Admissions 1.10: Enough for Now (Cynthia)
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The nap had been good.
Everything since, less so.
Cynthia hadn't been surprised to find Cylie still gone when she woke. He liked new places, new people. Novelty in general. Cynthia liked those things less, even if she'd gotten used to dealing with them.
Not knowing where Cylie was, in unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory, made her uneasy, even if she’d been the one who told him to go away.
She'd scouted the hotel right after they'd arrived in the local "afternoon", taking a brisk walk through the building and comparing the actual layout to the emergency maps posted in every hall. Those showed the exits local security wanted people to use in case of emergency. She needed to find the other exits. Threats might arrive through them unchecked; more likely, local security would be the threat, and she and Cylie would need a way out.
She'd returned from her survey to find the room full of brochures, and Cylie full of surprises.
The nap had refreshed her from the exhaustion of travel, at least. Being in a packed passenger ship harrowed Cynthia. If it had been an illicit transport like they usually rode, she'd at least have found them a spot against a wall, backs pressed to the grav-paneling. But ships like that didn't dock at Europa City. They'd flown the connection from the Kuiper Gate on a passenger ship, where everyone had an assigned seat with a sheaf of brochure-readers in the pocket in front of them. They hadn't traveled that way in over a decade, since before she'd learned real fear.
She'd spent the whole trip trying not to let Cylie see how close she was to bolting. A futile impulse; she and everyone on that ship were trapped in every way that mattered, hard vacuum their captor. There was no safety possible, when they could neither run nor hide.
(Not that they had not escaped even those conditions, once. If it were up to Cynthia, they would never repeat the feat.)
The awareness of someone sitting right behind her, close enough to lean forward and grab her shoulder, made her want to scream.
But she'd made it through the flight. Made it through Europa's customs with her new ident, giving the officer nothing to wonder at in her facial expression or body language. Just a tired girl.
She'd made it through cold streets and the hotel and that awful conversation with Cylus. She'd slept.
Now her body needed to move.
The hotel had a gym. She'd seen it, on her initial foray. Could be there in a few minutes. Leave Cylie a note, so he could find her when he got back. Like they'd done countless times before.
(A memory: the interior of an abandoned storage bay, their first night on Vega Station. Cylus staggering back, bloody, commless. Fainting when he saw her. If she hadn't decided to stay put that night, he might have died. If she'd been with him, he'd never have been injured, but she'd lost that argument years before.)
Cynthia turned on the wall-holo.
Everything on it would be Windfall-selected, of course. She hadn’t been on Windnet before, having spent the last decade specifically avoiding Windfall-managed space. But on a quick browse, it resembled most comm networks: Windnet’s version of news, entertainment, education, and sales channels; the same inter-network SolSys programming that other nets with Terran ties carried; a handful of local streams from Europa and other nearby moons.
She settled on a rote Luna-based action show she half-recognized, keeping the volume low so she'd hear any nearby disturbances. She wished she had a way to access her pindrive of bootleg anime and martial arts flicks, but neither her unactivated comm nor the wallo had the right port.
She worked through several episodes worth of stretches and body-weight exercises. If she hadn't been wondering where Cylie was, it would have taken the edge off. As it was, it left her feeling energized but still restless.
Also, hungry.
She'd already decided to stay put. She could call room service, the hotel was nice enough. But that kind of expense felt excessive even when they were flush with cash. They were not flush right now. They'd spent nearly their entire savings on their false idents and their passage here.
The coffee machine on the tiny desk by the door had packets of sweetener, little containers of creamer. She downed two of each and drank deep from the bathroom sink. Enough for now.
Now was all she could deal with.
She changed the holo—which had shifted over to some hospital show—until she found a zero-g racquet-ball tourney. Then she moved into the series of drills she'd first learned over a decade ago, stances and strikes and kicks in stripped-down sequences. She'd iterated on them over the years, adding patterns of movement that had served her when things went bad. They were better to run with a partner, though.
She wished Cylie were here. Not that she'd practice with him right now.
She kept on anyway, until the tourney ended and the holo moved onto something else. Paused, breathing hard.
Walking over to the window, she mopped her face on her sleeve and looked down at the brochure-readers. Her eyes stung. Wiping her hands, she made herself swipe through one, then another. She stared at the words, at pictures that animated when touched to show short scenes of collegiate life. Trying to understand what Cylie was thinking.
It didn't help. Her body was still buzzing and not in a good way. She knew all the words but right now they didn't mean anything. The people in those images were their age, but to Cynthia they felt like actors in an entertainment. Nothing real. Nothing to do with the world they'd lived in for the last ten years.
Throwing down the brochures, she examined the room's furniture. She longed for a proper fighting dummy, or even the improvised one she’d built out of scrap back on Dushara. Proper equipment was a rare luxury. Practicing strikes against anything in here was a risk; they couldn’t afford to replace broken furniture.
But all her exercises hadn’t relieved the terrible tension in her body. She needed contact; to play out the patterns of combat against something with mass and resistance.
The armchair in the corner might do; four short legs supporting a lightly padded bulk. Low center of gravity; reasonably sturdy looking. She'd shadow-sparred off worse objects. She would simply... be careful.
She could be careful.
She pulled the table with its stupid brochures to the other side of the room, leaving it in front of the door. Out of her way for now, and it blocked anyone trying to come in. When Cylie got back, he could knock.
If he was injured... the table was small enough to move quickly.
Dragging the chair out of the corner, she positioned it between the window and the nearer bed. Giving it a last once-over, she began to circle it, imagining angles and movements as she practiced strikes and kicks, carefully moderating her power.
As she practiced, her mind wandered back to previous fights.
Not fights for survival. Those replayed themselves when they saw fit. All Cynthia could do was try to breathe through, when memories came on like enemies in ambush.
Other fights, ones she chose, helped. Gave her different memories to tie to her muscles. Gave her mind practice and padding against real blows, when they came. That was why she loved the tether-ring.
Of course, she couldn’t tell Cylie that that was part of why she was so upset about all this. Not that she couldn’t play tether-ring here on Europa, her beacon let her find fellow players wherever they went. But even beyond the risks of participating in extralegal underground fights while living long-term in a Windfall-controlled city, how would she possibly explain the prize money—and the bruises—to Cylie when they were supposed to be going to school?
Before, depending on the ratio of cash to bruises, she’d told him they were from warehouse burglaries, or day labor, or freelance enforcement contracts. He always believed her. Cynthia was good at those kinds of things, and she never lied to him.
Except about this.
For years, it had been her one secret. The one thing she'd kept for herself, the one thing that helped her stay in her skin when Cylie was off without her.
It’d started almost by accident, after they'd just come off being "passengers" aboard a smuggling ship. She and Cylus had surprised the woman running security, Wu, by being assets instead of liabilities when they were boarded by another ship. But during the violence, Cynthia had lost herself. She didn't like to think about it, even now.
Even Cylie had looked a little afraid of her, after.
Wu had asked if she had any outlet beyond training. She didn't. So after the ship docked, the older woman looped her in, staking her own beacon and rep to bring Cynthia to a tether-ring match. At first she'd just watched, hiding under a borrowed balaclava and hat. But another youth showed up, around her size.
One thing led to another.
She'd come back to their squat with a black eye from a stray elbow, a jammed finger from not having wrapped her hands well enough, and assorted aches and bruises that lingered for days. But she’d also felt more at peace than she had since they'd left home.
Until she realized she had no good way to explain her injuries. Only beacon-holders were allowed to talk about tether-ring to someone outside; she’d promised Wu not to tell Cylie. Which she hadn’t considered when going in the ring.
He’d been distraught; then furious, when she wouldn’t answer any of his questions. He’d yelled at her. Like he‘d never come home hurt and unwilling to talk.
The next time, she had a story ready, afterwards.
She could have looped Cylie in once she earned her beacon, a few months later. But she’d gotten used to keeping it secret. Had found she liked having something all her own. She’d even made her own costume and mask; simple, because she was nowhere as good at sewing as Cylie. But she was proud of the ears on the hood, suiting the ring-name she'd chosen: ghostcat.
Childish, maybe. She'd been sixteen when she picked it. But that identity, and the beacon that marked her as a player, meant more to her than anything else in the world but Cylie.
Yet as she worked her way around and around the chair, tension and anger finally starting to ease in her body, she had to admit to herself that it might not be a bad time for a break from the scene. Because after her last time in the ring, in an underground gym on Prox-B the night before they'd left for Sol System and Europa, something... strange had happened.
The fight itself had been good; a money-match, which she’d won. After the tethers came down, while other players mingled, she'd collected her winnings and ducked into a corner like usual, avoiding the crowd. A normal mix of attendees: other beacon-bearers and would-bes, looped-in spectators and bettors, and a handful of vetted gray and black market recruiters. She'd shrugged a hoodie on over her sweaty costume and made ready to slip away, quick and quiet as her fighting namesake.
Only this time, someone waited for her by the door: a young woman, close to Cynthia's age, with dark hair and light brown skin. A trace of violet had glowed through the stretchy shirt covering her ample chest.
A fan, she'd said. Of ghostcat.
ghostcat wasn’t supposed to have fans. Tether-ring was built on discretion and anonymity, and she liked it that way. Players sometimes swapped match recordings with each other, but leaking those to outsiders was a beacon-breaking offense. Yet this girl had been waiting for her, dark eyes wide like Cynthia was some vid-channel star.
While the "fan" talked up a storm and Cynthia tried to decide which way to bolt, the back of her neck had prickled. Glancing behind, she’d scanned emptying stands to find a lounging, angular silhouette, shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
In that moment, she’d felt certain of what it hid: a hard woman, with a detached, predatory gaze that burned in her memory, ten years since she’d last met it.
Their instructor. Perhaps, their betrayer.
But, she’d told herself a hundred times since, it couldn’t have been—
“Cyn? Did you block the door?”
Cynthia’s body, just unspiraling into a takedown, accelerated as she whirled. Even as she processed the words and voice as Cylie's, her foot finished the sweep, sending the chair toppling backward.
It hit the floor with a dull, splintering thud.
"Well," Cylie said as he stepped back from the chair, "I don't think anyone will notice. Not until we're long gone, at least."
She'd broken a back post. They'd had to cut through the upholstery to coax the cheap, semi-synthetic "wood" back together; fortunately, multi-purpose adhesive was part of their kit. While Cynthia could still perceive the damage she'd done, she suspected her brother was right.
As he often was, annoyingly.
"These are good," Cynthia admitted grudgingly, pulling out a second fish roll and taking another sip from the insulated to-go teacup. Cylie had encouraged her to eat while he stitched the chair back together and told her about his distressingly adventurous evening. "And this blend is nice." Layers of subtle flavor held warm stone and flowers and just a little bit of smoke.
She hadn't tasted anything so pleasant in a long time.
"Emile recommended them." His voice was cautious. He'd relayed his story with his usual theatrical bravado while he sewed, but now his nervousness was showing. Moreso even than usual after they'd fought.
"This new contact of yours." She glanced at the commcard he'd set on the bedside table. "Aren't the Devignes the ones who turned one of Windfall's reclaimed worlds into a rich people's play version of an ag-planet?" Cynthia didn't bother to hide her skepticism. "The one they use in a bunch of their PR materials?"
"Yes." Cylie had clearly been rehearsing on his way back. "Which is even better! He belongs here. Who better to help us do the same?"
"Even if you're right, and he's sympathetic, do you really think it's a good idea to cozy up to one of Windfall's prize lapdogs?"
"He's..." For an instant, his face was earnest with an obvious urge to defend. She felt a pang watching him swallow the emotion and switch tacks, just as she might change angles in a fight. "Look, of course there's a risk. You were right earlier; this whole plan is risky. But you and I both know that sometimes the best place to hide is in full view. Who would expect a pair of identless nobodies to take up with someone like this? An associate like Emile could keep us from the kind of scrutiny we might face otherwise."
"And how do those bruises on your neck fit in?" There were several; though knowing Cylie, probably far fewer than he'd left on the other boy. "I know you're more comfortable trading touch than I am." An elision that hid different kinds of bruises. "But I never want you to feel like you have to do that, Cylie."
"I know." Cylus sighed, a faint blush creeping across his face. "I got these... Very voluntarily."
"You're horny for him."
"Yes," Cylus flopped back on his bed. "Fine. I'm also attracted to him. He's..." Closing his eyes, Cylie let through some of the sincerity he'd bit back earlier. "He's not like you'd think. He really seemed... Sweet. And not in a boring way. I... I like him, Cyn. I know it's stupid."
Cynthia's heart twisted inside her chest. "It's not stupid, Cylie. I saw how you were after we left Dushara. You liked that boy from the flower shop too, didn't you?"
Cylus' hands sought purchase in the bedspread. "Maybe."
All the confusion she'd felt looking at the brochures earlier was shifting, unfolding into comprehension. Cynthia modulated her voice into a near-perfect imitation of Cylie's, reflecting back his words from before. " 'We can have lives. We can have somewhere to stay!' " Her tone flattened back to its normal register, but the world kept tilting, realigning, truth becoming clear as she spoke it. "That's... what you want, isn't it? Not just because you think it's what we deserve, or should have been given, or what would be good for me. Because you want a chance to belong somewhere, to be part of... Of a community. Instead of it always being just the two of us, always on the move—"
He sat up, facing her with sudden earnestness that went through her like a knife. "Cyn, no. You're the most important person in the universe to me—"
"You too, Cylie." Tears stung her eyes, and her own truth poured out with them. "I really want you to be happy, but you're so good at not admitting what you really want, even to yourself, that I can't tell what would actually make you happy." She sniffed, rubbing a sleeve across her face. Crying was annoying, but this was important, and she couldn't say it without letting out the feelings behind. "Which, I get it. We haven't had options that might lead towards happiness, for... so long. But," Her voice cracked, "I'm so scared you'll hollow yourself out with hunger and I won't even know because I can't always tell when you're lying. Do you want to go to this school? Because if doing this will let you be happy, then maybe I can relax long enough to figure out what I want too."
He was crying too, she realized. "I'm sorry, Cyn—"
"Don't be sorry!" She interrupted. "Just answer me: do you, Cylus, want to go to the school?"
"Yes," he conceded in a whisper.
Cynthia flopped back on the bed, heedless of the crumbs from her half-eaten fish roll as relief flooded her body. "Great. I agree. Let's do it. Tell me you want the thing first next time, you idiot. Was that so hard?"
Cylie echoed the gesture, groaning as they both sniffled. "It was, actually."
"Maybe you can practice with this new boy." She took another bite of the fish roll. It really was good. "Doing what you want, I mean."
Cylie's laugh was choked, just managing to escape. "I... Yeah. Maybe I will."
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