We're Here, page 23
ERRORAMUAA.EXENOTDEFINEDERROR AMUAA.EXENOTDEFINEDERROR
His fingers scrabbled for purchase against the rim of the tub but he couldn’t get them to do what what he wanted, couldn’t get them to work—
Hands. Someone’s hands had grabbed his and were pulling pulling pulling him up and out. But Os slipped against the slick sides of the tub, splashing blood everywhere and they weren’t strong enough weren’t strong enough—
ERRORAMUAA.EXENOTDEFINEDERROR
A bite of cold around his ankles. The world turned upside down and Os felt himself being yanked out of the bath by his feet. Blood sluiced off him and he spluttered, dangling upside down from the ceiling.
The pain still hammered in his head but he could see again.
Amu stood before him.
Hope erupted in his chest, star-bright.
There stood Amu, arms outstretched, sweat pouring down his chest. He was chanting something. A look of intense concentration gouged lines into his forehead. His scalp—
The tattoos that normally adorned Amu’s scalp like a skullcap had somehow broken free of their two-dimensional prison. Writhing, black forms, they twisted around his head like a monstrous crown. Inky chains reached out from them, towards Os’s feet, holding him up above the bath of churning blood.
But the pain wouldn’t stop. The pain still pierced his skull, the weird symbols still thrust into his brain. This had to end. He couldn’t stand it for much longer.
“Amu,” he managed. “Kill me!”
Amu’s eyes widened, even as he continued to chant.
“Please!” Os begged. “Before—”
Twin javelins of darkness shot out of the mass of crawling tattoos, straight towards Os’ heart.
osisboss | September 21, 2021, 3:03 AM
ISIS GENDER SWAP & TLW
I removed all my mods before installing The Long Winter expansion, and then tried to re-install @oslover616’s gender swapping mod. The game now crashes every time I boot it up. Does anyone know of a fix for this? I love the features of TLW, but I NEED #OsAmu!
oslover616 | September 23, 2021, 9:42 AM
THE LONG WINTER BUG
Hey folks! As you’re probably all aware, my Amu-Aa mod hasn’t been playing well with TLW. I’ve tried to figure out where the problem is, but honestly, I don’t really have the time to devote to it.
Looks like you’ll have to play TLW without the mod. Or if you really want to finish Amu and Os’ storyline, you can keep your save file before installing TLW in a separate folder, and like, return to it later after finishing the expansion.
Sorry folks, but I just don’t have the spoons for this right now!
xoxoxo
—BREATHE.
Os scrambled out of the tub faster than he had ever before. He stood there, naked, shivering. Blood cooled on his body.
There was no pain in his head. In fact, he felt curiously light.
A warm towel settled over his shoulders.
“Os?”
Amu was worried. Os could tell from the quaver in his voice. But hearing Amu filled him with a giddy happiness he’d never thought possible.
He turned and regarded the witch. Normally tough and thorny like a desert plant, Amu now looked small, anxious, fragile. His hands were clasped around his elbows, his eyes large with worry.
“Os, how are you feeling?”
Inside the Pyramid, Lady Hathor had once left Os a gift of a poem, a token to think upon as he battled his way to Set. In the chaotic hellscape of the Pyramid, he had clutched the words to his chest, held on to them tightly, treating them like an amulet against all the horror around him.
Now, he released the words gently in song.
“Your form revives my heart.
It is your voice
that makes my body steadfast...”
Amu didn’t say anything for a moment.
Os held his breath.
“Himbo, if you’re trying to woo me, at least try it without using a plagiarized poem.”
Os’s breath escaped in a great guffaw as he fell back onto the floor, the towel sliding off his shoulders, his back hitting the tub. Tension rolled off his body in great bellows of laughter. He couldn’t help it. Amu’s gentle stings were some of the most exquisite sensations in the world, he realized.
Once his laughter subsided, he looked up. Amu’s worry had dissolved into skepticism.
“I feel good, Amu. Really, really good.” And he did. He was bright, buoyant.
Amu nodded, but didn’t take his quizzical eyes off Os.
“I had sex, you know.”
If Amu had been expecting anything, it wasn’t that. His jaw didn’t exactly drop, but his lips did part in surprise.“Oh!...how was it?”
“Honestly? It was...really adequate? Fun. But...mechanical?”
“Ah.”
Amu coughed.
Os got up. He walked to his armour, neatly placed on the shelves. His fingers played over the worked leather and metal. Curiously, he felt no compulsion to don any of it, no burning desire to dive back into the Pyramid in search of holy retribution.
“Amu, would you like to go on a date?”
He turned, and looked directly at Amu.
“Os—”
“To get to know each other better,” Os interrupted. “To talk things out. You said you would’ve liked that.”
Amu paused to regard him. He cleared his throat.
“What do you mean by ‘go on a date’?” Amu asked.
“I mean outside!” Os gestured around him. “I’ve never really been outside your ritual chamber, outside your cave! And you know, I think I’m going to take a little break from Pyramid-delving!”
Amu’s brow creased. “Os, is this you trying to have sex with me?” He looked down Os’s body suspiciously.
Os made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, obviously. But not right now. After we hang out a bit more. I think it’ll be better that way.”
It took a while, but Amu finally smiled. “Okay, himbo.”
* * *
Ancient Egyptian Love poem adapted from “The Cairo Love Songs,” translations by Michael V. Fox, excerpted from the Journal of the American Oriental Society.
TO RISE, BLOWN OPEN
Jen Brown
You should know: when Calamity sundered the skies, I was minding my business. Loading groceries into the car; rock-paper-scissoring with Mr. Marvelous and Watrella, to see who’d drive home. Mundanity. Polyamorous domesticity. All the stuff you’d encouraged me to do, while on so-called sabbatical these months.
Now, the sky is breaking.
It buckles, dripping entrails from another dimension, which feel out of place above our grocery store. You’re probably seeing this from Union headquarters; I’d pay good money to watch baby-supers, with their budding powers and frigid idolatry, quaking as seventy-three-year-old Dawn Obsidian—majestic, telepathic heroine—chews out blackening skies. Though, at least you’re inside; I experience the full brunt of what follows.
First, gravity uncoils with what I can only describe as a dry snap. Dropping grocery bags, I drift skyward, and downtown Los Angeles lurches, its skyscrapers and construction cranes rippling between darkened realities. The distant, snow-capped San Gabriel Mountains tremble—groan, really. It’s like I can hear them; as if five hundred fault lines shudder before a darkened maw overhead. Like a stain, it spreads: black devouring blue, flaying the sky to reveal worlds unknown. A lavender gas giant—that definitely isn’t Jupiter—fills the foreground. Through the terror addling my mind, I realize it’s pulling us, like ants in orbit.
Now, I can’t recall any of your emergency drills. It was my job once—one I’d really like back. But hurtling toward unknown space makes curd of my insides; plus, I’m still pissed at you. Instead of remembering, I stretch toward those I love. Toward Marv, who swims against air, grasping for his prosthetic gauntlet; toward Watrella, who activates her Union-provided implant, probably to reach you—right before a voice interrupts, crashing through our minds.
My implant flares, and I can’t hear myself scream. Soon, that ringing gives way to laughter, nasally and hollow.
Dr. Calamity’s laugh.
Every good hero needs a nemesis.
You joked about this decades ago, when I was still a gangly teen upset at the world. I’d felt jagged, ill-fitting. Both too much and never enough. You said we bore generations of rage, that it was buried beneath our melanin, stoked through centuries of subjugation and supremacy. Now Mindstress, gon’ ahead and get mad, you’d say. But, sooner or later, rage’ll eat you out of house and home.
Your teachings return to me, while I careen skyward. Toward a sky broken by my nemesis, no less. I’ve long realized something, Dawn; a benefit of living limned with rage. Anger fuels, too. And right now?
I’m fucking furious.
Within hours, several things happen: scientists at your lauded International Union of Heroes pull a lever somewhere, temporarily righting gravity; meanwhile, you call in the best—augmented and naturals alike. Needlerella arrives by helicopter, donning aug-appendages tapered to terrifying points. Tankheart and Bolt Boy, nats both, arrive with their innate powers readied. In fact, you call in every super comprising the Greater Los Angeles Ass-Kicking League, except for me. Disappointing, but expected.
After all, I’ve come to change your mind.
“Now, babe,” Watrella begins. She’s parked us near IUH’s headquarters, and watches me warily. “You’re taking the car straight home.”
“Agreed,” Marv adds, before the sharp planes of his face soften. “Though... given who’s stirring the shit this time, we’re here, Kendra; to listen. Support. Whatever you need.”
It’s sweet, but not Watrella’s brand of sweet. She cuts lovingly, fiercely through the suggestion with one of her own: “We’ll talk once Calamity’s captured. For now, nothing else needs saying.” Her fingers twine through mine and Marv’s, connecting us. “Go home, love.”
Wait for us, she implies. Shit, that’s all I’ve done since our last Calamity-showdown. So, and I mean this kindly, fuck that.
They mask up; Marv fits his prosthetic gauntlet into place, securing it just below his elbow, and Wat tosses me the keys. I kiss assurances into their knuckles; sell the ruse by starting our car while they head inside.
Fifteen minutes later I’ve stolen through the mail room (stacked packages provide excellent cover), doggie-paddled through another gravity fluctuation, and reached the tenth floor (where, blessedly, my keycard still works)—all before you’ve finished briefing everyone.
You’ve gathered the Ass-Kicking League in a closed meeting room at the end of a frantic, paper-strewn hallway. I pace just outside, ignored by staff busily gesticulating at the windows, their mouths agape. Once the meeting’s over, everyone streams out—my former teammates; my friends, really. Their expressions shift upon seeing me, but you? You just snort, while a good Lord expression deepens your frown.
“Kendra?!” Tankheart says, rushing over. I wink at my partners, enjoying Marv’s impressed smile and Wat’s flattened glare, before the lanky super crushes me into a hug. “Oh shit,” they exclaim, eyes alight. “Does this mean the band’s getting back together?”
Before answering, I’m swarmed with more hugs (forcing me to dodge one of Needlerella’s wayward limbs), and more questions.
“That depends.” I catch your eye. “But don’t count me out. I’d make a good roadie, at least.”
Chuckling, Tank herds my former squad into nearby elevators, leaving you and I to an awkward silence. I wait for its departing ding before stepping into your path.
It’s time for a truce.
“You may not want to hear this,” I say, “but you need me.”
“I need a break from your incessant shenanigans. That, I know.”
Here we go.
I fall into step with you. “And yet, I’m the best super for this job.” It’s simple: Dr. Calamity controls bioorganic and machine tech, and I’m the nat who psychokinetically controls technology.
“Need I remind you what happened two months ago?”
No, I want to say, but it sounds pouty. I settle for: “She kicked my ass. Trust, I remember.”
“Correction, Kendra: she embedded genetic malware inside your cells.” Waltzing into your office, which still brims with leafy plants and creamy neutrals, you pin me with a glare. “She tricked your organs into—almost—destroying themselves. Baby, that’s more than an ass kicking.”
Suddenly, your telepathy spiders my body; like woven netting, sinking below skin. I sense kindness—you survived, I feel you say. Let that be enough.
Yet, surviving isn’t living.
“It’s been months. I’ve trained. My movement’s improved, and my timing’s back—”
I don’t finish that thought, because—so fast that it startles me—you retrieve a cellphone from your desk. It thumps against the wood grain, glossy screen landing face-up.
“All right. Move that.” You shrug. “It’s got some of Calamity’s malware on it; same as before. Show me this new and improved Mindstress.”
Suddenly I’m a fish, plucked from comforting seas. “I only work with e-waste now. It’s safer that way.”
I don’t say for everybody, but your grim expression tells me you understand.
I expect derision. Disbelieving laughter, maybe. Instead, you search me again; sift through my anger. Desperate, I allow you this glimpse; hope, foolishly, that you’ll unearth whatever trust you need to grant me field work, again. It’s awkward, staying silent while you probe, so I fixate on magazines framing your walls. There you are, proudly occupying one 1968 cover, garbed like a Black Panther power ranger. In ’77, your slick cat-eye’s just visible beneath an ornate mask. Everywhere, you loom; gigantic. Triumphant, even.
Unscathed.
By the time your telepathy abates, your frown could level cities. “Kendra, you’re not seeing active squad time. Though, if you really want to help?” You toss me a clipboard. “Bring your tactics to the desk.”
For fuck’s sake.
“I owe Chantel—” I stop myself; correct myself. “Calamity. I owe her.”
Decades of practice, and one name undoes you. Your telepathy unfurls, growing thick enough to wring truths from the walls. “You’ll have to get in line.”
We’re kindred when it comes to power. Telepathy and telekinesis go hand-in-hand. It’s why I found myself in you, all those years ago; why I accepted your guidance the moment you offered it. Still, we aren’t kin; I once loved Calamity boundlessly, but you still do. No matter what she’s become, she’ll always be your granddaughter. But to me: she’s the one who sundered us.
You sigh into the silence; thread words through my mind: I won’t risk losing you again.
We should face her, together. Break beneath the weight of shared bonds, if it comes to that. But you’d rather cleave us with distrust and empty declarations. Ain’t that some shit.
On my way out, I fling you one last thought, and I mean for it to hurt: You already have.
Two weeks pass. Two weeks filled with a brand of chaos only Calamity could conjure. Fourteen days of reeling, clawing at the question: What the hell do I do now?
Planning’s difficult, given the circumstances. For starters, we can’t distinguish between night and day anymore, courtesy of Not-Jupiter shining through the sky-tear. Worse, Calamity’s dredged up another distraction: re-wired delivery bots. Now, the squat, cooler-sized couriers terrorize shin bones across the country. Sprinkle in continued gravity fluctuations and you’ve got a world under siege—but for no clear reason.
This is all a feint. It has to be. There’ve been a few serious injuries, but nothing’s barrelled through the rift. Frustrated, I wrack my mind for answers; wait, powerlessly, for Marvelous and Watrella to amble home beneath the gas giant’s light. Sometimes, they’re bruised, but they’re always exhausted.
When you return them to me, they remove their masks; take refuge in an inner world of our making. A world without distinctions between “hero” and “self.” There, our touch is fevered; our lips, hungry. Anxiety deepens everything: sharpens caresses into claws, and guides teeth through flesh. I lose myself in them; drown beneath Marv’s delicious gasp, and pry Watrella’s thighs apart while she trembles.
Yet, your hold never lessens.
Always, you summon them back; preach that the world needs their bodies. Do you see the rash climbing Marv’s residual limb, left in the wake of his gauntlets? Have you noticed Watrella ghosting about, forgoing food the second her implant chimes? You deny me justice, and claim the people I love most.
I should be out there with them.
“Just—let me come along,” I beg, one morning. “I’ll avoid our body cams; I can use e-waste to make debris storms—”
“Too risky,” Marv interrupts.
Watrella scoffs, but it lacks her usual fire. “Yeah, out of the goddamn question. We’re not letting her near you.”
They silence me with kisses, but I’m fuming by the time I report for work. “Work” being retail hell, of course.
Months ago, I found a gig selling furniture at an upscale department store. It’s not saving lives and the pay’s shit, but my bills aren’t on sabbatical. As I pull up, a wholly different—yet oddly comforting—kind of chaos greets me. Slick SALE signs, featuring “end-of-the-world” deals, span from kitchenware to gardening. Marco and Daniela, college-aged morning shifters, smile tensely at me while ringing up customers. I’ve barely hit the sales floor before an elderly woman trundles over, arguing for steeper discounts over a “dented” spatula she found.
Woo, sweet mundanity. (No, you’re not mistaking my lack of enthusiasm.)
Hours after helping her and organizing product, I join Marco at the cash register.
