“For a man who’s been carrying a gun since he could walk, you sure are a bad shot,” Judas snickered.
Mickey snorted and subsequently choked on his swig of jumbeer. He sputtered and coughed out his mouthful onto the dirt. “Give me a break. My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
“Old man.” Judas shoved him, shoulder-to-shoulder, giggling. “Give me that thing.” He snatched the slingshot out of Mickey’s hand, grabbed a sizable pebble from the ground, and readied it on the sling.
Mickey watched Judas’ focused stare intently. Even with the two of them well into their forties, the latter man’s sight and aim had never faltered in their perfection. It was as though any weapon he carried was an extension of himself. Mickey took another long sip of his drink. He watched Judas’s lips purse, his eyebrows furrow.
He released the sling. The rock was there, and then it wasn’t, and twenty feet away, the crudely-painted wooden target shattered at its impact. A cacophony of cheers swelled up around the two of them.
Judas grinned and winked at Mickey. Before the two of them could say anything more, the winning man was swarmed by the crowd, being shoved and patted and lifted and hollered at. His face was shimmering with sweat, and with the warm festival string-lights reflecting off of him in the night, he was undeniably the brightest star in the sky at that moment.
Perhaps the two of them could grab another drink once the excitement died down. But Mickey left him to it for the time being, searching for another familiar face walking the stall-laden pathway behind him.
It was a lovely, cheerful night in the remote refuge of Merriment. The sky’s usual bright-red haze was a luscious maroon at this late hour. The autumn festival was reaching its busiest hour, and all of the town’s residents were out to play. Children skipped, carefree, down the dusty road, holding kebabs, cotton candies, and various other stick-based fair foods. Adults and parents sat at tables outside, drinking and watching people pass by. With the uncharacteristically mild weather for the place, this was maybe the most joyous time of the year before the harsh cold to come. Mickey let it all soak into himself. This type of relaxation felt alien in recent times.
He suddenly noticed Dahlia, sitting serenely at a table with a brightly-colored drink. With her long white dress and her pale skin, she looked almost ghostly amongst the rest of the crowd. The warm wind caressed her long hair down her shoulders, her arms, and to her long, manicured nails, where she was twirling her locks idly. Her eyes stared off past the people and into the dusty horizon of the beyond.
Two large figures approached her, also recognizable to Mickey; they were the twins, Barney and Marcie. They were as identical as two fraternal twins could be - both beefy, stocky, freckled and pink. Marcie put her big arms around Dahlia, to which the latter very gently returned the favor. Barney gave the frail woman only a polite pat on the back. This was returned with a nod.
“Good to see you three together,” Mickey interjected, stepping towards the table. “How’s the night been treatin’ y’all?” He reached slyly for Dahlia’s beverage.
She slapped his hand away without even a glance in its direction. “Just lovely. And I can buy you a drink if you’re that thirsty.” Her piercing bright eyes met his as she took a restrained sip. “Unless Pinkfruit Bubblers are, in fact, your preference. And I know they’re not.”
“Another jumbeer would do me nicely, thank you - I’ve actually just finished my own.” He pulled a chair over to sit besides her. As she rolled her eyes and called the waitress over, Mickey turned to the twins. “And, Barney, Marcie, what’re y’all up to these days? I’ve barely seen the two of ‘ya around.”
Barney sighed. “I wish we could hang out more, Mickey, but we’ve been tied up at the watchtower near the Chassis base. There’s been a ton of activity out there on the enemy side, and we aren’t sure what’s going down in their walls. Something sinister’s coming our way.” He grabbed Mickey’s incoming drink from the waitress, took a sip, then handed it down to Mickey, who took it with a displeasured grunt. “We think we’ve seen those Intellect fellas coming in and out of their base. Which, well….”
Mickey made an mmm as he drank his own fill, then swallowed exaggeratedly. “Are you ABSOLUTELY sure?”
He stole a glance at Dahlia, who was looking away from her company and towards a particularly uninteresting game of tag occurring some feet away.
“I didn’t believe it either, Mick, but he’s telling the truth, honest,” Marcie butted in, wide-eyed. “We couldn’t believe it. So we stayed there a bit longer than we were asked, and sure enough, every day, in-out-in-out, there were those Intellect guys in their big ‘ol robes.” She also took a big drink of Mickey’s jumbeer - how had she even grabbed that? - and handed it back to him. “Eugh. But anyways. No, yeah, they’re in talks about SOMETHING, that’s for sure. What it is, we just don’t know, well, yet at least.”
That was… not the greatest news. But Mickey didn’t feel like lingering on that news on a night like this. “We’ll just have to see then, hmm?” He raised his chin towards Dahlia. “Isn’t that right?”
“Hmm? Huh?” She didn’t turn from the game of tag. “Ah, yes. We’ll just have to see, won’t we.” Her fingers were tapping on the arms of the chair erratically. “Mickey, would you care to join me someplace private? I’d like a word.”
Barney and Marcie both made the same overdrawn expression at Mickey. Marcie offered a thumbs up and ushered her brother away, snickering. Mickey shook his head at the two of them as they made their escape. “Um, sure, that’s fine with me.”
With drinks in hand, Dahlia led the man into the interior of the bar they were sat outside, where few patrons filled out the booths. An elderly man was stationed at a piano and played a slow, melancholy melody. The place was candlelit and, music aside, very quiet.
Dahlia took Mickey’s waist and shoulder and began lazily swaying him from side to side.
“Ehm - this isn’t quite private, is it,” Mickey stammered, going along with the motions hesitantly. “There’re… people watchin’ us, Leah.”
“That’s okay,” she murmured into his neck. “Let them.”
The air was hot and dry. Dahlia’s bright eyes pierced his. The smell of alcohol on her breath and warm dust and wood colored his cheeks. The familiarity of it all was painful.
“Um… alright.” He felt his throat dry, having entirely forgotten about the drink in his hand rested on her shoulder. “So… what did you wanna talk to me about?”
Dahlia began to trace her free hand along Mickey’s hip, up his stomach and landing on his chest. “You’re quite aware of my connection to the Intellect, Mickey. As are a select few others here in Merriment.”
“That’s… right.” He swallowed.
“I’ve told you… as much as I can about it. And do you understand what it means - that the Intellect and the Chassis are communicating like this?” Her hand was making a circular motion near his collarbone. There was a terrible warmth in Mickey’s heart. “Something incredible must have happened. People were killed over their difference in ideals until now.”
“Maybe they learned somethin’ about the Newcomers.”
“I just don’t understand what they could learn that would have them cooperating in this way.”
“Should we send someone into the Chassis base and sniff out some info?” Mickey went to drink from his bottle, only to spill half of it. The liquid splashed down his and Dahlia’s shirts, darkening the fabric.
Dahlia frowned and sniffed the jumbeer on her chest. “I don’t know. But something needs to be done, and soon.” She separated herself from the dance. “I need a change of clothes now, I suppose. Would you like to stop by my place?”
…
Mickey stood in the doorway of Dahlia’s small home. The place smelled heavily of incense and soap - woodsy, beachy scents. The lingering mirage of a vista near-impossible to revisit. But in this small home, it continued to live, frozen in time like a TV paused on the frame. Trinkets and fairy-lights and potted plants covered every unused surface, and the walls were strewn with tapestries, both bought and handmade.
“Let yourself in.” Dahlia’s voice sang from the top of the stairs as she walked to her room. “I have some snacks in the pantry. Help yourself.” There was the creak of a door opening somewhere. Mickey didn’t hear it shut.
As though he were walking in a dream, he meandered over to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Dried meats and cheeses and crackers were plentiful. He pulled out an old, cracked green plate - his favorite from when he used to frequent this place - and grabbed a bit of each to nibble on. Same flavors from years ago too.
Why was he even here, again…? This was all a really bad idea.
Suddenly, Dahlia was in the kitchen. Mickey hadn’t heard her come downstairs. She was wearing little to nothing, although the dim of the night left a bit to the imagination. A thin, white undershirt, barely concealing a bra, and underwear clinging tight to the skin. His eyes lingered a bit longer than he wanted them to.
“Sorry, I-”
Dahlia pouted. “Hm?” Her hands were held behind her back. “What?”
“Look, I know we used to have some fun, but I don’t think-”
Before he could finish that sentence, a stinging hot pain was whipped tight across his jaw. Mickey staggered back from the slap. He looked at Dahlia, aghast. She was grinning.
“You’re stupid. It’s not like that.” She giggled. “It’s our shot day. It’s still this time of the week for you… right?”
Oh, yeah. Mickey had nearly forgotten. The two of them shared that day since the beginning, and he had almost forgotten the little tradition they had set up years before. Plus, with all of the hustle and bustle of the festival, he’d almost forgotten his shot today entirely. Oops. “Oh. yeah. No, I ain’t changed it.”
“I still have some of your stuff in my room. Do you want to, together…? That is, if you haven’t…?”
“Yeah… I haven’t, not yet, today.”
And then the two of them were in Dahlia’s room. Mickey felt a flush spread across his chest, hidden underneath his shirt where nobody could see. This place, too, was still set up the way he remembered it. Little seashells and ribbons hung from fine strings across the walls, and her bed was set up as neat as ever. Meticulous. Adorable. Perfect.
She procured a small box of medications from her closet (nearly as large as the room it was placed in) and began carefully sorting through the contents.
Dahlia pursed her lips as she picked out a small vial of testosterone from a tinier, dusty box within the larger one. “Thaaaaat’s yours. I’m honestly quite surprised it isn’t expired yet.” Another vial - estrogen. “And miiiiine.”
“Well, mine’s just about expired, looks like.” Mickey accepted the vial, then a syringe, alcohol, and a needle. “You coulda just thrown this out. Not like YOU were ever gonna use it, heh.”
Dahlia shrugged as she drew out the liquid from her own vial. The clear stuff glooped unceremoniously into the syringe. Her eyes were glued to it. “Just in case! You never know.” Her face gave away nothing. “It’s not like good medical supplies are easy to get nowadays. Maybe someone else would need it eventually. I don’t know.”
“Maybe.” Mickey gently opened an alcohol wipe. The smell was sharp, familiar. Sickly and cold. “But… Dahlia. I… Be truthful with me for a second. Alright? I-”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Come on.”
“I won’t tell you. I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not…?”
Dahlia’s gaze finally met Mickey’s for the first time since they entered her room. Her face was suddenly red, bright and furious. Her eyes shimmered with a wet, held-back sheen. A nearly-cracked dam.
“I just… I can’t. I promised, Mickey. I can’t tell you about what the Intellect shared with me. I wish I could.” She whimpered, and looked back down at the syringe. The top was still capped. She pulled it off slowly, and examined the tip of the needle. “I would, you know. If I could. The things they taught me were so wonderful.” Tears were streaming silently down her cheeks, now. “The technology - the things they can do… it’s so…”
Mickey bit his lip and pulled off his shirt, freeing his chest. The red flush across it was bared for his companion to see. “Well. That was what I asked you that one time, you know? I know the two of us want… this… to work, just as much as the other.” He sterilized his bicep, tanned and sun-blemished. “But the Intellect… it’s like they made a… clone of you and sent it back.” He sighed. “God damnit. I can’t look into your eyes. They’re different, Leah.”
“What’s wrong you, Mickey…?” The needle was already plunged into her skin. The syringe was held by a shaky hand. Dahlia’s face was scrunched in a way Mickey hadn’t ever seen. “You’ve known me my whole life, and I yours. If you asked me a question only I would know, I could tell you the answer in less than a second. I’m taking my hormones with you, like I always have…! If you think I’ve been replaced with a robot clone now or something, then-”
“You were with the Intellect, not the Chassis. You tell me what that means.”
The two’s shots were finished in silence. The needles ejected, re-capped.
Mickey put his shirt back on. “Thanks for the snacks, Dahlia. I’m headed back out to the party.” He looked into those eyes - those cold, soulless eyes he barely even recognized anymore, placed onto the face of the woman he used to love. “I hope to see you back there.”