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Eustice Huang watched the rings as they weaved and bobbed, almost at her beck-and-call – just unruly enough to be interesting. The little plastic diver, however, remained unsuccessful for several minutes, and Mr. Milchick’s call would wrap up soon. Even her rebellions betrayed uncharacteristic incompetence, lately.
Someone walked past her post, one of the innie men. He wasn’t running, which was a good sign, but not the only sign. She shoved her game into the waistband of her skirt, and took quick, measured steps down the hallway. Even at his leisurely pace, she found herself almost skipping to catch up without running. Mr. Milchick said that running after the innies displayed a lack of comportment.
She remained focused on who she now realized was Dylan G. Too focused, in fact. Kier Eagan once said never let one virtue come at the cost of another . She knocked into the man’s arm, outstretched in surprise as he turned around, and fell into the opposite wall. Her game slid down her leg and out onto the floor.
She let out this odd little chirruping sound, not a shriek but not not a shriek. He grabbed it from where it rested between his feet.
She reminded herself that the best thing about the innies was that they have no clue what she was supposed to be doing. When Mr. Milchick indulged in frolic, as she had seen far too often, he merely acted as if it were his plain and simple right, and everybody followed along.
“I would like that back, Dylan G.” She said it authoritatively, although he wasn’t looking at her, instead turning and shaking the small object, watching the fluid swish and the rings move around. She twitched in its direction. She’d only managed to get it into her bunk in the first place because it was Kier Eagan swimming in there. But at work….
What would she do if he kept it? Showed it to Mr. Milchick?
He handed it over without looking away, easily passing it from his big hand to her small one. She tried not to look like she expected any differently.
“You got two points!” She said, perhaps overly excitable, to really sell it. Mr. Milchick told her that speaking to an innie was like speaking to a wayward child. She’d want to tell a kid they’d won, even if they weren’t trying to.
“So it’s a game?” He sounded delighted. Everything was heightened with the innies, especially information. Little things were big things, when your world was small.
“...Yes.”
“Hell, yeah. Sorry, forgot you’re a kid again.”
The innies kept saying that. ‘You’re a kid’. Not an exceptionally talented young adult, not a wintertide hopeful, not a rising star. Mr. Milchick said they’re undermining her. She’s not so sure. It just seemed to be one of those innie things, like getting excited about finger traps.
“I will accompany you back to your desk, now.” She winced, hopefully imperceptibly. She hasn’t gotten as good as Mr. Milchick at couching her words, instead coming off like she was barking orders.
They walked down the hallway at a clip, although she couldn’t help but feel that he was humoring her. If he wanted to turn around right now and go back to the security room, he could easily knock her aside (or out). But Eustice didn’t feel like he would, like she had with some of the innies on her first assignment, and continued to try to speed up enough that she edged ahead of Dylan G.
He smiled, and it made him look younger.
***
Three (work) days later, Dylan was still thinking about the game.
The bright colors and the little plastic swimmer, the sides just a bit too small for his adult hands, the glitter floating freely in the water - was there glitter? Where did he get glitter from?
It wasn’t as if he’d never played one before - a game, that is. He made little paper footballs with Mark and threw them through Petey’s arms, he was the proud inventor of Eagan bingo, he sometimes counted how many pencils he could leave on Irving’s desk before he noticed (or snapped).
So of course Dylan had played games. But he had never once seen an object so strongly separated from usefulness, from productivity, from on track. And so close to home. Does my kid have a game like that? I hope so. Dylan hoped that the kid had a lot. It was getting him through, these days, the idea that every minute of endless work was a piece of candy or new school supplies.
It had broken something in him, Dylan thought. Knowing that he has a kid, and not knowing anything about the kid. Gone are the times when he scoffed at Helly’s harebrained escape plans. He didn’t even need a reminder but then there she was - Ms. Huang. The only child this version of him could ever hope to see.
She was older than his own son, he was fairly certain, and a lot weirder. Although, he supposed, a child of his could be working on the severed floor right now. They might’ve walked past him on occasion. Dylan shuddered and dismissed the thought, not actually trying to drive himself mad.
Still, the knowledge of his parenthood had become a part of his limited sense of self ever since. Beyond his body-builder fantasies, beyond the make-and-model of his watch, there was finally something .
That something rotted in his breast, with nowhere to go. Maybe that’s why he did it.
***
Every Wednesday, it was Eustice’s turn to check morale in the office. Bolster it if she could, a possibility which Mr. Milchick had made clear was “extraordinarily doubtful”. They were nervous about Mark S again, for reasons which she didn’t understand. That’s okay, she heard, in the voice of one of her earliest instructors. You don’t have to understand why. Just what. Anything else would be a lot to expect, don’t you think?
Like her, Mark S was supposed to be raising morale today. Some sort of team activity, although privately Eustice thought the group already took more than enough field trips. His methods, as usual, were both unorthodox and effective.
When Eustice entered the office, the group was cutting out-of-date brochures into strips, slapping glue on them, and building things out of the soggy result. Irving made a nonsensical yet meticulous lattice, as if for a pie (she had to remind herself he’d never seen a pie). Helly R, what looked like jewelry beads. Mark S himself had a mushy pile upon which he’d drawn a face.
And then there was Dylan. He was a surprisingly capable artist, despite the fact that he was also the best refiner (in Eustice’s professional opinion, anyway). It was a fish, little cubits of graph paper layering to make scales, big trouty lips. It wasn’t anything like a real fish - lumpy, distinctly the colors of news-print, and, notably, wearing a red-and-white striped jumpsuit. Just like her game.
Her first thought was to pick it up, an instinct which she fortunately did not follow. She wanted to grab it and hide it underneath her shirt, because although the pattern was common enough, Dylan G. would never have seen it if not for her. Not to mention that old-timey bathing costumes never appeared anywhere in the severed workers’ handbook. Not everyone was like her, seeing patterns everywhere, but Mr. Milchick was.
Dylan G., unfortunately, misinterpreted her too-long stare, seeing a covetous glance where there was none. He picked up the toy (that’s what it was, of course), and held it out to her.
“Feeling like…confiscating this?” Was he making fun of her? Threatening to tell?
“It’s not against any rules for group activities,” she said, her harsh tone confusing the other innies in the office.
“Pretty sure that’s a non-dresscode get-up he has on there,” said Dylan G.
“Fish don’t have to follow the dresscode!” She replied, crossing her arms. Dylan G’s mouth twisted, perhaps in sadness, or anger, or…
Was he laughing? Trying not to, anyway. Fish didn’t have to follow the dresscode! There used to be a perfectly naked one in Ms. Casey’s old wellness office. She imagined Mr. Milchick shouting at it. It was slightly amusing to imagine an Eagan putting pen to paper about fish-clothing, if blasphemous.
“I see you smiling,” Dylan G. said slyly. He nudged the toy across the table. He was trying to get her to take it. Why? Sometimes innies tried to get fired, but that wasn’t it.
“It’s inspired by-”
“I know what it’s inspired by.” She shot her hand out and back in, the motion so stilted and mechanical it reminded her of the many robotic arms moving cans about in her childhood factory.
“Consider it confiscated.” She replied, knowing that didn’t mean the same as it was confiscated. She wasn’t really lying, and neither was he.
All gifts from innies were considered bribes, so it’s fortunate that this wasn’t one.
“Hey-” Mark S started to say, slowly, likely to start doing what he did best and cause a disturbance. Although, he sounded confused enough about why he should be offended, considering Dylan’s serene expression and posture.
***
Eustice enjoyed the bright colors and crackly texture in the time it took to get back to her desk. She gently places it in an empty drawer. A secure place to keep contraband - his or hers, she doesn’t know.
***
Dylan enjoyed the thought of her enjoying it. She’s probably too old for it, and probably would throw it away, and there were so many other reasons that this was stupid.
But... she might be happy. He might have done that. He might be capable of that - him. Not the other guy.