[ It's not clear why the thought's come -- I don't want to die -- until Elan's aware of Four kneeling in front of him. Even then, the realization's delayed, put off by the back of a cold hand against his forehead that Elan would have held there by its wrist if he'd had the reflexes for it. His body -- little more to him than the flesh he dolls up for his reputation's sake -- seems to suddenly, painfully, covet every sensation he dedicates each day to denying: Never a moment's discomfort, an anxiety that isn't assuaged by distraction or expenditure; never a movement that isn't composed to his specifications and doesn't deliver the predictable, tolerable same. It's one thing to see yourself break form in -- as -- pure reflection, at some remove. It's a different thing entirely to become conscious of -- to viscerally experience -- that break within you, and to know that its precise unfolding is, by its very nature, beyond your control.
He could have been more careful, never stepped foot inside Peil's headquarters again. He could have lugged the cart over here without the robot's help. He could have effaced his own name from the diploma instead of asking them to do it for him. He could have, he could have, he... couldn't have done that, if Elan's being honest with himself, because he wanted them to try doing him in when the conditions were just right, to let the attempt take him by surprise -- or so he'll tell himself in recollection, because the truth is unbearable.
He fucked up.
His right hand's still fisted against the button down beneath his blazer, as if the pressure might prevent his chest from aching with each inhale, when Four's cool fingers brush against Elan's hairline. Don't, he thinks. Then yes; yes, don't as he leans into Four's touch, forehead coming to rest against the palm of the other's hand. Elan recalls Four's said something about his phone as another hand steadies his shoulder. ]
N-no, [ he manages, a tinge of panic in his voice as he repeats, ] no, no, I'll -- be fine. [ He focuses on the weight and feel of Four's hands on his skin, his suit, inhales and exhales until he's almost used to the stinging that follows them before speaking again, less unstable. ] I'm prepared... for this, whenever I'm here. Taken some precautions.
[ The best his money can buy, that Earth and space and all the hubs between them have to offer: Now-daily injections against respiratory and contact-based poisons; pills in his inside breast pocket for neutralizing anything he might unwittingly ingest. Elan's still got sense enough to know that whatever they've plied him with this first time around must belong to the former category and can't be fatal, was administered sometime after his arrival so as to hit within this precise reaction window when they knew he'd come knocking at Four's door. Of anything they could've messed with that only Elan would be in a position to handle -- robot, crate, diploma -- he's only touched the latter.
Ah. It figures. ]
Two birds, one stone.
[ Will Four catch his drift? Is Elan letting his paranoia get the better of what little's left of him at this moment, thinking they'd meant to frame Four for murdering him -- out of jealousy, resentment; some desperate, last-ditch effort to escape by taking Elan's place, with a piece of paper from which he's scrubbed his own name? Elan would be as good as dead, too, if he hadn't put two and two together with all the resources Peil had been dedicating to Seven in the months leading up to "his" graduation. The family trusts are properly his, now -- only a fraction of the Ceres fortune, but Peil knows it'll increase with each passing year, through his own efforts as much as his family's plans for their collective finances. It's like Peil's getting Elan back for what a shit he's been to them since he concluded real cooperation wouldn't pay.
Under normal circumstances, Elan would quit, but -- his fifteen-year-old self had signed a contract making him exclusively liable for the company's experimentation with permet enhancement and clones, thinking it'd give him more control over a business deal that he'd understood to be inevitable. Yes, the truth is unbearable. He fucked up -- and this is Peil's way of letting him know he is so, so fucked for it.
Still gratuitous, still alone. A sweaty hand wrenches itself off the floor, grasps Four's arm, wrist, presses the other's hand against his face as something between laughter and a gasp rises unbidden from the throbbing behind Elan's breastplate. ]
Sorry. [ Stronger, now, because the pain's subsiding -- be it because it is, or because Elan's grown numb to it. ] Could've been you. [ Too. ] Should be glad I have such a terrible personality.
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He could have been more careful, never stepped foot inside Peil's headquarters again. He could have lugged the cart over here without the robot's help. He could have effaced his own name from the diploma instead of asking them to do it for him. He could have, he could have, he... couldn't have done that, if Elan's being honest with himself, because he wanted them to try doing him in when the conditions were just right, to let the attempt take him by surprise -- or so he'll tell himself in recollection, because the truth is unbearable.
He fucked up.
His right hand's still fisted against the button down beneath his blazer, as if the pressure might prevent his chest from aching with each inhale, when Four's cool fingers brush against Elan's hairline. Don't, he thinks. Then yes; yes, don't as he leans into Four's touch, forehead coming to rest against the palm of the other's hand. Elan recalls Four's said something about his phone as another hand steadies his shoulder. ]
N-no, [ he manages, a tinge of panic in his voice as he repeats, ] no, no, I'll -- be fine. [ He focuses on the weight and feel of Four's hands on his skin, his suit, inhales and exhales until he's almost used to the stinging that follows them before speaking again, less unstable. ] I'm prepared... for this, whenever I'm here. Taken some precautions.
[ The best his money can buy, that Earth and space and all the hubs between them have to offer: Now-daily injections against respiratory and contact-based poisons; pills in his inside breast pocket for neutralizing anything he might unwittingly ingest. Elan's still got sense enough to know that whatever they've plied him with this first time around must belong to the former category and can't be fatal, was administered sometime after his arrival so as to hit within this precise reaction window when they knew he'd come knocking at Four's door. Of anything they could've messed with that only Elan would be in a position to handle -- robot, crate, diploma -- he's only touched the latter.
Ah. It figures. ]
Two birds, one stone.
[ Will Four catch his drift? Is Elan letting his paranoia get the better of what little's left of him at this moment, thinking they'd meant to frame Four for murdering him -- out of jealousy, resentment; some desperate, last-ditch effort to escape by taking Elan's place, with a piece of paper from which he's scrubbed his own name? Elan would be as good as dead, too, if he hadn't put two and two together with all the resources Peil had been dedicating to Seven in the months leading up to "his" graduation. The family trusts are properly his, now -- only a fraction of the Ceres fortune, but Peil knows it'll increase with each passing year, through his own efforts as much as his family's plans for their collective finances. It's like Peil's getting Elan back for what a shit he's been to them since he concluded real cooperation wouldn't pay.
Under normal circumstances, Elan would quit, but -- his fifteen-year-old self had signed a contract making him exclusively liable for the company's experimentation with permet enhancement and clones, thinking it'd give him more control over a business deal that he'd understood to be inevitable. Yes, the truth is unbearable. He fucked up -- and this is Peil's way of letting him know he is so, so fucked for it.
Still gratuitous, still alone. A sweaty hand wrenches itself off the floor, grasps Four's arm, wrist, presses the other's hand against his face as something between laughter and a gasp rises unbidden from the throbbing behind Elan's breastplate. ]
Sorry. [ Stronger, now, because the pain's subsiding -- be it because it is, or because Elan's grown numb to it. ] Could've been you. [ Too. ] Should be glad I have such a terrible personality.