Chapter 7: No Offense

I knock on a door that only hints at being painted green, now a mosaic of chipped paint, splintering wood, and matching algae. The only house on the list of eight places I'm making deliveries to, and its a small one that's in pretty obvious disrepair.

The door opens to an older man, sitting in a wheelchair I'm surprised can move through the rust. The man doesn't even acknowledge me, just holding out a ten dollar bill in a trembling hand. It doesn't seem like he's being rude, more that he's ashamed to even be asking.

Completely broken spirit. "This is just sad..."

He looks up at me, squinting a bit, surprised I'm talking to him. "Who are you?"

"Lena. I'm working with Kapil, for the moment."

"Hello, Lena. I won't take up your time.

I know old people get lonely, but just... god damn. "Bad news for you, I have too much time on my hands. May I come in?"

He looks at me like I just offered him salvation, quickly squeaking his wheelchair back and letting me in. I look around, and my god does this place need a deep cleaning. I offer him the cartridge, ignoring his money, and run my hand along an end table. I should have worn gloves, since a line of furry dust clings along the edge of my hand. Gross.

I walk away and look for a sink, starting to replicate a packet of cleaning wipes from memory. The faucet in the bathroom is dripping steadily, a faded plastic tub underneath it overflowing.

I return to the old man, as he looks longingly at me.

"Why do you live here if you can't clean the place?" I ask.

"I paid it off a while ago. I have enough for the taxes on it. That's about it."

I already hate this. Kapil thought this was an apology?

#33: It's a mood killer to see struggling people, even if I don't feel particularly bad about it.

#34: Cleaning someone else's house is easier than cleaning my own things. I have no idea what that says about me.

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It's an hour of light cleaning before I move on to the next location. It's just directions to an abandoned office complex, the front of which is now a permanent used appliance sale. The back, though, is marked by broken windows and pigeons flying in between the grates of rusted shutters. The directions specifically said to leave the delivery behind a specific bush, knock twice, then leave.

That's intriguing...

I knock on the door, balancing the naloxone spray on a fingertip. The one who opens the door sees me. I recognize him from the soup kitchen, a regular who always sneers at me specifically. He wordlessly tries to snatch the spray, to which pull my hand back and close my fingers around it. "It wouldn't kill you to be polite."

"Go fuck yourself, cunt." He slams the door in my face.

Wow. Incredibly apology, Kapil.

I knock again, wait sixty seconds, and repeat. An advantage of never getting tired and my default state being boredom is that I have incredible levels of patience when I'm feeling petty. After nearly ten minutes, he opens the door and immediately takes a swing at me, connecting into my jaw. I stumble back a bit, recentering my balance and watching him come outside to take the spray from me.

Part of me wants to just kill and consume him, but honestly, I have no desire to add this guy to my collection of shells. I simply throw the spray off to the side a distance, smugly walking back to my car. I look behind me to watch him playing fetch with the naloxone. What a waste of human tissues. I could put better use to his materials than he currently is. If only killing people and decomposing them was less frowned upon.

Returning to my car, I see the MBR sorcerer's form out of the corner of my eye. When I go to turn, no one's there. What the hell? Am I being stalked..? No, that's ridiculous. It was just a hallucination. My shell does that sometimes. I'm far too stressed right now.

#35: Someone injuring my shell doesn't particularly bother me. In fact, I'd prefer being punched in the face than being misled.

#36: I weaponize my patience to be petty.

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The next few are largely uninteresting. Grateful people thanking me, nothing new. The last stop is a homeless shelter. As I walk to the door, I see a small line outside. I ignore it, walking inside, until someone at the front takes my shoulder roughly.

I turn to him, and he's clearly apologetic about touching me, moving his hand away before speaking. "The line starts back there, miss. You have a good shot. People usually start leaving in an hour or so."

"I'm making a delivery."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Wait, are you Kapil's friend?"

I nod, checking the list. This guy does match a description. I offer him two insulin cartridges, ignoring his thanks and walking into the shelter. It smells like piss and gasoline, and I can't tell if its just the poor lighting tricking my eyes, or if there are actually fleas here.

Regardless, I walk through the mess of scattered cots and sleeping bags, and definitely feel fleas starting to work their way onto my shell. Disgusting. The family of three, my destination, are entombed in sleeping bags like they're body bags, probably trying to keep the bugs out. I set down the epinephrine and insulin for them, and leave without saying a word to them. Before getting in my car, I find a nice place to hide, and retract my shell for a few seconds to get the fleas off of me.

#37: I'm disgusted by fleas, ticks, and other parasitic vermin.

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By the time I get back to Kapil, its been three hours. I see him working hard as ever, nodding at me when I come back. I sit down again, waiting for him to talk first.

He obliges, looking away from the sandwiches he's making, and taking stock of me. "Well?"

"It was a good lesson," I lie. "Helps keep everything in perspective."

"I'm glad. Can you give me a hand here?"

"Oh, no, I'm still out of here. That was a terrible apology."

He opens his mouth in confusion, trying to think of something to say. "I... Lena, I wanted you to see how important you were here."

"I see how important my meds are, but I also see that you're a snaky bastard. Instead of an apology, you're trying to guilt me into staying." It feels good to say that outright. Definitely something for my journal.

He takes off his deli gloves, and walks towards me, nervously fidgeting with his hands. "That's what you took away from that?"

"Yeah. This was the wrong avenue of approach for someone who genuinely doesn't care about helping anyone. Not human, remember?"

"I... yes. I remember, and I don't think I'll forget again." He pushes his hands into his back pockets, but at least has the dignity to maintain eye contact.

"How much was that grant you're losing even for, anyway? Like, how much money was I worth to you?"

He sighs. "It's not like that. I didn't think you would be upset in the first place."

"Just answer the question." I can tell he's ashamed by what he's about to say. Good. I hope I get to give him an insultingly obvious math lesson when he lists some astronomical sum.

"Eight thousand dollars." He breaks eye contact.

"Seriously? Only eight thousand dollars?" I wait patiently for him to tell me the real amount.

"It's not 'only' anything. That's a lot of money to this place. That's at minimum two thousand filling meals."

That changes things. Absolutely ridiculous. What a frustratingly idiotic situation.

I open my phone, looking through a couple apps. "Whatever."

"It's not 'whatever' either. I have an obligation here, Lena. I'm sorry you don't feel attached, but-"

"Please for the love of God, stop talking. Just tell me where I'm sending the money to. For hell's sake, that's like... a third of a kidney."

He just stands there, blinking, as if he has something to think about.

"I'm capable of producing entire bodies. What would you do if you wanted easy money, had next to no conscience, and could produce biologic substances?" The question is only half rhetorical. For all I know, I could be making more money with bone marrow.

He blinks a few times, like I shattered his entire worldview in one second. "Oh. I... assumed you just... didn't use money, besides buying chemicals."

"That's a stupid assumption. Now, what did you learn today?"

He returns to the sandwiches. "That you're kind of an asshole, and that I'm a bigger asshole who should have learned more about you before working around you. I apologize, Lena, for treating you as someone other than who you are."

"Yeah, good enough." I take a pair of gloves, and start assembling sandwiches with him. "I thought you were doing this because you were trying to plug a hole the size of Texas with a wine cork. That's my mistake, and I apologize for assuming the worst. I've been on edge about trust, lately."

He stops, and looks up at me, now very confused. "So... instead of quitting, you're staying because the grant wasn't for as much as you thought, and you're covering the entirety of it?"

"Are you trying to dissuade me?"

He shakes his head, speeding up his sandwich making with a relieved smile. "Nope. It just means I have a lot more to learn about you."

#38: I like telling people off, even if the justification is flimsy.

#39: I'm more forgiving of people if they screw up through ignorance instead of fear or malice. Also, I'm only now starting to understand why people forgive each other so readily. It's because not forgiving them not only is a hassle, but deprives both people enjoyment of the other's company.

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It's genuinely nice to have a destination after work, especially in walking distance. It's only nine, there's a nice breeze outside, and I recently downloaded a few albums from a new band I discovered. Honestly, it's so pleasant that I almost don't want the walk to end. I hope the coffee shop people won't mind if I don't actually drink much coffee. Maybe I could get away with buying whatever the closest thing to sugar they have is, so I'm still supporting the business. I could order a coffee with fifty sugars, hold the coffee...

I should stop at the convenience store on the corner first. I'm about out of cash, and I don't trust tips put on a card.

I pass the gas pumps, two of which have yellow bags around the nozzle, and step through the glass doors that hide scratches and cracks behind cigarette and lottery advertisements. The ATM is right next to the door, as I slide my debit card in. Right before I put my PIN in, I feel a poke from behind. I take out my earbuds, expecting to have accidentally cut in line. Before I can apologize, there's a handgun pointed at my chest.

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

"On the ground." The gruff voice says from behind a red bandana covering his nose and mouth like an old west desperado. He's only a little taller than my shell, and with barely any muscle on him. The least intimidating a person can be.

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"I'm not a narc, can I just get my money and go?"

"No the fuck you can't. Are you stupid?" He shakes the gun.

"I mean, a little. I won't be dilly-dallyin' and I ain't gonna call the sheriff, so mosey on back to your stickup, pardner."

I turn back to the ATM, and in turn, the guy grabs me by the shoulder. He tries to yank me to the ground, which obviously fails. In irritation, I spin around, startling the robber and letting him shoot me through the lung. God damn it.

I wrench the gun from his hands, and once again face the ATM. Just my luck. The screen is splattered with my blood, and what's worse, the bullet punctured the screen making it entirely unreadable.

In irritation, I snatch the guy's wrist, and angrily drag him to the counter of the convenience store. The attendant keeps his hands raised, eyes shifting from my face to the hand holding the robber's wrist, and back to me.

"So," I ask, "do you have cashback here, or just the ATM? I only need like twenty bucks if your drawer is low."

His breath catches before he speaks. "I... he took it all, the safe has a time delay, I-"

"God damn it." I tighten my grip on the guy with the bandana until I'm certain it hurts enough to get his attention. "You, cowpoke, return the guy's money so I can get my-"

I hear police sirens approaching. Just not my day today...

I wait patiently with the guy in my grip as he feebly tries to pull away, kicking me in the leg and ineffectually punching me in the ribs. I tap my foot impatiently as the police eventually arrive, a pair of them pushing open the door at the same time with guns drawn.

"Drop the... fuck." One of the officers lowers her gun, her partner's gun alternating between being pointed between me and the robber.

I run my free hand down my face. I've decided to take this as undeniable proof that there is no such thing as karma. "Hey, Mirka."

It's been maybe four or five days since she tried to get me captured or killed. Long enough that I'm not angry, recent enough that the wound in still fresh in my mind. I really didn't want to see her again, mostly because of the pain is causes.

I center myself. I can't blind myself to reality because of what I wish happened instead of what did. Still, a part of me is happy to see her.

Mirka directs her partner to cuff the guy I'm holding. The partner, an obvious rookie whose trigger discipline could really use some work, slowly approaches us. He reaches for the handcuffs on his belt, keeping the gun in his other hand, fumbling to cuff the guy with his free hand.

I turn my body to face him. "He's not going anywhere. You can put the-"

"Shit! Mirka, call an ambulance! She's been shot!"

I look down, having forgotten about that. "Oh. Don't worry, it's not a big deal. I'm a sorcerer."

He nods slowly, and drags the guy away while maintaining his focus on me.

Mirka tries to avoid eye contact as she starts by interviewing the cashier. I try to leave, but she barks at me as I walk to the door. "Stay. You're a witness."

Talking is easy enough, but sighing with one lung is just not nearly as dramatic. "Really?"

"Really."

I put my earbuds in as I wait for her to finish, figuring I may as well get a head start on tomorrow's insulin now, despite my ever-increasing stress.

I make it through two entire cartridges by the time she finally turns to me. "Come on. Let's get some air."

"I'd really prefer to-"

"Come on." She holds the door open for me as she looks at me in irritation. At least its mutual.

I follow her outside, and watch her lean against the brick wall of the store. I get on my knees, hands held behind my head, staring up at her. She's never been good at hiding how she feels, and I'm going to enjoy myself if she's forcing me into this interaction.

"Would you stop?" she asks in exhaustion.

"Just making sure you don't feel threatened, officer. I have that effect on some people." I keep my face neutral despite my instinct to look as smug as physically possible.

She stares straight into me. "Lena. Please don't make this any worse."

"Oh, it's already pretty bad. I can only think of one thing that could make it worse."

"Can you be an adult about this? Please? I'm not enjoying this any more than you are."

I guess she has a point. I stand up, and brush my knees off before putting my hands in my pockets. As I do, I see her ever so slightly pull her hand closer to her holster.

"Seriously, Mirka?"

She moves her hand away, shoulders falling slightly. "I'm sorry, it's not you, it's instinct when anyone reaches for their pockets."

"Sure it is. Let's get this over with. I needed twenty bucks from the ATM, and had my earbuds in. The guy taps me and tells me to get on the ground. I tell him I'll be fast, he tries to push me down, and then shoots me. I grab his wrist and hold him while I try to see if the cashier gave cash back. Then I heard the siren, so I stayed put. I did exactly what I was supposed to." I fold my arms, mostly to cover the bullet hole Mirka keeps glancing at.

She scribbles what I say down on a notepad. "Can we use the number we have on file to contact you if we have more questions?"

"Obviously fucking not, and when did you make a file on me?"

"Okay, no phone calls... They have me working on regular police patrol for the time being, you know. Apparently they want to make sure I'm mentally sound for my actual job." Her eyes flick up to mine, searching for any reaction to the casual conversation.

I won't yield any ground, and I want to escape this situation as efficiently as possible. "Am I being detained?"

"No, but-"

I stomp away from her, reaching for the earbuds around my neck when she grabs my shoulder. I freeze in place, starting to get angrier.

"Lena, would you just talk to me?"

"Do I have a choice?" I ask, clenching and unclenching my fists, calming myself down. I desperately wish I could just lie and pretend to accept her apology, but I can't manage to do it.

She pauses before letting go. "I just want sixty seconds."

"Do I have a choice, Mirka?" I repeat.

She struggles to respond, before eventually holding her arms behind her back.. "Yeah. I guess you do."

"Then you get exactly sixty seconds." I take out my phone, and set a timer, holding it next to my face.

She nods. "Thank you. Lena, I can't apologize enough. Being magic police, you know it's drilled into us in training that you can't trust magical beasts if you encounter them. It's obvious horseshit, but I guess it resonated with me on a subconscious level. I feel like such a piece of shit. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know how sorry I am. Really. It was the biggest mistake of my life."

I tilt my head at the clock ticking down.

"I'd do anything to make up for it. I'd clean your apartment for the rest of my life, even if you never spoke to me again. I'd drive you around, I'd buy you every bag of sugar in the world, whatever you want."

I smirk at that.

"You know I mean it. I made a stupid, stupid decision that hurt you and could have hurt you a lot worse. I know I don't have any right to ask, but please let me at least show you how sorry I really am."

The timer runs out, the default alarm blaring for a few seconds before I turn it off. I put my phone away, thinking it through. "You'll do anything, huh?"

"Anything."

So many options. Which is the most fitting? I feel like a genie being given a poorly worded wish. It's begging for an ironic punishment... but I have something worse in mind for her. Being vague.

"Yeah? Then figure something out. You get one chance to impress me."

I turn from her, walking back down the street and drowning out her plaintive begging for me to come back with music.

It helps me forget about my anger and mild sorrow, too. I make a few notes in my journal, too. If nothing else. I'm learning a lot.

#40: I don't like getting wrapped up in situations that I don't actively try to be in.

#41: Of all the emotions I feel, anger is by far the most intense.

#42: I can't seem to lie about forgiving someone for breaking my trust. Its too antithetical to who I am.

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My night feels ruined before it even started. Seeing Mirka again has me reaching a peak of stress, and I have very few ways to alleviate it now. I walk into the coffee shop with a grunt. "Hey, its me again."

Brant and Casey both look to Amber, who is busily writing something in a three ring binder. I creep up behind her, feet silent on the tile floor, and look over her shoulder.

She's been busy. "Boo."

She jerks up, almost slamming her head into mine, spinning around and knocking the stool down. Brant quietly chuckles to himself while Casey tries to avoid showing too much amusement.

"Jerk!" Amber scolds, slapping my arm a few times. "I almost spilled coffee on the schematics!"

I take the binder for myself. It's page after page of printouts of bodily systems, each with detailed notes. "Good lord."

"Is it too much? I'm sorry, I got excited and-"

I hold up a hand to her face so I can read through the binder in silence. A complete digestive system overhaul, more redundancies in the cardiovascular system, regrowing tooth enamel, reinforced lumbar region, restructured knees, immune system notes, eyes taking in light more efficiently...

"Can I steal this vestibular redesign? So goddamn smart. I've been fiddling with it forever."

Her eyes light up like Monet asked to borrow her brush technique. Immediately, she starts babbling about literally everything in the binder, every reworking, every minor change. It's overwhelming, to be honest, but after seeing Mirka I'm just glad that Amber is happy. Casey winks at me from the seat to my left when I take an opportunity to look in their direction.

It's a full half hour before she starts to slow down, and realize I haven't said a single word in the entire time she's been talking. Mortification overtakes her enthusiasm, as she looks at me to judge how bad my reaction is going to be.

I'm going to be her best friend in a single sentence. "Please continue. I wanted to hear more about your take on arterial wall reinforcement."

I know I signed myself up for another half hour, but the look in her eyes makes it worth it.

It's just past eleven when she finishes, coming to a natural conclusion instead of having me stop her. Casey had long since given up hope of me being freed from the vortex, but I get a mock salute when I turn to them. Her face starts to drop after a few seconds of looking at me.

"You have a... a thing." Casey points at my chest.

"Huh? Oh, right, I forgot about it." I poke at the bullet hole in amusement. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. "You could have mentioned it, Amber."

"Mention what?" she asks. I wish I had her level of obliviousness. Life must be so much nicer if you don't see all the negatives.

"The gaping bullet hole in my lung."

She looks down at my chest. "Oh. I actually didn't notice. I've been looking at the binder and your face the whole time."

"Yeah, well, I should probably take care of this. Brant, can I use a back room or something for five?"

"Of course, go ahead."

With a grateful nod, I walk behind the counter and into a small storage room. I retract my shell, and start repairing the damage. It's honestly not too bad, only needs a couple minutes. The top is actually what takes me longer. It's easier to decompose and recompose non-organic items entirely than it is to repair them.

Strangely, I sense someone opening the storage room door for a few minutes while I work, before closing it without taking anything. My curiosity is as piqued as whoever was looking, now.

Once my shell is complete, I return to my seat. There's a couple of people at a table now, and judging by Brant's less casual demeanor and Amber's closed binder, they aren't regulars.

"So... which one of you peeked in the storage room while I was changing?" I think that's about as clear as I can make it.

"Guilty," Casey admits, "I was checking on you, since I didn't know how long it was supposed to take." Fortunately, the other table is too far away to hear our quiet conversation.

"Like what you see? I'm actually on the back page of Unknowable Void Monthly."

Casey laughs. "How did you know I was even there?"

"I also know how long you were there. For shame, creep."

Her eyes widen, speaking quickly. "Oh shit, sorry, I didn't know it was-"

"I'm joking. Hey, Brant, could I have a coffee with fifty sugars, hold the coffee?"

He snorts. "If you're paying, you can have anything you want. That reminds me, did you end up punching Kapil?"

"Unfortunately not. We had a nice long conversation though, and I didn't have to threaten to eat him. Actually, that reminds me, I should let you three know something upfront."

Brant and Casey give me their attention, while Amber takes occasional glances to let me know she's listening.

"This is hard to admit, but I don't have much of a conscience. I try to help if its convenient or interesting enough, but I'm pretty heartless."

Casey looks at me a little closer. "I'm talking to the same person who got mad at Kapil for charging ten bucks for insulin, right?"

"Mhmm. Mostly it angered me because he didn't tell me. I really hate having my trust broken."

"And you're spending hours every day making insulin cartridges because its convenient?" Casey lets out a low 'pfft' after they speak.

"I'm bored a lot of the time. I don't sleep, remember. It's kind of meditative to just sit down and fabricate something while listening to music. At least this way, I'm making something that isn't pointless."

Casey nods along as I talk, and they start to frown as I finish. "So why bother with insulin, though? Why not just sit around making something to sell?"

I shrug. Casey doesn't seem to think that's enough of a reason, so I hesitantly give them one. "Well, I do have emotions. I have friends who would be very unhappy if I went around murdering and decomposing people. Likewise, playing the good guy is efficient to keeping friends."

They purse their lips for a moment, lost in thought. "So what I'm hearing is the reason you had a bullet wound is..."

"That was unrelated. I was trying to get money from an ATM while a guy was robbing the place, and he really didn't want to let me just take my money and leave. I probably broke his wrist, in retrospect." Now that I think about it, I probably could have done that from the start. I really need to be more proactive.

"Huh. Okay then. Oh, wanna hear about-"

"Really? That's it? No reaction?"

Casey seems a bit annoyed I interrupted them. "You're currently in a little coffee shop chatting with friends about your day, while helping one of said friends with a big project entirely for her benefit. Whatever the reasoning, I'm not gonna act all terrified because secretly you're only being normal to make friends. That's, like, the lamest possible secret I've ever heard. Now, back to my day-"

"This is so biz-"

"Interrupt me again and I'll find a way to hurt you. Now, I was at work today, and you would not believe what my manager did." They seem serious about the threat. I decide to take them at their word.

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Kapil is mostly silent the day after his apology, and its getting to me. Its like he's intentionally avoiding me, as if he's afraid to stoke my anger. I am angry at him, still, but him dancing around it isn't helping.

"Stop avoiding me, it's pissing me off."

He looks up from the floor he's mopping, meeting my eyes for a few moments. "Really? That's what's bothering you?"

"Yeah. Obviously. Why the hell else would I say it?"

"Because something else is bothering you that you don't want to talk about. I'm not psychic, but you never did mention how your friend took the news of your confession."

I really, really want to punch him right now. I feel how hot my face is getting, and can only imagine how I look.

He takes one look at my expression, continues running the mop along the floor. "You don't have to confide in me, and if that's why you're so upset, I'm not going to pry. I'm only asking you consider what you actually need to say, instead of what you want to say."

"Well, she almost got me sent to an MBR zoo or killed, so that's fun. So yeah. Maybe I am a little on edge, but I'm not throwing a tantrum like a toddler over it. You're still pissing me off, so shut up."

"You said I was pissing you off because I was avoiding you, now its because I'm not?"

I stand up from my chair, and take inventory of what I have lying around in my void for something to dump on the floor in front of him.

...holy shit, I am having a temper tantrum.

"I really hate that you're right. God damn it." I fall back into the chair, arms loosely hung over the armrests. "I'm sorry."

He stops his work for a moment, leaning on the mop while watching me. "I've never heard of a confession going so poorly the other person called the police. I take it there's more to the story?"

"Yeah."

"Want to share?"

"Not with you. No offense."

"None taken. I'd probably make it worse, anyway." With a bleak chuckle, he returns to his work. I probably should, too.

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A full week goes by without any sign of Mirka, but my routine has brought me a lot of solace. Five days a week making medication and serving food, going to Sleepless Days after work, my nights spent working on Amber's new body according to her very exact specifications, and a movie night with Shirai on Saturday. It keeps me busy, and means I don't have to spend too long thinking about her.

I start the walk back to my car from the soup kitchen around ten PM on Monday, long after Kapil had left for the night. I'm not feeling particularly enthusiastic about the coffee shop either, at the moment. Right now I just need quiet. Some time to myself, playing video games, pretending I'm going to clean my apartment. My traditional, comfortable habits.

The night is calm and comforting, at least, it is until I reach my car.

Standing in front of the driver side door, typing on her phone, is the one person who I was trying not to think about.