Fifteen Days to Launch
The twelfth floor had to be expanding, somehow: such was the only explanation for the huge indoor orchard that had materialized between the mess hall and the greenhouse. It was much brighter than the greenhouse, though: the ceiling, double its normal height, was dazzled with mirrors to reflect the grow-lights back down on the rows of trees, and the combined angles of light seemed to stick into Mal's eyes like debris. She rubbed her eyes fretfully, trying to clear out the eyelashes that must have fallen in, shifting her feet against the dirt beneath: the dark, loose earth was laid so thick that she couldn’t sense the hard floor below.
Her bunk-mates were joined by at least two other groups, by her count, half the workers going to the gardens to plant seeds, the other half taking to the mature trees to pick the fruits. No one had issued her direct orders, the guards concerned with other duties, and so she lingered by the door, twisting her gloves in her hands; Render had promised that Gwenh would be returned soon, and she intended to find out how good his word truly was.
When they deigned to look at her, the other workers regarded her with suspicion, word having spread about about her knowing Gwenh by name and her direct line to Render’s ear. Instead of facing their scrutiny head-on, she turned to the table by the door and slowly gathered up the tools for harvesting: a fruit-picker, a pair of shears, and a burlap sack. The furious whispers suddenly quieted as she inspected the edge of the shear's blades, and when she looked up Gwenh was a mere six feet from her, standing awkwardly in the doorway and seeming just as confused as everyone else.
As soon as Mal caught her eye, her gaze snapped to the ground, and she deliberately turned away to disappear into the orchard. After a moment of stunned silence, the low murmurs picked up again, and Mal hesitantly followed after her.
The dirt was so thoroughly tilled that every step seemed to suck her shoes in like quicksand, and the footprints were easy to lose in the softness. Luckily, Gwenh was as predictable as ever: she was as far away from other people as she could possibly be, leaning against the back wall of the orchard and spinning a juniper twig under her nose. Her face seemed so much younger, now that she wasn't snarling or threatening to kill someone — barring the long hair and the fact that she wasn't squinting without her glasses, she looked almost unchanged from nine years ago. She still had a bundle of spiny red flowers crisply tattooed on her forearm.
“Gwenh.” Her voice was thick, and she hurriedly cleared her throat. She could see Isaiah in the next lane over, and she wished bitterly that he would move out of earshot and give them some privacy. “You’re— you’re back.”
Gwenh lifted her head slowly, blinking as though coming out of a deep sleep. Whatever daze was affecting her cleared quickly; she heaved a disdainful sigh and tucked the juniper into her pocket as she pushed herself off the wall, standing tall and frighteningly skinny. “What, Mal? You want me to weep at your benevolence?”
Mal wasn’t listening, already racing toward her and throwing herself into her arms, ready to rewrite the past nine years as a long, unfortunate absence. The moment they collided she felt a future snap into place, a certainty that every moment from here on out would be an easy blessing, so long as she was allowed to bring Gwenh home. She was expecting to still fit perfectly within her arms, to rest her forehead against her clavicle and feel wanted, but it last barely a second before Gwenh was harshly pushing her away, her expression foul and her temper the harshest Mal had ever witnessed.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She didn't let her push her too far, staying within grabbing distance and looking up to meet her eyes. “I tried to come back for you.” It felt dishonest to lead with an excuse, but she didn’t know what else she could say. Her hands curled into fists to hide their shaking. “I’m sorry, I never should have stopped looking, I’m sorry that I just wrote you off—“
Gwenh scoffed, hunching her shoulders like a defensive cat. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”
“Well, it’s all I have!” Knowing that Gwenh would hate her was no match for experiencing it firsthand: she firmly told herself not to cry. “I'm sorry I let them take you away from me. It killed me to leave you behind — if I could have carried you both, I would have.”
Gwenh blinked and stepped back sharply, eyes turning confused and haunted — as though she was just now remembering that Goose had been badly wounded, that Mal had been forced to sling them over her shoulders to carry them to safety. “I— you’re confusing me.”
Mal paused, hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. When she didn't flinch away, she stepped closer, feeling brave. "Gwenh, do you remember what happened?"
She pushed her away again, and again Mal didn't go far. “Stop talking!” She grabbed handfuls of her own hair and yanked — Mal hissed, worried that she’d come away with fistfuls of auburn if she pulled any harder, but didn't intervene. “You wouldn’t be confusing me if you just went away — everything was fine until you showed up!”
“Oh yeah? Even with Tai-Song running around, pissing you off?” She was being too loud — Isaiah had paused in his work and was staring at them. She dropped her voice to a mutter and said, “You remember he was here, right?”
Gwenh’s gaze snapped to meet hers, a flash of warning soon shuttered behind a shield of disaffected irritation. She dropped her hands and straightened her back, shaking off the agitation with a flick of her head. Her hands were quick as ever, one tucking a lighter between her teeth as the other hand dug into her pocket. “Wanna smoke?”
“No, I don’t smoke anymore, I—" Mal trailed off, watching Gwenh's frustration mount as she failed to find her cigarettes in any of her pockets. Something about her seemed faster now, less focused, like her typical attention span had been halved and quartered, and every moment presented a new distraction. Isaiah was coming over to investigate — before she could tell him to go away, Gwenh had him by the front of his shirt and was holding her lighter very close to his face.
“You’d better give me my smokes back if you want to walk out of here, Isaiah.” Her voice was lively and faux-playful in a way that Mal recognized — Gwenh had always been territorial, and would bite Rowan and Goose's heads off if they so much as looked at her things — but she had never seen it on this level. “When did you take them?”
Isaiah broke out of her grip easily and retreated a step, staring warily back at her. “I didn’t take anything—”
Mal grabbed onto Gwenh before she could pursue him, ripping the lighter from her hand and wincing at the hot metal. “Gwenh, back off.”
Isaiah nodded at Mal and beat a hasty retreat. Gwenh knelt to pick up a rock, but Mal managed to knock it out of her hand before she could throw it, replacing it with a fresh cartoon of cigarettes and returning the lighter. “Here. Can you calm down for two minutes while I try to talk to you?”
Gwenh blinked down at the gift, her anger vanishing in an instant; she seemed almost happy as she brought them to her nose and took a deep sniff, tapping one out to light. “You seem different.”
“I grew up.” She stepped out in front of her, further breaking her line of sight, and lightly pushed her backward by one step. She knew how to handle Gwenh’s outbursts, even turned up to eleven: keep her attention trained on something safe, ply her with treats, and be prepared to get gently physical. “Isaiah has his own cigarettes. Why would he steal yours?”
“Because he— because—“ She dropped the lighter from her cigarette with a frustrated noise and shook her head angrily. She stepped closer, squaring her shoulders and looming to reassert dominance; Mal stood her ground. “I don’t want you here. Everything was fine before you came, so just— just go away. I don’t need you.”
“Then why haven’t you escaped?”
The question fazed her, like the possibility hadn't occurred to her — it was clear in the crease of her brow and the turn of her mouth. In lieu of answering she shook her head with a wordless snarl, turning away with a dramatic flourish of her long, tangled hair. She was gone before Mal could think to follow, off to terrorize the unlucky workers who stood between her and her destination.
She wished she could be surprised, but Gwenh was always swinging between effusively friendly and broodily withdrawn — she wouldn’t be seeing her happier side anytime soon, that was for certain.
Isaiah was still harvesting chestnuts one lane over despite the threat on his life and limbs, though his head was on a firm swivel as Mal approached. She ruminated heavily on what she wanted to ask as she stripped the tree next to his, deciding against any inquiries about Tai-Song — he would only lie to her face again.
Finally, she asked, “Why does she think you’re stealing from her?”
He didn't look up, or hesitate to answer. “It’s how she is.”
“No, it isn’t. I know her — she doesn’t lose her head like that.”
“Living here makes a mockery of the things we once held true.” He swore as one of the spines got him, and tossed the meat into the bag. “Her cigarettes will turn up soon, they always do, but she needs to believe that someone stole them — her brain can't contradict the delusion, so she makes up reasons to believe it.”
She gritted her teeth, unwilling to take his analysis of Gwenh's mental state at face value, but unable to refute it without more evidence. She took a deep breath and changed tactics. “And what’s the point of you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Any one of us could have stolen them, but she blames you. Why?”
He paused to luxuriously stretch instead of answering, subtly pointing at the camera over their heads. She hummed and gave it a moment before she leaned down to pick up a dropped chestnut, yelping loudly as she let a long spine pierce through her glove and into her palm. Isaiah turned to receive her as she came closer, voice low as he gently swabbed the puncture with rubbing alcohol.
“She started getting more aggressive when I began organizing with the other floors, after Render denied us our ticket home. I think the two may be related.”
“I thought she didn’t know about the plan.” However little she trusted Isaiah, Mal could begrudgingly admit that Gwenh was indeed sick, and it made good sense to keep her in the dark if she was liable to spill something to the wrong people — there was also the possibility that she was perfectly fine and was simply trying to threaten him into including her, but she had never been passive-aggressive, or that good of an actor.
“Her knowing or not knowing makes no difference, if you think about it.”
She blinked at him as he finished wrapping her hand, and her stomach turned as she finally realized his meaning. “You think she’s being manipulated?” She had already seen the guards freely use sedatives on Gwenh, and Render had admitted to keeping her on a steady drip of medication — there was no way of knowing what drugs were being used, or what psychological events might be happening in-between to influence her behaviour.
“I can’t rule it out. We have to play it safe, for now.”
"Then you shouldn't go near her, for your own safety." Isaiah may well be a trigger, either by design or because he was naturally a mild irritant in a high-stress environment. "I can keep an eye on her, keep her calm; anyone she's been aggressive to in the past should keep on giving her plenty of space, too."
"I hardly think that's necessary," he replied haughtily, clearly annoyed at her attempts to give orders.
“Yeah? And what will the others do, if they lose you?” She knew who she would target if she had control over someone as aggressive as Gwenh, though she had to rely on a heavy if rather than an absolute when while trying to warn him: predicting Render's next move would be indistinguishable from witchcraft to these people, and given her luck they'd end up deciding that she was a spy.
He snorted. “I’ve worked with her for the past ten years, on and off. She’s all bark.”
“Nine,” she corrected sharply. “It’s been nine years, this month.”
He huffed and turned away dismissively. “And why did it take you nine years to come and rescue her?”
“Because—“ Her hand snapped out to latch onto his shoulder, stopping him from writing her off and returning to his work. He balked at her expression, or perhaps at the way her fingernails were digging into his flesh like a dog bite; he regarded her with the same wariness he had given to Gwenh. “I thought she was dead.”
The bell chimed; she loosened her grip and watched him flee. Regret washed over her, and she screwed her eyes shut as she waited for the urge to scream in frustration to pass. It was foolish to expect anything from this place or its people, but the constant let-downs were getting to her. She gathered her tools and started walking back to the lunch area, wishing more than anything that Tai-Song was around to confirm that she wasn't going insane.