Work Text:
What kind of sociopath moves a man’s toothbrush?
Fulgur glares at the running sink. He has a raging headache that hasn’t abated yet. His system is slow to start-up today after his tune-up with Dr. Canis. His alarm, which he has never in the history of ever turned off, didn’t go off this morning. He is late. He is so late for the first time since the accident.
And someone has moved his toothbrush.
“Legatus,” he calls. The telltale chirp of his system response takes a second longer than usual to ping. Maybe he’ll message Dr. Canis about it later. “Note: ask landlord about apartment maintenance.”
User note set .
Yes, Fulgur can move the toothbrush back , but it’s the principle of the fucking matter, and he–
He needs to take a deep breath. It’s a toothbrush. It’s a fucking toothbrush. Jesus. He’s losing it.
His toothbrush cup moves back to its rightful place, thank you, and the water is still freezing cold, because he’s not allowed to have nice things today, apparently.
A man should never have to brush his teeth with ice cold water, and yet.
“Legatus,” he grinds out, “set note to urgent.”
User not set to urgent.
And yet.
By the time Fulgur finally manages to leave his apartment, which apparently decided to become a hellhole overnight, he’s almost an hour late. And so are the buses.
Fine. If he’s going to be late, then he’ll take his fucking time. Thankfully, the weather holds as he makes his way into Mug Shots Cafe, finally doing up his tie as he steps into the warm, inviting coffee shop. The smell of coffee wakes him up a hell of a lot more than slapping his cheeks (lightly) this morning did. Fulgur almost feels like half a person again.
“Hey man, you’re looking better today!” the barista whose name Fulgur doesn’t remember – Avis , Legatus pings quietly – calls. At least one of them seems like they’re having a good day.
“Tune-ups.”
The barista – Avis – nods in commiseration. “Ah.”
“Could you get me a large mint tea again?” Fulgur says, transferring the money on the datapad, “Thanks.”
“Oh, back to the usual then?”
“It’s my usual for a reason.” Avis gives him a funny look – concern , Legatus notifies him, which is extremely unhelpful, thanks – before shaking their head and heading behind the bar to make his drink.
Okay, maybe they weren't having a good day then.
Whatever. The morning rush is already dead at this time, at least. Avis calls his order in only a few minutes, and Fulgur shuffles over to grab it before slinking back to the sugar and milk. He tips a bit of honey in and lifts the cup to taste when something creaks and sparks threateningly in his arm. Suddenly, the limb jerks and hot tea splashes out. Fulgur yelps, jumping back just in time to keep it from getting on his stomach, but his pants are a lost cause.
Of course, he can't have nice things today.
"Jesus, Fulgur, are you all right?" Avis shouts from behind the bar, rushing over with a wet rag. The few patrons lingering look over, too, but Fulgur waves them all off. And if he's conveniently angled so they can't see the wet spot on his pants, all the better.
"No need for an incident report or anything," he says. That calms them a little as they start to wipe up the tea that splashed onto the counter. "Tune-up wasn't perfect, I guess."
"At least they're waterproofed," Avis tries for joking, but all Fulgur can muster is a terse smile.
"Next time," he says, and he caps the to-go cup before anything else can go off on him again. If it's not sweet enough, whatever. Fulgur is a big boy. He'll deal with it. "Sorry for the trouble."
"No worries, but maybe get some more rest? Seemed like you came from a pretty brutal tune-up yesterday." Avis points at his cup. "You sure you don't want me to top it up for you?"
"It's fine, I'm running late anyways," Fulgur says. He waves and steps back out into the weak sunshine that passes for a nice day in the Republic. Mug Shots Cafe sits, innocuous and squat, on the corner in an old pre-fall brick building. There's even an old-fashioned neon sign in the window, proudly proclaiming their open status. Normally, it's homey and warm.
Today, Fulgur can't help the creeping feeling of unease in his stomach. Dr. Canis hates when he comes in with caffeine in his system. He never stops in the day before and day of tune-ups.
Maybe it's just because he's late. Maybe it's just in his head. He sips his tea – carefully, this time – and starts walking slowly to the Archives.
"Legatus," Fulgur murmurs, and the system pings quietly in his skull, "call Dr. Canis."
Calling Dr. Canis…
The line rings and rings and rings as Fulgur leans against the old brick of the Archives, sipping his tea. Not even lucky enough for a cloud in the watery gray sky today.
"Hello, this is Dr. Canis."
"Thank God, finally, Do–"
"I'm not in office now."
The fuck? Fulgur drains the last of his not very sweet tea just for the satisfying crunch the cardboard makes in his hands. What the fuck?
"I'll be back in office next week, so sorry for the inconvenience,” the recorded Dr. Canis finishes lamely. He does not, in fact, sound the slightest bit sorry. Fulgur tosses the crushed cup into the nearest trash receptacle. It doesn’t even go into the incinerator. Figures.
The secretary AI starts up after a beat. “If you’re calling seeking an appointment, please s–”
The Archives building is made of real clay brick. He could just mash his face against it and end it all. He really, really could. Instead, he cuts in, “Appointment. For Fulgur Ovid.”
“Thank you,” the secretary AI says. It rattles a date off for some time in the middle of next week. Even needling the AI for a sooner visit doesn’t get him anywhere.
Dr. Canis, it seems, has been busy.
Fulgur exhales. And then inhales. And then exhales again. Then one more inhale, just for good measure. This is fine. He is fine. He is totally fine, and he is not going to kill a man today because that would be bad. Frowned upon, even.
Fulgur is fine.
He enters the Archives, and of course, his morning alarm chooses to go off now.
“Legatus!” he snaps, and the screeching finally goes silent, but not before Flor gives him a weird look from her desk.
“Another bad day?” she says as she turns the page in her book deliberately.
“You could say that,” Fulgur says. “You got any aspirin?”
“Hmm, just ran out I think,” Flor says, not because she is trying to ruin his day. Nope. Fulgur massages his temples. He ran out too.
“That’s fine, it’s fine.”
If he tells himself that enough times, it’ll come true.
“Hey, listen,” Flor says as he finally collapses at his desk. She approaches him – warily , Legatus says, because it is just so fucking on point today, sure – and stops just a few feet away, leaning against the bookcase. “About yesterday?”
“Tune-up is having some rough patches, but should be just–” Fulgur curses under his breath. Now his computer too? What the fuck happened to his password? “--fine.”
“Not that, but some of the stuff you said yesterday was a little…”
He didn’t come in yesterday?
Fulgur looks up from his computer – still flashing that his password is incorrect – and frowns. Flor, for as long as he’s known her, has always been endlessly kind. She’s always smiling. She brings him extra cookies for lunch. She actually stops to help old ladies cross the street, for Christ’s sake.
And today, she looks deeply uncomfortable with him.
What?
“I’m…sorry?” Is he supposed to apologise?
Actually, what is he even apologising for?
“Just, please…maybe keep some thoughts to yourself in the future, all right?” Flor’s smile is full of uncertainty. She walks away before he can ask her anything else, throwing one more tentative look over her shoulder before she closes off her desk to visitors.
Fulgur exhales one more time. Maybe she just mixed up the days. Maybe that’s it. He puts his forehead to the desk and closes his eyes. One problem at a time. Password first. Not that he’s sure why his current – previous? – password isn’t working, nor why Legatus doesn’t seem to have a record of the change either. It’s supposed to be a very simple algorithm to generate his newest password, and the fact it’s not working is almost enough to drive him mad.
Almost.
Fuck it, he’ll just reset. It’s fine. He’s fine. Fulgur Ovid is completely fine.
Fulgur Ovid is not fine.
The entire week, his alarm either goes off at some asscrack hour in the morning or not at all. He hasn’t slept through the night in three days. Plus, his landlord said that the heat to his apartment had been – somehow – requested to be rerouted and that it would take another week before they could route it back.
Why it apparently takes one day for his heat to be turned off, but an entire week to turn it back on, he’ll never know.
At work, people steer clear of him, even Flor. All his requests for assistance are still answered in a timely manner, but his workload dwindles; by the time any assignments reach him, they are the dregs of the pile: short newspaper articles clippings, tiny videos for transcribing. Hardly anything worth doing.
And his cybernetics still seem…off. The tea incident is isolated, it seems, but his hand trembles, for lack of a better word. His left pinky especially shakes the worst. His legs sometimes stop in traffic for a second too long. One of his IIs seems to lag behind the other.
All in all, the visit with Dr. Canis can’t come soon enough.
“Fulgur, it’s rare to see you back so soon,” the doctor says, flipping idly through the white binder Fulgur has come to recognise as his subject notes. A strip of bright red tape across the bottom differentiates it from the army of binders in Dr. Canis’ office. His is the only one tagged like this. “We’re meant to be on a six month visit schedule, as you well know.”
“I don’t think the last tune-up went as planned,” Fulgur says as he paces. Pacing helps, even as his left leg splays out a little too far as he turns to face the doctor. “Something’s wrong.”
“Is it the Legatus system?” Dr. Canis says. He peers up from his computer. Lines and lines of data reflect in his glasses. All his real notes, the ones he writes about Legatus, are digital.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Something about the system’s just not…right. Look, Dr. Canis, I know you said it’s an experimental network and everything, but it was working fine before, and then the last tune-up happened, and something went very off.”
Legatus remains silent.
“Hm, well let’s see here…” Dr. Canis types away silently. And then a little more typing. Has he always typed this loudly? Who uses an analog keyboard these days anyways? The code in his glasses doesn’t even look like it’s moving anymore, cursor blinking dumbly in the text window. It feels like an eternity before he finally speaks again. “Ah, here it is.”
“Here is what ?” Fulgur doesn’t mean to sound so short with him, but answers. Answers would be so fucking nice right about now.
“It seems I may have skipped a systems update,” Dr. Canis says.
Seriously? His jaw’s gotta be hanging open or something. That sounds like the dumbest fucking excuse he’s heard since ever, and that includes whatever garbage his landlord fed him about why the heat would take so long to turn on again and not sheer fucking laziness.
“If you’d like to take a seat on the exam table, I’ll get that taken care of, and hopefully that should fix some of the issues you’re having, son.” Dr. Canis pauses from where he’s sanitizing the plugs for sending the update files. “Sorry. Fulgur.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Fulgur says gruffly as he hops onto the table. Even though he’d drawn that line in the sand with the old doctor, a slip of the tongue every now and then isn’t…the worst. He doesn’t like it, but whatever. Dr. Canis isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed sometimes.
The Legatus network is somehow still a stroke of brilliance, though. In his less charitable moments, Fulgur wonders if someone else is actually behind the development, since it doesn’t seem like there’s any way a batty old man like Dr. Canis could ever create something as complex as Legatus, but there’s never anyone else in the offices. Even his front desk staff are all AIs – probably all Legatus offshoots themselves. They talk in the same low, monotone as his Legatus system does.
It was a real stroke of luck that Fulgur had run into the doctor while he’d been hospitalized after his accident. Replacing four entire limbs wasn’t going to be cheap, and the neural improvements necessary on top of that cost had been almost enough for him to ask the doctors to put him out of his misery. Till Dr. Canis had come up and offered him a chance with his new, experimental neural network, complete with the framework to support new limbs that his research team would provide at no extra cost.
It had sounded too good to be true.
Sometimes, Fulgur still wonders if it was worth it. Without organic arms or legs, safety labs always have to be drawn from the neck. And no one else he knows is on the Legatus system, so he can never access even Republic freeware or get added to group messages – there’s no way for him to search for any other subjects, and Dr. Canis never says.
Doctor-patient confidentiality, or some other shit.
Fulgur closes his eyes, settling back into the exam table as the plugs pinch into the back of his neck. Dr. Canis is always rough with them.
He should be grateful for what he has, or something like that.
“We’ll start the upgrades now,” Dr. Canis says. His voice sounds wobbly and far away as the update boots. “I’ll just be a second.”
Fulgur sits up with a start.
His alarm is blaring, and it’s–
It’s actually day?
He rubs the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and checks the time. 7 AM. The same time his alarm is always set for. Fulgur leans back against the wall in relief. Finally. Just a stupid little glitch after all, then.
Just to be sure, though. “Legatus?”
Yes?
Fulgur jumps back with a shout as a ghostly apparition pops into view at the foot of his bed. A hazy blue halo sets it apart from everything else in his room as it drifts over to him. It’s featureless, save for shapes where the eyes would be and a thin line drawn over the left eye, like a heartbeat.
Hello, user Fulgur Ovid. The ghost looks directly at him as it…speaks? Broadcasts words directly into his brain, more like. It makes his brain itch, as though he’s heard someone speak, but from too far and too close at the same time. Like someone’s spoken directly in his ear, almost. The monotone Legatus voice feels more… Is melodic the word for it? Human-sounding.
“Legatus…?” The ghost – Legatus – dips its head in assent. “Jesus, what the fuck kind of upgrade is this?”
The Legatus system is constantly in development and innovating new and creative ways to prop –
“Okay, okay,” Fulgur says, shoving the blankets off and stalking out of the room to put as much distance between him and the Legatus ghost as possible. Bathroom. “I don’t need the corpo explanation for this. Just call Dr. Canis again.”
Calling Dr. Canis .
“Hello? Fulgur, it’s early.” Ah, jeez. The doctor even sounds tired.
“Sorry, I know,” Fulgur says, “but the updates you installed – ”
“Yes, wonderful, aren’t they?”
“How soon can you roll them back?”
“Well…” Ugh, that’s never a good sign. The doctor sighs across the line. “I’m afraid not, unless you’d like to withdraw from the trial.”
Son of a bitch. “So this is permanent.”
“I analyzed your data while the update processed, and Legatus should be perfectly capable as a personal assistant. It has certainly learned many things about you, Fulgur.”
Dr. Canis laughs, but somehow, it’s not comforting in the slightest.
“Great. Thanks. See you next time.” Fulgur hangs up before Dr. Canis can respond.
Shit. He rubs a hand over his face, setting the water running as he stares into the mirror. Legatus lurks just at the corner of the glass, haunting his bathtub. It’s silent, thankfully. But its presence sends his skin crawling. He goes through his morning routine, but at every step, the feeling that something is watching him intensifies. Legatus never moves, never speaks, just sits barely in his field of vision. Fulgur had always known it was observing - neural networks were designed for learning, after all - but the visual reminder sets him on edge.
Do not worry, user Fulgur Ovid. Please consider me an extension of the same Legatus service that has been previously provided.
An extension that no one really asked for, doesn’t add to his experience, and seems super invasive compared to the one already offered. Sure.
At least after the week he’s had, no one even looks at him in the Archives anymore. So mumbling into thin air doesn’t even matter.
“Thanks, great. Legatus, please go away,” Fulgur hisses as he logs in. Something must be up with the system, though. The password that he’d reset last week doesn’t work anymore, but the one he’d had before the reset suddenly is back. Maybe security rolled something back?
Unfortunately, that is not a capability of the Legatus system at this time. Does user Fulgur Ovid have any other questions?
“And why the fuck is that not an option?” Fulgur says. That headache from last week, the one that felt like a drill piercing into the back of his skull, unfortunately seems determined to make a comeback too.
Thank you for your question. The Legatus system will submit this on your behalf to the developers. In the meantime, should Dr. Canis be contacted about your headache?
“What?” Fulgur swings around to the glowing blue Legatus ghost (Leghostus?) with a frown. “No, no. What is even happening to you? It’s like you’ve gone Super Saiyan like those old cartoons, Jesus. You never asked me to do stuff before.”
This is part of the upgraded Legatus system capabilities.
“Well then go back to whatever we were doing before where I tell you what to do, and then you do it,” Fulgur grouses.
Of course, now Leghostus chooses to be silent.
“Exactly, just like that.” Fulgur turns back to his computer and his empty work inbox and sighs. All this fuss for a single, useless update. Truly, it seemed like life was just playing with him sometimes.
He and Leghostus settle into an uncomfortable existence with each other. Fulgur ignores Leghostus and blocks out as many of its requests ( Should the landlord be contacted? When would user Fulgur Ovid like to be reminded about “knocking some sense into this man before knocking him onto his fat fucking ass?” Should the blinds be closed, user Fulgur Ovid? I will connect into your apartment’s wireless system now .) (actually that last one had been pretty useful, but Fulgur couldn’t let on that it was, of course); meanwhile Leghostus does its level best to butt into too many things at inopportune moments.
Maybe being Leghostus gives it too much confidence, but Fulgur hasn’t come this far without knowing how to push back on the pushy assholes who give him too much shit. The problem becomes that Leghostus doesn’t fucking care. If it doesn’t like to be treated a certain way, then it just gives him the silent treatment. Which, the joke is on the fucking Leghostus when that’s what he wants in the first place, but every time it seems to realise that, it comes back with a vengeance, prattling on in his ear about all the ways it’d like to “help.”
They have it out in the most stupid, explosive fashion possible in the middle of the Archives while everyone is on lunch break and has nothing better to do than to watch Fulgur shout at thin air and spew profanities, and then watch him get written up for a warning, but at least Leghostus finally gets off his back.
The headaches come back intermittently, but it’s…manageable. He sleeps it off, sometimes through the night, and that usually takes care of the problem. And if not, Leghostus clears him for aspirin in the morning, at least.
It’s fine.
They’re fine. It takes a few weeks, but they find a tenuous equilibrium.
A month later, Fulgur’s hand starts to shake again.
The tremor starts small in his left pinky, hardly noticeable until he’s trying to fall asleep and can’t figure out what the weird thumping sound is. But it’s a small thing. Not a big deal at all. One of the other archivists with a hobby in restoring old pocket watches tightens the joint uncomfortably tight with the world’s tiniest screwdriver, and that is hopefully that.
Warning. You should avoid such actions. Your cybernetics are no longer up to regulation. I may be required to contact Dr. Canis.
“Shut up, it’s worked hasn’t it?” Fulgur mutters as he heads back to his desk. The other archivists definitely don’t talk to him anymore, not even Flor. “Dr. Canis is out again. What else am I supposed to do?”
Please call Dr. Canis for future upgrades and maintenance to your cybernetics.
By afternoon, his colleague has given him the mini screwdriver in a huff and told Fulgur to just hang onto it after so many requests for tightening.
“Thanks!” Fulgur shouts sarcastically at their retreating back. He does not mean it. He would have meant it, if they hadn’t chucked it right at his face. A vicious headache is starting to build again.
“Legatus,” Fulgur says tightly as the tremor passes through the rest of his hand and he has to hold it to his chest to keep it from rattling too hard, “call Dr. Canis.”
A wise decision, Leghostus says. If an AI could sound dry, Leghostus does. Whatever. It dials Dr. Canis’ line. That’s good enough.
Except it’s the fucking voicemail again.
Fulgur slams a hand against his desk. “Fuck!”
This man makes him come in for visits all the goddamn time, and the one time he needs him, he apparently decides to bail? Fulgur wrings his hands. He pretends it’s a neck.
“Fulgur Ovid!” His supervisor looks – irate, I believe – fucking pissed as she makes her way over to his desk. “My office. Now.”
Shit.
Fulgur grinds his teeth as he follows her upstairs. The archivist with the tiny screwdriver looks smug as fuck, and Fulgur flips them the bird behind his back. Just because he can. Because one doesn’t go unscathed when their name gets called with that kind of tone.
Procella is a tall woman made taller by the cybernetic heels she wears exclusively. They always signal her arrival in the Archives, and interns have learned to scatter at the first sound of them. She turns her steely gaze on Fulgur as soon as he slams the door shut behind him. She fits her namesake well, glaring down her nose at him with a stormy expression. He glares right back.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days,” she says, tapping the large glass datapad that makes up her desk. His employee file pops up in the air between them. Leghostus creeps around behind her like a shadow. “You were warned just a few weeks ago, your productivity has been way down, and now this kind of disruptive behavior? I expected better of you.”
“It’s been these – ”
“Don’t you dare blame your poor behavior on your technology,” Procella says. “We handle highly sensitive materials here. I need to trust that my team members can control themselves.”
“I’ve been a model fucking employee for the last 5 years,” Fulgur hisses. His head feels like it might explode. His jaw is clenched so tight, his teeth ache. “I’m trying to explain why the past few weeks have been so awful, and you’re not even listening!”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Procella says coldly. She crosses her legs with a sense of finality. “Fulgur, it is precisely because of your track record that you’re lucky I’m not throwing you out now. I am suspending you, though. Two weeks. Longer if you have to. I don’t care. Just get everything in order before you come back, am I clear?”
“Crystal.” Fulgur folds his shaking hand to his chest with a scowl. If she won’t believe him, then he won’t show her any weakness. “Is that all?”
“You’re dismissed.”
Fine. At least this way, he can finally go home and pass the fuck out and sleep off this headache. Small blessings, maybe.
The gentle rocking of the train slowly rouses him from sleep. The sun is already beginning to set somehow. He could’ve sworn that he left the Archives at noon, though. And the train isn’t usually his preferred method of getting home, not when Dr. Canis always loves to extol the virtues of walking as exercise.
“Now approaching Grand Street station.”
Fulgur blinks awake, squinting into the fluorescent lights of the train car. What street? What line was he even on? He squinted out the window into the hazy sunset where the neon lights of the Republic are starting to flicker on. Nothing he recognises, though. He gets up and stumbles his way to the door, slipping his way between people none too nicely to reach the map that displays the train’s progress through the subway lines.
Jesus. He could’ve sworn that he’d gotten himself home and passed out, but…his memory after leaving the Archives was pretty hazy.
“Legatus.” Leghostus appears in his reflection. The weird heartbeat design lines up perfectly over his eye. “What happened?”
We are taking the train home.
“No, we are somewhere downtown. I’m asking what happened after Procella…suspended me.” The words taste bitter in his mouth, but what’s done is done. There’s no use stewing over it anymore. He’ll just have to get this all under control, and then he can go back to his books and digitizing. Even if she was a – bitch – jerk. “Who taught you that kind of language?”
Silence.
“What happened after I left the Archives? You’re always…recording me and all that shit. What happened?” Fulgur demands. Even in the crowded, rush hour train, people give him a wide berth. Yelling into thin air does have its uses.
We had business. We are now taking the train home.
“What business?”
We had business. We are now taking the train home.
“Dammit, Legatus!” Fulgur slams his fist against the glass, stepping out immediately onto the platform as the doors open. Everyone is looking at him now, and he hates it. He hated it when Leghostus was watching him. Now, that feeling is compounded until he wants to throw up and hide in a corner. Or ask them what the fuck they’re all looking at and –
Deep breaths. Fulgur heads for the single user bathroom and locks the door behind him. No one to watch him this way. Leghostus stares at him in the dirty mirror.
We have not reached home yet. I will be calling a ride service.
“No, you will tell me what the fuck we were doing downtown!”
Don’t worry about it.
“Of course I’m fucking worried about it! What the hell are you being so fucking cagey for?” God, if he could just remember past the headache from earlier.
The sunlight. He remembers that. They had clouds for once. It nearly made him throw up on the street. The walk home was miserable and hazy, but he… Hadn’t he gone to sleep?
I said –
Fulgur opens his mouth, but –
“ Don’t worry about it. ”
– that’s not his voice.
It’s almost like a dream.
He walks. He talks. He’s argumentative. Caustic. Sarcastic.
He also chases a guy down a shady alley and beats him until he confesses to trafficking. He throws him in front of the nearest precinct.
He also tracks down into an underground rave before throwing him headfirst into the wall for dealing drugs without a permit.
He also slams through doors and walks through gunfire and takes a man out with a well-placed kick to the head.
He also lights up and tosses the lighter and watches as the old Archive building goes up in flames.
And it’s not Fulgur.
It’s almost like a dream.
Waking up is an act of violence.
Fulgur claws into consciousness, screaming himself hoarse as he thrashes against a void, and then his blanket. A neighbor pounds at his wall, screaming back to him, he thinks. Or screaming at their spouse. He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t fucking know anymore.
He’s too cold and too hot all at once, limbs jittery and chest heaving as he makes his way doe-legged to the bathroom to slap on the shower and stand under the scalding hot water.
He knows the way ribs snap under a punch. How to shatter a man’s skull. Five ways to strangle someone.
It’s only because he doesn’t think he’s eaten in several hours that he doesn’t throw up. The nausea still slams through him till he’s bent over, heaving.
What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
Those aren’t his memories. He’s never done those things.
Poor thing. A biting laugh. It’s not always about you.
“Legatus.”
But the ghost is nowhere to be found. The blue blob Fulgur has gotten so used to bothering him, nagging him just outside of what he can see, is finally gone.
Dread. Dread builds in his stomach. Fulgur reaches out weakly to turn the shower off, stepping out carefully as he looks around. Nowhere. Not hovering in his bathtub, not lurking in the ceiling.
The mirror. Fulgur stumbles over to the mirror and recoils.
That stupid fucking heartbeat line – the single feature he could make out on Leghostus’ featureless face – is an angry red line, seared into the side of his face.
Looks good on you.
“When the hell did – “ Fulgur reaches up to touch the raised, red welt and hisses. “Christ, it still hurts!”
Sure, touch the open wound. Fucking idiot.
“Why the fuck is it on my face?” Silence. Of fucking course. “Answer me, you overgrown toaster!”
Legatus identifier. So I get to do all the fun, illegal things, and no one cares of course.
Fulgur pales. So those dreams. All those dreams. Those people. The Archives.
Oh, that last one? Had lots of fun with that one.
“As…”
Me. Legatus 505.
“You’re supposed to be an AI.” Fulgur stares hard into the mirror. It’s only his reflection, marred by that heartbeat line, that stares back at him. “You’re an AI.”
Made out of you. All the terrible, worst parts of you.
“You’re a monster. You don’t belong in this world.”
And you’re my Frankenstein. Aren’t we a pair?