New Attachment Human, Storm Gathering in Washington
……………
“My little one!”
Karen dashed across the street and scooped me up in her arms. Her arms wrapped around my back, her cheek pressing tight against mine. Rub-rub-rub-rub. Oh boy. She's doing it again today. What an intense hug. A wave of pure, unadulterated joy crashes over me.
The old Karen definitely wasn't like this. She tried so hard to keep her distance from me. “Sorry, Microgenics could come reclaim you any time. It wouldn't be good for either of us if we got too close,” she'd said, drawing a clear line. How long did that last? Three days? Four? Anyway, now Karen's basically acting like my mom. She waits for me on her way home from work, rubs her cheek against mine in delight, makes sure I eat, even pulls pajamas from her closet to dress me up.
Is this a side effect of her suppressed emotions bursting out, or was she always like this and the drugs were just holding it back?
“Did you wait long? Did you miss me?” Rub-rub-rub. Oh, this cheek-rubbing shows no signs of stopping. Still, I don't hate the treatment. Back in Korea, no one saw me as someone who needed protecting, but Karen treats me like a kid left alone by the water's edge. It's a pretty novel feeling, which is why I'm sticking around her place.
“Shall we head home, my little miss?”
After an eternity of nuzzling, Karen set me down and took my hand. I nodded and toddled along to match her stride. Pat-pat.
Washington's night. Our shadows—one person and one entity—stretched long under the white streetlights.
Hmm, but you know, there's something I've been wondering. Every night while Karen sleeps, I remove the compounds from the drug that forces labor. So why is she still working? She's not going back to the old extremes of 20-hour days with sleep deprivation, but excluding the short time she spends with me, she's throwing herself into her lawyer work with gusto. The emotional flavor seeping through our clasped palms screams exhaustion, yet she shows no sign of quitting.
Honestly, I figured once I broke the chains of forced work motivation, she'd take a year off and just roll around in bed. Instead, she's as diligent as ever, and when she dismantles the prosecution's arguments to flip the trial on its head—well, there's a hint of pleasant satisfaction to it. Like the fizzy pop of carbonation when you sip cola—subtle, but real pleasure.
> Catharsis.
Yeah, catharsis. That's exactly it.
So why does Karen go out of her way to suffer like this?
> She's reached a level where she's one of the top in her field. If you're that good at something, you might actually enjoy it, right?
That makes sense. Yeah, anything you're good at feels more fun. I had a blast racking up 25 straight wins against Oh Deok-hwan in Duel. His face twisting every time I played a card, his screams when I flipped a trap, that expression when he lost in one turn. Heh.
Actually, there's a little secret behind those 25 wins. Moving my hair faster than the eye to bottom-deck draw the card I wanted. Can't lose with that.
Heh heh heh.
> You're a cheater! That's a disgrace to duelists!
> Poor Oh Deok-hwan!
> You took one of his rare cards for every win!
> It was all a scam!
The little thoughts joined in, jeering with picket signs and placards condemning me. Hey now, quiet down. It's a fair fight in its own way. Unfair draws are a duelist's basic skill, after all. By that logic, even the White Dragon CEO who flies jets in Duel frenzy or the dual-personality puzzle-solving Duel god couldn't beat me. My hand's faster than their eyes.
Heh heh heh.
……………
Hand in hand, we arrived at Karen's place before I knew it. The tidy living room greeted us as the front door opened. Always so neat and clean.
“Did you eat dinner tonight?”
Karen set down her briefcase and asked. Instead of answering, I pointed to the trash bin in the kitchen corner. The semi-transparent bag was stuffed with empty snack wrappers. Three Run balls from my subspace, Yogurt Mountain, and a free pretzel from street wandering. Perfect nutritional balance.
Karen's brows furrowed.
“Where do you even get these snacks...? Anyway, snacks aren't a meal. Wait a sec. I'll make something quick.”
She rolled up her sleeves and headed straight to the kitchen. Eggs and bread from the fridge, pan from the drawer, cinnamon powder into the shaker with her other hand. So efficient, just like at work. Sizzle-sizzle. Mmm, the nutty aroma of melting butter.
Soon Karen emerged with a plate. Two slices of French toast, cinnamon powder and chocolate syrup drawn into a smiley face. Fork in, bite—nom.
Huh? Tasty, but... this sweetness feels a bit off. What is it?
> Sugar-free chocolate syrup. Artificial sweetener. Calories are 1/10th of regular sugar.
She made it thinking of my health. But my body can handle bullets, missiles, even micro black holes, so no need to worry.
> Fake sweetness!
> If calories are 1/10th, taste is too!
> Give us back original chocolate syrup!
Oh no, protests starting up again in my mental world. Don't grumble so much. The egg-soaked bread has great texture, and the cinnamon aroma makes up for the sweetener's shortcomings. She made it herself right after work, tired as she was. And she picked the substitute for my sake. So, it's a pass.
Karen watched me munch away, syrup smudging my mouth, chin propped on her hand. Her lips curved up. I offered her a piece of toast.
“Sorry, I'm on a diet.”
She waved it off with a smile. No regret in her refusal—in fact, she seemed thrilled just that I offered.
“But thanks for taking care of me.”
Pat, pat. Her palm passed over my head. The emotional flavor seeped in softly along it—like the smell of fresh-baked bread. Nothing flashy or stimulating, just warm and satisfying. She's happy I offered the toast, happy I'm eating it with gusto. Fluffy bliss. Always tastes great.
I finished the toast, lost in thought. Realizing it now, but Karen lives in this luxury apartment, walking distance to downtown Washington for work. Living room with this big sofa, spacious kitchen, master bedroom, study, entryway. Dozens of times pricier than my isolation room in Korea. Rent must be insane, meaning she earns big as a lawyer.
Maybe that's one reason she can't quit. Trailer park life, drowning in weed and booze, slow ruin. Or this pricey but warm, proper home, eating French toast with a picked-up Outer God Girl. No contest which is better.
I broke the drug's forced gear chains. Yet Karen keeps working—not 20 hours, but still in court, digging through files, meeting clients. So, she chose this life herself. Walking her own path on the road Microgenics designed.
Hmm. Gears that keep turning even after the chains are off. Tricky.
Observing Karen up close, a cog in Will Bates's world, I've realized something. If his methods were just a bit more humane—giving the drug to volunteers instead of kidnapping, letting them quit if they want, no 20-hour extremes—maybe I'd support him. Maybe even help actively.
But. The memory of Karen pinned to the floor, forcibly injected by suits. The dual screams in her subconscious days ago: I want to die, save me. It still lingers, bitter in my throat.
Will Bates's way is several steps more inhuman than my standards. Her choosing to walk it now doesn't justify his violence.
Conclusion: Humans are fascinating, I guess. Wonder what countries the other tech-feudal lords built. Leon Dusk's Nikola? Jerk Markberg's Feystagram? Kinda curious.
Lost in such musings, staring blankly at the TV with boring news, the screen suddenly flushed red. Alarm blare. A piercing electronic screech filled the living room; Karen's back stiffened like she'd been shocked.