“Excuse me.. Are you Pierce?”
The person looks up from her hands in surprise, and after surveying Elena’s dirtied, disheveled appearance in awe for an awkward moment with her dull violet eyes, she nods slightly, her hands still clasped together tightly. With a relieved sigh, Elena sits down on the seat beside Pierce and says wearily –
“I’m glad I found you. I’m here on behalf of a friend.”
“A.. friend?”
Elena pulls out Seymour’s crumpled letter out of her pocket and hands it to Pierce. She takes it, her eyes shining with curiosity, and proceeds to read it in silence, her eyes growing wider with ever line she reads. Elena watches her apprehensively, wanting to know what exactly Seymour wrote for her, but Pierce folds the note over without a word, looking very morose, rises from her seat, and makes for the stairwell, her flaming-red hair trailing in her wake. Rather confused, Elena hurries off after her, catches her on the stairs, and exclaims haughtily –
“Um, you’re welcome?”
Pierce glances at Elena over her shoulder, and mutters solemnly –
“I’m not going to thank you.”
The girls ascend the empty stairwell together, speaking not a word to eachother until they are out on the busy streets, where the sound of their voices are drowned out by the rabble. Pierce grabs Elena’s wrist lightly, and says out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes fixed forward –
“So, Seymour is alive, then?”
“Er, yes. He’s the one who wrote that note, after all..”
“I guess I should’ve known… I would’ve thought that an apocalypse would be enough to kill him, but..”
Pierce falls into solemn silence again, and Elena follows suit, opting to hush herself until the two of them reach the red-lit doors of the Cat’s Eye Cabaret, whereupon Pierce sits down on the steps, watching the passersby with unfocused eyes, and asks Elena quietly –
“So then.. Your name is Elena, right?”
“Uh, yeah..? How’d you know that?”
“Seymour said it in his letter…”
“I.. see..”
Elena once again sits down next to Pierce, growing slightly impatient with her hesitating demeanor, and tries to cajole her into the cabaret by asking gently –
“So, this is where you work, right? And your break is over now, right? “
“In a couple minutes, yes.”
“Hm, alright then… How to kill a couple minutes… Oh, uh, why were you in that church down there? Seems a bit.. silly, at this point.”
Pierce glares at Elena in an offended sort of way, and she quickly backpedals by saying –
“Er, no offense.. Sorry..”
“Mm.. Well, you are right. It is silly now to believe in such things, but I don’t go there for me.. I go there for my sister.”
“Oh yeah? What, does your sister work here too?”
Pierce’s glare hardens dangerously at Elena’s inquiry, making Elena laugh nervously, as she feels increasingly uncomfortable around the distraught redhead. Pierce abruptly stands up from the steps and pushes the door to the cabaret as she says bitterly –
“My sister is dead. Seymour killed her.”
And with that, Pierce slams the door in Elena’s face, leaving her surprised and completely disillusioned, standing frozen on the steps. With an irritated sniff, she makes to leave the cabaret, but Seymour’s orders rise in her memory, and she reluctantly turns around and re-enters the cabaret. While the music pounds in her ears and the smell of alcohol permeates the lounge area, Elena tries to get through the bouncer, only to have him once again block her path with his relative chunkiness.
“Can you please let me through? Pierce is back now, and I really need to talk to her.”
“She’s getting ready now, yeah. She’ll be a few minutes. You can go in though, mhm.”
With the bouncer’s permission, Elena enters the lounge area, making sure not to draw attention from the soldiers still busying themselves with the girls. She cautiously sneaks over to the side of the stage, opens the pink door slowly, and slips inside the tiny room within, where Pierce is in the middle of changing. She gasps in shock as Elena shuts the door behind her, and backs nervously into the wall, her violet eyes quivering with dread.
“Don’t think you can just blow me off like that! Seymour says you owe him a favor! Is that true?”
“Y-yes..”
“Well then, get to it! And if you don’t, I’ll bust your jaw!”
Rather than motivating her, Pierce’s eyes start to fill with tears. Nevertheless, she nods despondently through her tears, and continues changing into her rather revealing outfit, consisting of nothing but a thin black bra, an indecently short red skirt, and a pair of knee-high, black, high laced boots. She shakes her long hair back over her shoulders, takes a deep breath with her eyes shut, then, her sadness suddenly breaks with a wide, toothy smile she flashes at Elena, changing her demeanor completely. She puts her hands on Elena’s shoulder softly, her face still full of smile, and says through her teeth –
“You go wait outside, sweetie. I’ll, as you said, ‘get to it’, but it could take a while.”
“Er, a-alright..”
Somewhat bewildered over Pierce’s sudden change, Elena exits the room and makes for the nearest table, sinking into a seat that faces away from the stage, and the preoccupied soldiers. She watches as Pierce emerges from the same room, her freakish smile still intact, get onto the arm of a nearby soldier, and after the two exchange a few unheard words, they retreat behind a set of red velvet curtains on the opposite end of the checkered floor, making Elena suddenly feel sick with herself.
Elena impatiently waits hour after hour for a word from Pierce, while watching her grab new soldiers from the crowd every twenty minutes or so; the showroom slowly empties of clients as the hour grows later, and the shows themselves become less bawdy. The girls retire behind the luxurious velvet stage curtains, and the burly bouncer Elena had met earlier starts ushering people out, although some go less amiably than others. Just as the last soldier is thrown out onto the streets, Pierce emerges from behind the curtains. Her face is pale and spent, though her odd smile remains as she wordlessly hands Elena a small slip of folded pink paper. Elena stares at the folded note, vaguely disgusted by the nature of it, and she says to Desiree in a somewhat revolted voice –
“So… That’s what Seymour asked you to do for him..? He wanted you to have sex with soldiers to.. get him information?”
“That’s right, sweetie. Hope it helps him.”
“Well, uh, yeah.. T-thanks, Pierce.”
She takes in Pierce’s wearied appearance guiltily once more before turning to leave the cabaret, though the question eating away at her finally escapes as she turns back to Pierce and asks baldly –
“How exactly do you know Seymour, Pierce?”
Slightly taken aback by her sudden brazenness, Pierce’s painful smile finally disappears from her wan face, and is replaced by a small, but genuine smirk as she declares gently –
“Don’t worry, Elena.. It wasn’t anything sordid.. He just did me and my sister Aiden a big favor a few years ago.”
“But what was the favor..?”
“Well, he… He saved my life.”
Without elaborating further, Pierce gives Elena a quick nod, then returns to the backroom, leaving Elena with a distinctly bad taste in her mouth, only to be roughly ushered out by the bouncer. Elena ascends the stairs in an exhausted daze, and exits back out into the now-deserted Mesa street. Feeling terrible with herself at forcing Pierce to do such things at Seymour’s behest, she curiously flips open the slip of paper. Despite a wait of over twelve hours for the information, there is only one word written on the tiny slip below a fancily-drawn heart –
DIV. 6.
~Beneath Santuc: Raven’s Nest~
Waking prematurely from his restless sleep, Seymour reluctantly slides off his stiff, uncomfortable cot, knowing that he has to get started on the task at hand despite
his exhaustion. His eyes still painfully stinging with fatigue, he looks around the shelter and notices that Elena has yet to return from her errand, though he is rather more grateful for his solitude at the moment. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he meticulously checks on Data, and finds him still unconscious, although he is breathing normally, and the color has returned to his skin. Getting back to business, Seymour grabs a folded-up chair from against the far wall, and inspects the medical shelf for surgical tools. Finding a rolled-up nylon emergency surgical kit amid the myriad of other medical supplies, he places his chair at the side of Data’s cot, and pulls out the pristine MFI apparatuses from his pocket, inspecting them carefully, making sure it was not damaged during his “test”. Taking hold of Data’s bare hand, and grabbing a shiny scalpel, a pocket flashlight, and a small bottle of Midazolam from the kit, he injects the benzodiazepine into Data’s wrist, and makes the first incision along his palm, beginning the lengthy insertion process. Working swiftly beneath the dim lights of the shelter for hours on end, delicately installing the complicated apparatus, and using every ounce of concentration within him, Seymour is nearly finished the first installation. With the MFI wires securely bound and clasped around the radius and ulna, connected to the battery lodged in between the two bones, and held in place by the muscles, Seymour completes the installation by coating the still-exposed parts of Data’s forearm with Seraph Tears after spraying his wounds with antiseptic spray. With no time to rest, Seymour immediately begins preparing the second MFI unit for Data. He pulls off the metal legs of one of the nearby cots, then scours the shelter for an acetylene torch, which he manages to find in one of the many toolboxes on the shelves. He proceeds to weld the MFI to the ends of the four cot legs, squinting his eyes against the flying sparks, then takes four long screws from the same toolbox and drills them through the sides of the legs. While waiting for the metal to cool, he snatches up the antiseptic spray, and coats the screws with the spray. After about a half hour of building the makeshift extension, Seymour proceeds to drill the thick screws into Data’s stump of an arm, not stopping until he hits bone. Once the extension is installed, he winds the MFI wires underneath the unit itself, then very carefully welds the tiny battery to one of the legs. His job finally done, Seymour breathes a deep sigh of relief and exhaustion, drops his torch to the ground with a loud clang, and collapses onto the cot right beside Data, unable to remain awake for any longer. He manages to sleep somewhat undisturbed for a couple hours, until he hears a small, weak grunt of confusion that wakes him from his short reverie. Looking over his shoulder with stinging, bloodshot eyes, he finds Data still lying on his back but semiconscious, staring inquisitively at the crude metal extension with the newly-installed MFI upon it jutting out of his stump.
“… Hm.. … Quite efficient.. Wonder why I didn’t think of that?”
Despite his exhaustion, Seymour leaps to his feet and hurriedly asks Data –
“How are you feeling? Nauseous, feverish, anything?”
“Well, I’m a bit pissed off, yeah.. But I think I’ll be fine.. I’ll let you know if I start feeling any worse..”
Seymour nods in relief, and a sudden, awkward silence falls between the two as they sit facing eachother in the cavernous shelter. Data continues to examine his crude prosthetic arm curiously, when Seymour tries to break the discomfited silence by exclaiming quietly –
“Data, I-”
“Don’t bother, Seymour. I knew what I was volunteering for.”
“Well, I still feel like I should apologize..”
“Well, I can’t say I’m particularly jazzed about this, but I’ll survive.”
Seymour raises his eyebrows at Data skeptically, who laughs humorlessly in his throat, and admits in a bitter tone –
“Yeah, good point.”
Wincing slightly from the pain, Data lifts up his shirt slightly to observe his wound, which has been sutured shut. He drops his shirt and looks up at Seymour blankly, who watches him nervously, expecting him to be furious. Instead, Data pushes his cracked glasses up his nose, and mutters under his breath –
“Thanks, Seymour..”
“Don’t thank me.”
“No, it’s just.. Usually, I’m the one helping everyone else out.. It’s kinda embarrassing to be the one who needed help this time around.. So, really.. Thanks.”
“Er, alright.. Don’t mention it.. I guess..”
While Seymour carries his bloodied surgical equipment to the wall-mounted metal sink for washing, Data looks around the vast chamber curiously, taking in his surroundings as his vision steadily sharpens as the Midazolam wears off, though he is surprised not to see Elena anywhere.
“Uh, hey, where’s Elena?”
Without looking at Data, Seymour yells over the running water –
“Elena? I sent her out on a very important errand.”
“Oh.. How long ago was that?”
“About a day ago..”
“And she’s not back yet?”
Wiping his hands dry on his tattered coat, Seymour returns to Data with the cleaned surgical supplies and exclaims casually –
“She’s going to Mesa. It’ll take her a while to get there and back.”
“Oh..”
Left with nothing to do, Data continues to inspect his MFIs curiously for the next few minutes, while Seymour scrutinizes the surgical supplies, quietly steeling himself for what he knows has to come next.
“So, anyway, Data.. I have a favor to ask of you, if you’re up to it.”
“.. What’s that?”
“… I want you to install these into me.”
Pulling out Sakura’s MFIs from his pocket, he stares at them for a moment with solemn remembrance, and drops them into Data’s lap unceremoniously.
“What? You serious?”
“Of course I am.”
“But.. I don’t even know how!”
“I’ll give you instructions. You’re the only one I trust to do this.”
Data considers the MFIs in his lap for a moment before saying under his breath –
“You.. trust me?”
“Of course I do. Besides, there’s no time to find a new fourth man, and I can’t install them into myself. I’ve seen your work with Adrian and Sam. I can’t think of anyone better for this.”
“… Er.. Alright.. If you’re gonna tell me what to do, I’ll give it a shot.”
“Perfect.”
Over the next hour, Seymour draws up instructions for Data, who, in the meantime, tests out his new MFIs with quiet interest, attracting metallic things from all over the room to his hand and his extension with a candid, somewhat shy smile. It takes him longer to figure out how to control his extension properly, though before long, a large stockpile of various metallic objects lays at his feet. Finally finished, Seymour hands Data his completed, detailed step-by-step instruction booklet, smiles slightly at the little pile of metallic objects on the ground, then sits down on the cot next to him, while Data looks over the thirty-five page booklet curiously.
“Wow.. So many details.. How’d you ever come up with something like this?”
While Seymour uncaps a small bottle of Midazolam and injects half of the bottle’s contents into his wrist, he explicates in a bitter voice –
“It’s easy.. when you have an overblown, runaway military budget and absolute power to exploit your underlings for experimental and research purposes. Though, I did have some help on it, but most everything came from me spending months on end locked up in my lab at DIV. 1.”
Picking up the scalpel, Seymour presents his left hand to Data, who hesitates as he suspends the scalpel just above his palm.
“Wait, you’re going to be awake when I do this?!”
“Yeah. Besides, there’re no sedatives or anything like that in here, I checked. Don’t worry, though. I can take the pain.”
“Are you sure?”
“Considering all the pain I’ve gone through this past month, I think I can take a few cuts to the a
rm. I just injected the Midazolam myself, since I know you hate needles, so just avoid cutting the cephalic vein or any arteries as best you can, and everything will be fine.”
“A-alright.. If you say so..”
Reading over Seymour’s instructions meticulously, Data carefully makes his first incision on the palm of Seymour’s hand, and Seymour grits his teeth, but doesn’t further react to the pain. Data looks up into Seymour’s face apprehensively, and asks in a quiet voice –
Paradox: The Last Day - Seymour's Story Page 33
