Chapter Text
It was a lovely evening. The view from the penthouse (her mother’s) was absolutely gorgeous, encompassing every bit of the sleek, elegant, modern, civilized, city. The sun was setting leisurely over the elegantly mirror-paned highrises, and the hovercars were glinting like little silver fish, darting along invisible roads.
The newscast played quietly in the background, the house AI’s voice relaying the latest events. “ The investigation of last week’s attempt on a member of the Mianaai family is still under investigation. So far, the attack seems to have come from a radical hacker known as Justice of Toren. Formerly a member of the military, Justice is a cyborg- ”
“Turn that thing off,” said Madame Vendaai.
The AI obliged.
“You can never trust cyborgs, you know,” said Madame Vendaai to her daughter, Seivarden.
“The Mianaai family has ruled the past couple of centuries unopposed,” said Seivarden, not making eye contact. “And they’re not exactly protecting the interests of the people.”
“Nonsense,” said her mother. “They’re protecting our interests, and we’re people, aren’t we? Without that family’s support, we wouldn’t have been able to put you through rehab.”
Seivarden Vendaai was going to scream.
“I always wished you’d have gone into politics,” said her mother wistfully. “Continue the dynasty. But, since you’ve cleaned up and off the streets, the least you could do is attend the Thanksgiving dinner like the rest of us.”
“It’s a fundraiser! ”
“Exactly,” said her mother, adjusting her pearl earrings and giving Seivarden a scathing look. “It’s for the greater good. Anaander Mianaai herself will be there and I’ve picked your outfit for you, so you have no excuse to not look presentable.”
“I’m not going,” said Seivarden, crossing her arms.
“Let me put it this way, darling,” said her mother sweetly. “Either you go, or I stop paying for rent and you’ll have to get a real job.”
“Being an actor is a real job.”
“You haven’t had a gig in months,” said her mother pointedly, kissed her on the cheek, and swept out with a reminder of. “It’s Thursday evening, so don’t be late. You can bring a date, if you can manage that, of course.”
“Fine!” yelled Seivarden. “I’ll bring my long term partner!”
Her mother’s laughter was cut off by the door slamming shut.
Seivarden swore and kicked at the door, miscalculated, and ended up sprawled on the floor.
“Fuck,” she said softly, with feeling.
“ It is a single event, ” said the house AI in its eternally pleasant tone. “ You will survive it. ”
“I won’t ,” bit out Seivarden. “My extended family thinks I’m an embarrassment, the guests have all read the tabloids, and none of them care. They don’t really care that my mother kicked me out. All they see now is a disappointed well to do parent trying to piece her shit kid back together who for some reason was living on the streets and for some reason getting high.”
“ I have been forbidden from discussing this matter. ”
“Of course you have,” said Seivarden bitterly. “This whole Thanksgiving event is bullshit. Especially since Anaander Mianaai is going to be there, and now mother’s just making fun of me. I don’t know anyone in this fucking city and she knows it.”
“ There are many excellent escort services here. Perhaps one of them will be to your tastes. ”
“No,” muttered Seivarden. “She’ll be expecting that.”
“ There are dating sites, of course, but I would not- ”
“Craigslist.”
“ Excuse me? ”
“Bring up Craigslist.”
“ Your mother considers Craigslist- ”
“Too low class and full of garbage, I know,” said Seivarden vehemently. ”So pull it up.”
The AI obliged, and Seivarden flicked her way straight to casual encounters.
“Read them aloud,” she pleaded, still sprawled on the floor.
“ As you wish. November 22. Pussy eating exp- ”
“Pass.”
“ Blindfold blowj- ”
“Pass!”
“ It’s fuck’n Friday! ”
“It’s a Tuesday. Pass.”
“ Anon cum dum- ”
“PASS.”
“ Any girl wanna blaze 420? ”
“Hmm… Nah. Pass.”
“ Alone on Thanksiving? M- ”
“Pa- Wait no. Read that one.”
“Date: November 22nd. Section: casual encounters. Title: Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your fam? Body text... ”
Seivarden got comfortable.
“I am a 136 year old cyborg felon with no high school degree, and a dirty old van one year younger than me. I look 28 and can play anywhere between the ages of 20 and 30, depending on what I wear. I’m a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have you pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.
I can do these things, at your request:
Openly hit on other guests while you act like you don’t notice.
Start instigative discussions about politics and/or religion.
Propose to you in front of everyone.
Pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on (sorry, I don’t drink, but I used to. A lot. Too much in fact. I know the drill).
Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.
I require no pay but the free meal I will receive as a guest! ”
“Fucking jackpot,” said Seivarden. “Let’s contact them.”
“Are you sure? ”
“Absolutely. This is my soulmate.”
“ Alright. ”
The AI sounded almost skeptical, but Seivarden pushed that out of her mind.
A few hours later, she had the felon’s contact information.
Their exchange was short, almost terse. The conversation revealed barely anything, except that the felon’s name was Breq and that she could pick Seivarden up and drive them both to the dinner.
Seivarden had never been so excited for a family event in her life. What dampened it a little was the arrival of the outfit her mother had picked out for her. It was nice, in a traditional way, but with that unnecessary green and purple color scheme that the old guard seemed to adore. Seivarden, predictably, hated it. However, in the end, the coaxing of the AI got her to reluctantly don the costume, do her make up, and tame her hair.
Just as she was pinning one final curl in place, the AI’s voice sounded: “ Your date is out front. ”
Seivarden grinned maliciously into the mirror, grabbed her purse, and sprinted out.
“Wish me luck!” she yelled.
“ No amount of luck will help you, ” said the AI forlornly.
Seivarden ignored it.
The trip down the elevator ended up being unnecessarily long and by the time it stopped, she felt like she was going to tear her hair out.
Fortunately, the sight waiting for her in the parking lot did not disappoint.
Breq was easy to make out from among the sleek hovercars. Her van was huge, hulking, and white, with a giant engine in the back. It sat awkwardly, taking up two parking spaces, looking very much like the antique it was. Its owner leaned against its dirty (as advertised) side, looking bored.
Seivarden’s mother was going to hate this. Seivarden, however, was delighted.
Breq was shorter than her, head shaved bald to reveal the shiny surfaces of various implants. Her eyebrows seemed to have been shaved or plucked in such a way as to give her a permanently angry expression, and she wore way too much leather for a single person to have on outside of a fetish club.
Seivarden waved. Breq spotted her, looked her up and down, then raise her hand in greeting.
Seivarden hurried over.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Seivarden. Vendaai.”
“Breq,” said Breq, holding her hand out.
Seivarden looked down, belatedly realized that she was supposed to shake it, and quickly did so.
“Your dinner starts in twenty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Is it ok if we’re late?”
Seivarden grinned. “It’s perfect.”
The corner of Breq’s lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile. “Get in, then.”
They both climbed into the van, which was oddly roomy inside.
“Mercy,” said Breq, strapping herself in, “Let’s go.”
Instantly the dashboard flickered to life and the engines started.
“ Is this Seivarden? ” asked the van, voice slightly more than typically pleasant.
“Yes,” said Breq. “Mercy, this is Seivarden. Seivarden, this is Mercy of Kalr, she lives partially in this van, partially in an android body that’s out of commission at the moment.”
“She’s beautiful,” whispered Seivarden, looking around the interior.
It really was very well taken care of for such an old car. The dirt on the outside suggested it should be a mess, but the leather seats were soft, clean, and only slightly worn. All of the tech seemed to be working perfectly.
“ Old and dirty, as advertised, ” said Mercy wryly. “ But I assure you, I am in perfect condition. ”
“Speaking of conditions,” said Breq, as the van hoovered up from its spot and melded seamlessly into traffic, “What are the do’s and don’ts here?”
“Anything goes.”
“Hitting on guests?”
“Please.”
“Bad political discussions?”
“Even better.”
“Proposal?”
“...Let’s see where the night heads first.”
“Fake drunk behavior?”
“For sure.”
“Physical altercations?”
“Ideally, as many as possible.”
“You must really hate your family.”
Seivarden shrugged, folding in on herself a little. “They hate me,” she said quietly. “Eye for an eye, and all.”
Breq nodded, and the van flew on.
Seivarden looked around. There was something slightly off about the van. The windows seemed too thick, and there were odd compartments on the sides of the walls.
“So, uh, how’d you get this van?” asked Seivarden. “It looks a little... ”
“Military issue,” said Breq blankly.
“You used to be in the military?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you...”
“We’re not talking about that.”
They got to Seivarden’s parents’ mansion unnecessarily quickly, and Breq brought the van to a halt in midair.
“Right,” said Seivarden quickly, “Access codes.”
She recited the latest line of numbers from memory, Mercy’s dashboard flashing in time with her words.
The forcefield, made visible by Mercy’s sensors, shorted out and they were able to pass through.
The mansion beyond was truly, heinously, large. Surrounding it was a series of artfully trimmed hedges There was a winding, paved, pathway snaking its way up to the house, as antiquated as it was decorated. It culminated in an expanse in front of the house and crowned with a giant, gaudy, fountain.
“Mercy,” said Breq, “Your most asshole parking job, if you will.”
“Is this machine waterproof?”
“Yes.”
Mercy landed in the fountain. The water splashed up around them, the van tilted precariously to one side, and finally stabilized itself.
“ You’re going to have to exit through the passenger's door, ” said Mercy, not sounding the least bit regretful.
“Great,” said Seivarden. “I’ve always hated this fountain.”
“ Out you go, then. ”
Seivarden clambered out, narrowly avoided getting her dress wet, and somehow ended up on the pavement in one piece. Breq jumped down effortlessly, graceful as can be.
“I’m going to put my arm around your waist,” Breq said,
“Ok,” said Seivarden.
Breq did. Seivarden carefully slung her arm over Breq’s shoulder.
“Hold on, you’re wearing lipstick?”
“Yeah,” said Seivarden.
“Kiss me.”
“What?!”
“On the cheek. To leave a lipstick mark.”
Seivarden leaned over and carefully left a perfect stamp of lipstick on Breq’s cheek, surveyed it, then smeared her own lipstick a little.
They stumbled up to the great double doors of the mansion and Seivarden pounded on it. Breq pulled out a flask and lifted it to her lips, then tilted her head back a little.
“And that should finally be Seivarden,” came the muffled voice of Seivarden’s mother from beyond the door. When she flung the front door open, she was greeted with the appalling sight of her daughter draped across a stranger chugging frantically from a flask.
Breq wiped her mouth and belched.
“Sev,” she slurred. “You never told me your mom was this hot.”
Madame Vendaai’s hand flew to her chest as she ogled the pair.
“Mother,” said Seivarden. “This is my girlfriend, Breq.”
“Charmed,” said her mother, voice strained.
“Where’s the rest of the fam?” asked Breq.
“Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet them,” gushed Seivarden, dragging Breq past her mother. “You’ll love them.”
Seivarden’s mother hurried after them, through the parlor.
“Darling, is this really such a good idea?” she asked.
“Mother,” said Seivarden. “I’m in love .”
And then she pushed open the door to the dining hall.
It was glamorous in a way that Seivarden had once loved, but had recently grown to dislike intensely. As large and ornate as the rest of the house, with a whooping ten chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and paintings that belonged in museums, it was a monstrosity all of its own. The dinner table, however, made up for it. It was absolutely laden with every kind of vaguely thanksgiving food imaginable. There were multiple cooked birds, both flightless and flightful, mounds of mashed potatoes, little boats of gravy, cranberry sauce, and an assortment of vegetables, sandwiches, caviar, and gods knew what else.
“What the fuck?” said Breq. “All this food and not a single chicken nugget in sight.”
The guests, all equally well dressed and well groomed, turned to stare.
“We’ll just move some folks around and sit you… um… further away,” said Madame Vendaai faintly.
“Nonsense,” said an unfamiliar voice. “They can sit right here next to me!”
Seivarden turned to see a person in a pristine white suit, with neatly braided hair and a smile that was just a bit too wide to be natural.
“Are you sure, Ambassador?” asked Madame Vendaai.
“Po-si-tive,” enunciated the mysterious ambassador.
Seivarden smiled demurely and sat down next to her.
“I,” said the Ambassador, “Am Zeiat. Mianaai brought me along, said it would a good… hm…. Human experience?”
“I love human experiences,” slurred Breq. “Nothing quite like ‘em. And which Mianaai?”
“Anaander Mianaai,” said someone to the other side of Zeiat.
Seivarden’s heart sped up.
“Shit,” said Breq, dropping her act for a second. “It’s you.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve seen your pics online,” said Breq, easing back into her asshole role. “About a six out of ten. Hit me up sometime.”
Anaander looked slightly taken aback. Madame Vendaa was appalled. Zeiat, for her part, was delighted.
“Let’s just… start the meal,” said the hostess.
Immediately, the conversation that Seivarden didn’t even know had gone silent started up again with full force. Small robots floated down out of the ceiling (where Seivarden suspected they had been hiding the chandeliers) and started serving the food.
“ Turducken, ” intoned one, putting a giant heap of that specific dish onto Zeiat’s plate.
“What a creation!” said the ambassador, lifting up a corner of her portion. “What is it?”
“It’s a chicken inside of a duck inside of a turkey,” said Anaander.
“How do you make these?!”
“You smash a turkey egg, a chicken egg, and a duck egg together,” said Breq.
“How novel!”
Nobody corrected her.
As the evening continued on, the guests became slightly more intoxicated. When one of the robots came to pour Breq some wine, she stopped them
“Got my own stuff right here,” she said, raising her flask. “None of that shit.”
“What could possibly be better than a fifty year old bottle of wine?” asked Madame Vendaai, appalled.
“Seven dollar whiskey,” said Breq, and chugged from her flask.
Seivarden’s mother gasped.
The first attempt at civil conversation happened when Madame Vendaai, politely as can be, asked them how they’d met.
Breq eyed Seivarden, then gestured for her to talk.
“Well,” said Seivarden, batting her eyes demurely. “It was love at first sight. Of course, I saw the gun first, then her, but neither of us could resist.”
“The gun?” asked Madame Vendaai.
“I tried to steal her wallet,” said Breq, stone-faced. “Instead, she stole my heart.”
“Aw, babe!” exclaimed Seivarden.
“Human courtship rituals,” Zeiat told Anaander, “Are truly astounding.”
The rest of the folk at the table, however, ignored the matter and had started talking about politics. Which was a huge mistake as far as Seivarden was concerned, because she could see that, beyond the fake drunkenness, Breq’s eyes lit up.
“But are cyborgs actually human,” said someone. “They function different, after all.”
“Hey,” said Breq, bending her head so that her implants would be even more visible. “DId you get the latest vaccine?”
“Yes?” said the person uncertainly.
“You know what’s in there?” asked Breq. “”Fuck- Fuckin' nanobots. Congrats. You’re a cyborg.
The guest immediately started protesting, which led to someone joining in, which led to a discussion on cyborg rights, which was even worse.
“There are certain things that they just shouldn’t be allowed to do,” said someone else. “They’re not exactly… clean… are they?”
Breq reached across the table, knocked over a wine glass, got her sleeve stuck in a vat of cranberry sauce, and proceeded to rub her hand entirely over the speaker’s face.
“Guess what?” she said. “Now my dirty little cyborg hands have been all over you. Who’s unclean now, asshole?”
Zeiat cackled. “How delightful!”
Seivarden eyed her.
Anaander looked increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation went on. Well, not uncomfortable, but annoyed.
Finally, she said. “It is undoubtable that that cyborgs are citizens, however, there are just certain things that they are inherently good or bad at. It comes with the programming. They’re better in combat, worse at socializing. It’s just the way of things.”
That was when Breq punched Anaander.
There was an audible gasp from the rest of the attendees.
Anaander reeled back, then stood up, toppling her chair over. “You!” she hissed. “If my guards were here-”
“They’re not,” said Breq. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, this looks fun!” said Zeiat. “Can I join? I’m very good at hitting things.”
“No!” hissed Anaander. “Who are you, anyways?! Some two-bit criminal who’s siphoning money out of a trustfund child!”
Seivarden should have been insulted. She should have been afraid. There was a time, when, maybe, she would have been. Now, she was just tired. Tired of her family, tired of this upper society, and tired of Mianaai’s and Vendaai’s telling her what to do.
“How dare you?!” she shouted, at her most scandalized. “That’s the love of my life you’re talking about!”
“Thanks, babe,” said Breq. “Maybe justice will prevail here after all.”
“Justice...” said Anaander, slowly, standing. “Justice. I know you! You tried to kill my sister!”
Seivarden’s blood ran cold.
Breq punched Anaander again, right in the solar plexus. Anaander gasped for breath and went down again.
“I’m calling the police!” said Madame Vendaai, signalling to the house AI.
“I’ll get you,” said Breq, leaning down and grabbing Anaander around the throat. “I’ll get one of you, one day. Don’t think I won’t.”
With that, she straightened up and walked away.
“Goodnight, Seivarden,” she said, demeanor changed entirely. “Thank you for the dinner. It was worth… all of this.”
“Wait,” said Seivarden, and scrambled after Breq. “I’m coming with you!”
“Seivarden,” said her mother dangerously. “If you set one foot out that door-”
“Oh, fuck you, mom,” Seivarden threw over her shoulder. “Where were you three years ago?”
Breq looked over, surprised. “You do realize,” she said. “If you come with me, you’ll be a wanted criminal.”
Seivarden surveyed the dining hall one final time. “There’s worse things to be,” she said.
“Then let’s hurry.”
They picked up the pace and practically ran out into the courtyard.
“Mercy!” yelled Breq. “Code Red!”
“ It will take me some time to get out of this fountain, ” said the van, and started rocking itself back and forth.
Breq climbed in and helped Seivarden in.
“Buckle in,” she snapped. “I hope you have some useful skills.”
“Me too,” said Seivarden.
Just as the door of the van was about to close, a hand reached through and grabbed at the handhold above the door.
Seivarden swore.
Breq reached under her seat and produced a gun, training it on the door.
Into the van toppled Zeiat, grinning maniacally. At this proximity, Seivarden could see that she had multiple rows of unfortunately sharp teeth.
“You’re much more interesting,” said the ambassador, and climbed into the back seat.
“ In for a penny, in for a dime, ” said Mercy philosophically.
“Fuck,” said Breq with feeling, and the van took off.
***
“ The criminal known as Justice of Toren has added to her rap sheet this past November,” chattered the radio of the high end coffee shop. “Having kidnapped Seivarden Vendaai, heir of the Vendaai fortune, and Ambassador Zeiat, an alien envoy from the Presger system, Justice of Toren is still at large. ”
“Are these hats really necessary?” asked Breq bitterly, raising the edge of her floppy hat just a little, so she could see where she was going.
Seivarden gave her a look over her large, circular, sunglasses. “This is art,” she said, slightly insulted.
“I didn’t come here to make art,” said Breq, “I came here to win.”
“Personally, I quite like the hats,” said Zeiat.
“I’m glad someone appreciates my work,” muttered Seivarden.
“ Folks, ” said Mercy in their ears. “ The target will be rounding the corner in a minute now. I suggest you get in formation. ”
“Right,” said Seivarden, and picked up her newspaper.
Breq put her hand on her gun.
Zeiat grinned.
Casual encounters had never gone so wrong. Or so well.