Caged

Caged

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Jun 17, 2018
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Fiction
Mystery
She's caged in a mysterious room, accompanied only by her thoughts and the purple orb embedded in her shoulder. (Okay I want to apologize because I wrote this in eighth grade and it's not fabulous) COMMENT IF YOU WANT THE NEXT PART
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Frida started sketching something with her stylus, eyes flicking to her screen as she adjusted the axes of a diagram, mumbling, "...and then this boundary layer here starts behaving like a switch... not instant, but sharp. Sharp enough." Inés leaned in to see. "You mean like a Heaviside approximation?" Frida rolled her eyes, barely biting back a grin. "No. I mean like an actual boundary layer. I thought you said you weren't rusty." That earned her a low hum from Inés - amused, maybe a little provoked. "You want sharp? I'll give you sharp," she muttered, reaching for her own laptop, the tip of her manicured nail clicking a little too decisively on the trackpad. "You're missing the substructure that governs the transition here-see?" Frida glanced over. "That's an assumption, not a proof." "Do you want this to work or do you want it to be romantic?" Frida laughed - surprised and a little breathless. "God. Is that how you think I talk about math?" Inés tilted her head, lips curling. "Only when you're trying to seduce me with it." Frida blinked. Her ears went hot. "I'm not-" "Not trying?" Inés cut in, pretending to glance back at the diagram, feigning innocence, but there was no missing the gleam in her eye. "Shame. Because it's working." Frida looked away sharply, pressing her fingers to the corner of her mouth like she could keep a smile in by force. "You're infuriating." "You're distracted." "You're distracting." Inés made a quiet, pleased sound at that and sat back for a moment, the back of her hand brushing the edge of Frida's chair. "Tell me more about the way you're treating the constraint set when it fractures," she said finally, voice smooth again, back in control - or pretending to be. Frida inhaled and kept going, though her voice was slightly lower now, the words sticking a little as she spoke.

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