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OK, sure, man may be the cruellest animal, Nietzsche.
But I’m a fucking transfemme lesbian author, Nihilism-Boi!!!
I’M CRUEL IN WAYS MEN CAN’T EVER BE!!!
JUST THIS ONCE, EVERYONE LIVES! JUST THIS ONCE!!!
HOW’S THAT FOR CRUELTY!!!
A certain, mentally unstable, transfemme, twenty-something (as of this quote), half-Asian author who may or may not go by “Minh” on the thirteenth chapter of a mildly popular force femme fanfic. Enjoy the chapter, everyone
PREVIOUSLY, ON DORLEY: THE NEXT GENERATION…
Alan (Narration): And I could see Arthur was hiding something. He was troubled, and he was suffering, but I couldn’t talk to him. (…) And it was the biggest mistake I would ever make. And someone would suffer because of it. Just not who I expected to suffer.
Arthur: “Look, I think it’s stupid the right uses those terms. It’s actually really fucking ironic, actually. Which is why I try to use the term “redpill” as little as possible. And ironically? We’ve both been taking the fucking redpills while we’ve been here. Or did you forget about the estrogen they’ve been flooding us with?”
Alan (Narration): Ewan and I were outliers. Something had informed our selection as a group, and I was pretty sure the sponsors were hiding more than just the upcoming testicular removal that Steph had said was scheduled for March next year.
Alan (Narration): …and Arthur, moving faster than I thought anyone could move, whipped his arm up and plunged his steak knife into Maria’s stomach, all the way up to the hilt. She shoved him away as she fell back, the knife falling out of my sight and clattering to the floor. Katsuro screamed, and Nessa stood, pulling a miniature taser from her handbag. I fell back out of my chair, and onto the floor, scrambling back as chaos reigned. The lighting shifted to a harsh red as Arthur cackled from where he stood, his hand slightly bloody. The back wall opened up, sliding away to reveal a pair of men armed with handguns, who rushed out, and readied their weapons. I barely registered all of this; my shock all-consuming. The incident had happened. The final strike had been made against Arthur. And I knew that nothing would be the same after this. For any of us.
AND NOW…THE CONTINUATION…
Maria thudded to the floor, followed shortly by Arthur, who had simply stood there after dropping the knife (or the handle of it at least) to the floor, laughing. The panic subsided quickly as the sponsors moved to control the situation, but Steph couldn't stop staring at Arthur, who was lying on the floor twitching. What the fuck had caused this? Why had he looked the way he did when he collapsed?
Steph thought he looked almost disappointed when instead of being shot by the Peckinville contractors who had been waiting for something to go wrong- the sponsors had thought something might happen, even if they hadn’t expected this- Nessa tasered him with the one-shot taser she had been issued in the place of the normal multishot ones that usually were standard carry. They had thought they might be a tad worrying to be carrying at a birthday dinner. Steph wondered if maybe their presence might have deterred this. She had more important things to talk about.
Maria was still alive, and groaning on the floor, with blood soaking the front of her dress. One of the Peckinville guys immediately unclipped a large canvas bag from his tactical vest and crouched down besides Maria, unzipping the bag to reveal a large selection of medical supplies. His tag read "Sgt. Fletcher", and his left shoulder bore a red cross along with the Peckinville Associates roundel, which sat above it. Steph vaguely remembered reading that one of their two current PMC contractors was a former combat medic who had served in Afghanistan. She guessed this was him.
“I need anyone with first aid training to assist me. If there isn’t anyone in the room who has that, I need two volunteers to help me treat Miss Lam here. Everyone else, clear the room. Harrison, get that bastard to the cells, one of you girls help him.”
Steph moved over and crouched down besides Fletcher, beckoning over Monica. “I have first aid certification, and Monica does as well. Nessa, get the intakes to their rooms. Full lockdown. Pippa, get Arthur in a cell, keep him there for the time being. Indira, inform Bea, and get her to contact our friends at the hospital.”
The other sponsors nodded, moving quickly to get the crisis under control. Alan was almost catatonic up against the back wall, his chair toppled over next to him. Nessa helped him up, with Katsuro’s help, and got all the intakes moving out of the dining room. Maria was still conscious, but clearly in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the PMC contractor, “Harrison” slung Arthur’s unconscious body over one shoulder, and walked out of the room following Pippa. Indira, meanwhile, ran off to give a situation report to Bea. Once they were all gone, Steph turned to the PMC guy treating Maria, Monica already applying pressure to the wound.
“OK, room is clear, what do you need me to do?” she asked, putting on a pair of surgical gloves the contractor tossed her way as fast as she could. “What’s the condition of the patient? Is Maria stable?”
“Alright, I need you to help keep her in a recovery position while I bandage the wound,” replied Fletcher, pulling out a large roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic. “I’ll need you to take over putting pressure on the wound in a moment, since I need Monica here to fetch some things for me. The blade snapped off after penetrating down to her ribcage, and is lodged in her twelfth rib. As far as I can tell, she’s not in any immediate danger, but the blade is dangerously close to her stomach and her liver, and may have nicked her gut on the way in. She needs to get to a surgeon, and get a full examination, or we could be looking at anything from internal bleeding up to a critically damaged liver or gut lining. Right now, I need to stabilize her, and get her on a stretcher. Alright, Monica? I need you to go get one of the folding stretchers from the infirmary, and get ready to move her to the emergency exit so an ambulance can pick her up. Steph, take over putting pressure on the wound.”
Monica nodded, before moving quickly out the door. Steph pushed down on the wadding that was absorbing the surprisingly small amount of blood coming out of the wound. Internally, she cursed herself for suggesting this whole affair in the first place. The again, they hadn’t seen this coming from Arthur, or anyone except Danny to be honest. He had been struggling with something, but they didn’t think it was bad enough that he might try murdering someone. It seemed they had a mystery to solve. Or at least a deception to get to the root of.
Arthur had tricked them all, it seems. Danny had been the one they’d worried most about, and Monica had been wearing a lightweight Kevlar vest under her dress to protect against stabbing attempts to her upper body. They would have all been wearing them if they hadn’t thought Arthur was doing better, and that he was still a threat. Danny hadn’t even argued when they left the room, seemingly cowed by the security guys.
What the fuck had that boy been thinking? Why had he done this now, after months of compliance and steady progress? The way he had looked when he saw Nessa pull that taser was weird. It was almost like he’d wanted those PMC guys to kill him, like he was trying to provoke someone, anyone, into killing him.
She turned back to her work as the sergeant began expertly bandaging the wound, reassuring Maria that everything would be OK. Steph assisted by gently lifting her up off the ground slightly so the medic could wrap the bandages around her middle. They were extremely lucky to have him here, and that he was so quick to respond. She made a note to get Bea to send a message to Elle to get Fletcher a raise, and maybe a promotion. He was clearly a professional, which was rare for someone from the PMC. Most of them were ex-military for a reason, and that reason was usually not a very good one. Eventually, Monica returned with a stretcher, Indira reported an ambulance was on the way, and that Bea was getting Elle to put together a cover that didn’t result in the police investigating what happened and uncovering the hall, and Maria was wheeled off, wounded, but alive.
This was a fucking mess. They needed to figure out what the fuck had caused this, and why Arthur had done this after such a drastic change in character. If none of them had seen this coming, maybe someone else would be able to help.
She didn’t want to resort to calling on his help, not right now, but if they couldn’t get through to Arthur, there was someone who might be able to see through whatever fuckery was going on and get to the truth. Bea wasn’t going to agree easily though. Not in this case, and not when Arthur had just gotten his third strike.
But Steph knew she had to try. For Arthur’s sake. Even after what he did, he needed their help more than anyone else right now. That was clear as day.
Stardate -271.5279 – Programme Day Eighty – 1247 GMT; 6th December 2024
It was three days before my door opened and Steph walked in. Food and water had been delivered via the dumbwaiter, but we had otherwise been on total lockdown the entire time. No communication of any kind, and absolutely no way to know what was going on. I was beginning to get sick of watching through the rom-coms and other non-sci fi stuff I’d been ignoring for so long, and was longing for someone to talk to. Steph hadn’t responded to my various messages on Consensus, and there was nobody else I could directly contact. Christine still hadn’t given me the ability to contact her if she didn’t contact me first, and I suspected she didn’t have that ability anyway. She certainly didn’t seem to be connecting from Dorley, the way she talked about being elsewhere.
So when Steph walked in, and immediately hugged me as I got up from my chair to greet her, I was in a good enough mood to not protest the hug. Not that I didn’t dislike hugs, but it wasn’t what I had been expecting.
“Alan…god, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s good to see you,” Steph said, releasing me, and stepping back. “How have you been doing, the last three days? Have you been eating well?”
“Sure, yeah, been OK. Bit lonely though,” I said, turning my chair to face her and sitting down. “Is…is Maria…?”
Steph smiled, and immediately I felt a wave of relief I never thought I’d feel for one of my kidnappers. Christ, I was definitely suffering from Stockholm Syndrome right now. “She’s OK. The blade caused some internal bleeding, but the doctors at the local hospital were able to get her into surgery and repair the damage. She’s conscious, and she’s recovering well. She’ll be laid up for the next week and a bit, but she’ll pull through. She’s a survivor. She always has been.”
“Oh thank god,” I said, my shoulders slumping. “Steph, I’m so sorry. I’ve spent the last three days going over what happened that day in my head, and I knew that something was up with Arthur. I could see he was going through something in his head, even though he was putting on a brave face. I should have said something. Maybe then Maria wouldn’t have been hurt. It’s my fault that-”
Steph cut me off, her voice sharp. “Alan, it is not your fault. Don’t blame this on your failure to report something. We’re your sponsors, we’re the ones who bear that responsibility. We didn’t see what you saw, and that’s what allowed all of this to happen. On that note, I have something to ask you. If you’d help us here, we might be able to get to the bottom of what happened.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What do you need my help with?” I asked, looking up at her. “Arthur’s gone, right? Three strikes, and you wash out? I doubt he said yes to a second chance, if you even gave him one.”
Steph sighed, and leaned back against the door. “That’s the thing. He hasn’t said no. He hasn’t said yes. He’s been almost catatonic for the last three days. Auntie Bea- the woman in charge of this place, and yes, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her name, but fuck it, you were going to find out at some point- has given us three days to get him to talk before she hands him over to the Peckinville contractors and he washes out. And no, I don’t even know what that entails. For all I know, he’s taken away to be fed to vampires. Not that that’s likely, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. Only one person has ever come back after being washed out, and he…uh…she…uh…anyway, not important. It was a unique situation that involved an unexpected kidnapping during that person’s transit by someone outside of the hall. That’s not important though.”
I frowned. “OK, but why not just wash Arthur out? He tried to murder Maria. How can this be more complicated?”
Steph looked very unsure about how to proceed. Eventually, she spoke. “We think that this may have been a suicide attempt. Just one that involved making us take lethal action against him that would have meant death. During the incident with Danny before you showed up, the Peckinville contractors were forced to intervene, and so he was aware of their existence if you weren’t. They’re the only people on sight who carry lethal weapons, and all of the other intakes were made aware that any further escape attempts would be punished with lethal force if they made it any further than Danny did. Which wasn’t far at all, didn’t even make it to the stairs, and he only made it through the door because Pippa was currently walking through it at the time. The fact is that we think he was trying to kill himself via what boils down to “death by cop”.”
I shook my head. “Why would he do that? He could have slit his wrists with that knife, or done anything else. He didn’t know those guys were hiding in the walls, so…”
I trailed off. “…you want me to talk to him, don’t you? That’s why you’re telling me all this.”
She nodded. “It’s that perceptiveness you are uniquely gifted with that we need. The fact is, Alan, that you’ve managed to see through a lot of stuff that others have not, and to be honest, it’s the only reason we’re asking you to help. All of us have tried. We even got Tessa and Katsuro to try, but they couldn’t get through to him. He said more than he said to us though. All that amounted to was “go away and let me die”. So you’re basically the only thing standing between Arthur and a trip to somewhere that is worse than death. And while you’ve had your differences, I don’t think you’d allow that to happen. You’re a good person, despite your bullshit, at least where it counts.”
She tapped her chest, right over her heart as she said the last part. I leaned back in my chair, and thought about it. Arthur was an asshole. He’d been a threat to me and my friends for months, even if he’d lost his aggressiveness. We’d been waiting for him to snap out of it and try to strangle one of us again, or something of the like.
But Steph was right. No matter how much I disliked the bastard, he was in the same boat as us. And he was definitely struggling. And, now that I’d had time to observe him when he wasn’t putting me on edge with his very presence…I was beginning to realise that the guy I’d met on my first day was as much of a persona as Picard was a role played by Patrick Stewart.
As much as I hated him, I needed to give him a chance to get over whatever his shit was. I breathed in, and out. Then, I nodded.
“Okay. I’ll give it a shot. I don’t like it, but the fucker deserves a fair chance. I assume he’s still in the brig?”
Steph nodded, and beckoned me to follow as she opened the door. I never thought I’d end up helping my kidnappers, but then again, I never thought I’d end up in the feminising torture basement until it happened. Fucking hell, I hoped Arthur knew what I was doing for him. The bastard better have a damn good reason for fucking up my best friend’s birthday.
I hadn’t been in the cell block since my first day here, but it still felt as unwelcoming as the moment I’d stepped foot in here. We walked past the stairs leading upwards, but I knew escape would be futile, and I didn’t want to betray Steph’s trust now that she was depending on me. Escape was futile at any rate, there were at least two biometrically locked doors between the actual hall and freedom, and I wouldn’t be able to get through them even if I wanted to.
Eventually, we ended up outside the seventh cell, two others beyond at the far end, one of which had been mine when I arrived. Arthur was inside, lying on the thin mattress facing away from the two of us. He didn’t even react to our presence. A chain connected his ankle to a clip on the wall, enough that he could move between his bed and the toilet, but not reach the door. Steph opened the door, and I walked inside. She closed it, and stood outside. Arthur didn’t even react.
“Hey…uh…it’s Alan,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “Look, buddy, I’m just as unhappy to be in here as you are. But you need to talk to me, man. I’m basically the only thing standing between you and washing out. I don’t know why they asked me to talk to you, but, you know, might be a good idea to do what they want?”
There was silence. I leaned back against the wall, and tried not to gag at the smell coming from Arthur. He clearly hadn’t been allowed out to use the shower since he was put in here, and the toilet was definitely not working right when it came to flushing. “Look, man, this place stinks, surely you want out as much as I do, if not more? Come on, talk to me here, I’m meant to be helping you.”
More silence. He was definitely breathing, that much was clear, and there was no way he was asleep right now. I was beginning to get annoyed, enough so that I lost any desire to remain tactful. “Look, Arthur, I’m going to be blunt now. Why did you want to pull off a suicide by cop, and why have you been pretending to be some sort of alt-right dickhead from the moment you got-”
“None of your fucking business, fuckface.”
Well, that was progress, at least. He was not glaring at me, and seemed to be more ready to talk. I tried to remain as calm as possible, and remain friendly. It would be the most helpful thing to do right now.
“Okay, so, how is it not my business?” I asked, arching an eyebrow, channelling the spirit of Leonard Nimoy into every muscle movement. “First, you make yourself out to be some sort of bully- which I can see through, and which I know was a fucking act- and in retrospect, that was probably meant to get the sponsors to see you as being a violent person they couldn’t help so that they’d use the guys with the handguns as an execution method. Or something. Personally, I don’t fucking know why. Then you spend the next several months acting morose, suggesting you’d realised that simply attacking people without a lethal weapon wouldn’t warrant a lethal response, and that all that’d happen is that you’d get tasered or beaten, and dragged off to a cell. So you clearly weren’t trying to wash out. If you’d wanted that, you would have gone for strike three before you had an opportunity. And then, finally, you attack a sponsor with an actually lethal weapon. Oh, and it happens on my best friend’s fucking birthday, so thanks for spoiling the mood, asshole.”
“That’s not true,” muttered Arthur, his face pale, and growing paler by the second. He seemed to be half talking to himself, not to me. And to be honest, I didn’t need to debate whether it was true or not, not when I was clearly getting to him with this approach. I pressed on.
“So, basically, I think you’ve been trying to commit suicide this entire time, but you couldn’t manage it when there’s no way to actually provoke them into action without a lethal weapon, so you basically shut down. I don’t think you knew that we’d be given steak knives, but you definitely took the chance when it was presented to you. And my only question is, why the act? If the right wing rhetoric was part of it, and I’m pretty sure it was, that means you’ve probably been doing it the entire time, even before you got here.”
“Shut up,”
“I mean, it’s like you’ve been trying to kill yourself because you don’t want to be the one to do it yourself. Self-preservation is hard to overcome, after all.”
“I said, shut up. You don’t know anything.”
“I mean, what, was the right wing stuff meant to make you a martyr? Hard to do that down here, so I’m assuming it was meant to try and get some sort of response from the people in power. Your response to the labour party being in when we were watching television seemed almost relieved. So why do you feel you need to throw your life away to hurt the right we-“
I got my answer at a volume that was ear-splitting in the tiny cell. Arthur just snapped, and the final layer of his last remaining mask was stripped away. The real Arthur, if I could call him that, was finally let free. And he was distraught.
“THE FUCKING SCREAMING IN MY HEAD! THAT’S BEEN THERE ALL MY FUCKING LIFE, AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER! THE SCREAMING THAT SAYS, “SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH ME” BUT WHICH NEVER FUCKING STOPS! THAT’S WHY I WANT TO DIE, YOU FUCK!”
I stood there mute as Arthur, the last person I expected to cry, began to sob, while continuing to scream. His voice was laden with what seemed like years of despair and anguish that was almost tangible in its rawness. I was almost pressed back into the wall at the sheer emotional turmoil embedded into every word. He was sobbing now, seemingly spent. Eventually, he looked up at me, and continued in a smaller, and much more vulnerable voice.
“The only way I can get it to stop is to fucking die. But I can’t fucking kill myself, because I’m a fucking coward. I’ve tried before, but I can never do it. But if I was to present enough of a threat to someone who could do it for me, they’d be able to do it without hesitation. And I want my death to mean something. My life has never been mine. It’s been a parade of days spent doing stuff that doesn’t fucking matter while the people who surround me talk about hurting people like it’s OK. And I’ve had to nod along to avoid losing the only connections I’ve had to anyone at any time. I have nobody who cares about me. Out there? My friends are all fucking bigots and assholes because they were the people I fell in with due to my fucking foster parents. I have no friends, no family, and no life.”
He breathed in a few ragged breaths, and turned away. “So maybe if my death could have made the government do something about the alt right, raise support for those people who I didn’t fucking know were in that bar when I set it on fire, and maybe if I could die and get someone to pay attention to wiping out the scumbags who saw me as one of them…maybe my death might mean something. And I’d finally stop suffering. Fuck off, Alan. Go psychoanalyse one of your little green men. And tell them to kill me or wash me out or whatever. I don’t want to live anymore.”
I wandered back to my cell in a state of shock. Steph congratulated me for doing so well, saying they could help him now that they knew what was wrong, and that he was going to be fine. She said that we’d be let out soon, and that she’d come check on my when she was done talking with Arthur. I barely listened.
I walked inside my room, and closed the door. I walked over to my bed, and lay down on it. Arthur had described a living hell that was apparently his life, and the motivator for his entire behaviour. He had described a screaming that seemed to come from the very core of his being. But I didn’t need to hear what he described to know what he was talking about.
I focused on the part of my mind where I locked away the things that plagued me. All my self-doubts, all my nagging insecurities, and I began to peel back the mental walls that I had painstakingly constructed to bury all of my fucked-up mental issues. I didn’t care about them. I wanted to see if it was still at the bottom of that imaginary mental prison. I already knew the answer. You couldn’t kill the beast.
And then I felt the scream, the same one Arthur had described, and I knew that he was telling the truth. And that I was more like him that I wanted to admit. And in that moment, I agreed with Arthur.
I wanted to die. I wanted to be free. And as the screaming in my head came up to full power, I screamed with it, until my throat was raw, and my lungs couldn’t sustain it anymore.
How long would I last before I tried to copy Arthur?
And who was I going to hurt?
TO BE CONTINUED…
Omelette time? I think it's omelette time
Mmm Omlette…
LOOKIE! I FOUND A SERRATED STEAK KNIFE.
I SURE HOPE I DON'T ACCIDENTALLY RUN INTO SOMEONE WITH IT.
Joke aside! I cant wait for more. The dam of emotions just broke for both of them.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
I may or may not be working towards all of the intakes being eggs. Whether or not this was a secret plan that even the sponsors were not made aware of is...well, let's just say it could go either way depending on how I rewrite season two. I actually intended to kill Arthur off originally, but then I decided I could do more with him than pull a Benny on him.
Since this is no longer happening, the original plan was he'd pull a stupid McEvil bit, kill Maria, cut off her hand, use it to unlock the doors, and try and escape. It was comically over the top and more than a little bit unrealistic. So, I scrapped it, like, a day before writing chapter 12, and now I have to replot the entire second season. Which is why I need this break for Dorley even if I'm still going to be working on my other stories.
ok, guess I was wrong. Not a collapsible knife
also, holy shit, how are they all eggs?