Private I Don't Wanna Be Me

[Emryc]

He felt the heavy weight of doubt settle in over his brow and lower into his gaze. Emryc may not have had the most orthodox experience with women given that the majority of their time and attention had been bought and paid for, but the words I'm fine seemed to stick like a foul stench on his mind. Curdled emotion.

There wasn't really any part of him that cared to argue the fact - whether or not she was fine was entirely her own issue. He was here, he had not left her, she clearly had delusions of something going on. Not anything Emryc decided he would lose sleep over or waste a perfectly good meal on. So, without any further ado, he stuck his first bite of steak into his mouth and chewed.

"Madame have you decided on your-" the Waiter was back but he stopped short at what appeared to be a very distraught looking Lady, "oh my, I'll give you more time to ... to," he blinked, leaning to peer down at a puddle on the ground that had formed just at the woman's feet, "is ....is that blood? Madame are you bleeding?"

Emryc looked up, jaw rolling halfway through the motion of the chew, sights flickering between Bea, the Waiter, and then back again. He slowly pushed back on his chair to gain enough room to look and sure enough.

"I'll fetch the station Doctor!" the Waiter zipped out of the room.

Emryc slowly sat back up straight, eyes trained on Beatrice, "Bea...why are you bleeding?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

This waiter really was determined to get her.

Had she not been hiding the shame of her tears then Beatrice might have been able to shoot off a 'shut the fuck up' look at the man who cried blood but as such, she could not and did not. So now, not only was she tearing up in front of Emryc bloody Qosta, there was now a scene, she had created a scene.

It was like the trolley problem, except tied to both tracks was her dignity.

Please don't worry, she mentally murmured, still hiding her eyes for whatever reason, as if doing that was really going to save this moment.

What was happening? What was this conversation? Why was she doing this? Why was she like this? She might have screamed, perhaps screaming might have helped, maybe she could have pretended that her bones were exploding. That funny cocktail did it, she was innocent.

This is just a thing...

The wine was really helping with this explanation, really kicking in then too. Govan gave up one half of the ghost and rested the hand upon the table, compound fracture and all.

...that happens. I just...I'm okay, I'm not okay, it'll make sense in the future, oh, well that wasn't foreboding, please, don't make a fuss.

 

[Emryc]

The rigidity that shot down Emryc's spine was precisely what someone felt when they had a gun pointed at their head. The mangled finger, white bone speared through pale flesh soaked in crimson now freshly pooling on the table. None of it should have shocked him - he'd seen so, so much worse and rendered far greater atrocities on far more deserving people. Doing it to someone else for a purpose made sense. But this? Beatrice had done this to herself, allegedly, because she was upset? Because she thought he had left her? What was this?

This was just fucking weird.

Emryc could feel the situation begin to slip through his fingers. The dull clink of his knife and fork carefully being set on his plate seemed an explosion compared to the distant thuds of one fighter beating the ever loving soul out of another down below.

This was not fine.

He wiped at his mouth with his napkin, set it to the side of his plate, lifted his tumbler to his lips and downed the remainder.

"We're leaving," he replied in short order, voice level as he moved to rise from his seat, leaned to take up Beatrice's unused napkin, "can you walk?"

How many drinks had she cleaned out?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

So now he would act in the way a sane, reasonable and predictable person would. Great. Just where was Mister 'How Did It Taste' when you needed him? Likely off at a metaphorical game restaurant eating kath hounds.

It was her, she was the real illogical hole and vacuum of human interaction this time and as Emryc rose to his feet, Beatrice finally lowered her prosthetic and looked with watery eyes. Even now she was expected I'm leaving and not we're leaving and that feeling refused to budge a single inch, lurking on the edge of her peripheral vision like a nightmare waiting for sleep.

Force, at least take your... she began as she attempted to stand and completely failed.

...food.

She looked down upon her legs, the great betrayers that had seemingly turned useless and limp in protest to everything. Was this a surrealist nightmare? Had the woman consumed enough alcohol to become a fully-fledged cripple once more? It felt as if the universe was closing in around her chest. This wasn't really happening.

N-no, I can't.

 

[Emryc]

"Fuck the food."

This woman needed to sort out her priorities.

He waited for the inevitable. The smell of alcohol was so intense around her general vicinity of the booth he almost didn't wait long enough for her to admit that she was completely fucking wasted. Almost. It was best that she admit first there was a problem before he moved to impress upon her that there actually was. Drunks didn't like to be told there was a problem. When they were, things usually got messy and there was more than enough mess here already.

N-no, I can't.

RRRRRRRT. He'd grabbed the table with one hand and yanked it out of the way, sending her wine glass tumbling and his decanter shivering several inches to the left along the tabletop. With the table out of the way, Emryc leaned down in front of Beatrice and looked her dead in her watery eyes as he scooped her up off the bench seat, an arm around her back and the other under her knees. The line creased into his forehead and the angle of his furrowed brows was like that of discontented granite.

"Sir?! Mr. Qosta? The Doctor is on his way!"

"He's not needed," there was not much effort required to lift Beatrice's featherlite weight up from her seat. Lighter than he'd expected, honestly. Emryc supposed he'd always presumed there was more to her beneath the layers of her clothing, but there really wasn't much to the woman after all. The soup wasn't doing her any favors. He made a mental note to tell Cortez to adjust her nutrient IVs between treatments to help put some goddamn weight on her.

"Sir? Are you sure?"

Emryc didn't answer the Waiter as he stepped sideways through the doorway and out through the restaurant under all the stares of all the patrons. He didn't stop walking, not even for crowds of people ahead of them that looked up and near instantly spooked and stuttered out of their way as if their bodies were moving of their own accord. All the way down the corridor, parting people like a shark through water, until he reached the lift.

"Get out," the words barked with a clap of aggressive intent through the air and sent the occupants scattering through the doors to leave the lift empty for just him and Beatrice.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

The woman found it difficult to grasp the severity of the alarm felt across the room, tearful mortification becoming Beatrice as he dramatically shifted the table and picked her up.

It was a broken finger, but between the reactions of Emryc and the waiter, it could have been mistaken for a severed femoral artery. It was hardly a reason for an immediate evacuation and a waste of good food, drunkards were always heavier bleeders, after all.

None of this is needed, she objected to both of them, momentarily stunning the waiter with her telepathy as they left the private lounge and were thrust into the eye of the public.

Which naturally, was awful.

The judgement of strangers was still a sore spot, her time in the chair had been spent enduring pitying glances that when confronted were cast away in fear that they were caught spectating the blatant suffering of another. These stares were of a different breed, judgemental and prying and just because they parted for him didn't stop them from turning and whispering theories about her.

She felt the red in her cheeks intensify, alcohol and shame whirling together in a perversely human dance and Govan closed her eyes, only to be greeted by the spinning void. Perhaps necking vast quantities of alcohol in the span of forty-five hideous minutes was not conducive to a good time.

Emryc, I'm...

...fine.

...drunk.

...scared.

...sorry.

 

[Emryc]

In the quiet of the lift he had a moment to collect his thoughts. A moment to consider the waif in his arms. One more moment to think on potential consequences of this entire evening. He wasn't often a man of whim or acting impulsively. Purchasing the station and its various siblings was nothing short of idiotic. Emryc Qosta didn't act like this. His motives were sunk into a foundation of research, data, intelligence reports, and very specific goals.

What the fuck was he going to do with five goddamn space stations.

Emryc, I'm...

He'd been staring at the doors of the lift, unblinking, mind shifting into overdrive when that pitiful voice echoed in like the pinging of a needle.

...sorry.

Roiling storm clouds peered down at the bloody, bleeding mess of a woman in his arms. She stank so strongly of drink that if he were anyone but who he was, he might've gotten contact drunk just from standing in the cloud. Emryc hadn't heard the word sorry very often in his lifetime, and the tone in which it rang through his thoughts struck him with a memory he hadn't thought on in many years.

The night Senra had showed up at his place, bloodied from a bad client and shaking like a leaf. She'd gone to set her purse down on his workshop table and accidentally knocked over the project he'd been working on. Pieces had scattered all over the floor - some of which he'd never managed to find. Emryc remembered her look of fright as she warbled her apologies to him. He'd never hit her, not once, so for her to look at him like he would had cut deeply, but that was just the nature of Nadir.

He released a slow, deep breath, closing his own eyes to rinse away the vision playing through his mind, and let the glower holding his expression release.

"It's alright," Emryc relented, the stiffness of his grip on her relaxing somewhat, "there's a medbay on my ship. I'll help you with your hand."

Resetting broken fingers was something you learned to do if you wanted to be able to continue defending yourself on the streets. At least Beatrice had the luxury of waiting and doing it right. Emryc had been forced to rebreak bones that had healed before he could set them properly. Firrerreo genetics had their drawbacks at times.

"The steak was shit anyway."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She opened her eyes and looked up at him in the wake of her apology and found his glare waiting. Instinctively, Beatrice felt her insides cringe and shrank within his grip in anticipation. It wasn't that same feeling of shame that came from the appraisal of strangers, no, it was guilt.

Why?

Because she was drunk? Because she had made a scene? Because he was upset?

That look was breathed away in the longest blink, Emryc's hands easing and yet his softening did not soothe her, in fact, it made the woman feel worse.

It would have been easier to understand if alone in the elevator he might have retaliated, it's what her father would have done, what Nemene would have done. Every blunder demanded retribution, a lesson to be learned, a flaw to be ironed out with deserving punishment because mistakes were unacceptable and patience entirely impotent.

So she understood why he should have hurt her, but not why he didn't.

Beatrice looked down, choosing to avoid seeking her own disgrace in his eyes and instead stared at the tiny shard of broken bone that protruded from her finger and all the crimson that dribbled forth.

It's not alright though, is it?

 

[Emryc]

That got a glance and a faint brow raise. Was she ... fishing for something? Anger? Yelling? Just exactly how drunk was she.

"No," he replied at length, "but it's done." There was no sense in continuing to follow the rabbit hole of reaction upon reaction upon reaction, snowballing into a mess of emotion and shit decisions that got them nowhere. Emryc was a man of purpose, not a man of senseless dramatics.

"I've bought five space stations and you've broken your own finger," another sigh, shorter and surface deep, "that's enough bad decisions for one night."

Ding.

He stepped out of the lift and back into the hangar bays, making his way down the ganglines and back up the ramp into his ship. Upon arriving in the med bay he set the woman down on the exam table. Though he had an attending Nurse for the ship during his travels, she'd already tucked in for the night and he had no intention of waking anyone. This was somehow his problem and he felt a strange sense of obligation to deal with it on his own.

No one ever tells you how weird it is to reset a finger that wasn't your own.

---

Cortez stared at the silver-faced hound deep in thought. Every few seconds the hound would turn its head away from her, and then its back to her, and then come about the other side to face her once again. The cycle continued while in the background of the labs machinery span through data feeds. In the bacta tank Beatrice Govan floated like some angelic being hunted, tethered, and dropped into a bottle of formaldehyde, the blue of the tank casting her in a shade of frigid cold that seemed only befitting of her sharp features and unconscious scowl.

The lab doors hissed open, permitting entrance to Emryc who stepped over to Cortez where she sat.

"Is it true," Cortez asked without looking up.
"Is what true," he replied over a flat tone.
"That you stopped your ship mid-hyperlane entry to turn around and retrieve this cane from the station?"
A long suffering sigh slowly escaped the man's nostrils as his lips pressed into a flat line, "The results, Cortez."
Cortez tsked at him, pursing her lips, "You're no fun. All work and no play makes Qosta a dull Boss."
"The results."

"It seems our young lass has bonded so well with her new spine that upon growing inebriation it began to reject her."
"What do you mean."
"Well since I cannot recreate the environment in which her spine began to fail, I can only base my hypothesis on conjecture of the situation. You said you returned to her in a state of distress and strong inebriation. Something happened while you were gone to change the electrical patterns in her brain enough that the spine no longer recognized her as Beatrice Govan."
Emryc moved to approach the tank, looking in at the floating Beatrice and the expression on her listless, sleeping face, "Are you certain it was just the drinking?"
"The broken finger would suggest otherwise," Cortez replied, now twirling the cane and looking otherwise bored, "inebriation alone shouldn't be enough to confuse the tech. A full mental break however ... would explain things ... better. In which case, this is all a failure."
"How is it a failure..."
"I'm a Scientist not a Psychologist, for goodness sake. Ask me to remove her brain from her skull and poke at it and you'll have me giddy as a girl with new nail polish colors. I don't dissect feelings, Qosta. Find a different Doctor for that."

---

Emryc was standing before a wall of holoscreens displaying performance reports, bio scans, test results, and a million more things about Beatrice Govan than he never needed to know when she woke up later that afternoon on her old bed in the lab.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

...he bought fiVE SPACE STATIONS?!

-

In the wake of that evening, their main cause of concern had swiftly shifted from two deeply, emotionally disturbed people who couldn't deal with their problems to one unruly piece of experimental technology.

Instinctively Beatrice already knew that the fault was to be laid at her own feet but instinct was not the drive behind science. It was up for rigorous testing to out her as a person so defective that even prosthetics were prepared to reject her. How fun. At the very least, such tests ensured that a sober conversation about what had transpired at W H S K S T T N could be avoided.

At least for a little while.

---​

Of course, when she hadn't died in a tragic yet unexpected bacta tank explosion, that only meant that answers were looming like great carnivorous sharks and to be frank, the woman wasn't quite mentally equipped to be told she was ruining everything, well, at least by other people.

What was wrong with her?

Was it just the alcohol?

Was she unconsciously sabotaging herself?

Despite having just spent the last goodness knows how long sedate and submerged in sickly, blue goop, Govan chose to not acknowledge that she was awake and instead chose to curl up on her side and pretended to be asleep.

 

[Emryc]

To Emryc, something wasn't adding up. There seemed to be an element missing in Cortez's hypothesis and if only he had the mind for science he might be more capable of working it out on his own. Alas, Emryc Qosta was not a fully-educated man. He could read, write, do arithmetic, and understood basic knowledge of various other subjects - but a hitman, interrogator, and assassin needed only know a few things very, very well. None of which were subjects taught in typical educative settings.

After examining the notes, charts, data, analytics for what felt like far too long he felt discontented but comfortable at least in leaving the end results to Cortez. That's what she was here for, anyway. That's what he paid her for. Results. Cortez would figure this out, fix it, and get Beatrice back on the road to recovery, or Cortez would find herself making close acquaintanceship with the nearest sun. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the patient stirring, and turned to find her rolled on her side, stubbornly unawake.

He would have just left her, except for the fact that he noticed she was shivering. The lab was kept cooler for the sake of the tech and typically there were extra blankets on the bed for Beatrice. But this hadn't been her room for a while now and the attendants had only put the one. The last few nights had been a harrowing ordeal for Mrs. Qosta and he didn't feel the need for her to continue suffering for something she largely (allegedly) couldn't control.

Prior experience with women had taught him several things; the one that stuck out presently was that they were always cold. Blankets, jackets, sweaters were necessary accessories to have available when a woman was about in any capacity beyond a short stay. In Beatrice's case he'd had to add soup to that list - an item he'd never once before considered an accessory. Stepping to a nearby supply cabinet, Emryc withdrew a blanket and quietly unfurled it before turning back to the sleeping woman and laying it over her, ensuring both feet and shoulders were covered.

His good deed for the day, or something.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Beatrice wasn't entirely sure what to expect, not just at that specific moment, but in every single facet of this newfound life.

Questions that lacked answers swirled around the woman's head like unwelcome ghosts, haunting and derailing every train of thought until there's was nought left but rampant uncertainty and new questions that began the spiral anew.

Was this all her fault? What even was this? What was she doing here? Who was she? Evelynn? Beatrice? Somebody el-

The woman didn't even realise how cold she was until an extra blanket smothered her shrunken form and relentless thoughts. It brought her back into the room, where Emryc Qosta had just, for lack of a better word, tucked her in. It wasn't expected but it wasn't unwanted either.

Can you stay with me? She asked mental voice barely a whisper. Just for a bit.

---​

She wasn't sure if she had rested for mere minutes or if it had been hours but the first thing that greeted the blonde when she awoke was the presence of a man who had kept his word. It sent a twinge that was two parts glad and one part guilty through her core.

The questions attempted to creep back into the forefront and as if to pre-empt them, Govan sat up and looked to Mr Qosta.

It's my fault.

 

[Emryc]

The request did a good job at catching him off-guard. Beatrice wouldn't spot the flash of silver that ran the full circuit of his skin at the sudden mental intrusion, or the double-take he'd pulled at her back after having turned, fully prepared to let sleeping women sleep.

Not asleep, apparently. There wasn't much to consider - he had no real, pressing need to leave. No high-priority work or tasks requiring his personal attention. The Nurse had just left for lunch, leaving Beatrice with the Medical Droids. She'd likely be fine if he left, but how often do people really ask for you to stay? Emryc quietly circled the end of her bed and moved to occupy the chair at the side of it within full view should she require visible evidence that he was, in fact, there.

He wasn't even sure just how much time passed before she woke. Emryc busied himself with a datapad and the files sent over pertaining to the five space stations and all the heavy reading that came with owning them. It was a lot to take in for someone inexperienced in owning space stations or even ships larger than cargo freighters. So when the only other occupant in the room finally woke, it was with a bored and strained gaze that he looked to her and her proclamation of fault.

Took a moment to digest that statement. It was her fault? What exactly was she claiming fault for again? Well, it would reveal itself, he was sure. Emryc set the datapad down and rubbed at his eyes, "Okay," the man replied, "why?"

Explain yourself, Mrs. Qosta.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Mrs Qosta did not subscribe to theories of alcohol-induced spine failure, nor did she believe that the enigmatic lunatic known as Doctor Cortez would design technology with such a blatant flaw, no, not when a bottle of Whyren's was a mere appetiser in her husband's life.

I'm defective, Beatrice admitted as her jaw set and she pulled her problematic legs up to her chest, I thought you had left and I didn't know what to do, so I...

She stared at her finger, considering the now-healed digit as if it held all the answers.

What kind of lunatic does that to themselves, Emryc? Beatrice asked, greens seeking out blues for shared confirmation of her broken disaster of a destiny. I won't ever heal if I keep picking myself apart.

Her face twisted softly, inner-turmoil matching outward expression.

And I don't know if it'll ever stop.

 

[Emryc]

His hand moved from rubbing at his eyes to his temple. Something that felt suspiciously like a migraine was setting in and he wasn't sure if that meant he was dehydrated, hungry, needed a drink, or was overdue for another cigarette. When Beatrice began to explain he had to wonder ...

Why not all four? He'd been in here for most of the morning.

A gaze of faded titanium watched her from where he sat, noting the subtle gestures and expressive shifts. Beatrice was easy to read again now that she wasn't a mental/emotional hot mess. Though this didn't necessarily equate to an easy answer or solution to the present situation of her spine. Emryc sighed deeply as he thought on how to best respond. There seemed to be a lot of touch points to the topic that would require more time to fully understand, but-

"Dr. Cortez has strongly suggested that you avoid alcohol for the time being," his hand left his temple to come to rest casually across his lap, idly thumbing the datascreen sitting on his thigh, "and for you to begin seeing a Psychiatrist."

They weren't sure if the booze was the gateway or if the gateway was something else and the booze just added to the domino effect of stepping through it. Either way, booze didn't seem to be an ally here.

"If you consent, I will bring one in."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It was a novel concept; stop drinking and see a psychiatrist.

A solution that, from his perspective was perfectly fit for purpose. Beatrice Govan was a hot and cold, overthinking, neurotic mess of the highest order, of course talking to a professional and not chugging a bottle of overpriced pinot fucking whatever in 45 minute mania would help.

I...

What could harm could it do? Was there a statute of limitations on planetry slavery? Were psychiatrists bound to secrecy? What if they didn't believe her and confined her to some kind of hospice for delusional maniacs?

Govan's eyes widened as a whole host of new, catastrophicly worse questions flooded her head.

Had she always been this much of a mess?

...think that might be a good idea.

She couldn't have been too harsh in regards to his cold and clinical advice the fact that he was still in the room was more than enough evidence that he actually...

Did you really buy five space stations?

 

[Emryc]

He'd be lying through his teeth if he told anyone he expected Beatrice to actually go for seeing a Shrink. The very idea scolded him in a way he couldn't rightly put into words, but at the end of the day this was about her. It wasn't about him.

"Very well," Emryc shifted slightly in his seat, reaching into his jacket for his tin of cigarettes and pausing at her follow up. He took a moment to consider her, finding the question very imprudent and entirely unrelative to anything. The instinctive and immediate desire to brush it off was a strong one, but the man was in a good mood. Clearly.

"Yes," he replied, producing a cigarette from the tin, "five of them."

He had some regrets. Five, space-station sized regrets.

"Not a problem I ever envisioned myself having," Emryc made to light up and then promptly realized he was still in the lab. He sighed, snuffed out his lighter, and looked to Beatrice, "If you can walk you can be discharged back to your room."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

So it wasn't an alcohol-induced fever dream, he really did buy five space stations.

Perhaps, had she not felt buried underneath the weight of guilt, shame and the expectation of suffering then Beatrice might have suggested that the man himself book an appointment of his own. Nobody just gets up, walks off and comes back with five bloody space stations when confronted by silly little hypotheticals.

Not right now.

I can, she conceded, shifting gingerly off of the fit-for-purpose bed and onto her feet, but we need to discuss something, on the move, however, so that he could smoke furiously. Govan stood up, eyes scanning around the room for the cane that they had apparently turned around to mid-hyperlane entry to retrieve.

You brought up...

Why was she doing this? She didn't want to do this. This was too far too honest, far too vulnerable. Where was that blasted cane?

...my next move.

Said move felt much further away now following the events of the past week, but it didn't make it an issue that was going to disappear.

I don't have a next move and to be frank, I'm terrified of what comes after all of...this.

 

[Emryc]

He watched her scrawny figure crawl itself off the bed and for the briefest of moments was reminded of the other scrawny, starving Grunts he'd holed up with on Nadir while trying to Buy In. It was how he looked when he'd been called Coathanger if not for the very aesthetic that the leather jacket he'd worn looked not at all as though it were meant for him, but simply hung upon his shoulders waiting for its proper owner to pick it off him. Didn't know how, but he knew she meant to walk, so he stood.

Perhaps it was the look of trepiditious purpose in her eyes.

Emryc pushed up from his seat, pocketing his datapad and waiting for her to lead the way. Where she intended to go he wasn't sure - back to her room? To the lounge for soup? To the gym to run a few laps? The possibilities were -

"It's not here," he uttered to her from where he stood, holding his silence for a moment until she looked back at him, "your cane. It's in your room."

They'd expected to cart her back up there in a chair, he supposed. Might've offered to carry her but she seemed pretty adamant on walking, so he offered her his arm instead. Turns out you could learn a thing or two about being a gentleman from whores.

"Where do you want to go?" a double-edged question.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, good.

Beatrice took the offered arm, instinctively taking a mental pillow to her own brain as a strange new variety of thoughts began to crop up in varying degrees of uncertainty. Was this just gentlemanly politeness in the wake of her complete meltdown? Or did he actually...

Enough.

She took the lead; her head wanting to go to her room and sit in the dark for several days, stomach wanting to go to the lounge to eat something solid and nose wanting to get to a shower as to scrub the sickly stench of bacta from her bones.

Govan's stomach won out, and their pilgrimage for a meal began.

I don't want to go, she admitted with a grim tone, as if the woman had accepted her departure from his life as a certainty once the promise was fulfilled. There was knotting of tension in her shoulders as she spoke, as one never truly knew what sort of response was coming from the mouth of Emryc Qosta, the marble enigma.

It was a multiple-choice nightmare of scenarios; 1.) Would He Be:

A.) Dismissive

B.) Perplexing

C.) Evasive

D.) Actually Human

E.) ???

F.) All of the Above