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Freud ceased her hurried steps as she arrived at the familiar door. She was panting; body still racked with adrenaline and the lingering sensation of g-force from the prolonged assault boost back to base.
The scratched-up keyhole stared at her darkly from underneath the card reader. Freud tugged at the ball chain around their neck, and fished the pendants out of the collar of their jacket—a key, along with a couple of dog tags.
Freud paused and gave themself a quick once-over.
Sweaty, unkempt hair, check. An unaugmented pilot’s clunky helmet, tucked under one arm, check. Oversized bomber jacket covered with iron-on patches, featuring the logos of mostly Balam-affiliated pilots and entities, check. Pilot suit blackened with oil and the congealed blood of some unfortunate soul, check. Combat boots smeary with grime, check.
Freud wasn’t even deliberately trying to piss off her second-in-command, but somehow they’d always manage to materialize in front of Snail’s door looking absolutely repulsive.
All the better, Freud thought, she’s cuter when she’s mad, and crammed the key into the keyhole, leaving yet another faint scar on the mirror-like finish of the doorlock.
“It’s me,” Freud announced as she pushed the door open.
Snail was a tangle of limbs wrapped in creased faux-cashmere, collapsed across the couch like a giant misplaced rag doll. The waterfall of platinum blonde hair shifted along the armrest of the couch as she turned to look at the door, eyes red from sleeplessness and smoky with yesterday’s makeup. “Do you not know how to knock,” she asked, voice cracking from exhaustion. It was more of a statement than a question.
Freud flashed a smile, yanked the key out of the lock, and straightened up. “Shouldn’t have given me the key if you wanted me to knock every time,” they said after kicking the door closed with the back of their heel.
“It is a question of basic etiquette, Freud, but I suppose the rules of civilized society simply don’t apply to you,” Snail sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. It was only then that Freud noticed the gauze dressing on her hand and arm, stained purple with topical antiseptics. And immediately Freud’s mood sank a little. Why did she have to go on that mission? They pondered, discontented, Why can’t she just be a bossy, pretty porcelain vase in the office? It’s not like she actually enjoys piloting ACs…
Snail could not know of the stray thought passing through Freud’s mind. She took a glance at the clock on the wall, and said: “You’re not scheduled to be back yet.”
Freud forced the slight scowl off of their face and put on a cheeky grin. “I mopped up early because I caught wind of this party at Balam,” she answered, “you know, to celebrate defeating the Ice Worm. Just thought maybe if I make it back early enough, I’ll be able to tag along.”
“Yes, Balam,” Snail’s neatly trimmed brows almost tied into a knot, “the company who makes superior AC frame parts according to you and you alone. Unfortunately, I am somewhat expected to be present at the occasion. But I don’t recall you being invited.”
“Surely they won’t mind you bringing a plus-one,” Freud suggested matter-of-factly.
“I’ve already told Maeterlinck she is to come with me and V.IV,” Snail replied matter-of-factly.
“I’ll message Maeterlinck and say you changed your mind,” Freud reached for the comms device in their pocket, “she can still be V.IV’s plus-one if she wants to come, no?”
“Just… don’t bother,” Snail lay down again, this time facing the backrest of the couch, “you better get showered quickly, if we want to make it in time.”
“Yes ma’am!” Freud saluted the languid figure stretched out before them, then immediately kicked off their shoes near the door, and threw the helmet onto the coat hanger along with their jacket. The heavily customized thrift store find could not look more out of place surrounded by Snail’s designer brand fineries. Perfectly incompatible, just like us, Freud thought briefly, before brushing the idea aside and opening the door to Snail’s bedroom.
Had the space become more cluttered since the last time Freud was here? She wondered as she knocked over a small mound of data pads stacked near the door. The Central Ice Field HQ was supposed to be a temporary establishment, but Snail sure made the place look lived-in. Well, maybe Freud contributed a little to the mess, too. They hummed an old-timey tune as they stepped over the scattered data pads, the half-empty medicine bottles and the crumpled espresso cans, paying little mind to the cracked floor mirror, or the pile of unfolded laundry on the edge of the narrow bed. They made their way into the bathroom, where they peeled the pilot suit off of their skin while staying as faraway as possible from the towering shelf full of beauty products made by Arquebus subsidiaries. Usually Freud wouldn’t be this compliant; she relished the exasperated noise Snail would make every time she knocked something off the shelf and broke a glass flask or two. But, for the party at Balam, she’d be willing to abstain from unnecessary shenanigans.
She threw the filthy suit on the floor, laid the ball chain necklace down on the counter, and headed into the bathtub, where the wire baskets installed along the wall were stuffed full of large plastic containers in minimalist designs. She set the shower head to her preferred mode, before closing their eyes and submitting to the blast of pressurised water on their hair and skin.
It felt good. She needed this. She went on humming as she combed her head of black curls with one hand, and blindly felt for the travel-sized tubes they had thrown into the upper basket with the other. For body and face wash, she’d just steal whatever Snail was using, but their hair types were so different that she had felt compelled to bring in her own.
Just a few years ago, this would have been unthinkable. V.I Freud, thinking about what shampoo and conditioner combo they’d rather use? Absurd. She squeezed a healthy amount of product into her palm and started working it into her hair.
The bathroom door opened and closed again. Behind the noise of the shower, Freud could faintly hear Snail pull out a makeup remover wipe from the crinkling package. She’s going to take it down just to do a fresh one immediately after, Freud thought, that can’t feel good. Despite the changes in the way she presented herself, she never got into makeup. It just wasn’t her thing.
Freud let out an amused breath through her nostrils. To think, the two of them had met each other as such miserable, dysfunctional men. The way Freud used to cram his schedule with back-to-back missions and go on for days without taking a break. The way Snail used to wear a constant scowl and yell at his subordinates because they breathed too loudly. The way the two of them used to glower at each other, like a pair of distressed animals in a cage, whenever they had to meet face to face. Not anymore though. Now they were equally miserable yet slightly less dysfunctional women. What a long journey it had been.
Her fingers brushed the gnarly tangle of scars on her stomach as she rubbed herself down. A sudden impulse to smile. Because that was how it happened—the one critical mission failure during the Island Four Disturbance, the near-death experience, the months Freud had spent recuperating in a hospital while LOCKSMITH was locked away in a storage unit collecting dust. That was when they realized they couldn’t go on living the way they always had anymore. The fact that near the end of Freud’s rehabilitation period, Snail showed up at the hospital as the one of the most beautiful and well-dressed women they had ever seen was a merely a coincidence. But it sure felt like a blinding epiphany at the time.
To this day, Snail would ridicule Freud for what tumbled out of their mouth back then.
“Can I have whatever surgeries they gave you minus the augmentation?” Freud had blurted.
It was so stupid. Freud couldn’t help but grin as she turned the tap off and wrung her hair out. And funny, considering that she ended up letting estrogen do most of the work, without getting under the scalpel at all.
When Freud pushed the shower curtain to one side, Snail was already gone from the bathroom. They dried their hair hastily on a bath towel, wrapped it around herself, and hurrying to the door.
The air in the bedroom felt cold on Freud’s skin.
Snail was sitting on the edge of the bed near the pile of laundry, staring at her reflection in the floor mirror with an expression of deep resentment. She had finished redoing her makeup, but was completely naked aside from the fresh bandages on her arms and the long hair covering her body. Metallic trims meandering across her exposed skin glistened in the dim light.
Freud tended to think that, deep down, they didn’t care for Snail. Not at all. A vain and heartless person like her deserved whatever inevitable and ugly end awaiting her. But whenever Freud saw Snail glaring into the mirror with that scathing hatred, she couldn’t help but feel pity.
What is it all for, if you can’t even love yourself?
Without thinking, Freud walked up to Snail and wrapped their arms around her shoulder. For a moment, Snail instinctively relaxed into the embrace. And for a moment, Freud considered skipping the party at Balam—even though that was the only thing on her mind all day—and just make love to the woman in her arms instead, right here in this cramped room, willfully wiping the laundry pile off the bed onto the floor, pushing the warm and willing body into the sheets. Chase after the soul-dissolving dream, at once soft and toothy, acidic and frail…
But the moment passed, and Snail’s body tensed up again. Freud grouched internally. Always this rejection half a heartbeat too slow, this performance of self-control, this holding each other at arm’s length. Even when the two of them were actually doing it, melting away in the heat of the moment, she would try and pretend to be thinking about something else, some other concern in her busy and not at all hollow life.
“What do you want now?” Snail asked, narrowing her deep set eyes, peering at Freud through long and feathery fake lashes, “You’re still wet.”
“Nothing,” Freud said, feigning a light-hearted smirk as she loosened her arms and peeled herself away from Snail, “Let’s get ready. I can’t wait to check out Balam’s place.”
Outside the chilled glass pane of the only window in the room, heavy snow continued to fall over the expanse of the Central Ice Field, blanketing the few buildings and vehicles scattered above ground.