Ashes to Ashes Pt. 04

"Good plan. Good plan. How is that working out for you right now?"

"I'm just getting started."

The metal bends and it breaks, but not from my will. It follows the flex of this woman's fingers and binds my hands, my ankles. More and more of the metal takes the sharp.

"You may wish to try a bit harder. It won't help, but it might make you feel a bit better."

I do. I do try a bit harder. Do try a bit more, put more and more of the sharp down into the metal. But it keeps going, keeps going into the metal and making it glow against my pale skin. And it doesn't not break. There is still the metal. The pipe comes again and beats into my temple. The sharp fades as it goes to repair the damage. Another wave of the hands come and I feel a body press into me and take some of the sharp into it. My Soren yells in pain and I have to tamper it down.

The woman takes her will and moves the cage of ruin frame. I have no choice but to move with the cage.

---

The woman of metal will keeps me bound. That is terrible. I don't like being bound, but I have no choice. She keeps me with other bodies, other Sorens that come and draw the sharp away from the metal. My Soren holds onto me. I wish she didn't. It takes too much from the metal and I can't break free.

In her defense there is very few other places to hold onto other than me. The cells are small. The cells are cramped and I would hold onto something else if I had a choice.

The cell breaks us apart, some of us. I have my Soren and two others that I have no particular attachment to. But they are Sorens and that means they are friends. The sharp understands, despite all its rage. These are innocents, and while they may be annoying, they are only to get a slight current to keep their senses honed. My Soren seems to like it.

And the best part is that now I get to take my mask off and no one yells at me. My Soren should as well. But they are still masked. Their terrible choice, really. I'm not here to save anyone extra than Ike. My Soren can come along if she wants. She can watch if she wants, although Ike might have some reservations now that I think about it. Later, that is a problem for later. Get out of the cage and burn things and kill some people with gold chains and then the Soren can watch, if everyone's okay with that.

There are other cells scattered on our level. They all hang on the precipice of the center pillar of open air. The wind rattles the loose metal. Several stand empty and clean. Several others have a smattering of Sorens. Only one other stands full, way on the other side of our empty air. But it has a weight to it that I can't help but feel a bit better about.

So, we hang there in the suspended cages, our warden casting lazy glances out to the horizon. There is nothing there. Endless sand and curving horizons with more sand beyond. The warden knows that. She has to know that. She is alive and has lived and has gazed out into the endless wastes that we all must go through in order to come to this wonderful castle.

"Jill," whispers my Soren, "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," I say, "That hasn't' changed since the last time you asked me."

"I thought that you would think of something."

"I'm kind of a one trick pony. I could melt through the bars if I give it enough juice, but then I'd fry you. If you make it through that, then you'd have a fall to deal with. Do you want me to do that?"

"Not really," said the Soren with his legs dangling through the mesh.

"I didn't ask you, Soren," I sigh, "How about you? Do you have any ideas?"

"Rope."

"That's not an idea. That's a thing. That's thing that would be in the packs, but we don't have those either."

"No. Take off your clothes."

"You're too young to tell me to do that."

"We can make a rope from your clothes. We just need to tear your clothes enough to make strands."

And that's a smart idea. I like my Soren. It's my favorite Soren. My Soren helps me undress from the simple cotton tunic the full metal bitch left me with to preserve her impression of my modesty. I take off the wrapping covering my chest as well. They seem more suited to rope making than anything else really.

My Soren gets to work rather quickly. For once she only has the leather mask to impede her. She is rather pale as well. The robes must have hidden her from the sun. But she doubles back, layering and relayering the thin fabric to make it strong. And in no time at all, she produces a length of rope easily long enough to dangle uselessly in the air.

"I might have gotten a little too into this idea," I say, "Because I have no idea what to do with this now."

It is a quality rope, given the circumstances, although I am now rather cold. I should not have let her do that. This might be some form of revenge for my bad faith acting in her collective. She sighs and points to the nearest cage.

"Toss it to that guy," she says, "And then we pull ourselves over."

Smart Soren. Good Soren. I would pat her on the head and say good girl if the angle was better. She gets nothing, but I get the rope. And I start swinging.

It takes a good long while to get some momentum going, but I eventually lay the ropey strand over the top. Unfortunately, the denizen of such a cage does not seem to notice or care that there is something happening in the world outside of his cage. I shake the rope and a stray knot dangles through the gaps and tickles his forehead.

He bats it away and I finally feel the weight of Ike come out in full force. Sad, it is sad. It wallows in the endless mire of despair, content to lie in his little cage and let the world go on without him. People got hurt because of him. They would continue to get hurt because of him. He was born to hurt people and he didn't want to hurt people anymore.

"Ike," I whisper, "Ike, grab the stupid rope and pull us over."

I don't think he gets the words and their meaning, but he gets the noise. And even in the deepest sadness, there is always a response to the name. His head turns and spies the thread. And it leads back to me.

The light in his eyes and the smile crossing his lips makes me melt. The eager need in the hands pulling me closer, let the sharp spike and spin. I can't hold it in, despite the extra pressure from my roommates to tone it down. I can't. There is no control. I don't want it to have control. The world does not want it to have control. Ike might. But he is not the wone with the sharp. He is the one with the weight and he is pulling me closer.

Wordlessly, he touches my hand once the rope has exhausted its length. The sharp crackles and pokes and I am touching him again. The smooth bore rifling of my core sings in the soft anticipation of the weight filling me once again. The jagged edges are worn down by the immense pressure. There are gaps to fill and spaces to hollow and heels to nip and we are together again. I want to kiss him. I can't kiss him. The metal is in the way. But I do get to see the white-blue light dance through his veins. There are not enough scars on his body to let the starlight dance in its connection. It will. There will be histories and stories and deeds to mar his flesh and I will be there for them all.

"Thank you," says the voice of the metal will. She rises on a bed of rust and rivet, bored and inattentive.

"You saved me the trouble of moving you two together. Come along now. We have work to do."

---

I'm in a cell with Ike. No Sorens. It's nice to not be around Sorens anymore. Fine company, but not quite what I want from a long-term relationship. Too serious, too restrictive, too many terrible things with lines and rules and boundaries as to what I can and can't be.

Being with Ike like this is terrible in its own way, however. It's just that now, the lines and the boundaries are real and tactile. And they are sharp. Bad sharp, the ones that actually make me bleed instead of just making me feel like I've been stuck. I like sharp things, but I like my sharp things. Not any of this. At least Ike doesn't seem to be that big of a fan either. He is a fan of soft and large things. Even now, he keeps looking to my chest now that it is open to breeze. I still miss my coat. Not my shirt. I am indifferent to that.

Our warden hums a song with absent thought as the cage follows her motions. I let more of the sharp out, but it still isn't enough for the metal to bend and break. At least Ike can take the extra current. He even seems to like it.

He is holding onto me, to make sure that I am not running away, to make sure that he has something solid to hang onto as the cage rattles. I hold onto him, mostly to feel the weight in my core slowly spread the pathways of the sharp. There is more, there is more pouring from me, through me.

The cage shakes as she turns and we come to a room, a spacious room lined with what might be considered something soft. It looks like it's trying to be a bed. A wall-to-wall bed. I like the idea, in theory. But the thin spots in the mattress, and what looks to be suspicious stains on the fabric, have me somewhat trepidations of the whole affair.

"Micaiah," Ike says, "Do I really have to do this?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing, handsome," she hums, "This one has good tits, but I'm not really appreciating the vibe she's giving off. Are you doing alright? Do you need some space before we start?"

"My name is Jill," I say, "And the vibe I'm giving off means I want to hurt you."

"That might be why you and I aren't going to get along. But you should be thanking me. Handsome here's one of Bryce's favorites. His mom tried to hide him from us, but we knew he'd come back. The offer was too good to refuse."

"You said you'd kill her if I didn't come back," Ike whispers.

"We had to take a hard line," Micaiah the terrible person says, "Omelets and eggs and that sort of thing."

"What even are you doing with us?" I ask. She's thinking. If she's thinking then she's not watching me and the sharp pour from me to cut the metal.

"Stop that," she says, "Just get on the bed. He'll walk you through it. I refuse to believe you have no experience."

The metal shifts and bends and shoves us to the stained seams. It smells weird. Not really that bad weird, but just old weird. Musty even.

I run back to the entrance, sharp running riot in my veins. The cage forms again with a wayward thought and shoves me back. A hand slips through the bones and I almost, almost get out far enough to draw a spire of the sharp current into the open air and nothing happens. The metal comes and wrings it away and I still want something to break.

"What I really don't like about is the refusal to deal with reality," Micaiah sighs, "Just let this happen. It'll be worth it. If you're any type of smart, you'll realize you're doing something really important soon enough."

The cage pushes me back and I keep fighting until a hand of dark skin and burn scars comes and takes away all the edge and the sharp into him. He is fine. The sharp likes him and runs through the veins. I am calm. I need to be calm. I will let everything flow out and surge and sear later. When there is open sky and no goddamn metal in the way.

"Take your time, by the way," Micaiah says, "I got nothing else to do all by my lonesome."

I turn back to Ike and see him take off his shirt. I like that. I like shirtless Ike. But I also don't like the woman up top watching him take off his shirt. I want that to be for me.

"Ike," I whisper, "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure. I just know that Bryce wants to breed us."

I tear my vision away from the dark skin and pale scars to look up again at the circling bed of rust and scrap. Micaiah waves to me and then shoves me back to the task. She waves a finger in the air and watches us with rapt attention.

"You act like I'm doing a bad thing," she says, "Are you saying that you don't want to sleep with him? Because we can find someone else. But Bryce said that this one gets to pick. And he finally chose you. Shame. Real shame."

"Jill," he whispers, "I'm trying to think of something. I don't know why he wants me. I don't know what he wants from this. But I knew you would come for me. Thank you."

Even through his complexion I see him blush and the sharp comes to rise once again. It missed him. It missed him terribly. I missed him terribly. I forgot that part of me could feel hollow. It was vacant for so long. The peeper circling overhead does diminish the clench in my core, just a bit.

But there is weight near mean and holding on to me and I see his bare skin and I can't stop the foiling sharp form beaching and touching and scorching.

"We'll do it later," I say, as I lean in to kiss his cheek, "Once you're out of here."

"No, Jill," he says, "We have to do it here. We're not getting out of here otherwise."

I don't like the fact that he's not fighting against everything metal and poured stone. Something to work on. I get it, I really do, but I do not want a caged bird to attend to me. There must be freedom and anarchy pouring from every ounce of his being. He is getting there, There is rebellion in him. And I will draw it out.

"I know I said I got time," Micaiah says, "But still, I'd prefer to get this over with soon rather than later."

"Shut up," I shout. The sharp spikes and spits and goes through Ike in a futile attempt to claw at the ceiling. A beam comes between me and the poured stone and takes it all away. It slams into my chest and bends over me, pinning my arms to my sides and my entirety to the floor.

"Ike," she says, "Get on with it. Or I'm putting you in the Maiden again."

The jump that travels through his spine makes me want to turn the world inside out. The look in his eyes makes me want to crawl in a cave with him and never leave. I pull against the rebar and there is no give. All the conflict in me leaves when he lays a hand on my shoulder and puts himself next to me and holds me close. He takes the sharp and the chill and turns it dull and warm. I struggle against the weight, trying to hold against the weight, but I crumple. I don't want to, but I do. I will break free. That is inevitable. I will break free and burn the rubble to ashes and dust. It will be grand. But not now. There has to be some amount of patience in me that holds and keeps the world from turning inside out.

"We'll get out of this, Jill," he whispers. I know we will. But I will play at being civilized, play at having a plan beyond endless destruction for a bit. There is a shirtless Ike to deal with at the moment. That has a way for making the world not matter outside my immediate sensations. He kisses me again and I wish the rebar bindings were gone so I could hold him and feel him in my arms. But I can't because the world decides that I should not. That's terrible. That's really terrible.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to me. I almost roll my eyes. This will be fine. Honestly, not the biggest fan of restraints, but they have their uses. Like keeping me from getting too worked up.

"You'll be fine," I say, "Part of me likes the audience."

Part of me doesn't, but the principle of the whole affair isn't the worst idea. Me strung up and open for the world to see. Would have like some more input into how this was supposed to happen, but I'm not one to take a gift like this and chuck it away. Ike is mine and he has been given to me. I will take him and hold him and use him to break through the block and the rebar and all the things that stand in my way.

I taste him again and he is full. His lips are smooth and warm. They take care of him here, at least. Probably better than I would have done. There are responsibilities that come with an entourage. I kiss him and let the sweet-sour sharp spike into him and flood him and take his veins for my own. So long, so very long since it was able to play and dance with another body. A week at most. It was alone so long before him, now any absence is a vacant abyss that cannot be filled. But he is here now, by my side on a soft bed by some stretch of the imagination. Micaiah yawns and I want to slam her to the earth.

It is good to feel his body on mine again. The sharp, the chill, whatever it is that is me and is not me, likes the way his circuits curve and turn. I like it when the shill or the sharp likes things. It's all a very simple process. The hunger isn't there though. That raw primal need. It is just the soft touch and reassurance that we are not alone. I am here. And he is there. The slight difference that little t makes is almost nonexistent. At least our audience remains quiet for the time being. She is watching or she is not. I do not care. Ike is watching mead n that is the only thing that matters.

To my surprise, he has not learned to tone down his aggressive streak. He moves on top, letting that weight form the space behind reality, flow through him and into me, just as the current does the same. It is ice. It is complete. It is whole. Even here, under the rust and the crumbling stone, under the bored watching eyes of a captor disinterested in pretending at humanity of others, it is whole.

He kisses me and he tastes of clean water laced with iron and sand. But he is strong. Still thin, still whip razor wind thin, but it is his thinness, the body taking the shape it should. It presses into me, cutting into me. I like it when he lies on top of me, like he has an idea of control. Again, I wish that the metal jacket was gone so I could hug him back.

"Can you take this thing off," I shout.

"Are you going to be good?" she shouts back.

"Probably not."

"Then it's going to stay."

"Micaiah," Ike butts in, "Take it off her. It'll make this process easier."

She sighs and lets the thoughts cross her head. She could just encase us both in metal and ram us together like a child playing with dolls. She probably has done that. But the work that goes into the play, all that terrible effort, that's just too much for her right now. She has the cages to deal with as well, hanging outside.

"Will she be good?" she asks.

"I'll make her be good," he says.

That is a terrible thing to say because that is a filthy, filthy lie. A promise so crystalline fragile, the mere mention of its precarious nature is something that tips it past the shattering point. I admire it. I really do. There is something to be said of straight on audacity so blatant and glaring, an actual slap to the face would be less shocking. Just for that, I pour a bit more of the sharp into him. He winces and takes a hand to my neck. I am getting ready to melt through the steel beam, but a kiss to the ear lobe and whispered sweet nothing stops me.

"Bear with me," he says, "I just want you out of this first. I'm working on her."

The weight comes off me a bit, and I feel it fill the room. I like the way it fills the room and tries to crush me. It's just more to struggle against. And if Ike says that there is a scheme behind the act, then there is a scheme behind the act. I will burst through if there isn't anyway. The hand is still at my neck and I wish that would move. The sharp sees to a nip and a scratch to get it to move. And it does, it slowly trails up my neck to my cheek and I have to press into it, just a bit. HE feels very nice. There are just enough callouses and rough patches to give him some texture. I stare into his eyes. Red, they are red and deep and focused on me. So incredibly red like burning fire frozen in a single moment. And I can't look away. I do not want to look away. Even as the other hand leaves to trail down my chest and pry away at the steel. I turn my head slightly and take his fingers to me mouth, letting the sharp between my teeth play with his fingers. The joint goes stiff, so stiff and rigid and I watch the flame flicker and falter with the addition of razor sharp cold.