Lost to the Waves

Click. Tap. Click. Tap.

The sound of her heels as she enters the room sounds so much like commands being imputed that for a second you don't realize she's coming. But her presence is wonderful and awful all at once, but most of all it's shocking, so much that it startles you from your work. The coordinates you were punching in are lost in your mind, which means they're lost forever-it's a jungle in there.

"Great," You mutter. "Now I have to start all over." You try hard not to let your lisp slip, but it's hard. She doesn't seem to notice, though.

"Sorry," she chirps, and you're not sure if she's being sincere or not. You doubt she is.

It's not so much her herself that's annoying you anymore. After 3 sweeps, you've long gotten used to her shenanigans. It's just her presence here, her constant presence, down in what's probably the worst (you wouldn't know, having never been anywhere else, but she is the empress after all) room on the ship, but also probably her favorite. She never leaves you alone, not after she found out you could still talk, which is rare, you've heard. Since you have access to all the cameras on the shop, you've had witness to the crew placing bets on how much she'll come visit you. Ridiculous, absolutely, but you don't blame them. Nobody's more ridiculous than she is.

"Wanna leave me alone for once?" you say, barely audible, but you know she's listening, and the words flashing along the interface help along as well, though they may be jumbled with binary and your old typing quirk-she's been watching it closely. "I'm a little busy."

"You can multitask," she replies, smirking as the pulls up a plush velvet chair, fuchsia like everything else on this stupid ship-the retched, awful color that made you wish you were with your Moirail, your matesprit, wish you were fighting, wish you were DEAD, anywhere but here, trapped in your own mind. Multitask. she wouldn't know multitasking if it hit her like an airship going light speed, which is certainly what you're trying to keep, along with the inner temperatures, the gas mileage (yes, that mattered, even in space) the altitude, and now, talking to )(er.

"What shall we talk about today, my pet?"

You hate it when she calls you that. You wish she'd use your name, like she used to. You hate titles. It's bad enough when she calls you helmsman, but you've gotten used to that by now. But pet still gets on your nerves. You're used to being detrollized, even by yourself, but being reminded that that's all you are stings deeper than the wires in your brain.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Now you're getting it." She smiles and runs a hand down the side of your face, another one of her condescending (bear the title) gestures that makes you hate her with every fiber of your being. "Do I look good today, dear?"

You wish you could tell her she was ugly, but you've felt the consequences to answers like that. It's sad, even pathetic, to think that she's taught you obedience, but sometimes the truth hurts more than deceit.

"Lovely as always, dear." You try to put extra sarcastic emphasis on that last word to show you don't mean it. You know that's going to get you in huge trouble, but you don't care much. You brace yourself for the pain that's about to come.

Silence.

You frown slightly, your mind still clenched tight. You turn back on your cameras to see what she's doing.

She's smiling, humming and walking over to the gold and fuchsia-another one of her cruel jokes-control panel in the corner of the room.

Your control panel.

It controls your breathing, your body temperature-everything that keeps the engine running, she would say-everything that keeps you alive, you know she means. She must hate you especially today, since that's where she can deliver her worst punishments from. There's also a USB port-used to deliver data and such directly to your mind, and that's what she's poised over now, a flash drive in her hand. You wonder what she could possibly be doing, but when she sticks it in and presses a few buttons, you feel the surge of memories and understand immediately. You've gotten used to physical pain at this point, so she's taking another route.

Emotional pain.

You didn't know when the ability to transfer memories through USB was even invented, but you have to remember to stop putting anything past her. And the memories are all awful and painful. Your moirail, your matesprit, their deaths play over and over, and you see yourself, and feel all over again, feel the pain of not being able to help then, feel the burden of knowing it's your fault they died. You've decided that feeling hurts more than it helps, and now you're crying all over again. You hate it when she sees you cry, and what does she do, she LAUGHS, LAUGHS at your pain, your suffering. You figure she would, but quickly she pulls the USB out, and the memories dry up as soon as they started.

"Sorry about that, guppy." she says, frowning slightly, but you know she's not.

"I hate you." It's true, you do, you hate her more than anyone, but it still doesn't feel exactly RIGHT to say. that was sweeps ago, you remind yourself, that you loved her. It's a title lost to the waves, the waves of the cold unforgiving ocean, and the tight waves of space, closing in around you. And look what she's done to you since.

She gets up, smirking. "I suppose that's all for now, my dear helmsman." You know she'll be back later. She always is.

"Wait, Feferi!" You call after her as she's leaving, but she doesn't hear you, or she ignores you. You're guessing on the latter, and though you're not surprised, you're a little sad.

After all, you were her matesprit.

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.

Or at least it used to be.