Archive of Our Own

'I didn't come to babysit you, you know?'

'Good, since I don't need babysitting.'

'That remains to be proven.'

Lark gives Eyre a long suffering look. 'Why are you here, then?' she asks. 'I just woke up from...' She looks down on herself and brings her hands for close inspection. 'This is a new body, right? From death then. I just woke up from death. Also, it didn't go well, in case you didn't know. Don't bust my balls.'

'Oh, I know,' Eyre says with a grin. 'And you have no balls to bust. Yet . But I talked to the staff and they do have them ready for you when you've got a better grip.'

Lark perks up at this. 'My ball bearings?'

Eyre smiles and nods. If they have to be perfectly honest, Lark can be a little boring. She has limited interests that make her... predictable. Next she'll be asking about her cyr wheel—

'Didn't they also have my wheel?'

Eyre shrugs. Next she'll ask about the dumbass.

'And, uhm... The— The guy who woke me up?' She looks about like a 3m tall bastard could hide somewhere in this tiny room.

Eyre rolls their eyes and huffs, but there's no real annoyance in it. They can't be picky when it comes to friends. For all that Lark has a one track mind, she is—was, has been, in that past life—loyal to a fault. Eyre can't stop wondering if the replication process saved all of the person she used to be. The person they consider a friend. Just because Eyre can anticipate her first few questions doesn't mean there's depth to this new iteration. The thought has been bugging them for weeks, ever since they learned Lark was to be decanted.

When they aired their questions and doubts, Balcom brushed them off. The science team was hardly better, sending them away with soothing, meaningless reassurances. The recoms are all damned clueless about their own situation. Anyway, a human in an avatar body isn't the same thing. All of them have rough, discordant minds that feel like sandpaper against Eyre's own. They've stayed away from them as much as possible.

So there they are, with no real guarantee that the person sprawled on the floor in front of them and pouting instead of doing their physical rehab is the same as the one who died on Earth. Eyre would settle for close enough not to notice the difference. 

They sit in a lotus position in front of Lark, resigned to turn her into her own case study.

'I'm here because I want to,' they say.

Lark frowns, unimpressed by the backtracking. 'I asked you a question. Where's the guy?'

'I'm answering in chronological order.'

'So why don't you start at when I asked you why you're such an asshole, all those years ago? Still waiting on an explanation.'

Eyre smiles. That's good. A niche memory a decade old, a private moment they'd shared on the Institute's rooftop. Eyre can't recall what they'd done to earn the question, but they have a crystal clear memory of sassing Lark and getting smacked by one of her metal balls right in the stomach. Very hard to forget, actually.

'They didn't print you a wheel because it's not in your file,' Eyre continues. 'At least not high priority enough. And I think you're supposed to be a whole week away from that sort of core strength.'

Lark scoffs. 'Bullshit. I could handle it.'

'You know, that would sound more convincing if you weren't in a foetal position on the floor and refusing to get on the treadmill.'

'Can't you have some sympathy?' Lark asks, a touch bitter. She points an accusatory finger at Eyre. 'I bet you weren't so hot either when you came out of your bag.'

Eyre sucks on their teeth. That's not a topic they expected to broach so early. They hesitate for a second, trying to remember if this is one of these classified things they're not supposed to share or if it's just a potential bummer.

'I didn't come out of a bag,' they say, deciding to take their chances. It won't hurt to agitate Lark a little, see if she reacts the way Eyre expects her to. 'I went into cryo. Been here for some years now.'

Silence. Not unexpected. Lark's expression darkens, her sharp eyebrows furrowing over sparking eyes. For a moment Eyre wonders if they should worry about the equipment in the room—definitely not metal proof. But Lark's expression clears as quickly as it soured. She even smiles, a small, wry twist of her lips.

'Pet,' she says. 'Always and forever.'

Eyre places a hand over their heart. 'You wound me,' they deadpan.

Lark barks out a small laugh. 'Oh, I wish. But of course Balcom took you along for the ride. He wouldn't risk you not shaping out right.'

'Rhia and Bart also went into cryo,' Eyre points out. 'If you weren't such a handful, you might have been as well. Save yourself this entire ordeal.'

And what an ordeal this is. Dying and knowing it. Being decanted like a second class homunculus. Waking confused and imprinting on some moron like a baby duck... Eyre would pity her, but Lark isn't having it. She looks like she's one wrong word away from getting off her ass and meaning business.

That's in character, at least.

'Looks like you'll survive,' Eyre says, shrugging. 'Are you used to your queue yet?'

Lark picks up the tube of synthetic flesh that serves as a temporary sheath for her neural queue and lets it drop over her chest. It falls slowly, a muscular resistance to gravity keeping it airborne longer than it should. Soon, she'll have a grip of it and be able to move it at will. 

'No,' she says, 'definitely not. I don't like it. Also breathing burns.' 

'It's your baby lungs getting to enjoy the sulphur rich air. You'll get used to that as well.'

'How come you can breathe it yourself, if you weren't remade?'

Eyre shrugs. 'Gene therapy. The intensive, tubed kind. Took six months, or so I'm told. I just slept.' 

They had dreamt a lot, their Sight often drifting around the base in semi-wakefulness, with almost no control. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, but it beat dying by a long reach. 

They snap their head to the side, suddenly aware of someone approaching. 'Your idiot is coming, by the way.'

Lark's entire demeanour shifts. She scrambles to her knees with a groan, grabbing Eyre's helping hand to get to her feet. The sass and protests are gone and her easy expression gels into a worried half-frown.

'Coming now?'

Eyre blinks. Without restraints or inhibitors, they can cycle through everyone on base. Lyle Wainfleet has become a distastefully familiar presence, and Eyre settles behind his eyes with ease. He's marching down a corridor with uncharacteristic stiffness, a telltale sign he's heading for his new duties, if the distinctive wall panelling weren't already telling Eyre what they need.

'Yeah, he's outside, two halls down.'

'Fuck. Fuck!'

'Chill, girl. He's a—'

'You don't get it,' Lark interrupts them. They shoot them a hard look before turning to the closest equipment, a compact treadmill with support bars. 'You never have. You can't. So don't bother me with your commentary.'

No, Eyre can't bind to people. They're not meant to be driven or puppetted. They're free—as free as any of Balcom's children ever are. They've never seen it as anything short of a blessing, and Wainfleet's shiny dome poking through the door increases the feeling tenfold.

'Ah—erm... Miss... Lark?' the man asks haltingly.

Eyre grimaces. 'Wow.'

Lark hisses behind them. Silence blankets the room, thick with awkwardness.

Wainfleet steps into the room and closes the door behind him, standing at attention. His dumb yellow eyes focus on Eyre, giving them a full body sweep before landing squarely on their chin. Ah yes, another idiot who believes they won't be able to use their powers on him if they avoid eye contact. It's a local myth Eyre has made no effort to disprove. 

'Good to see you too, miss Eyre.'

Lark lets out a strangled laugh, but she keeps walking and says nothing. Even when Eyre reaches out to Wainfleet and shifts his vision, she lets them make their point.

'That's agent Demayne to you, corporal,' Eyre says, taking a step towards him. 

Wainfleet steps back and stumbles, the room not moving around him as it should. He reaches out to lean on the wall, and that too, is not where it should be. He hits his knuckles and yelps, startled. His eyes drift, unmoored by the vertigo Eyre is inflicting on him. 

'What the hell! Are you... Are you doing this?'

Eyre turns to Lark with a smile. 'Looks like he didn't do his homework.'

Lark smiles back. 'Your entire file is classified, Eyre.'

'That's fair.'

Lark turns her attention to Wainfleet with a hungry look, like he's appealing to her even scrambling against the wall like a kicked dog. 'You shouldn't misgender them,' she says. 'You shouldn't bother them at all. It's not worth the hassle.'

'I'm not trying to bother anyone,' the man grumbles, eyes screwed shut. 

'Eyre, let him go.'

They huff, but do as asked. 'Boring.' They walk to the recom, looking up the length of him. His fatigues do little to hide how much more built and muscular he is, compared to his avatar counterparts. A lump of muscle, is exactly what he is. 'Did you do your homework, corporal?'

Wainfleet cracks an eye open and looks down at them. 'I have... I've been told about Lark, mostly.'

'Have you? I wonder.'

He sends Lark a pitiful look, begging for help. Through his eyes Eyre can see Lark looking back, positively vibrating under his attention. They grunt. That's in character too, the abject need for attention from their handler. 

'I've come because... I was told she needs physical therapy,' Wainfleet explains, never looking away from Lark. 'I know a thing or two about that so... Figured I could help.'

Lark smiles. It's a little nervous, a little sweet, and Eyre wants to barf. 

'I bet you know your way around a gym,' they say tartly. 

They turn back to Lark, searching her face for confirmation that this development is good. Truly good, and not just the neediness in her fronting. Lark doesn't even look back, eyes glued to Wainfleet. 

Another obsession, getting in the way of their friendship. That too, was predictable. Eyre can barely recall a time when it was only the two of them. A time before missions and handlers, divided loyalties. 

It leaves a bitter taste in their mouth. 

'Since your new babysitter is here, no need for me to linger,' they declare, heading for the door. 

'I'm not a babysitter,' Wainfleet calls after them. 

Still, through Lark's eyes Eyre can see him relax as the door closes behind them. He turns to her with a tentative smile. 

'You don't need babysitting, do you?' he asks. 

Eyre wrenches their sight away. Enough of that. Enough of those two. 

As they stride down the aseptic corridors of the base's medbay, they find themselves wondering if a different Lark wouldn't have been better in the end.