++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Part 03 of Queenside ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I finally changed the fucking bulb. You'd have called the papers. I took a bow to nobody, then heard a beep from my agent. Three fourteen, and I was doing… chores? They want me to come collect your things. Acid rain washed our garden away while I waited for a human being. Why’d you ask me not to fight them? Why’d I keep my word? Borrowed bones and bolstered body, I beg you please keep up with me. I need to be a one-man army; There's still someone I need to see. I let them take her whole, still breathing— What is my word worth in the end? I can’t accept a subtle grieving, So just bolt the fucker in. I’m gonna take their little invitation, Gonna dress up to the nines. Gonna get chromed up, replace my eyes, Get this grief out of my mind! If it works, I’ll bring her home. If not oh well. Whatever gets me through those doors, Go on, Chopper. Give me Hell. I feel it, the pain; it’s everywhere. I’ll get used to it Borrowed bones and bolstered body, I beg you please keep up with me. I need to be a one-man army; There's still someone I need to see. I let them take her whole, still breathing— I’m about to break my promise; I won’t accept a subtle grieving, No one gets a solemn solace. I sold our life to fashion a body; A sacrifice to remember. I replaced the flesh you used to caress; It’s supposed to take weeks to recover. I followed the captain who took you; He swore he couldn’t tell me any more. His ring tattoo told me what to do; I took his finger to remind him what mattered. I got what I came for. That Sunday, eating on the floor— you laughed until you couldn't speak. I play that memory back once more. I laugh so hard the stitches bleed. You won’t take this from us. Nevermore! Borrowed bones and bolstered body, I beg you please keep up with me I need to be a one-man army; There's someone I need to see. I let them take her whole, still breathing— And now I’m finally prepared. She’s waiting, floating, she’s just sleeping. Hang on, babe. I’m halfway there. “Oh, Billy. Always have to have the last word, don't you,?” ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The refrigerator light finally comes on, and Rook gives the empty bunk a small bow. Mara would have ribbed him for his form. Probably. His agent beeps before he has decided what to eat. At 03:14, InterraCorp informs William Marshal that Marajane Kurushima’s colonial adaptation has been recorded as unsuccessful. He is invited to collect her personal effects. He asks to speak to a doctor and is placed in a queue. Outside, acid rain washes their garden off the wall and into the drain. He keeps the call open, listening to the assurance that someone will be with him shortly. Mara asked him not to fight the people who came for her. He let them take her. There's nobody on the line to tell him what he's supposed to do now. He empties the savings they mean to spend on one more room. Then he sells the furniture, their tools, the things they keep agreeing to throw away and never do. Chopper, the local gray market bodydoc, asks his name before beginning the work. “Rook.” Reinforcement goes into his spine. His eyes are replaced, one arm comes off, and a neural interface is fitted at the base of his neck. He stays awake for more of it than he expects. Afterwards, he crushes two paper cups before he learns how gently the new hand needs to close. Chopper tells him the incisions will need weeks. He turns the hand over, watching the fingers follow his intention. He has an invitation to accept. The captain who took Mara tells him that patient locations are confidential. Rook keeps looking at the wedding ring tattoo around the man’s finger. The captain notices and folds that hand into the other. He has somewhere to go after this conversation too, someone who expects him home. Rook asks again. The captain refuses again. Rook takes the finger. The man gives him a station number through clenched teeth. Rook thanks him before he leaves. The orbital medical station is bright enough to show every stitch across Rook’s back. His jumpsuit is tied at his waist, and the dressing beneath his neural port has begun to stain. Through the new interface, he calls up a Sunday on the floor of their bunk: Mara with her knees drawn up, laughing too hard to finish her mouthful, his own voice making it worse. He laughs with her, and a stitch pulls. Beyond the doors ahead are rows of treatment bays. He pictures finding her asleep and taking her home to the room he has emptied. His mechanical hand closes around the carbine. Before he steps through, he lets her recording run a little longer. “Oh, Billy. Always have to have the last word, don’t you?” ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ © 2026 The Badfatler All rights reserved.
