[story] what you need
author: jaz templet (yachiru)
email: yachiru [at] gmail.com
It was raining. The taste of salt in his mouth. He leaned his head back; the rain burned his skin. He thought of the electronic signals that
regulated her emotions.
Did they tell her just what to say to him? Could he reach his hand inside that box and rip them out?
It was wet. She wasn't supposed to get wet. The man at the store told him that.
Don't get it wet. Don't put it out in the sun. Well... just keep it indoors really. I know too many men who ventured out for an afternoon stroll with one of those things. Then bam! Fried like a zakawa egg. You spent too much money on this little darlin' to throw it all away like that.
There are dark places inside him. Places covered with a thin film of grime. He rubs and he rubs but they're never clean. He has to wash his hands several times before he can hold her. She is cold. Her metallic shell is not pretty. Or fancy. It fills him with a queer terror.
He imagines what will happen when he starts her up. She will look like what he wants her to look like. She will speak what he wants her to speak when he wants her to speak. She will be everything he designed her to be.
Does he want that?
He's heard of men who have died, wrapped in the chords of their virtual lovers. They'd simply forgotten to eat.
No, he imagined they'd eaten in their dream lover's world. Sumptuous things, delicious, descadent things. But they never took the headsets off. Reality was not real enough for them.
Would he be the same? Would he care?
It's not like his life had any meaning. He worked in a low level position for the One government, poking out mid-level cybercriminals. Mostly Turtle Heads and Omni Whores. Grifters with their small scams and petty lives. He despised them. The only thing he had to look forward to was maybe a promotion to upper mid-level and a slow, lingering death in the Hospice. They could keep you alive until you were one hundred and fifty now. He'd heard the last twenty five years were just an excuse to continue their live extending experiments. You weren't really alive then. Just a husk.
He thought of lying there all day. Pissing and shitting. Being fed through a tube embedded in his chest. Day after day. Night after night. You couldn't sleep. The drugs kept you from blinking or swallowing. Then finally, they let you die. He imagined they waited until the stench of your old decaying flesh was overpowering. Then, when they could find no one to go near your flaccid body, they'd pull the plug.
He started her up. The lights flickered on and off in a dazzling pattern. He smiled for the first time since he'd bought her.
The viewer fit snugly on his head. It was lighter than it looked. He sat back on his bed and closed his eyes.
The memory of stars.
It was darker than he'd imagined. He could taste the inky night in the back of his mouth. Almost like bitter sugar. He rolled it around in his mouth.
Me remember? Me?
He thought he remembered. The taste triggered something in him, something he needed to remember.
She appeared out of the night sky and her face formed from the stars. Her lips were red. He kissed her and tasted blood. That bitter taste again. He shook. That taste.
"Don't you remember?" She hummed a tune.
Where was her face?
He saw her lips, the curve of her jaw. Nothing else.
His head ached.
"Stop that song. Stop."
She hummed and kissed him again.
That taste.
He screamed.
"Stop that!"
. . .
He was small. Everyone loomed over him, talking and busy. He hadn't had the chip installed yet. He felt alone in a land of Giants.
His father frowned down at him. He started to cry, confused.
"Should throw you down the recycler." His father growled at him, jerking at his arm.
There was a woman there. Her face painted in white and red. She handed him the candy and he sucked, soothed at the bitter taste.
"Never knew a kid that liked that taste. You sure got a weird one Portrid."
"Shut up about the kid. I'm not paying you to fuck the kid."
He closed his eyes and savored the taste.
Eleven Years Later
The whine of the laser, the thud as the body hit the ground.
He wasn't sorry. He felt no remorse. He sucked the candy, letting the taste float on the roof of his mouth.
"Bitch. Stupid bitch,"
She thought she could leave him. Just like his mother. His father.
She fed the stars now. Her spirit sifting through the particles like wind through a straw.
He kicked her limp body with his boot.
She belonged to him.
"No. I forgot about that. I don't want to remember. It wasn't me. It wasn't my fault."
"They never caught you did they? You murdered me and they never punished you for it. Your daddy used me and I tried to help you. Gave you a pity fuck now and then. Took you in when he got too rough. And that's how you repaid me."
"No. NO. NO. NO." He clutched his head.
"Not real. Not real. Not real."
"I am very real. You bought me remember? I am what you truly desire."
He sobbed. He couldn't look up.
"You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want." She sang at him, her voice as dark and luscious as he remembered. She used to sing that ancient song to him all the time, it comforted him now as it had then.
He breathed in, shuddering.
"But if you try sometimes you might find. You get what you need." He whispered back. Red and white. A dark night with more red than light.
"I'm sorry . . . please. Please."
He felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Just like he remembered once,
"Oh little boy. I know. But you don't want redemption do you?" She lifted his head and he forced himself to look her in the eye.
"No."
"What then?"
"Retribution."
the end
email: yachiru [at] gmail.com
It was raining. The taste of salt in his mouth. He leaned his head back; the rain burned his skin. He thought of the electronic signals that
regulated her emotions.
Did they tell her just what to say to him? Could he reach his hand inside that box and rip them out?
It was wet. She wasn't supposed to get wet. The man at the store told him that.
Don't get it wet. Don't put it out in the sun. Well... just keep it indoors really. I know too many men who ventured out for an afternoon stroll with one of those things. Then bam! Fried like a zakawa egg. You spent too much money on this little darlin' to throw it all away like that.
There are dark places inside him. Places covered with a thin film of grime. He rubs and he rubs but they're never clean. He has to wash his hands several times before he can hold her. She is cold. Her metallic shell is not pretty. Or fancy. It fills him with a queer terror.
He imagines what will happen when he starts her up. She will look like what he wants her to look like. She will speak what he wants her to speak when he wants her to speak. She will be everything he designed her to be.
Does he want that?
He's heard of men who have died, wrapped in the chords of their virtual lovers. They'd simply forgotten to eat.
No, he imagined they'd eaten in their dream lover's world. Sumptuous things, delicious, descadent things. But they never took the headsets off. Reality was not real enough for them.
Would he be the same? Would he care?
It's not like his life had any meaning. He worked in a low level position for the One government, poking out mid-level cybercriminals. Mostly Turtle Heads and Omni Whores. Grifters with their small scams and petty lives. He despised them. The only thing he had to look forward to was maybe a promotion to upper mid-level and a slow, lingering death in the Hospice. They could keep you alive until you were one hundred and fifty now. He'd heard the last twenty five years were just an excuse to continue their live extending experiments. You weren't really alive then. Just a husk.
He thought of lying there all day. Pissing and shitting. Being fed through a tube embedded in his chest. Day after day. Night after night. You couldn't sleep. The drugs kept you from blinking or swallowing. Then finally, they let you die. He imagined they waited until the stench of your old decaying flesh was overpowering. Then, when they could find no one to go near your flaccid body, they'd pull the plug.
He started her up. The lights flickered on and off in a dazzling pattern. He smiled for the first time since he'd bought her.
The viewer fit snugly on his head. It was lighter than it looked. He sat back on his bed and closed his eyes.
The memory of stars.
It was darker than he'd imagined. He could taste the inky night in the back of his mouth. Almost like bitter sugar. He rolled it around in his mouth.
Me remember? Me?
He thought he remembered. The taste triggered something in him, something he needed to remember.
She appeared out of the night sky and her face formed from the stars. Her lips were red. He kissed her and tasted blood. That bitter taste again. He shook. That taste.
"Don't you remember?" She hummed a tune.
Where was her face?
He saw her lips, the curve of her jaw. Nothing else.
His head ached.
"Stop that song. Stop."
She hummed and kissed him again.
That taste.
He screamed.
"Stop that!"
. . .
He was small. Everyone loomed over him, talking and busy. He hadn't had the chip installed yet. He felt alone in a land of Giants.
His father frowned down at him. He started to cry, confused.
"Should throw you down the recycler." His father growled at him, jerking at his arm.
There was a woman there. Her face painted in white and red. She handed him the candy and he sucked, soothed at the bitter taste.
"Never knew a kid that liked that taste. You sure got a weird one Portrid."
"Shut up about the kid. I'm not paying you to fuck the kid."
He closed his eyes and savored the taste.
Eleven Years Later
The whine of the laser, the thud as the body hit the ground.
He wasn't sorry. He felt no remorse. He sucked the candy, letting the taste float on the roof of his mouth.
"Bitch. Stupid bitch,"
She thought she could leave him. Just like his mother. His father.
She fed the stars now. Her spirit sifting through the particles like wind through a straw.
He kicked her limp body with his boot.
She belonged to him.
"No. I forgot about that. I don't want to remember. It wasn't me. It wasn't my fault."
"They never caught you did they? You murdered me and they never punished you for it. Your daddy used me and I tried to help you. Gave you a pity fuck now and then. Took you in when he got too rough. And that's how you repaid me."
"No. NO. NO. NO." He clutched his head.
"Not real. Not real. Not real."
"I am very real. You bought me remember? I am what you truly desire."
He sobbed. He couldn't look up.
"You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want." She sang at him, her voice as dark and luscious as he remembered. She used to sing that ancient song to him all the time, it comforted him now as it had then.
He breathed in, shuddering.
"But if you try sometimes you might find. You get what you need." He whispered back. Red and white. A dark night with more red than light.
"I'm sorry . . . please. Please."
He felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Just like he remembered once,
"Oh little boy. I know. But you don't want redemption do you?" She lifted his head and he forced himself to look her in the eye.
"No."
"What then?"
"Retribution."
the end