?"
"Hm?"
"The outfit. There's only one shop on this continent that does the type of mask you described, and you have to commission a full suit too. No exceptions."
"How do you know that?"
The cow was good; there wasn't a pause of more than half a second before she responded. "One of my more...severe patients mentioned it during his case."
"Do I qualify as one of those?"
"No. In fact, I'm fairly certain that you're suffering from nothing worse than a little stress. I'm going to write you a prescription for some sedatives and-do you still have that headache?"
"Yes."
"Something a little stronger than the usual pills, then. I'm not supposed to do this, but I also have the names of a few lawyers..."
"I thought you were supposed to help me." Both smiled, stood up.
"What are you going to do now?"
"Well, first of all, I'm late for my wedding dress fitting."
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One cab ride later, Monique stepped through the doorway of Arianne's. Dervish, curled up in a well-stuffed armchair, looked up from her book to point her friend towards fitting room 5. And, as an afterthought, to say "hello".
"Where's Arianne?" Monique said as she hung her purse on the hook.
"She's in the rear, but she'll be out in a minute."
There were a few minutes of silence as Monique struggled into her dress, broken only by a few effort grunts and the small sound of Dervish's hand sliding across the screen. And the sound of beaded curtains being pushed aside.
If Monique had been listening, she would've heard the sounds of pleasant conversation, Arianne asking what the human was reading, but she was too busy worrying about the dress being a little tighter across the chest and trying not to think about Marcel.
Something beeped.
"What was that noise?"
"What noise?" There were some...*organic* sounds from the other side of the door.
"It sounded like a UNF PDK-25 infiltrator sidearm with integrated silencer."
"That was oddly specific." A thump.
"Dervish? Did someone fall down? Derv?" Monique peeked around the door.
Dervish had removed her clothes, replacing them with a shiny black catsuit for no apparent reason. She held a gun in one hand, and her clothes had peeled off in certain spots to become black...tentacles, it looked like. Tentacles that wrapped around the head of the dressmaker, entering her mouth, her nose, the hole in her forehead, and the something pink and huge
(c-snake oh sweet vishnu it's a c-snake)
coming out of her crotch. It was turning black as Monique watched, the darkness spreading downward from the tentacle spearing into the tip.
Monique staggered slightly to the left. "What-"
Dervish looked at her, then at the infested dressmaker, then back at the poodle.
"I can explain," she said.
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2008 Nequ. Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0.
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/
Based on C-snakes, a fictional species created by Alyn Gryphon.