02 // Terms of Continuance

bubblegum industrial, melodic post-hardcore, progressive math rock

STUDIO

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Part 02
 of a new EP project I'm working on: Queenside

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They came for me and I made you promise not to fight.
It broke my heart that you kept your word and I don’t know why.
Now I’m up here in low orbit, reciting all the things I know:
The table’s cold—so cold—but this is how it’s supposed to go.

Not that it matters, but they mangled my cut.
Shaved new lines for leads; I asked for what.
You’d crack wise, tell me not to supervise.
You’d be right. I'd still roll my eyes.

The Op is on and Doc says that I’ve got to stay awake.
But I can’t help but notice when my hands start to quake.
Pulse at eighty, pressure steady.
I feel lighter than I should—

"Focus on a happy memory."
"Count backward from ten."

Ten

We found a unit with one more room.
You said the crib could fit there too.
We hadn’t signed the lease.
You always played for keeps.

I love that about you.

Nine

I want to care about the things I knew.
(You’d tell me not to worry)
What if I remember, but I don’t know you?
(I always worry)

Know your face, your embrace,
know the scars we can't erase,
but what if it’s all just words?

It has to matter who you are to me
the life I chose and still intend to keep.

But I still
I still
But I still want to want you.

My blood pressure’s falling, she turns the screen away.
I drown myself in details. My thoughts still escape.
The return line's blocked; I try to point it out.
She tells me I should count.

Eight

The cart outside comes through the door.
Nobody says just what it’s for.
A baby coughs three floors below.
Wait, how the hell would I know?

Seven

I make the fan slow because I know I’m way too cold.
But I’m still lying on the table, far from the controls.
She keeps on asking for my name again,
and I just…
…I need a second.

Six

What if I remember us and just don’t care?
(It doesn’t matter)
Every detail where I left it, but there’s nothing there?
(It's still not matter)

The makeup sex, the painted room,
the list of things we're halfway through
are those all just facts?

They’ll ask me for the future. I’ll recite it on cue:
the rooms, the paints, the list of names, my ribs, the crib, and you.

But what if
what if
But what if it's just data?

Five

I feel you change the light.

Four

These aren't my hands anymore.

Three

Warmth for the baby.

Two

"Mara! Stay inside the room!"

I still want...
(What do I want?)
I want to paint again.

Do I need to keep counting?

Then one.
And one.
And one
and one
and—

"Continuance unsuccessful at 03:14."
"Retain this notice."

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The message gives Mara ten minutes to acknowledge and several pages explaining that silence will also count as compliance. She reads every line, looking desperately for a way out. "Successful candidates receive colonial wages, improved housing, and eventual sponsorship rights for a partner. Unsuccessful outcomes are compensated according to the applicable schedule." Rook gets as far as *unaccompanied transfer* before he starts dialing cousins who might hide them. Mara stops him before they can even pick up, then explains why none of them can. There's no escaping the colonial draft. When the collection officers arrive, Rook plants himself between them and the door. Mara makes him promise not to fight. He keeps his word, an it breaks her heart.

The facility hangs in low orbit, where the poisoned weather looks almost beautiful from above. InterraCorp can alter lungs, reinforce bones, teach skin to tolerate an unfamiliar sun; The more difficult question is whether the person who signs the contract remains the person who wakes. The company’s answer is Continuance: an uninterrupted chain of memory, preference, and attachment, monitored while the nervous system is rewritten. The brochure lists it as a reassurance. The liability agreement classifies it as verification. This is why Mara must remain conscious. This is why they shave behind her ear, fasten leads to her skin, probe some into her nervous system, and ask her to hold a happy memory while she counts backward from ten.

Mara chooses their studio bunk. She remembers where the crib will fit and the paint samples Rook insists are meaningfully different shades of yellow. She remembers his scar, his hands, his stupid poems. Most of all, she remembers how he looks at her when she begins reducing some impossible feeling into manageable parts. Everyone else treats that habit as evidence that some necessary piece of her is missing. Rook never does. He makes her feel like a person who understands machines, not a machine pretending to be human. She holds tightly to the future they designed together, not only to him, but to the woman she still intends to become.

Of course, success was never a certainty. In fact, though InterraCorp would never admit to it, rates of successful Continuance are about 50%. When Mara starts to feel herself outside of her body, feel the baby three floors below, feel Rook finally replace the fridge light while he's trying to find anything to do with his hands; that's when she clings as hard as she can to that countdown and those memories. Unfortunately, the numbers never lie.

“Mara, stay inside the room.”

At two, she stops trying to solve the procedure. Facts remain everywhere. There's Rook’s face, the unfinished lease, the names they considered, the exact dimensions of the wall beside the crib, but facts simply aren't enough. Mara searches for something she still wants. Something that belongs to her alone. She finds the color beneath her fingernails from the last time they painted together. She finds the pleasure of making something that doesn't need to be useful. She finds herself.

“I want to paint again.”

At 03:14, Continuance is declared unsuccessful. The facility retains the notice and transmits a copy to Mara’s designated contact. Rook is kneeling before the open refrigerator when his agent chimes. The new bulb burns steadily above his hands. Three floors below the operating room, warmth returns to the nursery. One ventilation fan slows by four percent.

This, surely, is not Continuance.

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6375/7500

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Part 02 of a new EP project I'm working on: Queenside ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ They came for me and I made you promise not to fight. It broke my heart that you kept your word and I don’t know why. Now I’m up here in low orbit, reciting all the things I know: The table’s cold—so cold—but this is how it’s supposed to go. Not that it matters, but they mangled my cut. Shaved new lines for leads; I asked for what. You’d crack wise, tell me not to supervise. You’d be right. I'd still roll my eyes. The Op is on and Doc says that I’ve got to stay awake. But I can’t help but notice when my hands start to quake. Pulse at eighty, pressure steady. I feel lighter than I should— "Focus on a happy memory." "Count backward from ten." Ten We found a unit with one more room. You said the crib could fit there too. We hadn’t signed the lease. You always played for keeps. I love that about you. Nine I want to care about the things I knew. (You’d tell me not to worry) What if I remember, but I don’t know you? (I always worry) Know your face, your embrace, know the scars we can't erase, but what if it’s all just words? It has to matter who you are to me the life I chose and still intend to keep. But I still I still But I still want to want you. My blood pressure’s falling, she turns the screen away. I drown myself in details. My thoughts still escape. The return line's blocked; I try to point it out. She tells me I should count. Eight The cart outside comes through the door. Nobody says just what it’s for. A baby coughs three floors below. Wait, how the hell would I know? Seven I make the fan slow because I know I’m way too cold. But I’m still lying on the table, far from the controls. She keeps on asking for my name again, and I just… …I need a second. Six What if I remember us and just don’t care? (It doesn’t matter) Every detail where I left it, but there’s nothing there? (It's still not matter) The makeup sex, the painted room, the list of things we're halfway through are those all just facts? They’ll ask me for the future. I’ll recite it on cue: the rooms, the paints, the list of names, my ribs, the crib, and you. But what if what if But what if it's just data? Five I feel you change the light. Four These aren't my hands anymore. Three Warmth for the baby. Two "Mara! Stay inside the room!" I still want... (What do I want?) I want to paint again. Do I need to keep counting? Then one. And one. And one and one and— "Continuance unsuccessful at 03:14." "Retain this notice." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The message gives Mara ten minutes to acknowledge and several pages explaining that silence will also count as compliance. She reads every line, looking desperately for a way out. "Successful candidates receive colonial wages, improved housing, and eventual sponsorship rights for a partner. Unsuccessful outcomes are compensated according to the applicable schedule." Rook gets as far as *unaccompanied transfer* before he starts dialing cousins who might hide them. Mara stops him before they can even pick up, then explains why none of them can. There's no escaping the colonial draft. When the collection officers arrive, Rook plants himself between them and the door. Mara makes him promise not to fight. He keeps his word, an it breaks her heart. The facility hangs in low orbit, where the poisoned weather looks almost beautiful from above. InterraCorp can alter lungs, reinforce bones, teach skin to tolerate an unfamiliar sun; The more difficult question is whether the person who signs the contract remains the person who wakes. The company’s answer is Continuance: an uninterrupted chain of memory, preference, and attachment, monitored while the nervous system is rewritten. The brochure lists it as a reassurance. The liability agreement classifies it as verification. This is why Mara must remain conscious. This is why they shave behind her ear, fasten leads to her skin, probe some into her nervous system, and ask her to hold a happy memory while she counts backward from ten. Mara chooses their studio bunk. She remembers where the crib will fit and the paint samples Rook insists are meaningfully different shades of yellow. She remembers his scar, his hands, his stupid poems. Most of all, she remembers how he looks at her when she begins reducing some impossible feeling into manageable parts. Everyone else treats that habit as evidence that some necessary piece of her is missing. Rook never does. He makes her feel like a person who understands machines, not a machine pretending to be human. She holds tightly to the future they designed together, not only to him, but to the woman she still intends to become. Of course, success was never a certainty. In fact, though InterraCorp would never admit to it, rates of successful Continuance are about 50%. When Mara starts to feel herself outside of her body, feel the baby three floors below, feel Rook finally replace the fridge light while he's trying to find anything to do with his hands; that's when she clings as hard as she can to that countdown and those memories. Unfortunately, the numbers never lie. “Mara, stay inside the room.” At two, she stops trying to solve the procedure. Facts remain everywhere. There's Rook’s face, the unfinished lease, the names they considered, the exact dimensions of the wall beside the crib, but facts simply aren't enough. Mara searches for something she still wants. Something that belongs to her alone. She finds the color beneath her fingernails from the last time they painted together. She finds the pleasure of making something that doesn't need to be useful. She finds herself. “I want to paint again.” At 03:14, Continuance is declared unsuccessful. The facility retains the notice and transmits a copy to Mara’s designated contact. Rook is kneeling before the open refrigerator when his agent chimes. The new bulb burns steadily above his hands. Three floors below the operating room, warmth returns to the nursery. One ventilation fan slows by four percent. This, surely, is not Continuance. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ © 2026 The Badfatler All rights reserved.

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